Finding Our Way

By Peter Stipe

Finding Our Way is a collection of stories that explores the human spirit in its quest for knowledge, its propensity for endurance and capacity for love.

Meet the runner who is passionate about the world around him. And the obstetrician who faces the most difficult delivery of his career. Gain insight into the boy whose vision que

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blue Fortune Enterprises LLC
• Release date: Dec 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781948979337

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Finding

Our

Way

by Peter Stipe

FINDING OUR WAY

Copyright © 2019 by Peter Stipe

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For information contact :

Blue Fortune Enterprises, LLC

Lavender Press

P.O. Box 554

Yorktown, VA 23690

http://blue-fortune.com

Cover photograph by Peter Stipe

ISBN: 978-1-948979-33-7

Second Edition: November 2019

For Debbie

My muse and best friend

Finding Our Way

I WAS SCARED. IT WAS a terrifying time of confusing social and political changes, of race riots, and open drug use. Above it all, there was the war. Every night the news told us that we were winning, but the newsmen also gave us pictures of the fighting in Asia and listed the dead. The dead soldiers were my age, and when I graduated from college, I would be eligible for the draft.

I didn’t know what to do about the war. The politicians told me why we were fighting but it made no sense to me. I could really only run. I was fast, and so I ran on my college track team. That gave me the chance to run along the river through Boston for an hour or two each day. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had until I met Maggie. Maggie made the difference for me back then.

At first, it was Maggie’s hair that got me. To see it was like looking into a fire. There was a wildness, a brilliance to it, unlike anything I had ever seen. Light and colors flickered and flamed. Later, during the winter, when we had been dating for a while, we stopped in the midst of a walk on a cold afternoon for a moment. I pulled her close to me to kiss and noticed that the color of her hair exactly matched the fox fur on her coat collar.

I met Maggie on the first day of my Renaissance History class in the fall. I had enrolled in the class for two reasons. I needed the credits to graduate on time and then go to graduate school. Grad school would give me a draft deferment for one more year. I also believed that by studying a period of history like the Renaissance, so full of social and cultural changes, I might find answers. I looked for any clues to help me cope with the tumult I felt every day. The war was being waged on the other side of the world, but people rallied against that war right down the street on Marsh Plaza in front of the chapel. It didn’t seem to make any difference. The war went on and on. I was helpless to stop it.

I got to the classroom early and took a seat next to the window so I could watch the people pass by outside on Commonwealth Avenue. Professor Schulman’s lectures were notoriously boring. I would have to sit through his class but at least I could daydream by looking out the window.

Professor Schulman arrived exactly at noon, placed an old three-ring notebook on the podium, opened it, and began reading to us. I took notes but soon focused more of my attention outside the window, watching the parade of denim clad, long-haired hippies on the sidewalk. The door to the classroom opened quietly and quickly closed. Professor Schulman stopped reading to us.

Young lady, you are late, he announced, looking down over his half-lens glasses toward a seat by the door. In it sat a small girl, her head down, her face hidden by a mass of curls, not blonde, not red, but some color in between, filled with light.

Yes, she answered, not looking up.

This is Renaissance History, he said. The class starts at twelve sharp.

Yes, she said again, head still down, but the hair moving as she nodded.

You will be here at twelve noon from now on.

Yes.

Professor Schulman turned back to his notebook and resumed reading from it to us. I kept on taking notes, but I couldn’t stop watching the girl and her hair, wondering if her face was as beautiful as it would have to be to keep pace with the hair. For the full hour she never seemed to look up from her notebook and rarely turned her head. Late in the class she paused for a moment. Seeming to sense me staring at her, she turned. Our eyes met. And as suddenly as it had happened, we both looked away and down at our notebooks.

The class ended, and the girl scooped up her books and hurried out of the room. I chased after her through the crowds in the hall outside, hoping to get a closer look, to see her face again, maybe even to meet her.

I caught up to her at the end of the hall. She paused suddenly and turned to face me as though she had expected me to be there. I stopped, red-faced, breaking into a nervous sweat. She was a tiny girl, barely five feet tall. Her eyes were a pale blue, as vivid as her hair. Faint freckles crossed her nose. She had the face of the Venus in that Botticelli Renaissance painting; Venus on the half-shell I had always called it. And here she was face to face with me. She smiled. I was stunned. I was lost.

Hi, she said. I’m Maggie. I saw you in Professor Schulman’s class a few moments ago.

Yes. It was all I could say. Even choking out the one word was an effort.

