"The Lost Years"

          

                              "The lost Years"  

                                       Ben Thomas  

Preface:

   I recently gave a hard copy of this story to a granddaughter, her first question as she took it was "what's this about?"  Which made me quickly ponder her question, after a moment I told her it was about life, mostly mine but I thought many others as well.  She found my answer questionable.   It also led me to add these notes, she had a good question that has many answers.

   Life's a journey and the paths we choose may not be the ones that are taken, thankfully life is full of crossroads when you are willing to take a chance.

We carry our distinct family's histories and future, each in our own way living with the choices and paths taken by our ancestors, our descendants living with ours.

 Regardless of that, the roads we are on are ridden with the perils and the serendipitous joys of life, of love lost and love found...

We all have stories to tell, whether they are borne of joy or grief, written down, told or not, they are always there under the surface.  Some find their way out much like the many detours we encounter and travel down at the most unexpected times, as did this story for me.

   The beginning of this story is true, inspired by a solitary midnight walk in the snow and ice with my dog “Jack” and thoughts of my late wife beside me, when unexpected memories suddenly surfaced of my grandfather.   I owe many thanks to him for the inspiration to write it down.   To her, the courage that brought it to life…

               The rest of it… of love lost and love found.

            

            Copyright 2016 (working edit version April 2023)

 

    Moonlight glistened off the silent sheen of ice, promising redemption at each step as his foot broke through the crystal layers, crackling, bearing the weight only briefly before collapsing with a crunch, echoing in the silence giving way to his presence.  Leaving the oddly shaped meandering tracks of the makeshift snowshoes to testify as the only witness of his being there.

                                            Prologue

   Otis, wearing his customary worn out work trousers, blue denim shirt with the ever present neck tie, sitting in his  well-aged easy chair down in the renovated chicken coop that he called his dog house, used in order to briefly escape the challenges of marriage, lit his Chesterfield, seeming to ponder, while taking a long draw before speaking, then on the exhale said to me as a boy sitting next to him on the wood pile feeding the woodstove…”If you write it down you will not remember” while casually picking off the stray strands of tobacco from his lip then flicking them onto the hot stove where they sizzled then disappeared with a puff while two streams of smoke curled out of his nostrils.  A man of few words speaking six languages who died chopping wood to warm his hearth.

 

    My father’s father, an immigrant   I hardly knew, who came to America as a young boy on his own, escaping the wrath of World War 1 as a refugee that ravaged his homeland, earning his passage by filling, then  passing the ladle from the water bucket he carried to the sweating crews to quench their thirst as they fed coal into the boiler as they steamed across the Atlantic to a land of promise where dreams could come true, while they themselves never seeing the light of day inside the burning bowels of the ancient freighter as it made the perilous journey.  It wasn't until the ship was still, the relentless rocking at rest, safely secured at the dock that he finally stood at the rail gazing out and seeing the welcoming lady of the harbor.

   Passing through Ellis Island alone, then taking those first steps onto the mainland and into the unknown amongst the throngs of immigrants to begin his new life.

    A grandfather with many stories to tell me when I was older.  But he ran out of time to tell.    “Someday” he says “I’ll tell you the story about the white horse and the glass mountain.”

   But Grandpa, who was riding the horse? Forever drawn into the mystery of him as he motioned me to attend to the fire as told.   He had never written it down or told me and so the story died with him.

    Perhaps he wanted me to find out on my own, to reflect, ponder, speculate or guess.   I’ll never know, maybe that was what he was telling me…to make it my own story.   So as is my nature I’ve ignored his advice as I step onto the elders’ path and into its mysteries.

 

                                         Chapter 1

    There is silence everywhere after so many years of Ice,  it permeates the forest like a thick frozen fog, only to be fractured by the sound of solitary footsteps breaking through the layers of ice in a rhythmic song of search.  Gazing up through the canopy of ancient trees into the crystalline sky, catching glimpses of a guiding star and fleeting dream of love, warm hearth and home.

    Returning for the first time to a new home is a puzzling thing, even if it is all in your imagining mind.  The only guide to the journey are the things in your heart, your soul, your imagination or dreams.  It is not like before, or how you imagined it to be, but like the sensory implications of DeJa'Vu it is.  It plays at your heart like a lost love, its’ strings so far out of tune as your chest tightens seeking the fleeting harmony that you thought was yours.

    Feeling his heart beating out the rhythm to the steps in the unforgiving ice as it thuds against his chest, the lungs breath hovering behind before crystalizing into a frozen mist and spiraling away in the silent stillness like a lost strand of DNA.

   His mind wanders while passing remnants of some forgotten path, following the faint whispers of the ghosts in his head, the muffled drone of some distant siren from another time that may have led you here if you could only turn back the clock, somehow, somewhere close to the beginning, when he may not have known better than to have stepped into the unknown, but never the less drawn like a moth to the flame.

