Roll Back: A Time Travel Adventure

By Richard Reil

Following the loss of wife to cancer, Peter Greer realizes hes got to make a change if hes going to continue living despite his grief. He buys an old Victorian house he and his wife dreamed of buying for years in an effort to shake off his lack of motivation and sorrow. The old house is one of the first built in town, on the top of one of Snohomish, Washingtons many hills.

As Pete works to renovate the house, he discovers a time portal hidden in an old carriage house on the property. An elderly gentleman named Henry Jorgansen, who owned the house before Pete, aids in this discovery, as he is the current guardian of the portal. Henry teaches Pete about the workings of the portal, turns its care over to him, and Pete ventures back to Snohomish of the 1950s.

After Petes fifteen-year-old granddaughter accidentally discovers the portal, the two decide it would be a wonderful adventure for Emily to attend school at Snohomish High for the fall quarter of 1958. What started off as a fun-filled couple of months, ends up with life-altering trials for both Pete and Emily which could change their futures.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532010316

Richard Reil

Richard Reilis a professional photographer. He spent over twenty years as a public relations professional and is active in many local organizations, where he donates his time and talent for the betterment of his community. He is a graduate of Washington State University. He and his wife Patricia live in Kennewick, Washington, where they raised their fifteen Children.

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Copyright © 2015, 2017 R. L. Reil.

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.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-1032-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-1011-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-1031-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016921372

iUniverse rev. date: 01/28/2017

Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1 Peter

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18 Emily

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22 Peter

Chapter 23 Emily

Chapter 24

Chapter 25 Peter

Chapter 26 Emily

Chapter 27

Chapter 28 Peter

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31 Emily

Chapter 32

Chapter 33 Peter

Chapter 34 Emily

Chapter 35 Peter

Chapter 36 Emily

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39 Peter

To the memory of

James Jimmy Anthony Schirado.

A boy could have no better friend.

Acknowledgments

Capturing the culture, moods, fashions, and events of the 1950s would not have been possible without the memories of those who lived it. I wish to thank my sister and her husband, Scherion and Peter Bohlke, for their assistance and encouragement. Their memories of those times, and of the Snohomish, Washington, of the past, made writing this novel possible.

The knowledge of classic automobiles supplied by my dear friends Luris Cope and Don McIntosh was invaluable. Wes Door, a gemologist of more than sixty-five years, kindly shared his expert knowledge of the jewelry business and of precious stones.

I also thank my publisher, iUniverse, especially my editorial consultant, Sarah Disbrow. Sarah’s professionalism and gentle persuasion convinced me to move this book forward and make it the polished and convincing book that it is.

I would be remiss not to add the hours of work, proofreading, and grammar checking of this work by my niece, Michelle Macklin.

But most of all, I thank my dear wife, Pat. Without her patience and numerous suggestions, proofreads, and serving as my sounding board, I would never have completed this work.

Prologue

I never dreamed I would be involved in a series of events that, if known by the general public, would land me in one of those secret government interrogation rooms you’d read about in some thriller novel. In a period of less than four months, I experienced more sensory overload than I had in the previous sixty-eight years of my life.

Looking back on that short time period, I remember wondering why an over-the-hill guy like me was entrusted with some of the most extraordinary knowledge in the universe. It felt very strange when it was revealed to me; it was like I already had heard it somewhere before, even though I knew I hadn’t. None of it surprised me. I felt comfortable with the knowledge. I know now that this first dalliance with time travel was just a primer for future journeys.

After this first foray to the past, I began to understand why I had been chosen. It’s akin to those Israeli soldiers who guard the Temple Mount in Jerusalem. When tensions are running high between Jews and Muslims, they don’t allow anyone under forty to enter the sacred sites. It’s hard to understand that rationale when you’re young. As we age, many, but not all, of us tend to become a little wiser. Life experiences have taught us many lessons about interpersonal relationships and how to get along with those with whom we don’t always agree.

