The Train Solution

He didn't like it at all. Not one little bit, the way the young couple on their fancy bikes were smiling and looking so over-the-top happy. Look at her, dressed for the cool fall weather in a dark blue top and purple sleeveless insulated vest and her black tights with lavender, pink and white swirls. So nauseatingly perky and cheerful. And the guy pedaling behind her, with his stupid grin and super white teeth that even from where he watched across the street, seemed to gleam unnaturally - what was the deal with him, anyway? They were both bothering the hell out of him and he figured he knew exactly what that irritating happiness was all about. Probably had sex last night and then again this morning, he thought to himself, feeling only the tiniest twinge of envy, well bully for them. Then out for a bicycle ride in the late afternoon sunshine, with their lovemaking afterglow on display for all to see...it was starting to make him sick.

            Grumbling, Jack Tremaine got out of his car, beeped it locked and walked to the corner where he waited impatiently for the light to change. He glared at the traffic streaming by from both directions, daring each and every driver to look at him so he could stare back and mentally give them a good piece of his mind. None did. What a bunch of cowards, he thought to himself, inwardly smirking. He would have easily shown them who was boss.

            When the light turned green, he crossed the street and went into the little coffee shop on the corner called The Chicken Scratch Cafe which was the most idiotic name for a place to sit and drink coffee that he could ever imagine, but there you had it. There was no accounting for some people's taste when it came to putting their creativity (or lack of it) on display for all to see. But he and Lynn used to frequent the cafe on a regular basis, so what the hell, he sighed, and tried not to let it bug him. But deep down it still did.

            "I'll have a mug of English Breakfast, please," he told the young, eyebrow pieced, ear studded, androgynous looking guy behind the counter. "And one of those gluten free peanut butter cookies while you're at it," he added, seeing a cellophane wrapped stack of his old time favorites on a plate off to the side. Then he silently counted under his breath while the guy decided at that very moment to begin telling the young woman he worked with about the 'Wicked cool night' he'd had last night. On and on he yapped at his co-worker (wasn't she supposed to be working instead of sitting around listening to this idiot babble like an out of control bubble making machine?), regaling her with his observations on life and music at some stupid bar he'd been to. Here it was nearly three in the afternoon and the goofball probably had just gotten up and stumbled into work, still hung-over. God, the incompetence of some people.

            "That'll be six-fifteen," the kid said, while still talking to her. He hadn't yet made eye contact with Jack.  

            Man, what a..., Jack thought himself, tossing down seven dollars and unable to come up with a comment derogatory enough to do justice to complete his observation. Normally he would have said to keep the change, but he was in a foul mood, and he tapped his fingers on the counter impatiently waiting for his money, smirking to himself when it appeared the kid had trouble coming up the how much was owed.

            "It's eight-five cents, pal," Jack said, feeling for a moment like kind of a jerk, but it quickly passed. So what, anyway? Why should he even care about some bonehead who couldn't count, couldn't make change and only cared about partying until all hours of the morning when he should be paying attention to good, honest paying customers like himself? There ought to be a law.

            "Yeah, right," the kid said, reddening a little on his neck, handing him three quarters and a dime, "Gottcha."

            "Geez, there is no hope for this world," Jack muttered under his breath, taking his tea and his cookie and making his way to a tiny table for two by the window.

            The coffee shop was small and looked out onto the corner at the intersection of two busy streets in a quaint, older residential neighborhood in southwest Minneapolis. Jack and Lynn liked to come to it after browsing in the used bookstore next door. They'd get some books, come to The Chicken Scratch, grab a table, have tea and a snack and talk over their purchases. In fact, this table by the window was their favorite. Often, when they'd finished, they'd go for a walk hand in hand along tree lined sidewalks, enjoying looking at the older, well cared for homes nearby, some of which were built a hundred years earlier. Those were good times. Good times that now were over and done with. Had been for six months, in fact, ever since Lynn had died after a short but intense fight with cancer. He missed her every day. God, what a miserable life. He left his tea untouched as he stared out the window, not registering at thing, his thoughts turned inward to memories of his cherished wife and the life they'd had together.

            Behind the counter, Ryan motioned to Abby. "What's with that guy?"

            "Yeah, the dude was rude, right?" Abby said back to him laughing a little at her joke.

            "I'm serious," he answered. "He's been coming in for a while now by himself. Wonder what happened to the woman he was always with?

            "I remember her," Abby said, suddenly a little embarrassed by her comment. "She was friendly and always wore those long dresses. She told me once she made them herself. They seemed good together."

            "Yeah, reading their books and stuff."

            "What do you think? They split up?"

            "They seem too old for that."

            "Yeah," Abby said, "Something must have happened, though. Kind of sad, right?"

            "Maybe she died," Ryan said, thinking about his grandfather who had recently passed away, less than a year after his wife, Ryan's grandmother, had died.

            "Maybe," Abby added, she too now starting to remember a lost loved one; in this case her father who had died in a car accident when she was only ten.

            Whatever it was with the guy, it got them both thinking: in addition to lost loved ones, they'd each been through romantic break ups. They were never easy, and both of them hoped someday they'd met someone who they could be with for years and years, instead of weeks and weeks. Lost in their thoughts, Ryan and Abby watched the door and their customers, waiting for more business, suddenly both a little sad.

            The guy with the tea and cookie sat at a table by the window looking out to the sidewalk and street beyond, his mug untouched. He was old and gray and had unkempt, stringy hair that hung limp over his collar. He was skinny, unshaven and wore baggy blue jeans and a worn jean jacket over a red flannel shirt. If Ryan and Abby hadn't been seeing him on and off over the previous year and with the nice woman he used to always be with, they'd think right now that he was one step above being a derelict. Maybe half a step. They knew he wasn't but he certainly looked forlorn and down on his luck. 

            "Let's keep an eye on him," Abby suggested, after a few minutes thinking about her father and now trying shake her blue mood.

            "Good idea," Ryan agreed, somewhat distracted, still thinking about his grandparents. He turned to Abby, "Did I ever tell you about my grandfather?"

            Jack was sick of life and sick to death of people telling him that things would get better. He was especially sick of people telling him that you just had to go through Elizabeth Kubler Ross's five stages of grieving - denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. You only needed to be patient and things would eventually turn around and get better. It was all a bunch of crap. He'd held his dear wife in his arms as she passed away in the hospital bed he'd brought in so she could live out the last days of her life in a modicum of comfort in their home - the home they had shared for thirty-seven years, a large part of their forty-seven year marriage. So he didn't deny that she was dead. Nor was he angry, not anymore. It wasn't her fault the cancer had taken her so quickly. Bargaining and depression just seemed like a waste of time and that last stage, acceptance, well what good would that do him? Accept that his wife, his best friend, yes, he could even say his 'soul mate,' if there was such a thing...sure why not accept the fact that she was now gone from his life forever, leaving him unbearably sad and alone and all by himself. Sure, he thought to himself, I accept it. So what?

            He took a sip of his tea, barely tasting it, and sat looking out the window some more. Seeing nothing.

            Ryan and Abby had worked at the cafe for two years, having been hired within a month of each other. He was twenty two and she was twenty five. Where he was thin, almost gangly and liked his piercings, she was short, liked tattoos and had medium length hair she died purple. Each of them favored black clothes. They had developed a friendship over those two years and could talk with each other about almost anything. And they'd waited on lots of customers. Some of them strange. All with a story to tell. The more they watched the guy by the window, the more they wondered about him.

            "You think he's Ok?" Ryan asked. He had just finished getting a coffee to go for a young mother with her infant daughter, who was tucked comfortably into her stroller sound asleep wrapped in a pink blanket with a stuffed bear cuddled to her chest.

            "Hard to say," Abby said, waving good-bye to the mom and her daughter, "Should I go and check on him? See if he's Ok?"

            Ryan grabbed a damp towel and wiped down the counter, thinking. "No, give him some space. Let's just keep an eye on him."

            "Sounds good," Abby said, and she sat down on the stool behind the counter, changing the subject, "So tell me about Mickey Finn's last night. What band was playing? Were they any good?"

            Jack had come out of his quiet reverie and now sipped on his lukewarm tea and nibbled on his cookie while he watched the world on display outside the window, silently seething. God, people are such idiots. Look at that stupid guy with his little dog. He's put a red and white stripped sweater on it, and probably thinking it 'looks so darling' when, in fact, it makes the poor animal look like it belongs in two-bit circus doing back flips and dancing and prancing on its back legs while following around some ridiculous clown with an overblown smile and a honking horn. Nice life for the dog. He shook his head in disgust, his gaze falling on a mother pushing her daughter in a stroller who had just left the cafe. Look at her, drinking that precious coffee while her daughter has nothing. Selfish, selfish, selfish. Nice parenting, he groused to himself.

            Suddenly, he felt a pain in his chest. God, I've got to calm down, he thought, steadying himself with his hand on the table, thinking what Lynn would tell him. She'd say, "Calm down, Jack. They're just people out having a nice time. It's nothing to have a heart attack over." She would be right, of course, but he wasn't willing to admit it to himself, not yet, anyway, and certainly not in the mood he was in.

            The thing he kept running over and over in him mind was this: why not just end it? Why not just check out right now and be done with it all? He knew Lynn would hate the fact that he was thinking this way, and, frankly, he hated the fact that he was thinking this way, but to hell with it - that's just the way it was. Sure he had his kids and grandkids and some friends and his brother and sister; lots of people in his life who he knew loved and cared about him, but they couldn't tip the scale away from the fact that, with Lynn gone, he was now all alone, and, truthfully, what was the point of it all anyway? Everyone else he knew had meaningful lives and someone or something to live for. He did not. He had nothing. He'd spent all of his emotional energy caring for Lynn during her illness and he had nothing left. He was done. Finished. Spent. With Lynn gone there was nothing to live for. Why should he even bother wasting another day breathing air and taking up space? Those stages of grief what's her name talked about? Well, try taking a look at the stages of living for a change. Someone figure that one and tell him about it. Then he might listen. But, seriously, who was he kidding? Nothing was going to help him now, certainly not some fly-by-night, 'Here's the solution to living a better life,' self-help guru who only wanted to make a buck out of suckers looking for an easy answer. Well, it certainly wasn't going to be him. I've got news you, buddy, Jack thought to himself, on a roll now, his thoughts clear and true, I'm not going to fall for any of that BS. Better to end it and make room for someone else. Even those two worthless employees behind the counter. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing them talking and laughing with each other. He shook his head thinking, let them live a few more years and have things start to not always go their way, then we'll see whose laughing. He thought of Lynn and took a deep breath to calm down some more before he really did have a heart attack. But then he thought, so what if I did? Anything was better than this.

