Enduv Road E-Book

Gwen Banta

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Based on the whimsical advice of Aunt Beaners' Ouija board, the unconventional Jackson family abruptly uproots and moves west in 1960 to Scope Ranch in Keetley, Utah, near the mountain town of Park City. Unaware that Keetley is doomed to destruction, Simmy Jackson and her kid brother, Lefty, adapt to their new rustic life.

As the siblings grow to adulthood and start families of their own, they learn the fascinating history of each of their colorful relatives, such as eccentric (and arguably criminal) Aunt Beaners, affable Uncle Arty, and the inimitable ranch hand, Charlie Spratt, who becomes the patriarch of the family. Although their adventures are equally hilarious and heartbreaking, Simmy and Lefty must reconcile love with forgiveness when they discover the shocking truth and betrayal behind their journey to Utah.

Full of laughter and pathos, Gwen Banta's "Enduv Road" is a generational saga that takes the reader on a journey from Endicott, New York during World War II to rural Utah where three neighboring towns were swallowed by the Jordanelle Reservoir in 1995. The chronicle of the Jackson family is one of unforgettable characters and compelling events - a story as rich in history as its Utah setting.

Leseprobe

Enduv Road

Gwen Banta

Contents

Critics’ Reviews

Also By Gwen Banta

Book 1

1. Cimarron (Simmy) Jackson’s Journal

2. Pithed

3. Que Sera Sera

4. Enduv Road

5. Jackass

6. Woohoo!

7. Corni-crappia

8. Solitary Requiem

Book 2

9. Beatrice (Beaners) Winner Fletcher

10. Puttin' on the Ritz

11. “A Guy What Takes His Time”

12. Blue Boxes

13. “Chattanooga Choo Choo”

14. Punxsutawney Phil

15. Immovable Objects

16. There's Always New Jersey

17. Crime and Courtship

18. USO, Here We Go

Book 3

19. Gracie Marie Winner

20. Six Trucks

21. Punxsutawney Phil Redux

22. “So Kiss Me Once, Then Kiss Me Twice”

23. Thumbs-Up

24. Changes

Book 4

25. The Orphanette Band

26. Something Old, Something Nude

27. Salutations

28. Deceptions

29. Lost and Found, and Lost

30. Pledges and Wedges

31. Simmy and TJ

Book 5

32. Betrayals

33. “Swimming Pools, Movie Stars”

34. “Proud Mary”

35. Un-reconciled Reconciliation

36. Confessions

37. Revelations

Book 6

38. Cimarron Jackson Howard’s Journal

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2023 Gwen Banta

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2023 by Next Chapter

Published 2023 by Next Chapter

Edited by Graham (Fading Street Services)

Cover art by Lordan June Pinote

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

Critics’ Reviews

* D. Donovan, Sr. Reviewer, Midwest Book Review - "Libraries and readers seeking an evocative, intergenerational story packed with whimsical personalities and fulfilling revelations will find Enduv Road a glorious journey well worth taking.”

* Gerard Way, My Chemical Romance, author/creator of The Umbrella Academy - "Gwen Banta has a resonant voice, one that pulls you into highways and bus terminals. For anyone who ever wanted to disappear, or feels as if they already have …"

* Dmitry Arbuck, Author of Mastermind - "Gwen Banta continues her phenomenal writing, captivating readers with stories of real people and events. Gwen masterfully proves that there is nothing more fascinating in life than life itself … Banta is JD Salinger reincarnated!"