There is a reason you have to be at least thirty-five years old to be president of the United States. There’s also a reason why they send old guys to negotiate peace treaties and young guys in the infantry to the front lines. It’s because most of life’s lessons come from experience jump-started with knowledge and tempered by a logical thought process that develops with age.

If I had applied for this job, my résumé would have included honest, trustworthy, loyal, brave, very mature, flexible, intelligent, well educated, wise, humorous, and slightly humble—kind of like a senior citizen’s scout oath.

So I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised at the chain of events in my life that led me to become a Guardian. Whether I wanted to be one or not, it doesn’t matter now. It’s what I am.

Chapter 1

PETER

I t was early one morning in the spring of 2012. I was sitting in my easy chair looking out my living room window as the sun rose over Mount Pilchuck, one of the taller peaks in the North Cascade Mountains of Washington State. It had been a night of fitful sleep, as it had often been since my Linda’s passing. Ovarian cancer had taken her in the autumn of 2010. Lying in bed alone did little for my insomnia, and my chair was often my best retreat. It had been difficult to adjust to life without her, especially after forty-five years of marriage.

My name is Pete Greer. I was born in Pasco, a medium-size town in eastern Washington State. I retired twelve years ago, which left me with a great deal of free time. Unfortunately, the lack of structure a regular job would have provided, not to mention daily contact with fellow employees, had only contributed to my melancholy.

My three adult children, while grieving themselves, had their families and busy lives to fill the void. They had moved on and, with patience and understanding, had urged me to do the same. While sitting there watching the sun greet a new day, I realized it was time to for me to do so—to begin a new day and move on with my life.

Linda and I had arrived in the little town of Snohomish, just north of Seattle, in 1969. I had just graduated from Washington State University, which is located in the eastern Washington town of Pullman, and had accepted a job as a science teacher at Snohomish High School.

As an inexperienced teacher, new to town, I was quick to latch on to the first friendly face at work. That face belonged to John Young, who was the shop teacher. John had started teaching the year before. His wife, Pat, and Linda became the best of friends. John and Pat had four children, nearly the same ages as ours. They lived just a few blocks from us. John had retired the year before me.

Our families’ lives had been intertwined, especially during the kids’ growing years. It was the love of these dear friends that had helped me deal with the death of my dear, sweet wife.

Like many young couples, Linda and I had dreamed of buying a well-known, old Victorian house in Snohomish and restoring it to its original grandeur. Needless to say, the house was totally out of our price range, especially on a teacher’s salary. Instead, we settled for a modest rambler with a one-car garage on the outskirts of town. Over the years, with frequent add-ons and other improvements with John’s help, it appreciated substantially in value. Several years prior to my retirement, we paid off the mortgage.

With Linda gone, I felt it was time to sell the house. I decided to use a portion of the proceeds to purchase the old Victorian. I knew fixing the old place up would add a greatly needed new chapter to my life. At the time, I’d had no idea I’d actually be starting a whole new volume. The house was built in the 1880s by an immigrant lumberman who was drawn to the area by the abundant timber and the proximity to the Snohomish River. Large stands of virgin timber were harvested around Snohomish. The logs were floated down the river to be milled in the neighboring town of Everett, located on Puget Sound.

I found it curious that the old house had remained vacant for so many years, or so it seemed. Homes of this type were quite popular and commanded a good price. It was only after a title search and an inquiry by a real estate agent friend that I located the owner. I was thrilled that he was willing to sell the old place. The owner was actually the elderly great-great-nephew of the man who’d built the house.

The house was at the top of one of the highest hills in the old part town, which offered a lovely view of the surrounding town and the Cascade Mountains to the east. It was situated near the street on a very large lot of well over an acre. The lot sloped gently down to a wooded area, where there were two very large western red cedars. These trees were hundreds of years old, some of the few remaining giants spared from the ax in the pre–environmentally conscious times of the late 1800s.

