A Thin Place

By David Weiskircher

Joe lives an idyllic life. He needs nothing more than what he has, which is nothing more than a dog and some hills to wander. That is, until it’s all whisked away early one morning, as he’s thrown into his parents’ car, his best friend Corky’s gone missing, and rumor has it something dark is stirring in the family

• Language: English
• Publisher: Smokeblood LLC
• Release date: Jun 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9780960049141

David Weiskircher

David Weiskircher grew up in the tree-studded hills of Ohio, before abruptly moving to Florida where there are few trees and even fewer hills. From there he made a short hop to Atlanta, a place that provided plenty of trees and a sprinkling of hills. He worked for Corporate America hoping he'd come to love it - or, at least, be sufficiently deluded by it - but such was not the case. One lucky sunny day, Mr. Weiskircher looked to his side and found his love standing, patiently waiting. He and his wife had years together and though they had enjoyed their time abundantly, it wasn't nearly enough. Breast cancer saw to that. Instead of children, the pair went with dogs, and soon after, a menagerie was born. Nearly all were herding dogs. When Mr. Weiskircher's wife died, he found himself in the middle of a raging storm. But he had shepherds by his side. They saw the storm . . . and they kept him moving forward on the right path. And now, in his spare time, Mr. Weiskircher writes about things he learned in life, and more often than not, dogs.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

1995

As on all mornings, I’d gotten up early, and if anyone were to ask, I’d give the same answer I’d given through the decades— It’s the dairy farmer in me.

Yeah, I was aware that by 1995 the farm I had known was long gone, another lost childhood memory. It had been turned into a subdivision—or maybe two, perhaps three—and on the hills where horses and cows once roamed now sprawled a sea of ranch houses, red brick in grass pastures.

Even though that thought was sad, I couldn’t help but laugh, and it was because I could hear her. She had said it so many times, through so many years, it had become ingrained in my head.

She’d say, You dairy rancher.

I’d cock my half-smile and say, It’s farmer, not rancher. There’s a difference.

No matter how many times I said it, it did no good. To her, I was, and would always be, the dairy rancher. And maybe, even though she was technically incorrect, she had been right all along.

I walked through the living room on the way to the kitchen. Not surprisingly, there was a friendly face at the window looking in. Jackson was a solid, black and white Australian shepherd, with just enough tan in his coat to match every other dog I’d ever owned. Like Corky, my first dog—my first farm dog. From so long ago. From the green grass pastures of Ohio.

I don’t know if it was thinking about the farm, or seeing Jackson, or what exactly was going on, but the memories started unfolding in my mind, from all my decades. We had once been a family.

Through a floor-to-ceiling window, past yards of grass, ran the river. For a significant part of my life, it had served as the backdrop for the unfolding—and refolding—of my story. Being so close to the ocean, the river ran with the moon’s tides, and its colors changed through the day from blue to green, depending upon where the sun happened to be hanging. Those colors—the blues, the greens, and how they met, and where they met—all played a part in different ways, and different places, of my history.

In the kitchen, I ground some coffee beans. There was nothing like the scent of fresh-ground coffee in the morning. After I started the pot, I went outside for the papers. Jackson pulled close to my leg like any good herding dog.

I looked at him. You know, if herding dogs are so smart, why aren’t you getting the papers for me?

Even though I always talked to him, I rarely understood his responses. But on this day, I think he said, "It’s because I am so smart that I’m not getting your papers."

Back inside, I laid out the papers on the dining room table, in two stacks. One stack for me; the other for her. On top of hers went the NY Times crossword puzzle, and on top of that, her pen. Never a pencil. Heavens no. That’d be an insult.

Just then, I heard coffee dripping. I got two cups down because I knew it was only a matter of time. Sure enough, as I was pouring, I heard papers rustling behind me in the dining room.

When I put her mug down next to her hand, she said, You’re a champ. Then she ruffled the hair around Jackson’s ears. You know, I had him go out and get the papers the other day when you were out of town.

I shot a quick look at Jackson, but when I saw him sitting next to her—so close, so ready, so protective—I could overlook his ignoring me.

What time did they say they’d call? I asked.

