602 Main Street Savannah, Missouri

602 Main Street Savannah, Missouri

Moving On

The poet T.S. Elliot wrote that we should not cease from exploration; and that at the end of our exploration, we would return to the place where we started and know it for the first time. That’s how I feel about our old family home on Main Street

It was Memorial day, 1960-something, when we moved into the house on 602 Main Street. I was in junior high school. Kennedy was president and about to murdered in Dallas. The country was taking its first baby steps into space, and the three B’s ruled my music world: Beatles, Beach Boys, and Byrds.

A church we barely knew helped move us in. I think my Dad thought it would be a transition home.. Perhaps a few years here and then we’d move to a newer ranch-style home that was all the rage in small-town Savannah, Missouri.

That was not to be. My Dad died in that old house; sitting in his easy chair; the televised Royals playing on unmindful of his passing.

My Dad was a thinking man, and his handy work is all over that house. There’s not a square inch he did not personally alter. When he needed floor space where stairs went down to the basement, Dad created a series of ingeniously hidden, hinged doors that gave access to the basement. Otherwise they looked like a regular floor and wall.

Dad rebuilt the kitchen where he once caught me kissing Becky Rickman.

He knocked out countless walls, built a closet with a secret room, completely redid the upstairs, and built his own bright yellow kitchen cabinets. Dad was a “make do” miracle worker.

It’s hard to believe it’s finished. The same church moved Mom out. Twelve men and five women appeared from nowhere and worked liked wild, stopping only to eat (they were, of course, Baptist). Then it was over.

After the Baptist cleaned the place out, we all sat on the living room floor and told stories. My sister loved the front porch. She stayed out there for hours on the swing waving to boys who honked their horns as they drove by.

My brother remembered the backyard pole vault pit and basketball court. I remembered Becky Rickman and pork chops with apple sauce.

The grandchildren remembered all the after school snacks with grandma. Years and years of peanut butter make for good stories.

Mom waxed philosophical. She remembered the good times, and there were many. She admitted there were hard times, too. Mostly, she said, I remember the in-between times. The times when we were just living. Those are the best times, she said.

One winter Mom and Dad stayed up late each evening to watch “MASH” reruns. Every episode was new to them. They sat in their easy chairs and enjoyed just being together. Each had their nonverbal way to say, “Love You.” It was a winter of laughs and loving looks in the house that Dad built.

The church we attended was just across the street. The pastor used to come over to our house between Sunday School and Church to sneak a cigarette —I was with him, and his cigarette, the Sunday morning Jack Ruby shot Lee Harvey Oswald live on TV.

For one glorious summer I went to church every Sunday night with Barbara Roberts. After church we went to the Dairy Queen to eat (we, too, were Baptist) and then came back and sat on the front porch swing. Soon enough, kids were everywhere. Every car that came by honked hello. Sitting on the living room floor telling the stories of our life was the last time I was in the house. Knowing our time in this house was completed overcame me. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by the passing of time.

Tears welled up, and I had to leave. (I do that a lot   -leave silently before the good-byes are said.) I sat in my car and tried not to cry. Don’t ask why, but please don’t think badly of those tears.

I drove down the back alley. Turning up main street I knew what I would do. Going past the family home I laid on the horn one last time.

Hello Dad and your Old House! Hello Mom and All My Family! Hello Becky and Barbara, Pastor Fred, the Church, Loving Looks, and all the In-Between Moments that make up a life! It was a good run, and I know it now; maybe for the very first time.

Thanksgiving Old North Side Cafe Story

Pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat.

The rain lingered through the night and covered the morning with a dull gray sheen. Fallen leaves marked the final vengeance of autumn. Bare trees glistened in the haze, waiting.

This is cafe weather. This is huddle together, slap back, dumb joke, where-ya-been? weather. The coffee never smells better or warms deeper.

Like little kids who make fortress tents of old sheets and pillows, the men crawl in their cafe and they are safe.

“How about that guy they left dead on the golf course for two hours?” asked Camelot Bob. “His buddies just played on through. Now, doesn't that beat anything you ever heard?”

“That's what happens when you move to Florida.  You get ‘value disorientation’.
‘Compassion fatigue’ sets in and death on the course is just another hazard,” said Ridgeway Ron.

“Ron, shut up!” Bob said. “Or talk English like the rest of us.”

“If I croak on the golf course promise me you won't leave me out there two hours to finish your game,” said Manor Hill Mack.

“Depends,” said Bob dead-pan serious. “If you die on the front nine-no problem, but if it's the back nine, and I'm hot, well....”

Wadded napkins bombed Bob, as usual, with a chorus of “boo's”.

