The Seventh Traveler

By Joseph Kirchner

"The Seventh Traveler" tells the tale of a boy born in a depleted manufacturing town,in central New York, in the year 2020. In 2078, he reflects back on his life’s journey, dramatized by overpopulation, wealth disparity, social upheaval, violence, corporate control, religious fanaticism, sabotage, biotechnological manipulations, climate change, and natural disasters. Through his life we experience this new world disorder, where all electronic communications are subject to surveillance, falsified information is epidemic, spy drones network the sky, and lying is considered a necessary survival skill that is legalized as one’s right to free speech. Those who abandon the spiraling rat race dilemma to wander alone are known as Travelers, individuals whose first hand accounts of where they’ve been,and what they’ve witnessed, are welcomed at any campfire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joseph Kirchner
• Release date: May 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9780988214309

Joseph Kirchner

Joseph N Kirchner was born in Johnson City, New York in 1951, and graduated from Binghamton Central High School in 1969. He and his wife, Nancy, have three children. The author is an artist, musician, poet, horticulturalist, carpenter, stonemason, and environmental advocate.

Book preview

River Road

I, Jakob Stone, was born in a rundown and depleted manufacturing town in New York State, in the year 2020. Sister Beth, was two years my senior, and our brother, Joe three years hers. Our father, Owen Stone, was a self-employed contractor, a craftsman with masonry and woodworking skills, desperately needed in an area having little money to offer in trade. Our beautiful mother, Sarah, was naturally quiet and of Quaker stock. Mom worked part-time as a maid and taught piano to beginners. Our parents provided us with much love and more than the basic comforts of life.

Neighborhoods fueled by unemployment, poverty, and despair, were shabby and tough. Immigrants appeared in waves, overcrowding ethnic sections and siphoning in more disgruntled peoples from areas worse off.

When I was eight, our parents bought a large old house, the last one on a dead-end road along a river. It was painted blue and gray, standing alone in a grove of silver maples, and sycamores, their branches towering overhead. A great deal of work needed to be done, but my father was up for the challenge. There, along placid waters, and hidden amongst wooded banks, I found retreat from the unsolicited confrontations of city streets, where troubles ran rampant. For me, island oases became secret sanctuaries where sidewalk people never tread.

The mile-long stretch of River Road was sparsely settled, a community unto itself where companions were near, and activities for young boys plentiful. My father hired me sometimes, and occasionally a friend or two of mine to help him with projects around the house; pulling nails from salvaged lumber, stacking materials, scraping paint, yard work and the like. The pay was never great, but we usually lost our enthusiasm early on, leaving my father to finish things on his own. He did not complain.

My mother and sister were very close. Mom, as a young girl, had learned to play the piano from her mother, and began instructing Beth to play at an early age. Beth, with her long brown hair, green eyes, and satin skin, bore a striking resemblance to Mom. Both had prominent cheekbones, full lips, and identical gently squared jaws. My sister, at age twelve, started playing guitar and music became her life’s ambition. Her friends, some unusual in manner and appearance, became regular visitors at our house. Owen’s and Sarah’s home became a gathering spot for creative activity.

Joe was the most absent member of the household. He was unlike anyone in the family in appearance and behavior, and often got into mischief. At such times my father referred to him as the son of Mom’s former boyfriend; a joke my mother never found very funny. My brother had auburn hair and a constellation of freckles. He was big and tall with square shoulders; also amazingly quick, frightfully strong, and there was a general consensus that he was a bit crazy. His turquoise eyes, beneath protruding brows, glowed as if backlit by some internal fire. When he chewed food, a network of muscles flexed over his huge boney face, and although he was not one to instigate trouble, it was not his nature to walk away from those who started it. When angered, a frightening aura came over Joe that unsettled even our father. Yet left unbothered, Joe was the friendliest guy you’d ever want to meet.

Joe Stone, high school gridiron king, underage drinker, and ladies man.

In August 2032, my parents rented a modest cottage on the shores of a remote lake in Ontario; a place to fish, boat, swim, water ski, hike and relax. It was to be a time for family bonding, but Joes’ football coaches coerced him into attending football training camp instead. They insisted he see beyond his senior year of high school, and to think ahead to college ball; possibly even the pros. Mom and Dad understood the logic of it, and reluctantly conceded.

On a day overcast but calm, our parents, Beth, and I, set out on our journey north, arriving in time to settle in for dinner after which we walked along the lake, returning at dusk. The sound of Beth gently finger picking her guitar, while humming softly, is the last I remember of that day.

Before dawn, my father woke me to a surprisingly cold room. We ate quickly, snatched up our fishing gear, and left Mom and Beth huddled in their sleeping bags.