Nine. But you know how they are. There was a little bite in her voice.

I nodded my head. Believe me—I know.

I glanced at the clock in the kitchen: 8:50.

As I dove into my papers, she started on her crossword.

Only rarely was I consulted about the crossword, because I would normally give—according to her—only one of two responses, regardless of the question: the Beatles or Sandy Koufax.

This morning, she asked, "‘Mathematician Author of The Conquest of Happiness?’ And no, it’s not Sandy Koufax."

I often wondered if she really thought I would know the answers. I mean, this stuff was so arcane it only lived in crossword puzzles. But with this one I could see, from somewhere long ago, a book lying on a shelf.

I started smiling.

She pointed her pen at me, squinting. Don’t you say the Beatles.

Bertrand Russell.

Her pen went to the paper, and she started mumbling, which was her way of spelling out loud. Dang, the dairy rancher got one right. I saw a light come on in her eyes. She said, Connor! He read Bertrand Russell. Even when no one else did.

I said, feeling like I’d just won some important tournament, Well, you do know that the Beatles hung out with Bertrand Russell, but… yeah. Connor is how I know. More memories slipped in.

Her eyes were still on me. I’d gotten used to her looks, her smiles, her grimaces. This was a look I’d seen before, but not often, and not recently. She’d had a dream, and she knew I’d want to hear it.

I waited.

Sure enough, with a faint smile, she said, How weird. Connor came to me last night. In a dream.

My heart raced, and I touched the faded scar on my lip. My mind reeled back in time as I was overtaken by the shadows, as cast from my long-lost past.

ONE

JUNE 1971

The rusty

No Trespassing

sign tacked on the barbed-wire fence was hard to miss. I had seen it yesterday. And like yesterday, I was ignoring it again today, though not out of meanness or disrespect. I had to see if what I’d seen yesterday, I’d see again.

When I put my foot on the bottom strand of the fence, I noticed the dirt caked on my boots. Though it wasn’t only on my boots.

I looked at the dog by my side. Boy, you’ve done it now. Corky, usually a shiny black dog, was caked in dried mud, thanks to having rolled in a mud puddle a while back. My mother didn’t like dirt in the house, and she really didn’t like dogs in the house, and if it were a dirty dog, well that was a definite no-no. Even though I didn’t know why, I knew enough to know that Mom had been in a mood as of late. So I had boots and a dog to clean.

But that was for later. Right now, Corky and I had something to do.

I pushed down on the bottom strand of wire to feel how much bounce it had. Yesterday, I’d chosen the cowardly way of getting past the fence, bending and sliding through the middle strands. No cowboy worth his six-shooter had ever passed through a barbed-wire fence that way. Today, I would do it the cowboy way.

Feeling the tension, I made a quick calculation. Then I grabbed the fence post and—with everything I had—threw myself over, using the bottom strand as a spring. As I was sailing over, I felt the top strand brush against my jeans. I landed with a thump on the other side in thick, knee-high grass.

I muttered, Damn—almost didn’t make that. And I’m only sixteen, what happens when I get to be an old man of thirty?

Corky, still on the other side of the fence, backed up a few steps. When I realized what he was doing, I shouted, No, don’t—

Too late! He’d pushed off the mark and was running full-throttle, his eyes studying the fence, maybe calculating but probably just going with instinct. With a swooshing sound, he leapt through the second and third strands. When he landed, he seemed to have a look on his face that said: What’s the problem?

Show off, I said with a chuckle.

Joe McGuire! You lost?

Ayers Pittman rode his horse Peanut downhill toward me. Peanut was a well-mannered but muscular pinto, and Ayers was the man who owned the land I was, um, trespassing on. I smiled and raised my hand as either a wave or to show I wasn’t carrying a weapon. Ayers, a stocky man in head-to-toe denim, had earned the reputation for being a cantankerous hothead. There were only a few people in town he hadn’t gotten mad at. One of them was my dad. One time, years ago, he’d told my mother he liked my dad, a dairyman, because of how he ‘knew and appreciated dirt’. Ironic, given my mother’s inherent distaste for dirt.

