Three Times the Charm - chapter one

Shortly after we moved to Canby, we became good friends with a family who lived on the outskirts of town. They had children about the same age as ours and we found various other interests in common. Their subdivision was one street long in the middle of a field, which was comprised of 10 or 15, one or two acre parcels. I remember the first time we went to their house. It was a meeting of some kind, a fireside with a guest speaker or maybe a business venture like Amway. They were into those kinds of things and we were willing to tolerate a sells pitch if it might solidify a friendship.

My wife and I turned the corner into their subdivision and as we drove along, I was checking out the neighborhood. About five houses in, I remember hitting the brakes and backing the car about 50 yards or so. I had to have another look to see if I had actually seen what I thought I saw.

Kathy rolled her eyes but had learned by now that this was typical behavior of her husband. I have always kept one eye on the road and one eye trained on the passing countryside and she learned early in our marriage to expect and tolerate sudden, un-forewarned U-turns so that I could check out potential vintage car restoration projects or really cool sailboats. I have even been known to discover homemade airplane projects being built in garages. Sometimes, the garage doors were even closed! That has been one of the perks from being disabled. They took away my driver’s license because they think I can’t see well enough to drive, which frees up both of my eyes to keep watch on the passing countryside. My visual impairment has so far not affected my capacity to spot reasons to turn around but, since I’m no longer the driver, I’ve surrendered not only my license but the authority to find value in U-turning. It turns out that she apparently didn’t enjoy all those little excursions as much as I did!

But, I digress! (If you aren’t familiar with the details of my disability, be patient. That story is chronologically still somewhere off in the future.)

It turned out to be a mobile home… a bit rundown with overgrown landscaping making it difficult to see past the front of the house. There didn’t appear to be anything unusual that was likely to catch my appeal. Yet, as we resumed our way on down the block there was something about it that stuck with me… a nagging itch that needed pacification.

On our way home after the meeting, I was determined to have another closer look and, despite my wife’s objections, I slowed substantially as we neared the mobile home. I’m sure, if someone was looking, we would have appeared somewhat conspicuous… strangers creeping down the road while pryingly gawking at everyone’s home. I found an opening between the jungle-ish landscaping that gave me visual access to the property behind, but it was so dark by now all I could make out was the dim outline of a small barn. Again, nothing that was likely to catch my appeal. Puzzled at why I should be drawn toward a scene that appeared so ordinary, I reluctantly dismissed the “itch” by concluding that I had only thought I had seen something.

It was a week or two later that I had my second opportunity to drive down that street. I had been assigned chauffeur duty for our oldest son who wanted another taste of country living. We lived in town in those days and playing in the wide open spaces of country life had an irresistible appeal to our children.

I had dismissed the itch so effectively that it didn’t occur to me until we were well past the mobile home. After dropping Loren off and I was driving back out, I again was determined to have one more look. I passed slowly so as not to miss anything and eventually arrived once again at the break in the shrubbery. I let the car creep along and again saw the barn beginning to come into view.

And… then… there she was. *Cue: orchestra, resolute romantic melody!*

THIS IS A SIMILARITY OF MY FIRST ENCOUNTER. THE ACTUAL BOAT WAS INDESCRIBABLY MORE BEAUTIFUL EVEN IN ITS NEGLECTFUL CIRCUMSTANCES!

There were trees close by benevolently trying their best to throw shade over her but through their limbs and leaves I could make out the shape of something very, very appealing. She was nestled in shoulder deep grass, the trailer was barely visible and blackberries were beginning to send their shoots across her foredeck. I stopped. I froze. I stared.

She had no mast but there was no question that she was for sailing. I quickly drank in as much of the scene that my hyped, adrenaline soaked hormones would allow my brain to absorb. Hormones? Yes… It was love at first sight! Definitely, hormones were involved.

To avoid being found suspected of invasion of privacy, I forced myself to continue on down the road. But by the time I reached the corner I had devised so many questions about what I had seen that I u-turned and went back for another look. I was headed in a direction that was more to my advantage this time and by slowing without stopping I was able to draw conclusions. Yes, there were scratches in her port quarter and yes, something was amiss with the rudder, the flow of its shape was distorted… broken perhaps. From this distance, it was difficult to know for sure. I also noticed that one of the legs of the bowsprit pulpit was sprung loose and hanging in mid-air.