            The cars and trucks speeding by outside were hypnotic. The more he watched them, the more it seemed they were telling him something: talking to him. Beckoning him to come outside. Telling him they could take the pain away right now. Forever. It made perfectly good sense to him.

            Back home, thirty miles west in Long Lake, there was a train track that ran near the home he and Lynn had shared all those years. He hardly slept at all anymore, instead often rocking in his rocking chair pretending to read, listening to the sounds of the night - sounds like the trains rumbling by in the wee-wee hours. Lately he had contemplated climbing over the chain link guard fence and working his way through the overgrown embankment thirty feet down to the tracks. He imagined himself getting there a few minutes before the final late night train into the cities was scheduled. He'd lay across the tracks, feel the icy steel on his neck, take deep breath, clear his mind, close his eyes and listen as the train approached from the west. It'd run him over, mercifully and quickly putting an end to it all. It was all so simple, really, and he admired himself for coming up with such an elegant plan. He called it The Train Solution. What stopped him was that he could see Lynn shaking her head No at him, admonishing him to, in her words, 'Be a man and pull yourself together.' Well, Lynn, he thought to himself, easier said than done. He sighed and took a sip of his now cold tea, thinking only one thing: what, really, was the point of going on living at all anymore?

            Ryan turned to Abby, looking concerned, "I'm getting a feeling about that guy," he said, pointing to Jack, "and it's not good. I think there's something up with him."

            Abby had been keeping an eye on him too. He seemed a bit off. "Why don't you go check on him?"

            Ryan looked around the cafe. It wasn't quite half full. In addition to the guy by the window, there was a table with three girls from the local high school who were talking quietly, checking their phones and, in general, having a good time being out on an pleasant October Sunday afternoon. There was a forty year old guy reading the newspaper, drinking a latte and having a scone, and two guys about Ryan's age working together on their laptops, drinking their coffees black. He smiled at Abby, "Think you can handle it?"

            "I'll try," she said, joking with him a little and turning to check on the pastry supply in the cooler. Space back there was tight. She could easily keep an eye of the customers. "Why don't you bring him some more tea on us? Just for the heck of it."

            "Good idea."

            Ryan prepared a fresh mug and went around the counter, wove around two tables and approached the guy by the window. He put a smile on his face, "How's it going today?" And when the guy turned to look at him, asked, "I thought you might like some fresh tea." Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't what he got.

            A movement suddenly caught Jack's attention. He looked up. God, he thought to himself, It's that stupid kid from behind the counter coming at me mouthing off about something. Whatever the kid was selling, Jack didn't want any of it. He jumped to his feet and pushed hard passed Ryan. "Out of my way," he growled, reaching for the door handle.

            Ryan, startled and knocked off balance, dropped the mug and it shattered, hot tea splashing across the floor. He made a move to grab the guy's jacket, but the old man shook him off. "Let me go," he yelled as he pulled open the door, ran through it and started for the street.

            Ryan was mad and almost willing to let the guy go, thinking, Friggin' rude SOB, but something motivated him not to. He remembered suddenly the nice lady that the old guy was usually with. He remembered how they had talked and laughed together having their tea and their snack. He remembered them being happy and smiling. What had happened to them? Maybe she really had died. Maybe the guy really was all alone. He thought of his grandmother and grandfather and how they had passed away within a year of each other and how he missed them both. Maybe he could do something to help this old guy, unpleasant as he may be.

            Ryan moved quickly to get through the door before it closed. He felt the cool October air on his face. He saw the young woman he'd served coffee to sitting on a bench waiting for a bus, her daughter sleeping peacefully in her stroller next to her. He saw a few couples out walking together enjoying the afternoon sun, and a guy nearby playing with his little dog. But his attention was drawn to the cars on the street speeding by, racing to beat the yellow light, and he panicked when he realized the old guy was stepping determinedly off the curb between two parked cars and heading right into the traffic.

            Jack had had it. Why wait until tonight to go lay on the tracks and put his Train Solution into effect? Why not just do it now and let some lucky automobile do it for him? He had brushed past that kid from the counter and was on his way. He felt a sense of liberation. The time was now. Let's just end this thing. Who knows, maybe I'll even see Lynn after its all over, he was thinking as he made his way to the curb. One more step past the parked cars. That's all it'll take. One more step and it's all over.

            But that didn't happen. Just as he was stepping toward an especially big SUV he felt a strong hand on his shoulder and then he was being pulled backwards, fighting to keep his balance. What the hell? He turned and looked just as he stumbled and fell to the sidewalk wrapped in someone's arms. God damn, it's that dumb kid from behind the counter. Jack fought for a moment, struggling with the kid who had fallen with him cushioning his fall. He twisted back and forth, fighting in vain before suddenly giving up. The kid was too strong. Jack lay limp and prone. The kid moved to a sitting position on the sidewalk, holding his head in his lap, cradling him, saying, "Hey there, man, take it easy. It can't be all that bad, can it?"

            Jack had nothing to say, but to himself he thought, Yeah, it can, pal, it really can be. You try living as long as I have only to come to the end of your life and realize you're left with nothing  but memories that don't even begin to help ease the pain that comes from losing the person you've loved your entire life who's now gone, leaving you with nothing, nothing, nothing. And, then, in spite of himself, Jack started to cry.

            Ryan felt the old guy shaking, his thin body racked with sobs. Man, now what am I going to do? He shifted a little, trying to make the old man more comfortable. Again, he thought of his grandparents and what he would do for them if one of them were in the same situation. He did all he could do - he held the guy and whispered words of encouragement, feeling a need to take care of him somehow. The guy was obviously distraught, wanting to step into traffic and injure, if not kill, himself. What was that all about anyway? Ryan was frustrated that he couldn't do more. Words of comfort were all he had to give. He hoped it would help, but deep down felt the guy needed more than comforting words right now. He kept quietly talking to him, though, rocking him gently, like he would a young child. Jack closed his eyes and seemed to rest, his eyes wet with tears.

            Abby was suddenly by his side. "Hey, man. Are you Ok?" she asked Ryan. "I've called the police."

            "I'm good. I don't know about him, though."

            At the sound of their voices, Jack suddenly came around, quit sobbing and started to try and get up. "I can handle myself just fine," he spat at Ryan, shaking off the young man's arms, struggling to his feet, weaving a little as he stood. Ryan got up quickly and then reached out to  help steady the old man. Jack pushed him away.

            Traffic was stopped in both directions and a crowd had formed. Jack forced his way through outstretched arms, determined to cross the street. In the distance a police siren wailed, moving closer to them. The police were the last thing he needed.

            Ryan had followed him into the street, "Hey, man, you should wait for the cops. They'll want to check you out."

            "Leave me alone," Jack yelled at him, making his way through the stopped cars. Whether he liked it or not, Jack had caused quite a disturbance. Across the street and down fifty feet his car was parked. If he could just get to it...

            Ryan grabbed him one more time and held on hard, not letting go, "Stay right here, mister. Let's let the cops check you out." He was polite but firm, and he meant it.

            The kid's grip was strong and Jack fought for just a few moments before giving up. What the hell, he thought to himself, I'm done fighting. Who really cares anyway? He felt himself withdrawing inward to a place where he was free of everyone. It was peaceful and silent. The world around him faded away.

            The squad car pulled up and the two officers quickly assessed the situation. One cop, a young man, stayed outside and got the traffic moving again while the other, a middle aged woman, brought Jack inside the cafe and checked him out.

            Turning to Ryan, who had stayed nearby, she said, "He's Ok physically, but mentally I'm not too sure. He looks to be in a little shock. Do you mind if we left him sit here for a while and kept an eye on him. I don't think we need an ambulance. Do you know what happened?"

            Ryan told her what he knew, mainly that it looked like the guy had no idea what he was doing and it appeared he was going to step into directly into the fast moving traffic.

            "Ryan saved his life," Abby added.

            "Well, I don't know about that," he said, embarrassed, "The old guy just seemed a little out of it."

            Jack had come back from where he'd been and was watching the conversation with interest between the lady cop, the kid and the young woman from behind the counter. He knew he was in trouble and was afraid if he didn't start acting more normal, he might be sent to the hospital for further, more detailed observation. He definitely didn't want anything to do with that. When the lady cop, who had introduced herself as Linda, asked him if there was someone he could call, he immediately told her to call his son, Jerry, so she did. And that was that. A day that had started with him in a bad mood, now got even worse with having to wait until his son and his wife drove in from the south suburbs to pick up him and his car and take him back home to Long Lake (his daughter-in-law driving his car of all the embarrassing things), then sitting with him there in the living room, making him promise to stay in better touch and vowing, themselves, to stay in better touch, before finally leaving long after nightfall, letting Jack be alone for the first time in hours. The only thing that had kept him going ever since that kid at the cafe had grabbed him and pulled him away from the traffic, interrupting what he'd planned to do and then having to pretend it was all nothing but a 'senior moment' was this: just let me get home. Let me get back to Long Lake and to the that late night train that's going to come roaring down the tracks that I'll be stretched out on, waiting patiently for the end, saying good-bye to my life forever.

             And now he was finally home and on his own and he was ready, ready as he was ever going to be. Time for The Train Solution, Jack thought to himself, feeling calm and sure of himself for the first time ever since Lynn died. His plan was perfect. Nothing, and certainly no meddling kid from a coffee shop, could stop him now. The dark hours of deepest night couldn't come soon enough, and then...the end.

