“He, of course, took the two horses that we had borrowed, plus his own horse and the packhorse, back with him. We gave Graham a half a box of .45 automatic for his Model 1917 as a thank you and as a birthday present. He turned seventeen while we were on our ride to Scottsbluff.
“We stayed overnight at the Norwoods’ relatives’ place. It was there that we heard tremendous news. They had heard that their neighbor, named Cliff, was planning on taking a drive out to northern Utah. I was just dumbfounded. ‘Taking a drive?’ I asked. They said,‘Sure. We can go talk with him tomorrow.’
“The neighbor, Cliff, was indeed ‘taking a drive’ in a real live internal com-bustion engine automobile—a crew cab Ford pickup, no less—from Scottsbluff to Coalville, Utah. He was going there to visit relatives, and perhaps to stay. We couldn’t believe it. This guy, Cliff, we never found out his last name, was a real lunatic. He had most of the back end of his truck filled with gas cans. He said that he hadn’t heard from his cousins since before the stock-market meltdown, and wanted to look in on them to see if they were all right. He also said he had extra copies of a lot of genealogy and family history documents that he wanted to deliver to them. We didn’t question his judgment, though, at least not to his face. He was happy to have someone well-armed along to ‘ride shotgun.’
“I spent a day checking on the mechanical condition of Cliff’s pickup, to be sure it would get us there in one piece. I replaced the fuel filter, replaced the lower radiator hose, adjusted the belt tensioner—it had one of the later type serpentine belts—and then I lubed the chassis, and changed the oil. Oh yeah, and I tracked down a spare belt for Cliff before we left, just in case it broke. If one of those serpentine belts breaks, you are totally out of luck, because that one belt drives just about everything under the hood.
“We left before dawn the next day. Most of the way, Terry sat in the back and I sat directly behind Cliff in the jockey seat of the cab. Compared to walking or riding horseback, as we’d been doing for the past two years, it seemed like we were flying in a spaceship. The landscape just roared by. Most of it was real lonely unpopulated basin and range country. Cliff played a Hank Williams Jr. tape—I think it was his only tape—over and over again. I don’t know how many times we heard ‘Tennessee Stud,’‘The Coalition to Ban Coalitions,’ and ‘A Country Boy Can Survive.’ I was singing along with ol’ Cliff after a while.
“Surprisingly, we didn’t run into any trouble in all that distance. I suppose that the Good Lord was looking out after poor naive Cliff. The only signs of disorder that we saw were a few burned down houses and a lot of cars that looked like they’d been stripped to the bone.
“When we got to Coalville, we thanked Cliff dozens of times, and gave him twenty rounds of .223 ball to use in the folding stock Mini-14 Ranch Rifle that he carried in his pickup. He just yelled, ‘Thanks for the amma-nishun pardner!’ and roared off up the road. What a lunatic.
“Once we got to Coalville we were on foot again. We were just outside Morgan City when I developed a bad blister on my left foot. We decided to rest up for a couple of weeks, using our usual modus operandi as security guards.
It was there that Terry fell off the ladder and broke her kneecap. It just didn’t want to heal properly, so we had no choice but to ask to stay on. That’s when we started sending you letters via any means possible. I guess that you know all the rest.”
CHAPTER 20
Goodbye
“There were three friends that buried the fourth,
The mould in his mouth and the dust in his eyes;
And they went south, and east, and north,
The strong man fights but the sick man dies.
There were three friends that spoke of the dead,
The strong man fights but the sick man dies.
‘And would he were he here with us now,’ they said,
‘The sun in our face and the wind in our eyes.’”
—Old Ballad
Digging T.K.’s grave began early the next morning. Todd picked the knoll above the LP/OP for the grave. He commented, “You can see half the county from up there. I think Kennedy would prefer this spot. It’s a real ‘reach out and touch someone’ kinda spot.” Nearly everyone wanted to help with the digging.
As they dug the grave, everyone shared their favorite stories about their experiences with T.K., and a lot of tears. At one point, Mary stopped digging to lean on her shovel. She said wistfully, “T.K. would have called this ‘an excellent form of catharsis.’”
