Читать книгу Echoes of Newtown - Blake Fite - Страница 11

Chapter One

The Birth of An Adventure

Ladd, Virginia

The sweet air of hot cornbread fills the air this morning and just about every morning for this old man. My children sure do take good care of me.

They must think I’m a pretty typical old fella. But, we all have our stories, don’t we?

The aroma calls me to the back door where I find a freshly cut portion wrapped in an old cloth napkin—my favorite napkin, as a matter of fact, because when you look real’ close, a scene of cherries faded by the years comes right into view. Life is full of little treats when you look hard enough.

With warm bread in hand, I head out on my morning walk in the garden. I reckon I give that vegetable garden a good 2,000 steps each morning—just me and the Lord. Someday, I’ll walk in His garden, but for now, this routine keeps me going strong here on earth.

Out here among the fattened veggies and budding sprouts, the memories flow like a river. But do you know the difference between a river and a pond? Rivers empty out into another body of water, like a lake or stream. Well, I’ve never been one to go against nature, so I think it’s about time for my hidden tales to flow into the sea of the next generation. And, young grasshopper, that’s you.

I sure do wish you could taste this cornbread—made even better with a few of these fresh tomatoes I just picked. For a long time, my mornings started with fear and ended with sorrow, and I thought those days might never change. But, then the railroad came along. I still remember that fancy new sign. It read, “SHENANDOAH VALLEY RAILROAD.”

Something about that train chugging into town with loads of hope and pulling out of town full of possibility gave me the crazy-headed idea there might be something more out there—a way to see where I came from.

Finding Family

“I’m dying you know, Rascal?” Billy said to his friend as the hot summer breeze mingled with the tunes of the locusts.

“You ain’t dying, Billy,” Rascal retorted.

“I am. And, you are, too. It’s a matter of fact. This is the first day of the rest of our lives,” Billy answered. “So why should I spend it here in some old house putting up with all of this mess.”

“Well, maybe we are dying, scientifically speaking,” Rascal conceded, “but you don’t have to go on and say it. Don’t the preacher say your words have power?”

Billy’s deep-blue eyes avoided eye contact as his thoughts rattled on. He did this to keep himself from shifting from determination into despair—that was one of many tricks Billy had learned over his twelve long years on earth. The truth was that his home didn’t feel much like he thought a home should, and if he thought too hard about it, a tear might escape.

“Awwe, forget it,” Billy concluded. “We got birthdays coming up, and celebration is in order. What do you say we see what the fish are doing at Mr. Picket’s pond?”

Mr. Pickets pond wasn’t just a fishing hole. In fact, pickings were slim as far as fish were concerned, but when the fish were scarce, the large green plot was perfect for a game of catch or a good long session of stargazing. The boys always found just what they needed in the sky with its mix of constancy and whimsy.

“You know, Rascal? I ain’t got no family but you,” Billy said, eyes locked on the evening sky.

“Sure you do. You got your Uncle John,” Rascal said.

“That old drunk,” Billy scoffed. “He ain’t family. He just owns the house.” Billy thought back for a moment to when his Uncle John and Aunt Sunny shared a happy home—before John’s drinking took over and Aunt Sunny moved north. He kicked the dirt as he continued, “He can’t even keep his own family together.”

“C’mon, Billy,” Rascal said. “He loves you as much as your Pa did. He just doesn’t know how to show it.”

“Oh, is that what the director says before she sends your buddies out to their test families?” Billy asked, referring to the director at the orphanage where Rascal lived.

“It’s a dormitory!” Rascal corrected. “And, maybe it is what she says, … but it’s true as far as I can tell.” He continued, “She says, ‘We’re all born with hearts that know how to love, but sometimes life—’”

“Well,” Billy interrupted, “if beating on Aunt Sunny and me is love, I guess she’s right.”

“… breaks us clean in two,” Rascal finished.

The two kept silent for a moment—each thinking about what the other one had just said as they fashioned the clouds into war scenes. Billy thought often about the war that took his Pa and wondered what it had done to break his uncle.

“The point is your family,” Billy said with finality.

“Thanks, Billy,” Rascal said. “You, too.”

“Say, Rascal. There’s not too much daylight left. You best be getting back before supper. Don’t they give you extra chores if you’re late?” Billy asked.

“Chores aren’t so bad,” Rascal answered in his typical rebuttal.

“Not so bad?!” Billy said. “Last week, you said you were up past three in the morning scrubbing the floors. Go on, get out of here. You linger any longer and your knees will be as brown as your eyes by morning.”

It was always a trick getting Rascal to return to the orphanage. He wasn’t happy there. But this particular night, a wild game of baseball in the yard made his return a little more manageable.

The Dormitory

“You’re late, kid!” shouted a boy from the makeshift outfield.

“I was just—,” Rascal began.

“Just get in position the sun is about to set. Over there. Your catcher,” another boy directed, as he pointed Rascal to the white rock they called home plate.

With an impeding hunger, Rascal could hardly keep his mind on the game let alone his eye. Whoosh! A ball bounced right off his chest and rolled down the yard toward a construction site nearby.

“Get your head in the game, kid,” a boy yelled. “And get that ball!”

“He ain’t getting it. You know Rascal. He’s chicken,” another boy jeered.

“I ain’t chicken.” Rascal said, while he worked up the necessary courage.

