Through these Eyes Part 26

The middle of June was slated as the beginning of our summer vacation, and on the 15th, we departed for Colorado. It was a grand trip, for Dad had promised an extensive vacation following the debilitating chemotherapy treatments, and told me that we would go anywhere I wished. My choice was not a difficult one; I had always loved the west and desired to see both "old sights" and new. The resulting journey made its first stop in the Colorado Rocky Mountains, but since we had been to the area numerous times, we did not tarry long; the day after hiking up a small hill and splashing barefoot in an icy mountain stream, we drove along Trail Ridge Road and headed north to the Tetons and Yellowstone National Park.

Yellowstone was a source of much fascination, yet prior to our arrival at the park itself, a short ramble in the roadside brush (for the purpose of taking a better scenic photograph) led to the discovery of an entire moose carca.s.s. I quickly hoisted the head into the air, and positioned it before my own, whereupon my mom excitedly captured my lack of respect for the dead on film. Unable to relinquish my antlered scull, my parents agreed to stow it in the trunk. The weathered skull had been callously separated from its body without last rites or a solitary tear, but, driving from the area, I did not really think the moose would mind.

The next day, after scouting past numerous bubbling geysers, I bought a moose charm in a souvenir shop. I wished to commemorate my find of the previous day (and perhaps, subconsciously placate the moose's spirit if it had suffered any ill-will toward my action). We also decided to eat lunch at that time since the restaurant was in close proximity to the renowned "Old Faithful," and being so close, had ample time to finish our food before it again blew its steam skyward. Lunch arrived soon following our order, yet time began to drift away as Mom delved into her mountainous chef's salad. It was obvious that we would miss the eruption of Old Faithful if direct action was not taken; Dad and I said "good-bye" to Mom and dashed on to the extensive patio where other visitors were gathering. Eyes were riveted on the strangely steaming mound; a few men checked their wrist-watches, as if doubtful of the geyser's punctuality. No one was disappointed. Exactly one hour after its last appearance, a mad bubbling issued from the previously silent pit and multiplied its violent surges until frothing liquid shot into the sky. People oohed and ahhed and pointed fingers. Cameras clicked furiously.

When the show was over, the crowd disbursed and Dad and I returned to the restaurant to fetch Mom. Fifteen minutes had elapsed; she would probably be waiting at an empty table, nursing her gla.s.s of water to alleviate boredom and nervousness. We turned into the restaurant and couldn't believe our eyes. There was Mom, still poised over a fair amount of salad, eating diligently; "the salad wouldn't leave," I thought. At least she wasn't bored during our absence.

Mom eventually finished her salad and we resumed our sightseeing.

Yellowstone Park was an intermingling of beauty and oddity, and as a result I used a fair amount of film. The animals, though wild, were close at hand and I was able to see buffalo and elk to my fulfillment.

After two days we left the park and headed into Montana and Washington, stopping to see the Grand Coulee Dam for my dad's benefit. I was not impressed and did not care to linger over the ma.s.sive system of water retention, yet the trip was not entirely my own and I therefore tried to suppress my disinterest.

The following day proved more to my liking as we once again headed into a park. I had never before seen Mt. Rainier and was truly awed to view the spectacle created by the superior snow-capped mountain. Though surrounded by other mountains and lushly forested valleys, Mt. Rainier dominated one's attention like a bejeweled lady among serfs.

June 23, 1977... Went into Rainier. At this one place this jay would come down and take a peanut out of Dad's hand (in mid-air). Went to Paradise (visitor center) and hiked up near Mt. Rainier. I never felt so good in my life. Had to walk through snow in around 3-5 places. It was real neat.

The day was the highlight of the entire vacation. Separating myself from my parents, I sped up the trail, spurred onward through a boundless source of energy and excitement. I felt as if my heart would burst, for never had I experienced such a profound closeness with nature. I enjoyed the beauty, but basked in the ecstasy which swelled from within. My sense of reality had heightened and every inch of my body was alive with incomparable sensations. I listened to the world, to the breeze tossing the fragrant pine; I absorbed every detail and mourned the journey's end, whereupon the noise and clutter of civilization would scour away the feeling which I so desired to prolong. Seldom was I entranced by emotion; I slowed my pace and then stopped to breathe a final breath of tranquility before surrendering my blissful state of mind to the realm of the ordinary.

