Independent Pasts: Three Brothers, Forty Years a Healing Motorcycle Journey

By James Cameron

Independent Pasts has a very large range of apeal. It is a must read for all motorcycle enthusiests, as well as an insightful look at the process necessary to patch up relationships that have wandered off track. The mother of the author insists that it tells an important story of the importance of good, strong adult male relationships (in a healthy way). Guaranteed to make you laugh out loud and shed a soft tear, this adventure filled memoir is an easy read that you will not want to put down.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 15, 2009
• ISBN: 9781449035150

James Cameron

James (Jim) Cameron was born in Arizona in 1946 and grew up in Southern California. He is the single child of Leonard Cameron and Marjorie Wingfield Cameron. His mother was a grade school teacher, and his father was a technician for public water supply companies. Mr. Cameron graduated from Fontana High School as salutatorian in 1964 and served as the high school’s student body vice president and Key Club president. He was voted the school’s top science student in his senior year by the high school faculty. Always a baseball fan, he lettered three times on the high school varsity baseball team and later played on the Claremont McKenna College (then Claremont Men’s College) baseball team, from which he graduated with a BA in economics in 1968. A thrill of his life was playing on a team assembled by renowned Claremont coach Bill Arce, which took his team to play exhibition baseball games in Europe during the summer of 1966, with each player living individually with a family in the Netherlands to teach local youth the game of baseball. After Claremont, Mr. Cameron enrolled at UCLA where he earned an MS degree in business administration in 1970 and had the thrill of watching great college basketball and the arrival of the player then known as Lew Alcindor. In 1974 he married Constance (Connie) Mae Creighton. Over the years, the couple have lived in Southern California, Colorado, North Carolina, and Florida. They currently live in Littleton, Colorado. They have two children—son Clint, who resides in Washington, DC, with his wife and son, and daughter Lauren who resides in Denver, Colorado. Mr. Cameron’s entire working career was in health-care administration. His areas of responsibility included HMO development, medical economics, group physician practices, clinical administration, sales management, and consulting.

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Independent Pasts

Three brothers, forty years a healing motorcycle journey

A MEMOIR

JAMES CAMERON

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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© 2011 James Cameron. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 3/29/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4490-3515-0 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4490-3516-7 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009910375

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

EPILOGUE

Dedicated to my best friend for 50 years

PETER SCOTT RINGHEIM

We learned life together

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Of course, as in any undertaking of this magnitude, there are way too many people to thank for helping to make this book a reality and best seller. My family has been most encouraging and have all played a big part in getting the ideas transformed from napkins to an actual book.

My brother Tom Cameron who made the call one day telling me to get back on a motorcycle and ride while we still can. He was instrumental in insight, encouragement and writing. Sister Jane Cameron for editing and bugging me to git er done. Mark Loe for writing, encouraging and participating. Brother Jack Cameron for participating and encouraging and being open to forgive me. Rebecca Cameron Helpling who designed and produced the cover. Special thanks to my lovely wife Susan for putting up with me while simultaneously encouraging me. To my mother who encouraged me and insisted that there is an important message to be told here about adult men enjoying each other’s company in a healthy way. All of my friends who kept asking: how’s the ‘book’ coming? I appreciate their non nagging way of saying: get off your lazy butt and finish the darn book. And to you for buying this book and not being too overly critical of my rather simple writing style.

