Sometimes Lonely Never Alone

By Bob Smith

While most his age were concerned with high school romances and the Friday night sock hops, young Ben Stark was grieving the loss of both parents and coping with the adult-sized problem of running a huge ranching operation. Facing such realities, it is no surprise that his early life is a mixture of depression, anxiety, and despair. A devoted Christian, Ben's faith is tested that a loving God would allow such turmoil in a life so dedicated. This is the story of how he coped, the people who helped him along the way, and his growth despite the many unexpected and unfortunate circumstances that clouded his life. The book is about stumbling, falling, and getting up again. In these pages, Ben shares the mindset that kept him going, and ultimately led to successes in his community and beyond. Late in life, when he least expected it, Ben discovered romance. He met and married Donna, who added dimension to his life. She was the catalyst in bringing to the surface ambitions long lost and almost forgotten.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 25, 2016
• ISBN: 9781681974996

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Sometimes Lonely

Never Alone

Bob Smith

ISBN 978-1-68197-498-9 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-68197-499-6 (digital)

Copyright © 2016 by Bob Smith

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

296 Chestnut Street

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

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

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

About the Author

Dedication

This book is written for and dedicated to my children and grandchildren, present and future. I hope they understand that every decision they make carries with it a consequence. Good decisions pay off with positive results. The bad decisions . . . well, you know.

Another thing I hope they take to heart is that in reaching out to someone in need pays handsome dividends in the life of the one who bothers to reach out. Some will appreciate the assistance, others will not, but it doesn’t matter, reach out anyway.

The book is also dedicated to Geraldine, who brought these children into the world and loves them dearly, and to Charlotte who can only love them dearly. Having two such women in their lives is a tremendous asset.

Acknowledgements

Until this project, I have often only skimmed this page in other books, or dismissed it altogether. Only now have I come to fully appreciate what a significant role these people play in the final result.

Without editors and proofreaders, this effort would be flawed with improper syntax, misspellings, and inappropriate punctuation. I know this is true because I sent the manuscript to the people listed below wondering what errors they could possibly find; it was perfect, after all. Shocked at what they found is understatement.

I’m grateful to these people who spent hours looking for mistakes. My list includes Anne Kinney, Marjorie Stark (no relation to Ben), and Wayne Arrington. I’m also grateful to the crew at Christian Faith Publishing for taking me under their wing and overlooking the entire project.

Chapter 1

It was unusual that Janice Stark made a special trip back upstairs just to let her son know she and his father were leaving for dinner in town. Normally she would have shouted from downstairs. The feeling that compelled her to make the effort was particularly strong. She didn’t understand it, but she didn’t fight it. The go-with-the-feeling sentiment had served her well.

She reached his room, pushed the door open, and walked across to where he sat. Ben was a handsome young man, much like his father with broad shoulders and muscular arms. His face was tanned from the outdoor duties, and a gentle white line shown near the top of his forehead where a well-worn hat warded off the sun. His smile was so inviting you invariably smiled back, and when he laughed his eyes sparkled with just a hint of mischief. After sharing her evening plans with him, Janice lingered a moment, and asked, How are you doing, son?

I’m good . . . just getting in a little study time. Got a final tomorrow that I’m a little concerned about . . . algebra. He looked up to see her gentle smile.

She touched his cheek with the back of her hand, the touch tender and loving. I love you Ben Stark, she said.

Love you, too, Mom. Any idea what time you guys be getting home? I need to talk to Dad about some stuff.

I’m guessing around nine. Your father’s got a big day tomorrow.

I’ll probably still be banging my head against the wall trying to understand this stuff, he said, looking down at the textbook and shaking his head.

Wish I could help, she said, but Lord knows algebra is not my thing.

I’m afraid it’s not my thing either. They shared a laugh as she exited the room and moved downstairs where her husband, Benson, was waiting.

Problem? he asked.

No problem, she said, just telling Ben good night.

Benson smiled and glanced at his watch. Hey, we’ve got to get a move on. I told Barney we’d meet them at six-thirty sharp and it’s already six-fifteen. Minutes later they were turning onto Highway 250, headed for Doylestown to meet and dine with new church members Barney and Ann Slocum. The occasional clap of thunder followed immediately by a streak of lightning from the north promised rain in the near future.

Not a great night to be out for dinner, but we do need the rain, Benson said, trying to be optimistic.

We should have invited them to our house, Janice said as the first few drops of rain pelted against the windshield.

Well, we could have invited them out, and I’m sure they would have loved one of your fabulous dishes, but, being new to the area, they don’t know exactly how to get to our place. It’s much more convenient for us to make the trip into town.