* READERS' FAVORITE - 5 STARS! "Enduv Road by Gwen Banta is a beautiful story … about love, loss, grief, family, fierce loyalty, forgiveness, and how history shapes the future. I loved everything about it … Banta is a talented writer who uses wit and humor that add flavor and authenticity to the story." Jennifer Ibiam

* READERS' FAVORITE - 5 STARS! "Banta deserves plaudits; Enduv Road combines interesting subplots with unusual characters to deliver a family-oriented drama to appeal to a broad audience." Essien Asian

* READERS' FAVORITE - 5 STARS! "Banta has a way with words that left me smiling and in awe of her writing. A book to savor and enjoy." - Lucinda Clarke

Also By Gwen Banta

Novels

The Train Jumper

The Remarkable Journey of Weed Clapper

Inside Sam Lerner

With Wanton Disregard

Children’s Books

The Monster Zoo

Stage Plays

The Fly Strip

Dedicated to beautiful Park City, Utah

And to the ghost towns of Keetley, Hailstone, and Jordanelle

For dearest Liam, who patiently listens to all my tales.

“We must squeeze the day!”

Beatrice “Beaners” Winner - Buffalo, New York, 1960

Book 1

From Simmy Jackson’s Journal

Chapter1

Cimarron (Simmy) Jackson’s Journal

How I Remember It

Buffalo, New York, 1960

I was barely thirteen years old when crazy Aunt Beaners, in her usual tizzy, announced that we had to pack up immediately and move to Utah because the Ouija board had revealed that another holocaust was about to happen. It was 1960, and we were fair-haired, middle-class Protestants with sky-color eyes living in peaceful Buffalo, New York, where the worst threat was frostbite. I looked at my aunt in wonder because this seemed excessive, even for her.

“We practically live in Canada, Beaners--and nothing bad ever happens in Canada.” (I spoke with exaggerated calm, as though reasoning with a blind, knife-wielding butcher.)

I was accustomed to impulsive decisions and baffling observations from Aunt Bea, whom we had long ago dubbed “Beaners” because Dad said in confidence that “her beans weren't fully baked.” She was tall and lean like a string bean and therefore could solidly claim roots in the legume family. Beaners always had great faith in her Ouija board and swore it would talk to anyone who would listen. I could never get my own Monopoly board to tell me a darn thing, so I suspected that Beaners either had magical transmitters or faulty wiring.

After her last revelation from the Ouija board, we hadn't been able to eat mushrooms for a month. Beaners always said that eating mushrooms was like chewing on an old man's ear, so the notion that her Ouija psychic advisor had similar tastes seemed suspiciously coincidental to me. Even so, banning mushrooms and moving to Utah were two extremes.

“Beaners, I know this is your house and we live with you, but maybe we should think this one through. You once told me you have never traveled west of Indiana. Well, I'm pretty sure that Utah is farther west than that. I think maybe we should go to the library tomorrow and do some research, don't you? Utah has snakes. Big ones—so big that by the time you see them, you're already dead. It seems to me that it might be best if we all just sleep on this one.”

“Simmy love, you needn’t parent me. I know this is last-minute, but this is going to be fun. Remember, life is not a recipe that needs to be followed precisely. A good chef always adds his own spice. Impromptu decisions can make for an exciting adventure. I want you and your brother to see the world. What does it matter if we haven't planned everything out in detail? Spontaneity is a wonderful attribute,” she insisted. “We must squeeze the day!” (That's exactly how she said it.)

My perpetually confused little brother, Lefty, looked at me as though waiting for his next cue. We both rolled our eyes in exasperation, which happened so frequently in our house that it was a medical miracle our eyeballs weren't lodged somewhere up in our sinuses.

Beaners was undeterred. “I am as serious as leprosy, kiddos. Simmy, you and your goofball brother get your treasures together. This is going to be great fun! We're gettin' out of Dodge.”

“But we have a Ford, not a Dodge,” Lefty whined in protest. My six-year-old brother, whose real name was Brian, was always missing his right shoe—an unexplainable phenomenon known only to him, thereby resulting in his appropriate moniker. “I can't go,” he argued, “Dad said I should never leave the house wearing only one shoe or my toes will turn blue.”

“That sounds like perfectly good advice to me,” I commented, hoping common sense would put an end to the discussion.

