Our youngest graduated from college last May and since then I've been thinking about my own college days.  One amazing story remains alive in my memory.  It goes like this…

During the spring of 1979 I was enjoying my first semester at Flagler College in St. Augustine, Florida.  St. Augustine, the oldest city in the United States, is a picture-postcard in natural beauty and old world architecture.

On this particular day, the warm sun shone brightly in the mid-day sky and the salty breeze blowing in from the Atlantic invigorated my stroll along the bay front.  With the historic Bridge of Lions to my back I paced northward on the walkway along Avenida Menendez.  The formidable three-hundred-year-old fort, Castillo de San Marcos, loomed ahead at the end of the walkway.

I paused to soak in the splendor of it all.  As I looked to the east toward the blue Atlantic, I noticed the stately homes dotting the shoreline of Anastasia Island.  In stark contrast, across the channel leading to the open sea, sandy Vilano Point lay barren and lifeless.  Beyond, the open Atlantic rolled and broke in frothy combers.

A ketch glided into the cut from the ocean.  The crew busied themselves trimming sail as the skipper steered the helm.  I pondered what it was like to enter the channel in days of old.

Suddenly, the irregular clip-clop of an old spavined mare shook me back to the present.  Turning toward the street, I saw a horse-drawn carriage pulling to the curb.  Well, I guess you could call it a horse, as the old nag barely qualified belonging to the equine family.

The sway-back mare was donned in an old straw hat, her ears drooped through two holes on the sides.  Pinned to the hat, a fresh yellow flower waved in the breeze.  All the while, the driver, an aged African-American man, wearing an old straw fedora sporting an identical flower, conversed sweetly to the old nag as if it were his sweetheart.  She obeyed his gentle commands.  It was plain to see that he loved the old horse.  They were a team.

To the relief of the nag, the ancient driver stopped the carriage and after winding the reins around the handbrake he struggled in dismounting the buggy.  He limped to the mare, patting her neck affectionately.  Reaching into a coat pocket, he grabbed a handful of oats, and held them out to the nag who sniffed once then gobbled the oats, cleaning the man's weather-beaten hand.

The old man looked out over the bay scanning the enormous beauty set before him.  He turned to me and smiled through a worn yet gentle visage where I spotted etchings of a painful life.  Times must have been very hard for him, growing up in the south where Jim Crow ruled and civil rights broiled.

"Ain't it a beautiful day?" he hailed in a gentle, gravelly voice.  "Good day to be alive!"

I nodded, but before I could respond verbally, an elderly couple approached the old driver desiring a ride in his carriage.  He bowed humbly.  After helping the lady into the buggy, the driver labored as he climbed into the driver's seat where his leathery hands unwound the reins from the brake.  He mumbled some affectionate words to his old nag.  She dutifully responded and slowly labored away from the curb.

The friendly old driver winked at me, tipping the brim of his fedora.  I waved back watching the driver as he guided his beloved old spavined mare towards the fort.

 

With the echoing of the horse's irregular hoof-beats fading in the distance I realized that no college class could possibly teach the lesson I just learned.

Nylon Trees

In my second blog posting I submit the prologue of my new eBook, Nylon Trees.

It all started on a gorgeous summer day in Portland.  For months the desire burned inside me to spend more time with people, to get involved in others' lives, thus removing the selfish focus on myself.  So I found the competitive diamond of the local T-ball league to my liking.  The year was 1978, and at 22 years of age, I still had no blessed idea what I wanted to do with my life.  But I knew that working with these wild kids was a start in the right direction.  I was pretty good at baseball when a kid, thus I felt confident I could help them hone their skills.  Coaching positions in all the older leagues were easily filled, so I took what was available - five and six-year-old maniacs who never listened and did only what was in their mind.  But I loved them all the same.

The sun was warm and the darkly forested West Hills dramatically outlined the western horizon.  To the east, snow-capped Mt. Hood towered in the distance recalling fond memories when T.J. and I spent countless weekends backpacking on her icy slopes.  I missed T.J.  He moved to the flat and innocuous mid-west to attend seminary.  Yes, a fitting profession for the best brother I could have ever asked for.  Well, I guess I had two best brothers.

On this auspicious day, I was coaching third base, facing the wide Columbia River, when Chucky approached the plate.  Chucky, with his adorable ubiquitous grin, checked me for signs, although he never paid any attention to my instruction.  As was his custom Chucky enthusiastically jack-hammered home plate with his bat, which as usual, struck fear in the hearts of his fearful opponents.  That is, until they saw him bat.

Chucky was different from other kids, but never admitted it.  To him all things were possible even though he obviously suffered physically, being many years behind his peers in both physical and mental development.  But Chucky never gave up!  He was a battler.

Chucky addressed the plate in his usual manner as he eyed me for his obligatory signs.  I rubbed my chest, pulled at the brim of my cap, scratched my armpit and stuck my right index finger in my ear.  He responded with his sweet trademark grin as I clapped my hands.