Six weeks later it was the Sunday after Thanksgiving and Ryan and Abby were again working together. The cafe was busy, families stopping in for a break from the long holiday weekend, couples talking with their heads bent close to each other, singles enjoying some time alone, and small groups of young people getting together to catch up. The Chicken Scratch had experienced a brief moment of notoriety (and a jump in business) after the episode with Jack and Ryan, but all was back to normal now and Ryan and Abby were talking.

            "Do you ever wonder about that old guy you saved?" Abby asked, during a lull. She had gotten a new tattoo on the inside of her left arm. It said, Partial Traces, which was the name of the band Ryan had seen the night before the incident with Jack. Abby had gone to see them the following weekend and had become a huge fan, liking the punk rock sound and loud, but melodious original songs - and, especially, the cool, laid-back attitude of the lead singer, a girl named Mari.

            Ryan straightened some pastries in the display case and looked out over the crowd, "Yeah, I do. There was something unique about him, wasn't there? I don't know what it was. I was kind of drawn to the guy." He took off his cellophane gloves, wiped his hands on his towel and set it under the counter, "I guess he reminded me of my grandparents, especially my grandfather."

            "I didn't know you missed them so much," Abby said, watching him carefully.

            Ryan shrugged and grinned a little, "Me neither, but I guess I did," he said, "Weird, huh?"

            "Yeah, really," Abby said, starting to think of her father, something she'd been doing more of lately. She turned to Ryan, "I think I want to tell you about my dad..."

            Just then there was a movement at the door and they both glanced up, watching for a few seconds before realizing who was coming in. "Whoa...talk about weird," they both said at the same time, turning to each other, eyes wide. Because who had just walked in but Jack Tremaine.

            "Hey there, you two," he called out, smiling, walking with a purpose right up to the counter and shaking each of their hands, "Long time no see."

            "Hey there Jack," Ryan said, happily, trying to cover his shock, "We were just talking about you."

            Jack laughed, "Nothing too risqué I hope."

            Abby smiled and came around the counter and gave him a hug. "We were wondering about you, man, hoping you were Ok."

            "It's been a hectic month, that's for sure," Jack said, hugging her back. And then he stood off to the side of the counter filling them in on what had been happening (in between the two of them waiting on customers, of course.)

            He told them he had been spending more time with his kids and grandkids, and had been over to his daughter's home in northeast Minneapolis for Thanksgiving and had been invited to his son's place for Christmas. He told them that he had been seeing a grief counselor at the suggestion of his son and daughter-in-law, and had starting being more productive around his house, doing yard work and general cleaning as well as some home maintenance and repair projects, the kinds of thing he'd let slip, ever since Lynn had passed away.

            "So all is going well?" Ryan asked, when he'd finished, starting to make up a cup of English Breakfast tea.

            "And life is good?" Abby followed up, getting his favorite cookie, happy one was left for him.

            "It is and yes," Jack said back to them both, nodding. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two envelopes. "Here. These are for you two."

            Ryan and Abby had no idea what to think as they opened them. Then each broke into a big smile. There, for each of them, was a brand new, crisp, fifty dollar bill.

            "Just a little token of my gratitude for each of you," Jack smiled and waved off their protestations. "It's the least I can do." And with that, he moved out of the way as a family with three young kids came in and Ryan and Abby got busy filling their order. He took his cookie and mug to the same window table where he'd sat six weeks earlier, made himself comfortable, took a sip from his mug, and looked out the window.

            After the rush was over, Ryan turned to Abby and pointed over toward Jack. "What about that, huh? Fifty dollars. I can really use the extra money."

            "No kidding," Abby smiled back at him, in a good mood, already thinking of putting the money toward a new tattoo she'd been thinking about getting, one with her dad's name incorporated into it.

            "I can't believe how nice that was of him," Ryan said, thinking of how it was going to help with some of the Christmas shopping he was planning on starting next week.

            "Well, you did save his life."

            "Yeah, but, anyone would have done the same, don't you think?"

            "Maybe," Abby said, and then paused, "But you actually did it."

            "I guess," Ryan said, reddening a little on his neck. "Anyway, he seems good. Like he's doing alright. Maybe the counseling and seeing his kids and stuff is helping."

            Abby nodded her agreement, and then they both turned to a batch of new customers coming in. It was one of those days - hectic and busy. Soon, thoughts of Jack drifted into the backs of their minds.

            At his table Jack sat sipping his tea, nibbling his cookie and watching the cars going by on the street. There were groups of people on the sidewalk ,out enjoying a brisk Sunday walk, bundled up against the late November chill. There were snow flurries in the air. The sky was a leaden gray and there was no wind. Just the kind of day he and Lynn would have called a 'good fireplace day.' A day that would end with a crackling fire at home, a mug of tasty hot chocolate and the welcome company of each other, snug and secure in their companionship and love.

            But, of course, that's all gone now. Yes, he's 'Come back from the dead,' as his son and daughter now called it, and, yes, he's been more friendly and outgoing to other family members and friends, and now, after over a month since his nearly tragic accident, most everyone has pretty much decided that he's on the mend mentally and getting back to normal, whatever that might be.

            And that's just fine. Jack loves his family and he appreciates the love they give him. He does his best to return it, he really does. It means a lot to him, the care and concern they have for him, but, honestly, it's just not enough. He doesn't tell anyone his deepest thoughts: not his counselor or his friends or his kids. No one needs to know that most nights he still can't sleep (even though he tells everyone he does) and that he spends those nights outside alone, bundled up against the cold, wandering the quiet streets of his little town. He talks to Lynn, then, and tell her what's on his mind, and she listens and that's all he asks. He knows she will never understand how he has come to this, nor would she agree with what his plan is, but that's just too bad. See, the plan is still out there, The Train Solution, and it's the best he's come up with and he's sticking with it. The truth of the matter is, since that day in October, nothing really has changed for him. The life he is living now is really just a facade, at least that what he tells himself. Ryan saved him, and for many people in his situation that would be seen as a sign - a chance to start life anew. And he tried. He really did, but it just hasn't worked. He's just missing Lynn too much. The life they had is over. What he has now is not enough to tip the scale in any direction but the one he has chosen to take.

            He takes a final sip of his tea and finishes off his cookie. He looks back toward the counter. Ryan and Abby are talking animatedly during a lull in customers. They seem happy and it makes Jack smile inside. They're nice people. It felt good to give each of them some extra money - just a little extra token of his appreciation of them.

            Ryan sees Jack looking at him and Jack motions to his mug.

            "I guess Jack's going to stay a while," he says to Abby and sets to work making up some more English Breakfast.

            "Cool," Abby says grabbing the final cookie. "Here send this to him too. Tell him it's on the house."

            "Good idea."

            Ryan pulls the order together and heads to Jack's table.

            Jack takes his order, smiles his thanks, and then watches as Ryan hurries through the tables back to the counter, momentarily berating himself for how wrong he'd been about his initial impression of the two young employees.

            Then he settles in to enjoy some more of the afternoon. From his jacket pocket he takes out a worn paper back by a favorite author, opens it and starts to read. The snow flurries have stopped, and the late day sun has broken through the clouds filling the cafe with bright sunlight. In about an hour the Chicken Scratch will close and Jack with have to leave. Tonight the train goes by at three-thirty in the early morning. He might be down there, he might not. He settles in with his tea and his book. The cafe feels warm and comfortable. He turns in his chair once and grins, hearing Ryan and Abby laugh, and then goes back to his reading. He's got nothing but time. Today is a good day. He suddenly makes a decision not to go down to the tracks tonight and settles in to enjoy the afternoon. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? For now, he's got all he needs right here. The tea and his cookie taste good. It's the kind of day Lynn would have loved, and he'll enjoy it as if she were right here with him. After all, the cold, steel tracks and the roaring nighttime train will always be there tomorrow night. Or the night after. Of that much he's sure. And that's all he needs to keep on living. For now.

            

A Can of Worms

I watched as Mom drove off, a stone rattling in the hubcap which I knew would drive her nuts before too long. She slowly made her way down the narrow, tree lined opening in the woods everyone called a driveway and in a moment was hidden in the forest. A minute later I heard her accelerate the big Oldsmobile 88 down the dirt road that would take her away from me for two weeks, up until the end of August. I was upset, already lonely, and, frankly feeling a little sorry for myself.

                        Next to me Auntie Beth said, "Well, it's just you and me, now, Cal. What do you want to do?"

                        All I heard was the 'just you and me part.' I couldn't understand how my mom could up and leave me like she was. I was starting to get mad.

            Auntie glanced over and, seeing I was upset, enveloped me in a big bear hug with both arms. Her comfort was warm and kindly, but didn't do anything to take away the empty feeling in my heart; the sense of abandonment. Even though I felt I should have been old enough not to let it get to me, it did. It also felt like the two weeks would last forever.

            But they didn't. They went by way too fast and I'll never forget them. In fact, to this day I still can't get that summer out of my mind, specifically the image of Lenny Macintosh laying in his dirty, filthy bed, cold and unmoving, as blue-bottle house flies swarmed on and around his face. He was the first dead person I ever saw. Maybe that's why I'll never forget him.

            I should back up and fill you in a little bit. First of all, staying with Aunt Beth was not a bad thing at all. She was my mom's mother's sister and we were very close. In the past, Mom hauled me and my younger brother and my two much younger sisters up to what we called The Lake for as long as a month; it was Auntie Beth's and Uncle Sid's home away from home for June, July and August. Sid spent the work week buying selling grain futures for Cargill in Minneapolis at the Grain Exchange while Auntie Beth manned their cabin on Tamarack Lake. It was located about a three hour drive north of the Twin Cities, and I'll tell you, those summers at the cabin were the greatest of times for me and my younger siblings - swimming, fishing and exploring; times that, without a doubt, were the highlight of my summer vacation, if not my young life.

            But this summer was different. This summer Mom shipped my brother, Tim, who was two years younger than me, down to Grandma and Grandpa's house in Fairmont near the Iowa boarder. My two younger sisters she kept home with her in Minneapolis.

