The Great Potato War of 1947

 

The last thing Merrill remembered was the panicked voice of a medic. “He’s lost so much blood, I don’t think he’s going to make it,” the young man said. It was these words that moved Merrill into a place of stubbornness. He was going to make it and no soft handed little wannabe doctor was going to say otherwise. Everything faded to black at that point and the darkness never seemed to end.

              When he finally opened his eyes, he would have bet money that he was in heaven. Standing at the side of his bed was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Long dark hair, almond shaped eyes, and a very large smile. “She’s an angel, she has to be,” he thought to himself. “I guess I didn’t make it after all. But if this is the ever after, I’ll take it. Wow.”

              The girl, noticing the movement of his eyes across her body, suddenly turned and called out. “Dr. Morris, our young patient is awake,” she said. Reaching down and squeezing his hand, she smiled at him again. “The doctor will be here in a second. I am so happy that you pulled through. We were all quite worried about you.”

              The girl moved outside of his range of vision to be replaced by a grizzled and much older man. “Well, young man, you really gave us a scare,” the old man, presumably ‘the doctor’ the nurse spoke of. “I don’t know if I have ever seen someone lose that much blood but somehow you held on. It must be that robust Russian stock.”

              “How long?” Merrill managed to croak out.

              “You were shot on a field in northern France,” the doctor said, “and lucky for you a medic happened to be very close by. The quick thinking of that young man saved your life. You should be thankful. You’ve been in a coma for three days since you came off the operating table.”

              “Go home?” Merrill asked.

              “Yes, for sure, you’ll go home,” the doctor answered, “but it won’t be for a while yet. You’ve got a lot of healing to do, and Nurse Whitley will be at your side the entire time. You are lucky to have her. Not only is she a wonderful nurse, but she is also extremely nice, which is a rare combination with this war going on and all. Well, get your rest young man. I’ll check in on you from time to time.”

              Slipping back to sleep, Merrill dreamt of both home and the war. The dreams were so real, he could hear the gunfire, smell the smoke, and almost taste the metallic hint of blood in his mouth. But then his dreams would change, and he would be walking in the potato fields back home with Nurse Whitley on his arm. The dream then transitioned but only a little. The potato fields were gone but Nurse Whitley was holding onto his arm and smiling at him. She stood at his bedside and caressed his arm as she woke him up.

              “Merrill,” she called out. “Today is a big day. We begin your therapy. The doctor thinks your wounds are healed up enough to get you back on your feet.”

              “Nurse Whitley,” she said. “Thank you.”

              “Oh, please call me Anna,” she said. “Here, let me help you sit up.” Leaning in close to him and sliding both arms around his back like a beautiful hug, she pulled him up to a sitting position. Merrill could smell her hair and a very light scent of lavender. His heart began beating faster as she embraced him. “There, are you okay? Does anything hurt?” she asked.

              “No, nothing too bad,” he answered. “That was good. It feels nice to sit up.” It was then that he noticed that both of her arms were still around his waist, having slid down from his back. They sat, no more than nine inches apart, and he could feel her breath upon him.

              Quickly standing up, she helped him swing his legs out from under the sheets. Slipping his feet into slippers, she gently pulled him to his feet, again embracing him with both arms. “There, are you okay? Do you feel stable?” she asked.

              “I don’t know,” he said with a small smile. “I think you better stay close and ahold of me. I wouldn’t want to fall.” With a slight blush, she turned and grabbed his robe from a hook by the bed. “Here, you better put this on. We don’t want you getting cold,” she said.

This small dance went on for six weeks and Merrill slowly regained his health, his strength, and his passion for life, especially with the fantasy of spending the rest of his days with Nurse Whitley on his arm.

Rising earlier than normal one morning, he slipped on his robe and went for a walk through the flower garden behind the hospital. He had completed his first round when he paused at a window on the first floor. Looking in, he saw Nurse Whitley in a full embrace with another patient. As the window was slightly open, he crouched at the small opening and listened.

“Paul, you’re embarrassing me,” she said with a giggle, “but I kind of like it. Do you really think we’ll be able to finally be together?”

Merrill turned around and sat on the wet grass, his heart in his throat and the overwhelming urge to vomit violently circling in his stomach. Returning to his room, he hung up his robe and slid back under his covers.

“Time to get up and exercise those big muscles,” he heard Nurse Whitley say, with the customary kindness and slight flirtiness in her voice. Without turning to face her, he muttered his response. “I’m not feeling too well. I think I need to stay in bed today.” Listening to her footsteps as she walked away, he rolled to his back, trying to drive the previous scene from his mind.

As he sat thinking, a wave of despair crawled over him and he began to wish that he had died on that battlefield. As he stared at the floor, a pair of polished, black leather shoes came into view.

“So, Nurse Whitley tells me that you’re not feeling too well,” the doctor said. “That is really too bad. I was ready to release you today, as you have shown yourself to be fully recovered. Do I need to extend your stay another week or so?”

“Uh, oh, no, it’s not that at all,” he answered. “I’ve never felt physically better, and I am completely well. My ill feeling is something else. I’d be happy to take any test you’d like. I am ready to go home.”

“Very well then, Merrill,” the doctor said. “I’ll take your word for it. You are free to go with a clean bill of health. You can have the front desk set up a bus ride, if you need. It’s been a pleasure knowing you.” Shaking his hand, the doctor left the room.

“I can go home, huh, how about that,” Merrill thought. “I was beginning to think that I’d never see New Jersey again.” Looking at the calendar that hung over the small table next to his bed, he made a mental note of the date, “July 23, 1947”, he said.

Waking from a nap, his head against the glass, Merrill sat up as the bus stopped. Looking out the window, he saw the familiar, ‘Welcome to Monroe, NJ - population 4500’ sign. “Well would you look at that,” he thought. “I took a short nap and here I am.” Grabbing his bag, he hurried down the aisle and stepped out in the sunshine. Having told no one of his arrival, he was not surprised to find the bus stop empty. As the bus pulled away, Merrill stood in the silence of the afternoon.

