The following novel chapter, penned by Rick (Dad), was placed onto the FamTeam website in the spring of 2009, and represents the first in a series of continuing installments that he hopes to contribute to this space throughout the coming months. (This is one of several new features that was unveiled and added to the site as part of Rick and Cathy's 30th anniversary celebration.)
(Note: Additional segments of Winter On The Mountain will be added to the FamTeam Archives section of the website each Sunday. All FamTeam Archives are available to Family Room members. In order to learn more about the Family Room and its many features, please click here.)
(SAMPLE CHAPTERS)
Chapter One
Friday December 12
(9:13 PM)
I am sprawled on the floor of a one-room cabin, constructed of logs, that rests near the summit of a low, wooded mountain. Snow is falling heavily on the mountain, and a fire is blazing within a stone fireplace that is located perhaps five feet to my left.
I have inspected this small structure which looks to be a hunting cabin -- and have estimated that there is enough cereal, oatmeal and dried fruit present within its pantry to sustain a human life for two or three months. That is good news -- for two reasons. First, I have been told that the winters in this remote portion of upstate New York can produce 100 or 200 inches of snowfall annually; secondly, my right leg has been hurt, and is, at least for the moment, utterly useless.
Since arriving here about two hours ago, I have been on the floor, near the fireplace, trying to warm myself by the flames. After consuming a half-box of wheat flakes and emptying my canteen of its final drops of water, I did what I have always done when confronted with overwhelming circumstances -- begin to write. I brought no laptop computer with me for this adventure, but did manage to tuck three notebooks and a few pens and pencils into my backpack before leaving New England this morning.
Ironically, I have, at many times over the last couple of decades, told myself: "When my teaching schedule at the university calms down, and I find a block of undisturbed time, I want to sit down and write in an unhurried way, as I was so often able to do during my younger years." That long-anticipated block of undisturbed time has now come, although in a rather rude fashion.
Considering my leg injury, the intense winter weather and the fact that this mountain is comprised of many sheer bluffs and cliffs, it is not hard to conclude that I will be here for a long stretch of time before being rescued or making my way to safety. I suppose, to be realistic, I must face the possibility that I will not survive this experience, and this thought spurs me to place onto paper every thought and memory that I have. As a result of my injured right leg, I am forced to write while lying on my left side, and as a result, my penmanship, always legendary among my students for its appallingly poor quality, is now almost illegible. But I will plod onward, and commit my thoughts to paper.
About 32 hours ago, I was standing before my Advanced American History class at the university, closing out my last class of the fall term, and explaining to my students why I would not be back in the spring. "Ive made a rather spontaneous decision." I told them. "I am going to leave here and head west for a while."
I was a bit disappointed by the reaction that I received from my students. Perhaps I had expected a few passionate exclamations of, "Oh, no, Mr. Greene -- you can't leave us!" The only noticeable response that came forth was the voice of a young lady near the back of the room, asking with an attitude that barely rose above indifference: "You mean out west, like the Old West?" "No," I replied. "I mean west of New England -- or the wilderness of Quetico Provincial Park in Ontario, Canada, to be more precise. You see, as of this day, with the closing of the term, I have closed out my 35th year in the History Department here at the university, and my 21st year as chairman of that department."
At the mention of my years of chairmanship, I found myself pausing, awaiting something (an expression or two of praise would have been nice), but caught only looks of restlessness flitting across the faces of my students. Now resolved to wrap up my little farewell speech as tidily as possible, I stumbled forward:
"Last night I made the decision to take a plunge and embark immediately upon a one-year Sabbatical. By tomorrow evening -- assuming that I am able to finish packing tonight -- I will be hundreds of miles from these hallowed halls, on my way to Quetico, one of nature's most pristine areas of wilderness, and a place that I have not seen since the summer of 1972. There will be no computer, no cell phone -- you all know I have a thing about cell phones -- and no television. And if all proceeds according to plan, about 13 months from now, at the outset of the spring semester, I will be back among you, picking up where I am leaving off today."
