| Author: |
Bear E. Bryant |
| Dated: |
Thursday, February 12 2004 @ 07:00 AM EST |
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1394 times |
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Chapter 1
Les once remarked that twelve was an important age, notable as the end of the preteen years. I never much thought about it since I was just happy being a kid, whatever my age. Thinking back, I do recall looking forward to becoming a teenager, to turn thirteen and gain that status of age and importance, to progress toward the independence of adulthood. But for all the delights I imagined my future would deliver, I knew nothing of the mysteries of adolescence.
As I grew through those barriers that shield us from the responsibilities of adulthood, I seldom understood anything about what was happening to my world and those around me. But Les was right. That preteen year, the year in which we turned twelve, was special, although not for reasons he could ever have imagined.
Summers in the farmlands of Alberta where I grew up were usually hot and dry, with somehow just the right amount of rainfall to keep things green until late August. This particular summer, however, was quite different, with hardly any rain in the spring or throughout the summer. The countryside seemed devastated by drought, yet I took little notice of what seemed to be endless days of gorgeous opportunities for play. Except I do recall the farmers complaining of their withered crops.
"Another scorcher," the old timers would say as they chewed on their favourite subject, not counting politics.
"Gonna be another hot one," would be the favoured reply.
But there seemed an odd sort of acceptance coming through these statements so nothing seemed out of place. My sole interest was to spend as much time as possible in enjoyment of those great days when Les and I could wage war against our enemies, laying waste to the battlefields of our imagination. To us, it was just a blistering summer.
Home in those days was a small farm in the middle of nowhere. It took an hour to drive to the nearest town of merit, and an hour longer to reach the ‘big’ city, a trip my parents would take maybe once every month or so to buy the luxuries of a middle class we could barely afford. So remote was our farm that when very young, I feared Santa would never find me since we lived so far from the big city and its department stores where he stored all his toys. But somehow he always came through, although I knew I was pretty much at the tail end of his run since he had pretty much run out of toys by the time that he found my tree.
The country surrounding our farm consisted primarily of small mixed farms with patchwork fields amongst thick stands of poplar. Grain farming was limited since the gentle rolling hills were covered with a thin grey soil, just off the edge of the fertile black prairie farms that prospered to the east. And the land seemed to tease those who struggled with it, since one couldn’t entrust it to reward you with any measure of prosperity if you did not diversify.
My father ran such a mixed farm, the sort of operation where he could never become rich, nor could he really grow any poorer. If one commodity allowed a profit, another would surely generate a loss to offset it.
This was a setting where life itself seemed trapped in a loop, where everyone’s daily struggles seemed to have no effect other that to allow them to hold their place in an otherwise changing world.
My blood never seemed to carry any of the genes which might predispose my interests toward farming. And fortunately, my father never placed upon me the demands or responsibilities I understood was the norm for other kids of farm families. I never quite understood why, but Dad and I never did share much of anything together – including work, though that is not to say I didn't still have chores. My job was to feed and water the chickens destined for our freezer in the fall. It was a chore I detested; chickens are so stupid. Everyday it was the same. No matter how much time I spent with them, even right from the day they arrived as fluffy yellow peepers fresh from the hatchery, they never would become my pets. All attempts to tame them went unfulfilled for they would merely scatter in all directions whenever I approached. Yet, when I would appear with their meal they suddenly would mob me with grand indifference as I filled their empty feeders. It was always the same.
That summer I hated my chores even more than usual. Fatigued by long dragged-out nights where sleep was held at bay by hot, lifeless air trapped in every room of the house, mornings would be slightly more inviting if only because, at some point, there would be a miraculous change. And each morning my father would bemoan yet again the lack of precipitation. I didn’t care because I knew that if and when the rains did come I would be confined indoors, unable to drown frogs with my best friend, Les.
