The Perfect Place?
Elaine Fields Smith
Published by Blazing Star Books at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 – Elaine Fields Smith
ISBN 0982769008
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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ISBN 0982769008
Any reference in "The Perfect Place" to characters, places or things is purely from the author's memory and/or research and it is not intended to be a historical account of any particular happening.
Part One
The Journey
"Hey, Cricket! You want to go for a walk?"
The black and tan Dachshund gave her answer by hopping into a chair and disappearing under a fleecy throw. With a sigh, I stepped through the front door. Cricket wanted nothing to do with rain. Neither did I, but an important letter was due to arrive. After walking only a short distance from the porch, I suddenly stopped. Rain was falling, just as the intelligent little dog perceived. But it wasn't raining on me. Well, this wasn't exactly rain. It was a cold, February drizzle that filled the air, finding every crack and surface imaginable. But no moisture could seem to find me. The thought crossed my mind that usually when faced with such unpleasant circumstances; I would retreat into the safe and dry space within my home to curl up with a treasured quilt and a good book. But that course of action was not an option at this particular moment—nor was it necessary. Curiously, my body was warm and dry, safely shielded from the nastiness of the day. Simultaneously, I sensed my current location was in a place far different from my well-known and well-loved home in the country. That in itself was somewhat disturbing, as I had just gotten bundled up and walked outside to go to the mailbox—some quarter of a mile from my house.
Directing my attention to the sanctuary shielding me from the disagreeable atmospheric conditions, I focused on more immediate surroundings. Describing this phenomenon as a "sanctuary" seems accurate as that is exactly how it felt. Warmth, love, and caring were in the very air around me. The sensation led to the revelation that the space within the sanctuary held three separate personas in addition to myself. Further, it was rather astonishing that I felt no fear whatsoever, as each of those personas was known to me.
Before these thoughts could further develop, the sanctuary propelled me to walk along a sidewalk. This was an inner city sidewalk unlike anything I had ever seen in real life. Similar surroundings could be seen on television shows set in big cities. But no such location existed in my little world in the country. Wrought iron railings guarded large cubic voids drenched in darkness and drizzle. We, (this "we" is expressed as the grouping of those of us within the sanctuary), glided effortlessly across the concrete walkway. The sensation was quite odd—like walking on one of those long, moving sidewalks in a big airport. With one step, my body smoothly moved forward much further than humanly possible. The airport apparatus is somewhat similar to an escalator, but on a solely horizontal plane. A brief idea flashed across my mind that such a contraption should be called a "levelator" as we took these giant, gliding steps along the sidewalk. But that play on words was quickly cast aside when the sanctuary suddenly halted.
The three personalities gently guided me to the end of one of the numerous, identical wrought iron railings. We turned, and as a unit descended the concrete stairway. Each tread was covered with a dark green anti-skid compound of some sort—an unnecessary feature since my boots did not make contact with the textured surface as we descended the stairway. Rather, the four of us—linked together—glided downward into the darkness and through a large door. The unit that was "us" quickly and easily separated, allowing me to be "me" again. Squeezing my eyes shut and pressing the tip of my right middle finger with my right thumbnail to induce a physical pain reaction verified I was indeed present and intact. This realization was undeniably a relief.
The basement door had not been opened—that was a certainty. A suspicious glance toward that door revealed it to be a large, seemingly solid wooden slab with no windows. The door had six picture-framed panels and an average looking doorknob with a separate deadbolt lock. My brow creased, as confusion and a bit of concern clouded my mind. But any distress was quickly dissolved as a large, weathered hand appeared before my eyes. The fingers of that hand gently smoothed the frown away.
"It’s all right, Katie-bug," a soft bass voice said to me. The words didn’t actually enter my consciousness through anything as physical as eardrums. But I definitely recognized who was speaking.
"Daddy?" My actual vocalization echoed loudly in the dark basement-like room. There was no audible answer—but my father’s presence was unmistakable. Then I heard another voice, higher in timbre, even a bit squeaky with an adolescent quality.
"Hi, Katie. Remember me?" Memories did indeed flood my mind. This was a friend—a boy from my childhood—whose young life was tragically cut short when he was killed in a construction accident some forty years earlier. I had been in seventh grade when he was in eighth—infamous within his circle of friends for doing impressions of TV characters. His was the first death to touch me closely, leaving a sorrow-filled empty place in my little world.
"Dennis. Oh, my…" Unable to finish the thought or sentence—I simply did not know what to say.
"And you don’t know me, Katie. But I know you." This voice originated from about three feet above the floor and was that of a child. I abruptly knew exactly who he was, though I had only seen photographs taken in happy moments before his battle with brain cancer was lost. His mother was a college friend whom I had not seen in several years.
"Patrick." With a touch of fright, I focused on my father. "Daddy, am I dead?" His hand on my shoulder immediately relieved my fears.
"No, Katie. Certainly not. But we who have passed can pretty much move about as we wish where you living folk cannot. So, we have come to take you with us for a while. There is something we simply must share with you—a Perfect Place that is really quite wonderful." My father’s articulation rang true in my mind—a voice for which he was well-known before Parkinson’s disease robbed his body of strength and mobility—eventually taking even his voice from him.
The three familiar beings who now had genuine identities moved with me toward a window. "With me" isn’t exactly right. My body was gently propelled along with them; yet, once again my feet never made contact with the surface of the floor. The window was some type of slider installed high up on the outside wall. In a basement as this seemed to be, one would expect to be looking out such an opening directly onto the rain-soaked sidewalk. But as we drew closer, a totally unexpected scene appeared. Like one of those marvelously clear, plasma television screens, the window displayed a sky of an unimaginable blue with a mere scattering of white, wispy clouds. More of the scene was revealed as we moved toward the window. Tall, magnificent trees with full green canopies rose above fields of the greenest of grasses as far as could be seen. It was a picture in 3-D, but infinitely more real. It was real.