Between two of these giant trees was a large shed. When built it would have been called a carriage house. Since carriages haven’t been used for over a hundred years, it most likely housed a variety of automobiles during its lifetime. It had also served as a handyman’s shop, housing a large collection of old tools and furniture in various states of disrepair.

It was apparent an addition had been added to that building at some later time, giving it an L shape. The building was large enough for a car to be driven from the new to the older part. The newer addition had a concrete floor and a set of large doors that swung out to allow egress for carriages or automobiles to enter from the home’s driveway. On the side facing the house was an entry door with a window beside it. The real estate agent showed me a rock by the step under which a key to the door was hidden. This was a habit I was comfortable with, so I left it there.

The older part of the building had a wooden floor made of heavy timbers. It had another set of large wooden doors. The exterior of these doors faced a gravel alleyway, across from which was a wall of dense vegetation. This arrangement hid the doors from street view.

These doors were secured by a curious-looking, old-fashioned lock, for which I didn’t have a key. I didn’t bother trying to open them. My obvious priority was getting the house livable. The shed could wait until another day.

With the sale of my home, I had either sold or given away much of the furniture and household goods Linda and I had acquired over the last four decades. I moved a few things into the house, where I was camping out while doing the remodel. The rest ended up in the shed.

With John’s help, I began the task of fixing up the old place. A cursory inspection indicated that the house’s wiring, plumbing, and heating system were all in good condition. The local electric company was contacted to hook the power back up. With the electricity back on, we were able to replace the burned-out lightbulbs, install a new water heater, and clean the place up.

All three of my kids—Meghan; my son, Seth; and my youngest daughter, Gracie—showed up whenever they had time, bringing along their teenagers to help with the project. Their young muscle power helped with cleaning, painting, and other sundry jobs. My good friends John and Pat seemed to be there as much as I was, helping, encouraging, and providing drinks and sandwiches for a group of typically ravenous teens. With the help of family and friends, I was able to move most of my stuff out of the shed and into the house in early July.

Though the restoration was not completely finished, having the place clean, livable, and looking better than it had in years was encouraging!

Since I had been working for weeks with no break, I decided to take a few days and do some fishing and hiking with the grandkids. It wasn’t any surprise that fifteen-year-old Emily, Meghan’s youngest, was the only one who wanted to go. It was common knowledge that she and I had a special bond.

We spent a couple of days exploring the Cascades near Snohomish and eating our fill of trout from the alpine lakes. We returned to town, and I dropped Emily off at Meghan’s and drove home just as the sun was setting.

As I drove up to the old Victorian, I was pleased to see how good the place looked in the twilight glow of early summer. I parked in the driveway beside the house and entered through the side door by the kitchen. I had stopped at the store on the way home and picked up a few groceries and a newspaper. I placed the paper on the table and then turned to put the eggs and milk in the fridge. I glanced out the window to the backyard and noticed a light on in the shed. It startled me. I didn’t remember checking the power to see if there were any lights working in the old building. John must have figured the power out and was dropping materials off for our next project—I thought.

I grabbed a flashlight, walked outside, and headed for the shed. I didn’t see John’s old pickup—or any other vehicle, for that matter. Strange, I thought. I cautiously entered through the door at the side of the building. I heard movement in the back of the building. I shouted, John!

I’m not John. An old voice, I thought as I heard footsteps slowly coming toward me.

Who’s there? I countered.

It’s me, Henry.

Henry who?

Henry Jorgansen, he answered as he walked out of the shadows and into the glow of an old, bare lightbulb hanging from a fly-speckled cord.

He looked to be well over eighty years old. He had a few wisps of snow-white hair ringing the sides of the bald crown of his head. He was quite thin and was wearing a well-worn pair of bib overalls and a flannel shirt. On his feet were some ancient-looking deck shoes. He had a few days’ growth of beard and the largest, brightest blue eyes I had ever seen. He seemed neat and clean. He extended his hand as he walked toward me.

