Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1 – Archivists’ Note

Armed with pen, paper, pencils and tape recorder, my aim was to pull together a long overdue graduate thesis chronicling the turmoil of our time. I would interview college students, veterans returning from Vietnam, and middle-aged parents struggling to understand the upheavals unfolding in their midst – but that plan changed when I became reacquainted with my younger cousin last summer. Though only in his teens, we stayed up talking into the wee hours one night, and I was spellbound as a torrent of poignant experiences poured out. By the time the sun came up, it dawned on me that his story captured the tenor of our tumultuous times better than anything else I might dig up.

What follows is Paul’s story, woven together from a string of visits and patchwork of notes, clippings and letters. Told mostly in his words, it’s the tale of a carefree, gum-chewing kid struggling to find his niche in a family and nation increasingly torn by the divisive social movements at home and the Vietnam War abroad. More than just a tale of lost innocence, however, it is also a story of hope and illumination. But I’m getting ahead of the story, of Paul’s story. M.W. – Fall, 1968

Chapter 2

May 31, 1967

Like everyone else, I’m psyched for school to be over. Joining the stampede of kids charging out the double doors of Forest Parke Jr.-Sr. High, I took the weathered concrete stairs leading away from the school three at a time, then hopped on the smoke-belching bus with Mark, Murph and dozens of other kids itching to start summer vacation.

But as much as I’m ready for the TV-watching, ball-playing, bike-riding, gone-swimming days of summer, I’m worried about the coming week. The one good thing is I get one more chance to break five minutes in the mile before eighth grade is over, but it’s not the track meet I’m fretting about. What’s bugging me is Chris. He’s my older brother who turned eighteen last month and is about to graduate. That’s great for him, since there was a time when it looked like he might not make it, but the real problem is Mary. She’s our older sister – or should I say, our Anti-Establishment older sister. She blew in from college when I was stuck in some boring end-of-year class. I haven’t seen her in four months and should be glad she’s home, but I’m not.

Actually, it’s not her I can’t stand; it’s the way she and Chris go at it. Like today. I was psyched because Coach gave us the day off so we could be rested for tomorrow’s meet, and I figured I’d find the guys, ride our bikes down to the creek, take a swim and start plotting our summer adventures away from the prying eyes of the nosy neighborhood moms. I knew we’d have to ditch that plan when I saw jagged bolts of lightning crackling across the darkening sky on our bus ride home, except now it’s looking like the nasty storm I ran into back at the house may be more threatening than any of the ominous clouds rumbling overhead.

The weird thing is, I’d almost forgotten that Mary and Ravenne – the granola-munching college roommate she’d spent the past two weeks hiking around New England with – were even due in. But when I got home, there they were. Or rather, there it was. While I was counting the minutes till the bell rang, the two had chugged into town in the eye-popping microbus they’re planning to sputter out to San Francisco in. They’re looking to crash at Ravenne’s parents house and supposedly have summer jobs lined up, but I think they mostly just want to get in on some groovy scene they’re calling the Summer of Love.

Either way, I’m not so sure about the little mural on wheels. It’s splashed with bright swirls of day-glow paint and may not turn any heads when it gets out to California, but it sure sticks out here on our tree-lined streets in Forest Parke. Even if they hadn’t parked their groovy microbus beside Chris’ camo-green ‘57 Chevy, I’m sure Mary and Chris would’ve found a reason to go at each other; and with the psychedelic peace-and-love van sitting next to Chris’ beer-fueled hood-mobile, I cringed to think what Mary’s visit might bring this time around. After all, back at Christmas she’d baked a couple of tasty apple pies, but had also dished up a fiery batch of anti-war remarks after we said grace, declaring the best way to get peace on earth was by going to every protest between here and LBJ’s war-making White House. Unfortunately, her preachy tone didn’t add much in the way of holiday cheer to the family meal, and left an especially sour taste in Chris’ mouth, since the hot looking cheerleader he was dating back then – his girlfriend-of-the-month, basically – had an older brother serving in the marines. Even worse, his favorite football coach – Bulldog Brown, a tough-talking, fireplug of a guy who fought in Korea and has gotten Chris out of a few jams – is still in the army reserves.

Which means I was definitely nervous when Chris and his crew-cut buddy pulled up in a hot Mustang convertible complete with black racing stripes and chrome wheels. It screeched to a halt right when I reached our driveway, and Chris – wearing a sleeveless football jersey that made a big show of his veiny biceps – hopped out the passenger side. His hands were flailing in disgust at the offensive microbus parked beside his pride-and-joy beer wagon; while Glenn – the football teammate who’d been a decent, if not exactly Johnny Unitas-type quarterback – got out, glanced at the darkening skies, and started putting the convertible top up. Meanwhile, Chris’ angry scowl had me thinking I should’ve taken cover at Mark or Murph’s house, since I could’ve mooched a snack, showed off the dozen baseball cards I’d traded for at lunch, and waited for the crappy weather and Chris’ even crappier mood to pass. It was tempting, but then Glenn finished with the convertible top, jumped back in his Mustang, gunned the engine and screeched away, leaving a spray of loose gravel, burnt rubber and a sullen older brother glowering right at me.

“Hey Twerp, get a load of this shit!” he called. “It looks like a certain somebody’s parked their mind-blowing microbus right in the middle of the goddamn driveway, so the whole world can see how the biggest freak show between here and Berkeley’s rolled into town!”

That’s when I got my first close-up look at the brightly colored bus.

“Yeah, I – I guess that must be one of those psychedelic paint jobs,” I said, taking my cue to check out the microbus, thinking it looked like something from the pages of a Life Magazine spread on the growing hippie movement. But since Chris would’ve ripped into me if I got too interested in the colorful eyesore, I made sure not to act too excited.

“It looks like they’ve got about every kind of flower you can imagine painted on it,” I said, not sure what else to say as I made my way to the driver’s side, a sinking feeling hitting me when I realized that neither Mom’s brown-paneled station wagon nor Dad’s rust-bitten Rambler were anywhere to be seen – meaning neither of our parents would be there to referee any skirmishes that might flare up.

“And it doesn’t get any better on the inside,” Chris grumbled, cupping his calloused weightlifter hands as he peered in the opposite window.

Brushing back the unruly bangs that Mom’s always threatening to cut, I snuck my own look inside while Chris slid toward the front of the bus. The first thing to jump out was a dashboard plastered with buttons and stickers sporting snappy little movement slogans like ‘Make Love Not War,’ and ‘Get out of Vietnam!’ Meanwhile, the rest of the van was littered with more empty food wrappers and dirty clothes than my bedroom floor, while a pair of mud-caked hiking boots peeked out from under the driver’s seat for good measure.

“And just in time for your graduation,” I said, stepping aside to let Chris pass, hoping he’d find more humor than annoyance in my remark.

“Yeah, that’s the last thing I need,” he said, “is to have a pair of grungy freaks come marching into school waving their bullshit protest signs. And look at this crap,” he added, scowling at the van’s hood where the original VW logo had been replaced by a makeshift peace symbol, “they’ve got one of those chicken-shit peace stickers slapped on the front.”

“But check it out,” I said, pointing to the foam mattress and flannel sleeping bags laid out in the back. “It’s all set up to camp out, kind of like a little crash pad!”

“I saw that,” Chris said, his lip curling in a sneer, “except they’ll need to get rid of the beat-up guitar and bullshit songbooks. Look at this crap – Dylan, Baez, Pete Seeger –”

“Along with the rest of it,” I said, my curiosity beginning to outstrip my caution as I scanned the cluttered interior. But since the junk littering the van’s inside included hand-scrawled cardboard posters with ‘War is Not Healthy for Children and other Living Things,’ and ‘Vietnam: Love it or Leave It,’ scribbled on them, along with an array of books and pamphlets with titles like Reveille for Radicals, The Feminine Mystique, and Vietnam: The Logic of Withdrawal, I decided I’d better not call Chris’ attention to these.

Just then, the front door of the house swung open, followed by Mary demanding, “Which one of your Neanderthal friends just roared out of here in that obnoxious muscle machine?”

Pausing long enough to send a reasonably friendly, but thoroughly distracted ‘Hi Paul,’ in my direction, a glaring Mary – her freewheeling friend trailing airily in her wake – marched out of the split-level brick house she’d once dubbed a conformist box in the suburbs. It wasn’t the warmest greeting I’ve ever gotten, but then again, it seems like I’ve never amounted to much more than a twerpy pawn in their high stakes feuds, so with her annoyed glare fixed squarely on Chris, I shuddered to think what kind of response her prickly greeting would bring.

“For your information,” he began, a little smirk creasing his face as he pointed toward the fresh tire marks fishtailing away from the house, “what you see there is a work of four-wheeled art, courtesy of that bitchin’ Mustang Glenn snagged from his old man’s dealership.”

“And I’m guessing you’re Chris,” Ravenne broke in, sliding between my seething siblings, a wrist-full of copper bracelets jangling together as she offered her hand in a token gesture of peace. Ignoring Mary’s scowl as she brushed her mane of flowing brown hair off her forehead, she added, “I hear you’re the football player?”

“Yeah, that – that would be me,” Chris hesitated, probably as shocked by the newcomer’s friendlier-than-expected greeting as by the fact that her tie-dyed tank top wasn’t doing much to conceal the fact that it had been a few years since she’d shaved under her arms.