To say Les was my best friend is to say Earth is the Moon's preferred planet. Growing up in a rural environment with its thinly dispersed population doesn't afford the luxury of many friends. And to be allowed a luxury to choose a friend is even less common, since to be so fortunate to have anyone remotely close to your age live within walking distance is itself luck. I felt advantaged to have Les for a buddy since our tiny school bus only collected two other kids in our corner of the world, one unfortunately a small boy in grade one and the other a girl. So few kids lived in our part of the universe that Les and I even constituted half the male population of our grade. And while there was a comradeship of sorts between us, our friendship was one of measured qualities and trust. Together we would have great fun in spite of Les' brash selfishness that would occasionally force me to chose a compromise I might not otherwise allow. But my mother had told me to be tolerant of Les and his ways since, as she put it, he was not as lucky to have a family and a life I enjoyed.
Les had only his father. He always said his mother was dead, and I once asked my mother what had happened. She would only say his mother was gone and never gave any details. It wasn't until much later that I would discover the whole story.
"Hey, Jack! Come on!"
From the kitchen table where I had been laying waste to a delicious lunch of peanut butter and raspberry jam sandwich, I needn't have looked out the window to recognize Les standing in the driveway.
"Let's go drown some frogs," he yelled as I stuffed the last of my sandwich into my mouth.
"Can't," I advised as I casually swung open the screen door. I waved at a fly that had obviously awaited this very opportunity to buzz past my head and explore the darker recesses of the house. "Mum's gone to town to get some groceries and Dad's out in the field."
"So?", Les stated, unable to grasp my meaning.
"I have to be here when they're gone," I replied, imparting an air of importance to my responsibility.
"Ah," Les moaned, "what a pussy. What, you have to stay in the house when they're gone?"
"Yah," I mumbled, embarrassed by the restraint my obligation placed upon my freedom as I strolled halfway toward him.
"So, when they gonna be back?", he grunted.
I kicked at a lone dandelion flower, grinding the yellow petals into the dust.
"I dunno," I muttered, angry that Les had such freedom to do as he wished, an independence I envied. "Later, I guess."
"How much later?", he pursued.
I looked at him with annoyance at his insistence to extract a response. In a heavy voice I replied, "Mum should be back in a couple of hours, I suppose."
"Great!", Les blurted with a devilish grin. "Come on, let's go! We'll be back long before they even know you're gone. Come on!"
He turned and ran for the main road. I knew he expected me to respond to his command, as I invariably seemed compelled to do, and certainly the idea of getting away to play held far more appeal that sitting around the house. Yet, what he was asking me to do was a violation of the trust my mother held that I would obey her instructions.
As I stood over the crushed dandelion I watched my friend slow down and now stroll down the driveway without me. He looked back over his shoulder and didn't seem at all surprised I hadn't joined him. Then, with an exaggerated wave of his arm he beckoned me on, not once losing his step, confident I would again cave to his demands.
I have no recollection of what prompted my response. I had always been dutiful, although perhaps reluctantly so, but always reliable in the end. What are now cliches were once rules without option: be seen and not heard; respect your elders; do as you're told; don’t ask why, just do it; and always ask first. I even adopted a personal policy of ‘if in doubt, don’t’ as my way to avoid trouble. Yet while these rules were the doctrine not to be challenged, there I suddenly was; I was running down the driveway like a coyote with his tail on fire, thundering past Les in our now obligatory competition to see who would reach the finish line first.
This race I won, which in itself was no small victory. Les usually was the victor, be it fair or foul. Tripping was not allowed, though accidents happen, as Les would invariably claim should I be the victim. Now, while I attempted to claim the glory of my success, the official and unanimous ruling from the judges, according to Les, was that the race held a false start. He had not been properly warned and therefore the result could only be negated. The absence of false starts proceeding his victories did not go unnoticed.
Puffing from the short race, together we turned onto the main road and headed off to where we knew we would find a rather stagnant spring-fed pond. There we would find our frogs, and I watched Les shuffle his feet in the thick powdery dust which lay over the graveled road. Not from the time he'd first worn his shoes had they seen polish, nor did they ever rest since these shoes were the one and only pair he owned. The casualties of such abuse were displayed well and not out of place with his faded and worn blue jeans and the ever-popular blue plaid shirt. Blond hair that always seemed in need of a trim hung down over his eyes, and yet I saw not the look of poverty that he knew better than I; instead I saw more of a carefree existence. I, with my mandatory brush cut, clothes which reflected my mother's unique tastes, and shoes which demanded care, envied his privileged life.
Les was 'cool'.