After writing the last paragraph, I found myself, even in this outrageously stressful situation, falling into my old habit of perfectionism, pausing to carefully proofread each letter of what I had written. Writing while lying on one's side is an absurdly slow process, and a crude one as well. But even under these circumstances, lost in the mountains and injured, I cannot resist the urge to produce the perfect manuscript, and am employing the eraser every few moments.
I want to keep writing, and commit to paper the events that have led me to this place in the woods, but cannot do so now, as I am exhausted.
(10:24 PM)
I spent the last hour or two dragging myself around this cabin, doing what I could to create a bed in one corner of it. I discovered, in a decaying wooden trunk, three faded (but pleasingly thick) blankets. The trunk collapsed as I was removing the blankets, and I plan to use the splintered boards for kindling wood. I am relieved that the cabin is warm, even in the midst of the blizzard that is still screaming outdoors. In fact, it is actually too hot in here at the moment.
I spent almost five minutes shaking out the blankets, hoping to rid them of any spiders or other creatures. I was halfway through the project when I realized that any insects thrown clear would simply land in another part of the cabin, and that they would eventually find their way back to the coziness of the blankets, and would probably do so during the night, when I was sleeping. Surprisingly, I haven't seen bugs of any kind here. Perhaps they are hiding in the thousands of cracks that are in the walls, ceiling, and floor of this place.
(11:04 PM)
The snow continues to fall. I cannot sleep. For the first time since finding this cabin, I have thoroughly taken stock of my situation, and for the first time have actually begun to shake with apprehension at what might rest ahead of me. My right leg has grown so stiff that when attempting to scoot around on the floor, I must drag it along as dead weight, and navigate with the other. As I was doing this very thing, my left knee -- the one that is uninjured -- pressed down through a loose floorboard -- or, rather, caused an unsecured board to see-saw its way up and off of the joist that rested beneath it. There, in the cold space that lies below the floorboards, I found an old, heavily-bound Bible. Its cover is thick and warped and speckled with spots of mold.
The old book bears some faded writing on its flyleaf, but the light is too dim for me to read it. Were it not an antique, and of potential historical value, it would join the broken boards of the trunk on the kindling pile. As every student I have instructed over the last three-and-a-half decades well knows, I have a particular disdain for belief systems that speak of an intelligence that controls the universe, and I have always regarded the Bible as nothing more than a fascinating literary and historical phenomenon.
As I finished the previous sentence, my memory swept back some 49 years, to a simmering summer day on my grandparents' farm. I was spending the weekend there, performing a number of outdoor chores, when I was stung by a bee. My body was immediately seized by some kind of allergic reaction, and my throat began to close. As I was sitting on the dusty ground, clutching at my throat, Grandpa ran into the house to find the keys to his truck, while Grandma, almost bowling him over, came rushing out into the yard. "I'm here, Peter!" she called to me.
She knelt down beside me, placed a palm against my chest, and began to pray. First she cried out to God, but then she "talked to" my body, commanding it to be made normal and whole, in the name of Jesus Christ. At that very moment, I felt a rush of breath come back into my lungs, and my windpipe began to open again. At about that time Grandpa came bursting out of the house, yelling, "Mae, I can't find the truck keys!" Grandma, who knew that the main part of the crisis had passed, kind of smiled, and said, "Henry, have you checked the deep pocket in your overalls?" Grandpa stopped in his tracks, plunged a hand into one of his pockets, and pulled out the truck's ignition key. Grandma laughed, then Grandpa, and finally me. Then they drove me into town, where I saw the doctor, who pronounced me fit. (He refused to let Grandpa and Grandma pay anything for the visit.) An hour later, after a stop for ice cream at the corner drugstore, we were all back to work on the farm.
It's strange that I would remember that incident now, and absurd that I would take the time to write it out, with the stub of a pencil, onto the pages of this notebook. The memory of Grandma's prayer has always made me feel uneasy, as it flies in the face of all that I have stood for over the years -- and the decades. The books that I have written contain carefully-crafted -- and, with no one here to accuse me of egotism, might I even say brilliantly-crafted -- arguments against the existence of a personal creator or god.
