Journal
Epilogue
Tuesday,
October 13th, 2026
Although I
didn’t intend for it to be, that entry made on June 13th, 2010, was
the last time I wrote in this journal.
If I recall correctly, once I returned from the camping trip I took with
Jake and the Tierman twins, the rest of that summer was so busy that this
journal was set aside, and then with the passage of time, forgotten. Four days ago, I found the disk it was
stored on, when I was going through a container of old disks I hadn’t looked at
in years. I smiled a little when I saw
the label I’d made for it back when I was a junior in high school – Trevor’s
Journal - and Mrs. St. Clair had first given us the assignment to record
the daily events in our lives.
When I put the disk into
my computer, I wasn’t even sure if the information it contained would be
retrievable, or if instead, I’d get a file error of some kind. As my hard drive chugged in an effort to
pull up this old journal, my heart sank a bit.
I was just beginning to regret that I’d never printed the journal on
paper, when it finally appeared on my monitor.
I quickly saved it to the hard drive, while breathing a sigh of relief
that all those old thoughts, feelings, and daily happenings that made up the
life of a teenage boy, were still alive in the form of the words he’d
faithfully recorded during his last two years of high school.
I spent most of yesterday reading this
journal, staying up far into the night in order to finish it. As Mrs. St. Clair
had predicted would happen, as I get reacquainted with myself as a teenager, I
see so much of the adult I was to become.
I’ve sat here laughing like a fool at the memories some of the events I
recorded brought forth, felt my face grow warm with embarrassment over a few
other memories, experienced a flush of shame as a result of the way I behaved
toward my father at times, smiled at my vow to never drink again (to this day
alcohol holds little appeal to me, and I rarely drink liquor of any kind other
than an occasional glass of wine with a good meal) been in awe of (and grew
exhausted at) how hard that young man worked to excel in school, while juggling
a job and participation in numerous activities. At other times, I’ve had to wipe a few tears from my eyes, as I
relive the struggles of a seventeen-year-old who’s forced to say goodbye to
someone he loves and admires, and whose death he blames himself for.
I couldn’t
help but smile when I read my words to Mrs. St. Clair all those years ago of,
“I’m gonna be a doctor, not a writer.”
Well, I
never did become a doctor, and as I read my journal, it comes as no surprise to
me that my living comes from the words I pen, and the stories they grow to
become.
I entered
Anchorage University in the fall of 2010 as a science major taking pre-med
courses, as planned. When I had to declare a minor before school started, and
pick classes related to it, I cast about for what else I was interested
in. At first, I’d considered
aeronautical engineering, but couldn’t fathom juggling the course load that
would require when combined with pre-med.
On what I thought of as a whim at the time, I declared my minor as
creative writing. I stubbornly clung to
the notion that I was going to be a doctor until the end of my sophomore
year. It was then that I was forced to
acknowledge I hated my pre-med studies. I loved the thought of being a
country doctor like my Great Grandpa Hamilton had been, but much to my dismay
during those first two years of college, I didn’t get any satisfaction from my
pre-med classes, and soon grew bored with physics, biology, chemistry,
biochemistry, and advanced calculus. I began taking more and more courses
geared toward a writing career. Everything from journalism classes, to English
classes, to classes that focused on writing in specific genres, to classes
about freelance writing, to classes on marketing and business. From there, I
began dropping the courses that would lead me toward a career in medicine.
I spent
the last quarter of my sophomore year pondering how to break the news to my
father, that when I returned to school the next fall, I’d be doing so with a major
in writing, and a minor in both business and marketing. When I arrived home for the summer in late
May, I put off telling Papa for a few days, but he kept asking me questions
about how things had gone since he’d seen me during spring break, and how my
classes had been, and what classes was I taking when school started again. I couldn’t lie to him, and I also knew I
couldn’t keep giving him vague answers, while leading him to believe, “I’m too
busy to talk right now, Pops. Gotta
go. See ya’ later,” and then run out
the door headed for Gus’s, or to a movie with a friend, or wherever I could
escape to. Because of that, I finally
said one evening after we’d eaten supper and cleaned up the kitchen,
“Pops...Pops, I need to talk to you for a minute.”
“I thought
we were goin’ for a horseback ride.”
“We are.
We will. Just...just come here and sit down.”
“This is a
sit down kinda talk?”
“Uh...well,
yeah, I guess so.”
“Sounds
serious.”
“No...I
mean, well, yeah, it is kind of, but it’s not anything bad.”
He grinned
and teased, “Good. Ya’ had me worried you were gonna tell me you’d dropped out
of college and joined a commune or something.”
I rolled
my eyes as I sat down next to him. “Pops, people of your generation
joined communes. My generation drops out of college to start their own
businesses and retire millionaires at the age of thirty.”
“The lucky
ones,” Papa said. “The unlucky ones watch their businesses go belly up, and
move back in with their parents. So you
might wanna think about that before you tell me whatever it is that requires me
to be sittin’ down.”
