Viet Nam, the hippie movement, Roe v. Wade, inflation, OPEC crisis, Watergate . . . the perceived loss of America's innocence provides the national stage for Into the Second Springtime. Meet Wesley Gallagher, a precocious young man who is prone to making mischief and scheming shenanigans. You'll laugh at Wesley's perceptions of the world and fall in love with the strong and steady influences in his life. With stormy issues facing the nation, you'll cheer at the bright beacons of light guiding Wesley, quietly instilling values that create a healthy and substantial anchor in this tender coming-of-age novel. Written with unpretentious messages of charity, forgiveness, hope, humor, love and respect, you will cheer Hurrah! for America again.
Into the Second Springtime
By June Marie W. SaxtonAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2010 June Marie W. Saxton
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4520-8271-4Chapter One
The plum trees were blossoming and the fragrance turned my thoughts to Mother's home bottled plum syrup. We would enjoy the sticky good stuff throughout the fall and winter months.
Wyatt was lying on his back staring at puffy clouds. "Whatdya think about it, Wesley?" he asked, chewing on a stem of spring grass.
"Yuck, that's what." My brows furrowed and my lips pinched together, for the matter which Wyatt spoke of was not as pleasant as Mother's plum syrup. Oh no, nothing that good! We just spied our fifth grade teacher kissing the principal. That shouldn't have bothered us so much, I guess, but Miss Annelaise Gallagher was our aunt, and we were now afraid that trips to the principal's office would require us to stir uncomfortably before a new and unrequested uncle. It was quite a kiss if you know what I mean. Surely marriage must follow such a heartfelt puckering!
"Miss Aunt Lace is nuts if she goes for the old guy."
"Get used to the idea." Wyatt couldn't say Aunt Annelaise when he was a little boy, so he just called her Aunt Lace and it stuck. He couldn't break the habit when school started this year, and I'd spent the last eight months stuck in a classroom with a kid who raised his hand too often, saying, "Miss Aunt Lace." Even I had sense enough to call her Miss Gallagher in school. It didn't matter though. Wyatt was Miss Gallagher's pet, her little darling, her lamb. For some reason, I, Wesley, just couldn't measure up.
"Why do you think Mr. Mulligan was running his hands through her hair like that?"
"Shut up, Wyatt."
"You're in a bad mood."
"Do I look like an expert in French kissing or something?"
"Sick! Is that what you think was happening? They were acting all sweaty and breathless."
"Shut up, Wyatt."
Wyatt was quiet for a few minutes. He might have been sulking, I'm not really sure. I looked over at him. He was using his hands as a homemade telescope. I wondered what he was seeing so I fashioned my hands in the same manner and studied the sky with telescopic vision. Its kids' stuff, but technically I am a kid.
Wyatt grinned when he saw I was copying him. His eyes were electric blue. His skin was pale and freckled, and his hair was as red as Lady Scarlet's nightgown. Actually I have no idea what color Lady Scarlet's nightgown is—I don't even know Lady Scarlet—but my great grandpa uses that expression all the time and Wyatt likes to hear it.
Great Grandpa Kelly Sheehan O'Rourke is older than anybody I know. He said he is so old he was nearly young again. Great Grandpa Kelley Sheehan O'Rourke says life is like a calendar. Springtime is childhood, and during summer you're grown up. Autumn brings grandchildren thicker than apples on the tree, and then winter hits, and Jack Frost paints your hair white.
"Most people die once they turn white and brittle, but I've drug all the way through December, January, and February. I think there's indecision about my future status. God doesn't want me and the devil is afraid I'll take over, so I'm stepping along, heading for my second springtime."
I smiled, thinking about Grandpa. He said he used to be a big man but winter had shriveled him down to size. He wasn't much taller than Wyatt and me, and we enjoyed his company better than anybody's. "That's how I know I'm a going around again," he said. "I'm shortening up and my mind must be youngering, for only children seem to appreciate my company. Yes sir, it's official. I'm in my second springtime, and I plan on racing you boys into summer."