Low clouds, their undersides tinged crimson red, formed a backdrop for treetop silhouettes, appearing as flat black cutouts against the sky. Water waked in silver ripples as we glided across the dark surface, silently piercing the enchanting morning fog on our way to a hidden cove we were advised to try by the cabin’s owner. I knelt at the bow watching for stumps in the shallows. We cast our lines, lures striking with a plunk. I began reeling in immediately, slowly as my father advised, to avoid snagging the bottom, but on my third try, I got stuck. I sat jerking my line side-to-side, trying to break it free. There was a lifeless tension on the line that made me think I was dredging up some waterlogged branch or busted root.

Patches of sky mirrored off the lake surface, beneath which waterweeds groped eerily up from the murky darkness. Into those depths, my eyes strained to see the shifting movements of a long shadow. Suddenly, a powerful yank from below bent my pole more and more, as I tugged back ever harder. Bursting from the water, the large head of a ferocious looking fish erupted, with a gaping razor-toothed grin, and a shiny conscious eye glaring angrily up at me.

Dad dropped his rod and reel into the boat, and snatched up the net, which in that moment proved to be an under-scaled toy.

Don’t lose it Jake, he yelled in a panic, don’t let go!

Dad stood, throwing down his net, attempting to grab the thrashing monster by an exposed gill, while the aquatic predator nipped at my father’s unprotected hand.

The great fish whipped its body splashing our faces, and in an instant it was gone. The eyelet at the end of my pole was missing, the fishing line had snapped and fluttered limply in the breeze. Dad plopped back onto his seat. The boat was rocking at the center of ripples, dispersing and fading. Our rushing adrenaline had us in a shock of sorts.

Hours later, in a frigid rain, we returned to camp with a decent catch of fish. We would have gladly traded them all, times ten, for the trophy musky that got away.

The bad weather prompted Mom and Beth to spend that morning gathering firewood for the cast iron stove. The small cabin was toasty warm when Dad and I returned, wet and chilled to the bone. On the tin roof, light drizzle became loud tapping. My father and I dried off and changed while Mom and Beth hung our clothes on a line strung from the rafters near the heat. We shared a hot lunch, and watched a TV documentary on global warming.

Everyone knew the mantra of this theory. A warmer planet has warmer air, which in turn holds more moisture, hence more rain and snow. This results in more severe floods and blizzards, while other areas would be stricken by severe droughts. Some on the panel of experts repudiated human responsibility, saying evidence was inconclusive and that such cycles had occurred naturally before.

They discussed ocean currents, how they welled up from the deep to travel far, only to sink again, and of the trade winds and their effects. In some areas water temperatures increased, while decreasing in others. One member of the panel believed climate zones were shifting in a never-ending attempt to equalize out hot and cold, but overall temperatures were relatively constant. A volcanologist insisted undersea fissures in the earth’s crust were spewing increased levels of magma, causing thermal changes. One woman agreed polar icecaps were shrinking, but sustained snowfall at higher elevations was compensating for reflective white field loss. One scientist mentioned a substantial cosmic dust cloud passing between earth and the sun, and predicted a cooling trend. The importance of sunspot and solar flare activities was argued. An astronomer, who’d studied the Aurora Borealis for decades, insisted fluctuations in our planet’s magnetic field pointed to universal orbital and gravitational evolution set in motion by the Shoemaker-Levy 9 impacts on Jupiter.

A grandfatherly-looking weather historian, capsulated, categorizing it all as inevitable change, Antarctica was once a tropical jungle, the Sahara, a forest, the central plains of North America, a vast swamp. At one period, the continents were a single unified landmass. Ice ages have come and gone though reasons why are inconclusive. In my humble opinion, not only will mankind cope with any meteorological fluctuations, but in the near future we will be able to control the climate to a great extent.

The next morning was partly sunny but still unseasonably cold. Mom and Beth took a boat out early. My father and I had breakfast and went out to clean our catch from the previous day. The fish had been strung to the dock, and allowed to swim in the lake overnight to stay fresh. When my father pulled them out of the water, only the chewed carcass of one fish, and a bullhead, scarred, but still full of fight, remained.

Dad reacted with a surprised face, I’m not sure Jake, but I think we’ve been feeding the snapping turtles.

He set the bullhead free. Tell yah what, there’s a small town three miles down lake, let’s make a supply run. We’ll take one of the other boats.

We dressed in our warmest clothes and were off. I sat at the stern operating the outboard motor. My father sat at the bow gazing at the sky, and into the wooded shore. Graying blonde hair protruded beneath his brimmed cap, which was pulled down snugly on his round head. His chin was square, his lips thin. Sideburns bushed out from under the stems of his wire-rimmed glasses. Placid eyes of crystal blue peered out beneath dark eyebrows. At fifty, he was fit, and like my brother, his shoulders were broad and his chest deep. Unlike Joe, Dad was relatively short at five eight. Seeing my father at that moment, not busy with his tools or business, but simply relaxing, drove home to me how dedicated Dad was at providing for his family. To this day, that vision of my father, looking contented out over the lake, is how I remember him most fondly and clearly.