Over the years, I have spent endless hours attempting to "set straight" students who have described themselves as committed Christian believers. Yet, throughout my life, during times of crisis, the memory of the bee sting and Grandma's prayer has bubbled to the surface of my mind and emotions. After all these years, I cannot explain what happened to me that day, and have told no one of it. I feel uncomfortable dredging up the memory and committing it to paper. (If I feel myself fading over the coming days, I can always rip out this page and burn it, lest someone finds this notebook and reads about what happened at Grandma's house that day.)
Since firmly emancipating myself from any belief in a god or personal creator during my student days in the '60s, I have made it my mission to liberate as many young minds as possible, particularly those that are keenly intelligent and packed with potential. I have always taken pride in the fact that many of my students, following their graduations, have gone on to fill highly influential positions within the culture. I know of at least 17 who are employed in the movie industry, either as writers, casting directors or performers. More than two dozen of my former charges have followed in my own footsteps, and entered the world of academia. Three have managed to win elective office, and at least six have been published as writers. Perhaps a hundred have taken jobs in journalism and worked within the general mass media.
It has always been satisfying to me that many of these students left our university as true intellectuals, unfettered by any irrational adherence to a so-called god or creator.
* * * *
It took me 90 minutes to grind out the last eight paragraphs. After doing so, I crawled over to the pantry and ate some more cereal. I am now back on the floor, near the fireplace. It is about 1:30 in the morning.
Chapter Two
Saturday, December 13
(3:21 AM)
I must have fallen asleep for a few hours by the fire. When I woke up, my head was only a foot or so from the flames. I'll have to be more careful.
Sunrise is perhaps four hours away. The snow is falling steadily, but the wind has died down -- almost completely. The depth of the snow looks to be about nine inches.
Writing is difficult, so I am going to try to create shorter sentences and paragraphs. My students -- and the readers of my books -- know that I have a long-standing tendency to use too many words. My hand, strained from the climb up the mountain, and aggravated by all of the writing that I have done while lying on my side, throbs with every stroke of the pen. I am being conditioned by pain to learn the lesson of brevity. (I wonder which will win -- the drive to remain pain-free or the passion to create adjective-stuffed sentences.)
Despite my discomfort, I feel compelled to write, as if doing so will furnish proof that I had a life, if this is to be the end of that life. By leaving a written record of my arrival in this cabin, those who find my body here, should that be the outcome of this little adventure, will know the events that brought me here. I have nothing but time on my hands, and am going nowhere at any point in the near future.
* * * *
Until arriving in this area from New England on Thursday, I had not fully realized that New York State contains such areas of utter wilderness. I have lived on the Atlantic coast all of my life, and when visiting this state over the years, have spent most of my time in New York City. I had always heard about the hills, lakes, and waterfalls of upstate New York, but had never before explored them. Nor had I planned to explore them during my Sabbatical. Yet, I now find myself a guest of this state, stranded in a hunting cabin during a snowstorm.
About seven hours have passed since I walked away from a sleek passenger bus during a late night refueling stop along the Southern Tier Expressway, which meanders its way, in an east-west direction, across some of the most rugged hill country that can be found in New York State. I had been slumbering in the rear of the bus since the New York-Connecticut border, and was jolted into alertness when the driver abruptly pulled the vehicle to a standstill at a rest stop. As I was waiting for the passengers who were ahead of me to file out into the parking lot, I looked sleepily out of the window, and caught a glimpse of the night sky. The moon was nearly full, and stars were pulsating everywhere.
Within a few minutes I had gathered up my backpack and stepped outside. I walked into an open meadow, stopped, and dropped my backpack onto the ground. I spent the next few minutes gazing into sky, and was soon berating myself for not bringing my telescope along for the trip to Quetico.
Wow! Look at those constellations! And the evening air is perfect! If only I could stay out here for a little while
Seconds later, I heard myself calling back to the bus driver, "This is my stop." He nodded back at me, and I turned away, picked up my backpack, and began to walk deeper into the meadow.
