The headline of the advertisement proclaimed: “Live and Work in America’s First National Park!”
The colorful poster touted seasonal employment opportunities in Yellowstone National Park working for the authorized concessioner, Yellowstone Park Company. Graham carefully scanned the jobs and was disappointed in the available positions. Applications were being accepted for waiters, maids, bartenders, cook assistants, dishwashers, laundry workers, front-desk clerks, porters, truck drivers, and so on. As he was about to turn away from the brochure, one position caught his eye: dock helper. The job description was brief.
Successful applicants will clean, fuel, maintain, and prepare 40hp/18ft motorboats for hourly rental by guests. Other duties include scrubbing the marina facility, assisting with scenicruise and fishing guide operations, and other tasks as assigned by the manager.
Graham’s disposition brightened. This was a job he would love! He retrieved a notebook from his backpack and copied down the information. He spent several hours on the application that evening, being especially thoughtful when writing an essay on why he would be a great fit for this job. The next morning, he arrived at the campus post office early. He was the first customer when the building opened at nine o’clock. In addition to the normal postage, he paid sixty cents for a special-delivery stamp to be affixed to the envelope, which was addressed to company offices in the Mammoth Hot Springs Hotel. As he crisscrossed the campus back to his dormitory, his steps were a little lighter.
The next month was filled with a pattern to which Graham had become accustomed. Classes almost every day. Dining-hall duty several days during the week and most weekends. Studying either in his dorm room or at the library in the evenings. His calendar allowed for little free time. He nearly forgot about the application he mailed weeks before.
On the day before Thanksgiving break, Graham opened his small mailbox in the student union building and was elated to see an envelope with a return address from the Yellowstone Park Company. He hurriedly ripped open the sealed envelope and read the first line of the cover letter, which started, Congratulations . . .
“Woo-hoo!” Graham shouted. Other students checking their mail glanced over at him and smiled. Although they didn’t know what he was excited about, there was no doubt it was good news. He clutched the envelope and sprinted back to his room, eager to read the contents and reveling in his good fortune.
* * *
Graham had a lot on his mind as he drove the Studebaker along Route 322 east toward Harrisburg. The suitcase he packed for the four-day weekend was in the trunk, and the brown envelope from the YP Company lay on the passenger seat. He had read all the materials and digested the details of the job offer. After his initial excitement wore off, Graham came to terms with the discouraging news about the pay rate.
He would make $2.10 per hour, which was only fifty cents above the minimum wage. The cost of housing and meals would be deducted from weekly paychecks. The company claimed these costs would be affordable, since it provided community-style housing and meals from a cafeteria. When Graham estimated his take-home pay after expenses, he determined it would be only about eighty dollars per week. This was less than his earning potential working at Big Hill Farm, where he would often work fifty or more hours each week at a higher wage while not incurring food and housing costs.
On the other hand, the YP Company attracted seasonal workers with a claim unmatched by other potential employers. The brochure bluntly stated park employees do not earn a lot. But consider where you will be working. Where else can you get paid for living in the most spectacular natural wonder in America, if not the world? Graham had to agree this was a strong selling point. And he was sold.
The two-hour ride went quickly. Soon the Studebaker was parked beside the carport. Graham collected his suitcase from the trunk and walked up to the house, anxious to share the serendipitous story of the Yellowstone job posting and subsequent employment offer in the envelope he was holding.
“Mom!” Graham shouted as he closed the front door and hung his coat on a wooden peg.
“In here!” a voice came from the kitchen.
As Graham entered the kitchen, he was surprised to see Helen flattening dough on the counter with a rolling pin. When he left for school in late August, his mother had rarely tried to cook anything other than basic meals. He noticed more streaks of gray in his mother’s brown hair, but she didn’t have her recent doleful appearance. Graham wondered what change prompted her improved countenance.
She looked up and smiled, walking over to kiss him on the cheek. “If my hands weren’t covered in flour, I’d give you a big hug!”
“What are you making?”
“A pumpkin pie, of course. You know how much your father likes pumpkin. And tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I don’t care for those premade pies at the grocery store. They just don’t have as much flavor as the ones you make yourself.”
“Absolutely!” Graham agreed. It was wonderful to see his mother doing something she previously enjoyed. He privately vowed to be effusive in his praise of her meal tomorrow, even if the turkey portions were dry and her pies were bland.
“Where’s Dad?”
Helen looked over the top of her glasses as she nodded toward the window facing the workshop.
“Where do you think?”
“Will he come up to the house for lunch?”
“Yes. I expect him very soon.”
“Okay. Well, I have some exciting news, and I want to share it with both of you.”
“What is it?” Helen asked, as she stopped rolling the dough and peered up at her son.
“Wait until Dad gets here so I don’t have to repeat my story,” Graham countered.
Helen looked disappointed but didn’t say anything. She returned to her work, carefully placing the flattened dough into the pie tin and trimming the edges. Graham left the kitchen and carried his suitcase up the narrow stairs to his bedroom.
