Never Give Up: A young man's sad, yet fun, humorous, and exciting ten-day trip back home, or an unforgettable ten-day journey back home...what could happen?

By S. L. Frandle

About the Book
After the sudden death of an old friend and classmate, Dusty travels back to his hometown to attend the funeral. Visiting his old haunts and catching up with pals he hasn’t seen in years, Dusty is sent on a journey into nostalgia, reliving the carefree days of high school. Standing on a precipice of his own life and post-college career, Dusty finds himself torn between his past and his future, the comfort of old relationships and the allure of new ones. Never Give Up is a story of loyalty, loss, and ultimately, hope.
About the Author
S. L. Frandle was born and raised in Southern Minnesota. Although he has written other material, mostly educational and technical, this is his first fictional novel. After many years he was finally encouraged by his wife and daughter to finish writing a story he started years ago. With that encouragement as well as the inspiration of other books, he finally decided to finish the dream of spinning an intriguing tale into a work of fiction. With a vast background in education, S. L. Frandle is using that knowledge and finishing a couple children’s books to be published in the future. He currently resides in Lake City, Florida with his wife.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: Nov 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889258575

Book preview

Introduction

First of all, I want to acknowledge how boring the beginning of a tale or story can be. I will try not to bore you with this adventure of sorts. At least not intentionally. The pudding is in the details, and I’ll certainly try to give you a few. Hopefully you can feel the sadness, the happiness, the sorrow, the laughter, and the craziness with me. The experience I’m going to share with you is about a young man’s ten-day journey of sadness, teenage flashbacks of love, sex, fun, joy, and sorrow. Along this journey I’ll also share a few new and past encounters filled with unexpected surprises, growing up, and moving on.

I’ll start by telling you about where and when this all unfolds. This was an experience where many teenage memories were brought back to life, new relationships were unexpected and these all revolved around honoring the sudden loss of a fallen classmate. Now I’m going to relive them with you. This sad yet surprise-filled journey brought me back to where I grew up.

This starts (I’m sure you have heard this before) on the day I flew back home in the fall of 1982. It was six years after I graduated from high school. This was a sad day yet a time when meeting old friends brought back a few memories from high school, before and after that eventful day of graduation.

I won’t bore you with childhood stuff, like what baseball cards I saved or comic books I read. I’ll just share a short time with emotions and events that will hopefully put a smile on your face. Maybe a tear on your cheek. Most of all maybe say to yourself I remember, or I did that, or I was there.

Hi, my name is Dusty, my grandmother called me Dakotah, and this is my account of a time gone by. So come with me while I tell you about it.

Chapter 1

Hey, keep your hands off that luggage, I heard someone yell out from across the baggage claim area. An area cluttered with suitcases already stacked up from previous flights. I couldn’t help but wonder why there were no/zero/nada/zippo security people around. Oh well, as long as my luggage is okay, I really don’t give a rip. I should care, but I’m in a hurry, kind of. By the way, thinking to myself, what good is it to have a luggage tag with your name on it if there is no security around to prevent someone from grabbing your bag?

I looked around and observed many—I’ll be kind—overweight (vastly obese) people. Some short, some tall, some men, and some women. Mostly happy and smiling, as many would seem to say …. Welcome to {Minnesota Nice}.

 So, I beg to ask the question {after a slight observation on my part}… Why would so many vastly obese women with heavy cellulite dimples in their ass wear tight pants or even stretch leotards? I wonder if they ever looked at their rear ends in the mirror. They must think it looks sexy to wear such tight leggings, leotards, and even shorts. Just a thought, don’t yell at me. I had to look away from these—what did my brother call this?—oh yes…cheese curd asses. Don’t get me wrong, and you might call me an asshole, because there are a lot of very robust women who are kind, sexy, and pretty…but they may have a cheese curd ass and they probably know it. Besides, I must be an ass because I shouldn’t be looking to see if they have two cheeks that look like two adjacent heads of lettuce with a nylon stocking pulled over the top, sorry… cheese curd butts are nice and happy I guess… I just don’t think one should show them off, that’s all.

