Nylon Trees

By Gary Loderhose

As a child, Ronnie worships his older brother Mikey. But as time goes by, he begins to view him differently. How does he deal with a special needs brother? Will Ronnie ever understand Mikey's nylon trees? Nylon Trees, a gripping, voice-driven story dealing with such strong themes as love, guilt and despair, leaves the reader with a message of redemption and forgiveness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gary Loderhose
• Release date: May 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301974054

Gary Loderhose

Gary Loderhose is the author of two Civil War books: Far, Far From Home which received two national history award nominations, and Way down Upon the Suwannee River. However, Gary's true passion is fiction writing. Born and raised in Washington State, Gary later attended Flagler College in St. Augustine, Florida, where he received a B.A. in English and history. He later earned his MA in history from the University of Richmond. Gary currently resides in Southwest Florida with his wife, Karen.

Book preview

Nylon Trees

By Gary Loderhose

Copyright 2013 Gary Loderhose

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover design by MotherSpider.com

To MJ, who helped me discover nylon trees.

Table of Contents

Prologue - Nylon Trees Revisited

Chapter 1 - Family Beginnings

Chapter 2 - The Awakening

Chapter 3 - Mikey Changes

Chapter 4 - Lone Island

Chapter 5 - Coming of Age

Chapter 6 - Mikey Unleashed

Chapter 7 - The EEG

Chapter 8 - The Commitment

Chapter 9 - Whisked Away

Chapter 10 - Normalcy

Chapter 11 - The Dreaded Visit

Chapter 12 - High School

Chapter 13 - Catching a Glimpse of the Nylon Trees

Chapter 14 - Mikey in Me

Chapter 15 - New Beginnings

Chapter 16 - Games People Play

Chapter 17 - Break Up

Chapter 18 - Senioritis

Chapter 19 - Loneliness

Chapter 20 - Gone

Chapter 21 - Nylon Trees

Epilogue - Coming Full Circle

Prologue - Nylon Trees Revisited

It all started on a gorgeous summer day in Portland. For months the desire burned inside me to spend more time with people, to get involved in others' lives, thus removing the selfish focus on myself. So I found the competitive diamond of the local T-ball league to my liking. The year was 1978, and at 22 years of age, I still had no blessed idea what I wanted to do with my life. But I knew that working with these wild kids was a start in the right direction. I was pretty good at baseball when a kid, thus I felt confident I could help them hone their skills. Coaching positions in all the older leagues were easily filled, so I took what was available - five and six-year-old maniacs who never listened and did only what was in their mind. But I loved them all the same.

The sun was warm and the darkly forested West Hills dramatically outlined the western horizon. To the east, snow-capped Mt. Hood towered in the distance recalling fond memories when T.J. and I spent countless weekends backpacking on her icy slopes. I missed T.J. He moved to the flat and innocuous mid-west to attend seminary. Yes, a fitting profession for the best brother I could have ever asked for. Well, I guess I had two best brothers.

On this auspicious day, I was coaching third base, facing the wide Columbia River, when Chucky approached the plate. Chucky, with his adorable ubiquitous grin, checked me for signs, although he never paid any attention to my instruction. As was his custom Chucky enthusiastically jack-hammered home plate with his bat, which as usual, struck fear in the hearts of his fearful opponents. That is, until they saw him bat.

Chucky was different from other kids, but never admitted it. To him all things were possible even though he obviously suffered physically, being many years behind his peers in both physical and mental development. But Chucky never gave up! He was a battler.

Chucky addressed the plate in his usual manner as he eyed me for his obligatory signs. I rubbed my chest, pulled at the brim of my cap, scratched my armpit and stuck my right index finger in my ear. He responded with his sweet trademark grin as I clapped my hands.

Drive the ball up the center, Chucky, I encouraged.

Chucky's teammates were yelling at him not to mess up again.

I tried to keep Chucky positive while the umpire teed up the ball.

Chucky pounded the dirt with his bat, gritted his teeth, then wound up like Babe Ruth and swatted the ball across the ground to the shortstop. Chucky threw the bat behind him, and since he wound up facing third base on the follow through of his swing, headed straight for me.

Other way, Chucky! I screamed, my arms waving wildly. Run to first base!

But I could see the determination in Chucky's red face and he would settle for nothing less than making it to third base.

In the meantime, the shortstop scooped up the grounder and darted across the infield toward first base stomping on the bag in a taunting victory dance, like a trash-talking professional football player.

Out! yelled the umpire looking at Chucky with his thumb jutted upward in the air.

Chucky looked at me, wondering what happened.

Wow, Chucky, good running! Next time run to first base, remember.

I patted his shoulder reassuringly.

Good job, Chucky. Nice hit. You're really coming along.

