Nathan and Roy Hobbs

By Rick Scheideman

Often, Nathan rides atop my shoulders. His cap sports floppy ears on each side with string ties that fasten under the chin. This morning I tied the flaps up with a bow on top of his head—a Cossack astride me. His coat is corduroy, chocolate brown and unbuttoned revealing blue, yellow, and white stripes across the T-shirt underneath. Blue jeans with iron-on patches at the knee cover the boy’s energetic legs. Of course, the patches loosen at the corners and roll toward the center where the knee turns pink. His socks, a twice a year gift from Grandma, sport argyle patterns of maroon and green. Grass-stained running shoes reveal a boy who prefers the outdoors to computer games. Nathan turned seven in May and he has a dog—a mongrel that eagerly demonstrates affection to any passerby, dog-lover or not. The day we brought him home, I bought a twenty-five foot clothesline from the hardware, taped the ends with duct tape, and cut them off square. I wanted to give Roy Hobbs roaming room. I couldn’t bring myself spring for one of those plastic leashes with a button you push to reel in the pooch.

Yeah, answers to Roy Hobbs. I fancied the name in, “The Natural,” a movie where a baseball player held a vision that in years to come people would watch him walk down the sidewalk and declare, “Now, there goes Roy Hobbs, the best there ever was.” No logic between the mutt and the movie, but the name stuck. Like I said, a friendlier pooch does not exist. When we’re out gallivanting and a stranger happens by, Roy Hobbs charges, bounces, bobs, weaves and cavorts much to that poor stranger's astonishment. Give Roy Hobbs the slightest intimation of a petting gesture, and that love-starved mutt flops on his back, spreads his legs, and offers up a pink belly. Most demur. Roy Hobbs courts no ill feeling evidenced by an unstoppable tail. He leaps to his feet and renews an eager sniff for the next opportunity. Clearly, Roy Hobbs is an optimist’s best friend. Maybe that’s the sticking power of the name.

Most mornings finds Nathan, Roy Hobbs and me outside tramping. We beat our way up and down the trails along the flanks of a mountain that rises a few blocks from our home. Green Mountain, they call it, though vaguely green in a wet spring, and then for no more than two or three weeks. My wife works full time as an assistant district attorney for the county. While she was in law school, we decided we’d try for a baby after she graduated. After that, I’d go back to school for a teaching certificate or maybe training to coaching baseball. But Laura found out she was pregnant on the same day the job offer came through. We decided I’d be Mr. Mom. Early on, I knew some worry, but Nathan has taught me how to parent him. This fall Nathan and I are in second grade together; we home-school each other. And we usually start the day up here on in these slopes west of Denver.

This morning the October chill glazes the grass with the season’s first frost. The air stirs lightly on a northeast breeze. Though early fall, summer clouds left a month ago, replaced this morning by a flat sky. The white underbelly of one low cloud stands out from the settled gray background. I keep honking my nose and then wipe my mustache with a handkerchief. We’re about a week away from pumpkin carving. The boy and I have been practicing on some gourds grown wild in a neighbor’s patch. I try for happy faces, but most turn saggy-eyed and the teeth whither.

We walk quietly. Nathan sings a tune of his making. He is, as his great-aunt whispers, “just a little slow.” I suppose slow is as good a label as the ever-changing clinical ones—idiot, retarded, Mongoloid, Down’s syndrome, developmentally challenged. But maybe the new labels help, as attitudes mature so do the words. At first, welcoming a less than normal baby felt grossly unfair. Now it’s natural to love and be loved from this boy as presented. We make his life as normal as we can. In my heart, I know that Nathan warms to recognition and appreciation like everyone else. I’m truthful with him about his limitations, and about his important place in the world. He nods and smiles. The boy skips through his life with boundless curiosity.

One of our favorite haunts is a washed-out gully. It rarely runs with water, yet wildflowers flourish there. Must be damp beneath the dryness. I carry a stout walking stick carved of hickory in case we bumble on to a rattlesnake. This time of year they migrate from one side of the mountain to the other. They slither south with winter’s tilting sun, warming before hibernation. Well and good for National Geographic, but I’ll carry the stick just the same. Nathan prefers to walk by himself. He explores with his eyes and listens intently. Sometimes he falls down on all fours to smell a pear cactus flower. He pets at the tall grass and pricks his finger when he forgets about cacti.

This morning we head for the gully. I decide, rather, Roy Hobbs decides to explore the top edge of the ravine so that I look down on my son below. The bottom runs sandy like a beach. He squats and wiggles his fingers in the sand. Then he holds one hand above the other slowly tilting the upper hand until the sand falls like salt from a shaker into his other hand. The colors enchant him, browns and grays and whites. With each handful, flecks of quartz glimmer. Nathan admires these flashes with giggles and a babbling commentary.

Roy Hobbs lights out after a cottontail. This gives me no small grief attempting to untangle loops of clothesline around a bush and haul in the dog. Maybe those automatic zip leashes really work? After retrieving Roy Hobbs, I notice that Nathan has left the sand and journeyed further up the wash. Roy Hobbs and I continue along the top edge of the gully, bare but for a few scrub oak and desert juniper.

“Hey, buddy.”

“Hi, Daddy. Hi, Woy Wobbs.”

We’re working on pronunciation.

Suddenly, the dog stops dead, stiffens. I look up, see nothing. Roy Hobbs makes a sound I’ve never heard from him. He whimpers. I look down at him as he crouches behind my legs. He leans against me, trembling. I wonder if he’s sick. Then I look up again and see her. She stares from a thicket. Larger than a German Shepherd, the coyote is tawny. The eyes glow yellow, almost gold. The pupils shadow the darkest brown. She bares her teeth; moisture drips from her nose. I’m scared. I thought wild animals were supposed to fear us and run off at the first whiff of an encounter. Then I hear Nathan. The coyote hears Nathan.

“Twinkle—Oh, twinkle—Oh, twinkle star,

I wonder how far you are,

Above the high sky I see you,

Twinkle, Oh, my star.”

What the hell am I going to do? Roy Hobbs sits in a puddle, peeless. Nathan climbs hand-over-hand out of the gully on a game trail leading toward the coyote. I suck a quick breath. My voice cracks like an adolescent.

“Nathan, son, Daddy wants you to go back down. Son, listen to me, son. Go down in the ditch. Right now, Nathan. Go back down into the gully. Do your hear me son? Go back and play in the sand. Nathan!”

Too late. The coyote snaps her head toward my Nathan.

“Hi puppy dog.”

“Go away from the puppy. Now, Nathan. Go away from the puppy. It’s a bad puppy dog, Nathan. Come to Daddy. Right now, come here to Daddy. Damnit Nathan!”

The coyote looks back at me. I can see the muscles in her shoulders bulging with tension. Her bushy tail is stiff, nostrils wide, sniffing. Her eyes pierce my father-protector armor.

“Hi ya, puppy puppy.

“No, Nathan!”

I step toward the boy and the coyote growls. I stop. If I could unhook Roy Hobbs maybe—what, beat a coyote with a clothesline?

Suddenly, a pup scrambles underneath its mother’s belly toward Nathan’s out-stretched hand.

“Puppy doggy. Hi, puppy, puppy.”

Nathan smiles. I know exactly what he will do. What will I do? Should I grab the boy and cover him with my arms come what may? Will the coyote attack me or go for Roy Hobbs? Nathan makes his decision. He reaches for the pup and the mother takes a step toward my son. I hear the wind rustle dry leaves. Roy Hobbs cowers against me. And Nathan thuds to his knees with both hands outstretched toward the pup that startles with the sudden movement, and then yips. Time stops. In the silence, the pup prances toward my son and licks the fingers of his left hand.

Mama coyote has had enough. She turns into the brush, and then gives off a piercing howl that makes my gut turn. Her youngster gives a pup-yelp and follows its mother. I need a bathroom.

“See Daddy. See puppy doggie?”

Nathan is on his feet starting to run after the darting family.

“Nathan!”

I catch my son with one hand on his collar, the other brushes off bits of dirt from his knees. Both patches fall to the ground. I caress Nathan’s neck and his soft shoulders, and scratch the hair on the back of his head where he likes it at bedtime. Roy Hobbs starts barking. Nathan laughs while I struggle to keep from crying.

I carry my son on my shoulders. The trail leads us to the street and home. Roy Hobbs tangles in the clothesline, and, of course, I fuss at him.

White Shoulders

By Rick Scheideman

Sweat trickles from his armpits and wets both sides of the button-down shirt. Tommy waits for change from the five dollars he handed to the bubble-gum chewing girl sitting astride a chrome-legged stool. She fumbles through a metal cash box. With the sun not more than a half-an-hour above the mountains to the west, August heat shimmers in pools off of the asphalt parking lot. Eric sits on the passenger side of the car and wipes his ample face with a handkerchief; his three-inch high flattop begins to melt.

“How much you got?”

“The change back from parking, four-seventy-five.”

“Ain’t much.”

“It’s enough. How much you got?”

“Sixteen bucks, Daddy-O. I suckered my old man out ten; told him I’d cut the grass for a month without bellyaching. Promised him I’d even pick up the clippings. He’s so easy.”

The girl turns toward Tommy with a pink balloon obscuring all but her eyebrows. When she extends her hand, the Bazooka bursts, her breath, sticky sweet.

“Enjoy your day at Elitch’s.”

“Thanks. Where’d you get the other six bucks?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry. I was talking to him.”

Embarrassed, Tommy jams the automatic transmission into low and squeals the tires. Eric explains that he liberated the money from his younger sister’s piggy bank. Years ago he figured how to slide bills out with a couple of toothpicks. She wouldn’t notice until she breaks open the bank; he’d pay her back by then.

Standing alongside the ‘55 Ford, Tommy looks at his reflection in the side window and unbuttons the top button on his shirt then quickly closes it again. The car sports a wax job. The beige and crème two-tone shines in the setting sun. This morning, with a bottle of black shoe polish, he darkened the tires, careful not to touch the thin whitewalls. Now he winces at several dark smudges. He figures he can replace the marred whitewalls; they’re fake. But he dreads the process. Twice he consumed an entire Saturday: jacking up the car a wheel at a time; removing and deflating the tire; placing the flange of the mock whitewall between the rim and the tire; re-inflating the tire; placing the wheel back on the lug bolts; snugging the nuts to get them to seat; reversing the jack. After tightening the bolts, the process repeats three times.

No amount of scrubbing a smudged whitewall with a rag soaked in gasoline returns it to perfection. He knows this from experience; trying to fix it makes it worse. If he can’t ignore the blemish, he will definitely need to replace the whitewalls. Maybe take them off for good, but he fancies that thin white stripe. Tommy sighs and looks at the coppery glow from the tops of the elms and cottonwoods along 38th Avenue.

On the opposite side of the car, Eric attends to his own primping in the reflective window. From the front pocket of his belt-in-the back khakis, he retrieves a red plastic cylinder of Butch Hair Wax. Expertly, he daubs the front row of hair and curries a small steel comb through his sticky brown hair. Then he turns his head side-to-side, peers, and spies the enemy, a white tipped pimple. He squeezes and then holds a finger against a bit of blood.

At last, the actors leave their dressing rooms for the stage. The two young men strut with proud chests and the click of penny loafers against the concrete sidewalk. Colored lights festoon the top of a white picket fence; the sun disappears behind Mt. Evans. Profuse in hanging baskets, petunias, pansies, fire-red geraniums, and sweet william evoke not even a flicker of attention from Tommy or Eric. They fancy different blossoms.

At a dime a ride, Eric buys fifty tickets; his companion lays down a dollar for ten. Without counting, Eric tears off a strip and stuffs them in Tommy’s shirt pocket.

“Come on, let’s grab a burger.”

“Go ahead. I ain’t hungry yet.”

“The hell you ain’t. You’re always hungry. On me.”

“Naw.”

“You drove, okay? Let me get the eats. You can owe me.”

“Buy me a Coke. I’ll eat later.”

“Alright, a Coke and fries.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Alternating between a paper envelope of hot french fries in one hand and a bottle of Coke in the other, the boys satisfy their hunger but not their excitement. Eric forgets about his pimples and captures another fry between his tongue and teeth. Few rides have lines of waiting people, but soon enough they will on a Saturday night. Eric feints with his left shoulder, pivots a quarter- turn, jumps, and lofts a ten-footer with his crumpled cup toward a green trashcan. He misses, ignores it, and walks toward the Wildcat, a roller coaster of national reputation. Fetching the cup, Tommy tries a hook-shot wide by two feet, fails a second time, so dunks the cup in the green hoop and runs to catch up with Eric.

After riding the Wildcat four times in succession, Tommy notices the taste of greasy fries in the back of his throat. Enough. Maybe too much. As they wind down the stairs of the exit, they hear Patty screeching.

“Hey pretty boys, we’ll go on the roller coaster with you!”

Rhonda adds something they can’t hear. Eric’s friends from school.

“Hey, pretty mommas.”

“Ah no, I’m not up for them.”

“They’re alright Tom-old- boy. Come on it’ll be fun.

Feeling ill, Tommy lags behind. A boy named Gil, who graduated last year, is sandwiched between the two girls, an arm dangles around each of their necks. Rhonda is quiet, but Patty blabbers with energy encouraged by Eric’s laughter. Gil lusts after a passing woman.

“Woah! man, get a load of the jugs on that chick.”

“Falsies, Gilbert. Can’t you tell? Those are pure foam rubber, dumb-ass.”

“Nuh uh. Look at them bounce. Falsies don’t bounce like that. They’re the real thing.”

“Look numb butt, you’re so stupid you wouldn’t know the real things if you laid a hand on them.”

Gil reaches down to squeeze Patty’s breast; but she brushes away his hand and quickly turns her back on him.

“Hey, don’t be grabbing me if you know what’s good for you!”

Rhonda lights a cigarette and blows the smoke in Gil’s face.

“You make me sick.”

“Ah, come on, Miss Prissy, don’t get mad.”

Eric jumps in with a solution.

“Hey, tell you what, let’s ride the last two cars on the roller coaster. I got tickets for everybody. It’ll be a blast. Come on, let’s do it.

As he passes out the tickets, Tommy shakes his head.

“I’m going to sit this one out, man.”

Eric slips a ticket in his bulging shirt pocket.

“Come on, buddy. It’ll be a real blast with all of us. We can stand up on the first hill like we did last time, but it’ll be wilder in the back.”

“Nah. My gut’s a little loopy. I’ll catch you later.”