            When I asked her about it the week before she drove me up north she said, "It's just the way it has to be this summer, Cal. You'll just have to accept it and don't argue with me about it. Remember that you're the oldest and have to set an example for Tim and Kathy and Susie."

            God, I hated it when she talked to me like that - like I was a grown up, when we both knew I was a long way from being the adult she imagined me to be.

            "Ok, Mom," I said, agreeing, trying to sound mature but deep down hating the whole situation. Dad had been gone from home more and more this past year and I knew Mom wasn't happy about it. But I was eleven, in between fifth and sixth grade and not very attuned to the dynamics of a family slowly falling apart. The overriding feeling I had was confusion, an emotion I experienced a lot growing up but tried not to let on to anyone. I just attempted to do as I was told and not make any adult mad at me - Keep a low profile, especially when it came to being around adults, was my motto.

            "That's good, sweetie. I knew I could count on you."

            Well, that was a glowing testimony if I ever heard one and totally undeserved. I loved my mom but her use of guilt to get me to do things I didn't want to do was not becoming at all.

            Now at the lake with Auntie I had a feeling of something changing. It was the first time I'd ever been away from my family for any extended period of time. (I'm not going to count the five days two years ago I was in isolation in the hospital with Walking Pneumonia.) I put my loneliness aside and picked up my suitcase, liking the security it gave me. It held a few books and my many comics, my baseball mitt, my spy glass, my transistor radio, my favorite marbles and other treasures. Oh yeah, and a few clothes - tee-shirts, shorts and such. It occurred to me that the next two weeks might actually be a bit of an adventure - especially considering the fact that it was to be spent in my favorite place in the world to be, and, more importantly, my brother and sisters wouldn't be hanging around bugging me. Granted it wasn't like taking a canoe down the Mississippi River to the Gulf of Mexico, or riding a horse from Minnesota to California - two things I fantasized about a lot, but it at least it was something different. You know what? I thought to myself, this might turn to be not so bad after all.

            "Come on, Cal, let's go inside," Auntie Beth said, "I've got some of those molasses cookies you like."

            Well, I could get onboard with that! The last vestiges of my loneliness and feeling sorry for myself disappeared. Auntie was offering me my favorite treat - thick, soft chewy cookies and no brother or sisters around to share them with. That's what I called a good deal. It also solidified my thinking that two weeks away from my family might not be so bad after all, and it only took a handful of my favorite cookies to convince me. I was pretty easily bought off back then.

            "Ok, Auntie, I guess I am kind of hungry," I said, trying unsuccessfully to hide my smile. She hugged me around the shoulder and together we walked across the lawn to the cabin. Oh yeah, this was going to work out just fine.

            And it did. We settled into a nice routine. Mom had dropped me off on a Tuesday and I took the rest of the day to get acclimated. Auntie and Uncle's cabin was built in the shape of a rectangle with a kitchen, a tiny eating area, and a living room, all stretched along the front, facing the lake. In the back were a couple of small bedrooms separated by a closet. The rooms had heavy curtains on curtain rods for doors which added to the charm. The living room had knotty pine paneling and Uncle had hung colored prints of ducks and geese landing or taking off over sloughs and ponds on the walls. There was a mixed scent of fireplace fires, coffee and cinnamon (from the apple pies Auntie made) inside that always made me feel right at home - cozy and secure. The outside was real logs, painted with 'cabinite', a kind of yellowish orange colored paint that was truly unique, and, for some, an acquired taste. To me it was beautiful. The window frames and ends of the logs were painted red. The effect was in a word, "cool" in the eyes of this eleven year old. The bathroom was an outhouse strategically positioned at the far edge of the backyard, and I loved it, probably using it way more than I really needed to. It was fun to go in there and latch the door and do my business. I liked the privacy and the musty smell. There were lots of spider webs with flies caught in them that I enjoyed looking at and counting. (I was easily entertained as a kid.)

            My uncle had cleared a small space in the backyard and planted grass which struggled to grow under the shade of the nearby forest. In the front he was more successful because the yard faced southeast, sloped down to the lake and had been cleared of trees so it was nice and sunny and the grass he planted there grew thick and green. In fact, one of my jobs was to cut the lawn front and back for him during the week so he wouldn't have to do it on the weekend. That way his two days at the lake could be spent relaxing, which amount to drinking, smoking, fishing and grilling. Mostly in that order. Today those traits don't seem like much to admire, but back then he was bigger than life to me. He was kind and patient, had a great sense of humor and usually in a good mood. I loved him as much as I loved my aunt.

            Auntie Beth surprised me by letting me have three molasses cookies instead on the usual one. "It's just the two of us," she said, grabbing one for herself, "We can do anything we want."

            Well, who could argue with that?

            Auntie Beth was a compact, stocky woman with gray streaks in her short dark hair. Her nickname was "Shorty". During the summer she wore sleeveless blouses, usually blue or red checked, dark blue pedal pushers and beaded moccasins. She and Uncle Sid were childless. Mom told me once when I was older that she and Uncle thought of me and my siblings as their kids. In fact, the rumor was that she and Sid bought the cabin especially so Mom and us kids could go someplace fun and different for the summer. They hit the nail on the head big time with that one. So, to say she was generous and loving would be putting it mildly. She liked to bake, play cards and smoke her Taryton cigarettes while enjoying a late afternoon, pre-dinner, cocktail. She had a serious, quiet disposition and was firm in her discipline of us, which she didn't have to be very often because we all loved her so much. I, for one, would go out of my way to please her, much to the chagrin of my mom, who had to constantly deal with my 'devilish side' as she usually put it. In short, being with my aunt was as good a way to spend part of the summer as any. Better, even.

            When we finished our snack, I excused myself and ran out the front door, down the path to the lake and out onto the wooden dock that stretched about twenty five feet into the water. I skidded to a stop and sat down, dangling my feet over the edge holding my battered white, Red Ball Jets tennis shoes just above the water level. The lake had a slight aroma of rotting seaweed that smelled wonderful. It quickly came back to me how much I loved being up in the woods at Auntie's and Uncle's place.

            Tamarack Lake was shaped like a thick inverted letter 'C'. Auntie and Uncle's cabin was at the top left end in what we always called The Bay. From where I sat I could see across about a mile to the other side. In the middle was the deepest part of the entire lake and in years past, if Uncle was in a good mood, he would occasionally take us boys fishing for walleye out there. We were rarely successful, but we always had fun.

            The lake was surrounded by mixed hardwood forests of elms, maples and oaks with some birch and aspen tossed in for good measure. If you wanted to pretend you were Robin Hood with his band of Merry Men and run around all day not being bothered by grownups, playing to your heart's content, with supervision by adults used in the only most rudimentary sense of the word, this was the place to be. In church the minister talked a lot about heaven. To me, this was it.

            To left, the shore ran to the end of the bay and then it curved out in front of me so that I could follow the shoreline all the way to across the lake and then to where it continued to the far right before it went out of sight way on the other side over a mile away. In other words, I could see about third of the lake from where I sat. To my immediate right, the shoreline ran for a quarter of a mile to what we called The Point before it went around it and disappeared from view. Further past The Point were more cabins, similar to ours and one resort, called The Fine Fish Inn. (A play on fine fishin', get it? Well, as a kid, I thought it was pretty clever.) After Mom dropped me off, she took a right on that road and it eventually took her out to the highway, but it also went to the left all around the point in one big circle so it could deliver people to their cabins. It was about three miles in circumference. When us kids walked the whole way around, it took about an hour if we didn't fool around too much, which, of course, we usually did. Once Tim and I were gone over three hours exploring abandoned cabins along the way, long enough for my mom to get in the car and come looking for us. It was one of the few times we'd ever been grounded in all the summers we spent there. The Fine Fish Inn was about a mile and a half down that road to the left from our cabin. I mention all of this because the Inn was near where Lenny Macintosh lived and where he sometimes worked.

            The Swenson's owned the Inn. I guess when old man Swenson died he left it to his son and now he and his wife owned it and they had managed it ever since my mom and us kids had been coming to the lake. They had a ton of children of their own who helped out with chores. ("Good Catholics," my uncle would say after a few drinks, winking at me and my brother before he was quickly reprimanded by my aunt. We had no idea what he was talking about.) They hired Lenny occasionally as a handy man. He was around thirty years old or so by my estimation.

            I should mention that the Inn was not an inn at all, but a collection of one room cabins that stretched along the shore . There were ten of them, had seen better days, and were in constant need of maintenance. That's where Lenny came in - he was sometimes called in to help with minor cabin repairs. He also helped take care of the boats and motors that guests could rent by the day or the week. Now that I think about, it the Inn was actually a resort, as such, with groups of guys coming up to fish for the weekend and families coming up to spend a week experiencing life in the great north woods. The point I'm trying to make is that the place was always busy in the summer. By working there occasionally, Lenny played a minor role in helping the Inn to run smoothly.

            I'd met Lenny last year when I'd gone to his cabin to buy worms. I should explain...Normally, my brother and I fished for pan fish, like sunfish and crappies and bluegills. Worms were our preferred bait. We dug them out of a shady, moist, shallow pit in back of the outhouse where the Auntie Beth dumped the grounds from breakfast coffee and other leftovers. Tim and I fished a lot. Occasionally we'd run out of worms (the worm pit would run dry, so to speak), and whenever that happened we would get a little surly, let me tell you, and not a lot of fun to be around. When it happened last year, Uncle Sid, probably sick and tired of our complaining, suggested we try Lenny.

            "He's got a cabin about a quarter of a mile off the road across from Swenson's. You can't miss it. There's a red mail box. Look for that," he told us.

            "Sid, don't you go sending the boys over there. They don't know what they'll find!" Auntie Beth admonished him.

            They fought about it back and forth good naturedly for a few minutes before my mom intervened and told us we could go. "As long as you watch out for your little brother," Mom told me, once again, for the millionth time in my life, putting me in a no win situation; watching out for Tim was no fun, yet if I didn't agree to watch him, I couldn't go.

            "Ok, Mom, sure. Be glad to," I told her, being agreeable and nodding my head, hurrying out the door, dragging Tim with me. Anything to get away from the adults.

