The Next Step - Chapter 1

Below is a brief synopsis (so you know where the book is going) and chapter 1 of my novel, The Next Step. I’d appreciate anyone who is willing to look at it and review it. If you enjoy it, I can email you the entire novel in Microsoft word. The total novel is 67,000 words. Any help is gratefully appreciated.

Jim Clark-Dawe



Synopsis

The protagonist is taking a physical and spiritual journey, exploring the Rockies on horseback while trying to resolve how he wishes to die. An 87 year-old widower, he lost his wife after 50 years of marriage to cancer a few years ago. He has been able to deal with his wife’s death, but is now facing the question of what will happen to him. Recently diagnosed with prostate cancer, without treatment his life expectancy is less than six months. He also has Alzheimer’s and is moving into a nursing home. With these two choices in front of him, he is trying to decide whether he should allow himself to freeze to death on this trip.

On the journey with him are two horses, Rags and Bugsy. Riding one and using the second as a packhorse, the protagonist describes his physical journey up and over a mountain pass, into a valley, which he first saw on his honeymoon. As he physically travels, it reminds him of various people he knows who have died or survived hardship and how their death or hardship relates to his present situation. He looks at the death of friends, his grandparents, his parents, and especially his wife in trying to decide what to do. He looks at the suicide deaths of a friend and his brother to try to decide if allowing himself to freeze to death is suicide, and how to protect his children from thinking he died of suicide. In addition, he also looks at the death of some of the animals he has owned to see if he can find some guidance there. He also tries to deal with how is death is going to effect his children.



Chapter 1 -- Day One

I’d been driving for a little over two hours, and had another one to go to reach the trailhead. My truck was purring along perfectly, at least as much as a diesel can purr, and the trailer was only noticeable on the hills, when I had to drop out of overdrive. Meredith used to complain that the truck was too noisy for her, but I liked hearing the engine. That way I knew it was still running, which was how it was with the cars I grew up with. Now a days, a lot of these cars are so quiet you can’t tell if they’re running or not. The truck was a ‘96 F-350 with a 7.3-liter diesel under the hood. I’d owned it all of its life, and had put nearly 250,000 miles on it. It had a couple of dents, nothing major, and if you looked at the bed, you could tell that it was a working truck. It was a typical ranch pickup; not one of those trucks that people own but never really use.

It wasn’t as quiet or powerful as the newer diesels, but it served my purposes, and was pretty reliable. Even on the steepest grades, it wasn’t having any problems with the four tons I was hauling. I remember when I use to haul horses in the back of my pickup, but these trailers are nicer. A few years ago, I’d succumbed and bought myself one with some basic living quarters, which included a shower, toilet, and microwave. Although I still enjoy camping, my old bones now appreciate a good mattress under them.

In the rear of the trailer were Bugsy and Rags. Neither were once in a lifetime horses, but both did their jobs. When I was younger, I used to work at finding the perfect name for each animal; these two had names that said nothing about their personalities. Rags had gotten his name because of a white splotch on his rump that looked like a rag and when I first got Bugsy, he just always seemed like he had more bugs around him than any of the other horses.

Rags had been pretty useless as a working horse. He didn’t like riding and he didn’t like driving. He was happy being a lawn ornament, but that wasn’t acceptable to me. I’d been shocked when I introduced him to packing and discovered that he had finally found his niche. Although pack animals don’t need much intelligence, a contrary one ain’t worth a bucket of spit. Rags had a mule’s mentality, set in his ways and didn’t much care about making himself agreeable. But if you put a pack on him, you could trust him to make sure your eggs arrived safely.

Bugsy was a good using horse. Give him a job, and he’d do it to the best of his ability. Unfortunately, his abilities weren’t that high. Some horses seem to know what they need to do next, with little guidance from the rider; Bugsy was always a step behind. For example, when working cattle, a good cow pony knows what the cow’s going to do before it does. Bugsy had to wait for the cow to make the first move, and then he’d follow along behind.

But for what I was doing, both were fine. I planned to take about two days to get to the campsite, and both could handle the trail. I was looking forward to it. I knew the trails would be empty, as who but a fool old man would go up into the Rockies in early October. There was a good possibility of snow and whether I’d be able to get out was going to be a question.

But this was literally my last chance in life. My children are right, and I’m no longer safe living alone. Although John and Betty said they were more than willing to have me move in, and even though Betty has taken care of her father-in-law a lot more than I deserve, having me live with them isn’t fair. Their youngest finally moved out, and they deserve some time alone.

They’re both retired, and they should be able to enjoy it, not have to spend their time babysitting an old man. That leaves going into assisted living. We’ve found one that I can accept, and they’re even willing to let me take Shep with me. But after losing Meredith, losing the rest of my animals would be the final straw. I’ve been around horses and dogs all my life, and Meredith introduced me to cats, so we always had a couple of them. I know John will take care of them, but I wouldn’t get to see them every day.