Gilbert mocks him. No matter. Tommy walks away and finds a familiar pathway under a canopy of trees. He hears horns and woodwinds in close harmony, the sounds of a big band. Even though nauseous, he’s drawn by the music while the evening softens.

Tommy’s mother told him stories about the Trocadero Ballroom. She and her younger sister, Ruth, danced here during the Second World War with airman from Lowry or soldiers posted at Fort Carson. At several canteens all over Denver, the USO sponsored dances on weekends, but the sisters favored the Trocadero.

Built in 1917, the capacious Elitch’s ballroom was of Spanish-Moroccan design. Pale yellow walls were textured of stucco with stripped green and white awnings for accent. Because summer was the Elitch’s only season, a four-foot wall without windows surrounded the dance floor. During World War I, when the ballroom opened, Mrs. Elitch created her Tea Dances. She provided an atmosphere of charm and decorum for war-weary Denverites. Admission was five cents. A clear and strictly enforced behavior code assured parents of the propriety of their young ladies and men on the dance floor. White gloves were required of the women and men wore ties. Each year, the Trocadero receives fresh decorations based on various themes, but in the mid-nineteen-twenties a complete renovation took place. A new tongue-and-groove dance floor was installed with thick squares of woven horsehair that acted like springs. The dancers felt as if they floated.

Though not as formal, Tommy looks in on the whirling women in cocktail dresses and men wearing sport coats and ties. More couples move out on the floor when the band begins to play a fox trot. Tommy leans against the sun-warmed wall. Beyond the dance floor, he notices people beginning to fill the Grille Room, a retreat for food, drink, and noisy chatter. There are more people than usual because tonight because at 8:00 Ralph Flanagan and his orchestra will be broadcast over KOA radio. Tommy recalls reading from the Denver Post a couple of days ago that this might be the last summer for the Troc. Younger dancers want rock-and-roll and management has lost money three straight seasons. But not tonight.

His breath stops. Tommy looks away and peers above at light bulbs behind tinted gels. Some glow peach, rose, lavender, and dark blue. With a tuft of breeze, he turns back in the girl’s direction. Waves of dark hair frame a winsome face. She half smiles at a companion’s talk and then inadvertently looks his way again—his eyes rivet the floor. He feels a new trickle slip down his right side. Cautiously, he steals another peek. She’s gone.

A panic swells and that wave lifts Tommy pushes him around to the Trocadero’s ticket counter. With the scent of roses and look of caked furrows under her chin, the lady barks a second time.

“Fifty-cents, sonny!”

Tommy fumbles.

“Ma’am?”

“You in or you out, kid? People behind you are waiting. Fifty-cents.”

From his back pocket, the boy hands over a dollar. He drops the two bits change, but ignores their tinny clatter and hurries into the noise of the Grille Room.

Even though a puff of air now and then flits through the open café, the room is stuffy. It smells of onions, hamburgers, French fries, and a mixture of competing perfumes. Chatter crescendos punctuated by laughter. Male faces warmed with alcohol and excitement match the color of their ladies lips. Party dresses, cocktail dresses, and off-the-shoulder formals bloom at each table.

She stands with gloved hands held in front of her dress. At the table, several women top each other in high-pitched talk. With a menu, she fans herself and joins the conversation only incidentally. By chance, her eyes turn and find Tommy. He does not look away. She smiles. The dance band strikes up Glen Miller’s “String of Pearls.” Weeks later, he marveled at his courage. After a jarring blow against his shoulder from a man hustling with his date to the dance floor, Tommy calmly walks toward beauty.

How does enchantment work? What draws the heart? Evolutionists theorize that such attraction finds its root in the survival techniques of sexual selection. From the behaviorists comes the notion that repeatedly rewarded stimuli shape desire. The imago dei provides the monotheist with personality as the root and reason for love. Poets sing the terms of enchantment. Whatever its source, the energy of a heart captivated, drawn by desire, fuels powerful human expression. An eleven-year old girl, unconscious of passing hours, creates a scrapbook brimming with newspaper articles, photographs from magazines, and her written musing about her hero who plays right field for the Tigers. A senior accountant slowly paces the gravel at the marina. Only five years until retirement and here he is imagining a wooden sailboat and lazy days on the bay. Chanel Number Five in a miniscule bottle costs a week’s pay for the boy who sacks groceries, but because of her smile, he doesn’t count the cost. Passion brooks no obstacle, renders caution obsolete, and compels the bearer toward whatever ignites attention. The pearl of great price fulfills a great need.

Arriving at his destination, Tommy announces with uncharacteristic confidence.

“My name is Tom Speers. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to dance with you.”

Without hesitation and with a slight tilt of her head, she smiles.

“My name is Nancy Messenger and I wouldn’t mind at all.”

The young man extends his bent arm; she tucks her hand at his elbow.

A waltz. He grasps her gloved right hand in his left; his other arm grazes the slick material at her waist as she lightly touches his shoulder with her other hand. Tommy draws in her fragrance. There is no talk.

Too soon, a flurry of piano glissandos ends the dance. They turn toward the bandstand and clap. Tommy’s bravado thins. He worries. The drummer strikes his sticks four sharp blows and digs into an upbeat solo. Then the horn section blasts and jitterbugging couples take the floor. Nancy curls a smile. Tommy asks.

“Want to?”

“I’m warm. Let’s walk.”

While couples flood the ballroom from every entrance, Nancy and Tommy find the exit. Tommy looks over his shoulder. This is dancing with sweat. Arms pull bodies tight. Partners fling into space, sometimes slamming into a neighbor with a squeal and apologies. Dear Mary Elitch would gape, scandalized at this precipitous fall from her chaperoned tea dances of forty years ago. Decorum is gone with skinny ties flailing, the litter of corsage petals, and the revelation of girdled hose fasteners.

A line of moisture glistens above Nancy’s lip; her bangs curl damp along her forehead. Tommy teases with,

“Maybe if you took off your sweater and gloves you’d be cooler. I’d be happy to carry them for you.”

“No thanks, just some air.”

They stroll side-by-side feeling summer radiate from the dark asphalt, but cool wisps of air between the Chinese elms cool their faces.

“I’ve never been to Elitch’s before. Where can we walk and find a place to sit a little. I feel a little woozy.”

“Must be the altitude. We’ll find a good spot.”

Each summer, at least two or three times, Tommy’s family picnicked here. His impatience—through the cold fried-chicken, mustard tinted potato salad, baked beans, and watermelon—pained him. He could hardly wait until the eating ended and then he could fly to the rides. The favorite picnic spot was on Fryer’s Hill.

“I know a place. It’s just behind the arcade over there. There’s picnic tables and benches. Most of the families will be finishing up and taking their kids to Kiddyland, so there should be a good place for us.”

“Sounds great to me. Let’s get a drink on the way. I’m thirsty.”

“Uh, I’m sorry, Nancy, I’m not old enough to buy beer.”

“Not beer, silly, Cokes or better, lemonade.”

With lemon slices floating at the top of their plastic cups, they drift along the inclining path of Fryer’s Hill. On each side, alcoves with freshly varnished tables rest among pine trees. One mother scrubs a squalling baby’s face while a re-charged dad races the older children into the glare of adventure. Colored lights on lampstands light the path like jellybeans. Nancy walks with one hand behind her back. Tommy sips lemonade and fiddles with the change in his pocket.

“Up ahead is a good place to sit. You can look down on Kiddyland, but it’s not too noisy.”

“Perfect.”

Nancy asks questions. As he answers, Tommy relaxes. He talks easily about school, especially woodshop where he learned to turn spindles on a lathe and crafted a lamp for his mother. He doesn’t like schooling much. He feels as though he doesn’t fit except in the shop classes and sometimes in math. Eric is someone to hang out with, yet, he surmises, that they are only friends for convenience—someone to cruise Sixteenth Street, or grab a hamburger with. After a pause, Tommy turns to her.

“I’ve been gabbing away all night here. Tell me about you. You’re not from Denver, are you?.”

Nancy removes the glove from her right hand. She settles the gloved hand on her lap and smoothes the soft white material with her bare hand.

“Kansas City, actually. Ever been there?”

“No.”

“It’s bigger than Denver, I guess. Actually, I live on the Kansas side of the city; a suburb called Shawnee Mission. The Missouri River divides Kansas City in half. The state of Kansas is on the west side and Missouri’s on the east. I graduated from high school in June. I’m going to take a year off from school and work. Then, maybe, I’ll go to college.”

As he listens, Tommy’s emotions arouse. His senses are alive. Now and then he nods encouragement. His wonders with curiosity at the magic he feels, the excitement inside him as she talks. Nancy’s face, soft and gentle in the dim light; her slender nose slightly upturned; clear eyes and dark. Tommy studies her; knows her.

She pauses, glances his way, and turns toward the laughter of children in Kiddyland. The silence comforts. Tommy settles on the profile of Nancy’s sensitive lips. He reaches to take her hands.

Nancy startles. She stands up quickly, her unseeing eyes toward the children playing below. His thoughts tumble.

“I’m really sorry, Nancy. That was a dumb thing to do.”

“No, not that. You didn’t do anything wrong, nothing at all.”

A horde of teenage girls giggle passed them leaving a pink scent of cotton candy. Tommy swallows, fearful of imminent loss. An evening dove mourns through the nearby shadows. Nancy lifts her head and looks into his eyes.

“Well, here goes. My granddad and grandma live out in the county on a farm near Winfield. They raise some cattle, chickens, and acres that mostly grow corn, or sometimes wheat and alfalfa. I love to go there. Ever since I can remember, Mom and Dad would bundle us three girls into the station wagon and we’d head for Granny’s and Pappy’s. When we got older, they’d let us go on the train to Wichita by our selves. The old folks would meet us and drive us away in Grandpa’s pride and joy, a l947 Chevy five-window businessman’s coupe. We’d stay two or three weeks. Once we were supposed to visit the whole summer. Toward the end of July, I had my accident.”

A tear wanders down one cheek. Tommy has no words; he wants to do something. He sits and waits. Nancy dabs her cheek with the back of her glove.

“Sorry.”

“That’s okay.”

She clears her throat and looks away.

“Just before lunch, the day was getting hot and hazy. The three of us girls were playing dolls alongside the barn in a strip of shade. Pappy was in the barn working on the tractor hooking something up to the back of it while the engine was running. He lay on the ground with the barn door open. Suddenly, Pappy screamed. We ran into the barn. Some part of the machine had a hold of Pappy’s coveralls down by his feet; there was blood. I yelled at my baby sister to go and fetch Granny. While my older sister climbed up on the tractor to shut off the engine, I grabbed at Pappy’s leg and started pulling with all my might. Suddenly, I heard the tractor engine roar. Dust flew and the noise hurt my ears. I blanked out. The next memory I have is the smell of antiseptic and my mom’s fingers petting my hair.”

Overhead, the noise of jet engines, a plane heading east toward the airport. Nancy waits.

“I’m glad you’re okay, Nancy.”

“Well, I’m not exactly okay.

A gust of wind brings the screams from the Wildcat and the clatter of cascading wheels.

“I lost part of my arm. That’s why the sweater and glove; I cover up the fake parts.”

Tommy’s face empties of color. From the first, Nancy had stirred his heart: her gray-green eyes, dark hair, clear skin, and perky nose, the easy manner of her voice and the quick laugh. She seemed perfect. No arm. A mechanical hand. Like the shatter of ice from a boot along a winter gutter, Tommy’s portrait cracks. She stands and walks away.

“I’m sorry, Tommy.”

The boy leaps to his feet.

“Wait.”

Nancy turns back. Only the brief night air separates them. Tiny curls fluff along Nancy’s forehead. Her eyes shine and she drops her gaze. With the soft touch of his finger beneath her chin, Tommy lifts her head. He kisses her on the mouth. Her bare hand finds his. Tom reaches around both arms and holds her.

Elizabeth and Kenny

By Rick Scheideman

“I ain’t been on the rag for five or six years and I’m only twenty-seven years old. The nurse at Public Health said it was because of poor diet, probably drinking too. Just as well, I ‘spect. The way we been living it’d be a hassle fooling with that every month. Nurse said that’s why I lost some of my teeth too. I know’d that already. I ain’t much to look at, never was. Sometimes people at the store stare and say something quiet under their breath and then turn away. Time was the boys’d give me a fair looking over. Used to go out with somebody or other most Saturday nights. Never got asked a second time. ‘Course, I ain’t the kind of girl they was looking for over the long haul.”

“You’re not so bad looking now, Elizabeth.”

“God damnit, Kenny, I look like a guy what with all this hair growing out of my face and my skin like leather. Always had weird skin.”

“Those are not whiskers, girl, just a sort of peach fuzz, that’s all. Kind of cute if you ask me.”

Early August along the Mendocino coastline feels like autumn in other climes. Around ten-o’clock in the morning the sun burns through the mist—soft, a hush of quiet with dampness in the nose. The light glows a honey color. Through dissolving wisps of fog, sunlight dries the pungent grass and hydrangea blossoms of white and blue and pink. A mile south of the Fort Bragg city limit sign, George’s Lane weaves a strip of asphalt between groves of redwoods, weed patches, and the borders of lawn from houses tucked in here and there. One or two of the homes could grace the feature pages of the Sunday paper devoted to charmed country living. Fastidious owners pay laborers to fresh paint and stain every spring. They tuck the SUV out of sight in an oversized garage, and hire the lawn manicured along with the extensive beds of roses. On the other hand, a few properties would frighten off a process server. In balance, most of the houses express the lived-in look of a blue-collar town.

They walk the middle of the lane. Kenny tucks a thumb under each strap of the daypack. Since fifth-grade, thick lenses enable him to both read fine print and judge the drift of an oncoming truck. He stands shorter than his partner does, not quite five-foot five, though he pencils in five-eight-and-a-half on welfare forms. A full beard, curly and nearly white, hides the rough and tumble experiences of a man only a smidgen over thirty. Salt and pepper hair curls beneath a San Francisco Giant’s baseball hat. They both wear running shoes with wool socks.

Most drivers nod toward the familiar pair. Elizabeth waves and sometimes forgets about her toothless grin. Both hands shove deeply into jeans’ pockets; her T-shirt announces a 5-K race last fall that promoted breast cancer research. A dull green baseball cap advertising seed corn shades eyes of the palest blue. Her skin is unblemished, smooth, tawny—unusual. Blonde hairs grow from her chin, above the lip, and along the sides of her face. Up until a ten days ago she washed dishes after lunch and supper for a Mendocino deli. No reason given—fired without no notice.