Mike was the first to get everyone into the storytelling mood. He recounted, “I remember one time just after he got out of college, T.K. and I were out for a drive in his 300-Z. He had just traded in his old car, and was really letting that car loose. I don’t think he was trying to show off—that wasn’t his style—he just wanted to see how the thing handled at high speed. We were zipping along about ninety.
“All of a sudden, he started to slow down because he had spotted a state trooper pulling onto the road. The trooper pulled us over a couple of minutes later. He walked up to the car and told T.K. that he had clocked him at eighty-two miles per hour in a sixty-five zone. He asked him to show his driver’s license and car registration, so T.K. hands them both over, along with a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card from a Monopoly game. The trooper started laughing so hard I thought that he was going to bust a gut. I guess that we caught the trooper when he was in a good mood, because he didn’t write Tom a ticket. He just gave him a warning to slow down.”
After the laughter died down, Todd cleared his throat and chimed in. “One time just after T.K. graduated from college, he brought me along with him to a rifle match at a range outside of Palatine. As usual, T.K. kicked butt. He had the second highest score, and there were more than sixty people shooting that day. I ranked thirty-seventh. As I recall, T.K. tried to make me feel better about it by blaming it on my HK91, which is not quite as accurate as his glass bedded Garand with match sights. It was a nice gesture, but I knew that it was my shooting ability that was at fault, not my rifle. I never do as well in competition as I do when I’m just out at the range for fun. I get all nervous and even a bit shaky. Not T.K. though. He always had nerves of steel at high-power matches.
“After the match, we drove back to my apartment to clean our rifles and split a pizza and drink some root beer. As we were walking from the parking lot to my apartment, we ran into a guy who lived two apartments down, a real stoner type. Pointing to our Pelican rifle cases, he said, ‘Hey Todd, you didn’t tell me you were into music, man!’ Apparently he thought that our rifle cases were guitar cases. Just as I was about to explain to him what was actually in the cases, T.K. interrupts and says, ‘Oh yeah, man, we’re with The Group Standard. We play gigs two or three nights a week.’ “My neighbor said,‘Cooool. I’ve heard about your band, man! A friend of mine heard you play once. I think it was at the U. of I. pub. He told me you were pretty awesome.’ Then he pointed to T.K.’s case and asked,‘What instrument do you play, man?’Without cracking a smile, T.K. says,‘Bass staccato.’ The guy just nodded his head pretending like he knew what T.K. was talking about. After we got inside my apartment and closed the door, we got into one of those hysterical laughing fits. I was practically crying.
“After I regained my composure, I asked T.K. what he thought he was doing brewing up a cock and bull story like that. He tells me,‘People like that steal people’s guns to sell to support their drug habits. You’re better off if you don’t let people know that you own anything portable of great value. Besides, I couldn’t resist. Didn’t you love hearing him say that a friend had heard us play? What a liar!”
“I just had to call the kettle black. I said,‘Look who’s talking, mister. You’re lucky he didn’t ask to see your ‘bass staccato’ guitar.’”
Jeff laughed with the others, and then handed his shovel to Todd, so that he could tell a tale of his own. Jeff began, “I’ve got the T.K. story to beat all T.K. stories. Some of you have probably hear
d this story, and I swear to God, I’m not bullshitting. It really happened. This was about nine years ago, back during the first time that I was in the group. About three months after Ken and I restored my Power Wagon, Kennedy volunteered to go out with me on a wood-cutting expedition. We got up early on a Saturday morning and drove up to my uncle’s place outside of Valpariso, Indiana. We spent most of the day cutting down three oak trees and cutting them to stove length.
“I guess that our eyes were bigger than my pickup, because we had just plain cut too much wood. We stacked the back of the pickup sky high. We left all the wood that wouldn’t fit in the pickup there for my uncle to use. There was so much wood that we used a full one-hundred-and-twenty-foot coil of green line rappelling rope tying it all down. Fortunately, with Ken’s help, I had just installed overload springs, and had re-arched the rear springs and bought new shocks. Even still, the load was all green wood, so we had the springs pretty well squashed flat. It was a beautiful load of wood by anyone’s standards.