PROLOGUE

The ice was still fairly solid on Round Lake where my best friend Peter Ringheim lived and kept his Master Craft ski boat named Whirled Peas during the summer months. That didn’t deter Peter from his desire to be one of the first to water ski in the summer of 2006 water ski season. The ice went out of Lake Hayward, a river flowage and part of the famed Namekagon River on April 8th, 2006. The next day my best friend, Peter Ringheim, was ready to ski with his two buddies Hugh and Jim Duffy on the open but extremely cold waters of Lake Hayward. The water was not just cold, it was the bone chilling kind of cold that would have made George (of Seinfeld fame) be seriously concerned about his manhood should he make a mistake and find himself bobbing in it. Hugh’s boat was in the water, gassed up and ready to pull skiers. It was time. Hugh behind the wheel and Jim handling the rope prepared to keep a watchful eye on Peter who would make the first run of the new season. He stood on the end of the dock in his shorty wet suit and life jacket, leaned over the edge of the dock and splashed the icy cold lake water on his face, a tradition Peter did before each ski. He strapped on his water ski, grabbed the tow rope, stood on the end of the dock and barked YEP! The Engine roared as the boat lunged to full speed while Peter Jumped off the dock nailing his first dock start of the new season. The traditional holding of one clenched fist high in the air to proclaim his successful start came naturally to this excellent athlete. He took a moment to get his water legs acclimated after the long winter before getting to work on his cutting across the wake. Each time he rode up the wake he flew into the air then he cut deep into the frigid water sending spray high above his head as he shot back across the wake. He was noticeably more conservative in his attack knowing full well that a spill would certainly mean a few minutes of unbearable cold in the icy water. Peter had a glorious ski. Finally, cold but exhilarated, he skied up to shore, kicked off his ski and ran up on the beach. It was Jim’s turn for a ski. Peter got into the boat while Jim did his own version of the pre-ski ceremony. Off they roared down the lake enjoying every minute. Shortly into his run, Jim noticed Peter looking up into the sky and began searching the sky for what ever Peter was looking at. Hugh at the wheel noticed Peter had lost control of his head and was slumped back. Jim sensed something was seriously wrong when Hugh spun the boat in an uncharacteristic manner and opened it up wide open heading back towards his house and dock. Jim skied right up onto shore and kept running to the phone to place the 911 call. Hugh tended to Peter while waiting the very few minutes it took for the ambulance to arrive. Peter didn’t make it to the hospital. He suffered a fatal heart attack in the boat. He would have been fifty-nine in six days.

Peter and I moved together through nearly every step of our lives for fifty years. He and I shared adventures, failures, successes, tears, laughs, hugs, jokes, and a serious love of water-skiing. As adults we lived in Hayward, a small town in northwestern Wisconsin, and saw each other nearly every day. We knew what the other was thinking just by his expression. We knew each other’s deepest thoughts.

Over the last five years of our lives together we allowed our differing faith and political viewpoints to detract from the fullness of what a lifelong best friendship could be. Then, without warning, he was taken out of my life. How could I possibly have been so stupid as to allow differences over such unchangeable and often unimportant things to creep between us?

I heard of his death while at my home in Costa Rica and I immediately returned to Wisconsin. I stood before a huge gathering at Peter’s farewell service and said these words:

I met Peter when we were ten years old, sixty pounds and in fifth grade. We were thrown into a class together. Both of us wanted to be the head class clown, which brought on immediate contempt for the other. Within a couple of days we found ourselves out on the playground in a fistfight, one that established the pecking order. It was a fight that would change my life, as well as my face a bit. Peter won the fight, but we both really won as we became best of friends in a friendship that spanned fifty years.

Through the years we have done countless things for each other, this is the one thing we didn’t want to do for the other.

After Peter’s funeral, I thought about my oldest brother, Jack, who agreed with most of my friend Peter’s religious and political viewpoints. Unfortunately, there was a great distance between us that resulted from the same reasons which now so saddened me about my relationship with Peter. I made up my mind to try to repair the damage, and I had an idea about how it could be done.

A few years before Peter’s death my other brother, Tom, had called me and encouraged me to return to motorcycle ownership. He told me of the joy and sense of freedom he was enjoying by having a motorcycle again. With a little work (little being the keyword here) he convinced me to buy a motorcycle too and let the wind blow in my face once again. I did just that and have not looked back since.

Bit by bit our motorcycles brought Tom and me closer. We too had grown far apart, but now we spent more time together and we communicated often and better. As we rode together, we reversed the direction our relationship had been moving for nearly forty years. I wanted this with Jack too.