Now, I have to get these wonderful visions out of my train of thought and focus on other issues, like getting my luggage. I have no desire to get this cheese curd vision mixed up tonight with otherwise much more delightful, colorful and more memorable dreams whenever I happen to fall asleep. One can never know exactly what dreams may come your way at night, but I definitely don’t want to count heads of lettuce; I prefer sheep. Better yet, horses!

As I was picking up my two bags from the crowded carousel, I looked around for someone to check me through. Since I still did not see any security, I just walked past the checkout point and with my two bags in tow headed for the, wait for it, automatic sliding glass doors. Beg the question again… why do we not have security for picking up bags, where theft could easily happen, but we have security checkpoints where we have to show IDs and boarding passes??Does that fricking make sense to anyone?

Heading to the car rental, I’m thinking to myself, I can’t help it; I still couldn’t believe it….. No security anywhere (none that I could see anyway) to check your tags for ID. I could have walked out with anyone’s luggage or large duffle bag. That was certainly not the case at LAX or Chicago O’Hare. Times are changing. Someone will probably write a novel about baggage claim someday.

Leaving the automatic opening doors behind me, modern technology for the eighties, I entered the lit-up arrival area where numerous cars are driving in to pick up friends and or loved ones. I noticed one policeman trying to direct traffic. Another traffic cop was busy explaining to some idiot that you can’t leave your car parked unattended. I quickly took a deep breath and joyfully could smell the clean fresh air of Minnesota. This was a far cry from the smog I had kept in my lungs from Los Angeles. The air sometimes can be heavy with humidity and a misty sensation which tells you there must be a thunderstorm brewing. Not today though, clean fresh air. I love it!

Being from Minnesota, you may grow up with another sense that you get used to. The sense of smell in the air that is fresh and clean but starting to get a little sticky. This usually meant high and low pressures would soon collide and something would give, making for a possible good old-fashioned thunder and lightning show.

Nonetheless I continued walking outside without the stench of the LA smog surrounding me, smothering me, like I remembered earlier in the day. Nice comforting relief, I thought. The short time I was in LA was enough for me. I have a friend, Lee Hayden, drive me from Tulare, California to the regional airport in Visalia. Then the commuter flight to Los Angeles. From there catch the long flight… LA to the Twin Cities International Airport. Short drive for Lee but was appreciated. Time goes by quickly even on a half hour drive when you have a friend or family member take you because you can tell each other about life experiences, and it makes the drive seem much shorter. Lee also volunteered to pick me up at the Visalia Airport on my return flight. Since I’m flying back on a Tuesday on a commuter flight from LA to Visalia and that way Lee wouldn’t have to drive so far on a weekday. Just a short jaunt from Visalia to Tulare. My return flight has a scheduled arrival time of around 3:00 ten days from today.

Man, if you are into people watching there sure is a different crowd here in the Twin Cities. Watching all the people lighting up while waiting for rides made me want to have a smoke, but I refrained myself. I smoked a little in college but try to stay away from the bad habit. It was mid-October so the smoke didn’t linger in the air like it does outside when it’s below zero. But none the less, there are a lot of smokers, and obviously eager to light up since you can’t smoke in planes anymore, or inside the airport. I adjusted the brim of my ball cap, with the Marine emblem (which I wore for good luck and honoring my Uncle who was a brute of a Marine. I looked up to my Uncle a lot). Now outside the terminal, on the far end by the smoking area, I could hear some of the chatter amongst those waiting for a ride.

Where the hell’s my cigarettes? some grizzly looking guy was yelling at the woman next to him as if she should know.

In your goddamn coat pocket, you asshole, I heard her snap back at him. I pretended not to watch.

I felt the warm breeze smother my face as I approached the crosswalk. There’s a slight autumn wind, clean, clear, and easy on the nose and mouth as you take it all in with a deep breath. I sensed a feeling of guilt rush through my veins as I walked, the shiver in my back made me wonder why I ever left this area. After all, southern Minnesota has a lot to offer, and I sure miss it every time that I come back here. You have your walleye fishing, duck hunting (if you are into that), Minnesota Viking football, Gopher country (Minnesota Basketball/Football Gophers that is), change of seasons, and don’t forget the friendly people, just to mention a few. But most of all I miss old friends and family. With that said, I don’t miss the 20 below wind chill mornings/days.

