Hard Times: Chapter 2 "Strength"

MADGE’S STORY

“Strength”



There’s an old song that says: You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone. I never realized how true it was until hard times came to our house.

We were leading a good life though we may not have appreciated it at the time. We were buying our home, a fine house in a good neighborhood. Our children went to a good school. We had to mind our budget of course but we had everything we needed and anything we wanted we could get if we set our minds to it.

I never dreamed it could happen to us. My husband Stone and I were content and secure. We played by the rules. We worked hard and always tried to the right thing. We bought a house when we were able and when we thought the time was right we traded up. We found the house we thought would be our family’s home until we were old and retired and the children moved out into the world on their own.

Was it a bad decision? In hindsight, yes. Was it our fault? We had a financial advisor. We trusted him. He had never been wrong before. All those people who told us we were dreaming, living beyond our means, taking too many risks, where are they now? Is it their fault everything went to hell? No. It’s no one’s fault. It hit us like Katrina hit New Orleans. Maybe we should have known better. Maybe we should have been more cautious but, really, it would only have delayed the inevitable.

When we lost our house and moved in with my mother, I was still confident that everything would work out. It was only a temporary move. It wouldn’t take long. Stone would find a job and we would find an apartment. It was only a setback, nothing to be worried about. But weeks turned to months and Stone couldn’t find work. There was no work. He was trying as hard as he could but no one was hiring. Everyone was cutting back and taking care of their own.

When my brother Carlin moved in with his family everything changed. What was difficult before became all but impossible when Uncle Bud and Aunt Mildred moved in. What else could we do? They had no place else to go. Looking back, that was when Stone changed. He always had hope. Even when things were falling down all around he was solid. He never gave up. He always had encouraging words.

“Don’t worry, babe, we’ll make it work.”

I still remember the day I came home with two bags of groceries worried that we would not have enough to last the month. It was a familiar dilemma: whether to buy more macaroni and cheese products that lacked nutritional value but were cheap enough to last or to try to ration nutritional foods. With electricity sporadic fresh fruits, vegetables and meat would go bad within a week. The garden we planted in the back yard never produced enough. Nuts and grains were best but it was difficult to get the children to eat enough of them and the price kept going up.

It was a constant struggle but at least it gave me an opportunity to think about something other than the problems we were having trying to live together: too many people and not enough room. Carlin was having male competition troubles with Stone. The kids were constantly fighting, yelling, screaming. In normal times it would have all washed over. Kids are kids and men are men. But these were not normal times. Two families and an elderly woman in a small two-bedroom house was relentless pressure.

I was beginning to quarrel with Carlin’s wife, Joan. She was the kind of woman who thought it her duty to stand up for her own regardless of right and wrong. No one seemed to realize that we would all have to make adjustments and we were not alone. Everyone had to make adjustments.

Joan’s idea of parenting was a low-pitched drone. She was on her little boy Nathan and her little girl Shannon all the time but if anyone else admonished them in any way she went on the defensive. No, she went on the attack. Things had gotten so bad that my mother withdrew to her small room, a converted study, for most of the day. Carlin refused to intervene and Stone wanted nothing to do with it.

That was what I came home to that day. I put away the groceries, checked on the kids playing outside, and went to the family bedroom where I found the note from Stone. I read it three times before it registered and I began to cry.

I cried for a long time and then, when my tears were all spent, I got angry. A father does not abandon his children under any circumstances. We needed him. We needed him now more than ever. He could offer all the excuses in the world but it couldn’t erase the fact that it was selfish. He was looking after himself. What kind of man was he? Had I been fooled all these years?

No, he was a good man. He was doing what he thought was right. But I needed my anger to make it through the days. Isn’t it strange what we need? No matter how irrational we hold on to it because there’s nothing else. We hold on to it until we find something else to hold on to or we go insane. Sometimes we need to hold our anger. I know I did.

I needed someone to blame and Stone was my someone. I spent the next month in constant rage, railing at my kids, arguing with Joan, pleading with my mother to stand up to them, stirring up trouble and looking for it. It was horrible. I was becoming someone I didn’t know and didn’t like. I re-read Stone’s letter every night as if it was hiding some secret, as if I could change the ending by discovering the code but of course I couldn’t.

It was my job in those days to take the kids to school and I held to it as if it was all that mattered. Kids have to have an education. At least that’s what we were taught. You have to have a good education to get a good job, to secure your future, to become a good and useful human being. It never occurred to me back then that the future might not be the kind of place where an education was still valued.

I still believed in the old ways so every day I got them up at half past six, got some food in them and marched off to Johansen Elementary. The schools fought hard to stay open. Even after the money ran out they stayed open. Even after the janitors left they stayed open. They lost the vice principles and deans and the specialists and they stayed open. The teachers lost their pay and they hung on as long as they could. We took up collections and struggled on but in the end it was a losing battle. Teachers have families and loved ones too. They finally gave up, hugs and kisses and tearful goodbyes with promises that they’d be back as soon as times got better. But they didn’t get better and the schools were lost to vagabonds and homeless people. It only fed my anger. I was angry at everyone. I was angry at the governor and the president. I was angry at the school board and the city council. A group of us parents organized and marched on the streets but after a while there was no one left to protest and no one left to hear us.

