If My Wishes Were Horses

By Renee Livingston

What if the flight over or back is unsuccessful; what if the safest mode of travel wipes out four members of her family? Gramma knew what her own grandmother would have done and she followed those examples most of her life. Setting fears aside and facing the unknown, she chaperones three grandsons through adventures and discoveries.

Colbys writing is the catalyst for the trip but he is too young to travel alone. His Gramma, older brother Ryan, and cousin Dylan join him on the trek to New York City. The lifetime residents of the Pacific Northwest find excitement, storms, and emotional growth in their adventures. If My Wishes Were Horses follows the four family members through lifes extremes: hard choices, devastating deaths, and joyous love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: LifeRich Publishing
• Release date: May 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781489707802

Renee Livingston

Renee Livingston, currently retired, has an associate’s degree from Linn-Benton Community College and has thrived on subsequent writing classes. She has five children, eleven grandchildren, and two great grandchildren and lives in the Pacific Northwest. This is her first novel.

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If My

Wishes

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Horses

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Renee Livingston

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Copyright © 2016 Renee Livingston.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a memoir set in a work of fiction.

LifeRich Publishing is a registered trademark of The Reader’s Digest Association, Inc.

LifeRich Publishing

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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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.

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ISBN: 978-1-4897-0781-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4897-0780-2 (e)

LifeRich Publishing rev. date: 05/12/2016

Contents

Dedication

Introduction

Chapter 1 Big News

Chapter 2 Hoofbeats

Chapter 3 Flight

Chapter 4 Home Sweet Home

Chapter 5 Guardian Angels

Chapter 6 Words, Whispers, Sticks

Chapter 7 Better is a Relative Term

Chapter 8 Choices and Chances

Chapter 9 Sights and Smells

Chapter 10 Tourists at Large

Chapter 11 A Castle

Chapter 12 Ancient Tracks

Chapter 13 Stretching Wings

Chapter 14 Bus Ride North

Chapter 15 A Stitch in Time

Chapter 16 Storms Within and Without

Chapter 17 A Light in the Darkness

Chapter 18 Definition of Honor

Chapter 19 Accidents Happen

Chapter 20 Dog Days

Chapter 21 Hurry Back

Chapter 22 Ups and Downs

Chapter 23 Knock, Knock

Chapter 24 At Last We Meet

Chapter 25 Differences, Sameness

Chapter 26 Committee

About the Author

Dedication

My family has always been my inspiration for my writing and I thank them for giving me more loving memories than I’ll ever be able to capture.

A special thanks to my writing instructor, mentor and friend, Christi Krug, who has gently infused me with courage to accomplish this project.

Introduction

This memoir contained in a fiction setting is not about a famous or even a well-known person; it is a spotlight guided by an ordinary woman who faced challenges yet continued to shed light on overcoming adversity for herself as well as her family. Memoir stories of five generations are woven into the fictional setting as individuals overcome obstacles as varied as life choices can possibly be. Some as dark as murder. With nurture, love and faith, the family strives towards hope.

Gran, the narrator’s own grandmother, trained as a nurse in the late 1800’s, spent most of her adult life raising a large family during the Great Depression. Gran influenced her granddaughter and was famous for encouraging life lessons in the form of quotes. Complaints were quickly admonished: If wishes were horses, we’d all take a ride.

This book is one woman’s story of family: past, present and future. It is meant to inspire encouraging communication from one generation to another, to keep family members committed to each other, and to explore heartaches as well as triumphs.

Chapter One

Big News

When you love someone all your saved up wishes start coming out.

Elizabeth Bowen

Atext from my oldest daughter, Penny, altered my morning. Can u come over? Colby has news. I responded with K, in a few. Neither of us will chat much on the phone when we’re given a choice. I prefer emails but texts are the way to communicate with my grand-kids - all eleven of them - when we can’t sit side by side. When I crave the sound of their voices, I text "Please call . " Works pretty well.

It’s the second Saturday in August, 2015; the clock on my phone says it is 11:08. Lawn mowing is done and the rest of the laundry will wait until after I have a visit with Penny and her two boys, Ryan and Colby.