Patrick’s small, soft hand grasped mine, and my father squeezed my shoulder with encouragement. I felt the concrete floor under my boots just before my childhood friend did his Jackie Gleason impersonation. "And awaaaaay we go!" Dennis tilted his head toward the window scene. Suddenly, the three forms shimmered into various colored lights, flashing happily, taking me with them. We again became one, soaring up and through the window like the last bit of a milkshake being pulled from the bottom of a cup through a straw. Then we, or rather I, was standing alone on that field of very green grass. They were gone. Those familiar and loved personas so recently reclaimed were gone.
But curiously, the protection and guidance they had provided had been replaced. Turning my attention inward to give myself a thorough scan, the analysis quickly revealed all was well and unharmed. Focusing that attention to the air and area around me quickly allowed a determination that the general ambiance was contentment and knowledge. Also, goodness and love surrounded me. I began walking—taking normal steps, as apparently I was under my own power, and there was no need to hurry. The essence of the place permeated my skin—was taken in with my breathing and lifted my spirit.
Knowledge and the comfort of knowing was a soft blanket enfolding me. The realization that this was a perfect place of knowledge stunned me. There was no need—no evil—no distress. Wisdom flourished. Knowledge was everywhere, filling every potential requirement before any such need could be detected. Walking along a trail, other people appeared here and there, but no one seemed to have any interaction with anyone else. Somewhere along the way, my clothes had transformed from the raincoat and boots I had worn on the other side of the window. Here, there was no need for those things. My favorite T-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes felt good and familiar.
I moseyed along, a notoriously slow walker, discovering buildings where knowledge beyond what was in the air could be experienced. Upon closer inspection, the structures weren’t exactly buildings. The first was like gigantic entry gates to some grand cathedral or castle, with beautiful gothic arches and flying buttresses. The knowledge came to me that it led to the home of Science and Mathematics. Passing by, I felt—no—I knew—through that gate one could pursue all levels of knowledge in those fields.
Continuing my exploration, a living gate appeared. Having a particular interest in horticulture, I stopped to study the flora. There were ancient vines, as thick as tree trunks, supporting a plethora of green and flowering plants. Ferns, delicate climbing creepers, small trees and all colors of unrecognizable blooms grew among the extraordinary vine-trunk framework. A fog, really clouds, hovered among the plants. This gateway led to Language and Philosophy. With a knowing smile and no doubt my father would be in that particular place of knowledge, I continued walking, as yet another gate appeared.
The façade of this gateway caused me to stare in awe. There was intricate stonework set in a gentle, sweeping arch. Varied plant life and flowing water was integrated into the stone. Yet, one could not call this a waterfall. Incredible as it may sound, among the stonework a steady stream of water was flowing uphill along the rocks—ascending, not descending, according to the earthly laws of gravity. The streams meandered their way to the top and disappeared into the cap of vegetation. Gradually, a more subtle visage was clear. A rainbow framed the entire gate, very definitely a key component of the structure. Magnificent sounds and radiant beauty filled the atmosphere. This was the place for Art, Literature, and Music.
For a brief moment the realization that these gates led to more knowledge, when seemingly one already knew everything, struck me as very curious indeed. But, of course, there are various levels of education and levels of thought, depending on the interest and intellect of the individual. So, one obviously didn't know everything by just being in this place—just everything one needed to know. Shaking off that distracting thought, I continued my exploration with full intention of returning to the gates.
The air temperature felt seventy-eight degrees, and there was a slight breeze. This was a certainty, not a guess. Also, the understanding that the temperature stayed reasonably constant became fact in my mind. Suddenly, a large, white monolith appeared to my left. It actually resembled the Washington Monument in miniature—though still some twenty feet tall. Near the top, a clock face was etched in the stone, though there were no numbers or hands to distinguish it as a timepiece. Below this a lighted sign of sorts gave some more specific information. It was easily read, yet did not seem to be English. However, I knew now that three-quarter inches of rain would fall between the hours of 3:00 P.M. and 6:30 P.M. on Tuesday. After reading this, my eyes focused again on the clock face, and I was now able to see the time display. Again, it was not in the standard format, but nonetheless there was no doubt the time was 2:30 P.M. on Saturday. Planning plentiful rainfall well in advance and to fall at a prearranged time so folks wouldn’t get caught unprepared seemed like a very good idea to me. Nodding to myself, I continued my walking and taking in of knowledge and information as if by osmosis.
Part Two
The Beloved People
Dear ol' Dad
My father was a tall man. Indeed, he was much taller than the six foot height his driver license and Army Air Corp discharge papers proclaimed. His spirit—his being—was at least six-foot-six, making him seem a very tall man.
Born in the Cherokee Strip in the newly settled prairies of Oklahoma in July 1916 the eleventh of twelve children, Dad was raised in southern Missouri as a poor farm boy. Paradoxically, he somehow obtained a pretty fair education, including learning to type, which laid the foundation for the man he was to become. He read incessantly, studied hard and obtained a high school diploma when such goals were difficult to achieve.
The Depression strained and tried the large family. But the youngest son never complained, was never hungry, and was always quite content. That is, until two years after high school—the wanderlust came over him. In 1935 the hopeful young man joined three of his brothers to pursue prosperity in the West. They drove from Missouri to Washington in a very tired Model A truck. The only work they could find, however, was day labor—picking crops.
Perhaps it was cutting the broccoli or more like the rhubarb that spurred my father to join the Civil Conservation Corps in 1937.There he learned a trade that would serve to make his living—masonry work. But first, I must speak of rhubarb.