God, I’d better not be late on Wednesday. I don’t want him to grill me like that again.

No, better be on time. I wasn’t usually at a loss for words when I met a girl, but this was different. Inside my head, I screamed. Talk to her! Talk to her!

Anyway, now I know where to park, so I shouldn’t have a problem. But I probably will need coffee to stay awake next time. God, he does drone on and on, doesn’t he?

He sure does.

Come on. Talk to her! Say something!

Well, she said. I’ve got to go get lunch. See you Wednesday?

It was a question. I had to answer. Yep, see you Wednesday.

Then off she went, bell bottom jeans flapping at her ankles, past the anti-war signs, out onto the street with the other students, the peace people with petitions, and the Black Power activists.

It took me a few moments to gather myself. I stood, dumb and dry-mouthed, in the middle of the hall. Then I moved on to lunch for myself, and off to track practice in the afternoon. But all I could think of was Maggie.

On Wednesday, fifteen minutes before the class, I walked into the room with two paper cups of coffee. I took the seat next to the door where she had been and placed one of the cups on the desk next to me with two creams, two sugars, and a stir stick next to it. I prepared the other cup for myself; one sugar and one cream. Students began to arrive, noted the seat next to me with the cup on it and took other seats. With five minutes to the start of the class Maggie came in. She saw me and the coffee on the desk and gave me a smile that floored me again.

For me? You remembered! Aren’t you sweet.

I didn’t know how you like it, I said. I got sugar and cream for you. You’ll have to fix it for yourself.

One sugar, one cream. What’s your name?

David. Are you a history major?

Yes. I guess. I’m pre-law, and history is a good basis for law. How about you?

Yes, history. I was going to be an archaeologist, but I’ve decided to become a history teacher and a coach. It’s a draft deferment. Besides, if I can teach better than Professor Schulman, I could save a lot of students from a slow and painful death.

With that it was noon, and Professor Schulman walked in, opened his notebook, and began to read to us. Maggie and I took notes. But we also wrote notes to each other in the margins, leaving them where we could each read the other’s messages. Near the end of class I wrote, Do you have plans for lunch?

She wrote back: No. Do you?

Not yet. I’m thinking of going to the deli across the street. Want to join me?

Yes.

That was our first date. I usually finished lunch by 1:30p.m. and went to track practice by 3:00p.m. But that day I talked with Maggie until 3:30p.m. Later, I lied to my coach that I had gotten hung up with my class work. I ran alone for an hour, energized with thoughts of Maggie.

We had lunch after class again on Friday. I told Maggie about my family, that my father was a professor at the University, that my family lived in Wellesley outside of Boston, that I lived in the dorm because my track practices kept me on campus too late to get home each night. She told me about her family, part of a large Irish family scattered all around Boston, that she lived in Newton as an only child with her mother and father, and that she waited tables some evenings in a restaurant to help cover her tuition.

At one point, she said, Wellesley. That’s the next town over from Newton. It’s not far at all from where I live. We should get together sometime.

I got the clue. I go home on weekends if I don’t have a meet to run in. Maybe we could get together this weekend.

I would love that, she replied. Where do you live in Wellesley?

Just an ordinary neighborhood near the center.

Oh, there’s nothing ordinary about Wellesley, Maggie said. It’s a lovely town. Beautiful homes. I’m sure your house must be pretty nice.

I’m not in one of those big pretentious mansions. We’re just ordinary people. My dad’s a professor. We’re not wealthy. We don’t have all the big-time airs like some of the people in town.

You don’t have to apologize for living in Wellesley, she said.

I’m not apologizing. But some people make a big deal about their money. They act as though it matters.

There’s nothing wrong with money, answered Maggie.

I explained, "Money does matter, I guess. But it’s not that big a deal. As long as I make enough to live on and be happy after I graduate, that’s all I want."

What makes you happy? she asked.

Right now? Being here, having lunch with you.

You’re so sweet to say that. But what will make you happy after you graduate? What do you want to do? You said you want to be a teacher?

Yes, I’ll probably teach history in a high school and coach track. But I’ll have to go to a year of grad school to get certified to teach. If the draft gets too close, I’ll find something else sooner to get a deferment. But I want some sort of job where I can make the world a better place.

Oh, the world’s not so bad. We’re young. We’re alive and healthy. We can do anything we want to when we graduate. Why do you want to teach? You could do anything. You could make more money with some other job. Maggie seemed genuinely puzzled that I would choose a job that might never give me a big income.