“Man, it is really quiet. Kind of weird actually,” he thought. Flipping his pack over his shoulder, he started the short walk into town. After two blocks, he still saw no one. Stopping in front of Heritage’s Grocery, he still saw nor heard anyone.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure. “Oh, hey, there’s someone,” he said. Giving a quick friendly wave, he moved toward the figure only to realize that it was a giant potato wearing a mask and a cape. “What the…?” he thought. “Potato Man?” he read from the sign hanging around the mannequin’s neck.

Scratching the back of his head, he was completely baffled. Catching sight of a small child at the end of the block, he quickly waved to try to catch his attention. The child paused but then started running in the opposite direction. Breaking into a full sprint, Merrill almost caught up to the child when he saw two large groups of people in the Rand family field. Ceasing his pursuit, he watched as each group, in turn, let out a war cry and began hurling something at each other. Most of the projectiles missed their target but he saw one man receive a blow to the head that dropped him to the ground. Wincing at how that must have felt, Merrill felt even more confused.

“Merrill is that you?” he heard an elderly gentleman call out. Jumping at the sound of someone speaking his name, he looked behind him and found the sound of the voice. An old man with a clipboard approached with his hand extended.

“Yes, I’m Merrill,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “Oh, Mr. Ivanovich, I didn’t recognize you at first. Yes, I’m back from the war. It’s good to see you. Just what the heck is going on here?”

“Well, ever since the war started over in Europe, we decided to do a little war of our own, to try to remind ourselves, just a little, of how our loved ones may be suffering over there. This, young man, is the ‘Great Potato War of 1947’.”

“Wait a minute,” Merrill said. “Are you telling me that the whole town is out in that field throwing potatoes at one another?”

“Yep, that’s right, Merrill,” he answered. “I would invite you to join in but I completely understand if you’re all filled up with fighting and such. But it sure is fun to watch. I’m keeping track of who gets hit. I’m keeping score, you could say.”

“So, which team is behind,” Merrill asked.

“Uh… that would be the red team,” Mr. Johnson answered. “Do you want to join in? Grab a red shirt and get in there if you want.”

Dropping his bag, Merrill slipped on the shirt and ran at full speed into the fray, striking three people with his first three potatoes.

An Empathy of Sorts

 

“Jonathan, get down here now!” his father bellowed up the stairs. The small boy, curled up in the small space between his bed and the wall, involuntarily shuddered as he heard his name called. Leaping out of his hiding space, he nearly ran down the stairs, knowing what to expect if he wasn’t fast enough.

              “Yes sir, I’m here,” the boy called out, his voice trembling with fear.

              “Don’t be such a coward,” the man yelled at him, raising his hand up over his head. The boy closed his eyes and slightly withdrew, waiting for the strike. After a brief moment and feeling no blow, he opened his eyes and looked up at the huge man towering over him. “Get on your boots and go outside. We need more firewood and hurry up before it gets too dark.”

              Grabbing his coat and boots, the seven-year-old boy hurried down the back stairs and into the backyard. Eventually finding the axe, only inches shorter than himself, he began heaving the object with all of his strength, striking each chunk of wood six or seven times before it would split. Stacking the pieces in a neat pile at the top of the stairs, he hurried back and forth from woodpile to the door, hoping he could move fast enough to please his father.

              Wiping the blood from his raw palms, he continued splitting until he could no longer see the wood in front of him. Trembling and nearly in tears, he trudged up the stairs and back into the kitchen. “That better be enough for the night,” the man yelled at him. “Or otherwise, you’ll be out there in the dark splitting more. And I don’t care if it’s three in the morning either. I am not going to wake up to a cold house.”

              “Yes, sir,” the boy mumbled and walked up the stairs to collapse into his bed. Slipping under the covers, he shuddered with cold and curled into a ball, trying to warm himself. His room, the only room in the house without a vent from the living room, was terribly cold in the winter and unbearably hot in the summer. But he knew nothing else and prayed for sleep to come quickly.

              Waking with a start, he could see the full moon outside of his window, a massive pale orb looking down upon him and filling his room with light. In the corner nearest the window, the corner with no light, he thought he saw some movement. Closing his eyes and waiting for the blow from his father and fearing another night out chopping firewood, he waited in vain. No blow or angry words fell upon him.

              “It’s not supposed to be like this, you know,” a very deep and smooth voice said.

              “Who said that?” Jonathan asked. “Who are you?”

              “Just think of me as a friend,” the voice said. “It is not supposed to be like this,” he said again. “You are just a boy and he should not do these things to you.”

              “But there is nothing I can do,” Jonathan answered. “He is so big and so mean. I have to do what he says.”

              “He may be big and mean,” the voice said, “but he has to sleep sometimes and when he does, you can protect yourself.”

              “I… I don’t understand,” he answered. “What are you saying?”

              “You can take the poker from the fireplace,” he said, “and hit him back for all the times that he hit you. You need to understand that sometimes there are very bad people and someone needs to stop them from hurting others.”

              “But if I hurt him, wouldn’t that make me just like him?” the boy asked.

              “That is a very good answer,” the voice said. “I am glad to hear you say that. It would be wrong to do evil to try to stop evil. There is another answer. When you are waiting for the school bus tomorrow, close your eyes and listen very carefully. I will talk to you again. Good night, Jonathan.”

              Jonathan pulled his car to the side of the road and looked at the ruins of what was his childhood home. He could remember back to the day when the police arrived and took his father away. As a seven-year-old boy, he wondered how he would survive in that old house all alone but he was mistaken. The kind young woman who arrived shortly after the police gently hugged him and told him of a new house and a new family that would take care of him.

              Shuddering as he recalled the many beatings and forced labor from the hands of his father, he closed his eyes and thought of more beautiful things. His new adoptive family, his own warm and clean bedroom and sweet older sister. He marveled at the sweet creaminess of milk, something he had never tasted before. The filling warm meals and gentle hugs from his new mother.

