Our Heart

By Brian MacLearn

Jason Owens has come back home after six years. San Diego is a long way from Cedar Junction, Iowa and the memories his hometown holds for him. His Grandfather is dying and his father might as well be, estranged since the death of his mother, when he was fourteen.
The summer before his senior year of high school, he met and fell in love with the one person he planned on spending the rest of his life with, Allison. Their love eased the pain of his troubled past and gave him reason to believe again. It became a year of happiness and achievements, firsts and ultimately, a last. One ill-fated mistake changed the path of what should have been.
Time or maybe maturity has caught up with Jason, as he begins to search his soul for answers and acknowledge the signs he was once afraid to see. Through the death of his Grandfather, Jake, and the eulogy he is expected to give, Jason succumbs to the onslaught of memories of what once was. In the present he must deal with his father and he comes face-to-face with Allison. Can you come home and start again?
Three generations of Owens men have dedicated their enduring love by carving an intricate heart on an old oak tree, high above town, over-looking a serene meadow. It binds them all together, as a testament of undying love and commitment to the women in their lives. Jason soon learns his Grandfather had his own secrets, a locked door in the basement, missing pages from his journals. His grandfather was either crazy, at the end, or tying one last time to offer his guidance.
Blending the memories of the past with the mystery surrounding the present, Our Heart depicts the tale of more than just love found and lost. It touches on the emotional highs and lows of life, and how far you have to go when life is on the line.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brian MacLearn
• Release date: Oct 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301264759

Brian MacLearn

Brian L. MacLearn is lifelong resident of Iowa, currently living in Waverly. He graduated from the University of Northern Iowa. During his life he has published poetry and written song lyrics that have been recorded in Nashville. Brian's first novel, "Our Heart," was published in 2010 and was a Reader's Favorite finalist in 2011. "Remember Me" won a bronze medal in the Reader's Favorite 2012 contest. His current work, "Against the Current," won a silver medal in the Reader's Favorite 2013 contest for Fiction/thriller

Book preview

Introduction

In May of two thousand and four, I lost the one person who always had a strong belief in me. He loved me when I found it hard to even tolerate myself. He never criticized me or raised a single hand to me the whole time I was growing up; instead, he taught me more by example than even he knew. There were many days when I wished he was my father. In a lot of ways he was, even though he was just Grandpa Jake. When my father left me, it was my Grandpa who stood in and donned the robes of fatherhood. Even though the three of us shared the same last name, Owens, the similarities between us stopped there, or so I thought they did. Funny how life won’t let you run away, always finding you and reminding you of who you are and where you came from.

Coming back to my small hometown in Iowa was not something I looked forward to. When I turned eighteen, I’d made my life, the road of life, as I came to think of it. Today is my twenty-fifth birthday and, rather than celebrating with friends back in San Diego, I find myself staring into the coffin of the last person I still held claim to as my family. It wasn’t always like that. There was a time when my father and I got along just fine, actually better than fine. We did all the things fathers and sons do; we played sports together, went fishing, and he even taught me how to hunt. He took me camping every summer, and I never imagined there would come a time when we were not close. When I was fourteen, the storybook happiness ended. My mom died in an auto accident and things changed forever between my father and me. My mother was the glue that held our family together, and it dissolved when she died.

Randall Owens, my dad, couldn’t get over the grief. He chose to start down the path of least resistance, alcohol. He tried to drink the hurt away, and when he wasn’t drinking, he was thinking about it. I did my best as a son to be there for him, but at fourteen, struggling with my own feelings of loss, my efforts were like a small drop of rain lost on a big pond. Grandpa Jake and Grandma Sarah Owens were always there. They became my stability and, in many ways, my salvation. When Dad lost his job and disappeared, I expected the worst, but he came home and his eyes were clear and his mind coherent for the first time in a long while.