Come on, Maggie. There’s the war. There’s the civil rights movement. There are so many things. You walk across this campus and you see all the people with all the causes they’re fighting for. I don’t know what I can do to fix any of it. But at least I’ve got to try. You live in Newton. That’s a pretty wealthy town, too. You know what money is like, just as much as I do, coming from Wellesley. And you’ve got to see that there are good people and bad people who’ve got money. Money’s not that important. It’s not the answer. Doing something to change the world is. That’s what matters.

Well, she replied. I admire you for your convictions. But I can do all that ‘save the world’ stuff and have a good income too. That’s why I want to be a lawyer. I can fight injustice and get rich all at the same time.

Maggie and I ate lunch together after class three times each week after that. We began getting together on Saturdays as well. On the weekends I usually stayed in my dorm, ran in a cross-country meet in the afternoon, then met Maggie in the evening. She had a car and I didn’t, so for most of our dates, she picked me up at the dorm or at my house in Wellesley. She would drive us into the city and we would ramble around Boston or Cambridge together.

It was easy when she met me at my dorm. I waited in the lobby or out on the street until she came by. The first time she picked me up at my house it was different. My house was a basic cape on a side street. Maggie parked at the curb and came to the front door. My parents welcomed her into the living room and stood formally, side by side, to meet her.

The living room was crowded with antique furniture and a piano. I hadn’t played for several years; not since I had begun to spend most of my time out running. But my sheet music, Haydn, Mozart, and Shubert, still lay on the piano. Time magazine, Scientific American, and Agatha Christie paperbacks cluttered the tables.

Maggie came into the living room cautiously, being careful of what she said, trying to make a good impression. My father stood there grinning like a kid when he met her. I knew he’d always had a thing for redheads, even though my mother was dark-haired. From his reaction it was clear that he saw in Maggie some of what I did. But then, most men were captivated by her when they met her. He was no different.

How are you, Maggie, he said. It’s great to meet you. He shook her hand and continued to grin.

My mother’s reaction was more reserved, though polite.

David tells us you’re in his Renaissance History class, she started. That’s such a marvelous time in history. So much great art and science. How do you like it?

It’s okay, answered Maggie. The professor’s a little too dry, but the topic is interesting.

Isn’t the art from that time elegant, Maggie? Which artists do you like?

I like the Dutch Masters, but they’re from a period a little later than the Italian painters. We haven’t studied them yet.

David tells us you’re pre-law. I expect Renaissance History will be useful for you in law.

I guess. I’m interested in international trade law.

And you’re from Newton? What does your father do?

He works in the city. That was all Maggie would say about her family.

After meeting my parents, we went out to her car and headed for Boston.

I tried to explain my parents. Well, now you’ve met them. I hope my mother didn’t scare you off with all her questions.

Oh, that’s all right. I hope I passed her test. What was she looking for, do you think?

My mother probably wants to be sure that you’re up to her intellectual standards. She’s not convinced that all college students really care about intellectual things, and it’s important to her if you do. I expect she’ll be fine with you. And if not, I really don’t care. You’re seeing me, not my parents.

Okay. But I must say that you’ve got a beautiful house. A wonderful neighborhood, lovely furniture and everything.

It’s not a big deal, I replied, remembering our earlier conversation. You should see some of the other houses in town. My house is really pretty much average.

Well, I think it’s wonderful. You should be proud of where you come from.

Maggie and I sat together in a coffee house near Harvard Square. It had an inexpensive cover charge I could manage, and the music was always notable. We were crowded so close together our knees touched beneath the tiny table. Three steps below street level, we could see the legs of people passing by a window. The air was smoky. A man sitting next to me leaned over and said, This place is fantastic! The people they get here. In the past few weeks we’ve had Gordon Lightfoot, Judy Collins, Tom Rush. Tonight it’s Joni Mitchell. Next week James Taylor. Or is it Livingston?

He leaned away from me and we all clapped as a thin, plain woman walked onto the stage carrying a guitar by its neck. She set the guitar on a stand, no more than ten feet away from Maggie and me, sat at a piano and leaned forward, her dark blonde hair falling straight as rain and hiding her face.

Without a word of introduction, she began to play the piano. Then she sang, her voice as pure as a sterling silver bell. After the first song, she stood from the piano bench and continued with her guitar. She sang of her rapturous love of men she had lost. Of the heartbreak, of the joy, of her anger, her despair. In that small room with the low stage, her presence was palpable. I could see the bitten cuticles on her nails as she played. With her so close to us, the ragged intensity of her emotions almost moved me to tears. I’m sure that Maggie must have felt it too, because she hugged my arm and beamed her radiant smile.