Lefty and I were about to return to our game of “Chutes and Ladders” when we noticed Beaners packing her bundles of dried sage into a travel bag. “Whoa, Nellie!” I thought. Suddenly she had my attention. Her sage packets were sacred. I slowly realized this wacky plan of hers was not a mushroom phase—this was serious business. All my faculties were on alert as I sensed my life was about to change again dramatically.

I wasn't ready to yield to the voices in my aunt's crowded head. “Beaners, if the Ouija board is right and a Holocaust is coming, then the Buffalo Nazis won't be the least bit interested in us,” I reasoned. “We're not Jewish or a member of a minority group, and we're not even rabble-rousing artists. None of us can draw a lick. Lefty's last drawing of a dog looked like a hemorrhoid. This family is less threatening to Nazi invaders than Cream of Wheat.”

“You are wrong, sugar pie. I know you're so smart you skipped a grade in school, but there have been some obvious gaps in your education. There are despots out there who are after anyone who is different, and we are different.”

That was a point I certainly couldn't argue. Not only did Beaners collect pots of smelly herbs and alien-like fungi that lined our front porch, but she also played Christmas carols all year long. I think it was all a distraction from the lingering sadness she had been carrying since my mom died, and her sorrow was finding weirder ways to express itself every day.

To make matters worse, Uncle Arty collected so many fake owls that our porch was a cross between a voodoo shop and a taxidermy museum. The owls failed to drive away the woodpeckers as Uncle Arty intended, but they were wildly successful as an egg target for neighborhood pranksters.

Beaners had always been a bit eccentric, but according to neighborhood gossip, we were all off-kilter—the whole lot of us. Bea’s fungi and Arty’s creepy porch décor weren’t the only family peculiarities. Until the age of ten, I had been a bed wetter of epic proportions, and one-shoe Lefty was, well, one-shoe Lefty. Dad appeared to be pretty normal except that his right hand was missing four fingers, so it resembled a baseball mitt.

My father just accepted the craziness because he knew that Arty and Beaners, who was my mom's older sister, had huge hearts, even though he would often wink and refer to them as the “Hoover Twins” due to the “big vacuum on their top floors.”

“They are so good to take us in so I can work,” he told me shortly after we moved in. “It must be a big change for them to live with young children when they've never had children of their own. Sometimes we just have to look the other way when they do puzzling things. Just act like they’re normal and stay off the front porch,” he winked.

I did what my dad said and always tried to look the other way, even when Beaners developed harebrained ideas based on messages she received from the oddest places, such as tea leaves, Uncle Arty's stuffed owls, frost on the windows, and my personal favorite--Mrs. Menetski's cross-eyed poodle.

Beaners seldom followed through if she received a message that might result in family disruption, but sometimes she received warnings she couldn't ignore. She once told me that because everything has molecules, which are Life itself, if a person doesn't listen to Life's messages, he will be doomed to wander the earth without direction and could even end up in some place called Outer Mongolia.

Outer and Inner Mongolia were both starting to sound good to me because Beaners seemed as determined as I had ever seen her. “Okay,” she beamed, “hold onto your knickers. Life is about to begin!” When she tossed the Ouija board into the bag, it was evident Beaners was truly going for a clean and swift exit out of Dodge … even if it did have to be in a Ford.

I groaned in resignation. “Really, Beaners? That fool in your dang Ouija board couldn't suggest Florida or California, or even Hawaii? I don't want to live in a house clinging to the side of a mountain and wear lederhosen like Heidi. (The fact that the Alps are not in Utah was hardly my point.)

“But, darling, think of the views!” (The woman was unflappable.)

“Beaners, think of the escape routes! Utah is landlocked. What if the Buffalo Nazis follow us there--have you thought about that? Huh? We would be trapped like rats in a lab!”