I wondered if youngering was a word. I couldn't find it in the dictionary and Miss Annelaise Gallagher, my French kissing, school teaching, bossy aunt said it wasn't, but Grandpa Greaty Great said something didn't have to be in the dictionary to exist. "Look up my name in the dictionary—will ye find it? Oh no," Grandpa said. "But I'm here—I exist, just as real as Santy Claus."
"Some grandpas are good, and some grandpas are great, but I'm so good I'm Greaty Great," he chanted at least once a day. Wyatt and I learned the ditty when we were very young and that's how Great Grandpa Kelly Sheehan O'Rourke became simply Grandpa Greaty Great. The phrase was shortened down over time, and so mostly he's just called Grandpa Greaty. Of course that sounds like Grady, and half the town now calls him Grandpa Grady O'Rourke.
That's the way things get changed. Grandpa Grady says names, words, tales, and truth gets watered down over time and with each interpretation. "Cold hard facts become liquid, boys, and as watered down as Mrs. Margaret Mahoney's pitiful oyster stew." I've never had oyster stew, but I have vowed to never eat any of Margaret's.
My thoughts were just a jumbled bunch of circles that afternoon. "Let's go fishing, Wyatt. I need to do something." Wyatt was game and scrambled to his feet. We dogged along the side of the highway on our way home.
Wyatt's dad is fighting in Viet Nam. It's kind of terrible when someone you love has gone to war. Wyatt cries sometimes, although he doesn't want anybody to know. Aunt Aubynn and the kids moved in with Grandpa and Grandma Gallagher. They used to live in San Diego, but Aunt Aubynn got so lonesome that Grandma told her to come home, and back to Gallagher Springs they came. We live right next door.
My Dad has three sisters, Aunt Aubynn, Aunt Aura Leigh and Aunt Annelaise. Aunt Aubynn is great—soft and kind and gentle. Aunt Aura Leigh is indifferent, and Aunt Annelaise is basically my nemesis! She's the youngest and my mother claims she's spoiled rotten. I always agree with my mother on that subject. It's kind of interesting living next door to family, at least that's what Mother says.
We threw our books in our respective houses and grabbed our poles and tackle. Wyatt had a brand new pole he got for his birthday. I was a little bit jealous of it. It was turquoise and little metallic bits of paint glimmered in the sunshine. I had an old white pole of Dad's and tried to comfort myself by telling my friends it was good for ice fishing. "It's camouflaged to the snow so the fish don't get suspicious," I boasted one day.
The afternoon was hot for early May in northern Utah. The myriad of natural hot springs warmed the climate of our town quite substantially. Gallagher Springs was founded by my great, great grandpa, Errol Gallagher, although all of my other great, great grandparents came to America when he did. Grandpa Grady's parents were with them. According to the old men who liked to talk, the whole Irish village of Inis Pairc packed up and sailed across the sea when Grandpa Grady's father was fifteen.
We pedaled our bikes up Gallagher Canyon. We passed interesting signs as we went. The first one said, "Welcome to Gallagher Springs, population 300." It was a very old sign, mounted just after the settlement was built. A historical marker was near the sign to entertain bored tourists who had nothing better to do. Gallagher Springs' population was now closer to eight hundred, not counting the summer people.
The next sign said, "Gallagher Springs boasts the largest number of red heads, per capita, than any other city in the United States." We kept pedaling until we saw the sign, "The end of the rainbow is officially here!" The last sign read, "Gallagher Springs, where shamrocks and sagebrush bring Irish luck and American pride."
We pedaled about two miles. I was tired, and school had been long and hot. When we got to Inish Lake we baited our hooks and laid down in the shade, fishing in lazy fashion like Little Boy Blue watching sheep. The grass was cool and soothing, and I wouldn't have twitched one muscle, but I felt my pole bob and so I sat up and jerked on the rod. I whistled through my teeth while I reeled in a silvery rainbow trout.