The rain picked up outside and the men drew closer.

The talk wound around everyday life and finally landed on Thanksgiving.

Families are gathering. Birds are getting smoked, potatoes mashed, bread baked and toilet paper stocked-up.

Mack, the ex-Gas Service Co. employee, told the now legendary, and mostly untrue, story of being called out to check a gas leak on Thanksgiving Day. The gas leak turned out to be an old dog with a digestion problem.

Jake told his boyhood story about throwing the Thanksgiving goose in the trash can because he hated goose and wanted turkey. Jake blamed it on the dog.

Wind drove the rain hard against the plate-glass windows, and the laughter increased. Some stories the men knew by heart, but the telling never got old. The friendship implied in their shared stories was its own Thanksgiving.

After a while the talk wore out. Men excused themselves to the rest of the day. The cafe was mostly empty as Stella began clearing and wiping tables.  She too, knew the stories, and loved them.

On Thanksgiving Day she would open the restaurant for those who had no place to go. It was her tradition and cost her plenty.

Stella is not a religious person in the traditional sense. She does remember a Bible story however about a man who was left for dead on the side of the road and others passed him by. Finally it was an outcast who gave him help.

There's also a story about doing things for the least among us that brings us closer to Christ.

While the men stayed home and plied their day with food and family, Stella and her rag-tag band fed anyone who asked. None went without on Thanksgiving Day.  Nobody was left on the side while others played through. 

Stella watched the wind and rain. Her cafe was a safe harbor; one of the few in our politically charged county.  Outside the terrifying “cultural blind spots”, rationalization, and “tribal warfare: swirled tearing leaves from the trees and harkening winter.

Values disorientation, compassion fatigue, cultural blind spots, safe harbors --Stella never heard of any of them, but she knows.

-->

She knows our Thanksgiving will be most blessed when the least among us join the feast.

The Magic Carpet Ride

From Boulder, Colorado, we took the back way across Rocky Flats. We drove through Golden, past Red Rocks Park and on toward Morrison. During the years we made that trip, I remember it was almost always sunny. Oh, there was usually a hint of an afternoon rain during July, but to mountain people such a shower is just part of a sunny day. By the time we made Morrison, we could smell home. The Deckers were only minutes away. Captain Coors, the Red Headed Mexican from La Junta, Heidi and Gretchen would all be waiting. A party was about to begin!

I drove the Great White Hope in those days, a 1962 Ford Fairlane. It's name came from our hope it would start. It lived up to that name. The only time it failed us was three blocks from home. By Morrison we were probably having the second beer of the day to celebrate our country's birthday. It would be one of many, though we joked there was something about the altitude in Colorado that kept us from getting drunk. We were wrong about that like we were wrong about lots of things, and we have a Christmas crash to prove it. Still, those were days of wonder and adventure, celebration and friendship. The White Hope cruised the mountains as if under a spell. No harm taken or given. We lived in the moment, careless with our gift but blessed beyond understanding. The Deckers on the 4th of July was an easy magic we would seldom know again.

We always arrived early. Dot Decker with her flame-thrower red hair assigned us our jobs. Danny would take care of the beer, the only job he was good for in those days. Bill helped Art with outdoor preparations. Bruce set things up, arranged things, put our lives in order so speak; and I sat in the kitchen snapping beans or shucking corn, talking like an old woman at a quilting bee. Dot didn't really need any of us to make a perfect meal, but she knew we needed to have a job to feel part of the family. 

Danny Brown made everything we did a party. He and Mr. Decker were kindred spirits with a staggering taste for beer, Coors beer in particular, the brand from which Mr. Decker derived his nickname. Of the four of us, Danny would become the best cook. Bill Tharp was smarter than all of us put together which made him a good match for the Captain. Bruce Ehlenbeck was our reluctant leader and spiritual guide. Buah, as he was called, connected with everyone. His dad was dead and so there was an especially large hole to fill in his life. The Deckers were his "family" just as they were ours. Me, I was the guy with the car who laughed too loud and got carried away too often sitting in the kitchen snapping beans with Dot.

The Decker house backed up to a circular park. The families in the homes surrounding the park were always invited to the 4th of July bash, in fact the entire planet was welcome. At the Deckers, there was a standing joke. Whenever you were offered anything to eat and drink (which was all the time), the Deckers always said, “Take all you want, there's more!” There always was more. The result was an enormous string of picnic tables stretched across the back of the park loaded with food. Not just food, but the delicacies of the Gods. Mrs. Decker could cook anything better than anybody else we had ever known —with the exception of Mr. Decker's barbecue ribs. 

