Autumn

It got to where he couldn’t wait for 3^rd period Creative Writing Skills. It was certainly not because he loved the subject or because he excelled in it. Mr. Hardesty was a crotchety old taskmaster who possessed absolutely no likeable traits or noticeable talent, so it definitely wasn’t him that drew Chris to the class. In fact, he couldn’t have been more out of place in that classroom. There wasn’t a single guy or girl in there that he knew well or hung around with. This was not his crowd at all, in fact, it was like going to a different school and having no friends. Like being the outsider and having everybody ignore him or in some cases even dislike him.

None of that that mattered though, he didn’t care what they thought of him and how much his buddies kidded him about it either. He knew only one thing and one thing only about this class, Autumn was in it. When she walked into class or down the hallway or up to the front of class to read a particular poem or story, he was lost. His stomach would get light, his mind would float and his body would get weak. She drained him.

They had gone to school with each other since kindergarten but had never even talked until about halfway through their Junior year in High School. On that occasion, Chris had accidentally bumped into her and her books went flying. She had began scrambling around picking up her books and he had reached down to help her.

“Here you go….I’m sorry April, didn’t see you there”, he said warmly while handing a book and folder back to her.

“Its Autumn”, She said simply. She looked at him as if she was looking at something that had gone horribly wrong.

“Yeah Autumn….Autumn, that’s right. Well I’m sorry, can I hold those for you while you get those loose papers sorted out?” Chris asked. It wasn’t often he got a girl’s name wrong and he smiled at that thought.

“I’m glad you think this so funny, and no, I don’t need help….especially from you” Autumn replied briskly. God how she couldn’t stand his type, she screamed to herself.

“Okay….well…..anyway, I am sorry I knocked into you” he stuttered.

She had walked off, still struggling with her books, papers and folders while he was still talking. Somehow being called April by him was the ultimate slap.

Normally he would have shrugged his shoulders and walked the other way already beginning to forget about her and whistling as he did. This time though, he had stood there and watched her go. She always wore jeans which was cool but always with some kind of gypsy type top, all loose and billowy. But as she walked away, he’d looked closer this time. She moved gracefully and smooth. As her long hair swayed back and forth with her walk, he thought to himself, has it always been that long and straight, that beautiful? And even if she had looked at him with what was pretty much a look of disgust, he couldn’t help but look back at her hazel eyes. They had little flecks of gold in them, and well, like her sandy blonde hair, those eyes were beautiful too.

That had been last year and he hadn’t seen her very much after that. They had always belonged to different groups. She was smart, read a lot of books and was extremely artistic. He was a jock, got average grades and had a lot of friends. The summer before they both had become High School seniors though, each had undergone some subtle but distinct changes.

Autumn had changed from a mildly attractive but bookish and slightly defensive girl to a mesmerizing beauty with a gifted, free spirit. Chris, while he was still wearing a letter jacket and plenty popular, had begun to look at life without blinders on, with a slightly wider outlook. He had discovered that all books were not necessarily homework. He’d found out that having your heart broken by an older girl named Ann Walker was not fun, but that it actually made you appreciate words and feelings more. Even made you want to express them. In private anyway.

It was by pure chance that Chris had taken Creative Writing Skills his senior year. He had to fill a spot on his class schedule with an elective course. It was basically a throw away choice he had picked it from a small cluster of non inspiring classes and subjects.

As he sat glumly, watching Mr. Hardesty straightening something on his desk that wasn’t crooked and fidgeting around with this and that, he began to think that this had been a very poor choice out of the options he had picked from.

When Autumn had walked in on that first day of class though, everything had changed. His heart skipped a beat, then caught and raced out of control. She had swept by him without so much as a glance, all fresh and free, smelling like a field of fresh bloomed flowers. He watched as she slid into her chair sideways and swung her legs in. He just drank her in, couldn’t take his eyes off her. How had he not noticed her more? He was caught in a trap that he didn’t want to escape.

As she looked straight ahead waiting for class to begin, while at the same time watching old Hardesty fumble around, she knew he was watching. Realized for the first time that there really was something about him that demanded attention, plenty to dislike too, but he had a certain something about him. She had always just thought it was a silly crush and it probably was, but she had definitely felt the pull as she walked past him.

Day after day, he watched her, said hello whenever he could and tried the best he could to make conversation after class. She was polite enough, but obviously, she had no interest in him whatsoever. ‘And why should she, you goof?’ He had asked himself disgustedly. She is everything you aren’t; talented, brilliant and not tied down by certain friends or cliques or groups. She’s free, unique and special. He didn’t care though, didn’t care that they would never be alike or see things the same and be able to really connect with each other. He just wanted to be near her, listen to her read one of her stories or poems to the class, and watch her move.

He had changed, there was no doubt about it, she thought as she watched him walk to his next class. Maybe she didn’t hate him; maybe it was just people like him. He was still popular and still an athlete that was both feared and respected. He could not walk down a hallway and not be noticed. He had always been polite and he definitely wasn’t showy, although you couldn’t help but think he was conceited. She liked him and liked being around him, despite herself. At the same time she also knew that they would never be in the same circles, even out of high school, into college and past that, they would be too different, too estranged in almost every way. Not that she would want that anyway. She didn’t care though. She liked watching him and lately she liked to read what he wrote.

As a semester final Mr. Hardesty announced, while looking at Chris with one comically raised eyebrow, that he was determined to point out in a humiliating manner just who the pretenders were in his class. The class had gotten quite a few chuckles out of that and Chris had felt more than a few smirks and looks bearing in on him. He had taken it good naturedly and had sheepishly grinned back at most of them, but when he looked at her she was not chuckling or smiling or anything really. She was just looking at him. No frown and no grin, instead it was an almost curious gaze, her pretty eyes locking him all the while. If he had felt jitters and lightheaded before, this was total submission. He didn’t know it then, but sadly, he would never feel anything quite like that again. He smiled at her finally, an honest smile, a decent and sincere smile that said something to her and she returned it with the corners of her mouth turning up ever so slightly.

All weekend he had written ridiculous short stories and horrible poems. Torn, ripped and crumpled up papers littered the floor around his small bedroom desk at home. About ten o’clock on Sunday night he had just crumpled up his latest writing attempt. A short story. A really bad short story. As he stared at a fresh white sheet of paper, ready to just write anything and turn it in she came into his mind like the sun coming out from behind the clouds; warm and bright and strong. Barely aware of himself doing so, he began to write the poem, began to write it as if someone else was dictating it to him. He was almost frantic to get it all down before he lost it forever.

