Notes from the Edge

Notes from the Edge 03-24-24

I am hanging out watching a murder mystery series on YouTube with my wife (The small town with A BIG Missing Persons Problem….). It is pretty good and thought provoking. We get into these YouTube things sometimes or binging series on Netflix (Just killed Orange is the new Black which I had seen, and she had not seen).

And we have over seventy channels between the two of us that we follow. In the morning, I click to YouTube, and we watch what there is as we work. Today there was nothing, so we choose the crime special from among the possessions.

So, the storm is over? I hope? We’ll see but Ryan Hall Yall says more is on the way.

Cold here near the Canadian border, but it’s always cold here.

I thought I would leave a freer story that is so close to my real life that I published it as a true story with just a few names changed. I hope you enjoy reading it. I sometimes think back to growing up there and wax nostalgic, of course nothing is as it was. What it was was not even the way it really was. Yes, we had a lot of freedom, but that was because our mothers had to work, or fathers in some cases. Either was it left us being raised by one parent. In my case, and most of the kids I hung out with. That meant a drunken father beating our mothers, us, both, rarely ever there, and us needing to escape from that as much as we could.

So, yes, it sounds romantic, nostalgic, but that is how I chose to write it. I don’t want to dwell upon the times that weren’t that way…

TWO:
THE DAM

It was summer, the trees full and green, the temperatures in the upper seventies. And you could
smell the river from where it ran behind the paper mills and factories crowded
around it, just beyond the public square, a dead smell, waste from the paper
plants.

I think it was John who said something first. “Fuck it,” or something like that,”
I’ll be okay.”

“Yeah,” Pete asked?

“Yeah… I think so,” John agreed. His eyes locked on Pete’s, but they didn’t stay.
They slipped away and began to wander along the riverbed, the sharp rocks that
littered the tops of the cliffs and the distance to the water. I didn’t like
it. Gary just nodded. Gary was the oldest, so we pretty much went along with the way he saw things.

“But it’s your dad,” I said at last. I felt stupid. Defensive. But it really felt to me
like he really wasn’t seeing things clearly. I didn’t trust how calm he was, or
how he kept looking at the riverbanks and then down to the water maybe eighty
feet are so below.

“I should know,” John said. But his eyes didn’t meet mine at all.

“He should know,” Gary agreed and that was that.

“That’s cool. Let’s go down to the river,” Pete suggested, changing the subject.

“I’m not climbing down there,” I said. I looked down the sheer rock drop off to the
water. John was still looking too, and his eyes were glistening, wet, his lips
moved slightly as if he was talking to himself. If he was, I couldn’t hear. But then
he spoke aloud.

“We could make it, I bet,” he said as though it was an afterthought to some other idea. I
couldn’t quite see that idea, at least I told myself that later. But I felt
some sort of way about it. As if it had feelings of its own attached to it.

“No, man,” Gary said. “Pete didn’t mean beginning here… Did you,” he asked?

“No… No, you know, out to Huntingtonville,” Pete said. He leaned forward on his bike,
looked at john, followed his eyes down to the river and then back up. John
looked at him.

“What!” John asked.

“Nothing, man,” Pete said. “We’ll ride out to Huntingtonville. To the dam.
That’d be cool… Wouldn’t it?” You could see the flatness in John’s
eyes. It made Pete nervous. He looked at Gary.

“Yeah,” Gary said. He looked at me.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “That’d be cool.” I spun one pedal on my stingray, scuffed
the dirt with the toe of one Ked and then I looked at John again. His eyes were
still too shiny, but he shifted on his banana seat, scuffed the ground with one
of his own Keds and then said, “Yeah,” kind of under his breath.
Again, like it was an afterthought to something else. He lifted his head from
his close inspection of the ground, or the river, or the rocky banks, or
something in some other world for all I knew, and it seemed more like the last
to me, but he met all of our eyes with one sliding loop of his own eyes, and
even managed to smile.

~

The bike ride out to Huntingtonville was about four miles. It was a beautiful day, and we lazed our
way along, avoiding the streets, riding beside the railroad tracks that just
happened to run out there. The railroad tracks bisected Watertown. They were
like our own private road to anywhere we wanted to go. Summer, fall or winter.
It didn’t matter. You could hear the trains coming from a long way off. More
than enough time to get out of the way.

We had stripped our shirts off earlier in the morning when we had been crossing the only area of
the tracks that we felt were dangerous, a long section of track that was
suspended over the Black River on a rail trestle. My heart had beat fast as we
had walked tie to tie trying not to look down at the rapids far below. Now we
were four skinny, jeans clad boys with our shirts tied around our waists riding
our bikes along the sides of those same railroad tracks where they ran through
our neighborhood, occasionally bumping over the ties as we went. Gary managed
to ride on one of the rails for about 100 feet. No one managed anything better.

Huntingtonville was a small river community just outside of Watertown. It was like the section of
town that was so poor it could not simply be across the tracks or on the other
side of the river, it had to be removed to the outskirts of the city itself. It
was where the poorest of the poor lived, the least desirable races. The blacks.
The Indians. Whatever else good, upstanding white Americans felt threatened or
insulted by. It was where my father had come from, being both black and Indian.

I didn’t look like my father. I looked like my mother. My mother was Irish and English. About as
white as white could be. I guess I was passing. But I was too poor, too much of
a dumb kid to even know that back then in 1969.

John’s father was the reason we were all so worried. A few days before we had been playing
baseball in the gravel lot of the lumber company across the street from where
we lived. The railroad tracks ran behind that lumber company. John was just
catching his breath after having hit a home run when his mother called him inside. We all heard later from our own mothers that John’s father had been hurt somehow. Something to do with his head. A stroke. I really didn’t know what a stroke was at that time or understand everything that it meant. I only knew it was bad. It was later in life that I understood how bad. All of us probably.
But we did understand that John’s father had nearly died, and would never be
his old self again, if he even managed to pull through.