Fifteen minutes later, Leroy walked up from the workshop for the noon meal. Graham was sitting in the kitchen when his father entered the room.
“Hey there,” Leroy said casually.
“Hi, Dad.” Graham studied his father as he went straight to the sink and washed his hands. Leroy didn’t look any different. He was still unshaven with a salt-and-pepper beard nearly reaching his chest. His graying hair was thin, with strands covering the top of his ears. Bushy eyebrows accentuated his sorrowful hazel eyes.
“Been here long?” Leroy asked, as he dried his hands on a towel.
“Nope. About a half hour.”
Not knowing what else to say, Leroy turned to Helen and asked, “Are we ready for lunch?”
“Sure. I warmed up some chicken noodle soup, and we can make sandwiches. Let’s sit down.”
After Helen said grace, the family engaged in small talk about the cool weather and a recent warehouse expansion at the fruit-processing plant in town. Graham pulled the brown envelope from under his chair and placed it on the table. He excitedly told his parents about the job posting, his application, and the details of his job offer. When he finished speaking, Graham scanned their faces for a reaction.
Helen responded, “Well, I think this is a wonderful opportunity! It’s not often someone gets the chance to work in a national park for a summer. And it seems like a nice complement to your forestry studies.” She glanced over at Leroy, who had pushed his chair back from the table and was thoughtfully twirling his half-empty water glass.
“What’s it pay?” he asked.
Graham repeated the details of the pay rate, as well as the housing and meal costs.
“You’re not gonna make much this summer,” his father said flatly. “How are you going to get there?”
“I thought I would drive the Studebaker,” Graham replied. Already he was sensing his father wasn’t keen on the idea of his son’s traveling across the country for a job that made no sense financially.
“Not a good idea,” Leroy said. “You’ll probably get strand
ed in Kansas, and I’ll be on the hook to come and rescue you.”
“I’ll get the car in good shape before I leave,” Graham retorted. He was trying to suppress his annoyance with his father’s negative attitude.
“How am I supposed to get all the chair orders completed this summer? You know it’s the busiest time of year. I was counting on you to help in the evenings.”
Graham was exasperated. Since when did his father want his help in the workshop? This was the first time it was suggested. It was clear Leroy was dead set against this job prospect. As Graham considered what to say next without escalating into an argument, his mother spoke.
“Leroy, I know you’re disappointed Graham won’t be here to help next summer. But I think it’s a great opportunity for him and . . .”
He held up a hand and signaled for Helen to stop talking while looking directly at Graham. “Fine! Go ahead. Do whatever you want. I can’t stop you,” Leroy said with a scowl.
He stood abruptly, shoved his chair under the kitchen table, and walked briskly to the front door, where he grabbed his coat from the peg and pulled it on as the door clicked shut behind him.
Helen shook her head slowly and started sobbing lightly as she held a tissue to her nose. “I’ve gradually learned to accept what happened to our family. I go on each day because of my faith. But your father . . . your father is irritable most of the time. He isn’t the same man I married.”
Graham walked over to his mother and stood behind her chair. He gently placed his hands on her shoulders and hoped this simple gesture was enough to provide some comfort. Contrary to Graham’s high expectations, this was not going to be a happy Thanksgiving for the Davidsons.
As Graham drove back to campus Sunday afternoon, he was in a melancholy mood. He had approached the holiday break full of hope. But now he was dispirited. His father was angry and dismissive of his job in Yellowstone. His mother appeared to be rebounding from years of emotional pain, yet she was isolated in her own home with a suffering marriage. And Graham was even more confused.
He fiddled with the radio dial trying to find a station whose signal would survive Tuscarora and Shade Mountains as the highway snaked its way northwest. He settled on a rock station playing a song from The Guess Who. The deejay announced the next track was by The Moody Blues. It was a song Graham had heard many times over the summer, but the lyrics now seemed to speak directly to him.
Why do we never get an answer
When we’re knocking at the door
With a thousand million questions
About hate and death and war
It’s where we stop and look around us
There is nothing that we need
In a world of persecution
That is burning in its greed
Why do we never get an answer
When we’re knocking at the door
Because the truth is hard to swallow
That’s what the wall of love is for
It’s not the way that you say it
When you do those things to me
It’s more the way that you mean it
When you tell me what will be
And when you stop and think about it
You won’t believe it’s true
That all the love you’ve been giving
Has all been meant for you
I’m looking for someone to change my life
I’m looking for a miracle in my life
And if you could see what it’s done to me
To lose the love I knew
Could safely lead me through
Between the silence of the mountains
And the crashing of the sea
There lies a land I once lived in
And she’s waiting there for me
But in the gray of the morning
My mind becomes confused
Between the dead and the sleeping
And the road that I must choose
I’m looking for someone to change my life
I’m looking for a miracle in my life
And if you could see what it’s done to me
To lose the love I knew
Could safely lead me to
The land that I once knew
To learn as we grow old
The secrets of our souls
It’s not the way that you say it
When you do those things to me
It’s more the way you really mean it
When you tell me what will be
When “Question” ended, Graham switched the radio off. He stared out the windshield at the road in front of him and realized he was looking for someone to change his life - or perhaps he was looking for a miracle. He also had lost loves he once knew. Their names were Billy, Susan, Frank, and even Leroy, his father. Tears welled in his eyes and trickled down his cheeks.