Imagine standing in a field of many acres, filled to bursting with mature rhubarb. The colors must have been magnificent—bright reddish pink, streaked with white, darkening to deep maroon roots topped with huge kelly green leaves, ruffled and swaying in the breeze. The smells—oh the smells must have been amazing. Rich, organic soils, moist from frequent rains—fresh, clean air, and the eye-watering, tangy to outright sour odors of the rhubarb. The foreman told the workers they could keep whatever they wanted each day, as long as the sacks were filled and quota satisfied.
The brothers prepared rhubarb in any and every way imaginable—and likely some not so palatable. But times were tough, and one did not turn down free food nor could one waste food. So, they ate it.
My father must have told my mother this story early in their courtship or marriage, because I did not taste rhubarb until I was some thirty-seven years old and well after my parents' fiftieth wedding anniversary. My aunt, the youngest of the twelve siblings, by then in her seventies, prepared a cobbler of strawberries and rhubarb. I ventured a bowl and found it to be deliciously sweet and sour. Daddy asked me to get him a bowl of the cobbler. Mom nearly fell off the picnic bench and stared at my father in shock.
"You told me you had so much rhubarb before we met that you were sick of it," she stated accusingly.
"I may have said that, mama, but I never said I didn't like it! Katie-bug, get me a bowl of that cobbler, please," he said with a crooked grin and flash of blue eyes.
For over fifty years my mother avoided anything with rhubarb and for fifty years, my dad would have liked to have had some. We laughed and laughed and learned a lesson.
Dad was a quiet man with a booming voice. His bass tones could scare little children to run from the room, but his sweet nature soon had them drawing near. Reading and working the daily crossword puzzle in the Dallas Morning News were very important parts of his day most all of his days on Earth. One of his greatest crossword triumphs was the three letter word answer for the clue "chip breaker." Matter-of-fact, he loved Nacho Flavored Doritos and Queso—a cheese dip. That was the answer to "chip breaker"—"dip."
After picking crops in the Northwest United States and building who knows how many rock and brick structures with the CCC, came World War II. Dad was twenty-four in 1941 when he joined the Army Air Corps. The Air Force was not yet a separate branch of the armed forces. He was among the first and oldest volunteers so was earmarked for the Pacific.
One fine day, an officer of some sort walked up to a line of fresh recruits awaiting their orders. This officer asked if any man in the line knew how to type. My father spoke up with the proper respectful reply, and his fate was sealed. The Army immediately gave him the rank of Master Sergeant—thus he avoided combat. Instead, my Dad fought the battles of supplying the essential wartime necessities to the soldiers and sailors in the Pacific Theatre.
Logistics, it was called. Upon reflection, I believe this may have been where my father's intellect was tested, developed, and his desire for knowledge expanded by experiencing a vast array of circumstances far beyond the farms and fields of Missouri. He also found the love of his life in Carlsbad, New Mexico. My mother was a WAC. My father was smitten by the dark-haired beauty from West Virginia. He married her before shipping out to Guam in 1944.
A great lover of music, he sang beautifully. Believe it or not, we arranged for him to sing at his own funeral. A solo, taped some years before, was played to a collective gasp in the church. Many people shed a tear upon hearing that voice for the last time. Choir director and song leader, he taught many a choir member how to sing. Also, he was an avid bowler—bowling in men's league for years and in the senior league until the ripe old age of eighty-four. I learned bowling methodology in our living room—with no bowling ball in sight. The steps and release timing are the same whether in a bowling lane or beside the sofa. It worked—I am a pretty fair bowler.
But back to Dad's desire for knowledge. This man read extensively and studied all types of religious works. A pretty fair mathematician and a lover of words and thoughts, my father taught many people many different lessons. Had his youth been different, he could have been a teacher—though, arguably, he was that anyway.
At the funeral I learned the vast and almost unfathomable extent of my father's influence upon people. Many, many people told how his example helped shape their lives. He was loved and respected. My dear ol' Dad was indeed a big man—in many more respects than in mere physical height.
Patrick
Any child of Patrick's parents would be intelligent, yes—but also quite a clown. An incredible gift, much anticipated and longed for, Patrick was born into—and out of—boundless love. This miracle baby grew each day in body and spirit and was cherished beyond all imagination.
He was a bright-eyed boy, who, even at the age of one, seemed both wise and mischievous. As he learned to walk, a distinctive personality became very apparent. A gentle nature shined; yet, a strong will was obvious. An affectionate child with an emotional depth unusual for one so young, he also had a hint of his mother's red hair. He won hearts all over Colorado.
Now that I think of it, "bright" might be just the way to describe this extraordinary child. Eyes, intellect, and spirit—one could easily imagine his aura of bright, white light. No, more accurately I must call it opalescent—a pearly luminescence with tints of brilliantly varied colors. Was he angelic? Maybe yes—maybe no. But a babe such as he is pure in spirit—perhaps too pure.
Even before birth Patrick faced challenges. The pregnancy very nearly miscarried after only three months, but through prayers and spirit the baby clung to life. The birth was six weeks premature, causing the little boy's motor skills to develop slowly. Just as he began to function as a normal one-year old, something went wrong. After seeing many doctors and going through various therapies, a specialist discovered Patrick's problem—a tumor on his brain stem. An amazingly talented surgeon removed as much of the tumor as possible, but the cancer was heinously intertwined with the cranial nerves and impossible to completely remove.
