It was nippy, but the real sting of winter had already passed. Spring chose to arrive early and suffering from an acute case of cabin fever, George decided to explore the farm.
The pond had its share of seasonal ducks and a creek that ran down, through and out of the land. As he recalled, after church on Sundays was always a good time to fish for rainbow or speckled trout, throwing back the babies but keeping the big catch for Ma’s cast-iron skillet. From there, his pa would order him off to the small orchard at the north side of the house. It was his and Evan’s job to pick the apples for Ma’s famous pies. And though his father insisted, “Sunday’s the Lord’s Day and no decent man should work,” George remembered feeling just as tired after all the fishing and apple picking.
Returning to the farmyard, George spotted Grampa John. “Would you mind if I borrowed the pick-up?” he asked. “I’ve been waiting to take Three Speed on a canoe trip for some time now.”
The old man flipped him the keys.
The sun had just stretched out when George and the dog slid the long canoe into the water. Drawing in a deep breath, George opened his eyes to inhale with the rest of his senses.
It was as if he and the dog sat at the end of the world. A steady rhythm of icy water marked time. Quietly bubbling and gurgling, the morning steam rose like a mysterious but calming fog. Birds squawked and sang, boldly calling out to each other. Groves of pine, peppered with birch, decorated the river’s wide corridor. Blue sky, streaked white, mixed with the warming glow of the rising sun. Insects buzzed, seducing spawning trout. The water—one massive sheet of glass—was clear to the pebbled floor. But from time to time, it would ripple in the massaging breeze. The dried banks—high and lonely—waited to be quenched as the uneven horizon filled with ribbons of fringed earth stretched out to infinity. All at once, the sun’s powerful rays bounced off of the shimmering waves, sparkling like a million rhinestones. After this first look, George dipped his oar into the water. The trip had begun.
Trees intertwined—much like all living things—holding the hands of each other. The thick wood line offered safety but could not conceal the thirst of those that dwelled within. Large and awkward moose trampled over rotted tree stumps while several deer daintily stepped through the thick greenery. For a moment, their white tails stood frozen—almost intrigued by a human presence—but they were frightened and rightly so. George didn’t blame them.
Chipmunks scurried underground, wild rabbits zigzagged at play and one busy woodpecker labored away on his relentless jackhammer. The eyes of a red fox peered hungrily at several bathing ducks, each dunking their colorful, velvety heads under water. After Three Speed calmed down from his tantrum, there was silence; beautiful, uninterrupted silence.
Like a moody lass, the wondrous river could be soothing one minute, then rage out ferociously the next. She followed her own crooked course laid out by centuries of erosion. Within this watery avenue, dangerous obstacles of jagged stone punched out, cautioning George and his furry mate by the small tidal waves forced around them. Islands of green, bordered by tall, swaying grass, signaled the changing headwinds. With the strength of an age-old current and a hundred streams flowing in from each side, a smooth drift turned a sudden riptide into an instant rapid. Those white-capped roller coaster rides offered equal amounts of excitement and fear. Yet, after managing the choppy trip, the peace of drifting lazily revealed itself once again. For the first time in his life, George preferred the tranquility to the excitement.
After maneuvering through miles of twists and turns, he finally scouted a campsite in a logger’s cozy knoll. With his tent erect and a fire blazing, whittling and skipping stones eventually gave way to more serenity.
On a bed of pine boughs, as if seen through the eyes of an infant, the night came alive. In a moonless sky, more stars than his entire life had beheld glimmered brightly. The earth’s ceiling—seemingly close enough to touch—checked its brilliant reflection in the twinkling river below. In an awesome display of raw beauty, it both hypnotized and brought hope to a fool’s cross-fingered wish. George pictured the face of the boy he’d killed and allowed himself to weep. He cried hard for a long time.
In the stillness, a tree—decayed from the frozen months—snapped and called attention to the land. George jumped and scanned the area. There was no enemy—at least not outside of himself. Searching within, he realized, The fighting isn’t over. The tears continued to roll.
Within the fire, flames licked at the cool air—popping and cracking, illuminating the silver face of a happy mutt. As the outdoor furnace surrendered to red, glowing embers, it left behind the rugged scent of burnt hardwood. It also replaced comfort with an even stiffer chill. The song of the cricket became the lullaby, while George’s sniffles and sobs were the echoes until morning.
At the first sign of dawn—as the rising sun melted away the river’s fog—George and Three Speed stood together at a bend in the muddy bank, each alone in their mind. The river, the land—it was all alive. Everything was growing and progressing, not by leaps and bounds but by one precious second at a time. The truth was quite apparent—in Mother Nature’s house, men were just passing through and no matter how long their stay, they were still only guests.
