The Story of Peach

 History: unlearned

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The wind was hot and fast and immediate. It kicked up right after the flash. In that instant, Peach knew what was up. At 74 he’d read a lot, seen a lot.

     Eighty years ago, the Enola Gay dropped its payload and commenced ticking of something sinisterly ~ or maybe sincerely ~ called the doomsday clock, something that measured the metaphorical seconds between now and some presumed midnight oblivion. Twenty years later, two constructs became real, even common. One was a series of missile bases dubbed ‘Nike’ dotting every fifty or so miles across the American landscape. The other was the backyard-built fallout shelter, plans of which were readily available at the library or newsstand. Both John Hershey, who authored a book, and Slim Pickens, who starred in the final scene of an early Kubrick comedy, perhaps inadvertently reinforced the advisability of digging such a vault.

 

    When the Nike base was nearly completed just north of town, Peach’s father broke ground on a fallout shelter positioned near the water well in his five acres of peaches. (Peach, the son, never forgave fully Papa, the papa, his little nomenclature joke.) The hole was deep and square and, initially smelled like Vina loam, rich and dark. Cinder block and mortar changed the odor to a minerally musk that would infuse the cavity for years. Entry to the shelter was gained through a circular, hinged lid like you might see on the deck of a submarine: crank wheel one way on the outside to open and the other way on the inside to seal shut the underground space. A neoprene rubber ring prevented the inward seepage of radon in the event of... 

     The unspeakable was often spoken.

 

Finished, the rust tinted metal stairs echoed with each foot fall. The space was stocked with a month or more’s worth of freeze-dried backpacking food ~ Papa being a hiker ~ and gallon glass jugs of water should the line jury-rigged into the well fail. The provisions bill from the Ski Hut in Berkeley, where Papa got his back country supplies, almost equaled a month’s wages. Mom had been appalled and said so many times, shaking her head and gasping exasperated gasps, as they drove north in the Ford Fairlane with their boys in the back.

     Peach and his late brother, Charlie set up their S-gauge American Flyer electric train on the concrete floor, using one of the two duplex outlets to connect the transformer. The single pull chain light cast comic shadows that grew from foot to shoulder. Peach and Charlie’s neighborhood pals, the ones who didn’t make fun of Peach’s name in front of him, liked to trace their oblique shadows on the concrete floor with chalk and then laugh at their masterwork. Once, Peach started down the stairs to surprise Charlie as he attempted to move beyond first base with Yvette ~ secretly known by classmates in high school as Yvette the Corvette ~ and was told to knock, Goddammit, before coming into the shelter. Never mind that there was no place to knock on that heavy circular hatch door. Later, when Charlie shipped out to Vietnam ~ Charlie said he’d be the good Charlie over there shortly before he left ~ Peach plugged in an IBM Selectric, set it on a rickety desk made of two sawhorses and scrap of plywood and typed his college term papers. 

     There would be no Yvette for any kid named Peach. 

     Dammit, Papa!

 

Peach was standing next to the orchard pump house maybe forty feet from the submarine hatch when that wind blasted into being. He glanced at the opening which was now always open: too much a pain in the ass ~ and maybe too heavy ~ to push down and crank shut after each visit even though each visit had become less and less frequent. Besides, the neoprene had rotted off long ago so the place and all of its contents was always coated in a powdery film of loess. Peach faced the furious gale that was coming from just north of town.

     Not so long ago, there would have been children to shepherd in. Little ones. Ones that toyed with Barbies and GI Joes; ones that played both house and Rat Patrol; ones that practiced violin and brass tuba because they liked the acoustics even though they didn’t know the word.  Ones that needed the strong arms of Peach and the caring heart of Carah to find their way from time to time. How quickly those moments passed. And now: how well they were doing!

    Peach and Carah had taken ownership ~ there was no one else in line ~ after the accident. Some moron driving on a frigid pea-soup morning without his damned headlights on crossed a center line. He couldn’t make out Peach’s folk’s station wagon tiptoeing carefully through the tule fog heading somewhere, nowhere. Peach was amazed at how many townsfolks knew Papa or Mom or both. 