Picture this: huge platters of chicken, ribs, corn on the cob, green beans, scalloped potatoes, jello salad, potato salad, three bean salad, Waldorf salad, taco salad and enough ice cream, cookies, cake and pie for us to eat like horses and then take home a treat. The aroma alone alerted half of Denver the festivities had begun. Neighbors started milling around. Captain Coors raised his beer to the world and welcomed it. He drew people to parties like mountains capture snow. People we had never seen before in our lives just kept on coming. They would be our best friends by the time the party was over. Everyone was welcome. Everyone was cared for, and hospitality ruled the day. It was the Decker way.

Looking back, I now know that what seemed so effortless for the Deckers was really an astonishing feat of organization and acceptance. We thought we were so generous to bring beer that we promptly drank. I am certain they knew we were four young men in search of something, four guys living in the mountains without careers or future plans, four guys who lived on the edge of every moment just happy to be in Colorado and to be together. Not many families would take four free spirits into their homes like the Deckers did. The Deckers knew we needed something to believe in, to hold on to, and call family. They supplied everything and when they gave it away, there was an assurance of more. 

Captain Coors was a conservative, trained by the Navy, a salesman, father of two girls, who trusted four rascal boys in his home. Dot was an equally conservative stay-at-home mom who could be fierce in her defense of her children and strong-willed in the making of a home. She took us on, took us in, and then took us over. Neither ever gave us a lecture except to tell us where the best skiing spots might be or the asked-for advice on cars or cooking. Still, all four of us hung on to their words and those happy days as clear markers of how we wanted to live our lives. I marvel how they knew so much and had so much to give.

The focal point of a Decker 4th of July was the softball game. Skinnies vs. the Fats. Art led the Fats with Danny as his assistant coach. Bruce and Bill were the Skinny leaders. I played for either team depending on how much I had eaten the week before. This was not an ordinary ball game. Each game was a game for the ages, or at least for a year of bragging rights and a night of gloating. We were all worthy athletes, and some were great. Diving catches, grand slams, constant chatter and endless fun ruled the day. Everyone played -from six to sixty, if you ate at the Decker table you played on the Decker field. Art would lob pitches to weak hitters to make sure they got a chance, but he would throw out his kid in a heartbeat to honor competition. Danny slammed massive home runs. Bill was a wizard with a glove and could lighten even the intensely competitive moments with his wit. Bruce was a regular Joe DiMaggio. That we all played with a beer in one hand and a glove on the other did not seem to diminish our ability. In the mountains you can't get drunk, and you play ball at your peak potential.

Remembering back, it must have been the beer. Art and Danny drank the most and played the best. You can't imagine how much we laughed and enjoyed those days. We saluted America and Captain Coors. Legends were created, myths born and for a while we believed our run of magic would never end.

By nightfall Danny and I would pull out our guitars and the singing would start. Bruce had a soulful, clear tenor voice and could hold a drunken crowd in the palm of his hand. When he sang Groovin by the Rascals, the world was ours. We even called ourselves "Rascals" in those days, and we were. While we sang and played, Gretchen and Heidi, Art and Dot formed the perfect compliment to our night. They listened and laughed and applauded and told us if we were getting stupid. When we rocked, the girls danced. Art and Dot danced, the dog danced and the neighborhood joined in. Dot and I danced, and I never felt so at home. Bruce sang ballads that pulled in the dark and lit candles in our soul. Gretchen stole drinks and got tipsy while Heidi and I stole glances. We were lovers every one — big dreamers on our big night. 

The next thing we knew we were sitting around the dining room table looking at old photo albums, seeing Dot in La Junta or Art in the Navy. We saw the girls when they were very young and heard the stories of how Art and Dot met, their marriage, Christmases past and things still left to do. Later in the dark park we set off fireworks, laughed and talked. We amazed ourselves at how many cases of beer we drank and joked we would be lower than Freckles, the Decker's dog, the next morning. Sometimes we gathered in the kitchen and played cards. I was Lucky Pierre with an outrageous French accent! Bill would tell hilarious, long, involved stories of our misadventures. The 4th of July was charmed. 

Well past midnight, it began to wind down. I couldn't believe it was actually ending. Dot and I cleaned up the kitchen while the others patrolled what they could around the house and park. Dot was an amazing talent when it came to packing dishes into a dishwasher. She had worked the entire day fixing food, suppling drinks, straightening up messes and keeping things going. Art was a bit dazed after drinking beer with Danny for a day, but he always had a boyish grin and a sparkle. I'm sure on one or two occasions they wondered if we would ever leave. We were not good at taking hints. At the Deckers there was always more, and even time seemed to be in abundance.

