Echoes of Newtown. Blake Fite

      Ladd, Virginia

      The sweet air of hot cornbread fills the air this morning and just about every morning for this old man. My children sure do take good care of me.

      They must think I’m a pretty typical old fella. But, we all have our stories, don’t we?

      The aroma calls me to the back door where I find a freshly cut portion wrapped in an old cloth napkin—my favorite napkin, as a matter of fact, because when you look real’ close, a scene of cherries faded by the years comes right into view. Life is full of little treats when you look hard enough.

      With warm bread in hand, I head out on my morning walk in the garden. I reckon I give that vegetable garden a good 2,000 steps each morning—just me and the Lord. Someday, I’ll walk in His garden, but for now, this routine keeps me going strong here on earth.

      Out here among the fattened veggies and budding sprouts, the memories flow like a river. But do you know the difference between a river and a pond? Rivers empty out into another body of water, like a lake or stream. Well, I’ve never been one to go against nature, so I think it’s about time for my hidden tales to flow into the sea of the next generation. And, young grasshopper, that’s you.

      I sure do wish you could taste this cornbread—made even better with a few of these fresh tomatoes I just picked. For a long time, my mornings started with fear and ended with sorrow, and I thought those days might never change. But, then the railroad came along. I still remember that fancy new sign. It read, “SHENANDOAH VALLEY RAILROAD.”

      Something about that train chugging into town with loads of hope and pulling out of town full of possibility gave me the crazy-headed idea there might be something more out there—a way to see where I came from.

      Finding Family

      “I’m dying you know, Rascal?” Billy said to his friend as the hot summer breeze mingled with the tunes of the locusts.

      “You ain’t dying, Billy,” Rascal retorted.

      “I am. And, you are, too. It’s a matter of fact. This is the first day of the rest of our lives,” Billy answered. “So why should I spend it here in some old house putting up with all of this mess.”

      “Well, maybe we are dying, scientifically speaking,” Rascal conceded, “but you don’t have to go on and say it. Don’t the preacher say your words have power?”

      Billy’s deep-blue eyes avoided eye contact as his thoughts rattled on. He did this to keep himself from shifting from determination into despair—that was one of many tricks Billy had learned over his twelve long years on earth. The truth was that his home didn’t feel much like he thought a home should, and if he thought too hard about it, a tear might escape.

      “Awwe, forget it,” Billy concluded. “We got birthdays coming up, and celebration is in order. What do you say we see what the fish are doing at Mr. Picket’s pond?”

      Mr. Pickets pond wasn’t just a fishing hole. In fact, pickings were slim as far as fish were concerned, but when the fish were scarce, the large green plot was perfect for a game of catch or a good long session of stargazing. The boys always found just what they needed in the sky with its mix of constancy and whimsy.

      “You know, Rascal? I ain’t got no family but you,” Billy said, eyes locked on the evening sky.

      “Sure you do. You got your Uncle John,” Rascal said.

      “That old drunk,” Billy scoffed. “He ain’t family. He just owns the house.” Billy thought back for a moment to when his Uncle John and Aunt Sunny shared a happy home—before John’s drinking took over and Aunt Sunny moved north. He kicked the dirt as he continued, “He can’t even keep his own family together.”

      “C’mon, Billy,” Rascal said. “He loves you as much as your Pa did. He just doesn’t know how to show it.”

      “Oh, is that what the director says before she sends your buddies out to their test families?” Billy asked, referring to the director at the orphanage where Rascal lived.

      “It’s a dormitory!” Rascal corrected. “And, maybe it is what she says, … but it’s true as far as I can tell.” He continued, “She says, ‘We’re all born with hearts that know how to love, but sometimes life—’”

      “Well,” Billy interrupted, “if beating on Aunt Sunny and me is love, I guess she’s right.”

      “… breaks us clean in two,” Rascal finished.

      The two kept silent for a moment—each thinking about what the other one had just said as they fashioned the clouds into war scenes. Billy thought often about the war that took his Pa and wondered what it had done to break his uncle.

      “The point is your family,” Billy said with finality.

      “Thanks, Billy,” Rascal said. “You, too.”

      “Say, Rascal. There’s not too much daylight left. You best be getting back before supper. Don’t they give you extra chores if you’re late?” Billy asked.

      “Chores aren’t so bad,” Rascal answered in his typical rebuttal.

      “Not so bad?!” Billy said. “Last week, you said you were up past three in the morning scrubbing the floors. Go on, get out of here. You linger any longer and your knees will be as brown as your eyes by morning.”

      It was always a trick getting Rascal to return to the orphanage. He wasn’t happy there. But this particular night, a wild game of baseball in the yard made his return a little more manageable.

      The Dormitory

      “You’re late, kid!” shouted a boy from the makeshift outfield.

      “I was just—,” Rascal began.

      “Just get in position the sun is about to set. Over there. Your catcher,” another boy directed, as he pointed Rascal to the white rock they called home plate.

      With an impeding hunger, Rascal could hardly keep his mind on the game let alone his eye. Whoosh! A ball bounced right off his chest and rolled down the yard toward a construction site nearby.

      “Get your head in the game, kid,” a boy yelled. “And get that ball!”

      “He ain’t getting it. You know Rascal. He’s chicken,” another boy jeered.