The Reclaimers

By June Lytle

This is the tale of four very different people who come together to find family with one another. The main thread of the story is the friendship between a fifteen-year-old boy and an eighty-year-old woman. The two are brought together by their mutual interest in finding valuable coins. He has the enthusiasm and desire to learn, and she has a metal detector and knows where to look. The two uncover stories of the past long-hidden in the dirt. Their searches take them on risky adventures which will cause the reader to sometimes tear up, and at times to laugh. This novel is not a work of fantasy. It is well-researched. Everything written here could have happened, and in some cases did happen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: June Lytle
• Release date: Dec 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463588611

June Lytle

Living in Portland, Oregon as a writer, formerly as a potter and painter.

Book preview

The Reclaimers

By

June Lytle

The Reclaimers

Published by June Lytle at Smashwords

Copyright 2018 by June Lytle

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

NOTE

The coin valuations described in this novel are accurate for the year the story takes place, which is 1975. Prices of collectable coins have soared since that time due to inflation in general (Oregon’s minimum wage was $1.25 in 1975), and, in particular, to the rising prices of silver and gold. Also, more people are collecting coins today, which has created a greater demand for collectable coins, further contributing to their increasing value.

CHAPTER ONE

In 1975, Last Chanceton was a small town on the Oregon Coast. It wasn’t the town of wealthy retreat that it has grown into today. Now most think that the name relates to the town’s Indian Casino. But, in l975 the town was peopled by descendants of those who fled the Great Depression and its devastating unemployment. For those earliest inhabitants, it truly was a last chance. Here they found plenty of free food in the tidal flats and waterways. Those people stayed, and over the years their children became the fishermen and loggers of the 1970’s. Retirees from the interior of the state were in the mix, especially tough aging women whose husbands had passed on. These were the women who had spent a lifetime working in one of the many canneries that once dotted the Willamette Valley.

In the 1970’s the center of social life in Last Chanceton were the taverns. You belonged to a tavern like you belonged to a social club. You wore your tavern’s nylon windbreaker with pride, the tavern name printed clearly on the back.

This was a town that resigned itself to violence. There were those that were killed on the highway that cut the town in two and every year six or seven people, usually tourists, would be lost to the ocean’s deadly sneaker waves. A person might go for a walk along the beach and disappear forever, toppled by some unannounced freak of a wave and pulled out with the undertow. Another might be sitting on some ancient log of driftwood seemingly well back from the surf until that sneaker wave lifts the 2,000-pound log enough to slip the unlucky person to the ground, rolling over and crushing him. I heard a couple say they were sitting in a restaurant over-looking the calm bay. It was a beautiful day, and as they enjoyed their crab bisque, they helplessly witnessed a mother screaming and frantic as she watched her child drift out to sea who only a moment ago had been swimming and playing close by on a small raft. Jump she screamed, Jump. But the girl was too frightened by the deeper water as the tide had reversed itself. Only a collarbone was found, 30 miles down the beach.

* * *

Last Chanceton had its respected citizens: the banker, the preacher, the artist, the baker, the librarian, the bookstore owner. Yes, there was a bookstore. It was the creation of a quiet little man who loved books and learning. He had acquired such an extensive array of new and used books, that his store attracted people from far away. The Last Chanceton bookstore became a place to visit on the Oregon coast. This was a bright light in a town that also had its dark side; its ignorant, its drunks, its murderers, its thieves, and it’s just plain mean.

There was one place in town that all these people had in common, no matter how low, no matter how exalted. They all had to go to the city dump. No one picked up your garbage back then. You had to haul it there yourself. Everyone did. That’s where unlikely folks would come together. They all shared that common denominator—garbage. You backed your rig up to the edge of that huge hole in the ground and took your garbage and anything you didn’t want and gave it a heave ho. Down it would tumble, get set afire and burn, then buried.

There was a shack at the dump where old Bill lived, he was the caretaker. He managed the place for the city. Bill and the shack were low overhead, so no one had to pay to dump. It wasn’t that Bill was heavier than men of his age; one would guess he was in his early sixties. What you noticed was his belly, what others fondly called his bay window that hung out over his belt, so that his shirts sometimes didn’t button over it. That’s why his belly could be the same color as his shirt, both gray, his arms face clothes all gray, the color of smoke, smoke from the ever-burning garbage. That’s how he came by his nickname: Barbequed Bill. He was a slow-moving, easy-going unlikely looking philosopher of a man who seemed to see through to the truth of things. Maybe being a daily witness to the end of everyone’s’ once desired possessions put him on that path.

Somewhere along the way there were two teenage boys that came to live with Bill. The towns’ people didn’t notice whether the two boys came together or staggered in one at a time. They were just a couple of strays washed up there like agates on the beach. No one doubted the right of a beachcomber to keep whatever washed up. So as far as the town was concerned, Bill and the boys were family. Before long the boys were the same color as Bill. They were all smoked.

