Then Again

by Rick Boling

  Gideon then nailed the radio to the wall.

  Sam did not speak until the age of seven, by which time he had disassembled every mechanical device on the thirty-acre dirt farm. And, to his father's relief, learned how to put them back together again. The occasion of his first word was during a rare trip to the “Big City” of Marianna (population 5,284) to attend the Jackson County Fair. His father had raised what he believed to be a prize-winning hog, and had consented to take the family along to witness the awards ceremony. When they arrived at the fair and Sam caught his first glimpse of the colorful, animated mechanical rides, his mouth dropped open and he stood without moving until Gideon finally asked him what was wrong.

  Sam pointed at the Ferris wheel and said, "Wow!"

  The hog came in third, and the next day Gideon discovered his toolbox missing. A thorough search of the farm confirmed his worst fear: Sam was nowhere to be found. Quick thinking led them back to the fair, where, after a few inquiries, they found Sam being looked after by one Bugger McGraw and his wife Emily. Bugger, otherwise known as The Amazing Pretzel Man, had spotted Sam early that morning sitting next to one of the Tilt-A-Whirl cars with parts spread out all around him.

  “I was ‘bout to grab ‘im,” Bugger told them. “But he’s a workin’ so fast and concentratin’ so hard, it stopped me in my tracks. And before I got to movin’ again, he had the dang thing all put back together.”

  Sam showed no remorse as Gideon thanked the McGraws, grabbed him by the ear, and dragged him to the truck. Before they drove off, Bugger yelled after them: “Car works perfect, so don’t be too hard on him. Got yerself a good’n there. Don’t talk much, but that’s one smart boy. Y’aughta send him to school.”

  The Smiths had not considered sending Sam to the two-room schoolhouse in the nearby town of Dellwood, mostly because they needed him to work around the farm. They both knew he was special, however, and later that night they had a long talk about it and decided Bugger was right. So the next morning they got Sam all spiffed up and sent him off to school with the girls.

  Sam was thrilled, and for the next two years he studied diligently, quickly learning to read and devouring every book in the school’s tiny library. He also kept up with his chores at the farm, helping maintain the machinery and eventually acting as a tutor to his older sisters.

  Every year, Gideon took the family back to the fair, mostly so they could show Bugger how far Sam had come since he’d suggested they should send him to school. It was on their second trip back, while the girls were out wandering the fairgrounds and Gideon and Sam were visiting with Bugger in his trailer, when Sam happened to pick up a dog-eared copy of Popular Mechanics from the coffee table.

  While Gideon and Bugger shot the breeze, Sam read, and when he came upon an article about the new computer at MIT, he was transfixed. He’d never heard of such a thing before, and his mind almost exploded trying to imagine all the possibilities. These thoughts haunted him all the way home, and it wasn’t long before he made a decision.

  After they’d eaten dinner that evening, he worked up his courage and confronted his parents. He told them he had learned everything there was to learn from the teacher at the school in Dellwood, that he’d read every book in the school library and was now actually helping teach the other students math and science.

  “Problem is, Mom and Dad, I’m stuck,” he said, putting on a grave face and smacking a fist into his palm for emphasis. “There’s so much more out there to know, but I don’t stand a chance of learning it unless I can go to a real school with a big library and lots of smart teachers. Ask Mrs. Davison, if you don’t believe me. She’s told me the same thing.”

  Eunice had spoken to his teacher, Mrs. Davison, so she knew what Sam said was true. She’d discussed the dilemma with Gideon, but they couldn’t come up with a solution. The farm was their only livelihood; they’d bought it shortly after Gideon suffered an accident at the cigarette factory where he worked in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. He’d been blinded in one eye, and the settlement gave them enough money to move to Florida and buy the farm, plus a hefty chunk of extra cash to keep in the bank. But farming was now the only thing they knew, and the idea of giving it up and moving to the city seemed far too risky.

  They explained this to Sam, who considered it for about thirty seconds, then said, “Okay. I understand. But if I can come up with a plan, will you at least listen to it?”

