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Legacy of Love

9/26/2024

Ryan pointed to the giant frame of the ancient roller coaster. “You remember that old roller coaster, Robin?”

“Yeah, I sure do. You turned three shades of green, and I thought you would throw up on me.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. But you didn’t do much better on the Ferris wheel. Remember, we got to the top, and they stopped for a minute. You turned white as a sheet and froze up. I thought you were going to pass out on me.”

“I kinda forgot about my fear of heights. I guess it was from being so high being with you.”

The local carnival and site of a fall festival had once been a local landmark in the community. It had been around since either of them could remember. They both had memories of going with their families when they were children and taking their kids to the midway.

Attendance dropped off, and the turnout for the fair had become sparser. Soon, it became a losing proposition, and a few years ago, anything that could be moved was sold off. Most of it went for scrap, and the remaining structures were a few booths, the Ferris wheel, and the roller coaster, which were now reduced to their frames.
Ryan and Robin walked along the deserted midway where the biggest and best booths had been set up. They could almost smell the popcorn, hot dogs, funnel cakes, and cotton candy that once filled the air. They stopped in front of a dilapidated booth, its open front and hanging awning the only remaining remnants of its former life as an attraction.

“Remember when you tried to win me the teddy bear with the BB gun?”
“Yeah, that barrel was crooked. I swear, I couldn’t hit that star no matter how I tried.”

“You spent how much trying to win that bear for me?”

“Every cent I had.” They grinned at the memory.

The trip back to the old carnival had been the last stop on a week-long journey to their hometown. Over the past week, they visited the school where they graduated from and the church where they married.

Ryan had asked Robin to marry him at the carnival. After that, it was an annual ritual for them to return every year on the anniversary of their engagement.

In the last several years, they only enjoyed a slow walk through the skeleton of the once-thriving carnival. They stood facing each other between the roller coaster and the Farris wheel.

“Remember you proposed to me right here?” Ryan nodded yes.

“Robin, will you marry me all over again?” he whispered.

“Yes, yes, I’d love to.”

They wrapped their arms around each other and kissed with only the Ferris wheel and roller coaster skeletons watching. After several minutes of kissing in the middle of the midway, they broke their embrace.

Ryan smiled. “It’s getting late, and the kids are expecting us.”
~~
Not long after, Ryan and Robin stood in the same church where they wed fifty years ago. The Reverend Roberts officiated as he had when they first married. They were his first marriage ceremony when he arrived as a young pastor in their parish. Now, decades later, he continues to minister to the community surrounding the small town.

Robin wore the same wedding dress she had worn years before. Ryan thought she looked just as beautiful now as she did the first time he’d seen her in it.

The front rows of the church were filled with their children and their spouses, grandchildren and their families filled in behind them, and a couple of great-grandchildren were mixed in, too.

Ryan and Robin had moved to a nearby city and had been fortunate as their business had been phenomenally successful. They became significant supporters of their communities, never forgetting their hometown. Their efforts opened new industries, jobs, and other necessary services, and the community was alive and thriving. Many new families had moved to the town because of the jobs they had brought in. They were proud that their children and grandchildren continued the legacy of service and support to their communities.

Their wedding reception was open to all residents of their town. Over five hundred people attended at one time or another during the daylong event. Speeches were made, toasts were drunk, and everyone shared how Ryan and Robin affected their lives.

Ryan and Robin stood before the people who meant so much to them to announce they were leaving one last legacy to the community. They had purchased the old carnival site and planned to reopen the amusement park. Excitement flowed through the crowd as the residents celebrated.

The legacy of the love Ryan and Robin had for each other and the hometown that gave them so much will be carried on through the children and grandchildren and the carnival for future generations.

