I Am Stronger Because of All I've Been Through
[b]----- In Fields of Splendor --- Part 1 -----[/b]
[i]Memoirs of the summer following my graduation from high school . . .
[/i]
A Young Man and His Mother Have a Talk
————————————————————
Brandon McClary sat in the passenger seat of his mother’s Buick as they drove along a dusty dirt road. She had picked him up from his job at a local farm. Exhausted from work, he slumped against the car door staring listlessly out across the fields.
His mother broke the silence. “Brandon, you have to select which college you want to attend! You’re accepted at Cornell, Boston University, and four other good colleges ! What’s wrong? Why can’t you decide? Goodness, your father and I have worked to save for your education and all you can do sit and say nothing !”
For weeks, his mother had been constantly hounding him about his choice of college. As they drove, his mother, like a boxer, continued to punch away at Brandon. Brandon absorbed the verbal assaults, wincing on occasion when his mother would land a blow that really hurt.
Brandon grew quiet as he closed his eyes and trying to imagine he was someplace else, anywhere but where he was at that moment. His mother’s voice began to echo inside his head, reverberating with increased volume, muting all other sounds around him. No explanation could be given when he suddenly opened the car door and stepped out of the car and on to the road.
Unfortunately, the car was moving at approximately 30 miles an hour. As Brandon made contact with the road, he began to spin in quick violent motions with his arms flailing wildly, and then began to do several forward summersaults, eventually landing face up in a ditch. Fortunately, the ditch was used for irrigation and contained enough water to afford him a reasonably soft landing, and splash down.
Brandon’s mother slammed on the brakes and ran to him and kneeled beside the lifeless body in the ditch. “Brandon! Brandon! What have you done? Are you all right? What were you thinking? Talk to me! Talk to me Brandon!” she screamed.
Brandon lay motionless for several minutes and then began to twitch, and then raised his mud covered arm peering at it curiously as he tried to discern where he was. Several motorists stopped to assist, and on the advice of one particular man, it was decided not to try and move him.
It took nearly an hour before an ambulance arrived at the scene. Brandon, now conscious, insisted he didn’t need an ambulance, but they insisted he be examined at the emergency room. Several people gently lifted him out of the mud and on to a gurney. His mother wept quietly now as they loaded Brandon into the ambulance.
After examination, it was determined that Brandon had suffered a mild concussion, a dislocated right shoulder, a sprained ankle, and finally, sustained multiple scrapes, cuts, and bruises. By some unexplainable miracle, no bones were broken. The police report read as cause of accident: “fell out of moving vehicle.”
“A River, A Father, A Daughter, and Fish . . .”
———————————————————————
The Great Chazy River winds its way through upstate New York crossing local routes and junctures as it criss crosses through small towns. It is a very accessible river providing great water recreation for swimmers. boaters, and of course, fishermen.
My father fished the river in several spots, often snaring a good size trout. He was methodical in his fishing techniques, and relied not on hunches, nor guessing at which lure or fly to use. I liked fishing with my father, but I had to learn an unspoken language where his concentration on casting was so intense, you would think he would stir the water first before the fly landed on the surface.
Changing fishing spots offered time for us to walk and talk, the soft quiet talk enjoyed on warm summer days when there is no hurry or rush to be anywhere, but only to live in the moment. My father worked at home in his basement office. He had no set hours, but worked long hours where we had to be careful not to disturb him. But once he was released from his work, taking a break, he would then take time to fish, do yard work, and run errands. He welcomed our company as children, though he often didn’t comprehend what we were saying, even though he listened attentively.
As I grew older, it was there at the river that Trudy and I had carved out our own private spot atop a large rock. It was a perfect spot, easily reached along a foot path from the highway where we would park our bikes, and rock hop our way to “our rock.” There we swam, sunned and enjoyed the warm air. People tubing along the river would greet us and chat as they floated by. We also met friends from school and often had ad hoc beer parties, with six packs dangling from the inner tubes.
Continued in Part II . . .
https://similarworlds.com/story?fid=4832201&tid=162822&name=I-Am-Stronger-Because-of-All-I-ve-Been-Throug
[i]Memoirs of the summer following my graduation from high school . . .