Despite those several painful distractions, I could feel my heart amorously going thumpity-thump. This boat had obviously been neglected for a considerable time (judging from the mature overgrowth) and apparently had a traumatic history of some sort. As I drove back to town, my mind raced around several possible scenarios. Maybe the boat had been involved in a collision and the captain had been knocked overboard and lost at sea… or maybe murdered by pirates and his distraught, mourning widow didn’t have the heart to maintain the boat. Surely, she would eagerly welcome the opportunity to sell it for pennies on the dollar just to get rid of the ill memories and especially considering it was going to a romantic like me who had the skills and the yearning to return the boat to its luster.

What was I thinking? Even if that bereaved widow GAVE me that boat I couldn’t afford it. And by “affording it” I’m not necessarily talking only in monetary terms. I wasn’t sure I could afford to make room in my already too busy schedule for such a big project whose order of priority would tempt me to push it to the top of the list. I knew my mate would have something negative to say about that and, could I afford THAT?

It’s interesting how the realities of life turn out to be so distinctive from what you thought as a teenager it would be like. It’s not like I wasn’t happy with the choices I had made. It’s just that I discovered that the choices I made were conflicting with the dreams I had nurtured and I found a disparaging and ever widening gap growing between reality and my aspirations. I realized the possibility that my dreams might not come true, and to keep ahead of depression, I had to concede to the actuality that they weren’t dreams at all, but only fantasies.

Note to reader: I know, I know. I can see you now… pounding your fist on the table and screaming, “You idiot! That’s not how it goes! You NEVER let go of your dreams or you’re doomed to spend your life lamenting all the ‘what-ifs’ that never were.”

Well, for what it’s worth, that’s one of the reasons I’m writing all of this. I have learned that the process of surviving reality requires concession. You see, I didn’t let go of my dream and I’m now beginning to see how much it’s going to cost me (again not in monetary terms). I’m not really sure that the dream is worth the cost and I can see the real possibility that even the realization of my dream could cause me to lament a few “what-ifs” that might have helped avoid failure.

What is the equation that determines success or failure in life anyway? Who really knows? Of the estimated 6.8 billion inhabitants on earth, I would venture there are approximately 6.8 billion theories on what it takes to live a successful, fulfilling life. I guess the only way to validate all the diversity is to settle on the notion that it’s an individual thing. Everybody’s theory is right in its own way.

Another note to reader: Of you reading this who are religiously “zealoted” and caught up in the belief of absolute truth, I can see you now… pounding your fist on the table and screaming, “You idiot! I know you know that the ‘what-ifs’ aren’t important. Real success doesn’t come until the hereafter. In the meantime, all you need is faith, obedience, and service mixed with a yearning for food storage and genealogy to find fulfillment and happiness!”

Well, for what it’s worth, to that assertion I would add just this one more argument… … But, I digress!

I could hardly wait for the appointed hour to pick Loren up at his friend’s. I left 20 minutes early hoping to discretely spend a bit of time looking for more evidence of this boat’s history. When I got there I pulled off to the right at the view’s strategic location then pretended to be occupied by looking for something in the car. I spent the majority of time gazing intently at the boat in the distance while occasionally bending over and shuffling through the glove box. Just to be this close to her offered solace and peace as I memorized each detail of her seaworthiness and dreamed about the adventure she could provide.

Besides the times when we had occasion to visit our friend’s home, there were other times while traveling that I had the chance to see her again. From the road between Canby to Molalla, it was only about 2 miles out of my way to secretly slip down the street where she lived and enjoy another few intimate minutes of blissful pleasure together. Of course, typical of most married men looking for extramarital intrigue, I only took advantage of these little “side trips” when I traveled alone. I knew it was a lost cause to expect my wife to be indulgent of this diversion with another female, no matter how inanimate. My purpose in going there was to make sure she was still there and to see if she had been disturbed or changed in any way. With the exception of being occasionally relocated to various parts of the property, (I assume to facilitate pasture management) nothing ever changed.