What made this semester final so difficult for some was not only writing something of real substance, but also having to read it in front of the class. There was in some, a real fear of public speaking, the kind that makes you lose your breath and scatters your thoughts. While Chris wasn’t necessarily bothered by that, he had confidence in most cases - many times when he had no real business being confident, but this was not one of those times. It was the message and the feelings, not what the other students or Mr. Hardesty would think that mattered. It had to be written perfectly and read perfectly, that was what made him so nervous.

He had to let her know that he was not some hollow thing, incapable and too shallow to feel. That he was not too foolish and ignorant to transfer emotion into words. He just wanted her to know that. For some reason that was all-important.

As he was called up to the small lecturn that Monday morning, he walked slowly up and stood behind it, his toe tapping nervously away but hidden from view. She wasn’t even looking at him so he looked elsewhere around the classroom. The looks he got back were a combination of bored, snotty, smirking and polite. None were expecting much from him. Finally, he came back to her and their eyes settled on each other with a soft gaze, they smiled and he fumbled with smoothing his paper down. She knew he would be nervous and had decided to look down at her story when he got up there, but she had given in and looked up when she felt his eyes. At that moment, she just knew it would be good. She knew she would never forget it. Never forget him.

“I have a poem” he said solidly and looked at Mr. Hardesty with purpose and determination. Hardesty had looked slightly uncomfortable for a brief moment but then quickly regained his somewhat bored but slightly amused expression. Obviously, he was expecting, almost betting on, a disaster.

“The title is April” Chris stated, once more looking briefly at Hardesty and then settling back on the girl he so desperately wanted to be with, but knew he never would. When he had finished, he couldn’t stand to look at her anymore because it hurt so much inside and he walked back to his chair. He slowly sat down and looking at the poem he had written, read it once more to himself. Then despite himself, he peeked over at her. She had just turned around to look at him and her eyebrows were slightly raised, a look of deep sadness in those hazel eyes. A look of thank you. A look of where have you been? And maybe, a look trying to convey something else.

Somewhere, he still has that old poem on a faded and folded up piece of paper. Somewhere, she still hears him reading it. Sometimes, he thinks about where she is, who she’s with, if she’s happy. Sometimes, she wonders how he is, if they could have been happy together.

Never, does either one forget or stop wondering what might have been.

Bridges To Cross

As he waited in the little room just off the main entry way to the church, his mind was at ease. The light sweet sound of a piano came drifting in as he sat looking out a small open window. He gazed out at a sun dappled garden courtyard. In the middle were a reflecting pool and a small bubbling fountain. His nerves which he thought might be frazzled were not, no toe tapping, or even pacing. He was in a peaceful, reflective mood, much like the courtyard in front of him. In several minutes, his daughter would take his arm and they would go for a short stroll together and another bridge would be crossed. He and Katy had certainly had their share of bridges to cross. But cross them they had.

When Laurie had been taken from him that night on a dark and icy road almost 20 years ago, he had not only lost his wife, his partner, his lover and his best friend, he’d really thought he’d lost his every reason to live. Crushed and empty he had gone home from the hospital and spent a very long night, one of many to come, contemplating the real meaning of life. What purpose had this served? What purpose did he serve for that matter? Why had this happened? Is everything in life just a roll of the dice? What was he going to do now? He finally concluded about 3 am the next morning that he just didn’t care anymore. He had no doubt that he could and probably would, become an outstanding failure in life. He would start drinking heavily, eventually lose his job, have to give Katy to his sister to raise and living out the rest of his life alone - even more empty than he presently felt.

Two days later on an overcast and chilly day with low clouds skidding across a gray sky, they had been at the cemetery. Four year old Katy was being held by his sister about twenty feet away and he stood where they had just lowered Laurie. He was in a state of total shock really, head lowered and his body weaving side to side slightly. He was nearly out of his mind with grief. He had told his sister that he just needed a minute…..just one minute, please.

“My God Laurie, what will I do without you?” he asked in a whisper. He was staring down at nothing in particular, his vision clouded by tears of anguish.

There was no sound but the wind and a car going by on the county road way off in the distance. There was no answer to his plea coming – he knew that, but he still waited and then waited some more, his mind a slow whirling mass of nothing.

“I’m going to miss you so much hon…..I…I just feel so alone without you by my side.” He stood for a second more, deciding he better go and then whispered again, “I love you babe.”

As he raised his head and told his wooden legs to move, she had touched him. Gently, so soft in fact that he wasn’t sure at first that it had really happened. He looked straight ahead with dead dull eyes and felt it again. Curling into his hand was another, a tiny hand, warm and soft. Little fingers that were barely able to tuck in between his. He looked down at that sweet innocent face, framed by white blonde hair and big sad blue eyes. Her solemn expression was one of someone years past her age.

“You’re not alone Daddy……I’m here with you” she said quietly. She continued looking up at him with that solemn little look. The breeze blew up again briefly and tossed her hair around her face gently.

“I know baby…..I know. I’m here with you too.” he replied smiling sadly down, then he picked her up and held her tightly for a long time. How selfish he’d been with his pain and how conceited he had been with the anguish. He didn’t think he’d ever stop hugging his little girl.

The piano music stopped and began another song, tugging him out of those thoughts of what seemed like yesterday. He looked at his watch and realized that this would probably be the last song before the procession. Just as he got up, there was a quiet knock on the door, one of the ushers stuck his head and grinned broadly.

“It’s almost time Mr. Simmons” the young man said with excitement.

“I’m on my way, thanks” he replied, straightening his tux and tie.

He went to his appointed spot and waited, the flower girl about the age of Katy in his memories of a moment ago went slowly down the aisle, past pew after pew of smiling faces. The bridesmaids and groomsmen followed, pair after pair.

Then Katy walked out from a small room across the entry way from the one he had been in. My Lord, how beautiful she was……this little girl of his. Like a veiled angel dressed all in white, she flowed and floated her way towards him, smiling a smile that only she had. Making his heart do a slow roll like only she could. They met at the door leading into the sanctuary and paused for a second staring into each others eyes. Her eyes were brimming up with emotion and happiness and his simply soaking up everything he saw before him. She had taken his hand quickly and squeezed, her hand was still small, delicate, soft and warm just like that day so many years ago. They both turned, slowly dragging their look away from each other. She curled her arm in his as the music started. Another bridge to cross he thought to himself and smiled as they entered the ceremony.

As they went, seemingly in slow motion, each step or two down that aisle had brought another memory, a different moment from the past. The thoughts didn’t have to be pulled up, they came on their own, flowing up and out like a favorite home video. Him holding her hand while walking up to the first day of school and then watching her walk the last few steps after he had stopped. Seeing her look back at him bravely and waving. A school play in which she played a tree, kisses good morning and kisses goodnight, a volleyball game for the first time in Jr. High, her first boyfriend and a school dance. Birthday parties and Christmas mornings. Her running up the sidewalk with an honor roll certificate or her driver’s license and backing the car down the driveway. Summer jobs and her High School graduation. Posing for pictures in her prom dress. Going off to college. And so much, much more.

