Author: melgrieves

Our life is filled with memories of past events. They are generally categorized by our brain as to the feeling or emotion that was evoked at the time. We can still, to some degree, capture that moment. It may not have the impact or strength that was felt at the moment of happening, but it is real and true.

Deaths, marriages, births, and divorces usually top the list, but many subcategories are included. Accidents or trauma of some kind, victory or defeat at a sporting or competition venue are certainly to be added as are travel experiences and friendship interaction.

Those memories are what make up the past life you have lived. I am saddened by those who, because of a dementia, or memory disease have lost that connection.

I want to tell a story of a past event that had more recently been remembered and renewed.

The years of being a preteen were exciting, educational, and confusing. I was twelve years old, a good student attending the sixth grade. Girls, up to that point, were always just three things; competition, irritation, and gossipers. Most of them were taller than myself and seemed to have something of a maturity I didn’t have.

 Generally, us guys stuck together, excluding the females from any event in which we participated. During past years they would complain to the teachers about our attitude and we were forced to let them play whatever game we were playing. That year, however, the girls could care less about what we were doing. They were busy grouping together, swooning over the newest heart throb, singing some rock and roll song, or comparing clothing and shoes. Things were changing.

I had known Sharon for a long time. She was in the fifth grade and we often walked the same route home from school. Something happened one day as we walked and I experienced “liking” a girl.  She suddenly seemed prettier, smarter, and cleverer. I made an effort to walk on a daily basis with my secret girlfriend. My infatuation continued throughout the winter and well into the next year. Nobody knew of my feelings for a girl and certainly wasn’t going to brag.

Each class room had a valentine’s day party where we exchanged cards. I was surprised to see a card in my homemade box from Sharon. I remember it well. The front display had the proper hearts and frills on it and a beaver was standing on a log. The quote beneath said, “If you don’t want to be my valentine”; I opened up the card and it continued,” just forget the whole dam business.” In that moment I was overwhelmed with a need to thank her for the note. I actually left my class room and all of its hubbub and walked across the hallway to another class. I knocked on the door, asked the teacher if I could speak to Sharon, and thanked her for the card. With that act, the cat was out of the bag. The entire school knew who my sweetheart was. I was okay with that.

We held hands in the playground, but discreetly, and spent the rest of the spring just being close to each other as our age and knowledge of romance would permit. Sharon moved away that summer. I was as heartbroken as any twelve-year-old could be.

She had many relatives in our town and returned for an annual Christmas celebration. I was excited to see her again. She was even prettier than I had remembered. We spent the day together, rode around in wagon filled with hay and sang carols as we went.

It was time to say good-bye and I slowly walked her to her grandmother’s house. We talked about nothing in particular as large flakes of snow began to fall. We reached the driveway and I turned to Sharon. She gave me a big smile, but I had already placed my hands of each side of her face then kissed her. On the lips! I don’t know what prompted me to do such a thing, since I had never kissed a girl before. I quickly turned and left, but not before telling her I would miss her. I floated home. I was a changed person.

That was my distant memory, one that occasionally bubbled up in my consciousness.

I saw her a handful of times throughout the years, knew she had married, divorced, married again, then widowed. Small town information is always there just for the asking.

Last year I attended my community one-hundred-year anniversary. The town slowly grew in population until the early seventies, stopped its growth, and began to decline. People of all ages showed up for the event and the attendee’s interaction was exciting.

I saw Sharon sitting at a large table next to her elderly mother. I sat down next to her. We exchanged pleasantries and information about our life at that time.

I leaned over and spoke to Eleanor, her mother.

“I’m sure she doesn’t remember it, but your daughter was the first girl I ever kissed.” I said quietly.

Eleanor smiled and looked at her daughter. Sharon turned to me and began to speak.

“You mean when we were on the Rosholt’s driveway and it was snowing, and you did this.” She declared and proceeded to cup my face with her hands and kiss me as I had kissed her so many years ago.

My thoughts immediately raced to the fact that she had remembered that one night.

I looked at her and we smiled at each other. We talked a bit more and I moved on to visit others.

A moment of my past became strong and fixed. I knew it now as a memory shared.

Family . . . . over the course of your life, you may have more than one family.  You start off with the family you’re born into – your parents, brothers, sisters, etc.  This is your first family or birth family – the one you usually grow up with.  Then as your life progresses, you may have other families – a church family, a work family, perhaps a family of your own.  I loved my birth family – I had several brothers and sisters, and there were lots of other families where I  lived.  It seemed safe and peaceful there.  

Then one day I was in the yard with my brothers and sisters.  It was a sunny day but a bit on the cool side.  The leaves were turning gold and orange and red.  Just a beautiful time of year – my favorite season actually.  Anyway, I was with my brothers and sisters in the yard, and then we all noticed a tall man eyeing us. He strode over to where we were, looked at each of us, and then he grabbed me!  He was so much bigger than me and I had no way to fight him off.  I stared at my family who were all staring at me too.  The man dragged me to his car and put me inside.  I did not want to go!  I wanted to be with my brothers and sisters.  I wanted to get away, but I certainly couldn’t jump out of the car while he was driving 50 MPH.  What could I do?  The only life I knew was with my family.  Now here I was – God only knows where – and getting farther and farther away from those I loved.

Finally, he stopped at a house in the suburbs.  He got out of the car, picked me up, and took me inside his house.  Inside were two young children and a pretty lady (I hoped she’d help me).  She smiled at me, nodded approvingly at the man, but I got the feeling that she wasn’t really going to help me get back to my first family. The children were quite eager to see me.  I, however, was not so excited to see them.  We were all gathered in the kitchen which seemed to be the center of family activity in this house.  There was a lot of talking, asking, describing, explaining and – wait a minute – did I hear that correctly?  I thought the young boy asked when they were going to cut me.  What?!  For a second family situation, this did not seem promising at all!    

Then they all left me alone while they ate dinner.  When they were finished eating, the man and the two children crowded around me.  At first they seemed to be examining me and talking among themselves.  They turned me around, turned me back, turned me to one side and then the other.  Finally they agreed on which side of me they liked best.  Then they drew little triangles and shapes on me. This seemed like odd behavior to me.  Then the man brought out a knife – I mean a really big, sturdy, sharp knife!  What did they plan to do?   I soon found out – the man jabbed me, cutting into my body.  He cut off the top of my head and removed it.  Then he cut along the shapes he had drawn on my skin.  This did not seem like fun to me . . . .  but the children seemed quite pleased.  Then, to top it all off, he took out my insides! 

Then they put me out on the front porch and placed a candle inside me.  I guess that was to keep me warm overnight.  After all they’d done to  me, it seemed like a pretty small favor if you ask me.  Anyway, I stayed outside after that.  The next night, some children, who resembled small ghosts or witches or some other scary creatures, came to the house, and the pretty lady gave them candy.  The children were all excited and said something about how much they liked Jack O’Lantern which seemed to be the name everyone called me.  Several more costumed children dropped by that night, and the lady gave them all some treats.

A day or two later, my insides were not looking or feeling so great.  The man scraped out the discolored stuff inside me and the kids kept asking about going to the zoo.  So off we went to the zoo.  I had no idea what lay in store for me there, but I didn’t have to wait too long to find out.  At first everyone just walked around and looked at all the animals.  Then, when the zookeeper said it was okay, the man carrying me threw me into the pond where there was a large animal named Hippo with a very large mouth.    My last memory was of the delighted laughter I heard as I was bitten and swallowed and slid down the throat of Hippo.  I never imagined my life would be cut short in such an ignoble fashion.  I sure hope my brothers and sisters fared better than I did!

We sat high in the tree…safe
Supreme and protected.
We pressed close to the man and
Felt the same free feeling.

The roots of that great tree went deep to secure a strong foundation
The man grew up in his community spreading his ideas thoughts and hopes with others.

The leaves of the tree danced a melody of life in
The wind…The same song surrounded the
Man, and his family always.

The tree was the center of the festive backyard holidays
Tossing shade playfully over the children who
Romped below. The man was there, too,
Watching, laughing and enjoying those
who shared in the moment.

The tree discarded its leaves and useless twigs letting us know of yet another
Passing season.
The man let us grow in years of gentle
Responsibility, discarding parenting duties
And passing them to us as we may
Determine my own desires.

The weather battered and twisted
That old tree, starving it of moisture
Or casting a frost at a moment’s notice,
But it survived.
The man, too, watched with keen eyes as nature determined blossoms
Or destruction as he survived each passing juncture of time also.

The tree proudly watched the family grow, new chapters reveal themselves, and the hopes and dreams
Being pursued. The man viewed with interest how our lives unfolded, and was always there for us.

As we grew older and came back to visit, the tree was a familiar landmark to look for, and find…., we looked for a man’s calm and comforting face, too, and found it.

Disease and age are a facet of life. We were there in the last years and knew that time
Was no longer a friend.

The backyard has no shade, the area is blank and plain. The spreading arms of comfort
And love have been cut down.

There, too, is an emptiness in our life. The man is gone but the memories will always remain.  We loved them both……and will miss them

My grandmothers were both very skilled at sewing, knitting, and quilting – the “grandmother arts” as I call them.  I believe that gene skipped a couple of generations in my family – my mother did not enjoy those activities and I didn’t take to them either.  I don’t really consider myself a “crafty” person at all – I don’t draw, knit, sew or quilt.  As I say, I think that gene is somewhat deficient in the more recent branch of my family tree.  My artistic sense is expressed through my writing of poetry, but I seem to lack the visual artistic talents.  That doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate those arts.  Perhaps I just admire them from the perspective of someone who doesn’t practice that particular artistic skill but happily recognizes the time, effort, creativity and resulting beauty.

About 30 years ago when I was living in the Bellevue area, I saw a notice of an upcoming quilt show to be held at one of the Bellevue high schools.  That sounded like an interesting excursion, so on the day of the display, I drove to the high school and followed the signs into the gymnasium.  It was filled with quilts – quilts hanging on rods, quilts stretched across tables, quilts piled onto shelves, photos of quilts in various booths throughout the entire main floor of the gym as well as the mezzanine.  The quilts were crafted by many different artists, each having her own booth, but one quilter in particular was featured.  I do not remember her name, but she was from Oregon and about 1/4 of the gym’s main floor was reserved exclusively for her quilt display. 