“I didn’t
drop out of school, I’m not joining a commune, and I don’t plan to live with
you after I graduate. There. How’s that?”
“If
nothin’ else, it makes me breathe easier”
“Good.
‘Cause at your age, you can’t afford to be struggling for air.”
“Oh,
you’re real funny,” he tossed back while trying not to smile. “So, what is it you need to tell me?”
I
hesitated for a moment, then decided there was no use putting it off any longer.
“I...I
changed my major from pre-med, to creative writing and journalism.”
I mentally
flinched as I awaited his reaction, fully expecting to hear, “You did what?”
Instead, I
heard, “If that’s the career that’s gonna make you happy, then it makes me
happy too.”
“You don’t
care?”
“No. Why
would I? It’s your life, Trevor. You have to choose the career that’s gonna
bring you the most satisfaction. If
writing is what gives you reason to get up each morning, then you should be a
writer.”
“But ever
since I was twelve, I said I was gonna be a doctor.”
“And when
I was twelve I wanted to be rancher like my father, and when I was fourteen I
wanted to race motorcycles like my Uncle Luke, but I haven’t spent the last
forty-some years doin’ either one of those things, have I?”
“No, but
it just seems like that’s what everyone expects of me. To be a doctor, I mean.”
“Trev,
that’s only what you expect of yourself. You’re by far not the first
person who’s changed his career path after getting a couple a’ years of college
under his belt.”
“I know.
It’s just that I don’t wanna disappoint you.”
“You’ll
only disappointment me if you don’t follow your dreams. And if your dreams are aimed toward writing,
then that’s what I want you to do.”
“You’re
sure?”
“I’m
sure.”
I couldn’t
help but grin. “Thanks, Papa.”
“You’re
welcome.”
“I’m going
to minor in marketing and business.”
He seemed
surprised when he asked, “Why?” I got the impression he thought those courses
sounded too sedate for me.
“Because
what I’d ultimately like to be is a self-employed writer. I figure the
best way to go about that, is to know how to market my work, and to know how to
run a business.”
“Sounds
like you’ve given this a lot of thought.”
“I have.”
“Then I
know you’ll be a success.”
“Well...if
worse comes to worse, I can always get a job at a newspaper, or at a publishing
house, or something like that, but I hope I don’t have to. The first few years out of college will
probably be lean, but I’d really like to be my own boss.”
“That’s
not a bad idea if you can generate the income you need to live on.”
My tone
was wrought with sudden uncertainty.
“I...I think I can.”
“I think
you can, too.”
“You have
a lot of faith in me, don’t you?”
He smiled
as he stood and clapped a hand on my shoulder.
“More than you have in
yourself sometimes, Trev. Now come on,
Mr. Hemmingway, let’s go for that ride.”
And so,
with my father’s blessing, I returned to school that fall and pursued a writing
career. That was also the year I met the woman who would become my wife,
Brianna Elizabeth Campbell. She was majoring in elementary education, and
carried a minor in art. I met her when I joined the school’s newspaper. She was
one of the cartoonists. I was immediately drawn to her sense of humor and kind,
gentle nature. Admittedly, her beauty
attracted me as well. Fine boned and
petite, she barely reached my chest.
For as dark as my hair and eyes are, she’s a wheat-colored blond with
sky blue eyes. People say we compliment
one another well in both looks and personality, and I guess they’re right. I’m outgoing, and often quick to take
action, while Brianna’s soft-spoken, laid back, and someone who likes to
research all possibilities fully before making a final decision.
I’d dated a few girls my
freshman and sophomore years, and even took Kylee out on occasion when we both
happened to be in Eagle Harbor at the same time, but from the moment I met
Bree, I knew she was the woman I’d spend the rest of my life with. She grew up in Anchorage, and had never been
outside of Alaska. After college
graduation, I decided to pursue graduate studies in New York City, which I did
while working as an assistant editor at Simon and Schuster. Brianna came with
me, and pursued a master of education degree. Those two years away from Alaska
made us both realize where we wanted to make our home – right back in the state
where we’d been raised. But despite
some longing for Alaska’s majestic beauty and open spaces, I wouldn’t trade
those twenty-four months in New York for anything.
My stepfather had passed
away suddenly as the result of stroke during my sophomore year in college. My mother was heartbroken, but considering
she’d always been an independent, career-oriented woman, she carried on with
her life, as I knew she would. When
Brianna and I were accepted to graduate schools in New York City, Mom invited
us to live with her and Catherine. I was hesitant to say yes at first. Papa had raised me to make my own way in the
world, and to provide for myself. I
didn’t want to take advantage of my mother, but when she insisted, and said
she’d be hurt if we refused her offer, I finally conceded, provided we could
pay her room and board. Mom didn’t want to take our money, and came right out
and told me she didn’t need the income it would give her, but nonetheless, I
told her that’s the only way Bree and I would stay with her. Mom reluctantly agreed to my terms, and I’m
glad she did, because those two years Brianna and I lived with her, gave Mom
and I a chance to solidify our relationship as mother and son. It also gave me the chance to get to know
Catherine.
