Amazon
Category:
Mainstream
ISBN-10: 1662833326
Type: Fiction
Pages: 198
Copyright: March1. 2005
ISBN-13: 9781662833328
Price: $16.77 (eBook)
David Gideon was successively a schoolboy, college student, teacher, school board member, senator, vice president, and-only incidentally-President of the United States. He was from humble family roots in northern Michigan, prodded into the spotlight by his good and lifelong friend Norm Michaels. But his real inspiration was his wife, Diane, who saw in him what he himself would have liked to ignore-the ability to inspire and lead. David's struggle is the battle of every man and woman to be what they want, yet discover they must live towards what they are called to be. It is the story of talent, obligation, and triumph during trying times. It is the challenge to live up to our standards, failing no one-including ourselves. His story will sometimes inspire, at times sadden or anger, but ultimately uplift all who read it.
CHAPTER ONE
Snow covered the landscape except for the smallest patches of grass, often merely a few strands worth straining for recognition against the cold winter wind. The white powder leveled the countryside, turning shallow hills to gentle slopes, larger hills to shallow. Fields were punctuated by pasture fences, whose weather-worn posts rose hauntingly from banks of snow, keeping as straight in line as they could. Fencing networked in all directions as the tracts of many farmers came together. The panorama was smartly dotted with northern trees, many of them tall pines quivering under the weight of the snow on their branches. Occasionally tufts slid off, falling to the ground in sparkles and powder as the branch which held them sprang back to place. In no case were there enough trees to be called a forest. Just small groups copsed together or in vague rows, quiet ornaments under a clear sky, kissed by the moonlight.
Winter in northern Michigan could be traumatic but on this night it was calm, quiet, and serene. A full moon dominated the heavens while the stars, hundreds of them, enjoyed their own particular glory as they controlled the quiet night. The Aurora Borealis was in spectacular view; it was far enough north that the lights appeared with some regularity. It was not so cold as the land could be. Perhaps it would freeze more harshly on the weekend, after the front moved through.
The sound of an engine purring broke the silence. A lone, long dark blue vehicle made its way steadily along a stretch of two lane blacktop. The headlights often accented the trees along the route, giving quick and sure glances at the passing sights. The car traveled well below posted speeds unconcerned over blocking traffic, and with good reason. There was none to block.
The road was a well kept up state highway. Its pavement was smooth and black, devoid of ice and snow as the county intended. The car approached a crossroad jutting off to the left. Farther left, beyond the trees the new road disappeared into, was an area of light. From the rear seat of the vehicle a man said with a hint of excitement, “Take this left, would you please?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the driver, only slightly rolling his eyes. He was a man in his early thirties with short cropped brown hair, and dressed in a fine blue suit. The day had been a long one and he was tired. Still, he made the turn, slowing considerably for safety’s sake. The side road, he expected, was not in as good condition as the main.
The passenger was an older man, sixtyish, and half swallowed in a heavy winter coat. His legs were exposed, revealing jeans and tennis shoes. He had a full head of white hair, sticking out towards the back window and parted awkwardly on the right side of his head as you looked at him. His features were mild, almost timid, yet they belied his spirit. The man could be stubborn if a situation merited stubbornness. His overall appearance was incongruent to the atmosphere of hardened style embodied in the driver and the car.
The road split a group of trees and emptied into a small town whose few street lamps were the source of the light visible from the highway. Two cross streets spaced exactly apart cut the town into thirds. Car, driver, and passenger were on Main Street. The older man asked the driver to creep through. There were houses both to the left and right of the street. Each was endowed with more than enough yard, every one a comfortable home. Many held memories for the white headed gent, and he studied them closely. Most likely the people he remembered no longer lived in the homes he could identify. But he could make friends with newcomers. He was virtually one himself.
After the homes came a small business district; from where it ended houses lined the street anew to the other edge of town. There was little activity at this time of night. As they passed the tavern the man saw a handful of old duffers raising glasses to forces unknown, of days gone by. It occurred to him that a few of his childhood friends might then be on hand. For now he would pass through. The rural bistro would still be there the next time around. It had survived constant changes of ownership; it would survive the winter.
Next to the end of the district was the family restaurant. In a window a sign proclaimed in bold block letters: OPEN FOR BREAKFAST 6 A.M. That was good. It beat cooking for one’s self in the early morning hours.