Graham took a deep breath, wiped away the tears, and told himself to focus on his driving. At the same time, he resolved to go to Yellowstone. He needed a change of scenery. He wanted to get away from his current situation and see what the world looked like outside of Pennsylvania. He needed a purpose, and he wasn’t waiting any longer for someone to tell him the road he must choose. His road headed west.
Chapter 6
December, 1970
Final-exam week was stressful. Graham pushed himself to work extra hours in the dining hall knowing he would not be capable of saving much money from his next summer job. The additional hours he spent loading the dishwasher, cleaning tables, and mopping floors translated to less study time.
Three days before Christmas, Graham took his last exam for the semester. He hiked to the remote student parking lot and climbed into his car, anxious to get on the road ahead of a forecast winter storm. When he turned the ignition key, the Studebaker sputtered and coughed for thirty seconds before firing up. The engine ran roughly and nearly stalled numerous times. He could feel the car shaking as it idled at traffic lights. Graham knew he needed an expert to diagnose the car’s problem. Even after all these years, his thoughts went to Frank. It would be great if his brother the mechanic was still alive . . .
Everyone in the Davidson clan put on his or her best face on Christmas day. Presents were opened, pleasantries were exchanged, and the family enjoyed Helen’s turkey dinner with sweet potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and green beans. It was as if a truce had been declared and no one wanted to violate an unspoken agreement of civility for this one day.
The following day, Graham rose early and drove to Big Hill Farm. He had previously asked Floyd if he could work during his break to earn some extra cash. The farm manager said they would be pruning trees, and he would appreciate the extra help. Graham pulled the faltering Studebaker into the parking area by the barn. When he turned off the engine, it backfired and coughed a white cloud from the tailpipe.
“You sure are noisy!” Leonard said, teasing Graham as he stepped from the ailing vehicle.
“Yeah. Something’s not right, that’s for sure. I need to have somebody look at it while I’m home from school.”
“Well, maybe I can take a peek today,” Leonard suggested. “I work on Mr. Floyd’s tractors. Most of the farm vehicles are diesel, but a few have gas engines.”
Graham was heartened by this offer. “That would be great! I really appreciate it.”
“Just leave the keys with me. If I have time over lunch, I’ll see what I can find out.”
Floyd’s pickup rolled into the parking area, and Graham could see Redfield riding in the passenger seat.
“Good to see ya’, Graham! Climb in back,” Floyd gestured with a jerk of his thumb. Graham tossed his keys to Leonard before using the rear bumper to step into the bed of the truck. He sat on the channeled metal truck bed and leaned against the cab. He was glad he was wearing insulated coveralls, boots, and a knit cap. As the truck headed toward the orchard, the wind whipped around the cab and made the twenty-degree day feel much colder. Ten minutes later, the truck came to a stop on a hill overlooking
a vast array of bare young apple trees rising in neat rows from the snow-covered ground.
“Choose your weapon,” Floyd directed as he opened a toolbox mounted on the truck’s bed. Redfield and Graham each selected freshly sharpened pruning shears from the box. “Redfield, you better give the young man some quick training. I’ll be back round lunchtime to fetch you.”
As the small truck spun around and headed back toward the barn, Redfield greeted Graham for the first time. “How’ve you been, Gra’am?” the Crow Indian asked, opening and closing the jaws of the pruners while he spoke.
“Pretty good,” Graham lied.
“Me, too.”
Redfield took the young man over to a tree and demonstrated which suckers and shoots should be removed from the trunk and branches to maximize the fruit-bearing potential of the tree. Then he observed Graham pruning a few trees to make sure he understood the instructions. Soon the clicking sounds of pruners were echoing across the orchard as the two men removed epicormic branches from the trunks of the apple trees. After finishing one tree, each man would advance past his partner in the same row. The amateur arborists hopscotched down the orchard, leaving a trail of thin, woody stems at the base of each tree.
“I’ve got some exciting news,” Graham said as he walked by Redfield to the next tree in the row.
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“I have an opportunity to work in Yellowstone National Park next summer,” the younger man revealed.
Redfield’s pruners stopped moving. He looked over at Graham with genuine interest. “That’s my homeland,” he said earnestly.
“I thought you were from Montana.”
“True. But our ancestral lands include today’s park in Wyoming. The Crow Reservation is small compared with the land we called home before the white man came.”
Burning Ground Page 6