     Kids and trains and tubas and term papers now gone, the cool of the underground made a good place for storing peaches before market. Peach’s peaches ~ perhaps that was the punchline Papa was shootin’ for all along ~ were renowned for their sweetness, delicate skin, and ample dimension. A robust pie would need but four of them. Wearing one of Mom’s old handmade aprons, Carah discovered she could reduce any recipe’s sugar allotment and did so before filling crusts ~ crusts she’d perfected. It wasn’t simply the fruit that gave rise to renown.

Inheriting the place was never in the plan. Once Peach earned his credential, he and Carah immediately lit out for a different horizon, one less agricultural, maybe a bit more foresty. Jobs for history teachers were a dime a dozen especially if the candidate could coach, so Peach claimed he could coach wrestling and maybe volleyball. Thus, he spent three or four years prowling the sideline of the mountain town’s football field as an assistant never quite figuring out the difference in the roles of a defensive guard and a defensive tackle. Then, one late-October evening, they received the call. Taking leave, Peach never returned. With a bit of a resume, some experience under his belt, he figured he could venture home and substitute until something came up locally. 

     The dime a dozen adage held. Teaching history at his old high school, now ‘Mr. Peach’ hired boys and girls to tend the orchard paying each a little in cash along with firewood and in-season fruit. When asked about the submarine hatch, he simply responded “Rumpus room.” High School curriculum mentioned little about Hiroshima and most years, Peach didn’t get that far in US history, which, he rationalized, was a good thing recalling the terrifying nights when, as an eleven-year-old, he had to crawl into bed with Papa and Mom after reading pages from John Hershey’s account of the world’s first wartime atomic blast. 

     Standing in the orchard with dust pellets and grit peppering his eyes, Peach wondered how many other US history teachers had made a similar miscalculation, leaving how many now in charge to pass off history unlearned as simply fiction.

     Facing the wind and under a dust-cloaked sun, Peach struck out north toward the long abandoned Nike missile base and wondered who among the townsfolk would attend his memorial, knowing the answer would likely be none.

     It being midnight and all.

© 2025

Church of the Open Road Press

 

WITHER THE PENNY?

 …my two cents worth…

 

Stop the presses! The practice of minting the penny is going to be halted. Discontinued. Stopped. One of the two current Presidents of the United States has demanded it!

     Why? Because, while the little copper colored disk has a face value of one cent, the cost to manufacture one costs 3.7 cents.  It’s a money loser! It’s among the reasons the treasury of this Grand Republic is going bankrupt. It’s nothing personal; it’s strictly business. “I know, Godfather,” ~ think Abe Vigoda here ~ “Strictly business.”

 

But consider this (understanding that the pricing references in this commentary may be a bit out of date ~ like by about fifty years): On his way home from second grade, Billy drops by Harvey’s Market and, pulling a penny from his pocket, buys a hunk of Fleer Bubble Gum. Or maybe Bazooka ‘cuz their comics are better. Billy has gotten his one cent worth out of the penny and the coin goes into Harvey’s till until Mrs. Jones offers seventy-five cents in the form of three quarters for two bundles of carrots priced at twenty-nine cents a bundle. Billy’s penny leaves Harvey’s till as Harvey makes seventeen cents change. In dispensing the penny back into circulation, the one cent coin has seen two cents worth of action. Before Mrs. Jones goes home, she must go downtown to purchase some new boxers for Mr. Jones at JC ~ wait for it ~ Penney’s. But because of those damned parking meters, she must drop two pennies in the meter in return for twenty-four minutes parking. One of those pennies had belonged to Billy about an hour-and-a-half earlier. Around 6:00 PM, Rita ~ you guessed it ~ the meter maid, empties the parking meter which includes the traveling copper of this opinion piece. It has now returned three times its face value. Rolled and returned to the bank, the city receives value. Harvey, needing change for another day’s marketing shows up at the bank and buys ~ among other coinage ~ two rolls of 50 pennies each for a buck. David, the candy and tobacco wholesaler swings into Harvey’s Market to drop off several boxes of 24/fives (two dozen five-cent candy bars costing Harvey 90 cents a box) and two 10 pack cartons of White Owl cigars wholesaling for $3.18 each. The penny becomes David’s. David uses the penny when he stops by Big Al’s for a burger and fries and a low-cal Fresca at lunch and Big Al turns the penny over to a customer in change a few minutes later. In less than twenty-four hours, the Billy’s penny has changed hands eight or nine times returning eight or nine times its face value – far more than its cost of manufacture.

