Raising his head to gaze at the slowly setting sun through tear-blurred eyes, the boy felt a sharp pain in his neck as he moved too quickly. He had been staring, motionless, and  for too long now at the fresh mound of the filled in grave that lay before him . It had been raining, he recalled, but the sudden, radiant heat on his face brought his attention to our nearest star that shone through the low, dark clouds. A shaft of sunlight pierced through a breach of clear sky between the mountain and the grim, grey mists of the air. Mists that hovered just above the lower stratosphere; a vast, floating ceiling bridged the close of day with the oncoming night. It was a heavenly view at the end of a dismal afternoon. He wanted to cry all over again, but he was too spent of his tears.

He had lost track of time. “How long have I been here, staring at his grave?” he wondered to himself. Everyone else had left a long time ago. He faintly recollected someone asking if he would be all right by himself, and his answering, “Yeah…Go ahead. I’ll be O.K.” The moment everyone was out of ear shot he let loose the tears. He just couldn’t bring himself to cry in front of them. The reality set in and he couldn’t believe the old man was gone. Now he was done and ready to go home and sleep and shut down all his beleaguering grief for a while.

The burial service was over, he knew, at four o’clock. He also knew at this time of year, September, the sun sets around seven-thirty, so for about three and a half hours he just sat, recalling memories of his grandfather, and grieving for the loss of him as a best friend and the only family he had ever known. And now, looking into the face of the sunset, he came to the realization that he isn’t dead, not as long as atoms exist, the sun still shines, and there is at least one person in this world who will always remember his essence. He has merely gone back to where we all come from to rejoin the universe. He hastily stood, his legs nearly buckling under the sudden weight of his body, and turned his back on a cheap tombstone that read:

ELVIN JAMES “PAPPY” FRANKLIN

BORN- September, 17 1902 DIED-September, 17 2002

May the stars shine upon his soul

until God’s final judgment.

He started walking. It was a half-mile to the road, and by then, it would be prudent to be on it. It was always hard to see this path at night. The few neighbors that “volunteered” to carry Pappy to this plot bitched and grumbled not only for the distance into the deep woods here, but just as much for the rocky, uphill terrain of the narrow path. They tripped numerous times and even dropped his casket once. It was an embarrassing and undignified fiasco for which the boy forgave them. It was difficult for him to find anyone to be Pappy’s pallbearer at all so he overlooked the faux pas. He had no flashlight but as long as he reached the road before twilight failed completely, he could prevent a sprained ankle or a few stubbed toes.

He walked on while wiping the last of his tears on his shirtsleeve and he wondered what he was going to do, “What will become of me now? I guess somebody from the government will snatch me up and put me in a home somewhere.”

Johnny Goad was raised and home schooled by his grandfather in his country cabin in a remote, pristine valley in southwest Virginia. While Pappy was on his deathbed, their nearest neighbor, Doc Wilson, inquired what was to be done with his twelve year-old grandson? There was no other family around so it was a relevant question. Elvin insisted, rather boisterously for a 100 year-old man on the threshold of the pearly gates, “Nothin’! I done made arrangements with them that matters.” J.B. could hear the words from the kitchen table in the other room where he was sitting. He was curious, “What did he mean by that? What arrangements?”

As he shuffled through the last fifty yards of mountain laurel that seemed to swallow the neglected trail to the road, J.B. remembered who it was who last checked on him at the grave. It was the good Doctor himself. He also knew that he would be waiting for him at home. “I’m surprised somebody hasn’t sent a search party.” J.B. mused.

He reached the road, and after another half mile, he came to the gravel driveway that led to the cabin. He looked up and saw the Doctor’s red Jeep parked by the front porch light. He immediately also noticed an unfamiliar vehicle parked in the shadow beside the cabin. 

He drew near and he could see Doc Wilson on the front porch sitting on the first step, his hand shielding his eyes from the light of the porch, peering into the darkness. J.B. must have seemed like a wandering ghost slowly appearing into the illumined area.

“It’s about time you were showing up. We were worried.” Doc said dropping his hand and standing.