He had made a promise to himself that day in the cemetery. An unspoken promise, to his little girl that he had held onto so tightly. His promise had been simple. He would be there for her, always. He did not promise to know everything he would need to know in raising a daughter without a mother, to have answers to all her questions or to understand things that a mother and daughter just naturally understand. Down through the years, there had been smiles and frowns, laughter and cries, slamming doors and kisses on the cheek, arguments and hugs - every range of emotion that exists. He was sure he had failed miserably along the way at some things but it wasn’t because he didn’t try and because he did try, she had loved him more. He was almost sure of that. Katy had always been a gifted, thoughtful and special child. Missing her mother deeply, but never complaining about it, never drowning in it. He had known nothing of jean styles or bras or menstrual periods or makeup and conditioning shampoos. He had not fully understood the thoughts, feelings and worries of a teenage girl. But, he had been there nonetheless. He’d been there for her in the times when she had really needed him. The times when she had needed him to talk, or when she just needed him to listen.


Suddenly, he found himself stopped in front of the altar and just like that, the memories and moments had stopped playing in his head. What a walk that had just been and how sweet, sad and happy this moment truly was. He looked over at her and smiled. God, how he loved her. She turned to face him with a slow tear, making its way slowly down her cheek, for she too had just watched some of those same moments and memories go by. She smiled back at him with those big blue eyes and mouthed the words, I Love You, to him. He did the same.

He turned, sat down and then looking back up he realized she was still looking at him. Possibly thinking about her mother who had been taken from her, or her father who was giving her away, or wanting to say more to him.

He whispered something to her from a long time ago, “I know baby….I know.” With that she seemed satisfied, and taking a deep breath, she turned back to her husband to be.

Room To Write

"I think this room’ll be just fine", I said to the tavern owner while surveying the room.

"Yessir, it is small no doubt and she’s a little spartan in terms of furniture and such but hell its clean, private and its got a great view of the Gulf – plus you can't beat the price", grinned the scratchy little owner of the legendary Sketching Tavern in Storhees, Texas. Refusing to stop for a breath he continued on "and, you don't have far to go when ya want a drink,” he winked quickly, "you just go whet yer whistle downstairs ‘n climb on back up the steps."

"Well, that’s true enough,” I grinned, “main thing fer me is the solitude, I need that when I write.....so....alright then, I'll take it" and I quickly added, "You shore it’s free rent?”

The landlord grinned again and said, "Costs you nothin’ in terms of greenbacks sir.....only prahs you pay is allow’n me to read your mind a little, n’ your stories, ever’ word.....that’s all", said the man with a sly grin and then as was his habit, he continued on, “I like me a good story ever’ once in awhile and I ‘spect you have some dontchee?”

Little did the landlord know, I would have paid him for not only the room, but for him to read my stories as well.

"Well then, I guess we got us a deal," I said and we shook hands on it.

“And ya know….I’d maybe like to talk about’em a little ever once in awhile too…..I’d throw breakfast in for free on that, I would”, the owner said straightening his filthy apron a little, “Jo Beth can make a good corn cake biscuit…….she can.”

We looked at each other for a second and he must have misread me, because he cautiously backtracked slightly, “Now a course, that’d only be when yer of a mind to chew the fat. A‘course.”

Sitting my satchel bag down on the table and staring back out the window again, I said “Reckon we still got a deal, all that’d be fine too.”

On that, he beamed a brown toothed, lopsided grin at me and smoothed down his hair a bit.

The walls were bare and freshly whitewashed, the wood floor was worn but swept and the cheap furniture wasn’t all busted up. That’s the way I wanted it, no old gashes and scrapes, no faded outlines of old hanging memories on the wall and no worn fabric. It was my fresh slate, like blank pages, in a brand spankin' new journal. I looked out the old style big bay window, breathed the salt air and never heard the landlord close the door softly behind him.

"Thank y......." I started to say turning around too late, as he was already gone. My gaze went around the new room slowly and finally out the bay window again, as a little smile appeared on my face. I was looking out at everything and everybody, but no one could look in. A gentle warm breeze wafted in from the gulf, ruffling the thin cheap white drapes and gently circled the room. As I sat down, without even taking my jacket off, I got my paper out, and pen in hand began to write. I paused in mid sentence, as a freighter’s horn, way off and lonesome bellowed. It was heading out to parts unknown, South America maybe, or hell, Europe even. Finally looking back down, I completed the first sentence and then the paragraph, not at all sure of my story’s destination either. I was not sure of the story after that either, but knew there would be one.

*This was my first story on the first writing blog. I still consider this a room of sorts.

A Noisy Old Storm

Even at his age, a bad storm still bothered him and this one had bolted him up in bed. Inevitably though, his older sister would come to the rescue, even though they now lived in different states. 'It's only a noisy old storm and it'll pass soon,' he'd hear her whisper and almost feel her thin strong arms around him again. She had been brave, fearless in the face of danger. She had been his mother when their real mom was gone for awhile.

They had grown up modestly but had never really wanted for anything, except a father of course. His sister Kate had been 6 years older than him and she actually remembered their father before he had deserted them. His mother had never been the same afterward. Her job at the factory and her job at home took it's toll, took everything she had, all the energy and life there was to offer. Kate helped as much as she could even at a young age and half raised him as they both grew up. Mom had finally broke, broken both in spirit and in hope. She had started drinking heavily and suffering terrible headaches that would twist her face into somebody they didn't know. Somebody who would scream and throw things around the modest home. Somebody who would occasionally chase him and Kate into a corner or a hallway with Kate eventually acting as a human shield - sometimes paying for her bravery and sometimes dodging the storm.

The storms, that's what Kate had called the terrifying episodes. It was her way to deal with it and her way to explain it to me. The thunder would roll and the lightening would crash, but through it all Kate always shielded her baby brother, always protected and soothed him. It was something that he had never forgot and had always credited Kate with. Something he had always loved her even more for.

The lightening had been over for a bit, but when the last one crashed into his thoughts it made him jump, wide eyed and seeing something - somebody - terrible from 20 years ago. Then, as she always had, Kate whispered into his ear, 'It's alright......there......see?, It's over now. It's o.k......Just a noisy old storm'. His wife suddenly rolled restlessly away from him, saying something in her sleep. His eyes were still wide, but his heart and mind were much calmer. He also swore he could feel the comforting hug from those slender strong arms so long ago. As he got a phantom kiss on the forehead, and he promised himself to call Kate tomorrow, sleep came back to him. The last thing he heard before dropping off was a soft young voice, with a shaky little quiver to it, whispering 'It's alright........'

