Shadows of Time

By Don Goodman

When they meet at a summer camp, two ten-year-old boys from opposite worlds become friends and begin an exciting series of exploits that will test their mettle and friendship. Court-ordered forced busing, for the sole purpose of integrating the school system, leads to tumultuous, chaotic times in a city suddenly torn apart by fear and prejudice.

The two boys learn the meaning of courage when each must face the shadows of time that follow them from ghetto streets riddled with crime and hostility to unexpected dangers in the local mountains. When confronted with their most jeopardous adventure, DC and Henry meet their destiny.

The time is the late 70's. The lives of our two young heroes become forever intertwined through circumstances no one could predict. Bravery is part of life, whether in the forests of Kentucky or in the 'jungles' of Los Angeles.

Step into this fascinating, stirring epic of two boys swept up by turbulence and chaos. This is their story in the Shadows of Time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 7, 2005
• ISBN: 9780595789399

Don Goodman

After 34 years as a Special-Education teacher, Don Goodman retired and published his first book, Ghosts of Time, which was followed by three other powerhouse novels. Born and raised in Los Angeles, Don graduated from UCLA with a degree in business. He later earned an Elementary school credential from Cal State Los Angeles and then received a Master’s degree in Education from Cal Lutheran College. He was an Educational Therapist for many years, successfully operating his own Reading Clinic. The author is very proud of his granddaughter, Danya M. Bloom, the artist who designed the front cover. Don spends his leisure time writing, swimming, and hiking in the local mountains. Don lives in Palm Springs, California, with his wife, best friend and editor, Sally.

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Copyright © 2005 by Don Goodman

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents used are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 0-595-34169-1 (Pbk)

ISBN: 0-595-67071-7 (Cloth)

ISBN: 978-0-5957-8939-9 (ebook)

This book is dedicated to those wonderful kids I taught during my 34-year career as a special education teacher in the Los Angeles Unified School District—those intelligent, often misunderstood children, who used their abilities to improve themselves and their community, serve their country and help the people around them. Those children rarely make the newspapers and are seldom seen on television news, but they do make this country the great place it is to live.

The idea for this novel came from an incident in which one of my former students ran away from home and an abusive stepfather. He survived for three nights in the mountains surrounding Los Angeles by snaring, cooking, then eating rabbits and squirrels. Not a pleasant thought, but one that reflected his resourcefulness and his basic instinct to survive in a strange environment.

Another former student, who was being raised by his grandmother, couldn’t read when I took him into my special education program, but quickly discovered a way to learn. After he found success, he met his potential and became a terrific student. I was fascinated by the way he developed and blossomed after he discovered his true abilities. He found his place, as do the characters in this novel.

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

AUTHOR’S REFLECTION

PREFACE

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

EPILOGUE

HISTORICAL PERSPECTIVE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

I am most indebted to Shel Erlich, former Public Information Officer with the Los Angeles Unified School District, for providing valuable, documented information about the tumultuous times when Los Angeles was first integrated. During the final years of the integration case, Shel attended the daily court hearings and wrote a Court Report summary for all schools and District offices after each session. He also prepared a substantial amount of other materials about the integration plan for parents, staff, the general public and the news media, and those materials have been useful as a resource in writing this book, as have Shel’s first-hand recollections of those days in the late 1970’s and early 1980’s.

I am sincerely indebted to Ulla Herman, who dedicated herself to helping edit this book. Along with her editing abilities, her talent in designing the cover for Shadows of Time is much appreciated.

And, as always, my wife Sally, whose support and dedication to my writing sustains me and keeps me on course. Her help in editing, a daunting task at the least, is appreciated beyond words I am capable of expressing.

AUTHOR’S REFLECTION 

AN ADULT

Children are considered children until they reach the age of eighteen. Does this legal definition make a person of eighteen an adult? What is the definition of an adult?

Webster’s says, One who has reached legal age or maturity.

Can a ten-year-old boy be an adult? In the case of Henry David Thoreau, the answer is an overwhelming yes. Henry redefines its meaning. Let’s simplify the word, adult: its definition includes the willingness to accept responsibility, to act in a responsible manner and to think of others before you think of yourself. Maturity doesn’t come with age; it comes through actions and deeds that exemplify a sense of purpose, an intent to act with a sense of responsibility.

Henry David Thoreau exudes this ability through his actions, his intelligence and his sense of humor. Left fatherless at an early age, he is raised by a doting, caring mother who treats him as an adult by giving him adult responsibilities. Too often we think of children as being incapable of performing acts of kindness and bravery with compassion and understanding. Henry shows both caring and sensitivity. His mother, Janet Jacobs Thoreau, taught him to be an adult. She taught him important life’s lessons. Did Henry miss his childhood? Maybe! But his memories and adventures could fill the book of an adult.

This story takes place in the Summer of ‘78. Henry, and his soon-to-be friend, Demetrius Claybourne, D.C., encounter many dangers beginning on the streets of Los Angeles and continuing through to the rugged Santa Monica and San Jacinto Mountains.