  “You bet we will, Sam,” said Gideon, thinking even his genius son couldn’t figure out a solution that would be both practical and safe enough to keep them secure.

  Of course, he was wrong.

  By then Sam had started bringing in his own money doing repair work for other farmers, and he had a good bit saved up. It was summertime, so he used some of his savings to chip in for gas and hitch rides with neighbors whenever they drove down to Marianna to buy supplies. He also made it a point to accompany Gideon on such trips, and while there he would spend hours at the public library, researching various Florida towns and cities, reading their newspapers and checking reference books to determine things like population growth, economic stability, and local business potential. He also made inquiries into the real-estate value of the land surrounding their property, and went through Gideon’s records to work up a financial evaluation of the farm’s income.

  Though never formally educated, Gideon was not dumb. He had grown up on a farm and learned how to turn crops and stay abreast of trends in the marketplace. One thing he determined right away was that weather patterns and disease were driving the citrus crop southward, so the first thing he did upon buying the farm was hire some immigrant laborers to clear the ten acres or so of orange trees. In place of the fruit he took a chance on a new onion variety that was yet to enjoy widespread popularity. It was a simple crop to grow and maintain, resistant to disease and drought, and drawing high prices because of its relative scarceness outside a certain area of Georgia, where the low sulfur content of the soil contributed to its unique sweetness. Testing had revealed that the soil on the Smith farm was also low in sulfur, so even though it seemed a little risky, he decided to try one of the Georgia hybrids. Little did he know the Vidalia onion would one day become a sensation, leading to a boom in sweet onion varieties like the one he had planted. He called his onions Dellwood Sweets, thinking Two Egg Sweets sounded a little too whacky.

  By the time Sam got through with his investigations, he’d put together a plan that not only gave them a substantial profit on the farm, but would provide them with a nice home in the northeast section of St. Petersburg. It was an income-producing property, which meant Gideon would no longer have to work, except for managing several rental units and overseeing their maintenance. The apartment building was only four blocks from my house, and it was shortly after they moved in that Mom, who always paid new neighbors a visit, asked me to tag along and carry the chocolate layer cake she’d baked for the Smiths.

  I recalled being smitten by Sam’s youngest sister on that visit, though in my first life Sarah had paid me little attention. In this one, however, I had the feeling we might eventually become more than casual friends, since she seemed to have conquered her shyness and was willing to spend time alone with me. As she was finishing her story about Sam, some of that shyness returned when she realized how much she’d told me.

  Stopping abruptly in the middle of a sentence, she blushed and shook her head. “I don’t know what got into me,” she said. “I didn’t mean to tell so much. I know Sam wouldn’t want anyone outside the family to know some of that stuff, so please don’t mention this to him. I’d hate it if anything I did messed up your friendship. He’s never had any real close friends, you know, other than us girls.”

  “Really?” I said. “That’s hard to believe. I mean he’s so smart and talented, I can’t imagine him not being popular.”

  “Oh, everybody likes him, alright, but he’s always been kind of a loner. It’s like he doesn’t have time for the silly things kids his age do. Not th
at he’s conceited or anything, he’s always treated me and my sisters like equals, even though we’re nowhere near him in the brains department. Heck, if it weren’t for him, I would never have learned much of anything except how to milk a cow, slop the hogs, and gather eggs. It’s just that he was so far ahead of everyone, and I think it bored him to hang around with the other kids. You, on the other hand …”

  She stopped then, apparently searching for the right words. When she seemed unable to find them, I spoke up. “I think it’s the music,” I said. “I’m no Brainiac, but he seems to love the music we make together.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “He does. And so do I, Ricky. So do I.”

  “You know,” I said, “you really should try joining in sometimes. I’ve told you before you have a beautiful voice, and I meant it. Maybe we could form a trio or something.”

  “Oh, I could never do that,” she said, her voice betraying an attempt to subdue the longing that lay behind her fear. “Not in front of people. I’d be too embarrassed. Anyway, I don’t know anything about singing.”