Maggie and I sat transfixed through the whole set, holding hands as we listened. Joni never made eye contact with the audience, looking inward at the feelings that had inspired her songs. When she finished, she turned quietly and walked off the stage through the applause, her guitar still slung over one shoulder.

After the show we went to a German-toned restaurant in Harvard Square and got a booth. Maggie and I talked for hours about the war and other problems. Mostly I talked and she listened, chin on her hand, beaming at me. I told her of my dreams for the better world I imagined we could both have in just a few years. It was so apparent to me that Maggie and I would make a difference.

Together, I told her, we really can change things. Me with my teaching to help shape the minds of the future. And you as a lawyer to hold the people who don’t get it accountable. Maggie smiled back at me and nodded.

Mostly, when I was with her, I sat enthralled, just looking at her, soaking in her beauty. Her hair cascaded around her face, an unbelievable riot of curls. I noticed that the bones of her face and cheeks were tiny, and that her eyebrows and eyelashes were bronze, matching her hair. Her body was small as well, not the classic Playboy centerfold body that college boys in the sixties believed every man should want. I was a captive anyway. On many occasions, I said to myself, Damn! I can’t believe a girl like this is with me. Just look at her! People all around us are looking at her. And she’s here with me. How can it be that I’m dating a girl like this? How lucky can I be that a girl like Maggie chooses to be with me?

I believe she was as taken with me as I was with her. I remember her laughing most of the time and listening intently to everything when we talked. She seemed to place value on everything I said, and that made me feel very, very good.

In December, after we had been together for several months, I finally asked her to come see me run in a track meet. She knew I was on the track team, but we hadn’t really talked about my running. I had run cross-country races all fall, but that’s not much of a spectator sport. With cross country, most of the action takes place out of the spectators’ sight on trails in the woods. The indoor track season is different, a contained world where the races are run on small tracks close to the spectators.

Maggie, I said, we’re racing at Harvard tomorrow evening. Could you come see the meet and watch me run?

Sure, David. I’d love it. Do I need a ticket? Hockey was the big sport in town and tickets were hard to get. I had gotten hockey tickets from a friend, one of the players, a week earlier and had taken her to a game at the Boston Arena.

No. This isn’t hockey. You don’t need a ticket. Just come over to the Harvard field house and walk right in. You just hang out during the meet. There really aren’t seats or anything. And you need to know that I won’t be able to spend much time with you. I’m running the mile and the two-mile. Please understand that if I don’t spend time with you, I’ll still know you’re there, and I really would like you to come. Anyway, you need to see this side of me.

I’m sure you’ll be marvelous! You must be good to be on a college team. I’ll try to come if I don’t have to work. I’ll see if I can rearrange my hours at the restaurant and be there.

The Harvard field house was an old brick building with a dirt floor and a tight, twelve laps to the mile cinder track around the perimeter, square, with slightly banked corners. Walking to the starting line for my first race, I looked around the field house. I hadn’t seen Maggie and had begun to doubt that she would come. I pushed her from my mind and focused on the race ahead.

I stood on the starting line, shivering slightly and breathing the dank, damp, air. It smelled of dust and sweat. In the infield, the weight guys competed, their shouts echoing off the hard walls when they threw. The thirty-five pound weight, a big iron ball with a steel triangle handle, tumbled through the air, thudding as it hit the dirt, its handle clanking. Sprinters warmed up in the outside lane of the track. The starter’s gun cracked.

Three Harvard runners set out with me right behind. The leader, a tall, lank, aristocratic English runner, set a pace much faster than I could sustain, but I had to cling to the pace or be left behind. A red-headed runner clipped along flatfooted in second, his long hair flapping around his shoulders. The third Harvard runner, a rock-and-roll type from New Jersey, was just ahead of me. They carried me through the quarter. My breath began to come in loud wheezes. I felt no fatigue, but I simply couldn’t run any faster.

In the third quarter I began to fade, dropping a stride behind the three Harvard runners, then two, then three. Desperately, I fought off the runners behind me and maintained loose contact with the three leaders. I finished as I had started, in fourth place. I felt hot, a bit light-headed, and a little nauseous. I couldn’t have willed myself to go a step faster, but I wasn’t really tired. I walked