Books
Burning FenceChapter 2
Cherry Tree
Lifting me high above his head, my father placed me in the crotch of the Bing cherry tree growing beside my mother's parents' house in The Dalles. A little frightened at that dizzying height, I pressed my palms into the tree's rough, peeling bark. My father stood close, reassuring. I could see his olive skin, dazzling smile, and sharp-creased army uniform.
"Rudell, don't let him fall." My mother watched, her arms held out halfway, as if to catch me.
"Look at that big boy. He's taller than me." My grandfather Lange spoke around his crook-stemmed pipe filled with Prince Albert tobacco. Wearing her kitchen apron, my grandmother stood close by, ready to serve a pitcher of lemonade.
The cherries were ripe and robins flittered through the dark green leaves, pecking at the Bings. Tipping my head back, I could see blue sky beyond the extended branches.
"That's enough. Bring him down now." My mother's arms reached out farther.
Laughing, my father grabbed me under the arms, twirled me around, and plunked me onto the grass. I wobbled a little. Imprinted on my palms was the pattern of the tree bark, and I brushed off the little bark pieces on my dungarees.
In a moment, my grandmother gave me a small glass of lemonade. When I drank, it tasted tart and sweet at the same time.
This first childhood memory of my father remains etched in my mind.
Other memories followed. Every morning, Grandmother Lange lifted me onto a kitchen chair so I could see the Columbia River and the Klickitat Hills. In summer, the two of us planted crocuses in the back yard; in winter, we watched their yellow and purple flowers spring from the snow. Two days a week, I helped her clean the roomers' quarters, and as I emptied the waste baskets and ashtrays, I smelled aftershave and old cigarettes.
Every lunch hour, my grandfather walked home from the newspaper to give me cod liver oil, because I had rickets. I refused to take the fishy liquid from anyone but him. Brandishing a bottle and spoon, he chased me from room to room while I laughed. After I swallowed, I became the pursuer, and he lumbered away shouting, "Don't give me any of those lutefisk kisses!" When I caught and kissed him, my grandfather wiped his mouth and made terrible faces. My cheeks burned from his heavy whiskers and the delight of the chase.
Each afternoon, I waited for him to come home and read me my favorite bookPeppy the Puppy. Relaxing in his easy chair, he filled his crook-stemmed pipe and smoked while he read. To this day, the smell of pipe smoke conjures those wonderful times.
When I grew older, I realized that my father had never lifted me into the cherry tree. After Rudell left, I never saw him until I was fifteen. My grandfather had put me in the tree. Still, the memory of my father lifting me into the tree persists. Even today, I remain half-convinced by the details: the press of bark against my palms, the taste of lemonade, the texture of my father's serge uniform. Apparently, my mind has cross-wired the photographs of my handsome father in his army uniform with the logical reality that my grandfather set me in the crotch of the tree.
Why can I remember the event so vividly? I guess because I wanted so much for my father to be there. I have no easy answers.
At eighty-seven, my mother, Hazel, has a perfectly clear mind, but she refuses to talk about Rudell.
"How did you two meet?"
"I can't remember."
I decide to prompt her out of her stubbornness. "You were in Vancouver, right? Working at the county courthouse? Rudell was in the army, stationed at the Bames Veteran's Hospital. Did you meet at a dance for servicemen? A bar? Church?"
"I just can't remember."
"But it was in Vancouver?"
A long pause. "It must have been."
"Before he came to Vancouver, he worked on the Alcan Highway. He said the mosquitoes were as big as horses. So you met him after he worked on the highway and before he went overseas."
"When was the highway built?"
"Nineteen forty-three was when he worked on it. Aunt Sally and Ormand told me. She said you and Rudell came to visit her in Portland when you were going together."
"Well then, I guess maybe we did."
"It would help if you said a little more about him."
"I don't have anything more to say about him. He just didn't give a damn."
"You always told me he had shell shock after the war."
"Listen. All I want you to put in that book is that I'm your mother, and I was a single working parent. When your father ran off, I tried to raise you, and after I was married to Vern ... well, you know what he was like. Then I had Rorma and tried to raise you both."
"Well, do you want to talk about Vern a little?"
"He was a stinker. But you're a good person, and Ronna is a good person, and I'm a good person."
Of course, I remember my stepfather all too well, but I want her to say a little more. "What are some of the things you remember about him?"
"I did the best I could, under the circumstances. That's all any, body can do."
"I know. I've always admired you for that. Ronna has, too."
"I want to read what you write. Before it goes to publication, or whatever that's called. I want to read it."