The Coyote Call

On winters coming, nights grow long
Stronger still, is the coyote’s song
He cries to himself, to his now lost love
Pitiful calls, lamenting stars and moon above

No wind, nor clouds and air is thin
The howls like no other, tell of what’s been
The coyote's call tells also, what will become
A mournful wail, sad feeling of future lonesome

Sad soft growls, and longing her sorrowful
Rhythm of call, now pause and listen wistful
No return, no answer, he stares into dark
Wanting her return, he cackles angry bark

Pacing and stopping he continues his calling
Spirit and hopes, once high, now falling
He cries too long, too hard, turning to join pack
But ears perk, far off reply, comes weakly back

Not believing, not trusting, of that distant sound
Heart pounding, senses sharp, he stands his high ground
From dark hills and forests far away, comes a cry
There, a call, a plea finally comes sounding as a sigh

On winters coming, nights grow long
Stronger still is the coyote’s song
Meeting finally in a dark valley clearing
They circle each other with great urgent daring

No wind, nor clouds and air is thin
The howls like no other, tell of what’s been
The coyote's call is all feelings, ancient emotions
Sincere, true sounds of life’s wild notions.

The Roses

Anthony Vacco shuffled down the hallway of the small brick bungalow that had been their family home for 58 years. He was humming an old opera song and pulling on a buttoned down sweater. Since he had retired years ago…..he stopped and with a slight tremble in h is hand, gently straightened a photo hanging there of Maria and their two daughters. Since he had retired, ‘how many years ago is it now Tony?’, asking himself and interrupting his own thoughts again. ‘Acchhh, Yearrrs ago’ waving it off as he grinned to himself. Well lets just say since Anthony retired, Wednesday’s had been a special day. They always had lunch in the park on Wednesdays. Lancaster Park that is, only two blocks away. The lunch together had been his idea and it had stuck all these years.

He had made it a rule that he would always make it for her. After all, he was a romantic at heart and he loved to do things for her anyway. Hurrying as much as this 79 year old Italian could, he made his way to the kitchen and started preparing her favorite lunch; Prosciutto ham, some Fontina cheese, a few sesame crackers, a small bunch of grapes and a little surprise…. two delicate cannoli’s. He had picked it all up at Tattalia’s yesterday, the little shop he had been going to for decades. Yes, yes, this would be perfect he thought as he hit a high note in his humming. Now, he packed it all in a small wicker basket along with some fancy napkins and sit the basket on the small table by the front door. Standing near the door, he looked around the neat, actually, impeccably kept little living room and wondered what he was forgetting. Nervous as a schoolboy before his first date, he thought, grinning again to himself as he suddenly remembered. ‘Ahh, how could I forget!, the rose, The Rose’ he shook his head and made his way to the back door. Maria’s favorite flower had always been roses and he would snip one to take in a small vase….only one – she insisted on that. This year like so many others they had bloomed so beautiful and vibrant, he would snip the very best one, but not tell her.

A short time later they had slowly walked, almost strolled like the old days, down the old cracked sidewalk, past the stop sign at Arcadia and Lemont Ave. and finally entered the park walking through the grand, ornate limestone and wrought iron gates. Lancaster Park had been around since the 1890’s in their small town. The trees and foliage were fully mature and breathtaking, the stone walkways that wove their way through the park were perfectly laid out and the marble benches were spaced with views and semi privacy in mind. It was a beautiful June day, in a beautiful old park. The only tense moment for Anthony was fast approaching and he squeezed Maria’s hand lightly in anticipation – it was silly but it meant so much to her, and well, so much to him as well. It was a particular park bench he was nervous about, they had their own park bench or one that they had picked as their own. The bench was tucked away in a little natural alcove of tall bushes about twenty feet off the stone walkway. There was an ancient and huge old gnarled oak tree nearby that hung over the bench in a protective way. The park had a common area that was dotted by large trees, but mainly, the commons was just a gently rolling meadow of lush green carpet.

Green, everywhere green. When seated at ‘their’ bench it was all displayed in front of them like a stage in a theatre – and they were in the front row. As they chatted and came around the little bend in the walkway just before the area where their bench was, Anthony saw Mrs. Palmer coming towards them, walking her baby in the stroller and waving. As they passed, the young woman greeted them warmly and let them fuss over her baby girl, ‘how cute she is, she has your eyes Mrs. Palmer, and my, how she’s growing.’ They saw her often and enjoyed the company of each other. She was off though, had to go to the store and then to the library. Waving goodbye this time, she was quickly out of sight. Rounding the bend, Anthony like so many times before, had been relieved to see their bench was not taken. It was no different really than a teenager and his date wanting no one in their special place, or a middle aged couple always wanting the same table at that certain special restaurant.

As he spread the cloth from the basket on the bench and began placing the food out between them, he was hit by a sudden wave of sadness but it faded and he made himself grin. A grin that came easy to a man like himself and a grin that everyone that knew him by recognized….and admired. Anthony Vacco was a pleasant, happy man and appreciative of people and life in general. Everybody liked Anthony and he genuinely liked everyone back. His life had not been an easy one though. He was forced to work full time as a young boy. His family had known nothing but challenges, hard work and sacrifice. He had hardly any formal education and had never made much money.

Anthony had been blessed though, blessed with the dark haired beauty named Maria that he had met when they were both 15 and married at 18. He had been blessed with that same young girl becoming his wife and a mother that anyone would have been envious of. He had been given two cute and precocious little girls who were now grown, beautiful and successful, leading their own lives with their own families. Just to be sitting here today, here in Lancaster Park on this beautiful June day was a gift. Indeed, blessed with all of that, and the memories that it provided.

He gazed out at that spacious, gorgeous green meadow, dotted occasionally by an oak or elm that created shaded circles of a darker green and all of that was capped with a brilliant blue sky. He couldn’t help himself anymore, he had always been an emotional man and he became overwhelmed by it all. Anthony began to weep quietly and he squeezed Maria’s imagined hand a little tighter. He had been lucky, damn lucky in life he thought as he brought the rose out – a bright yellow one. Sitting the vase gently beside him on the bench, he tried to smile again but sometimes it was hard, especially hard when he was alone. Her presence was always here, but it was times like this moment of harsh reality, that he fought the sadness the most.

As he sat on the old park bench and ate his lunch slowly next to the single, now somewhat lonely rose, he simply watched life go on around him. Two squirrels darting across the clearing and up a tree, one stopping abruptly to stare back at him and two dogs running to fetch a stick their master had thrown. Shortly afterward, a pair of cardinals appeared, the male bright red and alert, the female was softer, a more subtle reddish color. The two birds hopped warily closer to him and he tossed a crumb of bread their way. Anthony watched the two birds share the bread, taking turns and not hurrying. He smiled at that. The female flew off after a few minutes and the male looked as if he would follow close behind, tensing to take flight, but he stopped short of it and stood still for moment. He looked at Anthony now and cocked his head to the side, still not leaving.