My parents had adopted
Catherine from China as an infant when I was twelve. The toddler who had been spoiled and demanding when I was
fifteen, had somehow grown into a sweet young girl by the time Brianna and I
moved into my mother’s apartment when Catherine was eleven. She was still spoiled, but perhaps due to
the tutelage of a no-nonsense nanny who’d replaced the previous nanny, Malaya,
when Catherine was four, my sister had lost some of her less desirable
mannerisms. She was respectful of my mother, did well in school, was a loyal
and loving friend to the girls who came over to play, and grew close to Brianna
while we lived there, even referring to her as ‘my big sister’ when introducing
Bree to people. It was then that I
realized God had a plan in mind when my mother surprised everyone by deciding
to adopt an infant when she was forty-seven years old. With Franklin gone, Mom would have been
alone. Having Catherine there gave my
mother someone to come home to, and gave her reason to curb her workaholic
tendencies. I was never jealous as I
watched Mom become involved in Catherine’s life in ways she was never involved in
mine. Instead, I was happy for Catherine, because I wanted her to experience
the same type of parental love, attention, and guidance that I had received
from my father. Today Catherine’s excelling at Harvard, and wants to follow in
my mother’s footsteps and be a cardiac surgeon.
No one was surprised when
Brianna and I announced our engagement right before we started our last year of
graduate school. As well, no one seemed surprised when we said we’d be getting
married in Eagle Harbor the following summer, and would make our home there.
Brianna had fallen in love
with the small town I’d grown up in, and she adored my father, his quirky ways,
and his zany sense of humor, just as much as he adored her. Papa was my best man, and Dylan, Dalton, and
Jake were my groomsmen. Other
friendships had formed during my college years and my time spent in New York,
but none that ever grew to be as strong as those I’d shared with the three boys
I’d started kindergarten with, and none that ever meant as much to me as the
friendship I grew to have with my father during my adult years.
My wedding on June 18th,
2016, marked the last time some dear friends and family members gathered with
us in celebration. Dixie passed away
the next year, and Doctor Brackett followed two years later. (According to Aunt
Joanne, he died of a broken heart, though Uncle Roy says not to put a lot of
stock in that, since Aunt Joanne is a hopeless romantic.) Grandma Marietta died the same year Dixie
did, and Grandpa is gone now, too, after living to the ripe old age of one
hundred and two.
Like my paternal great
grandfather, who lived to be ninety-eight, Grandpa Chad was fortunate to be
healthy and fairly spry (except for trouble with arthritis in his knees and
hips) well into his final years. It
wasn’t until shortly after his one hundred and first birthday, that his health
began to decline. From the looks of things, my Aunt Reah and my father have
inherited their good health from the paternal line of their family. Aunt Reah is eighty-six now, and lives in an
apartment here in Eagle Harbor. After
Grandpa died, my father didn’t want her to stay in Montana alone. He had to do a lot of talking in order to
convince Aunt Reah to relocate to Eagle Harbor, but he finally won her over,
and I don’t think she regrets the move. She seems to enjoy being near her
remaining family, and my father and she have grown very close, as often happens
when siblings have buried their last parent, and all they have that ties them
back to their mother and father are each other.
Uncle Roy’s family
continues to grow and thrive. Jennifer married Ron Crighton shortly after Libby
graduated from college. Ron and Jennifer are both still employed as doctors at
Rampart Hospital, though a nation-wide medical group now owns it. Jennifer says
the hospital isn’t run nearly as well as it was when Kelly Brackett was its
administrator, which comes as a surprise to no one who knew Doctor
Brackett.
Uncle Roy has three great
grandsons now that he dotes on, which seems fitting since he mourned the loss
of Jennifer’s son Brandon for so many years.
Chris’s daughter, Brittany, has a three-year-old boy named Owen
Christopher, and Libby has two boys, seven-year-old Nicholas Brandon, and
four-year-old Harrison Roy.
Libby pursued her music
career, and plays first chair flutist for the Los Angeles Philharmonic. Her
husband is a professional musician who plays in the orchestra as well. Libby
and I still keep in touch by e-mail, and see one another each summer when my
family and I make our annual trip to L.A. with my father. Given their ages, Uncle Roy and Aunt Joanne
are doing well, thanks to Aunt Joanne’s continued vigilance where diet and
exercise are concerned. (And despite Uncle Roy’s reluctance to eat low fat
foods high in fiber, and power walk with Aunt Jo.)
Chet Kelly is a
grandfather now to five granddaughters, and still pulling pranks when the
opportunity arises. Marco still owns his restaurant, though considers himself
semi-retired, and has turned the bulk of the day-to-day business duties over to
a niece, nephew, and great nephew. Captain Stanley died from pancreatic cancer
five years ago, and Mike Stoker passed away suddenly last year. He went to bed one night apparently feeling
fine, and simply didn’t wake up the next morning. It’s been hard for my father
to accept the deaths of these members of Station 51’s A-shift. After Uncle Roy had called Papa about Mike,
I found him looking through the photo albums he has that are filled with pictures
taken during the years he lived in L.A.