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The Pages of Time

12/30/2023

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Pinecones mixed with the smoky scent of wood, snapping and cracking in the fireplace, filled the room with the heady aroma of pine. The sun's glare bounced off the Christmas tree's ornaments, causing chaotic reflections to bounce over the room. Christmas existed in full force within the room.
I leaned back in my battered leather chair and sipped on my still piping hot coffee, waiting patiently for it to cool enough to drink.
It had been decades since I first sat in this chair. The old chair was like an old friend who waited for me to come and sit every day. It had grown accustomed to my ways of sitting and melded its cushions to fit my body like a glove. Settling into the chair was much like sliding into a comfortable bed. Everything just felt right.
But nothing was right anymore. Things have changed in the last few years. Even ordinary things felt off somehow. Time had marched on, whether I liked it or not. The coffee cooled down, and the leather squeaked as I shifted. Both were familiar and comforting. The footsteps running down the hall from the past interrupted my deep thoughts on time and my old age.
It sounded more like a herd of elephants plowing through the house. Grandchildren are like that. I set my coffee on the table next to my chair, and the door bounced open, and two wildly happy and excited kids came in. My lap was immediately invaded with squirming bundles of energy.
“Grandpa!” they screamed in unison as I tried to hold them in one place. My daughter and her husband entered behind the kids.
“Billy, Robbie, get down off Grandpa.” She tried to get them down from my lap.
‘“No. No, they're okay as long as they sit still.’ I got them settled in my lap, and they calmed down a little.
After a few minutes of idle conversation about the weather and other topics, we got the kids to settle down on the floor before us and opened presents. By then, I was sipping my coffee quietly while the kids waited impatiently as presents were handed out.
An hour later, the room looked like a paper factory had exploded. Wrapping paper and boxes were all over the floor. Attempts were made to contain the mess, but it was a lost cause, with two little kids running around and playing with empty boxes and toys. In contrast, my new vinyl records, fountain pens, and books lay neatly on the table next to me, and my daughter's and son-in-law's presents were stacked next to her on the floor.
~~~
I flipped through the pages of my old journals and read my old notes about days gone by decades ago. How scribbled, barely legible lines written years ago could bring back memories was odd. Now, the grandkids are grown, and I’m up to great-grandkids. Granted, they’re little now, but those days would also pass soon.
Christmas was different as I was not as mobile as I once was. I spent most of my time in my favorite old leather chair, now crackled and worn. My oldest grandson arrived early, and I watched as he deftly started a fire in the fireplace. His small children carried pinecones collected from the stately pines on the house's ground. They giggled as the pinecones caught fire, making popping sounds. I relished their laughing as it echoed the sounds of children from the past.
This would be my last Christmas, according to my doctor. What did he know? He was as old as me, but I feared he was correct. As the morning wore on and my family gathered to celebrate the holiday, I looked forward to the chaos of children and wallpaper.
I wasn’t disappointed. While my gifts of books and music and fountain pens sat neatly stacked on the table as always. Children played with boxes and wrapping paper scattered across the rug. We laughed, we had dinner, and soon they were traveling home.
I reached for my newest fountain pen and wrote down the events of the day and my thoughts for each of them and their lives ahead. I would leave instructions that this journal be wrapped and presented to my youngest great-grandchild, who would be the keeper of the journal.
All I asked was that they scatter the wrapping paper on the floor.

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Once Upon a Time in The Desert

9/21/2023

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Saguaro cacti lined the old dirt road like skyscrapers lined the streets of New York. Any trace of previous travel down the road had long since been blown over by the winds of time. But he didn't need tracks to tell him where to go.

Pausing just long enough to let his horse rest and get his bearings, he flipped the reins on the harness, and the horse slowly started moving between the cacti. The overcast skies didn’t bode well for his feeling of uneasiness. As the afternoon became evening, the time for traveling was fast ending. He considered several places to set up camp for the night.

He located a small hollow off the side of the main path, close enough to see the main path. He built a small fire, big enough to warm the battered old coffee pot and a small skillet to heat some beans and sausages he’d packed. The bedroll was ancient, having been passed from one generation to another, but it kept him warm over the cold night.

The early morning sun found him rolling up his sleeping bag and packing it back on his horse while the last of the coffee had turned into a bitter swallow that he gulped down before tossing the remains in the weeds near his site. The horse snorted and shook his head as he swung back into the saddle. A glance back at the site as he passed the nearest cactus told him he’d cleaned up his site well enough that it didn’t look like he’d been there.

Rod had spent his entire life getting soft. His world had become insulated from doing hard physical labor for an extended period. His job as a computer programmer in the knowledge sector meant he spent long hours in front of a computer. Physical activity was something relegated to the weekends. Usually, it involves sitting in front of a TV, watching the latest sports event, and drinking too much beer.

He had friends who hit the gym several times a week, but he had never felt the need to do more than he had to. In Rodney’s world, physical work was reserved for tradespeople who came to fix broken water pipes or other jobs requiring specialized knowledge and tools.

He’d ridden horses briefly as a young child, but his fascination with horses and other farm animals had quickly faded when he discovered girls. The idea of living outdoors and riding a horse for several days had never entered his mind. Rod was traveling for days in the desert to visit someone he thought was imaginary or from a distant past.

The story of his elusive great-aunt, living in a desert retreat somewhere in the Southwest, was family lore. No one had seen or talked to her in decades. It was assumed that she’d quietly passed away long ago, and no one had known about it. But that wasn’t the case.

Not only was she still living in the desert, miles from any known town or civilization, but she had thrived, and at well over a hundred years old, she was as tough as they came. The family rumors were that there had been some bust-up between her folks and her as a teenager. No one would say exactly what happened, and the family had lost touch with her decades ago.

That was until several weeks ago when Rod got a very official-looking letter from Eugene Fairbanks Esquire, a lawyer in Arizona. Mr. Fairbanks indicated that his firm of Fairbanks and Son, of which he was the Son, was handling the estate and financial arrangements for one Ester Longwood, his great-aunt. The letter stated quite plainly that she had not passed yet but felt that her death was imminent. She requested that her last living relative, Rodney “Rod” Longwood, visit her as soon as possible before she became too ill to see him. As she was no longer able to travel, she had provided all the necessary funds, directions, and connections he would need to get to her estate, including the rental of a horse and all the assorted gear that went with it and a map with exact directions for finding her place. The only stipulation was that Rod was to tell none of the family about her existence or his trip to see her.

After several phone calls and Zoom visits, Rodney confirmed that that letter was, in fact, the real deal. His great-aunt, Ester, was among the living but in very poor health and wanted to see him. Eugene said he was only following the wishes of his client and friend. His father, Lloyd Fairbanks, had been the original lawyer for Mrs. Longwood. Eugene now handled her affairs and indicated to Rod that she lived very simply and did not require a lot of money regularly. The exact dollar amount of money in her account was not to be revealed until after he had visited with her. If he failed to see her before she passed, other arrangements had been made to handle the funds.
It had taken Rod a couple of days to set up the trip. Booking the flight to Arizona had been easy, but the closest airport to where he needed to go was a long drive. He’d rented a car and drove to the desert town where he would pick up the horse and gear waiting for him. He located Old Man Roper, tall and bent, wearing a hat that looked older than Rodney. He spent the afternoon and night with Old Man Roper, getting to know the horse and a refresher course on riding. Old Man Roper kept talking to him about how to ride and survive in the desert. He even had a detailed map all drawn up, showing him exactly where to go and how long each stretch of the map should take to ride.

When he asked Roper if he knew Ester, the old man answered that he’d known Ester for years and had been out there many times over the decades. He was going to miss the old gal when she passed.
~~~
The sun rose to find Rodney and old Man Ropper out in the front yard, saddling the mare and loading the pack on the back of the saddle. Ropper had indicated it was a three-day ride out to Ester’s place. All this time, Rodney wondered how anyone could live this far out, especially an old lady. With a compass and map, Rodney set off to see Ester. Hopefully, he won’t be too late.

The first day had been spent getting used to the blinding sun while riding a horse for hours and concentrating on following the map closely. It didn't take long before his back and hips started to hurt, and every slight bounce in the saddle was a reminder of how out of shape he was. But he made the commitment to see his aunt, and he was going to follow it through even if it killed him. He reached the old path lined with cactus that Old Man Ropper had told him about, indicating that he was through the first leg of the ride. Rodney settled down for his first night alone in the desert.

On the second morning, after following the path, he turned right at the fork as instructed. Getting down from the horse to stretch his legs and walk for a few minutes, he wondered why someone would choose to live in such a place. The wind cut across the sand, picking up a small dust devil and swirling it for a second before dropping the sand where it landed. Gulping from the canteen and wiping the dust off the top, he replaced it in the saddlebag and caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He spun around just in time to see a tiny trail of dust settle as a critter of some kind disappeared into the sand. Rodney mounted the horse again and set off in the direction of the right fork in the trail.

The coolness he felt when he woke up earlier in the morning was quickly replaced by the heat and blinding sun of the early morning. Stretching and trying to move his legs and arms properly had become a regular thing as he got ready to ride into the morning. Swinging up into the saddle reminded him that he wasn’t a teenager. Familiar aches in his hips and back began almost as soon as he settled into the saddle. The last two days of continued riding on the horse had shown him how out of shape he was. The map and compass told him he had several more miles before reaching his aunt’s farm.
The cactus gave way to dust and sand as far as he could see. The only break in the landscape was the occasional dust devil thrown up by the winds, and they rearranged the sand in intricate patterns according to the whim of the moment.
Rodney was down to his last couple of canteens of water, which now he measured out very carefully, trying to make it last until he got to the next watering hole, which had been marked on the map the Old Man had given him.
Within less than an hour of riding, Rodney was soaked in sweat. He noticed, however, that his body had begun to complain less as he rode. His back and hips had started to get used to the saddle's feel and the horse's rhythmic movements as it trod along in the sand. The quiet of the desert was almost as stifling as the heat and sun. Having never been so far out of contact with the world for an extended period, Rodney began to look back over his relatively short life.

By the time he reached the watering hole, let the horse drink, refilled his canteens, and had a snack from his meager supplies in the saddlebags, he had decided that if he survived this ordeal, he would make some changes in his life when he returned to civilization.

The trek's final leg into the desert proved to be the longest. At least to Rodney, it seemed to go on much longer than it probably did. At first, he thought he saw a mirage in the distance. The trees surrounding a large body of water seemed out of place. But as he got closer, he realized he wasn’t seeing things. The water and the trees did indeed exist.

For about a hundred feet or so, grass grew around the water. Beyond that, he could make out a low, flat building nestled in the trees. As he approached the porch, he saw a figure on the porch. She appeared to be sitting in a chair with a book. The combination of movement and the horse whining made her look up as he dismounted from the horse.

“Rodney?” She called from the porch as she stood up and moved to the porch steps. She leaned against the pole of the porch and had a cane in her other hand.,

“Yes, ma’am. Rodney Longwood here. I came per your lawyer, Mr. Fairbanks, request.” He approached the porch, holding out his hand.