"Dad says the Krauts would have won the war if it wasn't for Hitler."
"No way," I blurted, stunned that anyone would suggest the outcome could have been anything other than what history recorded. I had seen the newsreels. Walter Cronkite detailed each Sunday afternoon the many heroic battles the allies fought, and it was definite that there could have only been the one result.
Les ignored my reply.
"He says they had better weapons and better generals," Les continued, indifferent to my dismissal of his wisdom.
"No chance," I argued, certain I could prove my case. "They lost the war, didn't they?"
"Only because of Hitler, you moron," Les replied.
"You're not listening. Dad says if they invaded England when they had the chance we'd all be doin' the goose step now. Like this…"
He demonstrated as he stiffened his legs and marched onward in zombie fashion.
"Maybe," I allowed, not terribly interested in debating facts. All I knew was we won, and they lost. It didn't seem possible it could be any other way.
A grasshopper flew past me to then bounce off a large rock which stood conspicuous at the edge of the road. From everywhere came the rasping of grasshoppers and I imagined they were rattle snakes which inhabited the regions beyond our path, where the tall grasses in the ditches waved at us, beckoning us to stray for just a moment to be bitten and injected with a lethal dose of venom.
I examined closely the edges of the road for signs of snakes. Perhaps there would be a snake-like trail through the dust.
Garter snakes I had seen, and they were scary enough, especially since my father once threw one at me before laughing at my panicked reaction. But never had I seen a rattler, dead or alive. I once asked my dad if rattlesnakes lived around here, but he said only the two-legged kind as his face broke into a thoughtful smile, reflecting on his joke.
Les ran ahead and kicked a stone into the ditch that then prompted an odd and sudden stillness that lasted only a few seconds before the grasshoppers renewed their chorus.
"You wanna play Germans or Japs today?", I called to him.
He winced thoughtfully at the hot sun. I too studied the sky, wondering if enemy planes were approaching.
"Maybe Japs," came his considered reply. "We can bomb their ships from the bridge."
The anticipation of the plot was suddenly too much to contain, and together we bolted toward our destination. Les had initiated the wordless challenge to which I instinctively responded. While he had a short lead, the loss of my earlier win now spurred me on to the finish line with every ounce of energy I could call upon. As we tore over the final hundred yards toward the bridge, Les stole a brief backward glance to see my seriousness in winning this race. He too demanded a win and focused on his goal as my feet pounded the earth, and slowly I narrowed the gap. My legs threatened to crumple beneath me as I continued my determination to win, and as my foot pounded onto the wooden bridge deck, Les stated in a rare display of compromise that the win would in fact be a tie. Victory, if it existed at all, would need to be shared.
I immediately described to him his need for strong eyeglasses, as well as drawing wide-ranging conclusions about his character, but a tie was to be the final and unanimous decision of the judges, and there would be no more discussion, no more arguments. But our muscles ached from running, so we now turned our attention to draping our torsos over the wooden railing, repeatedly filling our tired lungs as we inspected the scum-coated pond beneath us.
A water bug scurried over the placid surface and I wondered how they could walk on water. What was it that allowed them to do so, and wouldn't it be neat if I could do the same.
"Okay, I'm ready," Les warned as he gathered up hands full of gravel from the road, ammunition to be used to bomb the unsuspecting enemy below. I'll get some bombs for us and you go down and throw some leaves on the water. We'll pretend the leaves are Jap ships."
I never liked it when he gave all the orders, but the plan sounded good, so I didn't object. It would have been pointless anyway, so half sliding, half falling I made my way down the steep grassy bank toward the edge of the shrinking pond where I stripped leaves from poplar trees. Armed with a navy of sufficient strength I cautiously stepped close to the smelly water's edge in readiness for the formal launch of the great Japanese Imperial Fleet.
"Geronimo!", came the only warning.
I looked up just in time to see Les grinning madly as a huge flat rock descended at the speed of light toward the water just inches in front of me. There was no time to run and instinctively I whirled to show my back to the mega-ton force of the atomic bomb detonation behind me. Wincing at the fallout, I could only imagine the immensity of the mushroom cloud rising high in the sky, to Les’ outstanding enjoyment as I was doused in water, mud, pond slime and nuclear radiation.
