As I stood at Ann's bedside, I dreamt of the love of my childhood. My wife of two years moans and a nurse touched my arm asking, "Are you aright?" I shook my head, realizing that the time had come. Ann lay on the bed, draped with thin white sheets. Her dark and wavy shoulder length hair, drawn to one side and tied with a ribbon, her face showing the strain of someone who had been in labor for hours, her body waiting for another contraction that would cause her to scream out loud. She grew restless as the pains became more consistent: one could almost set a watch by them.
The small, cold hospital room smelled of rubbing alcohol. The only light seemed to come from behind the curtain shielding the bed next to her. Nurses drifted into the room randomly, making sure Ann was as comfortable as possible, and checking her dilation. "It's getting closer," one nurse said, walking towards the door. "We have plenty of time."
An hour went by; Ann's pains became more intense and regular. Her face carried the stress and strain of a man that had worked twenty four hours with no rest. Another forty five minutes passed. Strangely, the constant flow of nurses popping in and out of the room had stopped. Her restlessness became worse as did the pains.
A new Nurse entered the room. "Is everything ok in here?" she said. She appeared much older than the others before her. Ends of her gray hair hung loose from her white cap. She carried a white sweater over her shoulders, perhaps to give her comfort from the chilly room.
"It hurts!" said my wife.
"I am sure it does," the nurse said, drawing the white sheets back, to check the status of her patient. The expression on her face and the concern in her voice became obvious, "You must relax! Start panting!" You must pant and breathe easy."
"I can't, its coming!"
The nurse moved quickly, saying, "You must breathe easy, I will get the doctor." She replaced the thin bed sheets over my wife's sweat drenched body and left the room. I stood bedside Ann, rubbing her tummy, hoping to give her some relief from the pain. Each series of contractions seemed to drain her energy.
Suddenly old Doc Beatcher propelled into the room. He was a gray haired man whose glasses sat at the end of his nose; he often smelled of gin. The older Nurse followed through the door, guiding a large cart of instruments. Drawing back the bed sheets, Beatcher quickly analyzed the situation. I could already see the little head making its way into the world.
"Give me a big push," he said. The head was slowly making its way into the chilled room. Ann gave one more push and the baby arrived with one solid motion. Placing the wet little body on Ann's tummy, old Doc Beatcher said, "Looks like ya have a son!" He continued cleaning the after birth. Ann's hands slowly drew the new baby to her lips. From the strained face grew a smile that sealed a kiss on the forehead of our new baby.
As I sat beside the bed, my new son lying in Ann's arms, I saw his sandy colored hair. His little blue eyes moved randomly from side to side, as if trying to understand the new world. I took his small hand into mine. His tiny fingers grasped my thumb, holding on for dear life. I felt the softness of his little cheeks as I pressed my lips against them. I whispered softly, "My little Andy," the name brought uncontrollable tears as I placed place him back in the arms of Ann, I collapsed into the chair next to her bed.
* * * * * *
It was a cold March day as my family began loading boxes and furniture into the car and onto the trailer. As the routine became more and more familiar as our loading time grew shorter and shorter. My father's job forced us to move nearly once every year: we'd become nomads.
That particular move took us to Oacoma, a small village in the heart of South Dakota. Including all the dogs that ran wild, it may have had a population of three hundred. Living out in the middle of nowhere, my siblings and I were allowed to do just about anything we wanted. The town being so small, Dad had always joked that: "If a kid could see across a steering wheel, we could even drive a car."
These transitions were always difficult: There were new teachers to meet, new friends to make; my experience told me that any real friendships made would be short lived. To my surprise, however, we lived in Oacoma for the next four years.
Oacoma Public was a little country school starting with a first grade class and ascended all the way up to the eighth grade. The first, second, and third graders were put into one room. Grades Four and five had a room to themselves. The sixth, seventh and eighth graders were grouped together and inhabited the last classroom.
With a limited amount of kids for each class, we got a firm education. Reading, writing, and arithmetic were the keys ingredients to our daily studies. Every Wednesday and Friday afternoon we had to focus on our penmanship. I enjoyed writing all them A's, B's, and C's. The teachers were strict, and there was always a smack on the back of the head for those who didn't want to pay attention. For those who wanted to misbehave, there was always a visit to the hall closet. This yielded a return to the class with a tear running down their cheek from the paddling they received.
The old two story brick schoolhouse had three class rooms on the upper level. The lower level was divided into three areas; a lunch room, a bathrooms, and an auditorium, where all the students could all be assembled at the same time. One side of the auditorium was lined with windows. A curtain drawn stage, on the far end, was maintained for different performances that the classes would put on during the school year.
I met Andrew Colton for the first time on the school playground. He was a five foot tall fourth grader with blonde sandy hair and deep blue eyes. His freckle covered face carried a friendly smile. I initially viewed him with the same skepticism as all the other kids of my past: I was accustomed being by myself and not becoming to close to anyone, knowing I wouldn't live in one location very long.