“Well, there, I wasn’t sure if you would make it. I'm glad you made it, and Old Mr. Roper set you up with a good horse. Ole Betsy here knows the way. She’s been out here many times.” She had come down the steps, stood before Rodney, and reached to pet the horse on the head.

“By the way, I’m Ester Longwood. Let's get old Betsy set up in the barn, then we’ll talk.” With that, she picked up the reins and led Rodney and the horse around the far end of the house to a small barn. Rodney watched in amazement as she quickly undid the chinch and bridle from Betsy and easily threw the heavy saddle onto a stand in the far corner of the small barn. Betsy immediately started munching the feed that was waiting for her.

On the way back to the house, Rodney had a chance to look around a little closer. The house was low and flat with an angled roofline that let the rain run into the gutters and flow to large barrels at the bottoms of the downspouts. The building was made of adobe, stone, and ed bricks. All blended seamlessly into a smooth surface that repelled the sun's heat. Several rough-sawn timbers put in place decades ago held up the long porch roof and were worn smooth by many hands through the years.

Rodney followed Ester back to the house, not sure what to say. The old woman wasn’t what he’d expected. From what her lawyer had said and the way he’d talked, he expected her to be feeble and on her last legs. This wasn’t what he just saw. He knew how heavy that saddle was, and she tossed it around like it was nothing.

Stepping inside was like stepping into a cave of some sort. The building was dark except for several windows across the front and a row of high, narrow windows on the side that let in light. He stood still just inside the back door, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. As he looked around, he spotted several things. A gun rack was built into the wall next to the front door. While he didn’t know guns much, he did recognize a shotgun, a long rifle, and a lever action. Across from that was a coat and hat rack covered in various coats and types of hats—a few pairs of boots on the floor below it.

Ester left him in the living room, headed for the kitchen, and returned with a pitcher of iced tea and a couple of glasses.

“Help yourself. Want sugar for that?” She placed the tray down on the small table near the two chairs.
He thanked her, declined the sugar, and looked around for a place to sit. She pointed to the old stuffed chair next to hers as she plopped down.

Ester lay back in the chair and closed her eyes for several minutes. Not wanting to interpret her reprieve, Rodney sat, sipped his tea, and looked around. The furniture in the house appeared very old. None of it was probably collectible, but it had served her well over the years.
After several minutes of silence, she spoke quietly, her voice tired. “Rodney, I expect that you have a lot of questions.” He nodded and let her continue. “I had Eugene send that letter to all your family. You were the only one who responded, much less came out.”

“You know all about my family and where everyone is?”

She nodded. “Yes, I came out here when the family pushed me out and refused to accept me.”
“But why would they do that?” He leaned forward in the chair, balancing his iced tea on his knee.
Ester looked over at a faded picture on the far wall. It showed two young women together in an embrace.
“Oh, I see.” That was the only comment Rodney could muster as what she inferred hit him.
“Yes, I was in love with a woman and didn’t hide it. But back then, you couldn’t do that in the open. You had to sneak around. We refused to, so both of our families threw us out.”

“What happened?”

“Fortunately. a few friends didn't care who I loved and let us stay with them. I got a job in a different town that didn’t know who I was. Eventually, I wound up in Los Angeles, working in the movies, I was a typist for a producer. I was typing some letters for him when I overheard him talking to someone about a new technology or something or other. It looked interesting, so after work, I started asking around.
Eventually, I found out they were working on a new thing called television.”

“What happened?” He leaned forward, gripping his iced tea glass.

Ester looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t remember who it was, but they invested in RCA stock, which, as you know, was the record company, but RCA wanted in on the television thing. Anyway, I had a couple of hundred bucks, I was still staying at my friends who weren’t charging me rent, and Lois,” she nodded to the picture, “was making good money in the factories, so after I talked it over with her, we decided to risk the money. I bought some stock in RCA. It wasn’t much, but we decided to let it ride. Eventually, we pretty much forgot about it. Until I decided to move out here. Lois had passed, and I needed a change, and the dry heat of the desert seemed to suit my system. I breathed better and generally felt better out here. Anyway, when I wanted to buy this place, I was talking to my lawyer, the original Fairbanks, and I mentioned I thought I still owned some stock. He went and checked. Turns out my investment in RCA stock back during the war had paid off.”

She sipped her tea. Rodney sipped his and tried to think of something that wasn’t stupid to say.
“I’m sorry to hear about Lois. I’d liked to have met her.”

“It's okay. I didn’t expect you to know about her.”

“So, you never made up with the family?”

She looked at him and smiled. “Well, yes and no. I’ve talked to some of your cousins, but as for my parents and their kids, I’m a persona non grata. They barely acknowledge me.”

“But it's been what fifty years, and Lois isn’t around, and they still won’t talk to you?”

“Some will, but most of the old ones still don’t get it. Now most of them are gone, I’ve outlived almost all of them. Serves them right!”

He nodded in agreement. Rodney found himself liking the old lady.
Ester glanced at the old clock on the wall. “My goodness, it's late. You must be famished.”

Rodney had to admit the last few days, he hadn’t been eating his best.
Instantly, Ester found new energy and propelled her small frame back into the kitchen, telling him to sit tight. She’d have a meal ready for them soon.

Soon became thirty minutes, which was fine with Rodney. He wandered around the small living room. The fireplace in the corner looked like it had seen a lot of use. The remains of a pile of logs and bark and a few stray small branches lay in the firewood cradle. Long stemmed matches lay on the mantel. The poker and shovel still stood on the rack on the other side of the fireplace. Aside from the matches, there were several framed pictures on the mantle. He recognized several men in the pictures as being movie and television stars of the golden age of television and movies. She had indeed walked among royalty in the day.

The old sideboard under the front window held several tall colored glass vases and other ornamental glass. The sun reflecting through the colored glass cast interesting lights and shadows on the side of the room.
He noticed a large flat-screen television hung on the wall directly from her favorite chair. Below that was an old turntable, a receiver, and a couple of old speakers. He was flipping through her collection of records when she came in and told him dinner was ready.

The kitchen was a small area off to one end of the house. A small metal table sat against the wall in front of the big window. Its bright yellow marbleized Formica tabletop was framed by a band of chrome that ran along the edge of the table, supported by stainless steel legs. The matching chairs were covered in bright yellow plastic fabric that matched the top of the table. Two large plates sat on the table.

‘I haven’t cooked for anyone in years. I don’t know if I remember how.’ Ester warned as they sat a large pot on the table between the plates.
“You like some coffee?” He nodded yes as he sat down.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure it's fine. I’m so hungry I could eat a bear.”

He sipped the coffee. It was much better than he had in a very long time.

“Well, we don’t get bears around here, but I could fix you up with some coyote.”

Rodney grinned at the idea but wondered what was in the big pot still steaming from the oven.

“Oh, it's leftovers and potluck, whatever I still had in the fridge and freezer. I usually don’t cook a lot these days. But I knew you were on your way, so looked around this morning to see what I had. I figured you’d be hungry.”

“You’d be right, mam.”

She dished him out a huge helping of stew and slices of bread. They didn’t say much while they ate. Each lost in their thoughts, trying to figure out how to begin the conversation they knew was coming. Rodney had already decided he liked the old lady and would agree to whatever she had in mind.