You’re right, Benson. She paused and said, Why don’t you turn on the wipers? I can hardly see the highway.

To appease her, he turned the wipers on low speed. He tried, but could not resist the temptation, and said, To turn the wipers on in this little drizzle always causes smearing, and then neither of us can see. The windshield quickly smeared as he knew it would. Benson pointed to the smear as if to say, See what I mean? Within four or five swipes the windshield was clear, and it was Janice’s turn.

See how much better that is, she said.

Benson might have mentioned the real reason the smear cleared. It had nothing to do with the work of the wipers and everything to do with the rain, which was now coming down harder. He might have mentioned it, but didn’t. Let her win one, he thought, and turned the wipers to high.

By the time they reached Dead Man’s Curve, the rain was coming in sheets and riding on gusts of a stiff north wind. Benson increased his grip on the wheel. Straight ahead was that dreaded curve. Named by the locals, Dead Man’s Curve wasn’t really all that deadly, but the number of accidents occurring there suggested the probability of a death sooner or later.

A combination of physical features led to the high number of incidents. First, it was a curve. The curve itself, though only a little more severe than comfortable, was not the major problem. It was the vegetation grown too close to the highway’s edge that blocked a driver’s view until the very last second. Benson hated that curve, and when young Ben started driving it was the first thing he warned him about.

You can’t see around the corner, son, so your best bet is to slow down and move as far to the right as you can. A driver not familiar with the curve might be driving too fast and cross the center stripe. Give him all the room he needs.

When he served as a county commissioner, Benson petitioned the land owner to clear some of his land to provide better visibility. The land owner was reluctant to comply and since he was not actually breaking the law, the best Benson could do was have the highway department put up additional signage announcing the dangerous curve ahead.

* * *

Rolan Hill was on his front porch, rocking in his favorite chair. His shack was on the Doylestown side of the curve, but he had a perfect view of vehicles both coming out of the curve and going into it. No one could accuse him of hoping to see two cars crash, but the fact that he was named in several official police records as an eyewitness was an indication that he was on hand to see more than a few.

The Starks did not know Rolan well, but they recognized him on sight and waved to him when they passed in daylight hours. He always waved back.

Rolan’s life was as uncomplicated as he could get it. Except for his weekly trip to town, all he ever did was eat, sleep, chew his Redman, and rock on the front porch. When necessary, he’d relieve himself off the back porch or in the outhouse behind the shack. He religiously took a shower on Friday, except in extremely cold weather,

What Rolan called home was really nothing more than a construction shack abandoned by some highway crew that had long since moved on. During the highway project, the site must have been quite active. The total plot was about eight acres and used for truck and equipment parking. It had been leased from the landowner at one time and soon after the highway people moved out, Rolan moved in. The original landowner died shortly after the lease was up, and the land was sold by his heirs. The new owner assumed that his purchase did not include the eight acre site. Turns out, he unwittingly paid tax on the eight acres Rolan called home.

In effort to customize his new dwelling, Rolan—with the help of his only friend, Pete—built another porch on the back of the structure after knocking a hole in the back wall. A makeshift door covered the back opening. Where the door did not quite meet the jamb, empty flour sacks were rolled tight and crammed into the openings to ward off cold winds in the wintertime.

Rolan may have been simple, but he was not stupid. Without running water, he figured out a way to attach a canvas bag to the backside of the house. To the bag he connected a short hose with a nozzle allowing him to control the water flow. He’d fill the bag with water from a nearby stream on Monday and let the sun heat the bag during the week. By Friday it was ready for his shower. The system worked well in the summertime, not so well in the winter. He figured since he didn’t sweat as much in the winter, the weekly bath was not absolutely necessary. A one gallon jug dipped into the stream was his drinking water for the day.

Everyone knew of Rolan, but nobody knew him well. He was friendly in that he was constantly waving at the passing traffic, but had only one friend, Pete, who owned the adjoining farm. The size of Rolan’s plot could hardly be called a farm. Overgrowth would have taken the place long ago had it not been for Pete. He mowed the field out back and around the house. His pay was the small bale of hay harvested from the semi-annual cutting.

Rolan’s only outing was his weekly trip into Doylestown. Here again, he relied on Pete. Their agreement was that Rolan had to be ready at the designated time, or be left. Rolan was always ready. The trip to town was important, not because it connected Rolan to the outside world; he didn’t give two hoots about that, but he did need groceries. He brought back a week’s worth every trip, and on the first Saturday of every month he’d pick up his government check.

Rolan’s life was simple and fit him well.

Word had it that his mother intended to name him Roland, with a d. Not being literate herself, she misspelled his name. This did not seem to bother Rolan, so nobody made a big deal out of it.