Henry and Demetrius are genuine American heroes. Join them during a summer of excitement—a summer that changes their lives and the lives of those around them.

Direct your eye right inward, and you’ll find

A thousand regions in your mind

Yet undiscovered. Travel them, and be

Expert in home-cosmography.

—Henry David Thoreau—

PREFACE 

She was a small, pigtailed waif, the daughter of a divorced woman who was forced to go on welfare when the father abandoned his family. Despite being left destitute, the mother had graduated from the Los Angeles Unified School District, aka LAUSD, and wanted a better life for her child.

It was a blustery day in February. The winds howled out of the San Gabriel Mountains across the San Fernando Valley through the Santa Monica Mountains and into the city of Los Angeles. Mary Ellen Crawford and her mother lived in The Gardens, a World War II housing project built by the Federal Government but now designated as housing for the poor. The streets were littered with trash blowing in sweeping circles as if unsure where to land. And when the pieces finally landed, temporarily, they were swept up again and whisked away in another circle.

Mary Ellen ran into the courtyard, tears streaming from her dark eyes, her body quivering in sobs of anguish and fear. It was those boys again. They were after her, threatening her, teasing her. She ran toward her apartment and pawed at the door.

Her mother, who had finished cleaning their small living space, rushed to the shaking door. Don’t knock it down. I’m coming.

The quaking child threw herself into her mother’s arms and continued to sob.

Her mother cringed, Those boys again? Let’s go. I’ll settle this, now!

No, Momma, don’t go after ‘em. They’ll only tease me more.

Nonsense, child. You can’t run away from your problems. You must face ‘em head on. And I got a lot to tell those tormentors. Come on.

The two walked, the daughter somewhat reluctantly, toward the school. Mother and daughter, hand in hand, mother pulling the child, headed to the principal’s office. Mary Ellen let go of her mother’s hand and walked alongside her when she realized she wasn’t about to face the boys, but the principal.

Without waiting for an introduction Mrs. Crawford thundered past the swinging wooden barriers separating the office staff from the general public, marched past a startled secretary and proceeded straight into the Principal’s office, unannounced.

Mrs. Crawford. How have you been? What is the problem? Please be seated, the heavy black man said in one breath.

They’re at it again. They don’t stop. You need to intervene and do something. I can’t have Mary Ellen coming home everyday—afraid. It is affecting her schoolwork. It is affecting her eating and her sleeping.

Maynard Guenther was a quiet man. He had raised three children now grown and out of the house. He wasn’t sure he needed these types of problems any more. Tell me who the boys are again, Mary Ellen.

Mrs. Crawford fumed, her breath coming in short spurts, You already know who they are. You just get yourself on that telephone and call their parents. I want to meet with all of them and settle this today.

I don’t know about today, Mrs. Crawford. But I will have everybody get together—soon.

What’s you mean soon? This child is not coming back to school until we have that meeting. I’d like to put Mary Ellen in another school. That’s it. I want to transfer her.

You can’t do that. This is her neighborhood school. There is no policy for transferring students just like that, Maynard snapped his fingers. No, we’ll solve the problem right here, Principal Guenther said, annoyed but composed.

Mary Ellen looked pensively at her mother as they walked back to the project. Momma, what did you mean making me go to another school? I have all my friends here. I don’t want to go somewhere else.

The problem is not that I want you to go to another school, but you can’t. That is the problem. They walked past the parade of black faces and melted into their apartment.

Two days later, having held Mary Ellen out of school, the meeting with the principal and one other parent took place. Mrs. Crawford was disappointed only one of the offending children’s parents even showed up. She had just realized her child was trapped in her neighborhood school; all black, all graffiti ridden, and she felt hopeless. Her child was going to go to school wherever the District dictated and nowhere else.

Maybe it was time for action to free her child and give her a choice in where she could go to school and with whom. So began the most famous school integration case in our country’s history, born from a miniscule incident but one that would reverberate all over the United States.

HISTORICAL RETROSPECTIVE

SCHOOL INTEGRATION

Mary Ellen Crawford was an innocent—the named plaintiff in one of the most contentious, protracted and longest lasting California court cases on record, a case that affected every school district in the United States where school integration had become a passionate moral, logistical and legal issue for local communities. This case, first filed in August 1963, ultimately resulted in the California Supreme Court’s decision in 1976 that obligated the Los Angeles City Board of Education to undertake all reasonably feasible steps to alleviate racial segregation regardless of cause. After many appeals brought over the years not only by the parties in the case, but also by various interveners who had gained legal standing in the case (i.e., Bustop, a strong and vociferous anti-busing group based in the San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles), the Los Angeles school district’s Board of Education approved a plan of mandatory busing, an action considered so severe and far reaching it caused the great White flight of students when the plan was put into place in September of 1978.

When the state Supreme Court’s ruling in 1976 in effect rejected the school district’s original plan, the court ordered the district to realistically commence the desegregation of the School District no later than February and…to proceed with the plan within a reasonable period thereafter.