Without a word to each other, they turn and walk up a slight incline alongside the road. A fulsome linden shades the gentle slope covered with wild grass. Kenny slides his bulging pack to the ground. They sit and each pop a can of Old Milwaukee. She knows he’s out, so offers him a cigarette. He lights hers from a kitchen match drawn out of bundle held with a rubber band. It takes three damp matches to light his own. They sip and smoke in silence. Birdsong in the tree when Kenny breaks wind.

“Something did not agree with me last night, that’s for sure.”

As the morning languishes, another beer seems appropriate. No need to hurry. Earlier in the week, on Tuesday, they conferred with old-man Tompkins, proprietor of a perpetual flea market located where George’s Lane dead-ends into Highway One. He gave them work, of sorts. Whatever junk they sold, they could keep half the revenue. Not a bad deal. After three days they netted eighteen dollars and thirty-seven cents. Often, Tompkins absents his roadside mercantile for “buying trips.” Now and then the Mrs. favors the pair with vegetables from her garden, sometimes a warm batch of tollhouse cookies.

Outside of her kindness, their daily menu varies little. When funds sink their fare consists of day-old bread and peanut butter washed down with a beer shake—half a can of beer mixed with a cup of milk. When fortune smiles, they feast on a couple cheeseburgers apiece at the new Wendy’s that opened last month next to the Nyo Bridge. Warm clothes sell cheaply at the thrift store. No bills, really—none to bother about. At night, they take their rest beside an intermittent creek that flows through a stand of second growth redwoods where George’s Lane dead ends. The northern coast boasts a cool Mediterranean climate. Even in late summer, Elizabeth favors a blanket inside her sleeping bag. In a rainstorm, they hang a canvas tarp above them and dig a narrow trench around their pallet. By morning the rainwater has relocated a path that soaks the backside of their bags.

Brian, a neighbor located alongside the Lane’s one sweeping S-curve, offers kindness. Next to his unused corral stands a dilapidated miniature barn the previous owner used for tack. Now the building shelters three cords of wood to stoke the fireplace that comforts the home he enjoys with his wife and a black cat with two white boots. On two occasions, Kenny screwed up his courage and asked if he and Elizabeth might unroll their sleeping bags inside the barn. Twice the answer was no. Brian remains firm. He does allow them to store extra clothes, toiletries, and their sleeping bags inside the barn during the daytime. And he offers the use of the telephone that hangs on the wall of his wood shop. Three or four times a week Kenny accepts. His tenor punches through the whir of the band saw.

“Hey Matt, this is Kenny. Yeah. Say, I was wondering if there was any work today? Well, yeah, I called a couple of days ago. Wednesday, I think. Anyway, I left a message on your machine. I see, so you don’t have anything today? Well, okay. Say Matt, if you don’t mind, I’ll give you a ring on Monday to see what’s up for the week. Is that okay? Great. Well, thanks Matt, talk to you then.”

Elizabeth brushes dirt and pine needles from the back of her denims as they resume their commute toward the flea market. They arrive in time for Tompkins’ lunch break. In the early afternoon, a school bus deposits its load of seniors from the community center; they poke and criticize through the clutter heavy on folding tables. A lady with especially heavy makeup averts her eyes from Elizabeth and whispers to a knowing colleague.

Late in the afternoon, bereft of customers, the pair lounges on second-hand patio chairs. What remains of the nylon webbing will not survive another season. Someone unsuccessfully attempted white paint on the dented aluminum frames. Without care, Kenny and Elizabeth face west, the sea, and the dissolving hues that pass through a gathering haze. Cigarette smoke lingers between them.

“No lie, Kenny, that gal who bought the elephant bookends told me that a fella had a palm tree dug up down in Sacramento and hauled up here and planted right smack dab in his front yard. Damndest thing she ever saw. All them redwoods, pines all around, and here’s this palm tree like we was living in Hawaii. Palm trees are supposed give coconuts, ain’t they? Now don’t that beat all. Pretty soon that fella’ll be selling coconuts up at Harvest Market.”

Kenny snickers. He considers the orange disc peeking behind the layers of mist. Elizabeth stands and stretches her back, and looks into the fog, She recalls a familiar voice. .

* * *

“E-liz-a-beth! Come on now. It’s time to get up. Hey Lizzy, get a move on.

You’ll be late for school. Hurry up!”

I roll over on my side and tug the grandma quilt over my head and snuggle Poncho. Poncho is my very best friend in the whole wide world. He’s a brown bear and can sit in my hand under the covers. It’s a bear cave under here.

“You moving up there? Lizzy? Elizabeth Marie if I have to come up there and rouse you up, I am not going to be happy. Understand? Get moving, sleepy head!”

I tell Poncho everything, even more than my best friend Mona at school.

“Okay Mommy, I’m coming.

I like my bed and Poncho. When Saturday comes I’m going to stay under my covers until lunch.

“Wouldn’t that be silly Poncho?”

I don’t like breakfast much. I’m not usually hungry. Mommy makes me eat something anyway. Today she fixes Cream of Wheat. I can smell it. It looks like it’s smooth, but it’s not. There’s always lumps and the lumps are gooey or sometimes grainy inside. Cold milk makes my tummy flop. Mommy says it’ll make my teeth white and my bones strong. I don’t know about that. But it tastes awful. I hurry and eat two spoons full and then I brush my teeth and brush my hair.

I like walking to the school bus. Walking home is even better. If Mommy makes me wear a coat, I unbutton it right away and stuff my mittens in the pockets. Then I sing. It’s fun the way my coat puffs out like an umbrella when I dance around and around. Poncho rides above the mittens in my coat pocket. I make up songs.

“When I walk to school,

I sometimes see a worm.

It wiggles in the gutter,

And I like to pick it up.

Oh, sunshine where are you?

All I see are clouds.

Maybe the rain will fall down down,

Or maybe it will snow,

And I like summer best of all.”

Sometimes kids at the bus stop are mean. It’s best when I get there just when the bus does. The big boys tease me.

“Well, if it isn’t tizzy Lizzy.”

“What did you sing about today, dumb head?”

“What’s wrong with your skin, stupid? You an Indian or something?”

Miss. Jenkins doesn’t like me. I can tell. She doesn’t smile at me like she does Mona. Sometimes she even smiles at the dumb boys. Not me. I don’t answer her questions very good, I guess. One time I forgot my lunchbox after school and I ran back to the room to get it. I heard Mrs. Brunz’s voice. She’s the principal. I froze and listened by the door where they couldn’t see me.

`“I understand, Betty Jo. She is something of an odd child, but you must at least try to work with her. The mother is some sort of lawyer. We don’t want any difficulties.”

“Of course not, Mrs. Brunz. I’ll do my best with her, naturally. But she’s not any easy child, you know.”

“I can appreciate the difficulty.”

“Not that she’s mean or talks back. It’s just that she’s inattentive, and to me that is disruptive. Elizabeth lives in her own little world, humming and doodling. She even brings a stuffed animal to school and talks to it. She’s too old for that nonsense.”

That’s my name. They’re talking about me. I hold my breath until my heart yells inside my ears. How did Miss. Jenkins know about Poncho?

“All I ask, Betty Jo, is that you do your best with the child.”

“Yes, Mrs. Brunz, I will.”

“Good. Anything else, you still look perplexed?”

“Her skin and the hair, certainly you have noticed.

“I have. Mrs. Jenkins and you are . . .”

I stop listening and look at my arms. Usually I don’t look at me. When I brush my hair in the morning I turn the mirror so I don’t have to see my face.

Mommy says my skin is beautiful, “like sunset on golden sand.” “Angel breath,” that’s what she calls the hair on my face. Once, after supper we stayed at the table. I sat very still. I knew Momma wanted to talk. I looked at a spider walking up and down on the wall above the stove. I squeezed my fingers together real hard so I wouldn’t cry. I knew she wanted to talk about the angel breath.

“Darling girl, listen to me. Your Papa was born away across the ocean. He lived on a beautiful island with his mommy and daddy, aunts and uncles, and bunches of cousins and lots of other families. Papa grew up and was very skillful. He could build anything out of wood and he could fix an engine so that it ran just like new. Everyone on the island brought him things to fix or they asked him to build something new for them. He was famous. But even more, what set your Papa apart and made the other people admire him, was the glow of his skin and the mist of golden hair that shimmered over it. Such color was unusual and everyone liked Papa because of it.

The brown spider stops, maybe to catch her breath. I hear the clock ticking. Mommy clears her throat.

“What do you think about the story I told you Elizabeth?”

“Okay.”

“Oh, Lizzy, I know that sometimes the other children are mean to you because they don’t understand about Papa, how loved and admired he was, how handsome. Lizzy?”

“Huh?”

My face feels hot. The spider disappears into a crack.

“Talk to Mommy, child. I know this hurts you.”

My eyes might cry.

“Why can’t Papa come and take it away. I hate it! Mommy, I hate it! Tell Papa to come back and make me look like Mona.”

Mommy looks for the spider too. I can’t help yawning—so sleepy.

* * *

“You know, Kenny, I don’t give a flying flip what the Surgeon General says, I

I like to smoke.”

“Yep, me too.”

“And we’re all going to die anyway.”

“Likely.”

“Fog’s coming on. Looks like it’ll be heavy tonight.”

“I believe you’re right. I’m glad we scrounged a plastic tarp to put under our sleeping bags.”

“Don’t want to wrap up in that plastic, though. We’d be soaked by morning.”

“Surely.”

Elizabeth shifts her weight and draws pleasurably on the cigarette. With thumb and forefinger, she takes it from her lips, flicks the ash, cocks her head back, and slowly exhales the smoke. A low belch rumbles through Kenny’s throat.

“And the beer too.”

“What’s that?”

“I enjoy a brewski now and then as well.”

“You got that right.”

Highway 101 rumbles with noise. In both directions, vehicles bustle people away from work. Like pack horses sniffing the barn, pick-up trucks laden with toolboxes, ladders, 2 x 4’s, and a gun racks gallop toward a comforting pub or a sullen home.

In shared reverie, Elizabeth and Kenny luxuriate in the midst of boxes and tables sagging with junk. No sales this afternoon. They should start packing boxes in the back Tompkins truck. No hurry. A crony picked him up an hour ago ostensibly to bargain hunt an estate sale in Mendocino. Likely, they’re at the Mill Tavern downtown among a coterie of rum aficionados. Elizabeth draws on the butt. Kenny counsels.

“Maybe we ought to head south, or inland to Maryville or Chico. Rain will be coming soon. It’s supposed to be heavy this winter.”

She hears screeching tires.

* * *

Kenny pets her hair and then tucks the sheet around her shoulders.

“Hey Lizzy girl, how are you doing?”

With the back of his hand, he strokes her cheek.

“It’s me. It’s Kenny.”

Al’s Best Friend

By Rick Scheideman

I’m a dog. Whatever you have surmised from observing my colleagues, the fact is that you have never been a dog and it is unlikely that you ever shall be one. You probably don’t care one way or the other, but I’ve heard some of you longingly sigh my way, “Ah, it’s a dog’s life.” With a cell phone pressed against your ear in one hand, the other slopped with latte foam from which your pinky dangles a key ring, you envy me.

Let’s start with fundamentals. Like you, I’m a sentient being. The scruff of a strong fingers scratching behind my left ear and down the neck feels delicious. When Al flavors my morning bowl of dry chow with bacon grease from his breakfast, I’m beside myself. I hurt too. A disapproving scowl breaks my heart. And the rocks hurled at me by Billy Wagoner sting my backside.

Feelings? I know them. I sense when Al misses Ruth. The mistress died two leaf-falling seasons ago. Broke the old guy up something fierce inside. When she was in charge, this house was shipshape, I can tell you. No treats for Edgar (the wizened tabby cat) and me except on Christmas Eve, Halloween, and Easter Sunday, and then sparingly so as not to “spoil these mangy critters.” Al adored her. If I’ve heard him once, I’ve heard say a hundred times to an old friend or even a stranger that she, “made a gentleman of me.” I can attest to that truth. She’s gone and while that’s sad, it does mean treats more frequently, daily, in fact. You see, Al takes to walking most mornings, except when the snow refreezes dangerously slick. He’s not inclined toward windstorms either. But I’d say that a good three hundred days out of the year we ply our trade through the neighborhood. He gabs; I sniff. We both munch popcorn.

Al knows no strangers. As we walk, an unfamiliar face is an opportunity, a door of invitation to him. He knocks gently, then with the slightest opening, he’s through that door with a smile, and a handshake, and a not a few words. We meet up with lots of folks in the park. By city park standards it’s smallish but adequate with a fine assortment of trees that provide pleasure to both nose and bladder. The boss keeps me on a leash, the old-fashioned chain kind, so we manage to tangle ourselves around a park bench when I rouse from my lethargy by a taunting squirrel. But mostly I sit and yawn, scratching when necessary, while Al warms to a conversation. Sometimes I sleep in the sunshine, especially when he drags on about foreign policy. I find the pavement cool against my belly. At that point, I get positively dog- tired, even though I try to be halfway attentive for selfish reasons, because the popcorn is doled out when the conversation ends. We know a keen passion for popcorn.

Once week or twice, if we’ve been especially gluttonous on our walks, Al fires up the gas stove after supper. No air popper for us. Our corn is popped in one hundred percent real butter melted in the bottom of a cast iron pot. He keeps the unpopped corn in a Mason Jar. In the process of jerking the pan across heat some kernels burn black, lots fail to pop at all, but oh, the majority get drenched in butter and then stored in Tupperware bowls.

In the early morning, Al dresses and snuggles on a khaki jacket with two large side pockets. If the air is chill, he wears a fleece sleeveless sweater over the top. Unfortunately, the sweater’s pockets are small—that’s where the boss stuffs popcorn—so I prefer the khaki jacket. He stands over the counter dipping into the Tupperware and cramming his pockets. Lots of freebies hit the floor.

He favors the back door. I’m skittish about that brat up the block with a pitcher’s arm. I look behind me several times as Al strolls down the alleyway and breathe freely when we turn up the sidewalk to the park. At that point, my buddy tosses a few kernels my way. It used to be a reward for a trick I’d learned. Not anymore, we’re both too old for that anymore. It is important to add here that Al has no reservations with regard with regard to apportioning the popcorn. We share.

Nana

By Rick Scheideman

The place slows by 2:30. I’m taking an order from a couple from Colorado vacationing on the Peninsula when I hear the grandson’s voice. I smile to myself. Once in a while they swing by the restaurant and make my day. Lunch rush was heavy today. That means bussing tables as well as taking orders, getting coffee refills, and prepping some of the sides like the pasta and Greek salads. When Vern grouses around back with a hangover, I do the register too. Today, Vern is badly hung over. He’s the owner and does most of the cooking when he can manage it. I guess he’s managing it today though with a goodly amount of fuming and clamor.