Meanwhile, Mary – sporting a white t-shirt boasting a red Power-to-the-People fist stenciled on the front – opted to stay out of it for the moment. She was probably just trying to think of a snide comeback of her own, but I was grateful her shirt at least had sleeves, sparing me a glimpse of her under-arm hygiene. But other than their shirt sleeves and facial expressions – Mary’s hostile and ready for a skirmish, Ravenne’s more curious and welcoming – the two looked like they could’ve been twins. They had the same beaded headbands, granny-style glasses, and flowing waist-length hair. And just like the hippies you see on TV, their raggedy-ass blue jeans looked like they’d been stitched together with a couple of dozen patches, the fraying bottoms cut out to flair over their dusty bare feet.

“Oh yeah,” Ravenne said, still doing her bell-bottomed best to win Chris over, “And sorry to hear about the bummer scene with Penn State.”

“It’s no big deal,” Chris mumbled, pushing a shock of dark hair off his glowering eyebrows. “I’ve got other things I’m looking into.”

“And you must be Paul?” she said, turning her gaze toward me.

“That’s right,” I said, happy to have been acknowledged by this mellow but surprisingly confident guest who’d drifted into our midst.

“Which means you’re the runner?” she asked.

“Trying to be,” I beamed. “Our last junior high meet got rescheduled for tomorrow and I’m trying to break five minutes in the mile – but this is your van?”

“It’s my baby,” she said, “our ticket to San Francisco.”

“And it’s all decked out for the trip!” I said, despite the withering glare I felt from Chris.

“Yeah, it’s been on its share of trips, if you dig what I mean,” Ravenne said, flashing me the kind of conspiratorial wink which I didn’t quite get, adding, “and it’ll go a lot further than you’d think, but it’d be even groovier if we had a record player for those deadly stretches of road that are so flat and dull, and there’s nothing on the radio except a bunch of hick music mixed in with those god-awful doses of Sunday morning gospel.”

“But if you were driving something like that ass-kicking Mustang that just pulled out of here,” Chris cut in, “you could cruise all day and listen to anything you want, since Glenn’s new ride’s rigged up with an eight-track tape player, custom speakers –”

“Except,” Mary cut in, “I doubt if any of the chauvinist shit you and your retarded friends listen to even qualifies as music, so we’ll just stick with our guitar and harmonica and make our own tunes.”

“And the screeching noises will scare everyone else off the road,” Chris said as he brushed me aside, throwing an annoyed elbow to my chest that made me cough and spit out my gum. Swaggering back to the front of the van, he added, “If the raunchy smell doesn’t get them first; what the hell is that anyway – more of that cannabis crap you smoke at college?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mary snapped, “unless you got a whiff of your own armpits.” And with that, she spun on her heels and marched toward the house, even as the first over-sized drops of rain began pelting down, leaving me to follow in her wake, shaking my head and massaging my aching ribs as I wondered why the hell my feuding siblings always have to act like such idiots whenever they’re around each other.

* * *

Unfortunately, they kept squabbling for the next half-hour after stomping into the house. Now, it’s almost midnight, and even though they called a truce before our parents got home, and even though the walls aren’t rattling from Chris blasting his stereo, I still can’t fall asleep. Luckily, the new baseball cards I snagged at lunch are tucked away with the rest of the cards in the ‘67 set I’m building, and Elsa – our golden retriever mix who’s ten times friendlier than either of my human siblings – is curled up at the foot of my bed. Every so often her back leg twitches and makes me wonder if she’s chasing a stick or following a hidden scent in her doggie dream world. It’s kind of funny to watch, but not much comfort, since every time she snores or jerks one of her paws, I feel jealous that I can’t doze off myself, knowing I should be getting a good night’s sleep if I’m going to be ready for tomorrow’s race.

I guess the good news is Mary’s only here for a week, and the lousy weather’s supposed to stop tomorrow. The rain’s still coming down now though, and every flash of lightning gives me a glimpse of the Billy Mills running poster taped over my bed, making me think how cool it would be to win a big race like the one in Tokyo three years ago when he exploded into a crazy, come-from-behind finish to win a gold medal at the ‘64 Olympics. I know I’m a long way from that, but at least it’s a way of getting my mind off Chris and Mary for a while.

The thing is, I can’t get over how nasty they were – and how my ribs still ache from that obnoxious elbow Chris threw. I know he was just ticked off and wants me to side with him about how much of a freak Mary is, but it still stinks. And I’m sure Mary’s worried I’ll turn out like Chris and all the other fast-driving, slow-thinking jocks she can’t stand, but the way they were going at each other bugged me. At least Ravenne was nice. She asked about my running and seemed really sorry when Chris elbowed me aside, acting like he was Ray Nitschke or some other bad-ass linebacker while I was the pathetic running back for the other team – which I’d never be since I’m still pretty scrawny and he’s been lifting weights all these years and looks like the hulking guys you see in the muscle-man ads.

Either way, the whole thing made me wonder why Mary even bothered coming home. I know Mom and Dad say Chris’ graduation is a big important family thing, but I’ve got a lousy feeling about it. And I know Chris managed to pass his classes and really is supposed to graduate without having to go to summer school, but I’m still worried Mary will get on a roll and think she’s at one of her anti-war marches and start yelling the kinds of things that give hippies a bad name.

Maybe I’m making too much it, but after they went in the house, Chris started badgering her about how their sputtering little van won’t even make it over the first ant hill they come to. Mary wasn’t in the mood though and yelled for him to mellow out, saying not everyone has the same taste in tough-guy cars as he and his dumb-ass friends. Chris tried to act all innocent, like he was just worried about them making it to California okay, but then added how he’d hate to see them stranded in the middle of nowhere in a broken-down piece-of-shit peace-mobile, and they’d be better off going cross country in something with more balls. That’s when Mary lost it, screaming they’d make it to San Francisco just fine, and the last she’d heard the bigger the engine a car had the smaller the dick you’d find on the asshole driving it!

Whoa! I think Chris was even more blown away than me because he just grumbled, ‘who needs to mellow out now?’ At which point Mary stomped upstairs, while I ducked for cover in my own room. By the time our parents got home, they were giving each other the silent treatment. As usual, Mom and Dad acted like everything was fine when we sat down to dinner, even though meatless Mary – I guess she got turned on to being a vegetarian at college – wouldn’t eat the charred hamburgers Dad had thrown in the frying pan, and then made a big production of slurping down a lumpy-looking bowl of lentil stew instead. I thought that was kind of funny because Mary – and Chris too – always used to complain when Mom and Dad enforced the Church’s fussy old rule about not eating meat on Fridays, and I remember them both getting grounded for sneaking lunch meat or stray hot dogs when they thought no one was looking.

Either way, with Mary’s nose turning up at Dad’s burnt-burger masterpiece, and Chris making a big show of piling not one but two of the charred burgers onto his ketchup smeared bun, my parents just smiled and said how nice it was to finally meet Ravenne after hearing so much about her. Then Mom asked about their drive from Boston and the different places they’d gone hiking, while Dad made his usual highbrow inquiries into their classes about the psychology-of-this and the history of who-knows-what. Through it all, I noticed Elsa decided it was safer to curl up in a far corner instead of claiming her usual begging spot beneath the table, and neither Mom nor Dad figured out that Chris and Mary weren’t exactly talking to each other. Or maybe they were just ignoring the spat; but either way, they seemed oblivious when Chris scowled at Mary’s lentils like they were a toxic gruel, and didn’t bat an eye when Mary’s lip curled anytime Chris took a bite from his over-sized hamburger or mentioned the list of graduation parties he’d be going to. But that’s my parents. They’re so busy with work, reading, going to bible study and dragging me off to Sunday Mass that they miss out on junk happening right under their noses. And what’s weird is that Mom – who went back to work when I was in third grade – is a social worker for some government program helping underprivileged kids, and Dad’s a big-deal psychiatrist in one of the downtown hospitals, so it seems they’d be more tuned in. But no. Even before missing today’s fireworks, they didn’t know Chris started ditching class after his Penn State application got rejected, spending more time sneaking back home or making out in the parking lot behind school than he did in class – until he got busted, that is. Mom and Dad weren’t too thrilled about being called into school for a meeting with the principal, but managed to get it straightened out, and it looks like he’ll graduate on Saturday. After that, who knows?

The other thing bugging me is the day after they had to meet with the principal, Mom and Dad were getting on Chris for ‘throwing away his future,’ as they put it, and Chris snapped back in that smart-ass tone he gets, saying ‘maybe he’d just go out and join the stinking army if that would get them off his back.’ I doubt if he’ll really do it because he’s never said anything else about it, so I think he just said it so they’d lay off – but either way, if he comes out with anything like that while Mary’s here, all hell’s going to break loose.

Chapter 3

June 1

As messed up as yesterday was, today was great! At least till I got home; but that can wait.

During school, I was pretty nervous about our track meet. The weather had cleared up and it was nice and cool like back in April, but on the bus ride there, everyone was super rowdy because we got to leave school early. I had a bad case of the butterflies though, since I really wanted to break that five-minute mile – partly for me, partly because Chris hasn’t ever done it, and partly to get my mind off everything at home. I guess I could’ve been messing around like everyone else, but I couldn’t stop thinking about stuff, like when Chris was the hotshot sprinter going after the school’s 100-yard dash record, and how he’d always be there for my races, wandering over like it was no big deal, but always there at the start. That was before he got kicked off the team for skipping practice though. And Mom and Dad would go to some of our meets, but with work and Chris’ graduation, they said things had gotten too busy. And I knew Mary wouldn’t bother, since her idea of exercise includes things like hiking, playing guitar or marching off to every demonstration she can find, but nothing that’s really a sport.