I followed Chucky as he trudged toward the dugout dejected. His angry teammates glared at him as he entered the gate. But he just grinned back.

Did you see me hit that ball?

You ran the wrong way! shot a condescending voice from within the mob.

Chucky plopped down on the bench while his teammates parted as if the down-trodden boy had some catchy disease. It was like the parting of the Red Sea.

A large fir tree waved in the gentle afternoon breeze reminding me of Mikey's nylon trees.

Retard! one boy declared as he stomped off.

I stopped dead in my tracks. It was as if I had uttered that ugly word myself. A painful memory! Truth is, I had.

Chapter 1 - Family Beginnings

By nature, I am a shallow, self-centered person. And because of this unfortunate trait I constantly suffer guilt over the way I have treated people in the past, especially Mikey. You know, if I could turn back the clock, I’d treat Mikey better. But I can’t rewind time. Take the time when my Great Grandpa gave two old pocket watches to my brother Mikey and me.

Decide amongst yourselves who gets the better one, he told us.

One watch was beautiful, well preserved and ticking melodically like the day it was made. The second, an older, beat up watch, suffered from an irregular heartbeat. Thanking Great Grandpa profusely, we suffered the hour trip home from Yakima to Columbia Inlet to divvy up the goods. When we returned home, I held the glorious time pieces in the palm of my hand.

Okay, Mikey, which watch do you want? I asked, acting generous.

The good one, he replied.

Are you sure?

Yes, I want the good one.

But I think the older one fits you better.

The older one? Mikey inquired, a bit puzzled. No, I want the pretty one.

It’s older like you, more dignified, I answered in my most persuasive snake-oil salesman voice. Then I really poured it on. Besides, I’m sure Great Grandpa meant for you to have this one.

Mikey pondered my words. I could see the gravity of them weighing him down. I just needed one more convincer and the good watch would be mine.

I heard Great Grandpa say this watch came over from the Old Country with his parents. I wasn’t sure what or where the old country was, but it sounded good to me.

Mikey’s countenance fell.

Okay, he sighed.

I handed him the older, beaten watch and I stuffed the beautiful watch into my pocket skipping off the victor.

I was stronger than Mikey, and I think he may have been intimidated by me. Even though he was older, as far back as I can remember I had been physically bigger. So, imposing my will on Mikey became a regular occurrence.

I was born in Columbia Inlet, Washington. Nestled on the wide shores of the Columbia River near the mouth of the Snake River, the small yet bustling town provided active water sport and fine desert living. When most people think of Washington, they think of damp, dreary Seattle. They don’t even know that a desert exists. Washington has a split personality when it comes to geography. The towering Cascade Mountains trap the wet marine weather on the western side and because of this the eastern half is arid, brown, and dotted with gnarled, faded blue-green sagebrush.

Jackrabbits were as numerous as the sand on the seashore when I was a boy, and they burrowed and lived in the hills behind Columbia Inlet. They literally bred like rabbits. As a boy, I remember accompanying my father and oldest brother, T.J., on jackrabbit hunts. While Dad packed his high-powered Winchester 270 rifle and T.J. his Marlin 30-30, I felt smart with my Daisy pump action BB gun. I never shot anything, but I felt like a valid member of the hunt and loved the earthy, herbaceous sage smell of my blue jeans after tromping through the sagebrush all day.

The seasons were pleasant, affording the residents of Columbia Inlet satisfying change and eager anticipation for each coming season. During the spring, the Sagebrush Hills were clothed in light green velvet and the sky turned a deep cobalt blue. Everything felt crisp, fresh and vibrant, like the newness of life. It was a time of fishing at Pug’s Pond with neighborhood boys, baseball and the tease of mild weather. That is, until a dust storm blew in.

An empty field with plowed, fresh dirt, sat across the street from the Lutheran school I attended. At one time a thriving vineyard flourished there. But lately, it was simply tilled ground. One day a great wind storm blew into Columbia Inlet. It seemed like the whole field had barfed on our school. During recess we stumbled through the chocolate haze, and pushed our way through the overwhelming force of the wind, across the football field to the irrigation canal. On the return journey we had to follow the boundary lines on the field because visibility was nearly zero. The following day, the picture on the front page of our local newspaper showed our teacher, who lived near the school, scratching out the word HELP on his dust covered couch.

Summers were hot, but dry. No overbearing humidity like you find in the south. The hills behind Columbia Inlet turned a lifeless brown and the cheat grass often provided tinder for many brush fires. My father served as a volunteer fireman. Once, after battling a brush fire, he came home with singed eyebrows. Mom was pretty upset upon learning that at one point in the battle the fire flanked them. They literally fought for their lives to escape. After that, Dad never fought fires again. I think Mom had something to do with that decision.

