On Zion's Hill

by Anna J. Small Roseboro

  Ken is not sure if he’ll ever really forgive them for moving out here just when he was entering high school. He had grown up playing pickup ball with the guys on Coach’s team and longed to join the lineup that surely would keep up their winning streak. But no! His parents decided to move less than half a mile from the district boundary for the high school where Coach Mac worked. It just wasn’t fair!

  Still, he did get to play ball at his new school. To tell the truth, even though at fourteen he had been quite skillful, he probably would not have made the first team at Coach’s school. The guys in the old neighborhood were outstanding, many of them taller and stronger than Ken by the time he’d started high school.

  At Hillside High, his new school, he’d made first string his first year and held a spot on varsity his whole four years. By the time he got to be a senior, their school had an enviable reputation and a strong enough record to earn a slot in the invitational tournament run by Coach Mac, a craggy faced Ernest Borgnine kind of guy from Pittsburgh whom everyone admired. Teams all across the state vied for a chance to play against Coach’s championship team. His squad always made it to the finals and every year drew a sellout crowd to that last game of the tournament.

  Each summer, even after the family moved, when Ken was not working on their new property, collecting junk with his uncle, or in the garden his mom had up on that uncle’s farm, he would ride his bike back to the old neighborhood to play pickup games with the guys he’d known all his life. They kept him sharp.

  The older guys didn’t pick the young guys if they wouldn’t be an asset to the team. They wouldn’t even play one-on-one if the player couldn’t be a challenge to them. For several years, Ken only got to play in the afternoon when the older guys still were at work. After dinner is when the best guys came out and the toughest games were played. By the time he was sixteen, Ken had picked up some weight and developed enough skill to hold his own against most of them. More and more often they picked him to be on their team. They played fast and physical ball, and he’d certainly honed his skills playing in the old neighborhood.

  Sometimes Coach would come out and watch the pickup games. He even called Ken aside one time during the summer between his junior and senior year and asked him if he planned to go to college. Ken’s playing impressed him, and Coach thought he could help if Ken needed introductions to college coaches. “Wow, the Coach thinks I’m good enough to play college ball!” Ken thought with a grin of pleasure.

  He had ridden home from the game that evening, swiping his sweating forehead and peddling the old cycle. He’d put it together from spare parts picked up when he helped his uncle on his junk collection route. Industrious, Ken had worked at any kind of honest job just to earn spending cash.

  His stepfather, a hardworking man, almost always had some kind of job, but often was laid off from those that paid well. There just seemed to be no steady employment at the local steel mill. With the on-going recession, the plants in the area were always having layoffs, so he seldom was able to give pre-teen Ken an allowance or any nonessential extras at all.

  Sure, he always had a roof over his head, balanced meals, and satisfactory clothes. His parents, however, had been saving for years to buy that piece of property and now were well on their way to having enough to start building the main floor of the ranch home they’d been dreaming about most of his life.

  So, young Ken, knowing he needed to accept whatever jobs came his way, gladly accepted the offer to work with his uncle in his junk-collecting business. That was years ago, but Ken still remembers the good times with that entrepreneurial uncle. Now, making the right turn off the main road onto the dirt road to his house, Ken recalls coasting along on his mutt of a bike. He smiles, reflecting on those days.

  AT THE END OF THE DAYS of driving through the alleys of town, his uncle always stopped at the hot dog stand. He’d get Ken two chili dogs and a big drink – Nehi Grape or Nesbitt’s Crush -- and then drop him off at home before heading back across town to his own farm. Neither Ken nor his parents had money to buy him a bike. Uncle Joe couldn’t really afford to do so either.

  That memorable day, while collecting in the alley in one of the better neighborhoods, they saw the frame of the red bicycle sitting next to the trash cans. Banged up, there really was nothing much wrong with it except that it needed a paint job. For an inordinate amount of time Ken looked longingly at the frame; Uncle Joe picked up the vibe, the message that to his nephew this was a special find.

