A Final Broadside

by Buddy Worrell

  Before Sara could speak, Agnes began. “Now before you start, when I came back to the hotel room to check on you and the baby, you were out like a light and snoring like a chainsaw. The baby was stirring, and I knew he needed to be changed and fed. I also knew that the both of you had just arrived from Pearl and had to be exhausted. You needed sleep, the baby needed care, and I brought him back here without your permission. It was the right thing to do. I have raised six boys in my life, and all are strong, healthy, and in the navy. My youngest son is the housing officer that put you in the hotel. I knew the care this young man needed, and my staff and I provided that care.”

  At this, the six young nurses nodded and began to giggle. Agnes continued, “Now if I were you, I would probably be royally pissed. You have every right. However, I would suggest you come with me to the cafeteria and discuss it over dinner.”

  The force and direct nature of Agnes’s soliloquy and her maternal attitude completely disarmed Sara. She broke into tears, babbling on about the loss of her husband at Pearl Harbor, being a twenty-four-year-old widow, and having nothing left but a baby and two duffels of belongings. She fell into Agnes’s arms and wept loudly.

  The commander held Sara tightly and led her to the cafeteria, tapping her right-hand uniform pocket and feeling the pint of Jack Daniels within. Some hot navy food and a couple of stiff drinks, and this young lady would be fine.

  CHAPTER 4

  Boone, North Carolina

  Sara and young Ken stayed three days in the company of the commander and her hospitality. Once flight arrangements had been finalized (only one phone call from Agnes was required), Sara’s itinerary took her and her son from Alameda, California, to Charleston, South Carolina, where her parents picked them up at the naval base for the drive back to Boone. Sara’s dad had borrowed a few extra gas-ration stamps from friends to complete the trip, and they were soon in the family home in Boone.

  Sara spent the next several years putting her life back together and watching young Ken grow from infant to toddler to rambunctious eight-year-old. With most young men (and some women) of military age off fighting in the war, it was fairly easy to find a good job. Sara landed a position in the psychology lab at Appalachian State Teacher’s College, located in Boone. The job also offered her the opportunity to work on her master’s degree at greatly reduced tuition, and young Ken got to participate in the kindergarten and laboratory primary school programs on campus.

  By the end of the war, Sara had finished her master’s and landed an appointment as an instructor in the psychology department and acceptance into the PhD program. At her parents’ insistence, she and Ken had lived with them, and this was a great help to Sara as she saved for the down payment on a cozy little mountain cabin between Boone and Blowing Rock, North Carolina.

  Growing up in his grandparents’ home, Ken had become especially attached to Baldwin, Sara’s father. Baldwin was an imposing man of over six feet seven inches and 230 pounds. His distinctive appearance was augmented by a shock of unruly red hair and a fiery red beard. Baldwin loved to sit with Ken in his lap and tell stories about their Scottish ancestors and how they had come to America four hundred years ago to pioneer this new land in the Appalachians. Ken would snuggle into the old man’s chest and listen, not really understanding what was being said but enjoying every minute! As Ken grew, Baldwin made it a point to be present whenever Ken experienced a milestone, such as the first day of school, swimming lessons, his first baseball game, and his first downhill ski lessons.

  For his part, Ken worshipped his grandfather. Baldwin was his male role model, and Ken could not have been happier. This closeness would reveal its powerful nature when Baldwin passed away.

  It was the winter of 1949, and Baldwin was at Sara and Ken’s new cabin, chopping and splitting firewood for the cast-iron Franklin stove that provided heat. Sara had objected that it was too cold and that she could hire one of her students in need of some extra cash to chop the firewood, but Baldwin would hear nothing of the sort. He had taken down two 40-foot red oaks in the summer and had chainsawed them into perfect two-foot lengths to dry and season. The parallel seams of the wood made for some easy splitting with the nine-pound sledgehammer and steel wedge.

  Young Ken was in bed with a rather nasty case of the chicken pox, covered in itchy blisters and feeling like he would go crazy if he did not scratch at them. Sara had trimmed his nails and even resorted to putting mittens on his hands to keep him from clawing the blisters.