To my children’s chagrin I confess… this illicit affair went on for years. I think that it all started in the early to mid 80’s and she and I didn’t come out of our closet until August of 1994. There were times when I was consumed with the need to visit her and times when years went by without any opportunities presenting themselves. Eventually, she hardly ever even crossed my mind. The pressures of earning an always-too-meager income to meet the needs of 7 children made it easy to neglect her. Besides, similar to the habits of those blessed few who have experienced true love, we had developed an understanding and confidence in each other. She knew where my devotions lay and that I would be back eventually. I knew she was patiently waiting for me and I had a deep-rooted, sixth-sense assurance that she wouldn’t be going anywhere soon.

Part 9

I sat toward the back of the class. It was a 9th grade U.S. history class at Pioneer Junior High… affectionately referred to as Pi. Hi. In those days, 9th grade was still part of Junior High. It was the first period after lunch and I was satiated, comfortable, and fighting off the urge to nap. The teacher was droning on in a boring monotone that was soothingly dull and guaranteed to make me lose the battle against sleep. I wished I knew which brilliant administrator it was who came up with the great idea of offering a U.S. History class right after lunch.

As my eyelids drooped and my head began to nod, my ears thought they heard the word “boat” and I was instantly awake again. He was saying something about Washington Crossing the Delaware, which was a rude let-down bringing me back to the cruel reality of a history subject, not a boating subject. At least with boats on my mind I might be able to avoid dozing while giving the appearance of paying attention and possibly steer myself clear of trouble.

I blocked him out and mentally reviewed my most recent conclusions regarding my next boat’s design criteria and performance expectations. They had been bumped up a notch due to my past experiences. A size increase would be necessary so that it could accommodate at least 2 crew members thereby eliminating the need to wait for a turn. The ability to keep water out was also high on my list. In my mind, to haul the weight of 2 boys equated to increased beam, freeboard, and draft. Esthetics seemed to have importance as well. I didn’t want to have to take responsibility for having created a monstrosity.

In the background of my daydream, I heard him tell us to get out a piece of paper and write down a few important dates that would for sure be on the next test. I reached for my spiral-bound and began thumbing through in search of a blank page. On my way there I got distracted by some of my more recent boat sketches. Some of them were beauties but far beyond my skill level. While he assumed that I was diligently taking notes, I penciled in weak places and accented important details on some of the unfinished drawings.

Because it was so readily available and affordable, I felt restricted to the dimensions of a 4X8 sheet of plywood. That meant that it needed to be as wide as 4 feet but could only be 8 feet long. This presented a problem designing something within those limitations that still had the pleasing visual characteristics of a boat. When drawn to scale, I found its appearance totally unacceptable because it tapered from 4 feet wide to a pointed bow within the confines of an 8 foot sheet of plywood. It looked stubby and awkward. I liked the feel of the three foot beam but wasn’t sure it would ride high enough to be comfortable for 2 people. A square bow lent decent proportions to the four foot beam but it almost caused me to break into a cold sweat because it reminded me of past experiences.

By now, I considered myself to be an experienced shipwright; one well versed in the use of plywood as a construction technique. Canvas and tar were definitely out! Despite my affinity for wood, I couldn’t help but notice the appearance and growing popularity of Fiberglass Reinforced Plastic (FRP) in boat construction. It was a relatively new medium of the day and only barely taken seriously for offshore work. For my purposes, it was the natural cure to all of my painful agonizing about how to keep the insides of my next boat dry. My early morning 30 minute library research sessions headed off in a new direction. It seemed fairly simple to do… easy enough for even a 14 year old. Take a half cup of resin, thoroughly mix in 12 drops of hardener and spread it on quickly before it had the chance to “kick” and turn into a solid block of plastic. It wasn’t long until I felt confident that I knew enough to give it a try. I was mentally ready to go. All I needed was to decide on the design I was going to build.

“Take out your textbooks,” the teacher droned. I raised the desktop and there sitting on top of my textbook was my recently checked-out library book, “Boat Building with Fiberglass” and temptation took an even deeper grip. I felt foolishly confident that if I managed to get it open on the desk in front of me perhaps he wouldn’t notice. It was slightly smaller than the textbook… about the size of a hymnbook and so I further disguised it by setting my notebook slightly over the top of it while I began to browse.