  “Why don’t you put it on the truck, Ken? You can keep it if you want. You never can tell. You just might find other bike parts. You know you can buy used parts for little or nothing. Pretty soon you can have yourself a real nice bicycle.”

  “Really, Uncle? You don’t mind?” Uncle Joe shook his head.

  “But, this could bring you a pretty good penny. It’s really okay if I keep it?”

  Uncle nodded his head.

  “I’ve never had a bike. I can get along all right without one.”

  Uncle shook his head.

  “Sure, walking up the hill and ‘cross town are good for your legs, but sometimes you want to get there faster. It’s okay by me if you keep it.”

  Ken nodded his head.

  “I only have a couple more years of school and then I’ll be out of here. I can get along without a bike. Uncle, you can get a good price. It’s a Schwinn!”

  Uncle nodded, then shook his head.

  “No, Son. It’s for you. Go ahead and put it up in the truck. Yeah, right over there. Stand it straight and cushion it with this folded tarp, so it won’t get bumped around too much by the rest of this junk. Yeah, that’s right. Tie it to the side panel with that there rope.” Ken tied it securely.

  They climbed back into the cab of the truck and continued down the alley. “This is your special day, boy! You know a Schwinn’s a real good riding machine. That frame’ll fix up real nice and you’ll be on your way.”

  And over the rest of that summer, slowly but surely, Ken collected bike parts and earned enough to fill in for what they didn’t find. He’s sure Uncle Joe paid him a little extra, but Ken did work hard to deserve it. By fall, with his stepfather’s help straightening the frame, spraying it with some of that new Rustoleum paint, and assembling the parts, he had himself a pretty good ride.

  THEN, ONE EVENING, THREE YEARS LATER when Coach offered to help him get connected with college coaches, Ken was glad he was riding and not walking. He was eager to get home and tell his parents what the coach had told him.

  Everyone in the family knew Ken’s grades were good enough to get into a decent engineering program, and everyone also knew the family had nowhere near enough income to help pay for such a program. All, therefore, would be thrilled to learn that Coach Mac had noticed Ken and wanted to help him out – even though Ken hadn’t gone to Coach’s school. What a guy!

  That long ago day, junior year, when he had come home from the gym he had set his bike against the shed just behind the trailer, then sat on the step to untie his shoes. His mom wouldn’t let him inside with those dirty gym shoes no matter how much he claimed to have cleaned off every mud clod and shaken out every grain of sand. That was all fine and good, but no stinky gym shoes in her house.

  In the summer, he would store his shoes in a wooden bin his stepfather built just for outdoor footwear. In the winter they all put their boots in there. Whatever could be done outside gave them more room to navigate what was to have been their temporary living quarters for just a few months.

  Unfortunately, with the layoffs, it had taken his parents longer than they’d expected to even get the basement finished so they could at least move down there and have more room. That also is a reason Ken knew he wouldn’t ask them to help him with college. He still had another sister behind him who was just a seventh grader. He was nearly grown and had to pull his own weight to secure the luxury of a college education.

  Proud of his achievements yes, but realistic about the likelihood of their bei
ng able to be of any financial assistance, his parents encouraged Ken to consider military service. His stepfather, a veteran, was using his VA benefits to help them finance their new house. He advised him to do his tour of duty, qualify for veteran’s benefits, and afterwards go to college on the GI bill.

  But he yearned to go to college right after graduation, so he’d been researching in the library to learn which colleges had the kind of engineering program he wanted. How shocked he was to learn how much it would cost to go to Penn State, his first choice college. Even with in-state residency discounts, he knew he’d never be able to earn enough in time to pay his way right after high school.

  So, that summer afternoon, he did stop by and see Coach Mac about his offer. Maybe there could be another way of getting a college degree without being a burden to his family. Ken was willing to work, and maybe the combination of scholarship and campus job would be enough. Sitting there on the steps that day, Ken decided not to bring up the topic right away. He’d just wait until he had more solid information to go on. He didn’t want to get his hopes up only to be dashed. Anyway, he had a whole year to go before graduating. Who knows what might turn up in that amount of time?