With the rain coming and the skies threatening even more, Rolan was preparing to move inside when he saw the headlights of two cars going in opposite directions and headed for the curve. The car traveling from Doylestown was going quite a bit faster than the one going toward town. From experience, he calculated they would meet at the curve about the same time. He waited.

A flash of lightning blinded him at the moment of impact. He heard the hump of the crash, and regained vision in time to see both cars leave the road, tumble into the growth next to the highway, and finally come to a rest in the heavy clump that had blocked their vision.

Even from some distance away Rolan could tell the damage was significant. When the accident investigators arrived, he told them, I seen lots of wrecks out here, but that there was one of the worst I ever seen. They never even slowed down. If they ain’t all dead it’d be a miracle.

Chapter 2

Rolan was either wrong in his assessment of the crash or had just witnessed a miracle. One person survived the crash. Three lost their lives at Dead Man’s Curve that night, but one lived. Ben’s parents, Benson and Janice Stark, were pulled from the wreckage barely clinging to life. Both died on the way to Doylestown General. Within the hour, when most his age were thinking about the pretty blonde in history class or studying for an algebra final, young Ben Stark would be grieving the loss of both parents and facing grown-up responsibilities.

In the other car, Peggy Lou Bristow, sustained critical injuries and died later in the hospital. She was a class favorite, and excelled at every activity she participated in from student council to cheerleading. Peggy Lou had a smile that lightened up the entire room. Her grieving parents spent the final few hours of her life at her bedside, praying to see that smile just one more time. The smile never came. She never regained consciousness.

The only survivor was Jimmy Joe Johnson, the driver of the other car. He came out with a bloody nose and a badly bruised left arm.

It didn’t seem right that the Starks and Peggy Lou should lose their lives and Jimmy Joe be spared. The Starks and the Bristows were heavily invested in the community, always involved, and ready to assist.

By contrast, neither Jimmy Joe nor his family played an active, much less positive, role in community. Obnoxious was about the best that could be said of Jimmy Joe Johnson. It wasn’t totally his fault. He was the product of a blow-hard father and his mother was a mousy little thing who sat in a corner waiting for instructions from her overbearing husband.

The Johnson family was new to the area, meaning they weren’t born there. Jimmy Joe’s father, an engineer with the Santa Fe line, was transferred from Oklahoma. There was some question as to whether this move was a promotion, or even a lateral move. His few friends were railroad buddies. They tagged him with what seemed to be a very appropriate nickname, Bulldog. The odd shape and jut of his lower jaw was an obvious factor, but other characteristics might have played a part, like his surly expression or the indent of heavy wrinkles in his chubby face.

The family had been in Doylestown long enough to assimilate into the community, but had not done so. To be fair, Bulldog’s work schedule probably hampered the effort. Railroad schedules were twelve-hour shifts, four days on, three days off. The shift he chose was 6:00 p.m to 6:00 a.m. It paid slightly more per hour. That’ll keep me in Skoal, he said.

His shift preference meant he slept during the day and was not at home on many nights. When his son was most susceptible to trouble, he was not around. His mother tried, but could not control him. Jimmy Joe was a hoodlum, pure and simple. When his father would hear of his shenanigans, he’d think they were funny. So, instead of discipline, Jimmie Joe found encouragement.

He’s just a kid, Bulldog would say. He’s not hurting nobody, and I’m not going to have him growing up with that goody two-shoes crap. Hell, he’s headed to the NFL. They don’t allow no wimps in the NFL.

Bulldog Johnson was obsessed with football. In his youth, he had played some high school ball. Sadly, his interest in the game far exceeded his ability on the field. His career ended in high school with barely enough playing hours to warrant a letter jacket. Back in school he wore the jacket virtually year round, temperature not a factor. He blamed his parents for his poor showing on the field of play. They were both relatively short in stature, and he blamed them for passing on the trait. It was bitter disappointment at the time, but now he had found solace in living through his son’s achievements on the field.

During football season, Bulldog planned to attend every practice session his schedule would permit. The plan was sidelined after the very first practice session. The problem was his mouth—he couldn’t keep it shut. Bulldog was consistently yelling out advice to his son, the quarterback. He shouted his approval when Jimmy Joe excelled, and was very verbal, even cruel to others, when things fell apart.

He was not selective with his abuse. From the sidelines he’d yell at his son, other players and even coaches. Get up, move your butt! Your feet are for scrambling, so use ’em. Hey, Coach, he can’t throw a pass on his back. Where’s the protection on that one?

The coaches were not impressed with the outbreaks. They put up with them far longer than anyone thought—about an hour.