Anthony smiled again and said, “go now, and hurry, she’s waiting for you.” At that, the bird seemed to understand and took wing heading for the nearby tree where she waited. Then moments later, both flew off to another place. Even they would not always fly together, one would leave the other alone someday, the other would be left to eat their bread alone. Anthony thought about that while packing everything back up in his basket

It had been a good lunch, at least after he had gotten over his little bout with self pity. A beautiful lunch in fact, on a beautiful day, Anthony smiled as he walked back to their little house. Marti would be calling this afternoon and her younger sister would call tonight so he quickened his shuffle a little, or at least as quick as this 79 year old Italian man could, he chuckled. Wednesdays were always a special day. Minutes later, just as he walked in, the phone did ring. “Papa? It’s me Marti…..hello Papa”, she said to him warmly. “Marti!”, he said excitedly and as they talked, he looked out the kitchen window and admired the roses growing out back this year. This was all he needed really, phone calls like this from Marti and later from Lisa. And the roses of course, yes, he would always need the roses.

*************

Never Coming Back

Like some small outcropping of a rock cliff, the woman stood on the beach looking out at the beautiful, endless, blue-green sea. With the waves breaking at her knees, hands on her hips and chin jutting into the wind defiantly, she stood solid like some heroic statue. She was looking seaward, but not really looking, and all the while the surf just kept coming in, wave after rushing wave. Instead of seeing the ocean before her, she was envisioning what her life would be like, no, what she would demand it to be like when she finally decided to come back.

She was tanned to the point of looking like a South Pacific native islander, not so much tan as much as a dark copper, or mahogany possibly. She still had a decent enough figure, which was fairly obvious due to the island style clothing she had on, but that really held no interest or importance for her right now. What was important to her was that she had been able to cope and adjust to this solitude. She had been alone for sometime now and that wasn’t all bad. She had a lot of time to do some reading, writing and think about life in general - her life, specifically. It hadn’t always been that way though. She had been married once but not in any real sense of the word and basically in name only.

Another man, Fred, had been with her for awhile after the accident, a true companion, and they had both tried to make the most of it. He had been unhappy and had suffered throughout that whole period though. She had become increasingly distant, less and less interested in him, what he thought and what he had to say. Initially they had grown very close due to pure chance, as lovers often do, but then over the time they had tired of each other, both realizing that it had only been the circumstances that had joined them so strongly.

She had missed him when he was finally gone though, missed him with an ache that was deeper than any pain she had ever experienced. He had died unexpectedly, after coming down with what seemed at the time a mild fever. Once the fever took hold though, it grew worse by the hour and in two days he was gone. She had tried the best she could to make him comfortable, to keep him cool and hydrated but there was really nothing she could do. Still, she felt she’d let him down and it ate at her badly afterwards. Slowly she recovered and as the weeks turned into months she had climbed her way back up again, just as she had other times in her life.

The wind was up today and it swept her long hair out behind her. Wearing it short for years, she rather enjoyed having long hair now, feeling that it helped her mentally, with changing her whole outlook and starting over. Lately, she had almost totally stopped thinking about the past, her former self and all the history that went with that, instead concentrating almost solely on the future. She had no choice really, she could not linger on what had happened this week or last year. Tomorrow was everything.

With an almost theatrical spin, she turned her back on the sea finally, walking back through the fine white sand and retraced steps she had taken countless times before. The sand was warm on her bare feet and she felt good, almost upbeat, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. It was a beautiful postcard day, the only noise really was the surf and a few gulls. The palms, ferns and foliage that formed the tree line of the island were normally about 60 feet from high tide and she almost had reached it when she glanced sideways to her right, further down the beach and into the tree line. She had to go check on that and right now was as good a time as any. She whistled an old Tommy Dorsey tune as she went.

Once she had ducked inside the thick undergrowth and palm trees she made her way to the well traveled jungle path that ran parallel to the beach. It never ceased to amaze her how once inside the tree line, the noise of the surf was muffled considerably and the relative quiet of the jungle took over with an attention getting hush. Turning right, she headed for the Electra, seeing its vague outline through the brush as she got closer. She had tried to be vigilant about the upkeep, ever since Fred had gone at least. He had never seen a reason for it, but she did her best to maintain it’s readiness for just a day as today.

As she walked along the path she ticked off a short list of other things she needed to accomplish today before leaving. Still whistling softly, she walked into the small clearing around the Electra and stopped, taking a quick mental inventory. It had taken constant care and a lot of work to keep the clearing and the plane from being completely swallowed up by the ever growing jungle. The jungle canopy overhead was very thick and let in very little direct light, but dappled sunlight filtered in everywhere. She had tried to keep up with the overhead growth but found it virtually impossible due to a lack of tools and implements, not to mention the energy it drained her of. She had all but forgotten the details of the day on which she had skillfully deposited the plane into its current position. Besides a broken wing strut, which had been snapped on landing, a cracked window, a bent prop and some other wing punctures that occurred as it crashed through the canopy, the plane was in relatively good shape.

Yes, she agreed with herself, it would do just fine especially with all the repairs she had done on it. She even thought the tires and landing gear would be okay as soon as she dropped them……and the old Dorsey tune still played in her head. Amelia cranked open the handle and opened the small hatch to the pilot side seat. The rusted door protested, squeaking loudly and had to be opened with two hands now.

She continued to whistle as if it was 1937 and she was in her leather flying jacket climbing into a gassed and prepped plane, the all but rusted shut hatch not even registering in her mind. The cockpit was still in relatively good shape and she peeked in only to take a quick look; some clothes, assorted supplies and yes, there it is, the old flight book was on the console, there along with the written adjustments in calculations she had made after getting off course so badly. So badly in fact, that the searches undertaken had covered several hundred nautical miles in the opposite direction. That had effectively doubled the mistake she and Fred had made.

Add to that the fact, that the island was not even plotted on a map and you had the formula for Amelia and Fred Noonan, her navigator, disappearing forever. Well, not forever, she corrected herself. Of course, she had chosen to take some time to consider things and make some changes in her life before she rushed back to civilization, but now she was almost ready to return. Almost ready.

She slowly stopped whistling the tune and quietly stared at the old flight book which was rotting away to nothing, but it looked brand new to Amelia. As she stared, transfixed now, she remembered her transmissions to the Navy cutter, Itasca, that infamous day. She had told them that she did not ‘have them’ yet visually, but that she must be right on them. She radioed being very low on fuel, flying north and south, and then had given them her position which had been inaccurate due to faulty navigational equipment and Fred’s own missed calculations.