“Darlin' Simmy, for a shy girl, you certainly are as persistent as that deranged woodpecker that keeps pecking at your Uncle Arty’s owls. Such a wonderful attribute will come in handy in Utah.”

“Geez-Louise! But why the-middle-of-nowhere Utah?”

“Because it's calling to us.”

I couldn't hear a damn thing. But as Beaners always used to tell us, life has a way of getting your attention. And so did Beaners. I wasn’t too young to know she was running from something.

Chapter2

Pithed

Several years earlier, my father had maimed his right hand at the E-J shoe factory in our old neighborhood in West Endicott, New York, but although he had only one useful hand, he always tried to find work. When mom died of leukemia last autumn, Aunt Beaners and Uncle Arty had been kind enough to take us in so Dad could work, which is how we ended up in Buffalo.

Beaners never yelled at us. She must have read a book on 'polite discipline' because she would say things like, “Lefty, the next time you attempt to wash your hair with spaghetti, you should use your noodle instead.” Or, “Children, if you decide to burn your fingers again while toasting marshmallows with Uncle Arty's cigarette lighter, you should first ask his permission to use it.”

At times Beaners would miss the point altogether. One evening during dinner, Lefty abruptly tried to affix my finger to the table with his spoon in what he described as a science 'experient.' After I yelped, Beaners calmly stated, “Lefty dear, you need to think things through. Your 'experient' would have worked better with a fork.” Sometimes we suspected she was kidding, even though she would go about her business and never let on.

Beaners looked out for my dad too, which made me love her even more. She said my father was a genuine war hero who fought in WWII in the Battle of the Bulge where he was badly wounded. One time Dad showed me his medal, but he never bragged or talked about the horror, only the annoyances. He just grinned and said, “I’ll be danged if I didn’t lose feeling in my toes due to holes in my boots while in Belgium, and then I turned around and lost my fingers in a shoe factory in Endicott. Life sure is full of strange twists, pumpkin, but when life gives you rhubarb, make rhubarb pie.”

Dad never let on about his sorrow, but he was sad all the time because he missed my mom so much. I once heard Beaners whisper to Arty that Dad needed to work because it distracted him from his heartache. I wanted to help in every way I could, so I told Lefty that we had to adapt to our new life and help Dad make rhubarb pie. My brother didn't really understand, but he liked the idea of pie, so we both did our part to go along with whatever our father needed. (That is, until the whole topic of Utah arose.)

Even though I missed my mom terribly, I enjoyed living with Beaners and Arty, so I had learned to live with their odd ways. Beaners thought of herself as a shaman. She would often pirouette around the house while waving burning sage and chanting something that sounded like, “Spank me, spank me.” My brother and I would burst into hysterics, and the laughter helped relieve the pain of losing our mom.

I always suspected Beaners knew her attempts to drive away negative energy lifted our spirits. She burned sage so often that one time she set fire to her hair and had to dump a vase of flowers on her head to keep from going bald. She was a walking sketch-comedy. Uncle Arty complained that for two weeks afterward, her singed blonde hair smelled like the ass end of a woolly mammoth.

After I was born, Beaners and Arty moved to Buffalo from Endicott where we all lived. Apparently, the Ouija board had warned them to leave town before Punxsutawney Phil reared his ugly head again. What a fat groundhog from Pennsylvania had to do with Endicott was beyond anybody's imagination, but Uncle Arty always seemed to understand her and went along for the serpentine ride.

Beaners claimed the Ouija board never lied, and if other hapless fools would just pay attention, they would be prepared for events that involved unforeseen mischief. When I pointed out that no one had ever heard of any gopher shenanigans in Endicott, or in all of New York State for that matter, she remained adamant. “It could still happen. The board never lies—just like it was right about the mushrooms!”

