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The Once Remembered Rake

1/6/2023

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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The Once Remembered Rake

Old Secrets

Family Tradition

The Way Home

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