Enough of Minnesota weather. How could you give up the beautiful scenic mountains of the Sierra Nevada in the distance, or the hot air of the San Joaquin Valley in California? Visalia, Tulare, and Porterville areas in California where I was playing Class A baseball was much warmer in January than the cold winters of southern Minnesota, that’s for sure. I can plan just about anything I want to. I don’t have to worry about the weather, the snow or ice on the roads in the winter. Not too many tornadoes in the valley either, although I do get the excitement of an unexpected earthquake every now and then. Mostly just a rumble here and there. You never know when it’s coming though. At least if there’s a blizzard coming you have some warning, not that it helps matters any.

Sure, I have family back here in Minnesota, but it will never be the same, especially since my dad is no longer around, having passed away a few years ago. Then again, nothing ever stays the same. I do feel a sense of loneliness every time I come back to the roots, but you could never get me to move back to the bitter cold winters of Minnesota. I guess this is why so many people head west, but for me I will probably always have a sense of belonging to Minnesota. If you grew up here, you would definitely understand. I miss the four seasons, especially the fall! Even though I miss the snow at times, I can just drive up the Sierra Mountains and I get my fill; at least the temperature is bearable. I get somewhat melancholy at times in Cali, but then I think of the cold winters and I’m cured!

Good God, I still root for the Vikings after all these years, ever since 1961. I can’t forget the Twins baseball either. This does make for some good competitive cheering with my friends in California. A few sports bars carry all the Vikings games, especially since there are a lot of transplanted Minnesotans. There is a lot of heated bar chatter when the Vikings take on the 49ers. The two teams have become bitter rivalries.

{Take a little trip back to Minnesota, Long Island iced teas on the plane, rent a car, and visit some friends and family. Then spend some valuable time talking about some of our adventures and pay my respects to a fallen friend and classmate.} Thinking to myself. Sounds like a plan.

Warm smiles and big hugs sound good, but this trip happens to be of a different consequence. This time it was not just to visit my siblings, extended family, and friends but to attend the funeral of one of my closest friends from the grand old high school days.

Billie, aka Boomer, was sure to draw some questions as to what happened to him, and when I meet some of my classmates, I am sure they will fill me in. Boomer wasn’t his real name. It was a well-deserved nickname we bestowed on him. William Barrett was his given name… and why his mother gave him that middle name, damn if I know, maybe had something to do at birth or a famous relative? Anyway, William Barrett Johannson (with two N’s) was his full name to be precise. Boomer always reminded teachers about the two N’s.

Amazingly, Boomer barely made the football team; I only say that because there was a minimum grade average requirement to play football, and Boomer barely made it every quarter. With the extra tutoring from Me, Kimo, Hank, sometimes Dee, (short for Denise) and Belinda, Boomer managed to have a passing grade needed to participate in school sports. Boomer played fullback on our high school football team. I remember the fans yelling Boomer… Boomer… every time he carried the ball. We had another name for him though: Good Old’ Turkeyfoot. It may have had something to do with how he limped when he walked in the hallways the Monday morning after a Friday night football game.

I remember calling him Billie early on in high school, yes, short for William. But later on, during football season our freshman year, he developed a knack for breaking something, a finger, a nose, whatever… so Boomer fit him perfectly. He had a tough hard look to him, and his nose was broken at least two times, but as Boomer would tell you, it was four times. His smile was overtly grim and solemn, like his mind was elsewhere, but a hell of a friend that would back you up in any street fights.

The sad part of the tragic loss of life is that in the case of Boomer…. Well, as some classmate put it, he gave up. Boomer quit on life; whatever he was dealing with, he gave up. He evidently couldn’t deal with the prospect of a future with what some say, not knowing for sure, was Boomer’s failing organs, not sure of specifics. At this point, no one knows the pain or agony Boomer was feeling, but he unfortunately chose to take his life. He couldn’t handle the pain, and some feel he gave up too early. I’m sure some of my classmates will fill me in with more details later.

I remember growing up, my dad would always say, Do your best. Don’t give up, don’t ever give up. Hell, son… Never Give Up! Respect your elders, be nice, and Damn it…don’t ever hit a girl! Lot of good advice my dad gave me, and I try my best to live up to that.