  Baldwin stacked the last of the firewood into the iron racks and came inside to warm up. “How’s my boy?” he thundered.

  Ken called out for Papa to come tell him a story so he could stop thinking about scratching. Sara hugged her father and waved him into Ken’s bedroom.

  Baldwin pulled off his heavy jacket and hat, shook the snow from his boots, and strode into Ken’s room.

  “Papa, tell me about my daddy in the war,” Ken implored.

  “Absolutely, lad,” Baldwin replied. He sat down on the bed and began the well-worn story of Ken Sr. and the attack on Pearl Harbor.

  “Was Daddy a hero?” Ken asked.

  Baldwin reached over to a box on the dresser, which he opened to reveal the Navy Cross. “This medal was presented to your mom after the attack to recognize your daddy’s heroism. It belongs to you now.”

  Young Ken protested that it was his dad’s medal and not his. He was not a hero. “I’m just a kid with chicken pox.”

  Baldwin reached over and pulled Ken into his arms. “Something tells me you will be a great hero.”

  Ken hugged the old man mightily, and Baldwin tucked Ken back under his covers. “Now you take a quick sleep, and I will sit with you and rest my eyes.”

  Ken smiled at his grandfather and turned over. Grasping his blanket, he quickly fell asleep. Baldwin looked at him with pride and awe. He felt lucky to have such a boy as his grandson. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and drifted off to eternity.

  CHAPTER 5

  Baldwin’s funeral was held four days after he passed away. There were relatives and extended family who wanted to attend and say their good-byes, and Boone in the wintertime was no travel paradise. The service was to be held at First Presbyterian Church in Boone, and with Baldwin’s family and large circle of friends and colleagues, it would be a sizable service.

  Sara was distraught at the loss of her father, but young Ken was devastated. Adding to his loss was the fact that he could not attend his grandfather’s funeral because of the “goddamned chicken pox,” he would say.

  Sara admonished him regarding his profanity, but her mother reminded Sara that Ken had probably heard it from Baldwin, and according to Ken, anything that came from the mouth of his grandfather was golden!

  The funeral was a grand affair with well over three hundred guests and relatives in attendance. The minister told wonderful stories of Baldwin and how he loved life, his family, and his church. Relatives stood up and told stories about Baldwin and how he had influenced their lives. Finally, Sara rose to tell of a father, mentor, confidant, and protector of her child. All in the church were sad at a loss but happy about a life well-lived, with one ancient aunt commenting, “I had the best time!”

  Sara returned to her cabin to find Ken asleep. She thanked and said good-bye to the sitter and, completely emotionally drained, fell on the living room couch, weeping softly until she drifted off.

  “Mom?” Ken whispered. “Mom, are you awake?”

  Sara stirred to wakefulness to find her son standing beside the sofa, holding his blanket around him. “Sure I am, honey. Are you feeling okay?”

  Ken crawled onto the couch beside his mother and said, “I think so.”

  Sara held him closely and told him she was happy that he was getting better. “Do you need some hot tea and cinnamon toast to warm you up?”

  Ken nodded, and Sara moved to rise from the couch.


  “Know what else, Mom?”

  Sara shook her head and asked what else.

  “Papa came to see me after his funeral.”

  Sara turned back toward her son with a reassuring look and said it must have been a dream.

  “No. Papa came to see me,” Ken insisted.

  Sara walked into the kitchen with Ken trailing her closely. “Why don’t you tell me about it?” Sara said soothingly as she put the tea kettle on the wood stove.

  Ken plopped down in the kitchenette chair and began. “Papa called to me when I was in bed for a quick sleep. He knows I hate naps! But when I woke up and saw him, you could see right through him. I wanted to go hug him, but he said he was a spirit now, and hugging a spirit was like hugging your shadow. You can see it, but you just can’t grab it.”

  Sara was intrigued and asked him to continue.

  “Papa said I would get to be a hero like Daddy and even get a medal of my own. He said to watch out for Daddy and I would get to meet him when I grow up.”