Retracing my steps, I eventually met Mom and Dad ascending toward the direction I had climbed. "There's quite a bit of snow up there," I told them. Sporting only tennis shoes and sweaters, they quickly re-routed their steps and chose a down-hill trek; they had exercised enough for one day anyway. The three of us ambled down the mountain-side, stopping once for a s...o...b..ll fight which could not be resisted. It was amazing how rapidly one's mental state changed with the introduction of various sensations or the presence of other people.

My previous feeling was now only a memory, firmly implanted, yet miles from my grasp. It was a gem, secure in my mind, and I knew that I was somehow wealthier than I had been.

Two days after Mt. Rainier, we were driving down the Oregon coastline.

At several intervals we stopped so I could test the breakwater beneath my bare feet. The sh.o.r.e was beautiful, despite the gray clouds and ocean mist that eventually obscured the farthest cliffs from view. I seemed to be walking in a colorless world where all things grew only darker or lighter shades of silver gray. The water was icy and forbade me enter; even the foam which rushed up the sand to enrobe my toes was too frigid to withstand, and sent me sprinting from the constant waves to higher ground.

The following day we continued through Oregon to Crater Lake, a magnificent sapphire body of water which left my eyes agape; then, between destinations, we met a trucker who took us on one of his lumber runs. As we mosied down the long state of California, we toured a lumber company and then were awed by the magnificent stands of Sequoia Redwood trees which soared above all else with an aura of statuesque grandeur. The giants were some of the oldest living things on earth, and it seemed incredible and obscene that anyone should desire to cut them down for timber. Compared to the trees, my life seemed a mockery, a dwarfed and highly insignificant thing. All did not depreciate with age.

Our stay in Santa Monica encompa.s.sed eight nights and as many days, as we enjoyed a variety of sights. We stayed with relatives who knew the area quite well and therefore provided a guided tour through some of the attractions, including Universal Studios, Huntington Gardens, Will Roger's Ranch, and shopping mall, and of course, Disneyland. No trip to the west coast would be complete without a jaunt to the latter amus.e.m.e.nt park and we made ours an all-day affair. On our own we traveled to another amus.e.m.e.nt park, Magic Mountain, which boasted a vast array of rides better suited to my suicidal whims. At the day's end, my dad and I had been whipped, jolted, plunged, riveted and lost as many stomachs as cats have lives to have satisfied my boldest cravings for at least a month. Mom, as usual, was most content to sit and watch. Had she indulged in some of the wilder rides, I fear she would have at best, suffered from acute hoa.r.s.eness and at worst, been carried from the park on a stretcher.

Leaving California, we stopped at one of their famous "Date Farms" and to my utter disappointment, saw no date trees. At least the place did not charge admission or try to plaster a revolting b.u.mper sticker on the car while shopping within the "supermarket."

Skirting the southern route through Arizona on our way home, I discovered the meaning of "hot" when referring to weather. At 112 degrees I was extremely pleased that we had an air-conditioned car; ventures into the sunshine were like tiptoeing through a blast furnace.

Sweat dried on the face, forming a sticky glaze with the dust floating on the hot air currents. I would not have been surprised to see spit dry before hitting the ground.

Two days into the blistering heat we stopped at White Sands National Monument. The sand was so blindingly white that attempts to gaze at the drifts without sun-gla.s.ses were hopeless endeavors. On that particular day I was unable to walk bare-foot on the fine sand due to its scorching heat, and we finally decided to duck into the visitor center before shriveling into sun-ripened prunes.

The trip was nearing its end, and I looked forward to sleeping in my own bed and investigating my mail. Even restaurant food lacked its excitement as the days progressed, which was a definite sign that I had turned my thoughts toward home. There was one notable exception, however.

July 11, 1977... Stayed at a real neat motel... and ate at its restaurant. Swam for an hour and half. After awhile, I started talking to a guy in the pool with me. After awhile we saw a drunk guy! It was funny. Then he asked if I wanted something cold to drink (an RC COLA).