So there I was, chewing my wad of stale gum, staring out the bus window at the parade of nice houses going by, and wondering how many picture-perfect, leave-it-to-Beaver families were tucked away behind the trimmed hedges, manicured lawns and curtained windows. But, seeing that none of these homes had a psychedelic microbus parked beside a tough guy beer-mobile though, I just plunked my head down on the seat in front of me, trying to tune out the noise around me and forget the dysfunction at home. That’s when I heard a husky kid two seats back hollering my name.

“Hey Milton,” he called. “Why the hell are you being so quiet?”

It surprised me and I must’ve jumped three feet, but I recovered and mumbled that I was thinking about the race.

“Well, you were looking a little spooked,” he said, as another kid snickered at the witty little racist remark he’d made, adding, “we thought you might be scared shitless that you’re about to have a pack of jungle bunnies chasing your scrawny ass around the track.”

“No, I just want to run a good race,” I said, staring back out the window, trying to ignore the taunts, even as I noticed the parade of nice houses starting to give way to clusters of cramped apartments and run-down strip plazas. Sensing we were getting closer to town, I pulled my gaze back inside and stared down at the beat-up canvas sneakers I’d be wearing until it was time to change into my track spikes, thinking how what I really wanted was to turn around and tell the two loudmouths to shut the hell up.

Maybe I am a chicken-shit or mama’s boy or whatever else Chris says, but their snide jokes made me wish I had his size and strength so I could’ve told them to shove it and not worry about starting something. I suppose I could’ve joined in, but I guess I’m like my parents – I don’t like all the racist stuff. It’s not like I have any Negro friends to speak of, since the next black kid who moves out to Forest Parke will be the first, but I’ve been down to the Head Start place where my mom works enough times to know that, ‘Hell – they’re people too.’

Which isn’t to say I wasn’t nervous about running against the Booker T. Washington kids. In fact, when we got to the beat-up asphalt slab outside their weed-choked track, there were all these tough looking guys with big afros and baggy sweats hanging around the rusted chain link fence, eyeing the yellow school bus that was about to dump a bunch of suburban white kids onto their turf. My butterflies started getting bad and made me wish Chris was there to tag along with. It’s weird because he can be such a jerk and doesn’t even like long distance running – in fact, he gave me a hard time about it when I first started last fall.

“Cross country?” he’d said with that snotty tone he gets when he thinks something’s really queer. “Why the hell would you want do that? Those kids are just a bunch of scrawny rejects who couldn’t even make water boy on the football team. Coach even said they look like they escaped from a concentration camp, the way they scurry around the woods looking like they’re scared of their own shadows, their bony-ass ribs poking out of their scrawny chests.”

It sounded pretty harsh, but I knew I wouldn’t get anywhere arguing so I just said that, being a foot shorter and weighing only ninety-five pounds, maybe I should check it out.

“It’s up to you,” he said, “but I’ve never heard of anyone getting paid for running like you can playing in the NFL; plus, all the hot chicks go for the football players. But suit yourself – if it doesn’t work out, you can always hit the weights, hope you grow some more, and give football a try next year.”

If that was all there’d been to it, I wouldn’t have cared if Chris ever watched any of my races or not. But it wasn’t long before he came around and started acting like a big brother should. In fact, he helped me get started on the right foot my first day of practice, even if it was in his tough guy sort of way. The truth is, I was kind of nervous. I’d always beaten the other kids in the 600-yard dash back in grade school, but I wasn’t sure how I’d do at longer distances, let alone how I’d compare to a bad-ass older brother who was a big-deal sprinter and All-Conference football player. So, I’d snagged my shoes and shorts from my gym locker and was hanging my junk in one of the bigger stalls when I heard this deep voice calling behind me.

“Hey you little shit, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Uhhh, I – I was getting ready for practice,” I stammered, thinking I might shit my pants when I saw a beefy-looking kid a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier sauntering toward me. That might not be saying much, since Chris always says I look like the poster child for the skeleton diagrams in biology, but I still wasn’t too happy about my predicament.

“Well, you just so happen to be putting your crap in my locker,” the kid snarled, his jowly cheeks and burly chest heaving up and down with each breath. “And what the hell kind of practice are you getting ready for, because it sure as shit can’t be football from the looks of you.”

“No, I’m – I’m trying out for cross-country,” I said, wishing I wasn’t trapped in the corner of a stinky high school locker room feeling like a squeaky mouse about to be pounced on by a hungry lion.

“Cross-country?” the other kid said, his lip curling in an ugly sneer as he shoved my clothes aside. “I should’ve known, you puny little shit, except I don’t know why anyone would waste their time with a stupid little pussy sport like that. For all the good it does, you might as well go out for band or cheerleading – now take your goddamn crap –”

I was feeling totally humiliated and had probably turned white as a sheet by then, but that’s when Chris showed up.

“Hey Bradley,” I heard him call, his voice more a growl than a greeting.

“Milton – what’s up?”

Bradley’s smirking, slow-witted response told me he had no idea there was any fraternal bond between Chris and the frightened prey he was planning to have for lunch.

“I thought maybe you could tell me what’s up, ‘Pardner,’” Chris said, quickly sizing up the situation. I could tell he was seething inside, even if the steely John Wayne voice he uses when he’s pissed off wasn’t letting on that he knew me from the mailman’s kid.

“Nothing much,” Bradley said, “but it looks like the gym door got left open and a few of the cross-country girls snuck in, with this one deciding to put her shit in my locker.”

By now, Chris had had enough.

“Bradley, let me tell you something chump,” he said, jabbing an agitated forefinger deep into my nemesis’ chest, his fists and teeth clenching tightly as his face flushed beet red. “In case you didn’t know it, ‘this one’ happens to be my kid brother.”

“Oh, I – I didn’t know,” Bradley stammered, going pale as he realized his mistake, suddenly acting like he was the one about to shit his pants.

“Sooo,” Chris went on, the veins in his neck and forehead bulging out the way they do when he’s super pissed or lifting really heavy weights, “I’d suggest you take your own goddamned shit and find yourself another fuckin’ locker –”

“Okay, okay, I didn’t know he was your little brother.”

“Well he is, you fat motherfucker,” Chris yelled, “and if I ever hear you’ve even thought about giving him a hard time, I’ll kick your ass across this locker room till I’ve got shit all over my shoes!”

And that was the end of it. Chris checked to see if I was okay, and Bradley didn’t think about pressing the point, since Chris had gotten a reputation for being someone you didn’t mess with long before he’d been voted All-Conference in football. In fact, Bradley had been there two years earlier when a team captain made the mistake of trying to pin the blame for a loss on Chris. When Chris first told me about it, he’d played it down and said he’d tried walking away, but the story going around school the next week was that it had turned into a one-sided brawl after the other kid said something to make Chris snap, and even the team’s bad-asses couldn’t believe how bad he’d messed him up, saying he’d torn into him like a rabid dog who’d snapped its chain.

* * *

Even if Chris – who’d picked up a ‘Mad-dog’ nickname after the infamous locker room brawl – had been there for today’s race, I’d have probably still been nervous waiting for the start. Not sure what else to do, I shadowed Coach around even though he was busy with the sprinters and jumpers. He finally told me to get lost and go do my warm-ups, so I changed into my spikes and started doing the pre-race jogging and stretching he’d taught us.

Things were going okay until I heard a Booker T. kid calling me.

“Yo – blond boy,” he said, “your name wouldn’t happen to be Milton, would it?”

“Yeah,” I said, trying to think why this tall, lanky kid with the bushy Afro seemed familiar. We hadn’t run against Booker T. in any of our two-way cross-country meets in the fall, but there was something about him.

“Listen, my man,” he continued, flashing the kind of devious grin Chris gets when he’s up to something, “I hear you’re running the mile this afternoon, so I just wanted to say, if you have any trouble out there – making a wrong turn, not sure where to go, something like that – just follow me and you’ll be sure to find your way to the finish line no problem.”

“Sure – whatever,” I muttered, even as I thought there’s no way you can make a wrong turn on the track. That’s when I remembered. We hadn’t run against Booker T. in a dual meet, but we had run against them in a big eight-team race at the end of the year. And that was the day I’d taken the lead a half-mile into the race but then made a wrong turn – and the kid who’d just come up to me was Benji Jefferson, one of two kids who’d slipped by and beaten me.

Next thing I hear is Coach Patterson, who must’ve seen Jefferson getting on me.

“Milton, get over here!” he called. “I don’t know what that kid’s been saying, but you need to get out there and run your own race. Don’t panic and start too fast, but don’t let the pace lag. The word is he ran a 5:01 in his last race and has a pretty good kick at the end.”

Hearing that made my already queasy stomach feel even worse, but it also made me want to win really bad. Finally, after another twenty minutes of stretching and pacing, it was time for us milers to toe the line. Jefferson took a spot on the inside, while I got stuck on the outside, with ten or twelve kids crammed between us. It wasn’t where I wanted to be, but it would have to do. Meanwhile, we got the usual instructions about giving our best, running a clean race and all the other stuff about good sportsmanship. Just when I felt like I was going to pop from anxiety, the gun went off and we burst from the line. Everyone was sprinting at first, but we started stringing out after the first turn. I already knew I could beat the other Forest Parke kids, but it sounded like this big-talking kid with the beat-up spikes and floppy shorts might be another story.

Coming out of the turn, another Booker T. kid bolted to the front and opened a fifteen-yard lead. I could tell he was a rabbit though, because he was already breathing hard and I’m sure Jefferson was hoping I’d go with him and burn out.

Sure enough, he was right with me, calling, “C’mon Milton, we gotta catch that boy.”