Shit, I hope this isn’t like The Big Chill. I’m an avid movie buff so I tend to not put things into perspective sometimes and deal with the not always reality of the movies. Some say if you watch too many movies you tend to live as if you were in one of those movies, or you felt that could be me. Hard to face reality if you are living in a fictional movie scene. Right?

I finally made it through the enclosed car parking ramp area where the rental booths were located. I found the attendant to be very friendly and the middle-aged woman, who could pass as a middle linebacker, was overly committed that I was completely satisfied before I drove off. With Ms. Gabby’s help—yes that was the name on her ID badge—I picked up my Chevy Cavalier and was ready to roll. I headed south on Highway 169. There are usually a few detours as the Twin Cities seem to always be working on some road construction. Following the Minnesota River, the view from the highway was somewhat less than boring. The scenery was filled with an array of colors as fall sets in. With so many trees, it is a fresh break from the slow-moving concrete jumble of cars you get driving around Los Angeles.

It will be nice to see some old friends and classmates and hear how everyone is doing. Maybe a few fall thunderstorms and good old-fashioned tornadoes might create some storm chasing fun, I thought. Not likely though this time of year.

After driving for a little over an hour, I stopped at Bucks Bar and Grill on the edge of town. Had to have a cocktail and get the edge off a little before I headed to my brother’s house. Bucks was on the outskirts of town and actually just beyond the city limits. I remember because they could always stay open for last call a little later because of that. The parking lot is all gravel, and getting out of my Chevy Cavalier, I curiously looked around and took a deep uneasy breath. The look reminded me of a roadhouse atmosphere similar to what I had visited in Porterville, California.

I walked inside and did a quick glance around. Bucks had a couple pool tables to the left of a large mahogany, oval-shaped bar sitting on an elevated floor. The big difference is the ambience of cleaner floors; too many bar lights and the sight of some familiar faces.

It was around 4:30, and there were a few locals already sitting at the end of the large oval bar inside. The two guys were throwing dice to see who buys the next happy hour round of drinks. This is a common practice, something you don’t see a lot in the bars or nightclubs in Visalia, Tulare or Porterville, California. I remember taking part when there was maybe five of us and the guys wouldn’t mind if one guy got stuck more than once. It was the luck of the draw/dice in this case.

Some weekends back in Tulare when I wasn’t playing baseball for the class A Oaks, a few of the players would frequent the Crazy Horse Night Club at the edge of the city. Population around 55,000, so it definitely does not take too long to get anywhere. We never threw dice for who buys though; we usually took turns buying drinks. The Crazy Horse was always crowded, full of country music, dancing, and pool tables on the far side. This little town of Mapleview was not at all the same scenery, not even close. Not to mention the size of the town.

Then, as if I wasn’t paying attention, I did a double take when I approached the bar. A surprising and snap of the neck double take. The young woman tending the huge mahogany bar just happened to look very familiar to me. She smiled at me as I approached the high-backed chairs stationed along the outside of the bar.

Hi, Dusty, this young blonde said to me, as I looked around, trying not to be too surprised with my poignant double take. It’s nice to see you, she said with a warm smile. I thought you were in California somewhere. What brings you to town?

Coming back for Boomer’s funeral, I said.

Yeah, just awful, the whole town is in shock, she said with a troubled look. Can you believe it?

She paused, seemed a little bewildered, and with that pause was probably waiting for me to say something. After the moment of ‘how do you respond’, the tall slender blonde leaned over and asked me, What will you have?

Startled and kind of tired, I replied, I don’t know, kind of early. What do you suggest? I just drove straight from the damn airport.

Two for one well drink right now, she replied.

Just a draft beer for now, whatever is the most popular, as long as it is cold, has to be cold, I replied.

Tessa had shoulder-length blond hair with streaks of light golden yellow in it. Her hair looked fresh and clean (what some people may call full body hair). I think the commercials would say that right, and probably add a phrase like… ‘with a slight wave to it’. She was tall, about 5’9" with an athletic frame. Her face was filled with an enlightening expression, especially when she smiled. She had high cheek bones with hazel eyes that seemed to talk to you. Her nose and chin were a mere longer than what one would say is normal, but with those eyes you don’t notice. Just crazy guys like me that see the details more than most guys. How many guys notice the chin on a beautiful girl? She reminded me a little of a young Jane Fonda from that Barbarella movie. I’m not kidding either, and she has these cat like eyes that seem to put a spell on you. Especially when you look straight into those crystal sparkling eyes, it’s almost hypnotizing.

