by W.H. Harrod
~~ Chapter Two
Allison reread the note from her husband. Morning Sunshine, It’s about time you got up. Why were you rumbling around the house nearly the entire night? Was it the Mexican food I brought home? Sorry about that! I’ll be at our daughter’s home again for most of the day. Charley and I want to get the roof on the new garage. Love, Scott.
What did I ever do to deserve such a wonderful human being as my husband? Allison thought to herself for the millionth time. Andrew Scott Carter, her husband of thirty-four years, still treated her as the most special person in the world. When other ladies complained about their husbands for whatever reason, she never commiserated with them because Scott was apparently the perfect male. Much earlier in their marriage she tried to find fault with her husband so not to be different at the office, but she failed, and it didn’t take her long to begin to appreciate her good fortune. She dared to be different and excused herself when the office talk turned to husband bashing.
Scott, always a supportive father, absolutely lived for their two children: Scott Jr., 30 and Janis, 28. Did you really have to go and name your only daughter after a singer who died of a drug overdose? That’s why it didn’t surprise her to see Scott spending so much time helping their daughter and son-in-law build a garage. Allison knew that without his help they would not be able to build the garage they had wanted ever since they bought the fixer-upper home, especially, since Charley lost his job at the phone company. As far as Allison was concerned, this was only another pathetic attempt by a large corporation to get rid of as many workers as possible so that future dividends and stock prices, in the short term, increased even more. The large institutional investors would view the company in good favor while huge bonuses were secured for the privileged few at the top. Forget about the long term disastrous effects of eliminating the nation’s entire middle-class. Of more importance to the most corporations was putting the right numbers on the bottom line. Charley was fortunate that the same company had the effrontery to come back to him and hire him on as an independent contractor without any employee benefits, of course. They still made do, but for how long was anybody’s guess.
Their only son, Scott Jr., practiced law in St. Louis, and his dad took great pride in his son’s accomplishments. He told everybody how his son worked in the public defender’s office. Scott Jr. had thought about it long and hard and decided he wanted to devote his efforts to providing help for people who might not otherwise be able to help themselves. The big bucks other young attorneys received for going into corporate law and other legal fields didn’t appeal to him. He wanted to help people. Although she didn’t display her sentiments as openly as her ebullient husband, Allison took much joy in having parented so fine a son.
Another in a long list of things to be grateful for, mused Allison as she took a sip of her third cup of coffee and even more reason for her to question the crazy thoughts that tramped through her brain of late. She had everything a sensible person could want, so what was her problem? It was now March 15, 2003, over three weeks since the night she had the odd experience with the vision of her younger self. That occurrence, oddly enough, had not been repeated since that night, much to her relief.
Allison arose from the table, coffee cup in hand and walked into the hallway where a full-length mirror showed the passing of all who entered or exited the kitchen. She stood squarely in front of the mirror, taking in the reflected image before her. Not a particularly pleasant sight she admitted to herself. Her rumpled terrycloth robe hanging loose about her revealed a potentially attractive, middle-aged female. Her formerly long silky blonde hair now displayed a discernible gray tint, providing one could be sure that the errant strands hanging down from the tightly formed bun on the back of her head were representative of the whole. Blue eyes, which customarily distracted a beholder’s vision from Allison’s other features, were surrounded by dark shadows caused by too often being denied sleep. The multiple layers of clothing suggested more heft than actually resided on the poser’s slight frame. One thing she obsessed over was her weight. Her mother paid the price for not minding her eating habits, and Allison was determined not to make that same mistake. She weighed less than ten pounds more than she did at the age of twenty-one. With her weight distributed proportionally upon her five-foot five-inch frame, she still gave cause for her husband’s eyes to gleam with mischief on a regular basis. She had aged well by most standards. When she made time to make an effort towards her appearance, she could still present an attractive sight.
Walking back to the kitchen she sat down and resumed her earlier pose. “What am I to do about this? It can’t go on!” she growled towards the pile of papers in front of her. Without forethought, she began to aimlessly search through the newspaper clippings. She was thoroughly familiar with the clippings by now having read and reread them many times. Picking one up at random, she recognized the headline: Fifty-two-year-old schoolteacher awaits bombing as a human shield. Setting it aside, she retrieved another from the pile: Top military planner fears blood bath in Iraq. Then others: Man wearing anti-war T-shirt arrested at mall for demonstrating; Vice-President’s former business partners win oil field contract after war. She continued on like this until she had gone through the entire pile: Teens organize city against war; GI Joe replaces Easter bunny in baskets; UN weapons inspector doubts evidence; Thousands of high school students protest across country; President says using force in North Korea now an option; 5,000 Americans going to Iraq as human shields; UN predicts 500,000 casualties in Iraq; and finally, an article from today’s paper, Anti-war demonstrators arrested in San Francisco financial district.
As she finished reading, a cable news channel began showing live shots of the reported one hundred-fifty thousand demonstrators marching in San Francisco from the Civic Center to Jefferson Square. Allison knew this area well from her time in the city. Immediately upon seeing this, the first words out of her mouth were, “I should be there. I need to get up and do something!”
The post 1969 protective side of her personality responded as well. What demons within cause you to even think of embarking upon this foolish mission? What can you accomplish there that can’t be accomplished here? The prospect of war affects the whole country, not only California. Are you looking for something else? Do you think you can change the past? Are you seeking revenge?
Allison grew more frustrated as she realized she didn’t have a good answer. “I don’t know,” she finally whispered. “I really don’t know, but whatever I need to do, it has to be done there.” She felt a slight sense of relief with this honest response. Maybe it did involve more than she was consciously aware of, but one thing she now knew for sure, the answers to her questions awaited her in the San Francisco Bay area and nowhere else.
What makes you think it won’t turn out to be another disaster, and you’ll only run back home again like the last time? Maybe this time you won’t make it back. Her inner guardian kept up the attack. What about your family? What will this do to them?
Allison recalled the words spoken by her husband over twenty-five years ago as she fought her way back from one of the several bouts of depression she had experienced since her return in 1969. “Something happened to you in San Francisco that you haven’t told me about,” he said, “and I’m not going to pry and force you to tell me what happened. But someday, you’re going to need to deal with it, and when that day comes, go and do whatever you need to do. Don’t worry about us; we’ll always be here.”
The decision belonged to her. Her family would be behind her. Is that why Scott insisted on keeping my old VW bus? As she pondered the situation, her old VW bus was safely stored in the barn located on the back part of their several acre home site. Scott kept it in perfect shape, better condition than when she drove it to California and back the first time.
Alarm bells began going off in all sectors of her brain. Allison gave cause for this activity as she actually began to review the notion that she could drive her old VW bus back to the coas
t. She hated flying, especially now with the security delays and the threat of people blowing up planes with their shoes. Then, an even crazier idea came to her. “The Dandelions! Now I get it! Sam said, ‘Remember the Dandelions.’ He said if one of us ever went back, we must go back together. I distinctly recall him saying that. All four of us agreed to contact the others if that ever happened.”
The agitation so apparent in her earlier actions vanished. “Dandelions?” she said in a tone of voice that implied disbelief. “Okay then, Dandelions it will be.”