This order was based on the finding that the LAUSD was substantially segregated from1966 to 1968. The commission on Civil Rights found, in 1967, Negro children suffer serious harm when their education takes place in public schools which are racially segregated, whatever the source of segregation may be. The district’s position was that segregation had occurred in its schools as a result of the evolution of community housing patterns and not because of actions the District had intentionally taken to keep schools in certain areas segregated.

The California Supreme Court’s order returned the issue back to the Los Angeles County Superior Court for supervision. The plan submitted to the local court in October of 1977, entitled Integrated Educational Excellence through Choice, involved ordering the mass scale, reassignment of many thousands of pupils on a racial basis. The intervener Bustop, in an effort to stop the mandatory busing plan, petitioned first the state courts and then, ultimately, after its state appeals had failed, the United States Supreme Court. Bustop said the plan was in conflict with a prior court ruling that assignment by race, unless it was done for the purpose of ending prior de jure segregation, should not be allowed. The District and another intervener, BEST (Better Education for Students Today), argued in court about the criteria to be used in defining schools as racially balanced, racially imbalanced or integrated. (At the time, many schools were already considered integrated by their students, parents and local communities.) The court, in a confusing decision, provided a complicated formula for determining the percentage of students that could be considered as minority, compared to the population of the school and the school district as a whole. Nevertheless, the school district’s main obligation, by the order of the court ruling, was to eliminate ‘segregated schools."

In April of 1978, the District distributed an integration outline, Highlights of the Los Angeles Unified School District Integration Plan, to explain the vagaries of the plan to the public in general and to the students’ parents in particular. In this brochure, the District classified currently integrated schools as those with enrollments of no less than 30 percent and no more than 70 percent minority students. Some schools were called racially isolated schools because they had an insufficient number of non-minority (white) students to provide racial balance. The Permits with Transportation program, already in existence on a voluntary basis, permitted up to 20,000 students each year the opportunity to transfer from a racially imbalanced to an integrated school or to a majority white school. Educational Leagues were composed of groups of schools, some of which were primarily non-minority and others primarily minority. These schools could voluntarily enter into pairing or clustering programs of their choice. That first comprehensive plan, according to the brochure, would limit to three years the participation of any student whose bus ride exceeded 45 minutes each way.

The details of the plan were haggled over in the Los Angeles Superior Court throughout the spring and summer of 1978. In the last hectic weeks before the beginning of the new year, Plan I was set aside, resulting in a last minute approval of a District backup plan for mandatory busing. Plan II commenced in September 1978 and, as expected, caused a massive amount of White flight—the loss of more than 25,000 students whose parents opted to move their families outside the boundaries of the Los Angeles School District or to enroll their children in local private or parochial schools. In the fall of 1979, the District appealed to the court to reconsider Plan II, calling the plan a failure due to the imposition of forced busing. Although White flight slowed somewhat during the second year of the plan, on November 6, 1979, the voters of California passed an initiative, Proposition I, which changed the California Constitution to prohibit mandatory busing and reassignment on the basis of race unless there was a finding in court that the school district had intentionally segregated its students. (No such finding had been made in the Los Angeles case.) The local trial court, however, found the Proposition unconstitutional in the application to Los Angeles and said mandatory busing could continue. The State Court of Appeals denied appeals by Bustop and the District in May 1980. But a higher court found Proposition I constitutional, thus vacating the trial court’s decision.

On February 22, 1977, Superior Court Judge Paul Egly was appointed to supervise the case. His job, unpopular to say the least, was made almost unfathomable by the number of interveners and the scores of motions made by both sides of the case which on some days, would see as many as 18-20 attorneys in the courtroom representing their respective clients. Judge Egly ordered the District to begin mandatory busing and he saw it through until March 16, 1981. He resigned on the same day the Los Angeles School Board voted to end mandatory busing by April 10th of that year, based on a United States Supreme Court decision that Proposition I, the so-called anti-busing initiative, had been found to have sufficiently passed the test of constitutionality.

The District then submitted a new integration plan, Plan IV, which relied entirely on voluntary busing. In September 1981, the court gave final approval to Plan IV.

With the end of the District’s three-year plan involving forced busing for more than 40,000 students, the magnet school program—already a highly successful voluntary segment of the mandatory busing plan—blossomed and grew substantially, becoming the primary integration tool in Los Angeles. The District’s efforts were also aided also by the ongoing pairing and clustering of schools for voluntary integration purposes and the continuation of the Permits With Transportation program. However, as a side issue that rankled many staff, the racial balance of teachers at each school was considered by the District as a part of its overall desegregation effort; based on race, teachers were uprooted and assigned to teach in areas far from their homes as part of a staff integration plan.

Twenty-five years later, the effects of busing are still being felt. Students may apply to attend schools of their choice (magnet schools) within the District if there is enough space in the desired program. Students today are bused on a voluntary basis, except where severe overcrowding and a lack of classroom space at many local schools continue to make it necessary to transport many thousands of students away from their home neighborhood.