[/i]
A Young Man and His Mother Have a Talk
————————————————————
Brandon McClary sat in the passenger seat of his mother’s Buick as they drove along a dusty dirt road. She had picked him up from his job at a local farm. Exhausted from work, he slumped against the car door staring listlessly out across the fields.
His mother broke the silence. “Brandon, you have to select which college you want to attend! You’re accepted at Cornell, Boston University, and four other good colleges ! What’s wrong? Why can’t you decide? Goodness, your father and I have worked to save for your education and all you can do sit and say nothing !”
For weeks, his mother had been constantly hounding him about his choice of college. As they drove, his mother, like a boxer, continued to punch away at Brandon. Brandon absorbed the verbal assaults, wincing on occasion when his mother would land a blow that really hurt.
Brandon grew quiet as he closed his eyes and trying to imagine he was someplace else, anywhere but where he was at that moment. His mother’s voice began to echo inside his head, reverberating with increased volume, muting all other sounds around him. No explanation could be given when he suddenly opened the car door and stepped out of the car and on to the road.
Unfortunately, the car was moving at approximately 30 miles an hour. As Brandon made contact with the road, he began to spin in quick violent motions with his arms flailing wildly, and then began to do several forward summersaults, eventually landing face up in a ditch. Fortunately, the ditch was used for irrigation and contained enough water to afford him a reasonably soft landing, and splash down.
Brandon’s mother slammed on the brakes and ran to him and kneeled beside the lifeless body in the ditch. “Brandon! Brandon! What have you done? Are you all right? What were you thinking? Talk to me! Talk to me Brandon!” she screamed.
Brandon lay motionless for several minutes and then began to twitch, and then raised his mud covered arm peering at it curiously as he tried to discern where he was. Several motorists stopped to assist, and on the advice of one particular man, it was decided not to try and move him.
It took nearly an hour before an ambulance arrived at the scene. Brandon, now conscious, insisted he didn’t need an ambulance, but they insisted he be examined at the emergency room. Several people gently lifted him out of the mud and on to a gurney. His mother wept quietly now as they loaded Brandon into the ambulance.
After examination, it was determined that Brandon had suffered a mild concussion, a dislocated right shoulder, a sprained ankle, and finally, sustained multiple scrapes, cuts, and bruises. By some unexplainable miracle, no bones were broken. The police report read as cause of accident: “fell out of moving vehicle.”
“A River, A Father, A Daughter, and Fish . . .”
———————————————————————
The Great Chazy River winds its way through upstate New York crossing local routes and junctures as it criss crosses through small towns. It is a very accessible river providing great water recreation for swimmers. boaters, and of course, fishermen.
My father fished the river in several spots, often snaring a good size trout. He was methodical in his fishing techniques, and relied not on hunches, nor guessing at which lure or fly to use. I liked fishing with my father, but I had to learn an unspoken language where his concentration on casting was so intense, you would think he would stir the water first before the fly landed on the surface.
Changing fishing spots offered time for us to walk and talk, the soft quiet talk enjoyed on warm summer days when there is no hurry or rush to be anywhere, but only to live in the moment. My father worked at home in his basement office. He had no set hours, but worked long hours where we had to be careful not to disturb him. But once he was released from his work, taking a break, he would then take time to fish, do yard work, and run errands. He welcomed our company as children, though he often didn’t comprehend what we were saying, even though he listened attentively.
As I grew older, it was there at the river that Trudy and I had carved out our own private spot atop a large rock. It was a perfect spot, easily reached along a foot path from the highway where we would park our bikes, and rock hop our way to “our rock.” There we swam, sunned and enjoyed the warm air. People tubing along the river would greet us and chat as they floated by. We also met friends from school and often had ad hoc beer parties, with six packs dangling from the inner tubes.
Continued in Part II . . .
https://similarworlds.com/story?fid=4832201&tid=162822&name=I-Am-Stronger-Because-of-All-I-ve-Been-Throug
51-55, F