I ignored him, and heading down the backstretch the leader opened a thirty-yard gap, but I wasn’t too worried. It was Benji I was focused on, and after the first lap he pulled alongside me, calling out again about catching the other kid even as he surged ahead of me.

I decided not to take the bait, and sure enough, he eased off, with the rabbit kid starting to fade. Halfway through the second lap, Benji and I reeled the leader in, spent from going too fast. Just like I figured, it was looking to be a two-man race. I pulled alongside Benji as we came out of the far turn, but he surged again. Pounding down the straightaway toward the race’s halfway point, Coach sprinted alongside us, yelling, “2:36 Milton – you gotta pick it up!”

I knew he was right. We were at a 5:12 pace, and if Benji had already run 5:01 and had a good kick, he’d have plenty of sprint left if we didn’t pick it up.

“You ready to go?” he said as I pulled alongside him, putting on an extra spurt to keep me from getting by.

It was too early to press the issue, so I just kept it steady. I knew I was making him work harder as we matched each other stride for stride into the third lap’s backstretch. By then, I was working pretty hard but still feeling mostly okay, so I decided to turn it up another notch.

“That’s it, now we’re going,” Benji said, except this time he let me by and I could tell his breathing was coming harder. As we pounded through the turn leading to the three-quarter mark, I’d opened a five-yard lead, with the next runners sixty or eighty yards back. Still, five yards was nothing if it came down to a sprint at the finish and Coach knew it too, because he was red-faced as he screamed our three-lap time, “3:48 – that’s it; push that pace!”

He was right. If I was going to win this thing, it wasn’t going to be with a spectacular come-from-behind Billy Mills kick, so with a lap to go, I went for it. We’d run three seconds faster on our third lap and it was too soon for Benji to hit full sprint gear, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t try to grind him down. It was risky because I was starting to hurt from my last surge and would need to hold on until the finish, still three hundred yards away. Go too fast too soon and I’d die on the homestretch. Hold back too much and Benji would come flying by at the end.

Pressing like I was, I knew I was forcing him to make some tough choices too. He could stay with me and maybe sacrifice his kick, or he could let me go and hope I’d bolted too early. Going into the last turn, I stole a glance back and saw I’d doubled my lead, hoping it would be enough. My arms were churning, but I could feel my legs tightening, screaming for me to back off. Suddenly, I had the dread feeling I’d gone too early and Benji would come roaring past. But then the thought flashed, ‘We’ll see who’s following who to the finish line this time.’ With that, I felt a surge of energy that carried me through the last turn, kind of like the adrenaline rush Chris must have felt when he beat the snot out of that kid after the football game.

But just as I hit the final straightaway, the pain came back worse than ever and I heard Benji closing the gap. Now everything hurt – my legs, arms and chest, even my head. Another glance back. Benji’s arms were pumping, but my lead had stopped shrinking. Maybe I could still do it, but it seemed like the finish line was getting farther away! I could make out Coach and the other kids screaming, but it was like seeing them in a fog while slogging through a pool of quick-drying cement. Finally, just when my lead-filled thighs couldn’t take anymore, I leaned forward and hit the tape, stumbling to the track as I did. Looking up, I saw Benji stagger across the line a half-second later, barely staying upright as his coach rushed over to help him.

Meanwhile, Coach Patterson came over and dragged me to my feet, even as I flopped in his arms like a rag doll.

“You did it!” he yelled, “And I’ve got you clocked at 4:58!”

“I – I didn’t know if I’d make it,” I choked, trying to find my legs, “but I – I held on . . . and I’d been hoping to go under 5:00.”

“You did,” Coach said, “but forget the time – you won! That was an excellent race, a fantastic effort!”

As the air started seeping back into my oxygen-starved body and the win began sinking in, I managed to regain my feet and shuffled toward the end of the straightaway where I saw Benji, still doubled over with his hands on his knees, unsure what kind of response I’d get in the wake of our battle.

“Hey Milton, helluva race,” he called, straightening up as he spied me, his voice sounding tired but surprisingly friendly as he reached his hand toward me.

“Yeah, th-thanks,” I said, a relieved smile spreading across my face as I wobbled closer, “but I was worried you’d track me down at the finish.”

“I tried,” he said, his grin as friendly as it had been mischievous just twenty minutes earlier, “but I gotta give it to you – those last two laps got me.”

“I didn’t know if I’d be able to hold on,” I said, “but I’d heard I couldn’t let it come down to a last-second sprint or you’d come flying past like some kind of crazy Olympic runner.”

“I wish I had that kind of speed,” Benji said, “but I knew from back in the fall that you were pretty fast too, and since you weren’t about to make a wrong turn on the track –”

“I knew I recognized you from that meet,” I cut in.

“Yeah, I managed to get you that day,” Benji said, a sly grin crossing his face, “but I also know I got a little help, so I was trying to mess with your head a little today.”

“You had me worried, but Coach drilled it into me, ‘run your own race.’”

“That you did,” Benji said, adding, “Listen my man, you’re okay. You beat me fair and square today, but you helped me get my first sub-five mile so you’re cool. But wait till next year, ‘cause I’ll be working my butt off and I’m gonna be looking for you!”

“Cool,” I said, “because it’ll give me something to work for too.”

Heading back to the bus later, Coach strolled beside me, saying, “That was a very impressive effort, and picking up the pace when you did completely took away that other boy’s kick.”

“Yeah, I really wanted to win that race, and especially since I remembered him from the fall and saw that he was playing some head games with me before the race.”

“I’d noticed that,” Coach said, “but he seemed like a nice enough kid in the end.”

“He was,” I said, “and I even feel like a bit of a creep for getting so freaked out, but to have him congratulate me afterwards when he could’ve made up some excuse about his beat-up spikes or crappy shorts; heck, I don’t know if I could’ve been as good a sport if he’d have won.”

“That’s a good observation,” Coach said, eyeing me like I’d just earned another measure of respect, “since it’s one thing to be all smiles when you win, but it takes even more character to be a good sport when you don’t. Either way, I think you both learned some important lessons today, and if you keep training, you could be looking at some varsity times next year.”

* * *

It was a proud moment, but unfortunately the excitement pretty much got left on the track. Chris took a few seconds to congratulate me when I got home, but it didn’t last long, since more fireworks started going off between him and Mary.

“How’d your meet go, Twerp?” he asked as I slogged up the stairs, my legs still tired and heavy from the race. He’d just come out of a steamy bathroom reeking from the half-can of deodorant he always sprays on before one of his dates. His hair wasn’t combed, but he’d splashed on some after shave, put on a clean pair of Levis that definitely weren’t bellbottoms, and had a wet towel slung over the burly shoulders that, no matter what Mary says, have turned the head of pretty much every good looking girl in Forest Parke.

After stopping to pet Elsa – who’d popped up and started wagging her furry tail when she heard my voice – I started telling him about the race, raising my voice to be heard over the plucky guitar and harmonica chords filtering out of Mary’s room.

“Sounds like you’re turning into a hot-shit little runner,” Chris said, a note of approval in his voice after I mentioned my 4:58 time, but before I could give him more details from the epic battle, he turned his attention to the grating noises escaping our sister’s room.

“Would you cut out the damned racket in there?” he hollered, banging on her door with an irritated fist. “We’re not at some Kumbaya rally, and no one wants to hear your whiny draft dodger songs or sorry imitations of Bob Dylan yowling about how the freaking times are changing.”

At that, Mary’s door almost flew off its hinges. “I hate to break it to you, dumb-ass,” she snapped, gripping her harmonica in a tightly clenched fist, like she was ready to hurl it at Chris, “but I’ve got just as much right to be here as you, and even though you and your idiot friends may not be hip to it, the times are a-changing, and if you think I sound bad –”

“I don’t think it, I know it,” Chris said with a smirk, turning and strutting off to his room.

“Then I guess you’ve never heard yourself in the shower,” she shouted at the closing door, “So let me give you some advice, ‘Pardner’ – the only thing more ridiculous than your pathetic John Wayne impersonations is when you pretend to be that fool Barry Sadler singing his asinine Green Beret song – there’s no way anyone would ever believe you used to be in a choir.”

“If the times really are changing as much as you and your fruitcake friends think,” Chris called from behind his door, “then how do you explain the fact that Sadler had the number one song last year and was ten times more popular than all the commie-queers you listen to?”

“Maybe because this country’s full of obtuse reactionaries like you,” Mary answered with a huff.

If they were brothers, they’d have been pounding each other by now. The thing is, they’ve never gotten along, since Mary always got good grades and Chris couldn’t give a crap about school. But beyond that, something happened after Chris’ freshman year that made it get really bad. I’m not sure exactly how it got so ugly or why Chris gets so bent out of shape over the protest stuff Mary’s into, but for whatever reason, they’re always itching to go at it.

Meanwhile, Ravenne was doing her best to defuse our family time bomb, calling from Mary’s dimly lit room, where she was sitting cross-legged atop an old blanket. A dog-eared copy of a paperback called On the Road lay beside her, the room’s only light coming from the nightstand, where a stubby candle flickered atop an empty wine bottle, a heavy floral tapestry having been tacked over the windows to block any sunlight from entering. Strumming her guitar as wisps of incense drifted into the hall, Ravenne called, “Come on, mellow out – he’s just trying to get a rise out of you and probably doesn’t believe half the crap he’s saying.”

“Easy for you to say,” Mary said, retreating to her hazy sanctuary and flopping onto the unmade bed, the mattress having been pulled onto the floor, adding, “Since you haven’t had to deal with the big oaf these past eighteen years.”