   Remembering but somehow caught peripherally on a gossamer’s edge...a memory of her emerging in a fevered sleepless dream, thinking I see her as  she fades into the distance, chasing dreams of her own.     The world dims   and disappears into the twilight of the ethers before I think to call out, still lost in the shredded threads of your thoughts as time relentlessly blurs everything in the vacuum of its silent wake.

   Slowly over the years making his way along this frozen, endless meandering path and yet no sign of what was lost.  The frayed brittle strands of hope still holding fast, stretched thin and endlessly chafing against a threadbare soul.

  The soft fluid edge of the thaw after so many years of ice kept him going.  Now, sounds of trickling water permeated the atmosphere where once was only silence.   Perhaps there is redemption after all and it was all worth it even though he may return empty handed, seemingly more concerned and wondering what all the elders of before would have to say as he made up sounds and images in his head of what it would be like returning if anyone would even remember or recognize him.  Then realizing there is now no way back, only forward, the past was beyond him, forever out of reach and the search of what lay ahead was the only possibility.  He had been down this road before but now he was starting to believe it.   Focusing, he spotted dog off in the distance sitting and watching him, patiently waiting for him to catch up like so many times before. He could now hear Dog giving him small woofs, signal's guiding him back in from where he had reached another dead end.  

   He found it so easy and yet alarming when his mind wandered, picking his way through the maze of memories, thinking it must be his imagination playing tricks again.  Yet, there was no way for him to be certain.  He often forgot the direction or where and to what purpose they were headed and left it up to dog to pick the path and lead the way.

    Dog was somewhere up ahead scouting, as was his way, picking the trail, hunting for their days’ meal.  He learned long ago to trust dogs’ instincts of such things.  Neither knowing their internal compasses were somehow drawing them both closer every sunrise to a place they knew of only in their hearts and dreams.

  Dog was no longer a puppy, but then no longer was he.  As with most things good, he stumbled upon dog almost by accident, before, back when he didn’t know he was lost and wandered without purpose or direction.

  Back then in the fog of the forest dog had watched him approach with his teeth showing and tail wagging, still a pup barely weened as he gingerly took the food offered, careful not to sink his teeth into the hand of the giver.

  He never questioned how the pup got there, dog was there waiting for him to meet.  He had many questions then, all unanswered, so he stopped asking, dog was just one more mystery that was accepted or not, he had learned firsthand long ago   about the errors made of being so impatient.

  That was countless times ago, times of ice and cold never ending.  

   Along the path the questions returned, simple at first, a few answers came to him as they melded into how they were now, each with their own separate terms, unspoken, not negotiated or thought through, yet it bound them together as in a time before he thought he had forgotten with only a wisp of the before to drive him on.  It seemed dog just knew without thinking. They simply were, nothing more was expected from either.

   It was the terms of their co-existence that focused them both at that moment of meeting as the pup sniffed about his legs then put his nose to the frozen ground and trotted off.   No longer alone but as two, their journey together began...

                                               Chapter 2

      Time had blurred into a haze of endless days and what little stores he could carry in his pack were dwindling fast, even dogs saddle bags were now hanging empty.  The dense forest that was somehow spared and all the game it had given them had at last come to an end days before, leaving them exposed to the open unknown and ahead there appeared a vast endless wasteland.  They both knew there was no turning back this time as they began to slowly pick their way into the void.

  The blocks of ice towering over them had started to move on, shaking the ground beneath their feet, rumbling like some ancient hungry beast with the singular purpose of leaving a barren wasteland of crushed rock and shale over the glacial plain devoid of any life and game which to prey upon in its wake.  There was an emptiness about this place, that resonated inside his own hungry hollowness, reminding him once again that their journey was still somewhere in between with no end in sight.

   Making their way over this maze of ever roughening terrain slowing their progress seemingly at every step.  Something in the air besides the high-flying birds circling overhead just out of range put them both on guard.  He could feel it, something about the harmonics of this place, they were both slightly out of sync here, enough to lose your balance over the rock and shale, but more so in their perceptions, or were they illusions?, both of them unknowingly always trying to keep up with the rhythmic beat of their hearts pumping away their time.

  What bearings he managed to keep were swirling in and out of any surety.  Dog was getting anxious as well with constant glances back at him looking for reassurance, his nose failing to come up with any answers.  Rather than out front as was his custom, dog circled in ever widening paths then spiraled back in again, nuzzling and staying close to his side before circling back out again in an endless loop.   Watching dog worried him even more since he too felt they were always circling since they entered this place, mimicking the arc of the stars overhead, until finally he started to stack the rocks to mark their trail making sure not to repeat themselves.

    Water was plentiful, sucking or licking the ice that remained.  They would soon need more than to just quench their thirst.