This is my story. It is the story of my deep friendship with Peter. It is also the story of how with just a tiny bit of humility, a whole lot of desire, and riding motorcycles together, three brothers are recapturing the love and friendship that escaped forty years ago.

CHAPTER 1

Photo number 1r.jpg

Mom and Dad in the 1950s

My parents were cut from different cloth. Close to being opposites, it is a wonder they are still married sixty-nine years and five children later. Their love for each other is based on faith in God, the ability to put up with the other, and a shared love of adventure. Throughout all the twists and turns of life they managed to make their relationship more than just last but be a long and wonderful marriage.

I cannot think of a better gift they could have given us children than the stability they provided: continuous, though sometimes tough, love and a home where we grew up and were always welcome for more than fifty years. It was a place we called home no matter where in the world we roamed. And we did roam the entire world. We started traveling as a family together and later we all continued on our own.

My dad, Stuart Lachlan Cameron, Jr., was born at home in 1915 and raised in Saint Paul Minnesota in a comfortable home on Lexington Parkway. His father’s family owned Valley Iron Works, a successful foundry along the Mississippi River where, among other things, they made the city’s manhole covers and fire hydrants.

He has one older sister, Dorothy. She was divorced after a short marriage, a very difficult thing in those days, but quietly and sweetly raised two great kids, Judy and Allen. There must be some gene in our family for loving vehicles that allow the wind to blow in our faces, because about the time her kids moved out she surprised and delighted us all by buying a powder blue Mustang convertible. Now, at ninety-five, she is spry and alert.

Dad grew up in a household with a good income, a nice home on a wide street, and prestige in the community. It’s impossible to adequately describe Dad, but a few stories will hopefully give a good picture. He told us how he and his buddies greased the streetcar tracks on the inclines and then watched the cars spin their wheels as they attempted to get up the hill. Another favorite family story happened in 1941 when Dad and Mom owned a red Ford convertible (there’s that gene). By then my oldest brother had been born, however, practicality had not yet set in. One day Dad pulled up to a stop sign where several girls were waiting for a bus. He thought he was about as cool as any man, anywhere, could be. He laughs when he tells of hearing one of them say in a just audible voice, Me neither, but I like the car! Practicality did set in around 1949 when he traded his beloved convertible for the first of many family station wagons. He had a Woody before anyone knew how valuable they would become. Oh, to have those two cars back!

Dad has a great sense of humor, although some of his favorite lines are painfully repetitious and go back decades. Whenever I hear a baby cry in public, in my mind I hear Dad say, Little fella sing? which was his gentle way of helping the mom not be embarrassed and an attempt at being funny.

He also has a zest for life all of us have inherited. He loved playing tennis and built a tennis court amongst the trees in our backyard. He was highly competitive and loved the sneaky shot that just barely got over the net, or, even better, rolled along the net before dropping into his opponent’s court. All of us kids and his grandchildren remember the first time we beat him. There was a supremely joyous moment, followed by helping him search through the woods for his racquet. He played tennis into his late eighties.

Dad never quite graduated from high school; instead he started working with his father at the foundry. He is intelligent, articulate, poised, kind, and worldly. Everyone goes to him with questions about spelling, and he fires off the answers without any hesitation. He was a member of the prestigious Saint Paul Rotary Club where he maintained a record of perfect attendance for many years and served as Secretary for several years. Dad was not successful in all he tried, but when things did not work for him he moved on gracefully and tried something else.

He is much beloved by all of us and still loves a joke. For his eightieth birthday we presented him with a Valley Iron Works manhole cover that my sister and her son nabbed off a street in Saint Paul. (They replaced it with a new one.)

When he was young, every summer Dad and his family vacationed at Ruttger’s Bay Lake Lodge near Brainerd in northern Minnesota. One warm summer day he saw a girl out on the raft at the swimming beach. She was wearing a white rubber bathing suit, and he decided to swim out and meet her. This would end up being one of the most important choices ever made concerning me and my life. It was a 5 minute swim that would be the beginning of this fairytale romance; she turned out to be very well worth the swim.