  NOW, SIX YEARS LATER, here he is again, sitting on the steps of the mobile home, shaking dirt off his shoes. Getting up from the stoop, Ken unlocks the door and steps into the tiny trailer entryway that also is the kitchen, living room, and his bedroom. The dining area banquette converts into a single bed, and that’s where he sleeps. He listens a moment to see if his sister or parents are moving around in their tiny spaces at the opposite end of their cramped quarters. No. Everything is quiet.

  Everyone must be asleep. He hangs the blue windbreaker and his grey slacks over the same cardboard cylinder covered hanger and squeezes it into the tiny closet the family shares.

  Tiptoeing, he slips into the bathroom to wash up before hitting the sack. Oh, if it were nearly as soft as a sack! He’s in for another rough night. Even though he’s been home all summer, he’s not re-acclimated to this hard narrow bed. Four years in the service and a year at college have spoiled him. Oh well. Just another week and he’ll be heading back to campus.

  In the little lavatory, the shallow stainless steel sink is hardly deep enough to hold a water-filled washcloth, but Ken is careful. He quickly and quietly washes his face, brushes his teeth, rinses and wipes the sink dry, hangs up the cloth, and then tiptoes back into the kitchen, turns up the banquette top, pulls his bed covers from the storage bin below and makes up his skinny sleeping space. He’d forgotten how awfully tight it is in the trailer. Though a twenty-four footer, this is a vacation trailer, not designed for three adults to live in year round. With him home again, that makes four.

  The whole family had expected to have the basement completed so they could move in before he returned from college this first year, but the money just didn’t come in as quickly nor go as far as they’d expected.

  Thia, his younger sister, just graduated from high school and wants to be an executive secretary. This means she’ll be home another couple years doing course work. He feels sorry for Thia living so long this way.

  She’s always loved fashions – clothes and costume jewelry. She’s longed for space and a place for her own things. But, her room at the end of the trailer is really just a single cushion on a shelf behind a curtain. All her personal things have to be stored in the drawers beneath her bunk. Ken is sharing the entry room closet for the summer. He can imagine how really frustrated she must be at how long it’s taking for their new home. At the rate things are moving along, both she and he will be out of college before their folks finish building.

  Their parents both are perfectionists, satisfied only with the best materials and the most skilled craftsmen. They’d rather wait than do something halfway. They don’t mind looking for a bargain, which they view as a modest price for top quality merchandise and workmanship. His mother shops at fine stores, and they’ve contracted local Amish carpenters who are helping frame rooms in the basement and will return later to help with cabinetry upstairs. When asked why it’s taking them so long, his parents just respond with confidence, “We’re trusting God to help us get the house of our dreams.”

  So far, his mother has put fixtures into storage that she’s bought at estate and year-end sales. Their shed is stacked to the roof. She’s put things like the crystal chandelier for the dining room and the lamps for the living room into crush proof containers. She has even salvaged a white marble fireplace mantle from a house a builder was demolishing. That was quite a find. She will be ready to totally furnish it when they eventually finish the house.

  Ken feels similarly about worth in terms of any woman he gets involved with. No, he doesn’t think of women as things, but he does know he wants a quality woman for a wife. He won’t settle for less than the best.

  LYING ON HIS BACK, TALKING TO THE CEILING, Ken tries to convince himself, “But, I don’t have the time to date now and I’m not about to rush into a relationship and take a chance on someone who won’t last. When I marry, I’ll be marrying for life.” Even though his mother and stepfather have been married for nearly twenty years, they both had been divorced. “I don’t want that to be my story.”

  He remembers what it was like when his mother and biological dad had split up. He doesn’t want that for his kids, and he definitely plans to have a family of his own and be able to take care of them.