Coins are simply tokens ~ tokens that represent monetary value. But they are not the value itself. As the penny is exchanged its worth as a tool increases. The longer it circulates, the more worth is accrued. (The same might be said for us old people.) 

     Now, following this little diatribe ~ which I shall loftily refer to as ‘logic’ ~ it is evident that the minuscule penny holds far more worth than its face value; far more worth than its cost of manufacture.

     Truth be told, I don’t really care if the US mint quits minting pennies, but given the above scenario and related elucidation, the death of the penny might well be viewed as a little ‘non-cents-icle.’© 2025

Church of the Open Road Press

THE CHURCH OF THE OPEN ROAD’S WINTER SOLSTICE WISH

1942

 

Consider this early encounter at Rick’s Café Americain…

 

Ilsa            I wasn’t sure you were the same. Let’s see, the last time we met…

Rick          It was “La Belle Aurore.”

Ilsa           How nice. You remembered. But of course, that was the day the Germans marched into town.

Rick          Not an easy day to forget.

Ilsa           No.

 

Rick          I remember every detail. The Germans wore gray, you wore blue.

Ilsa           Yes. I put that dress away. When the Germans march out, I’ll wear it. again.

 

2021

 

A long-held view of the Church of the Open Road is simply this: Many things in life can be related to one scene or another from the film Casablanca.  

 

In keeping with this belief, the “church” not offering a misty-eyed holiday tale or recapitulation of the family year in review.  Rather, this year, we submit simply the hope that in our country, one day soon, the seeds of representative democracy will again be nourished to grow and bear their luscious fruit; that our great experiment in self-governance will revive itself and again flourish; and that Ilsa Lund will feel compelled, once again, to wear that blue dress. 

 

Only together can we ensure that this will indeed happen as time goes by…

 

© 2021

Church of the Open Road Press

COAST SIDE WEST SIDE STORY

...when national circumstance imitates art...

To escape the drumbeat of the both the news media and social media, I hopped on Enrico, the Yamaha and headed out to cruise the Pacific Coast Highway.  The rhythm of the road and the waves, I was sure, would carry me to a happy place.

Often, when I ride, a soundtrack will filter into my mind and accompany me on my journey.  Usually – whether it’s Sinatra or the Boss, Mozart or the Beatles – I don’t know why the playlist is what the playlist is.  I just enjoy the melding of melody and that road rhythm.

Today was different.  Today, the tunes came from “West Side Story.”  (Music by Leonard Bernstein.  Lyrics: Stephen Sondheim.  Ghostwritten by William Shakespeare.) We’d viewed the dazzling 1961 film the night before.  Lyrics were echoing as I descended Sonoma County’s Colman Valley Road from Occidental into the marine-layer refrigerator that always is California’s Highway 1 in July.

The story lingered.

I do a lot of thinking on the motorcycle.  Especially when fog or overcast mutes the scenery.  Sometimes I come up with a new idea like how 2 plus 2 can equal 7; sometimes, I simply try to figure out the hand that the world has been dealt.  

This day would be the latter.

Arthur Laurents’ “Westside Story,” like William Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet,” is a tearful tale about forbidden love and ultimate loss.  (If you haven’t seen the film lately, take time to view it so I don’t have to provide an inadequate synopsis here.)

Ultimately, whether it is the Montagues and the Capulets or the Jets and the Sharks that allow their blindness and hatred to prevent them from sitting across the table and simply discussing, the result is the same.  An irreversible tragedy takes place, and only then do the opposing parties decide to seek some sort of common ground.