Doctor Ted Wilson was old, but not nearly as old as Pappy. J.B. wasn’t sure, but guessed he was around 65 or 70. He was your typical country doctor. Ted used to run a clinic on the main highway into town. He was now semi-retired. Folks would call him at his home when he was needed and he would drop everything to meet them at the clinic. If there was an emergency, he never shied away from making a house call. He had short, grey hair, and a big, bushy mustache so thick the only feature one could make out beneath it was all chin and no mouth. He always reminded J.B. of a combed and neat Albert Einstein. He was normally built, usually wearing coveralls but this evening he was sporting his black suit and tie. He had immediately loosened his tie when he returned from the cemetery.

“You all right, son?” he asked with an empathetic tone. He put his arm around the boy’s shoulder and walked him up the four, short steps onto the porch.

“Yeah. I’m just going to really miss him Doc.”

“I am too, son…I am too.”

Pappy and Doc Wilson were best friends. When Elvin “Pappy” Franklin came drifting into town over fifty years ago, people didn’t know what to make of him. Just a sack of clothes and a beat up old guitar was all he carried. No one tried to get to know him very well, and no one ever understood how the old man, seemingly undereducated, accomplished the home schooling and raising of his young grandson.

In the small community of Summer Hills, Virginia, people were more inclined to mind their own affairs, though none were completely immune from the afflictions of rumor and gossip. It was generally not known exactly where, when, or how J.B. entered the picture, which for a while, was a short-lived incubator for the “virus of hearsay”.

Some speculated that he was abandoned at the old man’s doorstep by a long lost, crack addicted daughter. Others said he was found in the woods. Schoolchildren joked that J.B. was farmed out of the ground in Pappy’s garden. No one however curious or inquisitive minded, had enough nerve to check into any legalities of the guardianship of the boy. Everyone held the good Dr. Wilson in such high regard that the respect of his word and seal of approval was sufficient to accept the odd pair as a communal offshoot of their fold. “Live and let live”, as they say. Besides, J.B. appeared to be well fed, smarter than average, well taken care of, and most importantly, happy.  Anyone could see and sense that the two had a powerful bond of love for each other. They were family, and they were best of friends, and Ted was an ideal buffer between them and the world at large.  He was their perfect advocate and defender of their way of life.

“Doc, whose car is that?” J.B. asked, nodding toward the grey rusted 1980 Mercury.

“You’re about to find that out right now.” explained Ted as he opened the front door and allowed J.B. to enter first. He held his hand out, palm up, in an ushering gesture.

J.B. entered the cabin and spotted a woman sitting on the couch with a book in her lap that was opened upside down, taking a break from reading. She was in her late fifties; thin, with black, grey streaked hair.

“J., Meet your Aunt Lisa. She’s your Pappy’s oldest daughter,” Said Ted. “Your mother’s sister.”

“Who . . . ? Pappy had another . . . ? Why didn’t he . . . ?”

“It’s alright baby.” Her voice was soft and angelic. “I know you have a lot on you right now.” She said. She laid a bookmark in her book and set it on the coffee table.  The pitch of her voice was consoling and tuneful in his ears. She had beautiful brown eyes, and in her younger days must’ve been very pretty. Even now, at her age she appeared to be younger, say, in her early forties.

“Your ‘Pappy’ knew me as a young child, but I was taken from him. He just recently found me, or should I say, I found him.”

J.B.’s head was swirling with a range of emotions. He was naturally distrustful of strangers as it was, and this woman was no one he had ever met before. She was sitting here, claiming to be his aunt, yet he never even knew his own mother. Surely Pappy would’ve said something.

She motioned to the love seat that sat at a right angle to the couch, “Please, if you’re not busy at the moment, have a seat and I’ll try to explain some of what you care to know…as well as I can, mind you.”

J.B. sat on the love seat, and while not breaking eye contact, nearly missed the cushion farthest from her.

“I would feel at ease in my heart if you would accept my condolences of the loss of your grandfather.” She began. “I am told you and he were very close.”

Immediately, J.B. could tell this woman was educated, articulate, and by the sound of her accent, from the north.

She continued, “I regret my arriving too late for the funeral. Though I talked with him on the telephone a couple of times, I wish I could have seen him at least once before he passed on. I was delayed, unfortunately.”

“You never met Pappy?”

“He raised me until I was six.”

“Then what?”

“Then, I was taken from him.”

“Why? Were you kidnapped?”

“No…well…I was, in a manner of speaking. It was ‘legal’.”