My mom, Ruth Elizabeth Patterson (she was called Elizabeth, although Dad often called her Curly), was born in 1916 at Iter Hospital in Minneapolis Minnesota. As a very young child her family lived in Austin Minnesota, but she grew up mostly in Brainerd, Minnesota. Her father was a Presbyterian minister. Every summer her mother took Mom and her four brothers to stay at Lake Hubert about fifteen miles north of Brainerd near Nisswa. To hear Mom tell it, those were enchanted summers. She and her brothers roamed the woods freely and swam whenever they felt like it. Her mom loved to explore and frequently loaded them all in their Model T and wandered the back roads. They stopped to pick berries often and if the children pointed out a NO TRESPASSING sign Grandma would blithely say, That doesn’t mean us. Grandma was not particularly fond of rules; I think I got that gene.

One of Mom’s fondest memories is of a place she and her brothers discovered and named Oogly-Boogly. It was a jungle of sumac trees they used as a secret hiding place. A large part of the joy of those summers was that Grandpa spent most of his time in Brainerd. He was a hell-fire-and-brimstone sort of minister and a very stern father. I never had much of a relationship with either of my grandpas. I wish I could have, but that was before relationships and quality time. From the little bit I did get to know my Mom’s father though, I understand why they wanted a hiding place.

Mom’s brothers were Mark, Hugh, Stuart, and Robert Bob. Mark had a career with the United States Department of Labor. Hugh, Stuart, and Bob all became doctors. Hugh practiced in Slayton Minnesota, Stuart practiced radiology in Fort Collins Colorado, Bob practiced in Loveland Colorado. He and his wife Martha raised Ann, Becky, and David (Boo) who you will meet later in this story.

Mom went to Macalester College in Saint Paul Minnesota where she graduated cum laude earning a B.A. with majors in English and biology. She worked at Ruttger’s Bay Lake Lodge as a waitress in the summers to pay her way through college. Mom has a bit of the dickens in her as well. She gets a gleam in her eye when she tells about the crabby male customers who complained their coffee was not hot enough. She would put the cup with the coffee in the oven, then carefully, using a hot pad, replace the hot cup on the saucer and return it to the crabby customer. From the shadows she watched the burning of fingers.

In college she joined the synchronized swimming team. She took some of her precious tip money and bought the white rubber bathing suit that was required. That purchase paid off when she was sitting on the raft at Ruttger’s. She was taking a break from the hustle and bustle of being a waitress when Dad swam up and poured on that charm he retains today at ninety-two.

Mom graduated in the spring of 1938 and after one more summer working at Ruttger’s, she and Dad were married in September. Mom never used her college education professionally, but it enabled her to bring knowledge and wisdom into our lives and to become the great Mom we think she still is at ninety-one.

Both Mom and Dad wanted to have a family and that they did. The five of us were born over the next sixteen years. First three boys, then two girls.

Stuart III (namesake of our father and our father’s father, we called him Jack to keep from getting too many responses to the name Stuart) was the model child. He candidly admits that he felt he had to be good. He was a stellar athlete, had lots of friends, and was salutatorian of his high school class. He loved the outdoors and became an avid skier. He also left a good bit of aluminum from Dad’s canoe on the rocks of nearby rivers. He went to college at the University of Minnesota and then on to seminary at Princeton. After seminary, he married Louise, an old flame from Minnesota, and they had two children; Amy and Patrick. Jack is now happily married to his wife of fifteen years, Babbie.

Tom came next. Always a dreamer and philosophical, he was an average student in high school, spurned organized athletics, and loved to read. He gave college a try and then found religion. He has done the best of the three brothers in his marital skills. He married his high school sweetheart, Nancy, with whom he still enjoys a solid and loving marriage. They have four daughters: Wendy, Karin, Rebecca Becca, and Gretchen.