              Starting the engine, he drove away from the horror of his childhood and never looked back. Much bigger and stronger now, stronger than most everyone in his high school, he still trembled at the thought of speaking his mind. As tenth grade began, he had signed up for French class but was told that it was full. Instead, he was told he would be taking speech class. The thought nearly made him vomit.

              Sitting in fourth period speech, he listened in horror as the teacher explained that each student would stand in front of the class and tell a one-minute story from their childhood. Feeling the blood drain from his face and the knot in his throat grow to the size of a watermelon, Jonathan could feel his stomach churning as the pulled pork sandwich from lunch threatened to make an appearance. Raising his hand, he asked to be excused to go to the bathroom. But the teacher, mistaking his raised hand as an offer of going first, instructed him to step up in front of the class.

              Jonathan tried to excuse himself, but the teacher rejected his plea. Rising from his desk, he slowly walked to the front of the room. Looking from face to face, he knew them all and was friends with them all, but his memory could offer nothing but the horrors of his childhood. He tried several times to speak but no sound emerged.

              “As soon as you start, Jonathan,” the teacher said, “I’ll start the timer. Please go ahead.”

              The last thing he could remember was seeing the room spin and the floor rapidly approaching his face. Waking in the nurse’s office with a cold, wet rag on his forehead, he could hear the teacher and the nurse speaking.

              “I don’t know what happened,” the teacher said. “He was standing there, ready to give his short speech when all of a sudden he just collapsed. It was very strange. He actually volunteered to go first. I feel sorry for the kid.”

              “Well, we’ve called his parents,” the nurse added. “They are going to bring him home for the day.”

              The next day, Jonathan stood in the front of the class with the same nauseous feeling and terror as the day before. With help from his father on the night before, Jonathan was able to croak out nearly a minute about a fishing trip the two of them had gone on the summer before. Returning to his desk in a cold sweat, he received a friendly pat on the shoulder from the student behind him. Barely holding himself together, he managed to get through the rest of the day.

              Lying in bed that evening, the edges of summer had come upon him and the darkness of night was more of a dusk than darkness. Trying hard not to think of the struggle from earlier that day, he began to drift off to sleep. “Jonathan,” a voice called out, “I know you’re still awake.”

              Suddenly fully awake, Jonathan recognized the voice and sat up on his elbows. “It’s you again,” he said. “Where have you been all this time?”

              “I’ve been here all along,” the voice said. Jonathan imagined liquid bronze as the voice spoke to him. “I’ve always been with you. I saw what happened at school. I’m sorry you had to go through that, but it doesn’t have to be this way.”

              “No, really, it’s okay,” Jonathan answered. “It’s not a big deal. I just need to learn how to talk, that’s all.”

              “Oh, that is not it at all,” the voice said. “No one should try to make you do what you cannot do.”

              “Wait a minute,” Jonathan said. “This is nothing like what happened with my real father. The teacher is a nice old man. He doesn’t mean any harm. I don’t want anything to happen to him.”

              “That is a very good answer, Jonathan,” the voice said. “I see that you still have a good heart.”

              “The last time we spoke, I could only see your shadow. Where are you now?” he asked.

              “I’m over here,” the voice said. “Look at your closet.” As the man spoke to him, Jonathan saw the closet door slowly swing open and he could see the shape of a large man. More than a shadow but not quite clear. He could make out that he was elegantly dressed and smoothly shaven but that was all.”

              “I don’t know what you’re saying,” Jonathan said. “Tell me what to do.”

              “You still don’t understand what is going on here,” he said. “It is not my place to tell you what to do. I know your heart and I can point you in the right direction, but you must never think of the relationship between us as one of me commanding you. We are friends, Jonathan. Go to sleep now and rest well. You have a very important day tomorrow. We’ll talk again in the morning.”

              Lying down and letting out a long breath, Jonathan closed his eyes and drifted into an excited but restful sleep. Waking after what seemed a mere moment, the brightness of the morning sun filled his room with a golden warmth that matched the excitement of his heart.

              Climbing the steps into the massive stone building of his school, he turned to face the massive crowd in the hallway. Joining into the flow of fellow students, he made his way toward his locker but just as he reached it, he heard a single word, “Listen.” Immediately stopping, he closed his eyes and focused on all the sound around him. It was cacophony but then a single conversation stood out.

              “I don’t think I can do it, Daryl,” a girl just behind him said. “I thought I would be able to do French, but I’ve failed every quiz and it just doesn’t make sense. I think I’m going to drop the class.”

              “Oh, Lisa, don’t do that,” a boy said. “Class won’t be the same without you.”

              “I have to, Daryl,” she answered. “If I fail even one class, my parents won’t let me stay on the cheer squad and I won’t sacrifice that. I’m sorry.”

              Jonathan opened his eyes and smiled. “Thanks, man,” he said under his breath.

              Fall had just begun to turn, and Jonathan stood on his front steps looking out across the street, strewn with red and golden leaves. This brief hesitation had become a routine for him each day as he left for work. The stress of being a stockbroker necessitated these small slices of introspective bliss. Living alone as he had for the last ten years would have given him plenty of quiet time but keeping an eye on market activity kept his mind occupied.

              Breathing deeply, he descended his steps to the sidewalk and made his way to the subway. It was a short walk; no more than three blocks and he knew the exact number of steps to reach the turnstile beneath the street. Emerging from the tube below ground, Jonathan entered his building and took the elevator to the 42nd floor. Greeting the receptionist as he entered the office, he smiled only slightly, as he didn’t want to give her the wrong impression. Quietly passing through the carpeted and wood paneled walls of corporate headquarters, he just about slipped past his boss’s office without being detected.

              “Jonathan, there you are,” his boss called out. “Of course, you’re early. Come in for a minute. I’ve got a great opportunity for you.”