While finally running out of fuel, far from Howland island as it turned out, she had at least gotten off a few more transmissions. Transmissions which, she wasn’t aware of at the time, were unfortunately garbled and not decipherable to the Itasca. As the Lockheed Electra began to cough on its last drops of fuel, she and Fred had quickly done the necessary things to keep the plane in the air as long as possible. Seconds later, she had begun to lose altitude when she had seen a tiny dot off to the northeast. Banking slightly and keeping the nose up, she had continued her coughing glide towards that dot.

Scrambled and tense minutes later, with landing gear up and Amelia playing the yoke and flaps, it looked like they might just make it. The engine had miraculously caught again, apparently finding a little more fuel in the lines to sputter along unevenly. They had slowed measurably and neared stalling which is exactly what Amelia wanted at this point. She pulled as hard as she could to try and push the nose of the plane as far into a vertical position as possible in order to have any chance at all with a belly landing into the water. Their plan was to come in perpendicular to the small beach and land in the water but yet heading straight toward the island.

The engine of the Electra finally coughed out for good and as if on cue the water rushed up to meet them. She quickly realized though that she was not only going to make it to the water close to the island, in fact they were going to over shoot it, the beach blurring by them and tops of palm trees quickly appearing. At the last second she had tried to push the tail down even further so that the plane was at an impact angle that would allow for more of a slide into the jungle canopy that was now ready to swallow them.

She awoke to Fred’s moans and the creaks of the plane as it settled into the jungle. Amazingly, it was in an upright position and while leaning slightly to the right side it had been caught by the dense jungle tree tops, slowly lowering itself in stops and starts. They had come in at just the right angle and speed, effectively skidding along the tops of the trees and jungle with nose up at almost a 45 degree angle. The plane suddenly dropped about fifteen feet all at once and when it did, Fred yelled in agony. By the looks of it he had a leg that was twisted around almost backwards.

A tree limb had gotten him right through the fuselage. Something was in Amelia’s eyes and she kept rubbing them absent mindedly as she unstrapped her harness and began to see what she could do for Fred. She finally realized she was bleeding badly from a head wound and used a towel to wrap it around her head, quickly turning back to Fred. “Helluva good job Amelia, a damn good ditch” was all he could get out before he lost consciousness.

The times that followed had almost been totally erased from Amelia’s memory unless she was in this dreaming daze which she sometimes let herself enter. She did remember them finding a small inland cave that had a replenishing water pool which was fed by the small, low mountain peak that dominated the island. That water, which was boiled after it made them sick the first time, and rainwater they collected from future storms, had been enough. She remembered the celebration that taken place when Fred had caught their first fish, the nightly beach fires to draw attention to themselves, the first night they had made love, and of course the morning he had died from a fever - a full 2 years after recovering from his crash injuries……..the sheer loneliness that had followed. Sometime very soon after that she had felt things slip, things falling out of focus just a little and then coming back in, reality becoming not quite so well defined.

The loud abrupt caw of a jungle bird brought her back with a start. She realized she was back when she heard the constant and soft rhythmic surf off to her left which could be either soothing, or maddening, depending on her mood. She shut the cockpit door and the rusted metal scraped and screeched as it went. The old plane was literally falling apart and slowly being eaten by vines and undergrowth. Amelia didn’t hear or see any of that though. Sure it was dirty and needed a good long flight to work all the kinks out, but the old Electra would answer the call. She was sure of it and she walked with a spring in her step, back up the path, on her way to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything in camp. Once she was up and in the air it would be too late.

After all, she smiled, she would never be coming back. She had tried many times before to leave, climbing up and strapping in, prepping the plane and then the fuel line problem would occur, or a gauge was not reading, or even the weather would unexpectedly turn bad – it always seemed to be something. Today however, today would be different, she just knew it would be. It had to be. As she made her way along the path, she began to whistle again. In her mind which was finally, and totally, lost long ago she repeated the pre-flight procedures which were so familiar to her, practicing her call sign so as not to forget it. Yes, she told herself once more, she was never coming back and the jungle bird cawed again as if in loud and echoed agreement.

Today was yesterday and tomorrow was now, she thought to herself and it made all the sense in the world to her, but slowly her walk turned into a confused shuffle. She then veered away from the path back to camp and came back out onto the beautiful, postcard perfect, sunny beach. She couldn't for the life of her remember where she had just been going, but as the surf touched her feet again, she smiled broadly - a somewhat wild smile really. Amelia's eyes gave her away though, they were haunted and confused. A long slow tear appeared from somewhere deep inside and rolled down her cheek. How she hated this little Godforsaken island and once she got off of it, she would never visit it or even talk about it again. Amelia wiped a second tear away distractedly and she looked out at the sea without really looking at it. No, Amelia was never coming back.

Just One More Spring

The old cabin creaked and shuddered in the harsh winter wind. It was late November, 1857 and Jesse Tucker sat slowly rocking in the big pine chair he had made so many years ago. He was wrapped in an old buffalo blanket, but was still shivering. The small one room cabin was warmed by a fire burning in a large hearth made of river rock and rough slabs of slate rock. The fire was burning down somewhat, but old Jesse made no move to feed or rekindle it. His breathing was rattling and uneven.

Across the room sat his partner Tracker Sam, at least that’s the name that had stuck when Jesse had started calling him that as a joke, way back when they first began trapping together. That seemed so long ago now. The glorious days of the Mountain Man had come and gone, a glorious but brief era in history. The two had walked and rode literally thousands of miles together, seen harsh bitter winters, blooming warm springs, blazing summers and the beautiful shades of autumn in these mountains and plains. They had hunted and fished and trapped. Eaten together, camped together and kept each other company through long periods of otherwise utter isolation. It was what they preferred though. Neither of them had much use for anything other than being left alone up here in these beautiful mountains. People, or civilization on the whole for that matter was something they preferred to live without, as those things seemed to only bring trouble with them. All they had ever needed from each other was a little company and friendship. As it all turned out, they had both gotten so much more out of the deal.

Jesse Tucker had chosen this life at the age of fifteen, after his father had decided to settle the family in Denver. Jesse decided that he could not just stop, not with so many places yet to be seen. His family were done traveling west, bone tired and disappointed – broken in spirit. Jesse on the other hand, felt he had to keep going and not necessarily just westward, he just had to keep going. His parents noting his age and what they had called wanderlust, had at first denied him, but finally had decided to let him go his way. It was a different day in those hard times and it was not unheard of for a fifteen year old boy to be out and on his own. They gave him what supplies they could and wished him luck. His father simply shook his hand and put his hand briefly on his shoulder. His mother gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, handing him some fresh biscuits she’d made and wrapped in a small cloth. She looked sad and tired as she held his youngest brother tight to her apron. The last time he ever saw his folks and his siblings, they had been waving at him from the front porch of their cabin.