Every year on my firstborn’s birthday I remember holding her as a tiny bundle in my arms in the hospital. I spent two hours gazing at her, feeling the power of a mother’s love and connection, in total silence. Lucky for us, my roommate was wheeled into the room with her newborn. This was her third child and she talked and cooed to her baby non-stop. She introduced herself and asked my baby’s name. I said it was Pamela, after my cousin, but we would call her Penny. That name had been planned for years. I knew her name but didn’t know the importance of communication until that day. My firstborn taught me continually over the years.

When Penny was first pregnant with Ryan, she was struggling to find the perfect boy name. It was her decision since the baby’s father was not interested in parenthood. She said the name had to be super special. I mentioned my favorite cousin Susan’s boys, Ryan and Joseph. Susan died of a brain tumor before she was forty. That had been twenty years ago and I still missed her. Naming the baby after one of Susan’s boys was a way to honor her. Penny had said, "Why not both names? According to Complete Book of Baby Names, Ryan means ‘little king,’ and I like the idea of a Bible name. She still tells this long story of the emotional ties to the name when she introduces friends to her boys. When they ask how she picked Colby’s name she responds with one eyebrow arched, You know that hot guy on the second season of Survivor?" That always gets a laugh.

Dylan, let’s go to Auntie’s! I call to my seven-year-old grandson, who is shooting hoops in the driveway. His mom, my daughter Kathy, is at work so he is spending the day with me.

Okay, Gramma. Let me grab a water first. The happy, always-in-motion boy with dark hair and dancing eyes, pulls a water bottle from the refrigerator. The near-seventy temperature combined with his recent activity dampens his crew cut. Two cowlicks on the back of his head swirl in opposition to each other begging to be tousled, but he doesn’t enjoy that from me as much as he did a few years ago. So I hold back and instead, fill my lavender hydro flask from the tap. Somebody’s got to save the planet.

It doesn’t take long to get to Penny’s house, about five miles from me. How ironic that she’s lived all over the world and now lives so close. Kind of like that country song she listened to over and over when she was in high school, Just a Mile Down the Road from Mama’s. We pull up in the driveway; facing us is a light-yellow ranch house with white trim. As I get out of my Honda, I hear a muffled thrum from above, so I shade my eyes with my hand and scan for the airplane. We are within ten miles of the Portland airport. Dylan rushes ahead of me, eager to romp with the dogs in the back yard. Knock before you walk in, okay?

He taps the doorframe once and pulls the screen door open at the same time. I follow him in as I hear Ryan’s What’s up Dylan? and Hey, Gramma!

Hey yourself, Ryan. Don’t you usually work Saturdays? I step into the living room with framed family pictures on one wall and matching mulberry candles on the end tables.

Yeah, but not until two. I’m trading hours with Seth ‘cause he’s going to a concert tonight. Ryan works at Winco Foods down the street, usually the day shift on the weekends. During the week he gets two or three swing shifts. Ryan is tall, six foot seven, has bright red hair like his mother, not as many freckles as you would think, and a thoughtful demeanor. He just turned eighteen last spring and graduated from high school. He puts away his laptop and takes it downstairs.

Penny walks in from the back yard, her curly hair off her neck in a loose ponytail and her brown eyes lighting up her smile. Hi! Dylan’s already throwing the ball for Bella and Buskus. Let’s get some fruit and muffins before Colby tells you his news. Want some iced tea? We can eat outside. Hopefully the dogs will leave us alone.

We take our plates and tall glasses to the patio. I munch on cantaloupe, grapes and a banana nut muffin as I watch the boys and dogs play fetch. The sunshine glances off Colby’s silvery blond hair; Dylan shades his eyes with his hand while he waits his turn. Colby, four years younger than Ryan, pets Bella for returning the green, slobbery ball, shakes it twice and rubs it against his shorts, and then he hands the ball to Dylan, who throws it, and the dogs romp after it again. Dylan glances over, eyeing the fruit.

It’s really good, I tease him, holding a bite of cantaloupe on my fork.

C’mon, Dylan, I’m starving! Colby tosses the green ball to the far side of the yard and the boys dash inside. Penny and I hear the water running and look at each other with mock surprise. They remembered to wash their hands!