Maybe it was a request, but the edge in her voice made it sound more like a threat.
I remain amazed at how little I know about my father from my mother's side of the family. My grandmother said nothing. Twice, my grandfather told me that he was a good hunter with keen eyes. My aunt Mac said she thought he was an Indian. My mother told me he suffered shell shock following the Battle of the Bulge and left us because of his illness. Then she added, "But there wasn't a mean bone in your father's body."
Much later, she told me, "After the war was over, he just hung around the house [my grandparents' home in The Dalles]. Your grandfather finally got him a job with my uncle out at the cement works, and he wouldn't do what he was told."
When I was in my fifties, she added that he left the cement works job to go deer hunting. "And when he came back, he remembered that he'd left a flashlight with his cousin down in Molalla. He left to get it and never returned."
Most details about my father have come from my grandmother Anna Lesley, his eleven brothers and sisters, my half brother Ormand, and the few meetings I had with the old man himself. In 1946, shortly before he sent divorce papers to my mother, Rudell sat on a park bench outside the Pendleton courthouse, waiting for my aunt Sally to get off work. They were close to each other because my grandfather Newton Lesley had been cruel to both of them, forcing them to become allies. Later, Sally offered Rudell help in going to college, but he felt college was a waste of time.
"I saw your father out the window, just sitting on that bench," Sally told me. "It was about three o'clock in the afternoon. I could tell he had something heavy on his mind and I'm sure it was about your mother."
"So what did he say?"
"I wanted to go outside and talk with him, but I couldn't right then. I had all this work to do for the judge and I didn't want to get in trouble."
Sally looked down at her folded hands. I could tell she felt that she had made the wrong decision.
"About four, Rudell left the bench for a while and came back with a cup of coffee. I figured that would hold him."
When 5:30 came, Sally hurried out of her office and across the street to the bench. My father was gone, the half-drunk cup of coffee left behind.
"I hoped he'd be up at the house. DeAnna was just a baby then, and I thought he might stop by to see her. I called Jim at work, but he hadn't seen him. Later, we found out he'd gone back to Monument."
Maybe my aunt Sally could have persuaded Rudell not to leave. How much convincing would it have taken? I'd like to believe that somehow he would have stayed, that he cared for me more than he wanted that flashlight.
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Cherry Tree
Lifting me high above his head, my father placed me in the crotch of the Bing cherry tree growing beside my mother's parents' house in The Dalles. A little frightened at that dizzying height, I pressed my palms into the tree's rough, peeling bark. My father stood close, reassuring. I could see his olive skin, dazzling smile, and sharp-creased army uniform.
"Rudell, don't let him fall." My mother watched, her arms held out halfway, as if to catch me.
"Look at that big boy. He's taller than me." My grandfather Lange spoke around his crook-stemmed pipe filled with Prince Albert tobacco. Wearing her kitchen apron, my grandmother stood close by, ready to serve a pitcher of lemonade.
The cherries were ripe and robins flittered through the dark green leaves, pecking at the Bings. Tipping my head back, I could see blue sky beyond the extended branches.
"That's enough. Bring him down now." My mother's arms reached out farther.
Laughing, my father grabbed me under the arms, twirled me around, and plunked me onto the grass. I wobbled a little. Imprinted on my palms was the pattern of the tree bark, and I brushed off the little bark pieces on my dungarees.
In a moment, my grandmother gave me a small glass of lemonade. When I drank, it tasted tart and sweet at the same time.
This first childhood memory of my father remains etched in my mind.
Other memories followed. Every morning, Grandmother Lange lifted me onto a kitchen chair so I could see the Columbia River and the Klickitat Hills. In summer, the two of us planted crocuses in the back yard; in winter, we watched their yellow and purple flowers spring from the snow. Two days a week, I helped her clean the roomers' quarters, and as I emptied the waste baskets and ashtrays, I smelled aftershave and old cigarettes.
Every lunch hour, my grandfather walked home from the newspaper to give me cod liver oil, because I had rickets. I refused to take the fishy liquid from anyone but him. Brandishing a bottle and spoon, he chased me from room to room while I laughed. After I swallowed, I became the pursuer, and he lumbered away shouting, "Don't give me any of those lutefisk kisses!" When I caught and kissed him, my grandfather wiped his mouth and made terrible faces. My cheeks burned from his heavy whiskers and the delight of the chase.
Each afternoon, I waited for him to come home and read me my favorite bookPeppy the Puppy. Relaxing in his easy chair, he filled his crook-stemmed pipe and smoked while he read. To this day, the smell of pipe smoke conjures those wonderful times.