            The first time we went, we found the cabin, but Lenny wasn't there. We went to the Inn and asked for him, but they didn't know where he was either. We went home, sad, mosquito bitten and wormless.

            He wasn't there the next few time we went either. Then the worms can back to our pit, so we didn't need to go, then the worms ran out again.

            "I don't want to go right now," Tim told me, the next time I was getting ready to make the trek to Lenny's. (Or journey as I was starting to think of it as.)

            "Why not?"

            "I'm going swimming with Kathy and Susie."

            It was a beautiful summer day with big, puffy clouds and a strong wind. The lake had white caps on it which would be fun to jump into off the dock. It would be nice to go swimming, I couldn't argue with that, but my mind was set on getting some worms. Besides, by now I was getting more and more curious about this Lenny person. I had built him up in my mind to be some weird phantomlike figure who lived in the woods and was rarely seen. A gray bearded, mystical kind of fellow in a pointed hat, who one day might figure in a book some enterprising scholar would write about the north woods called, 'Legends of the Forest'. Sort of like Bigfoot but less furry. You never knew, I told myself, and if Tim wanted to miss out on that kind of discovery, it was up to him. "Suit yourself," I told him, and hustled off on my own, hurrying before Mom made me come back to 'Watch your brother and sisters,' the story of my life.

            It took about half an hour walking on the gravel road to get to the mail box (which may have been red once long ago, but now was rusted out, riddled with bullet holes and hanging by a nail to the rotted post it was attached to), and then about five minutes more to walk down an overgrown mosquito infested path through the dense forest that lead to the his cabin.

            Lenny's place would cause my mom to have a panic attack, and Tim and I never told her what it was really like, only offering the vague, "It's all right," when she asked us about it.  She liked things neat and tidy. Lenny's was the exact opposite. It wasn't so much a cabin as a shack. A tree had fallen on it a long time ago, crushing one side and part of the roof, and it was slowly rotting and disintegrating, leaving small piles of rotten wood all around it. The roof sagged in the middle around the tree and there were remnants of long ago panes of glass in the windows. There was a screen door in front that hung by only one hinge. I guess that the siding probably at one time was white, due to the white flecks on it, (which might have been bird droppings now that I think about), but now was faded, gray, wood. Some of the boards had sagged exposing gaps through which I could see directly inside. Air tight it was not. Saplings, bushes and weeds grew right up to the sides, giving the place claustrophobic feel. It was small, about the size of my brother's bedroom back home, ten by ten, and a moldy aroma emanated from it when you got close. All and all the little shack was rotting away and slowly reverting back to nature. My thought was that any parent I knew would turn away from it in disgust and beat a path of hasty retreat. But for a kid who dreamed of someday being a buckskin clothed mountain man living off the land in a cabin in the Rocky Mountains, I thought it was fantastic.

            Like the previous times with Tim, I approached cautiously, not knowing what to expect and this time was no different. The day was sunny and warm but Lenny's place was shrouded in cool shade by all the trees surrounding it. It looked like his tiny cabin had been build right in the middle of the forest in the only open spot someone could find. Probably at one time it was something special to its owner, but now...well, now calling it a shack was being generous.

            I went to the front door and knocked politely on the siding next to it. I had the feeling if I knocked on the door itself it would have easily fallen off its lone, rusty hinge. No answer. I knocked once more. Again, nothing. Mosquitoes had now found me and were starting to swarm, feeding hungrily. I waved them away and brushed them off my exposed arms and legs, killing a few and leaving smears of blood. I was getting impatient. Standing in the woods getting eaten alive was not my idea of a good time. I figured I would, once again, be returning home to our cabin, dejected and wormless. I turned to go, but then decided, what the heck, I was here anyway. I turned and knocked again, louder this time. Still nothing. In disgust and thoroughly bug bitten, I was turning to go when I heard the complaining squeaks of some springs inside and then a figure suddenly appeared at the broken door.

            "What the hell do you want?" he yelled, "Can't a man get any sleep around here." Then he stopped and took one look at me, assessing me and squinting against what little light there was. His demeanor suddenly changed. I don't know who he was expecting, but I obviously wasn't that person. He quieted down, scratched under his arm and then added, almost friendly like, "Say, you there, boy. You got anything to eat. I'm starving."

            Well, what an odd thing to say. I was taken aback, startled by his sudden appearance, and after all this time, not really expecting to see him at all. But I was on a hunt for some worms so I was willing to do anything. I felt for my Sugar Daddy sucker in the front pocket of my shorts. It was half eaten but I took it out and offered it to him anyway. Maybe last year, when I was nine, I would have forgotten the whole thing and just run away. But I was a year older now and starting to get more curious about the world. I had never in my life seen anything or anybody like him. Maybe that's why I was drawn to this strange looking man who lived in a shack in the woods.

            "This is all I've got," I said, cautiously, handing it to him.

            He eyed my sucker carefully as I held it in front of me. Then he quickly took it and unwrapped it, picking some pieces of fuzz off as he did so and, unmindful of my teeth marks, stuffed the whole thing into his mouth, holding it's stick, twisting it around and savoring it for a minute before taking it out and saying, "Umm, good. Caramel's my favorite, my boy. After chocolate that is." Then he laughed out loud and put it back in his mouth, licking and savoring the sucker some more like it was the sweetest ambrosia in the world. I watched, mesmerized, suddenly wishing I had another one so I could join him. His delighted smacking of his lips was making me hungry.

            After a minute of working on his sucker, he paused and started giving me a good looking over. I probably should have been frightened, but I wasn't . He was a wild looking man, a foot taller than me, with unruly curly red hair and a thick, matted beard that didn't do much to obscure his pock marked face. He was thin, barefoot, and dressed in a ragged tee-shirt and grimy blue jeans worn smooth and shiny. He looked kind of like a deranged elf. His eyes were pure blue and rimmed with red and he had a bandage over his nose, like it was broken which I found out later it was. "Well, don't just stand there, boy. You want to come in or not?"

            An image of my mom admonishing me and shaking her head 'No' momentarily popped into my brain, then out again.

            What the hell, I thought to myself. I decided to take a chance, "Ok, Mister," I said, trying to sound more courageous than I actually felt.

            He laughed out loud at that. "Mister, that's a good one," he said, laughing some more and slapping the door frame, which caused the shack to shake a little and some sawdust to rain down from up above somewhere, "No one's called me Mister since I was in the army in Korea, buddy. Call me Lenny, my boy," he told me, "And come on in before the mosquitoes eat you alive."

            And that's how I first meet him.

            I don't know what it was that drew me to the guy. He was dirty, gross and sometimes obnoxious. In fact, he was everything my mom had warned me against while I was growing up.

            "Stay away from those kinds of people," she would say, anytime we happened to be in downtown Minneapolis and drive past men passed out in gutters or huddled up against buildings. People she and my dad called 'bums' who were homeless and certainly not as fortunate as me and my brother and sisters. It took a few years until I was older for me to figure that out and feel sympathy for them. Now, being ten years old, to me he was somewhat odd, but, more than that, he was not the kind of person my mom would want me to be around at all. Maybe that's what attracted me to him.

            I should point out something right now: I probably saw him only half a dozen times during that summer. He usually he wasn't there when I came by for my sought after can of worms. And one time he was at his shack, but was preoccupied with a female (I caught a glimpse of her hair and face and shoulder) and they were all wrapped up in his dirty sheets humping away like there was no tomorrow. Even though they both made a lot of noise, I'm counting that as a time I didn't see him either.

            But when he was there, I did buy worms from him. He seemed like the kind of guy who was very resourceful when it came to earning money. He supplied the Inn with worms in addition to his handyman chores and that's how my uncle knew about him.

            "Have I got worms?" he asked back, laughing, when I asked that first time. "Boy, I've got so many worms, I've got them coming out of my you-know-what."

            I could add profane to my description of him, too, now that I think about it.

            "I'd like a can, please," I asked, nice and polite like I'd been taught.

            He laughed at that, too, rummaging in a filthy refrigerator. "Here you go, please and thank you," he told me, mocking me a little, handing me a dented can of what looked like once held Del Monte Fruit Cocktail, but now held a mass of wriggling worms and night crawlers covered in moist, dark soil mixed with some dry leaves. I caught a glimpse of a hunk of moldy cheese and at least three six packs of Grain Belt beer inside next to rows of cans of worms before he closed the door.

            "That'll be two cents," he said handing me the can, "Exact change only."

            I gave him my two pennies and was turning to leave when he surprised me by putting out his hand. "Good doing business with you, my boy," he said. Then he grinned showing me the brownest teeth I'd ever seen in my life. But would you believe me if I told you that, in spite of his obvious lack of oral hygiene, he smile was actually quite pleasant? It was. It was a friendly, mixed with a bit of forlorn loneliness and that might have added to his allure.

            "Thanks, Mister," I said and shook his hand, which was almost as dirty as the can I held. I fought back an urge to let go and wipe my hand on my shorts.

            "Lenny," he reminded me, squeezing just a little bit more. "Just call me Lenny."

            "Ok. Lenny," I said and watched somewhat aghast as he bent down and looked me straight in the eye, letting me get a good look at those red, bloodshot eyes of his. Then he let go of my hand and turned around, making his way back to his bed.

            I pivoted on my heel and was quickly out the door when I heard the springs on the mattress protesting his intrusion. Then I hurried down the path and out to the road, all the time thinking just one word...Wow!

            Like I said, last year I'd been ten and now was a year older. As I sat on the dock that first day after Mom had left and I'd quit feeling sorry for myself, I had time to think more about my stay with Auntie Beth and Uncle Sid. I had brought my transistor radio down with me and was spending time watching puffy clouds floating by against a deep blue sky, idly waiting for a favorite song to come on. I made a bet with myself that I wouldn't do anything I heard one. Finally, "The Twist" by Chubby Checker was played, making me feel I was on a winning streak. I waggled my feet above the water in time to the beat, hardly getting my shoes wet at all. Well, that was fun, so I made anther bet to wait for another favorite song and waited, listening to my radio, dangling my feet over the side of the dock, watching the world go by. Then, "Sea Cruise" by Frankie Ford came on and I started gyrating to the music, wiggling my butt on the dock, having a fine old time. I felt like I'd won the lottery and I'd only sat there for half an hour.