We talked awhile after and Mom made me come up finally. (a sad face) He was from Dallas, TX.

The evening was memorable for my mom also, who, for a short time observed our conversation at a pleasant distance. Since I had removed my contacts for fear of losing them in the swimming pool, my vision was rendered useless with regard to recognizing faces and perceiving detail at distances greater than one foot. Therefore, when my "friend"

excused himself from the area, I sought my mom's visual acuteness and asked cautiously, "Mom. . . what's he look like?" I was relieved to discover that she found the guy attractive, and settled into a pool-side chair as Mom retired to the room, noticeably humored by my inquiry.

Such brief encounters augment confidence, for therein one is able to discover his attractiveness to the opposite s.e.x. Ours was the type of interaction which was fleetingly romantic, yet bereft of expectations; each of us knew the conversation would last no more than several hours and end with a smile and a reluctant farewell. I believe the intrinsic briefness created the comfortable atmosphere, for when one knows he shall never see someone again, he leaves behind the fear of peer groups and personality changes which often accompany a better knowledge of the other.

The next morning when I recalled the previous evening, I realized with horror that if I saw the boy, I would not recognize him and hoped for a clean escape from the motel. To my relief, I saw no one who remotely resembled a male teenager, and dismissed myself having only faceless memories of a pool-side conversation and a cool RC Cola.

The family vacation was over after four weeks, and we were all glad to be home. The trip was fun, yet it served to strengthen the heart strings attached to our oak trees and modest house, and though familiarity of itself was not love, it certainly did not subtract from love's essence.

The remainder of the summer was spent in an easy, enjoyable manner. I whiled away the hours on my bicycle or indulged in one of my crafts; I met with friends from school, and stayed at my sister's house for one week. Junior High School was a memory, pasted between the pages of a sc.r.a.pbook. Even my unfinished cedar chest had, by summer's end, found its way into the garage attic.

The last days of freedom melted under the hot August sun, and I began to wonder how three months could have escaped so soon. I once again traveled to Mayo Clinic and returned with good spirits. The latter part of the same week Todd moved to a distant Illinois town to accept a position as a woodworking teacher for ninth grade students. The wheel of change had begun to turn, and "home" meant three people instead of four.

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Chapter 19 Tenth Grade

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Tenth Grade

There were no miraculous suggestions, books, pills or other devices which could have properly prepared me for the onset of growing pains.

My High School years, more than any other time in my life, proved to be the toughest emotional battleground. As I grew physically, mentally and socially, my emotions were constantly fluctuating, eventually creating a finely-honed, razor-sharp edge on which all interaction was carved into a deep and memorable impression in my mind.

Tenth grade came as somewhat of a shock. It reminded me of the terrors of seventh grade, for I had a different locker, an entirely foreign building and a new and larger ma.s.s of faces to which I was supposed to become accustomed. The lunch room appeared enormous to my nervous stomach, and among the flood of students pressed before the snack counter, I considered myself lucky to have made it to the front to order. Once I had my lunch, usually a long john and orange drink, in my possession, I turned reluctantly to search in desperation for a familiar face with whom I could sit and more pleasantly pa.s.s the time.

If I saw no one, I would find a seat apart from the various congregations and open a book as if trying to read. While I ingested my donuts the words danced meaninglessly across the page beneath my unseeing eyes; insecurity prevented me from attempting to seek my acquaintances just as pride demanded that my attention be riveted to a book.

The cla.s.ses were not as distressing as lunch time, with the possible exception of physical education, since they were governed by one's teachers rather than oneself and generally did not reflect complete anarchy. I was much more relaxed in a routine setting wherein nothing was left to chance; I had no anxiety toward finding a seat, since one's initial choice usually lasted the entire semester, nor was conversation a worry because it was not permitted after the beginning of cla.s.s anyway, and if I failed to unearth rare gems of humor, silence did not endure so far as to become embarra.s.sing.

I disliked negative attention and therefore often neglected to raise my hand during cla.s.s discussions. Of course, if the truth shall be made known, I so despised directing another's gaze, that virtually any attention was, from my point of view, "negative." Therefore, if I raised my hand, I wished to be certain my statement was correct and sometimes went as far as writing my answer on paper so that I would not stumble on my own tongue, as was my habit in a stressful situation.