I remember when people always criticized the schools. Teachers were overpaid and got too much time off. But when hard times came, they hung on longer than the police, the firefighters, the prisons and the hospitals. I was angry at all of them.

My anger finally played itself out when Charlie, my youngest, only five and still as innocent as the day she was born, apologized for dropping her spoon on the kitchen floor. I realized that I was just about to go off. I realized the damage I was doing to her young mind and to Denim, her older brother, as well. It was not possible. It was not acceptable. It was not me.

I started blaming myself. I didn’t understand when Stone needed me to understand. I didn’t give him enough support when he was down. He was a man. He was supposed to be strong and I leaned on him when he needed someone to lean on. I turned myself inside out and I began to look for him.

At first I didn’t know where to look. Every park in town was a camp of homeless people. Every public building, every abandoned storefront, every shopping mall was a shelter for the growing number who lost their homes. Every foreclosed home for that matter was now just another roof for whomever claimed it. I went to see our old home and found it falling apart with overgrown weeds, broken windows and doors. It was trashed. I wondered why they bothered to kick people out of their homes when the result was obvious. There was no place for us to go.

I started looking in the parks. I made a copy of a picture and handed it out. I stapled some to trees and telephone poles. I asked everyone I came across: Have you seen this man? If you do, tell him to come home. Tell him we love him and we need him.

The things I saw frightened me. Every park was barren. A few patches of grass, makeshift gardens, tents and cardboard shelters, mounds of garbage everywhere, people crowded together, men, women and children. The kids had no room to play, no place to bath and not enough food or drinking water. Some of the trees were being chopped up for firewood. And the smell, the stench emanating from the restrooms. They must have stopped working months ago. People did what they had to do. They designated an area and buried their waste with a shovel. It was horrifying. They were destroying their own living space but what choice did they have? In the beginning, the police tried to keep order but they soon gave up. By now, there were so few police they never bothered to come to the parks or the shelters unless there was a riot.

There were riots. That’s what people do when they’re hungry. That’s what people do when the authorities let them down. That’s what fathers do when they can’t take care of their families. It’s what mothers do when their children have no safe place in the world – no schools, no parks, no playgrounds.

You learn not to see. You learn to filter it out. I had a purpose. I was looking for my children’s father. That’s all I could do. I taught the children at home every day: two or three hours of reading, writing and math. I made lunch and saw to it they ate. Then I went out to the parks. When I covered the nearby parks, I got on a bike and went to the others. At first Denim went with me but it made him so sad when we came up empty. I was relieved when he decided not to go. His young tears were more than I could handle.

I rode all over town. I made a grid and covered it methodically. I rode by the stores I used to shop in, the restaurants we ate at, the novelty shops, art galleries, department stores, card shops, bakeries, fast food stops, office supplies, banks, clothing and jewelry stores. All of them were closed, boarded up and looted. The malls were a disaster. I couldn’t believe how fast it happened. All of these places were once the center of someone’s life. How could it all crumble so quickly?

There were stacks of plastic containers, bags and broken down appliances on every street corner. It wasn’t as bad as one would think. After the early days when the stench of raw sewage overwhelmed, people learned. Everything that could be burned was either burned or stored for later. There was very little edible garbage or refuge. People ate what they had and what couldn’t be eaten was used in gardens. Human waste was buried. Gardens were everywhere there was soil. It was a new way of life. People worked in them and protected them from harm. Water and containers were reused.

They say there’s always good in bad times and I guess this was it. The scent of fresh fruit and vegetables on the vine traveled down the lanes and roads, breathing hope into the people that we would survive.

I met all kinds of people along the way. I tried to stand off. The last thing I wanted was to get involved in other people’s lives but I couldn’t help caring. People who had come from high paying jobs were working alongside people who had worked with their hands all their lives. They were pulling together, working together, taking care of each other’s children. In many ways it warmed my heart.

Finally, someone recognized the man in the picture. I was at a park in the north end of town and a man who was busy repairing fabric for tents took a look and looked again. Yes, he had seen that face and if memory served him it was at the bridge camp across the river on the south end of town. He couldn’t be sure but he thought it was his face and he thought that was the place.

It was too late in the day to make it to the bridge camp before nightfall so I decided to go home. On the ride I thought things through. My emotions were mixed. I understood why he did what he did but I also knew that many families managed to stay together. There was joy in the possibility that I knew where he was but there were also misgivings. Months had passed since we were together. What if he was with someone? What if he didn’t want to come home? I couldn’t be sure of anything, even that he would be there, so I decided not to tell the kids or anyone at home. I would stick to my schedule. Take care of the kids, work in the garden and then I’d ride to the bridge camp to see if my husband was there and wanted to see his children.

I couldn’t sleep that night. I knew I would dream of him and I didn’t want that. I wanted my mind to be clear and open. I wanted to look in his eyes and see if his love was still there. I wanted to be sure of my own love for him. I wanted to listen without judgment. I wanted no anger, no retribution and no blame. I went over and over it in my mind. How I would look and what I would say. I tried not to bend the conversation to my will. I tried to see the world from his eyes and use the thoughts and words that came from his heart.

