Struggles of a Country boy

by Herb Blanchard

  Although the contrast between the two women was distinct Brad could not really tell who looked the oldest. Ginny had an intimidating maturity that made up for her young years and Joanna Bishop's soft features seemed to disavow their years. Ginny had an olive complexion, while Joanna was fair with startling green eyes and a hint of red in her shoulder length brown hair. Although Ginny's short pixie cut wasn't the shiny black of her half-sister's, it was still a very dark brown. Her eyes, like Elinor's, were deep, soft and a dark brown.

  "Are you going to talk to her or be chicken forever?"

  Brad stopped dead in his tracks halfway through the door leaving Miss Bishop's math class. The soft intimate tone of her voice brought a smile to his face before he turned and walked back into the classroom.

  "Sit down, Brad. I'll give you a hall pass to get into study hall or better yet you can go to the Post Office for Miss Lynn." She spoke softly with her usual self assurance.

  "I understand you were about the only friend Elinor had in this school when she was here. Did you know that?"

  Brad remained mute for several seconds. He was not prepared for this kind of conversation and was not at all comfortable. This was a side of his favorite teacher he had never seen before. In reality he was infatuated with Joanna Bishop, and was having trouble dealing with this before unknown side of her.

  "I never thought about it one way or another. She was always easy to talk to so I did. That's all."

  "She was a very lonely girl and had never been accepted here even by most of the teachers, but you never thought about it. Did you?"

  "I don't know, she's just a pretty girl I happened to like and could always talk to. Usually."

  Joanna's perfume slipped across the desk top which separated them. It made Brad think of a spring night, warm and still.

  "I visited with Elinor a lot during the last couple of days. Do you know what she told me?" Brad's friend paused. Studied him with her intense green eyes for a moment before continuing, "Obviously you don't. When you were thirteen, you punched out a classmate. The following week, you got suspended for two days after kicking one of the school's varsity jocks in the kneecap the night before a major basketball game. All because some people were making derogatory remarks about 'Japs and Jap lovers'."

  "That's not quite the way it was." Brad said with a sheepish look on his face. He forced himself to look her in the eye which gave him his courage back. Now he realized she was on his side. She was unlike the teachers and coaches who only cared about their basketball star.

  Miss Bishop interrupted Brad. She didn't want him to justify his actions to her. "Do you know Elinor's mother? Or, have you ever seen her?"

  "Well, sure. They live near me. I go by their house sometimes when I go fishing" Brad answered.

  Joanna laughed quietly, her even white teeth showing slightly between her red lips.

  "Elinor said you were the most naive person she has ever known. I'm afraid I have to agree with her." She paused and studied Brad's eyes before going on.

  "Brad, Elinor's mother is Japanese. The girls' father met her when he was stationed at the Treasure Island brig before the war. She was born in Japan but raised and educated in Oakland."

  The sensitive woman could see Brad was confused and embarrassed so she did her best to put him at his ease.

  "I guess if you never came face to face with a person and if you weren't concerned enough about her nationality it would never occur to you she was anything but another American."

  "I'm confused, if Elinor is half Japanese, then Ginny.

  His friend raised her hands into the air in a sign of surrender. Her pleasant friendly laugh sparked through the room.

  "That's a different story and I'm not going to get into it. I didn't mean to talk so much as it was. So now hurry to Miss Lynn's room and find out what she needs at the post office!"

  "But, Ginny?"

  She smiled. "Just go, Brad, the girl will tell you the rest if you will just talk to her. She wants to be your friend, whether you know it or not. Now go!"

  The brass bar gave easily when he bounced his hip against it and the big oak door swung open quietly on its well oiled brass hinges.

  He was carrying several large manila envelopes in his hands and there was almost thirty dollars of Miss Lynn's money in the front right pocket of his slacks when he stepped out into the warm air.

  She was standing off to one side, almost on the outer edge of the steps and at first he didn't notice her. Brad turned to the small sound her soft leather slipper made against the granite step. Their eyes met across the short width of the steps.