Sorry to startle you! he said as he firmly shook my hand. You must be Pete. I was hoping to get my things and be gone before you got back. I had planned to meet you within the next few days, but I guess now’s as good a time as any!

Got back? I said.

Yes, you were hiking and fishing with Emily, weren’t you?

Yes, but how did you know?

There’s not much that goes on in Snohomish that I don’t know about. I hope you like the place; I wouldn’t have sold it just to anybody.

That’s why your name sounded familiar, I said. I’d only seen it once in writing, and that was on the deed when I completed the purchase of the property. But why are you here?

I needed to pick up my tools. If you remember, the purchase agreement stated that the property did not include my personal items. It’s just that I’ve been away and finally got a chance to return and get them, he explained.

I didn’t think anyone had lived here for years. Where have you been all this time?

Right here, he said with a bit of a laugh in his voice.

As he answered, I noticed the old set of doors behind him were unlocked and slightly ajar.

Here?

Well, yes and no. You see, I sort of come and go, and when I return, I come through here.

Through here you say? I don’t understand.

He saw that I was looking at the doors and turned and gestured toward them. Oh yes. I see you’ve noticed the big doors are no longer locked. I go home through them, he explained.

Huh?

Yes, my home was here, but then that’s not entirely true. I think you’d better come over here and sit down, he said. He led me to an old chair with a stack of old newspapers on the seat, which he tossed on the floor, and asked me sit down. He pulled up an old, wooden apple box and seated himself a few feet in front of me.

"You see, I owned this place for over forty-seven years. I inherited it from my father who inherited it from his father. It’s been in the family ever since Uncle Sven Jorgansen built it. I, like my great-great-uncle Sven, never had any children. I am the last of the line, and as you can see, I’m getting along in years.

I used to see you and your wife drive by this place with your kids after church on Sundays. You’d slow down and look it over. Year after year you seemed to take the long way home, just to check it out. At first it was with the wife and kids. When the kids grew and left, it was just you and your wife. A few years ago, I noticed you stopped coming by. Then I heard your wife had passed. He looked at me with a sad, kind, and knowing look and added, I know she was a lovely lady.

Saddened, I answered, Yes, she was. I miss her more than I can say.

Henry’s blue eyes saddened more and moistened a little as they met mine. Yes, I know, he answered. I lost my dear wife, Violet, over twenty-two years ago. Didn’t know how I’d go on without her. I’m sure you were as grief-stricken as anyone could be. I know I was. But I have come to learn that those who have passed are still nearby and that the separation is only temporary. He spoke softly as he continued. This earth and our existence here didn’t just happen. It’s all part of an eternal plan. Linda and Violet are fine and happy. When we’re reunited with them, it will seem as if we were never parted.

I felt truth in the old man’s words. He lifted my spirits, and the hope I received from him made my loss easier to take. It all made sense; his words felt familiar.

I thanked him for his counsel and told him it had always been our dream to buy this place and fix it up. With Linda gone, the dream died for a while. Finally I had to do something. I couldn’t just sit around feeling sorry for myself. It took some time tracking you down through a realtor friend to see if you’d sell the place.

He leaned forward and slowly and pointedly said, You and a considerable number of other people tried to ‘track me down.’ Some wanted it for a bed-and-breakfast, others for an antique shop. One guy even wanted to make a photography studio out of it! I wouldn’t sell it to any of them.

My rear was getting numb, so I shifted my weight in the old chair and asked, Oh, why not?

He threw his arms up, and, with a disgusted note in his voice and speaking rapidly, he said, They all wanted the place for the wrong reasons. His voice softened. You were different; your interests have always been in helping others. You see, I checked you out! You were an Eagle Scout. You were also in the top ten in your high school class, weren’t you? he asked matter-of-factly.

I felt my heart rate increase slightly. Yes—but how did you know? We’ve never met.