The Brave Historian

By Robert Gaines

It was the end of 1999 and the world was anxiously anticipating a new century while John Hammond was reluctantly celebrating a childhood goal – to live one hundred years.

Few people realized that John was the last living member of the legendary Hammond Family. His brother, David Hammond, was a dark and volatile writer whose savage and unrelenting novels nourished a cult following long after his death. His sister, Mary Hammond, was considered one of the foremost artists of her time, still regarded for her scolding twists on reality. George Hammond, their father, was the noted composer, a whirlwind of music, a man whose death had viciously thrust a hammer into John’s soul. A gathering of magnificent eccentrics, they had stormed the gates of insanity, each motored by a brain that simply would not slow down. John had the family gift, creating unique and powerful stories while pondering every word, every meaning.

He also was cursed with the intense need for fame; he just never pushed, only waited to somehow be discovered. It never happened.

Lately, however, John Hammond has been oddly energized, fading into dreams that are particularly vivid, strangely real. Also, in these dreams, he is suddenly young again, strong again, and the past so very real again.

When Shelly Kingston is hired to put together a short birthday documentary about John’s life, the young filmmaker is intrigued by the old man’s stories and his unpublished, unfinished writings. John Hammond is intrigued by her.

Another distant dream . . .

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Hidden Shelf Publishing House
• Release date: Feb 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9781735414560

Book preview

The Brave Historian

Hidden Shelf Publishing House

P.O. Box 4168, McCall, ID 83638 www.hiddenshelfpublishinghouse.com

Copyright © 2021, Robert D. Gaines

Hidden Shelf Publishing House. All rights reserved.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Gaines, Robert D., author.

Title: The brave historian / Robert D. Gaines.

Description: McCall, ID: Hidden Shelf Publishing House, 2020.

Identifiers: LCCN: 2020909473 | ISBN: 978-1-7338193-6-7

(pbk.) | 978- 0-9996466-8-7 (pbk.) | 978-0-9996466-7-0

(ebook)

Subjects: LCSH Centenarians--Fiction. | Authors--Fiction. | Aging--Fiction. | Memory--Fiction. | Family--Fiction. | Pennsylvania--Fiction. | BISAC FICTION / Literary | FICTION / Absurdist

Classification: LCC PS3607.A35955 B73 2020 | DDC 813.6--dc23

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Table of Contents

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

About the Author

Life is a lost and a wondrous rage

I don’t want to be afraid to be alone.

Chapter One

It was stark, relentless.

John Hammond once again tried to shake the memory hammering inside his head. But, yes, there it was—strange men, without expression, ever so slowly lowering his little sister into the ground. Sweet, beautiful Sarah.

What had struck him as odd was that she didn’t even move. Nothing, absolutely nothing.

It was miserable hot that day, bugs storming the yard as if this were some sort of picnic. And there was that fly again; that one particular fly darting from preacher to casket, then buzzing away, oblivious to its passage.

Mother was lost in black, father pale as a winter wind.

As flowers fell and dirt followed, John leaned close to his brother.

I’m living to a hundred, he whispered bravely to David. I’m never gonna die, never.

David said nothing, perhaps not even hearing. He too was lost.

That was the summer of 1910, nearly 90 years back. Peculiar, but beyond the stillness, John’s most vivid memory was that one ugly fly, nasty brown with a streak of shimmering green, the kind you just want to squash. Yet, still to this day, its every detail remained permanently chiseled into his mind—a stupid fly.

And Sarah, at times John could barely remember what that little girl looked like, the sound of her voice, the feel of her fingers, the smell of her youth. She was just a vague and fleeting glance, like a startled dream seeking shelter from its awakened creator.

Such rotten luck, poor Sarah. She had only been three years old; now her big brother was nearing 100. Strange how she had fallen so quickly, and he had survived so long.

At the burial, father had vowed they would all meet again. John never bought it.

* * * *

In the twist of chance, John Garfield Hammond had arrived on earth barely one minute before midnight on December 31, 1899. His mother had kidded that hers would be the youngest child in Pennsylvania born in the old century.

Even as a child, John considered it a stroke of good fortune that he had not waited. His brush with the 19th century may have been brief, but nevertheless, he was there.

You do know I have lived in two centuries, he would sometimes brag to his younger brother and sisters. Not long after Sarah’s death, he realized that if indeed he managed to live 100 years, he also would be able to claim a third century on earth. To young Johnny Hammond, the concept of living to be a very old man carried a touch of excitement, an opportunity to calmly unwind and enjoy the easy life, good to be 100.

Now, as he neared the magical birthday, old John Hammond’s frail body was a disaster of annoying pains and a punishing fatigue, his mind wandering recklessly through spheres of lost remembrance.

Suck it up and carry your age with dignity, he would regularly demand within his mind, purposely pretending to be somewhat of a pioneer poised to step into the 21st century.

Once again, he was tired.

* * * *

In the dream, John was in the process of moving from Pennsylvania to California. Or was it the other way around? No matter, he still had not packed all his things, many of which were no longer even useful.