Recovery was difficult. The nerve damage took his voice, and he couldn't swallow, but Patrick was able to use his arms and legs again after a few weeks. Just imagine—a baby boy just beginning to walk, losing that wonderful feeling of independence—indeed losing most of his physical feelings. His parents did everything imaginable for the boy and gave him all their love. By this time, the little family was living at the Ronald McDonald house in Denver. Chemo treatment after chemo treatment didn't seem to faze the invincible Patrick. When he was able to talk again, (a surprise to the doctors—they didn't know Patrick!) he would point at a well-loved Italian restaurant as they drove past—cheerfully demanding "RED! RED!!" He loved their breadsticks. The parents laughed, and, yes, stopped to get some of the bread for their delightful son.
Patrick's will came to the surface while voicing his opinion on a certain nurse who occasionally attended him. When this nurse came into the hospital room, Patrick would thrust his index finger in her direction, announcing the command—"OUT!" Not surprisingly, Mama didn't care for that particular nurse either, so she never scolded the boy for that behavior. In this world of ours, we all know there are good people; there are bad people; and there are those in-between. To this kid, anyone in a category other than "good" needed to get "out" of his sight.
Craving privacy, the family moved from the Denver Ronald McDonald House into an apartment. This change presented the family with priceless time together and delightful memories of Patrick. Infatuated with playing "peek-a-boo," Dad in the shower was "fair game." Patrick would sneak into the bathroom to shove the shower curtain away. He would excitedly yell "peek-a-boo," laughing uncontrollably while letting the water hit his face.
Mama's prominent memory of Patrick is just that—laughing. The doctors said "don't coddle or cater to him—treat him like an average child." Patrick's parents should have asked those doctors how one should treat an extraordinary child. Late one night, after being coaxed to lie down in a playpen by his parents' bed, he wasn't ready to sleep. A short time after the lights were out, Patrick called out softly to his mama, giggling. Not receiving a quick response caused the boy to laugh-yell at his daddy. Mama and daddy were now struggling to stifle their own laugher. Suddenly, this little clown spoke as loudly and seriously as his weakened voice could to discover if anyone was paying attention. "Knock, knock?" Mama and daddy could not resist. Laughing together, the lights came on and they played "peek-a-boo" deep into the night. This little rascal would move and rearrange anything within his reach and laugh at any efforts to undo his work. At times he would play and laugh so hard, he would become breathless. Some would say a terminally ill child gasping for air isn't a good thing, but his comical laughing was supremely "good."
Truth is, little Patrick simply didn't know he was sick. This was his life—he knew no different. A very cold Thanksgiving night brought the culmination of his illness to take dominion over the family. All the love, the dreadful chemo treatments, nor the modern hospitals could save this precious little boy. Early one even colder morning in January, mama curled up in the crib with her son and held him for the last time.
This wonderful child's time on this Earth was unexpectedly significant. I never knew Patrick personally. Yet, I could feel him, while looking at a photograph in his parents' home. The influence such a young life can have on countless other lives is exponential.
Lessons of long-suffering patience and tolerance could be learned from simply gazing into his eyes. The knowledge that one must live each moment to the fullest—to love and be loved unconditionally—was easily obtained by observing Patrick with his parents.
The struggle with cancer and the horrific experience tested his mama and daddy's strength of character—even their marriage. It is a testament to his life that they remain happily married twenty-three years after his death. No other child could—nor would—take his place. This little boy was far from "average." Patrick has his own place—within the hearts of those his young life touched.
Dennis
Dennis was a happy, shy boy. Introverted, yes, but that is not surprising for a boy in a house with four sisters. He loved to work with his dad and had a fascination for tools of any kind. Again, no wonder he went with dad so much—to get away from all the females. Yet, he was fiercely protective of them, especially the younger sister who had just come to junior high in sixth grade where he was in eighth.
He was a notorious sleepyhead. Mom would keep a spray bottle of water in the refrigerator to use on days when Dennis was particularly reticent to get out of bed. But, if mom left him to sleep in, he invariably was upset having missed going to work with dad or some other activity. Dennis' mom forewarned the church camp counselor of this potential problem. His solution was carefully placing a folded sheet with the edges hanging off on the bottom bunk where Dennis would sleep. If the boy did not respond to the call of Reveille the next morning, the counselor would grasp the edges of that folded sheet and yank, causing Dennis to tumble out of the bunk and onto the concrete floor. He always took the bottom bunk due to a slight fear of heights. Thus, through this course of action, he was awakened and not hurt in any way.
At school he was an enthusiastic clarinet player in the junior high band. But being a teenager, he could never keep up with his reeds. Having a strong music influence from growing up in a church that loved a good sing-song session helped him have an understanding of how music worked. In fact, the one show he insisted watching on TV was Ed Sullivan. He loved to watch the popular singers and bands of the time. Plus, he could practice his Ed Sullivan impersonation. It was on that show he first saw Elvis and perfected the signature King sneer. That show also featured The Beatles with their wild hair, and Dennis immediately resisted getting the flattop haircut he had endured for most of his years. Even the Rolling Stones on Ed Sullivan influenced him, resulting in a variant of an English accent. He was so intent—nobody had the heart to say the accent was terrible.
Kids at school thought of him as a sweet guy. In those days, that meant you were one of the good people. His friends thought of him as a good friend. Dennis was one of the middle class, as was I. There were the popular kids, then there were us regular kids—those who were not yet self-confident—who tended to be shy and quiet. We were the majority making the minority of impact.