As she said the word “legal”, J.B. sensed animosity in her voice.

“He was good to me, but certain authorities couldn’t see past their own narrow-minded ideas of what was ‘good’.”

Again, J.B. heard the sting of sarcasm in the word “authorities”. All he could muster to say was, “Oh.”

“I had been trying to find him for the past ten years when my friend gave me a lead that let me know where to find him. I finally learned that he was living here, in Summer Hills. My friend had better resources than I. One person I could never find was my sister, your mother. Needless to say I was quite surprised when I found out I even had a sister, and equally saddened to learn at the same time that she too, had passed away, and that I never got the chance to know her. Now, at least I am able to meet you Johnny, my nephew. Now, you are the only true family I have, and I, yours.” 

As she spoke these last words, she smiled, and J.B. saw in her face what he could only describe as, “Eyes that laugh”. It was a look that seemed to light up the room. Suddenly, some of the distrust went away, and he felt a fondness for her. But the next words she spoke set him back a notch.

“That brings me to why I’m here, J.” she called him by his first initial, the way he preferred.

“Doc must’ve told her I like to be called ‘J’.” he thought.

“I’m here to take you home with me, to New York.”

“What?!”

“I know. It’s sudden. But think. You have no one now to care for you and who better than family would be suitable for that honor? I say ‘honor’ J., because this way, neither of us needs to be alone. It could actually be the best arrangement for both of us if you think about it.”

Ted sat on the arm of the love seat next to J., “I’ll look out after the property here son, until you come of age to claim it. And your Aunt Lisa is willing to make arrangements for you to visit here in the summer. It’s really for your own good J.”

J’s head was spinning. This was just too much at once. First, Pappy up and dies on him, then he learns he has an aunt, and in his first encounter with her, finds he is being uprooted from the only home he has ever known.

“Your Pappy wanted it this way, honey. He made me promise. I guess he felt it was important that you grow up with a family member.”

Ted added, “I tend to agree.”

They all fell into an ominous silence, apparently to wait for J’s reply. He thought about his options. He could run away, but where? He dismissed the thought the second it entered his mind. He didn’t want to wander around in the wild, homeless. He most assuredly didn’t want to live in an orphanage or a foster home. He felt sure the latter was obviously the only alternative. This lady seemed nice, and she was family. Also, somehow, he felt comfortable in her presence. Maybe it was some intuitive kinship there after all.

Before he could speak, she told him, “Just sleep on it tonight sweetie. We’ll have plenty of time to talk tomorrow.”

“Thank you, ma’am. It’s just that I don’t know what to say.”

“No. There’ll be none of this ‘ma’am’ business. You can call me ‘Aunt Lisa’. And Doctor Wilson here has already informed me you prefer to be addressed as ‘J’.”

Then softly, she spoke, “You know. This is all new and sudden for me too, but I’m truly excited to have you come home with me.”

He looked at her and saw she was smiling. Yes, she had “laughing eyes”, and he could tell that she meant what she said.

“Can I bring my guitar?”

She gave him a pondering frown, “Are you any good?”

Then she laughed, “I’m teasing you J., I would love it if you brought your guitar. The doctor here tells me you’re very talented.”

“Oh, he’s definitely got something special.” Said Ted

“Well, when you are in better spirits, I would really enjoy listening to you. I’m a real music lover. It must run in the family.”

With that, Ted excused himself, wished them goodnight, and assured J. he would return tomorrow. Then, with a nod to J.B., he left. Aunt Lisa soon excused herself politely, “I’m going to lie down now, but while you are thinking about it, I want you to keep in mind that I am committed to doing what I can to take care of you and keeping you safe and happy. I think, right now, we kind of need each other. I’m hoping you come to agree. Goodnight.”

J. sat, wondering how he would sleep. He was used to the lullaby of Pappy’s snoring to drift him into slumber. After a while, he got up, drank a glass of milk, and then went to bed as well. In his room, as he lay in his bed, it seemed like the darkness and silence of the night amplified every insignificant noise. He listened to the river. Though it was flowing by a hundred yards away outside, in the cold stillness of the country it seemed to trickle along right outside his bedroom window. He could hear a cricket chirping. His thoughts went to Pappy teaching him how to calculate the air temperature by the sound of a cricket, but he couldn’t concentrate on counting the chirps. The wind gusted and blew the few lingering raindrops that were caught in the leaves of the big maple tree onto the tin roof of the cabin. For a moment, J. thought it was starting to rain again. He yawned.