“I haven’t worked with
them for a long long time now, but we were a special team, Trev. A real special team. They were all good friends to me. Every
single one of ‘em.”
“I know,” I acknowledged,
as I laid a hand on his shoulder and looked at the smiling faces of young men
who probably never imagined old age would seem to arrive so quickly.
Of course, the passage of time has brought changes to Eagle Harbor
as well. Gus and Evelyn are both
deceased. Two of Gus’s grandsons own
the airport now. Donna sold the diner ten years ago, and it’s now called the
Sunshine Café. We have a McDonald’s in town – something I would have killed to
have in Eagle Harbor when I was a kid, and a Burger King is in the process of
being built. The hardware store is part of a national chain, and no longer
family owned, as is the grocery store.
Town festivals and parades remain our biggest form of entertainment, but
there are more summer tourists than there were when I was a child, and more new
faces as some tourists become year-round residents. Despite those changes,
Eagle Harbor is still a small town in Alaska, and still an excellent place to
raise a family.
Kylee never returned to
Eagle Harbor after college graduation. She married, moved to South Carolina,
and along with her husband, runs a Bed and Breakfast Inn. She has two daughters, and every so often I
see her when she returns to visit her parents, or to attend one of our class
reunions. We always remember the times
we shared with fondness, while allowing the years that have passed to diminish
the bittersweet memories we associate with our senior year of high school.
Dylan settled here in
Eagle Harbor, while Dalton ended up in Fairbanks. They’re both married and have children – Dylan has two daughters,
and Dalton has a son. Jake married his
high school sweetheart, Jenna Van Temple, and they live in Eagle Harbor as
well. Jake and Jenna have a five-year-old boy named Alex, and a two-year-old
girl named Eva. Jake completed his fire and paramedic training two years after
high school graduation. He never did work for a fire department outside of
Alaska, like he often mentioned doing when we were in high school, but instead,
was employed by the Anchorage Fire Department for a few years, then was hired
by my father when an opening was available. He’s our assistant fire chief now,
and will likely be the chief of the department long before his career is over.
The rest of my classmates
are scattered around the globe. A few, like Jake, Jenna, Dylan, and myself,
returned to Eagle Harbor after college graduation, while others live in the
lower forty-eight, and Travis Wieland resides in Germany, where he was
stationed by the Army two years ago. (We still can’t believe Travis joined the
Army after graduation, and that no one has kicked him out yet.)
As for me, Mrs. St.
Clair’s most reluctant writer has made a good living for himself at the career
he never imagined he’d pursue when he was seventeen. My first three years as a writer were lean where income was concerned,
as I knew they would be. We were
fortunate to have Brianna’s income from her job as a second grade teacher at
Eagle Harbor Elementary. It’s taken a
while, along with a good deal of perseverance, but I’ve forged a comfortable
free-lance career for myself, and have written articles for everything from
wildlife magazines, to travel magazines, to firefighting journals, to Aviation
Digest. I’m a featured weekly columnist in the Anchorage Daily News,
and also write a column for the Eagle Harbor Chronicle.
Four years ago, I wrote my
first children’s book about a nine-year-old boy named Cooper Sherwood, the son
of a single father who’s the fire chief in a small Alaskan town. Slowly but surely, Cooper has built a
loyal following amongst children eight to twelve years old. Some of his
childhood adventures are based on my own, while others come from my
imagination. I’m working on the sixth
book now, in a series that looks like it will continue for as long as I desire
to keep bringing Cooper to life. The
series is published by the leading publisher of children’s books, Scholastic
Press, and has garnered me the Newbery Medal, a Parent’s Choice Award,
and a Young Reader’s Choice Award. The potential for awards was never my
motivation for writing the books, but they’ve certainly helped increase my
income dramatically, as well as making my name well known in the publishing
industry. My wife illustrates the
books, and my children’s exploits often inspire new storylines for Cooper, which
has truly turned this into a family project.
Brianna and I have made
Papa a grandfather several times over, with the end of the line due in late
December. The kids worship the ground Papa walks on, and he is with them as
I’ve been told by Uncle Roy and Aunt Joanne he was with the DeSoto children – a
big playmate who loves to tease and have a good time, but who also has a
listening ear readily available whenever a child needs to confide a secret, or
a problem, or a worry, he doesn’t want to tell his parents.
