Circles

By Ross Martin Madsen

One generation of mankind is about the same as another. Only a few inventions separate them and make them distinct from each other. The truth is, each new generation feels obligated to ignore the wisdom any previous one tries to impart. Never trust anyone over thirty seems to be a universal mantra.

Reggie’s grandson, while reading the journals his grandfather left behind, makes a connection with the past and discovers how much alike he and Granpa Reginald really are. He discovers life was not so different way back when. Growing up has always been difficult, packed with challenges, full of mystery, and charged with emotions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ross Martin Madsen
• Release date: Oct 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465960252

Ross Martin Madsen

I'm a retired rogue who wants to express his views on life, the universe, and everything. (Thank You Douglas Adams)Interests: Writing;reading; observing odd behavior; performing odd behavior; World and American History(although there is not future in it);family history; Sports in small doses.Favorite Movies:To Kill a Mockingbird;Star Wars 4-6;Ben Hur; The Grapes of Wrath; Inherit the Wind; Star Trek 2, 4, 6; In The Heat of the Night; The Wizard of OZ; The School of Rock; King Kong all versions; The Lord of the Rings Trilogy; Too Many Others Too Mention.Favorite Music:The Beatles (dated myself there a wee bit); any music regardless of genre that I determine to be "good." It has to have a good beat, lyrics I can understand and that mean something significant. This leads me to Rock and Roll from the 50s to today; contemporary music from the 20s through the current year; Classical music that is profound especially Beethoven Bach and Mozart.Favorite Books:To Kill a Mockingbird (better than the movie); It's easier to list authors:Jules VernEdgar Rice BurroughsRobert Jordan (he died on me)Terry Goodkind (except the end bookFrank BaumKurt VonnegutOrson Scott CardJ.K.Rowling(A bit heavy on the Sci-Fi and Fantasy but we must all cope somehow)William Shakespeare

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CIRCLES

Published by Ross Martin Madsen at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Ross Martin Madsen

Find out more about Ross Martin Madsen at:

http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/rossmadsen

http://rossmartinmadsenebooks.webs.com/

http://rossmartinmadsen.blogspot.com/

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

PROLOGUE

THE CHALLENGE

DAHLRYMPLE'S BARN

ASHES

WAR

THE BODY

DOUBT

MARBLES

DROWNING WORMS

SUSPECT

ACCUSED

MESSENGERS

HARD QUESTIONS

EVIDENCE

NIGHTMARE

NEW CHALLENGE

CELEBRATION

FOOTWORK

THE ROCKET'S RED GLARE

GOOD BYE BUCKSTRAP

GOOD BYE MEG

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER BOOKS BY THIS AUTHOR

CONTACT ME ONLINE

INTRODUCTION

Time is not important because it is imaginary. At best it provides an agreed upon framework for life but does not govern behavior. We cannot escape the eternal NOW, because the past is gone and the future is yet to happen. Learning from either is an accident, not a certainty. To the living, each era manifests the same trials and each moment the same challenges as past epochs.

Place is largely irrelevant. Wherever we're born, from the wealthiest mansion to the meanest hovel, we all face the common human experience. How we deal with what we have is the test; the measure of each person.

Growing older is the only thing that matters. Change is life's singular constant, identical because it happens to us all, yet different for each of us. It is the same yesterday, today and forever. We cannot escape the inevitability of human beings aging and overlapping.

We are circles, chain links of life, connected by points of love, hate and chance. We exist separately but equally, unique yet similar in the same instant, sharing experiences, classified by reactions, defined by responses, and characterized by actions.

Each generation travels a remarkably similar path from infancy, through childhood to adolescence and maturity, finally finding rest in the grave. Along this common path we all re-learn the lessons of previous generations. We continually make the mistakes they made while seeking the same goals they struggled to achieve. We don't seem capable of accepting the warning of those who have trodden the path before us and that is why history repeats itself in spirit if not in content.

* * * *

I learned these truths from my grandfather’s journal. As I read them, scrawled in pen on yellowed paper, it seemed tragic he hadn’t shared them with me personally when he lived with us the summer before he died. But . . . he was fragile and spent most of his time in bed eating chocolate chip cookies against doctor’s orders, sleeping too much, or listening in on the world through the speakers of a small hand held transistor radio. The airwaves brought him the exploits of our local AAA professional baseball team, the ranting of political pundits, cowboy music and religion on Sundays.

He smelled of age and infirmity.