"That's a good one Wesley," Wyatt encouraged. Just then his pole dunked down, and before I could finish pulling the hook from my catch's mouth, Wyatt was reeling in a beauty.
"Looks like trout's for supper."
I jerked my head back, so startled was I by the voice behind us. Grandpa Grady O'Rourke was nodding his head, happy to see our fortune as fishermen.
"How did you know we were here?"
"I've been waiting for you boys to get out of school. I figured you would come up here. It's too nice of a day to stay cooped up in doors. I knew spring fever would be burning your brows." Grandpa Grady helped us string our fish onto a cut willow. I baited my hook and caught another fish just as soon as my worm wiggled in the water. I whistled as I reeled in another handsome trout.
"The fish are definitely biting today," Wyatt observed.
Grady rubbed a hand along his chin. He nodded, squinting against the setting sun. "Don't catch more than your limit, or Doheny the Fish Nazi will throw you boys in jail." Wyatt and I grinned at the mention of the game warden. Grandpa Grady always went off on a tangent about the criminal behaviors of Jimmy Don Doheny. "A man tries to provide for his family, catch a few fish once in a while, and what does that Fish Nazi do? Create a stink, steal your joy, confiscate your catch, and haul you off to the big house." The exaggerations grew more and more interesting. "Why, I remember the day when a man could catch all of his fish on the same day if he was so inclined. I don't know what kind of an imbecile would actually do that, but this is America, and a man should have the right to be stupid if he chooses to be."
I reeled in another fish. I pulled my hook and strung it on the willow with the others, all the while listening to Grandpa's rants. "My folks came to this country because they heard that it was the end of the rainbow, and boys, it really is. Don't let old Grandpa get you riled up over nothing, but I say a good fisherman has the right to eat fish! Not four fish, or two fish, or whatever suits Jimmy Don Doheny, but just as cracking many fish as he chooses! There now, I feel a little better getting that off my chest."
I grinned at Grandpa Grady. He was baiting his hook, and his hands trembled slightly, but he was lively and spry. He always talked to us like we mattered and so his opinions sank deep. We soaked up everything he said, like young, hungry sponges. "Now what kind of grievances do you boys need to vent about today?"
Grady asked us that every day of our lives. He thought it was healthy for young people to protest about their sufferings. "Blow off steam a little at a time boys, that's healthy. Now, when you get to be pot smoking, free loving, long-haired, lazy, whining about America, war protesting couple of hippies, that's when you've gone too far! Those punks don't know squat about sacrifice or anything else for that matter. They are just squawking out loud now because nobody listened to them when they were young, and aint it grand that they live in a country where they can smoke, and dope, and whine away? We're free to march in Washington, boys, but by Jingo Jones, don't catch more than four fish a piece."
I lay back in the grass laughing silently at the wiry little man. Grandpa Grady talked with his hands. He'd been baiting his hook for the past ten minutes, but every time the worm in his right hand neared the hook in his left, his lecture would hit high point, and his hands sprang apart to illustrate the truthfulness of his statement. He'd been with us for twenty minutes and hadn't yet cast his line.
Wyatt cleared his throat. "Something's bugging me alright."
"What boy? Speak up!"
"We saw Miss Aunt Lace kissing Mr. Mulligan."
Grandpa's brows shot high. "What are you saying, Wyatt? Speak up, for bad news festers like a sliver, son, and must be drawn out to avoid the poison."
Wyatt's head bobbed in agreement with his tongue as it waggled to and fro, spilling the beans on Aunt Lace. Grandpa liked the story and seemed mighty enthralled with the telling of it.
"I don't know what they teach kids in school nowadays, but I remember when I learned how to cipher and spell. We had the three R's; reading, writing and arithmetic, which actually makes me question our skills in spelling, as technically writing begins with W and arithmetic begins with A. I don't ever recall learning French in school."