It was a momentous accomplishment for Les who reveled at his success, shouting madly at how wonderful it all looked from his vantage point. I could only stand silent for the moment it took for me to survey the damage. Soaked in water and muck, I cursed Les with every swear word I had ever memorized. While the water would dry and the mud would wash, the immensity of my anger was at his betrayal of the trust I placed in him. I cursed him loudly as fists full of grass were torn from the embankment while I fought my way to him to fulfil my promise to beat the living snot out of him. I had been his ally in war, and to be delivered such an unprovoked attack demanded revenge.
"Les, you ass!", I shouted as I gained the top of the ditch and readied myself for battle.
"Ooh," Les teased as he retreated slowly, leaning forward tauntingly. "You said 'ass'. Wait 'till I tell your mummy."
My anger boiled into a blind rage as he continued to polish his mockery. Without any regard for my own physical wellbeing I hurled myself at him, punching him on the shoulders as fiercely as my strength would allow. That was how we always fought, should our play ever come to blows. In every battle of merit, which seemed often enough, we never punched each other anywhere but on the shoulders. The rules of engagement demanded that a punch that should land anywhere but on the shoulder was cause for an immediate cessation of battle, with a sincere, heartfelt apology from the offending combatant. And should the consequence be so severe as to bloody a nose or scrap an elbow through an accidental trip, then restitution was mandatory. Usually a Coke or a pack of candy cigarettes would suffice.
Les was certainly no pansy and wasn't about to allow me to punch him around, especially when I was serious about getting even. The first punch he allowed with a mild defense, but as I continued to hurl my fists at him, he began to fight back and the battle was on, each of us maneuvering to get that one good tooth-jarring connection that would signal the end of the contest.
I was determined to be the one to deliver such a punch.
As we danced about on the narrow bridge, swinging at each other and looking for the other to be faked out be a feigned attack, the sudden appearance of an oncoming car was serious cause to pay heed.
"Car coming," I announced somewhat redundantly since the sound of loose gravel spraying against steel in the otherwise tranquil nature was not to be missed. Les turned his head to view the approaching vehicle, and I took advantage of his careless trust. With all the strength I could muster I leaned toward him and drove my fist soundly into his exposed upper arm.
The impact hurt my knuckles and I could only imagine it was equally painful for Les. His head jolted, as he looked back at me in shock, stunned I would pull such a dirty trick when he wasn't looking. I sensed his shock and reverted to the rationale surely used by man since the dawn of time.
"You did it to me!", I argued in a concluding voice.
There was no time for us to further resolve our disagreement as the car continued toward us and would soon crest the small hill and we would be seen. Together we dashed from the bridge and down the road, leaping across a ditch to hide in the tall grass and brush beyond. Here we would watch intently as the Japanese convoy rumbled past. Then, as dust sailed through the air like a dry fog, Les charged out onto the road to shout insults at the car which had disappeared around a bend in the road.
I headed back to reclaim the bridge, cautious of Les and the battle which I hoped had ended. In a minute he rejoined me, silently rubbing his shoulder where I had hit him. I offered the obligatory apology and was surprised when he said he too was sorry for splashing me. Then, with a smile he continued.
"But you should have seen it. You were just standing there, right next to the water and I had this big rock. There was no way I could miss. And then when it hit the water and you were just covered, boy, that was the funniest thing I've ever seen!"
He laughed as if I too should have been amused. I wasn’t.
"You, well, let's get those Japs," I offered, dismayed that our plans for the afternoon had yet to allow me any satisfaction. We scooped up our bombs and scanned the waters for signs of the enemy. Below us floated most of the leaves I had unceremoniously launched, now basking lazily in the sun, unaware they were caught defenseless and of the cruel fate that awaited them.
I spotted a battleship and lobbed a shell.
A miss.
Les recognized my target and joined the battle, firing shells in rapid succession.
Another miss, followed by another miss, then a direct hit and loud cheers.
The competition raged furiously as we tallied the number of hits, and in only a few minutes our stockpile of munitions was exhausted. We rushed to collect more bombs when I spotted a large rock at the edge of the road, a rock almost too large for me to handle alone.
I yelled for help.