Thus ended a period of severe turmoil for the school district and its many urban communities that became embroiled in the emotional, practical and social elements surrounding school integration, as people spoke up against being forced to do anything against their wishes. And so it is to this day. EDITED by Shel Ehrlich

PROLOGUE 

Two young men sat silently staring down at their past. Their arms were wrapped around their knees. They rocked without meaning to rock, their minds daring to think of this place. It had been eight years since the incident. For those eight years they had been together, friends, sharing growing up, impending manhood and a sense of who they were.

The steep, dusty hillside, recently burned by another fire, made the place look like a site on a far-off planet. Perched on a large boulder with charred remains staining their pants, the two were reluctant to leave the past. So long ago! The Grotto! Eight years ago!

Now it was time for them to split apart. Like an amoeba being divided in two, they were splitting—their lives going in different directions as they entered college. They knew this time would come inevitably. Now it was here. They didn’t know exactly how to handle the situation. So they didn’t talk. Demetrius was the one who had won the most acclaim. His artistic abilities had brought him notoriety as a teen. He had entered and won several art competitions. And now, he had been awarded a full scholarship to the Pacific Art Institute to prepare him for the commercial world of art. Disney had promised him a job as an animator anytime he wanted to join them. However, his mother had talked him into waiting for the chance to join industry and find his niche in the art world.

Henry had become a Boy Scout leader. His knowledge of plants and animals made him the spokesman for the Boy Scouts and their return to the world of outdoor living. With a major in botany and a minor in earth science, Henry David Thoreau had been sought out by many colleges. In choosing the University of Maine, he knew their outdoor laboratory would allow him to make the greatest advances toward understanding the natural world.

So they sat. Henry wound and unwound his fingers while playing a game of memory. He finally turned to Demetrius, a face he had seen almost every day for the past eight years. Can you believe it has been so long since the fire? The time has just moved so fast. I’ll always remember our times together, DC.

The young, black face chiseled so handsomely by the Gods nodded his agreement. At that moment he gulped for words. I’ll miss you Henry. Maine is a long way off.

You’ll do fine. No one has more talent than you.

I know, he agreed, embarrassed by his words. But it isn’t the art I think about. All my life I’ve been called DC. This school is very formal. They always call their students by their given name. I’ll only hear Demetrius, this, Demetrius that. Never DC. Funny what worries me, isn’t it?

No, not really. We all have our little things. Henry laughed. Did you know my grandfather’s real name is Constantine?

Demetrius smiled. I feel badly for him. Constantine. Wow! How did he survive that name while he was growing up?

I never told you that story?

What story?

David Jacobs sat on the log of a ponderosa carving a small figure. His magical fingers guided his sharp blade. He looked at the smiling face of his son, Constantine. A tall boy for his 10 years, his shoulder-length hair framed a square face, with gleaming hazel eyes, sharp-straight nose and a broad mouth all combining to make a handsome face. His jacket, made by his mother from the hide of a bear, covered a plaid shirt and red kerchief.

Constantine, called Jack by his peers, touched the sheathed knife attached to his belt. He had sharpened his blade just before they left for their camping trip. His bow and arrow leaned against another ponderosa.

What do you think, Constantine? How does it look? Anything I forgot? David handed the carving to his son.

Jack moved the figure around in his large hand. He noted the tuft ears and bushy tail. "It looks nice, but I think it is larger than the Eurasian Red Squirrel, Sciurus vulgaris, and more the size of a cat. So I would say it’s a Ratufa bicolor from Malay."

A deep-set grin filled David’s face. He rubbed his long salt and pepper beard. You are too smart. You have learned well.

David tousled his son’s hair and bent down to kiss his red cheek. Constantine warmed to his father’s embrace while disregarding the bushy beard as it brushed his skin. I wonder where you get your genius from? Certainly not from me. It must be your mother.

Jack loved the praise from his father. You know, Mom taught me to identify the differences in creatures. We just finished studying the various types of squirrels. Did you know they vary in size around the world? The only place they’re not found is in Australia and Madagascar. Anyway, thanks for the carving. It looks great.

We need to do a little hunting today, Constantine. We’ll need meat for the winter. A couple of good-sized bucks will keep us in good stead for the duration.

We saw some tracks leading toward Golden Lake. Why don’t we start there?

Okay, Constantine, lead the way. Jack picked up his quiver with the half a dozen arrows, the shafts he had carved out of rosewood, and slung it over his shoulder.

A steep trail led down to Golden Lake. Father and son had to scramble over loose boulders that marked the old Indian path long covered by twisted vines and protruding tree roots, making travel slow. Nearing the lake, father and son stood still at the base of an olive tree and watched the sparse movement of wildlife below them. Don’t see any deer now, Dad.

Patience, son. Hunting takes patience. They aren’t going to show up because we wish it.

Jack took out a pair of binoculars from the pouch attached to his belt and peered across the green valley.

They waited.

Out of a cluster of Jeffrey pine they saw the stag emerge. Its antlers brushed against the low branches as it looked alertly at its surroundings.

Let’s go, son.