I was pretty much a zombie in the morning but I went through the motions and got through the day. I kissed Denim and Charlie before I left and they gave me that strange look that tells you they know something is up. I wanted to tell them but I couldn’t. I couldn’t risk the disappointment.

Riding through the old neighborhood on my way to the bridge was a blur. I had to stop to gain my bearings. An older man asked if I needed help and I almost panicked. The more I thought the less I understood. When I finally reached the old bridge with its statuesque guardian lions, worn and cracked with age, the only thought I had left was that I wanted my husband back.

I walked over the bridge trailing my bike alongside. My heart was throbbing like a migraine. I couldn’t see for the tears that I couldn’t stop. I had to sit down and breathe as soon as I cleared the bridge. I could see some of the people from the camp below going about their business, gathering wood, collecting berries, tending the gardens and doing whatever it was they had to do to survive. They looked like regular people, not the haggard homeless bunch we used to ignore as much as possible.

A woman noticed me and smiled. She stopped her gardening and walked up the dirt trail to where I was still sitting, unable to stir. Sitting beside me she asked my name. It put me strangely at ease. How rare it was to have someone ask your name these days. Her name was Solar. We were of the age when unusual names were common.

It was a pleasant day, still warm though autumn was winding in, and we sat and talked about the weather and how good it was for the gardens and the people working to survive the coming winter. We talked about the change in our lives and how it wasn’t all bad. People were learning to live together. People were returning to the earth. The poisoning of the air and water had all but stopped and the planet was healing.

Finally I told her why I was there and showed her the picture. She didn’t hesitate. She knew Stone and knew him well enough to know his name. She said that Stone was in camp when she arrived. He was honest, hard working and giving. He helped her set up when a spot opened. He was alone but he never tried to impose. She felt warm toward him and wouldn’t have minded if he had. He was always a gentleman.

Stone left yesterday morning. Solar got up early just to say goodbye and wish him well. She asked me how we were related and I told her. She just nodded. It was a story she had heard dozens of times. Many families were torn apart. She was living with a man herself when hard times hit. They didn’t last two weeks. He left to be with his family and she was out in the streets. She found the bridge camp and was lucky that someone had just left. She had her place, she felt safe and she was comfortable but she was worried about surviving the winter outdoors. They were building a wall to block the western wind and they had plenty of wood for burning but she was still worried. They all were. They knew all of them wouldn’t make it. They only hoped that most of them would.

“You should talk to Sugar,” she said suddenly.

Sugar was an older man who became close with Stone. Solar explained he was a kind of teacher. He taught survival skills. He helped Stone prepare for the road. If anyone knew where he was going it was Sugar.

She helped me down the hill, sat me down at her campsite and heated up some tea while we waited for Sugar. He was working on a new greenhouse and shelter in the orchards up river. I was worried that I wouldn’t make it home in daylight but I felt I had to talk to the man. I had to know where Stone went and what he was thinking. I couldn’t go on if I didn’t know.

Sugar came walking into camp with a couple others not long before sundown. We walked out to meet him and he seemed to know who I was without asking. His expression slowly changed from joy to sorrow as he realized why I had come.

“You missed him by a day and a half,” he said.

His gaze was downward, as if studying the ground beneath his feet, and his remorse was so sincere that for a moment I thought he must be to blame. But anyone with half the sense of a blue jay could see his remorse was riding on sympathy, not guilt. Like Stone, he was decent man doing the best he could to ease the burden on his fellow travelers. He had the kind of face that revealed the hardships of years of struggle. Life had not been kind to Sugar but nothing he had encountered so far could defeat his gentle giving spirit.

We sat in his campsite in the cool of the evening, a soft wind singing through the trees, more thoughts than we could manage to speak. Sugar told me Stone’s story, his reasons for leaving reflecting his love and good will, and I told him mine. Solar listened, remaining silent, letting the words flow on a warm current of empathy. Sugar’s story ended with Stone departing camp on his way south with instructions to take the untraveled roads. He had a vague idea of returning to his blood family in Colorado but Sugar thought it was unlikely he would cross the desert.

“Most likely he ends up in some camp. He’ll find shelter for the winter and then he’ll come back home in the spring.”

We let that thought settle as the camp came to life with people preparing for dinner. I thought about following Stone’s path south on the hope that I could still find him if fate was on our side but Sugar advised against it. It was a hard road even for a well-traveled man. It was far too dangerous for a woman alone. Solar nodded in agreement, as if the road had been cruel to her as well, and reminded me of the children. Of course, I thought. Fate had already made its play. I would go home to be with my children and Stone would travel on alone. It was not what I wanted, not what I envisioned, but I still had hope that the road would wind back home. I would wait for the spring.

The sun was falling from the sky, a mellow sunset just blooming over the trees and foliage to the west. They told me it was too late to ride back home and asked me to stay the night. I realized they were right. My children would worry but they would be all right. They saw to it that I was fed and fixed up a place for me to sleep, a couple of wool blankets and a makeshift pillow. There was a camp bonfire with music and singing and good times. Sugar pulled a few beers out of his stash and shared them with Solar and me.

I felt good. I felt warm and wanted. For one night there were no expectations, no struggles with my family, no arguments or pressure. For one night I let all the emotions I kept contained inside float out into the last of a summer breeze. Solar and I talked into the late night – mostly about the future we envisioned, the one we could paint with the brush of our desires – and then I slept. I slept soundly and deeply, as I hadn’t in many months.