  "Hi. Are you going to the Post Office for Miss Lynn?"

  Ginny's voice was soft and mellow to Brad's ears. He held her gaze while he waited for her to continue. Truthfully, he knew he had lost all ability to talk to this very pretty girl. He had always been sure she would never be interested in talking to him much less being his friend.

  She went on obviously giving up on any response from Brad. "Do you mind if I walk with you? I have the money from Saturday night's Sock Hop to put in the bank and Miss Bishop thought it would be a good idea if I went with you instead of alone."

  "No, oh! No, I don't mind. Let's go!" Brad could feel the heat of his blush. His courage faded as he stammered out the words and struggled to meet her eyes.

  Ginny broke their gaze by looking down at her feet before she gracefully swung her right foot out around her left and came a step closer to Brad. She gave a short giggle and looked up at him. You had a visit with my sister yesterday." It was a statement of fact. "Do you want to come?"

  Brad knew it was a question he would have to answer. Looking down to were she stood one step below him he realized she was not so tall after all. He could easily look over her head from his one step advantage. He continued to study the top of her head and finally found his voice again. "Sure. What time?"

  "We'd better go or the bank will close before we get downtown." Ginny reminded him.

  Ginny started down the stairs ahead of Brad making him hustle to catch up with her on the concrete sidewalk.

  "Anytime after lunch will be alright."

  They walked side by side their shoulders comfortably touching every few steps. Brad watched her out of the corner of his eye. He didn't want her to catch him staring, but he was still trying to figure out why everyone else knew she was Elinor's half-sister.

  Her nose was not at all like Elinor's small Asian nose. Brad thought of a term he had heard somewhere which fit Ginny's nicely, feminine Roman. Not too big. Straight, tapered and a little more noticeable than some.

  "Elinor said you didn't know we were sisters. Is that true? You really didn't know?"

  "No, I didn't. It's true. I guess I never thought about it. And I never saw you with her or with Bud. He's your father, isn't he?"

  Yes, but my mother was Italian not Japanese. That's why Elinor and I are half sisters. My mother died when I was only eight months old. So I don't remember her at all. My Gramma raised me, and I lived with her until last year when she died." Ginny spoke in a quiet, hushed voice and the light wind in the new leaves almost covered her voice. Brad was close enough to hear her. He felt the heat from her hand though he wasn't conscious of her taking his in hers.

  "We'd better hurry, Ginny. It's already ten till three." Brad could see the clock on the old brick town hall. "I'll come Sunday if you want me to."

  "Of course I do. Besides, Dad said to tell you he has a new bow for you to shoot."

  "Come on, we'd better hurry! Ginny was still holding Brad's right hand and pulled it against her waist before they started to run up Main Street towards the bank.

  EIGHT

  Brad was leaning back against the weather bleached skeleton of an oak which was about 500 years old; his feet were propped up on a hunk of granite whose speckled white, gray and black surface was smeared with blue/green lichens. The almo
st summer sun was flashing and dancing on the specks of white quartz and black obsidian embedded in the granite outcroppings around him. At 2,000 feet above sea level the light breezes warded off the heat of the sun so he felt cool and refreshed after his climb to the top of Lynd Mountain.

  From his lofty viewpoint Brad scanned the horizon picking out the peaks he considered part of his domain. To the southwest the morning sun was sparkling on the windows of the Pack Monadnock Mountain fire tower. As the crow flies it was only five or six miles away, but it was a 45 minute drive just to get to the bottom of the mountain.

  To the northeast standing twelve hundred feet tall was Joe English Hill. Its dome-shaped rock face boldly dominated the smaller rolling hills and river bottoms surrounded it.. Joe English was the only hill of consequence between the tiny town of Lynd and the city of Manchester. This strange shaped piece of rock had been used by the military during WWII as a bombing range. The range had not been used for many years and the predominant bomb used had been a small cast iron affair loaded with a smoke producing charge of black powder guaranteed to give off a huge puff of blackish smoke when it detonated.