He was suddenly aware of a familiar sound as his eyes closed, and his mind was lulled into unconscious slumber by the snoring in the next bedroom.

J slept. He dreamed. He dreamed of music. A guitar was playing in his subconscious state of slumber; softly at first, with twinkling, harp-like harmonies; and then slowly increasing in volume while gradually decreasing in pitch. Then the music took shape with a catchy, recognizable pattern.

The music now included more instruments, all in tune and harmonizing with the guitar, yet the guitar was the primary sound above all. He could hear violins, flutes, and clarinets, and when the tune reached its louder levels, trumpets, trombones, and various horns.

The song was loud now, the guitar more distorted and suddenly, everything punched in with a deafening kick. The guitar played a solo that seemed to flow with a flurry of notes that reminded J of “The Flight of the Bumblebee”, by Rimsky-Korsakov but without the repeating phrases. He looked down at his hands and saw they were flying up and down along a guitar fret board, realizing that he was the one making these sounds. It was as if his body was taken over by an unseen force, and he had no control of his fingers.

He looked up, and saw lights. They were flickering and flashing. Colors washed over him and one blinding beam appeared to shine from a distance onto him. He was sweating and breathing hard and deep. A shiver ran through his entire body and immediately, from then on, he had no control at all of his arms. His hands were all over the guitar neck. His fingertips burned with the heat of the friction on the strings.

He looked up in front of him and saw a sea of people. Every face was looking back up at him and they were all dancing and swaying to the music, which now peaked to a completely higher plane than before. He could sense something emanating from him into the guitar, and then out through the sound of the music. He felt that what was flowing from him did not originate from within himself, rather, that it was fed into him, as he played, from a place he did not quite understand.

He perceived also, that the music was having an unusual effect on this expanse of human souls before him. Each and every person, as far as his eyes could see, was being affected somehow. He could comprehend in his mind and feel in his heart the pain, the fears and phobias, the heartache, and the angst of each person out there.

Then, the music seemed to come in for a landing from the lofty airs from where it had been carried, and it slowed and softened. He looked up above and saw a star, shining bright in the black sky. It felt as if a connection, like a spider web string, was stretching and bit by bit, thinning and disappearing between him and that star, and with a sudden “snap!” the tie was gone, the music was over, and darkness enveloped him.

He opened his eyes again to see only the plaster and log beams of his bedroom ceiling. He was awake now. The sun was shining through the window, illuminating a wide ray of tiny dust particles. J had soaked his bed sheets with sweat. He didn’t sit up right away, but lay there, staring at the sunbeam in his room. He imagined each minute dust particle, floating in the light, as a small star in space- his own personal, little universe, floating right there in his room.

“I’ve got to snap out of it.” He thought, “It was only a weird dream.”

Then, as if he were just then coming awake, the memories of the events the day before flooded back into his consciousness, and like a computer rebooting, he remembered his situation.

“I guess yesterday wasn’t a dream, a ‘nightmare’ maybe.”

He caught the aroma of his favorite morning breakfast food…bacon permeating the whole cabin. Pappy had been sick for a long time and J imagined that it had been ages since he was able to actually cook real food for him. He had been starting his day with cold cereal and oatmeal for three months now.

When he walked into the kitchen, Aunt Lisa had prepared pancakes with bacon and was setting his plate on the table. “I’ll leave you to your breakfast. I have to go into town to run some of Daddy’s . . . er, your pappy’s leftover errands. You eat and bide your time as well as you can until I return.”

“Sure,” J said, “I’d like to go to the river and play my guitar a while.”

Aunt Lisa smiled, “That sounds nice. Well, have a good time.”

She stopped before going through the front door and turned to look at J, who had just started to eat, “Are you okay sweetie?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“We’ll hang out when I get back and get to know each other. There is so much I want to know about you.” The way she said it made J laugh, accidentally spitting some of his pancake. He could tell she was trying to talk on his pre-teen level at an attempt to make him feel more content, but coming from her, it was mildly amusing to him. He appreciated her for it and, in a way; she actually achieved the intended effect.