In the morning I thanked them and promised I would come back to the camp whenever I could and I would bring my children to meet them. They smiled as if I was only being polite but I meant it. I wanted them to be a part of our lives. I wanted my children to see how other people lived. If their father never came back, I wanted them to be a bridge to his memory. Children need to remember the good.

I rode back to my mother’s house and called Denim and Charlie into our room. I told them a story of their father. It was a different story than the one they knew. It was a story of a man doing his best under the most difficult circumstances, a man who loved his wife and children enough to take on the hardships of the road. I told them he would return as soon as he could. I told them that spring was the best we could hope for.

They seemed pleased with my story. Denim had that look of knowing that children develop at a certain age. He was glad I came to terms with his father’s absence but he didn’t believe he would return. Charlie believed. Her eyes shined with delight even through her tears when I said we would wait for spring. I wiped her tears away, kissed her on both cheeks, and prayed she would not be disappointed.

We settled back into our daily routine as best we could. I resolved to be a peacemaker in our home as much as possible. I tried hard to understand everyone’s point of view. I complimented Joan every chance I had though it was not easy to find opportunities. I worked extra hard to win over her kids. They were sweet kids really. All kids are sweet. They just wanted to know the rules. I worked on my relationship with Carlin and encouraged Uncle Bud and Aunt Mildred to engage in family decisions.

We all made an effort to give my mother the respect she deserved. This was her house and it was not her fault the whole world turned upside down. If she wanted something, someone got it for her. If she made a decision, it was up to us to carry it out. Eventually, she came out of isolation and became the strong and loving woman I had known before.

My thinking changed on schooling the children. Yes, reading, writing and math were important, very important, but there were new skills the children needed just as much. We studied gardening and alternative energy systems. We studied nutrition and water conservation. I went to the library every Thursday (the library was still functioning with volunteers who believed that books were the most important legacy we could preserve for future generations) and brought home a selection of books for reading: Science books on greenhouse effects and climatology, books on the sun and the stars, history books on the Great Depression, industrialization, immigrant movements, the pilgrims, slavery, women’s rights, civil rights, the Civil War, the World Wars, the displacement of indigenous tribes and westward migration. I wanted my children to know that every generation has challenges and they too could overcome.

I brought home great books of literature: The Grapes of Wrath, Blood Meridian, A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, The Lord of the Rings, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Don Quixote, Moby Dick, The Wizard of Oz, The Last of the Mohicans, Invisible Man, Frankenstein, The Three Musketeers, Robinson Crusoe, 1984, A Brave New World. I didn’t care about the level of reading. I wanted them to appreciate the words and the stories. We took turns reading the words aloud for their sound and rhythm and then we retold the story in our own words.

I don’t know if it was my efforts that made a difference. I’m sure if I asked Joan she’d say it was something she did. But things got better around the house. The adults were more respectful of each other and the children became friends. Maybe it’s inevitable. When people realize there is no other viable choice, they begin to adjust.

In November we received word that a nasty virus was hitting communities in the northern part of the valley. It was headed our way. Whole communities and camps were laid out. A lot of people had already died. The medicines we had (even if they were available) could only ease the suffering. Antibiotics didn’t work. (They hadn’t really worked for a long time.) No one knew where it came from or why but everyone was afraid it was a modern version of the plague. We got together with our neighbors and decided to put up barriers at both ends of our street to keep the vagabonds out. Some of our neighbors wanted to keep everyone out, friends and family included. We voted them down. I was not only one who was waiting for a wandering family member to return. We agreed that if someone got sick we would quarantine the house. Before it was over two houses were quarantined and three people were dead. Two of them were children. That’s the great shame of illness. It takes the young and innocent along with the old and weak first. It’s the way of the world and though it was hard on all of us, it made us tougher, stronger and more determined.

We knew those children. They were a little younger that Charlie but she played with them often enough. I can’t tell you how many times she asked why she couldn’t go to the Parker house any more. She couldn’t understand that some sicknesses were deadly. She couldn’t wrap her mind around death. Even after they were gone, she asked about them.

What do you tell a child who has no concept of death? I told her the truth. They were dead and buried. They were not coming back. I’m afraid Charlie still didn’t understand but she appreciated my trying to explain. She welcomed the comfort of my voice and the warmth of my embrace. Only when I cried did she.

Denim got it. He knew people were dying all the time. He’d seen them on our bicycle journeys. I was afraid he was becoming too hard, too immune to the emotions that a child his age should have. I suppose everyone grows up faster in hard times. We worked hard. We had no time for grief or mourning. We went on. It was our job to keep moving.

When the wind brought the first chill of winter we were prepared. We had a good supply of fruits and vegetables we canned ourselves. The greenhouse was up and running. We had a solar panel that Carlin salvaged from an abandoned house, a generator and a small supply of gas. We had a wood stove and plenty of wood cut to size.

Come December, two weeks short of Christmas, we were beginning to feel assured. We were beginning to have confidence that we could make it through the winter and if we could make it through the first winter, why not the second and the third? That was when the tornadoes hit. There was no television or radio so we had no warning. The weather turned unseasonably warm and anyone who had ever lived in Oklahoma or Missouri could tell you it looked like tornado weather.

