Life Is a Melody

By Betsy Munson

Romantic, evocative and suspenseful, Life is a Melody, weaves an unforgettable collection of memoirs, based on a young mans journal entries during the summer of his eighteenth year. Set in Virginia in the late 1970s, John Tierney has journeyed from his hometown of Burlington, Vermont to his aunts house in Elkton, Virginia to come to terms with his future career plans versus his parents pre-determined ideas for his future. A sensitive, intuitive young man, John is torn between loyalty to his family and his personal beliefs that his father, the owner of a textile mill, has exploited the factory workers. The novel starkly contrasts the deplorable working conditions of the factory workers versus the management personnel.

During his summer internship, John meets Melody, a beautiful yet mysterious young woman. As their relationship evolves, Melody inspires him to become his own person and to follow his dreams. Yet, Melody has a past that threatens both their relationship and their lives. Their entire summer is overshadowed by danger that constantly lurks in the shadows. Author Betsy Munson weaves a poignant story that demonstrates how passion can either enrich or destroy lives and how choices made long ago can haunt us forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 30, 2008
• ISBN: 9781468520873

Betsy Munson

Betsy Munson, is the author of several short stories and novels.  Life is a Melody is her first published work. As a child, Ms. Munson’s mother, a single parent, worked in a local textile mill.  The author would often listen to her mother’s conversations about the deplorable conditions and treatment of factory workers.  Ms. Munson also visited the factory with her mother and heard the constant humming of the machines and felt the intolerable heat that her mother endured to provide for her five children.   Currently, Ms Munson lives in rural Northern Virginia with her husband and four children. She received her Master’s of Education in Sport Psychology from the University of Virginia in 2004. For the past ten years, she has coached basketball and soccer and taught at the secondary level.  In 2005 and 2006, she led her soccer team to back to back State Soccer Championships.

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Contents

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

The Escape

Chapter 2

The Factory

Chapter 3

The Chairs

Chapter 4

The Accident

Chapter 5

Moving In

Chapter 6

The Park

Chapter 7

The Picnic

Chapter 8

The Christening

Chapter 9

Summer’s End

Chapter 10

The Aftermath

Chapter 11

Final Journal Entries

Epilogue

Dedication 

This book is dedicated to my loving husband, Steve, and my four children: Sean, Ryan, Clarke, and Misty for always encouraging me to write. And to my mother, Lorraine, who gave me the inspiration to write this novella.

Prologue 

I hand her my journal, now creased and weathered with age. Anxiously, she turns to the first page, smiling faintly, her face intent in reflection of that time long ago. In the shadows I watch over her, just as I had done so many years ago.

Every passion has its destiny

—Billy Mills

Chapter 1 

The Escape 

As I reflect on my life, my most vivid memories are moments when I was overcome by passion. The most pleasurable and most painful experiences are forever etched in my mind because of passion. Historically, creative works of art and literature, or heinous crimes, have been designed by passionate individuals. Without passion, we are devoid of a purpose in life and may not ever find our destiny.

This manuscript (compiled from my journal entries) pays tribute to a girl who briefly touched my life. Before her, I had never experienced passion about anything. As a writer, when I begin to compose, I think about the characters and what stirs their inner passions. And I never begin any of my writings without reflecting on the day I met Melody.

But I wouldn’t have met Melody if I hadn’t run away from home after I graduated from high school, the summer of 1978. Not that I really ran away. Well, maybe I did. Not that I ran away from home in the sense that no one knew where I was, penniless and starving. I was much too cautious for such a bold act. In fact, I was known as the careful obedient son.

My father owned and managed a large textile mill on the Winooski River, not far from the town limits of Burlington, Vermont. Once an immigrant factory worker from Quebec, he had scratched and clawed his way through the ranks and now operated one of the largest textile mills in New England. We lived in an upper middle class neighborhood where every house looked identical, the same two-story home with a façade of wealth that lacked any true style or ambiance. Our manicured lawn was filled with pristine rows of boxwood hedges that my mother laboriously pruned into perfect little square shapes. In fact, she spent more time pruning those hedges than she ever did in conversation with my father.

Our house was a decorous shell that never exposed the emptiness within. I never knew my father very well because he was always at work. Even when he was home, his mind always seemed to drift, as if he were thinking about the bundles of yarn stacked in his warehouse and how to meet the next quota of finished product.