Somewhere between Point Arena and the eastward turn-off to CA 128 along the Navarro River – and while voicing Sondheim’s lyrics to “Somewhere” in my helmet – it dawned on me. (Granted, maybe this was simply another example of 2 and 2 equaling 7.)  But here goes: 

The differences and perceptions separating the families in Romeo and Juliet (1594-95) or gangs in Westside (1961) are not all that different from those dividing our nation’s left and our nation’s right (2020).  Sadly, the irreversible tragedy that is about to befall us is far more crucial – far more devastating – than the mere loss of a handsome, ill-fated lover.

No.  The loss will be that of what once was our grand Republic.

I believe that we can each play a hand in diverting the tragedy.

(c) 2020

Church of the Open Road Press

TRUST

Has it slipped away?

Over the past fifteen or twenty – maybe thirty – years, the United States of America has lost something intangible but gravely important.  Symptoms of this loss are apparent in the way we view our federal government, our state government, our police forces, the news media, scientists, banks, businesses (especially the big ones), our schools, our faith-based institutions and even our neighbors.  What has been lost?

I’d suggest TRUST:  Trust that our leadership in DC can shepherd us through a pandemic; Trust that our state leaders have our interests as guiding lights; Trust that the police will treat everyone fairly and with respect; Trust that the news media is honest, that schools actually teach, that banks and businesses exist for something besides abject profiteering; Trust that our churches will serve to unite rather than divide us.

Trust is the bedrock upon which all relations are built.  It is something that is earned through honest effort and easily squandered when motives more narrow than “the greater good” come into play.

The demise of the Fairness Doctrine back in 1987, may have laid the groundwork for the mechanisms of distrust.  There are those who profit by marketing distrust; by presenting the un-factual as truth, by acting upon the fears and insecurities of others; by finger-pointing, name-calling, defaming, insulting and more.  They take to our airwaves stoking fear and encouraging disruption.  Advertisers see the market and pay the freight knowing that, regardless of the political bent or honesty of the broadcast, listeners still will need to buy toilet paper, breakfast cereal, pickup trucks, arthritis pain relievers and beer.

Trust can be reinforced when we spend at least as much time honoring, supporting and showing some appreciation for those institutions of government, enterprise, enlightenment and faith, as we do bitching about ‘em.  And when our leaders spend more time criticizing and tearing down those institutions – cultivating seeds of distrust – then we have the wrong leaders.  It feels that way now, doesn’t it?

As this election season heats up, you can be sure we will all be inundated with misinformation aimed at creating or supporting those weeds of distrust.  The best antidote may be simple to express, yet difficult to employ: 

·      Look for facts based upon data.  You might have to dig a little to find that data.  Understand that “without data, all you’ve got is another opinion.”  

·      Set your sights on the greater good which is not always defined as “Are you better off now than you were four years ago?”  The balance in my savings account may have grown in the past four years, but the chuck hole in the middle of Main Street is still gonna knock my wheels out of alignment.  Everybody else’s, too.

·      Be willing to embrace – well, at least listen to – that point of view which challenges your own.  But consider that the ones shouting the most, might very well be shouting because they lack confidence in that which they profess to believe, and they don’t want to be challenged themselves.

·      Whether leaning left or leaning right, cast your vote for, as Adam Schiff recently said, “Right, truth and decency.”  They matter.

·      Finally: TRUST.  Trust that we’re all in this together – even those with whom we might disagree – and that each of us is trying our very best within the limits granted to us by nature and/or nurture.  

There is much good and still much promise in this land.  We must trust in that, and in one-another.

(c) 2020

Church of the Open Road Press

COUNTING THE UNSHELTERED AMONG US

…there is no singular, simple solution;  

but the solutions that exist involve all of us…

Forgetting, somehow, that the figure “5:30” could be followed by the letters “AM,” the Church of the Open Road participated this day – well, this dawn – in the Northern Sonoma County “Point in Time” count of unsheltered homeless folks.  This bi-annual census, mandated by HUD, gathers raw data that will be used when allocating funds to municipalities, counties and area non-profits.  Guided by Chuck, a homeless individual who lost his apartment when rent was ratcheted up after our local fires, we visited both camps (where folks are residing) and sites (where folks have been but are now vacated.) 