By the time we docked near the store, clouds had thickened, and wind whipped up whitecaps on the water. Initially, we’d planned to explore the town, but a quickening sky sent us to the market to pick up some basics that we hurriedly loaded into the boat. We got gas and headed back. Two boxes of groceries were under a tarp held down by a case of Canadian beer. The small boat was slammed as we crashed through the waves. Rain turned to hail, pelting our exposed flesh. Everything began to ice over. We pulled our hands up into our sleeves, and with my back hunched over at the bow I gave my father a look of concern.

He squinted at me over the top of his glazed glasses, and said loudly, It’s OK, I like my beer cold.

Mom and Beth waited anxiously at the cabin window for our return. I slipped while trying to secure the bowline to the dock, and wound up standing in about four feet of water that felt much warmer than the air. My right shin was scraped and bleeding. That afternoon and night we spent wrapped in blankets huddled near the cast iron stove, surrounded again by clothes hanging up to dry.

The weather improved gradually the following days. The last full day of vacation, and the day we left, were beautiful.

Joe attended Syracuse University in the fall of 2033 with the help of a football scholarship. He was the most played freshman on the squad. From his position as linebacker he exhilarated spectators, and his destiny seemed at hand.

That year, Beth organized musicians to compose and perform original music. They practiced at our house in a sunroom facing south, which provided views of islands and peninsulas at a bend in the river. When the house was empty, I’d sneak behind the drum set and bang away. Beth caught me one day and told me I sounded really good.

My father discovered carpenter ants devouring the foundation sill on the north side of the house, and that they’d spread into adjoining lumber, much of which needed to be replaced. Dad’s repair work fascinated me, and I joined him on the project, which we worked on in our spare time. It was the beginning of a valuable education I would receive from my father.

The Christmas and New Year season 2033-2034 ushered in weeks of frigid temperatures that dove well below zero at night. The river slowed to a crawl and froze over solid. From gabled window seats of my bedroom attic retreat, I saw the character of the river and its people change. Backwaters glassed over, allowing one to skate long distances as if to fly. Youngsters played hockey after school, and lovers glided hand in hand, glittering beneath the spotlight of the full moon. Local families charged themselves with snow removal and surface maintenance, allowing for skating parties. Bonfires dotted ice-locked islands, and the smell of wood’s combustion carried in the crisp air. Some nights they’d smolder till dawn. It was a magical time, when voices in lifted spirits could be heard from a distance as they broke into warm laughter.

The Currier & Ives-like wonderland came to an end in late February, when two days of heavy snow turned into steady rain, transforming everything into a slushy mess. The river flowed over the ice, which could be heard cracking and crunching beneath. The ice sheet began to float and shift. Rain fell harder.

My father’s voice, yelling up the stairs, woke me in the morning. A deluge pounded the roof overhead. At my window I knelt, watching the river swell over its banks, rushing downstream toward our neighbors. A state trooper appeared ordering immediate evacuation. Our house, the oldest on the street, was built on a natural bluff that had the highest elevation on that stretch of river. My parents decided to stay. They moved the car and truck into the old barn behind the house past which a steep hill provided high ground to safety, if needed. My brother was in Syracuse at the time.

Within hours the hydraulic force was shoving ice slabs of glassy green, the size of cars, onto the blacktop and across the road. The river widened, creeping up the drive to the sunroom’s foundation, while in the basement puddles grew rapidly. Dad disconnected the furnace, and he and I carried it up to the kitchen.

Outside, utility poles snapped, disappearing below the heaving ice, rolling in and out of sight in the steely gray torrent. In our stone-walled basement, water inched its way up the stairs rapidly.

At noon the rain stopped, but the water continued to rise. Mom, Dad, Beth, and I moved lanterns, flashlights, food and drink, kitchen chairs and a small couch into the barn, its large doors kept open. In the blackness of night, deafening sounds of thrashing and crunching could almost be felt. Daylight exposed a river looking like a vast brown lake with bobbing cubes of ice. Treetops, marking submerged islands, stuck bizarrely up from the rushing surface, their branches broken, their bark pealed away. Everything imaginable was floating by. The sky cleared. Mud rings told us the water was receding.

Over puddles I hopped to our back door, went to the attic, dressed in my sweats, and went off to sleep.