After clearing the dishes and making more coffee, they moved to the front porch to watch the sunset over the desert. Sipping his coffee, Rodney leaned back in the old porch chair and sighed as the last rays of sun disappeared over the horizon, letting the desert take a break from the oppressive heat for a few hours. A chill ran down his back as he felt the cool breeze come up from nowhere. Neither spoke for some time.

“I suppose we have to talk about why you came all this way out here,” Ester spoke quietly so as not to disturb the night.
He muttered a low yes.

“You see, Rodney, I didn’t tell you everything. I had you come over to the desert for a reason. I wanted to make it hard enough, so whoever did come really wanted to.”

“You mean I didn't have to spend three days on a horse getting here.’

She smiled wryly and shook her head no.

He sat up straighter in his chair and looked at her, almost spilling his coffee.

“Rodney, I’m old and eccentric but not a fool. There's no way I could live this far out, at least not anymore. This place used to be further out than it is now, but civilization worked its way to almost being here. It's a twenty-minute drive to the nearest town. If it were too easy to get here, everyone would have come. I didn’t want just anyone to come, if anyone came at all.”

“It was a test?”

“Yes, and you passed with flying colors. You see, Rodney, I told you I sent the same letters to everyone, all your cousins and uncles, anyone in the family who might want to come and see me before….”
“And I was the only one?”
She nodded yes. “The rest just ignored the letters. I expect when they read that they would have to spend three days on a horse, they decided it wasn’t worth it, which is fine.

Ester leaned back in the chair and gently rocked it. The subtle squeak of the rocker seemed to echo in the silence of the night.

“Ester, maybe you should start at the beginning. When and why did you move here?”

The old lady stared off into the night stars and tried to push her mind back over the decades.

“Let's see, it was back in the early 60’s, I think. Me and Lois were having a hard time in LA. Eventually, Lois got ill from the asbestos in the insulation in the factories—lung cancer and emphysema. It killed her. After that, I couldn’t stay in LA anymore. It was too much, too many memories, and many of the people we’d known were leaving and headed to San Francisco. Without Lois, I didn’t feel right staying. I tried to go home. But that didn’t go well. My folks still didn’t want anything to do with me. So….”

“So?”

“I moved around some and stayed in different places. It wasn’t until I landed in the Arizona desert that I felt at home. I did some odd jobs, cleaned house, and tended a bar, stayed at a friend's house for a while Until his wife started getting jealous, thinking there was something between us, which there wasn’t. I lit out in a hurry, had some cash, saw the sign for a lot for sale, and had a look. I liked it, so I looked into it. That's when I met Lloyd Fairbanks, the lawyer. He helped me buy the place and get started. I’d forgotten about the stocks I owned, and he chased them down. Come to find out, they were worth quite a bit, which set me up pretty good here once it was all said and done. Lloyd and I became friends, and he helped me manage the money from the stocks and made a few investments that have paid off nicely. His son Eugene took over after Lloyd retired a few years ago.”

Rodney thought for a minute. By now, his coffee was cold, so he tossed the rest in the weeds at the end of the porch.

Sitting back down, he tried to think of a question that wasn’t insulting or stupid. “The initial letter said you were ill.”

“Yes, I am. Aside from being older than the trees I planted here when I moved in, my old bones aren’t happy. They haven’t been for a lot of years, but the docs now tell me my ticker isn’t right. I have a pacemaker and have had one for decades. But now they’re saying it's not helping. At my age, there's not a lot they can do. Sooner rather than later, it's going play out one too many times, and I’m done for good.” She sat back in her chair and stared at the stars.

Rodney leaned back in his chair. He’d only met Ester a few hours ago and knew he’d miss her.

“That's why the horse ride through the desert? To prove I had the guts to deal with your estate?”

“Yes. You see, I have a substantial estate. Much more than I ever thought I would. I own a couple of companies, and I don’t run them. Obviously, I have people for that, and most of them don’t know who I am. If they knew a 100-year-old woman who was never married and had no kids owned them, they’d have a fit. By rights, I can come in tomorrow and fire every one of them. So, when you take over, you’ll upset some big apple carts.”

“Take over?”

She nodded. “I’m ancient but not stupid. I had you checked out long before I sent any letters. I know your background, work ethic, and experience. If I didn’t think you had the balls for the job, I wouldn’t have sent you the letter, and when Eugene said you had agreed to the horse ride, I knew I was right.” She grinned.
Rodney grinned back at her. “So, the big question is…?”

“How much am I worth?” She finished for him. He nodded yes.

“Not exactly sure. Eugene can tell you better when you see him tomorrow, but it's several million dollars. He tried to explain it to me a while back, but I didn’t understand all of it. Let's just say it's enough to keep us in coffee forever.”

She stood up, tossed the remains of her coffee out, and headed back to the front door. Taking the hint, he got up and followed her inside.

