Saving Gramps

By Jean Lejcher

When 12 yr. old Toby arrives at Gramps and Grams for the summer up north, he realizes something isn't right. Because of a fall and resulting injury, Gramps is not the person he used to be.

Toby decides that he has the answer to help Gramps get back to his old self, save what is left of the summer gone wrong and get some serious fishing in before it is over. With the help of Cal, his friend from the resort next door, and Stealth the black cat with gold, starburst eyes, he finds his idea becomes more of an adventure than an answer.

Never did Toby imagine that by summer's end he would be touching a loon, scaring off a coyote and . . . saving Gramps. Follow along with Toby in this coming-of-age story as he gains insight on life, acceptance and unconditional love.

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Word Journey Publishing
• Release date: Feb 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9798989454822

Jean Lejcher

The author was born and raised in Minnesota and spent summers up north at the family cabin, along with countless hours casting and fishing off the dock. Many fond memories of fishing, swimming and listening to loons call at dusk, prompted the writing of this book. Reading and writing has been important to Jean since childhood, and she thinks that middle grade fiction is some of the best writing published, capturing moments that resonate with life growing up. Some personal accomplishments are being published in Ladybug Magazine: "Mr. Cat and Little Birdie", Spider Magazine: "Great-Grandmother's Secret" and Reading Street 2nd Grade Anthology's reprinting of "Great Grandmother's Secret" in English and Spanish. This is Jean's first Middle Grade Novel

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Jean Lejcher

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

Library of Congress Cataloging in-Publication-Data

First hardcover edition 2023

First paperback edition 2023

ISBN:  979-8-9894548-1-5 (paperback) 

ISBN:   979-8-9894548-0-8 (hardcover) 

Text copyright © 2023 by Jean Lejcher

Cover design and Logo copyright © 2023 Jean Lejcher

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To grandkids everywhere who think that their

Gramps is the Sun and the Moon.

But . . .  especially to my father who taught me to fish,

and who would have taught his grandkids,

too, if he were able . . .

Thank you to family and friends who have encouraged me

over the years to keep writing.

Because of you, this book has become a reality.

I would like to acknowledge my writing group

Dot, Renee` and Robin for their support,

encouragement and friendship.

The years may go by, but the memories do not

One

Lost

Ientered the woods on the path that ran alongside the shed. This is stupid, I mumbled to the un-listening trees. Gramps can't be lost, he's probably just gathering wood for the campfire.

The further I ran into the woods, and the closer I got to the treehouse, the more difficult it was to see. The pines grew so densely that even the tangled bushes struggled to grow from the lack of sunlight.

I slowed to walk and thought Gram just had to be overreacting.

Suddenly, my foot caught, and I tripped over an exposed tree root, falling to my knees. I crawled around and felt in the matted dampness, ready to rip the root out of the path so no one else would trip and fall.

When I found the stiff root, I grabbed it with both hands and pulled with all my might, only to fly backward when it gave way too easily.

What the heck. I gasped, realizing it wasn’t a root at all, but a fishing pole, with a reel and fishing line. At the end of the line, at the tip of the pole, dangled a red-and-white-striped, daredevil lure.

Two

Found

There was no doubt in my mind that the daredevil lure was Gramp’s. Every time we went fishing Gramps made sure to point out the marks from where his boyhood trophy fish had bitten, scratching the paint. Even in the dim light of the woods I could see them clearly!

I ran to the base of the treehouse and hollered upward, cupping my hands to my mouth, to magnify my voice.

Gramps! Gramps! You up there? Come on down. Everybody’s looking for you. Gramps, can you hear me?

When only quiet answered me back, I checked the surrounding grasses and brush. Nothing was trampled except where I stood. I widened the circle again, and yet again. I found no sign showing Gramps had been to the treehouse.

Back at the cabin, Dad’s car horn sounded in one long blare - a signal they hadn’t found Gramps, either. I couldn’t believe Gramps was lost. It just wasn’t like him. It made no sense at all.

I shook my head. Thinking stupid thoughts wasn’t going to find Gramps. Running back to the treehouse, I climbed up the narrow nailed-in slats that formed the ladder-like steps.