My daughter gets uptight about coming into the place. It has a bar, though not a heavy-duty bar. Only with private parties does the booze get out of hand. Most of the time it’s a family sort of place with windows looking out on the harbor, tablecloths and cloth napkins for dinner, and tables scattered on the deck when summer comes. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Dorie scoot my only grandbaby onto the vinyl booth cushion. She warns him.

“Joshua, look into Mother’s eyes. We are only going to stay her a few minutes. See the ferryboat out the window over there? Sit up straight Joshua and please sit still. We’re going to ride on the ferry in just a little while. Remember, no begging for treats from your grandmother. Make mother proud of you, son.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Here, you’ve spilled something on your jacket.”

From her coat she produces a handkerchief, moistens it with spit, and rubs at a spot of yesterday’s mustard.

Three months ago, on March 18th, he celebrated his fifth birthday. I didn’t make the party; too tense for Dorie so I pulled a double-shift that night and begged off. She acted disappointed, but I know she was relieved. What the hell.

After placing an order, I swing by the soda machine and fill two glasses with Pepsi and ice.

“Hi, you two love bugs. Be back in a flash.”

I plop a glass in front of each of them. Doreen doesn’t give Joshua soda pop She’s convinced that it makes him hyperactive. I’m guessing she also thinks it’ll get him addicted to caffeine and after that, who knows what he might get addicted to? When I come back, both Pepsi’s sit on Dorie’s side of the table, untouched. Nothing to fight over. I slide next to my boy.

“Hi there tiger lily. How’s tricks Joshy?

“Mother, we have been through this many times before. William and I named him Joshua. That is what we prefer him to be called. I would appreciate it if you would not call him by nicknames.”

“You’re right Doreen, dear, I will call this little munchkin Joshua. I am sorry. Sometimes I just forget. Say, Joshua, I wonder what Nana has in her sweater pocket for a big old boy like you? I just wonder what it could be?

Joshy giggles and reaches into the side-pocket of my cardigan. Carefully, he draws out a little cardboard box covered with cellophane.

“What is it, Nana?”

“That, my little peach blossom, is an authentic, super-duper, one and only Spiderman Wrist Watch, complete with flashing lights and a whiz-bang game all combined—shazam!”

“Wow!”

“Say thank you, Joshua.”

“Thanks, Nana.”

“Grandmother.”

“Thank you, Grandmother.”

“You’re welcome, tiger butt—Joshua. Now, let Nana show you how this Spiderman watch work, if I can remember what that cute little salesgal told me.”

I show him the button on the side that makes little lights of red and green flash. Then there’s another button that releases a tiny silver ball that’s supposed to find its way in to one of Spiderman’s eyes if you tilt the watch back and forth the right way. I tried several times and couldn’t do it. That damn ball moves too fast. There’s supposed to be another ball released for the other eye if you get it in the first one. I never made it that far. He’ll like the flashy lights anyway. They’ll be pretty cool under the covers at night. My grandson can already tell time.

“I like the lights, Nana.”

“Me too. Joshy—ua!”

I look up at Doreen. Ah hell, “Dorie”, she’s my kid; I named her for crissake. Dorie’s an evangelical Christian. I’m not exactly sure what that means. She told me she got saved in college during her sophomore at the university in Bellingham. She started attending some meetings in the student union. She met William there. They went to a Bible study with some other kids. One night a guest speaker spoke and afterwards, with William on one side and the evangelist on the other, she knelt and asked Jesus into her heart. At first, she felt very excited but then she grew terribly burdened. She had lots of unsaved friends and family. She felt a weight to witness to her girl friends that still lived here in Port Angeles. Of course, the relatives were next, finally Fred and me. Fred’s her dad. We’re divorced.

“Hi there, lovely. I miss you.”

“Hello, Mother. I’ve been so busy. Every day there is so much to do. It makes it difficult to drive all the way up here to see you. I’m really excited, though, because William was elected an elder last Sunday. It’s an awesome responsibility. He’ll have weekly elder meetings and, of course, special meetings to deal with disciplinary cases, evangelism, mission’s planning, prayer, and everything else. He alternates preaching duties with Fred Pribyl, the other teaching elder. William decided to exposit Ephesians. He’ll do a fantastic job. It would be good if you could come to a Sunday service and hear him explain, in detail, Paul’s epistle.”

“Thanks, hon. Maybe sometime I can, but I usually work the Sunday brunch. Sounds like you’re in a whirlwind.”

“Yes, but it is the Lord’s work and we are committed to doing it in the Lord’s way.”

Damn, if Joshy didn’t get that ball in Spiderman’s eye—both eyes! That kid is a genius. While we were gabbing he plugged up both of Spiderman’s eyes. Now he bends over the watch with his forehead resting on his cupped hands and delights in the light show.

“What about you, baby girl, what’s up with you?”

“’Doreen,’ Mom, please?”

“Sorry. What’s happening Doreen?”

“Well, I’ve been very fulfilled with several projects, the most important of which is beginning home-schooling with Joshua. He learns kindergarten with me each morning at the kitchen table. Already he has memorized the alphabet, his numbers, and six Bible verses. Then, of course, there’s the food co-op. That takes up a lot of time, what with picking up the donated food and repackaging it, and then getting it set out at the food bank each Saturday morning. Last week I wrote an evangelistic tract and we’re having it printed to put in each of the grocery sacks for the poor who come to the food bank. Choir practice is on Tuesday nights. The latest thing is that I’m taking a series of five classes in street evangelism taught at Seattle Bible College. Our final project consists of going door-to-door sharing the Gospel. I’m really excited about witnessing for Christ and reaping a harvest.”

“Phew, that’s my girl, busy as ever. I’m sure you’ll well at every one of your projects, hon.”

My daughter’s light brown hair is long, mid-way down her back, and parted severely in the middle. Every couple of months she works hard to straighten the curls she inherited from me. I guess curls are vain. She is forever pulling the sides over each of her ears. Her forehead wrinkles when she squints, which happens whenever she talks. Her lips are thin and drawn tight. Ah, but those eyes, emerald green, like her Dad’s. Devastating eyes.

“Time to go, Joshua.”

“Ah, Mom, do we have to?”

“Joshua.”

“Yes, Mother.”

I sigh my motherly sigh as I look at my grandson.

“So soon?”

I don’t really listen to her rehearse her schedule, but I catch that they’re off on the ferry to Victoria to drop off some church supplies. I hold Joshy’s face between my hands and give him Eskimo kisses. And then, for good measure, a flurry of butterfly kisses too. He giggles. I reach an arm for my daughter, but she has turned away to slip on her raincoat. As they walk toward the door that leads into the mini-mall, Dorie fusses with Joshy’s coat; their heads disappear down the stairs to the main floor.

The Denver couple finished their lunch and is ready for the check.

“How did you like that chowder?”

“Just great.”

“Good. And how about the fish-n-chips, darling?”

The young wife answers with a full smile, her eyes bright.

“Never tasted any better. My Mom was English and she took me back for a couple of visits. They have great fish-n-chips there, but these tasted even better.”

“ I’ll tell the cook. You folks enjoy your stay on the Peninsula.”

They leave a generous tip and saunter out arm-and-arm.

I minister to the coffee machine with a new filter, fresh water, and scoops of strong nut-smelling coffee. The place is empty now, except for Vern, asleep, no doubt, in the back. After bussing and wiping down the tables, I sit with a fresh cup looking out on the harbor.

The Landing Bar and Grill boasts plate glass windows all along one side and across the back where the view takes in a good part of the harbor. I used to like my coffee black, though I have taken to cream lately. The tummy’s been acting up. I’m thinking it’s the acid in the coffee, but I’m not going to give up coffee just yet. Maybe it’s some other belly problem. Anyhow, this cup sure tastes good. I’m getting used to the cream; can’t imagine dumping sugar in it though. Who knows, pretty soon I’ll be sipping lattes. I must say, it sure does feel good to take a load off.

The clouds outside are confused, hazy with thick puffs racing by and the wind builds from the west where the big storms hit us. Every once in a while, as a watch, the red tile roof on the Coast Guard building over on the tip of Ediz Hook disappears. Then suddenly, with a brightening, it pops back and seems quite close. When clouds rush like this, the light changes constantly. In sunlight, the water takes on a deep blue color, but then the ocean turns gray with lost light. This weather fools with my emotions.

I’ve lived in and around the Olympic Peninsula for most of my life. The Chamber of Commerce is always going on about the rain shadow—the Blue Hole—to get tourists and industry to locate here. I’ll grant that we get less rain than Seattle does, still, we have our share of gloom just the same. I guess the sun shines a little more in the Dungeness Valley, a few miles east of here. That’s where I was raised, a little town called Carlsborg.

Ferry’s coming. That damnable horn startles the bejeebies out if me every time, even when I expect it. Two ferries companies make the run from here to Canada. That one coming in now is the big one. It carries cars and trucks as well as people. When it comes motoring in from Victoria it’s a sight to see. It charges like it’s going to plow right into the dock, and then at the last second it swings out toward the harbor and backs in without a hitch. I like to watch it. Lots of our customers grab a bite in here before boarding. Tickets are first come, first serve on the ferry, so most travelers buy their tickets early, eat, and then do some window-shopping. When business is slow, I watch them walk along Railroad Street and then up the hill on Lincoln toward the courthouse. There’s really not a lot to see here, but I suppose looking passes the time. Storm’s coming.

We have a beach two blocks south of here called Hollywood Beach. It’s near the town pier. I don’t know why they named it Hollywood Beach; it sure as hell ain’t California, no palm trees and sand, just tons of rocks. Mostly high school kids dare each other into the cold water; sensible people are too smart for that. Nice enough place for a picnic though.

I know the shuffle. Fred. Not a salesman’s light tapping leather or the thump of one of those outdoor types. Fred walks pigeon-toed and lands on the balls of his feet, a sandpapery sound, light, and deliberate. I’m keep looking at the people walking off the ferry.

“Hi, Fred, how’s tricks?”

“Not so bad, Annie, and you?”

“Hanging in there. You want a cold one?”

“Naw. A cup of coffee sounds good though. It’s kind of raw out there.”

“Looks like a storm. Take a seat. I’ll be back in a flash.”

I wonder what this is all about. I haven’t seen my “Ex” for almost a year. I sure as hell don’t have any money. Easy sister, he’d never ask for money.

“Still take it black, Fred?”

“Put some cream in it, would you? I’m getting a bad gut.”

Oh, good God, not you too. I wonder if we look alike too, like those decrepit couples in synthetic walking outfits that have been together forever. Please, God, no.

“There you go.”

“Thanks.”

He still cuts quite a figure, slim-waisted, broad across the chest and shoulders. A fine specimen of a man. The beard’s gone completely white now; it contrasts with those deep-water eyes. A front tooth was set ajar by 1 x 6 that busted him in the chops when he was pulling out another board below it. He was fourteen, just starting out in his Dad’s cabinet shop.

“How’s the wooden boat business?”

“Not so bad. We got an order for a Concordia 33 a couple of months ago. I got the lofting done and hired a couple of kids that just graduated from the boat building school.”

“Is Donnie still working with you?”

“Yeah. He’s been steady when the work is. I’ll tell you, that Donnie can do some of the prettiest joinery work I’ve seen anywhere.”

I remember. I turn to look at the new passengers heading up the gangway. My kiddies are probably already on board.

“Tell me about the boat, Fred. I remember the name, Concordia, New England design?”

“Yep. She’s sweet, Annie, sweet lines. Wilder Harris designed her in the 1930’s. She’s a bit over 33 feet with close to ten-foot of beam. The client wants a sloop rig which I figure will carry about 500 square-feet of sail.”

Damn. Don’t cry, old girl. Bite the inside of your lip if you have to. No tears. But it stirs me so to hear him talk about boats—so many memories.

We rented a fallen-down barn west of Port Hadlock. It was winter when we started finishing out the hayloft and converted it into our home. On Saturdays and Sundays, from daylight to way past dark, we worked side by side hauling boards from the construction sights where Fred was framing houses. He labored through six-day week from seven in the morning until five and took a portion of his pay in wood. Then he’d come to the barn and plunge into more work. Many a time it was after midnight when we stopped for a glass a wine, sometimes a little romance.

Lord, he was strong and so smart about building. He could figure a design in his head, work the angles with just a bevel gauge; he even made most of his own hand tools. We got along swell. Before summer, we got married and moved in to the loft the same day, Saturday, April 8, 1964. A week later he got his first commission. Fred got off the phone and excitedly explained to me that, though it was only a twelve-foot dinghy, the boat was an old Herreshoff, the best designer in America and probably the world. Fred did a grand job on the boat. The buyer, a lawyer officed in Port Townsend, loved the boat so much that he convinced a friend to order one. The next year that same lawyer had Fred build him a bigger boat, twenty-six feet with a fixed keel. Soon after he started on the boat, I started on morning sickness.

We had loads of fun. After three months, Fred quit his construction job. He’d be down in the shop working on a boat and I’d be up in the loft tending Dorie. We’d work together during her naps. When the baby got older we’d bring her down to the shop. Fred built a playpen that resembled a boat deck. She was safe in there and she had lots of hand-made toys to play with. Poor? God, yes we were poor, but happy. Fred’s eyes were always full of boats and me. Then another skirt caught his eye, and that did us in.

“You listening, Annie?”

“Yep, and remembering a little too.”

“Well, we’ve had to build a bigger steam box. These frames are longer than anything we’ve done before. We cut the oak frames last week and the bending starts tomorrow. She’s all traditional, carvel planked, and get this, planked with the prettiest damn mahogany I ever saw. All bronze fittings, of course. Hell, Annie, it’ll be the prettiest and strongest boat around.”

“Way to go, Fred.”

He looks down at the last of the coffee in his cup.

“Thanks.”

The horn blast from the ferry jerks my head around. The wind’s building with lots of fog pushing every which way. On the top deck, a young couple holds each other. Their embrace warms me.

“Seen Dorie and the kid?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, you just missed them. Of course, they couldn’t stay—maybe five minutes. You know how she is. They’re on the ferry for Victoria.”

“I ain’t seen them for a year, seems like.”

“I ain’t seen them much either. Dorie runs a pretty tight ship.”

I hear the quiet grunt I heard out of Fred for fifteen years. Now it’s my turn to stare at the coffee.

“Want more coffee?”

“No, Annie, one’s enough for me.”