During summer, Dennis' mom, bless her heart, would take groups of us kids from church to fun places. Most of our parents could not participate due to work or homebound duties. I remember a trip to the local amusement park, Six Flags over Texas. We split up into smaller groups and rode rides and ate Pink Things and Nutty Buddy ice cream until lunchtime came when we had to meet up with the main group. Six Flags had (and still has) water rides and man-made streams of water flowing throughout the park. Such a stream was in the picnic area where we all gathered for a lunch of fried chicken and iced tea. The water in all the streams and features was "Ty-D-Bol Man" blue. We took off our track shoes and waded for fun. There was a kind of little waterfall where one could stand and let the water run across one's feet. The air temperature had to be close to 100 degrees, so the cool water felt great on our toes. Then, one of the boys splashed the blue water toward Dennis and only then did we consider the staining possibility of such colored water. Poor Dennis had to face his mom with a blue polka-dotted white T-shirt and blue feet. Truth was everyone who had waded in that water came out with bluish feet. It was so funny nobody got in trouble. We put our track shoes back on and ran back into the park to ride the Sombrero and Spindletop. However, Dennis had a problem on the Spindletop that caused me to never ride that particular attraction. This was a large cylindrical tube with an inner and outer wall resembling something like an angel food cake pan. The cylinder would spin faster and faster until the patrons were pressed against the outer wall, unable to resist the extreme centrifugal force. Then the bottom of the pan would drop away and many screams of terror could be heard. It was not unusual for someone to lose his lunch on this ride, and unfortunately that day it was Dennis. I swear, after that, proverbial wild horses couldn't get me on that ride. Instead, a calm and cool float through the Spelunker Cave was much easier on the stomach.
Of course, at 9:45 A.M. on Sunday mornings we were all seated in the Youth Department for Sunday school. We would always sing two songs from the Baptist Hymnal. We were lucky to have a pianist—one of the girls' moms played for us. Without fail—every single week—after the first song Dennis would ask that we sing "Up From The Grave." Why he loved that song so we didn't understand. It was usually done only a couple times a year in big church—and always on Easter. Sunday after Sunday it was the same request, but always made in one of his impersonations. How could we deny a request from John Wayne or Edward G. Robinson? So, every other week we sang that song, making Dennis a happy fellow.
During Christmas vacation in 1969, Dennis was helping his dad on a job. Dad was a master welder and was working on a commercial building. Dennis loved to play "go-fer" for his father, fetching welding rods and clamps, running up and down the ladder so his dad wouldn't have to. The framework was nearly complete for the top of the building. Dennis climbed the ladder with a tool for his dad, and, in an effort to overcome that fear of heights for a few seconds, he bravely stood on one of the metal beams. The next moment the dad looked around for his son—but he wasn't there. Panic rising, the father dropped what he was doing and looked down. Twenty feet below, his son lay in an unnatural position and very still. The frantic man hastily slid down the ladder, running to the boy at the same time other workers arrived. There was no movement—Dennis wasn't breathing. Dad knelt by his son's side and wept uncontrollably.
Being only 13 at the time and since they had the funeral on Christmas Day, I was not required to attend. I just couldn't. My folks went, of course, but I hid at home. How could it be possible such a normal, sweet boy was suddenly gone? It was incomprehensible that he would not be in Sunday school asking to sing his song. We could not help leaving his seat open in Junior Choir. There was one flattop haircut missing from the back row in church. His sisters, one younger than me and one older, were in shock for weeks. Dennis' mom kept his room just as it was for years after the tragedy. His was a death unlike anything kids our age had experienced. Schoolmates were stunned. In an unprecedented action, the eighth grade class dedicated the 1969-1970 annual to his memory. When looking through that book, I gaze at a full page picture on page eight in that softcover volume where a freckled face boy named Dennis looks out at me, a sweet guy, a good friend, and most of all—my friend.
Part Three
Gates of Knowledge
Science and Mathematics
After passing through the incredibly detailed cathedral-like gates, I half-expected to be in Science and Math Heaven. Perhaps to the scientists and mathematicians it was Heaven, built with solid, natural materials. Instead of streets of gold, a pathway of finely ground granite began at my feet then turned immediately to the right, ascending as it lengthened. After a prescribed distance, the path turned back to the left rising again to the next turn. This path was carved into the side of a mountain, much like switchbacks one might travel along in the Rocky Mountains. The path ran a good distance back-and-forth near the base of the mountain, narrowing as it climbed up the side to an eventual point at the top. Appropriately, this configuration resulted in somewhat of a triangle. A memory came to me of a Jeep adventure my husband, Craig, and I took one summer day across a pass, winding down Black Bear trail into Telluride, Colorado. That road created quite the scary excursion where this particular pathway seemed quite secure and no doubt led to more knowledge. The gravel crunched as my feet moved along the path. At one of the bends I found myself in the company of famous personages deep in discussion.
Of course, with the knowledge gained in this place I knew the pair, though one was recognizable enough. Albert Einstein (1879 – 1955) and James Clerk Maxwell (1831 – 1879), both famed physicists, were considering a question.
My dear James, if I can go through the window portal to my own time, why couldn't I travel to a different time? You well know I believe all time coexists. I should be able to go to a different time.
Pardon my skepticism, Albert, but I would not wish to go to an unspecified time without first having logical expectations.
Ha! James, you know I always say logic will get you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere.
My instinct was to not interrupt these great minds at work, but they seemed to be at an impasse—at least for the moment. However, often times I have an overwhelming desire to throw in my proverbial "two cents." Stepping closer to the pair, I suggested they give the imagining and logical expecting a rest and simply step through the portal together—at the same moment—and find out what happens. Einstein and Maxwell looked at me with amused surprise. They discussed this idea at length in terminology beyond my level of comprehension. But I gathered they wondered where or when they might land—Einstein's latter years in America or Maxwell's youth in Scotland or some other "where" or "when." I found myself quoting my mother, telling these two learned men, "Hey, you'll never know till you try." Each man shook my hand gratefully. Yes, I felt the grips strongly—these spirits had substance. They turned from me and walked down the pathway in a very animated discussion, anxious to conduct the experiment. Grinning with satisfaction, I continued my way upward.