After my aunt made her announcement about Utah, we spent two days packing. I still had hopes of convincing her to stay. “This is crazy, Beaners,” I complained. “Can we talk about this? I don't want to leave—this is a hostage situation! This whole idea really pisses me off.” (I wasn't allowed to say indelicate words, but “pissed” was a word I often heard my dad say whenever he forgot he had a finger shortage and tried to finger-comb his hair.) The word seemed appropriate for the occasion, and the sharp taste of the word on my tongue helped me fight back the tears biting at the corners of my eyes.

“This pisses me off too,” parroted Lefty. (He pronounced it as ‘pithed.’) “I'm bringing Mickey Mantle with me,” he grumbled as he stuffed his collection of baseball cards into his suitcase. “And Skippy Cimino.” (Lefty’s best friend Skippy lived next door, and I doubt that he or his parents anticipated a possible kidnapping by shifty Lefty Jackson.)

In spite of my promise to myself to adapt to every new day, the idea of another move seemed overwhelming. When my dad sold our old house on Maple Street and we all relocated to Buffalo, it naturally required a change of schools. I liked my new school, and I had already learned my way around the neighborhood on my bike. My favorite refuge was the local library with its licorice-hued chairs and a glass display case full of brilliant butterflies. However, in Buffalo, the weather was too cold, the classrooms were too hot, and my new classmates were really still strangers. I knew there were plenty of reasons not to miss our current neighborhood all that much, but I just wanted things to stay still for a while.

Dad had taught us never to go down without a fight, so in a desperate eleventh-hour attempt to persuade Beaners to reinterpret her psychic messages, I slammed my suitcase shut and stamped my foot on the floor to get her attention. “Beaners, I think we should discuss this some more when Dad gets home from work. It would be wiser to wait until spring to travel. This is a damn moronic idea!”

“Look here, my little salty mouth niece, a blizzard is coming, and I don't want to live through another one of those. The snow from the last one was so deep out there we nearly lost Lefty when he stepped off the front porch. No one will find his right shoe until the spring thaw. Buffalo was meant for real buffalo, not for intelligent people like us.”

“And Dad is okay with this plot to go on the lam?”

“I don’t want to go on a lamp,” Lefty chimed in. “We’ll get ‘lectrocutered.’”

“Cream puff, I think you mean ‘lam.’ And Simmy, your father only had temporary work here, but he has been offered a new job offshore on an oil rig in South Carolina. Therefore, he's not gonna care in which state you and your Uncle Arty and ‘Shoeless Joe Jackson’ here live as long as he has a nice place to come home to. We stick together because we’re a family, and I love you, even if you are a bit peculiar.”

“I’m the peculiar one? Me? You're the one who is claiming that an inanimate object told you another holocaust is coming! I know you’re keeping secrets because none of this makes sense!”

“Cimarron Jackson, listen to the universe. Maybe we will learn more as we go.”

“I'll bet that board of yours has never even seen a Buffalo Nazi, and neither have you! This is just another mental mushroom event. To avoid total upheaval, I would please like to see some qualitative data!”

“There are different types of holocausts, you little brainiac. I think the message may be a metaphor for impending chaos.”

“What could be more chaotic than this?”

Beaners looked triumphant. “See, we are in the middle of chaos. You just made my point about why we should leave. And besides, I've already notified our landlord and rented a ranch for us outside a town called Park City. You can toboggan there, and they even have an old jail you can visit.”

Lefty was suddenly on his feet. “Oh, boy! I want to go see the jail,” he yelled. “Wait till Skippy hears we’re all going to Utah!” He grabbed his suitcase and was practically on Skippy’s porch before I could seize the back of his shirt collar.

I had to admit to myself that Beaners had captured my interest. The old house Beaners and Arty were currently renting was a three-story Victorian. Strange noises emanated from the attic as well as from the old furnace down in the basement, so we all found the entire place to be a bit eerie. Even worse, we had to climb the creaky steps to use the bathroom, which I hated, especially on freezing Buffalo nights.