                                           Chapter 3

 

   Exhaustion finally taking its toll, they both sat surveying the unknown before them, resting as they watched their world move on, sharing the saved bits of a former meal, feeling the warmth of their small fire, the flames flickering as he fed it the last of the forests’ wood he had carried for this moment, it somehow stirred a distant memory of throwing wood into an old man’s stove, for a moment he thought he heard his voice, but then it was gone, lost again in the ethers.

  His thoughts were somehow comforting yet unsettling, not quite knowing where they came from as he watched dog circling endlessly around him at arm’s length now, rather than the longer loops of the day before finally coming to rest at his side, escaping momentarily into deep slumber.

   The long day faded into the depths of constant twilight.  He, deep inside thought, somewhere in the background hearing dog’s faint muffled barking in his sleep hunting down his prey, while memories played at the edge of sleep in his mind, teasing at a story he heard when young, an elder lit up by the flames of a communal fire, whispering of a place that circles all of life, a mountain of glass, a white horse and of the lights in the sky that never dip beyond the horizon, circling endlessly, relentless as they etch their way against the dark vortex above.    Dog awakes from his hunt and licks his face in reassurance as he falls off into a fitful sleep.   It’s always here and now that he begins to hear the voices, muffled then clear, visions coming into focus, faint at first, obscured somewhere in his core then rising from some distant past memory, returning to him in clarity, closing his eyes he sees.

   “It is as it is always” the old man says, “few have left from the many, yet still no one has returned since long before the oldest elder passed by”

The old storyteller nods, stretches his legs out and plays with the embers in the fire with his cane as he finishes the tale, stirring the coals up into a hot glow on their faces intent on sealing the tale in their minds.  Almost as an afterthought, though not part of the tale the elder adds in a whisper few would hear, “soon though, maybe soon”, sensing a kindred spirit in the small group.

  The old man stands leaning on the cane and tosses more wood on the fire bringing it back to life as he steals a glance at the young ones, hoping they remember, wondering who it could be while his own memories of the long journey here came back full circle, teasing him of his lost youth and the stories he had yet to tell.

    Dreaming, he could feel the fires heat still, watching the stirred up glowing embers fly into the night as the old man tossed more wood into the flames, like those small things   that took flight, glowing in the night on their erratic journeys before being snuffed out by their own trailing presence…snuggling ever deeper between his parents heavy robes into safety and slumber he sensed something probing somewhere in his consciousness, catching glimpses of unknown things in his soul.

  He awoke to the chilling stillness of heavy frost and the warmth of dog nestled up beside him, always upwind, dog opened an eye evaluating him as always, sensing with alarm the beginning of the man’s awakening cognition he sprang to all fours, his back hair standing upright on high alert with the low octave of a growl knowing he was the second to awake for the first time since they had begun, his nose working quickly sniffing for the scent of unseen threats.

   They both sensed it at once, he not quite lucid from sleep, finally giving in to it, the dream holding him and dog long enough on a primal level as it entered his consciousness once again, this time to his core.  It’s thrumming seizing and caressing them both with the promise of hope, answers and redemption.

                                          Chapter 4

 

     Blinking, returning briefly again to the present he opened his eyes, rubbing the sleep away, each time slowly focusing he could see things were somehow different, glimmering and changing before them as the bright orb rose up over the tumbled distance bringing everything into sharper focus as the shadows dispersed into the light of the new morning.  They both scanned the horizon out of habit looking for dangers and opportunities but now with mounting curiosity and wonder while getting ready to begin again.

   Subtle at first, their edge of wariness wearing off as they worked their way through the landscape.  Finding their equilibrium as if some internal gyroscopic power were spooling up, enhancing their balance with every step.  Seeing the beginnings of plant life all around them growing among the rocks.  There were blue colored berries that quieted their empty bellies among the small patches of lichen that gave color to the otherwise barren landscape.  Small reptilian creatures warming on the rocks scuttled out of their way as they passed, dog assessing, then dismissing them as a potential meal.   Something was happening here, something different than the countless dead ends they had turned around on, backtracking in hopes of finding their way through the maze.

  Gazing up above them, the birds were still circling but now they could hear the faint sounds of their song.  Not alarming like that of the raptors they had seen elsewhere deep in the forest canopy, but soothing and melodic in their concentric flight.

    Returning their gaze to beneath the horizon, time seemingly had slowed down, he wasn’t sure how long they had been standing here on this path or when they had found it as he stood contentedly scratching dog behind the ears like so many times before, as if it were yesterday, both leaning into each other offering time a counterbalance to the tolls taken.   

   In those moments of quiet he turns, noticing the shimmering horizon moving towards them, puzzled he watched as the horizon moved in, closing in on them. Sensing no threat, watching curiously as they stood their ground.  The unconcerned high flying birds had landed nearby, busy building nests still singing their songs as another small flock landed nearby doing the same.

  More small creatures of all shapes and sizes were appearing on the leading edge of light, foraging among the rocks that were fast disappearing as the foliage of plants began to cover the landscape. Dog watched seemingly not interested in them as a potential meal, instead stood by wagging his tail, a stick in his mouth, employing muffled barks waiting for him to toss it, just as he did as a puppy.