“Okay.” J said. He was busy digging into his pancakes and couldn’t talk very well. He had just crammed an entire pancake into his mouth and was barely able to even chew it. Aunt Lisa laughed and went out the door. When J finished eating, he got dressed, grabbed his guitar and carried it to the river. He found a sandy path that wound its way along the riverbank to a place he frequented when he needed time to himself to think about things. There was a nice, huge fallen tree. Its trunk lay parallel with the riverbank. In the space between it and the shore was a small fire pit where J would make a campfire from time to time. This was his favorite spot in the world. He had not been here since Pappy died—he hadn’t had the time. Somehow, he thought that this is where he should be right now. He didn’t want to think though. He just wanted to play a little music on his guitar. He always liked the way the sound of the river gurgling made a peaceful background to his music.

As he started to strum the first chords, he became aware of nothing in his surroundings except for the sounds of nature. He may as well have had his eyes closed. He remembered what Doc told Aunt Lisa last night about his having “something special” when she asked him if he was a good guitarist. He never knew of a time that Doc actually listened to him intently enough to notice if he was any good. 

When he stopped thinking about Doc, and his Aunt Lisa, and got back to paying attention to his playing, it suddenly dawned on him that he was playing without even concentrating on his hands. “Wow!” he thought, “That’s a first.” He had always had to think about his playing while he played. This was the first time he had other thoughts on his mind and played at the same time. It reminded him of the dream he had the night before, and how in it he looked down to realize he was the one playing the music, but didn’t realize it until he saw his hands.

What happened next was (unknown to him) was the first in a series of strange events; a precursor of amazement yet to come. As he was picking out a particularly defeating pattern, he broke a string. It had happened in the past many times and would have no consequence now, but for the frustration he felt at that moment seemed to manifest itself at a peculiar level. At the same moment, a large tree limb snapped, fell, and crashed a few feet to his right. The noise from the initial “snap!” hit J’s ears at the exact second the “twang” from the breaking guitar string. When the limb crashed to the ground, it did so with a loud thud that sent a slight tremor through the entire area around where J was sitting. Suddenly a shiver ran through his core and he didn’t know if it was due to the spookiness and fright of the incident, or from a deep down suspicion. He could swear that in some way, the string breaking, and the limb crashing had an uncanny connection . . . as if one caused the other. Something in the pit of his stomach told him that somehow, he caused the tree to give up its dead limb.

J jumped up with his guitar and ran back toward the cabin. “What was that?” he thought. When he got to the edge of the tree line by the river to the field behind the cabin, he stopped and turned around. He looked back towards the river and thought to himself, “I’m losing it. There is no way that just happened.”

J. walked into the back door to the kitchen and sat at the table. He wondered when he would ever see this place again. He had never been away from Summer Hills except for the occasional fishing trip with Pappy and Doc. He felt that perhaps going away wouldn’t be so bad now that Pappy was gone. He liked the idea of a new adventure. He actually felt excited about going to New York City. Maybe there he wouldn’t feel like such a hermit. Being home-schooled as he was, J didn’t have as many friends as other kids since he didn’t go to a public school. He wondered what the kids were like in New York.

While he was sitting there with his thoughts of  “the incident at the river”, Aunt Lisa came back. They sat and talked a while until the time came to get motivated to get ready for the move. Ted came by to help J with some of his packing, which did not amount to much; just a few clothes, some music, and his acoustic guitar that Pappy had an old friend build for him. Then it was time. Lisa wanted to get on the road early and stop for the night on the way so they could arrive early in the city before the traffic jams that are so common in New York.

There was really no one to say goodbye to other than Doc Wilson. By now, he was standing by his Jeep, wearing his overalls that had always been his trademark attire

“Well son, I guess this is it. Now you take care of your Aunt Lisa. Something tells me she kind of needs you.”

“Okay Doc.”

Doc Wilson could see a tinge of apprehension in J’s eyes . . . maybe even a tear welling up.

“Don’t you worry boy, you’ll be alright. You know? I grew up around these parts. Lived here all my life except once. That was when I went to Chicago to go to medical school. Scariest thing I ever did, moving away to a big city like that. But I adjusted, and I don’t think I was as smart as you. Actually, now that it comes to it, I’d like to get away from here and see a big city again. Maybe I’ll come up to see you real soon.”

“Will you, Doc, really?”