  “Well, I do,” I said. “I’ve had three years of voice lessons, so maybe I could teach you. I know what you mean about being embarrassed. I was scared the first time I sang in public. But once you get past the first time, it gets a lot easier. Besides, at least for now, we would only be singing into a tape recorder, right here in the privacy of this room.”

  She looked down at her hands, which were rubbing together, as if she were washing them under an invisible stream of water. “I don’t know, Ricky,” she said finally. “I—”

  “Listen, just think about it, okay?” Then I offered what I felt would be the clincher. “Sam would be thrilled to have you sing with us. We’ve talked about it,” I lied, “but he didn’t want to push you.”

  “Really?” she said, her eyes lighting up like sparklers.

  “Really,” I said. “I promise.”

  And so began an entirely different musical track for me. I spent the next year teaching Sarah some simple techniques on the guitar (turned out she didn’t need much vocal training—she was a natural), while I worked with Sam on electronic projects. At the time, multi-track recording was in its infancy, and the only recording studios anywhere near us were the fairly primitive operations housed at local radio stations. What I wanted was at least a four-track setup, and when I explained what I could remember of these machines to Sam, he went right to work.

  Using our new charge account, and cannibalizing parts from Alcorn Electric’s Parts Graveyard, Sam cobbled together a bizarre-looking contraption that would synchronize and record six tracks at once. We didn’t have access to the wider magnetic tapes and reels just beginning to be used at the major studios, so he had to stack six quarter-inch recording heads and reel mechanisms one above the other. It took him a while to figure out how to synchronize them, but he eventually decided to run all six off a geared-down motor we salvaged from Mom’s old vacuum cleaner. Then, employing an ingenious combination of cams and gears, he even managed to come up with a tape-delayed echo system that allowed us to add reverberation effects to our recordings. This put us light-years ahead of the local radio stations, since that kind of technology could still only be found at studios in New York and Nashville.

  Ever since Sam had seen the article about the computer at MIT, he’d studied everything he could find about computers. He was already putting together flip-flop circuits, the original building blocks of computer circuitry, and learning things like binary math and Boolean algebra. But the technology was so elemental at that time I realized we would be restricted to analog devices in our recording efforts. I felt sure, however, that with Sam’s genius, we would remain ahead of the technological curve as the digital age approached.

  Our efforts soon outgrew the space in my bedroom, so I petitioned Dad to let us use one of the storage rooms under our garage apartment for a combination studio/workshop. Before long we’d filled shelves and workbenches with an assortment of Sam’s paraphernalia, and walled off a cubicle, which we soundproofed with acoustical tile to use as a recording booth.

  Meanwhile, I had decided to give up my beautiful new electric guitar and amplifier, in favor of buying two acoustics. Having advanced knowledge of the marketplace, I scanned the want ads and searched the music stores and pawn shops, until I found a couple of used Martins: a small-body 00-17 classical for Sarah, and a D-18 for me. I was shocked at the obscenely low prices I paid for these instruments, but thrilled that I actually had enough from the sale and my savings to purchase them. By then Sam was working on building us a sound system for vocals, and when I mentioned the idea of amplifying the instruments, he began designing magnetic pickups for the guitars and bass, attuning the windings to match their widely varied frequencies.

  I was in no hurry to develop the trio, knowing the so-called “folk revolution” would not reach its peak of popularity until the mid-‘60s. What I wanted was to create something unique, not simply imitate artists like Bob Dylan, Joan Baez, Peter Paul &Mary, or the dozen or so others who formed the foundation of that revolution. With Sarah and me playing guitar, Sam on the bass fiddle, and the three of us singing in harmony, we had all the ingredients of a modern folk group.

