Acorn Read online

  Acorn

  By Dave Balcom

  Smashwords Edition

  License Notes

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please go on line and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Copyright 2013 by David Balcom, All Rights Reserved

  This novel is dedicated to the wonderful culture of Eastern Oregon where enterprise and innovation have met and greeted every newcomer since Lewis and Clark. All characters and events in this book are fictional. Real places are mixed with fictitious places.

  Acknowledgements

  The Fort Walla Walla, Washington, Museum provided much information used to create the depression-era transfer from horse-drawn farming to the internal combustion era. The liberties I’ve taken and any misinterpretations I might have made are mine, not theirs. Much the same can be said for the imaginary contents of the Round-Up Museum in Pendleton which was in its infancy when last I saw it. Much of the information used in Walt’s Story was gleaned from what might possibly be the worst oral history ever collected, and that wasn’t my dad’s fault. But then, again, I only use factual information as a departure point for the story that came entirely from my mind. Finally, this effort couldn’t have been brought to this stage without the dedicated efforts of Susie the editor.

  Prologue

  2010

  Lucja loved the mountains. She had barely been a teen-ager when the Nazis had stormed into Warsaw, and taken her family to the concentration camp and ovens. She had survived in a neighbor’s barn, and later, with the help of the Resistance, she had beaten the Nazis to Paris. Then she was herded to Marseilles, and finally, in London, she had met Major Sam James of the U.S. Army.

  They were married by an Army Chaplain, and then went to live on the James family’s ranch in Eastern Oregon. From that day forward she truly understood the concept of heaven on earth.

  They had a son, Hal, and she loved him dearly. Sam had died when Hal was 11, and she had understood, with the help of Sam’s sister, Suzy, that she needed to be careful to keep the family ranch in the family until Hal could be capable of running it.

  She eventually married Larry Rantford, a kind and gentle history professor from the University of Oregon. Together they had two children; a son, Nate, and a daughter, Joan. They had attempted to make their home on the ranch in Eastern Oregon, but it was clear to them all that it wasn’t working – not for her, Larry, or the kids. They moved to a suburb of Portland, leaving the James ranch in the care of Suzy and Hal.

  Larry had always been willing to share Lucja’s love for Eastern Oregon, and today they were “scouting for elk” in the Blue Mountains. It was a beautiful September day, and they’d driven many miles on dirt roads at 15-20 miles per hour, stopping often to “glass” the valleys to see if elk were present.

  She knew Larry was along simply to make her happy, but she thought she saw signs of his awakening to the beauty, no, even majesty of the mountains.

  “Look!” He said, pointing, “Isn’t that a ruffed grouse?”

  “It is,” she agreed. “The settlers thought they were stupid; they would sit and let the women harvest them with a stick to the head. You won’t find them so obliging today.”

  They stopped at a turnout about four miles and 1,000 feet above Granite, a wide spot in the road with bare minimum services. Even at pushing 85, Lucja had a spring in her step as she grabbed the spotting scope and headed into the woods.

  Larry, lagging some yards behind her, picked his way where she had stepped boldly, “Lu, don’t you fear rattlesnakes?”

  “Nonsense; we make too much noise to sneak up on a snake. They’re afraid, Larry; we shouldn’t be.”

  When they arrived at the ridge overlooking the river, she perched herself on a rocky outcropping, and carefully examined the valley below. “Look, Larry, over here.”

  He took her place behind the spotting scope. “I see nothing.”

  “Move the scope a tiny bit left, then right, then up, then down… just the littlest bit… there are about eight elk down there, and one of them is carrying antlers.”

  “Oh, I see them, Lucja. They’re beautiful.”

  “They’re delicious, too. That makes some thirty elk we’ve seen today. I think we should apply for permits in this area.”

  “Permits?”

  “Don’t you want to hunt these creatures, Larry?”

  “I’ve never hunted anything, and you know that.”

  “But wouldn’t you want to try it once before you die?”

  “If you want to, I’ll be with you, you know that; but me? No, I don’t lust after wild animals.”

  They returned to the truck without further conversation.

  The engine cranked, but would not start. Larry, whose knowledge of motor vehicles was limited to the dashboard, was at a loss.

  “We have gas?” Lucja asked.

  “The gauge says we have.”

  “We’re not getting a spark, that’s all,” she opined.

  “What will we do?”

  “We can’t wait here. You’ll need to walk down the mountain to Granite and find someone to come help us.”

  At age 85, Larry was in good physical condition, and a four-mile walk down hill was not daunting to him. “I’ll probably be back in an hour and a half,” he said.

  “Then go now. It’ll be dark in three hours, and I don’t want to be up here by myself in the dark. Here, take this water,” she said handing him a bottle. “It’s dry here, remember.”

  He thanked her and started off downhill at a steady pace.

  Lucja sighed, then fished a book out of her whatever bag, and found a comfortable spot under a giant white cedar to sit and read.

  Larry never saw her alive again.

