Just two doors up the hill from post office, in a old grey farmhouse who’s farming days were in the distant past was a new crop of children growing between its wooden walls. This crop was shielded from the elements by sturdy walls of wood but mortared by the love of family. The house had peculiarities, idiosyncrasies in fact, that breathed life on cold winter days when the furnace belched to life and the pipes clanked the welcoming sound of warmth as the heat spread through its arteries and veins. Outside her resolute walls, the deadening claws of winter scratched, but to those within, the only evidence of the fight was the ice that thickly frosted the windows like cataracts on the eyes of a great, grey old lady. The walls along the staircase leading to the bedrooms curiously bulged through the wallpaper and a shameless older sister insisted, to her younger brother, that they were bulging bones of a corpse. The expansive basement floor was dry dirt that was easily stirred when traversed and the single lightbulb did nothing to illuminate the foreboding dark recesses.
Kids are a mixture unwitting fears and unrelenting curiosity. So despite their fears, they explored. Far from the dangling light, The heart of the house does beat. It roars to life with fire and heat, Too warm the house at our feet. Behind the furnace against the far wall, were two large trunks, one black one brown, they would have fun to climb into and play except they were filled with junk. What was junk at eight years of age, are treasures to a 50 year old’s memory. Inside these trunks was a bounty of books that smelled of ages of wisdom, including an Atlas that actually described the central part of Africa as ‘Unknown’. Imagine its worth today. There were numerous fragile pictures of people, dressed proudly and proper from the past. And still more things packed both chests full of the ‘unknown’ that somehow cataloged the history of forgotten people from the same place that we called home. On the opposite side of the basement from the rickety stairs, was the door leading to the ‘root cellar’. This root cellar, was separated from the furnace by a large heavy door, inside that room, it was always colder. So cold that on a winter’s day you might still see your breath. This place, like a mausoleum, had a large box taller than two coffins but not quite as long. A kid would have to jump up and rest his chest on the side to reach into cold sand and dig to find the carrots and potatoes his mother requested for dinner. As the kids grew and change this basement blossomed too. A thick layer of cement was placed to cover the dirt floor, decreasing the already low clearance of the ceiling. Sheetrock was added between the darkly aged timbers that like a skeleton supported the house above. And long fluorescent tubes of light chased away all the dark recesses.
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Some battles took place on fields of courage in far distant lands, but other battles, no less noteworthy to our family, took place in the tiny town of Bridgton Maine in our house at 12 Elm. People are more than an accumulation of their chemical components, 12 Elm is more than the sum of its nails and wood.
Our family would never buy a new ping pong table if dad could take a 4x8 sheet of plywood and extend it in four directions to make an official sized ping pong table. And dad could. The first thing to emphasize about ping pong, at 12 Elm Street, is that a 5 foot tall, 12 year old, has a large advantage over his much taller brother, when playing ping pong in a room with a ceiling so low. I don’t know where Vaughn learned to play ping pong. But I do know that I first played with him. The selective memory from my youth leads me to believe I may have never lost. But being a parent now, responsible for my own 14 year old, I know that all my early victories may have spoken less of my own competence and more to the low hanging ceiling and a brother for whom just playing the game was more important than the outcome. Ping pong is a game of repetition. Ping pong is a game that could almost played in your sleep. Generally, the ball bounces predictably; making the same crisp clanking sound against the table that is commonly followed by a thwack, as if spanked, by the paddle, except when you played Vaughn. Vaughn’s game was not a traditional power game of slams, it was a game of spins. His spins might send me diving under the table in an attempt to catch up to a ball that changed direction the moment it hit the table. Isn’t life a series of repetitive days until something comes along to spin us around. Staying ready to handle these spins, and remembering Vaughn’s ready smile each time his spin was successful, reminds me that the surprises life offers may just as likely lead to happiness as they do sadness. All the days on Elm Street were happy days. And no days surpassed Christmas. Everyone had a role. My role was by far the best. I was the youngest and this fact bestowed in me the right to wake everyone up on Christmas morning. Vicki was easiest to wake up on Christmas; I’d push her door open to find her awake and smiling. Aleta’s room, when she visited, was opposite Vicki’s and mine. When we peered in her room, Aleta would be under piles of blankets her darkly colored curls barely visible. After Aleta came Keith and Vaughn.