Although I didn’t want to concede, the idea of a lazy, sprawling one-story ranch house sounded much more contemporary than our current residence, and even somewhat promising. And an old jail might be a fun place to visit. I wondered if we could toboggan from our new sleek house down to the jail. (The possibility excited me.)

There was not much time to ponder. As soon as my father came home, he said we had to move everything to the car. After we begrudgingly jammed the last suitcase into the back of the Ford station wagon, which was a feat in itself, Dad pulled Lefty and me aside. “Thanks for rolling with this, kids,” he grimaced. “And don't worry about the holocaust bit. I think Beaners just needs an excuse to get out of Buffalo. I’m sure it’s her way of mourning your mom. And Utah is as good an alternative as any.”

“But what about us?” Lefty cried. “Skippy says his mom won’t let him come with me until there’s a bleu cheese moon!”

“Buddy, Skippy can come for a visit. This move is more about you kids than you think. She is trying to be like a mother to you both, and she read that there are good schools in Utah and lots of room for you to play outside and breathe in the fresh air. You can see beautiful mountain ranges and maybe even have a few pets.”

“Oh, can I get a platypus?” Lefty pleaded. “I read about them in school. I can name it Skippy.”

“Be quiet, Lefty,” I interrupted, “you have a one-track mind!” I then proceeded on my own one-track in a last grasp at reasoning. “Dad, did you ask Uncle Arty to try to talk some sense into Beaners?”

“Actually, I did. He said any attempt at persuasion would be as sensible as trying to put a Band-aid on a bear’s butt.”

“But if we don’t rush, maybe she’ll change her mind. And wouldn't a trip in the spring be more logical?”

“Not necessarily, honey. Aunt Bea is right about a new cold front coming in; however, I think we can beat it. I know this is very last minute, Sim. But you know I have limited job opportunities, so I’d like to take advantage of this chance for employment on that offshore rig I told you about. I’m going to be a cook, so I’ll learn how to make delicious food for you and Lefty. And for about a hundred others,” he added with a laugh. “Now listen, sweetheart, if we leave here now, we can get to Utah by the end of January. That way, you will be able to get settled in before my new job starts. Your Aunt Bea’s plan is a lot wiser than you think.”

“Wise? Dad, I’m sorry to inform you, but Beaners is loony.”

“I suppose I can’t argue with that,” he laughed. “At least your aunt and uncle are entertaining, right?”

After the car was loaded and we had all piled in, Dad backed the car down the cul-de-sac to the bank of mailboxes that served our street so Beaners could grab her last pieces of mail. As we once again passed back by our house, Beaners trilled, “Oh look, everyone--it's the third week of January, and those people in that house still have their Christmas tree up!”

“Um, I believe that's our house, Beatrice,” Arty patiently informed her.

“Oh, so it is, dear. So it is. Nice tree.”

My father shook his head and gunned the engine. “Okay, everyone, tighten your straightjackets—we're off!”

Chapter3

Que Sera Sera

It took us fifty years to drive to Utah, or at least that's how it seemed. Moses got across the desert faster. He should have been driving.

Part of the trip was good. We stopped at a place called Stuckey's where my dad allowed us to buy caramel corn. I practically inhaled mine, but Lefty got his stuck all over his socks, so he was able to pick off pieces and eat them all the way to Utah. We had barely left Buffalo when Beaners announced that we must be getting close because she could see the mountains. It was actually a hill of bulldozed dirt behind the Howard Johnson's road stop, but my dad just shook his head and humored her.

Dad drove the entire way because Uncle Arty was a menace on the road, and he had a rotund stomach that made it difficult for him to fit behind the wheel without wheezing. Dad was a better driver with one and a half hands than Arty was with all limbs attached. Uncle Arty never said much, although when he did, he was a hoot. He was clever at mimicking owls and other birds, and he often made pronouncements such as, “I prefer to arrange things alphabetically from one to ten,” or “Lefty, you look like you combed your hair with French fries.”