Colby, what’s your big news? I ask as soon as he has eaten enough to take the edge off his starvation.

Well, Gramma, my literature teacher gave us an assignment the first day of school that was different from the usual ‘what-did-you-do-this-summer’ question. She asked us to imagine what we will be doing ten years from now. When I turned in my paper, I saw something about a contest on her bulletin board. He takes another swallow from his water bottle. She said it didn’t have to be completely new so I came up with something to send in. She submitted it for me and I was one of the winners!

And, tell the rest of the story, Penny prompts as she leans forward and crosses one freckled leg over another.

The Writer’s Institute is flying me to New York City. In three weeks! Colby’s voice is getting higher and louder now.

That’s great, Colby! I reach up and squeeze his arm. That’s fantastic. You’ll have a real adventure. Colby struts back inside to grab another muffin, his blond hair swinging over his beaming blue eyes. I suppose it’s the style but he always seems to need a haircut.

Mom, now that you’re retired, do you think you could go with him? Penny begins in earnest. Her voice is soft yet sincere and strong, like mine, and not a voice that would be distinguishable in a room full of chattering people. His letter of congratulations stipulates one free trip to New York, and parents are encouraged to accompany their children. I’d love to go but I’ve got a two-week training at the same time. The other trainer is on maternity leave, and the schedule can’t be changed. Penny’s new job at Veterans Administration in downtown Portland requires her to train new employees twice a year in Seattle, Eugene and San Jose.

I have to consider the request; snap judgements haven’t always worked well for me. From this angle I can see the tiny scar on Penny’s chin that she received when she passed out on the deck of the USS Cimarron. She calls it her battle scar but actually she had contracted hepatitis and was trying to stand to attention since the doc on ship kept telling her No fever, no illness. By the time she fainted, her skin and the whites of her eyes were yellow with telltale jaundice.

Penny’s been a single parent for her sons for more years than her two marriages added together. Like father, like son, goes the saying. In our case it is Like mother, like daughter. Not that I would have wanted that for any of my children; I struggled a lot being a divorced parent. As much as she talked about waiting until meeting the one, true one, not getting married until she was thirty, and never getting a divorce, it didn’t happen quite like she dreamed it would. She served her country by enlisting in the Navy five years after graduating from Medford High School, so she almost made it to thirty before she got married. We can always set new goals. Now she says two sons, two dogs, two cats and two ex-husbands are more than enough.

I’ve always wanted to go to New York, but I hate flying and, of course, there’s Dylan to consider. Kathy usually relies on me to watch him once or twice a week. Let me think about it for a day or two, okay? We carry our empty containers into the house, put the lunch mess away, and then wander back outside. Your roses are looking good. The dogs don’t seem to trample your flower beds like they used to when they were both puppies. I am drawn to a thorny bush, so laden with big, yellow roses, I hardly notice the leaves. I take in a long breath of the sweet fragrance, indescribable unless you know roses. My grandfather cultivated yellow roses and the soft aroma makes me think of him and Gran.

When I close my eyes, I can visualize my grandmother Ina; I see her smooth white, wavy hair pulled back and gathered into a bun at the back of her neck. She wore thick glasses, home-made print dresses, and a determined look. Her family gathered at her house in Westfir on holidays, and it was all coordinated under her direction. Westfir, a nondescript mill town, is five miles from Oakridge, Oregon. It’s tucked in among the hills and valleys of the Cascade Mountains. The fir, cedar, oak, pine and spruce decorated in various shades of emerald, yellow-green, gray and darker greens were the life thread of the little mill and therefore of the town itself.

Gran, as we called her, and Papa Bill, raised five children so I had lots of aunts, uncles and cousins. That was on my mother’s side, even more were on my dad’s side of the family. I couldn’t get enough of the banter and stories at these holiday events. The adults had a long table in the living room heaped with our best bowls and platters of food. Each family brought a favorite dish or pie or both—way too much food to be consumed in one day—but we, as a group, did our best. The mingling aromas of turkey, dressing, ham, gravy, sweet potatoes, fruit pies, green bean casserole, and my mom’s home-made rolls tantalized us until we were practically drooling. There was a special dinky table set up in the kitchen for us kids. As soon as we filled our plates and sat down, Gran said the blessing. Then it was noisy again with cutlery clicking against china, stories shouted across the food, conversation and laughter from family members who hadn’t seen each other in a while.