I pulled myself onto the dusty floor, crawling to the farthest window opening. I stood and quickly scanned the woods.

Nothing. I saw nothing. Not from the north opening, the east or the west openings, or the doorway that faced south. Then I looked again, but more slowly this time, giving my eyes more time to adjust to the lights and darks of the late afternoon shadows.

There! I saw orange. The bright orange of Gramp’s old sweatshirt stood out just like Gram had said it would. Gramps stood, facing the trunk of a big, old, red pine.

I scrambled down from the treehouse, jumping the last few feet. Twisting around, I took a moment to get my bearings before I headed in the direction where I’d seen Gramps standing.

Gramps hadn’t moved. He stood, arms straight at his sides, facing right smack in front of the tree.

As I got closer, I slowed my pace, not wanting to startle him. I talked in a low, steady voice, speaking just a bit louder with each word.

Gramps. Hey, Gramps. What are you doin’ out here all by yourself?

Slowly, Gramps turned and looked at me. His face was streaked from crying.

Who . . .  are . . . you? he haltingly asked as he stared for a few seconds. He wiped his face with the back of his hands as remembrance slowly filled his eyes. Bill? Bill?

Bill? Bill is my dad’s name. Does Gramps think that I’m his son? NONE of this made sense to me. I was named after Gramps, Tobias Thomas Langford.

How could he forget? I tried to keep my voice steady, but I could hear my confidence wavering.

I’m Toby, Gramps. Remember? I’m your grandson, Toby.

Gramps bent in the filtered light, bringing his face close to mine. Yes. Yes! He smiled a weak little smile and said, Glad . . . to . . .  see . . . you.

I took Gramp’s hand and laced my thin fingers in between his thick ones, leading him out of the woods. He walked so slowly it seemed to take forever. As we passed by the treehouse, I stopped only long enough to grab the old rod and reel.

With the lure dancing just above my head, we finally broke through the clearing. I tried to walk a bit faster, making our way around the side of the shed. Dad stood at the doorway talking on the cabin’s phone, not his cell. The phone cord stretched as far as it could go.

Dad talked in quick, short sentences.

He’s 69. About six feet tall. Wavy-brown hair, graying at the temples. Blue-gray eyes. As he spoke, he turned back toward the shed and spotted me with Gramps in tow.

Relief softened my dad’s face, but was quickly replaced by a look of concern. When I followed his gaze back to Gramps, I realized why. Gramps was wearing an old, navy-blue stocking hat, a fact that hadn’t registered until that moment. Tufts of stark white hair showed out from under the hat’s edges. Deep lines grooved Gramp’s pale face. Gramps had aged years since I’d last seen him last summer.

Keeping eye contact with Gramps, Dad spoke into the phone. Wait. He’s here. My son found him. Thanks so much for your help.

Dad tossed the phone on the step and placed his hands on both of Gramp’s shoulders turning him to one side and then the other, giving him a quick once-over.

You all right, Dad? he asked Gramps. He turned to me. Good job, son. Good job. Then again, he asked Gramps. You ok, Dad?

Gramps shrugged Dad’s hands off his shoulders. Course . . . wrong . . . turn . . .  fishing. Toby . . . good . . . boy!

I looked to Gramps and then to Dad. What was going on? Gramps knew better than any of us which direction to go to the lake. I waited for an explanation from my dad, but all I heard was, Sound the horn, son. Let Gram and your mother know that Gramps is home.

When Dad reached out to take Gramp’s arm, Gramps pushed his hand away and shuffled toward the cabin. Leaning down to grab a couple of suitcases, Dad quickly followed.

I blasted the car horn in quick, adamant bursts. Any person within a mile must have heard it. As I pulled my arm from the car, I spotted dad’s cell phone on the seat. When I lifted it, the phone’s face lit up. The words No Service appeared.

Jamming my hands in my jeans’ pockets, I walked toward the lake to wait for Mom and Gram.

Three

How the Day Began

The trip up north to the cabin had been long and boring. The city turned into suburbs ribboned with highway cloverleaves and dotted with massive billboards. Eventually, it all gave way to smaller towns spaced further and further apart. The countryside gradually appeared with its double-lane roads and