The weather that evening was somewhat mild for December; the temperature couldn't have been much lower than 40. I felt invigorated from the nap on the bus, and ready to begin my Sabbatical. My original plan, upon leaving New England early yesterday morning, had been to travel west as far as Niagara Falls, spend the night there, then continue my journey to Quetico Provincial Park the following day. Yet, sparked by the same kind of spontaneity that had led me to leave the university and take the bus trip in the first place, I had abruptly decided to pass the first night of my Sabbatical right there, in the heart of the state -- in the woods, if necessary -- figuring that the hotel room in Niagara Falls could wait another day.
I have visited Quetico only one time in my life, in August of 1972, during a week-long canoe expedition that five friends and I experienced together. I was a postgraduate student at that time in my life (or, to be more precise, a post-postgraduate student), and, like many of my contemporaries in that era, was spilling over with idealism and zeal in regard to the various problems that were rocking the country.
As I reflect back upon the summer of 1972, I realize that it was my visit to Quetico, and its pristine tranquility, that somehow ignited, into full blaze, my already-simmering sense of rebellion against what we then so bitterly described as "The Establishment." (In those days, a sense of proper trendiness always dictated that the "The" in "The Establishment" be capitalized.) Two weeks in the Canadian wilderness convinced me that mankind itself -- and mankind's greed and selfishness -- were the culprits in regard to all that was wrong with the world during those tumultuous times. I became, during that trip, an active -- even rabid -- environmentalist, population-control advocate, and all-around rabble-rouser. (Somehow, the sense of proper trendiness to which I referred earlier tells me that the term "rabble-rouser" has become antiquated.)
It was during that wilderness trip that I turned my back on any childhood notions of God, and decided to live free, live for the moment, and live large. But, like most '60s idealists, a fondness for food and shelter eventually came into play, and I willed myself to a pair of PhD degrees (in American History and American Literature). Yet, despite these "compromises" with "The System," I never lost my edge of rebellion toward that which is phony, hypocritical, materialistic, or superficial.
In writing this diary, or journal, I am wandering all over the place, blending recollections of decades ago with accounts of what happened yesterday. Under ideal conditions, I would edit and organize all of this before it would be read by anyone. But my purpose now is to simply put onto paper whatever comes to mind.
(4:24 AM)
I tried, a few moments ago, to stop writing, but soon realized that I have nothing -- truly nothing -- else to do in this place other than to think. But thinking brings anxiety, and fear, and panic, so I am going to write again, and attempt to reason my way out of the pit into which my emotions are sinking.
It is unlikely that anyone will try to search for me in these woods. I did not talk to any passengers on the bus, and only briefly to the bus driver. I told no one on the bus who I am or anything about my plans.
The tough reality of the situation is this -- I will not be missed by my friends in New England until I fail to return home a year or so from now.
I announced to everyone there that I was preparing to shut off the utilities in my house, terminate my cell phone service, and leave the state for what I estimated would be "a year or two." That means, of course, that no search party will be formed before that time. In addition to that, any search effort that might be launched would probably be focused upon the vast expanses of Quetico Provincial Park, not the heart of rural New York State. No one in New England even knows that I boarded a passenger bus, and no one there knows that I jumped off of that passenger bus in the dark of the night and walked off into the woods.
To sum it up -- no one back in New England would suspect that I am in the hills of west-central New York on this evening, as I intentionally did not divulge my specific travel plans to anyone, wishing to truly lose myself in the Canadian wilderness during this long-awaited Sabbatical.
To complicate matters further, after saying farewell to the bus driver, I walked for about an hour through the fields and forests, finally arriving at a secluded railroad crossing, where I happened to notice a train pulling slowly out of a factory yard. Again, in rebellion against all of the societal and professional restraints that he has had to endure over the past few decades, the Chairman of the American History Department threw his backpack -- and then himself -- into an open boxcar, seconds before it and the rest of the train rumbled off into the darkness.
By that point in the evening the sky had grown overcast, and the temperature had begun to plunge. The railroad tracks twisted and curved their way through increasingly steep hills and valleys, and by midnight a light snow had begun to fall. By that time I had no clue of the direction in which the train was traveling.