“What’s on your mind, Fred? You’re not in the habit of stopping around just to jaw with the former old lady.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. It’s kind of stupid of me to be here. Maybe I should go.”

“What’s up?”

“Robin left me three weeks ago.”

“That a fact? You okay?”

“Sometimes I am, sometimes not. We hadn’t been getting along so good for a while. But, I didn’t think she’d split.”

“I’m sorry, Fred.”

“Yep. I’ll get over it.”

“You don’t think she’s coming back?”

“Naw.”

“How come? You’ve been together quite a while.”

“She’s got somebody else.”

The rain begins to pelt as the ferry pulls out from the dock. I look at the thin streams of water streaking the window. The streaks don’t race each other. They meander all over the glass. You’d think they’d go straight down, but they don’t. They wiggle. Sometimes they meet up with each other and make a bigger stream. They look like tears puddling down the glass, stopping and then starting again.

Once, after Fred left, I sat in front of the bathroom mirror on a kitchen chair—we made the chairs together, turning the legs on a lathe. My tears were just like this window-rain, stopping and starting, going to the corner of my mouth, making a little puddle under at my chin, then they dripped on my bare breasts. I sat that way for an hour without a stitch on.

“I sorry, Fred. Really. That’s a bummer.”

“Justice, I guess. I ran out on you for someone else. Now, Robin’s cut out on me. Serves me right. God damnit, she took up with that peckerwood Dan Tolin that works down at the Marine Supply. That son-of-a-bitch ain’t even twenty-five years old if he’s a day. Hell, she’s been balling him for a goddamned year from what I hear. And there I am, going down to the Marine Supply every few days, just as stupid as a post and buying stuff from that kid, and him just as polite and nice as he can be. In fact, I once told Robin what a nice kid he was. She just smiled and said she’d seen him there but hadn’t met him. I am so pissed I could go after that kid with a marlinspike. But it wouldn’t do no good. They’d throw me in the can forever. Boy, she got me good, picking fights with me after work and stomping off like she’s all offended, and then meeting up with that kid somewhere. I’m just a stupid goddamned rudderpost that’s what I am.”

“More coffee, with a bump?”

“No. Yes!”

It would be easy to gloat, easy to tell Freddie-boy to go to hell. That would be fair, wouldn’t it? I don’t know, though, if I believe in that kind of justice. Seems like we just bump into things, like getting up in the middle of the night to pee and stubbing your toe against a chair you forgot to put away. When Fred took off with his girlfriend, I wasn’t just angry or sad. There were other moments, different feelings. Sure, I felt awful, but I felt relief too. I knew he’d been fooling around, half of Port Townsend knew. Relief. And another thing, Dorie and I got really close during that time, not so bad really.

Half coffee, half Irish whiskey, I put the cup in front of Fred. He stares at it.

“Thanks.”

“Welcome.”

Three older women come in, blue hair’d and dressed in skirts, hose, high heels, and bellies cinched tight with raincoats. Their bosoms overflow frilly blouses. I grin. They might topple over with the weight of hair and boobs. Their skin reeks from many samples of hand lotion at the Hawaiian booth out in the mall.

“Customers. Don’t go, Fred. I’ll be back.”

Suddenly, there is a terrific screeching noise. We all turn toward the front window. In slow motion, the aluminum awning that covers the deck parts from the building. The noise stops as the roof and posts lift a foot in the air and then tumbles into the water. I never seen anything like it.

Fred and I run to the window and watch the awning lolling around in the water. First it tips one way, then the other, and then it sinks. We stare until it disappears.

“That’s really something.”

“I’ll be a son-of-a-bitch.”

Vern slams through the kitchen door.

“What the hell is going on out here?”

The three blue hairs take a rain check on lunch and scurry out. Just then, a wave cascades over the wharf and hits the window square. I grab Fred’s arm and just as quickly let it go.

“I’m worried about Dorie and Joshy.”

“Why? The roads aren’t bad.”

“Damnit, they’re not driving, they’re on that God damned ferry.

“Oh, for crissake, I forgot!”

“I’m scared.”

“It’s a big boat, all the modern safety stuff. John Franklin’s seasoned. He’s a good captain, knows what he’s doing. He’s likely headed into the wind. That’ll slow boat and keep the seas manageable. They’ll be all right.”

“Stay until it blows over.”

“Okay. But, I got to go check on Kimberly Ann. She’s tied up at the guest dock at the marina. She’s side on to the wind and I only tied her fore and aft, no spring lines. I got to move her head on and get more line on her.”

“Want my car?

“Thanks.”

High on a shelf in the pantry, I grab my purse. I feel embarrassed because my keys have a fuzzy kitty-cat fob. I attempt to take it off and can’t. What the hell. I toss it to Fred; he jogs out of the place.

The sea in the bay is building even though the sand spit protects the harbor. The waves threaten the dock. Spray whips over the pilings. No streams running down the glass now—sheets of water. I peer steadily through the storm and try to find the ferry.

Fred stands beside me. I startle.

“Sorry, I thought you heard me come back.”

“I’m frantic about them.

“No denying, there’s a capful of wind out there. But, like I said, Franklin knows what he’s doing. Anyway, I brought back the portable VHS. We can listen to what’s going on.”

Fred sets the radio on a nearby table.

“Let’s sit down, if you like, Annie. We can monitor their progress.”

“No thanks. Go ahead and turn it on. I can’t sit just yet.

Static fills the air. He switches over to channel sixteen and fiddles with the knobs. Then he flicks to nine and fourteen and switches back to sixteen—the emergency channel.

“Nothing. No news is good news.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Looks like the storm killed off your lunch trade.”

“What about you, Fred, want another bump and coffee?”

“No, I’m set.”

“Anything to eat?”

“You know, a burger sure would hit the spot, if you don’t mind.”

“Nah, It’ll give me something to do. Let’s see, cheese, pickle, no mustard, and light on the mayo. I bet you’re off the onions.”

“How did you know that?”

“’Cause they’ve been bugging my stomach the last couple of years too, just like the black coffee.”

The kitchen’s empty. Vern must have taken off for a drink. His antidote? The best cure for a bad head is “a bit of the dog that bit you.” I stand staring at the sizzling patty. Dorie’s my only child and she’s grown so distant. I used to blame it on the divorce, now, her faith. Maybe when she gets older we’ll be friends. I hope so. I love Joshy so; a butterball with long lashes and my Dad’s chocolate brown eyes.

God, what a day! Fred got his from Robin. What’s he want from me? Sympathy? Not on your life. Maybe just comfort or punishment, or just plain old forgiveness. And this damned storm with my babies out there.

The burger shrivels, almost black: I toss it in the garbage. The walk-in shivers me. I reach for two more patties stacked ten high with waxed paper between them

When I shove open the kitchen door with my backside, Fred switches off the radio.

“Here you go, Freddie.”

“Thanks.”

I nod toward the silent radio.

“What’s up?”

“Franklin radioed the Coast Guard. One of the diesels is acting up. He’s losing some headway.”

“What’s that mean? Ah hell.”

“Take it easy, Annie. It’ll be all right. They’re making four to five knots. Coast Guard’s got them on radar. They can putts along ‘till they get to Victoria.”

“How far out are they?”

“Not far.”

“Why don’t they turn around and come back?”

“Too dangerous with the wind and seas from that angle. They’re plugging along. They’ll be okay.”

“I ain’t comforted.”

“Sorry, Annie.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re sorry. I’m sorry too. My kid and her baby boy are out there in this god-awful storm and who knows what’s happening.”

I can’t stifle the tears any more. The mascara’s streaking and I’m a mess. I never let him see me this way when he took off.

“I’m sorry, Annie.”

Can’t help it—I snap.

“’Sorry, Annie?’ Is that all you know how to say, sorry Annie? Well, so the hell am I, Fred. I’m sorry this storm’s blowing, sorry the babies are out in the middle of it, sorry you stopped in here today!”

I turn my face away and push my forehead against the pounding window. The cool glass soothes the heat in my head. Across the street the shops look ghost-like through the horizontal rain. Salt-water spume scours the sidewalk and darkens the brick wall of the Chamber of Commerce building. No cars. And this vicious pounding against the glass.

Fred stands. From the corner of my eye I see him slice the burger and pick up half in a napkin and walk toward the windows. He’s looking west for a break in the storm.

“Any change?”

“Not yet.”

“I’m sorry, Fred. I didn’t mean to jump down your throat.”

“You got enough reasons.”

“Come back and try the radio again.”

“Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!”

John Franklin’s voice cracks through the static. I glance at Fred. His grinding jawbone dimples the cheek.

“Roger that, Victoria Ferry. This is Coast Guard dispatcher at Ediz Hook.

Confirm your position and status, over.”

Joshy’s face flashes in my mind; I hear his voice, “See, Nana, I did it.”

“Roger that position. Report your status.”

Silence.

“ I repeat, report your status.”

Silence. Then broken voice.

“. . . May . . . Mayday . . .”

More static.

“One engine out . . .steering.”

Fred’s cheeks flames with color, his jaw works vigorously.

“Roger that. Be advised: all aircraft grounded due to severe weather conditions. Coast Guard Cutter on rescue operation near Port Flattery. Will dispatch Cutter to your location as soon as possible, over.”

“Roger that. I have ordered the lifeboats ready for deployment

Fred sprints for the stairs.

“Grab a jacket!”

“Right behind you!”

Not exactly. Fred charges down three steps at a time, bolts out of the door, and then sticks his head back in to see if I’m following him.

“Keep going. I’ll meet you at the boat.”

“Right.”

No time to feel anything right now. I run back into the kitchen for food and a thermos of coffee. Then my own bounding down the stairs. I lean hard against the metal door; when I squeeze past, it slams hard. The racket of the wind through the rooftops and trees frightens me. Leaves fly by my head, stripped from heaving branches. I know the way to the marina with my eyes closed.

Like an amusement park ride, the dock sections buck violently. Fred holds out his hand and I clumsily leap into the cockpit. Above the din he shouts.

“Let’s go below!”

The three-cylinder diesel idles, noisily vibrating in the dim cabin. Fred scoots behind the navigation table and pulls out a three-by-five card from shirt pocket. From his own bold printing, he reads the coordinates for the ferry’s position. He finds the chart from a cubbyhole above him and smoothes it over the tabletop. With sure hands, he draws the two bearing lines and makes a small circle where they intersect. I open the hanging locker and pull on the pants of the yellow foul-weather gear. As I zip up the jacket, Fred points to the circled mark on the chart with the dividers.

“There, that’s where they are.”

“Let’s go. I grabbed bread and apples on the way out and a jug of coffee. Want some now, or later?”

“Later. Good thinking.”

We work well together, always did. When Dorie was eight, barefoot, and playing with a couple of pals, she ran a straight pin clean through the side of her big toe. I picked her up facing me and through her screams I told her to wrap her legs around me. Fred poured on de-natured alcohol and then pulled out the pin with needle nose pliers, no more than fifteen seconds from accident to cure.

Fred chooses to go out under a small trysail, no main—only the bare pole of the mast and the little engine engaged at idle speed. The wind punches us on the port side as we head north. I amaze myself with what I remember from years ago. It’s been fifteen years since I’ve been on a boat. He’ll keep the engine idling in case we need power for steering, but that little diesel would be worthless if we had to go into the wind.

When it comes to boat handling, I trust Fred. Kimberly Anne is a well-founded boat. Fred saw to that when he built her. At times he can be insensitive and quite foolish, but when it comes to building the man is an artist and a perfectionist.

As Fred pushes the tiller to round the sand spit, we can’t see anything but rain and spindrift blowing off nearby wave crests. Steering by compass, he sets Kimberly Anne’s course toward the two crossed lines on the chart—two hundred and ninety-eight degrees. Down below in the snug galley, I pour coffee from the thermos into two mugs both loaded with cream and sugar. The bread, in reality, is a bag of hamburger buns. Two steps up the ladder I call out.

“Here’s coffee, want a bun?”

“Want buns? Don’t you mean, got buns?”

“Got buns?”

“Not for some time.”

We laugh together, loud until he yells.

“Take the helm”

The radio squawks below. Fred vaults down the companionway as I reflexively grab the tiller. With the squelch button, he clears the noise.

“Anybody. Anybody. Can you hear me? Oh, God, please answer. Can you hear me? Help. God, help us.”

Dorie. Her voice sounds like a child.

“Dorie, this is Dad, over.”

“Dad? Is that you Daddy?”

“It’s me, baby girl. It’s me.

“Oh, Daddy, I can’t believe it.”

“You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

“Oh, Daddy, help us.”

“Mom and I are on the way. Dorie, Where is Joshy?”

“Joshy’s right here with me. He’s okay. There are five of us in the lifeboat, two women and a couple of kids.

“Good. Where’s the ferry?”

“It’s gone. We were the first ones in a lifeboat. Then the ship lurched and dumped our boat in the water. The ferry disappeared into the storm. I don’t see anything but waves and rain. Oh Daddy!””

“Hang in there. We’re on the way. Stay calm. Dorie? Come in Dorie. This is the Kimberly Anne come in Victoria Express lifeboat. Do you read me.”

His head pops out of the hatch.

“You hear?”

“Yeah. Keep trying to get them.”

“You okay at the helm”

“Got it.”

Fred disappears below. I tuck the tiller under my right arm and hold tight with both hands against the force the waves and wind. Even with only a small triangle of sail, the Kimberly Anne heels down hard. I hear Fred yelling below, my heart sinks. Then I hear singing.

“What’s up?”

More singing.

“Fred! What’s going on?”

Again, the bearded face from the hatch.

“Sorry, I got them again. They’re singing. Radar’s back on. I see them, not more than fifteen, twenty minutes.

He clamors out the companionway and weaves toward me, jolting down next to me as we slam into wave.

“Here.”

He takes the wooden tiller and hands me the portable radio.

“Dorie, this is Mom, Dorie? Can you hear me?”

“Mommy, yeah, I can hear you. Are you coming?”

“Yes. We’ll be there in just a few minutes. Are you okay?”

“Just soaked and scared, but, yeah, okay.

“And Joshy?”

“Joshy’s fine, Mom, just fine. He’s singing, “Puff the Magic Dragon.” Everyone joins him on the chorus.”

“Honey . . .”

