Chapter 18

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The letters slide off the tongue rhythmically: M-I-S-S-I-S-S-I-P-P-I. The word conjures visions of freckle-faced Huck Finns with fishing poles and corncob pipes, or shifty-eyed riverboat gamblers and pale-skinned ladies with pink parasols and hoop skirts. Gone are the days of the paddle wheelers and minstrel shows. Gone are the slaves whose prayerful spirituals once echoed across the waters as they sang to their God and to the river.

The Golden Age of the Mississippi was but a moment of its timeless existence. This “Father of Waters” was born not of clear blue lakes and streams, but of ice – massive plains of flowing glaciers that reached out like the hand of God to sculpt the land and divide the waters. Prehistoric people buried entire households in huge animal shaped mounds on its banks, perhaps worshiping the great mysteries of their time – the sun, fire, and the river.

Later, their less-primitive descendants lived and died on these same shores. The Sioux, Ojibwa, Sauk, and Fox stood beside the beautiful cascading waterfalls and ate of its plentiful bounty. They lived their lives to the rhythm of the river.

There is still a kind of cadence to life here. Many of the new sights and sounds are mechanized and seemingly obtrusive, like the roar of the diesels straining to push a quarter million tons of coal or grain up stream, and the red and black buoy channel markers bobbing as guideposts on this great watery highway. But swimmers still swim and fishermen still fish in the muddy waters. Owls, hawks, and cranes still circle lazily overhead. On gorgeous spring days, the river mirrors what is good about the earth and the blue of the heavens is pale by comparison. Anyone who knows the river – really knows it – refers to it as “she”, like a willful, beautiful woman who flirts, teases, and lies serene and tranquil in the moonlight, and then suddenly rises up in a terrible fury, capable of consuming and destroying. Those people know you can love or hate her, bridge or dam her, pollute, ride, curse or revere her, but no one can ever possess her. Rather the river remains an implacable, unrelenting marker of time and space, a natural backdrop for human dramas, serving to remind those she touches how obscure and limited humanity is when compared to the boundless power of the river.

So it is that the sight of the first tow and barges making its way upriver is as much a part of the spring ritual as tulips, robins, and warm spring breezes. The Winston's had been told to watch for it. There was a pool at the Pub as to the exact day and time the first one would go past.

The cry went out one Sunday morning just as the family dressed for Mass. Peter and Danny, their good pants already dirtied, ran onto the porch and yelled excitedly through the open window. “It’s coming! It’s coming!” Matthew grabbed the binoculars and hurried down to the rocky place, with everyone close behind. They had seen pictures and heard stories of the mighty tows with upwards to fifteen barges cleated together. But what a sight it was to see. Even from this distance, it looked like a small island inching its way upstream.

“It’s the Sarah E. Thomas,” Matthew reported, looking through the field glasses. “She’s got 9, no, 12 barges. Looks like she’s running empty ’cause she’s riding high.” Reluctantly, he handed over the binoculars to be passed around. After a few minutes, he said, “C’mon, lets see if we can beat her into town.” Everyone ran for the bus.

The Winston's were not the only ones who came to watch. There was a small gathering at the park. Billy was there with the ledger of this year’s wagers.

“Here she comes! Here she comes!” the children squealed.

Billy was looking over the ledger carefully and checking his watch. When the flagpole of the lead barge passed before him, he declared it official. “It is 9:32, Sunday morning, April, 19th. That means Charlie O’Leary is the winner – again! I swear that man must know somebody in St. Louie!”

It was a magnificent sight. It passed so closely that they could see the captain waving through an open window on the bridge. There was a great torrent of churning water left in its wake so that the waves beat on the shore like the tide on an ocean beach. Then it was gone.

Spring was officially here. Annie and her brothers were aware of the changing seasons before but they had never witnessed a spring so intimately as this. Daily, the landscapes changed as the spindly stark branches of the trees suddenly burst with green foliage. The lilacs bloomed and pastures were the playgrounds for newborn lambs, calves and squealing little pigs. All those whose chosen work it was to toil over the land were hard at work.

Driving his machines back and forth beneath his own patch of sky, Matthew marveled at the dozens of different shades of blue and the ever-changing clouds. The sun beat down relentlessly to warm the earth. The birds soared overhead. The constant roar of the tractor, which seemed so obtrusive at first, now seemed to settle into his mind, blending into every facet of his existence, even his sleep.

Matthew expected everyone to share his enthusiasm for this twelve hour a day job. Sonny doggedly labored beside him, working longer and harder than was expected. That angered Mack and even Andrew, because they resented being expected to keep up this torrid pace. They had aching backs, blistered hands, and sunburn faces to show for their efforts.