The following day was sunny with temperatures in the low forties. We four ventured down the driveway to a different world, coated under cold smelly mud and riddled with debris. Ice in great dirty chunks, had ripped and bashed into the trunks of big trees that acted as a sieve, holding back the largest pieces from reaching our house. We stood facing a wide river that flowed only one foot below the level of the slimy road on which we stood. Together we struggled to our right, up the road and around a bend, where we came upon the house next door folded like a collapsed box, flattened against the high bank behind it. The second house had a serious downstream lean, its front wall had been breached and ice chunks had come to rest in the living room. Other houses were gone, leaving behind cement slabs or basements full of slime. The scope of change disoriented us to the point that we were trying to agree on where we were in once familiar surroundings. A friend’s house stood twisted, held in place by the remaining uprights of Giblins’ pole barn. A large tree, once a part of the near shore, stood surrounded by rushing water, defiantly holding its ground, an island unto itself. In its branches, a red car, dented and filthy, hung upside down. The driver’s door was missing, revealing the car to be empty. It was surreal.

Roadway sections were swept away, leaving small coves where currents swirled before escaping into open water. Sand and gravel were deposited in mounds, surrounded by ditches and pools. Trees, uprooted and broken, were jumbled in chaotic stacks. Trees still standing had bark chewed away on their sides exposed to the water driven ice. It was as if a swarm of gigantic beavers ravaged the landscape, turning everything upside down and inside out.

A black pickup truck, tumbled and mauled, sat upright. Inside, the bodies of a man and woman sat with heads leaning forward, seatbelts still on, airbags shredded. Attempts to contact police left us on endless hold.

There was a dead horse.

Ahead, small groups of people wandered near, slipping in the gook and stumbling over wreckage. Tearful neighbors, their faces masks of disbelief and horror, searched for remnants of their lives. These members of our destroyed community, upon realizing our house was spared, expressed happiness over our good fortune while in their eyes resentment was harbored. The situation was uncomfortable.

My father gathered us aside, There is nothing we can do here. Let’s go back home and focus on what we need to do for ourselves.

Dad had a portable generator and fuel in the barn, and set it up to power the well pump. Mom heated water in a kettle, on a camp stove, for us to clean up from our outside expedition. We hurried to prepare for sundown. Mom and Dad, Beth and I, shared common emotions; grateful we’d been so lucky, while at the same time feeling almost guilty for the losses of the less fortunate.

The Dead End sign in front of our house was bent over, horizontal to the ground. Damage, far and wide, was extreme. Downstream, large tracts of flat land that had been developed into car dealerships, restaurants, offices, malls, mini-marts and housing projects, were torn apart. Gas pumps were sheared away, petroleum storage tanks had valve and pipe damage. The raging river was flushing smelly greasy rainbows of fossil fuels. Erosion affected bridge abutments, roadways and utilities. Many navigated the dangerous river by boat, for in some areas it was the only way to get around. The wide scale calamity spread through neighboring states.

My parents couldn’t go to work, or shopping; schools were closed. We needed River Road cleared; until that was done, our vehicles weren’t going anywhere. At that time most of our district’s National Guard were overseas, and the Army Corps of Engineers was way beyond being overwhelmed. My father spent hours on the phone trying to hire a bulldozer or backhoe, but considering the scope of the problem, and overall public need, a single house at the end of a mile long road was at the bottom of a mountain of priorities. Compounding the problem, was that many excavating companies were in the sand and gravel business located along the rivers, and their machinery was ruined. Private contractors in these professions came under martial law, and were being paid, in part, in promissory notes.

Dad stroked his chin, giving us a long look, We’re going to have to do this ourselves.

Plumbing posed a problem for us. We had our own water intake, but the house was connected to the town’s sewer system, which was either clogged, or caved in, or gone. We dug a pit away from things, and using second hand lumber, built an outhouse over it.

My father owned a truck with a snowplow, as well as a wide range of tools and gear, including chainsaws. He and I walked up over the back hill and hitchhiked several places before finding our chain saw supply needs in stock; everybody was running out of everything. We returned home with arms laden. We were exhausted. Mom and Beth had spent several hours using flat shovels to clear mud from the front steps, walk, and driveway; as far down as the road. They were spent as well.

The next day we set out on what seemed the insurmountable task of reestablishing vehicle access to the main road, which too was still being cleared. A few hours into it, Joe appeared over my shoulder, out of nowhere.

He grinned, Holy shit, what a fucking mess! Do you guys need any help?

I started laughing; suddenly, with Joe there, nothing seemed impossible. Six days later Dad was able to maneuver his truck over a path that snaked through the rubble to civilization.

Without electric and gas, it was like camping out in a large wooden teepee. The cold and damp chilled us to the bone. When the temperature went below freezing, we had to drain the water pipes after each use.