I’m familiar with what I think are generally called patchwork quilts – quilts made from scraps of various fabrics and may or may not be sewn in a pattern.  I know there are various patterns that can be done using differing color palettes – Log Cabin pattern, Wedding Ring, Pinwheel, 8-pointed Star, etc.  But the ones I found most fascinating were quilts that looked like pictures – scenes usually.  

After admiring the many colorful quilts on the mezzanine and most of the main floor,  I came to that portion of the gym which was filled entirely by quilts of various sizes made by the featured artist.  I was in awe.  I saw quilts ranging in size from 12”x18” to king size bed quilts.  The smaller ones could be used as wall hangings – one or several could be featured on a wall.  I came to a series of this small size quilt hung on the wall, and each one was a playing card designed creatively.  For example, the Nine of Diamonds card had a 9 up in the corner as playing cards do and featured a baseball diamond with a player in each of the nine positions on the field.  Another card was the Queen of Hearts and was represented by a picture of Princess Diana with red hearts on her dress.  All the cards were made with small squares of patterned fabric.  I continued to look at each and every card and was told by the organizer of the show – a skilled and fairly well known quilter from Washington – that very few quilters even attempt to make the 52 card deck.  And here I was seeing this unique and beautiful representation of a deck of cards made into hanging quilts.  Truly awesome!

Then I strolled along another row of her smaller quilts and found one quite unique.  I studied it for a minute or two, but couldn’t quite figure it out.  It was a picture of a lot of people sitting in rows in a room but there were white lines criss-crossing the entire quilt. After a few minutes, I looked at the 3×5 card pinned to the wall beside the quilt – it identified the quilt by name and artist, and the title of the quilt was “Looking through the Bridal Veil.”  Then I realized that the viewer of the quilt was the bride looking through her veil at all the people in the church who came to witness the marriage between her and her groom.   

Later when I was decorating my own residence, I began thinking that a quilt above my bed in the master bedroom would be ideal.  Considering we live in an earthquake-prone area, I did not want to experience an earthquake at night and have a wood framed picture, for example, fall off the wall during the shaking.  I figured something soft that wouldn’t break, or hurt anything it fell on, would be most appropriate for that space.  I have always enjoyed going to craft fairs and admiring the creativity of the artists, and I found a local quilter whose quilts I really liked.  I frequented her booth whenever she displayed her wares at a local craft fair.  One day she displayed a quilt of the appropriate size for my bedroom wall.  The quilt appeared to be a nine-pane glass window through which you could view a scene of sailboats on a lake, a large rocky cliff with a lighthouse on it to guide the sailors, and in the foreground some trees and a garden with many blooming flowers.  If you looked closely at the small individual quilt squares, you could find some bunnies, various birds, a kitten and a duck in the fabrics used to create the garden scene.  I bought it then and there, have it on my bedroom wall to this day, and I still love it.

My grandmothers made some beautiful hand-sewn patchwork quilts, but my compelling interest in quilts originated with that first very memorable exhibit in Bellevue.  I continue to be fascinated by quilts and if I’m not careful I would be tempted to purchase more than I could possibly use or display. 

Memory is a game. And the rules are different for everybody.

For some, memory is like an old-style slide carousel: Neat, orderly, each event painstakingly cataloged, waiting its turn to be retrieved and re-lived in Kodachrome.

For others, memory is like a flow-chart, with arrows connecting thoughts via multiple paths. Sketches drawn together to create a journey from beginning to end.

For still others, memory is more like a pinball machine, one thought ricocheting off another creating a colorful kaleidoscope of sights and sounds and feelings.

And, for a woeful few, memory is like an overflowing trash can, surrounded by the detritus of a life lived in full random-mode. The cherish-able is buried under the disposable.

When children learn the Memory card game they’re developing spatial skills that will serve them well later in life: riding a bike, locating ketchup in a crowded refrigerator, avoiding the nosey neighbor’s house on the way home from school, etc.

A Memory game for grown-ups requires those same skills, but adds the stressing factors of time-compression, a cacophony of external demands, regret, emotional baggage and the sheer volume of the minutiae that makes up decades of day-to-day existence. Add to that the annoyingly human trait of trying to make sense of it all and life as a dog has great appeal: The bowl is either full or it’s empty and escape is just a nap away!

As I look out around my neighborhood, I see a few others like me, but mostly I am different looking.  I am not quite the same color. I know in some locations in this country, negative comments are made or actions taken targeting my ethnicity.  I know this is true in some places within this state.  There seems to be a focus on how I look or what is different about me – I’m not really all that different. Some of my friends look a little like me, but most are different from me.  I, myself, have not been targeted by negative or threatening actions, but I know some Asians have been.  It is often in the news.  My ancestors may have come from Japan, or Korea, or China, but they came west in the 1800’s and I have lived in America my whole life.  

I don’t really care what others think is the “right” way to be or look.  I just focus on the positives in my life and I have many –  I am generally healthy, I have a nice place to live, I am cared about and cared for, I get along with those around me, I have enough to eat and drink, and for the most part I can handle whatever comes my way.  How nice if we could all live together harmoniously, accepting and appreciating one another, not just in spite of our differences, but perhaps because of them.  

Some think it’s better to look like the majority of those around you.  Personally, I think diversity – a variety of colors and kinds and shapes – makes the world wonderfully beautiful. Some of Asian descent may be different sizes and shapes than I am – some are tall and picturesque, others are short and muscular.   Perhaps of necessity, we are all considered relatively strong. The writer of this piece loves me, thinks I am quite attractive, and enjoys looking at me every day.  She chose me to be a part of her life because I added variety.   

Did I mention that I like the climate where I live?  I’m not really particular about the weather or my surroundings.  I love the sunny days but enjoy a bit of cool shade when the day is quite hot.  Here’s something you probably didn’t know about me – I feel an odd affinity for helicopters  – I think I was practically born in one.  Anyway, I’m expected to live a long life – perhaps as long as 100 years.  I reach maturity between the ages of 10 to 15 years.   I grow slowly and can reach a maximum of 30 feet in height.  I suppose I am at my best in the springtime – that’s when I really blossom.   Just think – all my ancestors floated down inside a helicopter seed pod and, although none of our variety is really fussy, we all prefer well draining soil.  Yes, I am a Japanese maple and I’m proud of my heritage!

He was somewhere between the dream of chugging a gallon jug of water, the long cool satisfying drink all the while letting its excess flow down his face and chest, and of the thought of shutting off an annoying light now producing a visual red effect in his line of vision.  Opening his eyelids to the offending blast of brightness, causing a flaring blast of irritation, he blinked quickly then brought his hands up to shield him from the sun’s rays.

He had awakened with a start. He brought his head forward for a tense few seconds then eased it back as reality materialized.

For a brief moment he sat perfectly still, allowing his conscious brain to connect with the surroundings. He looked out through the windshield, the flat transparent plate covered with carcasses and splatter of hundreds of insects, and the accumulation of dirt and dust from his many miles of travel. He made a mental note to wash them clean at the next gas station stop.

He had to think briefly on why he was sitting in the passenger side of his car when remembered that the driver’s side seat no longer reclined to any extent.

He kept the thin cotton plaid blanket up around his neck, hoping it would keep out some of the chill of the outside. It was fairly worthless but better than nothing. Since the entire back window was non-existent due to that damned tree falling on the car, the weather came and went as it pleased. Jack sat quietly and tried to remember the previous night.

He shuffled his feet just a little and heard the rattle of cans hitting each other.

“I need to dump out all those empties.” Jack said out loud to no one.

His cottonmouth and parched dried lips unwetted by saliva, offered the impetus to search for one of the beers that may have been untouched. No such luck. And not a drop of water in the car either.

Jack started to wonder what had possessed him to leave the well beaten path after sailing along from Barstow to Baker; most probably because he was well into the twelve pack of sixteen-ounce Coors Light and the brain wasn’t functioning properly.

“Screw it, I think I’ll take 127 to Shoshone through the Mojave Desert. I’m going to take the road less traveled.” He remembered saying.

“I’ll be like Jack Kerouac in that book On the Road once again. Just doing my thing.” He had continued.

Dumb idea. Bad choice. He ran out of beer, had no food, and was sitting in Old Blue in the middle of a desert.

Jack needed to relieve his bladder and pushed open the door.

“Shit, shit, shit!” he muttered to himself.

He looked down to see the loose, soft, ground level was even with the bottom of the door. He quickly got out to see that his beloved 1957 Belair Chevrolet had sunk in the desert sand right up to the chassis. He walked completely around the car examining his situation.

“Crap.” He muttered remembering he had pulled off the road near the Dumont dunes as it was late at night and he felt sleep was taking him over. He barely remembered rocking the old car back and forth in an attempt to free the vehicle from the grips of the desert, then most probably had given up and jumped back the car for the night.

Jack stood emptying his bladder and watched as the yellow stream disappeared immediately into the godforsaken dry earth. Why anyone would want to even live in this country was beyond his comprehension. It was seven o’clock in the morning and he was already sweating. Sweating out the ton of brew he had drunk the night before, he was sure.

He took one more look at the car’s predicament then slid back onto the car seat. He thought briefly that he might be able to stretch out in the back then quickly remembered there was no back seat. He shook his head as he thought about how that had disappeared.

It was one thing after another these past six months or so. Some good, but most not. He pulled his blanket up and closed his eyes to the world. He decided he needed more sleep.

***

“Mommy, where are we going?” little Jackie asked.

The five-year-old was sitting precariously on a plush pillow. It raised his body just high enough so he could see out the window of the big Ford station wagon.

“Don’t worry about it, just enjoy the ride.” Came the answer from his mother, Mavis.

“Where’s Daddy?” came another question.

“Honey, he decided he didn’t want a family anymore so he just left.” His mother said.

The boy turned in his seat to look out the back. He wondered what she meant.

“Mommy, he’s right behind us on the road. I can see Blue.” remarked Jackie.

“No, my friend, Louis is driving that car. Your Daddy said he wanted you to have it so we’re taking it with us.” His mother remarked.

“That’s Daddy’s favorite car. He loves that car.” The boy explained trying to understand.

“Well, I guess you are just wrong, aren’t you.” His mother retorted.

“Now turn around here and sit down. We’ll stop for a hamburger and fries pretty soon.” She added.