Summer had many pleasures for a kid growing up, sleeping out under the stars, walking to town shirtless in the warm night breeze, and camping under the brilliant summer constellations. We went camping a half dozen times every summer, mostly high up in the Cascade Mountains or along the coast. During wheat harvest of August, the aroma of grainy chaff scented the air. I loved it.

Autumn brought crisp mornings, change of leaves, winds, and the ubiquitous, rolling tumbleweed. School was dismissed early on that sad November day in 1963 when President Kennedy was assassinated. We went home and made an awesome fort with the tumbleweeds that had gathered along the fence. We were so happy. You would never have known a national tragedy had occurred. My tragedy came over the weekend when Dad burned the tumbleweeds. The bonfire was great though.

It rarely snowed during the winter. The weather was cold and dry, not damp. You had to be a native to appreciate the winter. When I was in high school, Roger Kilbey’s father was transferred from New York to Columbia Inlet. Roger was smart. In advanced biology he always mentioned chemical bwonds which made us all laugh at the way he spoke, being from New York and all. The cold, snowless winters were a hard adjustment for Roger, but eventually, he grew to enjoy them.

Columbia Inlet was a great place in which to grow up. But, as I grew into my teens I quickly realized that there were wild and unexplored lands beyond the lifeless Sagebrush Hills. The lure of lands beyond my reach called me.

I was blessed with a great family. But I did not fully realize, or appreciate just how special they were. All of them. My parents loved us all dearly and we knew that no matter what might befall us, we had a home to return to. Although we often complained we never really wanted for anything.

My father, Tom Wilkes, was a quiet, hard-working man whom everyone loved and respected. He worked in sheet metal construction and by the time I was ten he helped manage my uncle’s company. Working in an office proved a challenge for Dad. He’d rather wrestle four-foot by eight-foot sheets of metal in gale force winds high atop Crow Mountain than push papers around a desk in a smoky office. But, when he was offered a promotion, he jumped at it knowing he had to care for a family with growing needs.

Dad was the epitome of the true outdoor sportsman. In the spring he’d hunt jackrabbits. Summers would be filled with trout or steelhead fishing trips. And, the autumns were filled with pheasant, deer and elk hunting. When I was six, Dad took me on a steelhead fishing trip to the Klickitat River. It was my first fishing trip alone with Dad. I could hardly sleep the night before. We left at two in the morning to reach the first fishing hole at sunrise. Dad would cast the rod upriver and let the pencil lead weights bump along the rocks on the riverbed. I’d play in the sand and rushes at the river’s edge.

Fish on! he cried.

I bolted to him and he thrust the rod into my hands. Steelhead are big fish and the rod was heavy in my small arms. But with Dad behind supporting me, the weight was manageable.

Gently pull back, Ronnie, he instructed. Then reel in when you go forward.

Yes, Daddy. I’m trying, but it’s heavy, I puffed.

I pulled back with a yank and the fly shot towards me like a bullet blast from a high-powered rifle. If my father had not shoved me to the ground I would have worn that fly home in my face.

I’m sorry, Daddy. I lost him. I felt sad and guilty.

Dad smiled at me as he reeled in the line.

No problem, Ronnie. Plenty more fish in the river.

We went home empty-handed that day. I was so tired that I fell asleep on the return trip. The last thing I remembered seeing was my strong and loving father with his hands on the steering wheel driving us home. I felt warm, safe and loved. He was my hero.

Dad loved to play with the kids in the neighborhood. In fact, they anxiously awaited his return from work then knocked on our door begging Dad to come outside and play. Soon all the kids in our neighborhood were in the front yard playing touch football and hooting with pleasure. I felt like a celebrity’s son, sort of special because he was so well-liked. My next door neighbor, Carla Watson, who was my age, wanted to marry Dad. I tried to tell her that he was already happily married. And he was!

Mom and Dad were the perfect couple. I could tell they really liked each other as they always snuck kisses or Dad would secretly grab at Mom’s backside. Once, when Mom was getting all dolled up for a party, Dad waltzed into their bedroom, saw what she was wearing and blurted out in my presence.

Right, the Seymour blouse!

Mom snickered, but I was at a loss. She noticed my confusion.

"He means see more, dear."

And it was then that I realized that her shirt was shear and you could see all the way through to the white of her underclothes.

There was more than just a physical connection. They were kindred spirits. When Dad was away on hunting or fishing trips Mom would be all out of sorts until he returned smelling of aged man and the bush and all prickly-faced. That didn’t matter; she kissed him anyway. Many times. Likewise, when Mom was away for the weekend at a women’s church event, Dad would wander aimlessly around the house like he lost his vision on what to do next.