  Sara moved from intrigued to increasingly alarmed. “But Ken, you know your daddy died on the Arizona at Pearl Harbor!” Sara whispered.

  “I know, and I told Papa, but he said it wouldn’t make any difference.”

  The hair on Sara’s arms was beginning to rise, and she felt her heart slamming against her chest. “Did Papa say anything else?” she asked timidly.

  “He said he wished you and Grandma had buried him in his kilt instead of his blue church suit.”

  “How did you know Papa was buried in his suit, honey?” she persisted.

  “Because he was wearing it!” Ken sputtered, slightly annoyed by the question. “Papa said he had to go but that he loved Grandma and you and me. I asked him where he was going, and he said it was back to where everyone had come from. I asked him if my daddy was there, and he said no, that he was still on the Arizona.”

  The teapot screamed, causing Sara to jump with a start. She quickly regained some composure and poured Ken and her a cup of tea. Twining’s Prince of Wales was their favorite. He liked it with honey and just a spot of cream.

  Sara made up the cinnamon toast and popped it into the stove. It would be ready by the time the tea had cooled. She thought about Ken’s description of his grandfather’s visit. It was vivid, and Ken was convinced that it was not a dream. Sara pulled the toast out of the stove and put it on a plate for Ken. She then settled into another kitchenette chair with her tea and pressed Ken again.

  “I know you loved your grandfather, and I know you miss him. Sometimes, when we miss somebody really hard, we dream that they are still with us. I dream about your daddy all the time. I wish he could be here with us and see what a fine young man you are becoming. Sometimes I feel like if I wished very hard, I could reach out and touch him. But baby, it is only a dream!”

  Ken took a bite of toast and considered his mother’s words. Finally, he asked, “On the Arizona, did Daddy have a friend named Nate?”

  Sara’s teacup fell from her hand and shattered on the tile floor.

  CHAPTER 6

  As Ken grew in years and height, Sara became more and more aware that Ken was “sensitive” to certain paranormal activities. He was able to pick up on others’ thoughts and emotions on a much higher level than most children. He regularly displayed some amazing feats of clairvoyance, predicting snowstorms in the weather and pop quizzes at school. To Sara, now an assistant professor of psychology, these were interesting but not alarming phenomena. In her studies, she had read about the proven abilities of some individuals to perform what appeared to be supernatural tasks. In effect, most could be explained by the fact that some individuals were incredibly sensitive to minute environmental clues, much like the behavior of some birds and animals in advance of an earthquake or approaching storm.

  None of these gifts seemed to trouble Ken as he progressed through grade school and middle school and into high school. He had lots of friends, was good at team sports, made good grades, and was liked and respected by the adults he encountered. Ken’s high school algebra teacher was a friend of Sara’s and also attended the same church. Patrick McTierney was the widowed father of three girls. His wife Susan had died in a traffic accident, and he had been left heartbroken and hopelessly in charge of raising the girls, ages ten, twelve, and fifteen. He and Sara belonged to the Single Parents Support Group at the Presbyterian Church and had become close friends, commiserating each other on the perils of raising children without a partner.

  In one particular session of the support group, Sara questioned her effectiveness as a parent. Patrick interrupted her, saying that Ken was an extraordinary young man, smart and considerate. Sara agreed but wondered aloud whether Ken was truly happy. “He always seems to be searching for something to guide his path in life,” she mused.

  Patrick agreed but then countered that at his house the big question was which sister was wearing the other sister’s clean underwear! The group laughed at Patrick’s joke, but Sara remained troubled.