****

“Mom, its time to get up. You’ll be late for work.” Jackie yelled through the bedroom door.

She had been warned that the waitress job included being on time for work many times.

He turned back around and sat at the kitchen tablet eating some cold cereal when a big black man walked past him without a nod and left the house. His mother came through the door as she wrapped a house coat around her body.

“I see you found another bum to spend the night with. Which bar was he in?” came an obviously angry and disgusted voice of the teenager.

“Don’t you start on me, young man.” Mavis said as she grabbed a bottle of vodka from the cupboard and poured herself a healthy shot.

“I work hard and I’m entitled to have friends.” She explained.

“Yeah, Louis, who cleaned out your bank account, Maurice, who got you a job in a strip joint so you could keep him in booze, Freddie, who tried to steal Blue but not before slapping me around because I wouldn’t give him the keys, and that greaseball, Vincent, who gave you a chance to be a quality hooker.” Jackie said.

“Who did I miss?” he continued.

“Now, you bring home the flavor of the week after you get piss faced,” He added.

His mother just stared at her son, downed her drink then stormed past him back into the bedroom.

The boy wished his father had never left. He remembered listening to his parents argue at night but didn’t know what about.  He would look for him when he got older, he decided.

***

Jack finished putting the tires back on the Chevy after replacing the brake shoes, checking the fluid levels, and replacing a burned-out headlamp. He backed the car out of the garage, walked completely around the vehicle doing a body inspection, then went to work with the car wax.

He had just gotten his driver’s license and took the classic out for a drive that very same day. He found his girl, Mary, walking down the sidewalk, and proudly gave her a ride to her home.

“This was my dad’s pride and joy. He really took good care of it and I thought I would follow his lead.” Jack explained.

“Where is your dad?” came the obvious question.

“I’m not sure, but I have never seen him since my folks split up.” The boy explained.

“I’m so sorry, Jack, that must be kind of tough on you.”  Mary said with a sympathetic tone.

“I’ll find him, though, and I’ll drive Blue right up to his front door and blast the horn to let him know his son and his car have arrived.

***

High school graduation was quite anticlimactic. After all the years of study, moving from school to school, town to town, Jack wasn’t really connected to a single classmate. He thought of Mary and the other girls he had gotten to know, but they were far, far, away.

His mother didn’t attend the ceremony. She was in the county jail on a drunk and disorderly charge, not her first one. She claimed some guy had stolen a large amount of money from her purse at a bar, and she started beating on him. Mavis never had a large amount of money, ever. She mooched, begged, then propositioned guys to buy her alcohol. She was a mess and had no desire to change.

“Mom, you’ve got to quit the drinking.” Jack had begged her one evening.

“You’re just like your father!” she screamed in a slurred fog.

“He was always on my case, that’s why I left his sorry ass!” she continued then seemed to freeze at the thought of what she had just said.

“Wait a minute, you left him?” Jack asked.

“All of this time you let me believe he was the bad guy. And you stole Blue from him, too, didn’t you?” he continued.

“Oh, you wouldn’t understand.” His mother said, waved him off, and grabbed her glass half full of whiskey.

Jack reached for the glass out of her hands and threw it at the wall. It shattered and scattered shards everywhere.

“I’m out of here!” screamed Jack, and walked toward his room in the tiny apartment.

He began packing immediately with all his worldly possession. They fit in a large back pack. All he had to show for eighteen years of life.

In twenty-four hours, Blue and Jack were cruising down the highway headed for northern California. The radio was blaring, the windows were rolled down, and the sun reflected spectacularly off the brilliant waxed car hood.

He had withdrawn all of his job earnings, money he had earned from work as a mechanic’s assistant. He figured he could get quite a distance before it was depleted. He’d find a job along the way if need be.

He was free of his mother’s shenanigans, the creeps she would pick up, and the lies he had grown up with. He was going to find his father.

***

The drive through the redwood forest was awesome. The size of the trees was unbelievable. Jack walked around the quiet, almost eerie surroundings, and felt an odd feeling of peace. Absolutely stunning sights of those tall giants filled his vision. He continued down 101 to Trinidad, a small community close to the coast. He slowed in the city limits and saw a couple of young women walking along side the road. He stopped.

“You guys need a ride into town?” Jack asked.

The two girls, flashed big smiles at him. They were dressed simply, loose fitting sandals, no adorning jewelry, long straight hair, and a floral crown on each.

“We just finished selling all of our flowers for the day and are headed back to the community. A ride would be really nice.” one of them suggested.

The tall blonde jumped into the front onto a recently installed bucket seat Jack had installed to accommodate the four on the floor gear shift. Proof of the new the transmission Jack had swapped out after work at the garage. They other, a pretty brunette, in the back.

“Smooth ride, dude.” The girl named Moonbeam said.

“Thanks, I’ve had it for a long time and try to take care of it.” Jack said.

“Where did you say you were going? The community?” Jack asked.

“That’s what we call it. A bunch of people who need to get away from the downer society and just enjoy freedom, friendship, and love.” Moonbeam explained.

“If you aren’t headed in any place in particular, you are welcome to hang with us for a while. Everyone would be glad to see you. What’s your name?” the other girl, Sarah, asked.

“I’m Jack, and yeah, I might just do that.” He said with a bit of enthusiasm.

Jack enjoyed the community. They all worked in wood shops, gardens, or kitchens all the while keeping a happy continence about them. Most of the people were young, older than him but not ancient. There were babies, little kids, and no apparent leader of the group. Jack was given the duty of loading bunches of flowers and wood projects onto ancient pickups that would take the products to towns to be sold. A way of making some money for essentials, they explained. It wasn’t hard work and he enjoyed it.

He saw no evidence of alcohol consumption, but teas and fruit were a typical drink. He laughed along with the others and felt comfortable where he was. Quite different that living with his mother.

One night he sniffed an odd smell that was new to him. He walked down toward the beach and saw a group from the community sitting around a beach fire. They were passing a pipe back and forth from one to another.

“Hey, Jack.” One of the guys said.

“Come on over and sit by the fire. It gets cold when that wind whips in from the ocean. Care to imbibe?” he finished and pointed toward the pipe.

“Guaranteed to smooth things out. Get rid of the kinks of the brain. I mean far out.” He continued.

“Is that marijuana?” Jack asked.

“Dude, it is fine Mary Jane, weed, pot, ganga, dope, hash. Call it whatever you want.”

Jack sat amongst the people and gave it a try. Some chuckled as he coughed and hacked, but told him it was perfectly normal for first times users. In less than an hour, Jack was feeling a new, odd, sensation, of relaxation. In a little more than an hour he was fast asleep on the beach. 

Jack would go on to try the drug a few more times but wasn’t that enamored by it. Just part of his traveling experience he decided.

Things continued smoothly for more than a month. One particular night, a huge bonfire was built near the community buildings, a celebration of some celestial happening. There was more than marijuana being passed around and some people were getting a bit crazy. There was a consensus that a few more chairs were needed around the fire as the group stared at the stars. Suddenly the back car seat of Blue was pulled out and set on the ground facing the fire and the ocean night. Jack was a little concerned but knew he could put it back in the next day.

People wandered around the grounds, dancing, singing to guitars, flutes, and drums when suddenly there was a scramble back to the fire. An ember had apparently landed on the car seat and ignited it. The upholstery was quickly disappearing into flames. The seat became no more than a frame and springs attached to it by the time it was extinguished.

The group apologized profusely, but they had no idea how important the car meant to the owner.

Jack sat lamenting the situation a bit away from the group when suddenly Moonbeam and Sarah came and sat next to him.

“I know you must feel bad so Sarah and I wanted to make it up to you.” Said Moonbeam.

“Come with us, but don’t say a word.” Sarah added.

The three stepped into one of the rooms off of the main meeting space. They started to take their clothes off.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Jack asked.

One of the girls put her finger on his lips in a shushing gesture. Soon they were taking his clothes off, too.  It was a memorable night for the lad. He had fooled around with a girl in school, but this was on a whole different level. They kept coming at him and didn’t let go until he was completely empty and exhausted.

Jack woke up to an empty bed, found his clothes, and tried to sneak out of the building.

One of the older women, holding a small child, smiled at him.

“I hope you have enough energy to do your chores. They wait for no man.” She grinned.

That was all anyone said. Jack had a few repeat adventures with one girl or another. They were all different, yet content with the openness of sex. That was alright with Jack.

A three month stay proved to be long enough. Jack’s hair was long enough to have a ponytail, he had grown a short scruffy beard, and was deeply tan. He announced his departure, was wished good luck with his quest to find a missing father, and he and Blue slowly drove the winding, dirt road out of the commune.

Jack sighed as he looked at the missing back seat, but smiled at the flower crown that Moonbeam had placed on his head. He would never forget that place.

***

Jack continued his travels down 101, just taking in the scenery and sights. Back roads intrigued him and he took them often, sometimes driving to dead ends and having to back track. Reaching Garberville, he consulted a map and decided to go straight east through hills and forests. He bought some sandwiches, drinks, and munchies to keep him nourished in case he got stranded with an overnight stop. Unfortunately, sleeping the back seat was not an option, but a blanket and a jacket in the trunk would certainly suffice this time of year to keep him comfortable.

Jack rounded a narrow corner and was stopped by a large truck that was blocking the entire road. It appeared to be an older model logging carrier and a man had his head under the hood looking at the engine.

“Engine problems?” Jack said loudly from a distance as to not startle the worker.

“Yep, old truck may have seen it’s last days.” Came an answer from a middle-aged man.

He stepped down off the rig. He was a large man, big arms and working hands. Dirty denim jeans cut high at the ankles, tee shirt, and large suspenders completed the look of an obvious hard-working person.

“You don’t see many Peterbilt trucks that old in the working field anymore, but we’ve nursed this one along for a long time. Was the first big truck my dad bought for his business.  I have to say it’s part of the family.” The man said as he walked toward Jack, wiping his hands of grease.

“Names Kaplan, like the sign on the truck door. Gabe Kaplan. I have a logging business in this area.” He added.

“Jack Sundstrom. Glad to meet you.” Jack said and extended his hand.

The man engulfed it with his massive mitt but didn’t squeeze at all.

“Damned muscle nerve problem. Not much of a grip anymore.” He explained.