He apologized first to me and then to his parents. Without any emotion, he informed us that he would be leaving. I’d be staying with Grandpa and Grandma till he worked things out. By this time, I was nearing my sixteenth birthday and couldn’t understand what possessed him to think that it was okay to leave me here and go off on his own. I didn’t understand then and I still don’t today. I waited days and then weeks, and then months, and still he didn’t come back. It seems I’ve always found a reason not to forgiven him, because I needed him to be more than he was. For the longest time, my Grandma Sarah would comfort me, telling me it would all work out. My Dad missed me and he’d be home soon. One day, she quit telling me and that’s when I knew he wasn’t ever going to come back. Not long after that, on the way home from school, I saw a for-sale sign in the front yard of my house. I had felt many things, but seeing that sign turned my hope into anger, and I cursed my father for making me feel this way. Much of my stuff had long ago been moved out of my old house. I spent an emotional weekend as my Grandparents and I loaded the furniture from my home and piled it into their basement.

I was forever changed. I’ve never lost that defining moment in my life, when I knew with all certainty I would now be on my own. I loved my grandparents, but they couldn’t ease the pain bottled up inside of me. There were times when I thought it would consume me. Only one person found a way into my heart and began to stem the tide of self-destruction. Her name was Allison Dittmer. Allison was a year behind me in school and happened to be a neighbor to my grandparents. Allison hadn’t lived in town long when we went to the town’s summer festival together. It was during a three-legged race, with a yellow ribbon tied around our legs, that I first discovered she was more than I deserved and someone I needed desperately. She soon became the guiding light that drew me out of the darkness. She gave me hope, a chance for a better future, and filled the void left by my father leaving and the death of my mother.

I really wish this was the end of my story, but instead, it is only a brief opening on a much larger and dramatic recollection of memories spanning three generations of the Owens men. It started the moment My Great Aunt Vicky called to tell me Grandpa Jake was in the hospital and he was dying. The numbness accompanied me all the way back to Cedar Junction, Iowa. Like a child sent to his room, I had run away, only I didn’t just go around the block. I went where I thought home couldn’t find me. It might be befitting, considering I’d made my life one of song, but I was sure I was coming home to face the music.

Every story has a beginning, so they say. I look into the serene face of my departed grandfather and wonder. What is my story? How have I gone so far and still been nowhere? And the defining question we all ask when faced with death…what have I done with my life? Did I mention there is an important tree that binds all of the Owens men together? I didn’t think so, but you’ll understand it all when you hear the song…

Chapter 1

It’s never easy to lose someone you love and even worse when you end up becoming the family orphan. No, I’m not really an orphan; my father is still alive, but to each other we have ceased to exist. He still refers to me as Jason and, in return, I don’t call him anything. Once, a couple of years back, he made an effort to reconnect with me. After thirty minutes of trying to convince me that he had his life back together, and after doing his best song and dance, he tried to make amends for the way he left and for the horrible father he had been. In his best, sorry voice, he attempted to tell me how he should have never left town and should have done so much more to realize he was not alone in his suffering. The past was past and couldn’t we put it behind us and start over? Somewhere in his canned speech, I lost interest. He didn’t take my rejection well at all. I can honestly say I felt a small amount of redemption in watching the disappointment on his face as I shut the door. I wondered if he now completely understood what it felt like to be left alone.

Randall Owens, my father, walked out of my life when I was sixteen. I hadn’t heard anything from him for nearly six years, and my life was fine without him. I didn’t see where he fit into it anymore or why, after all the things that had happened, he suddenly wanted my understanding. It may be a hard thing to say, but I could no longer find feelings of loss for the man who had once been the center of my universe growing up. There was a time when we were extremely close. The three of us were the typical small town, Iowan family. My mom, Emily Carter Owens, was great. Because of her love and spirit, I found belief in myself and a strong desire to sing. When my mom sang in church, the pastor would get tears in his eyes. I like rock and roll and upbeat country, but I have to admit, when my mom broke into one of her songs of praise, she could flat out put the hush on a room. During the spring and summer, she was always in high demand to sing at weddings and celebrations. Many couples would even try to get her to travel far away, she was that good. She rarely said no, singing was sharing, and I believe she thought it was her purpose to share the talent that God had given her. She had a heart of gold, which only knew how to give, and I admired her for it.