The boys had names. The slender taller of the two was Buford. He always stood bent forward, kind of on the balls of his feet, looking like a young tree in the wind. The shorter stockier one was Folmer. They had an arrangement there at the dump. I suppose you could call it a business arrangement. It was probably Bills’ idea, but I guess they all agreed on it. The boys seemed happy about it. Actually, they were enthusiastic. Buford and Folmer would never have to worry about getting enough to eat or where they would sleep at night. On top of that they would always have some money in their pockets. That’s the part I’m getting to. Here’s how it was divided. Buford got all the bottles and cans that came in. He got a nickel apiece at the local grocery store. Whereas Folmer got all the change he could find in the furniture that came in, all those overstuffed chairs and davenports containing coins fallen out of long-ago pockets. You’d think there wouldn’t be much, but Folmer said there was. He would light up telling you about the Indian head pennies he had found. He got pretty good for those. And that’s the thing, Folmer’s coins. He wanted to know more about those coins, more than Fred Butchem who bought them would tell. Fred always went eagerly over whatever Folmer had found. Out came the magnifying glass, checking dates and little marks. Folmer wanted to know what Fred was looking for. He wished he could look for such things. It was those coins that started everything.

CHAPTER TWO

Folmer stood halfway down the steep incline of the garbage dump hole when he saw the pickup loaded with all that furniture backup to the edge. He knew it would be coming sooner or later. Erdily Swanson had been found dead lying on his davenport; his old dog draped across his body wouldn’t leave him. That dog was so far-gone; he could no longer hold his urine. But Erdily couldn’t bear to put him down, and here it comes, all that urine-soaked furniture. That stuff could be 85 years old could be coins from the 1800’s in there. The boy could hardly wait to start his search. He gave a broad grin, waving at the two men above unloading the pickup. He admired their clean shirts and jeans that looked so bright here amidst the smoky gray. When Folmer waved, the two men stopped what they were doing, looked down at him, but didn’t wave back. Instead, one man said something to the other that Folmer couldn’t hear. The two men snickered, and he heard the other one say, I see what you mean. Then the two resumed unloading, ignoring the boy as though he were just another piece of garbage in the hole. Folmer felt that familiar sudden sharp pain of rejection that actually hurt right there in the middle. Then he put his head down to withdraw into himself, standing there amidst the smoking garbage.

He thought people were rude and abusive to him because he worked at the dump and didn’t go to school. But he had learned to read some, and he was decent and honest by nature, hardworking too. He didn’t know that the worst of it started with a mean lie that Ronnie Schmidt had told some other boys for a laugh. Ronnie said he saw Folmer jerking off down in the garbage pit. The town’s people might not take much notice to what Ronnie had to say, but by the time such a story gets passed around and three different people are repeating the same lie, a person could say, I heard it from three different people it must be true. Before long believable people are repeating the lie. Each time the story got passed from one to another, that’s one more chance some disgusting detail could be added. The only limit is the teller’s imagination. The stories about Folmer had a life of their own. All this went on without his knowledge. All he knew were the jeers and the snickers of the men; the cold looks of the women, and the name-calling, hey loozer. He found comfort in the coins. Bill was good to him, and although Bill didn’t like Fred Butchem, Fred never seemed rude to Folmer, just dismissive and impatient.

* * *

The next morning, Folmer waited and watched outside the dump shack. Fred Butchem the coin man appeared rising over that hill in the road in his bright blue polished Impala convertible. He looked like the sun rising on a bright day. That’s what Folmer thought.

Fred gave a broad smile as he closed the driver door with that beautiful solid clicking sound. He had on a broad brimmed black fedora hat and sunglasses. To a teenager like Folmer he looked old and mature, but actually Fred was only in his mid-twenties. He spoke as he strode up to the shack. Well, little man, what have you got for me this week?

Come see. Folmer said excited. The two sat down at a small wooden table on the narrow porch, two wooden chairs across from each other. The boy poured his coins from a glass jar out onto the table, forty-three in all, he said looking up for approval. But Fred had already taken off his sunglasses and was staring intensely at the coins. He sorted them into groups, picked up each coin one at a time, examining each through a magnifying glass. He never spoke when he did this but moved his lips and made indiscernible little noises. Folmer watched his face for any signs of approval or disapproval . . . nothing. Like a master poker player Fred gave away nothing.

Curiosity overcame the boys’ shyness and he asked again as he had many times before, What are you looking for when you look at the coins so carefully?

I’m thinking. I’m thinking.

But what are you thinking?

What I should pay for them.

But how do you know?

Fred looked up from the coin he held in one hand, magnifying glass in the other. What’s the matter kid, don’t you think I know?