My mother, Priscilla, stayed at home and kept the house and yard immaculate. In retrospect, she made everyone think she was happy, with an artificial smile etched permanently on her face. My mother’s main focus was on our decadent, over-decorated house. As I recall, she never entertained or invited friends to our house, but spent her days polishing and cleaning every inch of our domicile. I always wondered if she did that to compensate for my father’s lack of attention toward her.

Now that I look at pictures of my mother from that time, she was attractive in a prim and proper sort of way. But I never remember my father showing her any attention or affection. Growing up, I often wondered how we were ever conceived. After church one day, I truly believed that my four sisters and I were examples of Immaculate Conception. My father’s passion was for his machines in the mill; his focus on business gain was our family loss.

My mother’s message to me was: John, keep your nose clean, and do what’s right. And, above all, I can remember my mother telling me, If you don’t know right from wrong, just what would the neighbors think?

Yes, I was the dutiful and obedient son. I didn’t want to make trouble for my parents. But I remained an obscurity, always in the shadows. In fact, I had passed through four years at high school without ever standing up for anything.

By the time I had graduated fourteenth in my high school class, I knew I had to escape. I was expected to follow in my father’s footsteps and become a textile manager, with one exception. Instead of working through the ranks, I was to attend a local college in Vermont and major in Business Administration. I would be brought into the factory as an assistant manager and take over the mill when my father retired. As my father’s only son, that was my destiny.

However, my plan was quite different, but I lacked the courage to tell my parents the truth. As a child, I would often walk past my father’s factory and watch the change of shifts, noticing that the workers’ faces were blank, as if devoid of any emotion. As they shuffled to and from the factory, they appeared lifeless, lethargic.

Covertly, I detested the factory. In fact, I hated everything about it: the heat, the noise, and above all, how the supervisors treated the workers. I shuddered with embarrassment when people in the community called the factory a sweatshop. At the age of eleven, I can remember visiting my father’s factory one summer’s day when it was so hot that women fainted. A thermometer measured 102 degrees. When a worker complained, the supervisor responded, Just be glad it’s not 103. Now go back to work!

Under the pretense of extensively learning my father’s trade, I suggested an internship at a textile mill close to my aunt’s home in central Virginia. I secretly wanted to experience what my father must have endured as he worked his way through the ranks. But, I also wanted the summer’s experience in order to write from the worker’s perspective.

My scheme worked perfectly. My father and mother applauded my apprenticeship and viewed it as my rite of passage. My mother quickly made the necessary arrangements for me to stay with my aunt, while my father contacted the manager of the textile factory in Virginia. My father was delighted of my plan, as he wanted to compare the day-to-day operations of this plant to his own.

On the morning of June 13th, 1978, I awoke at six am. My train was due to leave Burlington at ten, but I wanted to arrive early at the station. I had packed two loose-leaf notebooks, along with a newly purchased leather-bound journal to document my complete escape from Burlington. Although my younger sisters were fast asleep, I whispered goodbye to them before I descended the massive spiral staircase. As I entered the breakfast nook, my mother and father sat side by side, yet not ever seeming to touch.

Every morning was the same, so much that I wanted to scream. Like every other morning, my mother poured my father’s coffee and fixed him one hard-boiled egg, bacon, and a bowl of oatmeal. As usual, my father read the Wall Street Journal without ever comprehending anything. Whenever my mother or I tried to get his attention, he always focused his eyes at a spot that I swore was right over our heads. Maybe that’s where his mind always was—at a place just slightly out of reach.

Leaving Burlington was a pretty easy thing for a shy, sensitive boy who had few friends and who had dated only a few times in his life. I still remember the train as it approached the station and how my mom had artificial tears in her eyes, which she dabbed with a starched white handkerchief. She was wearing a pale blue dress with a wide plastic belt.

I suddenly realized that my life in Burlington was just like my mother’s plastic belt. Like a belt that was cinched too tight, I couldn’t ever relax and flow with life. That belt of repression kept restricting me, suffocating my independence from my family.

On the train, I imagined where each person was going and why. Finally, I was free to dream. The plastic belt had literally been lifted from my life. The businessman in the front of the train was just like my father, cold and austere, except he worked on Wall Street in New York City. The hippie looking young man in his twenties had to be in a rock band. The despondent young woman, alone in the back seat of the railroad car, was pining over a lost lover.

My thoughts drifted from the train ride to my clever escape from home. Back in Burlington, I knew my parents were bursting with pride. John Tierney II was following in his father’s footsteps. Being the dutiful son, I felt a slight pang of remorse. After all, I had deceived them. I reflected if I really would have the nerve to break from my parents’ perfect plan for my life to make me perfectly miserable.