Four teams scoured our little town; each responsible for one of the town’s four voting precincts.  While, in our precinct, we were able to account for only four individuals, Chuck tells me that there are probably 40 to 50 living in our zip code.  That doesn’t include those couch surfing or staying in shelters.  Nor does it include minors living with non-parental relatives or family friends.

“Reach for Home,” an advocacy group out of Healdsburg facilitated today’s count matching volunteers, such as myself, with unhoused guides like Chuck.  The folks I met proved to be generous, funny, knowledgeable (Chuck identified both rock samples and plants as we hiked along the Russian River for a mile or so) resourceful and tough.  They share concern for one-another, and they embrace those new to being out of the fold.  They graciously accept the help offered from those of us who, many times, are not in their circumstance only by the so-called Grace of God.

The causes of homelessness are many and varied.  Folks on the street are not all on drugs, are not all criminal, are not all mentally challenged, and are not simply ne’er-do-wells.  Although the homeless population contains elements of each, mainly these are people who benefit from a hand up and are not asking for a handout.  There is no singular or simple solution; rather, the solution, the answer(s), the "fix," will involve all of us.

This side note:  A former mainstream Protestant minister coordinated our activities this day.  He left the ministry when he found it easy for his upscale Southern California church to raise funds for their building and congregation but balked at the prospect of needing to feed the 5000.  Since departing the ministry, he says, his work with the non-profit arena is much more fulfilling.

I would suggest that he still is in the ministry.

© 2020

Church of the Open Road Press

A “GRIM” FAIRY TALE

This grim little tale relates the story of a fire breathing dragon demanding tribute from villagers lest their settlement be destroyed. Rapt in fear a little man is pushed forward from the crowd.  

“What is it that you desire?” the quaking resident asked.

“That the pure waters running from the mountains be captured and rendered unto me, to quench and refresh me as once they did,” replied the dragon.

Purloined Image

The little man retreated into the buzzing crowd, who silenced themselves, heard the demand and pushed the representative back toward the monster.

“I... I… I’m afr… afraid that will be quite… quite impossible,” the little man reported.

In seconds, the dragon drew in his breath, almost doubling in size, and exhaled a blistering flame that roasted the hapless villagers and reduced their homes to ash with only a few standing chimneys remaining.

Then he lumbered away.

"Tubbs" Fire, Sonoma County

Over the ridge, the dragon spied another hamlet.  Folks, having seen the cloud of smoke rising over the neighboring hills had already gathered when the dragon arrived.

“What is it that you desire?” a quaking resident of this new locale asked.

“That the winds coursing over these tors and rises and into your valley be diverted to my nostrils so that I may again smell their sweetness,” replied the dragon.

The little man returned to the agitated crowd and was soon thrust out in front of the beast.

“I... I… I’m afr… afraid that will be quite… quite impossible,” the little man reported.

"Carr" Fire, Shasta County

Again, in seconds, the dragon drew in his breath, again inflating himself to twice his normal size, and again exhaled a fiery force that roasted the people and reduced their homes to ash with only a few standing chimneys remaining.

Again, he lumbered away.

Down in a broad valley, the dragon spotted a town of a little larger size.  By this time the city fathers were aware of the rampages wrought by the beast.  A representative stepped forward to receive the demand.

“Riches!” the frustrated and angry beast snorted.  “I want all the riches that you possess, and I want them all this instant!”

The little man screwed up his courage and asked, “Why?”

The dragon roared, “Because you can’t care for them.”

Once again, this hapless man sought counsel from his townspeople and once again he was returned to face the monster and once again the people and the town were incinerated and once again, the fire-breathing dragon lumbered off looking for another village or town to threaten taking with him, as yet, neither the water, nor the air, nor the riches he demanded.

"Camp" Fire, Butte County

Yes, the fairy tale is grim, but sadly, it is not a fairy tale.  The villages and towns are real.  They are Santa Rosa, California and Redding and now Paradise, California and Thousand Oaks.  