The two moved together down the trail toward the valley floor. The stag nibbled on grass, its head lifting as it smelled the air to sense any danger. The two figures moved within a short range of the stag. They darted behind a Ponderosa downwind from the handsome creature. Draw your bow slowly and quietly. We’ll step to our right and let her fly. You take its neck, I’ll hit him below his right leg into his chest. They loaded their bows. The stag lifted its head and slowly turned away from them with no sense of its imminent demise. Okay, son, let’s go—now!

David and Constantine emerged from behind the olive tree as one, lifted their bows and leveled their arrow shafts straight toward the stag in a choreographed move. The only sound was the swish of air as the arrows hurtled through space. The stag looked up, felt the sting of two arrows, reared into the air and started to run. The sharp pain in its chest and neck told the stag its time was through. The stag moved only a few feet before it died.

Got it, son. Let’s go! The two picked up their gear and ran toward the Jeffrey pine. The stag lay dead.

They stopped a short distance from the stag. Wait here. Let’s make sure we have no problems. I’ll call to you when I’m sure we’re clear. Watch out for any predators.

David moved slowly toward the stag. Jack stood at the ready.

Neither human saw the large cat that had been tracking the stag for a couple of miles. Its muscles taut, ready to pounce, the cat watched as the stag lurched into the air and fell to the ground. The cat’s head swiveled toward the running figures. Man—its new prey! David approached the buck. From its tree perch, the cat peered at the kneeling figure with a hunger for flesh. It readied itself to attack. Now, man was to become its meal.

Jack didn’t see the cat at first. Its body blended well into the Jeffrey. Jack stood about twenty feet from his father. Then Jack saw the slightest of movement in the pine. He leveled his bow and pulled the string taut.

Dad, watch out. Above you! His father stood. The cat coiled and sprang. As the arrow sprang from the bow the cat sailed through the air. Father pulled a knife from its sheath in one fluid motion. He didn’t need it. The arrow hit the cat, piercing the beast’s heart—a fatal shot.

The cat’s momentum had carried it toward David but was terminated in mid-flight.

Jack ran to his father and leapt into his arms. Both clung to each other. David held his son tight and whispered, That was a great shot Thank you for saving my life. Jack cried. His heart pounded while his head sang with excitement. His first cat kill.

David held on to Jack until his son released him. He looked at his father. I’m glad you’re okay! I love you.

I love you, too. Thanks!

Jack stepped back from his father. He looked at the two dead animals next to them. Now we have more meat than we might need, said a smiling Jack. Do you really love me, Dad? Jack asked, the smile leaving his face. Yes, of course I do. Why do you ask?

If you really love me, would you do something for me? asked Jack. Anything, Constantine, anything! Please call me Jack.

David extended his hand to his son. His face broke into a grin. Shake, Jack!

Demetrius smiled, Great story! I’ll remember it. But for now, both remembered what happened eight years earlier.

CHAPTER ONE 

The black Chevy Impala careened mindlessly down Stunt High Road. The short, stocky boy in a disheveled shirt drove with the blind eyes of a man drunk and angry. He didn’t have a driver’s license. Why bother, he always told himself. I don’t need anybody’s permission to drive. Now, drunk through choice and angry at being rejected by his boss when he asked for a raise, he felt intoxicated with power behind his Big Boat, as he called it.

Fortunately, Stunt High Road was little used. The development of the Santa Monica Mountains hadn’t yet reached its peak; still, driveways dotted the road leading to the houses overlooking the beautiful valley below. The Impala seldom made the curves on the undulating road as the vehicle bounced off protective barriers.

Henry David Thoreau walked blithely, with his mother, up the steep trail to Saddle Peak. The trail was littered in glorious colors due to a rainy winter and spring. Lizards scampered across the trail leaving their tail markings as reminders to those who followed. The rocky terrain and sand covered a path made for wondrous adventures. Just seeing the markings on the path thrilled the ten-year-old boy.

For several years, his mother, a doctor of Botany at UCLA, had taken him to the hills and valleys of the Santa Monicas to teach him about the plants and creatures that inhabited these mountains. Henry learned the importance of these creatures. He learned they must survive if man were to survive. Henry learned about the food chain and its relationship to all living things. Henry became the embodiment of his environment, the essence of his mother’s teachings.

Janet Jacobs Thoreau paused in mid-stride as they clambered toward their goal. Listen!

They stood silently. Except for a slight wind that rustled the brush around them, there was silence. Suddenly a screech emanated from a Chaparral Flowering Ash bush. A flock of Pine Suskin, nesting in the ground, had been invaded by some unseen intruder. Their shrill warning set the flock to flight. Their intruder was left with a few feathers.

Do you know what made that noise and why?

I think so, Mom. I saw the tracks of the birds in the sand on the trail. There were several tracks indicating many birds venturing out to get seeds. Over those markings was the streak of a lizard’s tail, a large one, probably an alligator lizard, going into the bush. He probably scared the birds.

A proud Janet Thoreau stood and patted her son’s head. You are getting really good at tracking. You picked all that up very well. You have learned well, Henry.

He gave his mother’s hand a squeeze. Do you think there were any eggs left in a nest?