A few switchbacks later and at a somewhat higher elevation from where the path began, another pair of famous men appeared. Again, I knew who these doctors were, though this was new knowledge, not having been schooled in this branch of science. Dr. James Ewing (1866 – 1943), a New York pathologist, and Rene Laennec (1781 – 1826), a French physician, were speaking quietly. Dr. Ewing glanced at me—in his eyes I saw great wisdom. Making a quick decision, I walked up to him and asked why a good friend of mine, back on the Other Side, was stricken with terminal cancer. He placed a hand on my shoulder and calmly told a story from The Other Side.
A contented cow grazes peacefully in a pasture when a massive tornado plunges from the ominous clouds, snatching her from the ground and pulling her into the vortex. The doomed cow's breath is sucked out of her lungs by the fluctuating air pressure—the lifeless carcass discarded some distance away in the branches of a leafless tree. Another cow, on the opposite side of the pasture is startled by the tornado, but continues her grazing and lives. Disease may occur. Disease may not occur.
Laennec looked at me with compassion. He closed his eyes for a moment, then told a story of his own:
Picture a gigantic boulder high above a cabin on the side of a mountain. The cabin is near a creek and seems quite secure. This situation poses no danger to people sleeping in the cabin unless some force dislodges the boulder from its elemental perch. An earthquake might cause the huge rock to become unstable—a completely natural phenomena. Or the force might be a human being with a mighty tool—a very deliberate action. The balance of nature is disrupted by the purposeful loosening of the rock, yes, but also by the human family living on the mountain. Regardless of the cause, the boulder lumbers down the side of the mountain, crushing the cabin and the sleeping family within. Or, perhaps it rolls by harmlessly to settle into a new home in the creek. This may eventually cause the cabin to flood, but then again, no flood could ever occur. Such is cancer.
Patiently nodding, I leaned against the stone wall, grudgingly accepting the answer to my question—there is no real answer. Fate, God, chi, whatever or possibly nothing at all determines whether my friend is sick. Even further is the question of if she can survive, or, as she suspects, dies. Why our generation should be cursed with such slow and insidious diseases rather than plague or pestilence as in ancient times is a mystery to me. I vow to ask that question when the opportunity arises. But I am very sure we must value each day, each friendship, every moment and thank whatever powers there are for each of these wonderful things.
The two doctors gazed at me for a moment to be certain their message was understood. They stepped backward, disappearing into nothingness. My eyes filled with tears. One ran down my cheek, as I turned to walk further up the granite path.
In the next turn, a man stood alone. He seemed quite content watching me approach. This was Willis Haviland Carrier (1876-1950). My tears dried, as I moved with purpose to shake his hand. Having grown up in an extremely hot part of Texas, I had always wanted to thank the smart man who made air conditioning available to the masses, and this was he. My question was how a man from such a cold climate as New York thought to create air conditioning. W.H. took me into his arms in a huge bear hug and accepted my thanks with aplomb. He merrily told me the temperature gets mighty hot in New York, too. Laughing, I waved goodbye to continue my travel up the path of Science knowledge.
At the next turn stood Benjamin Franklin (1706 – 1790) with Alessandro Volta (1745 – 1827). Each had quite a bit of experience with electricity and developing the battery in particular. Excited to be in their presence, I asked if they realized just about everything on the Other Side ran on electricity and batteries. They simply nodded. Upon receiving this rather lackadaisical response, I searched for another question. Knowing that Volta had the title of Count bestowed upon him by Napoleon, I asked what the famed conqueror was like.
He was French. Schifoso! Si, I took the title then wished the big man in a little body arrivederci!
Amused and encouraged, again I aimed a question at one of the USA's founding fathers. "Mr. Franklin, how ever were you able to accomplish all the things you did?"
By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail. I merely resolved to perform what I ought, and perform without fail what I resolved.
"Yes, I see. Say, do you know why there are many people and beings in this Place and yet there is no one besides myself from the living world on the Other Side?" Ben Franklin seemed to stifle a grin before he answered.
Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.
Nodding with understanding, I found myself bowing to take my leave. Franklin and Volta bowed in return, and I'm certain they were laughing as they faded into nothingness. My feet moved a bit more slowly. I felt content, happy even to be traveling up the path of Science. Around another bend sat a lone figure. Nicola Tesla (1856 – 1943), largely considered the "man who lit the world," was sitting very still and with his head hanging. The knowledge that he was a brilliant scientist, yet quite eccentric and harbored a mighty grudge toward Thomas Edison, I approached carefully. Since he was purported to be a rather volatile character (even the label "mad scientist" was used at times), I decided to stay away from any technical type issue and instead ask how he felt about having a hard rock band as his namesake. His head jerked up—his eyes were bright and intense.
Oh yes. Fantastic! And observe where radio has gone—into outer space!
"Yes, it has. Have you heard a Tesla CD?"
Ah, yes indeed. Mr. Russell has created a magnificent recording medium with his compact discs.
"I agree. Although, my husband and I resisted the CD age for quite some time." Tesla looked at me with surprise. "Yes, we certainly did. You see, when CD's came out, we had just gotten all our music changed over from 8-track to cassette!" The unusual man looked off into the distance.
Such is the modern world. Let the future tell the truth, and evaluate each one according to his work and accomplishments. The present is theirs; the future, for which I have really worked, is mine.
The brilliant inventor had a far-off look on his face which made me somewhat uncomfortable. He seemed to have forgotten I was there, so I quietly walked away. At the very next switchback, just around the corner, stood Thomas Edison (1847 – 1931) and Alexander Graham Bell (1847 – 1922). These two contemporaries helped shape the 20th century. After glancing backward, to be sure Tesla was out of sight, I asked Edison how he was able to come up with so many wonderful inventions.