Randy, my dad, couldn’t sing a lick, and it used to drive him crazy when my mom would sing. It wasn’t because he was jealous of her. He would just get lost in the fact that Mom had the voice of an angel, and his voice could make shiny pipes rust. The three of us as a family were as average as average could be. We didn’t have a big house or lots of money. As far as I knew, we got along with most everyone; you’d better anyway when you live in a town of less than two thousand people. Like they say, news travels fast in a small town. When I broke Mrs. Eldridge’s window playing baseball, down at the city ballpark, my folks knew it before I even got home to tell them. In my defense, I want to say, I think it’s just plain silly that Janet Eldridge’s house sits so close to the third base line. I hit a perfectly normal foul ball, which just happened to catch the light pole at the right angle before it shattered her front window. If you ask me, her house was just asking to be hit someday.

So many memories of the past keep fighting for space in my head, sitting here in the same church that my mom would hold captive with her performances. I didn’t have a choice; I had to leave the visitation being held for my Grandfather Jake, across the street at the funeral home. I desperately needed someplace where I could grab some quiet and solitude. Ever since I’d arrived back in town, my emotions and memories had been getting the best of me.

My Great Aunt Vicky, who was my Grandfather Jake’s younger sister, was the one who finally tracked me down out West. I don’t know how she did it. San Diego, California, is a long way away from Cedar Junction, Iowa, but somehow she got word to me that my Grandpa Jake was on his deathbed. Nothing else could have caused me to react any quicker; I was on the first flight out to go home. If there was one man who I would attempt to move a mountain for, it was my grandfather. It wasn’t even six months ago when I sat here, in this very same pew, with Grandpa Jake as we mourned the loss of Grandma Sarah. The day we laid Grandma to rest was the first time I had prayed in a very long time. When they lowered the lid on Grandma’s casket for the last time, my grandfather had the same look in his eyes I still so vividly remember my dad having, the day my mom was buried.

Grandpa Jake was seventy-six and, fit as a fiddle, as he always liked to tell me. If there was ever a person who resembled the energizer bunny, with a fairly large bald spot, it would be my grandfather. He spent his life on the go, and I only wish I might be lucky enough to have half of his energy and mobility when I achieve his age.

When I got into town yesterday, Grandpa looked like a fiddle that had been abandoned and left out in the rain and sun to slowly rot away. His doctor told me that in all truth, he was dying of natural causes. Grandpa Jake had a bout of pneumonia a couple of months back, and he just couldn’t seem to shake it out of his lungs. Because of it, his respiratory system was slowly failing, and it didn’t have the strength to keep attacking the virus. Later, with his body at its most vulnerable, he had a severe heart attack. That took the remaining wind out of his sails and left him unable to speak. He now lay nearly comatose on the hospital room bed. It was only going to be a matter of time until Grandpa Jake would succumb and end the war he could not win. When the doctor left me sitting in the room by myself, I didn’t know what to think. My Great Aunt Vicky came to my rescue. She took me down to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee.

Honey, she said to me, your grandpa never got over losing Sarah. She was his whole life and without her I believe he just didn’t have the desire to keep pushing! When he caught that bad cold in January, he never got over it. It just kept on getting worse and worse. It didn’t help him any that he’d kept on visiting that tree of his, no matter what the weather was like. For the life of me, I don’t know why it was so important for him to be out in damp weather. He knew it wasn’t good for him. I couldn’t convince him and neither could anyone else. Your Grandpa was stubborn in that way!

Oh yes, the tree, I responded, as if it was the answer to the ultimate million-dollar question. The old oak tree at the top of Murphy’s meadow was legendary in the Owens’ family history. It was already a big oak in my Grandpa’s day and now it was even more spectacular to behold. Grandpa Jake loved to tell stories about that tree. He always kidded me growing up that, without the oak tree, I’d never have been born.

The old oak, he used to tell me, has magical powers and if you truly love someone with your whole heart, the tree has a special something, a blessing of sorts, which make sure lovers meant for each other, will be bound together forever. Whenever he’d tell the story about how the tree played a role in bringing Grandma and him together, his eyes would glisten. I’m not sure he ever made it completely through the story without a tear or two making their way down his cheeks.

When I was young, I used to climb that tree. I never paid much attention to the stories my grandpa told about it; to me it was a perfect tree to climb; that was all. By the time I was twelve I could shinny up the trunk and climb it to the highest branches. From up there, I could look out over the whole town of Cedar Junction and see the farthest reaches of the world. To a twelve year old, this meant the old gas station at the far end of Main Street, where it hooked up with Miller’s road. Travelers who were lost called it County Road B61. If you happened to be staring at a map and trying to figure out how you came to be in Cedar Junction, you might begin to wonder if you’d been transported back in time somehow. The town was friendly and reminiscent of many small, rural towns. Cedar Junction had that endearing, nostalgic look about it.