* * *

So much for any excitement about my sub-five-minute mile, especially since Chris decided this was the perfect time to crank up his turntable, which soon had Mick Jagger belting out the lyrics from the Stones’ Get Off of My Cloud, the tune’s defiant words easily drowning out the watery folk songs leaking out of Mary’s room.

Mercifully, before any more fireworks could go off, Chris splashed on some more cologne to go with a football jersey that still had its sleeves intact and headed off to another graduation party. Not long after, Mary and Ravenne left as well, probably going into town to find a smoky coffee house where they could mellow out with other kindred spirits. That left me home with my parents, who were on the patio relaxing in a pair of lawn chairs beneath the tall maple trees, sipping their wine and basically acting oblivious to the battle raging inside. They did listen in their polite parent sort of way when I started babbling about my epic duel with Benji. I left out the part about Mary and Chris having it out when I got home, but I still wish that being parents, they’d jump in and fix it. I can’t decide if they’re clueless about what’s going on, or if they’re too worn out to do more than sit back and pray things will work out. Either way, it seems like the only good thing about coming home was when Mark and Murph called to remind me everything’s still on for tomorrow’s school picnic.

* * *

June 3

I spent more than ten hours at the amusement park yesterday. We must’ve ridden the Big Dipper and Racing Whippet – the park’s two big roller coasters – twenty times each, along with a bunch of trips through the haunted house and a dozen rides on the bumper cars. The only bad part was when Mark puked after our third time on the Round-Up. It’s a ride that goes round and round so fast the bottom drops out and you’re pinned to the sides, but I guess his stomach went round and round so fast the three hot dogs he’d eaten came flying back up. They had to close the ride for a while after that, but he felt okay even before they got all the puke cleaned up.

I didn’t get home till after eleven and was so tired I could barely make it up the stairs. Elsa was thumping her tail like mad and crawled onto my lap after I’d flopped on the couch, but Mom shooed her away, agitated that I’d gotten in so late. No surprise there, since she’s always fretting about the least little things. The late news was on TV and she was pacing back and forth, wearing a hole in the carpet she’d probably vacuumed ten times, stopping occasionally to dust the piano no one plays anymore. Satisfied it was clean and clutching the rosary beads she clings to in times of need, she started fussing over the coffee table, closing the gold-rimmed cover on the well-thumbed leather Bible she’d been poring over, making sure it was centered just so between twin stacks of magazines – Audubon and Life on one side, The Pittsburgh Catholic and Newsweek on the other. All the while, she was checking to make sure Chris and I hadn’t left any Sports Illustrated or Mad Magazines out where company might see them; or worse yet, that Mary hadn’t slipped any radical leaflets into the stacks of approved reading material.

It turns out my dragging in late wasn’t the only thing bugging Mom, and it didn’t help when I opened my big mouth and told her I’d seen Chris at the amusement park. If I’d have shut up right then it wouldn’t have been so bad, but then I added that he and his buddy Glenn were flirting with some high school girls and gave me their extra tickets after they took off for a party. She scowled at me like it was my fault, but I know she was just mad because it meant he was out drinking again. He’s been doing that a lot, even if he never admits it, but I’ve seen the little armies of empty beer bottles peeking out from under the seats of his old Chevy.

After I told Mom about the party, she slid the curtains back and started peering out the window, no doubt wondering what was going on in the mean, dark world beyond the soft glow of our neighbor’s street lamp, clucking that I’d understand when I’m old enough to have kids of my own – and especially if two of them stop going to church and start thinking football games, graduation parties and anti-war protests are more important than God, prayer, and religion.

I should’ve gone to bed right then, but she settled down enough to ask about the school picnic. In between Elsa’s coming back over to slobber on me, I told her about the roller coasters and Mark getting sick, but made the mistake of saying how Mark and Murph thought it would be big fun to go in this palm reading place. At that point she gave me the kind of look the nuns used when kids were consorting with the devil, and stupid me, I started blabbing about how they dragged me into this smoky shack with eerie music where some old bag with frizzy gray hair, a dozen scarves, jangly earrings and a ton of make-up was holding court behind a wall of bamboo curtains, and it totally gave me the creeps when it was my turn. At first, she mumbled a bunch of junk about how I looked like a pleasant enough young man with a bright aura and promising future, but then her voice got all raspy and she started babbling about screeching tires, broken glass and people screaming and crying, and her hands got all shaky and her eyes were bugging out and she said I needed to be careful so horrible things wouldn’t happen in the days ahead.

Mom let out a gasp before scolding me about venturing into the gypsy woman’s den of depravity, saying she hoped I had enough sense not to put any stock in the scarf lady’s heathen nonsense. I nodded and said I knew she was just trying to get a rise out of us, but it still creeped me out and I couldn’t look Mom in the eye because I was worried she was thinking the same thing I was – which was about the time I’d had this spooky premonition when my grandma died. I’m not sure if Mom was thinking about that or not, but I changed the subject real quick and asked her where Dad was.

It turns out that was the other thing she was fretting about. He’d gotten called into the hospital when a patient of his got suicidal and had to be committed, and still hadn’t made it home. She didn’t say what Mary was doing, but I figured that was just as well, what with her worrying about Chris being drunk and Dad dealing with involuntary commitments and other crazy stuff. The truth is, Mom was looking pretty frazzled herself and I wanted to try to calm her down, but I was so tired I knew I’d just end up saying more stupid stuff and make it worse, so I said goodnight and crawled up to my room with Elsa padding behind me, falling onto my bed and sinking into dream land before I’d even kicked off my shoes.

* * *

There’s one other thing eating me. Chris’ graduation is tonight. Just having to go is bad enough, but I’m supposed to get dressed up too. No tie, but I have to wear slacks, a button-down shirt, shiny black shoes; the whole bit. And what stinks is Murph’s having a bunch of kids over to play pool, and said he might even invite some girls! I doubt if he will because he’s always saying stuff, but it would be better than sitting through another boring graduation like when I got dragged off to Mary’s two years ago. I tried begging out, saying that even Chris didn’t want to go, but Mom and Dad said it wasn’t up for discussion, since a graduation is a once-in-a-lifetime event, and even Mary has timed her visit so she could attend.’

I didn’t bother saying what I was thinking – which is that Mary probably timed her visit so she can launch another one of her annoying protests – since talking back wouldn’t have done any good and might’ve gotten me grounded. So now, I’ve finished sorting my latest batch of baseball cards, Mom’s getting ready to go to the hairdresser while Dad pores over his psychology journals, and I’ve got the rest of the day to swim, play ball and ride bikes, except I have to be home for an early dinner and still have time to get cleaned up and ready to go.

June 4

I thought there was going to be a riot last night! Chris’ graduation started out like I expected – which is to say about as dumb and boring as one of Mr. Varnum’s dreary old lectures on the War of 1812. We got to the school fifteen minutes early, but the stupid auditorium was already packed. There’s no telling what we looked like straggling in. Mom was dressed prim and proper as usual, since she’d gotten her hair done all nice and was wearing a turquoise dress along with pearl earrings and a black crucifix. Dad, he’s sort of like me, a little more rumpled then respectable. He’d found a barely wrinkled oxford shirt that he was wearing open-collared beneath a grey tweed sports jacket. He didn’t need the coat since it was about eight hundred degrees in the stupid auditorium, but Mom always says it looks nice on him and makes him look distinguished, the way it highlights the gray in his temples. I know she means it, but I think he also wears it to camouflage the little paunch he’s been growing lately.

Meanwhile, Ravenne had taken the hippie bus into town, while Mary shed her frayed jeans and tank top with the hammer and sickle, since Mom and Dad – after making me spit out my wad of gum – informed her she was welcome to wear that sort of garb to an anti-war march, but needed to find something more appropriate for her brother’s graduation. In a big huff, she’d changed into a flowery dress that looked like it had been cut from the purple tapestry hanging in her bedroom window. If it had been a school day and she was still a student, the billowing sleeves on her dress might’ve been okay, but I’m guessing the beaded leather moccasins, multi-colored strings of hippie beads, or turquoise earrings dangling to her shoulders would have violated something in the school dress code. But since it was graduation night she got away with it, even though a few parents and a bunch of kids were doing double-takes as we straggled by.

Fortunately, we found four seats together, even if they were near the back. After settling in – I got scrunched between Mom and Mary – there wasn’t much to do except look at the chintzy program or watch the stream of latecomers scan the auditorium for empty seats – that or listen to Mary grumble about how pointless and boring the whole thing was. Mom and Dad had already warned her this was Chris’ night, and I’m sure she wanted to be out with friends or staying at home like Grandma and Grandpa had done, since they’d decided to skip the graduation and go out to dinner with us tomorrow. But there we were – Mary wishing she’d gone to town with Ravenne, me wishing I was at Murph’s house, and Mom and Dad looking relieved that Chris was only an hour away from getting his diploma. Finally, with an important looking panel of speakers assembled on stage and ready to bore us to death, the program began.

“As Superintendent of Forest Parke Schools, it is an honor to welcome everyone on this momentous occasion. Parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, teachers, students, fellow board members, and most importantly, our illustrious Class of 1967 – Welcome!”

“I sure hope he doesn’t think he’s being paid by the minute,” Mary sniped.

“Because many of the young men and women sharing the stage with me probably think more exciting things await them later in the evening,” the superintendent droned on, “I shall endeavor to keep my introductory remarks brief.”

“Famous last words,” my cranky sister muttered.