  1

  September 2010

  When Miles Lawton had first suggested he and his family might travel from their home in Cadillac, Michigan, to my home near Pendleton, Oregon, for the annual Round-Up, I had jumped at the chance to host their visit.

  Lawton is an investigator with the Michigan State Police whom I had gotten to know during a particularly ugly adventure five years ago that had left him recovering from a shooting. He had been the first official to actively buy into my theory about my friend’s death not being an accident, and he had been willing to bend his own laws to make sure I wasn’t unarmed when angry people found me and my gal, Jan.

  I not only felt a debt toward Miles; over the years I had come to appreciate his easy humor, and I was excited to show him and his family the crown jewel of my Eastern Oregon home. He and his wife, Gail, and their three sons, James, John and Paul (“I call them my disciples,” he liked to joke) arrived on Friday night.

  They had flown into Portland and rented a car for the drive to my home in the foothills of the Blue Mountains west of Pendleton.

  When they arrived, Judy, the Drahthaar pointer, greeted them with lots of barking and sniffing. I had pitched a tent in the yard for the three boys, and I had the upstairs guest room set up for Miles and Gail. They were tired and excited. For the boys, it was a rare treat to have a week off school in September. Ages running 10-14, the three were full of excitement and were all talking at once.

  Gail gave me a hug and raised her eyebrows at the three youngsters as they called “dibs” on the bunks in the wall tent. “You ready for a week at this kind of pace?”

  I just smiled, and gave her a squeeze. “I might be more excited about showing off the Round-Up than your guys are about rodeo.”

  Miles just stood there grinning. “I’m only excited about getting a shot at those world class brook trout you’ve been bragging about since I met you.”

  I knew we’d have to find time for a walk up to the mountain lake for those fish, but I also knew that the boys had to have horse rides and a full schedule of rodeo. I shrugged mentally; we’d find the time somehow.

  “Is Jan coming out?” Gail asked. “I tried to call her last week, but she was out of town. I thought she might be here.”

  Jan Coldwell was the newspaper owner in Mineral Valley, Michigan. I had met her when I was looking into the matter of my friend’s death. In addition to working together on the investigation that led us to the eventual solution of that particular mystery, Jan and I had entered a serious relationship. While our feelings for each other remained as passionate and enduring as we hoped it would, we also found it as difficult as all long-distance relationships can be.

  We had learned to trust each other as we shared the experience of surviving the threat of some seriously deranged characters. She was the first romantic relationship I had known since the death of my wife, Sandy. I had met Sandy at the old Naval Air Station in Quonset Point, Rhode Island as I was transitioning from my active duty as a special forces warrior. Sandy had been doing a summer job with the Navy’s personnel department. When I left the Navy behind for a peaceful life writing news stories, I took Sandy with me. We had kicked around the country for 30 years as I worked my way into senior management positions in community newspapers until we landed in Pendleton.

  We had fallen in love with the area and its people at once, and had expected to spend the rest of our lives here. She did, dying while we were getting involved in the community. Without her, I lost interest in my work world, choosing to “retire” to a life of mo
urning. Then I’d met Jan while I was retracing the last days of an old friend’s life and things just developed. She taught me to love again; I taught her to shoot a handgun. We saved each other, so to speak.

  “I haven’t heard from her for a couple of weeks myself,” I said. “I know she was going to some meetings in Chicago last week. I invited her to Round-Up, but she didn’t commit one way or another.”

  Miles and I were hauling luggage into the house. “Jim,” he said to me in a big brother voice, “I hope this doesn’t mean there’s trouble between you two.”

  I pooh-poohed his comment, “I don’t think so. We’ve been seeing each other for five-plus years; there’s no doubt about our relationship, and there’s no hurry about changing our situation. It’s not like there are un-named children at risk. She’s been busy with her newspaper and I’ve been in some demand on the conference circuit. We knew it would be difficult living and loving so far apart, but what could we do? She can’t give up her paper; I can’t just give up this place. We’ll work it out, I’m sure.”

  I noticed the look Gail and Miles traded, but chose to let it pass without comment just as they did.

  After a late dinner, and then I gave them an overview of the coming week.

  “Tomorrow is the ‘Dress Up’ parade downtown. It’s a lot like any small town parade you’ve ever seen, but one thing you’ll really notice is how well so many of the folks in the parade ride.

  “Then I thought we’d go to the Round-Up Hall of Fame and museum. I think you’ll find that intriguing.

  “On Sunday, I thought Miles and I would go fishing up in the Blues,” I said. Turning to Gail, I added, “I know it’s important to you that the kids have something to write about back at school…”

  “That’s right,” Gail said, “and the quicker we deal with that the better. Right guys?” The three boys were busy with their chicken and didn’t give her the big rousing okay she had been hoping for. Miles laughed, “What’s on your mind, Jim?”

  “Just down the mountain is the Tamastslikt Cultural Center on the Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla Reservation. It is a great place to visit to experience another viewpoint on the whole concept of Manifest Destiny. The kids will see the coming of the white man from the natives’ perspective, and I know when I first came here, it gave me a new outlook.”