There was a path behind Grandpa’s house that weaved its way through the grasslands at the edge of Kendal Merton’s farm, down to Harden creek, or Harden River, as it was called during periods of high water floods. Grandpa said when he was younger, the creek was more like a stream. I was never sure what the difference between the two was, but he always swore the heart of the stream seemed to give up when the county put in the new culvert for the highway. From then on, it just lost its will to push on. He may be right. There were lots of summers when Harden Creek nearly disappeared in the late August heat and dryness. I never met anyone else who had more ways to describe the things around him than my grandfather did.

Grandpa used to love to tell me, Back when I was courting your grandma, I used to have to jump from rock to rock to get across. I only ever fell in once, and we’d laugh about it. When my father was still around, he’d even join in and soon the three of us would get to laughing so hard to the point of side-splitting pain. I’d be rolling on the floor gasping for breath. Grandma and Mom would put their hands on their hips and give us that stare. They’d do it the same way and always at about the same time. When we looked at them it would just make us laugh even more. My Mom would get red faced, knowing we were laughing at her, but Grandma Sarah would just smile and come over and give Grandpa Jake a big kiss on his nearly, bald head. Grandpa would grab her around the waist and try to tickle her with his nose. She’d swat him lightly and then start laughing along with the rest of us. Usually my Mom would concede and join in; sometimes she’d head for the kitchen to take some imaginary pie out of the oven. What I remember most is that, when all the laughter would finally die away, my mom and dad would end up hugging each other. After a kiss, they would come over to me and pull me into the center of their hug, doing their best to squash me between them. Those were the moments I’ve never forgotten. It was when I knew love and security and the feeling of family.

Grandpa could always make my grandma blush; he’d whisper something in her ear and then Grandma Sarah’s face would turn scarlet red. I never knew what it was that he said to her. I used to ask Grandma, but she would only smile at me and say, some things are better kept a secret. At that time in my life, I always figured it was something on the mushy, adult side and way too much information for my sweet little ears, as Grandma called them.

After Mom died, and long after my dad had left, Grandpa would still talk about the tree. There were times when it seemed to make him sad rather than happy, like it usually did. I’m sure it had to do with my parents and their own stories involving the old oak tree. Once you crossed the creek, you followed a beaten-down path through dense timber until you emerged into open air, at the bottom of a hill. This was Murphy’s meadow and the place of stories. During the summer, the meadow would be full of tall grass and wild flowers. The grand old tree, part of so many of those stories, sat perched at the top of the hill. It stood out just like a king holding court over all of his loyal subjects.

With my friends Matt Taylor and Nick Anderson, we would canvas Murphy’s meadow from one side to the other, collecting all kinds of bugs and butterflies in jars. Occasionally, we were even lucky enough to corner a Garter snake or two. A snake and three boys always meant the possibility of trouble. As kids, we knew where the best place was to keep a snake, in someone’s mailbox. On one rather interesting July day, when we were eleven, we hid behind shrubs along the side of Tom McCann’s house. We were lying there, on our stomachs, waiting for our chosen patsy to open her mailbox. We were sure that kids had been pulling the same prank for ages, but I’m betting no one, other than the three of us, have ever seen a snake fly through the air as far as Mrs. Wilson threw the one she found in her mailbox.

It was a glorious Tuesday morning to behold, when Patricia Wilson taught Ralph, the snake, how to fly. Pat Wilson was talking across her yard to her next-door neighbor, Sylvia Johnson, who was standing on her front porch. She was still talking to her as she opened her mailbox and reached inside. Instead of pulling out a package, she withdrew Ralph. She suddenly stopped talking to Sylvia Johnson so she could concentrate on why the mail was moving in her hand. Pat Wilson and the snake didn’t quite know how to begin a proper introduction so they both just looked at each other.