It was late afternoon and I was out in the garden, weeding, hoeing, checking the drip system and pulling a few of the remaining tomatoes for supper when the temperature dropped and a shadow drew over me. I could hear the wind but I couldn’t feel it. I heard what sounded like pebbles dropping on the plastic covering of our greenhouse and roof. I looked up and the clouds were writhing in spectacular formations with flashes of turquoise and streaks black. I got up and walked out into the yard where I could a clear view and I saw two then three funnel clouds racing in our direction. The wind began to sing as I rushed inside to tell everyone to take cover. We didn’t have a basement or a storm shelter. This was California where things like this never happened. Well, they never used to happen. We all crowded into the bathroom and Carlin pulled two mattresses from the beds and we pulled them over us as the windows shook and the storm’s rage screamed so loud we had to cover our ears. The children were all crying and my mother was breathing so hard I thought she was having a heart attack. It passed in no more than thirty seconds but it felt like the end of the world. We waited in case it was the eye of the storm.

Some said it was a series of nine twisters, one after another, some weaker, some stronger, but they tore whole neighborhoods and camps apart. Buildings twisted like children’s toys, homes and trees uprooted, cars, vans and trucks tossed onto roofs. It sounded like locusts but it was so loud and so relentless. When it got close it rumbled the earth.

We were lucky. Our house was untouched. Tornados are like a roulette wheel. They twist and wind and crack like a whip and when they pass and the shock of the pounding volume subsides and the pressure that steals all sense of balance eases, we are left to see who the monster claimed. In our neighborhood it claimed a house on the corner and one across the street. It could have been us. We were lucky or blessed or marked for another trial – whatever your beliefs allow.

The people in the houses were lucky too. They still had their lives. They were badly bruised and scraped up but the monster had no appetite for human flesh. It wanted only brick and mortar in our corner of town.

The neighbors took them in – the ones that still had room – and we all agreed to contribute food, wood, whatever it took to make up for what was lost. Our confidence was shaken. The whole town was hit. We had no way of knowing how much damage was done. We had no way of knowing whether anyone in the government could help or if they even knew what was happening.

Overnight our supplies did not look so plentiful. We went back to work expanding our greenhouses, collecting and cutting wood, making repairs and improvements. The twisters had shaken our confidence but they did not weaken our resolve. If anything we were more determined than before. We were conditioned by now to expect adversity. We would not back down.

We celebrated Christmas as a neighborhood in the backyard of the Bannister place, the largest house on the block. We had home grown wine and the finest array of garden vegetables and fruit pies ever assembled. We had catfish and nuts and cashews and chocolates from the Caribbean and coffee, sweet delicious coffee from Columbia. We had music and dance and olives and grapes and bakery delights with sliced almonds and rare spices.

There was no turkey and no ham. Since food became scarce people stopped raising animals for meat. It was more efficient and economical to raise crops for direct consumption. People still ate meat but it came from hunting and trapping rather than poultry farms or pig farms or cattle ranches.

The children all had gifts from Santa. There was licorice and cotton candy and jelly babies and fudge and strawberries and blueberry jams and dolls carved of wood and models of castles and log cabins. There were books: whatever book a child desired was hers or his forever.

It was a beautiful Christmas. It was the most beautiful Christmas in the history of the world. We had peace. We had our basic needs fulfilled. We had a good idea of what tomorrow would bring and we were ready to face the challenge. It was the Christmas of hope. With so much loss and so much suffering we had a rebirth of spirit.

Everywhere I went it was the same. I brought my children to the Bridge Camp on Christmas Eve. We brought gifts of fine foods and spirits. We brought the thanks and blessings of our family and friends. We brought the spirit of unity and we received more than we gave.

“And in the end the love you take is equal to the love you make.”

I will never forget that Christmas as long or as short as I live. It will be one of my last memories. My youngest Charlie was blooming as a person. She found her rhythm, her step and her calling. She became a dancer, a singer and a person with opinions. My son Denim matured before he should have. He discovered the joy of life that is Christmas for the first time and it would never abandon him again.

After Christmas we settled in, mending our clothes, tending the greenhouse, making household repairs, canning and stocking and finding ways to spend the night. Without television and radio or the internet we learned how to carry on conversations. We found board games stored away in the garage – monopoly, checkers, chess, trivia – and we played for hours before we retired for the evening. It was like those old pioneer movies and television series that no one can quite remember. It was quiet. It was so quiet that you could hear a dog barking blocks away. You could hear a neighbor’s argument or someone walking on the street with hard-heeled shoes. No one could move around outside at night without drawing all eyes and ears. It was strangely reassuring.

The winter was so mild that we hardly ever had to light a fire. We wore layers of clothing and wool sweaters and draped a blanket over our laps. The children huddled with their parents and grandparents, exchanging the warmth of their bodies.

We were almost comfortable and content when the visitors came. Looking back it was probably inevitable. There were those who prepared for the winter and those who didn’t. When the food ran out they came looking. Some said they were gangsters from the big cities migrating to the valley where less people were competing for more resources. Others said they were the last phase of the prisoner release, hardened criminals, violent and unprepared to survive in the world by any other means. Whoever they were and whatever their reasons we were not prepared for what they offered.