As the train ride progressed, I was expecting something exciting to happen. With my wild imagination, I thought I would meet someone famous, or sit next to an attractive young lady. But the train ride was uneventful, except for my journal entries about my departure from Burlington.

When my train approached Elkton, I collected my bags and briskly strode down the steps to the platform. My aunt and her husband were there to greet me with hugs and small talk. My angular body, so full of youth and energy, bent politely to hug my aunt and uncle. Yes, my trip was fine and yes, the family was well.

My aunt was a large and boisterous middle-aged woman who always had a smile and a joke for everyone. On the contrary, my uncle was thin and melancholy. I mistakenly asked how he was doing. This led into a five minute description of his various aches and pains.

As we rode from the train station to their home, I let my aunt do all of the talking. I just answered her questions politely. My uncle was driving and seemed to take this job very seriously. His eyes never left the road. If my aunt asked him a question, he would nod his head, or answer in a short, terse monotone. I so wanted to turn on the radio and tune them out, but was much too polite to ask. Fortunately, their home was only ten minutes from the station.

My aunt and uncle’s house, a large white Victorian with green shutters, overlooked the main street in town. Sprawling oak trees framed the street and made the house feel comforting and safe. The long and narrow front yard displayed neat hedges of holly, overshadowed by rhododendrons and azaleas on the shady east side of the house. On the sunny west side, a white fence overflowed with climbing pink roses. As we crossed the yard, a slight breeze filled my nostrils with a faint tinge of the roses’ fragrance.

My aunt’s presence always made me more enthusiastic about life. Her jovial personality was in stark contrast to my parents’ controlled and superficial relationship. I could tolerate my uncle’s complaining to be around my aunt. My uncle showed me around the house and to my room, while my aunt prepared dinner. She lit candles on the small table in the kitchen and brought out grilled steaks, boiled potatoes and green beans. As she poured iced tea in our glasses, she plopped down in the chair next to her husband and looked at me intently.

You sure do look like your mother when she was your age. Here you are, all grown up. I can still remember when you were ten and came down for a visit that summer. We sure had fun, taking you to the fair and showing you the livestock in the show barns. And you loved the tractor pulls. Guess Burlington doesn’t have fairs like that, she chuckled.

Yeah, Aunt Eve, I remember a lot about that visit. I sure had a great time. Guess that’s why I wanted to come back.

Sounds like you have a great opportunity with your father. And I’m really glad you are staying with us this summer. One thing I always wanted was a child of my own. Guess you and your sisters are the closest thing I’ll ever have to that. Aunt Eve’s face could not disguise her sorrow. I knew she couldn’t have kids, but I never before realized how much it pained her. Enough about me, sighed Aunt Eve. When does your internship start?

Tomorrow. Bright and early. I have to be there at six thirty sharp. They change shifts at seven. I will be staying until four or so because the shift changes at three and I’ll observe the necessary paperwork. I may have to pull a few all-nighters to see the shift change during the night, at eleven and then again at seven.

Sounds like fun! my aunt retorted.

To this day, I don’t know if she was being sarcastic or sincere.

Well, you had better get your room as well as your thoughts in order. Tomorrow will be full of challenges, she added.

As she plodded around the kitchen, Aunt Eve motioned for me to have a seat in the living room. While Uncle Bert solemnly watched reruns of a western on television, Aunt Eve was busy in the kitchen. So I helped her clear the table, then excused myself and retired upstairs.

My room was a cozy alcove, with multicolored scatter rugs over a dark hardwood floor. The bed was piled with thick wool blankets and one of Aunt Eve’s homemade quilts. On the wall were pictures of children and babies, cherub-like in their innocence. I presumed these were the children that Aunt Eve dreamed about having, only never could.

As I went to bed that night, I thought about Aunt Eve and what a wonderful mother she would have been. In contrast, I possessed few memories of quality time with my mother and father. For company, Aunt Eve had sour Uncle Bert, while still clinging to dreams of children she never had. But before drifting off to sleep, my last thought was about the factory I would enter tomorrow. Would this summer adventure be the escape I had planned, or a trap that I couldn’t leave?

Chapter 2 

The Factory 

Twenty years removed from that summer, I struggle to remember precise details. Usually, one recalls the beginnings and the ends of books and occurrences, but struggles to piece together the middle events. Even