Peanut sidled in close. Corky strained to reach up and sniff the horse’s big nose. Peanut snorted, causing Corky to step back. The two were an oddly matched pair. Corky, when clean, was mostly black, with a white blaze on his forehead and chest and a little tan here and there, while Peanut was a taller canvas made up mostly of white, with random splotches of black. It was like they’d been together when someone dropped two buckets of paint—one white, the other black—from the sky.

Ayers winked at Corky. Then he looked at me. School out early?

Last Friday, but the public school goes another week, I said.

He laughed. So there’s a benefit to being Catholic, huh?

I laughed, knowing my mother would have had a heart attack. She was a Catholic through and through. In her mind, no one joked about the Church, ever.

He asked, What are you—a senior?

Not quite. I’ll be starting the 11th grade come September.

Damn. You could be playing football at Ohio State you’re so big. Now your brother—he’s older, and in college, right?

Yeah. Twenty-two, and over in Wheeling at the Jesuit College. Not that I needed to, but I pointed to the Ohio River off in the distance. Martins Ferry sat on the west side of the river in Ohio while Wheeling was on the east side in West Virginia. Two different states, and politics, but the dirt over there was just like the dirt over here.

The Jesuit college? One of those brainy-types, huh? Not that it’s any of my business, but has he straightened himself out yet?

Neither his voice nor eyes betrayed emotion, but it stirred plenty of emotion in me. Anyone who knew Connor knew he was a trouble-maker, even though that term sounded tame given some of the things he’d done, like knocking his gym coach on his ass. Even though everyone in town knew it, the one person who didn’t was our mother. Well, maybe she knew it, but she certainly couldn’t admit it. With Connor, she had adopted the ostrich approach of keeping her head stuck in the sand.

With a crooked smile, Ayers said, For a little guy, I hear he’s got a hell of a left hook.

I wasn’t sure how to answer. I knew Mom wouldn’t want me to say anything that would reflect poorly on the family. God forbid.

I said, Well—he has his own apartment.

Truth was, I was glad Connor wasn’t living with us. There’d been more than a few times he’d knocked me on my ass, sometimes using fists, but one time using a baseball bat. He’d always had an excuse, and my parents would chalk it up to brothers being brothers. I would never forget a line from Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. You can choose your friends but not your family.

As if to echo my thought, Ayers said, Sometimes distance is best… I hear you work at your Dad’s dairy in the summer. You going up there this year?

That’s the plan. Dad was co-owner, along with his brothers and sisters, of a dairy my great-grandfather had founded so many years ago I don’t think anyone actually knew when, at least not precisely. I was pretty certain Ayers knew my father was now working in the front office of the dairy, not in the pasture with the animals. Over the years, our dairy had moved more into the pasteurization and distribution side of the business rather than maintaining herds of cows to be milked. Heck, Dad wore a suit and tie to work nowadays, rather than boots and jeans. But he had done all that growing up. He’d learned all the aspects of the business, including mucking out the barn, and Ayers knew that.

Since I turned ten, I would stay for the summer on one of our working farms and help out any way I could. It was hard work, but some of the best sleep I’d ever had were those nights. Exhaustion leads to good, deep sleep. I was also able to take Corky along, which was interesting because he’d been born there. I’d always wondered if he knew he was home when we were there.

Ayers looked around at the grass-covered hills that ran up and down. We were on the outskirts of Martins Ferry. He owned the land that ran all the way to the top of this hill and down its other side, and even a few adjoining hills. He had always claimed that he owned the highest hill in the county. I never found out if that was true, but no one had ever contested the fact.

My family lived on the small hill just below his. It had once been his land, but he’d sold it to my family and four others. He had never taken to heart his No Trespassing signs, not for me. For as far back as I could remember, Corky and I would go onto his land. I think he allowed it because he knew I treated his land with the same respect I treated our land.

Still, since he was here, I asked, Mind if I go to your pond?

He smiled. Since you’re halfway there, how can I say no? He then gave a slight clicking sound, and in one smooth move, Peanut turned around. Ayers called out, Have a great day, Joe.