After the meal, women cleared tables, washed dishes, and put food away. Not the men. They sat around smoking, reminiscing, and boasting; each yarn surpassed the last. The kids polished off olives and celery with cream cheese as they took plates to the sink but then we gravitated outside for running games unless the weather was too nasty. I preferred being inside and listening to what the grownups were saying. Their topics tantalized me. Dad and Uncle Billy talked about details of logging or did you hear about the guy who got caught trying to steal a load of cedar posts along Brock Road? Uncle Billy would catch my eye, take a big drag on his sweet-smelling pipe and blow the most perfect bluish-white smoke rings toward the ceiling. I was totally fascinated every time.

Papa Bill was a short, dark-haired, quiet man, esteemed by his co-workers at the local sawmill where he worked and died. I was twelve when we gathered at the Church of God in Oakridge for Papa Bill’s funeral. This was Gran’s church, not Papa Bill’s. The main things I remember about him were his twinkling blue eyes when he laughed or peeked over the nightly newspaper, the care he gave his big yellow roses, large vegetable and berry gardens, and an emerald green Studebaker, always shiny and clean.

My other grandparents, my Dad’s parents, lived in the same town but I don’t remember much of them. One thing that is still clear in my mind is an evening when I was five and my brother Gary was six. After dinner, my Grandmother Margaret entertained us with a sewing project. She had simple patterns on dish towels that we could embroider. She showed us how to do it for a few minutes and then gave us each a towel with an attached wooden frame and she positioned the threaded needle to start the first stitch. My design was a simple teapot. Gary’s eyesight was bad so he put his frame and dish towel on his lap and bent over it and sewed away. I held mine up so I could more easily see where the needle poked through the fabric. At the end of the evening, we both stood up to put on our coats. Gary’s towel was solidly stitched to his pants. He was upset that after all that work, it had to be cut apart to free his clothes.

Memories of Gran and Papa Bill, my mother’s parents, are etched in my brain with bright vivid clarity. Papa Bill’s rows and rows of vegetables grew on a slight slope in his back yard. A path down the middle designated where I was allowed to tread so as not to bruise any of the plants. He told me which rows I could enter to pick ripe vegetables. My favorites were fresh peas. I would sit in the dirt, shell a few pea pods and scoop them out carefully with my right thumb over my left palm. They were so green and round and sweet, they were better than candy. Papa Bill also had rows of raspberry, blueberry and boysenberry bushes. These were trickier to gather without getting scratches but the sweet, juicy, tart mixture was worth a few barbed scrapes on an arm. It may sound like a lot of gardening for two people but they had a shed lined with shelves filled with quart Mason and Ball jars of vegetables, fruits and jams. I used to go out there to retrieve a jar of green beans and had to pull myself away from being mesmerized by jar after jar of purple plums, sunny cherries, rosy applesauce and dark blue berries. My grandparents ate from their own stores of canned food all year long.

When I was very young, our family lived in town, in a dark, rickety shack near the river in the area known as Willamette City. When the banks overflowed during a flood and our home was filled with two feet of muddy, swirling water, we moved to a larger two-bedroom house with an unfinished second story far from the riverbanks. Dad butchered behind the meat counter, stocked shelves, and attended to all the details of running McAtee’s Market, a small grocery store he owned with my uncle. For years Dad yearned to move back to the land he grew up on, a mere five miles away. World War II interrupted his plans; Dad and Uncle LeRoy joined the Navy leaving the store to be run by women in the family. All I remember from that era was fragments of my early life: eating voluntary onions fresh out of the ground in early spring, getting a two-inch scar on my leg when my brother Gary’s foot slipped off the barbed wire he was holding, and wearing I LIKE IKE buttons. When Mom was especially sad, she would put my brother and me in her big bed next to her at night and sing You Are My Sunshine. When Dad returned from the war, he made plans to purchase the land he grew up on that was then for sale.

He