  In the early spring of Ken’s junior year, he badly sprained an ankle while skiing and then was unable to play baseball that season. In an effort to cheer him up, Sara told Ken about a new amusement park between Boone and Blowing Rock called Tweetsie Railroad. The park had just opened in the summer of 1957 with a train ride on an authentic narrow-gauge, coal-fired locomotive and train. It had been named “Tweetsie” because of the high-pitched locomotive whistle and the effect it had as the sound reverberated around the mountains. The park owners had extended the track and built a replica of a western town, complete with a train station, saloon, dry goods store, bank, sheriff’s office, and calaboose! Local college kids from Appalachian State Teacher’s College dressed up like outlaws and staged fake bank robberies and holdups to the delight of ticket holders. Sara’s friend Patrick worked there during summer vacation and had offered to help Ken get a job as a ticket taker. He could sit on a tall stool, rest his foot, and make $1.25/hour.

  On a particularly fine Saturday in June, the park was near capacity, and the train was running constantly. The weather was great, seventy-eight degrees and clear, and students acting the role of outlaws were in exquisitely good form when a heavyset man in his forties, along with his wife and two boys in their early teens, approached Ken’s booth with newly minted admission tickets for the park. The man collected all the tickets from his family and handed them over to Ken to process with his ticket punch. As the man’s hand touched Ken’s, Ken instantly felt a sharp pain in his chest and had a momentary vision of the man on the ground with a sheet pulled over his head, surrounded by his wailing family and dozens of curious onlookers. The vision lasted only a moment, but the man looked quizzically at Ken and asked if he was all right. Ken recovered quickly and told the man and his family about his ankle injury and how every now and then a pain would just shoot through his leg. Satisfied with the answer, the man and his family happily proceeded through the turnstile and into the park.

  Ken saw Patrick and called out, “Mr. McTierney!”

  Patrick walked over to Ken’s booth and asked how he was doing.

  Ken blurted out, “What do we do if someone gets hurt or sick or maybe has a heart attack at the park?”

  Patrick could see that Ken was serious, so he answered quickly and to the point. “We have a pretty good first aid room back in the park office. There are neck braces, first aid creams and gels for burns and bug bites, syrup of ipecac for accidental poisonings, stretchers, and crutches—we even have a snakebite kit!”

  “But what if someone had a heart attack or seizure or stroke?” Ken persisted.

  Patrick continued, “For life-threatening situations, we call the Blowing Rock or Watauga County fire departments and ambulances.”

  “Let’s call them now!”

  Patrick’s face tightened as he looked at Ken and told him that calling the fire department and ambulance without an emerg
ency was not only illegal but also stupid.

  Ken glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the man and his family board the train. “I’ve been in the booth for over two hours. Can you spell me long enough for me to pee and get a Coke?”

  Patrick’s face relaxed, and he agreed to let Ken take a break.

  Ken grabbed his cane and headed carefully toward the park office and employee lounge. Once in the lounge, Ken wasted little time in dropping a dime into the payphone and dialing the number for Watauga County Fire and Ambulance. The phone rang twice before someone answered. “Fire Department, Lieutenant Clarke!”

  Ken’s voice trembled as he told Lieutenant Clarke of a man down with a probable heart attack at the Tweetsie Railroad Park. Ken said he would meet them at the entrance of the park and guide them to the victim. Clarke acknowledged the report, gave Ken an ETA of seven minutes to the park, and hung up.

  Ken returned the phone to the receiver and thought the timing would be just about right. He ran over to the bathroom and relieved himself mightily. Then he headed over to the cold drink box for a Coke. Ken checked his watch as he opened the box to reveal ten rows of bottled soft drinks suspended on metal rails by their bottle caps. He slid a six-and-one-half-ounce Coke bottle down the rails to the bottle release and dropped in a dime. The release clicked, and he withdrew the Coke, opening it in the bottle opener on the side of the box. He took one long drink and checked his watch again.

  The train should be pulling back into the station in three minutes, and the Watauga County Fire and Ambulance Department should be arriving at the park entrance in four minutes. Ken made his way back over to his booth at the park entrance, waving at Patrick as he neared. In the distance, Ken heard the wail of an emergency vehicle siren echoing through the hills, growing louder and louder as it approached the park entrance. Patrick heard it too and shot Ken a hard look of disapproval. Ken wasted no time pondering Patrick’s looks or thoughts but headed toward the train station as fast as his cane and bum ankle would allow.