What do you think?

I would guess not. The birds all flew out too quickly. They didn’t stay to protest the lizard’s invasion.

Yes, they would have protected their nest.

A lizard doesn’t go after birds. It must have been looking for birds’ eggs.

Henry stared down at the tracks on the trail. Wait a minute, Mom. Look at this. A print mixed in with our tracks. We must have stepped on part of this track. Look at those separated toes with the large bony feature near the claws. There was a ground squirrel in that brush.

Henry, you are right. I didn’t see the front part of the print. Our hiking boots obliterated the rear portion of the track. I do believe you are right.

Henry felt an inward glow. He was getting very good at tracking. He had tracked a deer for almost half a mile two days before. He had picked up her tracks even over hard rock and stone. Small fragments of chipped granite along with hairs hanging from a tree had given him direction to the movement of the deer.

The top of Saddle Peak overlooked the Pacific Ocean. The colony of Malibu could be seen below. With the breeze blowing in from the ocean, they could see all the way to Catalina Island, some twenty-six miles away.

The two of them stood on the ridge of Saddle Peak and looked in all directions. The clear skies descended into the Pacific and created the horizon. It was one of the great optical illusions nature made. It was a greater trick than any magician could perform. The creation of the horizon, the point at which vision stopped, excited Henry. What was beyond that point? He wanted to find out.

The breeze beat a steady rhythm against the chaparral. Leaves flapping on the brush were the only noise they heard. The silence was its own reward.

Janet put her arm around her son’s shoulder and gently gave him a squeeze. Listen to the silence, Henry. It tells you so much. Take it all in. If there is a sound, where does it come from? Train your ears along with your eyes. They won’t play tricks on you.

Henry closed his eyes as he had done often and listened. The silence of the moment would shortly be shattered by a series of events that would test his skills. But for now he heard the familiar sound of footsteps long before anyone came into view. He could hear the crunching of leaves and twigs. He heard the snapping of a branch as it swished through the air after being pushed aside. He heard the uneven steps, one foot being placed harder down than the other. He heard it all, then turned to face the intruder.

A slight woman, dressed in a tee-shirt advertising Chili Bowl, a small backpack, shorts and tennis shoes walked toward them as she crested the trail.

They exchanged Hi’s as Henry and his mother traipsed down the trail back to Stunt High Road.

The Chevy Impala made one last lunge at the barrier and then came to a resounding halt halfway up an embankment on the south side of the road. The drunk driver’s head bounced off the steering wheel and shot back against the seat. He felt a sharp pain where his stomach had been thrust forward into the steering wheel. The stocky driver, now driven by pain, had suddenly sobered. His Chevy slid backwards from the side of the mountain onto the road. Luckily the car’s engine was undamaged. A large chunk of the fender remained on the mountainside. Not realizing the engine was still running, the driver tried to start it. He heard the loud metallic grinding and removed his hand from the ignition switch. Son of a bitch car! Jees-us Christ. No good lousy car! He continued his mumbling as he steered the car back onto the road and continued into the Valley.

The trail ended as they scrambled down a steep embankment emptying onto the highway. Mother and son stepped into their truck and Janet started the engine. Janet, through force of habit and the instinct to show her son good driving habits, turned her head up the road and looked for oncoming traffic. Seeing none, she drove her truck off the shoulder and onto Stunt High Road. Henry stared out the window. Neither saw the bolting Chevy Impala driving recklessly toward them from the west. The stocky driver, back in his stupor after the rude awakening from hitting the railing many miles back, was now almost asleep. The Impala, driven like an animal gone mad, was driverless. It needed, but did not have, the rails that directed cars in Disneyland. It had only the rails of the highway, and they were not to be its salvation.

Janet saw it first in her rearview mirror. She shouted at Henry, There’s a wild car right behind us! She moved her vehicle over to the far side of Stunt High Road and sped along even faster trying to get the truck to the next curve and hoping the other vehicle couldn’t make the turn. God, I’m wishing for another person to be injured so my son can live!

The tires of the truck screeched as the four-wheel drive fishtailed slightly but regained its downward momentum. The trailing car wasn’t so lucky. The sharp curve found its victim. The Impala bounced off a tree, spun a full 360° and rumbled forward over the side of the mountain road, cascading to oblivion.

Janet stopped the truck. She made a wide U-turn and crept up the road not knowing what to expect. Rattled, but feeling safe from the wild ride, Henry marveled at his mother’s driving skills. Do you think that car crashed?

Yes, I’m afraid so. I just hope it doesn’t explode. This tinder is mighty dry right now!

The truck peeked around the turn. The road was clear. Janet drove up the road looking down the side of the canyon. Henry looked back up the road from where they had come. Mom, there’s some dust coming from the side of the road. Do you suppose that car went down the mountain there?

Janet pulled off the road near where the dust began to settle and walked with Henry. That car must be down there! They both peered over the side of the cliff and stared in horror. The car rested, teetering on the brink held by something they couldn’t see. Mom, there is a rope in the truck. I think I should go down and see if the driver is still alive!