  Often Brad would sit on his mountain and daydream about airplanes and fearless pilots dominating the air over Southern New Hampshire. He would watch the skies surrounding Joe English and soon his imagination would see the swift silver P-51 Mustang fighters and the twin boomed P-38s hurtling out of the sun making their destructive runs on the granite enemy.

  His backrest had a trunk over four feet around void of any bark. It bore the scars and remnants of charcoal from the numerous blueberry pasture fires which had eventually killed it. No tree could survive for long in the middle of a cultivated blueberry pasture. Each spring after the sun had started to turn warm but the snow was still laying deep in the shade of the hand-built stonewalls, the farmers would trudge up the steep roads to burn their pastures. The ash fertilized the low growing blueberry bushes and the fire removed the competition by killing the fresh greening sprouts of alder, birch and willow bushes setting up the pasture for another productive year.

  The high pitched screech of a hawk as it soared across the top of the mountain made Brad look up into the upper branches of the once magnificent huge oak he was leaning against. The limbs, though worn blunt by time and weather still held the hawk's nest of piled up twigs and branches securely in their grasp. The pair of hawks had been gathering the nesting material from the slopes of the mountain for several seasons, and the nest had grown so much in height over the last three years Brad was beginning to think it would eventually fall out of the tree.

  Loud and angry voices had penetrated Brad's bedroom walls until well after midnight last night. They had made it impossible for him to go to sleep. Before he finally drifted into sleep he made a conscious decision to leave the house at first light and escape into the hills for a day by himself.

  The shadows were long and weak when Brad woke from his short and restless night's sleep. He knew it was still early and he didn't have to think about where to go. He just wandered about the hills seeking privacy and escape from the turmoil of his family. Wherever his legs took him was fine with him. So when he reached the top of the mountain he stopped, not so much to rest, but to enjoy his world and contemplate life.

  Right now life was pretty complicated in the Burgess household. It seemed to be impossible for anyone to enjoy life even a little. A week ago Greta had announced her plans to quit school at the end of her junior year and marry her true love as soon as she turned eighteen. Her birthday which was in six more days was the day she had picked for her wedding.

  Their mother had immediately come down with another migraine.

  Brad couldn't understand what the fuss was all about. Greta had few if any friends at school, and besides she could barely pass her classes.

  He dozed with the sun still warm on his face and listened to the song in the hawk's high pitched cries. The turmoil of his family momentarily forgotten and his thoughts pleasant. A smile replaced the frown Brad had been wearing for several days. He felt better than he had for a long time and enjoyed letting his mind wander. He dreamt about his new friend. Her soft feminine image flooded his mind's eye and her sweet soft voice still murmured in his ear. He looked off to the west towards Ginny's home. He wondered if she was there and contemplated hiking off the mountain to her house. He thought about the clothes he had on and changed his mind. He had put on an old pair of dungarees that had hardly any knees left in them. They were about two inches short and had stains down the left leg. He was positive he didn't want either of the Simpson girls to see him dressed this way.

  I can sneak into my room and put on a pair of school pants then go over to Ginny’s. That's what I'll do!

  A trail ran south along the ridge line just three or four hundred feet below where Brad was sitting before turning West so it wasn't long before he was on the trail and headed West down towards a lower part of the mountain. There was a place halfway down the mountain where he could climb out onto a granite ledge and look directly into the Burgess's yard. Often when they had company he didn't want to see, Brad would check from his viewpoint to be sure they were gone before he went down the mountain.

  Today was no exception. Although it was Saturday, Brad knew his father would be at work but he wasn't sure if Edgar would already be there or not.

  Edgar had been the problem last night as he out-shouted everyone about the upcoming marriage. Other than losing some sleep Brad could care less about Edgar and last night. Though a week ago he had tangled with Edgar over Rusty, Brad's brown and white mutt. He had caught Edgar teasing the simple, trusting dog. Edgar hadn’t know Brad was still in the house.