Nick said later that he though Ralph tried to ask her what she was going to do with him, and when he had to repeat his question, that’s when she finally lost it. Matt, Nick, and I had great seats to watch the events unfold, hiding behind some bushes just across the street. Pat Wilson had a hold of Ralph just behind his head. His body unwound and whipped back and forth across her arm. At first, she seemed impervious to his questions. She studied him the same way a person does when they see the face of someone they know, but can’t quite remember their name. She stood transfixed for a few seconds, until Ralph tried to get her attention by asking a personal question. He did it all in proper snake etiquette as he darted out his tongue, flicking it in the air in front of Pat Wilson’s face. We all knew he was just trying to make conversation, but Mrs. Wilson took it as a sure sign of hostility. Pat Wilson was a little on the beefy side and, to this day, there is no doubt in my mind she could have played right field for the Chicago Cubs. She wound up and threw Ralph like she was trying to throw the winning run out at home plate before they could score.

As it was, Ralph just happened to fly over our heads. I could see his tongue still darting in and out as he soared by. I suppose he might have been trying to get a take on wind conditions and air currents, so he could have a safe flight and smooth landing. As she wound up and let him fly, Mrs. Wilson let out a bellow that could be heard all over town and brought several neighbors out of their houses to see what the commotion was all about. Ralph was totally oblivious to any spectators, being more concerned with his flight path. I don’t know how he managed it, but he went through the branches of a big elm tree. He never hit one branch, sailing out the other side and landing softly in the front yard of Tom McCann’s house. Luckily for Ralph, Mr. McCann wasn’t home. After Ralph checked himself over for missing parts and got his bearings, he swiftly left the area before anyone could ask him to do an encore.

When Patricia Wilson had regained her composure, she started scouring the area for possible suspects. As soon as she turned her back on us, looking the other way, we broke into a sprint. We made it around the side of the house, out of her line of sight, and down the block before she could spy us. We didn’t see anyone as we ran, not stopping until we had put sufficient distance between us and Pat Wilson. In a small town, you learn not to share too many secrets or brag about great adventures; they always have a way of coming back to haunt you. We made it back to the creek, and when the bouts of laughter finally quit the three of us, we made a solemn pact to keep each other protected by staying quiet. To this day, I don’t know if Mrs. Wilson ever found out we were the ones who did it. A couple of days later, I overheard her in the grocery store telling Amber at the checkout counter how that danged snake flew straight as an arrow through the air. Now that it was over and done with, even Pat Wilson was enjoying the story. She and Amber started chuckling, as Pat, using a dramatic flair, shared her story. I even heard the story from my Grandpa Jake. I think if anybody had an idea of who did it, he probably did, but he never let on.

Great Aunt Vicky slowly sloshed the ice around in her glass of Pepsi. The sound of ice clinking around in a glass could lead me down the path of lost memories, but this time it brought me back to the present. The happier times of my youth were going to have to wait. I could always tell when she was getting ready to give me one of those, this is the way life is, speeches. My Great Aunt Vicky was the type of person who tried to be a mother to everyone, at least anyone who would listen. When she had me cornered, the best thing to do to avoid prolonging the one-way discussion was to nod in complete agreement and say, you’re absolutely right, a few dozen times. This wouldn’t ease the pain of enduring her fierce blue eyes, but it would shorten the amount of time she would stare deep inside of me. My great aunt was truly a kind soul; she missed the boat, however, when she didn’t become a minister or a used car salesman. It never failed during one of her talks to have me going both ways. After enduring one of her speeches, I either felt the need to repent or I’d be willing to buy anything she was selling just to end the torment.

I had no idea what I was in store for, but my best guess was it had something to do with Dad. She didn’t disappoint me. Great Aunt Vicky got right to the heart of the matter.

Fixing me with those intense eyes and the crunch of the last ice cube from her drink, she asked, Have you thought about what you and your father are going to do?

It really was the one question where a lifetime might pass by, waiting for an answer. It wasn’t only about what to do if and when Grandpa passed on, but how we were going to face each other. I knew she and others were hopeful that Dad and I could work through our issues. Great Aunt Vicky may seem demure to the newly acquainted stranger, but to those who knew her she was larger than life. If I happened to sit on the other side of the table from her I answered truthfully and respectfully when she addressed me. This time, I was at a total loss and had no idea what to say. She waited patiently for my response, and when I saw her push her hair back behind her ear, I realized that the unseen answer clock was nearly out of time. I had done a lot of thinking on the flight home from California, and I figured I was going to have to face my father, no other way around it. I just didn’t want to think about the encounter, especially at this moment.