“What’s going on with the truck.” Jack asked.

He had worked on all kinds of vehicles at the shop the past three or four years. He thought he might be familiar with what was under the hood of the Peterbilt.

“The old thing just started losing power, sputtered, coughed, sighed and died.” Kaplan said with a smile.

“Mind if I take a look?” Jack offered.

“Be my guest, young man. I can cut down a tree from any stand, but I’ve never been a genius with engines.” was the owner’s answer.

Jack climbed up and looked around the engine cage. His suspicions were confirmed.

“Nice Hall-Scott 400 with a Hemi Head.” Jack said mostly to himself.

“One of the best big gas-powered engines made. Let’s check some things out.” Jack said settling into a world of his own.

Thirty minutes later Jack jumped off the truck and told the owner to turn over the engine.

The sound of the roar was magnificent, and the smile of Gabe Kaplan was from ear to ear.

“Well done, boy. What was wrong.” Gabe asked.

“Your points are shot, spark plugs definitely need to be changed, a couple of plug wires were shorting, and the distributor was full of dust.” Jack pointed out.

“You need to get this to a mechanic for a tune-up if you want to keep running the hills with it.” Jack added.

“Thank you, by the way, what are you doing in this neck of the woods, sort of speak.” The older man asked.

“I’m just kind of drifting right now, seeing this and that, learning things, living free. Just spent three months at a commune. That was quite an eye opener. Not for me but I enjoyed my stay. Mainly, I’m on a mission to find my dad. I haven’t seen him for fifteen years and would like to connect.” Jack said, wondering why he would share all of this information with a stranger.

“I’d like to reimburse you for your time and expertise, but I’d rather offer you some employment for a good month or so. I pay well, and believe me, you would learn a ton about logging and loggers. Three meals, a roof over your head, and cash on the barrel head. Interested?” The boss man asked.

“I need a fella that knows his way around machinery. It might be things you’ve never worked on, but they all basically need a power plant to function. I want you to bring that equipment up to snuff.” He added.

“Sure, why not.” Jack said.

“Let’s seal the deal with a cold one.” Gabe said.

He got into the cab and came out with two cans of beer. They were dripping with ice dew. Jack took a sip, then another. The coldness felt good going down.

“A logger’s requirement. Always keep a brew on ice for the end of the day.” The man said and raised the container to Jack.

***                        

Working for Kaplan Logging was quite an experience. Jack found the entire crew were hard working, down to earth guys who were also no nonsense. He had been cussed out more than once for something or the other. He tried to stick with engines and equipment but got pulled into all the aspects of the job. Cursing was a requirement, apparently, to work in the trees. Safety, above all, was the main theme of the operation. Anyone who didn’t adhere to the rules of security and safety were usually let go that day. Mr. Kaplan did not mess around.

Jack learned how to sharpen chain saws but in most cases the tree fallers and sawyers took care of their own equipment; and you didn’t touch it. Work was grueling and hard, and it hardened up Jack’s body too. A lot different than sitting around weeding a garden or dancing to a flute.

“Jack, you want to give dropping a tree a try?” the foreman Phil asked him one day.

“Sure, I’m game.” Came a quick reply.

“We got a snag over by the cook hut that needs to come down. Not very big, but a leaner. I’ll show you the ropes.” Phil said.

Excited to try something new and different, Jack dressed in the safety gear, hard hat, and goggles and followed instructions. The tree came down to Phil’s satisfaction and he directed Jack to cut it up as they need some firewood for the main project house. He enjoyed the physical labor, but was constantly thinking about growing up with a selfish, mean spirited drunk for a mother. Believing the stories about his father and hating his situation. Each swing of the axe brought less frustration with his life.

The crew spent their off hours, rainy days, and days where there was no quotas or business, partying, playing cards, or sleeping.  Jack had to admit he was enjoying the taste of beer and its effects. He would think, however, of his mother and her alcohol abuse all the while. He was careful and rarely went crazy with the other guys. Moderation became important to him.

One day he was given the task to fall a tree on the edge of the parking area, with the idea of dropping it on the wide driveway. He went about the routine, cut the required notch in the direction of the drop zone then began to saw on the opposite side to weaken the trunk hold. All was going well when all of a sudden, the tree dropped down on the notch side then fell backwards toward an unwanted direction.

Jack watched in horror as the tree, three quarters of the way up, landed on the back end of his car, which was parked nearby. The weight of the timber produced a big V-shaped bash across the trunk. The back window shattered, one tail fin bent in half, and a tire exploded just from the weight of the blow. He just stood there for the longest time, wanting to cry. He had wrecked his father’s car, the only real connection he had with the man who his family had abandoned.

Nobody laughed or belittled Jack. Some told the story of doing the exact same thing. Those tales didn’t help. Some of the others cut the tree trunk and limbs off and gave Jack a chance to survey the damage. It was even worse without the pine branch camouflage. He checked the undercarriage and determined that the frame wasn’t askew. Now what, he thought. Should I just junk it and find another beater to fix up and keep on traveling?

A week later he bid the logging business a goodbye, jumped into the decrepit looking Blue and limped down the road. A sad pair indeed.

***  

He got plenty of stares as he drove down the highway. He was pulled over twice by the highway patrol, as they determined if he was legal to be moving down the road. He proved that he was each time and kept going. No particular direction of travel got him to a walnut farm. He stopped into the retail part of the operation and bought some nuts. The attendant was a full figured, woman, about forty, who showed a pair of boobs that wouldn’t quit. She had overdone her makeup, her hair was a bronze-colored dye job, and the low-cut, tight-fitting dress was for advertising. She was the consummate cougar.

“Hi, Hon.” She said, “Just passing through?”

“Yep, I’m just get behind the wheel and go where my car takes me.” Jack said nonchalantly.

“I would guess, by the looks of that poor vehicle, your travels are limited.” She said and smiled.

“Well, I’m just about ready to close up shop. I’d like to have company for a drink. Interested?” she asked.

Jack waited around outside the shop as she finished closing. She pointed to a large house about two hundred yards away.

“That’s my place. A bit too big for little old me, but I like it anyway.” She said.

The two walked up the wrap around porch steps of the home. It was well taken care of and reeked of big bucks.

“You must do alright with the walnut business.” Jack said thoughtfully.

“Not a lot of us growers around anymore, the big get bigger. I’m one of the big ones.” She said and laughed, then pushed up her boobs sensually.

“Just you here?” jack said as he looked around.

“Sweetie, it’s just me.” She said and slowly ran her hand across Jack’s rear end as she walked by.

“Let’s celebrate the end of the day with a little drink, shall we?” she stated.

“Have you ever had a Long Island Ice Tea?” was her next question.

“No, does it have alcohol in it.” Jack asked honestly.

“A little bit, but a perfect drink on a late warm afternoon. It’s my favorite.” She said and cocked her eyebrows up.

Minutes later she came back with a tall glass with a few ice cubes. She tipped her glass toward Jack.

“Here’s to little things, she said, and if your little thing needs anything, my little thing ain’t doing anything.”

She gave Jack a lustful smile, laughed and drank most of her tea.

Jack watched her make the second one. A little alcohol my aunt Fanny, he thought. She dumped in vodka, tequila, rum and two or three other things. The booze was definitely making an impact.

The woman, Roxanne, put on some music, and started to sway to the song and move her hips to the beat. Her dress seems to raise high on her thighs as she moved. Jack just sat and gaped.

“I think we’ve had enough of this sweet drink, the woman said. Let’s switch to plain old shooters.”

The young traveler soon looked up to see a lineup of empty shot glasses, and an equally empty tequila bottle sitting on a table in front of Jack. His pants around his ankles and the woman’s head was pumping up and down in his lap. He felt a very pleasant sensation, then things went black for a while.

Throughout the night, Jack became aware of the contorted body gymnastics, then would fuzz out again. He heard her squealing and moaning, alternating with passionate strings of unladylike words. It was surreal.

Jack woke up early as the sun shone through a window. He was laying a large bed, his face inches from the crotch of his bedroom partner. He pushed her off himself unceremoniously. She didn’t awaken but muttered something as she continued sleeping.

His head was throbbing and he looked again at the middle-aged sex partner. He shuddered.

Jack found his clothes scattered in various corners of the room and got dressed. He walked downstairs only to see a young Hispanic lady cleaning up the kitchen. She looked at him just briefly.

“Mr. Boss will be here soon. If you do not want to be murdered you should leave now.” She said.

“You would not be the first boy to fall for stories told by Mrs. Boss.” She continued.

“Mr. Boss is an angry man and when he sees you, that is the end.” she added as she made the sign of the cross. The young woman turned to the sink and continued her work.

Jack didn’t need to be told twice. He basically ran to his car, started up Blue, and was down the road in less than two minutes.

I’m an idiot.” He muttered to himself. Alcohol did it to me again, he thought. Moderation my ass!

***

Money was a little tight, but thanks to the paychecks from Kaplans, Jack was comfortable with his situation. He decided to see the big city lights and head for Las Angeles.

Finally, one evening, he was cruising down Hollywood and Vine. He soon realized there was nothing special about the place. Graffiti, street people, litter, and tourists taking snap shots was all there was. They even took pictures of Blue. Hadn’t they ever seen a wrecked car before, Jack wondered. He left LA, realizing he hadn’t missed anything by not being there before in his lifetime.

He drove most of the night and pulled into a nondescript motel on the edge of Barstow. He needed to take some hours and just soak in a tub, relax, and watch the mindless tube. Tomorrow he would have to formulate a plan to search for his father. Right now, he didn’t have a clue.

The next morning, he found a greasy spoon nearby, ordered up a large breakfast and watched the endless string of truckers and cars go by. Soon he would be right there with them, only he didn’t have a destination. Jack came out of the restaurant and looked over his poor car, the same one he had lovingly washed and waxed just months ago. He noticed a bubble bulge in the passenger rear tire. Lucky that didn’t blow, he thought.

He found an auto repair shop just blocks away off the main road. A guy dressed in greasy coveralls came out to talk. He had just as much grease and grime and his face and hands. This guy would never be hired by my old boss, Jack thought.

“Looking for a good deal on a tire.” Jack said.

“Yea, I see that one’s about to end its life.” The guy said and turned to smile a mostly toothless smile.

He walked around Blue and started to point out problems with all of them.