Three of them showed up one evening when everyone was inside. They banged a couple of garbage can lids together until we came outside. They were not tall but broad, wearing leather jackets and carrying clubs, chains and knives. Once we were assembled, our men and a handful of women with baseball bats and garden tools, they told us there was trouble coming and they were offering protection. In exchange, they wanted food.

We heard their appeal and we all understood: They wanted to feed themselves with our produce, fruits and vegetables we had grown with our own hands, canned and stored, and in exchange they would protect us from themselves. It was a shakedown and once it began it had no end. They would take a little at first, and then more and more, until neither we nor our children had enough to eat.

We looked at each other in fear and skepticism and a man who considered himself one of our leaders (and I suppose he was) spoke for us all: He told them we needed time to talk it over. The three of them smiled and rattled their chains, playfully tapped their clubs in their hands, and one of them informed us they would be back in a couple of days to learn our decision.

“Talk all you want,” he said. “These boys are coming and they’re not like us. They’ll take everything you got and they won’t ask you nice.”

Thankfully none of our men acted on their impulse to challenge them. Big John and Jose were biting their lips. They felt like their manhood was threatened. But we needed time no matter what we decided to do. There were the children and the old folks to think about.

We called a neighborhood meeting first thing after dinner. We gathered at the Bannister’s and every house was represented. We all agreed it was a shakedown and they couldn’t be trusted. There was no guarantee they would keep their word. In fact no one believed they would. Still, we could not agree on what to do. The men led by Big John and Jose wanted to fight. Several of them had fancy hunting bows and arrows. They wanted to collect weapons and set up defenses. The women were divided. Some thought we had no choice. We had to fight. If we gave in god knows what would happen: rape, kidnapping, child abuse, it all came out. Others thought we could try negotiating. At least it would give us more time to prepare. Maybe the authorities would come to our aid. Maybe we could get the children out.

We decided we would send a runner to the only remaining police center. Who would have thought that a city of this size would be down to one police station? In the beginning, when things went bad but the police and firefighters and public health people still had paying jobs, and the police were still holding on to their old authority, they thought it was their responsibility to protect the rich. But the rich never reciprocated, never shared the wealth, never even thought about the families of the people that protected them. So everything changed. When the money ran out it was all volunteers. Volunteers ran all of the public services now. They received extra food and gas coupons and that was fine because money had no real value. Some people hoarded it in anticipation of a return to normalcy but even that expectation was fading. There would have been thousands of volunteers except there was a strict limit. There wasn’t enough food and gas was a luxury. The police that remained were obviously overstretched. They were ex-police officers, security people and military personnel. We had asked for their help before – to deal with thieves mostly – and they never came. We didn’t expect help this time either but we had to try. If they didn’t come for this we could be sure they would never come.

Not having made a decision and not knowing what would happen with the police, we started working on our defenses. Carlin was in the military so he got involved in the planning, training and preparations. They had four high tech bows, three of them the smaller hand-held variety and one traditional bow. Each had a dozen arrows. They set up targets and started practice in the back yard of the Bannister house. The plan was to place them on roofs at each end of the street, looking down on the barricades.

We gathered a dozen or so baseball bats, wood and metal, and distributed them to able-bodied men and women. We had chains, golf clubs, stones and baseballs, clubs fashioned from the handles of brooms and garden tools. We had axes and hatchets and butcher knives. We strengthened our barricades with old stoves and refrigerators, cars and trucks.

I remember looking at the assortment of weapons and the people that were supposed to use them and all I could think was what a disaster it would be if we really had to fight. I waited until the day was over and dinner was done to ask Carlin what he thought. He was tired and agitated and the sweat from his hard work and worry made his skin shine in the candlelight. He shook his head and his face turned dark. He didn’t want to say it was hopeless. In his mind there was no choice. If these people had a large force and they were allowed in, he was certain they would take everything. He believed they would move the people out or use them as they pleased: slaves for cooking, cleaning, farming, sex, sport. He knew we were not ready to face them down. Maybe we would never be ready. We were not fighters but we were survivors. His one hope was that we could put up enough of a fight that they would choose to move on. There were many other neighborhoods that had as much and more than we had and many of them would open the doors of negotiations. If we put up a resistance, if we made them take casualties, if we showed we were willing to fight, that might be enough.

He felt strongly that the women, children and the elderly should be evacuated even though he had no clue where – anywhere but here was his only thought. I told him we should think of our own family first and we should start thinking now while there was still time.

All the adults were at the table. The children were playing in the living room. Everyone was quiet, waiting for what Carlin said next. All the weight of the family was falling on his shoulders and I wished Stone were here to lighten his load. Carlin was not born to be a leader. He felt things deeply but he had learned to hold it in. He became stoic over the years and others counted on him to remain cool and collected. He was feeling the pressure now and it registered on his face. He was anguished and slow to speak. When he did we were all the more ready to listen.

He said that if we were having this discussion we could be sure that others were as well. He said we had to think beyond tomorrow. Even if we could find a place where we would be safe for a day or two, we would still have to survive the winter. Even if we survived the winter we would have to start over with nothing. He told us that things looked grim but we at least had a plan. If we stuck together we had a chance. If we fell apart there was no chance.