"Hey, Les. Come give me a hand. Look at the size of this sucker!"
Les dropped his supply of small bombs to rush to my aid once he saw the object of my enthusiasm. With some extreme combined effort we dislodged the rock and carried it to the bridge where we finally delivered it to the top of the railing, balancing it carefully so as to time the drop for maximum pleasure. It had been my idea to complete an official countdown before the launch, just like they did in the movies. At the count of zero, we released our bomb and peered anxiously over the edge to witness the ultimate weapon of destruction fall some ten or twelve feet into possibly less than two feet of water.
Shock waves from the immense detonation shook the bridge as the explosion and resulting tidal wave swept the enemy from the seas. Victory was once again ours, and charged by the thrill of immense and growing power we sought out even grander means by which to generate even greater destruction. The excitement was engrossing as we selected, then abandoned rocks that proved less worthy than the next. It wasn’t long before we discovered the tip of a small boulder, most of which was buried beneath sod and small rosebushes. Try as we might, we could not get a grip on it, yet our objective was clear.
The challenge before us was to somehow free the rock from its secure bunker. We barely took notice of the fact we would then need to somehow move it down a three foot ditch, then up a four foot slope to the road, down some fifty feet of gravel road, and finally over or around the bridge railing to drop it into the pond. Why it never occurred to us to evaluate the impossibility of achieving our goal, I can't say. I suppose youthful energy remains somehow immune to the limitations of reality. Our visions were identical and there was no one to say our task was hopeless. Our goal remained cast in stone and logic would not have the day.
We figured what was surely the largest rock in the country had to have been locked in its resting place since at least the last ice-age, but in truth it was probably only positioned there when they built the road a few decades earlier. Examining it carefully to find some way to dislodge it, we weren't sure exactly how to date it but by gauging the depth by which we estimated it to be embedded in the sod we figured it had been there since the dinosaurs.
Dead trees quickly furnished us with poles by which we hoped to extricate our bomb, but the tight sod would not yield to our attempts. It became obvious we needed to call in the engineers with heavy equipment in order to complete our mission, so Les volunteered to get a shovel while I continued to poke and prod in a useless attempt to find a weakness in the fortifications.
It seemed ages before Les returned, running a tired pace, puffing furiously with shovel in hand, and yet anxious to complete the task.
"Here, gimme the shovel," I commanded as he flopped into the grass, exhausted from the long run to his place and back. He didn’t seem to object as he took a few minutes to recover from his run.
The long undisturbed sod did not yield easily, and as I bashed away at stubborn roots and hard soil we began to understand that this was to be a much larger undertaking than we had anticipated. Yet our enthusiasm was restored as I finally was able to force a pole under our boulder and with our combined force the rock did move if only perceptively. More anxious digging and even more leveraging, and the rock finally tumbled free, rolling uncontrollably down the bank and into the ditch.
Like bandits on the attack we chased after the rock to begin the long struggle of pushing its might up the ditch, blocking each marginal gain with broken trees and rocks of a more manageable size. Our hands were scraped and raw by the time we gained the road, yet we were convinced the worst was over. Our enthusiasm remained strong.
"Phew!", Les breathed heavily as he sat on the rock, forcing a restful minute before the next assault.
"Boy, will this baby ever make a splash."
"Yah," I eagerly agreed, recalling the trick played upon me earlier and imagining an even larger splash.
"Wouldn't it be great if we could get someone standing beside the water when we let her go?"
Les’s eyes widened as he obviously recalled the pleasure he had at my expense. It was obvious he felt our next victim would yield even greater delight.
"Yahhhh," he breathed as I saw his mind play out some futuristic scenario. Then he returned to the moment.
"Oh, it was so neat when I got you. Imagine what this one would be like. Bigger than Hiroshima. It would be like a hundred Hiroshima’s! But who could we get to stand down there?"
"I don't know," I pondered. "The only other kid around here is Elly."
Les’s eyes grew wild with excitement.
"Hey, that's perfect! Alright! We've gotta do this," he insisted as his imagination came to life and seemed to exceed his ability to contain it. And while he obviously felt this was a wonderful plan, I wasn't quite so certain. Something seemed a bit too sinister about where we were heading.
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