Bah! If we did all the things we are capable of, we would literally astound ourselves. Further, I was not discouraged because every wrong attempt discarded was another step forward.
Turning my attention to Bell, who was a prolific inventor in his own right, I asked what he thought of the modern cell phone craze.
Mr. Cooper has done the world a great service and possibly created a monster.
"I have to agree. This whole talking and texting thing is getting out of control. But never mind that. You also invented the metal detector, right? That is a big-time hobby for some folks and certain types are used to discover hidden weapons on people as they enter a secure area."
Great discoveries and improvement invariably involve the cooperation of many minds. I may be given credit for having blazed the trail, but when I look at the subsequent developments I feel the credit is due to others rather than to myself.
The great inventor smiled modestly. Sensing our interview was over, I raised a hand to wave goodbye and turned away. But Edison had a parting comment for me.
Katie, bear in mind the chief function of the body is to carry the brain around. Take care of yourself!
I couldn't help but look back and giggle a bit. Who would have thought such accomplished men would be so humble and funny? But at the next turn I became a bit uneasy, sensing the Mathematics zone was ahead. Always a dreaded subject, for me math was an anathema. Perhaps that is a harsh attitude, but algebra, or the lack thereof, actually shaped the course of my life. My high school required one year of algebra, then one of geometry. The second year of algebra was optional. I passed freshman algebra by the proverbial skin of my teeth. Certainly it was not out of the goodness of the teacher's heart—he was awful. Sophomore geometry and the teacher were much more to my liking and successfully completing that course satisfied the mathematics requirement for high school. The unfortunate, or fateful, result of the omission of Algebra II from my curriculum was to not be accepted into Texas A&M University. Understandably, I was quite hesitant to enter the realm of higher knowledge in this particular subject. Nevertheless, I was there to learn and walked further up the path, though much more slowly. Suddenly, to my pleasant surprise and comfort, Dennis appeared with his Elvis sneer, walking beside me.
Not having much formal education in math, I called on the general knowledge of this Place and recognized the person before me. One of the greatest mathematicians of all time, Carl Gauss (1777 – 1855) purportedly jested he could "figure" before he could talk. The notion he had a sense of humor caused me to pause and take a chance on relaying something I had heard somewhere.
"Sir, I believe it is a fact that horses have an even number of legs. They have two legs in back, and in front—fore legs. The result is six legs, which is certainly an odd number of legs for a horse. But the only number that is both odd and even is infinity. Therefore, horses have an infinite number of legs."
The interminable Gauss chuckled quietly and happily gave his answer:
We cannot assume this theorem to be true as there is an incorrect assumption within. I refer to the iniquities of language—a subject we do not handle in this department.
He exclaimed "Fore legs!" before fading into the shadows while his laughter still filled the air. I was quite relieved at the joke's success and so hurried the short distance to the next bend. Dennis slapped me on the back and began limping while he walked in a Walter Brennan imitation. Both of us chuckled.
The path was shorter between bends now—much shorter than below. The top was near and I feared it. Certain my intellect and capacity for mathematical information was reaching beyond points previously imagined I cautiously approached the next two personages. A woman, obviously gently bred and of high social status, smiled warmly at me. She was one of very few women who were active in the early days of mathematical enlightenment. In later year, she might have had an even greater influence than she had in the mid 1800's. Lady Lovelace nee Ada Byron (1815 – 1852), the daughter of Lord Byron the poet, put both writing and analytical talents to use in manuscripts that led to machine computing. Standing with her was another prominent mathematician. Jon von Neumann (1903 – 1957) passed away the same the year I was born. Lady Lovelace's peaceful presence and the coincidence with von Neumann caused me to grow bolder.
A question had bothered me for years and years. It seemed a good time to ask. I gathered my courage and spoke to the two famed authorities.
"Why is it, try as I might, I simply cannot understand higher mathematics? My mom taught me the multiplication tables in our dining room. Thank goodness for the solar calculator. Because beyond that, I just don't get it. Why is that?"
Lady Lovelace smiled ever so slightly and looked to von Neumann. He placed a hand on my elbow in an informal gesture of compassion and guided me to a ledge against the stone wall. We sat. His words sounded familiar, like a quote on an educational poster.
In mathematics you don't understand things. You just get used to them.
My eyes blinked hard as the words sunk in. Aware than von Neumann had risen and was walking away, I contemplated his statement. In one way this concept should be a relief to the confusion which had been harboring in my mind for so long. Yet, in my personal opinion, understanding should be the foundation for any learning. Just accepting "things" didn't seem logical or an acceptable starting point on which to build knowledge. Rising from the stone seat, I nodded to the pair in thanks. Dennis grinned at me, then moved over to stand with them. He asked if I could remember Casa Magnetica at Six Flags Over Texas just before all three stepped back into the shadows and out of sight.
This thought came to me: understanding there are many "things" one cannot comprehend is itself a learning achievement. Further, I believe accepting things rather than understanding them must be second nature to the great minds, one of which I certainly am not nor will ever be. I simply cannot "just get used to" the "things" I cannot understand.
Alone at a blank stone wall, the path ended. Knowing there was much more to experience in the higher realms of Science and Mathematics did not bother me at all. Even contemplating the science of the Casa Magnetica, where gravity was defied was too much for me at this point. The wall marked the end of the path for me in these subjects both literally and figuratively. Or perhaps it was simply as far as I could go—this time.