Everyone nodded in agreement and I had to give in. He said that we would find a temporary safe haven in the morning. He assured us we would find someplace within the area. We would give food for shelter and someone would welcome us. Then we would transport the children, the old people and mothers. He said that he had broached the subject with Big John but there wasn’t enough time. He was sure everyone would agree.

I felt better knowing we would try to get the children out but I also knew there were a lot of problems and I could see most of them. The roads weren’t safe with these criminals roaming around. How could we transport children and old people? If they hit our neighborhood, why wouldn’t they have hit others in our area? How far would we have to go? How much food would we have to promise? Why would they believe us? If we lost the neighborhood, there would be no food. Some of the old people couldn’t walk. Some were sick. Some of the children were only babies. There were so many problems and so little time.

Late that night we received good news. Our runner returned with word that the military was on its way. The police center had a short wave radio connection to the military base. They were tracing the movement of the Folsom gang (named for the prison that was their home). They started out as thieves and thugs, taking what they needed and moving on. As they made their way south they got bolder and more violent. By the time they hit our town they were taking over whole neighborhoods as they intended to do with ours. They left a trail of blood and horror wherever communities decided to fight back. They were not afraid of losing some of their own. It was a price they were willing to pay. They were picking up recruits as they went along. What began as a predominantly Latino gang was now multi-ethnic and diverse, its members virtually unidentifiable. They were becoming a threat to the established order (such as it was) which is why they became a target.

The military decided to make a stand with us. They rolled in three transport vehicles in the early morning hours and evacuated everyone but a handful of men. Carlin was one of those who stayed in the neighborhood. They were needed to carry out the plan. Big John, Jose, Carlin and a couple of others would greet the gangsters at the barricade to inform them that the neighborhood had decided to refuse their offer. Then they would wait for the gang to assemble in full force.

We were taken to a large warehouse with a concrete floor, metal walls and a high metal roof. They put up barriers to shield us from the soldiers as they did their training exercises. It was cold – not physically but emotionally. There was no human touch. They did what they could to make us more comfortable: laying down rugs, bringing out toys, books, small chairs and tables for the children and board games for both children and adults. They served us warm meals and an officer gave us periodic updates about what was happening at home. It was always a little vague and stiff as if he had rehearsed and performed these duties a hundred times before.

He told us there little chance of anything going wrong. They not only had guns and ammunition, they were the elite soldiers of former wars. The Folsom gang was no match for them. He never said there would be a massacre. It didn’t need to be said. They were criminals and there were no prisons or jails to put them in.

We were trapped inside. They wouldn’t allow us to go out – as if we would give away their location, as if anyone would choose to attack them. They set up a walkway indoors, barricaded so we couldn’t see what was going on, so we couldn’t tell anyone about the weapons they had. It was strange and cold. I spent all my time with the children, reading and playing games and teaching them the wonders of a life they might never know again. I told them about the Grand Canyon and the ocean and zoos and the Yosemite waterfalls. I told them about running in the parks when the parks were still clean and green and full of squirrels and dogs without leashes. I saw the wonder in their young eyes and I realized how wondrous life really was before the fall. I wished Stone were there.

On the third day our information officer told us the Folsom scouts had come back to our neighborhood where they were told their offer was refused. The officer said it was only a matter of time. They would be back and soon it would all be over. Three days later it was. We were told that our loved ones were safe and the Folsom gang would never bother us again.

We packed what little we had, climbed in the transport vehicles and headed back home. For some reason I paid attention to the direction we were going and the amount of time it took. We traveled east, where we took some turns and made some stops that I surmised was designed to disorient us, and then we went east again and then south. I figured out why they wanted to keep their location secret. They were not afraid of an assault. They weren’t afraid of anything. They didn’t want anyone to know their response time. It would take them a good 90 minutes to reach our town and another thirty to an hour to get to our neighborhood. An outlaw gang would have a good two hours to take and do whatever they wanted before the army could get there. Add a day or two for the information to travel and an outlaw gang would pretty much have free reign as long as they kept moving. No wonder the military wanted a showdown. It was the only way they could stop them.

As we neared our destination, the transports stopped and an information officer informed us that there was some collateral damage. Collateral damage: That was the phrase the military used whenever a large number of civilians were killed at war. Collateral damage had names like My Lai, Fallujah, Abu Ghraib, Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The use of that phrase was calculated to brace us for bad news. Some our homes were hit by fire bombs. Apparently it was a contingency they were not prepared to counter or if they were they didn’t think it was worth the effort. The information officer informed us that some of us would have the option of returning to base until other living arrangements could be made.

I knew in my gut that our house was one of the damaged. I guess others felt the same way and some of them were right. Three homes were burned beyond repair and ours was one. I didn’t know what to feel or rather I didn’t know how to handle the anger that I felt. Should I be grateful that Carlin was unharmed? Was it enough that the family was still together?

Carlin told us later that he had to be restrained when the gang started their assault. The military wanted more numbers in the center of the street where they could mow them down with automatic weapons from the rooftops. They wiped them out. They killed them all and took the bodies away before we arrived. They washed down the streets. Dozens, maybe a hundred people were killed and I couldn’t help feeling sorry for them. The crimes they were held accountable for they hadn’t had a chance to commit. Maybe they had in some other community but not here. How did we know what they had done besides upsetting the natural order?

