Beyond What We Know (eBook)

James Wood (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
232 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3178-0902-7 (ISBN)

Infos

A coming of age story about growing up in the 1980s - the life, love, music and machinery. 'Beyond What We Know' is for anyone who's ever believed in the possibility of second chances.

James Wood is a writer, artist and musician who has interviewed some of the biggest names in entertainment for worldwide media outlets as well as his hometown newspaper. He is the author of Neapolitan Sky (Gatekeeper Press) and the co-author of three children's picture books with all proceeds going to charity. A Class of '87 alumni, he still resides in Easton, Pennsylvania. Find out more by visiting www.gojimmygo.net

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Riddled with guilt over the death of his father, high school graduate Mike Collins spends his last summer at home disquieted by thoughts of leaving behind his mother and first love as he prepares to depart for college. Unbeknownst to him, Mike will soon meet his musical hero, Chris Steele, whose perspective of life will teach him to believe in the possibility of second chances. Filled with rich imagery from the 1980s, "e;Beyond What We Know"e; is a coming-of-age story exploring life's obstacles, the music and the machinery, while illuminating the power of friendship with the metaphysical transcendence of the unknown.

Textauszug

Chapter Four

Amy and I graduated from East Penn Senior High School on June 12th, 1987. It was one of those stereotypical commencement ceremonies where the principal told us how proud he was of us, the valedictorian talked about the future and the importance of making a difference in the world, and the school band and choir performed songs of pomp and circumstance, accomplishment and benediction.

At the end of the ceremony, all of the students followed the traditional singing of the school’s Alma Mater by tossing their caps high into the air in celebration of our momentous achievement.

Most of the new graduates, at least the ones who would admit it, were fairly certain of where the next chapter of our lives would take us, but the truth of the matter was none of us knew what the future might hold.

For her part, Amy had already been accepted as an art major at the Art Institute in Richmond, Virginia, where she planned on pursuing a degree in art history and teaching.

Her college tuition was going to be paid with a full-ride scholarship she’d earned for her talent, while mine would have to be supplemented by Pell Grants and student loans I’d eventually have to pay back.

I found myself sleeping in most mornings that summer after graduation, and my evenings were spent talking to Amy on the phone until late into the night.

The two of us had attended several graduation parties together that summer, took in more than a few movie marathons at the local cinema, played endless rounds of Yahtzee, and even spent an entire weekend together at the beach in Cape May over the fourth of July weekend.

But as June turned into July and July melted into August our extended late-night conversations became less frequent, but it wasn’t because of anything either of us had done intentionally.

Amy was busy preparing for her move to Richmond, and I spent my time researching and filling out grant and student loan applications, although I still found plenty of time to mope around the house.

As the days slipped by I found myself doing less and less of the former and more and more of the latter.

In short, I was getting nothing accomplished.

My mother had picked up a lot of extra shifts at Mercy Hospital over the summer, most likely to keep herself busy and in case I’d wind up needing extra money for school.

The only chores she gave me to do were to take out the trash once a week and mow the lawn, and I even managed to find those menial tasks difficult to do.

Mom certainly had every right to nag me about my procrastination, but I think she decided to cut me some slack because of what happened to my father.

A few weeks ago, things began to weigh heavily on me. Although I never talked to my mother about any of my personal issues, I’m sure if I’d spoken to a therapist I would’ve been diagnosed with clinical depression.

I could even picture myself sitting across from someone with a doctorate degree in psychology, analyzing my feelings about growing up and going off to college, but never getting to the crux of the issue, which was the guilt I had about not only losing my father unexpectedly, but also dreading the day Amy would leave for Virginia.

One of the things that brought me a little bit of joy over summer break were the days when my Uncle Dave would come over and cook breakfast for my mother and me.

David Collins is my Dad’s younger brother and a sous chef by trade, so he really knows his way around the kitchen.

A few times a month, Uncle Dave would arrive at the house promptly at 6:00 a.m. and the rattling of bowls and pans would commence.

The bacon and egg breakfasts he’d make for me and my mother were second to none, and the three of us would often sit at the kitchen table for hours drinking coffee and reminiscing about my father.

Occasionally, Uncle Dave would stay well into the afternoon and bake the most incredible pies I’ve ever tasted.

On those special days he’d bring along a bag of ripe apples he’d purchased from the local farmer’s market, and within hours of commencing the activity the entire house would smell of warm apples, cinnamon and brown sugar.