Looking through the old boxes inside an abandoned barn, John knew he would never be able to finish in time. He surely didn’t need these things and should just take the easy course and toss everything. But inside one of the boxes he found a newspaper article from a baseball game he pitched in college. The headline was strikingly large and bold, Hammond pitches Bucknell over Penn State. But, looking closer, John couldn’t quite make out the date. And the newspaper looked almost new, as if printed by a computer. Did the date say 1999?

Is that possible? Did he still play baseball?

He paused to wonder if his arm was strong. He glanced at his grip and the seams of the ball, but his hands felt weak.

And now he noticed the date of the newspaper clipping had changed to May 2019. That couldn’t be possible. That had to be at least 100 years wrong. He pulled out a book of charts and numbers, trying to figure if he still might be young. No, the date had to be a mistake.

A stream of noise disrupted his calculations; someone from outside the room yelling for him to hurry. Yes, he had almost forgotten he was packing to move. Quickly, he searched deeper into the box, tossing aside several crumpled items he could not identify, but then discovering a heavily bound book. Inside was a bunch of words that had mostly been crossed out and now had no meaning whatsoever. He decided to rearrange the sentences, perhaps to find perfection, but only became frustrated by this scrambled collection of unfinished thoughts. Again, that voice from somewhere outside beckoned for him to accelerate his work.

There’s too much, he shot back, throwing the different pages and notebooks to the ground.

Wait, what was this? He leaned closer to the scattered work as if uncovering a great mystery. Hidden inside the pages was a photograph of a beautiful woman; they most certainly had been deeply in love. He tried to remember, but the details seemed fuzzy and unreal. Wait, on the back of the photo was a scribbled and illegible name.

Who was she?

John tried to focus his thoughts, but now a group of strangers had broken through the barn door, demanding that he leave. They seemed to be furious, beyond reason.

I just need to get all this together, he pleaded as they grabbed his arms and pulled him from his work. He tried to fight back, but the mob was too strong and he had no energy.

It was then that John grasped from somewhere within his sleeping brain that this was but a dream, thankful that he could not be harmed by the crazed intruders.

He felt his body relax, then wondered what else he might find in the boxes, but they were gone, the barn now empty. And he could feel his sleep dissolving, that it was 1999, although he was momentarily unsure where he lived . . . yes, California.

* * * *

John’s eyes snapped open, his mind trying to capture the thoughts he was rapidly losing. Yes, he had been moving all his belongings. No problem, it was not real. John took a deep and cautious breath, thankful he no longer had to pack.

He just needed a few more minutes to rest, but his body would not move, and his mind would not stop as he suddenly fell into an awakened trance, now imagining himself wandering into the new century.

And what a spectacular plunge it would be. What with the nation gripped by millennium fever, his life story would be briskly hurled to center stage.

John Hammond Enters Third Century of Life, would be the headline on the third page of the New York Times. No doubt USA Today would run the story front page above the crease.

He’d be on the cover of Newsweek and People and Rolling Stone. The late night celebrities would be relentless. Good Morning America, 60 Minutes and Entertainment Tonight would rush their best anchors.

And by the way, he would blurt to the press, Now that I’m famous, I’d like to invite the top publishing houses to consider the many novels I have been carefully storing for this very moment in time.

No, that would be too brash, and some might think he was begging.

John chuckled to himself, applauding his brain’s thirst for imaginary details, its ability to turn once intelligent thoughts into absurdity.

Why stop? Because once the word of his third century on earth began to spread, life would become crowded. Offers and contracts, commercials and TV movies, agents and lawyers, biographers and con artists, invitations to the White House and free vacations to the South Seas.

Certainly, John’s dip into three centuries was not that unique. There were millions of centenarians in the world, but probably none had skimmed it so close.

By design, the interviews would be limited.

You don’t look 100 years old, grinning newscasters would say in unison. What’s your secret?

Well, I stay sharp with regular walks, John would reply, and non-stop breathing.

No, John thought, they might confuse a clever quip with just being downright rude. It would be best to be thoughtful.

My secret to living a long life, John would reply with a short pause to reflect serious consideration of the question. I eat a lot of blueberries.

Yes, that would have them rushing to the grocery store.

Of course, with his birthday still a few weeks away, the media would be facing a possible problem. What if the old man should drop dead before then? Would they be forced to kill the story? No, the newscasters could just change the inflection of their voices.

On a sad note, the anchor would stoically lament, "John Hammond died last night in his sleep, just a few days shy of accomplishing his goal to live in three different centuries.

And now we go live to Fallbrook where Katy Bainbridge reports on an amazing array of treasures gathered by Ruby the Border Collie.

John stopped, tried to clear his mind, throw death in a garbage bag and toss it away. How absurd that an entire nation would be intrigued and concerned about a man who had been hounded by decades of lost opportunity and thickheaded failure.

John took another deep breath, scolded his untamed mind and returned to reality.