 Up ahead in the distant flickering light he could see something outlined against the horizon moving smoothly and with purpose towards them, stopping occasionally, lowering its head to feed on the newly sprouted greens. It was white against the vibrant waves of shimmering light that they now could see was taking the form of a large translucent mountain.  

 In slow motion the image had cantered up to them putting its wet nose up against his chest, snorted and glanced down to see that dog had dropped his stick and began grooming its legs, as it nuzzled his pockets looking for those saved hidden treats.  He had never seen such an animal before let alone a pure white one as he reached out to scratch behind its ears with one hand while the other combed through its' mane in amazement.

His mind racing with the possibilities that perhaps the story was true after all, maybe there were answers.   He had forgotten the questions so many times before, only remembering when he heard the voices in his head, seeing clearly when he closed his eyes, after giving up any hope so long ago and wandering for so many miles that perhaps this was just his imagination playing tricks on him again.   Glancing down at dog, trusting his instincts, reassured him that if dog was good with this, then so was he.  

     He could hear those familiar voices distinctly now inside his head     amongst the cacophony of sounds, of new life emerging from the ruins as if hearing them for the first time yet again and now seeing them as his sense of wandering melted in the aura of shimmering light then quickly disappeared. 

   On sudden impulse and without hesitation or thought he swung up upon the animals back in one smooth fluid motion, knowing he had been here before, held its mane as reins in his hands, suddenly remembering clearly a lost question he had of an old man with a story to tell sitting next to a wood stove somewhere back near the beginning and now just as suddenly having the answer.

   Horse swung his head around giving him a piercing glance, assessing him, then accepting the load, recognizing his rider, stomping a hoof checking their balance while circling dog in eager readiness as they all turned in unison and took those first steps on their path towards the glass mountain still rising up before them.... not just two, but now as three, their journeys' beginning anew. 

                             to be continued....

 

 

  

        

 

 

                              

 

Somewhere in Between

Ben Thomas                                                                                                                                                  Copyright 2014

             Somewhere in between Part 1 or “The Worlds Fair” Seattle 1962

   

    Dad’s idea of a road trip was a straight shot, non stop cannonball run, except to fill an empty fuel tank and quickly empty a few full bladders of three whiny kids.  At Mom’s insistence a few non essential photo ops were indulged along the way.  Always the destination, not the in-between's  was foremost in his mind according to my early and naive observations. 

     June 1955, my first and last ever road trip  to Kansas City, Kansas to visit my dad’s cousins and his Mom's sister Aunt Cecile.
   This was to be an eye opener in many ways, my first glimpse of a Tornado, but more distinctly, racism up close spewing from my  relatives mouths young and old alike, at 6 years old I was baffled by their behavior and in awe of the Tornado.  

   I saw many a blurred but well known roadside attraction through the rear window as we sped by with the promise to stop on the way back.   

     Little did we know the return trip was to be on a different route, explained away as a shortcut, however exciting in it’s own way, but was really Dad working out the particulars in his head of already being back home.  His version of time travel, not to say he wasn’t paying attention to the road, he had that quiet intensity of concentration needed not to be distracted from all the drama coming from the back seat.

     Being the youngest, I was relegated to a non window position in the back seat, in my estimation the best at the time,  my older siblings Judy to my right, Herbie to my left. 

    For countless miles  in the early summer heat I stood on the floorboard hump between the seats over the drive shaft resting my chin on the front seat with an unobstructed view of the American dream on those brand new interstates, watching for the Burma Shave signs in the days before seat belts.

  Dosing and daydreaming with the steady ka-thump ka-thump ka-thump of the tires rolling over the expansion joints as Dad downshifted,  breaking out of a big rig's slip stream into slow motion  headwinds  to pass the 18 wheelers, looking out the side window to see the trucks wheels slowly rotating backwards in their version of an optical illusion as it slowly drifted behind us and into the past. 

   Startled and wondering why no one else noticed, as I settled back down to track the stationary patterns of upholstery on the back of the seat, it seemed safer to me tracing threads than looking out the window, but was soon bored, the fascination and adventure of the open road always made me look back up and out.

   The heat of the highway can do strange things to a young mind, Dad humming his traveling song, Mom rummaging in her bag for distractions  as the Chevy's straight sixs’ rpms drifted back down into overdrive, eased in by Dad, deep in his zone with the cold second half of an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth guiding the Chevy in an elliptical curve back into our own lane in the nick of time.

    There was a brief stop on the way back to Oregon, more a conciliatory interlude after a brief argument my folks had, we stopped at Yellowstone National Park, we almost saw “Ole Faithful” but left as it sputtered to life with unabated fear instilled by Dad that the whole place was gonna blow any second.  Leaving no time for photographs, proof we really did stop. 