We first met the Deckers the summer of 1969 when we rented one of the houses that backed-up to the park. We were college boys on a summer lark. The majority of us worked in the Einsenhower Tunnel. Gretchen Decker got us all together. She was our little sister. Eventually, the neighborhood kids were playing ball with us in the evenings and coming over on Saturday mornings to watch TV. The neighborhood parents panicked. We heard rumors that children had been advised to stay away from us. We decided to approach the problem head on. We bought (and one of our friends stole) enough beef to feed all of our parkside neighbors. We sent out invitations, but nobody came. We were not deterred, and packed up huge slabs of sirloin to take around to the neighborhood, door-to-door. It worked. Over the next few weeks we were invited one-by-one to dinner with different families. We all got acquainted, but the Deckers became our friends.

Driving home after the 4th of July is an enigma to me now, but I remember the feelings that we were the only people in the world. The axis of the earth cut straight through that Ford Fairlane, and what we did and said turned the entire world. Huge constellations of brilliant stars floated in the night sky. I marveled at our luck. Most people are left to lie about their youth or honestly say they left a lot undone. Today when I see my peers baying for money, building their life around possessions, filling room after room with things and then adding on garages to hold more stuff; I think back to the Ford Fairlane and my sleeping partners in the car. We'll never have to lie to ourselves about chasing dreams. There will be few regrets for living those days in "the eternal now," just the reminders that you can only take what freedom gives away. 

All of us are married now with children around the age we were when we embarked on our great Colorado adventure. We have built nests and given flying lessons to our children. We coax them to the edge and then push, trusting that whatever forces guided us will guide them.

Some count their good fortune as a prize for their own hard work. I don't know how to count our good fortune to know the Deckers. Unfortunately, the story does not end well. We moved away and let our connection slip. We never told them they were our Rocky Mountains in the landscape of life. The girls married and we partied with them at weddings. Art and Dot moved to Arizona and then divorced. Art got sick and by a freak of medicine was left to slowly die in a hospital bed, estranged from his children and Dot. We never visited; never went to the funeral. Dot's huge heart was hurt and we didn't send our love. Bruce called with the sad news about Art's death, and I felt a loss so deep it called on the death of my own father. The Deckers had taught us to do better.

Tonight, however, I'm taking the Ford Fairlane out for a drive. I'll be picking up Danny, Bill and Bruce. We'll head for Red Rocks Park and try to throw a frisbee on the stage from the last row of that great outdoor theater. We'll hit Morrison and stop for a beer, maybe even buy a six-pack and sit by the creek and let the water flow. When we're ready, we'll drive by the Deckers. It's all still there. Whatever magic carried the Great White Hope in years past will do its work again. This time we'll watch as the 4th of July rolls by. Tables filled with food, friends gathering, the game, the dance and music in the night— it's still there. I'll load the dishwasher with Dot and then by magic I'll say, “Mrs. Decker, thanks for giving us our lives when we were so lost. Thanks for giving us something to believe in. Thanks for loving and accepting me even if I'm too loud, too moody, and play Lucky Pierre too much.” Dot will step out of her moment, knowing all that is to come in life, hug me so tight and say, “You boys are all right, you know.” 

Then, we rascals will walk again in that park with Art at our side. It's nighttime, but the moon on the mountains puts their jagged edge in clear view. We'll be drinking Coors and the five of us will stand in silence, taking in the moment and the mountains. We won't talk because that's not our way, but he'll know what we never said. Then he'll tell us about some unknown drive by Poudre Canyon, and we'll turn and head for the Fairlane. Back on Rocky Flats under a brilliant canopy of stars the words will whisper. “There's more,” we'll hear Art and Dot Decker say as we drive back to our lives today. The Great White Hope makes its final run of magic. The great eternal now must be obeyed. 

To be honest, the memories do slip away, and we seldom gather to mark again our coming through. They say the light from any moment in time is still hurtling undiminished into space, and if there were a ship fast enough to outrun light we could go and see it all again. Science is always trying to explain the things the mountains taught us long ago. 

The mountains don't explain broken hearts however. We never learned that lesson, and we know now that our days of immunity to life's hard lessons are over. Still, when Bruce plays his guitar and sings, Bill tells stories, or Danny cooks a meal; we gather in our safe harbor and sit out another storm. We have placed firm pitons in time and hang suspended from the ropes attached to them, even as time would have us falling away. Art and Dot Decker are the pitons in our nap-sacks. They have held us before, and they will hold us again. They taught us to live in the mountains of our youth, and we cherish those memories to this day. Time and change cannot take that away. The feast on the Fourth is spread before us. We carry it with us and pass it on. The Deckers gave us that, and more.

—Jim Dunn