              Letting out a small sigh, Jonathan turned around and took a seat opposite his boss’s massive wooden desk. “Good morning, Carl,” he said with a smile, trying to come across as friendly.

              “I want to start this by giving you a big congratulations. The board has been noticing your exceptional work and have strongly suggested to me that they would like to see you take on more of a leadership role. You are really, really good at what you do. You’re probably the best broker this firm has ever seen. And that’s saying a lot, considering we’ve been here for over one hundred years.”

              Jonathan started to answer by downplaying his abilities, but Carl cut him off. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jonathan. Me and everyone here knows just how awesome you are. I am ready to offer you the position of lead broker at the Brooklyn branch. Larry, the current lead is set to retire at the end of the month and we would love to have you step in and take over his role. I have complete and absolute trust in your abilities. What do you say?”

              “I uh… wow, I uh… Can I think about it for a couple of days?” he asked. “That is a big responsibility and a move as well. I’d have to sell my condo and move and everything.”

              “Trust me Jonathan,” Carl answered. “The company is ready to offer you a huge increase in salary and I mean huge. Of all the people I know, no one deserves this more than you. I hope you say yes. Have an answer for me by Thursday.”

              Standing up, the two men shook hands and Jonathan slowly walked to his desk with the feeling of a bowling ball in his stomach. Dropping his briefcase at his desk, he slipped into the breakroom for an espresso. As he stood, waiting for the water to heat, he heard someone else enter the room. The light, high clicking sound confirmed that it was a woman who approached him from behind. Turning around with a smile, he made eye contact with Brenda, the front desk receptionist.

              “Good morning again, Jonathan,” she said, reaching out and touching his arm with a smile. “How was your weekend?”

              “Oh, it was fine, I guess. I didn’t really do anything,” he answered, avoiding eye contact. After a pause with a blank mind, he reciprocated the question.

              “Well, mine was really boring,” Brenda said. “I didn’t do anything at all. I was home all by myself all weekend. Sounds like we could’ve enjoyed one another’s company. You should call me sometime. It would be fun to go do something together.”

              “Heh, heh, yeah, that would be fun,” he answered. “I’ll make sure to do that.” Turning his cup around in his hand, he stood with an empty mind and a lump in his throat. I… uh… I should probably get back to my desk. Lots of work to do.”

              With a sigh of relief, he escaped the break room and sat behind his desk, turning on the multiple computer monitors, now filled with charts. Watching the clock click over to six thirty, he turned off his computer, filled his briefcase and hurried to the elevator, making sure to avoid eye contact with anyone.

Closing his front door behind him, he laid down on his couch with his feet on the arm at the opposite end. Closing his eyes, he did a little deep breathing and tried to forget everything that had happened that day. “Man, too much talk, too much interaction and too much potential change. What am I going to do?”

              “Can I offer a suggestion?” a familiar liquid bronze voice said from the opposite corner of the room.

              Quickly opening his eyes and realizing that he had failed to turn on the living room lights, he could see the same well-dressed man sitting in the leather chair opposite him. Swinging his feet down and sitting up, Jonathan rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

              “No, I’m really here,” the man said. “I’ve always been here. You had quite the day today, didn’t you?” he asked. “What are you going to tell Carl about the job offer?”

              “I… I don’t know,” he answered. “I really, really don’t want a leadership position. It’s not who I am. I don’t think I could do it.”

              “Well, that sounds like a pretty definitive answer to me,” the man said. “Here, stand up for a minute and come over here.”

              As Jonathan stood, the man stood as well. As he approached him, he realized that they were the exact same height and build. Sticking out both of his hands, palms up, the man spoke again. “Here, take my hands. I want to show you something.”

              Taking hold of Jonathan’s hands, the man slightly leaned forward and stared into his eyes. Without blinking, he held his gaze and Jonathan realized that everything around them had become foggy. Then, like a movie, he could see scenes from his childhood, more vivid than memories and from a third person perspective. One after the other, the scenes flowed past, and Jonathan suddenly jerked himself free and stepped away from the man.

              “What is this?” he demanded. “Who are you? How did you do that? How is that even possible?”

              “I had hoped that you would begin to understand who I am,” the man said. “I have been with you from the very beginning, but I have never allowed myself to interfere without being invited. You have had a very difficult life; Jonathan and I want to lead you in a way that will help you have the very best future possible.”

              “I still don’t know who you are and why or even how you can do this,” he answered. “Why should I trust you?”

              “Have I ever done or said anything that would make you not trust me? Haven’t I helped you and given you advice that has been to everyone’s benefit?”

              Jonathan paused and looked at the man. He was many years older than Jonathan, how old he couldn’t tell. His hair was gray, and he had many wrinkles, but he was far from feeble or weak, Jonathan could feel an incredible strength in his hands. “So, what was that, anyway, that thing you did when you looked in my eyes?”

              “The easiest way to understand that is to think of it as a sort of empathy. Though it is far, far more than simple empathy. Your language does not have a word or even a phrase for it yet,” the man answered. “I wanted you to experience it first and then learn how to do that yourself. Of course, it will take many years to refine it to the point that I have but I know you’ll achieve great things. And, by the way, my name is Raphael.”

              “Ok, Raphael, so you showed me scenes from my life. What am I supposed to do with that?” he asked. “It seems more like a party trick more than anything.”

              “It may seem somewhat superficial at first but that which lies beneath and directs it is what you need to learn. In essence, when you connect with someone at that level, you actually connect with their soul and you instantly know their heart. This will allow you to help them in ways that even they didn’t know they needed help.”

              The hours passed and Jonathan collapsed on his couch, closing his eyes, completely exhausted. “I’m going to go now, Jonathan,” Raphael said. “You have done very well. I suggest that you try out your new skill in little bits at first. If you decide to take the role that Carl offered you, you will be the greatest boss anyone could want. Good night.”