  A win/win of sorts for both Mom and Dad. Although she hadn’t expected him to play the destruction card, but now there is no way to ever know what price he paid, if any for pulling that  one off.

   Us kids sped back to the car, Herbie locking the door behind him in his single mindedness which left me circling around to Judy's side as we spilled in and locked the other door, eager in our disbelief.

    Dad was pleased that the waylay was brief, he had us all back in the Chevy and hit the road again running through the gears into overdrive and back into his element.  

   The things we miss in our pursuit of getting there.    Perhaps more than ever, there are  somethings I still tend to dwell on now that I’m behind a wheel of my own.   

    1962, we packed up the car and headed north with much anticipation to the worlds fair.  It may have been Mom’s idea after all.  

    The trip to Seattle was short, no  need for pit stops, we could hold it till we got there.  Once arriving we drove around downtown searching out a one night vacancy, we all wanted to be close enough to ride the monorail into the fair.

  Eventually we found an older hotel downtown, most of Seattle was packed with fair goers and very little vacancies.  I don’t think there were calls ahead to reserve a room cause it took some 

time finding one available.   Dad complained about the cost, mumbling something about scissor bills.  

  After a few minutes of negotiations with the desk clerk Dad got us checked in and the valet was about to take the car to the parking garage as we hauled out our luggage, which consisted of a cardboard box, a few shopping bags and a Coleman cooler.  I can tell you, the Bell boy was not impressed and the desk clerk wasn’t sure which eyebrow to raise.

  The Bell boy insisted on tossing our luggage onto his hand-truck and up to our room anyway, Dad bitched about tipping him but Mom insisted.

  I felt like one of the kids from a Ma and Pa Kettle’s film. But heh !, here we were in a big city just in time for the worlds fair.

 That night, it was tough trying to go to sleep, it was like camping out in a hotel room.  All that was missing was the fire, marsh mellows, graham crackers and Hershey's chocolate.  We were all excited about tomorrow’s events and getting kind of bored waiting. 

   Now, I don’t know where they came from. but somewhere, a bag of those multicolored party balloons appeared in Dad’s hands. 

    Here’s setting a good example for your kids and a great example of good parenting skills.  Dad had the bright idea of filling them with water from the bathroom sink and dropping them on unsuspecting fair goers down on the sidewalk.  

     We developed the “Drop and duck” (reminiscent of the duck and cover drills in school at the   time)  technique out of the third floor window before the many wondering tourists had any reason to look up.  After many misses and near hits, no direct hits, timing was everything.   Mom finally cut us off with a proper scolding, mostly directed at Dad.  

  He must have been more fun as a kid.

  The next day off we went to the fair on my one and only ride, the monorail.  I absolutely refused to go up the space needle.  Elevators should be inside a building not on the outside...period.  

   The pace was not fast enough for me seeing all the exhibits so I slipped away from the folks and proceeded to see the fair on my own.  The folks were pissed and worried.  I was fine.

   We had been to Disneyland earlier that year.  Think of it...Disneyland right at the fingertips of a 13 year old kid, growing up with the TV show every Sunday night at 7:30 and unable to get on any of the rides.  Dad said the lines were too long and didn’t want to wait around.  He was ready to hit the road home. His penchant on non- stop travel lasted a lifetime.  We did however ride the riverboat.  Dan got to ride the tea cups with gusto. 

     All in all a  poor conciliation in lieu of what was all around us.

 At the worlds fair I figured, what the hell, let them worry, I’m going see this on my own terms,   anyway I knew where the car was parked. 

    A few hours later I spotted Judy and Dan riding a cable car suspended over the fairway and followed them back to the terminal where I figured the folks would be waiting for them.  

   I had covered most of the things I wanted to see anyway  and indeed they were there, they were upset, I got a small lecture to stay close and that was that.  

  That independent streak and risk taking has gotten me into trouble since but it also has enabled me to achieve some important things in my life.  A calculated risk.

   Inside one of the open pavilions was a big indoor track for tricycles where younger kids could ride maniacally around the track, working off the excitement of the day.  My brother Dan at 6 years old took (with plenty of red wagon experiences) off with his special orange felt hat with the feather flying much like Robin Hood’s hat, certainly the bandit aspect, took to the track like a crazed destruction derby driver, careening around the corners at break neck speeds on two wheels, pulling ahead of the pack then lapping the slow and dull riders.   He commenced to sideswipe, cutoff and rear end those meandering and unsuspecting enthusiasts still in his way,  leaving a trail of crying kids, crashed tricycles and upset parents in his turbulent wake.  

   It took several laps for Mom to even get his attention as Dad stood by grinning, pissing Mom and the other parents off even more.  Eventually it took both of them to extract Dan from the track, Mom blocking the way while Dad swooped in from behind lifting him off the still speeding tricycle by the nap of his neck leaving him tangling from Dads strong arm move, Meanwhile the speeding trike   finally came to rest after bouncing off the guard rail and into more riders as they were making their feeble attempts to escape the carnage.      I had never observed them working as a Team before (something to remember) It was a good ride while it lasted.