I graduated with her brother so she knew more about me than I did of her. She had a full smile with deep dimples that gave off an aura of comfort that obviously sells good to a bunch of guys that swell up the place later in the day, the farmer odor…like a wet hay type of smell. These guys come in with their wads of rolled up twenties and act like everyone should know that they have money to spend. I’d say the farmers especially love the flirtatious atmosphere she brings to the place. They probably look forward to Tessa’s greetings after being out in the fields all day.

I immediately felt comfortable talking to her and asked how her brother was doing? She didn’t care to answer about the brother question but that’s okay. After some small talk and watching her take care of the two other guys at the end of the bar, I decided to order a Bacardi and Coke instead of another beer and told her to skip the straws.

Plenty of ice, I mentioned. It’s a California thing.

She leaned over the bar to hand me the drinks. Then with her elbows pressed firmly on the bar and hands clasped to the side of her cheeks, she said, So what have you been up to?

She had a coyness about her, and I wasn’t sure if that was intended for me or if that was her nature? If memory serves me, she was always somewhat flirtatious, but in an innocent sort of way.

Long story or short answer, I thought to myself as I avoided her warm gaze and tried not to smile at her although I knew that was not going to be possible. With those cat-like eyes and a gleam that’s very alluring, it was hard to avoid smiling back without saying anything. Her eyes caught mine, and I swear they winked at me. Yes, they fricking winked at me. Her eye lashes were thin and long, but not fake. They brought out the attention her eyes demanded, and I think she knew the effect it can have when staring right at you. Trying to be casual, I shrugged my shoulders and attempted a reply.

 Believe it or not, I’m playing Minor League baseball in Tulare California, in the central part, the San Joaquin Valley, just north of Bakersfield. Actually after college I was drafted by the Red Sox. It was with the Class A Minor League team in Pawtucket (That’s Rhode Island). It was my first year out of college, and I signed with the Red Sox farm system. After one year with the Pawtucket team, I was traded to the Twins and their Class A affiliate in Tulare. See, never a short answer. I went on. I started college and played baseball at the U shortly after my dad died a few years ago. Haven’t made it to the show yet, but it’s been great. I stopped there, realizing it was probably too long of an answer. Yep, I thought to myself, what’s a short answer?

I ended the reply with a half-ass smile. It was a forced smile, I thought. One with a warm but tired look in my eyes that was neither flirtatious nor giving…. but somewhat at bay. I certainly was not trying to be coy or evasive. It was just giving her a somewhat deadpan look. It was hard to do when you had those alluring eyes meeting yours. Tessa smiled back at me, greeting my smile without an answer and released her elbows from their resting place.

She abruptly moved down the bar to help the two—whoops, now three tired looking farmers that needed another beer. I took a sip of my drink, looked around and could see the place was fixed up a little since the last time I had been back. I wondered to myself if there were new owners? Should I ask?

Tessa returned, smiled at me and asked if I was doing okay on the drink. I nodded; she then abruptly turned and left through a door to a back room, probably for ice or something. I followed her movement with my eyes and couldn’t help but notice her slender, but firm figure. My eyes followed her through the doors and then I glanced over at the farmers to see if they noticed I was staring at Tessa’s rear end. Tessa obviously liked wearing tight-fitting jeans. They were busy gabbing away, talking about grain prices, getting a combine repaired, and maybe a three-legged dog joke. I always loved the three-legged dog jokes. Nothing new for them, I thought to myself.

Tessa must be getting ready for the 5:00 crowd as I looked around for a clock. I finished my drink quickly and nodded my head acknowledging the farmers sitting at the other end of the bar. I pulled out a couple dollar bills, wrinkling them a bit and dropped the bills on the bar. I got up, turned away, and left without saying good-bye.