"I think you should tell your daughter about her daughter," Wyatt continued. "Grandma Gallagher wouldn't want Miss Aunt Lace smooching on the principal!"
"No—I'll not say a word to my Cora, for I'm no tattling tom! Wesley, did you also witness this grotesque display of affection?"
"Yes I did. She thought she was alone in the library after school, but we were in there getting our sling shots. We hid them in between Shakespeare's works during lunch recess. Nobody reads Shakespeare so we knew they were safe."
"Why hide the flippers?"
"They're strictly against the rules and we didn't want to get caught with them."
"That's the injustice that makes me get riled up! It's against the rules of the school for my great grandsons to carry flippers in their back pockets, but its okay for my granddaughter, their teacher, to kiss the principal! This injustice baffles reason."
"Well don't let it make your blood pressure go up."
"Annelaise Gallagher, kissing the principal!" Grady was laughing about the juicy scrap of information, and we joined in. "I'd given her up for a spinster and now she's kissing the dapper and dashing Mr. Melvin Mulligan. How romantic! There will be rejoicing in my Lacey Girl's heart tonight." His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth three times.
I scowled, reeling in another catch. "This is nothing to celebrate about! It was sick!"
"I wager she'll be in a good mood tomorrow," Grandpa Grady observed, finally connecting worm and hook together. He took a wobbly step backwards and I heard the whir of his line as it sailed over the sparking water and landed with a little plop. "Don't fret about it boys."
"But it wasn't any kiss," we protested together.
"Oh?"
"It was like this," Wyatt said. He turned his back to us and wrapped his arms passionately around himself, acting out the sweaty and breathless moment. I couldn't help laughing and Grandpa Grady wiped tears from his cheeks at the charade.
"How did that go again?" Grady was baiting more than his hook this afternoon. Wyatt enacted the steamy kiss once again. "Don't mourn boys, for kisses like that bring marriage, and marriage invites the propagation of the human race."
"I have no idea what that means, Grandpa Grady, but I don't want Mr. Mulligan for my uncle."
"What makes you think Mr. Mulligan wants you two for nephews?"
I bit my lip and Wyatt sulked. "Then he should stop kissing Miss Aunt Lace!"
Grady didn't say another word about the issue, but he hummed the wedding march while we watched the sun bob over the western hills.
We pedaled home in the grey time that hovers between day and night. I was carrying the fish and the weight was dragging my handlebars off lopsided. Wyatt took them to give me a break but he managed the load even worse than I had, so before he even pedaled twenty-five yards, I inherited them back. Between Wyatt, Grandpa Grady and I, we'd caught twelve big fish, weighing a couple of pounds apiece.
"Remember Sunday School Wyatt? We learned that we are supposed to give to the poor?"
"So?"
"Let's leave some of these fish for the neighbors."
"Okay, who? The O'Reilley's?"
"No. They're not The Least of These My Brethren."
"Huh?"
"You know, The Least of These My Brethren."
"Oh." Wyatt nodded his head but I knew he didn't have a stinking clue in Heaven, or the other place, what I was talking about. He never listened very carefully in church.
"You know, Wyatt, like Gerald Flannery, for example."
"Is he one of those guys, The Least of These My Brethren?"
"Yes, remember? Grandpa Grady said he always felt sorry for Gerald because Mrs. Flannery doesn't know how to budget his money. Grandpa claims she throws more out the back door with a teaspoon than he can carry in the front door with a shovel."
"Okay," Wyatt grinned. He was game to be charitable if I was.
We pulled our bikes up to the Flannery's garage. I couldn't see piles of wasted goods thrown out the back door or anything, but still I felt nervous about going to the door and offering a fish, even if this outfit was The Least of These. "Remember how we're not supposed to let our left hand know what our right hand is doing?"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Into the Second Springtimeby June Marie W. Saxton Copyright © 2010 by June Marie W. Saxton. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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