Shep is a good dog. A cross between a golden retriever and God knows what. He has this way of putting his head on your lap and looking at you with soulful eyes that would melt the heart of anyone, and he’d worked his magic when we’d gone to meet with the boss lady at Maple Rest. Five minutes of work on his part and he had her eating out of his paw, just like he’s got me doing. It’s bad when you give the best piece of meat to your dog!

It’s a shame I couldn’t bring Shep with me. John didn’t realize I was going so high into the mountains, and couldn’t understand why I didn’t bring him along. But the place I want to go was a special place for Meredith and me, and John doesn’t need to know everything I do. I know he worries about me, but death holds little fear for me, and many are the days when I’d hug the Grim Reaper if he came along. As I was driving along, I was tallying up a list of people that I’d known and knew, and there’s definitely more of the dead than the living. Living to be 87 has some advantages, and I won’t want to lose a day of my life, but sometimes it gets to be a very long, long time.

As the road monotonously twists its way through the mountains, I thought about Aunt May. She was the first dead person I’d known. My great-grandfather was my first relative to die after I was born, but I was only three when he did, and although there are pictures of him holding me, I have no memory of him. So, as far as I’m concerned, and because I’m the one keeping score, I guess I’m the final judge of it, and therefore Aunt May is the first person to die that I know.

Probably I’m the last person alive who knew Aunt May. After I die, I don’t think anyone will remember her. There are a couple of people older than me, but they came to town later, after she died. It’s my understanding that some African tribes define various levels of death. One of the final stages of death is when everyone dies who knew you while you were alive. The last stage is when no one can find any record of you, so under that standard, King Tut is still somewhat alive. But going back to Aunt May, she’s going to be pretty much gone when I go.

I was fifteen when Aunt May died. It was 1937 and we were seeing signs that the Depression wasn’t going to be getting worse. She lived with my grandparents, and had lived there all my life. I know she’d never married, but I don’t recall hearing why. The happiest person I’ve ever known, she always had a smile on her face, and I don’t ever remember seeing her mad at anybody. My grandmother always called her sister ‘dotty’ and ‘around the bend.’ She didn’t always remember my name, and she didn’t always remember her way home, but as I said, she was always happy.

I try to picture her life, as I knew it. She’d get up in the morning, and after helping her sister with some housework, she’d head out for her morning walk. This was a more laid back time, and she was perfectly safe, walking around our small town. Everyone liked her, and I don’t know now whether this was because of who she’d been or whether this was the way she had always been. She’d stroll around town, stop in and see people, maybe come by the school and wave at the kids. Then she’d go home for lunch, help her sister clean up the dishes, and maybe do some more housework, before she headed out for another walk. The only change in the afternoon was that most days she’d end up at the school when it got out and walk down the street with the school kids.

Aunt May liked to dance. The first time I saw Meredith was because of her. We’d gone over to the county fair because Dad had a couple of bulls he wanted to show. One of these bulls was so good that later in the year it would win the ribbon at the state fair. I was thinking I was a bit of a stud because these bulls were such studs. Not that I’m sure I knew what to do about this, as I’d only be starting high school when fall came. I was convinced, however, that I was someone special for being a high school student, and almost a full-grown man. I wasn’t aware of how much growing I’d be doing over the next few years.

I’d gone to the dance that evening, although I’m not sure why. I didn’t really know anything about girls, and I sure couldn’t dance. But for whatever reason, I was over at the dance when I noticed this young kid taking pictures all over the place. She wasn’t old enough for high school, so she was below my notice. I was with some guys, and one of them told me that she was a kid in his school, and that she was always taking pictures. He told me that she just gotten out of elementary school, though I later found out that she was going into 8th grade and was only a year younger than me.

Meredith noticed me and thought I looked nice. She found out my name from a friend, and kept it in her head until we met a year later. She told me she fell in love with me at first sight, but I always found that a bit hard to believe. I didn’t tell her I noticed her. I figured that was safer than telling her the truth, that I’d thought that she was a goofy, snot-nosed kid below my notice since I was in high school.

As I said, Aunt May was at the dance. She dragged me out onto the floor for one dance, where I shuffled around a bit. An old guy from the next town did most of the dancing with her. I don’t know what their story was, and I never thought to ask. There are lots of things I never asked my parents and grandparents about, which I wish now I had. Maybe when I get back from this trip I should start telling my children and grandchildren everything I know, and that they’re going to wish they’d asked me before I died.

Aunt May spent most of the night dancing, wearing her best dress, with her face flushed with excitement. At this stage in her life, she wasn’t able to do too much on the dance floor, but even I could tell that at one time she’d been a good dancer. At the end of the night, on the way home, she just talked on and on about how much fun she’d had. She couldn’t remember the name of the man she’d spent most of the night with, but she remembered what a good time she had.