Tracker Sam had run away from his family near the border of Nebraska and Colorado, as they made their West in a bedraggled wagon train. He had snuck off one night without anyone knowing and struck out on his own, following the same urge that Jesse had. About a month after Tracker Sam had made his getaway, he had run into Jesse at the Rendezvous that was taking place in a small valley on the South Platte River. The Rendezvous, as it was called, was a yearly get together of Mountain Men, fur traders, trappers and guides. Their meeting and resulting partnership had come just in time for Tracker Sam for he had been having a rough go of it. He was hungry, tired and he hadn’t really found what he was looking for yet. Jesse had taken him in right away, had asked no questions and when they had decided to partner up he’d agreed to split everything he had with Sam, 50-50. Jesse was already trapping for the Missouri Fur Trading Company, and they had set out heading due west, immediately after trading in furs and re-supplying.

For years after that, they had enjoyed high adventure, dangerous times, grand vistas and landscapes that took breath away. They had met up and traded with or fought against Blackfeet, Comanche, Utes, Crow and a host of other tribes cheating death on more than one occasion. They had traversed rivers such as the Columbia, Snake, Colorado, Green and Platte. They had enjoyed the acquaintance of meeting famous trappers and Mountain Men such as Jim Bridger, Henry Fraep, Captain Bonneville, Alexander Culbertson and Jedediah Smith. At one point they had even enjoyed a little notoriety themselves, having been mentioned by name in a book published back east. They had walked and rode the Overland Trail and every trail in between, looked down on the clouds and tree lines from peaks so high they seemed to touch heaven itself. Trapped and fished mountain lakes that were so smooth, so clear and so pristine that you could not distinguish the real landscape from the reflection. Season after season, year after year, it had gone on and on seemingly destined to last forever.

And now, it was finally coming to an end. All of it. Sam had no regrets though, and as he looked over at Jesse, he knew his partner didn’t either. Hell, they had lived spectacular lives when you came right down to it. It was still sad for it all to be ending though, he thought as he stared into the dying fire. Just one more spring, if they could only have just one more spring ….. Sam mused, thinking what a prize that would be. The wind shrieked a little stronger outside and he turned his head toward the noise for a second, but then returned his gaze to the fire which popped and cracked from time to time. Sam stared, mesmerized by the flames. His face reflected nothing of what he felt right now, he just watched and listened, with his customary sober expression.

A short time later, he heard Jesse take a sharp breath in, causing him to look over again at his old partner. Jesse’s head fell to one shoulder and Sam stared at him hard waiting for him to rouse back up, finally trying to will him back up, but Jesse didn’t move. He never took another breath. Sam waited some more anyway. Sam, despite his wanderer sounding nickname, had always been close around Jesse, never far off at all and he sure wasn’t going to leave him now. Jesse had taken him in as a partner, had always made him feel wanted and given him years of loyal friendship. No, Tracker Sam would not be going anywhere, now or later.

Jesse’s rocking chair had creaked to a stop. Sam could see and hear that he was not breathing anymore. Sam got up stiffly, looking around the small dark cabin, lighted only by the fire and a small candle by the wash pan in the corner. Scanning the room slowly and sadly, he looked at the familiar sparse contents; a bunk, small table, a gun rack made from antlers, two shelves, an ancient cook stove, and some old pots and pans. He walked unsteadily over to the fire as if to do something about it, then paused and looked back at his old companion.

This was the end he thought simply and with finality. His head was low as he hobbled slowly over to Jesse’s chair and put his paw softly on the old man’s foot, letting out an almost silent moaning whine. For a minute or two he stared into Jesse face, intently looking and hoping for any kind of reaction, any small trace of life. Finally convinced of what he knew already, Tracker Sam painfully shifted around and rested his head on his old friend’s lap. He whined softly just once more, which was his way of saying a sorrowful goodbye. As the big pale yellow dog slowly sunk down to the floor, leaning against Jesse’s leg, his eyes drooped and his head sank to rest on his paws. It wouldn’t be long now, he had been waiting and trying to hold on, but now Jesse was gone, so he could go…..

Just minutes later as the fire died, the weak orange blue flame sputtered out and as it went, Sam went with it. His last thought was of him and Jesse walking through a lush green valley that was exploding with clumps of spring flowers. There were mountains in the near background and there was a river running fast nearby. The last sounds he heard were one last weak pop from the dead fire and the winter wind that was whistling relentlessly, forcing its way through the cracks of the old cabin walls. Almost immediately, the cold crept in claiming its victory, but the old man and his dog were already gone.

They were walking through a lush green valley, warmed by a spring sun.

In His Minds Eye

As a very young boy he had simply seen darkness. Voices and sounds that had no real tenor or substance yet. Nor did smells and touch hold any real telling, scented or soft clue at that early age. The pictures and scenes in his head were unfocused and undefined. It was a sad time for such a young boy, full of unfair challenges and a deep clinging loneliness. A difficult time, in which his hopes and very brief periods of happiness were buoyed only by a loving family and a few faithful friends. As he grew older though, he had learned how to create visions and sense life in a special light. He drew the scenes, created the actors and painted portraits of his loved ones. He saw and watched his entire life through his mind's eye.

He had learned how to see his wife sitting next to him, saw her warm smile and had watched her, admiring her beauty and grace as she would come down the stairs to go out to dinner. The familiar fragrance of her perfume as she got near to him, reaffirmed his painting of her. This was a woman who had met him in college and stayed in his life, from the very first day. She had not walked away all those years ago, stayed by his side and had never abandoned him. She had loved him and still did, staying with him all these years. He knew exactly what she looked like and how beautiful she really was.

Many people thought he had missed seeing his children make their way through life; their first steps, school, sports and proms. He had witnessed it all though, feeling their troubles and enjoying their happiness. Picturing them had been an ongoing project, changes and stages of their lives making up the great kids he saw now. He remembered their graduation robes had been the color and texture of his own making and he had cried with happiness at his picture of them as they had waved diplomas and proudly walked back to their seats. Most recently his precious grandson had needed to be sketched in his mind. This little one, who had his chin he was told and had sometimes slept peacefully on his chest as they listened to music. He had seen it all. All of it.

Thinking back, there was little to want or desire, he’d always felt that he had actually been a very lucky man. He had tried to have a positive attitude and be appreciative of what he had, instead of what he had not. He did his level best to lead an honorable and just life, be a loving husband and father. His life journey had been blessed with joy and he wished for nothing. He could not see those he loved as other people did, but he felt the warmth of their love, touching the facial contours and satin features of them, that gave him vision.

He could not see the shade of grass and wildflowers of spring, but he gave them his own palette of colors and smelled their fresh bouquet. He could not see the birds outside the window, but could hear the sweet chirps and he knew the hue of their feathers. What he had seen was what he had been able to create and save, and this was his album of life.