“What Mom? Wait. I think I see the top of Kimberly Anne’s mast

Andrew’s Step

By Rick Scheideman

Stillness, like gray wool, covers his eyes. He blinks awake, then turns. She sleeps. He would prefer not to wake her. Gently he sits and dangles his legs over the bedside, then stands, and stretches his arms over his head. A crackling in the spine. In the weak light, her hair splays gold against the pillow, her face smooth and clear. Both his feet ache along the arch and the lower back feels stiff as he steps gingerly away. After the bathroom, he stands in white briefs at the open sliding-glass door. Goosebumps rise with the chill. He yawns. A lazy tear wets one cheek and he blots it with the back of his hand. He considers the glistening oval, lifts the hand to smell the salt, and stares outside. Light strengthens from blue-gray to a faint rose, soon the sun. A newborn breeze shivers Andrew.

He rises early for these summer mornings to walk the foothills on well-worn paths. Two or three times a season he climbs Mount Hayden under a cloudless sky. A strong stirring motivates him, an inarticulate passion beyond any regular exercise regimen. On those mornings the sweet scent of fresh-cut grass compels him to climb. Last night rain fell hard for half-an-hour. Now the musty smell from nearby willows evokes memories of other damp woods. The hills are fecund. Green tumbles thick.

At sixty-nine years old, aging puzzles Andrew. From time to time, he takes note of his body: a slow pain as he straightens from picking up the newspaper from the sidewalk; a deeper tired before sleep, and now and then a struggle to recall a familiar name. But the change is subtle. He feels, as he always has, himself. His likes and dislikes remain much the same: a distaste of vinegar, mayonnaise, and ruinous texture of nuts in a candy bar. The vibrating thrill of a sailboat burying it’s rail on a close reach and the satisfaction of shared conversation still thrill him. Perhaps human development simply cycles through the familiar. Rather than the assumed straight path of growth toward a vagary called maturity or success, we simply revisit the same concerns, the same desires, fears, and thoughts that we have known throughout our lives. He surmises as he looks westward, “Maybe I haven’t changed all that much. I still climb mountains.” Bifocals correct his weak eye-muscles in the same way that rapid morning walks replace the once daily hour-long runs. Yet, the view appears the similar. Aging is odd.

Three cumulus puffs linger near the TV towers on Lookout Mountain. Andrew stares at them unseeing. Then a flutter catches his daydream. Below the apartment’s attached deck, a young cottonwood trembles in the sunrise breeze. After a late spring blizzard, the newly leafed sapling bent close to the ground pressured with soft wet snow. Andrew predicted that the tree would not survive. Undeterred by many such failed forecasts, this morning he determines that the weeklong series of afternoon thunderstorms is over. The humidity is low; today will be perfect. Mount Hayden, rounded and unspectacular, rises close to home, a twenty-minute walk to the trailhead. Most summers Hayden’s desiccated slopes fade to brown before the Fourth of July, but not this year. The wet spring produced an abundant flourish of wildflowers among the grasses. Peering out the right side of the window, Andrew picks up the long northeast ridge of the mountain. But stretching comes first.

Years ago he would have simply pulled on shorts and T-shirt, laced up his shoes, and go—no tedious preliminaries. He ran five to ten miles each day, then, and in tennis shoes. These mornings he will wear running shoes designed by podiatrists for street pounding or high-tech boots for the mountain. But first, stretching accompanied by yawning. A mindless routine touted as necessary for aging muscles and joints, and conducive for daydreaming—a frequent pastime. One final tear-producing yawn, then Andrew gathers to his feet and rummages the daypack from the living room closet. He anticipated the climb last night and pre-packed a sweatshirt, windbreaker, extra socks, leather gloves, and a plastic water bottle purchased his senior year of high school. In one side pocket, he keeps a Swiss-Army knife, matches, moleskin for blisters, and a first-aid kit. In the other, a water bottle. He takes an apple and banana from the refrigerator and then turns the faucet on low to fill the water bottle, hoping not to awaken his wife. With a red baseball hat on his head, Drew tiptoes to the front door, but Lori calls from the bedroom, a giggly moan.

“Drewee? Oooooohhhhh. Mmmmmmm. Now where is my Drewsy? I never got no kisses or nothing. I’m all alone. Where are you Dreweeeee? Don’t you love me anymore? Why aren’t you in her kissing me? Boo hoo hoo.”

“I’m getting ready to go you silly goose.”

“But I’m in here all alone. No kisses or nothing.

Lori and Drew married two years ago. She is younger by years. He leans over frizzy wisps of blond hair and nuzzles her neck.

“Don’t Drew, that tickles. I want kisses, yummy kisses.”

He does too, but he feels torn.

“Don’t go walking today, Drewsy, stay here with me, please? If you go, then I’ll be all alone.”

“I love you, darling-girl. I’ll be back soon. If I don’t go now, I won’t go.”

“Then don’t go!”

“But it’s so beautiful outside and I’d like to get up Hayden.

“If you go up there, you’ll be gone all day.”

“ No, I’ll try to get back right after lunch. Okay?

“No.”

“Roll over now and enjoy sleeping-in.”

“Okay, handsome. Please be careful.”

“I will. I love you.”

“I love you more.”

A short run up the grassy hill that fronts the apartment brings Andrew to a steep winding sidewalk. He strides into a fast walk. He inhales through his nose and a familiar richness stirs a memory. The first afternoon at Outward Bound, after the patrol instructor had oriented them and then dismissed them until supper, Drew had walked with the other high school boys toward a scattering of tents in a glen of aspens—milk white and scarred with gray welts. Thick as three boys around, the trees mottled the sky through a canopy of quaking leaves. When he entered that grove, the scent of wood, leafmeal, and damp dirt engulfed him, smells and emotions he has never forgotten. And so it is this morning—a sensational moment. Andrew, nearly seventy, with the boy of seventeen still vibrant within him.

Three and four-story houses squat along the hillside, some partially perched on concrete pillars. They are not so much homes but oversized garages with attached entertainment centers. Boats, campers, over-sized pick-up trucks, Jet Skis, jeeps, RVs, skidoos, motorcycles, and riding lawn mowers spill out of the toy-boxes into the driveways with visible affluence. A careening SUV speeds the downgrade with a mother one-handing the cell phone and back-talking to her children.

“Buenos dias.”

Andrew greets a wizened Chicano scrapping clotted grass from underneath his mower.

A rusted Chevy pickup overflows with clippings. From the truck radio, a passionate Mexican bolero serenades; trumpets in thirds along with an accordion sing the instrumental interlude.

“Buenos dias, senor. A beautiful day, no?”

“Very beautiful. Don’t work too hard.”

“Gracias, senor.”

Lawns sit like putting greens, and even during last summer’s drought, those lawns remained an unperturbed oasis. One defensive owner posted a sign that read, “Watered with Well Water.” The rationale of privatization, “It’s my property, my water, I can do what I want.” Even so, the flowerbeds bordering the green please Andrew with the shape of summer. In one yard, five young aspens dance their energetic leaves in the light. Beneath them, saffron poppies give backdrop to the color flashes of blue, yellow, white, and purple pansies.

At the hilltop, the sidewalk curves to the left toward even larger houses, but Andrew turns right and jogs in zigzagging fashion down the backside of the hill toward a stand of century-old cottonwoods where the serpentine path begins its winding through native grassy slopes that lead to the flanks of Hayden Mountain.

Meadowlarks arrived eleven days ago—just like that. They boast several melodies, choir composed of robins, meadowlarks, finches, and the squawking percussion of magpies. Between clumps of willows, three doe poke up their heads. Ears twitch, hesitate. Andrew stops and quiets his breath. Moist noses check, decide, and quick as that, their muscular legs bound away. Above, on a hidden limb, a twittering house wren warns all competitors that this maple is her nesting spot. A nuthatch running headfirst down an adjacent tree trunk searches for breakfast. The jackhammer noise of a flicker pounds for a girlfriend. The birds are back.

“Good morning.”

Andrew startles.

“Hi.”

A thin, wiry woman with flyaway gray hair holds the leash of an equally graying golden retriever. Andrew crosses her shadow as she waits along an intersecting path. He calls over his shoulder.

“Have a nice day, ma’am.”

“You too.”

The startle surges adrenaline so that his pace quickens; he tries to settle the pace with three deep breaths. A quarter of a mile later the trail plunges into a ravine where a brook clatters. Willows and cattails tangle the pathway; beneath them coral root wave miniature orchids—white petals flecked with purple. Swale grass stands knee high along the creek. At the bottom, where the spring bubbles the trail turns to muck. He attempts to avoid the slop by stepping on the grass he wipes with his boots. His right foot slips.

“Ah, crap!”

Muddy boots irritate him—no traction. Then dry dirt sticks to the mud and forms platform shoes that fling pelts of dirt up his backside. Andrew picks up a stick to pry at the hunks of mud. “Damn it to hell!”

The trail contours three-quarters of a mile on a gentle rise toward the northeast shoulder of Hayden; from there the route to the summit ridge will come into view. Drew turns at the grunting sound of a mountain biker not far behind him on the trail. Protected with helmet, elbow and kneepads, and thick gloves, a young man pumps hard up the path. Andrew dreads intrusion. He prefers the solitude of his own company. Once engaged in a conversation, though, he discovers that he enjoys himself. A reluctant partygoer, he is usually the last to leave. Quickly, he scrambles off the trail and up a steep ridge to avoid contact. Continuing on the trail, the biker pedals around the hill and out of sight.

Andrew attacks the steep ridge with an unrelenting pace. Never a daredevil in the mountains, even after Outward Bound, because he lacked the self-confident abandon that others found inside to accomplish frightening routes. As a young man he led rock climbs, yet never quite relinquished the fear, never felt the natural ease that accompanies daring. His gift was stamina; he could endure. With a means beyond explanation, Andrew controlled fatigue, pain, hunger, and even thirst. He would not stop or give-in to fatigue. This gift blossomed, at times, into a noxious flower so that, sometimes, a climbing partner cursed him for it. So there co-existed a tandem in his climbing, fear could hesitate him like a sudden snake at the feet, but endurance fueled his pride hour after hour—as it did now.

Moving without pause, he locates a rock to push off from, or a clump of turf to edge his boot, and always the inner voice—keep moving. The arduous feels welcome. He rarely looks ahead. His eyes rivet the ground. Not knowing how far he has to go brings both surprise and relief when the goal suddenly appears. Surprise now, he crests the ridge and walks along its meandering path that connects a series of the mountain’s shoulders. Andrew stretches his legs on the downward sections of the ridge, then jogs the inclines. Ahead he sees that the biker waits at the place where the bike path intersects the ridgeline. They meet.

“Hey, man, fast pace. You really smoked that hill.”

Drew flusters at compliments; they embarrass him because he craves them.

“I guess I ate my Wheaties this morning.”

“Well, good going.”

“Thanks. Enjoy your ride.”

Andrew lowers his eyes and simultaneously raises his hand in an awkward wave. The younger man passes him with a smile. Drew follows. Not bad for an old man; he flushes.

Off to the west, cumulus clouds congregate along the Continental Divide like a lineup of potbellied chefs at a cooking convention. They might congeal and elevate into a storm cell to scour the city, and produce another failed forecast from Andrew. He feels a stirring in his gut; anxiety registers its own weather system. As a boy, his mother would hide with him from thunderstorms inside a Ford sedan safe in the dark garage. Common wisdom held that the rubber tires of an automobile protected its occupants from the sizzle of lightning. Besides, the windowless garage admitted no flashes, though they both startled at the thunderclaps. With a waning flashlight, mother and son played Old Maid and then Fifty-Two-Card-Pickup. The boy giggled at his mother’s fumbling to pick up the cards he had spilled on the car floor. Sometimes he would nap in the backseat under a blanket his grandmother knit.

Across the way on a steep part of the trail, he notices the biker pushing his bike and slipping every few steps. Andrew considers, “If I run fast on this part of the ridge and then walk the steep part steady, I might catch and pass him.” Always this competitive voice—where did it begin? One Saturday morning early in September, his mother drove to a field near home to register Andrew for football. He was eight. From then fall Sunday mornings in found him cutting out newspaper photos of a quarterback cocked to throw, or a tailback stiffing a tackler, or the melee of wooden goal posts shaken to the ground by victorious fans. His scrapbook comprised colored construction paper bound together with yarn woven through punched holes. Soon, football articles and photographs bulged the pages of his scrapbook. Over the years, the scrapbook grew into four volumes. The boy played little league and then high school football. He does not remember when he discarded the scrapbooks or why; he would enjoy thumbing through them now.

Among other things, including a concussion and several fractured fingers, those years produced a hunger for praise. Without words to articulate this desire, nonetheless, the boy knew an insatiable need for the kind of adulation he thought possible only through extraordinary performance. More often than not, the outcome of all his effort and discipline brought more disappointment than praise. The boy, and then the man, was an average athlete, clearly not extraordinary. And that normality still rankles Andrew. His convictions assured him that love resulted from success, and success would arrive only through great effort. In the past couple of years, though, he has reconsidered.

At the top of the hill, the bicyclist hops aboard and pedals out of sight. The urge momentarily revisits Andrew, a compulsion to race. But then he reckons the misery it often makes for him. There can be no rest in winning as small successes press for larger ones, and there is always someone over the shoulder gaining. How does victory stay? Will enough applause make it permanent? Knowing the answer, he slows his walk.

He stops. A fully racked buck crosses twenty yards in front of him, turns, and considers Andrew. The deer looks away tilting back his head, the rack, in velvet, glowing hazel in the light. A quiver of the ears and he peers again, then saunters. Andrew gives chase and the buck bounds down the slope brimming with strength and speed. He looses sight of the deer except for momentary antler points above clumps of shrubbery. Feeling silly, Andrew stops and climbs back up on to the ridge. As he walks along, Andrew suddenly breaks into a run, a fast run, as fast as he can. His eyes tear. No competition. No self-consciousness. Just run. Legs stretching. Arms pumping. His breath sucks in deeply. Soon enough the tug of fatigue will come but in this moment, running is all there is.

“Ah, ah. Ouch!”

He hops on one foot, gingerly touching the other to the ground. His left foot had slammed against a rock. A surprising wave of nausea sweeps his throat. Cheap damnable boots, costly, yes, but poorly made—no protection. He spies a log beneath a few scruffy ponderosas and hobbles toward it. Orange paintbrush bloom in a wide arc around the log. They were the first flowers he identified from the field manual as a Boy Scout. Their splashy spears comfort him. He slings off his pack and sits in their glory leaning against the log. Some wriggling fits his back into a smooth place. Yawning, he stretches. A slender blade of wild grass finds a groove between his teeth, a smell of sage in the air. His breath settles, a small whistle in the nose, hardly any breath at all.

“Stupid cheap boots.”