“I should like to begin by taking the opportunity to point out that, while this once-in-a-lifetime ceremony marks the end of your high school careers and thus represents an important milestone in your young lives, we are well advised to remember that tonight’s celebration is not simply a ‘Graduation’ ceremony. Rather, it is entitled a ‘Commencement’ ceremony.”

“The same old platitudes they trotted out at my graduation,” Mary said, heaving a sigh.

I was pretty sure I agreed with her, except that Mary showing off her college vocabulary wasn’t helping, so I slumped lower in my seat, hoping the ordeal would be over soon.

“Because a commencement signifies a beginning,” the superintendent continued. “Some of you will begin attending college; others may enter the workforce, enroll in a trade school, or choose to serve our country by enlisting in the Armed Forces.”

“Or by getting drafted,” Mary said, making me cringe at the prospect of her jumping up and blurting out the kinds of things she’d thus far been hissing under her breath.

* * *

“I should like to thank the members of the Class of 1967 for the honor of speaking on their behalf,” began Todd Bagley, the brainy scholar who’d been chosen to speak for everyone on account of his being the class valedictorian.

Looking tall and scruffy, but somehow studious under his robes – kind of like a four-eyed skeleton in a black cloak, but with the sort of dark glasses and wild hair spilling out from under his graduation cap that made me think of a teenaged Einstein. I crossed my fingers that he’d be more entertaining than the superintendent, who’d mostly gone on about the seniors’ many remarkable achievements – the football team nearly making the play-offs, the marching band’s third-place finish in regional competition, and the school’s record number of National Merit Scholars – whatever those were. Looking around, I could see I wasn’t the only one squirming, since other people were starting to shift about in the auditorium’s uncomfortable wooden seats.

Meanwhile, Bagley was plowing through his prepared speech.

“I’m sure there are others,” he continued, “who could do a better job of capturing the highlights of these past six years at Forest Parke Jr.-Sr. High, but I suppose my reward for spending so many nights with my nose stuck in a book is to be given one last assignment; namely, the task of writing this graduation – oops, I mean ‘commencement’ – speech.

There was a ripple of laughter after this off-the-cuff attempt at a joke, but it settled down pretty quickly and he went on.

‘Looking back, who’d have believed we’d make it to this stage during those first frightening days in 1961, when we were petrified by the thought of trespassing in that ominous corridor known as ‘Senior High Hall,’ where rumor had it that the bony carcasses of past seventh graders were rotting in the dank lockers they’d been stuffed into years earlier. But now, we’re no longer the puny, crew-cut newcomers; we’ve become the shaggy, oversized seniors who just last year persuaded the administration to relax the dress code and allow boys to grow hair to the bottom of our ears, and girls to wear skirts that don’t reach all the way to their knees.’

After the murmur of approval from the seniors behind him subsided, I straightened up, pushed my own mop of hair out of my eyes, and listened as Bagley continued.

‘To be sure, more than our appearance has changed since those first fretful days in the Fall of ‘61. Who can forget the deafening roar in the gym during our first pep rally, for example, or the enormous food fight started by a group of rowdy freshmen that year? Or, the gray wintry day in eighth grade when the fire alarm wouldn’t stop ringing, and we huddled outside in the cold for two hours while the fire department took their dear time investigating, our only relief coming when the woodshop teacher was pelted in the back of the head with a snowball?

‘It wasn’t all fun and games though, these past six years. In fact, when we went too far, we were assured a trip to Assistant Principal Crandall’s office, where the Board of Discipline, as he affectionately referred to the wooden paddle hanging on his wall, reminded us we’d better mend our ways. And let’s not forget those all-important life lessons known as falling in love. For most of us, our first and forever love was found here at Forest Parke, even if most of those flings only lasted a week or two.

‘In addition to what happened in school, there were events from the outside world that I’m sure will be etched in our memories for years. We caught the wave of Beach Boys music, and gave our parents fits when we went crazy over the Rolling Stones and the rest of the British Invasion. And remember the pay phone lines when everyone tried calling the radio station to win free Beatles’ tickets? And, while it was top-secret then, I think it can safely be said that the reason over seventy-five of us were absent the day before Thanksgiving of our junior year was because we were downtown waiting in line for the Stones concert!’

At this point, I glanced at Mary and, judging from the smirk on her face, I could tell that whether she’d admit it or not, she’d gotten at least mildly interested in the speech. She’d already gone off to college when the Stones came to town, but I knew Bagley had it right because Chris – who hadn’t let me tag along, but did threaten to break every bone in my twelve-year-old body if I squealed – was one of those who’d skipped school, doing it on the sly since our parents were so square they thought just listening to the Stones on the radio would corrupt us, and it sure wasn’t the kind of concert a good wholesome Catholic kid should ever attend.

Meanwhile, Bagley’s speech had begun to take on a more serious tone.

‘And who can forget how as gangly and growing eighth graders, with air raid sirens blaring, we kept banging our heads trying to squeeze under our desks practicing for A-Bomb attacks during the Cuban Missile Crisis? And on the home front, I’m betting Bull Connor’s snarling attack dogs, and Martin Luther King’s ‘I Have a Dream’ speech will be remembered as being among the defining moments of our time – a time also marked by a flurry of Civil Rights legislation, the lynching of civil rights workers, and the assassination of Malcolm X.

‘Be that as it may, the one thing I’m sure none of us will forget is that tragic November afternoon in 1963. If I ever have children or even grandchildren, if they ask fifty years from now where I was when President Kennedy was shot, I’ll remember like it was yesterday, how we’d been diagramming sentences in Mrs. Sadler’s composition class, but dropped everything the moment the announcement came over the P.A. system, too shocked to keep working, too scared to imagine what might happen next.

‘And so it is in honor of our fallen president that I would like to conclude my remarks by summoning the lofty ideals he so eloquently expressed, and recall the noble sentiments JFK laid out in his inaugural address when we were impressionable young sixth graders, when he implored us ‘to ask not what your country can do for you; but rather, to ask what you can do for your country.’ While I can hardly claim credit for those moving words, I would ask that we remember them as we go forth from this stage tonight.”

“Ugh,” Mary grumbled, apparently offended by this summoning of patriotic ideals, forgetting that she too – at least before her Anti-Establishment views took root – had been rather taken by Kennedy when he took office, and as shocked as anyone when he was assassinated.

“But even as we remember the late President’s moving words,” Bagley continued, pausing as he dug in a hidden pocket beneath his graduation robes, retrieving a folded paper that looked like it might not be part of his prepared speech. Unfolding the new paper, he cleared his throat and went on, “I therefore beseech everyone in these times of struggle; in these times of peace protestors versus pro-war politicians; in these times when we are poised to become tomorrow’s leaders – I beseech everyone to go a step further.

“I urge you to remember President Kennedy’s fine words; but I also urge you to become as well informed as you can. I urge you to learn from your leaders, but implore you not to follow them blindly. And when it comes to deciding how best to serve your country, I urge you not to heed the advice, as some of our elders would have us do, of enlisting in a brutal war-making machine where you are sworn to follow that senseless, Holocaust-producing dictum ‘My Country, Right or Wrong!’ Rather, in this time when a half million Americans have been shipped thousands of miles away to slaughter innocent men, women, and children who’d never heard of the United States before their country fell prey to a vicious imperialism – I urge you not to fall into the seductive trap of equating military might with moral superiority. Rather, I urge you to distinguish between appropriate patriotism and wanton warmongering; between informed democracy and inflamed demagoguery; and between real education and Orwellian brainwashing. In so doing, I ask you to eagerly follow your leaders when they are right, but to serve your country in a much higher way by opposing and correcting them when they are wrong!”

“Wow!” Mary said, sitting bolt upright, her eyes blazing brighter than Ravenne’s day-glow microbus, even as the principal and superintendent shifted nervously in their seats and a growing murmur rumbled through the auditorium, “and to think I’d given up on this guy!”

“And in that vein,” Bagley continued, “I would like to thank our principal and Board of Trustees for the diplomas we’re about to receive. They are our tickets to future success, and we gladly accept them. At the same time, let us notify our teachers, our government leaders and our local draft boards, that this,” – and at this point he held a little wallet-sized card aloft – “this unwanted and unnecessary draft card, this undeserved ticket to an early grave that has been foisted upon us before we’re old enough to vote – this is unacceptable!”

I couldn’t believe my ears, but what he did next is what almost started the riot. Up on stage, in front of the seniors, parents, principal, God, and everybody, he tore up his draft card, letting the little pieces flutter to the floor like so much trash, even as the principal and vice-principal rushed across the stage and half-carried, half-dragged him from the podium.

* * *

I was too shocked to know what to make of it, except I did know it was a big deal.

“Right on Bagley,” two or three seniors yelled, and several others chimed in with chants of, “Hell No, We Won’t Go!”

Meanwhile, Mary jumped up and whistled real loud and was about to yell something else when Mom reached across my seat, grabbed her arm in a vise grip and hissed for her to sit down. At first, she tried pulling away, but in a big huff flopped back down and glared the other way.

While this was going on, most of the seniors had stood up, and along with the scattered chants of ‘Hell No, We Won’t Go,’ a bunch of kids and quite a few parents had started yelling things like, “Get him out of here;” “Call the Cops;” and “Go to Hell you Commie!”

I thought the police might come charging in with Billy clubs, fires hoses and tear gas, but the superintendent grabbed the microphone and called for order, directing everyone to sit down and not allow the unfortunate choices of one rash young man to cast a dark shadow on the bright futures and glowing achievements of three hundred other deserving young people.