   Dan had that stubborn upturned lip frown on his face as the rush of adrenaline eased off as the folks got the thrill seeker under tow.

   So many things happened in 1962, Right after my 8th. grade graduation we moved.   The city of Beaverton was encroaching on my Dad.  We lived on 130th. a 2 mile long dead end gravel road surrounded by orchards, forests and open fields off Allen Avenue (Allen named after mom’s extended family, they were all early settlers of Beaverton, called Beavertown at the time) My great uncle Earl Fischer, the Fischer’s being another early family to settle there) mom’s mothers brother, held the position of Mayor of Beaverton twice.  The first in his mid twenties and then again in his early eighties, a school teacher by trade.  I remember visiting him in his Mayors office.  It was his idea for the Highway 26 Vista tunnel way back then.  Everyone thought he was off his rocker but he was ahead of his time.  The tunnels were built in the late 60’s same time as the 405.  I still have his business card he gave me that day in his office.

  I have a couple glass negatives and original prints of Uncle Earl riding his horse in the Fourth of July parade in Beaverton in 1908.

   So, the city of Beaverton was going to charge Dad with the costs of a new road, water service, sewer, higher property taxes and a slew of other benefits of living within the city limits that he wanted no part of. All property owners got hit according to road frontage and property lines.  Dad got the hell out.

  He built the house himself in 1954.  A sprawling ranch style with a full daylight basement, Arizona sandstone and roman brick veneer, about 4200 sq.ft.  It’s still there. I have lots of great photos of it’s construction.  The 7.5 acres got sub-divided into crap apartments and shit hole houses.  

  I was not happy about moving, it meant leaving old friends behind. I did however get a welcome at my new school, they immediately elected me Freshman Class President (go figure) Parliamentary procedure came in handy from the eighth grade and I got to be an escort for one of the Princess's on the Candy-cane Court. Kinda like a prom prince for Freshman.

  What I didn’t expect was that a few friends from Beaverton and a few new friends from Tigard became a third group altogether.

    High School was boring.  I was lazy and got by doing the least work possible to achieve that 

pinnacle of C’ averages.  

  I had played Pop Warner football in the 7th & 8th. grades.  My freshman year I was on the wrestling, football and track teams.  

  Wrestling, I liked the least, but it was the most egalitarian of all the sports.  You competed according to your weight...period, the coach could not change a thing other than run you to death to lose weight.   I came in at 157 lbs. 5’11” ( I later grew another 4”).  

   On the track team I reluctantly threw the discus, shot put and javelin even though every practice I would outrun Mike Happle by 5-6 strides in the 220 every time.  I never ran the 220 during any track meets, however Mike did and always lost.

   In football, I played first string Center. Not my choice.  I wanted to play receiving end, I was tall, fast and could catch the ball, but no, I was stuck in the middle and most often at the bottom of every pile up. 

    I injured an opponent during a football game in Tillamook.  The right guard and I were double teaming their left guard for several plays. Then on our third down play my right guard pulled so I had their left guard to myself.  

   Now, on the line there are words passed back and forth even at that level, not friendly.. and this guy was pissed off, a dairy farmers very large son.   I was thinking what am I gonna do--what am I gonna do, seconds ticked by, Mike, our quarterback was calling the play into action, I slammed the ball up into his hands (some people may not know it but centers wear plastic cups and quite often one or both of your testicles gets wedged in between the cup and the inside of your thigh, so when you hike the ball it is like getting kicked in the balls)  I screamed at the left guard, adrenaline pumping, I could not believe it, the guy stood up and looked at me as I launched full tilt ramming my right shoulder pad into his sternum, lifting him up over my shoulder, he went down in agony with the wind knocked out of him, confidence shaken.   I remember standing there looking down at him, thinking what have I done?  Then off to the left on the sidelines our line coach was screaming at me to go for another block for Christ's Sake!   The guard did not come back into the game, the second string guard filled in for him, he was to scared to do anything and was a push over.

   I quit sports after that.  People holding you back, not recognizing the rigidity of their choices, pre-conceived ideas and the impact it has on their players, at least that was my experience.

   Ironically I escaped the Viet Nam war by an act of violence.  High School P.E. was led by the football line coach Mr. Yates, yeah, same guy.      P.E. classes were mayhem, it was during a Dodge ball game and I was chatting with a friend Stu Ness  (on opposing team) who happened to be in our prison close to the line when Dufus who was in prison as well, slammed the ball into my back at a range of about four feet, it left a welt from impact...pissed me off, so as he was trotting back to his side I tackled him and as we tumbled down, my right knee gave out..the wrong way.