I passed a couple guys as I was just exiting the second set of doors. The entryway made it convenient in the winters when everyone stomped their feet to get the snow off their shoes or boots before entering the bar. This was a newer addition since I was here last. A good addition, I thought to myself. I recognized the two guys that passed, and they just said a casual hello, in unison; it was just as if I had never been gone. I acknowledged the hello, but they had already turned their heads, and then did a double take as I kept walking. They probably realized who I was but still turned through the outside entry and disappeared as the door closed.

I got into my rental car and proceeded to drive to the edge of town, which only takes a couple minutes. In no time, after maybe a half mile, I proceeded to pull up to my brother’s house. Parking on the right side of the street, I turned off the engine, got out of the car, walked around to the back and opened the trunk to grab my bags.

It was mild outside; the smell of fresh cut grass was invigorating, and that smell fills the air all around. Probably won’t be mowing grass much longer with fall turning the yards brown for the winter. A small breeze is usually the norm in the evening, and since the big cities can leave you nauseated at times…this fresh air is…well, refreshing, to say the least.

My brother wasn’t home but left a key for me under the welcome mat. My brother, Dean Arthur, was much younger and growing up had the nickname No Count, although I never used that anymore, especially now that we’re adults.

Dean worked for the city water and street department and was on a fishing trip up north. A little vacation as he had put it, and hence he was kind enough to leave me the key in a not-so-secret hiding place. He has been dating his high school sweetheart, but she has not moved in with him yet, so I was going to be alone for the night. That was fine with me as I was exhausted.

I opened the outside door and turned the light on that was on the wall just inside of the porch. Once inside the mud porch I found the key, in the not-so-secret hiding place, to get into the door to the inside of the house. The house wasn’t anything fancy, but Dean purchased it a year ago and has fixed up a large number of areas, including a new front door. Not bad for a little brother who just turned 21. He works for the city and got a hell of a deal from the local bank. I turned on the kitchen light, set my bags down, and looked in the fridge to see if there was anything I may be interested in drinking. Luckily I found a couple cans of Mountain Dew and grabbed one.

I promptly made my way to the living room and sat down on the couch. Taking a deep breath, I leaned back and started to think about the past, the present and what may lay ahead. The couch was a little lumpy, but after the long plane ride, and the scenic car ride, shitty and lumpy felt okay.

I took a swallow of the Dew and thought about what it was like playing baseball in California and how fortunate I am to be able to play the sport I love. I remember playing catch with my dad growing up, and using his old 1940s fielder’s glove. The glove sucked big time, and I remembered complaining, subtle, but none the less complaining…and soon my dad got me a nice Rawlings which I used until the eighth grade. I wore the heck out of that glove. I saved money over the summers and finally got a new glove and baseball spikes that I used going into my freshman year.

I digress but was thinking, not deep thinking just remembering stored thoughts that your brain never forgets. Arranging my thoughts I will hopefully be able to say…. When my career in baseball ends, I will remember this saying from Dr. Seuss, Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened! I will smile because I have the good fortune to play a kids’ game growing up, sandlot ball at Sweet Pea’s house, then high school, on to college baseball and then Minor League ball in Tulare, California.

Tulare Oaks was a fairly good baseball team, albeit an A club, certainly not AAA. The team struggled at times, often having to find replacements for players who got the call up to an AA affiliate and even sometimes, but rarely, a jump right to the majors. Although that has not happened for me, I still bust my ass to be the best I can be. I’m looking forward to the coming season but also eager to see my family, friends, and classmates on my trip back to Minnesota.

It wasn’t that hard to leave since the season is over and I really needed to travel back to pay my respects to a fallen classmate. It didn’t seem like I was going anywhere except the minors. At least I am hoping to move up from Class A to AA this next year. But I haven’t heard anything definite about the off season or the coming season yet. Not hearing anything usually meant you were not moving up. And that alone was telling enough. Usually pitchers get promoted first unless you were a terrific power hitter or maybe fast as lightning. We had a first baseman that had 27 homers in ’81 when I was in A, and he got called up right after our season was over. Damn if he didn’t hit a homer in his first major league at bat. Our season ends in September, so Kent got the call up and was able to play the last couple weeks for the Twins. Very seldom does anyone get the jump from Class A