I came along third. I was the troublemaker who, by my admission had to be bad in order to be noticed. I barely made it through high school, attempted college only briefly and mainly to avoid the draft, discovered cold beer, and vigorously embraced and pursued my inherited love of adventure. For me it was an unquenchable thirst. I have three sons; Trevor, Alexander Xander, and Oliver James OJ who were all born during my marriage to an ex-wife. I am now extremely fortunate to be married to my fascinating and understanding wife, Susan.

After three sons Mom and Dad were delighted to welcome a daughter, Jane. Jane was very shy and a bit overwhelmed by her older brothers. She did, however, learn how to hold her own when the fracas got too wild for her. She may have been the smallest, but she had teeth and knew how to use ’em. Jane was a good student and loved to sew and knit. She’s also a dynamite editor and has worked my rough gem of a book into the jewel you are reading. Married for many years to Bill, she was widowed in her early forties. She has two children: Suzula and John. She is now married to David.

Mom and Dad’s last little bundle of joy was Betsy. Betsy had golden curls, big blue eyes, and a natural innocence. It’s a good thing Mom was thrilled with this child of her late thirties, because the rest of us tended to ignore her. She thrived anyhow, and now we look on her with admiration tinged with awe. She married her high school sweetheart, Scott, and they have seven children: Tom, Olivia, Jesse, Ruthie, Stephen, Andrew, and Philip. She is a grandmother many times over and is, as her husband calls her, First Lady of the large church in California where he is the head pastor. She maintains a very busy schedule including her job, her children’s ball games, helping with grandchildren, women’s group meetings, and much more. And she hasn’t lost her innocence. They are both wonderful sisters, but, alas, they do not ride motorcycles.

As you can see we are all very different. I did not fully understand how we could end up being so different until I had three sons of my own. The first two were completely different. When the third was about to enter this world, I remember wondering which of his brothers he would be most like. Then he turned out completely different than either of them.

The main emphasis of our family was fun. We went on lots of camping, canoeing, and skiing trips. My parents had many friends and often several families would go on the trips together. The north shore of Lake Superior was a favorite destination. On most trips there were about fifteen kids charging down trails and scampering over rocks while our parents staked out the tents and started the fire for the hot dogs and s’mores. I sometimes wonder how many other people pulled up their stakes when our station wagons drove into those lovely campgrounds and we all tumbled out.

We also got to know all those aunts and uncles and cousins I mentioned earlier. We took family vacations to Colorado and sometimes we gathered at Lake Hubert. A few of those family members you will hear of again in this story.

Overall we were a really good family. We were connected and cared about each other. We were all healthy. We attended church religiously. What could be better when you are a child than to be in a family based on fun? But, not too surprisingly I guess, we didn’t turn out totally perfect.

After we were grown, Mom gave some serious thought to how we were raised (there just was not much time for that while there were five of us in the house). She recognized that what our upbringing had taught us was that the emphasis of life should be fun. After pondering that, her recommendation for what she wished she had taught us went like this:

• Life is hard

• People are faulty

• God loves us all

• God will help us love each other

How true. This story is about my brothers and me. We went our separate ways early on and for over forty years we grew apart. For most of those years I had not been to either of their homes and did not even know Jack’s and Tom’s mailing addresses. Our individuality, geography, and preoccupations with our own lives and families created the gaps. Our different viewpoints, and our faults, widened them. To be honest, we did not particularly like each other. But our parents instilled love and faith in us. Though it had grown very dim we never would have said that we did not love each other. God worked with that, and motorcycles, to bring us back together.

CHAPTER 2

The phone rang right about three o’clock in the afternoon on Wednesday, June 20th, 2007. I was on my computer looking at the weather for the upper peninsula of Michigan. I knew my oldest brother Jack and his friend Jeff McNear were riding through Michigan towards our planned rendezvous in northwestern Wisconsin where I live. There were storms, some of them severe, moving across most of the area they were riding through. I hoped the call was Jack, but figured it couldn’t be, not with weather that bad in their way.