"Drive the ball up the center, Chucky," I encouraged.

Chucky's teammates were yelling at him not to mess up again.

I tried to keep Chucky positive while the umpire teed up the ball.

Chucky pounded the dirt with his bat, gritted his teeth, then wound up like Babe Ruth and swatted the ball across the ground to the shortstop.  Chucky threw the bat behind him, and since he wound up facing third base on the follow through of his swing, headed straight for me.

"Other way, Chucky!" I screamed, my arms waving wildly.  "Run to first base!"

But I could see the determination in Chucky's red face and he would settle for nothing less than making it to third base.

In the meantime, the shortstop scooped up the grounder and darted across the infield toward first base stomping on the bag in a taunting victory dance, like a trash-talking professional football player.

"Out!" yelled the umpire looking at Chucky with his thumb jutted upward in the air.

Chucky looked at me, wondering what happened.

"Wow, Chucky, good running!  Next time run to first base, remember."

I patted his shoulder reassuringly.

"Good job, Chucky.  Nice hit.  You're really coming along."

I followed Chucky as he trudged toward the dugout dejected.  His angry teammates glared at him as he entered the gate.  But he just grinned back.

"Did you see me hit that ball?"

"You ran the wrong way!" shot a condescending voice from within the mob.

Chucky plopped down on the bench while his teammates parted as if the down-trodden boy had some catchy disease.  It was like the parting of the Red Sea.

A large fir tree waved in the gentle afternoon breeze reminding me of Mikey's nylon trees.

"Retard!" one boy declared as he stomped off.

I stopped dead in my tracks.  It was as if I had uttered that ugly word myself.  A painful memory!  Truth is, I had.

 

 

If you enjoyed reading Nylon Trees prologue the entire book can be purchased for $3.99 at the following online eBook distributors:

 

Apple

Barnes & Noble

Diesel

Kobo

Sony

 

Or purchased directly from my publisher at:  www.smashwords.com

 

Father's Day Tribute

In January I lost my father.  So, in honor of Father's Day, I offer the following tribute to my Dad, Richard Loderhose, my hero.

My right hand gently caressed my Dad's shoulder.  He lay unresponsive in the hospital bed Mom had set up in the TV room, his favorite room in the house.  Mom, sitting across the bed from me, gripped Dad's hand ever so tightly like it was part of her own body.  My older siblings flanked her on both sides and tears flowed freely down their sad, drawn faces.

"This is it," I contemplated.  "After this day, I will no longer have an earthly father."

The thought clanged my inner being all the way to my soul.  After sitting up with him all night we sensed his time grew near.  My Dad meant so much to me.  He always had.  And, after a courageous four-year battle with cancer, the insidious disease finally caught up with him ravaging his body.  Now his breathing grew quite shallow, his closed eyes sunk further in their sockets and his cheeks hollowed and faded in color.  He looked so emaciated, totally opposite from the strong vibrant man I remembered.

As a child, many evenings were spent in our front yard playing football or softball.  The neighborhood kids were always ecstatic when Dad eagerly joined our game.  Athletically he always performed well and strong.  One day Dad played quarterback while I trailed him as halfback.  He turned and stuffed the ball into my gut then blocked for me.  But the oncoming defense consisted of boys much older than me.  They were huge and I was tiny.  Thinking my short life was over I contemplated retreat when Dad suddenly plucked me from the ground as if he were uprooting a tree.  He carried me like I was the football and broke through the wall of defenders.  We scored a touchdown, thus winning the game.

Dad was always there for me, no matter my age or circumstance.  When times were tough with a girlfriend or any other all-consuming teenage life catastrophe, he fearlessly jumped in and took me steelhead fishing, skeet shooting or jackrabbit hunting where we could talk.  Tromping over the desert hills and returning home with the strong herbal scent of sagebrush permeating my jeans proved just the panacea I needed.  To this day the aroma of sage reminds me of Dad and his special love for me.  He freely gave me his most precious commodity, his time.

Men like my father quietly plodded through daily life loving his wife and kids dearly, and making sure those he came in contact with were treated with respect and never in want of necessities.  He will always be my hero.

In 2009, he was diagnosed with cancer.  He endured sickening chemo treatments, painful radiation burns and numerous involved surgeries.  But he never complained, stating he would beat this disease.  He nearly did.  His last four years were steeped in pain, but he endured each agonizing step with an encouraging smile and the strong hope that someday he would be cancer-free.

Dad's breathing grew irregular.  He struggled with one final gasp then released a long, slow exhalation.  He was gone.  I tightened my grip on his shoulder.  My older brother and sister wept telling Dad how much they loved him.  Mom cried quietly, gripping Dad's lifeless hand harder.

"I'm so sorry," she whimpered, "I couldn't help you beat this.  Please forgive me."

Tears streamed down my cheeks.  I bent over and kissed my Dad's forehead.

"Until we meet again, Dad," I whispered.  "I will never forget you."