These boots are a recent acquisition, touted waterproof, breathable—the latest development, yet a far cry from his old leather boots. In those boots, he could stand with dry feet in a rushing stream. Today, synthetic materials replace leather as well as wool in socks and sweaters too. For all their rhetoric, Andrew has discovered that these fashionable boots do not hold up, fail to grip like Vibram, leak, and they’re expensive—not at all competitive with the boots in Hans’ store.

Years ago, located east from the Capitol on Colfax Avenue around the corner from East High School, Hans did more than sell mountain boots. The burly Austrian stood tall, broad at the shoulders, and narrow at the hips. His thick hair cascaded to the collar. He spoke roughly and with a German accent.

“Take the boots. Lace them up good and tight, yah? Now go to the mountain. Did you lace them good? Now, try them on the mountain to be right.”

A chunk of granite lay on the shop floor. Next to the rock was a wooden bench. On top of it sat a cardboard box filled with socks in many sizes. Andrew shed his white tube socks and pulled on a pair of thick wool ones. Whether the boy came in for lightweight klettershoes for rock climbing or a stout pair of mountaineering boots, Hans insisted on the mountain. The boots must be tested on that piece of rock under the master’s watchful eye. Andrew always felt nervous at the prospect. The shop smelled of leather and Sno-Seal, and the walls boomed with Hans’s bass voice.

“So, young man, what do you think? These are the best boots from the Alps. I bring only the very best, yah? And Hans makes them even better.”

And he did. After Andrew made his choice, Hans stitched two additional rows of heavy thread to strengthen the seams where the upper leather met the lower; he sewed reinforcements along the welt to strengthen the place where the sole fastened. One pair of boots Andrew bought from Hans endured three resoles before the leather stiffened to the point where he could no longer force them on his feet—seven years and many mountain tops in those boots.

Hans was as inspiring as he was imposing. The Austrian’s face flushed with energy and his voice was full of expertise. In time, the boy learned to enjoy the humor in Hans’ flashing eyes; eventually he discerned kindness beneath the bombast. Swinging open the bell-tinkling door each season became a favorite ritual. When Andrew left the shop, both his heart and his feet knew pleasure.

On Andrew’s last visit, the “Open” sign hung in the middle of the glass door, but when he tried it, the door was locked. Dust motes flitted through the sunlight inside when he cupped his hands against the window. Empty. He never learned the reason, but favored the prospect that Hans went back home to his Alps.

At his rest on the mountain, two black ants vie for Andrew’s knee as they cross back and forth several times. One crawls on his shorts toward his belly where his T-shirt pulled up. Dark hair curls over Drew’s belly. The ant rummages in the labyrinth hopeful for a morsel or a home. Tickling overcomes science and he brushes off the ant. Andrew wonders about the whereabouts of other ant just as he feels a tickling under his leg at the cuff of his shorts and jumps to his feet swatting. Time to get a move-on. The toe feels fine.

After an hour, he reaches the summit ridge. He lingers a moment on a level outcropping of rock. The sweep of Denver pushes north to the Wyoming border and south toward Colorado Springs. Feeling hungry, he looks skyward and turns to check the high mountains behind him—heavy clouds, but no storm. Nearby, a pile of boulders looks suitable for a lunch break. Inside the pack, he rummages for the fruit and the water bottle. When he fumbles beneath the sweatshirt it makes a crinkling sound. Out comes a brown paper bag neatly folded three times at the top. Lori delights in surprises. He discovers there a sandwich of coarse bread, slices of cheddar cheese moistened with mustard, and stuffed with sprouts, lettuce, and two tomatoes. He barely manages the bundle with both hands. There is even more at the bottom of the pack. One plastic container holds green olives and dill pickle spears, the other is crammed with celery, carrots, and radishes. A giant chocolate chip cookie strains a baggie. He takes a long drink of water and then eats.

Brushing crumbs from his lap, Andrew shifts his rear end that had begun to numb. He draws a cheroot, smashed in its cellophane wrapped box, from the top pocket of the pack along with a plastic match case with a screw-on top. He has carried that case forever. After several tries—who knows how old they are? —a match flares and the cigar circles white smoke from his mouth. Smoking a pipe or cigar grew also grew into climbing ritual. Andrew and Ronnie Joe, a frequent climbing companion, would take their ease on a mountain peak, peruse the view, and light up. When a climb became particularly frightful, the tobacco (or the idea of it) emotionally steadied him; created an interlude, a space for peace. There was a pitfall, however. For example, in the middle of a difficult pitch on, Hallet Peak, he smoked two cigarettes in a row at a belay point. The tobacco brought cramps and the absolute necessity to relieve himself then and there. This turned out to be a complex feat considering the cramped conditions, the need to clean with the available sparse flora, and the courtesy of covering his doings with rocks for the sake of his soon arriving climbing partner.

Similarly, the current cigar brings a familiar wooziness. He hasn’t inhaled even a quarter of it before he snuffs it under his boot. He concludes, as he has many times before, the he enjoys the thought of cigar more than the reality. His stomach rumbles perilously as he folds the lunch sack and attempts to stuff it inside an empty side pocket, but a bulge in the bottom keeps the sack more outside than in. He draws out a squat plastic bottle filled with grape juice. He yells.

“I love you, Lori!”

Then he stretches his legs and rolls to his side with his head lying across on one arm. Forgetful of storms, Andrew drifts in satisfaction.

His eyes open without a squint. No sun. Dead quiet No breeze across his ears. The air smells wet. He sits up rubbing his eyes and then stands to rid the stiffness from his sitting. Toward the west, where the peaks should clamor skyward, a sooty blob of cloud obscures them. Overhead, a thunderhead rises like a voluptuous city. Towers compete for grandeur; steeples vie with turrets and parapets of sweeping curves. Spires, bridges, and balconies tumble one atop of the other, higher and higher. Sunlight guilds the topmost edge. In the massive center of the cloud, the elegant detail vanishes into uniform charcoal except where streaks of white indicate violent hail.

Quickly, he flings the pack over his shoulder and plunges down through juniper bushes and pinion pine. His boots find their rhythm skimming on top of the scree like a skier. The first drops are not a prelude, but golf ball-sized hail. A flash and crack of lightening surge his flight; Andrew leaps downward feeling both fear and pleasure. He veers toward a clump of scrub oak surrounding a single cottonwood. Behind the tree, a cliff rises forty feet. At the bottom, where the rock bulges, a cave opens. He faces outward and scoots back to find the driest place. Hail changes to wind-driven rain. With shut lids and clasped ears, Andrew calms himself with deep breaths. A bolt strikes close. He starts and thumps his head against the rock ceiling. Colorado is the lightning capital of America. He recalls that people rarely survive a direct hit.

God feels uncertain to Andrew. As a child, his Mom and Dad deposited him at the Presbyterian Church for Sunday school. The building was a massive stone structure with flecks of mica glistening in the sun. Inside, endless varnished hallways and concrete stairs led to rooms of various sizes. As a boy, he was, at first, confused by the labyrinth, and then later by the words. But the Catholics frightened him even more. A classmate in fifth-grade wore a silver medal around his neck. Danny explained to Andrew that St. Christopher protected him from knee-scrapping skids when he rounded a sandy street corner on his bicycle or from a car accident when his Dad drove too fast in the snow. After recess, Danny produced a picture from his back pocket, a color picture of Jesus, his heart dripping drops of blood.

Andrew remembers how the oak doors of the cathedral sagged on their steel hinges. He leaned back gripping the handle and pulled with all his might. When the door opened a boy’s width, he ducked inside. The darkness gradually gave way to a thin light seeping through stain glass. The marble floor squished from his sneakers. He crept into the sanctuary. Row after row of shiny wooden benches descended toward a high place. There a table cloaked in white linen towered behind a short fence that had cushions on the floor all around it. Off to the right, candles flickered in rows that reminded him of apples in open boxes at the market.

The immensity hushed the traffic outside the doors. Andrew tiptoed halfway down the broad aisle. His mouth slipped open. Jesus stood against an enormous cross on the wall. Scarlet scratches trickled down his forehead; his wan body twisted on the wood. A hole in Jesus’ side dripped red just like Danny’s picture. Andrew stood transfixed.

“What can I do for you, son?”

Andrew gasped. A large bearded man—a man clad in black—walked toward him, his shoes clicking on the marble. A ring of white circled his neck. Andrew sprang for the doors, ricocheted on the first try, tried again, slamming down on the metal bar.

“Don’t be afraid.”

The voice echoed then stopped when the door slammed shut.

Andrew smiles and listens as thunder grumbles long and low; the storm sweeps southeast and in its wake sunlight creates steam on the glistening rocks. Andrew scoots out of the cave. Heading home would be the wise course of action. Still, that may be it, no more storms today. He crawls out of the cave and stands. With the fingers of both hands against his lower back, he stretches and looks toward where the summit continues to beckon—a mere twenty-minute hike away. Weariness will fade tonight in a hot soak, bath oil, candles, a book, and Lori. Andrew heads toward the top.

His heart quickens on these high places, even an unremarkable mountain like Hayden. The final strain to gain any summit rewards the effort. With each step, a mass of mountain falls away, and suddenly, all is horizon. No matter how many times he has climbed, the top always surprises him. Today is no different; his pleasure is full as he takes the last step on to the summit. Storms materialize with astonishing suddenness, but Drew hopes he has time to enjoy it here. While fresh clouds scud along the Continental Divide, nothing suggests the immediate violence. He sits on a flat rock, unties his boots, he tugs out one foot, and then the other. Off come the wool socks. A breeze cools his sweaty feet; the red spot of a corn irritates the top both big toes and each heel raises a blister. Hans would scowl.

Looking down the vista, Andrew picks out the houses that lead to the trail. No doubt, the old Chicano has driven to the dump or, perhaps, crammed in one more lawn’s clippings. After lunch, the wispy lady naps with the dog curled on a braided rug beside her bed. And what of the mountain biker? Probably showered by now and sprinkling granola on his yogurt.

The sun cuts flat. Andrew hears humming. The metal rings holding the straps of his pack vibrate with static electricity; his hair stands up. Down—get down now! He stands.

Flash! Andrew slams to the ground.

Smells mix and swirl in his nose: wet—muddy—woody, acrid. As Andrew stirs, he senses water running under his backside. He shivers. Slowly his eyes open to patches of blue. Rolling on his side, he pushes up and sits. Mud streaks his hands. Every muscle aches.

“God.”

Twisted and misshapen, the metal rings on the pack are fused to the melted nylon straps. He is incredulous, empty of emotion. He feels his arms and legs, belly and chest. No blood—would lightning cauterize?

Dusk prowls the valley lurking below toward Hayden Mountain. Soon, city lights will prick the swelling shade. Andrew gathers himself and begins to wobble toward the main trail, an easy way down. His thoughts are scattered like the white fluff from the cottonwood trees.

On the deck, Lori grips the wooden rail of the balcony with both hands. Like an air-traffic controller, she talks down her wayward pilot.

“Come on now. You’re almost home. Don’t get cocky. Pay attention to what you’re doing. Don’t be running now, just keep moving along. I got you, so come to me.”

Several times she flashes the porch light and then leaves it off so she can see.

Emerging from the trees at the trailhead, Andrew jogs painfully across the street to the sidewalk that leads home. His weariness amazes him. She recognizes him at once, even though his figure is a vague silhouette. Their embrace is long.

Late in the night, the sputter of sprinklers begins a nightly chorus. The noise recalls Andrew from the repeated memories of the day. He inclines his head toward Lori. She sleeps with one hand behind her head, her breath draws quietly. A pale green sheet outlines her hip. One bare foot wiggles free to cool in the night air.

Drew stretches his left leg against the tightening muscles. In slow circles, he rotates one ankle at a time, each crack in the same place. This exhaustion nourishes him. He smiles gazing up at the ceiling flocked like clouds.

Rattlesnake Tale

Rick Scheideman, 2007

The snow arrived early last winter. Two days after Thanksgiving the first northern snow swept the Golden valley that lies between Lookout Mountain on the west and the twin Table Mountains to the east. Ten days later a blizzard suffocated the town in twenty-two inches of snow. It took several hours of two days to make the alley passable from our red front door to the plowed street half an alley away.

Our carriage house stood midway in the alley. We called it a carriage house because it sounded quaint, maybe part of an estate rather that what it was, a studio apartment hunkered over a garage. Friends nodded approval that our move was into a carriage house. After a year, we dropped the affectation. Apart from the bathroom, our nest consisted of one large room, snug, airy, and light from five large windows. No walls or doors (save the bathroom) cluttered our home. We called out to each other, “Going to the dining room now,” and walked the five steps to the table in the same room as the bed, couch, comfy chair, and kitchen. After a period of adjustment, we agreed that the place fit us well.

Our pastime for all seasons was simple. The upholstered couch was short, almost a loveseat, but amply cushioned. Kimberly would sit with her back against one end with both legs stretched out, her bare feet on my lap. She enjoys her feet messaged or just held. We would read. Sometimes, with books pressed against our bellies, thoughts grew into conversations. At other times we gazed out the window into early evening at the large maple tree across the alleyway in the neighbor’s backyard. Fading sunlight flickered through the leaves. Hand-in-hand we lingered speechless at the remnants of the day.

Early mornings found me jogging through the older part of Golden or hiking up the several humps on top of South Table Mountain. The once majestic volcano had worn broad and flat from eons of snow and rain. An immense plateau with rolling grass covered the long extinct crater except the northwest corner where steep rock faces kept watch over the town. These cliffs raised several hundred feet, but the summit was easily hiked from the backside. In summer, I ran the low-lying streets of Golden rather than enjoying the breathless views of Denver from the mountain’s trails. Legends had accumulated regarding the resident rattlesnake population on South Table Mountain and muted my desire for cutting-edge adventure. Shirtless summer runs invited far less anxiety.

In Colorado, winter impedes jogging, especially this winter. The snow fell once a week, often twice, from December until early February. On three occasions, the accumulation demanded several hours to shovel the alley. Such recreation provoked in me an aversion to snow. Roads are treacherous. Traffic snarls with arrogant devil-may-care-go-fast-in-any condition aces when they encounter vigilant creepers. I don’t like cold either. No do I relish the monotony of blanketed white over an otherwise varied landscape.

Granted, the first flurries in the fall brought feelings of home and holidays. But this season such romance was short lived. Each day the snow fell I groused around the house, mumbling oaths at that white suffocation.