  He was getting ready to go hunting and already had his cartridge belt on with his skinning knife hanging from it. As soon as he heard his dog being teased, Brad stepped into the living room holding his .22 rifle at hip level. Although he was terrified of the tall gangly, wannabe biker, he stared into Edgar's eyes for several seconds before telling him to leave his dog alone. As he was turning away from Edgar he added that if Edgar ever touched her again he would "be sorry." Brad called his dog to him before he turned and left the house. Fearfully Brad went across the yard. He was sure Edgar would attack and destroy him at any second.

  Reaching the safety of the trees, with the dog at his heels, Brad stopped and listened to Edgar and Greta hollering at each other. Shaking his head Brad looked down at the panting mongrel. "They deserve each other dog. I'm not going to get near him again. He scares me."

  Remembering, Brad looked for the would-be biker's faded black Mercury 2-door from the safety of his ledge.

  Shit. Edgar is there. Guess I'll go up to the blueberry pasture and check the cows.

  With his .22 swinging easily in his right hand Brad turned around and headed back up the mountain.

  After a short ten minute climb he could see the south slopes of Rose Mountain two and a half miles away. Around on its northwest slope another quarter mile or so beyond where he could see was the fenced pasture where Charlie Carr kept his yearling stock each summer. It was about two miles from the farm and off the beaten path so whenever he was on the mountain Brad would drift over that way and check on the heifers and steers they had put in the pasture several weeks before.

  In the pass between Lynd Mountain and Rose Mountain was a small, fast running mountain stream. In the creek were seven and eight inch native squaretail trout. Just the right size to eat. And on more than one occasion Brad and his dog had made a meal of the sweet tasting trout.

  After crossing the high open pasture land, Brad dropped down into the tree line. As he entered the trees he turned a bit more to the west. He wanted to hit his favorite spot on the creek. He moved fast through the terrain between the two mountains. It was rocky, full of ledges and several huge white pines that had been blown down in the hurricane which had been the scourge of the Atlantic seaboard in September of 1938.
Reaching the creek at a series of one and two foot drops where the crystal clear water ran from one hogshead-sized pool to another. Each miniature fall made its own unique rush of sound which harmonized into a gentle blend of small cascading waterfalls and gurgling rapids. Brad sat on a moss covered rock near the middle of the group of small falls. He could smell and feel the cold moisture laden air drifting up from the creek. It felt good on his hot face and upper body.

  With his skinning knife it only took Brad a couple of minutes to cut a six foot piece of willow switch. From the small purse-sized leather pouch on his belt, Brad dug out about twelve feet of gut fly leader and a small bluish gray mosquito fly which he tied onto the leader material. He tied these to the tip of the willow switch to make a fishing pole.

  One of Brad's favorite trout spots was only a hundred feet or so down the creek from where he'd started. The water had undercut a piece of granite ledge creating a kidney-shaped eddy that was dammed up by the roots of a blown-down hemlock. The pool was several feet across and four feet deep under the ledge. Always the perfect lair for a squaretail or two.

  He slipped through the brush and trees and approached the pool from the upstream, uphill side. Cautiously he poked his willow rod through the brush overhanging the water. With a flick of his wrist he sent the tiny blue-gray fly sailing out to the middle of the water where it cascaded into the pool. The feather mosquito touched the water and bobbed across the surface several inches before being rolled under by the eddy's undercurrent. The fly disappeared in the roiling water, but Brad could see the gut leader being swept in an arc toward the undercut rock. The leader straightened out with a snap from the force of the current which spit the fly out into the burbling flow at the base of the pool.

  The fish's off-white belly flashed in a tiny spot of sunlight as it rolled out from under the log dam. The gut leader twanged on the willow pole when Brad set the hook. He lifted the seven inch trout out of the stream and swung it into the relative safety of the brush and leaves on the uphill bank.