Beth made arrangements to stay with a friend. My father installed an old wood-burning stove, stored in the barn, in the living room. We blocked off the upstairs with tarps. Mom and Dad moved their bed to the parlor on the first floor. Joe slept by the fireplace in the sunroom, but I continued sleeping in the attic, well bundled and covered.

Mom and Dad lost time from work, and money was tight. Mom’s piano was out of tune, and none of her students’ parents wanted to hazard our makeshift road. Schools opened, but the yellow bus that once turned around in front of our house, I had to meet at the crossroads, a mile away. Teenagers from River Road were no longer in my classes, for most had moved in with friends or family out of our district. On the bus, I felt alienated, opting for rides from my parents if their schedules allowed, and often, when weather permitted, taking the hour-long walk home.

At fourteen, I had no real friends. An acne problem made me self-conscious around girls. I was isolated and subject to Joe’s legacy. Older guys wanted to find out if I was as tough as my brother. A gym teacher, who was disappointed in my lack of interest in sports, joked in front of a laughing class that I must have been the runt of the litter. Disrespect snowballed, and I was bumped and tripped in the halls. Someone started a false rumor they’d seen me masturbating in the showers after gym. Such cruelty was unfathomable to me. Mom told me to rise above it and ignore them. My father said they were just practicing being perfect assholes and that someday they’d achieve their goal.

Joe said, Punch them in their fucking faces, you’ll get expelled, but that’s better than getting shit on; besides you’ll feel better about yourself, and that’s all that counts.

One guy spit on me, so I shoved him into a wall. Another time, one of the more popular jocks kicked me in the back, knocking me into a urinal I was using. I caught him in the hall and pinned him to the floor in front of a crowd. The counselors determined I was a troublemaker trying to gain the respect that my brother had earned properly through sports. The more people lied about me, the truer the stories became in the minds of my teachers and classmates. I received detention right and left. I hated, hated, hated school.

May came and our utilities were still not restored. The masses waited as pledged federal aid trickled down at a rate just enough to say action was being taken. Overwhelmed insurance companies were delinquent or defaulting on their responsibilities, and webs of red tape grew to immobilize everything. Allegations of executives reaping huge profits, while the businesses they managed went under, angered the commoners. High rollers were first in line to receive assistance while poorer individuals were hung out to dry. The proposed economic boom of rebuilding wasn’t happening. Prior to the flood, many of the people remaining in our area were there because they had property that they couldn’t sell, and with no economic stimulus package, they would not return. It was compared to the great depression. Families from stricken states migrated elsewhere only to be exploited. Lawyers representing everyday citizens were outgunned by batteries of corporate attorneys. It was a tale of rats and sinking ships.

We were notified by our local government, and utility companies, that River Road had been designated a floodplain and would not be rebuilt. My father could not get homeowner’s insurance, and the town offered him a pittance to surrender his deed. He declined. His reaction, We’ve just survived the worst flood in recorded history and they say our place isn’t safe; what bullshit!

My parents refused to leave, and a legal battle ensued.

In the meantime, Joe was at college, and through his diligence, located an Army surplus generator for sale by a guy upstate who was liquidating his family farm. The price we paid for it included delivery. Dad and I met the man one Saturday morning at the intersection to our road. The farmer was driving a flatbed pickup truck. Trailing behind it, on two wheels, was a large rectangular generator, with tan camouflage casing. A matching three hundred and fifty gallon, double-hulled fuel tank, was strapped in the back of the truck. The man negotiated our crooked road as if he’d driven it a hundred times. He backed up the driveway and around the house to the far rear corner, outside the kitchen. He unhitched it. With leathery hands he pulled copper cables and grounding rods from behind the cab’s seat, handed them to my father and nodding, Good luck.

That’s all I ever heard him say. He got in his truck and drove away.

Aroused by warm weather, the river jungle transformed quickly from a muddy world into a lush collage of brilliant green hues. Summer, with hot days and breezes coming off the river, was beautiful. Crickets sounded as evening twilight melted into rural darkness, and fireflies hypnotized our eyes with their pulsating dance in black tranquility.

Joe was home that summer and worked with Dad in the construction business. I helped them build a vented shed over the generator.

Mom stopped being a cleaning lady. Her piano was back in tune and some students had returned. She began teaching at a music store some afternoons and early evenings.

Beth’s musician friends returned to the sunroom, and there were drums for me to play.

One peaceful night, the serenity of our house was broken by rowdy people approaching in cars, their loud voices getting clearly vulgar as they neared. Yelling and loud abrasive music pierced the night joined by the sound of breaking glass. Mom got nervous and asked my father to call the police, so he did, and by chance spoke to an officer he knew. My father was told that several gangs were having a confrontation downtown and every available cop was either there, or on their way there. He apologized to my father for not being able to spare a unit, and suggested we stay inside, lock the doors and avoid contact. We sat on the porch along the drive. Our house was dimly lit. From where I sat on the rail I could see Joe’s figure pacing back and forth in the yard, but it was Beth who’d noticed he’d slipped away.

