The Boy from the Cave

By Mark A. Bannon

An unforgettable and inspiring memoir about a lost boy and his quest for purpose.

 

After his childhood was turned upside down, Mark Bannon found himself living in poverty in a concrete bunker deep in the woods of New Hampshire dubbed "The Cave." After running away from home, Mark embarked on decades of reckless exploits that ultimately led to an around-the-world quest for deeper meaning and purpose.

 

Despite a beautiful family, commendable achievements, and even after a 15-year dive into Eastern religions, philosophies and practices, Mark found himself lost, empty, and at the end of his rope. But an unexpected encounter took him from dunking in the Ganges River to reading the Bible and finally meeting the God who brought him into the light.

 

The Boy from the Cave is an extraordinary voyage of self-discovery and faith. As you immerse yourself in Mark's captivating memoir that examines the burdens of shame and dysfunction, you will find your own perspectives challenged, your spirit uplifted, and your heart inspired to embrace change. Discover the power within you to overcome adversity, reclaim your identity, and forge a path of purpose and authenticity. Through Mark's extraordinary journey, you will find the courage to transform your own life; rekindling hope, igniting faith, and living with unwavering love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark A. Bannon, LLC
• Release date: Jan 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9798987614723

Mark A. Bannon

Mark A. Bannon is an author, mentor, and guide who is dedicated to empowering individuals to overcome life's hardships, navigate challenges, and rise above the constant noise of the world. Drawing from his own journey of triumphing over hopelessness and discovering the life-altering gift of faith, Mark's writings inspire readers through powerful storytelling and encouragement, while his mentorship provides tailored guidance for personal growth and resilience. Mark lives in Colorado with his loving wife Amy and has two grown children and a beautiful granddaughter. He draws inspiration through his faith and from treks in the foothills as he shares his transformative journey and empowers individuals to unlock their true potential. www.markabannon.com

Book preview

"I am the vine, you are the branches. He who abides in Me, and I in him, bears much fruit; for without Me you can do nothing. . . . If you abide in Me and My words abide in you, you will ask what you desire, and it shall be done for you,

John 15:5, 7 (NKJV)

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The story you’re about to read is recounted to the best of my ability. This book contains my perspective on my experiences, with as much honesty and transparency as possible, while still respecting the privacy of friends and loved ones. The following names are pseudonyms: Anello, Anish, Anyi, Bill, Frankie, Hal, Lori, Mrs. Henderson, and Tony.

PART ONE

The Cave

CHAPTER 1

Everyone Out

Are we finally there? I whispered to Michael as our Chevy station wagon slowed and lurched to the side of the road.

My older brother gave me a puzzled glance. I don’t know, he quietly muttered.

All seven of us gently rocked as Dad maneuvered onto an obscure logging path that ran perpendicular to the roadway. I have three older sisters. Marilyn (Mara) is the oldest, followed by Linda, Joanne, my brother Michael, and finally me, the baby of the family. Fighting back the urge to vomit, I was grateful to be stopping after a long drive in the smoke-filled car and even more grateful to have a break from being called a baby. I wondered where we were and why. I guess we all did. But it was a surprise and would remain a mystery until we get there.

Dad was only able to navigate twenty or thirty yards into the overgrown path before we squeaked to a stop. Struggling to see where we were from my customary spot in the way-back of the wagon, I peered past the heads of my three sisters and through the bug-splattered windshield.

Woods.

Sunlight reflected off the bristles of Dad’s freshly buzzed signature crew cut as he opened his door. At forty years old, he was a handsome man. When happy, his blue eyes would light up his face. When mad, they could pierce like a knife. A no-nonsense man, his square jaw often appeared tight. His muscular physique was visible through the white T-shirt neatly tucked into his dark chino pants as he slammed the door and walked to the front of the car. Clenched between his yellowed teeth was a Dutch Masters Panetela Cigar—a recent alternative to his noxious Winston cigarette habit. He had a distant look and a huge grin.

Okay! We’re here. Everyone out!

We dutifully obeyed, exchanging uncertain glances as we slowly piled out into the spring air of New Hampshire.

Mark, don’t forget your jacket, Mom said to me. Always protecting her baby. Her eyes darted in all directions as she buttoned her coat and pulled up the collar.

Grabbing my jacket, confused but curious, I trudged along as we followed Dad several hundred yards further into the thick woods. Waving my hands frantically, I cringed at the incessant buzzing. We were immediately swarmed by clouds of small black flies, referred to locally as May flies. It was an introduction to a nasty insect we would soon grow to curse.