After two hours of being tossed and jostled along, I found that the romance of boxcar travel had evaporated, and made preparations to disembark. About 20 minutes later, as the engines were straining their way up a sharp, curving incline, the train slowed to perhaps 10 miles per hour, and I was easily able to leap out of the boxcar and onto the soft prairie grass that bordered the track.
After the train had faded into the distance, and silence had returned, I took stock of my surroundings. The snow by this time was perhaps four inches in depth, and the wind had begun to whip its way across the landscape. I was woefully underdressed, as I had originally planned to take the train to Niagara Falls, check into a hotel, and then visit a camping supply store before striking out into the Canadian wilderness. My spontaneous departure from the Greyhound bus, and the corresponding arrival of a winter storm, had placed me, over the space of a few hours, into a perilous situation.
I had left New England with nothing more than the proverbial clothes on my back and a backpack containing a blanket, a flashlight, some matches, a pair of gloves, and a few books. I quickly pulled out the blanket, and promptly stuffed it into my jacket, mainly around my chest and neck areas. After pulling on the gloves and backpack, I decided to make a sprint toward the thickest wooded area that I could see. By this time the snowflakes were nearly half-dollar-sized, and were accumulating at a rapid rate.
Soon after entering the woods, I began to detect a dramatic change in the nature of the terrain. The floor of the forest was strewn with boulders, and the ground ahead of me was beginning to rise in a rather steady way. I was forced at this point to slacken my pace in order that I might pick my way over the rocky ground without stumbling.
I traveled for about an hour under these conditions, groping my way up the incline, feeling for the presence of any drop-offs or shafts. At one point during my climb the flashlight beam revealed the fresh imprint of a big cat (what kind, I didn't know), and I found myself, from that moment forward, eyeing the surrounding woods with great alertness.
As I was ascending the hill, one of my feet slipped on an ice-covered boulder, and I came crashing to the ground. I then began to tumble or topple my way down the incline in a slanted direction until I was flung, without ceremony, over the edge of a rocky precipice or little cliff. I felt myself flying headlong into space, and had time to wonder, in a flash of thought, how long of a fall awaited me. My curiosity was satisfied when the right side of my body impacted the earth at a point perhaps 12 feet below the top of the bluff.
To my relief, the surface upon which I landed was soft, cushioned as it was by a carpet of fallen leaves and a layer of drifted snow.
When I struck the earth, my right leg, in the region of my hip and pelvis, bore the main share of the force. Following this initial impact, the momentum of my fall threw me into a crude cartwheel-like motion, and I found myself being dashed, in a head-first fashion, against a large rock.
I cannot remember passing into unconsciousness, but am sure that I did, for at least some period of time. My next memory is that of shaking myself free from a cocoon of snow that had enveloped me to a depth of one or one-and-a-half inches. I have no idea exactly how long I was blacked out, but would guess the time to be about 30 minutes, considering the rate at which the snow had been accumulating during the storm.
Immediately upon awakening, I tried to leap to my feet, but found myself unable to place any weight upon the right leg. I soon came to realize that my only mode of travel would be that of advancing, in a crab-like fashion, on my hands and knees.
I began to crawl forward, and soon noticed that my right leg was leaving a blood-stained trail in its wake. It did not take me long to discover that the wound that was causing the blood was a rather deep one, and that the inner workings of the right hip and/or pelvis seemed to have sustained some serious damage.
It was during this time, as I was groping my way over the forest floor, that my mind swept back to my grandmother, and her prayers, and the bee sting. Before I could squelch it, a cry to the God in whom she believed bubbled its way forth from some place deep within me. The prayer was so raw, so guttural, that it could more accurately be described as an involuntary grunt or moan, consisting of a single word: "Jesus!" Even more jolting to me than my half-formed utterance was what occurred a microsecond later -- a sudden, irresistible urge to swing my course to the right, an impulse that I promptly obeyed.
About 10 seconds later, the trunk of a towering tree snapped in the wind, and came hurtling to the earth in the precise location that I had just vacated. The ground beneath my feet shook slightly, and I could feel a spray of ice or snow, displaced by the crashing tree, driving itself into the skin of my face.