Great Aunt Vicky had a way of asking the same question for a second time that made me feel like a suspect in an interrogation room. Answer it correctly and I might get a glass of water; answer wrong and they’d put me in a room with Bruno. I didn’t want her to repeat the question, so I answered with the first thing that came to mind. Nope, don’t have a clue. This was a truth in itself and I could see Aunt Vicky intently studying my face and body language for any signs of irregularities.

I must have satisfied her, because she just nodded and began the meat of her little talk. I don’t really know if there is a precise and appropriate time when we finally achieve the ability to let go of our grudges in life. I wasn’t ready. She did her best to explain to me how my father had changed. He wanted nothing more than to make amends for the wrongs he had committed and all of his past shortcomings. I wasn’t buying it and she could tell.

She then said the one thing that cut me to the quick, for the sake of your Grandfather, you need to reconcile with your father! How did I respond to a directive like that? I love my grandfather, and I also hold on tight to the memories of the father I once had, but to tell me that I’d be letting my grandfather down if I didn’t offer forgiveness to the man who walked out of my life was above reproach. I got angry and Aunt Vicky could tell. She clearly sensed, rightly so, that she had severely hit a nerve. She did her best to back pedal. It was too late, and I got up and left the table. I headed back upstairs to spend time with Grandpa Jake.

I stopped dead in my tracks when Aunt Vicky spoke out to me in a voice I wasn’t familiar with. Speaking in a low and broken tone, Aunt Vicky said with much difficulty and with tears running down her cheeks, Your mother loved your dad like he was the only one who could make the sun rise every morning. He’d have done anything for her and he returned her love, two-fold. I don’t excuse what he did to you, and I know you don’t understand, but someday I pray you are given the opportunity to know the incredible kind of love that both your grandfather and father were able to find. Their love was pure and genuine, a love that made those around them feel it and want to be near it. It’s just that….you don’t know…how much they…

Aunt Vicky raised her hand, which had begun to shake, and tried to catch the tears racing down her cheeks. I stood speechless. In all of my years, I don’t know if I’ve ever heard Aunt Vicky speak with such difficulty. My anger abated, and I even nearly let myself get caught up in the emotion of the moment. Somehow, I grabbed on to all of those inner feelings of loneliness I had felt when Dad left and turned my back on Great Aunt Vicky. Today, it was about my Grandpa Jake and I headed back to his room.

Great Aunt Vicky made one last comment as she watched me walk away. Your Dad will be here soon; he stayed away when you first came so you could spend time with your grandpa. He loves that old man in there as much as you do, remember that!

I only had one thought in my mind, as I made my way back to Grandpa Jake’s room. My Great Aunt Vicky had been right about one thing; both Grandpa and my father were totally and deeply in love with my mother and grandmother. She was wrong on the most important point. I’d had a love like theirs once and I allowed it to fall apart. I would never get the chance again. Love like that only happens, if we’re lucky, once in a lifetime. My chance came early, and I would be facing the rest of my life without much hope for lightening to strike twice.

Chapter 2

I can’t help but look for solace, in the depiction of Christ on the cross, at the back of the altar. In the last four days, I’ve dealt with more emotion and feelings than I ever thought it was possible to bear. Looking back on that conversation with Aunt Vicky in the cafeteria and her comment about my father’s undying love for Mom has haunted me for the last three nights. I’ve spent these past six years trying to erase the unhappy thoughts of my father and forget about anything positive that he once stood for. But I couldn’t deny what my Aunt Vicky had said. When I was around Mom and Dad it was uplifting and comfortable. I’m wondering today if those lost feelings aren’t the reason for my anger at my father. Someone had to take the blame when everything good was suddenly taken away. I needed the love of both of my parents and now I had emptiness. Grandpa Jake and Grandma Sarah did their best to make me feel loved, in their own special way. I clung to them when I needed those feelings, but it was still different from what I had lost. I desperately wanted to be comforted in their presence, and they never let me down, always freely giving me their love and support.