“Sure kid. Maybe sooner than you think.”

“That’d be great.”

J meant it too. He had a feeling a familiar face would be quite welcome in the near future until he, too, could adjust. There would be absolutely no one in New York other than Aunt Lisa for him to talk to—at least until he could meet some friends. There was handshake, and then an awkward hug, and then Ted went over to Lisa.

“You’re a good woman Miss Franklin, coming down here to get the boy like you did. If anything happens, don’t hesitate to give me a call and I’ll do what I can to help.”

She was dismissive, “Aw, t’weren’t nuthin’.” Then she giggled, “Is that how you say that? Thank you Ted for all you’ve done and we’ll be looking forward to your visit when you decide to come.”

With that, J and Aunt Lisa were in her car and riding away. Doc Wilson stayed at the cabin to cover the furniture, shut off the well, and essentially secure the old cabin for a long vacancy. He was going to miss Johnny and all the good times with him and Pappy. Ted was left in charge of the property . . . its cabin, land and Pappy’s secrets.

“I guess I’ll tell her about her sister if the time comes when she needs to know. There’s no need for that can of worms to be opened yet. Not after all the changes in that poor family’s life here lately. I made a promise too but I don’t know if I can live up to it to my grave. They’re going to have to know some day.”

The first change J noticed that was remarkable during the ride to New York was the mountains of southwest Virginia disappearing into the horizon behind him. He never realized how ‘cradled’ he felt in the Blue Ridge Mountains until now. Suddenly he seemed open and vulnerable in the foothills and tidewater areas nearing the American eastern coast. The last of the mountains diminished as they exited the Shenandoah Valley on I-81. He learned the year before in his history lessons, that this was the entry point for the early German settlers in western Virginia. He wondered if they felt the opposite way he did—closed in and claustrophobic in their new mountain shrouded homesteads. Then again, perhaps it was the cozy, nestled environment of the mountain valleys that attracted them. As soon as he started to speculate what it was that drew Pappy to Summer Hills, Aunt Lisa started a conversation and his wandering mind was jolted back to the here and now.

Behind them, as the Blue Ridge Mountains Slowly became a diminutive darker blue strip on the horizon against the lighter blue sky, Aunt Lisa told J. all about herself. As it turned out, she was married for a time to a handsome, successful, but abusive man, but she filed for divorce ten years ago because, as she put it, was “fed up to here” (raising her hand somewhere vaguely over her head) “ with shiners, welts, and fat lips.” She had a son who would be approximately J’s age but because her ex-husband was a wealthy businessman who held a lot of clout in the political arena, he won custody of him, she was denied visitation, and she has not seen him since the divorce. When J asked what her son’s name was, she only said, “Jacob” in a short, curt way that he took to mean that she didn’t care to talk about her estranged family any further; so he didn’t pry.

Lisa was an accomplished (and fairly successful) artist in New York. She didn’t have an exhibit in a gallery yet, but she remained hopeful. She got by earning her living selling her work by word of mouth. Some weeks were particularly hard when she ran low on her bank account until she could sell her latest work. From the way J could infer, she must make big bucks per painting. The sparkle in her eyes and the enthusiasm in her voice as she spoke about art, told J that she was very dedicated and proud of her work. She told him that she had always, since childhood, felt a ‘calling’ to paint and draw. It wasn’t something she wanted to do but something she sensed she had to do. J understood. He had always had the same driven impulse when it came to his guitar.

She lived in a penthouse on the West Side of mid-town Manhattan on 101^st and West Park Ave. right across from Central Park. ‘Penthouse’ was a glorified term meaning: Remodeled Attic. It was a decent area even though it was on the West Side. Any further south, she would not be able to afford Manhattan at all. Any further north and she would be in Spanish Harlem, which was not too safe at night. J was comforted even more when she told him about Central Park and how it was a place akin to a ‘touch of country’ in the middle of the city. A lot of Lisa’s art used Central Park as background.

They drove on through Washington D.C. and Baltimore and finally stopped outside of Philadelphia to stay the night. In the morning they moved on and came to New York via the New Jersey turnpike at about 10 a.m. It was a leisurely ride with no rush. They weren’t in a race. She had timed their arrival to Manhattan perfectly—no morning traffic jams, and no noontime rush, though J couldn’t imagine the traffic being worse.