  Sarah caught on quickly to the guitar and her vocals were as pure and fresh as a mountain waterfall. I went to work writing songs and was happily surprised to find that many of the lyrics I’d written before began to come back to me. I included Sam and Sarah in the writing process, and soon their Appalachian influence started to come through, giving us a distinctive country/folk/rock sound. It was a little like a combination of Jackson Browne, Jim Croce, and The Carter Family, with a hint of bluegrass juxtaposed against my more contemporary fingerstyle arrangements. We made our public debut at the same school talent show where I’d sung You Are My Special Angel to express my undying love for Pat, but by then I’d developed a crush on Sarah and had practically forgotten Pat existed. I did happen to see her in the audience, however, and that started to bring back memories, one of which was that my parents would soon be getting a divorce.

  Charlotte’s Web

  In my first life, Mom and Dad had divorced shortly after my fifteenth birthday, and I remembered the tremendous heartbreak Mom suffered when they split up. Dad was the love of her life and, she would tell me years later, finding out he’d been unfaithful was the most devastating thing that ever happened to her. Not only that, but we were both convinced his infidelity had been a prime cause of his eventual death.

  My father was a devoutly religious man, who grew up dirt poor on a farm in North Dakota and worked his way through college and med school. Though highly intelligent, in many ways he was simple and naïve, and Mom told me the two of them were sexually inexperienced when they met. So she wasn’t really surprised that he’d been vulnerable to the devious flirting of his pretty young receptionist.

  Charlotte, we would find out later from her roommate, had set her sights on the wealthy, middle-aged doctor from the moment she was hired, and the conflict between Dad’s religious beliefs and his adultery must have been enormous. This was evidenced by the fact that, shortly after he married Charlotte, his health began to go downhill dramatically. And the most telling thing was that he refused to do anything about it.

  The lifestyle changes that came with being married to a lusty, high-spirited young woman, whose tastes ran to drinking, smoking, night-clubbing, and gambling in the Bahamas, were substantial. And, being a doctor, there was no way Dad could not have known what he was doing to his body by joining her in these activities. We later learned that his good friend, Dr. Prather, a neurosurgeon, had begged him on many occasions to clean up his act or at least to begin taking medications for his high blood pressure and other ailments. But it seemed he was determined to continue living the life Charlotte dictated, even though he had to know what the consequences would be. This, Mom and I agreed, was a deliberate attempt to atone for his sins by essentially committing a slow act of suicide.

&nb
sp; Five years after the divorce, he was delivering a baby in the middle of the night when he suffered a massive cerebral hemorrhage, during which, Dr. Prather said, practically every blood vessel in his head had burst. He was brain dead before we arrived at the hospital, and when they finally took him off life support it was clear that his young wife’s insincere sadness could not hold a candle to my mother’s genuine grief.

  But that was in my first life. In this one, Dad’s five-year slog toward heaven’s waiting room had not yet begun, and I began to wonder if I could prevent it from happening, or if it was inevitable—written in the stars, so to speak. After causing the accident that nearly killed Pat, I’d tried to calculate as best I could what the consequences of any important decision I made would be, even though I’d learned back at the villa that trying to extrapolate the effects of a particular action was an exercise in futility. On the other hand, I had done several things that appeared to be altering the future course of my life, and these decisions—even though made on the fly—seemed to have woven themselves fairly smoothly into the fabric of this dimension. However, the idea of attempting something as momentous as saving a life or even a marriage was another matter.

  By now, Dad’s affair with Charlotte would already be in full swing, so it might be too late to change the outcome anyway. In any case, what could I possibly do about it? I could not imagine confronting him myself for several reasons, not the least of which was coming up with an explanation for how I knew about his adultery. Besides, Dad and I never had the kind of relationship that included heart-to-heart talks. Being a somewhat hard-nosed Midwesterner, he was not at all the touchy-feely type. Instead, he tried to show his love for me in monetary ways, which is why he seldom if ever denied me anything material. If something I wanted could be bought and did not pose an undue risk to my health or wellbeing, he always seemed to find a way to make sure I had it. And he always saw to it that I had spending money. But talking, at least the kind that involved serious emotional interaction, was out of the question.