“Anyway, on the way home from Valpariso, at about 9 o’clock in the evening, we stopped to refuel at a gas station on the South Side. While T.K. was pumping the gas, this brand-new white Camaro pulled up on the other side of the pump. This long-legged gal wearing a white nylon jumpsuit gets out, and she walks over to T.K. all swishy-like, and she says to him, ‘I’m part of the underground economy, so I believe in barter transactions. How’d you like to trade some sex for some firewood?’ Without missing a beat, T.K says back to her,‘How much firewood do you have to trade?’” They roared with laughter.
Even Rose, who had known T.K only briefly, had a story to tell. “I remember when T.K. was teaching me how to shoot. We were working on targets set up at two hundred yards, and I wasn’t doing too well. He said to me, ‘Relax! You’re jerking the trigger. Remember, breathe in, then let half of it out. Then hold your breath, center your sight picture, and squeeeeze the trigger—like a nipple.’ As soon as he said that, he got all embarrassed and his face turned red. ‘Oh gosh! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. Please, please forgive me.’ All these years he had been teaching guys how to shoot, no doubt using the same spiel that he had heard when he first learned.”
It was Todd and Jeff that placed T.K.’s body in the bottom of the grave. In his right hand, which was, by then, stiff with rigor mortis, Todd slid a round of .30-06 match ammunition. Before they got up out of the grave, they recovered his body with the olive drab poncho, tucking under the edges.
An hour later everyone gathered at the grave again for a funeral service. In the interval, many of them gathered wildflowers and flowers from Mary’s herb garden to place around the grave. Standing by the grave’s edge, Todd said, “Our heavenly father. It’s kind of ironic that it’s T.K that we are burying today. I had always expected that if we lost any group members, it would be Tom who would have the proper words to say. Well, he’s not standing here to do the honors, so I’ll just have to do the best I can.
“Suffice it to say that we’ll all miss Tom Kennedy very much. He was always the quiet, humble, and professional type. He never gave anyone any static, and he always pulled his share of the weight. I have never known a better man.
“We owe a lot to Tom. It was he who insisted that we go retrieve Ken and Terry from Utah, so I suppose that without him, we wouldn’t have them back here with us. It was T.K. who taught so many of us rifle marksmanship lessons that have already saved some lives here, and probably will save a lot more lives in the future.
“In fact, it was T.K. that suggested that we form the Group in the first place. When I look back on that first night we discussed forming a retreat group, so many years ago, and think of what has transpired since then, all I can do is thank Tom yet some more. He handpicked most of the members of the group. He selected a congregation of outstanding and highly motivated and morally right individuals with a good balance of skills. So I guess we also owe T.K. our thanks for bringing us all together.
“I realize now that I’m going to miss T.K. a lot. It seems that you never really appreciate just how much someone means to you until they’re gone. T.K. and I shared some great times together in college, and since then. Needless to say, he was the kind of friend that you could depend on in the best of times and the worst of times.
“T.K. was a true warrior, and very good at his craft. I’m sure his spirit will end up in some special corner of heaven where the good warriors go. Let us pray. Our heavenly father: We commend the soul of our Christian brother, Thomas Evan, to you. In the name of Our Lord and Savior, Christ, Jesus, Amen.”
Todd led the recitation of a direct translation of the Lord’s Prayer, which T.K. had preferred in recent years. Following handwritten notes, they recited each line in Aramaic, then in English:
aboon dabashmaya
Our father who is in heaven,
nethkadash shamak
Holy is his name,
tetha malkoothak
your Kingdom is coming,
newe tzevyanak
your will is being done
aykan dabashmaya af bara
on earth as it is in heaven,
hav lan lakma dsoonkanan yamanawashbook lan
give us our bread day by day
kavine aykana daf hanan shabookan lhayavine oolow talahn lanesyana
as we forgive those who trespass and sin against us
ela fatsan men beesha
deliver us from evil
Amen.