I have never encountered anyone else, since I’ve been on my own, who even came close to displaying the same aura both my parents and grandparents seemed to have. Somewhere deep inside of me, I knew I once too had the very core, deep feelings of love, like they shared. The summer before my senior year, a family bought the house next to my grandparents. The Dittmers, who moved here from southern Illinois, brought with them a distraction that would reshape my life forever. Whenever someone new moves into a small town, all the gossipers, watchers, and prognosticators gather together to hypostatize their story. Who are they? Where do they come from? Why are they here? To the younger watchers, the only question is…are there any kids my age?

Larry and Stacy Dittmer moved in on June tenth, nineteen ninety-eight and my life was never going to be the same, ever! From the moment she got out of the Chevy Blazer, I knew I was in trouble. I was really looking forward to my senior year in High-School and my mind was focused. I played on most of the sport teams and even had a fair shot to be the starting quarterback this year. Being the starting quarterback usually came with increased popularity and other rewards, like the added attention of the female persuasion.

Matt, my best friend, was my biggest challenge to winning the starting spot. We’d already made an agreement between us. Whatever happened, we would leave it on the field, and whoever got the starting nod, the other would be cool with it. We realized our friendship meant more than one year of football; besides, at a small school, everyone had plenty of opportunity to play. We were both genuinely looking forward to the competition during summer drills for the quarterback spot. We were already giving each other jabs about it. I couldn’t have imagined a day when anything other than football would dominate my thoughts. All of the intense focus on the upcoming football season disappeared, without even a whimper, the moment I first saw Allison Dittmer emerge from her family’s car.

What can I say? I was sitting on the front porch with Grandma Sarah. It was early in the afternoon, and the weather was perfect, at least that’s how I remember it. I believe you could even catch the fragrance of roses stirring in the air. I was sitting on the porch swing reading one of the latest books by Dean Koontz, and Grandma Sarah was in her glider, of course; it had been moved to give her the best view of the action next door. There weren’t any obstructions between our place and the old Harden place, as most of us called it. Chuck Harden, the long-time owner, had been put into a rest home several years back, somewhere down in Missouri, where his only daughter lived. She came up every so often to check on the house. She and Grandpa had an understanding when it came to her father’s home. Grandpa Jake and Chuck Harden went back a long way. They had been neighbors since nineteen fifty-four, when Grandpa and Grandma bought their house. In the summer, I had the responsibility of mowing the yard, and Grandma would check inside once a week to make sure everything was okay. Last spring, Tracy, Chuck’s daughter, finally didn’t have any choice but to sell the place to help pay for her Dad’s care. It was a sad day when we all pitched in and helped her load up the things she had decided to keep. Later that month, the rest of the furniture and everything else went up for bid at an estate auction. My grandparents were conflicted, but they attended the auction anyway. It was hard to purchase items of a dear friend, who was surely never coming back, and it was even harder not to buy, to show support of that same friendship.

It was a sad time for Tracy. You can’t help but feel an immense sense of regret when the time comes to say a goodbye to your past. Tracy took it pretty hard selling the house she grew up in. Allowing others to purchase so many of the things that were familiar to her and stored with her own personal memories, may have been the most difficult thing she ever had to do. I didn’t understand all of the feelings back then, but after Grandma Sarah passed away six months ago, I remember my own feelings as I walked around inside the house. Everything I touched or looked at brought back memories to me. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have someone else owning those memories. That May, Tracy called Grandpa and let him know she had sold the house to a couple from Illinois. They would be taking possession sometime in June. She didn’t know anything about them, other than they had contacted the realtor and paid the asking price, without even looking at the house. Now, you can imagine that this type of news set off a bunch of speculation, so when the moving van pulled up, the questions around town had been building for quite awhile.

I didn’t care much one way or the other for the town gossip. I was more interested in whether or not there were any kids. With football on my mind, I worried that there might be new competition for me. I visualized the new neighbors having a couple of boys, both fantastic athletes. Matt and I would both find ourselves out of the starting quarterback job and sitting on the bench. I never would have believed, when I first looked upon Allison, that football would be the least of my concerns.

When she first stepped out of the blazer, I didn’t think much about it. The first thought that came to mind was that the person emerging was a skinny boy. I smiled to myself, knowing that my quarterback dreams were definitely safe. The petite looking boy had on a baseball cap and a windbreaker. When he took off the hat he was wearing, and shook out the ponytail, I had completely failed to notice, the most beautiful auburn colored hair softly cascaded down around her shoulders. Grandma Sarah must have heard me suck in my breath, because she turned to look at me and I caught her full gaze. I could tell she was giving me the once over, but my eyes quickly resumed watching the girl next door.