It had been a lifelong effort to collect and complete this vivid and vast gallery of pictures in his mind. And now, the paintings were finally finished. They were perfect, as he mentally surveyed them around the room, they were wonderful, absolute masterpieces. He saw only love and beauty wherever he looked. The familiar voices, sounds and smells that surrounded him in the room now were just the finishing touch. Yes, he had been born without sight, but he had never felt cheated, disabled or in need of anything really. It was almost time now for another journey, another life. Those gathered around him wished so desperately that he could finally see them there, that he could be warmed and comforted by their faces of love. He assured them that he saw them, everyone there, and felt their love as he always had.....Yes, it was time and he welcomed whatever awaited him there and when they would join each other again in a different place. It mattered not really, if he would be seeing them as never before or seeing them in his minds eye, and he drifted peacefully off with that thought. One curtain closed slowly with a whisper and another curtain drawing open.

Floating To The Surface

As I read the paper this morning, an old memory slowly came floating back up to the top of my mind. Floating up to the surface, up from where I had pushed it down so many years ago. At first I had a few problems filling in some gaps, partly because of time – it happened well over 30 years ago but as soon as it picked up momentum in my mind I had almost completely brought it back. I even remember the day it happened as being bright, warm and sunny spring day. There are no obvious or eerie similarities between the very sad article I was reading and mine. No great parallels or lessons to be learned, but there was something that made me think back to that day and I think it was just the overall sadness and desperate feeling of the news story. When my wife asked me if everything was o.k. after I folded the newspaper and laid it down slowly, I responded in some flat automated voice saying 'yes, I'm fine'. I sounded strangely like Rick when he had told me so long ago, "Oh, I'm doin' all right, I’m fine”.

Rick? Well, Rick and I were awful good friends. Probably never a time where we reached the ultimate best friends, blood brothers stage – right down to cutting of fingers and rubbing them together as we boys used to do – but steady, really good friends. In fact, steady was a good way to describe Rick too. He was just a poster boy for the steady/good natured/good mannered, midwestern boy portrait. We had grown up together, along with a small pack of other guys our age, in a fairly rural setting. Our parents all knew each other, Rick's sister knew my sister, my brother hung around with his brother and his Mom had full permission to kick me around if I deserved it (although she loved me like a son).

Our houses were on the edge of town, a small town at that, corn and soybeans literally growing up to our yards and in some cases encircling our yards. There were always at least 3 to 4 of us walking together to or from school, and depending on the season; kicking snow, mud puddles, or dust as we went home. Our group was like a small walking school bus as we stopped at each others lane or driveway and one by one we would trudge up to our houses. Most of the time we all had 'stuff' we had to do when we got home, so normally Rick and I were the last two because we both also lived the farthest out. Sometimes, as we reached Rick's house I'd stick around for a couple of minutes and try to put off whatever chore was waiting for me at my house.

Towards the very end of the school year in 6th grade, in the last week before summer vacation, me and Rick were walking home like we had a thousand times before. It was already hot in late May, like it used to get when you were in for a real long hot summer. It was just a day, a regular old day, except for the fact that we were on the very edge of that ‘Schools Out!’ euphoria that we all loved so much. Yeah, we would have summer work in the fields or at the elevator like always but there would be baseball, the county and state fairs, girls to tease and more baseball. Probably more important than anything else however was no Mr. Gates anymore, glaring at you with his bifocals on. He had no heart whatsoever when it came to grading math papers.

Anyway, when we came to Rick's house that day, I couldn't stay because I had to do something for my Dad at home (what that was, I can't remember). The whole thing was so routine, we did the same thing day after day, month after month and year after year. I'd stand there and call him a big sissy or something stupid like that and he'd call me something and then he’d say ‘see ya tomorrow’ and I'd say ‘see ya’ too. He always went into his house by going up his long lane and through the big garage they had. This was one of those old cavernous garages, big rough hewn ceiling beams, with roughed in windows, hard packed dirt floor and such (no 'finished' garages back then). It was semi-detached, as many were back then, connected to the house by a covered walkway or a breezeway as we used to call it. He had to really pull and push on those old wooden doors, which opened out not up, to get them open. That's the last real memory I have from that day as I waived and walked to my house - and I've got a very good memory when I want to, or I'm forced to.

It was just a God Awful thing that happened that day. That seemed to be the phrase that everyone in our small town settled used to describe it. It was awful to be sure and my dad had a few additional choice comments that were specifically aimed at Rick's father, but I'm getting ahead of myself. The worst thing that happened that day was not that Rick's dad had killed himself. It wasn't the way he had chosen – by hanging himself. It wasn't when he killed himself, or even that he had felt so much despair or fear or whatever emotion he was feeling that day to actually 'do it'. No, the biggest crime, and it was a crime, is that he basically killed Rick that day too. As luck, or bad luck rather would have it, Rick's mom was a little late coming home that day, from the grocery store or somewhere, because she was almost always just driving up or already home when we'd get there after school. The theory was always that for some angry and selfish reason his dad wanted his mom to pull and push those big wooden doors open first. The reason didn't really matter though, because the selfish bastard's little plan hadn’t worked. Instead of hurting his wife, he had hurt Rick, crushed him in fact. My mother told me years later that when his mom had gotten home about 15 minutes later, she found Rick still in that big dark and dusty garage. Sitting and crying quietly, staring at his dad hanging from one of those beams, barely illuminated by a few shafts of thin sunlight streaming through cracks in the old garage wall. Fair of me or not, too judgmental or not, I hated his dad for that and still do.

Before the summer had hardly begun, Rick’s mom had sold the house and the family had moved a couple towns over, where her sister lived. After the suicide, I only saw him a few times alone. Once, out in his yard just before they moved, we said 'hey', talked a little bit about something or other and he seemed o.k. but his eyes were empty and vacant, his voice was flat and he just wasn't the old Rick. He never would be. I'm sure I said an awkward, soon to be a 7th grader, goodbye that day. I don't remember much of that conversation except his answer to my dumb question of 'how's it been going'? It was the saddest, 'Oh, I'm doin' alright, I’m fine' that I'd ever heard, and ever will hear. I suppose the only other connection with that newspaper story today and Rick’s s would be the core tragedy of both, Rick would forever be confined to a garage, instead of a hospital bed like that other little boy in the paper.

Both stories are hard to comment on, both awful and both terminal in a way. Neither would ever really recover. I lost track of him after that and as the years went by it was just something to push down, not forget it – that wasn’t possible, I just pushed it down and under other memories, both good and bad. I don't know whatever happened to him and the realist in me almost doesn't want to know. I suppose I should be thankful for that horrible news story in the paper today, because it forced me to remember all of this, it's stories and people like Rick that should never not be forgotten.