Surprisingly, things did settle down, and after a few hastily arranged remarks by the salutatorian – delivered with the principal hovering directly behind her – the seniors were called up to receive their diplomas. That part was boring like I expected, except a bunch of rowdies were hooting and hollering when Chris’ name was called, with someone yelling, ‘Hey Milton, you’d better check to see if it’s signed!’

* * *

Bagley’s speech was definitely the wildest part, and of course Mary loved it as much as any of the anti-war rallies she’s always raving about. Mercifully, Chris wasn’t with us for the drive home. After being congratulated by a mob of friends, a few stray parents and Coach Bulldog and his assistants, Chris showed us his diploma really was signed, then hung around long enough for dad’s ceremonial picture-taking before heading out to a bash at Glenn’s house.

“Best graduation speech I’ve ever heard,” Mary chirped on our way home. “I wouldn’t have minded giving it myself.”

“Somehow I suspected you might feel that way,” Dad said in his dry, non-committal way, no doubt hoping that would be the end of it.

“Though I’m sure most of the people in the audience,” Mom chimed in, “felt that boy’s remarks were not only rather demagogic themselves, but quite inappropriate.”

“It’s a free country, though,” Mary quipped, “and he’s entitled to say what he wants.”

“But within limits,” Mom pointed out.

“But it’s not like he hurt anything,” Mary said, “and especially since he was right-on about the United States illegally invading another country.”

“I’ll grant that the war is posing a number of thorny questions,” Dad cut in, “and you know your mother and I are hardly the type to suggest bombing Vietnam back to the Stone Age,”

“But when you consider how many people in that auditorium were veterans themselves,” Mom said, “and your father amongst them, I might add, who sacrificed so much for you kids to enjoy the freedoms and privileges you have; and then, to tear up his draft card the way he did!”

“Except that times have changed,” Mary countered, “and if you ask me, shredding his draft card was the best part – a perfect example of free speech in action, even though it was probably just a fake one he made for the occasion.”

“Be that as it may,” Mom said, “if Mr. Bagley had studied our nation’s history as much as he would have us believe, he might have recalled Oliver Wendell Holmes’ dictum that a person’s right to free speech does not extend so far as to give them the authority to endanger others by falsely shouting ‘fire’ in a crowded theater – or a high school auditorium.”

“Except,” Mary objected, “the difference is that Bagley was speaking the truth when he warned about the dangers of getting burned in an illegal war. And even though Lyin’ Baines Johnson and his pack of lapdog reporters won’t tell it like it is, people need to tune in and listen to guys like my BU professors; or to Martin Luther King, who said the U.S. spreads more violence than any other country; or Dr. Spock, who must’ve decided that a generation of kids raised on his baby books shouldn’t be suckered into the only jobs program the government will actually fund – the one that ships them off to Vietnam to be used as imperialist cannon fodder.”

* * *

Like I said, it’s a good thing Chris wasn’t there. Either way, the whole thing was crazy. When Mary graduated, the big deal was a bunch of football players passing around flasks of wine and booze under their robes. A few parents turned up their noses like they were a bunch of disgusting ingrates, but most people just said you had to expect a little celebrating from a group of rambunctious kids who were finally done with school.

Now, everyone’s up in arms. Three years ago, I’d barely heard of Vietnam, but now it’s on the news every night. And the race stuff! I know it’s a big deal, but it seems like Martin Luther King’s marches and sit-ins used to rule the civil rights movement. Now, the newspapers make it sound like there’s tons of Black Panthers, Black Muslims and a bazillion other black militants who say King’s non-violent tactics aren’t getting it done, so they’re worried that bad riots like the ones in Watts back in 1965 are going to start exploding everywhere.

I’m not so worried about things blowing up in Forest Parke like they could downtown, since the only black people we see out here are some lawn care guys and a few maids who’re sure to be on the bus back to town before it gets dark. What I can’t stop thinking about though, and especially after that speech, is Chris. Mary doesn’t know it’s even crossed his mind or World War III would have already erupted, but he not only registered for the draft back in April when he turned eighteen – there was the day he was arguing with our parents and said he might enlist! I still doubt he will, but even if he got drafted, she’d just say he should burn his draft card and run off to Canada. Either way, the whole thing could get really weird if something crazy happens, because then the war wouldn’t be this far away thing with Walter Cronkite announcing body counts and troop escalations on the evening news – it would be going on right in my own family!

Maybe it won’t happen though. Maybe Chris will decide to play football somewhere besides Penn State and get one of those student deferment things while Mary and Ravenne hop in their groovy microbus and drift off to California, while I stay here and do fun things like ride bikes, go swimming and have Dad take me to Forbes Field to watch the Pirates on the last day of school like we do every year, and not have to worry about all the annoying things going on in the adult world. At least that’s what I’m hoping. For now, all we have to do is get through Chris’ graduation dinner tomorrow night without another blow-up.

Chapter 4

June 5

We made it through Chris’ graduation dinner without getting kicked out of Grandpa’s ritzy country club, but just barely. The evening began when my grandparents rolled up in their fancy blue Cadillac that probably cost twice as much as the run-down old tenement Grandpa grew up in. Stopping at the entrance, Grandpa, looking dapper with his silver hair, grey slacks and navy sports coat, climbed out and peeled off a crisp five-dollar bill for the valet, who’d been busy opening Grandma’s door, even though I’d have parked the car for free just to play with the air conditioning and power windows. With that done, everyone started with the annoying hugs, kisses, and cheek-pinching hellos – ‘Oh my goodness, look how much our precocious Paul has grown; why you’re nearly as tall as your mother,’ Grandma gushed; and ‘Billy, don’t you look distinguished in your new glasses – we can’t wait to hear all about your latest science project.’

Inside, the maître d’ did a double-take when he spotted our motley crew, but composed himself soon enough and ushered us off to an out-of-the way table where Chris, Mary and Ravenne, along with their scruffy attire and scowling looks, stood less chance of offending the establishment’s more dignified patrons. Taking my seat at a long table decked out with a frilly tablecloth, twinkling chandeliers and more silverware than I knew what to do with, I ended up next to my cousin Billy, which was okay except he’s three younger, knows even less about sports than Mary, and is always going on about the ten thousand amazing things he just learned from his newest science book.

He was the least of my worries though, and after we’d all settled into our high-backed chairs and the waiter brought our drinks, Grandpa offered a toast.

“Chris, we’re sorry we weren’t able to attend your commencement exercise,” he began, raising his gravelly voice along with a goblet filled with some burgundy colored wine, “But here’s to your graduation and future success – in whatever endeavors you choose to pursue.”

“Here, here – I’ll second that,” Dad said, as glasses and goblets clinked around the table.

So far so good, since no one had mentioned the near-riot at Saturday’s graduation, but that’s when Grandma asked the first awkward question.

“Tell me again where you’ll be going to school this fall?” she said, peering at Chris.

Hearing that, my dad’s face turned almost as white as Grandma’s hair, even as he gave her a scowling look that said, ‘I thought we weren’t going to discuss that this evening,’ but I don’t think she caught it because she was too busy fussing with her hearing aids.

“Don’t know yet,” Chris shrugged, not bothering to look up from his plate, where he was smearing a second pad of butter onto the dinner roll he’d snatched from the bread basket.

“Still no decision, son?” Grandpa asked, my dad looking more frustrated than ever now that both of his parents were asking the very questions he was hoping to avoid.

“No, and I’m still pretty hacked off at Penn State’s idiot coaches,” Chris said, talking with a mouth full of warm dinner roll as he rested his surly elbows on the table.

‘Here we go again,’ I thought, since I’d heard my parents and Chris do battle over this before. A few times it got almost as ugly as the spats they’d had when Chris quit going to church, so of course they didn’t want to get into it now. And I knew Grandpa wouldn’t want to hear Chris grumbling about how getting rejected by Penn State wasn’t his fault, given the number of times I’ve heard Grandpa tell us how his own dad busted his butt for years working twelve-hour shifts in Carnegie’s sweltering mills before coming home to shiver in the rickety row house they shared with another family; and how he himself had climbed out of the cramped tenement, started as a paper boy before joining the army, then battled through muddy, disease infested trenches in World War I; survived gas attacks and the Spanish flu before coming home and getting hired as a clerk, after which he began clawing his way up the corporate ladder, and with hard work and the grace of God had hung onto his job during the depression when other people were being thrown out of work and left to scrape by on government relief.

I don’t know, maybe Chris thinks that since Grandpa didn’t go to college but managed to end up in a big downtown office, drives a nice Caddy and can get tickets to big games, that college isn’t a big deal, even though Grandpa himself says he might have made company president if he’d gone to college. Either way, Chris looked pretty oblivious to Dad’s distress and whatever grandfatherly lectures might be awaiting him, because he just shrugged and plowed ahead, saying, “I guess it’s up to them, but Penn State’s crappy 5-5 record may start looking pretty good if they’re just going to recruit a bunch of straight-A dorks – which means this Paterno guy they moved up to head coach last year may not last very long.”

“I don’t know if I’d be jumping to any conclusions just yet,” Uncle Peter cut in, sounding very sober about the whole thing, like he was discussing the ten thousand different angles involved in the complicated highway and bridge building projects he’s always working on, “because I’m not sure why someone couldn’t be a good student and a good athlete.”

“Except who wants to stay up late with their nose in a book after being stuck in class all day and busting your butt at practice every afternoon?” Chris said, even as Mom, doing her best to compose herself in the face of Chris’ insolence, tried not to roll her eyes in frustration.