Another habit, however, sometimes impeded my valiant intentions. That, by name, was day-dreaming. Having an innate stubbornness within me, I would foster ill-will toward subjects which, despite my greatest effort, I failed to grasp; enter, day-dreaming. Such was the case with an "Honors English" cla.s.s which I made the mistake of accepting. The cla.s.s was basically the duplicate of "regular" tenth grade English but wielded a decidedly tougher grading scale and a faster pace. Only one of the three teachers who taught the over-sized cla.s.s had sensible expectations of the students and a personality which reflected no favoritism among her subjects; unfortunately, I was lucky enough to study under her guidance only the last semester. The first semester I fell under the instruction of one of the other women; she was single, opinionated and sharp-tongued, and had the habit of dissecting the least complicated story into shreds of symbolism and hidden meaning which would have amused the authors to no end had they been alive to contest her brave statements. The teacher had no room for differing opinions; the only way to succeed on tests was to regurgitate that which she had proclaimed as having relevancy or truth. Reflecting on her marital status, I quickly understood.

Seated in English cla.s.s one day, I found myself lured from the discussion momentarily to exercise some uninvited thought. When I returned my awareness to the cla.s.sroom the teacher was looking around the room for a volunteer to answer her last question. I decided to raise my arm to reply, and she nodded that I should speak. After giving my answer, the teacher studied me indifferently and remarked, "That answer has already been given." I shifted uneasily in my chair, deciding to follow the lesson more closely. Several questions later, another multiple-answer question was presented to the cla.s.s. Hands went up around the room and answers rushed into the teacher's ears. A favorite student raised her hand to offer a reply, and when bidden to speak, her answer was a virtual carbon copy of the previous speaker's.

The instructor smiled at her pleasantly. "That answer has already been mentioned, however, since it is of such consequence, I'm glad you repeated it." I stared in disbelief and knew that I had no hope of winning under conditions as deplorable as those I had just witnessed.

With the initiation into high school, I decided to attempt a routine as near to normal as my system would allow. The last thing I desired was a complication which would separate me from other students, so I elected to store cookies in my locker to provide the extra energy I sometimes required to alleviate an infuriated stomach or an aching head between meals. I tried to forego my snacks entirely, but decided my action was unwise after repeated and quite audible rumblings of ignored hunger pangs during cla.s.s. Because the consumption of my snack would occasionally swallow an extra minute of my time, I procured a note from the school administrator that officially excused a late entry into cla.s.s. I rarely needed the note, and the teachers knew I was not the type to abuse such a privilege; the system worked very well.

I felt more "normal" physically than I had for many months, and decided that I should try to negotiate a hated physical education cla.s.s even though I would not have had to do so given my health history. Although it was tempting to avoid the issue altogether by procuring a medical excuse from my doctor, I did not wish to invite failure through cowardice on my behalf. Too often I watched people use health problems to buffer a difficult situation or create an unwarranted advantage when in actuality, their only lameness was the excuse which formed on their lips.

My progress in physical education depended to a large extent on the progress made by my stomach to digest its food. If it decided to cooperate, my activity was in no way impeded. However, because of its irregularity, such cooperation was markedly infrequent and I would often find myself uncomfortably nauseous; as the sports grew more demanding, I knew that the cla.s.s was not going to be acceptable. I was of no value to the team if staving off the urge to vomit, and the teachers disbelieved my need to sit quietly on the side lines. "You look fine to me," their appraisal seemed to say. I almost wished my stomach would yield to its sickness and give the doubting teachers an eyeful to cure them of their disbelief. Eventually I asked my doctor to write a medical excuse for me which served to place me in the library for "study hall"; this arrangement pleased me for I was then free to study, read, or dream as dictated by my mood. Physical activity was pursued at home during periods of good health; this was no awkward adjustment since I desired to maintain my fitness, and when I felt well, I did not spend time slumped sluggishly in a chair. Seated in the library, I reflected gratefully that I had not taken any drastic measures before securing the written excuse; I also knew that, since I was no tyrant, I probably could not have given such a gruesome display even if it had been a foremost desire.