My father gasped, Oh no, where did he go? He had a good idea as to where though.

I chased after my father as he moved, hidden by the brush, toward the gathering. Firelight flickered as smoke rose from wood piled on the road. The music stopped and only Joe’s voice could be heard. We arrived on the scene just in time to witness one of the men in the party of ten, three being women, foolishly put his hands on my brother’s chest and attempt to shove him backward. In a blur, that man and two others who came to his aid lay unconscious in the dirt. Joe was screaming and waving his fists as everyone still standing, cowered. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. A downed man tried to get to his feet but fell back, his jaw hanging crookedly on his face. Everyone was terrified as they loaded their fallen friends in a van and beat a fearful retreat. My brother, enraged, began kicking the fire and stomping it out. Behind him red taillights disappeared. My father was furious.

Joe said he was upset because Mom was upset, and that he had politely asked the partiers to make less noise and to please not make fires or break bottles in the road. My brother justified his action, I explained to them the work we’d done to clear this passage for our use; that we needed to drive it everyday. All I was asking was for them to respect our space.

Dad feared reprisal against our family, or our house. He and I realized Joe would not always be around to back up his actions, and maybe someday we’d have to do it without him. Understanding this, Joe disappeared for a few hours the next day, returning in the afternoon with a rifle, shotgun, two handguns, and enough ammunition to start a small war. He said they weren’t traceable. Dad was not comforted. Mom, due to her religious upbringing, was against owning guns except for sport, so the weapons were hidden away without her or Beth’s knowledge. Joe, and I, and our reluctant father, test fired everything when the girls were away.

On the long dreaded first day of school, I met a tall skinny guy with curly dark hair named Ross. He was new to our area, and our friendship developed quickly. Ross, with fawn-like eyes, was self-confident and funny. People liked him because he made them laugh. I spoke to him of our house on the river, and of the flood. Ross, being from a metropolis, was curious to see how we lived. One Friday he took the long walk home with me, and when we got there he said, Jake, if you walk this everyday, you should join us on the cross-country team.

I did. I enjoyed the natural high from long distance running, and I was able to cross the finish line before Ross a couple times before the end of that fall. My popularity did not skyrocket, but my social life improved. Even the coaches showed me more respect. One coach asked me to join the wrestling team; so I did.

We got a septic system. Indoor plumbing is the best!

The new music coming from Beth’s band’s practice room was incredible, and kept improving. Joe was making a name for himself at Syracuse. Our parents were pleased with us, and I was happy to be a member of our family.

My father began building a masonry stove of brick, up through the center of the house, rising from a footer in the basement, to four feet above the roof ridge. Inside the structure, the flue went side to side, and gradually upwards for slow efficient burning of wood, turning the masonry into a column of radiant heat. Corbelled brickwork supported the framing. Dad had drawn it out on paper before transferring lines to the rooms themselves. He made sure I understood the why and how of it. We began building after New Years 2034-2035, proceeding as time and money allowed. I mixed mortar, carried block and bricks, and learned to lay them.

That winter, I played drums a lot.

In the springtime my parents bought a canoe, which Ross and I paddled up and down the river, exploring and camping out on islands. Beth’s friends gathered at our house often, and it was not unusual to find one or two of them sleeping on our couches in the morning. Across the drive from the house, near the road, Mom cleared and cultivated a vegetable garden. In our region there could have been no better place to plant. Visitors were amazed at her green thumb as she handed out free samples of her produce. Joe was living with a woman in Syracuse, registering for summer courses, and working as a bartender-bouncer in a downtown club.

My father and I did not work together as much that summer but he entrusted me to lay brick for the chimney which we completed flashing in late September. A preliminary burn proved promising.

I returned to school that fall, almost enthusiastically, but was disappointed to hear, that because of budget cuts, all extracurricular activities, including sports, were canceled. Ross and I, however, still got together to run on occasion. Public school funds were spent during the summer to beef up security systems in buildings and busses, and to add two new policemen to scrutinize the student body.

There was a young woman: Angela. I worshiped her from afar for almost a year, but never approached her because I was so self-conscious of some unsightly pimples on my face. When my skin cleared, I began working up my nerve and a dialogue to approach this gorgeous creature. I’d never mentioned my feelings for her to anyone, so I had no reason to be angry when Ross told me that he and Angela had started dating. They became inseparable. Jealousy, I discovered, is an ugly emotion. My dearest friend Ross, faded from my life, and took my hopes of being with Angela with him.

Winter proved the worth of Dad’s highly efficient masonry stove design, and for what little bit of wood we burned, we kept very warm.