“How many miles you got on them tires?” he asked.

“Don’t have a clue, but they’ve been on for a long time.” Jack answered.

“I got replacements that’ll fit but they won’t all match. Give you a good deal.” He said and smiled again.

The two finally agreed on a cash price that was reduced when Jack saw that one of the tires was a retread. Jack pulled Blue into the garage bay.

Work was done, money was paid, and Jack took off. He had two whitewalls, and four different brands of tire. They all had good tread. He was ready to travel.  In about sixty miles, then left rear tire area was making a terrible racket. Jack pulled over to check out the noise. He looked at the wheel and sighed.

The dumb son of a bitch had forgotten to tighten up the lug nuts so they had now gouged out the bolt holes on the wheels. Only way to make it completely right would be to buy a new hub and wheel. He pulled out the lug wrench by crawling through the passageway from the back area into the trunk, and began to tighten things up. Satisfied it would hold until a fix, he took off down the road. What next, he thought.

He arrived at Baker, grabbed some fast food, gasoline, and beer at a quick service highway stop. He didn’t even wait until he got into his car before he popped a top and took a long drink. He was still seething about the tire situation. He climbed in and took off toward the desert region.

***

Jack awoke to the sound of traffic going by.

Who would be racing down this god forsaken road at his time of the morning, he asked himself?

 Most were pickup trucks hauling travel trailers, all terrain vehicles, or motocross cycles.  He crawled out of Blue and sat on the hood of the car watching the caravans of people.

Soon a truck stopped and a group of two men and two women exited the vehicle.

“Looks like you’re in need of some assistance.” One of the men said.

“Well, I’d really like to get a drink of water, that is, if you have some to spare.” Jack said.

Shortly a quart bottle of cold water was thrust into Jack’s hands. He undid the cap and drank three quarters of the cool clear liquid.

“Thank you, I decided to make my own road some time last night and it didn’t work out so well for me.” Jack explained.

“What’s going on, there’s a lot of traffic all of a sudden.” Jack asked.

One of the guys explained that it was the annual Presidents Day, all-terrain vehicle rally. It brought people from all over the southwest. Swap meets, sales, and friendship renewals as well a competitive racing was part of the long weekend.

“We’ve got a friend with a pretty good size pickup and a killer winch that could probably get your outfit on more firm ground, we’ll head up and see if he’s around. Just hang tight and somebody will be around to help you out.” A woman explained.

Jack finished the handout of water and continued to survey the depth of his dilemma. Thirty minutes later he heard the sound of a diesel engine approaching. A big GMC Ram 350 pulled beside Jack’s car, then drove ahead positioning it front bumper to his front bumper. A huge winch sat in an extension panel at the front of the truck.

The passenger jumped out with a shovel and looked things over. He began to dig.

“Looks like you hit some quick sand the way that thing is stuck. We should have it out in no time.” The guy said.

Jack kneeled down and moved some sand away from in front of one of the crappy tires by hand.  He moved to the side so that the driver could extend the winch cable to the undercarriage of his car. It was all hooked up and the winch began to tighten under the controls of the truck driver.

The driver gave a quick look back and began the procedure.

“A 57 chevy, huh., he said, I had one a long time ago. A great car.”

“Yeah, I’ve had it since I was a little kid, but Old Blue has seen some tough times recently.” Jack said.

“Old Blue, huh.” He man said, his back to Jack.

“That’s what my father named it.” Jack continued.

The man straightened up staring at the windshield of his truck. He was silent for a moment then turned around.

“Jackie, boy?” he asked it a quiet voice.

Jack stood up from the sand and stared at the man. His mind exploded with thoughts, and his vision danced for just a moment. The memory of a face came flooding back into his mind.

“Dad?” came a question of which he already knew the answer.

The two men grabbed each other in a fierce hug. Tears were rolling down their faces.  Neither was ashamed.

“I looked for you for years.” His father said in a faltering voice. “Each time I came close your mother disappeared again.”

“We have a lot to talk about.” The older man said as he looked into Jack’s eyes.

“Let’s get you out of this sand and have you come up to the camp that’s set up. It’s not far, that is if Old Blue can make it.” He said with a smile.

“It runs great, it just got beat up a little lately, but everything can be fixed.” The son said to his father.

The rest of the weekend was a time of celebration, brief bursts of anger directed toward Mavis, sadness, and a constant stream of acquaintances and well-wishers greeting the long-lost son.

Jack told his story of the lies weaved by his mother, her downward spiral with alcohol and choices in life, his trip away from her, and the damages done to the beloved car. He touched his father’s hands, arms and shoulders every chance he got. The man was really there. He had found his father.

His dad told the story of coming home from a weekend seminar, only to find his family, money, and car gone. He talked briefly of the difficulties of living with Mavis and her drinking, and the arguments they got into.

They were finally done saying I’m sorry to each other, and began making plans to go forward.

His father was adamant that Jack should contact his mother to let her know that he was okay and traveling with his father.  Jack argued that she didn’t deserve the call, but finally realized it would be childish and selfish not to. She, at least, deserved that.

Jack looked forward to get out of the desert and out from under the black cloud that had haunted him for years. And maybe he would wash and wax Old Blue.

It was supposed to be a day of fun. The kind of day where a person could just be free to enjoy everything about it. An innocent day. One, just like many others that summer, where friends got together with a plan of adventure and exploring. It didn’t turn out that way. That day changed the lives of four young boys, four pals, forever.

March 1978

I sat in the cruiser writing out my report. I was disgusted, but was trying to be objective with my input. This was the third time this month I had to visit the McClellan residence. Alan and his buddies from the bar were again having a late night, or, I guess, early morning party. The music, as usual, was cranked up to an ear-splitting level. The neighbors once more complained about the shouting and sounds of glass breakage in the back patio. The elderly next door neighbors were almost apologetic in their call that rousted me out of my nice warm bed, but I reassured them they were doing the right thing.

My appearance at the door was all that was necessary to move the partiers quickly out the back door. I walked in a few steps and found the off button for the sound system The music was thankfully shut down and the scene was quiet.

“Dammit Alan, why don’t you cut this crap out. I’ll bet you don’t even know the names of the people who were tearing your place apart.” I said in a reasonably loud voice.

Alan McClellan, my close childhood friend, stood a few feet away swaying back and forth until he caught himself with one arm against the door jam. His eyes were not tracking or focusing, and I wondered if he even heard what I had said.

“Jack, why don’t you come in and have a drink?” was his slurred answer to my pointed question.

“I think there’s still a little bit of Jim Beam around here somewhere.” He added and began to look around the living room mess, tossing cups and empties as he went.

“Most of those kids weren’t even twenty-one. Look, you big dumb son of a bitch, you’d better start getting it together. I’d just as soon throw your sorry ass in jail as look at you.” I remarked.

“Ah, here it is.” He said as he reached under a pillow on the couch and held the almost empty bottle up in the air.

He hadn’t even heard me.

The big man, at least six feet five and close to three hundred pounds, fell back onto an easy chair with no grace or control. He looked up at me through rheumy eyes. He took a swig from the bottle, recapped the thing and tucked it between his legs.

“I’m sorry man. It won’t happen again. I promise.” He begged.

So, he had heard me.

“I was only going to have one drink at the tavern but I saw a face in the mirror behind me that looked like, like, oh, you know. It scared me.” He continued then started crying. The tears began to stream down his face.

“I thought he came back.” Alan said in a slow methodical cadence, but now quite a slur.

“Buddy, all that alcohol you’ve been drinking lately is messing with your mind. You need to take a break from the booze, I know it and you know it too.” I said as a friend.

“I know, I know, but.” Was all that came out of his mouth as his head lolled to the side.

Alan had never finished high school, in fact he had zero interest in education, or anything else. He became a trouble maker in grade school, always fighting or getting into arguments with teachers. He began working at his dad’s salvage business right after his freshman year then took it over after his father’s death last year. He was a haunted man.

The big man had passed out. I found a blanket, threw it over him, checked the back door lock, did a walk through to make sure nobody was still at the house, shut off the lights, twisted the lock button on the doorknob and walked out. I stood on the porch for a moment, breathing in the cool spring night air, thought briefly about what Alan had said, then headed for the patrol car.

I finished writing the situation, wondering if it was even worth the bother, but decided to follow protocol and have record of the home visit. I’d type it up later at the office.

 I sat back in the car seat and looked down the quiet street, my mind drifting back to what Alan had said.

June 1958

“Hey, Jack, what do want to do Saturday.” The shouted question came from Bertus Butler or just Bert to us kids.

 He was behind me as we coasted down the only paved street in Prouty on our bicycles. The noise produced by playing cards hitting the spokes caused quite a racket. Our imagination expanded by the sound; we saw ourselves as speeding bikers tearing through town on big motorcycles.

“I don’t know, what do you want to do, Alan.” I asked, as I looked to my right and saw the big, chubby red-haired kid crouched down in a racers posture to become more aerodynamic.

“Let’s do something different, he answered, I’m tired of fishing at the city reservoir.”

“We can play some baseball or basketball over at the school?” suggested yet another voice not wanting to be left out.

Charlie Wardwell, probably my best friend ever, sped up to be right next to me.

“They just put up some new backboards, and nets too.” He added in a loud enough voice to be heard above the cards clicking.

“Yah, Hannity, what do you want to do.” Came another request from Bert.

“How about a bike tour.” I suggested.

“Sounds good, said Alan, we haven’t taken one of those since last fall when we ended up at the old Johnson farm and got stung by all those wasps. Remember?”

Everyone started to chime in about that adventure. We each, of course, lied about how many stings we had endured.

“My Mom wasn’t too happy with that adventure.” Said Charlie.

“We need to do something different.” Bert chimed in.

“How about riding out to the jump, we’ve never actually been there on our bicycles.” I suggested.

“Cool, I’m in.,” said Alan.

“Me, too.” Quickly chimed in an animated Bert, but we’ll have to ride at least five miles!”

“I’ll have to check with my parents first.” Charlie moaned.

“Heck, they don’t need to know where we’re going, just tell them we are going to be riding bikes most of the day, that’s all. Cause that’s what we really will be doing.” Alan prompted.

“Okay then, let’s plan on it. But only if it’s nice weather.” Charlie agreed.