As Ayers rode off, Corky’s eyes narrowed to focus on Peanut. Corky was tensing. Like any herding dog, he loved to chase animals, large or small. Even though it might look like chasing, it actually wasn’t. It was herding. Seeing Peanut trot off had switched on his herding instinct.

I grabbed his collar. No herding horses today. Let’s go do what we came to do.

Corky set off up the hill with an air of determination. Did he know where we were heading? Did he remember what had happened yesterday?

Over a slight rise was a pond, in a pocket among several hills. It was small, and on one side was a stand of trees, mostly leafy willows, providing cool shade. The other side caught the brunt of the sun, but it was there that the bank gently sloped into the water. That was the logical place to enter the pond if you wanted to go swimming. The pond was easily swimmable, that is if you didn’t mind swimming with water moccasins. My father had once said—I think he was kidding—how Ayers had deliberately turned some moccasins loose in the pond as a way to keep kids from swimming in it. True or not, no kids went swimming there.

Most of my friends didn’t like coming back here because of Ayers’ general disposition. But most of them were still in school, and I’d grown bored. It’d probably be a few weeks before I started working at the farm, so I had time. Besides, I liked being outside, and I especially liked walking hills with Corky—and Ayers had some good ones.

What was funny, and maybe a little odd, was that no matter how often I walked these hills, the same thought would run through my head. As I walked up, then walked up even more, I’d always reach the top thinking that that was it; that I’d finally reached the top of the world. But then I’d look out and in every direction for as far as my eye could see, I’d see more hills. Rolling and stretching in all directions. They waited to be walked and explored. I’d look at the hills and say not only to myself but to Corky, Those hills are waiting. Just for us. Out there is our future.

Like yesterday, we found a flock of geese at the pond. Not so unusual. These geese looked fat and happy, milling through the grass and enjoying the water. I figured they had a pretty easy life back here, with the exception of the water moccasins. Maybe they didn’t care, or maybe they were so tough they’d run off the snakes. An avian take on St. Patrick.

I had a sense of motion from my side. It was like a sudden gust of wind whistling past. Corky had launched himself. Like any good herding dog, he hadn’t needed a human’s order or instruction to go to work. It was pure, hundred percent instinct. He saw the geese milling, and for a herding dog that simply wouldn’t do. There had to be order. Of course, I knew trying to herd geese would be like trying to herd cats. But I loved watching Corky work.

Just like he had yesterday, Corky traveled like a rifle shot, precise and straight to the target. The geese saw him and were stunned. Their squawking sounded something like: Who the hell is this nut?

If anybody had seen Corky bearing down on these geese, they may have gotten worried, but I knew how a sound and proper herding dog could never bite an animal it was trying to herd. After all, you can’t bring order if you go around biting everyone.

Even though the geese had gone through this yesterday, they still didn’t have a game plan. They scrambled to action, with an emphasis on scrambling. At first, it was a disorganized and chaotic mess. They were like the Three Stooges, just not as funny.

Corky stayed low to the ground. If one or two geese were standing off by themselves, he’d focus on them and herd them into the larger group. That was step one—getting everyone together. If these were sheep or cattle, step two would include driving them into a barn or pasture. But these were geese.

It was then that the geese used their get-out-of-jail-free card: They took to the air.

They took off, wings and feathers flapping. Once in the air, they started lining up, and as they climbed higher and higher, they finally formed the typical ‘V’ pattern we’re so used to seeing. They would be gone from sight in no time, and even though the geese were far from his reach, Corky didn’t stop running.

I started up the hill. Normally, I would have called him back, but there was something fascinating about watching it all unfold, and in such a grand way. As Corky ran, the geese flew high and ever westward, straight for the horizon. For the first time ever in my life, I really noticed just how blue the sky was. Was there even a name for that shade?

Corky was approaching the spine of the hill and at that moment, I saw the top of the hill touch the bottom of the sky, the rich green of the earth brushing deep blue. Two different colors, representing two different things—earth and sky—but each the same hue and depth, blending together as one. Separate, yet the same.

Between these two dynamic colors, but for the smallest of seconds, a thin, crisp line had formed, that stirred something in a recessed part of my mind. But what? The speed and grace of Corky’s movements suddenly pulled me back to the here and now. Without slowing, he approached the spot where the earth and sky met. It was as if he knew it was the spot. Then I watched as he blasted right through it, just as effortlessly as he’d blasted through the barbed wire fence.