  “That’s a great idea,” Gail exclaimed. “Guys, don’t you think it’d be great to go see how the original people who lived here made out?”

  “Is it a museum?” James, the oldest boy, asked.

  “It is, but it comes complete with live demonstrations of ancient crafts. It’s never disappointed any of my young friends before.”

  “Will there be real Indians?” asked Paul, the youngest.

  “Yes,” I said. “We call them Native Americans today, but the Indians run the place, pal. It’s their land; their show. I think you’ll really have fun and learn some things, too.”

  “Then we can come back here, invest a few hours in writing up the papers and you won’t have to think about school again until we’re back home,” Gail said. “Deal?”

  The boys were torn between seeking help from me to their dad, but we offered nothing. “’Course, you could just not go to the rodeo Wednesday, and do the writing part then, right Jim?” Gail added.

  “Life’s all about choices,” I chuckled as the boys quickly gave in to their mother’s plans for Sunday.

  2

  2010

  The parade didn’t start until 1 o’clock, so the morning was spent getting used to my place in the foothills of the Blues.

  The boys were up with the sun, and after hot cocoa, I invited them to join me in my morning walk, and they jumped at the chance.

  Walking for me is not just putting one foot in front of the other. My “walk” is a full-body workout using the principles of tai chi chuan, the base martial art that comprised my early training back when I was involved in the military.

  Tai chi practice enables a person to control stress, fear and all the normal reactions associated with the body’s natural “fight or flight” response to danger.

  Called dancing by many martial arts aficionados, a person skilled in tai chi can move quickly from the practiced, stylized moves of the discipline into instinctive moves of defense which in turn can become effective modes of attack. I had been drilled in the skills of warfare and had been good at it, but I also found I had no stomach for that life. I chose to pursue civilian life, and I had left the t’ai chi behind as well. After years of eating and drinking my career in newspapers, I woke up one day unable to see my toes.

  I returned to the basics of tai chi and made it a daily part of my life. I regained flexibility and strength, and now, at this stage of my life, the dance was enough. It kept me centered; aware of; and, in most cases, in control of my core.

  As we started walking on the road in front of my house, we ended up walking past the home of my only neighbors, Jack and Shirlee Nelson, at the end of the road. There a trail started into the woods, steadily climbing for about 1,000 feet in a three-mile stretch. I had no illusions of the boys making that walk this morning, but we were further than I thought we would be when Paul, the little one, started lagging a bit behind.

  “I need a break,” I announced, letting myself drop onto the ground with my back against a tree. Judy, who had been keeping a quiet watch on us, came to check on my condition. The boys settled in a small circle around me.

  “Why do you do those te-chee moves?” Paul asked.

  “T’ai chi,” James corrected his younger brother, spelling it out for him. “It’s a martial art, like karate,” he added.

  “Do you fight with T’ai chi?” Paul asked, struggling with the pronunciation.

  John was usually the quiet one of the three brothers, but at the talk of fighting, he looked up eagerly. “Who do you fight?”

  I shook my head. “I try to avoid fighting whenever I can, John. I think it’s smarter to handle things without getting physical; easier on me, easier on the other guy.”

  John wasn’t giving up. “Did you ever use tai chi in a fight?”

  I nodded. “Yep.”

  “Tell us about it?”

  I shook my head. “Nope.”

  His disappointment was in his voice, “Why?”

  “It was so long ago, I just don’t want to remember, okay?”

  James stepped in. “John, it was a war thing; lots of guys don’t want to talk about their wars, just like Dad doesn’t like to talk about cases, you know?”

  John answered in a sheepish voice, “I didn’t mean anything about it, I’m just curious.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, reaching out to ruffle his hair a bit. “Want to learn some basic tai chi forms?”

  He beamed at me. “Really? When?”

  “Why not here?”

  So we spent the next half an hour going through basic forms of tai chi, focusing on balance, flexibility, and control.

  As we neared the house, John sent me a smile, “I’m getting sore. That’s a different kind of exercise than gym class, but I like it.”

  “If you walk with me every morning, the soreness will be a memory by the time you go home, and if you keep it up at home, you’ll be amazed at how good you feel. There are certainly tai chi masters teaching around Cadillac. A real master would be flattered to have you as a student; I’d bet on it.”

  He rewarded me with another of those beaming grins, and I felt on top of the world.

  While I was fixing breakfast, the boys found old scrap books that Sandy had kept for years. She had been my biggest fan, and I missed her every day even still.

  “Wow, Mr. Stanton,” James yelled from the porch, “you were really young once!”

  His mother erupted immediately, “James Lawton, you watch your mouth…”

  I shushed her, “Let ’em enjoy themselves. We bonded a bit this morning.”

  “There’s no reason to be rude,” she said loud enough for the boys to hear, but she was grinning. “It was a nice period for adult bonding in your beautiful guest room with the sound of the wind sighing through the firs outside the window… Thanks.”