The grocery had been replaced by a larger market. It wasn’t a supermarket by any stretch of the imagination, but big enough to seem out of place in the little town. The laundromat and the hardware were still around, but the appliance store was just a shell. The outer rim of the town to the sides of the road was accented with church steeples, two to the left and one to the right.
Not so much had changed that the rider couldn’t get reacquainted with the area easily enough. The car passed the combination gas station/convenience store before it headed out of town past the second residential zone. “Shall I make a U-turn, sir?” the driver asked.
“No, my friend. We’ll find the back way,” replied the man in back. “Up ahead should be a road to the right. I’ll let you know.”
The nighttime quiet took over once more. The passenger watched the roadside intensely. He feared the trees and brush and snow had covered his marker. Then, just at the edge of the woods and barely jutting from underneath the white powder, he saw it. A huge boulder signaled to him the nearby road. “About a hundred feet, then right,” he told the driver.
The road was there; the man was pleased. Carefully the driver negotiated the turn. The newly re-found road was covered with packed snow: not enough sunlight had been able to seep past the trees to clear it. Initially the road went downhill, then sharply uphill in a straight line.
As the vehicle progressed the older gent thought of the coming months. He had planned an honest-to-God vacation; for the first time in too many years there were no tremendous obligations to fulfill, no intrusive time constraints, no boring niceties to concern him. He would read the books he had wanted to read since his teens, eat quick and easy if not entirely healthy foods, and maybe get interested in soap operas. Anything for a barrier against the recent past. The first week he would probably spend between the kitchen and the bedroom. Eat and sleep.
After nearly a mile the road bent leftward until it was headed due north. Ahead and to the right of the byway a rooftop appeared. It was upon a modest tower, which from the distance could have easily been mistaken for a country church. The bulk of the structure was yet hidden by the forest.
Soon the driver slowed the car as he turned it onto a recently plowed and marked private drive. The drive wound around a little before it straightened into the approach to a house. It was a good sized home for such a wooded area. There was a little tower to the right front which housed a small bedroom, off of which came an upstairs porch. Otherwise the building was squarish and painted a light gray. The same shade of gray as the man remembered, with the same contrasting white trim.
The car swung to the left and stopped in front of the place, ignoring for the moment the new double garage at the back. The passenger’s door was even with the steps to the front porch, a large covered porch perfect for sitting upon during the warm summer evenings. The driver snapped out of his seat and marched around the rear of the car before opening the door smartly for the rider. He stepped out lazily, pausing to look over the building and grounds. It was all very well done. A smile curled gently onto the man’s aging face. David Gideon was home.
Excerpt
“Words are vague and misleading, so that we can never really understand one another very well, if at all,” said the leisurely dressed man behind the podium in the auditorium classroom of Koldys Hall. “They don’t really mean anything. That is the ultimate source of confusion in our world, and it cannot be overcome.”
A student ventured to raise a hand, and upon recognition asked haltingly, “Could...could you give an example of that?”
The professor smiled patronizingly. He lived for these moments, such as they were. “Certainly. Suppose I tell you that I’ve written my syllabus on my computer. Can you tell me something about ‘my computer’?”
The student turned his head quizzically. “I think so. It would be a box-like electronic thing with a screen and a keyboard, that belonged to you.”
“Ah, but what does your choice of words really mean?” the professor asked. “You don’t know if it’s a Dell or an Apple, or something else yet. The screen? It could be black and white or color. There are different keyboards available; how could you know which I might have? In short, you don’t truly understand what I mean when I refer to my computer.”
A murmur of simplistic understanding rolled across the audience. The professor finished, “So you see, we really don’t know what anyone else is saying.”
But then, amid the sea of slowly nodding heads and the whispers of vague but misguided comprehension, a lone defiant voice rose. The voice asserted sternly, “Professor Carlson is an idiot.”
Silence dropped over the audience, suddenly and harshly. Professor Carlson lost his smile and slid his glasses off his face, staring at the figure who had stood up at the back of the class. He stepped down from the podium and at a hurried, angry pace marched up an aisleway to confront his accuser, heads following in anticipation.
The lad stood quietly, returning the man’s glare. Finally the Professor asked, “And just what do you mean by that, young man?”
“You tell me,” replied David Gideon. “You’re the genius who believes words have no meaning.”
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