Spring arrived. During that time, violence on our school campus worsened, with gang activity festering under a blanket of surveillance. The rationale for being in a gang is that there is safety in numbers, but I allied myself with no one, maintaining my individuality, and hoping neutrality would keep me out of any tussles. It didn’t work. While walking down the hall one day, I entered a spy camera blind spot, and without provocation, I was punched in the head by a gang member recruit; me being the initiation target. My mind snapped. I grabbed his throat with one hand and flung him down the stairs, and backward over a railing. He fell on the steps below, breaking an arm and a leg. Police detained me at the school’s holding cell, but to my relief, a teacher had seen the entire thing, and she was brave enough to step forward and tell the truth. The officers, when releasing me, told me to be careful.

I answered, This is crazy, I’m not going to be safe on school grounds no matter how cautious I am.

My mother, usually quiet and reserved, exploded, putting her foot down, telling my father, the school, the cops, and anyone else who needed to know, that her son would never set foot in a public school again, adding, That school is nothing more than a boot camp for prison.

The teacher who bore witness to the truth had her garage burned down the following weekend.

At age sixteen, I went to work for my father, who took exceptional pride in his work. Patiently, he took the time to explain things before leading me through them himself. He was never financially wealthy, but never rushed a job by lowering his standards, even if it meant less profit. He was a fair and honest man, not caught up in the dog-eat-dog world, a man who focused everyday on some project at hand. My father did not want power over other people, nor did he go out of his way to seek their praise. He was content within himself.

A sense of freedom filled me. I worked cheap, lived at home for free, and saved money to buy a truck. Beth’s band was playing out a lot, which was good for them, but that often left me with no drums to play. Aside from buying an old truck, I bought a second hand drum set and kept on practicing. Within a year, the drummer in Beth’s band enlisted in the Marine Corps to go overseas to join in the war that had cost his brother his life. Beth was aware I knew all their material by heart, and that I was able to play it. At seventeen, I joined the band. My parents were supportive, and my father, who was also my boss, was very flexible with my schedule, allowing me time to travel to the shows.

Until that time I was still a virgin. Performing live on stage in front of so many young women made it easy to change that, and I did. One woman, Loren, became a steady companion. We were honest with each other. She was my best friend. During that time the band went through two personnel changes, and a name change to Natural Velocity. Our music sold best in the areas we played, and a loyal fan base thought we were great, but why some acts surface to the big time, while others do not, has many intangibles.

I kept my day job with Dad.

Our music led us to Ithaca, New York, a small but active city nestled in the steep hills on the southern shores of Cayuga Lake. High on a hill, on the outskirts of the city center was Ithaca College. In town, Cornell University, with massive, Gothic gray-stone architecture and clock tower spire, loomed over the valley from the east. Ithaca was prosperous, offering musicians opportunities to play clubs, fraternity parties, and venues on both campuses. Aside from its cultural aura, the natural beauty of the lake and many deep gorges with waterfalls, made it a favorite place of mine. Sometimes I’d camp at a state park and wander the wooded trails and city streets. Cayuga Lake was large and deep, cool and refreshing, even after long hot spells. There were many ravines with deep swimming holes to challenge divers, but I chose to swim to the base of a cliff and climb the vertical rock face till finger or toe hold failed, sending me plunging backward down into the clear, green water below.

Natural Velocity was well-received in Ithaca, and for me it became a home away from home. There was a woman who came to events we played. She had flowing black hair, dark eyes that glimmered, and a beautifully feminine, flawlessly pale face. Her graceful movements and smiling presence radiated intelligence and character that drew me, and many other far richer, better educated and more socially connected men, to her. Her image was in my mind, but she was on a pedestal, out of reach.

Joe was playing pro ball with the Falcons and was a stand out player. He flew home for Thanksgiving, bringing some of his playing highlights and TV interviews with him. But with us, he was the same old Joe.

Dad was recovering from a minor stroke and talking about returning to work. Joe had paid off all my parents’ debts, and was trying to talk them into retiring.

Dad’s response, Retire and do what?

Joe said, Travel.

Dad answered, I like sleeping in my own bed.

Mom spoke up, Besides Joe, I’ve got lessons.

He shrugged, Well, cancel them.

She said, But I enjoy teaching.

Joe didn’t understand them wanting to have a simple life. In his mind he was trying to rescue our parents from servitude and boredom. Thanksgiving dinner was the typical feast prepared by Mom and Beth.

That night, alone in my room, staring out at the river, I could only think of the woman from Ithaca, only about her.