And the demands of the fire-breathing dragon, to which we will now give the name “Climate,” are simple: Alter priorities a bit and better care for the planet upon which we live lest more of our cities and towns burn.

And those demands are not “quite impossible.”

They are essential.

© 2018 

Church of the Open Road Press

CHANGING OF THE GUARD – A NECESSARY NEXT STEP

…because you don’t want your future in my hands…

The view from the mid-point of my seventh decade looks pretty bleak some days.  From where I stand, it appears we have a less-than-competent President backed by an ineffectual Congress all paid for by interests whose love of money outstrips any love of country. (Please note: Some friends may see things differently than I do and that’s entirely okay because that’s how it works in America.)

The other day I counted up the number of letters I’ve sent to the President, members of his administration and leaders in Congress. 211. (Every single one, by the way, has been copied to my social media page.)  I’m fairly certain none of these missives get to the Donald, but there may be a folder somewhere in DC with my name on it.

Still, there’s more I can do, and I’ve decided to do it.

Our little town has a fledgling Democratic Club which I have joined.  It is a small group that hopes to have a positive impact on local issues such as homelessness, water security, zoning/business development, parks and many other things.  Additionally, the group vets candidates for local elective positions – the starting point for folks who may be crazy enough to one day occupy a seat in the state legislature or even Congress.  Conversations we’ve had over the past several months have been engaging and enlightening as well as frustrating and, at times, a bit depressing.  Still, participation makes me feel as if I’m more than simply the person who rants from the sideline (which I still do).

One common concern in our meetings is the apparent lack of engagement of younger folks.  The group acknowledges that the non-retired among us have more limitations on their time and, likely, more immediate family responsibilities.  But, it seems to us that a dozen or so old farts sitting around a room talking about the pros and cons of those individuals wishing to hold local office must be tempered by the reality that the future rests no longer with us, but with a generation of still-working moms and dads.  Indeed, the future belongs to them.

The late House Speaker Tip O’Neill sagely noted that “all politics is local.”  

With that in mind, if your community has a Democratic (or Republican) Club, or an “Indivisible” group, or a Central Committee (all California counties have one for each major political party), consider joining.  You’ll find yourself interacting with other engaged citizens, many of like mind and many who may offer you a broadening, food-for-thought different perspective.  Back in the day, as a fifty-five-hour-per-week school administrator, I found time to serve on my county’s Central Committee. It was refreshing to have a seat at the table with good people who didn’t happen to be educators.

Participation may involve as little as two hours a month but that two hours can be invaluable as you help shape your community’s future by plying your unique knowledge and experience in a venue different from that of your employ.  

Some folks will say that the two major political parties are lost-cause mirrors of one another.  THIS is how you ensure that they are not.  Be advised, however:  If you’re not careful, that two hours could grow to something more.  Note that former Arizona Governor Janet Napolitano (later Secretary of Homeland Security) began her political career as president of her homeowner’s association, which on, NPR’s Wait! Wait! Don’t Tell Me! she referred to as “the worst job I ever had in politics.” 

We can all be part of a more positive tomorrow – not just us old farts.

So: Teacher-buddy, realtor, barista, letter carrier, truck driver, administrative assistant, and/or friend from any walk-of-life: Think about where you might invest just a couple of hours in your community’s – and your country’s – future. And please give this some final thought some final thought:  

You can’t possibly want your future in MY hands.

 You want it in your own.

© 2018

Church of the Open Road Press

“SERIOUS AS A HEART ATTACK”

The correct – but incorrect – answer is “C”

Quick quiz:  When in a party of two or more, one person, experiencing chest discomfort, stops, sits and most likely says what?  Is it:

A)        “I’ve had enough for today.  I’ve got to turn around,” or

B)        “Whale.  Oil. Beef.  Hooked.  (For maximum impact, practice saying that really fast.)  I think I’m havin’ a coronary,” or

C)        “You guys go ahead.  I’ll wait here.  Maybe I’ll catch up in a minute.”

Conrad, Suzie and I had just left the parking area for our second little high-country hike of the day.  The first jaunt found us on a steep trail wading through foot-and-a-half deep snow remnants to a magnificent view of the High Sierra.  