  Consequently my knee would pop out unexpectedly.  It wasn’t until I walked out of the examining physician’s office, the last stop during my physical into the Air Force (I signed up rather than be drafted) at Portland’s Induction center with that slip of paper in my hand that it dawned on me I was out with a 4-F.  It seemed everyone else knew what it was before I did. 

   The doc had glanced over the medical info. paper work and came across the answer “yes”  to “Painful or swollen joints”.  He had seen just about every make believe condition by then, so with disdain he had me sit down, grabbed my foot and tucked it up into his crotch, grabbed my knee and started pushing it around, checking mobility, range of motion and such, however it did not pop out. So I asked him “are you trying to dislocate it?” He grunted confirmation, “yeah , seems okay to me”.

 So I said, let me stand up, I stood up with him still holding onto the knee, moved it laterally and sure enough it popped out in his hands.  He grunted again, didn’t talk much. Threw a slip of paper 

at me and yelled “Next”...   It truly was a selective service, for once I was glad not to be wanted.

   

   In 1969, free of the draft I got a one way ticket to London England.  I had $500.00 in American express checks in my pocket, the money lasted almost a year. 

   My seat on the plane would not recline  so I spent the next 14 or so hours sitting upright.

  I started running out of money on a small island off the coast of Spain in the Mediterranean called Formeterra, it was about 3 miles long and about 1/2   mile wide at it’s narrowest point, with one large hill at the eastern end.  We would bicycle up that hill turn around and coast back down.  The locals were direct descendants of the early witch trials that were spared and political exiles from the continent. 

   The trip changed my life. It was the first time I had really been away from home, getting back was something I would figure out when I was ready.

   Mom and believe it or not my brother Herb took me to the airport, it was early in the morning.  Dad was at the top of the stairs at the house in Tigard, I was at the bottom,  with so many steps between us just about to walk out the door when he asked, “ what if you get sick?”  It surprised me.   I assured him that I would see a doc if it came to that.  It was the first real emotional display from him I recognized.  

 In 1971 the developer who bought our “Old” property in Beaverton bulldozed the apple orchard, I had been driving by for the past two weeks checking on the unkempt orchard, the apples were nearing their picking peak.  I was ready for one last harvest with boxes and ladder at hand.  The morning I arrived to pick, the big D-9 cats had the trees in several big piles.  Some were already lit up with Diesel.  

  They had pillaged and burned it just as  it was bearing fruit.  

It was an old orchard being planted in the  1800s by the original homesteader.    I was fucking pissed.

 That fiasco of progress in motion led me to criss cross all of Washington and some of Yamhill counties on the back roads looking for neglected orchards.  I found several and harvested what I could. 

               A small consolation, change and moving on can be difficult.

The "Aftermath" or Requiem for a Survivor

Ben Thomas                                                                                                                                                     Copyright 2013

                   The “Aftermath” or Requiem for a Survivor?                      

 Prologue: 

    I’ve known people who read the last few pages of a new book before they would consider starting at the beginning.     I never quite understood their reasoning to jump ahead like that without knowing why it ended the way it did. 

  They may have the answer but not know the question.    Either one on their own is nearly worthless without the other.   

  People sometimes spend their entire lives looking for one or the other and most folks wisely not taking someone Else's word for it, which I believe makes more sense, better to arrive at your own conclusions regarding questions and answers.  

  

   I have no answers and haven’t yet figured out what it is I need to ask.  So I thrash around writing when I feel inclined, sometimes it all seems clear to me, willing my fingers to keep up, other times I’m lost in the dark, catching glimpses that makes me want to skip to the last chapter, but then I’m getting ahead of myself and what would be  the point?  

  As the writing goes, after “The Early years” comes “Somewhere in Between” parts one and two.  I think around 10000 words now, yet here I am working on the “Aftermath,”  perhaps because the Aftermath is now, the others were then.   

   A note: it’s weird to write about yourself in the third person, but what better way to distance yourself from the pain.  

  I think the first step to finding yourself is to recognize that indeed, you are, or have been lost.

               A very rambling rough draft of some not to distant dark days.

                                                   “ Aftermath”

   Waking up waylaid in some desolate, windblown and weather beaten way station wondering how long has it been since you lost your grip on the reins and began to wander.

  Passing remnants of some forgotten path whispers like a distant siren that may have led you here if you could only turn back the clock, caught on a gossamer's edge of some memory that fades into twilight then disappears, lost in the shredded threads of your thoughts as time relentlessly blurs everything in the vacuum of its silent wake.  

   

   Somewhere out on a hazy horizon there still might be answers, but first you must get there, that’s the tricksy part, it keeps moving as you do on some ethereal carousel coming around again to tease into your peripheral vision like a reluctant lover who’s heart still belongs to another.   

    I do remember, when memories come barreling out of the ether's, buffeting against, then through me, sometimes gently, most times at gale force leaving me staggering, stunned and spent.