My frame, already numb from the cold, was now shaking wildly. "He rescued me!" I heard myself exclaim. Yet, within seconds, the more rational part of my mind censored that thought, and a more defiant one took its place: "Jesus, even if you are real, I don't believe in You!"
Less than 10 minutes later, as I was stumbling my way forward, my shoulder collided with a hard (and very, very cold) surface. I realized, within seconds, that I had literally crashed into the stout logs of the cabin that I now occupy. Within a minute or so I had located the door, and, with much effort, had managed to jar it loose (by means of several bull-like blows from my shoulders and head) until it swung in an inward direction. I collapsed forward into the structure, and for two or three minutes lay sprawled on the floor, unable to summon enough strength to close the door. Finally, by rolling myself about on the floor, I was able, while on my back, to place the soles of my feet against the inside surface of the door and push it into a firmly-closed position.
(6:49 AM)
I spent about two hours writing the previous section, and can't go on any longer. I have never before felt so utterly exhausted.
The fire is growing low, and for the first time since coming into this cabin, I am violently cold. There are three logs remaining near the fireplace; there were nine when I arrived here. When daylight comes, I will have to venture outside and see if there is any more cut firewood stacked around the cabin. My hope is that the hunters -- or whoever occupied this cabin before my arrival -- sawed and stacked some wood in the autumn, so that it would become seasoned over the winter. If I do not find wood, my situation could become quite bleak, as I have no saw. (Of course, even if I did, my lame leg would make it almost impossible for me to use it.)
I am going to roll over to the fireplace, put the last logs on the flame, and wait for sunrise.
(7:17 PM)
The sunrise has come and gone, and so has the sunset! I have slept away every bit of the day. The fire has nearly vanished; all that remains of it are a few orange embers. The temperature of the room has dropped dramatically. (I would estimate it to be about 20 degrees.) The water in my drinking bottle has begun to freeze.
I am surprised that my body was not aroused from its slumbers by the deepening cold. I would describe the conditions here as severe, bordering upon extreme. I am badly in need of firewood, but have missed every moment of daylight. Should I try to bundle myself up for the night and hang on until sunrise, or should I venture outside right now in search of wood?
(7:56 PM)
I have some good news and some bad news to put down in these pages. The good news is that there is plenty of wood to be found within the general vicinity of this cabin (in the form of fallen branches and limbs). The bad news is something that I should have anticipated -- that every bit of that wood has been thoroughly soaked with moisture. I have dragged several limbs into the cabin, and they are now stacked near the fireplace. The snow and ice in which they are encased will eventually melt, but it is doubtful whether the wood will dry out anytime soon in this damp and cold environment. Ironically enough, I need a roaring fire in order to dry out the waterlogged branches, and I need the branches to be dry in order to build a roaring fire.
For some reason or another (probably because my brain is not hitting upon all of its cylinders), I had the idea, before stepping outside, that the only potential challenge that could face me in this cabin would be a lack of wood. As obvious as it should have been to me, I never even pondered the question of wetness and saturation. Now what?
The temperature in the room seems to have dropped another five degrees or so as a result of the frigid air that came rushing into this place when I opened the door on my way out and again after my return. Thus far, my expedition into the woods has resulted in a net loss.
Another consequence of my outing has been a loss of feeling in my feet. (My tennis shoes were no protection against the 14 or 16 inches of wet snow that are out there.)
My hands are beginning to grow numb. My scrawls are so sloppy that I can barely read what I am writing.
What should my next move be?
(8:16 PM)
I spent the last 20 minutes or so at the open cabin door, yelling out into the night. My vocabulary during this little exercise consisted of four words, repeated perhaps two dozen times: "Help! Anybody out there?" My vocal cords have been strained to the point of hoarseness, and my throat is raw. I can't feel any part of my legs below the kneecaps. I had the door open for about 10 minutes, and would guess that the room temperature has fallen to 10 degrees.
I wonder how it feels to freeze to death. Does it hurt, or is it a lot like falling asleep?