Andy appeared to encouraging, wanting me to play with he and his friends. They asked if I would be interested in playing short stop, softball was something I had enjoyed. As time went on, Andy and I spent most of our days playing together, we got to know each other very well. Living along the Missouri River gave us the opportunity to spend most of our summer days fishing. When school let out for the summer the river was home to our many adventures. We were young and felt invincible. We called the mighty Missouri "Our River."
We walked the half mile set of railroad tracks to our favorite fishing hole shirtless, with our poles on our shoulders. The heat radiated on our bare backs. The foothills lay a quarter mile just outside town, about a one mile jaunt to our fishing hole. Our many trips back and forth created a little path through the underbrush. The red clay trail followed its way through a small grove of trees that ended in a clearing. The sound of rushing water beating down on the huge stones became louder as we approached the river.
Throughout the years, the water had carved out a large pond along the river's edge, a shallow area lined with rocks. As one walked out into the pond it grew deeper. Large logs drifted down from upstream and bounced around into the pond, as if waiting for the river to rise again in order for them to make their escape.
When we got to the pond, we baited our hooks with worms we had dug earlier in the day, then threw the lines in the water and waited. As we lay with our faces in the soft buffalo grass, deep breaths brought the fragrance of a fresh spring rain. We often lay next to each other, sharing our thoughts of life.
"When I get older, I am getting the hell out of here. I want to make a decent living," Andy said, throwing his well chewed piece of straw at me.
"The hell you will, you will end up living here forever. When you have moved as much as we have … I will be the one making the big bucks." I replied.
"You've got one!" Andy said. I reeled in the line, took off the river bass and put it on a stringer, then baited the hook and cast my line back into the water.
We stretched out, the July sun beating down on our bare skin. We returned to our discussion of the rotten life we thought we had with our families. The talk had become more intimate this particular day. We discussed the stories of how life was so difficult for each of us. We both came from large strict families, and razor strap discipline was not uncommon. Not understanding why, we agreed we both somehow missed out on those hugs and words of encouragement from our parents that we both longed for. We were lost in a crowd of kids in our families.
Once, one of my younger brothers got caught breaking into the old school. It was always locked during the summer, but somehow he opened one of the windows. Generally, when one of us got into trouble, all of us got into trouble. Dad found out about my brother's adventure; the razor strap showed no mercy. "The old man got pretty handy with the damn strap last night, huh?" Andy said.
"Damn it's hot," I said, changing the topic. We had been sitting in the sun by the river and it was starting to get to us. Andy, taking the hint about the old man said, "Let's get naked and cool down a bit." We shed the rest of our cloths and dove into the deep end of the pond. The cold water felt good. We jumped from rock to rock and dove under the buildup of logs. The water level, high that day, increased the diameter of the pond by nearly ten feet. With every move we challenged each other, splashing and diving from log to log, claiming our own little territorial space in the pond. The fun went on for about an hour, and then we jumped up on the bank's edge, shook ourselves off, and lay in the sun, the heat drying our bodies. As we lay beside each other, the conversation bounced back to our domestic hardships.
"Damn it, it's just not right getting beat for something my brother did." I said.
"Is that where the welts came from?” Andy asked, after building up the courage to mention having noticed the bruises on my back.
My eyes became swollen holding back the pain. With a gentle embrace, Andy rolled over to comfort me, placing his soft arm across my chest, the warmth of his body taking away the pain. “You will be alright”, he said as his embrace became tightened. He placed his lips against mine. The moment felt so natural. I felt as though all the pains of the world were washed away. His hands traveled up and down my body. I reciprocated the affection as I lay in his arms, staring at the depth of his gentle blue eyes. The many hugs and kisses continue for the next half hour. We lay on the grass covered shore, exploring our youth, becoming one.
Without speaking, we reeled in our lines and headed home. Making our way through thick bushes, holding hands with our fingers locked, unable to tell which fingers belonged to whom, his hand still warm from the passion we shared. We didn't let go until we reached the railroad tracks.
We spent most of our summer days at Andy's home; it was the place of choice. His father worked for a local contractor and was never around to spend time with him. His mother, a nurse, took an interest in my life, constantly asking:
"Paul is everything alright with you?"
We constantly watched horror movies on television until the early morning. I sat on the sofa, next to Andy, his hand either on my leg or wrapped around my waist. We often snuck up to bed and shared many intimate thoughts and feelings.
“I love your touch," he'd say, as he explored my body. Drawing me closer, “I want to spend forever like this." We would lay awake until the heat of passion settled, and with hands across each others' stomachs we would finally drift asleep. On one occasion, we made a sacred pact. We agreed that when we grew older, got married, and had families of our own, we would both name our first born sons after each other.
During the next few years, Andy and I became inseparable; we truly became the best of friends, with a constant awareness of whatever the other did. If I would go swimming, Andy would go swimming. If Andy would go out for little league, I went out for little league.
During the winter months we would hunt. All kinds of wildlife hid in the grassland next to the river. We shot more pheasants and quail than we knew what to do with. We both became involved in taxidermy. We encouraged each other: if I did something wrong, Andy gave me his take on the situation. I knew back then I would never become a taxidermist. I found that I didn't have the patience to mount a pheasant like Andy did. I constantly praised Andy for his ability to put the fine detail into his work.