              Opening his eyes as Raphael said goodnight, he realized he now sat alone in his living room. “Hmm, that’s odd,” he thought, “I know I didn’t hear a door close or even any footsteps.” Pulling himself to his feet with a groan, he shuffled into his bedroom and instantly fell asleep.

              Jonathan stood in his back garden, his back to the water fountain. Looking out across the five acres of manicured foliage, he stood in silence and sensed everything around him. The warm breeze, the sound of small animals moving through the trimmed bushes and the smell of a million rose bushes fed him like a grand feast.

              The sound of footsteps behind him stirred him from his meditative state.

              “Here is your coffee, sir,” the elderly man said as he approached.

              “Thank you, Winston,” Jonathan replied, “go ahead and set it on the edge of the fountain. I can tell you’re tired. Please take the rest of the day off.”

              “Thank you, sir. That is very kind of you. Is there anything else you need before I go, sir?”

              “No, Winston, thank you. Have a restful day,” he answered.

              Finishing his coffee, he passed through the kitchen and ate a banana on his way out of the house. Standing on the front driveway, he looked across the manicured hedges out toward the wrought iron gate at the front of the property. Within moments, his Bentley pulled up in front of him. Climbing out, the driver hurried around the front of the car and opened the back door.

              “That won’t be necessary,” Jonathan said. “I think I’ll drive myself today. Why don’t you go in and spend some time in the library until I get back? I know how much you love to read.”

              “Oh, yes sir, thank you. That would be very nice,” he answered.

              Climbing into the driver’s seat, Jonathan drove the car back to the garage and took the pickup instead. Passing through the front gates, he drove into town and parked in front of the local university. Now nearly seventy years old, he certainly stood out as he walked among the students. Slipping into the back of an active auditorium, he made eye contact with the lecturer and sat in the back row.

              Listening to the man talk, he made a mental note of his tone of voice, his movements and his gestures. Dr. Jerrold Ivanoff was clearly bothered by something, but Jonathan needed to be closer to identify exactly what it was. The lecture ended and he approached the front of the auditorium, brushing past many students and feeling all of their pain and suffering. Each student he encountered appeared to be happy and well adjusted, but Jonathan knew better. Most people, by this time in their life, had learned how to mask their true selves.

              Joining the professor at the lecture podium, his presence brought about an immediate silence across the room. Looking up, he realized that most of the students had stopped their exit and were watching him as he spoke with Dr. Ivanoff.

              “You always have that effect on a crowd, Jonathan,” the professor said. “People know you have something special.”

              “How are you doing, my old friend,” Jonathan said. “I know something is bothering you.”

              “It’s not good, Jonathan,” he answered. “I’ve been diagnosed with cancer. The doctors believe that I have a 70% chance of survival but at my age, I really don’t like the idea of radiation and chemotherapy.”

              Taking his hands, Jonathan looked deeply into Dr. Ivanoff’s eyes. “You won’t have to, my friend,” he said. “Stop drinking coffee, stop drinking alcohol and stop eating sugar and everything will be alright.” As the two men stood looking at each other, the silence of the room turned into a slight whisper that turned into a dull roar as the entire room stood in shock.

              “He’s glowing,” someone shouted out. Jonathan looked down at his arms and realized it was he of whom they spoke. Looking up at the crowd, he saw, near the back of the room, a very familiar face, an elderly man, well dressed and cleanly shaven. The man smiled at him and gave a small wave, only to then instantly disappear.

Just One Step

 

He stood at the edge of his garden, his hand placed above his eyes, sheltering them from the noonday sun. The time had finally arrived for the harvest. Roger had nursed this batch of garlic and was thrilled at enjoying the fruit of his labor. Dropping to his knees with a three-pronged garden fork, his work began, and he could smell the combination of freshly turned earth and brand new garlic, freshly drawn from the ground.

              It was a sandy loam soil that he dug in, a beautiful mixture of dirt and sand, perfectly for garlic, carrots, and potatoes. Occasionally wiping the sweat that had begun dripping from his forehead, he leaned back on his heels and felt his vision begin to blur. Taking a deep breath, he tried to focus, sipping water and he steadied himself. Vigorously rubbing his face, he leaned forward once again and pulled the last few bulbs from the ground.

              Standing up and looping his sack, now full of garlic, over his head and shoulder, he started walking back toward his house. He wasn’t exactly sure why but suddenly the ground seemed to reach up and strike him on the face. He lay in the freshly mown grass and wondered why everything felt so heavy. “Maybe I’ll just take a little nap,” he thought to himself. As he slept, he dreamed. He was walking through an enormous garden of gently rolling hills, the number and variety of crops flowed in every direction he looked. He stopped and looked in wonder, slowly turning in a circle and marveling at the glory of it all. Sitting down on the top of the nearest high hill, he laid back and looked into the vast blue sky above him. Eventually closing his eyes, he suddenly felt very cold.

              He tried to reach for his face, but his arms felt like lead. His eyelids fought against him and gravity seemed to have increased by one hundred-fold.

              “Margaret, come quick,” a woman’s voice called out. “I think he’s starting to wake up.”

              “Squeeze his hand, Beth,” another woman said. “See if he responds at all.”

              After what seemed an eternity, Roger managed to open one eye and he looked up into the face of his two sisters, faces drawn and pale.

              “Oh, Roger, Roger, you’re okay,” one of them said. He would have spoken but the tongue in his mouth felt five sizes too big. As he slightly pulled open his mouth, Margaret slipped a straw between his lips. “He must be thirsty,” she said. “He’s been asleep for days. And this heat…”

              The small splash of water soaked into his tongue before he could even relish it’s touch. An array of static crept upon his vision from all sides and he again faded into darkness. It was the sudden blast of cold air that nearly took his breath away. In a sudden shudder, he popped open his eyes and stared into an indistinct gray sky. No longer imprisoned by pain and fever, he sat up and tried to gain his bearings. Looking around himself, he could see nothing recognizable. Sitting among unhewn rock, he could see nothing but jagged, black lifeless mountains and starless sky.