“I’ve got fifty cents to buy everyone an ice cream cone. I’ll race all of you to the Tastee Freeze. Last one there is a rotten egg!” I said as I was already pedaling hard down the street.

March 1978

 I was one of two deputies covering the sparsely populated Lincoln County. There were three communities in the entire boundary, the county seat of Sentry, and two smaller outlying towns. The country was entirely suited for agriculture. The soil was a deep loamy texture and quality small grain crops seem to thrive in the fairly dry environment.

We put a lot of miles on the road to make our presence known, but overall, crime was at a minimum and mostly minor. An occasional car accident in a town, a property dispute, or bar fight would bring us running but mostly we did a lot of patrolling and visiting with people. I wasn’t much of a stranger to the locals as I was born and raised in Prouty, one of the three towns in the county. Except for a stint in the armed forces, I had been spent my entire life in this country. My entire life, I thought and shook my head.

I pulled away from the curb and took a route through the quiet streets of the community. I, for some reason, thought about past crime in the county. In the past twenty years, there had been one failed attempt of robbery by a couple of young guys who had rolled into town and saw our bank as easy pickings, and a late-night break-in at a hardware store. That was about the total of anything major.

A few youthful keggers, burning violations, and street sign shootings was just enough to be aggravating but it was something to keep the tongues wagging of the locals who congregated at the coffee shops or post office.

 Criminal activity, other than that, was almost nonexistent. Just the way I like it, I thought. I had seen plenty of guns, and shooting, and suffering and dying In Viet Nam. The glazed eyes of the dead were something that had haunted me since childhood, and wartime casualties made it even worse.

June 1958

“You guys ready?” Charlie asked as we parked our bikes by the train depot unloading dock.

We checked all the gear we were carrying to make sure nothing was missing.

“I brought my BB pistol just in case we see some gophers or something!” Bert said enthusiastically.

“Big deal, but you gotta pump that thing at least ten times to get any power behind your shot.” Alan snorted.

Bert whirled the gun around to the big kid.

“Okay, smarty, lets see if you feel this.” And fired a BB toward his fellow traveler.

The shot missed but a few minutes of yelling ensued.

Bert just stood and smiled. The short and scrawny kid with almost white hair, thick glasses, and ears that looked like Dumbo just glared at Alan as he climbed on his bicycle.

“Okay, we all have full canteens, snacks, jackets, hats, good shoes, and what else?” I asked in a take charge voice.

“I brought a patch kit for any flat tires. It’s a good thing my dad taught me how to fix them.” Charlie said.

“I remember, you complained the whole time you were doing it.” I laughed.

My best friend started to laugh with me.

“And I got a giant pack of Double Bubble.” I announced.

“Did anyone tell their parents where we were headed?” I asked the one important question.

“No way, Alan said. Or else we would be playing checkers all afternoon in the backyard or something boring.”

I looked at our group and everyone else was shaking their head in a back-and-forth manner.

“Okay, gang, time for a new adventure.” I said and signaled the group to move out, much in the same way I had seen a calvary leader do it on the television.

We took off with whoops of enthusiasm and excitement.

“Last one to the jump is a dirty lowdown sidewinder.” Someone hollered.

We were out of town and on our way in minutes.

March 1978

I drove through town before heading to Brower, the other county town. It was even smaller than Prouty and only one business, Duffy’s Bar, was open in the evening. I imagined not even the neighborhood dogs were making noise this time of the morning. I passed the home of Charlie’s parents. I had spent many a night camping out in a backyard tent with him. We did a lot of things together. School events, church events, scouting, and even chasing the same girls kept us in a competition. We also had a bond that was not understood by anyone but us. A time in our life we wanted to forget. Leaning on each other during emotional times as a saving grace for both of us.

Charlie went on to college, got his teaching degree, then a masters in psychology. He was now a high school counselor, and according to him, the work was quite fulfilling. I missed him on occasion when an event in the area triggered old memories of our friendship.

We talked on a regular basis, and even more so as he and his fiancé began planning their wedding. I was asked to be his best man.

“I’ll have Mandy invite some single and available women to check you out. Lord knows you need someone to get you straightened away.” He said with a laugh.

He was right in a way; I had never found someone to connect with. I wasn’t without physical trysts, but my work and hours just didn’t work out to develop any high levels of commitment.

“You just take care of your own woman; I find her highly attractive and she gave me a pretty suggestive hug the last time you guys left my place.” I joked.

“Yes, she said something about you forgetting to take off your police accessory belt the whole time we visited. She said she had to keep moving around to keep a flashlight from digging into her. Then she said to her horror that she certainly hoped to God it was a flashlight.” was his comeback.

Then added, “I told Mandy it probably was a flashlight, one of those miniature jobs.”

“All right, enough of that crap you overeducated mind bender. Just tell me when and where I have to be for this event. That is, if she doesn’t dump your sorry ass before the date.” I finished.

We had been through much together. He was moving on, and I was still stuck in this country.

“By the way, I saw Alan the other day.” I added.

There was a brief silence from Charlie then, “How’s he getting along?”

“No change, he’s still majorly screwed up, and putting away the booze big time.” I answered

“If only we had done things differently.” He sighed.

“Yes, I know. I told myself that many times. Anyway, later, gator.” I said and hung up.

June 1958

The dusty road was nothing more that two paths of dirt that led the car tires in an orderly direction.  Weeds and tall grass grew between the pathways so we just rode single file. Farmland bordered one side of the road and the Burlington Northern Santa Fe railroad right of way captured the other side. Barbed wire fences were strung to keep any wayward cattle of the tracks. The faint scent of creosote filled the air. That oily chemical was used to soak railroad track ties and prolong their usefulness. I never thought it was a pleasant smell.

We sang a few bars from our favorite television shows like Have Gun Will Travel, Wagon Train, Davy Crockett, and even the Paul Parrot shoe commercial. The trail was fairly flat and easy but it seemed to stretch on forever.

“Hey, I saw that someone drew a heart with your initials and L.W. on the school sidewalk, Charlie chided me. It looked like your writing, too!

L.W. was Linda Wallace, a girl that kind of liked me. I wouldn’t be surprised if she did it herself.

“Don’t think so, besides, who cares.” I said, a little miffed at his discovery.

“Hold up.” Yelled Bert.

I looked back to see the little guy was working hard to catch up. We all stopped for a swig of water.

“How about a piece of Double Bubble gum, Jack.” Alan asked.

I dug the pack out and handed one to each adventurer who in turn checked out the inside wrapper for any good jokes or information.

“I’m glad we aren’t doing this ride later on this summer. I would be way too hot.” Charlie said as he loosened the bolo tie, removed his brown cowboy hat and wiped his brow.

“Hey, it’s not so bad.”  commented Alan, who face was beet red from exertion.

“Let’s keep going then.” I suggested.

“Hey, do you want to get up and walk across the trestle before we ride over to the jump?” Bert asked.

“We could, I guess, you guys want to do that?” I asked the others.

Alan shook his head no but the majority ruled so we headed out.

The railroad trestle carried freight and passenger trains across the Tilton River valley. The length of about one-half mile made it one of the longest in the state. It stood over one hundred feet from waters level. There was a catwalk along the entire thing so that workers could do repairs. Every so often then was a jut out for the workers could safely stand back and away from a crossing train.

It took over two hours to reach our destination. We dropped our bikes and walked up the incline to the trestle mouth.

“If you put your ear down on the track, you’re supposed to be able to hear if a train is less than a mile off. suggested Charlie, I read about it in a comic book.”

We each tried our luck and decided it was safe. We stood and looked at the length of the crossing. It was the first time any of us had tried this.

“Remember to hurry from one safety jut out to the next just in case.” I suggested.

The group dropped all of their gear near the entrance and started across.

“I’m going to just stay here and watch all our stuff; I need to take a break.” Alan offered.

“Bock, bock, bock.” mocked Bert as he flapped his arms by his sides.

“Shut up you little goofball, or I’ll come over there and sit on your head. I’ll squish your tiny brain out of your ears.” Alan said.

“Come one out here and get me then.” Bert jeered at the big kid.

“Aw, you’re not worth the effort.” Alan said and sat on a track.

“Whatever you want to do is fine.” I said.

“I double dog dare you to go first.” I taunted Charlie.

“No big deal, Howdy Doody.” He said, then shrugged, turned and stepped onto the catwalk.

March 1978

I sped down highway 89 after I had checked in with our night dispatch. Sally Slocomb, the newbie on the job, acknowledged my call and signed off. She had actually transferred in from Reno, Nevada, where she had a similar job. She offered her services to the county at minimum wage, suggesting she needed something to do as she assisted her aunt to transition into a nursing home. There was no evening person manning the phones before she arrived, so she was a welcome addition.

I thought about asking her out for a cup of coffee one day just to get to know her. She was quite pretty in my eyes, and seemed to be a no-nonsense type of person. Sweet talk and flowers just wouldn’t cut it with her, I was pretty sure. Maybe some tough times in her past molded the way she was. I could certainly understand that concept.

“Screw it.” I said and picked up his transmitter.

I got hold of the office dispatch again.

“I’m off at eight this morning, I’m buying coffee and pie. Interested?” I said then waited for what I thought was a long pause.

“See you at the Log Cabin at eight.” Came a cheery voice over the radio.

The rest of the shift went by quickly.

June 1958

Walking on the trestle was a little scary at first but since the catwalk was at least four feet wide and there was a rail on one side, we picked up the pace, determined to go to the end and make a return trip. The sound found us before we saw it. A train was making its way toward us.

“Maybe we’d better run back where we started.” Charlie said as he turned to me with concern.

“Let’s just stay in a jut out and see what its like to have a train come so close to us.” Bert suggested.

“No way, I said, I heard you can get sucked under the train because of the vacuum pressure it causes.”

“Well, I’m headed back, let’s go.” I hollered.

“I’m staying.” Bert announced.

“You’re crazy, come on.” Charlie pleaded with his stubborn friend.

“Nope. Take off and run like girls.” Bert chided.

And we did. The train was about the length of a city block from the trestle when we jumped over the side of the track bed. The noise from the whistle was deafening. I looked to see Bert locking his arms and legs on the railing but lost sight of him as the train engine lumbered past.

Just as fast as the thing arrived, it was gone. We frantically looked out on the trestle. Bert was dancing a little jig just to show us he was just fine.