I was anxiously waiting for Jack’s call because it would signal the beginning of my participation in the long-awaited Brothers Historic Colorado Ride, or BHCR. My two brothers and I, along with several friends and relatives were going to ride our motorcycles in Colorado for five days. After a year of planning and anticipation, I was stoked to the max—just about bouncing off my chair. My shiny new Suzuki C50 Boulevard was all set, the tank was full of gas and it was facing out of the garage. My gear was packed and repacked. I was ready.

Jack had left his home near Wilton Maine at 7:10 in the morning on Monday the 18th. He and Jeff were riding their Honda Valkyries to Colorado for the BHCR. Our contact plan was simple; when he got within an hour of Clam Lake, a small town an hour east of my house, he would call so I could ride out to meet them. This would be my entry into the BHCR which officially began when they left Maine.

The call was from Jack. Hey, little brother, he said, I think we’re about an hour from Clam Lake.

I couldn’t believe it. I am a pilot and the weather website I check is accurate and up to the minute. It clearly showed miserable weather throughout the upper peninsula of Michigan right where they were traveling.

Did you hit any weather? I asked in astonishment.

Oh, we saw some in the distance but we never hit any, he spoke nonchalantly as in weather?…what weather? It was around us in every direction but we never had to stop to put on our rain gear. We felt a few drops but that was it.

OK, I’ll see you at the Elk Horn Bar and Restaurant in Clam Lake in an hour. Be careful, I reminded him, there’s a herd of elk in that area.

He assured me they would be careful and that he looked forward to seeing me at the Elk Horn.

I walked outside and looked up. There was blue sky, but also scattered thunderstorms. When I fly through a sky like that it’s simple to stay dry. I fly around the storms. On a motorcycle, of course, I have to follow roads. My faith in weather prediction was shaken and I wasn’t up for taking chances. I threw in my rain gear, swung my leg over the bike, and began my BHCR.

I know my smile could be seen a half mile ahead as I rode through Hayward and out Highway 77 towards Clam Lake. Highway 77 is a great motorcycle ride. It’s a good road with sweeping curves and smooth pavement. The right of way is cut back a good distance so I could watch for the kamikaze deer and elk that frequently stroll across roads in the area. It’s the kind of road that begs me to push the speed limit just a little and then a little more. I kept it down, not wanting anything to get between me and the BHCR.

The forty miles to Clam Lake zipped by as I thought of all that had gone into making the BHCR a reality. It had been a dream, now it was happening. I was riding towards my brother with whom I had done little since we were kids. I could hardly contain my excitement. How stupid that we had not made the effort earlier; how wonderful to be doing it now.

I pulled into the parking lot of the Elk Horn, shut down my ride, and sat on the picnic table at the edge of the lot. I could see a huge storm off to the south, but I was dry, happy, and buzzed. I had hardly put my feet up on the bench when I heard the distant rumble of motorcycles approaching from the east. I fastened my eyes on the exact location I would most likely get that first glimpse of them. Like in slow motion, they rolled out from behind the heavy pine forest and rode towards me. I watched them come to a stop sign. It seemed to take them forever to look both ways. I wanted to yell, Hurry up! I saw their signal lights blink and they turned towards me. Jack, in the lead, missed the driveway. In his recovery he headed, and Jeff followed, up a small gravel back entry to the Elk Horn. I guess after 1350 miles the miss was understandable. He quickly figured it out, came to a stop, shut down his ride, jumped off, and gave me a big hug.

For the first time in years I had only feelings of great joy in seeing my brother and having him joining me for what would certainly be an unforgettable ride. I felt the same feelings I used to feel when I was ten years old and he showed me even the slightest bit of attention. My walls were tumbling down.

Hey, little brother, this is Jeff he said gesturing to the man who was, obviously, Jeff.

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Jeff McNear

Jeff was one of the core BHCR riders. He rode all the way from Maine plus he made the entire core ride. He is a great guy to have around. He is funny, smart, intuitive, caring, gentle, and speaks with a deep Maine accent. He is a farmer with all the toughness and good sense to prove it.

When you first meet Jeff his stature and demeanor are cause for a slow approach. He is stocky and square-jawed and