Chapter Three
Saturday, December 13
(10:03 PM)
For the third time in my life (and the second time within the last 24 hours) an apparent miracle has occurred in my life. ("Miracle" -- can it be true that I actually used that word in the preceding sentence -- I, who, to this moment, still forcefully denies the existence of a divine creator? This pencil is equipped with an eraser, and with a sweep here and a stroke there, that troubling word could be replaced with one that would fit more neatly into my ordered view of reality. Yet, I am -- at least for now -- content to let the word remain, unchallenged, in its place.)
The latest headline in my lost-in-the-woods drama is this -- there is a huge blaze in the fireplace, and the air in this room is toastily warm, almost uncomfortably so. In fact, I have peeled off every thread of my clothing (all of it is completely soaked and snow-encrusted), and have spread it all out on the floor, a few yards away from the fire. (As much as I long to be rescued, I hope no one chances upon me at this particular moment.)
An hour or two ago, at a time when the temperature in the room was drawing close to the zero mark, and my strength waning, I found myself being irresistibly drawn toward slumber. The temptation to lie down upon the floor and sink into nothingness eventually became so overpowering that I yielded to it. I slumped to the floor, instinctively drew myself into a fetal position, and began immediately to grow sleepy. Within a minute or two I had lost consciousness.
What followed is hard for me to describe, but, as my schedule happens to be rather light this evening, I will take a stab at it.
Soon after falling asleep, I began to dream (at least I assume it was a dream). The scene that unfolded before me was a familiar one. I was in the frame farmhouse that my grandparents occupied during the years of my childhood. In some unexplainable way, I was able to identify the day upon which the events in the dream were occurring; it was the day when I recovered from the bee sting. In actual fact, I did not spend the night at my grandparents' home on the day when the sting occurred, but in the dream I did spend the night there -- on the second story, in the northwest bed chamber, a cozy room that overlooked the pond on their farm.
Grandpa and Grandma were not in the dream, but another character was -- a boy of about my own age. In the dream, he and I were friends; in fact, he was spending the night in the room with me. I was sleeping in the only bed that Grandpa and Grandma's spare bedroom had to offer, and he was curled up on the wooden floor in a sleeping bag. In an attempt to be a cordial host, I had asked -- even insisted -- that he sleep on the bed, and I upon the floor, but he, with a smile, had declined that suggestion, and had cheerfully settled down upon the floor's cold surface.
In the dream, my friend and I, as were we lying there in the darkness of the bedroom, were playing a game that the two of us called "Hidden Treasure." The contest was a wholly imaginary one, and could be enjoyed by means of words and -- well, imagination. The object of the game was simple -- for one player to successfully guess where a certain buried treasure had been deposited by the other player. The rules of the whole affair stated that the hidden prize was worth "way more than a million dollars" and that it was located someplace (either indoors or outdoors) on my grandparents' farm. The rules called for one participant to mentally select a secret location for the prize and for the other (on pain of being captured and made a slave by a band of dastardly ne'erdowells) to make three guesses as to where it had been hidden. (At this point in the proceedings, at the outset of the competition, the guesser was provided with three clues by the player who had "hidden" the treasure.)
At the moment in time when I entered the dream (the experience was similar to that of walking into a theater after a movie has begun), my friend had just given me the clues (I can't remember what they were), and was asking me if I was ready to announce my three guesses. I promptly responded (from my place on the floor) that I was, and went on to blurt out:
"Is it in the barn loft?"
"No," replied my friend from the shadows. "But you have two more tries!"
"How about in the bed of my Grandpa's truck -- the older truck?"
"No, it's not there either, Peter," came my pal's voice, with a note of sadness in it.
It's funny, but I can remember, while lying there in that farmhouse bedroom, feeling a sense of apprehension over the fact that I was down to a single turn, and that a future of perpetual slavery awaited me. All I could do was spit out another wild guess:
"In the -- uh -- freezer?"
A sympathetic sigh from my friend was sufficient evidence that my third stab at an answer had fallen flat. As I stared up at the ceiling, a wave of panic coursed over me. As silly as it might sound now, when analyzed rationally, the 10-year-old edition of me that was living within the confines of the dream began to tremble at the destiny that stretched out before him.