Worsening trail conditions turned us back and after lunch-with-a-view and a short drive on a dirt road, we arrived at a second, slightly lower in elevation trailhead.

Just past a sign indicating we were entering a designated wilderness area, and after what seemed like a pretty easy uphill stretch, Conrad plopped down on a rock or a stump and while not exactly clutching his chest said, “I’m feeling some pain here,”

Conrad didn’t look his normal self, but I knew he wanted to see what was over the next rise or around the next bend.  It’s in his DNA.  So is heart trouble.  His father, at about the same age didn’t make it to church to preach one Sunday, rather he made it to the ER a few blocks away.

Our closest ER would be forty-plus forest road miles away and cell phone coverage?  What’s that?

“You go on,” Conrad said.

“Nope, I’m stayin’ here.”

Eighteen years before, while serving as a school principal, Mrs. Nelson, a teacher, was called upon to drag me from my office to a nearby building where staff was feting me with cake and ice cream for Bosses Day.  (Oh, how I hated Bosses Day!)  A few feet out the door, it felt as if someone had taken a swing at my chest with a sledge hammer.  Staggered a bit more than I’d like to admit, I diverted to the multipurpose room, across the breezeway, saying, “I need to sit down for a moment.  You go ahead.  I’ll catch up in a minute.”  Unfolding a chair, I sat in the dark.  Mrs. Nelson touched her palm to my clammy forehead and chose not to leave.

Suzie had trekked up the trail perhaps fifty yards, up and around a switchback to a point where she could look down upon us.  She held of the same Gotta-Explore DNA as her brother.  Conrad sat on the stump/rock.  Amidst some small talk, I ascertained that Conrad thought perhaps he’d eaten too much lunch; that a physical ten or twelve years ago uncovered a restricted artery; that this happens every once in a while; that he hadn’t had a comprehensive physical in he didn’t know how long; and that, at 59, he was about the same age as this father when Dad had had an incident.

Shadows across the trail somehow prevented my eye contact with Suzie.  Foolish discretion about not wanting Conrad to feel badly about truncating a hike kept me from saying anything to Suzie.  Ultimately, Conrad decided to soldier on, first at a very reserved pace, then at a much sloggier gate than his usual.  I followed, all the time thinking, “The further he goes, the further I’m going to have to carry his ass out.”

After about two-and-a-half miles – these with no stunning view – we turned back around.  Downhill was easier.

That night at the cabin, over some shared Knob Creek, we conversed.  He began, “I think it’s just part of getting older.  You know, like you and your bad knee.”

“If I blow a knee out on a trail, I suspect I’d survive.  I’ll whine like a baby, but I’ll probably survive.”  Then I asked, “When was the last time you had an EKG?”

“Ten, maybe twelve years ago,” he confirmed, adding what he’d found out with that exam.

“Maybe you should see about getting a fresh one.”

An eye was not batted as he said, “It’s just part of getting older.  Besides, with a $5,000.00 out-of-pocket insurance policy – silver level they call it – I can’t afford to go in for the test.”

So, there you have it, I thought.  Conrad could expire on the trail because he doesn’t feel he can afford the care needed to, perhaps, mitigate the problem.

“Well, pal,” I said, “You need to know that, in the future, if you have a heart attack out there on the trail, I’m probably not gonna drag your ass back to the car.”  I raised my whiskey glass.  “I’ve got a bad knee.”

o0o

Notes and a plea:  The incident at school proved not to be life-threatening.  It was a simple transient ischemic attack according to the folks at the hospital.  But Mrs. Nelson didn’t know that.  She just stayed with me.  To this day, I embarrass her by reminding her that she saved my life.  

Mrs. Nelson knew not to leave the victim because of Red Cross (or similar) CPR/first aid training she received every other year sponsored by our school district.

If you haven’t renewed your card, do so.  Please enter “CPR Training” or “First Aid Training” in your browser and sign up for a refresher near you.  I may be riding through your town and need your assistance.

Know that I’ll be renewing mine…

… in case you should ever need me. 

© 2018

Church of the Open Road Press