              Standing up Roger realized he was completely naked and cold. Slowly turning in a circle, his searching brought up nothing new. In every direction, the view was the same, cold, faceless, darkness and cold. “Um, where am I?” he said to no one. Each time he would begin to shake off the cold, a new blast of wind, very short but sharp, would chill him again. Gingerly walking across the rocky surface, he struggled to find a smooth surface to place his feet. He walked for what seemed hours, but he had nothing by which to judge time.

              Walking a path parallel to the mountains, he realized that nothing changed. Turning to his right, he started towards the mountains and turned again to walk along the edge between flat and incline. Eventually finding a small overcropping of stones, he curled up beneath them and tried to fall asleep. More time passed but nothing changed. Reopening his eyes, he stared out across the barren plain in front of him, more rocky mountains far off in the distance.

              As he stared into the emptiness, he watched a body fall from the sky and strike the ground, momentarily remaining motionless. After a few moments, this nameless person stood up, completely naked as well and began looking around and eventually wandering, just as he had. As he began to crawl out from the outcropping, he stopped himself. “I don’t even know where I am, how I got here or even who that person is. This isn’t safe.”

              As he remained hidden, he saw more and more bodies drop from the sky. Slipping out of his hiding place, he moved away in the opposite direction. Far in the distance, he could see more figures but these were very dark and hunched over. The area around them had a fog-like look to it. Looking down upon his own flesh, he could see the darkness covering his own skin. Carefully touching the dark spots, he began vigorously rubbing it but it accomplished nothing.

              He began running and he ran until he was exhausted, collapsing upon the jagged rocks. Though his feet hurt terribly, they did not bleed. He could see no damage whatsoever. Eventually sitting up, he was at a complete loss. He stood up and slowly walked in circles until he heard it. “Roger,” a voice called out. His heart racing, he frantically looked around but saw no one.

              Moving in bigger circles, he continued to hear the voice. It repeated his name many times. Stopping his frantic search, he leaned on his knees, completely winded, when a small circle of light appeared in front of him. The contrast with the surrounding darkness nearly overwhelmed him. The circle grew bigger, drawing closer to his feet. Backing up as it came closer, the voice became louder. The light stopped growing but began to rise up from the ground.

              The voice was clearly coming from the light and it occurred to him to step into it. Closing his eyes, he put his feet together and hopped forward, followed by an incredible sense of ascension, like riding an elevator that suddenly drops. With a violent jerk, he could feel himself laying on a soft, cushiony surface. Opening his eyes, he could feel the silky touch of clothes upon his skin and shoes on his feet. He was looking up at the ceiling of a large room, dimly lit but warm and comfortable.

              Sitting up, he realized he sat in a church, empty but warm. The darkness outside the windows told him that it was night, and he was sure he was alone. Gripping the sides of the coffin in which he lay, the reality of his situation struck him. He had died but had somehow come back. Carefully swinging one leg out, he stood, standing in his finest Sunday clothes.

              “Welcome back, Roger,” a voice called out. Looking to his right, he saw an ibis standing on the front pew. “I couldn’t leave you there, my friend. It just wasn’t right,” it said.

For the Love of Arthur

 

He had been walking for hours and the trees had begun to thin. The wild and unrestrained chaos of the forest had begun to change. Almost an order of sorts had begun to reveal itself and he found the undergrowth through which he had been struggling began to take on a path-like feel. The massive canopy that had blocked nearly every beam of sunlight had begun to thin and the air began to warm.

Feeling encouraged, Arthur paused and looked around. The forest had certainly taken on more of a park-like setting and colors other than brown and green started to reveal themselves. With the opening up and the greater sunlight, he felt drawn toward the order and beauty of this new realization. The further he traveled, the clearer the path became and the more motivated he became to continue onward.

While the motivation to keep moving had greatly increased, so did the difficulty of travel, as the way forward had taken on an incline. Continuing to push onward, the forest eventually opened up to a vast field and the brightness of a summer day. Looking to his left and right, the tree line extended beyond his line of vision. Stepping out into the wide-open field, he looked forward and for a moment, thought he saw someone, his first sighting for as long as he could remember. Increasing his pace, he hurried toward the possible friend, only to realize that it was no person at all but a statue.

Approaching the intricately carved granite figure, he circled it several times and marveled at its beauty and perfection. Reaching out and feeling it, he was in awe of its polished finish and the flawless execution of its production, for clearly someone had created it with great care. He stood and stared for quite some time and turned around, realizing that this was only one of many. Moving from statue to statue, his awe only increased, each more breathtaking than the last.

Soon there were small gardens of amazing beauty, the colors perfectly flowing from one to the next. Bubbling fountains and beautifully manicured hedges soon surrounded him. He came across a gazebo containing stunning paintings of people, of animals, and of landscapes. The grass beneath his feet had slowly changed into beautifully tended lawn, flower beds and pebbly paths with steppingstones.

Sitting on a bench, he could only marvel at the incredible beauty and tried to imagine the unbelievable number of hours, days and even years that must have been spent in crafting this grand garden. The day never seemed to come to an end and Arthur finally stood back up and continued his journey into this marvelous garden. The beauty of this wonderful place continued to grow and mature. The further he journeyed, the grander his view became. As he circled around a massive, yet delicately crafted rosebush, he bumped into a woman who was equally enthralled by this particular display of beauty. The two of them walked together in silence, enchanted by the overwhelming beauty. Finally, Arthur introduced himself and the woman reciprocated.

Eventually more and more people joined them, and Arthur found himself in the company of nearly a dozen people. Small talk was exchanged, and they all marveled at the beauty that surrounded them. A variety of opinions were given as to the nature and possible origin of this wondrous garden. The group continued to move further into the garden but then Arthur began to notice a change in the attention of the others. While he continued to be focused on the handiwork and beauty of the plants, flowers and even the architecture of the benches, the gazebos and the statues, the others began looking at the ground, scraping their feet through the dirt and commenting on the designs that were left.