As I came to the crest of the hill, I eased up to soak in the crisp, clean air. I watched the afternoon breeze blow the knee-high grass first one way, then the other. It was like the motion of a boat, a subtle swaying back and forth. Though I had been born and raised in these hills, and had walked and camped in them so many times before, I couldn’t remember a single time when I had felt the peace I was now feeling. As I stood there, feeling the wind blow past as the world continued to spin, I felt time stop for a moment.

Corky had dropped from sight, but after a few minutes, and as I knew I would, I heard the sound of his tags jangling. Then, he loped to the top of the hill. Together, he and I stood atop the hill, right at the horizon; right where blue met green. We turned and looked to all sides, from north to south and east to west. In all directions, we saw all the world. So this was what it was like to be on top of the world? But it was something more than that, wasn’t it?

It was a magical spot, a meeting place of two great things.

A thin place, I muttered.

From somewhere deep, deep in my mind, that term had come to me.

We’ve found ourselves a thin place. I looked at Corky, his bright eyes searching. But you knew all along, didn’t you?

‘Thin place’—plain, simple words carrying some great significance. But what was a thin place? Why had the term come to me now? And who had I first heard it from?

I searched my memory for when I’d first heard the term. It was probably Irish, perhaps Celtic. There was Irish blood on both sides of my family, and I’d heard many a tale from the old country. There was no one quite like an Irishman to tell tall tales, especially if drinks were involved, of which there always were with my family.

As I stood at this thin place, I couldn’t help but wonder who had told me about it… and why?

* * *

I patted myself on the back—I’d remembered to clean the dirt off my boots before going into the house. More importantly, I’d given Corky a thorough brushing, tip to tail.

Mom stood in the kitchen making sandwiches. She wore her typical early summer outfit: long shorts and a short-sleeve sweater. She didn’t seem too interested in me, but she gave Corky the once—and twice—over. It was like she expected, if not counted on, seeing him covered in burrs and ticks just so she could yell at him. She never seemed to understand that when she yelled at Corky, she was yelling at me.

We’re going to have sandwiches for dinner. It was a statement, not a question.

I can just eat an apple, I said.

Well, I’m making sandwiches. And that’s what we’re having.

Did she think my apple comment had been some kind of taunt; that I was rebelling—against what—sandwiches? I let it go. Is Connor here?

Why?

Why did everything have to be a battle with her? I thought I saw his car out front and was curious.

Yes. He’s here. He’s joining us for dinner, she said, with a lack of enthusiasm. Yep, something was up.

A dinner of sandwiches. I’ll make sure to put my tie on, I mumbled, as I headed to my room.

What was that? she called out.

I kept walking. I’d lost track, but this had to be the tenth time this week where I had found myself wondering what was going on. Something was off. When I’d told Mom I’d completed the tenth grade at the top of my class, all I got from her was, Uh-huh. She loved to brag to friends whenever Connor and I did well in school. This time, though, it was like she’d been asleep when I told her… or thinking of something else.

Connor came out of his room. When he saw me, he closed the door behind him.

What are you doing here, and what’s up with Mom? I asked, catching the unmistakable whiff of marijuana. Just how stupid were my parents? Didn’t they smell it? Even if they didn’t know what marijuana smelled like, didn’t they smell something like—oh, I don’t know—a house burning down?

Connor said, Nice to see you too, brother. There are big things going on, and I wouldn’t want to miss a bit of it. Just think of me as a fly on the wall soaking things in. Even though there was a smile on his face, his eyes stayed still and dark. He was wearing his uniform of jeans with an American flag on each back pocket, a battered gray t-shirt and black Converse hi-top sneakers with untied laces. Didn’t he ever trip on those things?

Connor had always delighted in tormenting me by never directly answering questions. I didn’t have the patience today. Corky and I went to my room.

From behind me, Connor said, "It sure is nice seeing Corky. I’ve missed him lately. Maybe he and I can go play ball later tonight. What do you