The other boys could at least escape their father’s demands while they were at school, which created more problems as they became more involved in time consuming extra-circular activities. Old wounds were made deeper when it became evident that Matthew did not view each son’s commitments with equal validity. Thomas was very frustrated when his father scoffed at the mention of the upcoming band contest, while John’s track meets and practices were heralded events. Matthew and Mack even attended the first one. Annie sympathized with Thomas and tried to make him understand that it rained that whole day so they couldn’t work in the fields. “Thomas, don’t worry. I bet you’ll be able slip away for the day and everyone else could cover for you.” But Thomas was not easily appeased.

John, on the other hand, was having the time of his life. At long last he had some place to channel his competitive drive and athletic skills. He was amazed how much credence was given to members of the team at school, even in the community. The high school had been without a winning tradition for many years now, and everyone was hungry for victories.

The track team had been working under the watchful eye of Coach Nick Stevenson since mid-March. He had just been through a humiliating season as the head coach of the boys’ basketball team and was determined not to allow his track team to likewise finish in the basement of the conference.

John Winston did what he was told without complaint. He pushed himself to the limit so he might finally discover exactly where that limit was. He and his new best friend, Kenny Beyers, challenged each other as their prowess on the track improved.

The day of the first track, the rain fell all morning and threatened to cancel the four-school event. But by mid-afternoon the storms passed and the team reported to the locker room as directed. As he dressed in his faded green and white uniform and laced his shoes, John had a queasy, uncomfortable feeling in his gut.

“That’ll go away as soon as the first gun went off,” Kenny said as they finished warm-ups together. That would be soon enough, as John was entered in four events: the 200-yard dash, low hurdles, and the 400 and 800 meter relays.

He crouched down in the starting blocks for his first race, trying to concentrate on everything the coach had taught him – coming out of the blocks, escalation, breathing techniques. But there was only the deafening pounding of his heart and the single-minded thought of running and winning.

And he did win, but only once. However, in the minds of the coaches, coming in second or third was a victory in itself. Kenny, John, and two other fleet-footed sophomores won the first relay. That was good enough for the team to finish second overall, and no Shannontown High School track team had done that in recent memory. The sophomores were the heart of the team, which meant the coaches had bona fide hope for the future. John and Kenny whooped it up in the locker room with the other boys. They had tasted victory and it was sweet. They came out of the locker room together and found their fathers chatting and congratulating each other on their sons’ accomplishments. Luke lounged nearby, having completed his work on the mural. Someone suggested they have supper together at the Pub.

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Kenny’s dad, Harry Beyers, was a very likable man. He was, of course, very aware of the background of the man sitting across the table. Harry, for one, was not intimidated by this eccentric millionaire who spent his family’s money like water. As far as he was concerned, they both had the same dirt under their fingernails.

“Your son tells me those garbage trucks I see on the roads around here are yours,” Matthew said. “That’s quite an operation you have there. Kenny says you designed and built most of the machinery in the re-cycling plant yourself.”

Harry flashed a quick smile toward his son. Of all the things he strove for in his lifetime, the respect and admiration of his only son was one of the most important. “Yeah, I guess you could say that,” he answered modestly. “What I did was travel ‘round a bit and visited some of the big operations out East. Most of it is just good ol’ common sense. Why should I pay some huge amount of money for machinery I can weld together myself?”

“You make it sound so easy,” Matthew said, “ but you’re talking to someone who finds it difficult to pound two boards together.” They both laughed then. The boys cast relieved glances at one another. The conversation rolled along nicely.

Then, just as they were finishing their meal, Walt Jaminson sat down at their table. “Hey Harry,” he said. “Did you hear the news tonight? They got those astronauts back.”

“Who?”

“Those Apollo astronauts – they were supposed to go to the moon but something happened. Man, I didn’t think they had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting’ back alive!”

“Yeah?” Harry pushed away from the table. “Do you realize that little fiasco cost over a billion dollars of yours and mine money? I’m glad they got, back but those stupid sonofabitches shouldn’t have been up there in the first place.”

“Now, Harry,” Walt started. “They say the Russians are gonna beat us if—”

“Beat us at what? Who can spend the most money the quickest? Well, I tell ya’ we’re way ahead there. I just read the Russians already got a goddamn spaceship ready to go up this summer that is unmanned and cost a third as much. Couldn’t we have used that money somewhere else? Like in Vietnam -- end that fuckin’ war!”

Walt Jaminson shut up then. Harry Beyers’ views on Vietnam were well known around the Pub. It was useless to try to argue.

“But the government don’t care much about our money or our boys,” Harry continued. “I’ll tell you what, if this thing keeps goin’ much longer and they want my boy, I’ll tell those sonofabitches to stick it up their asses.”

There were murmuring both for and against his statement at neighboring tables. “Yeah,” said another man, sitting across the room. “I read that Nixon wants to do away with deferments for married men and maybe even doctors and such.”

“Nah, haven’t you heard?” someone else said, sounding very sarcastic. “Nixon says he’s gonna withdraw 150,000 troops by next spring. So don’t worry – all our rich doctor and lawyer sons won’t get drafted.” A ripple of jeering spread across the room.