Philosophy and Language
Finding myself back out on the green, green grass was quite a surprise. I reflected momentarily on the encounters I had, the lessons learned—the experiences of Science and Mathematics. My feet stopped before the living gate of Philosophy and Language. Again the marvelous flora grasped my attention. Never had I seen more beautiful flowers and plants. The substantial, ancient vines appeared as though they could take the place of Atlas supporting the sky. My very being absorbed the essence of soil and plants and flowers. It was pure and magnificent. However, there, also, were failing vegetation, percolating into the soil to enrich and nourish all the other plants. Dead leaves, stems, and all manner of organic matter were evident and did nothing to mar the overall beauty of the scene. This was the cycle of life in all its glory. I happily entered the gate.
Just through the living opening, the sight took my breath away. Clouds of many types and colors swirled about in all directions—yet peacefully. Upon closer scrutiny, a pathway could be discerned through the clouds. Much like the granite road I had followed in Science and Mathematics, this path wound back and forth in a switchback, or in this case, a ribbon-like fashion upward to an apex—an unseen end. This path seemed to be constructed of cirrus clouds, smooth and connected into a defined arrangement resembling a road. Eagerly, I began walking up the satin-like ramp.
Within the first turn or two, I came upon two figures standing on the edge of the path, very nearly in the clouds. Wisps of cloud swirled about one of the men, giving him a beard and robe of vapor. My mind found the knowledge that I was gazing upon the famous (that is not a big enough word) Plato (427 B.C. – 347 B.C.) He was having a seemingly very deep conversation with American philosopher John Dewey (1859 – 1952). Approaching slowly, I heard the question.
Why?
Silence took the place of the animated debate. The discussion appeared at a standstill. I found myself stepping forward to offer a quote from the nineteenth century attorney Albert Pike. (Again, the knowledge came to me when I needed it.)
"Excuse me, sirs, let me offer this quotation: 'Philosophy is a kind of journey, ever learning yet never arriving at the ideal.'"
The two esteemed philosophers nodded sagely in agreement but remained silent. Dewey suddenly spoke up.
It is well-known I believe knowledge is not passive. We must have inquiry to answer the question.
Indeed, my deepest belief is logical argument is required to attain knowledge. However this Place defies that premise.
After this, they again fell silent. To break the uncomfortable silence, I asked a question that has always bothered me. "How can one ask for information beyond what one already knows when one obviously does not know what knowledge could be had? Else, wouldn't one already have that knowledge?" There was no response so I felt compelled to expand a bit. "Think of it this way. When the teacher asks his students 'is there anything I haven’t told you?' The student must answer: "Gee, teacher. I don't know how to answer that because I don't know what you haven't told me".
Plato and Dewey's demeanor changed ever so slightly. I sensed something would happen. Surely, one of them would speak great wisdom. But each patted me on the shoulder before he walked calmly into the clouds. Staring after them for a moment, the realization came over me that my question very likely had the same answer as theirs. There is no answer. Before a feeling of frustration manifested, I was distracted by the familiar sound of my father's booming voice. Smiling, my head nodded knowingly. I knew he would be in here somewhere.
Walking up the smooth, vapor trail was interesting—literally like walking on water. The sensation momentarily absorbed my attention, as I dipped my toe into the cloud-road as if it were made of whipped cream. Yet my feet did not sink and the road held my weight perfectly. This phenomenon was so curious I passed several bends before coming into my father's presence.
He took me into his arms, and I could feel the love he had for me. There is no feeling like being in your parent's comfortable, loving embrace. Oh, how I missed him on the Other Side. The joy I felt at that moment as my daddy held me close could not be measured. Reluctantly, he held me out at arms' length and released me. I looked at him—drinking in the miracle of seeing him again. I noticed his ear was well and whole, curious, as some of it had been removed due to skin cancer late in his life. He looked robust and healthy and most of all, happy. Ever the polite gentleman, he took me to meet his companions.
Before me stood the father of all Protestantism—right here in Philosophy—Martin Luther (1483 – 1546). Also present was a more modern day theologian, Arthur Pink. I felt strangely glad to see my father with these men. Luther had the heart and aplomb to question and break with the Roman Catholic Church. He adamantly objected to the common priestly comment, "As soon as the coin in the coffer rings, the soul from purgatory springs" to heaven. I had often wondered why so many different denominations branched from the original Luther works. My father stood back as I voiced this question. Martin Luther answered.
Much as there are many shades of the color blue, so are there many opinions regarding salvation. Beliefs are held by individuals, or they are accepted by sheep. Justification may be attained in any color of blue, so long as it is comes from belief.
Well, that was heavy, but this was philosophy, after all. Turning to Arthur Pink, I asked for his thoughts. He pondered for a while and eventually said:
We must believe in the scriptures and what they teach. Different people interpret various meanings. In the end, it matters not what you believe, as long as you believe it. I would never have admitted that on the Other Side, but, like everyone in this place, I have learned.
At last, something made sense. But I had another question close to this subject. I faced the three men and asked about the relationship between philosophy and religion. All three chuckled. My father put his arm around my shoulders to tell me religion is philosophy. I accepted that answer as it is actually my own belief. But there was one more question I had always wanted to ask. Now was my chance.
"Daddy, how can the Baptists be the only ones who are right? Why do they believe the Baptist definition of salvation is the sole way to Heaven? For that matter, how can all religions think their way is the only way to a rewarding after-life?"
My father, my sweet, wonderful Dad, had tears in his eyes. He drew in what seemed to be a deep breath. "My dear Katie-bug, I must tell you that I have seen Buddhists, Catholics, Hindus, Jews, Muslins, all versions of Protestants and many more followers of numerous other religious beliefs in the realms beyond the Other Side. It appears that perhaps there is no set formula to get to Heaven. I believe what I believe, and they have their own beliefs. But I am glad good folks, no matter what religion, are able to experience the after-life."