“We’ve already spoken with Chris about the prospect of pursuing his football dreams at one of the smaller state schools,” she said, clearing her throat between polite sips of white wine, “and especially since a number of his pals will be attending Clarion, and his best friend Glenn will be going to Slippery Rock, even though time is getting a bit short even for the state schools.”

“And I’ve already told you I don’t hear any Clarion calling my name,” Chris grumbled, letting his butter knife clang too loudly onto his plate, “And I sure as heck don’t see myself playing whatever passes for football at some two-bit state school called ‘Slimy Pebble.’”

“Maybe you could join the Peace Corps or VISTA,” Mary said, trying to mask her sarcasm with a fake sugary tone, adding, “or try applying to Allegheny Community College, since I’ve heard the A.C.C. in their name stands for ‘Anybody Can Come.’”

“There’s no need for that sort of snide remark,” Dad said, doing his best to cut Chris off, by now realizing what a mistake it was coming to Grandpa’s fancy club while Chris traded jabs with Mary, whose bronze peace medallion, fringed leather vest and smart-aleck remarks were fitting in with the fine china and posh decor about as well as the surly elbows Chris kept resting on the table.

“I was just trying to be helpful,” Mary said, even as Grandpa scowled and shook his head, while Ravenne stared at her like she’d gone mad.

Fortunately, the waiter came to take our dinner orders then, cutting off Chris’ chance to snap back at Mary, even though he did give her the kind of withering glare that had once reduced Bradley, my locker room nemesis, to a quivering blob of jelly.

With the subject of Chris’ college applications covered, Grandpa looked like he was ready to deliver a stern lecture about Chris and Mary’s poor manners, but instead just shook his head and asked Mom how things were going at the Head Start program where she works.

“Oh, we’re as busy as ever,” she said, looking relieved to be discussing a more agreeable subject, “because despite our ongoing budgetary concerns, we’ve been able to open two new sites in the past six months, and there’s still a long waiting list of kids trying to get in.”

“And at the hospital, Jack?” Grandpa asked, turning an inquisitive eye toward my dad.

“As crazy as ever,” he smiled, “and that’s not counting the patients.”

It was the standard line Dad uses when he doesn’t feel like talking about work, but even though I’ve heard it before, it was better than having him ramble on about shifting caseloads or some highbrow article he’s read in one of the psychiatric journals he’s forever poring over.

“And still moving forward with the DSM-II revisions?” Grandpa asked, pressing for more information.

“Fortunately, the committee’s been making progress,” Dad nodded, “though traveling to the meetings gets to be a bit tedious; but with any luck, the new edition will be finished before the holidays.”

“What did you say that ‘DSM’ stuff means?” Billy asked, doing his ten-year-old, boy-genius best to follow the adults’ conversation.

“It just means Degenerates, Sickos, and Mental cases – times two,” Chris quipped, sending me a conspiratorial ‘How’d-you-like-that-one’ wink.

At that point Mom sputtered, “Oh for heaven’s sake Chris, even on your graduation weekend – a once-in-a-lifetime event marking your transition to adulthood – you still have a knack for making such utterly juvenile remarks.”

“The initials actually stand for Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 2^nd Edition,” Dad said, still trying to pretend the tension at our table hadn’t grown thick enough to cut with the steak knife Chris had begun using to poke at the tablecloth.

“In other words,” Chris went on, “it’s a catalog of all the degenerates, sickos, perverts –”

“Chris, that will be enough of the inappropriate –” Mom cut in.

“And other hallucinating screwballs that talk to themselves, molest kids, or do a thousand other psycho things that’ll land you in the nut house.”

“I swear, Chris,” Mom snipped, no longer worried who might overhear her. “I don’t know where you get some of these crazy notions, because we certainly didn’t raise you to talk that way.”

“Maybe all those years of trying to turn me into a creepy little Cathol-aholic choir boy backfired?” Chris shot back.

That’s when I almost headed for the bathroom. I know Grandpa and Grandma didn’t appreciate the remark, and even though Mom never quite joined the convent, she still prays her daily rosary and it kills her and Dad to know Chris can’t stand anything connected to the Church. For a second, I thought Mary might even jump in on Chris’s side, since she’s gone on record as saying the Church, even if it did quit having all its masses in Latin, is just a stodgy old institution obsessed with keeping women down – when it’s not busy agitating to escalate the illegal war in Vietnam, that is. I guess she didn’t feel like siding with Chris though – that or the fact that she was too busy grumbling about how the snooty country club’s meat-filled menu didn’t have any tabbouleh, tofu or other alien-sounding foods to satisfy her vegetarian diet.

Meanwhile, Chris was so absorbed in his own clever remarks that he didn’t hear any of Mary’s food grumblings, which is just as well. He did roll his eyes a couple of minutes later though, when she ambushed poor Billy with another one of her know-it-all lectures, this one about the many evils of the space program he loves so much.

“I made an Erector Set model of one of the Apollo rockets,” Billy said, his chubby chest puffing up big and proud when Grandpa asked about the blue ribbon he’d won at the science fair.

“Hasn’t anybody ever told you that NASA crap’s a total waste?” Mary cut in. I felt kind of sorry for Billy right then because his pale green eyes were blinking back a well of tears behind the big dark glasses he has to wear, and Mary wasn’t letting up, acting like she was grinding her anti-war axe against LBJ or a miniaturized version of Defense Secretary McNamara.

“The government’s just trying to sucker people,” she went on, “into thinking the space program will keep growing and growing until one day everyone will go tripping around the galaxy on their groovy little spaceship vacations.”

“Mary!” Aunt Teresa jumped in, irked that her irascible niece was picking on her precious Billy. “I’m shocked that you’re not excited by the prospect of our country landing a man on the moon?”

“No!” Mary huffed, “because all the lying legislators in Washington want is another platform for waging their bloody wars. Of course, they tell everyone they’re supporting these mind-blowing scientific achievements, but they just want to distract people while they spend countless billions to deploy their super-secret spy satellites and nuclear missile launchers.”

“Maybe now you can see why I haven’t been in such a hurry to finish my college applications,” Chris smirked, attacking the sizzling T-bone steak the waiter had just placed in front of him, “if that’s the kind of crap they’re dishing up on campus.”

“Chris!” Mom yelped, even as Mary leaped in to defend herself.

“Say what you want, Mr. I-Actually-Got-A-Signed-Diploma,” she spat, “but the only way the space program would be worth a tenth of the money they’re wasting on it is if they strapped an imbecile like you or that warmongering LBJ onto the rocket, then crammed George Wallace and the rest of the country’s racist bigots into the capsule and made it a one-way trip!”

“That will be enough from both of you,” Dad said, clipping his words through tightly clenched teeth, still hoping not to draw more attention to our dysfunctional family unit, even though the big vein in the middle of his forehead was sticking out the way it does when he’s worked up about something, and a number of the more dignified patrons, having finished their business on the tennis courts or golf course, had begun looking our way.

“Your father’s right,” Mom said, “And there’s certainly no need to be so bitter about it.”

“And,” Grandpa added, looking squarely at Mary, “with the kind of craziness you’re spouting, you seem to have forgotten the space program not only creates countless jobs and drives the kind of technological advances which improve our lives and keep the economy humming, but also lets the rest of the world know where it needs to look for leadership – whether it’s in space exploration or right here on earth.”

“Except that blowing six billion dollars a year on NASA’s stupid rockets has got to be the most perverse way of creating overpriced jobs,” Mary said, not knowing when to quit, “outside of spending ten times that much on Vietnam and the rest of the immoral military! But either way, we’re flushing thirty bucks a year down the NASA toilet for every person in this country – money that should be spent to end hunger and solve problems right here on earth.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” I said, trying to inject a lighter tone into the prickly conversation, even as Grandpa’s cheeks flushed and he shook his head in disgust. “Did you say thirty bucks for everyone? Maybe this space thing is a waste, because thirty dollars per person – that would be enough to buy three thousand baseball cards, and if someone else gave me their thirty bucks, that would make it six thousand cards, and –”

“Oh my god!” Mary squawked, turning her stony glare at me. “Would you forget about your infantile little baseball cards! This man-on-the-moon stuff is serious, even if the money wasted on NASA’s only a fraction of what’s being spent to bomb the hell out of Vietnam!”

“Mary,” Grandpa cut in, “Even though the war’s rising costs are a cause for concern –”

“Costs that could be eliminated if Johnson would just pull out,” Mary said, “like his own father should have done sixty years ago!”

“Damn it Mary, that will be enough!” Dad snapped, his reddened face turning three shades beyond purple as he banged his fist onto the table so hard my water glass sloshed, while I almost shit myself I was so shocked, since Dad almost never cusses like that, even when Chris got caught cutting classes.

Fortunately, Dad’s outburst ended Mary’s rant, though she did grumble some more to Ravenne about how messed up it is that everyone thinks she’s a pariah for pointing out how, for every dollar LBJ doles out for his Great Society, the great sociopath spends five times that much trying to destroy Vietnam’s society. The ugly exchange left four-eyed Billy and me staring blankly at each other, puzzled about why Dad blew up over Mary’s comment about Johnson pulling out of Vietnam, wondering what LBJ’s father had to do with it, and trying to figure out if we’d missed something. Either way, with talk about the war effectively over, Grandma asked Aunt Teresa and Mom about their gardening projects and Bible study groups, while Grandpa probed Uncle Peter for more information on the newest highway project he’s been working on. Meanwhile, the rest of us picked at our plates, forgetting what we were supposed to be celebrating, while Chris took to looking at his watch every thirty seconds, probably irritated that what was passing for a family dinner had begun spilling into time he’d set aside for another graduation party.