There was also a spiritual connection between my parents. We were a strong church-going family and my parents were people of faith. My father was quieter about it, and he kept his religion to himself. Not my mother, though. Being a relational person she had no qualms about sharing her faith. If not for her persistence, we would not be regular attendees in church.

My mother, Ruth, was a strong-willed, outspoken, and often opinionated, woman. Yet she was tender and kissed everyone, which proved embarrassing when I was a teenager bringing friends to the house. But, they all knew what to expect and girded themselves. Some of my friends actually ate the attention up because they came from broken homes and were astounded that I had such loving parents. Mom was of Irish heritage, and she had the green eyes to prove it. I often kidded her about that. She would get so angry. Like when I was a sassy teenager I would slap her on the rump and call her Ma in my best southern drawl.

I’m not your Ma! she shot back. I’m not a hillbilly!

Yes, Mom, I snickered, slithering away and planning my next rear-end assault.

Mom was passionate about her politics. Heated arguments often erupted with her father over opposing issues that seemed silly to argue over. I made myself scarce during those useless fracases. In 1960, when I was four, Washington was in the throes of a hotly contested gubernatorial race. According to Mom, the incumbent was a crooked mobster linked to the eastern syndicate. Even worse, she claimed he was connected to the communist faculty at the University of Washington in Seattle. She placed her trust in one of his doomed opponents. She went so far as putting a sign in our window that boldly stated, This House is Sold for Christiansen! I was worried. If Christensen loses, would we have to move? Christensen did lose the contest and the incumbent re-elected. But, we stayed in our house anyway.

Boy, could Mom debate. I guess it was her fiery Irish temperament. She and my older brother, Tom, Jr., got into many hot rows.

No, T.J.! Definitely not! she’d stomp. You’ll not have a motorcycle while living under my roof!

Why not? T.J. fired back.

Because!

Because why?

I said so!

That still doesn’t tell me why!

By this time, Mom’s face was usually flushed from the heat of battle and all logic flew out the window.

You’re trying my patience, son! her voice beginning to quaver.

What’s wrong with a motorcycle? T.J. pressed.

Mom was in a rumble by now, a boiling volcano about to burst. She pressed her face into T.J.’s like Sergeant Carter would do to Gomer Pyle.

Because of that teenage boy in the news last week. Going too fast on his motorcycle and lost control smashing into a light pole! Mom stepped back from T.J. and dramatically waved her hand down the middle of her body. Cut himself in two!

That’s not me! T.J. shot back.

Tears were in Mom’s eyes and now she was pleading.

Could be. No more talk of motorcycles!

Mom scurried off to the kitchen to start dinner, leaving T.J. smiling. That’s when I knew T.J. loved to start arguments for the pure pleasure of debate. He didn’t particularly care if he won or whether his stance was the correct one. He just plain loved to argue.

Tom Wilkes, Jr., T.J. as he was affectionately called by everyone, was a jovial, lovable person. He was like the huggy-bear Santa Claus you would imagine. Sort of built like it too. I guess that’s because he never met a meal he didn’t like. I mean love! Did I say he liked to eat?

T.J. was five and one-half years older than me. When I was very young we could only afford one car so Mom would take Dad to work then return home to cart the four of us kids off to school. T.J. recruited me as lookout and I’d give him the high sign as soon as our car rolled out of the neighborhood. T.J. would then dash into the kitchen and with the skill of a five-star chef, he’d quickly dress a heaping mayonnaise, mustard and ketchup sandwich. The three of us groped the sandwich with our eyes, smacking our lips with desire for a bite. You would never know by witnessing the spectacle that we all just completed a hearty breakfast not thirty minutes earlier. We received our one bite tribute. The runny filling dripping down my chin was pure ecstasy.

No telling!

Oh no! I promised profusely as I didn’t want T.J. to sit on me like he did when he tormented me or when he was angry.

Those were the days. I didn’t know it until after T.J. left for college, that I really missed him. He was a great friend.

T.J. constantly kept the family in comedic stitches. Every December our family drove 150 miles to Spokane for our annual Christmas shopping spree. In those days the shopping was much better than in Columbia Inlet. I drew my sister’s name and I found this gold-plated mechanical pencil with an ornamental green bead on top. I knew she would like it. On the way home we stopped in Ritzville for dinner and T.J. chowed down on two plates of spaghetti and four crusty pieces of garlic bread. Upon leaving the restaurant he slipped the straw from his empty drink into his coat pocket. Strategically positioned in the backseat he proceeded to blow on us through his straw.

Mawmb! Carole cried pinching her nose and sounding like Elmer Fudd. Make T.J. stawb!

Mikey and I laughed, but it was annoying when one of