The other two bedrooms were only accessible from a different set of stairs. Keith, when he visited, would be in the blue room to the right of the stairs and Vaughn would be in the larger bedroom beyond the bathroom. I always used the same technique to wake Vaughn. I used Barney. Barney (aka Einstein), would follow my instruction without fail when I’d say, “Go wake Vaughn up!” I’d rush upstairs after Barney to see him nuzzling Vaughn who was hiding under the covers trying to keep his face dry from mongrel slobber. Mom’s role was simple -- feed us! That was her role every day. She sometimes said she could feed an army on the budget of a platoon. But on Christmas, we were a platoon that ate like an army. Breakfast was elaborate, our dinner unrivalled. Dad’s role was simple too, he got to ‘safety’ test all cool toys first. He was the first to fire the rubber bullets. Or ‘test’ the fire truck that shot a stream of water. Both of which seemed to find mom’s legs with predictable frequency. But Vaughn’s role was perhaps the most important. On Christmas, before mom made those elaborate meals, even before Dad could play with my tank, someone had to put things together. That was Vaughn. I understand he helped on Christmas Eve to assemble various toys for Vicki and I. Sometimes things were left until days after Christmas to assemble or build. I remember Vaughn, patiently putting together puzzles and building models of planes and ships with me. It wasn’t Christmas, but it was a boy scout contest to make something out of a bag of just stuff. I remember the family helping out as we created a crusader. I think it was Vaughn’s idea, but I can’t be sure, a knight on horseback made of dowels, and leather, and string. He could fix things that were broken, but more importantly, he knew how to approach a problem from whatever perspective required, so that it would be built correctly, the first time. I think he could do that with people too. Vaughn would grin like Alice’s Cheshire Cat. It was his way of saying, “So what do you think about that? Aren’t I so funny?” Even if his silly pun was ‘kind of stupid’, that ear to ear grin was endearing. We spoke to Vaughn the weekend before his death and I found this joke surprisingly funny and as characteristic delivered flawlessly, he did tell jokes well.
You have these three guys playing golf. They’re ready to tee-off on a par three with a water hazard before the green. The first guy is Moses who skirts his ball low towards the hazard but the waters part just in the nick-of-time and the ball rolls up on the green. The second guy says, “Nice drive Moses.” To which Moses replies, “Thank you Jesus.” Now Jesus takes aim, sizing up his shot, pushing his hair out of his eyes and swings. It was a prodigious drive but still not enough to clear the water. Miraculously, though the ball strikes the surface but it just skips repeatedly until it is resting a few feet from the hole. The third guy seems like he has too much on his mind and has limited time and hurriedly whacks the ball in the general direction of the hole. His ball plops into the water and sinks. Moments later a kingfisher swoops in, retrieves his ball, carries it over to hole and drops it squarely in. Jesus looks at the guy and say’s great shot dad. Rest assured that Vaughn was smiling when he finished that joke. Yes, Vaughn I smiled too. Fall is my favorite time of year. I enjoy walks in the woods when the mosquitos have drunk their fill and the crush of dry leaves under my feet brings the dried sent of the earth to my nose like an elixir to nourish the soul. On a day like this, I was on my first deer hunt with my big brother Vaughn. I was soaking up the sun and smells and time with my big bro when we walked into a ravine off the Burnham road south of Art and Elaine’s. There were a series of shots fired in the direction of Mr. Whitney’s fields. Vaughn said that we were, “In a good place to hold-up.” He said that whatever they were shooting would likely come through this ravine. I had the family’s double barrel 12 gauge shotgun. It was heavy for me; it had a large darkly stained oak stock and the longest barrel of any rifle in our family. But it also gave me the best chance of hitting whatever it was pointed at. Its double barrels were loaded with two shells of buck-shot. How could anyone miss?
I waited anxiously amid the oaks, maples, and birch, trying to stand quietly on the crispy leaves that just begged to be kicked and shuffled. Vaughn urged me to stand quietly and just wait. So I did. Even for an impatient 13 year old, the time passed quickly and a buck peacefully ambled through our ravine. I was slightly above it and Vaughn was somewhere higher up the hill, but I could no longer see him. I started to raise the shotgun and point it at — ‘Bambi”. I didn’t want to shoot Bambi, but somewhere, behind me, above me, watching me, was Vaughn. The double barreled shotgun now weighed a ton as I pointed it at the ambling Bambi. I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. Well I actually pulled both triggers. With my feet placed side by side, and not front to back, the recoil of both barrels, fired simultaneously, sent me on my back looking through the patchwork of brightly colored leaves that still clung to the trees. Unhurt, I stood to watch Bambi prancing away. I pulled the trigger again, not realizing I had already fired both shells. Nothing happened, I heard Vaughn’s shout, “Shoot again!” I tried. I even opened the gun, like a claim shell, to make sure I had two shells in it. Clicking it back together, I aimed at the now dancing Bambi and tried to shoot again. “It won’t shoot!” I shouted into the air. I heard the single report of Vaughn’s rifle and Bambi, now dead, fell to the ground. After-all, my brother Vaughn was a marksman. Some weeks later, during a Sunday meal with the whole family, Vaugh took a bite from the steak and said, “Hey, I bit into a buck shot. You did hit the deer.” He never did show me that buckshot. Vaughn was a soldier who stood tall in his green uniform. I may have been trying to emulate Vaughn. I know I never wanted to disappoint him.
