by Paul Elder
Just as these thoughts settled in my mind I suddenly found myself shooting out of the water and into the air. A moment later I was hovering over the choir loft in the back of our church.
It felt so strange. There I was, floating around in our church, anxiously awaiting my own funeral. Then I noticed there wasn't a soul in the building. If this was my funeral, I thought, where were all the people? I would have expected to see my mom and dad, my brothers and sisters, and all of the other people who normally went to church. But no one was there, and I hadn't a clue what to make of it.
Fascinated, I floated over the empty pews marveling at the impossibility of the situation. I was flying—actually flying! And there didn't seem to be a darn thing holding me up. How could this be? I hadn't read anything about Tom Sawyer flying. Puzzled, I floated for several more moments, deep in thought.
Suddenly, I felt a violent convulsion. Spasms erupted through my stomach. The next thing I knew, I was back on the shore of the dugout spewing water from my lungs, gasping for air.
My face bouncing in the mud, cousin Brian had his arms locked around my waist, dangling me upside down, draining the water from my body. Sick to my stomach, I vomited for a couple of agonizing minutes.
When I finally began to collect my wits, I looked up to see the horrified faces of my brother and cousins. We were all, to some degree, in a state of shock. To make matters worse, we knew we were going to be in a heap of trouble when we got home.
We sat quietly beside the dugout, contemplating what had just happened. After a few moments, as if on cue, everyone started talking at once. Chances were we would get a good whipping if anyone found out about our little incident, so we made a pact to never tell a soul. Then we got up, brushed ourselves off, and walking as slowly as possible to dry our clothes, headed for home.
Pumped with fear and adrenaline, Brian wasn't feeling too well. He told me he had thought for sure that I was dead because I'd been under for such a long time. He had spent several terrifying minutes diving and groping around in the murky water. When he finally found me in the mud at the bottom, it took every ounce of energy he could muster to get me to the surface.
As Brian told me this, I put my arms around my little brother and hugged him. Dale had been deeply affected. Unable to speak, tears flowed down his freckled cheeks.
As we walked back to the farm, Brian and I lagged behind the other two. I told him about the strange things that happened while I was in the water, about my memories of Tom Sawyer's funeral, about floating midair in the church, and my surprise that there were no people in the building. Brian made a simple observation. Of course there wouldn't be any people in the church. It was four o'clock in the afternoon and Saturday to boot.
I told him about all the bright colors that surrounded me in the water. But what I was recounting seemed strange even to me. I remember saying “Jeez, I didn't know you could feel colors.” Brian, however, didn't say much. Maybe he thought I had water on the brain or something because I'm sure this couldn't have sounded very rational.
I told him again about what it was like to fly. He listened quietly, and then as if he hadn't heard my comments, he questioned, “Tom Sawyer? Why would you be thinking of Tom Sawyer?” I admitted that I hadn't the slightest idea, but assured him that everything had seemed so real.
“Jesus, Paul,” he scolded. “You scared the hell out of us. I couldn't find you. I was praying like crazy. It's a good thing you ain't dead, 'cause they'd sure be killing the rest of us when we got home.”
Although exceedingly nervous, when we finally reached the farm, we tried to be as nonchalant as possible. But as twelve-year-olds, we were probably too nonchalant. It must have been obvious we were hiding something because it didn't take more than ten minutes before we were running for cover.
I can't remember who caved in, but the result was dramatic. After a lot of yelling, cussing, and recriminations, two kids were given a sound strapping on that day. Oddly enough, I was one of them.
It was, to say the least, a very strange experience. My little brother and cousins had been horrified, and our parents extremely upset. I, on the other hand, hadn't experienced it as a horrible thing at all. And I couldn't understand why everyone was so uptight. I was still alive and feeling just fine.