Cars were moving nearly bumper to bumper at sixty miles an hour and lane changing was considered a professional stunt-driving maneuver. J was relatively unnerved but Lisa assured him that this was light, normal traffic.

All the jitters from feeling like a high-speed blood cell whizzing through a capillary soon faded when J saw suddenly, in the distance ahead, a line of skyscrapers taller than any buildings he had ever seen. He’d seen pictures in books and depictions in movies of New York, but actually being there in person couldn’t compare to any artificial rendering of the enormity of the great metropolis.

On their approach to mid-town, the highway appeared to J. to sink. He thought they were going to plunge into the Hudson River, and then he saw why the highway was descending. Three huge, gaping archways appeared after a sweeping curve and J. realized they were about to enter a tunnel—the Lincoln Tunnel. He was amazed at the technology and engineering of the structure. They exited the tunnel and went up Riverside Drive. On their left, Riverside Park followed them up-town and J. instantly fell in love with the Hudson River landscape. On the right, tall apartment buildings loomed. J. had to press his cheek against the passenger side window just to see the tops of the buildings, and some buildings he still couldn’t make out the tops.

Lisa turned into the forest of structures, found a parking space, and soon they were on foot with J’s belongings on a borrowed pushcart. They rounded a corner on Central Park West to the building Aunt Lisa lived in, but she started into the lobby leaving J. standing and staring across the street. She had to turn back to retrieve the awestruck boy.

“What’re you doing J.?”

He didn’t even turn to look at her, “Is that it? Is that Central Park?”

“Sure is honey. What do you think of it?”

“Excellent!”

“Okay. Come on then. Let’s get unpacked. There will be many, many good times over there.”

Aunt Lisa’s penthouse was only accessible by an old freight elevator at the back of the top floor hallway. It opened to a small, walk-in closet sized room with a heavy door opposite the elevator door. This was Aunt Lisa’s front door to her penthouse studio. Inside, there was one large room with a sunken area in the middle that served as a sitting area. In it, there was a T.V., couch, love seat, coffee table, and various lamps. Around the sitting area was the studio proper; kitchen, dining area, and fireplace. Opposite, an entire side was devoted to art; easel, backdrops, sitting stool, and a Medium Hutch containing paints, brushes, and other art supplies. Along one wall there was a short hallway with two bedrooms and a bathroom.

J. thought he was in a luxury apartment but Lisa told him it was “middle-of-the-road” for Manhattan. It certainly was a far cry from his cabin in Virginia where the décor consisted of a mix of “Pelt and Hide” and “Wood and Chinking”. The place was clean and frilly enough without being too girly for a twelve-year old.

Lisa showed J. where to put his belongings. His room was across the hall from his Aunt Lisa’s and it was small, but cozy. He had enough room for his few items with some to spare. She had already prepared it for him by moving her work area into the main room. She told him, “I was feeling cooped up in here. I thought it would do my art better out there where I can stretch out, so it works out for the both of us.”

On the side of the main room was a sliding glass door that opened onto the roof that surrounded the penthouse like a one hundred-fifty foot wrap around porch. There was patio furniture and a small gas grill on the roof. Over one side, J. could look down and see Central Park spread out before him, and the right side looked over 101^st St.

J. spent the rest of the day unpacking his meager earthly possessions and relaxing in his room, while Aunt Lisa went to the market down the street. He thought, “I really might like it here.”

In the following weeks J. gradually adjusted to the new location in this world in which he was transplanted. Soon after arriving in the city, Aunt Lisa enrolled him in school, which was culturally shocking to him at first, but he quickly demonstrated he could fit in. Within the first week he had already made several friends, who were fascinated with “the new kid with the cowboy accent”. J. repeatedly was inclined to remind them that he hailed from Virginia, not from Texas, but they were already locked in on the false stereotype of any southern accent as being “cowboy”. He quickly ceded them their mischaracterization so long as they didn’t latch onto the alternative “hillbilly”. He’d sooner be a cowboy than a hillbilly.

The first friend he made at Washington Middle School was Tony, a raucous boy in his English class who promised to show him the ropes in the school and point out the kids to stay away from. The two quickly became sidekicks. Tony was middle-class, Italian, and liked to curse. It was just his character to find any excuse to throw in a “shit”, or a “fuck” in his conversations. This, his only serious flaw, earned him more than one tour of duty in detention hall. J. didn’t see his experimentation in gutter talk as a flaw, but as a humorous side note of his essence, which only fed Tony’s desire to curse more often.