             In spite of winning my music listening bets, I still didn't leave the dock. I was finding myself liking my new found freedom of not having my brother or sisters to watch over. I flipped over, lay on my stomach and looked into the water, enjoying the feel of the warm wood through my tee-shirt. I could see the bottom of the lake, down about four feet, and tiny minnows swimming back and forth, winding their way through the weeds. It was mesmerizing. I started thinking about fishing, which got me thinking about worms, which got me thinking about Lenny. I was actually looking forward to taking a hike up to his shack to see him, but I was easily distracted as a kid, and even more so now that I was on my own. I didn't get to his place for about a week.

            Instead, I busied myself goofing around our cabin and the woods nearby for the next three or four days. I built a lean-to out of aspen branches in a clearing next to us on a little hill overlooking the lake. Then I talked Auntie into letting me spend a night sleeping in it in my sleeping bag. I lasted until around eleven or so when a huge storm blew in, thunder booming and lightening flashing, rain pouring down, nearly ripping my little shelter apart. Auntie met a soaked, bedraggled camper (me) at the door to the cabin with a towel, some hot chocolate and a molasses cookie to help ease my disappointment at not being able to camp out all night. It helped a lot. I made it through the entire night the next night, though, which made me feel like the outdoorsman I envisioned myself as, in spite of the fact that I had a flashlight for a night light that I used to keep me company. I used it a lot, but didn't tell Auntie, although she might have guessed something was up when I asked her for fresh batteries the next morning because mine had run out. I think it was her smile when she didn't think I was looking that gave her away.

            I made a bow and a bunch of arrows out of some willow saplings and had Auntie help me make a quiver out of an old towel that I sewed up under her watchful eye. Then I finished it off by attaching a length of rope so I could fill it with arrows and sling it  across my chest. I made a spear out of a young maple tree and carved intricate patterns in the bark.

            I talked Auntie into letting me put up a rope swing on a cottonwood tree leaning out over the water and spent hours climbing out on the tree and swinging back and forth on it before dropping into about three feet of water. It's amazing, in retrospect, that I didn't break my neck.

            I took Uncle's little aluminum fishing boat out and ran the three horsepower Johnson motor up and down the shoreline in front of the cabin, pretending I was at sea and searching for stranded survivors of a shipwreck along the shore of deserted desert island somewhere in the far Pacific.

            I fished off the dock, casting poppers and daredevils for bass and northern pike, never catching a thing but not minding at all. I dug my own worms out of our pit in back and fished for sunfish and perch. If the evening was calm enough, Auntie let me take the boat out in front of the cabin, toss in the anchor and fish in deeper water.

            And, every night after dinner, she and I would walk a trail along the shoreline to the end of the bay where there was a tiny grocery store used by the locals and vacationers. She'd let me pick out a 'treat' as she called it, for dessert. I always got a hard caramel Sugar Daddy sucker like the one I'd given Lenny that first time I met him the year before.

            In between my adventures, Auntie taught me how to play solitaire, which I loved and would play for hours at a time. I had my books (I was reading and re-reading my worn out copy of Tom Sawyer plus some Hardy Boys Mysteries, just to mix things up), and comics (my favorite was Turok and Andar, two Indians who had somehow slipped into Pre-historic time and were always battling dinosaurs) and, of course, I had my trusty transistor radio which I listened to constantly, especially when I was down on the dock, or as I fell asleep at night, snug under the blankets on the bed Auntie made up for me on the pull out couch in the living room. (One long, all night experience in the lean-to was enough.)

            And then, last but not least, I had my very own, absolutely, no-doubt-in-my-mind, favorite pocket knife in the whole wide world. Uncle Sid had given me the year before. It was 3 1/4" long, had a bone handle and fit in my hand perfectly. I treasured that knife and used it all the time, especially at the Lake where it came in handy cutting saplings, whittling points on my wooden arrows and spear, and using it as a throwing knife, aiming at a target on the trunk of a big, old birch tree behind the cabin. I liked it so much and was so attached to it because it used to be Uncle's.

            "It was given to me by my father when I was about your age," he told me when he handed it to me last year when just he and I were out fishing in front of the cabin. Using the knife and carrying it in my pocket made me like a grown up, which, last year when I was ten, was a pretty big deal. Rarely did it leave my possession.

            And, of course, I went swimming a lot. So much, in fact, that Auntie remarked on more than one occasion on how tan I was and how clean I looked and smelled, much to my dismay and embarrassment.

            Uncle came up on Friday night and stayed until late Sunday afternoon. He brought rib-eye steaks with him that he grilled in the front yard Friday night, with Auntie and I keeping him company in our red painted, metal lawn chairs as he filled us in on his week at work. I drank about a gallon of strawberry Kool-aid while he and Auntie sipped on Cabin Still over ice. They were both very happy and relaxed when we all finally turned in just as the moon started rising over the far shoreline around ten or so.

            Uncle surprised me early next Saturday morning by taking me by our little boat to the grocery store at the end of the bay to get some minnows.

            "We're going to get us some walleyes, Cal," he told me laughing a happy laugh, letting me drive the boat to the store and dock it. He was always in a good mood up at the lake.

            Well, we didn't caught anything but perch, which we threw back, but Uncle was fun to be with. He had a million stories. One of my favorites was about when he was a kid and living on his parent's farm in western Iowa. Late one spring he and a friend snuck out in the middle of the night and herded some cattle into the one room school house he attended, which to me was a worthy feat in and of itself. But there was more. Then they left them there overnight! They weren't found until the teacher came next morning.

            "Cal, did they ever make a mess. Crap all over the place!"

            What kid wouldn't love an uncle who did those kinds of things? It was definitely something to admire, if not aspire to.

            After he left on Sunday, Auntie and I walked up to the store and I bought my Sugar Daddy sucker. On a whim, I asked if I could get another one.

            "Why would you ever want two?" she asked, giving me a quizzical look. "One a day is more than enough."

            She was right about that, I guess. If I was diligent, I could usually make mine last all day until the next evening's visit to the store. I decided to keep mine wrapped and untouched. I wanted to give it to Lenny. I had decided to go up to his place the next day. I was all out of worms at our pit, plus, I have to say, I was feeling kind of lonely. On Sunday Mom had called and asked if Auntie and Uncle could keep me for another week which Auntie eagerly agreed to. Mom and I only talked for a few minutes, long enough for her to remind me that I was the oldest and had to be strong, which seemed odd since it was just me and no brother or sisters. "Sure, Mom," I told her, "No problem." I had a deep down feeling since she dropped me off she might do something like that - stay away longer. Anyway, I had a whole five days ahead of me before Uncle Sid came back and I felt like seeing someone other than Auntie Beth, no offense to her. I guess I just wanted something different to do.

            The next day, I played around in my lean-to for awhile, making some repairs, reading comic books and carving designs in my spear. Then I walked along the shoreline collecting snail shells to use to make a necklace for Auntie. She seemed to like it when I did little things like that for her. Usually once a day I went looking for wildflowers and dandelions and I'd bring her a bouquet. She liked that, too and it was fun to make her happy. Besides, I had learned from last year that Lenny was not an early riser.

            Around eleven in the morning I told Auntie where I was going.

            "Just be careful," she said, "Remember what Uncle Sid told us."

            "I will," I said. Sid had told us on Friday that someone had reported seeing a black bear on the point. That in and of itself was reason enough to go into the woods. But I didn't want to let on to Auntie Beth that I was considering doing something I'm sure she would consider dangerous. The way I looked at it: Why not go hunting a black bear with a bow and arrows made out of sticks? No reason in the world that I could think of. "I'll be extra careful," I assured her, thinking that, at eleven years old, I was as invincible as my favorite comic book characters.

            From the cabin the driveway wove through the thick understory of the forest and around five large trees on its way out to the dirt road. The ground was soft and shady and took about five minutes to walk. Once out on the dirt road, though, it was bright and sunny and dusty, with the occasional car speeding by trailing a plume that blanketed the vegetation on the both sides with a chalky coating. I walked along the edge kicking up more dust with my tennis shoes until my legs from the knees down were coated in a gray film. I carried a canteen slung across my chest and my trusty jackknife in my pocket. I had my bow and arrows and quiver just in case I saw the bear. I felt I was all set.

            A half hour later, when I got to Lenny's mailbox, I was parched and sweaty and had drank most of my water. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and the temperature was hot, probably at least eighty degrees or more. I should have known something was up when the mail box was no longer hanging by a nail off the post. Instead it had been set on an old crate on the ground, and, if possible, it looked in worse shape than last year, with the back end now almost completely rusted out. I suddenly had a bad feeling and momentarily thought about turning around. Two things stopped me: One, the brand new, unopened, slowly melting Sugar Daddy in my back pocket for Lenny, and, two, my desire to get a can of fresh worms. There was a third thing, also: I was curious to see how the guy I'd met a year ago and forged a tentative bond with was doing.

            The final time I'd seen him, the day before we left for home last year, he had taken me for a little walk out beyond his cabin, further into the woods.

            "Come on with me," he said, seriously, "I want to show you something."

            By this time I had lost whatever feeling of unease I'd had being around him. He had been friendly to me more often than not, and he seemed to accept me for who I was, even though I was just a 'big dummy' as he sometimes called me. He really wasn't a bad guy. So I was intrigued and readily followed him.

            We walked about five minutes deeper into the woods. Now most people reading this right now will be thinking, I knew it. The guy's a pervert and he's going hurt that stupid kid. I don't blame them. It does sound ominous, just re-reading it. But that's not what happened at all.