   Other times of the before, offering up a lost scent, a glimpse of what is no more, a lingering smile...somewhere laughter fills the void, a casual reassurance that calms a restless soul. 

  You can almost taste it, once a familiar sweetness, but now somehow half forgotten, images blurred into knots, hobbled to some hitching post in a cobweb filled ghost town somewhere in my imagination as I glance up ahead in a sleepless dream thinking I see her.. fading into the distance chasing dreams of her own, gone before I think to ask.

     It’s a wonder how paths cross at all in this maze of being, like shutters, as they clang silently on windowless frames in the still haze.    

   Glimmers of hope and despair lie in wait on the razors edge, a thin line that hardly separates, but still cuts deep through the hardened scars of the heart, the healing wounds open up once again to bleed out.

An Aside:  

Years ago an old girl friend sent me a post card after we had broken up, it read:     

                      

Madness...

 “ A man needs a little madness or he never dares cut the rope and be free”

   Which is now my favorite line delivered by Anthony Quinn from the film “Zorba the Greek”

   More than three years now since he started stumbling his way down this path and still no sign of what was lost. 

  The frayed rope  still holding fast, stretched thin and chafing against a threadbare soul.  

  There are no markers chasing things that were, only the passing of time, even that seems lost in the vagaries that distract, following circles in the sand tethered at the end of your rope.

   How hard it is to keep your love alive, letting go of all that was, while holding on for dear life.  How can moving on be so tenuous?

  

   Moments are gone in fleeting moments.  A wisp of momentum is all that is left of those precious times, going alone through the motions now, going back to places that were special...laden with memories, slogging through emotional quicksands, forced to cast off the burdens that weigh him down.

    How does one reconcile the fading memories, the tinge of guilt when you know that some image or remembered moment has slipped by, until you are reminded once again as it returns  in this paradoxical world that has already moved on, leaving one next to the precipice’s edge facing the winds that force change as everything seems to be slipping through your fingers yet seemingly still within grasp. 

 What drives the child’s next searching step into the unknown future but naivete and wonder.

  What will it take to cut the ropes and be free?

   Finding your way was never easy, nor is it now,  even separately we all seem to be in this together.

  

 A few more asides:     

    Quips that came to me as I was waiting for the wind to pick up enough to sail by on board  “Milagro.”   I wrote them down before they were lost again in the ether's of short term memory.   

   Perhaps  an indication that I still may have a sense of humor about it all even though there is no escape:

  The internal compass, when caught up in a  vortex remains pointless.   Random directions all lead to the same destination.  

  When at sea everything compresses out over the horizon.  You need to know where you’re going, but more importantly you need to know where you are, otherwise you may be lost.

  

   To drop anchor after a voyage can be a relief, you may have momentarily arrived.

   To set sail may indicate you have the courage after all.

   To reduce sail has nothing to do with courage but a resolve to get there in one piece so you can drop anchor.

   Anchoring is not the same as running aground, with the latter you’ve arrived, though you may not be where you thought you were.

  Deep water can be safer than the shallows even though you may be in over your head.

While at the mast and you hear sirens, ignore them, you’re already pursuing a dream.

To many glances over your shoulder will assure you where you’ve been but not where you’re going.

                                       Archives:

    Coming home is never what you think it will be.  You may have conjured up some romantic ideas of your origins that really only existed in your mind, becoming more than they really are the longer you’re away.  

      Returning home can put a stop to all of that, leaving you marooned, but for your dreams.   But the pull of roots and family were strong drawing me back.

I was twenty then, It was enough just to let go, roll the dice and leave for half way round the world with a one way ticket and a few hundred dollars.

  The plan was to travel and I did, it was all foreign to me, total immersion, which was what I wanted most.  What better way to test yourself?  

   Finding a way back came when I decided to return.  It was springtime, a sensible  season to come in on, with natures rebirth so strong in the air.

    

 On returning after being gone a year a physic read my mind/soul without my consent, (I would have gladly given it), narrating  what had happened to a young man  while  traveling and what he was encountering on the return home. 

   At first I didn’t really understand what she was talking about, listening quizzically it dawned on me... it was me she was talking about, she had my attention. 

   An elderly woman in her late 80’s, she was having a garage sale, cleaning house after her husband passed away and getting ready to move on herself.  I had just finished paying for a wonderful old suitcase and a small enameled top kitchen table (the table is in my kitchen, the suitcase in storage carries items of that time) when she told me my story while counting out my change.

    I was young and it didn’t take long.  She hit upon the important stuff, things I had never talked about to anyone, of dreams and plans, of being at a crossroads with choices to make.

  I was touched, she had an aura of kindness and wisdom about her that were told through her grace and eyes that sparkled with  wizened depth.  

  The story covered several years up to the moment I stepped into her space, she had nothing to say about the future, only what had brought me there.

   That was 43 years ago, I still think of her sometimes and what she would say to me now.

                 Crossroads...  an intersection without signposts.

to be continued: