A Journey To Papa's Island

By Walter Meier

Just two years out of college we find David working at a local newspaper without having a column of his own. His lack of confidence keeps him from achieving his goals. His tardiness is legendary, and his idea of success is to allow it to come along and tap him on the shoulder.

Realizing that time is running out, David accepts a challenge by his editor to complete a journey and to write a story which could have life-changing effects. Now, David must choose either to amend his ways or face termination. If he decides to go, he must hurry to catch a train which only can be seen by those willing to climb aboard.

The journey begins when David reaches the platform leading to New Beginnings. The path to town is not an easy one and many a weary traveler has fallen short of the ultimate destination of reaching Papa's Island.  When choices are made; trials and temptations soon follow and David is sure to find trouble lurking around every bend. So let's be careful as we follow David to see just how far he goes, for the truth is found within the promise which lies somewhere just in front of him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Walter Meier
• Release date: Jul 31, 2019
• ISBN: 9781732075337

Walter Meier

I was born in Oak Park, IL, in the summer of 1953, on an extremely hot and muggy day. My family lived northwest suburbs of Chicago, which was a quiet place. We had few neighbors with farmland as far as the eye could see. As time passed, the farms disappeared and the tar-covered roads became blacktop. More families moved into the area and we became a neighborhood. That is where I grew up, went to school, and in 1972 graduated high school. By then, the neighborhood was sprawling with 7- Elevens and video stores. Conveniences stores were important in a young person’s life. You could buy a hot dog and drink for $2 and gas was 35¢/gallon. Minimum wage was about $3.50/hour, the work was dull and the idea of a future appeared dim. I was young and the Vietnam War was coming to an end. Instead of going to college, a friend and I bought a van and headed for Alaska. The trip opened my eyes to the vastness of this beautiful country. After enduring a blizzard and getting snowed in for 3 days, we looked forward to getting off the gravel road. We spent 6 months working odd jobs before the journey ended. I returned home and began a job working 12-hour shifts six days a week. After two years, I called it quits. It was now 1974, and I was at a start-up company making computer cash registers. The janitor explained the gift of salvation to me and with help from his pastor, I accepted Christ as my Savior. A short time later I was searching for a new direction. I began shooting weddings and portraits for different studios around the area. At this same time the pastor contacted me and encouraged me to go to Bible College/Seminary. I was reluctant, but I did go and my faith grew. I became grounded in my faith and graduated with a degree in Biblical Studies. I met my wife, Cora, got married and two years later celebrated the birth of my daughter, Tamra. The idea for this book came when picking up my daughter after school. On our rides home I shared the story of David and his adventure to Papa’s Island. The story excited my daughter so, that she said, “Papa, you should write it down.” It began as a simple child’s story and now we have a young adult’s novel for you to enjoy. The journey itself has been a laborious one. One of love and heartache, for many a change, has taken place along the way; for no journey is a simple one. That is about all I can say. I’ll leave it for you to decide.

Book preview

1

Week’s End

Tensions were running high at our local newspaper, and the scheduled production was to commence within the next hour, and neither press was working properly.  Mr. Saunders, the senior editor and owner of the newspaper, chose the newer of the two machines which were both 50 years of age or older to be repaired first. It was now up to the machinists, along with their assistants, to get the machine operational. The clock was ticking, and time was running out.  No one dared to be idle as repairs were being made. Paper was brought in and hung upon the back of the number one machine, rollers and bearings were greased as the type was set into place, and ink trays were filled to capacity.

Everyone knew that the loss of revenue would be staggering if we failed to go to press. Customers would demand reimbursement for ads that didn’t run. Housewives would choose our competitor’s newspaper for whatever coupons they had available.

Our machinists called out for tools and parts, and everyone scrambled to make it so. The air smelled of grease and sweat as failed parts were set aside and replaced with working ones. The apprentices worked hard at clearing a path so the printers could operate the machine, and within minutes of the scheduled production, the chief machinists called out for everyone to stand back. When the power was restored, the machine groaned in complaint as the rollers increased in speed. From the sidelines, we watched in earnest anticipation as the printed word sped through the machine for the morning's edition.

Shouts of joy erupted throughout the room as pressmen fulfilled their duties. Within minutes a completed newspaper would be produced, and a copy would be delivered for the editor to review. I was part of the proofing staff, staring through the wall of glass which overlooked the shop below; we stood there patiently, waiting for the first copy to be brought upstairs. Most of the staff had already gone home for the evening, and as for the thick layer of smoke which hung throughout the room, it too was gone. Now, only a thin layer could be seen above the editor’s desk as he smoked his pipe, in silence. With myself looking over his shoulder, we reviewed the first copy, I could understand from his grunts and groans that he was well pleased. And who was I to argue with the editor, for like everyone else, I too wanted to go home.

Mr. Saunders had finished shaking hands and thanking workers for a job well done by the time we had finished the review. I looked about the office at the overflowing wastebaskets, the dirty ashtrays and the all too common piles of newspapers lying about the floor. This was just another day in the newsroom, and it would be the same tomorrow. Yet my duties as a writer were far from over. Being that I was the only single man on the staff, it was my duty to remain available throughout the weekend for any possible assignments which might come along. Now to some people, this might appear as a big disappointment, but the extra pay was good, and the chances of a major story ever happening, wasn't likely. I felt confident that this weekend would be like all the others, quiet and undisturbing.

With the newspaper, as they say, now put to bed, I left the building through the back door where a cool blast of air reminded me that winter was drawing near. Raising the collar of my jacket, which offered little in the way of protection, I began my walk home. I should have known better and worn a heavier coat, for I had heard on the radio that we might have snow by morning. Now with the days much shorter, and the darkness arriving early; it made the walk home, appear all that much colder.

The streets were nearly empty being a Friday, and it has been said in the past that the sidewalks of most small towns are usually rolled up by 6 PM, and tonight was no different than any other because everyone looked forward to getting home for the weekend. Families would gather around the table to enjoy a delicious meal, and afterward, the kids would help their mother by clearing the table and helping with the washing and drying of dishes. When these tasks were completed, the kids would be ushered upstairs for the taking of baths and the brushing of teeth. With pajamas on and bathrobes wrapped tightly about them, everyone would reassemble in the living room for a special time together. Here they would watch their father as he fine-tuned the radio to the likes of The Lone Ranger, Dick Tracy, or perhaps The Shadow, which was my favorite.

I missed the broadcast due to the lateness of the hour, but each night as I walked home, I would pass an alley between the butcher’s shop and bakery. And it was here, that lay a story all its own. For hidden away within the alley’s darkest corner, was a wooden crate. It was chained to the wall for security and held a  menacing dog of immense proportions. It was kept there for protection by the butcher, a dog of mixed breed weighing well over a hundred pounds and when it stood on all four legs, its back would reach the waist of a 6-foot man. The dog, now long in years, was confined to its packing crate where it was fed and left alone without receiving any attention. The dog’s name was Fritz, and it was rumored amongst the neighbors to be the meanest dog in town, and yet there was one particular alley cat which always had a way with him.

Now, it was just before the broadcast, when the butcher would bring Fritz his supper; which was the envy of every canine in town. The cat would arrive like clockwork and begin tormenting poor Fritz into a frenzy. The noise would arouse the surrounding neighbors, who would start raining down complaints from their windows upon the butcher’s dog. The only choice was to remove poor Fritz from the alley and lock him in the basement for the remainder of the evening. When the ruckus subsided, and everyone had returned to their broadcast, the cat would reappear and quietly enjoy its meal under the dimly lit doorway of the butcher’s shop.

It was memories like these, which brought me back here after college. I’ll admit I wasn’t ready to grow up. I longed for the days as a teenager, when we would gather downtown on a Friday night. Those of us who happened to have cars appeared in all manner of vehicles called rat rods or customs. We drove what we called the loop, which began at the central park located in the middle of town and which continued to the library at the far end of town, where we would turn around and return once again. The whole idea was to be in something moving. But when I returned home after college, the fancy cars were all gone, and the kids had grown up and long since moved away. So much had changed in the past four years, and I had hoped it would have remained as I remembered it, just for a little longer.

I continued past the ice cream parlor, which appeared nearly empty for this time of night. The cinema at the far end of the block fared no better. I saw only the ticket person seated behind the window. In its time, it was a great gathering place for young people and a good place to be seen if you managed to have a date. You could enter the theater and watch your favorite hero saving the day for the town’s people or perhaps a damsel in distress. All of this took place within a few blocks from my apartment.

But tonight was different, for instead of going home, I continued toward the local synagogue which I attended as a young man. Being it was Friday, and Sabbat, I promised an old friend, a cantor, that I would come by and hear him for the first time. I arrived just as he was being introduced by the rabbi, who also noticed me upon entering. He motioned with a nod of his head that I should come inside, but I hesitated and drew back into a corner. My friend approached the microphone, and as he lifted his voice in praise, it echoed throughout the room and vibrated the glass partition, I stood behind. I felt out of place standing there in the hallway and thought it best to leave before he had finished. It has been many years since I practiced my beliefs, and the rabbis which I grew up under were now gone. I welcomed the coolness of the night as the echoing voice of the cantor disappeared behind the closing doors. The street lights had a halo surrounding them, brought on by the coldness in the air. My breath, as did my beliefs, hung in the air like a vapor, suspended for a time, and then disappearing into the darkness.

It had been a rough day all around, and memories of my past haunted me like the plague. As a child, my classroom performance was quite poor, and I was labeled as an underachiever or just plain stupid. My retention span was short, and having to sit and take a written test was just unbearable. In later years, what I experienced would be called dyslexia. A non-dyslexic person has difficulty understanding or relating to someone with this disability, for we think and learn differently than others. We are very visual learners, rather than verbal listeners. One must become a great note taker, for we have a tendency to forget what was said. A visual learner needs time to process what they see, and the best way to learn something is by repetition. Whether I learned it correctly was still another matter, and yet over time, one can learn to shorten the process, to make it less troublesome.

When I arrived home, I ascended the steps to my second-floor apartment. The hallway was poorly lit, and at first, I had trouble finding the right key. As I entered, I left the lights off and sought the comfort of an old armchair. In the quietness of the room, I relaxed for a time and recalled the repeated choirs of the cantor; it played over and over again as a still small voice within my head.

The following morning I awoke still in the armchair. My neck was stiff, and my back was aching as I looked around the room. I noticed the dirty dishes and piles of accumulated laundry, which summed up my life as a complete disaster. I headed toward the kitchen in search of a clean cup and the makings for a fresh pot of coffee.

Coffee was always a mainstay in my life, similar to the likes of a breath of fresh air. I simply love the smell of a pot brewing on the stove; it improves one’s outlook on life, especially when one is surrounded by so many disasters. I looked around the room and cried out in disgust.

David, it’s time you consider getting yourself a wife!

I laughed out loud at myself, thinking who would have me with all this mess? But the idea was appealing, and of course, there was plenty to do if someone should happen to come along and wish to do it. But let's not dwell on that now.

Saturday came and went, and I accomplished little in the way of housework. When Sunday rolled around, I found it safer to remain inside until well after one o’clock. This allowed time for the Sunday morning church services to be let out. For when the clock struck 12:00, many a family would rush to the local restaurants in the hopes of finding a good seat. While others hastily exited the parking lots to return home in time to save their pot roasts from destruction. I preferred to use this time reading our competitor’s newspaper and enjoying a cup of coffee until the dust settled.  My biggest task for the afternoon was to select a shirt from off the pile and allow the steam from the shower head to work out the wrinkles and breathe new life back into it.

If it weren't for my lack of self-confidence, I probably would have gone to work for a big city newspaper, but it was just too much to grasp at the time. I felt that a small town newspaper would be less demanding, and would allow me to spend time working on projects of my own. Little did I know I would soon have to choose or suffer the consequences of my own undoing.

It began the following day when the alarm clock rang at 6:00 AM. The idea of having to begin another week of work didn’t appeal to me under any circumstances.

Just ten more minutes, Ma, it’s all I need, I said aloud.

Determined to have my way, I held out for ten more minutes of sleep. Ten minutes isn’t so much to ask for, now, is it?

They're mine! I said aloud, They’re all mine!

It had taken less than a minute before I had fallen back asleep, and it wasn’t until the telephone rang sometime later that afternoon, that I realized I had overslept. By now it was well past noon, and my tardiness was legendary at the newspaper. I had been warned just the week before, if I were ever late again, it would mean the end.

It was a call to action, for no amount of excuses could save me now. In the past, I could always find a way out, a means of escaping discipline, so why should today be any different. I threw back the covers and leaped from my bed. Lightheaded and not fully awake, I ran to the bathroom. Luckily, my toes missed the bedpost as I passed by, but what I failed to notice was the pile of laundry lying there on the living room floor. My foot caught hold, and I was pitched headfirst into the coffee table.

It was sometime later before I regained consciousness, and when my vision returned, my forehead sported a lump the size of an ostrich egg. I felt lucky to be alive as I gathered myself from off the floor. The sound of running water reminded me that I had left the faucet on. After turning it off, I wiped the steam from the mirror and got a good look at my own reflection. My left eye was swollen shut, and my upper lip was split and swollen to match the bottom. Half of my face appeared paler than usual, and the other side revealed several shades of purple and gray with a touch of green around the gills. It was a wonder I survived the fall without breaking my neck. I chuckled to myself as I wondered whether or not I’d be able to ever whistle again!

I considered shaving but gave up on the idea. With toothbrush in hand, I managed only to part my lips but not enough to brush my teeth. And yet, while I surveyed the damage, I came up with a plan to salvage my job. I would walk straight into the office and say I was mugged on my way to work. Even in a small town such as this, it was possible to be mugged; not likely, but possible. What a story it would make! I could write it myself, and who knows, this could be a real door opener.

I left the apartment, excited about the possibilities. With an ice pack pressed against my face, I headed downstairs to the sidewalk where I would walk to the entrance of the New Fork News and Review. The sidewalk was crowded with people beginning to go home. I merely had to reveal my condition to them, and they parted as if I were the Red Sea itself. Once outside the building, I threw away the ice pack and placed a small pebble within my shoe to enhance my own discomfort.

When entering the building, the gals at the switchboards gasped in horror as I made my way toward the elevator. Everyone in the office noticed me as I shuffled to my desk and collapsed in my chair. Once there, I folded my arms in front of me and placed my head between them. My plan was working as I listened to the small talk going on around me. But my hopes quickly vanished when Mr. Saunders appeared at my desk, wishing to hear my story at first hand. A cold chill came over me when he rested his hand on my shoulder. If this was the end, I prayed he would be swift in making it so.

Good afternoon, David. I am pleased that you were able to join us today. Your difficulty was brought to my attention upstairs, and I wanted personally to come down and see for myself how well you were getting along. I hope your injuries won’t keep you from doing your work, Mr. Saunders said.

I’m a fast healer sir, I replied.

Well, let’s hope so, for your sake, he responded.

Does this mean I still have a job, sir?

That depends on how well you answer one simple question, Mr. Saunders said.

I’ll do my best, I replied.

David, other than your obvious injuries, your overall appearance appears quite good, how did you ever manage to remain so clean when lying in the gutter for most of the day?

It wasn’t easy, sir, I replied.

I believe there was a bit of sarcasm to his question.

David, I realize the seriousness of your condition, and I’m recommending you take a few days off, a change of scenery might do you some good, Mr. Saunders said.

That’s very gracious of you, I replied.

You may not think so after I explain what it is you are about to do. This will be your first big assignment, one designed for times such as this. Your actions regarding this assignment may well determine whether or not you remain in this business.

Is it a dangerous assignment? I asked.

After what you’ve been through, I think not, Mr. Saunders replied.

Will I have to travel far? I asked.

You’ll be just a train ride away, and your assignment needs to be completed in time for the holiday season. You will begin by explaining the meaning of Hanukkah, celebrated on the 25th of Kislev, and Christmas, which is celebrated on the 25th of December. Your background is essential in revealing God’s promise to mankind, as prophesied in the Old Testament and fulfilled through the bloodline of David.

Words failed me, I hesitated before replying.

You want me to write a story about a promise fulfilled, I asked?

That’s correct. You’ll find it within the two celebrations I just mentioned.

But, sir, I’m Jewish, and not even a practicing one at that, I said. 

Perhaps, but you were raised with Old Testament traditions, and you do have an understanding of the Laws of Moses. Who else at this newspaper but you can best explain the meaning of deliverance to our readers? A whole nation returning home, back to its promised land, a prophecy foretold hundreds of years ago. Now show us how prophecy reveals the birth of a Messiah, One who later would become the sacrifice for sin, the salvation for mankind, and a gift for anyone wishing to receive it.

"But, sir, I’m not well versed in Scripture, especially the