Speaking of hymnbooks…

Over the course of that school year, I became acquainted with Donna. She was my older sister’s age and enjoyed singing. She had a pretty soprano voice as I recall. My sister and I liked to sing and, sitting together in church, Jessie taught me all about harmony while singing hymns. In the years previous to puberty before my voice began to change, (I was probably about 9 or 10) we developed a pattern of singing together. If Jessie sang the melody, I would sing alto. If Jessie took the alto line, that afforded me the choice of melody or tenor. As my voice eventually began to drop, I discovered the thrill of being able to sing way down low on the bass line. It was probably my favorite because it was the foundation of the harmony and provided a solid sense of rhythm and confidence. However, over the years I learned that really good basses are hard to find but regular basses are a “dime-a-dozen”. Anybody can sing bass so I decided to be a tenor and fortunately, my “voice change” was kind to me and accommodated my resolve. I can’t remember mother ever involving herself in our harmonizing. I knew she sang even well enough to be in the church choir. I think when she heard us break into parts, she must have stopped singing just to listen.

One morning, when we began singing the opening hymn, we heard the sweetest soprano sounds coming from the pew behind us. Jessie immediately switched to alto, which forced me down to tenor and, golly, it was pretty! I didn’t dare turn around to see who that sweet sounding soprano was but it was obvious that she was tuned-in to the sounds of our trio as well.

After the meeting concluded, we discovered that it was Donna and the three of us got together and agreed that it would be fun to try something besides hymns. There was a talent show coming up, numerous school opportunities and, of course, the music chairman was always excited to learn about new sources for special musical performances in church. And thus began a life-long career and love of music and singing.

I suppose that because it was close enough for me to walk there after school, we decided to do our practicing at Donnas’ house. It was at one of these practices that I became acquainted with Don, Donnas’ dad and namesake. I knew who he was but until then I didn’t really know him. He had a calm way of imparting wisdom that taught me so many important, timelessly valuable lessons about life. He was a gentle, loving man and as a result of the friendship that evolved, I will be eternally grateful and forever in his debt for his selfless kindnesses and personable interest in me. I only wish that I had one more chance to talk to him. I’d spell out the depth of my appreciation with a big ol’ bear hug.

As you can imagine, practicing with Jessie and Donna involved tolerating considerable girlish chit-chat, which occasionally caused us to (in my opinion) waste a lot of time. While patiently waiting one day for their gossip sessions to wind down so we could head for home, Donnas’ dad noticed my boredom and sympathetically invited me out to his garage.

When we entered, I immediately could tell that he hadn’t parked his car in there for a long time. There was sawdust everywhere. It was a large garage and directly in the middle I recognized a table saw. Lining the walls and set up in various spots throughout the area were numerous other tools most of which I had no idea what task they performed. I saw blades and bits and switches and cords running everywhere. There was a strong, sweet smell of a mixture of oak, fir, and glue and off to the side was a project in progress that had shelves and lots of clamps. I felt like I had just crossed the veil and this must be what heaven smelled like.

“So, what do you think?” he asked.
“I think this is really neat!” I responded. “What does that one do?”
“Oh, it lines up the blogenphlap with the forthfernaught then trims them flush.”

I had no idea what he was talking about but he sure sounded authoritative like he knew everything there was to know. Then I noticed that his right hand was missing a finger.

“What happened?” I pried, gesturing toward his hand.

He then took the opportunity to spend 20 minutes instilling in me a healthy fear and a cautious respect for the destructive powers of the spinning blade of a table saw. He made me swear that I would tirelessly and devotedly pay homage to its supreme authority.

“When that blade is turning, IT is in charge, not you!” he boisterously ordered.” Never close your eyes or turn your back on that tool when the motor is on,” he emphatically demanded with a drill sergeant’s tact. “You’ll never win a battle against THAT blade, I promise you! When YOU’RE not paying attention, IT will be.”

Clearly he loved the tool but hated it at the same time. As I resisted the urge to vomit, I was almost sorry I brought it up!

Note to reader:
Although I’ve had my share of close calls over the years and have even on several occasions lost skin and blood as a result of that blade’s gruesome, deadly, and unyielding vengeance, I feel blessed to be able to announce that I still have all of my fingers. His graphically dreadful admonitions that day must have sunk in and scaring the bajeebas out of me paid off. (Knock on wood because I’m not done with the table saw yet!)