Dad slowly turned in our direction. His penetrating eyes continued to sweep the surrounding forest and sky, with the look of a general surveying a battlefield.

How do you like your new home?

I was too young to comprehend it, but vividly recall the look of bewilderment on the faces of Mom and my older siblings. We all quietly stared at the dense forest surrounding us with no sign of civilization. Eventually, my sister, Linda, broke the silence and nervously asked, "If this is our new home . . . where’s the house?"

Dad’s grin grew even larger.

CHAPTER 2

The Never-Ending Camping Trip

We soon learned that Dad had purchased eighty-five acres of untamed forest with the intention of building a campground. It was situated a mile or so from Route 106, on Route 140 in Belmont, New Hampshire, a town of fewer than 2,500 inhabitants at this time, in early 1969.

This damn job is killing me! Dad had frequently lamented. So, within weeks of that life-altering road trip, he fully embraced his midlife crisis and quit his job of nineteen years at Texas Instruments. Our house was sold and a temporary apartment rented as planning began for our move. He purchased a pickup truck and seemingly every tool known to mankind, as well as a large army tent and cots, set for delivery in New Hampshire. All of this occurred without the input or consent of any of us five children. One of Dad’s favorite expressions was that each of us in the family had a vote, but his vote counted as ten. So, democracy prevailed. Mom accepted the inevitable and we would soon be heading to live in a tent in the woods of New Hampshire.

Up to this point, we lived the American Dream in Attleboro, Massachusetts, a mere three-hour drive away that brought us to what now felt like the other side of civilization. My life was carefree and being the youngest of five made it special: parochial school, stay-at-home mom, picket fence, swimming pool, and rose bushes. We lived an ordinary life, enjoying a neighborhood teeming with other kids, siblings to play and quarrel with, and extended family nearby. We even had a beagle named Toby. I relished the simple summers, especially our two-week family camping vacations and beach trips to Cape Cod.

For Dad, the era was a post-World War II model—America at its finest. In the pioneering spirit of the famous Apollo 11 lunar landing, anything was possible. As for my Portuguese American mom, although she struggled with depression from time to time, she was generally humming and singing around the house. She seemed to adore motherhood and was the life of family gatherings. I felt safe, loved, and secure. But that all ended with one road trip.

* *

Dad looked down toward Linda’s expectant face and, as if staring through her in a daydream, he smiled and pointed vaguely in the direction of the thick forest. We’re going to build our castle, up there, on the hill. Then he added as if to himself, We won’t be answering to anyone anymore.

What hill? Joanne whispered as she grabbed Mara’s arm. Mara instinctively pulled Jo closer, hugging her in silence as she struggled to take it all in.

I studied Mom’s face, searching for clarity or assurance, but I got none. She seemed overwhelmed as she tried to process the surroundings and situation. This was the first time Mom was seeing her new home. I’m not sure what she knew or when she knew it, or if she had a voice in the decision, but Mom clearly looked disturbed now seeing the reality. Yet, being the dutiful wife, as was expected of the era and certainly demanded by Dad, beyond a surface attempt to offer a few comforting words, Mom held her peace.

* *

Once Dad finalized the sale of our home and we wrapped up our school year in Attleboro, we made the final move to New Hampshire in the spring of 1970. Dad had traveled back and forth delivering various equipment and tools, and he cut a dirt road into the land to a clearing where our campsite would be.

As soon as we arrived, we pitched our huge green canvas tent. It went up to a high peak in the center and had a divider separating the two sides. Dad and Mom would sleep on cots on one side, and we five kids put our sleeping bags on foam mats on the other. In the first days, we set up camp, my sisters cleared brush around the tent, while my brother and I helped Dad build our first picnic table and gather stones to make a massive fireplace. And just like that, we were living in the woods of New Hampshire with no running water, no toilet, no shower, and no electricity.

As the days passed, we all settled into a host of daily chores. I volunteered to light the Coleman lanterns when darkness fell and, aside from getting to play with wooden matches, I was always amazed at their intense blue glow. Mom struggled to cook on the matching green Coleman stove and often opted for the open flame of the campfire instead. Michael gathered wood for the fire, rocks to secure the tarps and anything else he could do that gave him the opportunity to explore in the woods. Joanne was all in. She cleared brush like a trooper and in an odd way, almost seemed to be enjoying the woods as much as Michael and me. Linda, who was anything but lazy, did her part as well, but her brow was constantly furrowed. She’s super intelligent and seemed to understand the magnitude of the situation better than any of us. Mara immediately adopted the task of caretaker, a familiar role, looking out for all of us in a way that Mom often couldn’t.