A few days ago, Mom began going through one of her semi-annual downsizing phases, and this past Friday she asked if I could go through some of the old boxes in the attic to see if anything could be donated to the local Good Will. Despite my intention to procrastinate, I managed to muster up the enthusiasm that afternoon to get started.

I sat there in the stillness of the dusty attic separating the contents of large cardboard boxes into small piles on the floor. I found more than a few of the boxes had been used for storing clothing no one had worn in years but my mother had decided to save.

In addition to the clothing, I had allocated other piles for various knick knack items I found, including one pile for old Christmas ornaments and another for board games I no longer played.

While reaching for boxes of checkers, Battleship and Life to add to the pile, I noticed a small shoebox sitting next to a large cache of Christmas decorations.

I placed the box on my lap and curiously flipped open the lid. Inside, I discovered several packets of family photographs that had been taken over the years.

I thumbed through the old images of summer picnics and holiday get-togethers from the late-1970s through the mid-1980s. Some of the people in the photos I instantly recognized, while others felt cold and unfamiliar.

There were more than a few photos my mother had taken of me and my father standing on the dock near the Bushkill Creek with our fishing rods in hand.

On the back of one of those Polaroids Mom had scribbled the date “August, 16, 1985” in her whimsical cursive handwriting.

I tried to remember if Dad and I had caught a fish on that particular day, not that it really mattered.

At the bottom of the shoebox was another packet of photos Mom had labeled “Cars.” I flipped it open and discovered even older black and white images of my father and mother from the mid-1960s I’d never seen before.

They were both standing next to what I assumed was my father’s first 1965 Ford Mustang coupe. Both of my parents looked so young.

In another photo a young version of my father stood in front of the car next to an even younger version of my Uncle Dave.

Dad’s hair had been slicked back in a pompadour and his hands sank deep into the pockets of his jacket. He reminded me of a young James Dean doing a promo shoot for “Rebel Without A Cause.”

There were several more recent color photos of my parents and I included in this packet from several car show events we attended over the years.

In one of them, Dad was standing in front of another Mustang with a big smile on his face and talking to a few strangers who had been admiring his car.

I turned the evocative photograph over and saw where Mom had written the words, “Lou’s Company Party – Ecolaire: September 7, 1986.”

A cold tightness seeped into my chest, and before I realized what was happening my eyes began to well with tiny tears. I sighed deeply and tossed all the photos back inside the shoebox and tossed it aside.

Ever since I turned twelve I found that whenever something was really bothering me, whether it was a not existent relationship with a girl, a difficult class in school, or the pressures of pubescent life in general, taking a walk always helped clear my head.

Seeing that photograph of my father’s joy at his company picnic taken eleven days before his death immediately turned it into one of those moments.

Realizing this was also going to be my last chance to take a long walk through the neighborhood before leaving for college, I decided to make the most of the situation.

The walk that afternoon felt like the longest I’d ever taken. The air was crisp but the billowing gray clouds in the sky whispered a veiled threat of rain.

I walked through long stretches of neighborhood homes, past the bright red neon sign of “Barney’s Steak Shop” and the long-abandoned building that once housed the Seitz Pretzel Factory.

I passed by the Adverse City record store, Lucey’s corner grocery and the old silk mill my grandfather had worked at for nearly forty years until his retirement in the mid-1960’s.

I eventually came to the end of Iron Street where thin walls of rusted chain-link fence surrounded DePaul’s Junkyard.

Seeing the acres of cars in various stages of disrepair beyond its microcosm immediately conjured up images of my father and all the times we spent in this yard gathering parts for his many project cars.

Some people, including me, can find solace standing near a deceased relative’s gravesite, or lighting a candle and sitting alone in a pew in church, but on that day I also felt a strong sense of comfort and connection just from looking at acres of scrapped and junked cars.

The front gate to the yard had been secured by a thick metal padlock, and as I passed by I heard a loud bang that sounded like a car backfiring. It startled me so badly that I lost all sense of balance and tripped over my own feet and fell hard to the ground with a loud thud.

When I came to my senses, I found myself face to snout with the largest Dobermann I’d ever seen in my life.

The monster dog must have weighed at least seventy-five pounds, with a deep dark hue that reminded me of hot melted tar. Tiny streaks of gray ran in short parallel lines along...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 31.8.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3178-0902-7 / 9798317809027