            We walked to a clearing. On the way I remember listening to blue jays scolding us and the tap-tap-taping of a woodpecker against a hollow tree. Crows were calling too, along with the chattering of a gray squirrel. In other words, there was a lot of activity in the woods - lots to keep us company. But Lenny acted unaware of it all, and seemed almost in a daze. Once we stopped, he snapped back to reality and surprised me by pulling a revolver out of his waist band that had been hidden under his tee-shirt. It looked to be as big as a small cannon, and I'm sure my eyes doubled in size as I stared at it in amazement.

            "What do you think of this?" he asked, showing it to me.

           

            "Cool," I answered, the only thing I could come up with at the moment.

            Uncle Sid had taught Tim and I how to shoot and handle guns with his .22 rifle and 20 gauge shotgun. He and my grandfather had taken us hunting squirrels, pheasants and grouse. I had shot and killed a few birds and animals in my young lifetime, feeling when I did that I was earning the approval of the men in my life and getting closer to being considered a grown up in their eyes. In short, I was comfortable around guns. But I'd never held, let alone shot, a revolver before.

            "How big is it?" I then asked, just for something to say. At my age I was easily  impressed with any kind of weapon. The bore looked enormous.

            "Three fifty seven," he told me. "It's a 357 magnum and it'll take down a bear."

            I immediately thought of the black bear Uncle Sid had mentioned and told him about it.

            "Yeah, maybe," he told me, when I'd finished, clearly uninterested. Then he was quiet for a minute, just staring into a void that to me looked like the woods, but to Lenny was probably something deeper, further away. Above me a red squirrel broke into a sustained chatter, making me think that if I had a gun I'd want to try to shoot it. Seeing that revolver was getting my hunting instinct going, my urge to kill, if you will. Lenny broke into my thoughts of carnage and bloodshed almost like he could read my mind, "I'm not one for killing things," he told me, "Not after what I've seen."

            I was taken aback and slightly disappointed. Here I thought maybe we had something important in common - the desire to hunt and prove something to ourselves. But then I had another thought - maybe he was talking about the war and when he was in Korea. Immediately I was confused. "Yeah, I guess," I said, agreeing, not wanting to let on I had no idea what he was talking about. "What's with the gun then?"

            He turned the revolver over in his hand, almost like he'd forgotten about it and was just seeing it for the first time. "I keep this around just to remind myself..." His words trailed off as he stopped talking. Then he turned and bent down so he was looking right at me. He eyes were bright blue, mixed with blood-shot red. There were yellow specs floating in the whites. I had to admit, he didn't look too healthy. Besides, he had never really just stared at me for so long before. I had to admit that now I was starting to get a little nervous.

            "Remind you of what?" I asked. My throat was dry, and my voice cracked. He looked at me for at least a count of ten and then did something I'll never forget. He quickly raised the gun into the air and pulled the trigger. The blast was three feet from me but seemed to come from inside my head. I jumped back, tripped over a log and fell to the ground.

            "What the hell did you do that for?" I screamed at him, scrambling to my feet. "Geez, man," I spat out. I was mad, but more than that, embarrassed. He'd startled me and I think that's what pissed me off the most. At least that's what I tried to tell myself.

            I wasn't prepared for what he told me, "I just wanted you to know that guns are for killing. And once you kill something, it's gone for good. Over and done with. Gone forever." He looked at me again and then put the revolver into his belt and covered it with his shirt. "I'm never going to kill anything ever again. Period." I got the feeling the he was talking about more than hunting squirrels; something that was bigger than that. It dawned on me that maybe something had happened to him in Korea that had caused him do what he had just done. I don't know. All I know is that he scared the hell out of me, both with how he acted and with how he treated the gun: with respect, but also contempt.

            Then he shook his whole body as if riding it of some sort of demon. "Let's go back to my place," he told me, completely changing the subject, "I'll bet you're not here to listen to me blather on and on. You're here for worms, right?"

            I was shaken and tried to recover. "Yeah, worms," I said, my words seemed to stick in my throat. "I've got money," I added, coughing a little and trying to get myself back to normal.

            "Well, then we're all set, my boy," he said, giving me a little grin. His mood seemed lighter and he started walking, leading the way back to his shack. I followed along wondering what strange thing he might do next. But he didn't do anything, just took my two pennies and gave me my worms, worms I really didn't need since I'd be leaving the next day. It just seemed like the right thing to do. Oh, and one other thing he did that day - he mused up my hair and waved goodbye when I left, like a half-hearted show of affection. He'd never done that before. Weird, huh?

            All those thoughts were now flooding back to me as I started down the trail to his shack. In the year since I'd last visited, the first thing I noticed was how overgrown the path had become. Low growing brambles and trailing grape vines impeded my progress and hidden roots threatened to trip me up. I fought through scrubby bushes and buckthorn, scratching my face, arms and legs. I swore silently and wished I'd worn a long sleeve shirt and blue jeans rather than my tee-shirt and shorts. I abandoned my bow and arrow half way in, so sick to death of getting it hung up on branches all the time that I was willing to risk battling the bear Uncle told me about with just my pocket knife. Horse flies buzzed around my head, vying for my blood along with the swarms of mosquitoes and gnats. The air was heavy with humidity and perfectly still - not a breath of a breeze. I hurried as fast as I could to save myself from being eaten alive, which was barely fast enough, believe me.

            By the time I reached Lenny's place I was sweating and bloody. I stopped for a moment to catch my breath and take a last drink from my canteen. My bad mood vanished, though, when I saw what lay before me.

            If Lenny's shack was a mess last year, this year the word 'wreck' would be a more accurate description. Or dump. There was no glass in the windows anymore, just pieces of dirty fabric that had been nailed in place and now hung limply, doing absolutely nothing to kept out any bugs or rodents that wanted to get inside. The roof had sagged even more and I could see gaping holes in it. The screen door was laying on the ground, rotting so there was nothing to stop animals like raccoons or bears from wandering inside whenever they felt like it. There was a sense of desolation like I'd never seen before in my young life. But there was something else, too: a feeling that something was horribly wrong. I hesitated, looking back behind me, thinking I should just run away. The path was a life line back to civilization as I knew it. But I had come here to see Lenny. That's what I needed to do. I put my caution aside and stepped forward through pieces of wood, rusty nails and broken glass. I wanted to see inside.

            I approached slowly, calling Lenny's name once or twice before I got to the opening where the door used to be. I could smell him before I saw him, like the dead animals I caught the odor of through sewer grates back home, it was overwhelming.  I looked inside, blinking against the stench and dimness until my eyes adjusted. Then I saw him, lying on his bed, rotting. I felt like I should run away, but I didn't. I'm ashamed to say that I was curious, so curious, in fact, that my first thought was not, What can I do to help him? but, I wonder what he looks like? I stepped through the rubble and junk on the floor and made my way to his bed, holding my hand over my nose and mouth, fighting to keep from gagging. I looked at him. I even touched his shoulder. He was so peaceful and silent - like he was sleeping and at peace with the world. Maybe he was. I knew that he had his demons, but I couldn't even begin to understand the complexity of what they were.

            He was dead, that was for sure, the bottle flies and other insects crawling and buzzing around him told me that, and there was nothing I could do to help him. My next thought was, Now what should I do? I had choices: I knew the right thing to do was to run and tell Auntie Beth. But something was holding me back. If I told, then a bunch of adults would get involved, as well as the police and they'd question me and who knew what would happen then? I could picture a hulking, red faced, sweating cop with a cheesy mustache, blowing cigarette smoke at me while he questioned me and getting mad at me for some hidden adult reason I wasn't aware of. Who needed that? It might be easier to just walk away and pretend I'd never been to his place and seen him. I could think up a credible lie to tell Auntie while I walked home. That seemed like the safest thing to do. The easiest. I turned to leave, reluctant to tear my eyes away from him and surprised myself by tripping over something on the floor. Immediately I thought of the gun he'd shown me last year. But it wasn't the gun. Instead, it was just a pile of some junk I hadn't seen when I'd come in. It broke my concentration, though, and I stopped, taking a minute to look around.

            His little shack was just as much of a mess as it had been, if not more so. There was one old wooden table pushed up against a wall with two chairs next to it. Nothing else but the bed he was lying on and the refrigerator which had always been useless. Lenny had told me last year there was no electricity to the cabin. "Yep, not a lot of comforts of home here, my boy," he'd told me, "but that's just fine with me. I like it. It's almost like camping out." I couldn't have agreed with him more, especially the 'Not a lot of comforts of home' part. Discarded soggy cardboard boxes, moldy pieces of clothing and broken glasses were strewn all around, and the shack was heavy with a mildew smell that almost masked the stench coming from Lenny's body. Almost, but not quite. Stepping carefully, I went over to the refrigerator and opened it. It was empty. Apparently Lenny had gotten out of the worm business.

            What had his life been like? I often ask myself that, now - now that I'm an adult and in the final years of my life. What were those last years of his life like, after he'd finished with the war in Korea and had ended up in a junked out, dilapidated shack at the end of a tangled path off a dirt road in a rural county in northern Minnesota? What was it that happened during his thirty years on earth that led him to this? I sometimes pictured him as a skinny, fun-loving, red headed kid, without a care in the world, about my age back then running and playing like I did. He never told me if he had any brothers or sisters. In fact he told me nothing about his life at all, hardly. I was just a dumb kid to him, who bought the occasional can of worms. But I remembered that he was nice to me. I remembered him showing me the revolver and mussing my hair the last time I saw him. I remembered that he smiled at me every now and then, and seemed to not mind me coming around too much.

            I watched the flies crawling around on his face and then got mad at them. I waved my hands over his body, yelling at them to go away. Then I pulled the sheet up over his face as best I could. I was able to cover him completely. Then I abruptly left, leaving him behind forever, unaccountably sad that he was dead.

            In the end, my decision wasn't hard at all. I did go back to our cabin and tell Auntie Beth about Lenny. I felt I owed him something. She called the police and they took care of everything, even his burial, which I found out later was a few miles north of the nearest town to us, fifteen miles away. I wasn't asked to attend, and don't know if I would have anyway, at least back then.