Amongst those children who confide in Papa from time to time,
John Charles is our oldest son. We call
him Jack, and he was named in honor of my father and grandfather. Jack’s the
spitting image of Papa when he was a child, which means he’s the spitting image
of me, too. He’s in the third grade at Eagle Harbor Elementary School, and is
full of the kind of energy and love for life I had at his age. Like my father,
Jack knows no fear, and will try anything at least once, and more often than
not twice, just to prove to himself that he can do it, and do it well. Stubborn, independent, self-reliant,
inquisitive, mischievous, and already a gifted athlete, means that Jack keeps
Brianna and me on our toes.
Campbell Roy is our second
son, and is in kindergarten. His first
name was chosen in honor of Brianna’s maiden name. His middle name is in honor
of Roy DeSoto, of course, and of all his friendship has meant to my
father. Campbell favors Brianna in both
looks and coloring, and like his mother, is laid back, easy-going, and the
little peacemaker in the family. He’s a sweet natured, gentle child who loves
anything with four legs, and says he’s going to be a veterinarian, when he’s
not busy working as a fireman, that is, or playing professional soccer.
Our daughter, Gabrielle
Elizabeth, is three, and the apple of her grandpapa’s eye. Like Jack, she
favors my father and me in looks and coloring, and bears a striking resemblance
to Jessie, the daughter my father buried fifty-nine years ago. Though Brianna insisted our daughter would
never be called anything but Gabrielle, by the time our little chatterbox was
two, she’d been coined ‘Gabby Gage’ by Jake Shipman, and the nickname has stuck
for appropriate reasons. Uncle Roy laughs as Gabby jabbers on and on about
whatever comes to her mind, and says there’s no doubt that she’s related to her
grandpa. Gabby rules over her brothers
with an iron fist, or at least never gives up trying to, even when the boys are
ignoring her directives. Papa spoils her rotten. After she’s spent a few hours
with him, like she’s doing right now, she’ll return home, demand something I’ll
say no to, then glare at me, stamp her foot, and declare, “My gampapa let’s me
do whatever I want to.” Brianna says
Gabby will be a handful when she’s sixteen, which makes me laugh and say in
return, “She’s already a handful.”
Brianna and I know this
final baby we’re expecting is a boy, and have already decided to name him
Hunter Carl. Hunter was chosen for no other reason than we like it, and Carl
was chosen in memory of Carl Mjtko. Clarice
is still living, but at the age of ninety-four, her health is failing. She no
longer resides in the house she and Carl shared for so many years. Eight years ago, she moved into an
apartment, and four years after that, relocated to the assisted living wing of
Eagle Harbor’s only nursing home. I take the children to see her once a week.
‘Grandmama Clarie’ as Jack dubbed her when he was first learning to talk, is
loved and treasured by my children.
Though she can’t physically keep up with the kids the way she could keep
up with me when I was their age, they love to snuggle against her and have her
read to them, or tell them stories about me when I was a little boy. I bring
Clarice to our home whenever there’s a holiday, birthday, or other family celebration. Because of Clarice’s large extended family,
and then my father and me, she never wants for company, a ride to church, or a
trip to the grocery store, or bank, or a couple of hours out for lunch.
Clarice knows what our new son will be named. I think the prospective birth of Hunter Carl
is what keeps her hanging on these days.
I dread the thought of her passing.
It will be like losing a beloved mother. Each time Clarice sees me, she tells me how proud she is of my
successes. In return, I tell her that I love her, and thank her for being a
mother to the boy whose biological mother lived so far away, and who chose to
remove herself from her maternal duties during that boy’s growing up
years.
When I’m not writing, or
busy in my role as stay-at-home dad, or flying the Flight for Life helicopter
as a backup to Gus’s grandsons, I volunteer my time as a paramedic for the fire
department. My father trained me
shortly before he retired. It was an
honor to learn from him, and to work for him.
All three of my kids think of the fire station as their second home,
just like I did. I want the fire
department to be a part of their history. Whether any of them will carry on the
tradition of firefighting and paramedic work, I can’t predict. Right now, they all claim, at times, to want
to be firefighter/paramedics, but all I want is for my children to pursue
careers they enjoy, and will have a passion for that makes them want to get out
of bed each morning, just like my father wanted for me.
Papa earned his
associate’s degree in Police Science after two years of classes at the
technical college in Juneau. In the years that followed, he continued to
educate himself in that field, while keeping his education current in
firefighting and paramedic work. He retired as Eagle Harbor’s fire and police
chief eight years ago, at the age of seventy-two. He’d served Eagle Harbor for twenty-five years, and the town
threw him one heck of a retirement party in order to say thank you. The Police
and Fire Commission, of which my father is still a member, wasn’t able to find
someone with quite the skills and abilities Papa had. Therefore, the positions
of police chief and fire chief are once again filled by two different people,
as they were long ago when Papa was fire chief, and Carl was police chief.
Papa continues to work for the fire department as a volunteer, and
has remained with them as a paramedic instructor. I don’t foresee him giving up his paramedic certification until the
day comes his hands are too shaky to insert an IV needle, or until other health
problems no longer allow him to live the active lifestyle he’s still accustomed
to.