Water was definitely an issue. We had none. Aside from swampy wetlands, there was no lake, river, or even a viable stream to be found anywhere on our property.

Boys! Come on, grab the empty water containers, and throw them in the truck.

Got it, Dad! We jumped, excited for the ride down the hill to Robarge’s Shell station. Tossing a half-dozen five-gallon red containers in the bed of the pickup, my brother and I climbed in the cab and bounced down the road with the plastic jugs rolling around. We filled them from a water spigot outside the public restrooms while Dad gassed up the truck.

He exclaimed, Thirty-eight cents a gallon! Damn gas is going through the roof. Next thing you know, they’ll charge you for water!

Once back at the campground, Dad thumped the heavy water jugs onto the dirt next to the truck. Motioning toward the large fireplace a few yards away with its series of steel racks and cooking grates that held an assortment of pots and pans. Boys, get these over there, fill up the water kettles and put the buckets back where they belong.

With that, Michael and I both grabbed one container from opposite sides. Facing each other, we wobbled with the ebb of splashing water as we awkwardly shuffled across the carpet of pine needles toward the still-smoldering fire. My eyes watered from the smoke that coated my nostrils and I gagged from the nasty taste in the back of my throat.

Mark! Watch what you’re doing. Michael scolded as the top of my head smacked into his chin. Being two years younger and several inches shorter, it was all I could do to keep up my end.

We struggled to manage the necessities of life that first summer. We boiled water in pots on the campfire for bathing and drinking. Hygiene was a challenge but a priority for Mom. We may have left our home and possessions, but she was determined that we would not lose our dignity. Filling small pails with the heated water, we grabbed bars of Ivory soap and took sponge baths at the edge of our campsite.

Two or three times a week, Dad would have us all pile into the back of the pickup truck and we would drive the twelve-mile distance over winding back roads to Crystal Lake in Gilmanton. Grabbing our towels, shampoo, and soap at the end of a hard day of working on the campground, we would giggle and tease with carefree innocence as we zipped along, arms waving and hair blowing.

It was a massive 450-acre lake that had seemingly endless private alcoves around it. Dad found a secluded spot with a concrete barrier-like dam that had a nice abutment. Its worn concrete surface was cool and smooth on my feet and it was about ten feet above a deep section of clear blue water. We had a blast jumping or diving into the cool water and it was a highlight of our week. We were able to take a real bath and then enjoy some carefree playtime.

There was also a perfect spot off to the left of the abutment with a gradual grade into the water. It was more suitable for Mom, Mara, and Linda, where they could wade in for bathing. As for Joanne, Michael, and me, we always opted for diving or cannonballing off the barrier. Every time we visited the lake, before our first dive, we got the same old Dad story of how he got his crooked jaw. He’d say it in the exact same words and tone each time. With an odd sense of pride, he’d recount how he got the marbles knocked out of him, was rendered unconscious, and almost drowned from diving into a lake from an overhanging tree and hitting a hidden rock. Given his seeming indifference to the daily dangers we faced in our new life in the woods, it struck me as odd how he carefully waded into the water, diving under to fully scope it out and make sure we were safe before we took our first dive off the concrete wall.

Back at the campground, we used a porta-potty to go to the bathroom. It was basically a knee-high, wood-framed cube wrapped in white wicker, with a lid, toilet seat, and plastic bucket below. The porta-potty was strategically placed several yards into the woods behind a cluster of hemlock trees and held a supply of plastic bags for the bucket beneath. A small grey metal army shovel with a folding spade-head leaned against the tree nearby.

Make sure you tie the bags and dig the holes deep enough so the animals don’t get into them! bellowed Dad as he pointed out the designated area to bury our bags of excrement. When it was dark, my brother and I were sometimes enlisted to dig the holes for Mom and my sisters and look away while holding a flashlight. It was a disturbing new experience for them, but Dad was unmoved. In fact, he seemed rather proud of all of us roughing it. He often joked of Robinson Crusoe and reminded us that we were much better off—at least we don’t have cannibals trying to eat us! Michael and I thought living in the woods was pretty cool. Aside from poop-bag duty, we loved our new wilderness playground.