When I grew older, I realized that my father had never lifted me into the cherry tree. After Rudell left, I never saw him until I was fifteen. My grandfather had put me in the tree. Still, the memory of my father lifting me into the tree persists. Even today, I remain half-convinced by the details: the press of bark against my palms, the taste of lemonade, the texture of my father's serge uniform. Apparently, my mind has cross-wired the photographs of my handsome father in his army uniform with the logical reality that my grandfather set me in the crotch of the tree.
Why can I remember the event so vividly? I guess because I wanted so much for my father to be there. I have no easy answers.
At eighty-seven, my mother, Hazel, has a perfectly clear mind, but she refuses to talk about Rudell.
"How did you two meet?"
"I can't remember."
I decide to prompt her out of her stubbornness. "You were in Vancouver, right? Working at the county courthouse? Rudell was in the army, stationed at the Bames Veteran's Hospital. Did you meet at a dance for servicemen? A bar? Church?"
"I just can't remember."
"But it was in Vancouver?"
A long pause. "It must have been."
"Before he came to Vancouver, he worked on the Alcan Highway. He said the mosquitoes were as big as horses. So you met him after he worked on the highway and before he went overseas."
"When was the highway built?"
"Nineteen forty-three was when he worked on it. Aunt Sally and Ormand told me. She said you and Rudell came to visit her in Portland when you were going together."
"Well then, I guess maybe we did."
"It would help if you said a little more about him."
"I don't have anything more to say about him. He just didn't give a damn."
"You always told me he had shell shock after the war."
"Listen. All I want you to put in that book is that I'm your mother, and I was a single working parent. When your father ran off, I tried to raise you, and after I was married to Vern ... well, you know what he was like. Then I had Rorma and tried to raise you both."
"Well, do you want to talk about Vern a little?"
"He was a stinker. But you're a good person, and Ronna is a good person, and I'm a good person."
Of course, I remember my stepfather all too well, but I want her to say a little more. "What are some of the things you remember about him?"
"I did the best I could, under the circumstances. That's all any, body can do."
"I know. I've always admired you for that. Ronna has, too."
"I want to read what you write. Before it goes to publication, or whatever that's called. I want to read it."
Maybe it was a request, but the edge in her voice made it sound more like a threat.
I remain amazed at how little I know about my father from my mother's side of the family. My grandmother said nothing. Twice, my grandfather told me that he was a good hunter with keen eyes. My aunt Mac said she thought he was an Indian. My mother told me he suffered shell shock following the Battle of the Bulge and left us because of his illness. Then she added, "But there wasn't a mean bone in your father's body."
Much later, she told me, "After the war was over, he just hung around the house [my grandparents' home in The Dalles]. Your grandfather finally got him a job with my uncle out at the cement works, and he wouldn't do what he was told."
When I was in my fifties, she added that he left the cement works job to go deer hunting. "And when he came back, he remembered that he'd left a flashlight with his cousin down in Molalla. He left to get it and never returned."
Most details about my father have come from my grandmother Anna Lesley, his eleven brothers and sisters, my half brother Ormand, and the few meetings I had with the old man himself. In 1946, shortly before he sent divorce papers to my mother, Rudell sat on a park bench outside the Pendleton courthouse, waiting for my aunt Sally to get off work. They were close to each other because my grandfather Newton Lesley had been cruel to both of them, forcing them to become allies. Later, Sally offered Rudell help in going to college, but he felt college was a waste of time.
"I saw your father out the window, just sitting on that bench," Sally told me. "It was about three o'clock in the afternoon. I could tell he had something heavy on his mind and I'm sure it was about your mother."
"So what did he say?"
"I wanted to go outside and talk with him, but I couldn't right then. I had all this work to do for the judge and I didn't want to get in trouble."
Sally looked down at her folded hands. I could tell she felt that she had made the wrong decision.
"About four, Rudell left the bench for a while and came back with a cup of coffee. I figured that would hold him."
When 5:30 came, Sally hurried out of her office and across the street to the bench. My father was gone, the half-drunk cup of coffee left behind.
"I hoped he'd be up at the house. DeAnna was just a baby then, and I thought he might stop by to see her. I called Jim at work, but he hadn't seen him. Later, we found out he'd gone back to Monument."
Maybe my aunt Sally could have persuaded Rudell not to leave. How much convincing would it have taken? I'd like to believe that somehow he would have stayed, that he cared for me more than he wanted that flashlight.
Back to Burning Fence page