I’m not sure that it was anything special about seeing it was a girl, but more in the manner in which it played out. I went from worrying about losing a position on the football team to wondering who the pretty girl next door might be. It didn’t dawn on me then, but I had already determined that she was, indeed, very pretty. With my eyes still watching her, and before my brain began to function again, she looked my way, raised her hand in a friendly wave and smiled straight into my heart. I was hooked, pole, line, and sinker, and I would have even thrown in the boat and motor too. She caught me totally by surprise and my heart was beating with feelings I didn’t have a clue to understanding, at least not then.

Grandma looked over her glasses at me, scrunched her eyes, and then turned her attention back to the new neighbors. Grandma Sarah was a crafty old bird. She started humming to herself. I knew that hum very well indeed; I had been fixed firmly in her sights. It would only be a matter of time before she took a shot and hit the target I was now wearing. I’d seen the same look on her face, many times over, and not just with me, but with Grandpa too. It was the I’m keeping my eye on you! look, and the song she was humming was a sly warning to mind my manners. We sat for a little while longer, watching the movers carrying in furniture from the van into the house. After a break in the movement next door, Grandma said I should go over and introduce myself, ask them if I could help them with anything. It would be the neighborly thing to do. If my face hadn’t been bright red before, it surely had to be now. Grandma just went right on humming. I wasn’t normally taken aback by girls, but for some reason, on this particular day and at this specific moment, time seemed to slow down and my vision became dimmer. Only the beautiful, auburn haired girl next door, stood out in bright contrast to the dimness I saw everywhere else. The first sight I had of her became a striking picture that would forever be a part of my memories. I didn’t even know her name yet, but I was never going to be the same. From that day forward, my life started on a rollercoaster ride full of emotions. Years later, and thousands of miles away, my last year in Cedar Junction still haunts me. For me, it was the beginning and the end of hope, all because a girl named Allison took hold of my heart.

Sitting in this pew, it’s hard to face all the memories and feelings surrounding me. I continue to analyze the last few days and feel the tug of the past whipping around inside of my skull, showing me no mercy. I know mistakes can sometimes be corrected and past faults forgiven. Six months ago, when I came home for Grandma Sarah’s funeral, I dreaded the chance I might meet up with Allison again. I wanted it so badly and yet I was deathly afraid of it. I had never gotten over her and I wondered if I ever would. I felt miserable for the way I had left town, nearly six years earlier. She deserved better than I had given her, and I would never be able to undo what I did. The day that I first saw her, and from then after, we clicked together as naturally as two people could. I had great aspirations to leave the small town behind and prove myself to the world. I let that draw me away, instead of believing in a girl who had come to mean the world to me. I put all the doubts out there for her to see and, when the time came to make the right decision, I left her without hesitation. If I saw her again, how could I ever face her? I no longer deserved her and, since I couldn’t even forgive myself, how could I even hope that she would be able to? I did see Allison’s parents, Larry and Stacy Dittmer, at the funeral. I needn’t have worried; Allison was away at college when Grandma died and didn’t or couldn’t make it back. Her parents made all the appropriate apologies, and I took it as a sign that she no longer wanted anything to do with me. How could I blame her? I didn’t want anything to do with myself either.

During the time Allison and I were together, the Dittmer’s became a second set of parents to me. When they saw me at Grandma’s funeral, Mrs. Dittmer didn’t hesitate and came over to offer her condolences. She gave me a hug, and I felt even worse for knowing I had hurt them as well when I had left. It was the first time in a long time that I cried. She held onto me even tighter, until I got myself under control. Having her hug me and tell me I’d be okay just made the guilt I felt even worse. I managed to choke out a question and ask her about Allison. She told me Allison was praying for me and Grandpa. It didn’t make me feel any better to know Allison might be speaking to the Lord on my behalf. Stacy Dittmer also said Allison was very sorry that she couldn’t make it home for the funeral and to convey to me her sympathy for my loss. I knew Mrs. Dittmer was only saying it for my benefit. The realization of what I truly lost dug deeper into the pit of