With his voice quavering, Todd enunciated, “Farewell, my friend.” He picked up a handful of the dark Palouse soil, and let it trickle through his fingers into the grave. When he turned to walk away, everyone could see the tears trickling down his face.
After most of those who had gathered walked down the hill, Ken and Jeff remained to refill the grave. Just as they were finishing, Lon Porter walked up the hill, carrying a large cross that he had welded together from three-inch wide channel stock. With a raised bead of welding rod, he had made an inscription on its horizontal piece. It read:
Thomas Evan Kennedy
In God’s Hands
The day after T.K.’s burial, Ken went down to the basement to take inventory of the supplies and equipment that they had pre-positioned. Because the keys to their wall lockers were long since lost, Todd opened the lockers with his “universal key”—his pair of red-handled bolt cutters.
Almost everything was just as they had left it. The only things that had been disturbed were some of the Laytons’ bulk food containers. A few of the five-gallon plastic buckets containing wheat, rice, rolled oats, and powdered milk had been used. These items had been stored outside the locker. The Laytons did not object, as this represented less than 10 percent of their stored food. Ken told Todd that he had expected to find that their gear had already been divided up between the group members. Todd replied, “Are you kidding? We always knew that resourceful individuals like you both would make it here. It was just a matter of time.”
Layton was overwhelmed by the sight of their stored gear and food. He was so excited that he asked Terry to come downstairs and see it all. She hobbled down on her homemade crutches. They spent ten minutes examining the contents of their two lockers, punctuated by “Ooohs” and “Ahhs.” Nearly all of the Laytons’ gear was still in excellent condition. One exception was a partially full bucket of wheat, which was full of weevils. It was set aside for the chickens.
All of the rest of their buckets of wheat were fine, since Terry had used the dry-ice packing method years before. In this method, a five-gallon pail was poured nearly full of grain, and then a large chunk of dry ice was dropped in.
Then she would wait while the dry ice sublimated, displacing the air in the container with heavier carbon dioxide. Once the dry ice was nearly gone—less than the size of a quarter—she would seal the lid. The other exception was their box of Cyalume chemical light sticks, which were past their expiration dates. After unsuccessfully testing five of the light sticks, Ken discarded the entire box.
Terry also had doubts about most of their supply of vitamins and medicines, which like the light sticks, were well past their expiration dates. She set them aside and commented, “Mary told me that most expiration dates are very conservative. Some pharmaceuticals do lose strength, but can still be used if dosages are increased. I’ll ask Mary about titrating them. I remember her telling us about that at one of the group meetings way back when.”
After having spent nearly three years living out of their backpacks, their cache of supplies seemed like a treasure trove. By relative standards, their wall lockers appeared to have everything that they could ever need or want.
Pointing to the heap on the floor, Terry proclaimed, “Look at all this: dozens of pairs of clean socks, two pair of new combat boots apiece, six sets of DPMs, and all this ammo. We’ve got over nine thousand rounds; sheets and blankets; real toilet paper; eight cases of MREs; your spare riotgun and my little Remington 600 .308 bolt-action. Our reloading press and components. What are we going to do with all this stuff?”
Ken hugged Terry and affirmed, “Honey, we’re going to start living the way that we should have lived for the past thirty-three months. I feel like we’ve come home.”
Terry gazed into Ken’s eyes and said, “We have come home, darling. We’re home now, safe and sound.”
The next day, Todd called for a meeting where new sleeping arrangements were discussed. It was decided that in deference to Terry’s injured knee, Ken and Terry would get the Grays’ bedroom temporarily. The basement would be reorganized, and yet another partition would be added to provide a sleeping area for Todd and Mary. To provide more privacy, the new partition was made out of wall lockers and half-inch plywood. At the same time, similar partitions were built replacing the blanket partitions that had been used by the Trasels and the Porters. Like the Porters, the Grays would sleep on folding cots. A few months later, after Terry was confident walking without crutches, Todd and Mary got their old upstairs bedroom back, and the Laytons took their place in the basement.
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