Coach Woodard approached him on the sideline, introduced himself, and offered a suggestion. Most thought the coach let him down easy.

Mr. Johnson, he said, we think Jimmy Joe has great potential. We are delighted that he is on the team. His transfer to Doylestown was a blessing for us. Obviously he got some of this talent from you. We think it’s good that you share your thoughts with him, but we’d prefer you do it outside the practice area, preferably at home. Your yelling from the sidelines is disruptive to the coaches as well as to the rest of the players. Frankly, we’d appreciate your staying away from practice, or if you choose to be here, sit in the stands. And, instead of yelling, make notes so you can talk to Jimmy Joe after practice. Of course, during a game you can yell as much as you like and can be as critical as you wish.

Hearing this, Bulldog was not happy, and stormed off mumbling obscenities under his breath.

Although everyone could tell what the coach was thinking, he did not say it. If you want to act a fool at the games, that’s up to you, but here at practice, keep your trap shut. To say that Jimmy Joe was a spoiled brat was understatement. His overblown ego was out of control. On the streets downtown there were those who cut him tremendous slack. Doylestown had not had a winning season in the last decade, and they were ready for one. With Jimmy Joe as quarterback, there was a chance.

Benson Stark, Ben’s father, was one who cut Jimmy Joe no slack at all. He was aware of a few of his antics, and did not approve. In fact, he had spoken to Ben about them. He pointed out that a young man who seemed to have no morals, ethics, or concern for his fellow classmates didn’t have all that bright a future.

If that kid keeps going the way he’s going, he’ll end up in jail by the time he’s twenty years old, he said, and then, knowing of his NFL aspirations, added, "When he gets out of prison, the NFL will have little use for a guy his age.

Be careful when you’re around him, son. I’m not saying he’s a lost cause. Don’t ever give up on someone just because they are on the wrong track. But when you try to help them, make sure you’re pulling them up and they’re not pulling you down. Try to help them without stooping to a lower level yourself.

The suggestion was a good one, but never acted upon. Before Ben graduated, he and Jimmy Joe had very little involvement except on the football field, and that wasn’t always pleasant. Ben played left tackle in his senior year, and Jimmy Joe, a junior, was the quarterback. Everyone, including Ben, was impressed with Jimmy Joe’s ball handling ability, and confident that he could help the team. What drove all of them crazy was Jimmy Joe’s attempt to shift blame when things didn’t work out.

He was quick to point out that the receiver was at fault when a pass fell incomplete. Hey, man, he’d say, I can’t get it to you if you run the wrong pattern. The fact that the receiver did run the right pattern was immaterial in Jimmy Joe’s court of law. The fact was the pass was off target. When Jimmy Joe connected with the receiver, he’d take full credit. I threaded the needle on that one, he’d say. Teammates rolled their eyes at such a statement and wondered, Can we put up with this guy for another year?

Jimmy Joe often complained about the blocking. Sometimes the blocking did collapse, but on many occasions, the blocking was excellent and formed the kind of pocket any quarterback could work from. The problem came when Jimmy Joe moved outside the pocket, scrambling around in the backfield on his way to a grandstand play. He gained quite a bit of notoriety for such plays. No doubt about it, the plays were impressive, when they worked. Sometimes he’d get caught in the backfield. When that happened, he’d always blame the blocking. One day he threw a barb at Ben. It seemed a little off base to Ben, and he confronted Jimmy Joe.

You take care of your position and I’ll take care of mine. If you had sense enough to stay in the pocket, you’d have been fine, Ben said with a mindset that indicated he would take the matter further if need be. No further complaints were specifically aimed at Ben Stark. Jimmy Joe knew he’d get his butt kicked if they were. However, being a bully, he continued with those players who would not take him to task.

Ben preferred the defense set to the offense. Though he never voiced the reason, it should be noted that Jimmy Joe did not play defense. The fact that the opposing team’s running backs were not much of a challenge to one who wrestles cattle at branding time may have also been a factor.

It was no secret that several of the area colleges had an eye on Jimmy Joe. This interest sparked an ego that needed no boost. Although Ben had sufficient regard for his abilities on the field, he had little respect for Jimmy Joe as a person.

Scooter, Jimmy Joe’s nickname, fit him perfectly. It aptly described his ability to elude tacklers and find a way to save a play that had otherwise fallen apart. He, like his father before him, had few interests outside football, but he, unlike his father, had talent on the field.

Because Scooter and Ben had so little in common, it was unlikely that one would seek out the other. And besides, Ben didn’t share his father’s opinion of Scooter Johnson. Having seen him operate with fellow students in the hallways and on the playing field, he felt that Scooter was, in fact, a lost cause.

Chapter 3

Ben had just