He took his time to reach the rest of us.

“No big deal.” He said and walked past us to the bicycles.

I began to wonder if maybe my idea of him being weak and afraid just because of his size and looks was all wrong. He was either very brave or really stupid.

We bombarded him with questions. We were all still excited about what had happened.

I looked over to the right and could see the jump. The Indians called it a pishkun, a place where buffalo were funneled and fooled into running over a high ledge. They landed below, usually injured or killed. Elders and women finished them off with knives or spears, and proceeded to skin and cut up the carcasses. They would make clothing from the hides and process the meat by smoking, a source of food for many days to come.

Locals had been visiting the jump for years, hoping to find arrowheads and spear heads among the rubble at the bottom.

We all had visited the site with our third-grade class on a field trip and again with my parents, but had never been on my own at the jump.

“There is our destination.” I yelled and pointed down river.

“Let’s ride as far as we can then we’ll hike in, so grab your gear.” I suggested.

We all picked up our bikes and jumped on.

“I don’t think I want to ride over there, there’s a lot of prickly pear and foxtail cactus. We’ll all get flat tires then really be in trouble.” Alan whined.

“Oh, come one.” Charlie said. “You’ll probably never get another chance.”

We four explorers headed south above the river breaks.

March 1978

I had a great visit with Sally, and two pieces of the cafe’s world-famous apple pie, or so they purported.

I found out that she was divorced, apparently a victim in an abusive relationship. She talked about her attitude toward others because of that experience. She also mentioned that she had taken many classes to become quite proficient in self-defense.

“Whoa, I said holding my arms up in the air, I’ll try not to do anything that requires you to go into attack mode.”

I talked about my life in the county, the stint in the army that led into law enforcement, and my outlook to the future.

“I experienced quite a traumatic experience when I was a kid, and for some reason letting go of the memory has seemed impossible.” I explained.

“I’m right with you. If I see a couple arguing on the street or in a store, I immediately feel a panic that comes from the past and it takes a minute to let it go.” Sally said.

I didn’t want to let our time together end as I was thoroughly enjoying the visit, but I needed to head out and get some shuteye.

I said goodbye, but not before inviting Sally to my place for a homemade spaghetti dinner, my specialty. Actually, it was only whole meal I could be together that tasted half decent. She agreed and we went our separate ways.

Over the next month we saw a lot of each other, talked on the telephone daily, and grew quite close. We both seemed to put the skids on being emotionally available for any intimacy, and I accepted that.

May 1978

Charlie’s wedding was to be held in two weeks. He called.

“All right, before you say anything, I’ll have you know I’m bringing a date.” I announced.

“Yah, right!” came the expected retort.

“Honest, she’s running dispatch for the sheriff ‘s office, and I heard she was in the Miss American contest. She also has a PhD in mathematics, physics, and a masters in developing interpersonal relationships with intelligent, good looking, and charming law enforcement officers.” I explained.

“So, what she doing with you?” came the question.

“I told her that we could dress down for the red neck wedding and that the reception would probably be held in your eight by forty trailer.” I said.

“And I told her that she couldn’t snicker when she met the groom, that he couldn’t help that he was born with such an ugly face.” I added and smiled into the phone.

“Just show up, you moron, when you’re supposed to, and no you can’t wear those Converse Allstar tennis shoes, so don’t bother asking.” Charlie said trying to get in the last word.

“I’ll try.” I said and hung up.

June 1958

We got to the lip of the jump quickly. The view from the top of the ledge was wonderful. We could see the entire expanse of the trestle, the slowly meandering river, and some cattle off in the distance. The sky was a light blue and a few fluffy clouds floated above. We spent some time checking the layout.

“Hey, Charlie said, I think we can go over here and jump to that landing below.”

He and I checked out the spot he was talking about and found a small shelf about six feet down. We decided to give it a try.  We backed up slowly trotted to the edge. We both stopped and looked at each other then laughed. It was doable.

The trip down wasn’t much but the landing was a little rough. We whooped to each other and scrambled up on our feet, anxious to walk around the side, climb the hill and give it another try.

We heard some shouting above us but I couldn’t make out who was saying what. Suddenly I watched in horror as Bert flew off the ledge, floated through mid-air then landed at the bottom of the hillside. I remember screaming and raced to the edge to look down. Bert was laying among the rocks. His legs and arms were a funny angle and he wasn’t moving.

Charlie and I jumped, tumbled and ran to the bottom. Bert was staring up at us with sightless open eyes.

I was trying to process what had happened when Alan came barreling down the hillside.

“He, he was just looking over the edge and he must have slipped.” cried an excited Alan.

“I wasn’t close enough to catch him.” He continued.

“What do we do now?” Charlie screamed.

“He’s dead, Alan screamed even louder, I just know it!”

“One of us has to ride back into town.” I yelled in a panic.

“I will.” Charlie announced and with that ran to where the bikes lay, and took off. He was pedaling crazily and disappeared from sight.

After a few minutes the shock was wearing off and I was drained.

“What were you two yelling about just before Bert fell?” I asked Alan.

“We weren’t arguing, we didn’t really say anything to each other.” He said and left it at that.

We sat for over two hours in the hot sun until finally help arrived. There was at least a dozen cars and trucks, led by a sheriff’s department cruiser.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur. The three of us had to tell the sheriff about our day and misadventure. We included the trestle walk and everything else we could think of.

The only witness to Bert’s tumble was Alan, so Charlie and I couldn’t answer any questions concerning that. We had to recount reaching Bert’s body, his position, and questions on whether we had moved anything when we got there.

I wanted to talk about the stare of the eyes of a dead person but nobody asked me about it.

Our parents loaded up the bicycles and we rode home in silence. That night my mother hugged me and I cried for what seemed hours.

I rarely saw Alan or Charlie the rest of the summer as I was grounded to stay only in our yard. It was a tough summer.  I had a lot of time to think about what had happened, but mostly about Alan lying to me about the argument I had heard just above Charlie and I were standing.

I developed a sick feeling that Bert had been pushed to his death, but didn’t want to believe it.

There was a funeral for Bert, but I never went. Bert’s family moved away a year later and I never saw them again.

Someone put up a fence on the edge of the jump and signs were erected announcing caution.

When school finally started, I reached out to Charlie immediately and asked him bluntly, “Do you think Bert fell accidently?”

Charlie looked at me through suddenly sad eyes and nodded his head back and forth.

We never spoke about it again. But we forever would be tied to the death of our friend.

June 1978

The big day had finally arrived. Sally and I met up early so that we would arrive for the wedding in a timely manner.

She had been introduced to Charlie and his bride-to-be the weekend before and they seemed to hit it off just fine. That was a relief to us guys.

Charlie, myself, and his future brother-in-law were in a motel room just down the road from the church. Last minute shoe shining, looking for lost cufflinks, and trying to tame the unruly cowlicks was the order of business.

Someone knocked on the door. Charlie opened it and Alan stood at the threshold. He had been drinking, it was obvious, but was in fairly good shape.

“Well, I just stopped by to offer you congratulations on your big day.” The huge man said quietly.

“Thanks, Alan, its appreciated.” Charlie said.

“Ah, there’s something else we need to talk about, in private if that’s alright.” Alan continued.

“Mick, can you head down and see how our fathers are faring for a few minutes.” Charlie said to the youngest member of the groom’s entourage.

As soon as the door shut Alan started talking.

“I need to get something off my chest. I need to talk about the jump.” He began.

“Hey, big man, you don’t need to bring that up if you don’t want to.” I said with a bit of a cringe.

“Jesus Alan, all of that was a long time ago, we’ve all moved on, and I’ve got to get ready for my wedding.” Charlie pleaded and tried to herd Alan out of the room.

That wasn’t going to happen. Alan stood in front of the closed door and braced himself. He wasn’t going to move until he was ready to.

“I’m going to talk, and you guys are going to listen. I can’t let you continue to think what I know you think about me.” He started.

Alan stared at his two childhood friends pointedly, we didn’t say anything.

“I am, and have always been afraid of heights. I can’t even get on the roof of the salvage shed. You remember, I’m sure, when we decided to take that bike trip to the jump but sidetracked to the trestle? There was no way I could have gotten on those tracks. I made up some lame excuse and Bert was giving me a bad time about being chicken. I was alright with that. Following me so far?” Alan asked.

We both nodded our heads and remained quiet.

“Well, you two decided to do the short distance jump off the ledge and were down below when Bert started to berate me and really got mean. I had never seen him like that. I told him I wasn’t ready to jump and to cool it. I was standing quite a way away from the edge to stay in my comfort zone, when all of a sudden, I felt a push in my back. Bert wasn’t big enough to move me but he tried. I yelled at him to quit and started in about how I was afraid of high places. I stood there staring at him. He backed up and raced toward me again. He was really trying to push me over the edge. I didn’t know what to think but I just sidestepped him and he want flying past me and out of view.” Alan said as the words tumbled out.

“I couldn’t even make myself look over the cliff’s edge to see if he was alright.” Alan said and started to cry.

“I didn’t want you guys to know I suffered from acrophobia, or that Bert was pushing all the right buttons, so I just shut up about everything.” He said and started to calm down.

“I knew nobody would believe that that scrawny little kid was getting the best of me, but he had.” He continued.

“He went over on his own, I didn’t have anything to do with it, and so now you know. That’s the truth. Believe it or not but I had to get it off of my chest. Not telling the truth has been killing me for years.” He finished.

I stood up and walked over to the man who had finally unburdened his soul. I gave him a hug.

“Thanks, Alan, you don’t know how much that has helped me.” I said quietly.

“Hey, big man, Charlie said lightly, welcome to stay for the ceremony and party.”

“No thanks, my party days are over. I got some living to do.” He said and simply walked out the door.

Charlie and I just looked at each other for a moment, letting years and years of doubt drain out of us.

“Come on, it’s time for you to get hitched. I give it about a year before she finds someone more interesting.” I suggested.

Oh, yeah, and I give you less than a year before we are doing this same thing for you and Sally.” Charlie retorted.

The wedding was special.  There was one instance of concern, however, when I feigned searching for a lost ring. The bride was in a panic, the groom just shook his head at me and smiled. Sally and I danced, laughed, and kissed. And kissed some more. The yoke of guilt had been lifted off of my shoulders. It was time for another day of adventure and exploring.