"I've run out of chances, and there is no more hope for me!" I said to my guest. Tears were stinging my eyes.
It was at about this time that my friend's voice came floating up from the floor:
"Joseph?"
"Y-yeah?" I quavered back.
"I feel sad about you missing the prize. I hate the thought of you becoming a slave forever. "
Fearing that my voice would crack, and that I would be revealed as a crybaby, I did not answer. He went on:
"I have an idea -- a way that you could escape from the bad guys."
"No, that wouldn't be fair. I lost the game fair and square. I have to go with them now."
"I know of a way that you can escape being made into a slave."
By this time, my curiosity was piqued. Could he possibly be right? He seems so calm, and so sure of himself. And he seems to really care about me.
"B-but how could I escape -- without cheating in the game?"
"Well, it's simple," he sang out cheerfully. "The rules of the game say that you cannot gain the treasure unless you earn it -- unless you get the answer right before you run out of chances."
"But that -- that's the problem!" I fairly wailed. "Who could ever earn the treasure that way? I would probably fail if I had a hundred guesses!"
My friend began to laugh gently. "You're right. This farm has thousands of hiding places. You would never be able to earn the treasure by guessing where it is. But there is another way to escape the punishment and win the prize!"
By this time I was utterly puzzled. What kind of game was this? I began to speak, but faltered, and my friend, in calm and comforting tones, repeated himself:
"There is another way -- one other way."
"How could there be?" I asked. I still could not see my friend, but could hear his voice very clearly.
"A trade."
"A trade?" I echoed. "What kind of trade?"
"By switching places with you in our game. Then you will be able to have the prize."
"But -- but if we trade places, then you would have to take the punishment!"
"That's okay," came his voice from the shadows. "It's worth it to see you have the prize! Besides, I already took the punishment for you!"
"You already took the punishment? How "
"By coming down from that soft bed and lying down on this hard wood. You see, Joseph, I already made the trade for you -- even before the game began!"
My thoughts were crashing and my mind spinning. My friend continued to talk to me:
"Will you say Yes' to the prize, Joseph?"
What answer could I give to my friend? What could I say to a gift like that? My friend had left the comfort of his bed, and had chosen to stretch himself out on the wood -- for me. And he had made the decision to do all of this -- to create a plan of escape for me -- before I was even aware that I would need it!
"Yes, I will take the prize," I heard myself whisper. Then, in a stronger voice: "Yes, I will take the prize!"
I knew, of course, that if I refused his gift, three bad things would happen: One, I would lose the prize; Two, I would get the punishment; and Three, all of the pain and effort that my friend had endured would go to waste.
"Wonderful, Joseph!" came his voice from the floor. "I am so glad! This game has been fun!"
At this point, with tears filling my eyes, I could not refrain from calling out to him:
"But where -- where is the prize?"
"That's easy!" came my friend's ready answer. "The prize is in the wood!" I heard the sound of his knuckles rapping one of the floor's pine planks.
I instinctively rolled my way to the edge of the bed in order to take a look at my friend. He had come to his knees, and was smiling up at me. Then I saw him extend a hand toward one of the floorboards
and I was suddenly awake.
Within the space of a second or two, I became aware of two sensations -- an atmosphere of near-darkness and a feeling of piercing coldness. With the right side of my head still pressed against the cabin's floor, I managed to cast a gaze in the direction of the fireplace, which now held nothing more than a pile of glowing embers. Upon seeing this, I sprang into a sitting position.
Oh, no -- the fire has almost disappeared! The temperature must have fallen 10 more degrees since I fell asleep! If I don't find some wood soon -- immediately -- I won't be able to survive the night!
My mind raced simultaneously in two or three directions. Momentarily forgetting the numbness that had conquered my lower extremities, I tried to scramble to my feet, a maneuver that served only to propel my head, forehead-first, into the rough surface of the floor.
Knocked silly by the impact, I lay motionless for a period of time. My head was reeling with pain, but I found myself noting the sensation with a kind of weary indifference, allowing, for the first time, a wave of despair to have its way with me.
I'm tired of battling. I'll just stay here and go to sleep.
(To be continued in the Family Room.)