When Pops retired, he had
to give up to the new fire chief the home I’d been raised in, that held so many
memories for us. Brianna and I own a large sprawling Victorian on the edge of
the National Forest, that overlooks the Pacific Ocean. Papa bought some land down the road from us
and had a two bedroom A-frame house built, along with a pole barn for the two
horses he still owns, and the pony he bought for my children. He’s close enough that he can walk to our
house, and close enough for my boys to ride their bikes to his house.
My old Malamute friend,
Tasha, died the year I was a freshman in college. Nadia and Zhavago have been
gone for several years now too. Papa still keeps Malamutes as his canine
companions, and currently has two dogs named Tate and Lexie, who like to come
here and romp with the friendly mutt I got for my kids from a no-kill shelter,
that the children named Sam.
Five years ago, Papa met a
woman nine years his junior who had retired to Eagle Harbor. Leslee Edmonds is
a renowned wildlife photographer, and had fallen in love with Alaska as a
result of the many trips she’s made here throughout her long career. Her
husband died while traveling on board one of the planes that struck the World
Trade Center, and she’d never remarried.
She has a daughter a year younger than me who’s married, the mother of
three, and lives in Minnesota.
My father met Leslee when
he was hiking in the National Forest one afternoon, and she was there taking
pictures. One thing led to another, and soon, for the first time since he’d
lived with my mother, Papa was serious about a woman. Their love for one another appears to grow stronger with each
passing day, but I don’t know if they’ll ever get married. Leslee continues to
live in the small home she bought near the water’s edge down by the ferry dock,
though I suspect she and my father spend many of their nights together. They’ve both lived alone for so long, that I
get the impression neither feels comfortable giving that arrangement up. Maybe they’ll never be ready to sacrifice
that vestige of independence. Overall,
it doesn’t matter to me. Brianna and I
think the world of Leslee, my kids are crazy about her, and most important, my
father loves her and she loves him, so that’s all that counts as far as I’m
concerned.
Since the last time I
wrote in this journal, my life has been filled with challenges, rewards,
happiness, and heartache, just as every life is. In-between Jack and Campbell, Brianna gave birth to a daughter we
named Rebecca Joy. She was a bright, happy baby who looked so much like Bree, that
if you compared pictures of them at the exact same age, you couldn’t tell them
apart. I found Rebecca in her crib one
Sunday morning not breathing when she was ten months old. I couldn’t get a
pulse, and yelled for Brianna to call 911, and then my father, while I started
CPR. Papa arrived before the paramedics
did, and he forced me aside so he could take over the revival efforts. Even
Papa’s skills weren’t enough to bring Rebecca back to us, and an autopsy
determined that our first-born daughter had died of Sudden Infant Death
Syndrome. Rebecca is buried down the
hill from Carl in Eagle Harbor’s Cemetery.
I grew even closer to my father after her death. Because he’d lost a
daughter of his own who’d been just a few months older than Rebecca when she died,
Papa understood what I was going through, and gave me the shoulder to cry on –
sometimes figuratively speaking, and sometimes literally speaking – that I
needed in order to remain strong for Brianna.
As sometimes happens after
a sorrow so deep you wonder if you’ll ever recover from it, life brings good
things that remind you to live each day to the fullest. Sixteen years ago, Mrs.
St. Claire wrote:
It’s my opinion that with experience and maturity on your part, along with a little rewriting, Portrait of a Friendship could someday be a best seller. Set this book aside for a few years, Trevor, and then promise me that someday, you’ll revisit it again. I think you’ll find you have a novel that should be shared with others. You have crafted a tale of suspense, mystery, intrigue, and adventure. Most important, however, is that you’ve given the readers a look at a heartwarming friendship that has endured both good times and bad times, yet managed to grow only stronger as the years have passed, despite some undesirable forks in the road.
College, marriage,
children, and a writing career that’s taken so many varied paths, caused me to
put off taking Mrs. St. Clair’s advice regarding Portrait of a Friendship. Then
two and a half years ago, as the realization struck me that my father and Roy
DeSoto weren’t going to live forever, I knew it was time to do as Mrs. St.
Clair had said, and revisit the book I wrote when I was a senior in high
school. When my father voiced no objections to my desire to get Portrait of
a Friendship published, I spent a year revising and rewriting the book;
drawing on my experience as a professional author to give it the polish it
needed. When I reached the point where
I felt the book couldn’t be further improved upon, I sent it to my agent, along
with a letter that read in part, ‘Andy, I know this book is quite a shift from
my usual genre of children’s literature, but if you think it has a chance of
making it in the adult popular fiction market, let me know what publishing
house we should pitch it to.’
I don’t think Andy had the
manuscript in his hands more than twenty-four hours before he called me from
his office in New York City.
“Where have you been
hiding this, Gage? This is terrific
writing! Damn terrific writing.”
“You think it’ll sell?”
“Sell? Are you nuts?” He
exclaimed in his broad, Brooklyn accent. “Portrait of a Friendship will
be on the New York Times Best-Seller list within four months of its premiere.”