I don’t think so. That car is hanging from a couple of trees or something. The slightest movement could throw it down into the canyon. I’ll have to drive down to one of the homes below on Stunt High and call for an ambulance. Do you mind staying here and flagging down any car that might come? No! Scratch that idea. There is no reason for you to stay here. You can’t do anything. You’d better come with me!

I think you’re right, I should stay. If a tow truck comes by, and they do roam the mountains sometimes, I could get it to pull the car up.

Janet grimaced. She knew Henry was right. The faster they got the driver rescued, the better it would be. Okay, Henry. I’ll go. But stay put and don’t try to be a hero!

Janet drove off. Have I made the right decision? Should I have left Henry alone on the side of the road? What good could he do? Maybe he was right. If a tow truck came along—a remote chance—it could pull the car up or help rescue the driver before I called the police. And in these hills finding a person at home isn’t always easy, or to find a person who might let me use their phone might be equally as hard. She prayed. God, life as a single mother was not easy! What would Henry, her long lost husband, have done? What would her father, the Botany professor, have done? Well, she knew the answer to that question. Henry has to grow up, and even though he is only ten, a heady ten, he can handle any situation; let him be! She could hear her father’s words and desperately hoped she had done the right thing.

Henry David was a ten-year-old with a penchant for adventure. He saw everything as a challenge, to be met and conquered. His mother instilled in him curiosity, a desire for knowledge and the inclination to solve problems. Henry was growing up fast; some might have thought—too fast.

A voice from the canyon startled Henry. The driver? Could that be the driver?

Henry ran to the edge of the canyon where the car had plunged down the ravine and shouted, You all right?

A weakened voice, sounding full of pain, said, Help me! Shit, help me! I hurt real bad!

Henry leaned over the canyon precipice but couldn’t see anybody. He walked along the narrow strip of earth bordering Stunt High. He still couldn’t see the source of the voice. Returning to the place where the car had plunged off the cliff, he pulled his rope from his backpack. He hoped his rope was long enough. It was shorter than the one in back of the truck. Emergency equipment, his grandfather called it. Henry peered over into the ravine to check where the best spot would be to descend, the spot with the least amount of interference from trees and plants, especially cactus.

Using two half-hitches, Henry tied the rope securely around the trunk of an oak, slung the rope over the mound of dirt at the roadside and began rappelling slowly down the side of the steep incline. He recalled his grandfather’s lessons in rappelling the summer before. He stopped every few feet to locate the voice. He called out but got no reply. He could see the car, its front bumper dug in against two large olive trees, its engine still revving and wheels still spinning. He was on the driver’s side of the car, exactly where he wanted to be. Small shrubs, their dull leaves turning brown from the summer heat, littered the steep slope. A group of eucalyptus hugged the rough terrain about fifty feet from the car. Then he heard the low moan. He first saw a shoe next to some trees. The laces were still tied, but there was no foot attached.

Henry heard the moan again. He bounced his foot off the side of the cliff and pushed himself toward the shrubs. He had wrapped his left foot around the rope and used it for support. He didn’t want to go too far because a cluster of beavertail cactus was blooming eerily near the eucalyptus. The moan now became a little louder.

Three miles, by her odometer, Janet stopped at the first house. She ran from her car, up the steep wooden stepped path toward a vicious sound. A Rottweiler barked its nagging bark from behind a flimsy picket fence. She hoped the dog wasn’t a good jumper. She was about to rap on the door when a wiry-haired old woman opened the planked door. Land-sakes-agoshin. What’s all the ruckus child? You seen a ghost?

No, ma’am. But there’s been a car accident up the highway, and I left my son at the scene. I need to call the police. Please, may I use your phone?

Bet the wreck was at Turner’s Point. Those cars never seem to be able to navigate that turn. Probably drunk, too. Too many drunk drivers these days. Want to drink they should stay at home and drink like my now deceased husband used to do. He drank but never left the house. Never left the house until that young hussy came along and he used to go drink at her house. Young hussy! What kind of woman would drink with another woman’s husband? Huh, young lady?

I’m sorry. That sounds like a problem, but I have one of my own. My son is where the accident happened. May I please use your phone to call the police? I must get back to my son.

I’ve already called the police, actually the Highway Patrol. My son is the Captain down there, you know. Nice young man. You should meet him. I heard the screeching of tires and called my son. He would like a girl like you.

Yes, thank you, ma’am. But I must be going back to see my son.

Maybe you’ll meet my son at the accident. Captain, you know!

Yes, ma’am. I’ll look for him, Janet responded as she flew down the stairs to her car. She wondered how the old woman knew where the accident was, but she was more concerned for Henry. The dog never barked again.

The ten-year-old swayed from the dangling rope toward the moans coming from the trees clustered below the beavertail. The rope grazed against a pine tree and became entangled in its low-slung branches. Henry could hear his grandfather whisper, Let out a little slack and then give the rope a hearty yank. The rope freed, Henry continued rappelling past the extended stickers of the cactus and leaned against the highest eucalyptus tree. He held his breath and listened. The moan was even softer. He extended himself beyond the large tree and descended into the dense underbrush with the rope still tied around his waist. There, there it was, the body of a man, his arm hanging limply. The driver’s clothes were ripped and blood-stained. The moans had stopped. Henry stepped toward the prone figure and slid a finger onto his neck. He could barely feel a pulse.