On thinking back to the event, it occurs to me that at no time in my young life did I ever attach to the experience any kind of spiritual or religious significance. Even though I had ended up in a church, it didn't seem to carry any consequence or lasting effect—at least that's what I thought at the time. Although I could never forget the incident, I didn't spend a lot of time thinking about it in the following years. I could not, however, have even begun to imagine the importance of this event until much later in my life.
Back then, I had been grateful to Brian for saving my life, and I told him so repeatedly. But not once did I think of thanking God. In retrospect, I'm glad that God doesn't hold grudges. Well, at least I hope He doesn't.
One of the great things about childhood on a farm is that life moves quickly. There are so many exciting things to do and lots of ways to get into trouble, so you don't spend a lot of time worrying or contemplating life. You just go out to the shed, build yourself a new slingshot, and try to improve your prowess as a marksman by shooting the glass insulators off the utility poles.
As far back as I can remember I always had a knack for getting my brother and myself into trouble. Often, the word “trouble” didn't even come close to it. Our mother didn't raise fools, but my brother and I seemed to excel at doing foolish things. By any account, it's remarkable we lived past our sixteenth birthdays.
Boredom, and sibling rivalry can lead kids to do dumb things, and on a warm, sunny day in the summer of 1966 we must have been as bored as anybody could get. We had been picking and hauling rocks from the fields, when our father announced that he had to drive 30 miles to a nearby town to pick up parts for the cultivator. And just like that, he drove off, leaving us stranded more than three miles from home. Fortunately, Dale and I had snuck along our .22-caliber rifle, which, for a while, gave us something to pass the time. But out in the middle of nowhere, we soon ran out of targets to shoot at, or things to amuse us.
Bored, we eventually ended up in the shade of an old abandoned farm building. Cradling the rifle like a marine on a mission, I made a slow pivot looking for something, anything, to shoot at. My brother suggested I looked like a dork and couldn't hit a damn thing anyway. As usual, that was more than enough to get things started. He was on his knees in the grass about 30 feet away, fiddling with a small piece of cedar roof shingle. I told him to hold the shingle up in the air and I'd show him what I could hit. He obviously didn't believe for a moment that I would act on such a crazy notion. He held up the shingle, a half-inch wide and a foot long. I shot it out of his hand. Letting out a couple of surprised expletives, he quickly struck back. “Alright, you bastard—my turn!”
This was becoming a bit serious. In Dale's mind, he was the Second Coming of Davy Crockett, but in reality he was a notoriously bad shot. Backing down in front of him was unthinkable, and there would be no purpose in arguing he was a terrible shot, because he would just call that a “chicken shit excuse.”
Expecting to lose at least a finger, I finally held up the shingle. The gun sounded, and the little piece of wood snapped in my hand, and the game of “chicken” began. We passed the rifle back and forth. With each shot the shingle was whittled down until all that remained was a stub. We knew we'd have to find another target or one of us was going to be sorry.
Looking around, the only other thing we could find was an empty salmon tin. It was a standard tin, about three inches in diameter and an inch and a half high. However, in the tall grass, we couldn't find a decent place to set the tin to get a good shot at it. That's when I suggested I could easily shoot it off his head from where I was (about 30 feet away), but we might as well forget it, because he would be too chicken. “Bullshit,” he said, placing the tin on hi
s head.
My stomach muscles knotted. But with every impulse in my brain screaming, “Don't be crazy,” I still found myself thinking, “Hell, there is no way I could miss from this distance.” I slowly lowered the rifle to sight-in the tin. Immediately, Dale began to complain that it looked like the rifle barrel was pointed right between his eyes. I assured him that it was not, but sarcastically suggested that if it bothered him, he could just close his eyes. I should well have known the effect that that statement would have.
Eyes wide and unblinking, he steadied his stance. “Oh yeah,” he yelled, “go ahead. Do it!”
My finger flexed. The shell exploded, and in an instant the can spun off his head.
Letting out a huge gasp, my brother then recited the five most horrifying words in the English language: “Okay, now it's my turn.”