“You can sleep in the spare room.” She pointed to a door at the far end of the living room. He hadn’t noticed it as the door blended into the dark walls.

~~~
The morning chill surprised Rodney when he stepped out onto the porch in the early hours—stretching and looking around as the sun worked its way over the mountains surrounding the desert. He slowly realized that he hadn’t felt as at home as he did right now in a very long time. The quiet of the desert seemed to talk to him. The wind blew slightly as he walked back to the barn. Inside, Betsy was still in her stall. Most of her hay and feed were gone.

Looking around, he spotted the big bags of feed and the other implements used to tend horses. The barn was old, the walls needed repairs, and the roof didn’t look too good either. But it seemed solid for that it was.
Ester was in the kitchen when he came back into the house a little while later. She poured him a cup of coffee as he sat down at the same spot he’d sat last night.

“Betsy’s been fed and watered, and I cleaned out her stall. I didn’t know if you wanted to put her out in the pen for a while this morning.”

Ester turned from the stove and grinned again. Her yellow teeth were framed by wrinkles and a tuff of white hair that still refused to say put no matter how she combed it. Her old bathrobe was pulled tight around her and tied together with an old sash cord from a curtain.

“I knew I got it right when I picked you. Thank You. Yeah, let's put her out before it gets too hot. Here’s some eggs and bacon and toast. “She passed him a full plate, took hers, and sat back down in her regular chair at the table.

In between bites, she told him that Eugene had called while he was in the barn and would be out later that morning with all the official documents and records.

With the breakfast dishes done and put away, he waited while Ester retired to her room to get dressed for the day. The living room fascinated him. The more he looked, the more he found. The walls were covered with shelves, knick-knacks, and collections of glass neatly arranged to catch the sun as it came in the big picture window. He wandered to the gun case to look over the guns. None of them looked like they had been touched in years. Other than a couple of hats and a pair of rubber boots, most of the coats looked untouched for a long time. Rodney was flipping through her record collection when she came out of the bedroom.

“You see anything you like? We can play it later if you like. I don’t play them much anymore because I can’t put the needle down without scratching the record and…” She paused for a second to catch her wind. “They bring back too many memories.” She pointed to the record he was holding. “And some belonged to Lois.”
“I’d like that, but only if you’re up to it.” She smiled and led him back into the kitchen. They sat and talked over more coffee.

At about ten a.m., the sound of a car coming up the driveway got their attention. Rodney recognized the car as an old Cadillac, probably late nineteen fifties, judging by the tail fins that graced the back fenders coming to a sharp point at the top. The rest of the car was well-worn but taken care of. The paint faded, and signs of everyday use around the door handles.

Eugene’s tall, skinny frame emerged from the car like Jack-in-the-Box, unfolding in slow motion. Eventually, he stood next to the black Cadillac with a leather briefcase, wearing a straw cowboy hat and a two-piece suit almost as faded as the paint on the car.

“Ester, you’re looking good.” He grinned as he came onto the porch and planted a kiss on her cheek and a slight hug with his free hand.

“Well, Rodney, he's been taking good care of me.” She nodded towards him. Eugene turned to face Rodney.
“Howdy, I’m Eugene Fairbanks, Mss. Ester’s friend and lawyer.” He stuck out a hand, which Rodney automatically shook as he introduced himself.

“Truth of the matter is Ester’s been taking care of me. I’m still getting used to this sun and heat.”

Eugene took off his hat for a second, whipped what was left of his blond hair around his nearly bald head, and looked at the sun as he put it back on.
“Yeah, it's a hot one today,”

“Come on, let's get out of the sun and into the cool.” Ester pulled the screen door open and waited. Taking the hint, Rodney leads the way, followed by Eugene and Esther. Five minutes later, they were all seated around the kitchen table with cold drinks, and Eugene's briefcase opened, off to one side, and a couple of piles of papers stacked between them.

“The long and short of it is, Ester, this property alone is worth about a half million. It was always worth way more than you paid for it. The original owners you bought from needed cash badly and let it go for less than it was worth even back then. With the new zoning laws coming into effect and the water source, the property is now worth a lot more.

As for your two businesses, they're doing okay. The hotel you own in Phoenix is doing well. The addition of the spaces to host conventions and shows has paid off. They brought in several new specialty shows, like the fountain pen show, which are getting a good draw. People are spending money.”

“It was your idea.”

Eugene blushed and glanced down at his Mont Blanc Fountain Pen in his jacket. He explained to Rodney that he had a collection and was always looking for more.

“As soon as we added the convention space, they held a fountain pen show, which was quite a success. We got people in from all over the States,” Ester piped excitedly.

“Anyway, here's the gist of it, Rodney.” He turned very serious and sat up a little straighter in the chair.
“Miss Ester has made some very good investments from the money from the RCA stock, which she still holds, although it fluctuates a lot and is a bit down right now, but overall has done well. The other business isn’t doing as well. The construction business isn’t losing money but is more dependent on outside influences such as interest rates and suppliers. We’re thinking of selling that one, but we haven’t made up our mind yet.”
This was all new to Rodney, who had only used hotels and never actually thought about what went into running one. His construction experience was almost as limited.

“How does all of this impact me?”

“As sole heir and benefactor of her estate, it all goes to you. You will own the hotel, the construction company, this property, and another small property in town.”

“Aren’t there shareholders or boards to run these?”

“They’re both privately owned by her. We never went public and sold stock. There was no reason to. So no, other than a board that runs the hotel and mostly oversees daily operations, there's no one to answer to.”
Now he understood her comment about being able to fire everyone if she wanted.

Ester started to decline quickly not long after he arrived. It seemed that she willed herself to stay around long enough to make sure her estate was in good hands, and once she knew Rodney was the right one to take over, she let herself leave.

Over the next several months, Rodney discovered he liked living in the desert. His chronic weather-related health issues subsided, and he generally felt better the longer he stayed in the desert. The laid-back pace of life suited him, and he easily adapted to living in the country. He began to feel at home.

He had become good friends with the Longwoods and eventually married Elmore, Eugene's daughter. With their help, he introduced several new ideas to the hotel, increasing profitability. The construction company was revamped to become more specialized, in line with what the head contractors were most interested in and best at doing. In the long run, it will increase its market share in a specific type of construction.

Rodney woke up one morning to find that twenty years had passed, and he was happier and more relaxed than he ever remembered before he came to the desert. He walked out to the barn and saddled up Becky, the granddaughter of Betsy, the horse he had ridden to his future. They rode down the road the way he had ridden to the house so many years ago. He wanted to see the saguaro again.

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The Once Remembered Rake

1/6/2023

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You remember that old rake?’
“Yeah, I sure do.” He nodded yes as they sorted all the stuff in the garage.
“You tried to hit me over the head with it.”
“I did not!’
June grinned as the memory of their first fall and raking leaves out front of their new house came back to her. She leaned partially against the garage doorframe and on the blue rake.
Jake saw her and dropped the box he’d just picked up. He walked over, put his arms around her, and hugged and kissed her neck lightly.
“Hey, it’s okay, hun. We both knew this was coming.” June sighed and placed her hand over his, letting the old blue rake fall against the wall.
“Yeah, I know, but…” she paused, “we’ve been here for so long.”
“I know, thirty years, but you know it’s time to let go.”
“It’s never time to let go.”
Jake nodded yes silently, but in his heart, he knew they had to give up the old place. It was far more than either of them could take care of anymore, and he felt like it was time for a change, but this wasn’t the change he had in mind.
They returned to the task at hand, clearing out the garage for the moving men to use when they started to move their belongings into storage.
The back shelf boxes reminded him they’d had a good life here—old Christmas tree decorations, board games not played in ages, and boxes and boxes of old papers. He didn’t dare peek into any of them, knowing that it would upset June to see them again. So, he carefully labeled them and marked them for the movers to put into storage.
The grandkids would get a kick out of the old games. Grandkids—now that was a thought. The idea that their kids now had kids made him feel even older and more useless. He knew he wasn’t useless, but that didn’t stop the feeling from occurring now and again.
The last few years were hard on June, and it was just too much to take care of her and keep himself going these days. Their older son would move into the house as they needed more space than their other children.
And now that was the big question. They’d always been together, and the idea of not seeing her every night tore at him. But he knew, even if she didn’t anymore, that she needed care he could never give her. The decision to place her in a nursing home was difficult. He would live with his son and family. Part of him knew it was for the best of both of them, but, dammit, he thought he could take care of her. He couldn’t.
~~~