  That’s why he wants to get his college degree first. He doesn’t want to be at the mercy of companies who lay off their unskilled workers every other year or so. His stepfather, fed up with that, spent over two years attending a trade school thirty miles away across the state line in Ohio.

  Thank the Lord, his dad finally has a steadier income, and both parents are more optimistic now. His dad now has the potential to earn a better salary, but he still is low man on the totem pole and isn’t bringing home that much more than before. The future looks brighter for them, but the future is not here yet, and they still are crammed into a vacation size trailer sitting next to a capped hole in the ground the size of their anticipated red brick ranch home with pure white mortar.

  Ken wiggles on the dinette bench, aka bed, trying to get comfortable, and pulling his hands from behind his head, clasps them on his chest, and prays before going to sleep. There really isn’t room to kneel down in the kitchen-living room-entry hall-bedroom where he sleeps. He knows God won’t mind that he does his praying on his back.

  God can see what things are like here – even in the dark. Ken smiles at that thought, thinking of his campers’ humor. God can see in the dark. He loves them so much, He can’t keep His eyes off of them. Ken had reminded them that God doesn’t need light to see since He is a Spirit, not restricted to physical limitations. Not that it had kept them from pulling pranks and telling borderline jokes during lights out.

  God also can see Ken’s heart and that he is drawn to that Angela Jeanette he’s met this evening. God also can read his mind and understands He’s rationalizing that he is not ready for a relationship even with an attractive woman like her. He doesn’t have time for this. Ken tries to push from his mind what he heard God say in the tabernacle when she sat down in front of him.

  As distinctly as if He were sitting behind him and whispering in his ear, Ken clearly heard, “She’s the one for you.” After that, he could hardly concentrate on the service! Thankfully, he’d grown up with these songs and knew the lyrics by heart, so he could sing along without concentrating on the words. Instead, he was thinking what a good voice he had. Recalling the years he sang in a quartet and attracted the attention of screaming female fans. He hoped that good-looking lady there in the tabernacle could hear him. Shame, shame, shame.

  Ken and some of his high school buddies used to croon and harmonize a cappella. “September Song” and “Blue Moon” had been their signature songs. They hadn’t needed guitars and drums like a lot of the rock and roll groups out of Memphis or the rhythm and blues quartets
out of Motown and Philly. Steve, their lead singer would just pitch a song, and the rest of them could hear their parts and come in right in tune. When they sang “Duke of Earl” the girls nearly fainted with delight.

  It had been fun and economical singing at school dances when he was a teenager. He could go to them all without the bother or expense of a date. He’d always been somewhat shy. His older sister, Joann used to tease him about it and always tried to fix him up with girls in the neighborhood. Not anymore. She’s married now and has a kid of her own. Still he does love her for thinking about him and wanting him to find a good woman.

  He wonders if his Joann would like Angie. His sister’s outgoing and a good judge of people. Maybe he can get them together before the camp meeting ends. “Wow,” he tells the ceiling, “I’m getting ahead of myself! I haven’t even asked Angie out on a date, and already I’m planning to introduce her to my sister.

  “Hold it, buddy. Slow down. Remember, you don’t want to get involved with anyone now. You’ve got three more years of college and no dough for dating anyway. Sure, God said this is the woman for you. Maybe even the one you will marry, but He didn’t say next week. You’ve got time, old man. Take it easy. Time to get some sleep.”

  But he doesn’t right away. Instead, he continues to share his thoughts with the kitchen ceiling light, “Anyway, I doubt Angie would be interested in anything more than the typical camp meeting fling. I’ve heard all about those from Lily and other youth camp counselors who’ve been coming to Zion’s Hill since they were kids.

  “Most of them just try to connect with someone for the week. Nothing serious--just somebody to be with, something to do, someone to walk around with on the grounds, have a snack at the food stands maybe sit next to in services, and share a Bible during the sermon. I can handle that. Nothing permanent. Just socializing for the week. Easy. No problem.