Arthur stepped back to a far edge and began watching the others. Soon, no one else paid any attention to the beauty but had focused all of their attention on the dirt and the small scrapings they made with their feet. Perplexed by their behavior, he finally interrupted a debate taking place between two of them over the size of the arch one of them had made in the dirt. Many large and impressive words were exchanged over their artful endeavors and Arthur tried to redirect their attention to the beauty of the garden, but his efforts were futile.

Stepping away from the crowd, he began working his way back toward the way from which they had all come. Soon he was alone in the midst of the simple and beautiful garden. Moving from one display to the next, he still found himself overwhelmed by the beauty of it all but perplexed as well as to the odd misdirection of the others. “Toe marks in the dirt as art?” he thought to himself. “How could they even compare the two?”

Returning to the first gazebo he had found, he stepped inside and climbed up a small ladder onto the roof. From his new perspective, he could see the overall grand design of the entire garden. From his vantage point, he could see the small group of fellow travelers but still they stared at the ground and their odd obsession with the dirt. He could see for miles and even from this high up, the beauty of the garden was even more grand than before. He could see patterns and organization that he could not before as he stood within the garden itself.

The day continued on and he never grew tired of the beauty of the garden as a whole. As he watched, the small crowd that he joined him earlier slowly drifted off into the wild and untamed field that lay to the far left of the garden. Still they looked at the ground and argued among themselves.

Finally, Arthur climbed down from the roof of the gazebo and lay down on a bench at the entrance to the garden. Drifting off to sleep, it was the sound of hummingbirds, the scent of roses and the waving of the hydrangea bushes that filled his senses.

New Optina

 

It was the pitch dark of night, but the full moon gave the slight feeling of dusk. The late hour had arrived and no one but Carl was out. Sitting in his shopping car with the back of his knees creased over the front edge, Carl sat whistling and staring at the giant orb of off-white moon. He didn’t know what time it was and frankly he couldn’t care less. He slept when he was tired and stayed awake when not, wandering around or sitting and watching the goings-on.

The shopping cart had slowly drifted into the large hydrangea bush that partially hid the telephone exchange box at the edge of town and Carl sat whistling and staring at the moon. But it was the crunching of gravel that stirred him from his lunar observation. Redirecting his gaze toward the long straight road that lay off to his left, he struggled to focus on what appeared to be a small group of people. The rhythmic crunching and the slight bobbing of their heads had him mesmerized. Grabbing hold of a branch, he tipped himself over and rolled under the bush, watching as the small group walked past, perfectly silent save the crunching of gravel.

“I wonder who they are?” he thought to himself. Carl knew pretty much everyone in town and kept a keen eye on most everything that was happening. As the town had less than a thousand people, he was busy but not overwhelmed. Laying in the dirt under the hydrangea bush, he waited until the night was once again silent. Standing up, he left the dirt and leaves on his clothes and started walking back toward his camper.

In the immediate center of town, his small camper stood alone in front of his parent’s home. It was his own private space in which no one was welcome. Sure, Carl was friendly with everyone, but he needed his privacy. Sitting down on the small stool that sat immediately in front of his door, he stared out across the open field directly across from his camper and wondered about the small group that interrupted his moonlit ruminations.

Finally climbing into bed, he slept in his clothes and faded to sleep as he watched his goldfish Frank swim in endless circles. He often wondered if he was more goldfish than man. Waking up as the sunlight crawled over the distant hills, he sat up and rubbed his face. Grabbing a donut from the partially open box on his counter, he stumbled out the door and stood in the bright morning sunshine, watching Farmer Butler’s cows graze in the field across the road. Finishing his donut, he started walking toward town, releasing a number of large yawns.

It wasn’t until he reached the steps of the grocery store that he saw a small crowd that had gathered in front of the library. Changing his path, he walked back down the steps and approached the small crowd but kept his distance as well.

“I have no idea who they are,” one man said. “Agnes says they showed up in the middle of the night and rented a room. One room for five people.”

“So, five people just showed up in our little town in the middle of the night,” another said. “Why in the sam hill would anyone come here? Especially in the dead of night. Something weird is going on.”

Just then the front door of the hotel across the street opened up and five men, all dressed in black and wearing long beards, all exited the building and walked in the opposite direction.

“Well, there’s our answer,” a third man said. “Five weird looking guys, probably hippies. Who knows what kind of drugs these sorts are on? We need to keep an eye on them. The last thing we need is having a bunch of stuff stolen. I don’t trust them at all.”

The crowd of men remained standing on the steps of the library and watched the five men in black walk silently down the street towards the edge of town. The men stopped with the sidewalk and stood motionless and in silence.

“Now what are they doing,” someone said.

“Looks like they're waiting for something,” another answered. “I’m telling you, they’re up to no good.”

Within moments, a bright red SUV pulled up in front of the five men and a middle-aged man in an expensive suit climbed out and greeted them. All shaking hands, the group climbed into the SUV and continued onward out of town.

Later that day, Carl sat on a bench in front of Al’s Diner, swinging his feet. He watched as the red SUV parked, nearly directly in front of him. The driver had barely exited the vehicle when two men hurried out of the diner and started talking to him.

“Jack, hey, Jack,” what’s with the bearded weirdo’s,” one of them asked. “Since you’re the only realtor in town, I’m guessing you were showing them a property?”

“Yes, Bob,” Jack answered, “but more than that. They already bought a property. The twenty acres of the Hollisfield farm just outside of town. Paid cash. Nice enough bunch of guys, pretty quiet though. I dropped them off out there with a map. They said they didn’t need anything else.”

“Paid cash? Seriously?” one of the men said. “So, who are they? Do you think it’s drug money?”

“Pfft, no,” Jack answered. “They’re some sort of religious group, saint something or other. I guess they’re going to start building right away. Honestly, they seem pretty harmless. I hope people don’t bother them. I don’t think they mean any harm and really seem to just want to be left alone.”