Several weeks later, Jake and June’s lives evolved once more. June was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and he moved her into a nursing home specializing in working with Alzheimer’s patients. Jake settled comfortably into his middle son’s spare bedroom and quickly remembered what it was to live with a teenager.
Every day he visited the home to see June. Some days her face lit up as she remembered him, and they could talk for hours about the kids and their life together. But it became harder and harder for him to go every day as the days she knew him became fewer and fewer.
Jake and his children consulted with the doctors, who told them her memory was almost gone. June lived in her own world, and they doubted that she recognized herself. Soon he stopped coming as often as there was no point. She didn’t know him, and it only shattered his heart to see her like this.
~~~
It was late spring, Jake continued living at his son’s house, and things had gone much smoother than he’d expected. He and his grandson grew to be friends. He took him fishing and hunting or spinning the vinyl records he gave him, to the chagrin of his family. His grandson liked Miles Davis as much as he did.
Jake had to admit that he was doing okay until he thought of June. Then he couldn’t stand himself. It wasn’t fair that he had a good life, but she lay in a bed, not remembering her life. The last time he’d seen her, he didn’t recognize the small fail body on the bed. He could barely look at her. He left the building crying and had never been back.
Molly Kane was an old friend of theirs and June’s best friend. Now a widow, Molly had visited June over the last several months, and they’d gone together numerous times. June didn’t recognize either of them.
After visiting, they often stopped at a small cafe near the nursing home to drink coffee and reminisce about their glory days. Soon he found himself spending time with Molly. It occurred to him one day that he had feelings for her but put them aside. He was too old. Too old to have feelings for anyone, and what about June? Then his alter ego spoke up. I’m old, not dead, and as for June, I’ll always love her and miss her, but Molly is here and now, and she understands me. Right now, I need that. He convinced himself and never looked back.
After June slipped into the next world, Jake and Molly grieved for the woman they both loved. Both realized that they were alive and loved and needed each other. After a mourning period, Jake and Molly moved in together and happily lived the remainder of their lives.
But Jake always knew the day would come when he joined June, his true love, in the next world.

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Old Secrets

2/10/2022

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The cool breeze coming off the lake made me shiver. I was hauling the canoe onto the beach, and I’d forgotten how heavy it was out of the water. It was an exhausting chore.

The trees lining the lake bank hid the crumbling mansion on the hilltop. The trek through the woods to the old house took longer than I imagined. But then I reminded myself I wasn’t a kid anymore and climbing through underbrush and weeds was a kids’ game, not an exercise for a middle-aged man.

Nature had reclaimed the road leading to the estate long ago, and at present, the only way to the estate was by water. I followed the deer trails up the small hill to the house from the shore. The trek proved as tough on my body as wrestling with the canoe.

The view on the plateau where the estate stood reminded me of days past. Looking around the grounds, I found the remains of the carriage house that once housed a Duesenberg and a Packard. Closing my eyes, I could almost hear the roar of the cars’ big engines as they prepared for a trip into town. Private collectors purchased the cars years ago when the family no longer required them.

My grandfather closed the estate in the early 1940s just as the war was heating up. Rumors were floating about in the family as to why he left the business and closed the mansion. I had heard them, but I suspected something else was going on. There were holes in the story, and no one ever talked about his affairs with his private secretaries and their sudden disappearances.

The intervening eighty years had not been kind to the building. The winds and rains had long since made their way into open windows and doors, and the roof was down to bare wood in places. I spotted the caretaker’s cottage not far behind the main building. Considering the house’s condition, no one had been serving as caretaker for a long time.

***

My family never acknowledged the existence of the old estate. Most of the younger generations likely didn’t know it existed. I didn’t know until recently. Only when my estranged uncle passed away did I learn about the estate.

My grandfather, deceased before my uncle, left a codicil to be opened upon my uncle’s death. My uncle’s will left everything to his family as expected, and there wasn’t much.

But my grandfather’s codicil to his will stipulated that the estate goes to the oldest surviving of his grandchildren at the time of his brother’s death. That was me. My older sister had passed a few years ago, and my younger brothers were several years behind me. That left me to inherit an estate I didn’t know existed.

I did a great deal of research and discovered the family bought the land and began building the house in the early 1900s. The back tax bill was substantial, and the value was in the property itself, not the building. So, razing the whole thing and selling the land was suggested to clear the taxes and get out from under the entire thing. With the sudden interest in the old property, an overeager tax collector feared that if they couldn’t get the money for the back taxes from a sale, they would come after me now that I owned it. I was in danger of having them foreclose on the property and my company to clear the debt. So, selling the property was becoming a viable option to get the government off my back. But there was still a part of me that hesitated. The house held family history, and I couldn’t let it go without trying to keep it.

Before deciding what to do, I needed to see the property, and here I was. I walked to the caretaker’s cottage, which had fared slightly better than the main building but was still unusable. The carriage house was a shell of its former self. The large bays that once held elegant and powerful cars and large fancy carriages before that was now a shell covering many piles of ruins and debris and tools left to rust and rot. If there were anything of value to save, it would be the main building.

Standing on the porch, I could imagine the days when it had been a glorious place to spend a Sunday afternoon in the summer sun. Looking over the lawn, I could almost see the lake below. Back then, I probably could have. Untrimmed trees and weeds had taken over the far edge of the lawns, obscuring any view of the lake below.

I walked inside and found it as bad as I’d imagined. Only remnants of the original inlaid woodwork remained. I could see the bones of the room and how well laid out the building had been in its time. The original electric fixtures still hung in many rooms. The kitchen still had the original cast iron sink, and the refrigerator with the compressor on top sat in the far corner.

On the second floor, I found an office. My grandfather’s, I presumed. The wood wainscotting peeled from the walls around the big French doors that had once led to a small sitting porch that overlooked the front lawn. His large wooden desk sat in the middle of the room, flanked by several club chairs whose leather covering had long ago deteriorated, now cracked and faded. Looking around the room, I poked through the books on the two shelves that flanked the door to the room. Some were fiction. Many were business and reference books.

I dared to sit in his chair behind his desk. Looking over the room from his view, I imagined myself the captain of the empire and considered what he’d do now. Reaching down, I opened a random drawer in the desk to find a ledger. Opening it, I read the records of his business, and the numbers he dealt in astonished me. Where had the money gone?

I sat there for a moment. My background in construction told me it would cost a fortune to rebuild this place to its former glory. There had to be a reason to justify all the time and expense and headache that restoring the estate would cost. So far, I hadn’t found it. I wished the profits recorded in the ledger were available.

I spent the rest of the day going over every room, taking pictures, and making notes. It was getting late, and I wanted to return to the marina before dark. I sat on the porch and debated with myself. I couldn’t afford this project, and no one in the family would back me on it. Having resigned myself to the prescribed fate, I headed back inside one last time.

I stood in the foyer and pictured it as it was in its glory days. Taking a few more pictures, I headed back down to the boat. I made it to the dock before sunset.

After supper, I retired to my office to go over my pictures and notes and decided I needed more information. Over the next few weeks, I spent numerous hours researching my grandfather, his businesses, and where all the money had gone. I made several more trips back to the estate, and each time I brought back more papers, ledgers, and documents, hoping to piece together exactly what had happened then.

Meanwhile, the family was pressuring me about selling the property. I refused. Telling them that I couldn’t until I knew more about the history and what happened to it. What I didn’t tell them was I’d already pretty much decided not to sell. I wanted to find a reason and a way to save it.