Serge, a chubby Russian boy who lived in J.’s building also went to Washington M.S., but he wasn’t in any of J.’s classes. He was a year behind. Serge was new to America and New York so J. felt a kinship as an outsider with him. It was hard for J. to understand Serge at times due to his heavy Russian accent but he eventually learned how to read his facial expressions and body language to glean the meaning from his “pronoun-less” speech. Serge and J. spent many afternoons in Central Park hanging out. It was Serge who first suggested to J. that he should play his guitar in the park for money (also known as “busking”), “You open case, pick up instrument. Start to play. People give money to hear.” So after school, J. would make a little spending money playing music in the park.

School was out for the summer, and the park was in full swing with lean and stringy joggers who appeared to J. like they were starved and needed fattening, and lovers needing to get a room somewhere. In addition there were dog walkers, mimes, sunbathers, many talented artists painting and drawing in oils, acrylics, and chalk.

 Also, there were musicians playing every conceivable instrument from bagpipes, to five gallon buckets. Among these latter was J. with his old, beat up guitar bought at a pawnshop in Summer Hills for fifty dollars just a year before by his grandfather. It wasn’t in particularly good shape with its scratches and sun bleached top. It had a missing tuning key and J. kept a small pair of needle-nosed pliers to use on it when needed. He did keep new strings on it and the action was remarkably low for an old acoustic guitar such as this, and in J’s hands it just as easily could have been a high dollar Martin.

He was well adjusted to the feel of the old thing. He had already played it so much at his young age to have worn even more finish from the top just under the sound hole and there were several areas on the fret board that were scalloped between the frets where one could see his favorite positions. The size was perfect for him and when he played it, it rang loud and clear. J. always thought back to the day Pappy brought it home for him and how he remembered thinking at the time that Pappy had enough money to have bought a nicer guitar. He never voiced the thought because he was taught growing up that you take what is given to you in this life and be thankful for it. After he played it the first time he realized never to question Pappy’s taste. It was immediate love at first strum.

As if reading J’s mind, Pappy explained the choice he made. He told J, “I got you this old thing here as a test run. I know how young’ns have a way of not takin care their stuff and how they lose int’rest in hobbies and such, so next year ‘bout this time we’ll see how you do. We’ll see then about pickin up a guitar that’s a might better than this one. You’ll do fine though, I ‘magine. Came with this here canvas bag instead of a case. Man said it was something called a ‘gig bag’. Just looks like a guitar shaped gunny sack to me.” To J. it was perfect. It had straps on the side so he could wear it like a backpack.

Jay was just thinking about that day, and how Pappy never got a chance to keep his promise of a new guitar, while he was settling down to play at a Central Park bench near his apartment. “It’s okay, Pappy, I’ll cherish this old guitar as if it were a brand new Taylor”, J. thought to himself. He had just pulled it out of the old “gunny sack” when he looked up and saw Tony and Serge coming down the sidewalk toward him. They were about fifty yards away and had not noticed J. yet. He had an idea.

He gathered up his bag and guitar and ducked behind the bush next to the bench, reached in his pocket, got out his favorite metal guitar pick and waited. After the pair passed, and he was out of their peripheral vision, J. crept out from behind the bush, snuck up behind them and held the guitar up about chest level for maximum volume. Suddenly he ran his copper pick edgewise along the strings creating a loud screeching noise. At the same time, he hissed a loud “ssssss!” for an extra eerie effect.

About twenty small finches from the bush opposite immediately scattered and Tony, in a loud whisper said ”Shit!”and simultaneously ducked and protectively raised his arms up and over behind his head. At the same time Serge actually ran away about five steps before looking back to see it was only J. Tony, in a crouch, looked up and said, “Dammit J! I just ate a gyro! I almost shit my pants man!”

Serge was walking back, chuckling, “Wow! That was trip!” (Only ‘trip’ came out ‘treep’) “You made tingle go up spine!”

Tony took a deep breath and straightened back up, “Fuck.” A little calmer now, “That did sound pretty evil though.” Chuckling a little himself.