It seemed that Carlin would never be the same. His stoicism before was a way to hide his feelings. Now it was real. There was something missing in his eyes. He was always somewhere else. He told us what he’d seen down to the gory details, the shock in their eyes, the blood flooding the streets, the screams and the horror. Then he didn’t speak of it at all. It was always in his mind but he wouldn’t let it out.

The neighbors offered to take us in but we knew there wasn’t room. We stayed the night at the Bannister house. In the morning we looked through the rubble to see what we could save. There wasn’t much. I found a picture of Stone in a metal frame and a handful of books. That was all. My mother lost everything. We cried a while but she was strong. As a child she had known her share of hard times – a sharecropper’s daughter, an Oklahoma refugee, she outlived everyone in her family but her dear sister, whom she might never see again. She worked most her life and watched her husband and her oldest son (my brother) die. I guess she was prepared for anything life could throw at her. She said she was just happy that we were all safe but she looked so tired. I wondered how long she had left and how much more she could suffer. She had been stronger than all of us for so long.

We went back to the military base only this time they put us in one of the barracks – one of those shelters that looks like a giant barrel or tin can. There was plenty of room for our three families, each of which had children. They set us up as they had before only this time they let us go outside. I don’t know why they changed their minds. I guess some of them had hearts. Some of them had wives and children of their own. Ours were allowed to play with theirs and they all attended school on the base. It was taught by the parents but it was still school and I was grateful for it.

At any other time or at least before the fall I would have been incensed. It was as if all the books they had and all the stories they knew were biblical. It was like Sunday school five days a week. When had the Christian fundamentalists taken over the military? Maybe it happened a long time ago – during the Crusades that we kept insisting was a war for democracy – and no one noticed. When I asked one of the mothers about it she just shrugged and said it was all they knew. They didn’t object when I took my turn teaching and told them a story out of the Great Depression: the westward migration of the Dust Bowl refugees. The children were fascinated by a story that came so close to home. We drew pictures of old trucks and cars stacked with belongings, broken down on the long road west, bankers with police forcing people off their farms, people lined up for work, living in camps and sharing soup out of a large metal pot.

Some of the parents choked up when they recognized their own families and friends pushed out of their homes by greedy bankers. It was as if we had lost that part of our history. We all became so inwardly focused, so determined to survive within our small circles, that we refused to see what was happening to us all. We had forgotten that other people were our brothers and sisters. It sounds sophomoric but it’s true: we were losing our sense of belonging to a greater community. At the same time we were developing a sense of community on a smaller scale. The military families on this base had a community and we had one at home – our neighborhood community.

That was something we had lost before hard times came. We lived in neighborhoods but we didn’t really belong to them. If some misfortune struck a neighbor we made a great show of empathy but we felt no responsibility. We shrugged and went on with our lives, relieved that it wasn’t us. We paid taxes and relied on society to overcome hardships and rebuild broken lives. Now that there were no taxes to pay and no government agencies to come to our aid we were beginning to understand that we had to help each other.

The weather was turning warmer and the rains began to fall. You could smell it before you could see it: life struggling to be reborn. We had stayed longer than we expected and I was beginning to worry that the children were becoming attached. How many times could they be uprooted without doing harm? It was a way of life for so many people – men, women and children alike – but I didn’t want it to happen to us.

One evening after dinner Carlin said he thought we should go back home and rebuild. I cried and gave him a hug. It was the first sign that he was looking forward since the massacre. I think Joan was disappointed but she didn’t say so. She liked the base. She liked the fact that they took care of us and we were safe but even she recognized what it meant for Carlin and the family. We needed him. Without Stone we depended on him. The children needed a father and we all needed a strong man. Uncle Bud wasn’t up to the job. He was a fun loving man, funny and pleasant and willing, but he was old and feeble. He and Aunt Mildred were looking older every day.

Carlin talked to our information officer who talked to the commander. The word came back that they wanted us to consider staying. Some of the families had grown attached to us. They wanted us to join their community and they wanted the men to sign on as soldiers. It would have been tempting but after Carlin had seen them in action, after what he had witnessed, it was not possible. The other families decided to stay so we said our goodbyes and packed our things.

The military did right by us. They loaded up a separate truck with cut lumber, tools, nails and screws, coils of wire and various supplies, a new generator and a ten-gallon jug of gas. I’m not sure why they treated us so well. I think they knew how Carlin felt and maybe they wanted to make it up to him in some twisted way. We thanked them and counted our blessings.

The gardens and peach blossoms were in bloom the day we left. It was early morning and magpies and crows were out in force and the birds of spring were singing. The air was crisp and moist. Everything seemed to breathe possibilities and the kind of love that urges you on danced in our hearts. It was a good life and a good day to remember why.

We rode to the old neighborhood not knowing what tomorrow would bring but willing to believe all would be well. When we arrived there was a bearded man in well-traveled clothes with a walking stick and a dog sitting on the porch where my mother’s home once stood. It took a good long moment to recognize him.

It was Stone, dear god. He’d come home.