The codicil in his will, presented only with his brother’s will, made me wonder. Why that specific brother and why now after all these years? There had to be a reason he’d kept it a secret all this time.

***

On one of my visits, when I was going through the old bookcases in the office, I accidentally opened a secret panel in the wall. The compartment was small and well hidden. Inside, a stack of files marked “Eyes Only” and “Classified.” Going through the files, I discovered the true history of the estate during the war.

Not only had it been used as a training ground for special operations. But more importantly, it had been a secret meeting place for Churchill, Monty, and other Big Wigs during the war, with details showing security and the staff listed in a separate file. The government compensated my grandfather for his service to the country. I found a set of documents from a Swiss bank, giving the bearer who could prove he was related to my grandfather access to an account. An account that had been sitting gathering interest for over eighty years.

Now I understood why he had closed the place down in the early 1940s. The estate was close to London, but the importance of the location had never dawned on me. During the war, an area so secluded and near London was valuable, and the government used the estate as a clandestine meeting place for top brass during the war.

I knew all about the Officials Secrets Act and how you couldn’t talk about what you did during the war. This explained why he could never explain why he’d suddenly shut the estate down during the war. As for not reopening it afterward, I still didn’t understand. But at least now I had some answers to the questions.

More importantly, I had the possible means to have the place restored. It also explained the codicil with my uncle’s will. My uncle must have known about the arrangement, and while he was alive, he couldn’t talk about it. But once the last living person who knew about it was gone and those who signed the agreement were gone, the Act no longer applied.

I spent several weeks authenticating documents and confirming signatures, names, and dates. While that was happening, I had the road back up the hill to the estate cleared, and access to the estate reopened. To my surprise, my family loved the idea of restoring the estate once they knew there was money and a bit of history behind the property. I suspect it was the money.

Once confirmed as the rightful heir, I took a trip to Switzerland and the bank. Presenting the original notice and my supporting documents, the bank granted me access to the account. The numbers in the account staggered me.

It had not been a large sum when it opened up, but interest over eighty years had accrued compounding yearly and never touched, and it had become a fortune. The money from the account was more than enough to settle the back taxes on the estate. Plus, I now had seed money to restore the property to its original state.

Suddenly a separate set of government officials were interested in the property and me. Over the next ten years, I received grants and other funding to help restore the estate. Soon I retired from my regular work and managed the estate full time.

On weekends, we gave tours and talked about the secret history of the place. There were some who still thought that old secrets should stay buried. In some ways, I agreed with them. But these secrets helped save the free world eighty years ago, and now they saved my family.

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Family Tradition

6/30/2021

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The old radio brought back memories.

Deep in the recess of his mind, he remembered hearing the old music blaring from the speaker of his grandfather’s radio. Today music played on gadgets that did things that would shock his grandfather. Sometimes, it shocked him.

Turning on the old radio, he fiddled with the dial. Eventually, the static became sounds, and music from his grandfather’s favorite radio filled the air. However, now, the station played, not the big band music of bygone times, but something his grandson called hip-hop spilled from the speakers. Whatever it was, he hated it and switched it off imminently.

“At least it still works.” He leaned back in the old chair and closed his eyes.

Memories from another time came floating back to him. The image of his grandfather sitting in the very chair he sat in smoking a pipe, the aroma of cherry tobacco drifting with the smoke. As he pounded away on the keys of a typewriter, the radio would be playing Glenn Miller or Tommy Dorsey. His dad sat in the chair in later years, tunes Count Basie and Ella Fitzgerald drifted from that old radio. He had listened to Maynard Ferguson, Herbie Mann, and Buddy Rich. The good old days of music.

It occurred to him that he must have been about the same age as his youngest grandson was now when he stood in the office, nervous and in awe of his grandfather. The memories hung around after more than half a century of living. Now he was almost as old as his grandfather would have been at the time.

He gazed about the old office while idly playing with the glass tumbler that sat on the desk. His grandfather and father, and he drank from that tumbler as they wrote, he chuckled, their ‘masterpieces.’ It was a permanent fixture on the desk, as was the bottle of whisky or rye, or whatever the drink of the week was. He had stopped drinking decades ago but found comfort by the presence of a familiar habit.

He bore the name of his father and grandfather—Franklin James Reed, but he was now the oldest living Franklin James and had carried the nickname FJ from childhood. A good thing because everyone knew who he was.

He chuckled. “Yeah, everyone knows who I am, but do I?” That was the question he asked himself daily.

Straightening up in the chair, he gazed about the old office. It was much like a time capsule, and the deeper you looked into the long narrow room, the further you traveled back in time. The trophies and artifacts of three long careers filled every nook and cranny. The room was longer than wide and felt more like stepping into a hallway that dead-ended with a shelved cabinet against the back wall.

At least a dozen typewriters, cameras, and old film projectors sat on the shelves. Three lifetimes of work crammed into an office. One electric typewriter, his, sat among the older versions, a small contribution to the “museum,” as he called the office.

His grandfather sat up the office in the latter part of the 1930s when he started working for the London Times and freelancing for the wire services. After the war, he began writing books, eventually becoming a bestselling author. Several of his books turned into movies in the 1960s. After his grandfather’s death, his father had taken over the office and used it for his writing.

While his Grandfather wrote stories of spies and the government agencies of his days, his father told a different kind of tale. His books were about the everyday man and his struggle to cope with a changing world. He also wrote a few spy novels. FJ’s father’s books sold well, with two movies made from his books. Not as successful as his grandfather, but enough to give his father much the same credibility his grandfather had earned.

He, too, had followed the family tradition and became an author of spy novels as well. His best and most significant creation had been the detective series he’d created in the sixties. Eventually, it became a series and a movie. The royalties had paid for the restoration of the estate. He renovated the entire house except for the “museum.” He wanted the room as he had always remembered it, faded wallpaper, drapes, and worn carpet with the lingering scent of smoke, coffee, and whiskey.

FJ ran his fingertips along the face of the radio as memories flooded his mind. Toward the end of his life, his grandfather had asked him to write a book with him. He had done so, but his grandfather’s style was archaic to him as a young writer. He had not enjoyed the process but and vowed to never co-write with anyone again. But after grandfather Franklin passed, FJ’s father found his last unfinished manuscript in one of the drawers. Together, FJ and his dad spend the next six months finishing the book, a challenge neither of them would forget. They thought they would never write together again, but they started a new project together a year later. That effort went well and the critical response better than expected, so they wrote more books together over the next several years. Then his father passed away some years before, and he was writing alone again.

He picked up a photo of his children and grandchildren that sat on the desk. His family rarely visited the old estate. His children and grandchildren had shown no interest in writing or any creative endeavor. Instead, they focused their lives on technology and many of the trapping that went with it. He thought about all the words written within this old room and the stories that he had yet to tell, but the three generations of writers in the family would end when he passed.

Lost in thought, FJ jumped when a quiet knock on the door interpreted his reprieve. Who was here? He wasn’t expecting anyone. Turning the chair to face the room, he found his voice.

“Hello?”

The door squeaked as it swung open a crack. “Grandpa?” He recognized the voice of his oldest grandchild Lewis Reed.

“Yes, please come in” He straightened up in his chair and leaned forward on the desk.

The door opened slowly, and Lewis walked in slowly. “Grandpa, I wanted to show you this. I—I wrote it.” He had a sheaf of papers in his hand.

“Come here. I don’t bite. Please show me.” Lewis gingerly held out the papers for him, and he eagerly took them.

“It’s a story. I wrote it.” Lewis repeated.

“Mmmm, yes, I see that.”

Energy returned to his old bones as he read the story while Lewis stood in front of the desk nervously shifting his weight from one foot to another and looking around the room.