I thought Andy was exaggerating, but to his credit, he got the
book sold to the first editor he proposed it to. He garnered me a price I couldn’t have dreamed possible, and
since he gets ten percent of that, Andy made himself a hefty profit as well. If
Brianna doesn’t want to return to work after Hunter is born, she won’t have to.
She’s talking about taking a few years off from teaching, and concentrating her
time on our children and her artwork. She’d like to do book illustrations for
other children’s authors, and I promised we’d build a studio onto the house for
her, at the same time we build on the main-floor master bedroom and bathroom
suite we can now afford. It feels good
to be able to provide for my family in such a manner, and yet it’s still hard
to believe a book I wrote in high school has now made me a wealthy man.
A large cardboard box arrived
this morning via Federal Express. One hundred hardcover books were inside it
that I’m to sign and give to family and friends. I leave next Monday on a book tour that will take me from
California to New York, and more places in-between than I keep track of at the
moment. My first book signing is scheduled for this Saturday at the Borders
Books in Juneau. Mrs. St. Clair has already informed me that she’ll be the
first in line to get an autograph from her “favorite author.” I told Mrs. St. Clair I’d give her a book
for free, but she refused my offer, saying she wanted to enjoy the experience
of telling everyone at Borders that, “I was Mr. Gage’s high school English
teacher.”
During the twelve months I
spent revising Portrait of a Friendship, I came to understand that the
heart of the book wasn’t really about Evan Crammer, or heroes, or the strength
of the human spirit, but instead, like Uncle Roy told my father sixteen years
ago, it’s about friendship. I opened
one of the books this morning, and read again the words I’d written that appear
on the first page.
This book is dedicated to my father, John R. Gage, and to my ‘uncle’ Roy DeSoto, the two men whose fifty-five year friendship was the inspiration for this novel.
Because I’m a father now,
too, I finally understand, and fully appreciate, all the effort my father put
into raising me. That’s why below the dedication in that book I picked out of
the box, I wrote in black ink:
October 13th,
2026
Papa,
Even as a writer, I fall woefully short of words when trying
to express all you’ve meant to me.
Thank you for the many sacrifices you made so I could grow up in a
loving, stable, and happy environment. The man I am today is a direct result of
the man you are, and the man you taught me to be through your actions, through
your words, and through your guidance.
A lot of men wouldn’t have taken a newborn infant and raised him alone,
but you did, and made it look easy in the process. As a father myself now, I know it wasn’t easy, and I know
everything you did - from moving to Eagle Harbor, to hiring Clarice, to chasing
me down that time I ran off to Anchorage with Connor when I was fifteen - you
did with my well-being as the foremost concern in your mind.
When I was seventeen, I told Gus my father and I would never be friends. You can’t imagine how happy it makes me to say that I’m glad that hot-headed teenager was wrong. This book is as much about the friendship you and I share, as it is about the friendship you share with Uncle Roy. I can only hope I’ve done you proud.
With Much Love, Your Son,
Trevor
I’m looking out the French doors in my office as I type this. I see Papa coming up the sidewalk, holding onto Gabby’s hand. Despite his gray hair and the shoulders that are now a little stooped, he skips along beside my daughter, the golden leaves of autumn dancing in the trees that form a canopy over their heads. I hear them enter the house through the laundry room, then hear Gabby’s footsteps as she runs into the kitchen.
“Papa! Papa! Where is you? Me and Gampapa is here!”
When I don’t immediately answer my daughter, my father teases her. “Well, Gabby Girl, looks to me like your papa ran away. Guess you’ll have to come live with Grandpapa.”
While a comment like that might upset some children, who would fear their parents had abandoned them, it doesn’t bother my plucky Gabrielle. I can picture her smile that crooked grin she inherited from her grandfather, as I hear her jump up and down while exclaiming, “Goody, goody! I live wif you now, Gampapa! I go pack!”
I chuckle to myself as her little feet scamper up the stairs to her bedroom, and I hear my father chuckle as well. His footsteps cross through the kitchen, dining room, and family room, as he heads for this office, where he knows he’ll find me. As Papa enters, I pick up the book from my desk that I signed earlier, and hand it to him.
“My books came today. This one’s yours.”
I watch as he studies the cover my wife illustrated using old photographs of Papa and Uncle Roy as her guide. She altered the young men’s features just a bit so as not to make them exact replicas of her models, but still, they’re a close enough rendition that if you knew my father and Roy fifty years ago, you’d recognize them. A red paramedic squad is in swirling shadows behind them, as is the face that represents Evan Crammer.
Papa brushes his fingers over the drawing. “Brianna did a great job with this cover. I didn’t know I was so damn handsome back then.”
I chuckle, as he expects me to. Whatever other memories and emotions that book cover evoke for my father, he doesn’t mention, and I know he never will.