I couldn't believe the stupidity of the game we had gotten into. But it was too late. I was going to have to stand there and let my lousy-shot brother try to knock this little tin can off my head. I cussed myself for not having at least worn a hat, preferably one made of titanium.
There was no turning back. I was just about to place the can on my head when I had an idea. Reaching up, I fluffed up my long hair as high as I could. My brother, however, couldn't let this go unchallenged. “Chicken shit!” he jeered. My heart sank.
It was useless. There was no way I could get out of it. I put the tin back on my head and he lowered the rifle into position.
It looked like he was aiming too low; he had to be aiming too low. I could have sworn the barrel was centered right between my eyes. “Jesus,” I hissed, “don't be pissin' around. You're aiming at least four inches too low.”
“So, how does it feel?” he whispered, one eye peering down the sights.
The delight in his voice was more than I could bear. But there was no way I could back down.
“Quit your damn whining,” he snarled. “I'm aiming right at the can.”
Sweat now flooding from every pore, I wanted to throw up. I began to think how, in a strange and twisted way, I had gained a new respect for my brother. I was practically ready to faint. How in hell had he been able to stand still and let me shoot?
The abrupt sound of the exploding shell shattered the silence. I flinched as the empty tin twirled off my head.
My brother was now grinning like a horse eating thistles. I, however, thought I was about to have a heart attack. My knees almost gave out. “Okay,” I wheezed. “It's a tie. That's enough. I have to take a leak.”
We both relieved ourselves, and then, as we were zipping up, for some reason—nervousness, adrenaline, we didn't know why—we began to giggle, then laugh. Soon we were howling, joking about how ridiculous we looked at the moment of truth. Within a couple of minutes, though, our laughter and horseplay faded into an uneasy silence. We were both visibly shaking. With eyes wide as saucers, the insanity of the act we had just committed began to sink in. Without saying a word, we hugged each other and set off on our long walk home.
Following that day, we never again engaged in that degree of craziness and we never again intentionally put each other in harm's way. Well, almost never.
Raised in virtual poverty, it seemed necessary for me to develop a practical attitude about most things in life. I quickly learned that nothing comes without a price, and the only way you're going to make it in this world is through hard work and sacrifice.
At an early age, I learned from my mother that if anything was worth doing, it was worth doing to the best of my ability. I learned the lessons of hard work almost to the point of obsession. Driven by two factors, my motivation for success was simple: I needed to succeed so when I grew up, I would have an easier life than my parents, and if I ever had kids, they would never have to know the agony and humiliation of being dirt poor.
By the time my brother and I reached the ages of 15 and 16, we were the only two children left at home. We had been born late in our parent's lives, so it felt like we were living with our grandparents. They were already in their late fifties and the generation gap grew increasingly wide.
Our mother, whom we loved dearly, hadn't had an easy life. Aside from the fact that she had been pregnant with one child after another for eight and a half years while coping with a brood of 11 kids, she had a husband who didn't spend a lot of time being caring or helpful. She would just bite her lip and do her best for us kids while going without so many things for herself. She never enjoyed anything close to a luxury. We had no running water, television, or a phone, but we never heard her complain. She was truly a saint.
One of my greatest disappointments in life was that I didn't have a father who would ever show an emotion other than anger. My brother and I would work our butts off trying to please him, but never once would he ever say, “Thanks” or “You did a good job.” It seemed the only response we could elicit from him was criticism. At an early age we learned that we could never please our father. He always seemed to be angry, so we just stayed out of his way.
As a child, I did what I could to protect myself from hurt, and it didn't take long before a strong wall was built around my heart. I had learned early in life that the old nursery rhyme was wrong. It should have been changed to “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can simply destroy me.”
Sometimes when things became particularly repressive, as if to distance myself from the hurt, I would say to my brother and myself, “Quit feeling sorry for yourself and get over it.” I would not understand the degree of hurt this would inflict upon me until much later in my life.