I’m not sure who was more excited when the Allis Chalmers HD7 bulldozer roared to life with a burst of black smoke as it crawled off the flatbed. I was in awe, but Dad was over-the-top giddy. He had no idea how to operate Tinkerbell as he affectionately named her, and Michael and I laughed secretly, watching him curse and yell as he learned. Many a tree and rock were unearthed in the process.

Over the next several weeks, Dad would return from shopping excursions with loads of supplies and additional tools in his truck, to add to the growing assortment of chain saws, brush cutters, axes, shovels, wheelbarrows, and the like. Michael and I would jump with anticipation as he roared into the dirt drive in a cloud of dust, with the oversized paws and wet nose of our new German Shepherd puppy peeking out the passenger window. Gretchen had replaced our beagle, Toby, who had been hit by a car prior to the move. Even as a puppy, Gretchen possessed an innate protectiveness, yet she was gentle and playful. Gretchen seemed to instinctively know the seriousness of our circumstances; she was hyperaware of our surroundings and always kept a watchful eye. We all wanted Gretchen by our side in the thick of night, and she readily rose to the role of family protector.

For my brother and me, the campground experience began as an incredible adventure. Although we don’t look much alike and have starkly different personalities, at eleven and nine years old we shared the utter excitement of living in a tent and doing things that no kids our age were able to do. Michael has my mother’s Portuguese attributes with dark hair and skin, brown eyes, and a slender tall build. I look very much like my Irish French dad with lighter skin, bright blue eyes, square jaw, and a shorter, muscular build. Being smaller than average for a kid entering fourth grade, I was not much over four feet tall and around fifty-five pounds. It was a challenge for me to operate the chainsaw and power brush cutter, but that didn’t stop me from trying.

Climbing the muddy track of the bulldozer and riding shotgun next to Dad was the highlight of my day. If late enough, meaning any time after lunch, Dad would have enough Gablinger’s beer in him to allow me to drive. Their slogan Doesn’t fill you up must have been true because Dad could easily put away a dozen or more in a day. The empty bronze cans emblazoned with an old man’s face rolled around on the floor of the dozer and littered the woods along the yellow beast’s path. Dad operated the foot pedals and I pulled the steering levers. He let me think I was controlling the blade. We were a menace, but it mattered not as we no longer answered to anyone.

Over the weeks, we cut, dug, and plowed our way deep into the woods. At day’s end, we would cook a meal over the fire. I was intrigued as Dad tossed potatoes, squash, and onions wrapped in tinfoil into the bed of red-hot coals, while Mom grilled burgers or chicken on the racks above. On late workdays, or when funds were tight, we’d simply cut up hot dogs in a pot of beans or heat canned Dinty Moore beef stew on the Coleman stove.

Later in the evening, giggles and chatter would interrupt the darkness as we sat around the massive campfire, toasting marshmallows and melting beer bottles in the hot coals. Dad told scary stories and poked at the fire while alternately sipping blackberry brandy and drinking beer. With the guidance of my brother’s innate artistic abilities, we mastered creating cool ashtrays and other artifacts with melted bottles and cans. We often stayed up late playing charades or chasing imaginary snipes with brown paper bags, just outside of the rim of light from the fire and the Coleman lantern that hung from a tree branch near the tent. Dad chuckled with delight as he watched his five shrieking children run around the woods. We always missed the capture of these imaginary creatures, yet never tired of the attempt.

As time passed, Mom’s minimal enthusiasm waned even further and the depression that stalked her would rear its head. She would sit quietly at the outer perimeter of the firelight, and hardly ever hummed or sang anymore. Exhausted, she would silently slip into the musty tent and the comfort of sleep. I often followed Mom to tuck her in under Mara’s watchful eye. Sitting on the edge of Mom’s cot, I brushed her thick brown hair and kissed her forehead. She could barely look back as she clutched her well-worn rosary beads tightly against her heart. Her distant stare hinted that something was wrong. But I didn’t understand what to do and couldn’t fix things. I missed her already.

Aside from yelling in his mock caveman voice, Woman, bring beer! Dad and Mom hardly talked anymore. When she would voice a concern or complaint, it was quickly met with his standard, Jesus H. Christ, would you quit your bellyaching, Mary! We all fully knew when he invoked Jesus’s middle initial, he was not to be challenged—especially if he was drunk, which seemed to occur more frequently these days. Donald M. Bannon (Mike to most and Mickey to Mom and our relatives) was a jovial and pleasant drunk at first. He