Crawling back into the canoe, eagerly preparing to conquer one last boulevard of rapids, the sun’s warm hands held George’s wind-burned face. Rowing easy, he watched as the sun touched the river again. It was as if someone spread magic dust everywhere. With one sky sitting upon another, it was breathtaking. George bent over the side of the canoe and gazed into the vast mirror. Catching his aged reflection in the water, the tears flowed freely from his anguished soul and dropped one by one into the water. As nature stripped some of the burden from him, his pain was part of the river now—and forever.
To a dog that would never tell a living soul, he confessed, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I did it but I had no choice. I never meant to kill that poor boy, but I can’t live with this guilt any more … this pain. I just can’t. I’m sorry.”
Three Speed’s ears perked up and his head cocked sideways, yet he passed no judgment. George cried right up until the dog’s comical reaction would not allow it; right up until the moment Three Speed licked his face.
The dog was under George’s feet when he unloaded the canoe at the farm. Grampa John sauntered over from the barn. Staring into George’s eyes, the biggest smile of relief spread across his wrinkled face. Pulling his grandson to him, he fought off the lump that swelled in his throat. “Welcome home,” he whispered in George’s ear before placing a drab green box into his hand. “This is somethin’ you earned a while back. I just been keepin’ it safe for ya.” With a few pounds on the back, he told his grandson, “I gotta tell ya, when it’s all said and done, though no one will ever envy you for it, standin’ up to this with your head held high will be the toughest thing you ever do … but it’ll also bring ya the most pride. It’s already brought me a heap of pride for ya.” Grampa John nodded, sorrowfully. “Don’t be a fool like your grampa and wait years to tackle what ails ya,” he said. “Get after it right away and face it like the man I’m proud you’ve become. Put it behind you, Georgey, so you can walk ahead without ever havin’ to look back.”
For George, truer words had never been spoken.
As the old man walked away, George stood in awe and realized, Grampa John isn’t talking about any two-day canoe trip. Until this very moment, he never noticed that the old man was the only one who hadn’t welcomed him home. Grampa John had chosen to wait until all of him was home. George called out, “It’s great to be home, Grampa John! Thank you.” The last words drifted on emotion.
The old man lifted his arm in acknowledgment, but he never looked back. “With the good Lord’s help,” he whispered, “just one more to go.”
Upon entering the VA Hospital’s massive complex, colorful wooden signs guided George’s way; the same signs found on any U.S. military installation or base. George squirmed at the sight of them. His breathing became more shallow and rapid, as though he were being sent back into the mountains of Afghanistan.
A few lone souls, wearing slippers and government-issued robes, shuffled slowly along on their morning walk. George swallowed hard at the sight of them.
He pulled into the horseshoe drive in front of the main building. Identical to all the others, it was faced with red brick and contained rows of tall windows that concealed the pain of those who gazed out from behind them.
George parked and shut off the ignition. He sat for a few minutes, contemplating the difficult journey before him. The VA Hospital was a factory designed to repair, or in some cases merely conceal, the lethal machines that the government had built and then broken. Grampa John’s right, he thought. If I don’t put this behind me, my mind’ll be stuck in Afghanistan for the rest of my life.
George took a deep breath and then the long walk across a path of blue stone dust to the heavy front door; each step was forced, like he was heading straight to the lethal injection room.
At the front desk, he was greeted by the glum look of a heavy-set woman who could have as easily worked for the DMV. George removed a veteran’s ID card from his wallet and handed it to her. “Dr. Swanson’s expecting me,” he explained. “It’s my first visit.”
Without any reaction, the woman scribbled something down onto her clipboard, handed back the ID and said, “Psychiatric intake, room 306.” There was no welcome, no thanks for coming—nothing more.
The linoleum tiles were buffed to a glossy shine and George tensed at another reminder of military life. Dull yellow tiles lined the bottom half of the walls, while the upper half was painted bright white. The entire environment was sanitized, obviously intended to create a state of calm. It was having the opposite effect.
Up the elevator to the third floor, no sooner did the doors open than low moans—screams that had long surrendered—could be heard. The smell of pine cleaner poorly masked the distinct smells of vomit and other bodily fluids. But it was the feeling in the air that permeated everything. It was a feeling of doom, of hopelessness and unrelenting despair—men in such great mental agony that only the strongest medications allowed them to escape from their horrific memories and successful suicide attempts.
George’s mind flashed his greatest fear: What if they don’t let me leave? He kept marching ahead, unsure of whether he was more afraid of being confined to the hospital than being left alone inside his own mind, where the same demonic pictures played over and over.
That night, Grampa John made his daily entry in the journal, turned off the oil lamp and went to bed. “One more to go,” he whispered again and closed his eyes.