He opens the book and reads the dedication first, and then the inscription I wrote a few hours ago. At that point, I was forced to stop typing this when he said in a raspy voice, “Come here you.” I stood, he pulled me to his chest, and we exchanged a long, heartfelt hug.
“Of course you’ve done me proud,” he said quietly in a voice that’s just beginning to indicate his advancing years by losing some of its strong timbre. “You’ve been a terrific son...and a terrific friend.”
“And you’ve been a terrific father and a terrific friend,” I tell him in return.
When we finally broke our embrace, I took a step back and said, “While I finish what I’m writing, you’d better go break the news to my darling daughter that her papa didn’t run away, and that she can stop all that frantic packing. Then you can be the one who breaks the news to her that her papa is taking her grandpapa away from her for a couple of weeks when we go on my book tour together.”
“Oh, no,” Pops shook his head. “You’re the one who’s breaking that news to my little princess. As of right now, she seems to think she’s staying with me while you’re on the tour.”
“Whatever gave her that idea?” I asked. “She knows Kurt and Joy will be here with her.”
Brianna and I had already told the children that their Grandma and Grandpa Campbell would be staying at the house while I was gone, in order to watch Gabby, pick up Campbell from kindergarten, and just in general, help Brianna keep things running smoothly.
“Beats me. You know Gabby. When she decides something is gonna be a certain way, then as far as she’s concerned, her word is law.”
That was true, and it’s something Brianna and I are working on with Gabby. We’re doing our best to make her realize that the world doesn’t revolve around her, no matter how much she’d like it to. (I suspect the arrival of Hunter just might unseat the little queen from her throne. Or at the very least, push her nose out of joint a bit.)
I wasn’t going to allow my father to stay home just to please my three-year-old. Because of Brianna’s pregnancy, and the fact that school was back in session, she didn’t feel she could travel with me on the book tour, so I’d asked Papa to accompany me. My father loves to play tourist, meaning he’s always game to travel to any part of the country. Though he’d prefer to go by Land Rover so he can see the landscape and stop when the notion strikes him, he didn’t object to flying from city to city with me. I warned Pops that he might get bored while I sign books and give interviews to the media, but he said he’d find plenty to do while I’m tied up, and no doubt he will. Our second stop on the tour is Los Angeles, so he’s looking forward to visiting Uncle Roy and Aunt Joanne. And it won’t surprise me that if by the time we reach Houston, he’s sitting beside me signing books too, and has somehow managed to amass his own legion of fans.
Papa has gone upstairs now to put a halt to Gabrielle’s packing, then the three of us will head to school in order to pick up Campbell. The kids will do their best to talk me into treating them to lunch at McDonald’s, and given my father will be with us, they’ll get their way. That’s all right, though. I want them to cherish their grandfather, and every night I pray he lives as long as his own father did, so that Jack, Campbell, Gabrielle, and Hunter, will have strong and loving memories of their Grandpapa Gage after he’s gone from this earth.
The years will continue to
pass, and as a result, my life will continue to change. I know I won’t have my father walking beside
me forever, but his memory will always live within my heart, and within the
hearts of my children. When all is said and done, what more can any of us ask
for than that?
My father is trotting down
the stairs, and Gabby is squealing, meaning he has her on his hip and she’s
enjoying the ride to the main floor. I’ll put this journal to rest for now, but
when time allows I’ll revisit it. I
have a feeling more stories about a boy who grew up in a small Alaskan town
while being raised by a father he loved and admired, will be found within its
pages. None of them may turn out to be the best seller Andy predicts Portrait
of a Friendship will be, but to this writer’s heart, that won’t matter,
because above all else, these stories will be a son’s tributes to his father.
Gabrielle is standing in
the doorway now with my father, and has just told me, “Come on, Papa, is time
to get Campbell righ’ now! Then we go ta’ McDonald’s. I’m hungry!”
“Yeah, come on, Papa,” my
father urges, much to my daughter’s delight.
“Let’s go. I’m hungry.”
I laugh at both of them as
I finish typing this, and then think back to my declaration to Gus made
seventeen years ago:
“I’ll never be friends
with my father. Never.”
I can’t express how
thankful I am that, all these years later; my father and I are friends.
I will always give Papa the respect a beloved father deserves from his son, but
at the same time, I’ll never take for granted how blessed I am to be able to
call him “friend” as well. I try to
recall now, if the seventeen-year-old boy who recorded his thoughts so
diligently in his journal, realized how lucky he was. He probably didn’t, but that’s all right, because the man he grew
into being does know how lucky he is. I
have a wife I love with all the love my heart can possess, children I’d lay my
life down for, and a father I value and respect.
Every storyteller knows
that at the heart of any great tale is the hero who inspired him. My hero was, always has been, and always
will be, my father, John Gage. I
couldn’t have asked for a better mentor, a better father, or a better friend.
For the time being, I now
have to say goodbye to another friend – this journal. But I’ll be back, old friend, with more stories to tell. I
promise, I will be back.
~
~ ~ ~