I know that she lived with my grandmother for as long as I remember, but there really wasn’t much discussion of her past and I’m not sure she remembered much of her life as an adult. I know I never heard any stories from her other than when she was a little girl. She was a listener, smiling and nodding as she listened to what you wanted to say, and taking pleasure in hearing it. I think the entire town sort of agreed that no one would ever tell her anything bad that happened; I know with us school kids you wouldn’t think about telling her about any trouble you got into in school.

She especially liked to hang around with the younger kids. Now a days, this would cause the police to have to step in and do something, which would definitely include not allowing her to go to the school, but those days were more laid back. I think it was good for her, and I know it was good for us kids. She was always so nice and happy, asking us how much fun we’d had in school, and infecting all of us with her joy of life.

I remember one time telling her about the grand slam homerun I’d kicked at recess, but I didn’t tell her that I’d gotten into trouble in class when I started telling Steve all about it. I’d had to stay after school and write on the board 100 times that I wouldn’t talk in class for that bit of stupidity. I’d been walking home by myself, as everyone else had gotten out of school on time, when Aunt May showed up, smiling and asking me how my day had been. I told her it had been great and how I’d kicked the ball that got four runs during recess and how, as a result, my team had won. She was just smiling and acting like I’d won the World Series or something. In retrospect, I doubt that she had any idea what I was talking about, but boy, did she make me feel good.

She was so happy that her happiness was infectious, and I don’t remember being able to stay in a bad mood around her. Even my grandmother, when Aunt May did something that bothered her, couldn’t stay mad at her for long. And I only knew that Grandma got frustrated because she’d sometimes tell my mother when I could hear. My grandmother didn’t even sound that upset with her; she just had to tell someone her frustrations so that she could get rid of them.

Aunt May has always caused me to wonder: is being happy important or being aware? And that is becoming a bigger and bigger issue for me. My doctor tells me I have some memory loss and that my brain isn’t functioning as good as it was ten years ago. I’ve labeled all the draws in the kitchen so I can find things; otherwise, I have to look through every draw to remember what’s in them. I use to be able to keep people’s phone numbers in my head; now I rely on my cell phone’s contact list.

And I’m forgetting other things. Sometimes I don’t remember appointments, and a couple of times I couldn't figure out where I was on trails that I thought I knew. Am I heading towards Alzheimer’s? I don’t know. My doctor thinks so. I’ve seen what happens with Alzheimer’s and to say I’m concerned would be an understatement. I’m taking the pills that are supposed to help, but I don’t know whether they’ll really work.

And if they don’t, the question becomes: will I be happy with Alzheimer’s, not knowing what I don’t know, or will I be angry at my loss. It didn’t look like Aunt May knew what she was missing; at least I never saw any signs that she did, but I don’t know. She just went happily through life, and seemed to enjoy herself. And as I said, I don’t know whether she was like this all of her life, or whether it was something that developed, as she got older.

Definitely, what she recalled of her childhood sounded like a normal one. She recalled the first pony that she rode, and the later horses that she grew up with. She described how her brother (who died in an accident) would hang a fishing pole out the classroom window, catching fish while the teacher taught. Personally, I think school would have been better if I’d been able to fish, but I doubt that Miss Marvers would have agreed.

Apparently, Aunt May’s teacher did, and Uncle Benny made good use of the time and opportunity. Going back to Aunt May, it seems to me that if her memories of school were so clear, then she probably was normal back then, and her memory disappeared sometime later in life. That makes me think it was senility, rather than something else. Is it worthwhile losing your memory to become happy? Because it was clear that Aunt May enjoyed her life. Without the worries of most adults, and with people who liked her, she traveled through the world without ever saying a bad thing about anyone or having a frown for longer than a couple of minutes.

I guess she must have always looked on the sunny side of things, so that when she lost her memory, she still looked at things as turning out for the best. And that optimism and joy carried her through the rest of her life. My memories of her go back to when I was three or four, and she died peacefully in her bed when I was fifteen. The last three months of her life, she had to stay in her bed, because she’d fallen and broken her hip.

Even then, she still had a smile on her face and enjoyed life. People constantly came to see her and talk with her. On a couple of occasions, the teacher brought the class to see her and show their work. And I visited her just about every day, and I never heard her complain. She was just happy that people went to see her, in her time of need, and not realizing that she was benefiting from the pleasure that she had brought people.

I guess my question is this: if my memory fails, and I’m able to live happily like her, is that a bad thing? It seems to me that it is purposeless, but then again, what is our purpose in life? Is there a purpose? And did Aunt May, unbeknownst to her, meet her purpose because of the joy that she brought into everyone’s life? I dread the thought of losing my mind and my memories, yet Aunt May was content with her life. Could I end up the same?