Sure Fred, I think you know.

Well then, is all he said as he continued his examination. Finally, Fred sat upright in the chair, looking down at the groupings of coins on the tabletop. These forty-three coins are worth $2.38 at a grocery store. He hesitated, looked up at the porch rafters and furrowed his brow as though he were doing complicated math in his head. Folmer waited in nervous silence like a game show contestant who has to wait while the show goes to commercial. Then finally the outcome is announced. I’ll give you seven dollars for the lot.

Good, good. That’s good.

Fred put all the coins in a soft cloth bag. He then opened his wallet took out two crisp one-dollar bills and then a crisp five. Folmer never received crinkled old dirty money from Fred. It was always fresh and new. A good trade he thought.

The boy watched the bright-blue convertible disappear over the rise in the road. Money in his hand crisp and clean felt good. Bill stuck his sleepy head out of the shack door Whatcha’ doin’ kid?

The coin man came.

The con man, huh?

Don’t talk about him like that. He’s my friend. He gave me seven dollars for two dollars and thirty-eight cents worth of coins. I bet I did as well as Buford with his bottles and cans, who no doubt . . . The boy took his gaze off the road to turn and look at Bill, is still on his way peddling to the grocery store—and I’ve got my money right here in my hand. Bill let a puff of air out his nose and went back inside.

* * *

One day as Folmer was rummaging through an old stuffed chair, a man dumping garbage waved down at him from the top of the hole. That didn’t happen often, most people hardly acknowledged his existence; at least in any way you’d want. Folmer stood up to wave back at the small, balding man with rimless glasses. The man was not frail, but not athletic, either. He quietly moved with slow deliberate motions, not the quick jerky strong-armed ones of most others.

After that, Folmer would look for the man’s light green Plymouth with its humpback trunk and friendly waves would be exchanged. Eventually some friendly words were said, nothing much, usually something about the weather.

But, then one day it happened that Folmer stood at the top of garbage hole when the light green Plymouth backed up to the edge. The two stood looking at each other. Finally, the man said, You’re Bills’ boy. Which one are you, Buford or Folmer?

Folmer sir.

Call me John. The man held his hand out for a friendly shake. But the boy showed his dirty hands and put his head down. One thing you should know about me, Folmer. I admire people who work with their hands. With that, the boy looked up. That’s right. Look up when you show me your hard-working hands. He gave a quick laugh. However, it does look like some of that stuff might rub off. But there’s no shame in it.

Do you work hard with your hands sir? eyeing them to be clean and white.

Well, not like you. I own the Last Chanceton bookstore. I move a lot of books. Some are dusty and old and need cleaning. Sometimes those are the best ones.

If they’re old and dirty and need cleaning, how can they be the best ones?

They might be rare. A books’ value to a collector can depend on how many were published, whether or not it’s a first edition, any notes or autographs by famous authors, and so forth. As he spoke, he continued to pull bags of garbage out of the trunk while Folmer flung them over the edge.

That’s the last one. The man stood for a moment looking out over the garbage dump with its piles of smoldering refuse. You seem to like working here. I hope Bill pays you what you’re worth.

Oh, yes sir, he does. I get three good meals a day, my own room, and I get to keep all the coins I find. There’s plenty drop out of peoples’ pockets over the years and make their way down into old stuffed chairs and the like.

So that’s it. Coins are interesting, aren’t they? What kind of coins have you found?

Oh, all kinds, pennies, quarters, dimes, nickels.

‘I see. Have you found a three-legged buffalo nickel, a nineteen twenty- one silver dime, a nineteen thirty- seven double die quarter?"

I don’t know. I’ve found buffalo nickels, dimes and lots of quarters.

I see. Do you know, for example, that some quarters are worth more than others to a collector? The same as some editions of books are worth more than others.

I figure that must be. Last time Fred gave me seven dollars for two dollars and thirty-eight cents worth of change. I couldn’t have spent those coins at the grocery store for seven dollars. Fred studies each coin with a magnifying glass for quite a long time. He’s real smart. He knows all about coins.

And he teaches you?

Not exactly.

Well, either you learn something, or you don’t. The boy put his head down withdrawing into himself. Folmer, I’m not scolding you. If you don’t learn about coin valuations from Fred, it’s because he doesn’t teach you and not because you can’t learn. The boys’ head stayed bowed and he said nothing. I’ve got to get back to the bookstore. You take care now.

The boy raised his head to watch the green Plymouth disappear over the hump in the road. He stood gazing that direction for several minutes, liking the way the man spoke to him. It sounded good to hear someone from town speak his name, Folmer.

It made him feel real. Most just spoke at him, tossing words his direction. This was different. It was a good feeling.

CHAPTER THREE

A couple of weeks had passed before Folmer saw the green hump