Then salvation. As I tied my running shoes one morning, a hopeful thought breezed through my chilly brain. I envisioned hiking up the mountain, a climb in the snow. Why not? Clothed in a mottled gray sweat suit, two pairs of gloves, a knit cap, and sunglasses to protect against blowing snow. My companion for this adventure was a slender fellow, a hickory walking stick given as a Christmas gift from my youngest daughter and her husband. Unused, it leaned in a garage corner because for me mountain travel meant unencumberance. Now, with a new plan, wisdom hinted that a walking stick provided more slip and slide security than my less than pristine running shoes. The trail began beyond the last house of a steep street. A steadily rising path meandered around the mountain’s shoulder. Then the trail ascended steeply alongside an ancient cog railway that in earlier days carried Denver visitors from Golden to the mountaintop. All the rails and ties had vanished but the steep right-of-way put a hiker at the summit in thirty minutes. Not in snow. Where the cog rail ended, a concrete foundation was all that remained of a concession building. After refreshing themselves, passengers walked the several concrete steps to the top of Castle Rock.

The first steps on to the snow covered trail felt good. I was surprised. The walking stick gave stability and later served as a rudder shoe skiing down the other side of the mountain. Jogging the slick streets back home at the end of the trek, an epiphany—winter’s grip loosened.

In time, another surprise blossomed. I discovered that every morning the stage changed. Both the props and the set struck yesterday’s scene with a new setting. There might be eye aching sun, or hesitant sun, or cloud-flat light revealing no difference between slope and sky. Some mornings there would flakes the size of half-dollars, slow flakes, wind-driven pellets, or heavy wet snow sloshing the path. The trail might consist of fragile ice or the frozen mud of yesterday’s footsteps.

I looked forward to what conditions lurked outside my door. The novelty intrigued me and I rarely grew bored tramping that hour or two up South Table Mountain. When the slopes were precarious, I climbed gingerly or swiftly when the trail was bare. On the down side, with stick in hand and sweatpants frozen stiff, I slid down the blotchy snowfields to the streets that led home.

On the morning of February 16th, winter’s jaw eased. Not that the snow ended, but there was a change. When I opened the door that morning, I felt warmth. Not the Chinook winds from the west that frequent the Front Range winters with deception. That morning’s enchantment caused the icicles to drip and I stepped into a puddle in the driveway. Within three weeks almost all of the snow on my route had vanished. A few patches survived on north side, but the trail emerged. It was important to start earlier in the morning, closer to six than seven. Then the mud softened by yesterday’s sun would have refrozen into solid foot-sized steps. Mud walking fails to please. The slippery goo sticks the shoes and flings mud up the legs with each step. Grass sticks to the mud and soon slipping accompanies mud flinging. With frozen shoe prints, I could climb quickly, and best of all, without a backside mud bath.

A few more storms came and went in late spring, but nothing serious. By May, wild flowers bloomed on the hillsides, and with the change once more the hickory walking stick leaned against the garage wall. I considered snakes now and then. Once in April, I thought I heard rattling in the tall grass. But I settled my self with the common wisdom that held that these cold-blooded creatures remain sleepy in their winter homes when the temperature keeps cool. In early May, the nights often dipped below freezing. My plan was simple. I would start up while the shadow cast by Castle Rock covered the trail. Cold prevented an unwanted encounter. I figured it was cold enough. I figured wrong.

One morning, two weeks into May, the dawn sky showed gray. The young grass was pale grebe and small leaves had begun to pop from their buds. I ran the four blocks to the trailhead and began to walk. In the valley to my left, the old part of Golden stirred with the 7:10 bus; a flatbed truck unloaded equipment at the School of Mines. Half of the town warmed in sunshine, the rest lay in the shadow I occupied. The slope on my right was mostly barren. Here and there, clumps of scrub oak began leaves from their stiff branches.

As boy at Outward Bound, I learned to hum a tune when I hiked, a song to find a rhythm for my steps. It might be a Belfonte calypso tune or the whaling songs from the Kingston Trio. Fogelberg, Chapin, or Paul Simon served up the tunes these days. I have another trick, a silly practice. I keep my eyes fixed a foot or two ahead of my shoes. I don’t look around and I don’t look up where I’m going. Looking brings disappointment. The top is always further than I surmise. So I don’t look. With eyes cast down and the song working, the top arrives as a surprise. That’s what was happening on this perfect day in May. Perfect.

Rattling. My head jerked up. My shoes slipped back on the gravel. Instantly, my eyes focused on a snake above me three or four feet away. The upper third of the snake weaved back and forth above the coils of the rest of its body. At the end of the coils, the rattles roared. Shock and fear collided: dry mouth, heart pounding, and breathless. I hate snakes. That’s imprecise. I feel phobic about snakes. To play the adult and deal with this fear, I have petted (make that touched with one finger) the pet boa constrictor of a neighbor. My unsettledness increased when he related that he fed his pet a live rabbit once each month.

I have tried. Once, when catching a glimpse of a garter snake among the radishes, my hope was to react serenely, to act with benevolence at this marvel of nature. I did not. I panicked and hunted for a shovel.

I bow before those women and men of nature who not only pet snakes; they hold them and enjoy their embrace. Take John, Kimberly’s co-worker who, after stepping out of his sagging Volkswagen bus, noticed a large black snake winding underneath a nearby Miata. With calm purpose, John intercepted the snake on the other side of the car. He stooped down and grabbed it by the tail. He lifted it up to its full length, the head writhing with malice. John carried the snake further than I could imagine and deposited it in a grove of willows.

I try not to be obsessed, but listen to this. One June morning, I was riding a bike full speed down the Lookout Mountain road. The ride up takes its toll on body and mind. On the other hand, coasting the downhill is pure reward. About a half-a-mile from the bottom, I noticed a man walking up the opposite side of the road. I saw something in his hand, a walking stick, I supposed. I slowed and looked again. This incredible person was holding a live rattlesnake by the tail. I dawned on me that I lived in the rattlesnake capital of the world.

My personal snake was doing its dance and experienced no fear of being picked up by the tail. Between the snake and me, the path narrowed. On each side, the scrub oak crowded the passage. It wasn’t a bamboo rain forest, still I felt confined. Logic or panic suggested this reptile might have kin in the immediate neighborhood. Maybe they hunt in packs. The wise choice would have been to back down, then at a safe distance turn and bolt, be done with today’s exercise regimen and head for home. This was the wise choice, the environmentalist’s choice, and the nature lover’s choice. Not mine.

I looked for rocks. I picked up rocks, closed fist-sized rocks. In the confrontation with danger, one chooses fight or flight. I choose fight, blind adrenalin- pumping fight. I regret that choice. One of my front teeth was violently removed because of the fight impulse. I claim too many yelling matches with provocative adversaries. It’s my choice to fight, but not a good one.

What comes next lacks dispassion. I’ll avoid the details. My delusional reasoning found foundation in the movies I’d played in my head at the thought of encountering a snake. In this fantasy, I would pick up three or for perfect stones, aim, hurl, and kill the Goliath of my fears. So, here I was, three stones in my left and one in my right. I threw them at the snake. They all missed, the rattling increased. Quickly, I escalated my offense and threw several handfuls of gravel. If any of this debris hit the snake, it was unfazed. The fingers of my right hand were bloody scraping the grit. The body feels no pain under real or imagined threat.

As I caught my breath, a window opened to inhale wisdom. The time was ripe to exit, leave the wild kingdom alone. I was not persuaded. The failure of rocks and muck did not deter my effort only my strategy. My resolve strengthened. Fear transformed to anger. I considered using a scrub oak limb as a club. Since my skill with the rocks failed, I considered: 1. I’d have to get close to the enemy, and 2. I’d miss. The snake would then strike me (lots of movie reels here about fangs and blood and a snake not letting go). Thankfully, I couldn’t find a stick.

Now begins the shameful part of this tale. Boulders. Not boulders exactly, but not far from me was a pile of very large rocks, two armed rocks. I heaved several at the innocent snake who remained upright through the first couple of misses and then keeled over and departed to wherever murdered snakes go. The final thrown boulders were redundant.

Through panting, I looked at the body of my adversary. It was much smaller than it had appeared in my panic, though a friend declared young snakes more venomous than their parents. I felt obliged to clear the corpse from the trail. Hikers would pass this way. I felt ashamed. I found a stick, poked once to make sure, and then threw the snake carcass into the bushes. It didn’t hurl far, but one stick contact was enough for me. I didn’t want to look anymore.

What to do climb down or continue on with the route? I concluded that it would be unlikely to stumble on two rattlesnakes in one hour. What was I thinking? I resumed my climb fearing a counter attack from the dead snake’s pals. Might there exist a snake communication system for just such an occasion (maybe tom-tom-like pounding with a rattling tail)?

When I gained the plateau, wild grass grew across many acres with scattered trails running through it. As I ran, my eyes riveted to the ground around me, senses on high alert for an attack. Once through fields, the trail descends back to town. As I started down, I encountered a runner cresting the trail. Sweat darkened his red headband, his bare chest heaved. We stopped and talked.

How’s it going?

Not too bad, how about you?

Well, I came across a rattlesnake on the trail.

Oh ya, where?

(See just a couple of mountain guys talking about snakes. No big deal.)

'Bout halfway up the cog railway trail.

Big?

Yeah, pretty good size (At this point, my precision is suspect).

Yah, well yesterday when I was right about here, I was looking off there to downtown Denver and I stepped on something. Felt like a log. I turned around and it wasn’t a log at all. It was a rattlesnake, maybe as big around as my forearm (he had bulging forearms). Big sucker. The sun hadn’t hit here yet, so he was pretty sluggish. He just slowly moved off the trail. Gave me start though. (I laughed, supposedly amused).

We parted encouraging each other to keep a sharp eye.

This would be my last trip up South Table Mountain until November, maybe December, maybe ever. No doubt the ravens that hunt here took the body of the rattlesnake. I thought about that snake for a long time, still do. My fear of snakes was confirmed. Yet, I hope my fight will be tempered with flight next time. Next time?

Hills Like Home

By Rick Scheideman

The drive from Cloverdale to the coast undulates between grassy hills as flaxen as my lover’s hair. Now and then, the roadway dips through moguls: quick turn there, a rise, and then a plunge into a hollow—redwoods ahead. The sun has moved past the midpoint so that an August light diffuses into amber and gold. Though the Pacific waits in the two-hour distance, the colors know.

From San Francisco north on 101, my jaw clenched with the traffic. A glance over the Golden Gate into the whirling bay and later smiled toward Mt. Sonoma. I inhaled a respite. Still, until I turned the car west at Cloverdale, the sweat inducing traffic bog through Santa Rosa had made the trip feel like any other stressed thoroughfare. But then the turn and the sign: one village sits half way.

Boonville, the name suited for Appalachia, not this soft land of family vineyards with rose trellises and ample gardens. I would rather engage the hills in conversation than gaggle at the store in mid-village. I drive past charmed, I am home.

I’m drawn into these hills, mountains of the Coastal Range, I suppose because they are unlike the Rockies. The slopes here lack scree and talus; no detritus of pick-up stick fallen pines and fir, or the exposed scar of shale. All is grass, blond, nearly white and breathless in the golden afternoon. No August wind to scour these soft cupped hills. Not only do I take lingering glimpses from the pavement, but sling off on a dirt road more than once for long moments.

It has been years since my journey to Mendocino, but I remain in its spell. A stretch of afternoon that meanders those luminescent hills continues to evoke whimsy. A place magical with particular beauty says, “Here is home, this is a piece of it.”

Summer Dancing

By Rick Scheideman

Each summer Doc organized a trip to the ocean. After all, Colorado is a desert and what lakes are here are reservoirs that shrink by mid-summer. So Doc, our Skipper and a pediatrician besides, made all the arrangements to take twenty-three boys to the Pacific. We are Sea Scouts, land locked, and yet passionate about boats and water and all things Navy. We boarded a Greyhound charter bus at the downtown Denver terminal just after the group picture was taken; a photograph of boys 13 to 16 years old holding a long banner between us: “Sea Scout Ship 2”. Our uniforms resembled the summer whites of the Navy, in fact, we knew they were identical.

At Long Beach, we board the USN Shawnee; an LSM bound for Santa Catalina Island for some naval business I never understood. The two-hour voyage was full of adventure. Halfway, two sailors shot rifles at sharks. Then San Pedro Channel grew rough and several boys vomited. I acted as if the motion meant nothing to me, an old salt. But inside, I knew that I’d be heaving soon if things didn’t settle down. They did. We spent three days in the Avalon Harbor. We pretended to be regular Navy, but now in retrospect, I’m sure we looked exactly what we were, young adolescents on a chaperoned trip.

The most memorable adventure occurred in church. After the cruise, somehow or other we were invited to a party hosted for us by the young women’s group of the First Methodist Church of Brentwood. June was soft this evening. The sunlight glowed bronze on the gray cinderblock siding of the church. We emerged from the bus uniformed. Our faces scrubbed pink and among us wafted the mingled scents of Wildroot Hair Tonic, Old Spice after-shave, Mennen’s Aqua Velva, and Colgate toothpaste. We stood clumped and posturing. Our white uniforms glowed iridescent in the sunset. Here and there the white was blazoned with an insignia and the slash of a blue neckerchief tied with a reef knot.

We felt nervous. We knew that girls waited inside. And they did. The Fellowship Hall was festooned with crepe paper twisted and hung across the ceiling. Chinese lanterns with soft light bulbs lit the room. At the far end, three tables held punch and cookies and small sandwiches and a giant bowl of potato chips. Two knotted circles secretly looked at each other across the shuffleboard-tiled floor. Doc introduced us and thanked the Pastor for the invitation. The Pastor spoke a little. I don’t remember a word. All I felt was excitement surrounding fear. The record player stacked with 45 rpm discs began to play. Immediately, two of our number, the most confident of all, strutted across the vacant space and chose a partner.

My face felt red. It was red, both from sunburn and anxiety. I desperately wanted to meet a girl and felt just as deeply unable to walk that space. In a few moments, like taking a dive into a cold swimming pool, I impulsively trod the floor and asked a young woman whose face is, now, long forgotten. I carry no memory of her dress or hairstyle. But the flower near her shoulder smells today as vivid as it did than evening. So, too, the intoxicating touch of my fingers along her waist.

But for me, it is the light, the lingering light through the windows, the colored lanterns and the heat of my body that remain clear. I dabbed at my forehead with a napkin after each dance. We danced each dance the entire evening. Just once, through the final song, her head rested on my shoulder and she lightly kissed my neck.

There is no snow in Southern California like there is in blustery Colorado winters. No cold. I cannot imagine even wind. In my mind, it is always summer. Glowing summer, summer on the shuffleboard-tiled dance floor. Smitten by sensation, I suppose. I continue to romance that moment; the enchantment of holding tight to a flower-scented girl grown into a woman by my imagination.