Her

Two weeks before Christmas I was staying with friends in Ithaca. They’d gone to work and I’d slept in on the couch. The sun shone brightly around the edges of the heavy drapes. I showered, then walked to College Town for breakfast, just in time to beat the lunchtime crowd. The waitress recognized me from being in the band. I left her a generous tip. Outside the air was still, the sunlight dazzling everything into extra-sharp focus. Onto Cornell campus I went, my breath turning to mist in the cold. A flyer, on a billboard, advertised a new exhibit at the Johnson Museum, and for there I headed. Among the Tudor mansions and stone castle buildings, the six story museum, made of textured concrete, was architecturally vertical, boxy, cantilevered and hollowed; itself a piece of sculpture.

I took the elevator to the top level, where huge windows offered a stunning view of the lake. On such a clear, calm afternoon, I got lost in the fog of a daydream, until a peripheral movement, thirty feet away, keyed me back into reality. A black-cloaked hooded figure turned to face me.

It was her!

A nervous rush of heat shot through me. My mind went momentarily blank, but I knew I could not let such opportunity slip away. As I approached, she pulled back her hood, and flipped her long black hair away from her face to rest on her shoulders.

I smiled and said, Hello, my name is Jakob.

She returned the smile, Yes, I know.

I was stunned, delighted; she knew my name!

I asked, How do you know my name?

She replied, Your sister introduces the band members wherever you play, how could I forget?

She proceeded to name everyone in the group, making me feel less special. I stood next to her, tongue-tied.

She introduced herself, I am Teresa.

I felt like an idiot, I didn’t even ask her name. Our eyes locked momentarily before gazing together at the lake view.

She said, Wow, what a gorgeous day!

She looked back up at me, Have you seen all the art work yet?

I answered, No, I haven’t been here long.

Her smile melted me. Well Jakob, if you have the time, maybe we could critique the exhibits together.

That would be great, I replied.

Time passed quickly as we made our way slowly, going through every section, sharing our opinions on the works of art with our conversation flowing ever smoother. Outside we walked the lightly snow-covered grounds of the Zen garden, sometimes sitting, sometimes pacing, speaking, or in silence, studying each other’s face. I wondered if she was as taken with me as I was with her. Maybe I was just fooling myself.

We strolled along a narrow ridge-top drive and down several flights of stairs that hugged the edge of a frightfully deep, wide gorge. The steps led us to a silver-painted metal suspension footbridge that connected campus property to the upscale neighborhood beyond. The span beneath our feet flexed eerily. At mid bridge, a couple hundred feet in the air, we exchanged phone numbers, promising to stay in touch, then turned to go our separate ways. We spun back around, simultaneously, leaning toward each other to share a gentle kiss. We parted. I looked back again to see her actions mirroring mine. We kissed a second time before parting. It was euphoric.

On my way back up the stairs, I stopped at a landing on the shady side of the gorge to watch the black-cloaked figure disappear up the sun-drenched streets, on the opposite side of the abyss dividing us.

That night I lay in bed with our encounter playing over and over in my mind. Of all the people in Ithaca, what were the odds of us being the only two people to meet in that space and time? Was it chance, fate or divine intervention?

In the dark I thought of her, Teresa Danilov, Teresa Danilov, Russian born, but an American citizen. She was twenty-three, five years plus older than me. A gymnast, described in her own words as being, just shy of Olympic caliber.

She taught her athletic skills to young people in a converted warehouse space downtown, a fledgling enterprise funded by her father in his successful attempt to keep his daughter active in that field, while living locally. She had a degree in psychology-psychobiology from Cornell, but her passion was Russian literature.

Teresa lived with her father, a semi retired Earth Science professor from Cornell. Her mother had taught Russian at Cortland College, but was tragically killed years earlier while commuting the icy roads home. Teresa’s older brother, Yuri, lived in Saint Petersburg, Russia, and her older sister, Catherine, the middle child, lived in San Francisco. Everything about that beautiful woman’s life fascinated me. I was head over heels in love, unlike anything before.

The day after meeting Teresa, I returned home to make good on a promise to help my father with a job. The light snow that began falling as I left Ithaca was a blinding blizzard when I reached home. By nightfall, we had one and a half feet of snow, and it was drifting. In the morning, with much lighter winds, Dad and I plowed out River Road and left for work. Teresa and I spoke twice that day. Natural Velocity was not scheduled to appear in Ithaca for at least a month, but I had no intentions of waiting that long to taste her lips again.

Homeowners tell horror stories about contractors, but I assure you, it’s a two way street. My father was doing the interior finish work on a new house and the customer was continually modifying plans. Dad insisted on rewrites in the agreement, stipulating that design changes and extra man-hours, would result in higher costs, and an extended finish date. With this homeowner the haggling never ended. He was a real pain in the ass. Payments to us were past due. The homeowner said he was unhappy with the quality of our work and demanded a lower price, a tactic his wife found amusing.