The months passed and Carl paid careful attention to the number of flatbed trucks that repeatedly passed through town up toward the hippie commune, as the locals had come to all it. Eventually, the trucks stopped coming and he began to notice a lot of hushed conversations and whispered suspicions about what could be taking place “up there”.

It was the beginning of a very warm summer and Carl was laying under the porch of the grocery store with just his feet sticking out into the sunshine. Laying in silence, he could hear the footsteps of each customer and with relative ease could identify to whom the steps belonged. After ten or twelve familiar footsteps, a set of steps passed over that he did not recognize. The mystery got the better of him and he slid out of the darkness and walked into the store.

“Ah, should’ve known,” he thought to himself. “One of the strangers from the farm.” As he followed the man around the store, always at a distance, he rounded the corner into the produce department and saw the two Jenkins brothers had the older, bearded man backed up against a large pyramid of unshucked corn.

“I don’t know what you freaks are doing up there,” one of the brothers growled into his face, “but I’m thinking I don’t like it.”

“Well, you are free to come up and visit any time,” the man said, a look of kindness and serenity in his face. “We aren’t hiding anything. Even better, you should come up on Sunday around eight o’clock. I think you’ll like it.”

“No, I don’t think so,” the other brother said. “I think we’ll come up whenever we want.” Giving the man a shove into the corn, the man caught himself but not before knocking a few ears onto the floor. “And pick that up, freak,” the brother yelled back at him as the two walked away.

Carl hurried over and helped the older man pick up the corn.

“Oh, thank you young man,” he said. “Sometimes people are afraid of what they don’t understand.” Saying nothing but only laughing a little, Carl placed the corn back onto the display and quickly left the store, crawling back under the porch.

As the sun began to set, Carl crawled out from under the porch and began walking down the middle of street, his arms stretched out straight to both sides of his body. Cars raced past both sides of him, honking as they approached.

Two middle aged men sat on the bench just inside the city park, watching the oddball walking in the street. “I swear that fool is going to get himself killed,” said the one. “Somebody needs to do something about him.”

Carl walked into the park and lay face down in the grass behind the men, kicking his feet in perfect rhythm.

“The family and I were sitting at the dinner table last night,” one of the men said, “and my little boy said that one of his friends told him that the hippies were digging a lake to farm fish. Have you ever heard of anything so weird?”

“Well, I heard that they grow their own wheat and stuff and have a bakery up there too,” the other said. “That whole situation up there is just too strange. I don’t like it at all. You can’t exactly say that they aren’t friendly, but they don’t really interact with anyone at all. I think a group of us should go up there and surprise ‘em. Maybe we can see what they’re really doing.”

The summer drug on and the temperature seemed to climb each day. Carl got up that particular morning and put on his snowsuit. Walking down the center of the road with his arms outstretched, everyone outside stopped what they were doing and stared at the man.

“I’m telling you, that guy is not right in the head,” one man said to another. “It is easily over a hundred degrees and that fool is dressed like it’s winter. He’s gonna kill himself.” Just then Mr. Barnes, the grocery store owner hurried out the front door.

“Hey, Jake, can you take a look at my sink?” he asked. “I’m turning the tap but nothing is coming out.”

“Yeah, sure, I can take a look,” one of the men answered. Following the owner inside, he stepped back out a moment later. “Well, that’s really weird,” he said. “There’s no water.”

A car pulled up before he could finish his sentence. “Hey Jake,” the woman driving the car asked. “Everyone around town is saying that their plumbing ain’t working. Can you run over to the Jenkin’s place and take a look. She’s the first one to call me about it.”

“Oh, man, this isn’t good,” Jake said. “I wonder if this heat is drying the wells up.”

That evening, the mayor called a town meeting. “Thank you for coming out tonight,” he said, standing up on the stage at the school auditorium. “I’m sure you all know what this is about. It seems that this heat wave has dried out all the wells. So, we’re going to have to ask everyone to really cut back on their water usage. I don’t think we even have enough water to water the crops. This is really bad folks.”

As he finished speaking, a murmur began to build across the room. But then the back door of the room opened up and the five bearded men from the old Hollisfield farm entered. The room fell silent and one of them approached the mayor and spoke for a moment.

“Excuse me, everyone,” the mayor called out. “Seraphim here has asked to share a few words with you. Please give him your attention.”

The old, bearded man climbed onto the stage and cleared his throat. “I wanted to let you all know that you are welcome to our farm anytime. Our wells have not dried up and we have built up a large store of food, in case anyone has a need. Please come anytime. We are here for you.”

The room sat in silence as he climbed down from the stage and joined the other four men. Watching the men leave the room, the townspeople remained silent, looking at one another. Eventually, the mayor loudly cleared his throat. “Uh, folks, well, you all heard what the man had to say. It seems that we misjudged our new neighbors. In spite of their generosity, I still urge you to conserve as much water as you can. We have no way of knowing how much water their wells can provide. I think we should all go home now.”

As the crowd of people left the school auditorium, they came across Carl, lying in the school parking lot in his snowsuit. The crowd gathered around the man and stood in silence, looking down upon the prostrate form. “Is he dead?” a young child asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” a woman answered, “I can see his fingers moving.”

“Hey Carl, what are you doing?” a man in the back asked. But Carl lay, basically motionless. “Wait a minute, look at this,” the man said, pointing off to Carl’s side. The crowd focused their attention on a large collection of toys that had carefully been set up. “What the heck is all of this?” a third man asked.

“Hey, it’s a copy of our town,” a little girl said. “See, there’s the school and there’s the grocery store and there’s the road leading out to the Hollisfield farm. And it’s right where Carl is laying down.”

The crowd looked back at Carl and realized that he was soaking wet, as if he had just gotten out of a swimming pool, his hair, face and clothes leaving a stream of water flowing back toward the tiny town he had set up.