Now, don't get me wrong: If I had to do it over again, there's probably not a lot I would change. I am what I am precisely because of the hardships and lessons of my upbringing. I believe there's a lot of truth to the statement “Whatever doesn't kill you, makes you stronger.” In that respect, our father may have been a good and valuable teacher.
At the age of 17, I was to have another close encounter with death. It was a chilly November evening when two of my teenage friends and I were excitedly cruising down a country road. With Gerald behind the wheel, and my cousin Mervin riding shotgun, I was sandwiched in the middle of the front seat of a 1963 Ford. We were on a testosterone mission to the Taylor farm, where awaiting our arrival were two of Mr. Taylor's finest daughters. They were fabulous and we couldn't wait to get there. Our youthful anticipation, however, could only be outdone by our lack of experience in the operation of a motor vehicle.
As we rocketed down the gravel road at 85 miles per hour, the sound of the right front tire blowing out at first registered only as an annoying hiccup in our mission. Within seconds, however, the car began to swerve wildly before spinning out of control and sliding into the ditch sideways. The wheels abruptly dug into the frozen dirt and the car catapulted into the air. Time and consciousness stood still.
With a violent explosion, the car slammed back onto the ground. Metal twisted and the windshield disintegrated into thousands of pieces. In a surreal numbness I felt the shards of glass raining in on me, then everything faded to black.
The next thing I knew, I was awakening from what seemed like a nightmare. My head was pounding. Fighting the heaviness of sleep, I tried to sit up, but fell dizzily back to the ground. Baffled, I lay for a few moments trying to get a grip on what had happened. Here I was, lying on the frozen earth in the middle of nowhere without a clue as to how I'd gotten there. After falling a couple more times, I finally made it to my feet. It was freezing cold, and I shivered uncontrollably.
Looking around, I spotted a car about 20 feet away. The door was wide open so I crawled into the driver's seat to warm up. I reached for the ignition to start the engine, but there wasn't a sound. I tried again, but still nothing. I tried to close the door, but it wouldn't budge. Something was terribly wrong!
Dazed and confused, I began to crawl back out of the car, when a stabbing pain ripped through my left side. It practically brought me to my knees. I couldn't imagine what was happening. Glancing back
at the car, my breath caught in my throat. The car was horribly mangled, almost completely crushed. My eyes had to be playing tricks on me. I stood there staring, disbelieving, and then it hit me: we had crashed the car. Where were Gerald and Mervin?
Panicking, I began frantically searching for my friends. There was no one inside the car, so I crawled out of the wreckage, heading into the dark field. As I rounded the front corner of the car, I tripped and crashed heavily to the ground. Screaming in pain, I pulled myself onto my hands and knees. There beside me lay a crumpled body. In the moonlight I recognized Gerald's ashen, dirt-covered face.
A chill ran up my spine. I was frozen in place. Although my horrified mind demanded I get up and run, I couldn't move a muscle. I just knelt there, staring at his lifeless face, unable to move, unable to look away. A low growling noise began to build in my throat as I struggled against the terror that held me in its grip. Then I heard my own screams shattering the night air.
My paralysis broken, I got to my feet. My mind clicked into gear. I had to find Mervin. Through burning pain I spun around, scanning the area. About 25 feet away lay another body. Staggering to where Mervin lay, I jammed my fingers against the artery in his neck but could feel no pulse. The horrifying thought that he was dead crept through me like a slow suffocation. I became aware of great gasping sobs coming from my throat.
Frantically, I stumbled back to Gerald. He didn't seem to have a pulse either, and it looked like he wasn't breathing. I put an ear to his chest and held my breath. Nothing: no sound, no movement. In my numbing mind I heard my own pleading voice, “God, please don't let this happen.”
Calling Gerald's name, I grabbed his arms to pull him up. There was no response. His lifeless body slumped back to the ground. Finally, in despair, sobbing uncontrollably, I surrendered to the cold ground. Ever so slowly, the spinning darkness overcame me.