* * * *

John understood that, like everything else, the celebration of the new millennium would come and it would go. He also knew there would be no more chances. Catch the ring and be a star, don’t try and no one will ever know you even existed.

No, this time he would reach, he would grab, he would fight.

* * * *

A block from home, John entered the high school stadium. As always, his goal was once around the track, but today he was thinking perhaps a half mile, or maybe not. He moved slowly; bones creaking, mind clanking. Considering the human body is only designed for about 40 years of safe pas- sage, he was a marvelous study of age. Sure, the skin was wrinkled and his hair had turned to thin white strands, but the internal signs were usually steady and, on the best of days, even strong.

John passed the 40-yard line, momentarily imagining he had the football and had just juked the last defender. Now at the 35, he was pulling away, heading for glory. About five minutes later, he had reached the goal line. Touchdown Old John Hammond the speakers blared within his head.

And a thought was triggered from another time, one he carefully tried to avoid, yet stuck to the floor of his brain like gravel.

There was another reason that might vault John and his three centuries into the national headlines. You see, here was the last of the legendary Hammond family. Enough said. Curiosity sparked. People would want to know more. There was another Hammond?

* * * *

In the first half of the 20th century, the Hammond family had sprinkled creative brilliance upon modern music, art, and literature. The Three Hammonds—John’s father, brother and sister—were wild, sparkling, tumultuous. And hadn’t they all died in rather bizarre circumstances?

George Hammond, John’s father, was a whirlwind of music, composing hundreds of popular songs until his death in 1950. His music, mostly written from 1895-1910, was always characterized with a quick and raspy beat, horns that roared and drums that pounded. There was Handlebar Boogie, Ticklin’ My Horse and Sweet Suzie’s Slippery Slide. Hit tunes like The Elephant Garden, Blue Skies of Mexico and Spittin’ Up Wind were played in every dance hall from New York to San Francisco.

A Thump on the Rump was one the most popular pieces of sheet music ever sold, until the summer of 1909 when George Hammond wrote King of the Wild Animals.

Although his music generally disregarded the rules of the day, the joy of its sounds could not be ignored.

It’s a crazed cyclone of never-ending noise, wrote one music critic. The ears might throb, but the toes tap and the fingers pop. Mr. Hammond always stirs a gloriously fun headache.

George Hammond smiled, pushed, succeeded.

And then his music faded, almost vanished. It no longer had the vigor, the distinctive snap. Compositions turned stale, blasted by critics as tired re-workings of past pleasures.

Many music historians would later say that the elder Hammond’s early songs were the seeds for the music of the Roaring Twenties. But by then, in a musical era he was seemingly born to command, George could not revive his desire to create.

Perhaps he just took it inward. Perhaps he was no longer hungry. Perhaps he no longer cared.

Interestingly, George Hammond had a brief resurgence late in his life. Soft Return was so different from any song he had ever written that it stunned the music crowd when it hit the market in early 1947, nearly four decades from the height of his popularity. The public, still in the mood to celebrate the end of World War II, somehow took it as a heroic victory tune. Life Magazine interpreted the song as peace on a perfect spring morning.

But, really, it was nothing like that.

* * * *

In the spring of 1947, the Saturday Evening Post ran a story about the Hammond Family that included a photo of George with two of his adult children, David and Mary. John had known nothing about the article until seeing it on a colleague’s desk at the newspaper office. He was stunned.

In this celebration of talent, Mary spoke about how George Hammond had always been her inspiration to create, and the most wonderful father in the world. Even David grumbled a compliment about his childhood, quickly dismissing any sentiment and rambling into something about how his inner soul had no storage compartment and that one of the great insults of life was that you would forever be alone, and that family only mattered as a kick in the butt to get you out the door.

He is so full of shit, John accidentally muttered out loud as he read the article. John’s comment broke the silence of the workroom, several reporters looking up from their desks.

Sorry, said John. Just reading something. It’s nothing. John put his hands to his head as he continued to read. Of course, he understood the anger and jealousy. It was the emptiness in his stomach that was most upsetting.

* * * *

In the photograph introducing the Saturday Evening Post article, George Hammond sat smiling at the piano, posed with his famous daughter and son.

Mary Hammond had become even more successful than her father, provided such terms could truly be measured. Both an oil painter and sculptor, she had long been considered one of the foremost artists of the 20th century. Her hands could twist the earth, grasp the soul. Her mixture of reality and imagination produced conscious-bending designs that are still skyrocketing in value.

As for John’s brother, David was perhaps the darkest, the most volatile, and definitely the most difficult. There was nothing soft about him. The savage and unrelenting intensity of his many novels could tear holes through the senses, leaving the reader worn, demolished. To those who consumed his works, death would only heighten his fame.

These were The Three Hammonds, a gathering of magnificent eccentrics surely camping at the gates of insanity. Hell, they stormed the place. For in that mad dash for excellence, each was motored by a brain that simply would not slow down. Always thinking, always fighting, always plotting. To each of their minds, intellect was a blessing, a haunting.

The gears would clang, cells would ramble. Streams of thought piled recklessly into one another. No down