With a quick mask of bravado, he descended the hill. In an instant, Rascal was overcome with deep loneliness. (There wasn’t much he dreaded more than being alone.) His pace quickened. The sooner this is over, the better.

As he got closer, he could see the building was some sort of museum. On the wall, he identified the form of two young soldiers constructed from a jumble of tile pieces. Beside them was a high-ranking Confederate officer. He inched closer and closer until he could read the name at the bottom of the mosaic: R. Hudson. Hmm … never heard of him.

Just to the right of the mosaic was a spear as long as he’d ever seen. Rascal removed his bifocals (a pair he’d found and adopted) and used them to catch the last beam of sunlight to illuminate the plaque below, which read:

Flint spear, 48” long, crafted by Choctaw tribe. Used for survival. In memory of Papa Joe and Mama Doris.

May God continue to shine His light on your descendants.

Just then, the spear took on a glow and shrunk to only a 10” long knife. Thinking it was the sunbeam caught in his glasses, Rascal grasped his bifocals in his fist. But the glow only grew. Without thinking, Rascal tucked the short knife in his suspenders and ran back to the orphanage. About halfway up the hill, his chest swelled with a feeling he didn’t recognize. It was a courage not his own. Wow, what is this thing? he asked himself as he ran.

Billy’s House

When the clouds at the old Picket pond faded into the darkness, Billy sat up and planned his next move. I wonder if Uncle John has rummaged up his dinner. I could sneak in, find a few scraps and get to bed without making a fuss. If he’s anywhere near as drunk as he was at the lumber yard a few days back, I want nothin’ to do with him tonight.

A few days earlier, Uncle John had thrown a few punches in the direction of the local lumber dealer who had overcharged John in error.

“It was an honest mistake, John. You know me,” the salesman said. Then, FWAP! Uncle John’s fist flew right past the man’s ear, striking a pile of cow skins behind the counter.

I don’t need that old man, Billy thought, as he gathered himself and headed to the Vogt homestead. From one hundred yards off, he saw his uncle on the front porch with his walking stick, drinking whiskey next to his rusty old knife at arm’s reach. Who knows what he’ll say, Billy thought.

A few yards closer, Billy remembered the way his uncle used to be before the war—warm, smart, mannerly—and the way the women of the town would gaze at Aunt Sunny in envy as her husband walked her home hand in hand. I guess that man is dead somewhere inside the Uncle John I’m stuck with, Billy thought as he stepped onto the property.

Uncle John looked up from his stupor. So much for sneaking in, Billy thought.

“You don’t get it, do ya, kid?” Uncle John mumbled.

Surprised at the comment, Billy stopped on the porch. “Sir?”

“You’re chosen, kid,” Uncle John said.

“What?!” Billy said. “Chosen? Who chose me?” he continued. “Uncle John!” Billy said with urgency, trying to keep his uncle awake just a moment longer to explain. “You’ve never told me about Mother. What do you mean chosen?” Billy said with no response from Uncle John. “Awe, it’s no use,” Billy mumbled.

He watched his uncle’s eyes close, marking the end of their exchange. As Uncle John faded from consciousness, his fist gently opened, revealing a shred of folded paper clearly aged by the years. Billy froze, took a second to strategize, then in one swift movement grabbed the note and ran straight up to his room without dinner. Maybe it’s from Ma, Billy thought. It wasn’t.

The note, written in the hand of his grandfather, read as follows:

The most rewarding part of man is feet without a doubt.

They carry the load of him along as he journeys and goes about.

One-foot steps out by faith to lead him to and fro.

The other keeps a vigil behind to guard him where he wants to go.

All his nerves go to his feet as a signal for health or pain.

They can feel the smallest grain of sand, temperature of the rain.

They’re the humblest part of him. They obey his command.

Christ chose them for example to be washed instead of hands.

So, when I get to Christ himself; it’s going to be so neat.

I don’t want to be at His head. I want to be at his feet.

God stuff?! Billy rolled his eyes at the letter, ignoring his disappointment. That was another one of his tricks. If you look disappointment in the face, you usually stumble into sadness, and Billy had no use for sadness. Grandpa was into God stuff, too, I guess. He re-folded the paper and blew out the light by his bed.

In bed, Billy caught himself murmuring, “One-foot steps out by faith … Awwe, shoot. That dang poem is stuck in my head!”

Billy set his eyes on the stars shining through his bedroom window and imagined his mother downstairs straightening the house while his father sharpened the knives. Why does it have to be this way?

All at once, a new thought entered his mind as if to answer his question. It doesn’t!

Billy shot up in bed stirred by visions of the new railroad and whispered to himself, “That’s it! I’m getting out of here. If Uncle John knows so much about me—wye, it’s time I learn a little about my own self.” Returning to his pillow, he said, “Tomorrow, is the first day of the rest of my life.”

Resolved to plan his escape, Billy fell asleep.

Ask Yourself

1 1.How do you define family? What did Jesus say about family?

2 2.Can you relate to Rascal’s fear of being alone? Please explain.

3 3.Why did Billy care about being chosen?

4 4.Why does Billy want to know more about his mother? Himself?

Outdoor Survival Tips: Share the Plan

Be sure to give your trip itinerary to someone who is not going with you on your adventure. Include estimated timelines and resources (like friends you’ll visit along the way and stopping points). In case you experience an unexpected hardship on your journey, sharing the plan could mean the difference between life and death!

Follow Billy’s Journey