I became a boy scout for the uniform. I became a paperboy for the money. I became doggedly persistent because of Vaughn. I was ready to quit being a paper boy at 4:30 AM, on a rainy and cold fall morning, but Vaughn had mentioned he’d drive me if the weather was ever bad. I woke him up. For that whole winter, it became our thing. In the dark, on the worst days of the winter, I could wake Vaughn and ask him to drive me on my route. Of course, I had get out of the vehicle and trudge through the snow, but I did get to keep all the money and he did have to wake up at 4:30. I learned the importance of never quitting, of finishing what I start, and keeping to my promises these are credos of which Vaughn lived by every day of his life. Heroes are made by the circumstances they find themselves and Vaughn’s circumstances were these. A war ends and he is born. Another war rages as he grows but it is not until the start of yet another war when I come along to chronicle his heroism.
Two respected voices rang out for me during the long years of the Vietnam War. One was Walter Cronkite who informed the nation nightly about a grizzly ‘Death Toll.” The other came from the heavy black phone in the den when Vaughn would call home. He was my hero. Vaughn had no Red Badge of Courage, thank God. For a purple heart would be tainted against his ‘award’ and the Congressional Medal of Honor would barely glint on the brightest of days when held next to his. You see Vaughn had a brass shooting award. And it had rifles dangling from a bull-eyes target. Now how cool is that! Imagine being a ten year old kid and having your brother give you that--best thing ever! It was either a cloudy day, or night was soon to fall, but I rushed to the door to see Vaughn lifting his ginormous duffle bag out of the front trunk of his grey VW ‘super’ bug. It had been forever since I’d seen him. He’d grown a foot taller than Paul Bunyan and was so strong he hefted me high into the sky, and I soared and roared with happiness. But he was home now, at least for a time, a soldier, a brother, my hero. He said he was taking me camping, just imagine my glee, it would be just Paul Bunyan and me. You might think by now that Vaughn and I hunted and fished to kill game. That is far from our reality. Vaughn, my dog Barney and I would often hunt grouse. We never shot one. Our technique was just wrong and neither of us cared. Vaughn and I would walk the edge of a field and the wood always within eyesight of each other and Barney would dash back and forth between us. Ever pheasant in world would hear us and fly off long before we got close enough for a shot. Why did we do it? Just to spend time together.
We all know that the fastest car in the world is your Brother’s red hot Ford Mustang circa 1975 (okay it was probably tan and it was a Maverick not a Mustang). But it must have been able to go 200 miles an hour, right? And the coolest ride ever was cruising along in his tangerine colored MG at a breakneck speed that I am sure mom would not have approved of.
I told Vaughn once, that Georgie Lackey said, that at night it was possible to drive from Bridgton to Portland in under 20 minutes. I said I didn’t believe him. Vaughn knowingly assured me that was entirely possible to drive from Bridgton to Portland in less than 20 minutes, really Vaughn? He even owned a motorcycle. He took me for rides on it. One day, I burned my calf on the muffler when I got off. I kept it to myself because I didn’t want mom to make him stop giving me rides. He loved cars with standard transmissions. He loved the added connection with driving you get when shifting. He bought a new car, and had owned it for a while before he had a chance to give me a ride. We were cruising along ‘some street’ in Bridgton when he exclaimed in surprise, “This is an automatic.” He had wanted a standard and just now realized that it wasn’t. He contentedly kept the car for many years. Vaughn shared his homes with me, putting himself out and cramping his style. First was 12 Elm, the first place we called home. I struggled with homework and Vaughn was patient in helping me with math. He made it fun. His sense of humor reached kids and was sometimes sophisticated enough for a more mature audience, other times—not so much.
My first summer out of college I took a job for a landscaper/septic company and stayed with Vaughn in Yarmouth, mom and dad must have been so proud. Vaughn was always quick to lend a hand and he allowed me to stay with him. He placed only one stipulation on me. If I spent a good deal of the day, ankle deep repairing a leach field then upon entering the apartment, and closing the door I had to strip naked and put all my dirty clothes into a garbage bag, shower, and then wash everything! Yarmouth was the first place I encountered the dark brown leather couch (DBLC). I slept on this couch in Yarmouth, I found myself on the DBLC in Windham off route 35. And though I didn’t sleep on the DBLC on Fox street in Portland, it was still there for our use. This couch was part of many of Vaughn’s homes and Vaughn would offer his couch to me making many of his homes, my home too. |