            Was I shaken up by what I'd found in that fly blown shack? Yes, you bet I was. Like I said, I still can't get the image of him out of my mind, and, even writing this I am keeping a promise to myself to spare readers the gruesome details. But it's more than being shaken up and something way beyond the act of finding his body that has stayed with me all these years. It's really been about coming to grips with something Lenny taught me that maybe he didn't even intend to. But a seed had been planted by him, that was for sure. One that let me see that there was a world out there way bigger than the one I had been exposed to up until then in the eleven years of my short life.

            In the years to come, when I thought about it, the memory of his body faded. What started to be my primary thought was what else I found inside his shack that day. It was the table and the chairs by the window that has kept coming back to me all these years. I think what sticks with me most is the fact that there were two chairs at the table. Think about it: two chairs. Why? I often wonder...Did he have a friend that would stop by? Someone to hang out with and drink the beer that I'd seen in his refrigerator next to the cans of worms? I never saw any indication that anyone ever showed up to his place (except that woman, that one time), but maybe people did. Maybe she came back. Or maybe the chair was there in the hopes that someday, someone would stop by and sit a little and talk with him - friendly, like. Someone to keep him company and take away his loneliness. Someone like me, maybe.

            Auntie told me years later, when I talked to her about it, that he had died of congestive heart failure and that no one came to his funeral. If he did have a friend he or she wasn't much of one. They just buried him and that was it. It made me wish I had thought to ask if I could go, that summer long past. To this day I hate to think of him dying alone in his dirty shack and being buried all alone in some lonely, rural cemetery.

            Maybe, though, in the end, that's just the way it is - the way it has to be. Sometimes things don't work out the way we always want them to.

            But that doesn't mean we can't still try and do something about it.

            Mom and Dad divorced a few years after that summer and life went on. Auntie Beth and Uncle Sid sold the cabin when my sisters were in their mid teens. I had quit going long before that. In the case of Auntie and Uncle's cabin, I was left with memories I still have to this day. Vivid memories of being a kid, young and free and being able to go swimming, fishing, exploring and to let my imagination take me anywhere I wanted to go. I'm sure I will carry those memories with me until the day I die.

            One of those memories was Lenny, so one day I did something I probably should have done years ago. I went and visited his grave.

            On the way to the cemetery, though, I drove to Auntie Beth's and Uncle Sid's cabin. I hadn't been there for over fifty years. To say it had changed was putting it mildly. The cabins around the lake had all been updated, modernized and turned into three season if not year around homes. And you know that old dirt road? The one that coated the roadside and me with chalky, gray dust? The one that looped around the point and was the only way to get to the little cottages and cabins and the Fine Fish Inn? Well, it had not only been paved, but there were homes built in the woods that once had been a forest full of Robin Hood's Merry Men in my imagination, and a roving black bear in real life. In short, civilization had come to the north woods of my youth.

            The worst experience was seeing Auntie and Uncle's cabin. Or lack of it, I should say. All the underbrush between it and the road had been completely cleared away and an attempt had been made to grow grass. Where before, from the dirt road, the cabin couldn't be seen for the woods and underbrush, now you could see it clearly. New homes had been built on either side of it, and the beautiful old cabin had been leveled and a new looking modular home had been set in its place. I could see clearly enough to notice a badminton net had been stretched across the backyard, and someone had put in an above ground pool. (I guess swimming in the lake was something the family who now owned the place felt uncomfortable doing.)

             I toyed momentarily with going up and talking to the current owners, but it didn't look like anyone was around, so I drove on. Plus, to be honest, I'm not sure I was up to it. The changes I was seeing to the area were going to take some getting used to. Also, I wanted to check out the Inn. Not surprisingly, it was gone, too. In its place was a gas station attached to a modern looking bait and tackle shop. I pulled in to collect myself. Across the road, where the path to Lenny's used to be, a Quik-Mart now stood with at least ten cars in the parking lot, and a few picnic tables off to one side under a lone, old pine tree. Over half the forest on the point was gone, replaced by buildings of some sort, mostly houses and outbuildings and storage sheds. It was almost like I was back in my neighborhood in Minneapolis. As I sat in my car, looking out over the lake, three personal watercraft went tearing by, jumping waves and throwing plums of spray in the air. I was over a hundred yards away, but I could hear them plainly. A quick scan of the lake showed no one out fishing. It was probably too noisy. I left in a hurry.

            Lenny was buried two miles north of McGregor, the closest town to Tamarack Lake. The cemetery was on the edge of some pastureland, a quarter mile off highway 65, a two lane, blacktop highway that was one of the main roads running north and south in the county. It took half an hour to get to it from the lake, a slow but pleasant  drive on rough washboard gravel back roads that wound past pothole lakes, tamarack swamps and second and third growth aspen forests before merging with the highway. Fifty years ago, Ojibwa lived in tarpaper shacks around here. Now they lived in dilapidated tiny trailers. Some things, unfortunately, never changed.

            I pulled off a little traveled, weed infested, dirt road at the entrance. The graveyard was enclosed in a chain link fence and had a wooden sign nailed on a post next to it that read, 'Pine Cone Cemetery' which was appropriate. The land around here was Mississippi River flood plain and flat and I could see for miles in all directions. In the distance were forests of low grade trees called Jack Pine. Clearly the cemetery was named after them. The road to the entrance was through deep sand and I had to drop into low gear to get through it. Once inside, it split into a few paths that took you near to most of the headstones. It was a small place, maybe half the size of a football field, unkempt, flat and treeless, like it had been put in as an afterthought. But it hadn't. I saw on the internet before I came up that it had been there for over a hundred and fifty years.

            I parked my car, got out and started walking through the long, dead grass. I was looking at headstones and markers, most of them windblown and crumbling, getting a feel for the place. There was a flag pole in the center that was sandblasted and pitted, a lone rope hanging from it twisting forlornly. I wondered when the last time a flag had flown from it. Probably a long, long time ago was my guess. A stiff wind blew out of the south, kicking up dust, whistling past the tombstones. A more desolate location I couldn't imagine.

            I'd made some phone calls before I came up and had a general idea when Larry's remains were buried. It took about five minutes before I found him. The stone was simple, "Lenny Galen Mackintosh, born September 28, 1929 and died August 3, 1960." That was all it said except half the letters and numbers were illegible. I only found the marker because I knew what I was looking for. I guess he didn't get a military burial in Fort Snelling down in the Twin Cities because he'd been dishonorably discharged from the Army while serving in Korea.

            I can't begin to tell you how sad I was. He had no family that had gone to his funeral service. He was buried by the county with some money contributed by the Swenson family. His marker was some sort of cheap gray granite and it was already falling apart. I knelt in the grass and used my hand to brush off debris and dirt. Then I pulled out handfuls of grass that were growing over the edges. Just those simple acts started to help ease my melancholy feeling. I stood up and looked around. It was a summer day, much like the one when I'd found him dead nearly sixty years earlier. The sky was filled with white, puffy clouds and the day was hot and dry. Sweat was starting to run down my back. I unscrewed the cap of my water bottle and took a drink. Then I poured the rest into my hand and over the marker and cleaned it off some more. When I was done, I ran to my car and grabbed a towel and came back and dried it off. Finally, Lenny's stone was nice and clean. Satisfied, I sat down.

            The wind blew in strong gusts, kicking up dust devils from the dry ground. A few crows flew by cawing back and forth, and, in the distance I heard the sound of a gunshot. A shotgun probably. I knew people up here loved to hunt. Not me. After Lenny discharged that revolver nearly in my ear and told me about killing things, his words stuck with me. I never wantonly killed another living creature the rest of my life. It was weird to me how Lenny, a man I had only the most superficial contact one could have with another human being, could have had such an impact on me. But he did.

            I had gone on with my life after that summer - a full and rewarding one during which I learned many lessons, one of which was to treat others with respect. It was another lesson I learned from Lenny because that's what he did with me, in a tiny, small way, but he did. And that counted for something, especially to me at a young age when I was susceptible to all kinds of forces, both good and bad. In spite of whatever problems he may have been plagued with, he was always decent to me and with me. I have to say that, in the long run, I've meant many types of people throughout my life, both good and bad. Lenny was a good one.

            I wanted to leave behind something, a tribute of some sort to thank him for being who he was and influencing my life in a way neither of us had the tiniest inkling of back then in the short while I knew him. I met him over a can of worms, but leaving something like that seemed disrespectful. I reached into my pocket. In it I carried the pocket knife that I had carried with me those summers back when I knew him. I had it in my pocket that day I found him in his junked out shack, and I had carried it with me every day since. I took it out placed it on his stone. It still looked good, though worn, after nearly one hundred years of use. I remembered Uncle Sid giving it to me when I was ten, "This is for you, Cal," he'd told me at the time, putting his arm around my shoulder. "Treat it with respect, and you'll always be able to depend on it."

            Back then things like that I took for granted, but over the years they became more and more poignant. I was shaped by the men I knew growing up. Uncle Sid was one. Lenny was another. Two entirely different people, two entirely different impacts on me. Both I'll never forget.

            I knew if I left the knife there on the stone someone would just take it - put it in their pocket and walk off. The ground around the marker was wet from my water. I looked around and found the stiff stalk of a weed. I used it to carve out a small hole, wrapped the knife in part of the towel I'd cleaned the stone of with, put it in the hole and covered it with soil.

            I took a deep cleansing breath and let the air out of my lungs. I didn't feel as sad anymore. I stood up, brushing myself off. Lenny had been a good man to me. He had treated me as an adult even though I was just an impressionable kid. I didn't want to look too deeply into my feelings for him, or make too big of a deal over it and try to philosophize too much on why he meant what he did to me. He certainly had his faults, but don't we all. But I'll never forget seeing him dead, knowing that the life was gone from him forever. And, most importantly, that I never had the chance to say 'Thank you' to the guy who was nothing other than kind to me and taught me that being a man was more than just the person with the biggest gun. It had a lot to do with being the kind of person who would take the time to not turn away a young kid who only wanted to buy a can of worms, but ended up getting so much more.

            I left then and began my journey home. I doubt I'll ever come back again, but then again, who knows, maybe I will. Life can be strange that way. I only had to think about Lenny to remind me of that.