"Do you think that we would ever live together when we grow up?" I said.
"With you? I sure the hell hope not," Andy said, laughing as he walked away.
In the winter of 1960 I received, what I then thought was the worst pieces of news that anyone fourteen years old could receive. We were brushing up on our packing abilities, and moving once again. I couldn't stop crying; the pain was so intense I didn't want to go on living. I couldn't make sense in leaving a friend I'd become so close to over the past few years. "I am not leaving. I am staying right here," I said, throwing a book across the living room. I ran over to Andy's and shared the news. I was so angry I couldn't stop crying.
Andy, being cool, calm and collected said: "Let's go for a walk. I am sure we will stay in touch and I am sure we will be together some day. Just don't forget me." he said as we made our way down the ice covered river. Walking along the shoreline for hours, we shared our tears. We held hands as though we would never see each other ever again.
This particular move would take the family to a much larger city in Iowa. Knowing we would really miss each other, Andy and I agreed to remain in contact. The letters flowed continually, still sharing our thoughts and dreams and our desires of being together again.
I was leaving the rural setting of South Dakota, where the class consisted of three girls and three boys, for a class numbering over eighty students. The adjusting was very hard, at first, and if it were not for Andy's letters of encouragement, I would have been rebellious.
Dear Paul,
It's another cold day and I sat along the river with the many thoughts of you I hope you are getting settled in ok. Remember to write and let me know when you get your license so you'll be able to come and see me. Keep your
chin up see you soon.
Love Andy
He was always sending me something crazy. I walked into the house one afternoon, and found a huge box sitting on the living room floor, addressed to me. Inside was one of Andy's taxidermy projects. A crow; of all things it was a crow! He stuffed the bird with its wings spread wide, perched on a small piece of drift wood I'm sure he had picked up down at the river. The eyes were fixed and the bird appeared to be staring at anyone in front of it.
As the weeks went by I found myself becoming more involved with school activities, making the transition into the new school a little easier. I made a few new friends and found my letter writing becoming less and less.
I came from a traditional German family. My Dad preached with the razor strap that for young men there were certain expectations. We had to graduate from school, find a girl to marry, and settle down and make babies. I struggled with the last three demands, which would later cause a wall to build between Dad and me.
Time drifted away. The winter had been long, and finally the first part of May brought warm weather. On Friday, I found myself anxious to get home from school, make a change of clothes and head over to the elementary school playground for a quick game of touch football. When I came into the house, my mother was there to greet me. "Paul, come in here and sit down for a second." I felt a bit concerned. School was going badly and thought I was in for a scolding. I also thought it strange that my mother was home; she worked and was never home during that time of the day. She seemed to struggle with what she was about to say. Finally, with a tear in her eye, she just blurted it out.
"Paul, Andy was killed."
Preoccupied with the idea of touch football, I stood in place, not fully realizing what my mother had told me. "OK”, and darted out the back door. I ran about sixty feet, and then realized that I had just been told that I had lost the most important person in my life forever. I couldn't function; I couldn't put my right foot ahead of my left. I collapsed to the ground and lay there, until my mother came and carried me back to the house. I bawled in agony. I cried long into the night, lying on my bed, trying to figure out why! Why did he have to leave me? If only I had been there, this would have never happened. Anything in my room belonging to Andy brought a new sessions of tears.
Later I learned the details. Andy had been fishing along the river with an older friend. They drove too fast as they traveled back home on the winding gravel road of the foothills along the river, when the front tire hit some loose gravel. The car went over the edge of the road and flipped, killing both boys.
The next few days brought many hours of solitude and a never ending flow of tears. My parents didn't seem to care: they didn't have the financial resources to travel back to South Dakota. I couldn't attend Andy's funeral and put to rest the friend I came to love with all my heart. I went for long walks, sometimes not returning until late at night. I couldn't understand why! Why did he have to leave me? I walked through the Mall obliviously bumping into people. I talked with classmates, unaware what I had said. I began missing school; my grades dropped; I didn't give a shit about life, didn't want to go on living, because the only person I have ever cared about was gone.
I struggled with the loss for months. At sixteen, a young boy experiences many hard to explain feelings. Were the feelings that Andy and I shared real? I started questioning myself, and felt so empty inside.
The years passed and with time I found better ways of hiding my pain. But there always seemed to be something missing in my life.
"Honey! Look, he has your smile," Ann said.
The day drifted by and Ann was moved from the delivery room to a room of her own. Her face, pale from the strain of childbirth, yet looked content. Her eyes fixed on our newborn son. Her firm breast lay exposed as he struggled for his first meal. Bundled in his blue crib blanket, he pressed his little hands against her breast to get every ounce of milk. I brushed his light sandy hair to one side. He felt so warm and soft.
I leaned over to kiss the cheek of the woman who replaced the Andy of my boyhood. Laying my head on Ann's shoulder, I held the soft little hand of the new joy in my world. From the softness of his little body, to his heart melting cry, then and only then was there a new fullness in my life. I fulfilled my promise of my youth. Thank you Andy!
The End