When he finished, FJ looked up over the papers at his grandson. “It has good bones. There’s a good story in here, but it needs work. If you’d like, I’d love to help you work on it and teach you.”

Lewis shook his head yes, as a big grin spread across his face.

“Lewis, You were scared to show me.”

Again only a nod in response.

“I don’t blame you. Your great-granddad, granddad, and then me are all successful writers. Understandably, you were scared to try.” He pointed to the chair. “Sit down, Lewis. Don’t be scared of me. I’m old, but I’m not fragile. If your writing weren’t good, I’d have said so. The truth of the matter is I wasn’t always that good. I sucked a lot, sometimes my stuff still sucks, but I keep writing. You’ve already done the hard part. You showed it to me.”

FJ glanced over at his grandfather Franklin James Reed’s old radio. He needed to get that radio refurbished. Maybe new speakers need to play some Hip-Hop for his grandson to enjoy. After all, that radio is part of the family tradition.

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The Way Home

5/11/2021

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The sound of seagulls and water lapping against the edges of the sand brought him back to reality. Shifting around in the low beach chair, he found muscles he had forgotten about had fallen asleep. His bones cracked and popped as he extracted himself from the rickety beach chair.

The faded picture burned a hole in his pocket, reminding him why he was sitting on a beach in the middle of the day—a picture of happier days on the beach. She lived in the beach house a short distance from the public beach. He could see the house from where he was sitting, but he hadn’t spotted her yet. Soon it would be too dark to watch the house from the beach.

It had been some time since he’d seen her. Far more years than either of them would care to admit—or count. He had to see her one more time. Just one more time before it happened, but would she see him? He didn’t know, but he had to try.

The doctor’s words kept repeatedly playing in the back of his mind like an old eight-track stuck on repeat play. But this wasn’t a song he knew by heart or loved. He valued each word now, for he knew what was coming in the next few years. His grandfather lingered from the same illness, and now at his age, the prospects of his lasting long were small.

Closing his eyes, he pushed his mind back through the decades. Time passed before him—his wedding, their first child being born, and many happy experiences between them. Then the flash of lighting as two cars collided and the echoes of the sounds of metal and steel impaling each other always barged into his memory. For a second, he smelled the gas just before it exploded into a fireball. So real he could feel the ground shake under him pushed the memory back in the depths where he wanted it to stay. But it never did. Periodically, it would flash in his eyes, and he was back there again.

Over the last few months, the memories had started resurfacing more frequently and more vibrantly. Each time they became clearer and more real. A couple of times, he hadn’t been able to tell what was real and what wasn’t. It scared the hell out of him.

The doctors tested him several times and then him to more doctors who tried medications. He couldn’t remember what he had for breakfast, but he could remember stuff from years ago as if it was yesterday. Then they gave him the diagnosis.

The word rang in his ears like a death toll—Alzheimer’s.

This would be his last chance to make peace with her before he faded into the nothingness that was this disease that ravaged his mind. His aged body often refused to work or let him do things, and he could live with that, but his mind was slowly leaving him was something he couldn’t live with, at least not alone.

The signs were already present. Yesterday, he had forgotten the name of his best friend, who he’d seen every day for fifty years. He was a stranger to him until he heard his friend’s name, and then he barely remembered him. It scared him even more than the prospect of messing his pants and not knowing it.

So, while he could remember her, he came to see her. She had blamed him for the crash. He’d been driving, but he tried to tell her all these years that he never saw the other car. It wasn’t there when he pulled into the street. Then it was.

The other car didn’t stop and plowed into the passenger’s side and killed his wife instantly and almost killing him.

He’d wished it had killed him. Ironic that now he was getting his wish. The disease was killing him, slowly, one brain cell at a time.

He sat on the beach near her house for hours, trying to work up the courage to knock on her door. Each day was a little longer, and he knew he was wasting precious time. Finally, he’d had enough—time to do this.

The house and yard were neat, but small toys, the kind that a two-year-old plays with and leaves where they land, littered the front porch. The toys belonged to his grandson, who he hadn’t seen since he’d been born. She’d barely let him see him at the time. Now two years later, he was here again.

At times like this, he wished he drank. Some liquid courage sounded good, but he knew better. He’d seen what booze could do to a person. It wasn’t pretty. It could be pretty devastating for all involved, so he left it alone. It wasn’t his way out.

Breathing deeply one more and counting to ten to himself, he knocked.

The sounds of a television playing a children’s show came through the door. Then the sound lowered, and he heard the bustle of toys shoved out of the way. The door opened.

“Sarah.”

She stood in the half-open door leaning against the doorframe. “Dad,” He nodded, shifting from one foot to the other. “What are you doing here?”

“I came,” he paused looking for words, “to see you and Billy one more time.”

A puzzled look crossed Sarah’s face. “One more time?” She stood straighter and appeared concerned, but she had still not invited him inside.

He pulled a paper from inside his jacket and handed it to her, then shoved his hands in his pocket. “This explains it better than I can.”

She read the letter and her expression changed instantly from irritation to concern. “Alzheimer’s?” She muttered more to herself than to him. “Dad… I don’t know what to say.”

“There was no reason for you to say anything. I just found out myself not long ago and wanted you to know.”

She handed him the paper and opened the door the rest of the way. “Come in, Dad, we need to talk.”

He came in past her. The living room was a sea of toys and clothes, and the sound of TV droned in the background. She hurried to an easy chair and tossed a pile of clothes from it.

“Here. Sit down, Dad. Would you like some coffee?”

He sat in the newly cleared chair and nodded yes. “Yes, some coffee would be good, but only if you have it ready.”

She hurried into the kitchen. While he waited, he tried to think what to say next.
He saw a picture of Sarah, his wife, and him on the mantle, and all he could think was now there are only two of us.

Well, three now, with Billy. He closed his eyes, and the lights flashed in his mind again. The crunch of metal colliding rang in his ears, and for a second, he saw her face, a split second before everything went black from the impact. The surprise and pain engraved in his mind. The one memory he wished this damned Alzheimer’s would take away from him kept returning no matter how much he tried to forget it.

Sarah returned in a minute with two cups of coffee. Billy remained enthralled with a cartoon on the television, hadn’t noticed what happened. Suddenly he realized there was someone else in the room. Turning, he looked up. His eyes widened with surprise.

“This is your grandpa, Billy. You were too little to remember when he was here before.”

Billy seemed to think having a grandpa was a good thing. He jumped up. “Grandpa!!”

In seconds Billy was trying to climb into his lap. He balanced his coffee cup and pulled Billy onto his knee. Sarah had pushed a spot clear on the couch and sat near them.

“Dad, I don’t know what to say..”

“There’s not much to say, Sarah. I’m losing my marbles. Officially now….” He tried to make it a joke, but neither of them laughed.

Eh, how bad is it?”

“Well, at the moment, I still know what I’m doing most of the time. I took a cab here because I wasn’t sure I’d remembered the exact address.”

“It’s been too long.”
“I know.” He sipped his coffee, and they continued in silence while Billy squirmed on his lap and played with his toy.

“Your mother—I’m sorry.”

“I know. I know you didn’t see the other car.” She sipped more coffee.

“I… I tried to tell you..”

“You did, and I didn’t believe you. I wanted someone to blame, and for that, I’m sorry. I’ve been thinking that and was planning on contacting you. Dad, what can I do to make it up to you?” She shifted so that she faced him from her end of the couch.
.
“You’re doing it, hun. I just needed to see if you could forgive me.”

“I always loved you, Dad, but... I’m so sorry I blamed you. It wasn’t your fault. Listen, you shouldn’t be on your own. I have room here if you can put up with Billy.”

“No, I wouldn’t want to put you out, and you shouldn’t have to deal with this.”

“Dad, it’s no bother. I shouldn’t have pushed you away. I was wrong. Billy needs to get to know you, and I need my dad.”

“If you want me, I would love to come here and live.”

Billy looked back and forth between them, puzzled at the tears in his mother’s eyes.

“Mommy, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, hun, everything’s right again.” Sarah went to them and pulled Billy and her Dad as close she could.

Through his tears, he knew this was a moment he would never forget.

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