Conversing with him was slow and difficult, hardly worth my time. He repeated the same stories over and over and I was busy relearning life's lessons on my own and couldn’t fit visits to a sick Grandfather into my schedule. Besides, I felt uncomfortable around the rough and gnarled farmer from Gunnison, Utah. His asthma and diabetes made him an invalid and his breathing attacks scared me. He kept to himself in his room at the back of our house, and I didn’t bother him out of a sense of privacy I told myself. He was only with us for a few months each year. So it was easy to stay away from him and let my parents provide for his needs.

Our family's turn to care for him had just begun when he passed away in his sleep. My Mom went to take him breakfast one morning and found him dead. With his passing I lost the opportunity to learn firsthand the insights he had gouged out of an eighty-six year life span.

I didn’t find the treasure Grandpa left behind until years later after the passing of my Father. Dad had kept Grandpa’s journals to himself, not wishing to share them with his sisters Verda, Mable, or Affalone or with any of his children for some reason. He never said why; then both Mom and Dad died within months of each other. I finally came to possess the four black leather journal notebooks. Nobody else in the family wanted them when the ransacking of my parent’s assets took place after Dad’s funeral, and I didn’t have the heart to just throw them in the trash. So I deposited them in a place of honor on the left side of the upper shelf of the bookcase in my living room. There they gathered dust for years and remained unread until one nostalgic moment during and especially cold Utah winter’s evening I decided to thumb through them and determine if I really wanted to keep them or not.

Who knew anything about Grandpa’s childhood? He was a stranger.

Who knew anything about his parents or his sisters? They were strangers.

To me they were just names on our family tree, but part of their lives were right there in his journals, waiting for someone to recognize and appreciate their simple beauty.

PROLOGUE

January 25, 1919

I remember snow crunching underfoot, sending chills up and down my spine.

It's been a hard labor, Dad said.

His breath billowed from his mouth and nose like smoke from a fire in his belly. There was a salt and pepper stubble of beard on his jaw. He hadn’t shaved yet. The labor had started in the early hours of the morning before the sun had cleared the mountains to the east of Gunnison and he had gone straight out to help without thoughts of personal hygiene.

His eyes, focused on the path between the house and the cow pen, had a look of anxiety in them. His arm draped around my shoulders, but gave no comfort. It was there to steady my course, not to make me feel good. The set of his jaw told me we were headed toward trouble.

The winter of 1919-1920 had been unusually bitter in central Utah. Deep snow with a hard crust, covered fields, buildings and farm equipment with little promise of melting for several more weeks. I burrowed my face into the woolen scarf that crossed my mouth and nose. I didn't want the cold air to bring on an asthma attack.

Bad time of the year to have a calf, I thought.

It’s too big, Dad continued, and Jezebel's all tuckered out from working so hard. We're going to have to help or we might lose them both.

The closer we came to the feed shed and the lean-to attached to it side, the louder Jezebel sounded. She breathed hard and bellowed from pain. We rounded the corner, and I stopped short. Jezebel's blood stained the snow and straw bright red.

I told you it wouldn’t be pretty, Dad said as his arm around my shoulder gave me a gentle push forward to move me off the spot where I’d stopped. I stumbled a few steps closer to the bellowing cow and stopped again. I'll pull on the calf, you pull on me, Dad ordered as he took off his coat, dropped it over the rail of the wooden fence surrounding the cow pen and rolled up his flannel shirtsleeves.

He bent over and carefully reached inside Jezebel’s womb. He looked back over his shoulder at me. I couldn't seem to move my feet.

Come on now. No time to be squeamish, he urged.

Okay, I said.

I took off my mittens and stuffed them into the pocket of my coat. Cautiously I wrapped my arms around his thick waist. I could barely lock my fingers. My face smashed against his back and the seams of his bib overalls.

Pull, he ordered.

Closing my eyes, I yanked as hard as I could. My heels dug into the snow, searching for support but found only more snow and ice below the surface. My feet slipped from under me and I ended up sitting in the snow behind my Dad.

Not like that, he said. Don’t jerk at it. Pull steady and strong.

I repositioned myself behind my father and this time I pulled until my arms ached. Gradually the calf slid out of its mother. The head and front shoulders came first and finally the hindquarters in a rush. I tumbled backwards and my hip slammed into the ground again as Dad and the calf sprawled on top of me. Dad struggled to get off but the calf kept kicking and bawling, dreadful mad about being born. Finally we untangled and scrambled to our feet.

You okay? Dad asked.

Okay, I fibbed, my hip throbbing.

Jezebel lay panting on the ground. Her great moon round eyes rolled back into their sockets. Dad picked up two handfuls of snow and used them to wash the blood from his hands and arms.

Go get the rifle, he ordered, wiping his wet hands on his bib overalls. I'll tie off the calf’s chord and see how Jezebel does.

You're not going to shoot her? I asked.

I don't know, Dad