It was a few days after that now. The first time the four of us had gotten back together. We all
felt at loose ends. It simply had made no sense for the three of us to try to
do much of anything without John. We had tried but all we could think about or
talk about was John’s father. Would he be okay? Would they move? That worried
me the most. His sister was about the most beautiful girl in the entire world
to me. So not only would John move, so would she.

He came back to us today not saying a word about it. And we were worried.

When we reached the dam, the water was high. That could mean that either the dam had been running off the excess water or was about to be. You just had to look at the river and
decide.

“We could go to the other side and back,” John suggested.

The dam was about 20 or 30 feet high. Looming over a rock-strewn riverbed that had very little
water. It was deeper out towards the middle, probably, it looked like it was,
but it was all dry river rock along the grassy banks. The top of the Dam
stretched about 700 feet across the river.

“I don’t know,” Pete said. “The dam might be about to run. We could get stuck
on the other side for a while.”

No one was concerned about a little wet feet if the dam did suddenly start running as we were
crossing it. It didn’t run that fast. And it had caught us before. It was no
big deal. Pete’s concern was getting stuck on the little island where the damn
ended for an hour or so. Once, john, and I had been on that island and
some kids, older kids, had decided to shoot at us with 22 caliber rifles.
Scared us half to death. But that’s not the story I’m trying to tell you today.
Maybe I’ll tell you that one some other time. Today I’m trying to tell you
about John’s father. And how calm John seemed to be taking it.

John didn’t wait for anyone else to comment. He dumped his bike and started to climb up the side of
the concrete abutment to reach the top of the dam and walk across to the island. There was nothing for us to do except fall in behind him. One by one we did.

It all went smoothly. The water began to top the dam, soaking our Keds with its yellow
paper mill stink and scummy white foam, just about halfway across. But we all
made it to the other side and the island with no trouble. Pete and I climbed
down and walked away. To this day I have no idea what words passed between Gary
and john, but the next thing I knew they were both climbing back up onto the
top of the dam, where the water was flowing faster now. Faster than it had ever
flowed when we had attempted to cross the dam. Pete nearly at the top of the
concrete wall, Gary several feet behind him.

John didn’t hesitate. He hit the top, stepped into the yellow brown torrent of river water pouring
over the falls and began to walk back out to the middle of the river. Gary
yelled to him as Pete, and I climbed back up to the top of the dam.

I don’t think I was trying to be a hero, but the other thought, the thought he had pulled back from
earlier, had just clicked in my head. John was thinking about dying. About
killing himself. I could see it on the picture of his face that I held in my head from earlier. I didn’t yell to him, I just stepped into the yellow foam and water, found the top of the dam and began walking.

Behind me and Pete and Gary went ballistic. “Joe, what the fuck are you doing!”

I heard it, but I didn’t hear it. I kept moving. I was scared. Petrified. Water tugged at my
feet. There was maybe 6 inches now pouring over the dam and more coming, it
seemed a long way down to the river. Sharp, up-tilted slabs of rock seemed to
be reaching out for me. Secretly hoping that I would fall and shatter my life
upon them.

John stopped in the middle of the dam and turned, looking off toward the rock and the river below.
I could see the water swirling fast around his ankles. Rising higher as it went. John looked over at me, but he said nothing.

“John,” I said when I got close enough. He finally spoke.

“No,” was all he said. But tears began to spill from his eyes. Leaking from his cheeks
and falling into the foam scummed yellow-brown water that flowed ever faster
over his feet.

“Don’t,” I screamed. I knew he meant to do it, and I couldn’t think of anything else to
say.

“Don’t move,” Gary said from behind me. I nearly went over the falls. I hadn’t
known he was that close. I looked up and he was right next to me, working his
way around me on the slippery surface of the dam. I looked back and Pete was
still on the opposite side of the dam. He had climbed up and now he stood on
the flat top. Transfixed. Watching us through his thick glasses. Gary had
followed John and me across.

I stood still and Gary stepped around me. I have no idea how he did. I’ve thought about it,
believe me. There shouldn’t have been enough room, but that was what he did. He
stepped right around me and then walked the remaining 20 feet or so to John and
grabbed his arm.

“If you jump you kill me too,” Gary said. I heard him perfectly clear above the roar of
the dam. He said it like it was nothing. Like it is everything. But mostly he
said it like he meant it.

It seemed like they argued and struggled forever, but it was probably less than a minute, maybe
two. The waters were rising fast and the whole thing would soon be decided for
us. If we didn’t get off the dam quickly, we would be swept over by the force of
the water.

They almost did go over. So did I. But the three of us got moving and headed back across to the land
side where we had dropped our bikes. We climbed down from a dam and watched the
water fill the river up. No one spoke.

Eventually john stopped crying. And the afterthought looks, as though there some words or
thoughts he couldn’t say passed. The dying time had passed.

We waited almost two hours for the river to stop running and then Pete came across…

We only talked about it one other time that summer, and then we never talked about it again. That
day was also a beautiful summer day. Sun high in the sky. We were sitting on our bikes watching the dam run.

“I can’t believe you were going to do it,” Pete said.

“I wasn’t,” John told him. “I only got scared when the water started flowing and froze on the dam… That’s all it was.”

Nobody spoke for a moment and then Gary said, “That’s how it was.”

“Yeah. That’s how it was,” I agreed…

Get the book on Apple:

https://books.apple.com/us/book/true-true-stories-from-a-small-town-1/id595789795

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