Matthew squirmed in his seat. He had heard these political discussions around the Pub before, but managed to avoid commenting. He learned that the people here had a good grasp of the complexities of politics and international affairs. Midwesterners turned on Walter Cronkite for the nightly news just like the high-rise dwellers back East.

It was also true that the people here had a different perspective. Most of them felt that they were sending their sons off to this war in far greater numbers than the college educated, upper class snobs on the coasts. And he knew that even though he and his family had been welcomed into the community, Matthew was still regarded as part of the privileged few. He felt their stares. Perhaps this would be a good time to speak up.

“You don’t mean to tell me that you’d let those Communists beat us over there? I hate to see young men dying over there, too. I know I did in Europe during World War II.”

Harry did not answer immediately. He ground his cigarette butt into the ashtray and said, “Your business back East, I heard it was shipbuilding. Did you have contracts with the Pentagon? And don’t you have several sons? Why aren’t any of them over there if you think it’s such a good idea?”

“My wife was quite ill for a long time before she died recently. I thought it was important to keep the family together at that time.” Matthew stood up then and threw some bills onto the table. He motioned for Johnny and Luke to follow him toward the door. “But now, since it does appears this thing won't be over any time soon, I do believe that one or more of my sons will be called. And they will go with my blessing.”

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Two weeks and three track meets later, Thomas came down downstairs early on Saturday morning before anyone called him, which was extremely unusual for him. He flung his black woolen band uniform across the sofa and went to the window, scowling at the splendid blue skies. Damn! It was going to be a nice day and his father would have everyone outside working all day. Thomas had stopped talking about the band contest, hoping the day would dawn dark and rainy. However, he had made up his mind he was going, whether his father liked it or not.

He sprawled on the sofa, eating a candy bar from his private stash hidden in his room. He stared up at his brother’s track ribbons hung prominently above the mantle. God, he hated those things and the way his father strutted around, recounting what a magnificent jock his son was. And John was always so humble about it. It made Thomas sick to his stomach.

“Is that what you’re having for breakfast?” Annie broke into his thoughts. “I see you have your uniform all ready to go.”

“It’s ready, but I’m not going anywhere. It’s a nice day. Pop won’t let me go.”

“Oh, stop it Thomas. Why do you have to be so negative? I spoke to Daddy last night and he said you can go. What time does the bus leave?”

“7:30 – er, he did? How come? He doesn’t care about my band contest.”

“You’re unbelievable, Thomas. I just told you some good news. Get out there and get your chores done early. Mack will bring you into town.”

So it was that the Shannontown High School band’s star percussionist was delivered to the bus on time. As Thomas exited the car, Mack called, “Knock ‘em dead, kid,” almost as an after thought.

“Yeah, sure,” muttered Thomas. He just wanted it to be over.

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There wasn’t much fanfare when he came home late that night, either. Annie came out of the kitchen, asking how it went. “It sucked!” he cried as he slammed upstairs. The band got a II rating, but it should have been an I. They played better than they ever had before. Even the 1812 Overture was decent. Yes, it was somewhat labored in some parts, but Mr. Moore was counting on the judges taking into account the difficulty of the piece.

Thomas tried to dismiss the whole thing as ridiculous. He was quite unprepared for the carnival-like atmosphere. He was used to the recital halls back home where competitions were approached with the utmost seriousness. But today, the crowded hallways were buzzing with spectators and participants directed by cardboard signs to libraries-turned-rehearsal halls and gymnasiums-turned-concert-halls. A gym? The thought of it still incensed him. Maybe those cavernous echo chambers were all right for basketball games, but not for judging the finer minutiae of classical music.

And Jim Mathers drove him crazy all day, following him around and talking non-stop. And then to make matters worse, Mrs. Mathers insisted on taking Thomas home. Jim’s mom was a plain woman with a nervous, pinched face. The only time she smiled was when Jim told her that Mr. Moore told him he played his solo well.

“What did Dad say when he saw I was gone?” Jim asked but his mother only clinched the steering wheel tighter and said nothing. Thomas thought the whole family must be as uptight and dull as Jim. Thomas couldn’t stand that bushy-haired kid anymore. Maybe he could rid of the little parasite now that the competition was over.

Monday morning, Mr. Moore read the comments from the three judges to his musicians. There were some favorable comments, but the reports sited particular measures of missed notes and specific passages that dragged. As he closed the session, he challenged his students to try harder and do better next year. “We’ll be ready for ‘em, that’s for sure!”

“Oh, boy!” whistled Jimmy under his breath. “We thought he pushed us before! I have a feelin’ we ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

Maybe you, sucker, Thomas thought, but not me. He did not plan to be around a year from now. When he turned to say something snide to his fellow drummer, he noticed a large bruise on the Jim’s forearm and cut on his lip. When he asked him about it, Jim shrugged his shoulders and said he fell. Thomas knew Jim was a klutz but he surprised he had hurt himself that badly. He would have pursued it but he didn’t want it to appear to care.

Chapter 19

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