He untied the rope from his waist and wrapped it around the chest of the driver so the man wouldn’t slide down the hill. Henry knew he didn’t have the strength to pull the man up the cliff so he secured him. He pulled on the rope to make sure it was taut and began to climb up the side of the mountain, hand over hand, as he clung to the rope. Henry stepped aside of the cactus and pulled his way toward the road. His arms began to ache. Now he had only one goal: to reach the top of the road before his mother returned. He knew he hadn’t done anything wrong, but his mother had told him to stay at the top of the road and he didn’t like to disobey her. But this was an emergency. At least, Henry thought it was.

Henry traveled the last twenty feet up the precipice quickly. He lifted himself up to the roadside, dusted off his clothes, drank deeply from his canteen and sat on a tree stump, exhausted. His arms ached. He knew he wouldn’t fool his mother nor would he lie to her, but she would see he was okay.

Janet, driving too fast, could hear the wailing sirens in the distance coming from the Malibu side of the Santa Monicas. Henry watched the fire truck pull up along side the road.

The Highway Patrolman, a tall, handsome young officer, walked from his car toward Henry and said, Got a vehicle over the side? Where’s the driver? You heard from him?

Yes, sir. I got a rope tied around him so he won’t slip any further into the canyon. You can just rappel down there and see. I don’t think you can pull him up, though. He’s too banged up for that.

You went down there and secured him?

Yes, sir. He needed help right away. I figured he would be scared, get agitated, and slide into the canyon. Looks like he’s got a broken arm. He’s bleeding pretty good and his pulse is slow.

Before the highway patrol officer could respond, Janet pulled up. She leapt from her car and ran to her son. Henry, everything okay?

Yes, Mom.

This young man your son, ma’am?

Yes, officer. Something wrong?

The young officer seeing the mother might be angry if she knew her son had gone down after the driver said, Oh, no ma’am. Your son seems like a very nice boy. I have to go down the hill and see how the driver is. Please stay for a little bit. We’d like to ask a question or two.

The melody of a wailing ambulance could be heard winding its way up Stunt High.

On their way home, as they reached the gate of their mountain cabin near Topanga, Janet stopped the car and bent over and kissed Henry. You’re very brave, Henry. The ambulance attendant gave me your rope and I have it in the back of the truck. God, what am I going to do with you, besides love you? She shook her head as if in despair, but her heart was filled with pride.

Just love me, Mom. I love you a lot. No other Mom would be or could be like you. And Henry knew that was true.

CHAPTER TWO 

Janet Thoreau was born and raised in Kentucky. Henry’s grandfather, Constantine, still lived there. Grandfather had hunted in the woods as a boy. He could shoot as well as Daniel Boone, he often told Henry. He could hit a bird on a wing from over two hundred yards. Never kill anything you don’t plan on eatin’, Grandfather always told him. The thing you kill will be the creature that may save the life of some other living creature. Make sure you need it for food. If you don’t, something else will, Grandfather said in his best Kentucky accent.

Janet and Henry went back to Kentucky each summer. They would stay for about a month. Henry’s father had been a doctor who disappeared in the Peruvian jungles when Henry was two. For Janet, never knowing what happened to her husband was extremely unsettling, so she drowned herself in work and her son.

On a warm June night during the summer of ‘78 while in her father’s home, Janet was busy reading a research paper on the effects of smog on trees in the Santa Monica Mountains when her mop-haired son slid up beside her. Mom, can I stay for an extra month with Grandfather? He wants to take me hunting.

Henry, I have no problem with your staying forever. It’s Grandfather that I worry about. He won’t get any rest with you around. You’ll want to go every second of every day. The UCLA professor spoke with a twinkle. She rustled her son’s hair. I’ll miss you, Henry!

Thanks, Mom. I can stay, Grandfather! I can stay! Henry yelled to nobody and everybody.

Grandfather hugged his daughter’s son. I’ll take good care of him.

Grandfather lived on the outskirts of Louisville. His home was a cabin built with logs and mortar well before the turn of the century. It had been modernized. Grandmother had insisted the Professor add running water, indoor toilets, and install a shower and bath before she would have any children by him. I’m not going outside to bathe your children in the dead of winter. You had better get me some indoor plumbing. Janet was delighted every time she heard the story and envisioned her mother lecturing the tall, slightly stooped figure she saw before her now.

Grandfather worked for the University. He, too, taught botany. He spent as many hours as he could teaching outdoors. He loved the outdoors. It was his place to live and his place to die.

When his youngest child, Janet, went to California he glowed with pride. He had taught her everything she knew. But now it was time for her to learn from another source. Graduate school beckoned her. She needed to be on her own and yet be on familiar ground. He had taught her well. Janet loved nature.