When riding in the back, Beaners always felt carsick, so Arty had to sit in the backseat with Lefty and me. He had a persistent gas problem that made the trip seem even longer. We had long ago named him “Chuck Yeager” because his gas expulsion could break the sound barrier. His satisfied expression after releasing a doozy was a sight to behold. Dad always said that in those moments, Arty looked like he was crossing the Rubicon. I didn't know what the Rubicon was, but as far as I was concerned, he needed to get from here to there a heck of a lot faster before we all lost consciousness.

We hit a lot of snowstorms along the way, which required slow speeds and a few stops to put chains on the tires. The weather slowed us down a lot, so to make the time on the road pass faster, we played games. Car games for us always included learning activities. Beaners would pull different herbs out of her bag and ask us to try to identify them and say what their purpose was. “Here, taste this,” she said, thrusting something crusty at me.

“Aw, Beaners, I don't want to. That thing looks like the callus you scraped off your foot last month.”

“Go ahead. Chew it. Com'on, Cinnamon Bun.” (She had a penchant for referring to us kids as various pastries.)

As soon as I chewed the bark-like substance, my happy mouth thanked me. “It tastes like root beer!”

“That's right! It’s actually sassafras bark. You can make sassafras tea or sassafras cola with the roots. Guess what else it's good for—colds and diarrhea! I'll make you some when we get to Utah.”

“I want to try the cola but not the diarrhea part,” Lefty warned as he tentatively tried his own sample. “Yum! I would sit on the toilet for this!” he grinned. (Even though my little brother could sometimes be annoying, I thought he was the cutest kid on the planet.)

“You kids have got to learn to appreciate the world around you,” Beaners smiled. “You're going to have that chance when we get to Utah. Who knows, we might even see some real cowboys. Now, who wants to sample willow bark? It's what I use to treat your Uncle Arty's arthritis,” she said as she reached into the backseat and shoved a hunk of bark into his mouth. He groaned but dutifully began to chew. I liked how she took such good care of him.

Our entire trip was a lesson in natural medicine mixed with word games. Dad liked to play “fill in the blank.” The idea was to make up a sentence and leave a word out. Everybody then had to guess the missing word with only a one-letter hint. Sometimes it was informative, and other times the answers were hilarious, like the time Uncle Arty thought the missing word in ‘The cowboy learned to bust a blank’ (fill in the blank—cue letter 'b') was “The cowboy learned to bust a boil.”

“Bronco!” we all howled in unison while Arty laughed so hard he once again crossed over the Rubicon. “I wasn't wrong—I just didn't get the right answer,” he said, which got us all laughing again.

By the time we pulled into Howard Johnson to spend the night and sample one of their 21 Flavors of ice cream, no Buffalo Nazis were on our tail, and I was developing a hopeful attitude about my future.

* * *

On our long car drive across the country, I had time to think about a lot of things most twelve-year-olds don't have time to ponder. I can't say that I missed Maple Street where I was born. To me, Endicott was dismal and brown, but it was my home. Our town was the home of E-J shoes, and therefore many of the locals worked in the same shoe factory where Dad had worked or at IBM, which was located in nearby Binghamton.

There were also lots of Mafia types, although in my neighborhood, the Mafia was referred to as La Costa Nostra or simply “the mob.” Many of the dads who were connected to the Mafia didn't have regular jobs like my dad. Instead, they would hang out on the street corner by the tavern and play cards or roll dice—when they weren't in jail, that is. The “Mafiosi,” as we knew them, were always very nice to us kids and sometimes offered us spiedies--a delicious, marinated-meat sandwich they cooked up on charcoal grills right out on the sidewalk.

We always felt safe because everyone said folks outside our neighborhood were aware of who actually policed the area and knew it was best not to make trouble. Most of the men were very jolly and well-dressed. Once in a while we got word that somebody's dad was missing, but as a kid, I just thought he took a wrong turn on the way home. In 1957, I learned the truth.