I never went back to the jump, never wanted to, and never will. It was just four young boys who were looking for excitement and fun.

Many years ago, I had been searching for a project that would keep me busy, out of the house, and provide a certain satisfaction of completion. I liked wood working but didn’t have the space or tools to begin that endeavor. The idea of stamp or money collections was appalling, and I could only do so much to my backyard to keep it in shape.

I, and my sons, who were ages twelve and ten at the time, traveled to my parents’ home one weekend day. I was talking to my dad about doing something to keep me busy. He walked me out to the back of his property. Sitting in the middle of the former chicken yard was a faded blue 1957 Chevrolet. It was covered with algae, dirt, and, if I didn’t know better, chicken manure. The interior was in great shape, the body needed some work, but overall, not too bad at all. My dad had bought it years before and planned on working on the vehicle himself. His health problems now prevented that. I had never thought about auto restoration but the idea was perfect.

We struck up a deal and I traded an old Ford truck for my brand-new old car. We drained the gas tank and added new fuel, added oil and water, filled the tires, and jumped the battery. It fired up. A plume of blue smoke filled the air, but soon the exhaust was clear. My boys and I jumped in and took off for home.

The car ran like a champ as I pulled into the west side of my town. I looked into the back seat and saw both boys hunkered down on the seat.

Now they were old enough to formulate their own ideas of reality.

“Everybody is staring at us when they go by. We should have washed the car before we left Grandpa’s town.”

The other son gave an affirmation to that very thought.

“Guys, I said, they are staring at this car because it a classic. It is one of the most popular cars ever built. People are jealous.”

I left it at that.

Several blocks down the streets I felt a draft coming from the back. I looked to see that both of these characters had their windows rolled down, their elbows outside, and giving nods to all those who happened to look their way.

They helped me sand, prime, and prepare the car for body work and paint. We all took, in some way, ownership of that old car.

 It was a classic example of perception. It was truly classic.

Chippy the Squirrel was a happy little guy. He had a nice home in an old pine tree. His nest was always full of seeds and berries and nuts. He had a small family and kept them fed and safe.

Chippy had lived in the Oak Tree woods for quite a long time.  He had many friends and shared adventures with them. One day Chippy decided to see if his favorite feeder had been filled with peanuts. The humans at that house loved birds, butterflies, and flowers. They must have liked squirrels too because they fed Chippy all the time. He would sit on the feeder and shell the peanuts then stuff them in his mouth until his cheeks were fat, then would carry the load back to his nest. The humans would sit out and watch him. They never yelled or tried to catch him. Those humans were nice.

Not all humans liked squirrels, so he stayed away from them and their houses. They would shake a stick or a broom or just yell when he bounded around their yard. Chippy didn’t understand why they did that, but he would just ran away and never venture into that area again.

Chippy was watching his friend Chesley the crow and several other big black birds fly high in the sky. They made a terrible racket as they flew through the air. Sometimes they just spread their wings into the wind and floated. Chippy wished he could fly too.

Suddenly Chippy heard a loud noise that was not really a dog bark, or a human voice. It continued to get louder and louder. Chippy ran up a fence and looked into the back yard of a human’s house. The noise was coming from a small animal on the porch. It was all wrapped up in a kind of rope and was struggling to move. The animal was crying out for help. Chippy jumped up and stood beside the poor creature.

“Do you need help?” Chippy asked.

The little animal with great big eyes looked at Chippy and cried.

“My humans tied me up this morning and I got tangled up in this leash. It would be muy bien if you could help.” It spoke.

“I will try. My name is Chippy, and I am a squirrel.” Chippy said.

“My name is Chi-Chi. I am a dog, but my humans call me a Chihuahua. That means what kind of dog I am. I would appreciate much if you can help me. I can’t get to my water dish or food dish since I am all tangled up.” The dog explained.

“Do you like acorns?” Chippy said and slipped one out of his fat cheeks.

“You can have one until we get you free.” He continued.

The little Chihuahua looked at the soggy nut for a moment and curled up his lip. He thanked Chippy for the offer but decided not to try it.

Chippy walked around the dog, looked at the leash with all of its knots and began to chomp through the material.

“I have strong teeth so I will try to chew up this thing that has you all tied up.” Chippy said.

“Muchas Gracias, Cheepy.” Chi-Chi said.

Chippy didn’t know what that meant but went to work chewing on the leather materials.  It didn’t take long before everything was loose, and Chi-Chi was prancing around his yard.

“That was a very nice thing for you to help me, do you want to be my friend?” Chi-Chi said in between gulps of water and mouthfuls of his food.

“I would be very happy to have a dog as a friend, but how come you don’t bark at me like all the other dogs do?” Chippy asked.

“Oh, they are bored and just look for something to do while their humans slowly move around the trails and pathways. They are mostly pretty nice guys.” The little chihuahua explained.

“I have many friends in the woods, would you like to come with me and find some of them?” the little squirrel asked.

The dog bounced up and down on his front legs.

“I would like that very much Senor Cheepy. My humans hardly ever let me out of the yard and keep me tied up almost all day long.” Chi-Chi yelped.

“I don’t think you can climb the fence like Rupert the cat and I can, so let’s find another way to get out.” Chippy said working up a plan.

Chi-Chi tried to climb anyway. His new friend was right, he could not climb or jump high enough to get over the fence.

“Come on, I found a way out of here.” Chippy said cheerfully.

Soon the two friends had scooted on their belly underneath the swinging gate. They took off across the fields laughing and squealing.

“This is so much fun, amigo, I have never got to run wherever I wanted to go.” the happy dog said.

Chippy showed the little dog his family nest, the trails that ran through the woods, the flowers that humans had planted in places, and where his friends the deer rest and feed.

“This is wonderful, Cheepy, I never knew any of these things were here.” Chi-Chi said in glee.

“Let’s go visit the neighbors farm. They have animals that you have never seen either. They are called cows. They look like deer but are big and fat. All they do is eat grass and yell something that sounds like Moo.” the squirrel suggested.

Chippy squeezed a fence link and Chi-Chi followed behind.

“Oh, oh, I think I am stuck.” Came a panicked voice from behind Chippy.

Chippy turned and saw that his adventuresome pal was definitely wedged in the fence.  Chippy tried to push and pull with his arms, but they were too small and weak to do much good.

“What am I going to do. My humans will miss me, and they will be mad that I am not at home. I am sure they will get another dog and not want me anymore!” rattled the scared little dog.

Chi-Chi started to howl and cry out.

“Just be calm, we will find a way to get you free. Don’t worry. I will ask my friends to help.” Chippy said and took off running.

“Please hurry, I am afraid and don’t want to be left alone.” Chi-Chi whimpered.

Chippy looked for Sammy, a big deer who he first met when he came to the woods, but he was nowhere to be found. He kept on running through the woods. Suddenly he saw a group of crows eating bugs in the grass.

“Chesley, barked Chippy, can you help me.”

Chesley, a big black crow, who Chippy had become friends with, looked up. He hopped and walked to the gray squirrel.

“I will if I can, what has happened.” Chesley cawed.

“I have a new friend named Chi-Chi. He is a Chihuahua dog and is stuck in a fence. I can’t push or pull him out.” Chippy explained.

Chesley thought for a few minutes.

“I don’t think I can help because I can’t grab anything with my wings, and my feet wouldn’t be much help either.” He admitted.

Chippy stared at the bird for a few seconds then started to move away.

“I think you are right, to I will keep looking for help. Have a nice day in the woods.” Chippy added.

Chippy was getting concerned because it was starting to get dark, and his poor little friend must be anxious. He should never had tried to climb through the fence, but it was too late to think like that.

Three minutes later a familiar brown and white body appeared on top of the fence line right behind a house. Rupert, the cat, was walking and purring some tune when he saw Chippy.

“Hi Chippy. How are you today.” The cat asked.

Chippy told Rupert about the trapped dog and that he could not find any way to help Chi-Chi get free.

“Oh, another dumb dog. They are always getting into trouble one way or the other. I will come with you and see if I can help.” The cat said.

Thank you, Rupert, I hope you can.” Chippy cried.

Soon the two were standing in front of Chi-Chi. He was shivering and crying. He was afraid. Chippy introduced the two to each other. Rupert walked around the little dog then leaped over the top of the wire fence. The cat sat down for a moment as he thought, then he just as quickly jumped back over and stood behind the dog.

Suddenly Chi-Chi gave out a squeal, his little thin legs were pumping, the back side of his body was wiggling, and he slipped through the fence.

Chippy heard the little dog yelp, “Ouch”

“Hombre, you bit me!” the Chihuahua barked.

“Yes, I did, and you are now no longer trapped, either.” Rupert announced.

The realization of freedom finally hit Chi-Chi.

“I thought you just need a little bit of encouragement.” Said the cat.

The dog jumped up and down with excitement that he was free. Chippy thanked Rupert and offered him an acorn as a token of his appreciated. The cat declined.

“But I have to get on the other side of this fence if I am going to get back home. Aye, Yi, Yi, what will I do?” Chi-Chi wailed.

“Dogs.” Said Rupert with disgust as he flipped his tail in the air.

“Walk down to that open gate and go through it.” Rupert said as he looked down his nose at the freed dog.

Chippy and Chi-Chi turned their head to look down fence line.  Ten yards away they saw an opening. The dog ran madly to and through the gate.

“I have better things to do, now. Stay out of trouble, okay.” Rupert ordered as he walked away.

“I should get back, my humans should be home soon.” Chi-Chi said.

The two explorers raced each other back to his familiar house. There was no light on, and it was quiet.

“I guess I will climb back under the gate and wait for my humans, but it has been more fun today that I have every had.” Chi-Chi admitted.

“I am glad for that. Maybe I will come over during the day and play while you are on your patio, that way you don’t have to be alone.” Chippy said.

“Thanks, amigo. That means friend.” The little dog explained.

“Thank you and now I’ve learned a new word too. I guess friends teach each other different things to learn.” Chippy said.

“But I don’t think I taught you anything today, did I.” the squirrel asked.

“Si, senor, I learned that I must never try to squeeze through a fence ever again.” Chi-Chi said.

The two little animals laughed, and Chippy headed back to his nice warm nest.

It had been a wonderful day.