Endicott was just a few miles from the town of Apalachin, a town that became famous during the autumn of 1957 for the largest Mafia bust ever. My dad and I watched the news as David Brinkley announced on NBC that there had been a raid during their historic summit at the home of a mobster named Joseph Barbera, also known as “Joe the Barber.” The news report detailed how mob bosses from all over the United States, Cuba, and even as far away as Italy had attended. Many were captured and taken into custody.

The details we got from my classmate made the entire incident extra exciting. Donna confided that her dad, who suspiciously knew many of the Apalachin attendees, complained that they had scattered “like rats in a sewer.” According to him, the panicked men ran through the woods to escape capture. Some were found hiding out on nearby porches. Donna’s uncle was one of the Mafiosi caught cowering in a fruit cellar. Donna maintained that her family had no idea why her uncle was in the area at the time of the raid. (My dad harrumphed when he heard that.) She theorized that he must've just gotten lost on his way to pick up a pack of Chesterfields.

After the newscast, we all had a good time naming Mafiosi we had seen around Endicott. We dubbed Tony Tartaglia “Tony Two-Fingers Tartaglia” because he always held his fingers like a pistol. We then dubbed Donna's dad “Frankie Figure-It-Out-Already Fiorelli” because he always seemed confused. Lefty came up with the best one when he nicknamed our neighbor, Tom Testa, “Tommy Two-Shoes Testa” because he once saw him wearing two right shoes. It didn't matter if my brother just imagined it due to his own shoe challenges, because we all laughed in delight.

Although I missed Endicott, there was nothing in the world I missed as much as my mother. I loved Beaners and Arty, but I wished we were still in Endicott and my mom was still alive. My mother got sick shortly after Lefty was born, and she slowly began to fade away. When I thought about her each night before I fell asleep, I remembered how she brushed my hair and sang to me or read us stories if she had the strength.

My mother loved books. She once told me she had named me Cimarron after her favorite book by an author named Edna Ferber. She said she loved the name and knew I would become a strong and independent woman like the lead character in the novel. “One day, you will achieve your manifest destiny. No matter where I am, I'll always be looking out for you, my sweet little Simmy, so don't you ever forget that.”

When she got really sick, I would go outside and take long walks along the railroad tracks, even though the inhabitants of the abandoned train cars sometimes scared me. Although they were referred to as “bums,” some of them were clean and neatly dressed as though just passing through. They jumped on and off the trains in broad daylight as if it were a perfectly normal way to travel.

To earn extra money to buy presents to lift my mom's spirits, I worked a paper route. Each day, I took a shortcut across the railroad tracks behind the E-J factory on Maple Street and cut through the field to the paper drop at the corner of Page Avenue and Dickson Street. Early one morning, as I crossed the tracks, a vagrant pushed me up against a rail car and demanded that I give him all my money. I emptied my pockets and ran home in hysterics.

I was so terrified that I screamed for my father and told him I had been held up “at gunpoint.” (Okay, so maybe there was no gun involved except in my imagination—but there could have been.) “He burglarized me and made me wet my pants,” I cried. (Unfortunately, that part was true.) After Dad ran down to the train tracks and threatened the thief, he returned with my paper route earnings. My father assured me that the bum also wet his pants, so I shouldn’t be ashamed of my bladder mishaps.

After the robbery incident, Mom said it was time for me to retire from the newspaper business, so I began making potholders with a potholder weaving kit and went door-to-door trying to sell my handmade wares.

By the time my mom died, I had a large stash of unsold potholders, but for some reason, I just kept making extra. I couldn’t seem to stop myself. Dad said I needed to talk more about Mom, which was something I really couldn't do. I had started losing my mother before she died, so I was angry that I hadn’t really had a mom for a long time. And it hurt too much to talk about her. She was so sweet and kind, but she was like a shadow in our own house.