The escape of Sam McGee.
He'd planned his escape carefully for a month. Supplies had been laid up in secret. The nursing home that his family had put him in was situated on a main road, so escape could be made on one of the buses that ran there. He had hidden a credit card the day they had taken him there, so he knew he had funds to run on. The vultures that were his family visited him just that morning, wanting him to sign over a power of attorney that would let them sell his house and access his funds. He'd refused of course, and made up his mind to escape that day. His grandson, a mohawk-haired and face-pierced young man, had pestered him about his pocket knife collection.
"Oh come on grandpaaaaw!" the young man had whined, drawing out the word grandpa until it sounded like an insult. "Where's the knife collection at? I looked all over the place grandpaw."
The old man had answered in a vague way.
"Oh, I can't remember very well, did you check in the drawers in the work bench downstairs?"
Finally the vultures had left, and as Sam had watched them leave, he went to the closet in his small room and took out a small nylon daypack. In it was a few items, and then he went to the bookshelf. He took down the thick dictionary, and opened it. Inside, was revealed a cut out cavity almost the size of the book, Sam took out a cloth pouch that was heavy with Case pocket knives. He dropped the pouch into the daypack and carefully made his way to the back door of the home. Nobody noticed as he drifted out the employees entrance, and in just a few minutes, was on a bus.
Sam McGee knew where he was going and what he wanted to do. He knew he didn't have much time, self delusion was not one of his traits. His heart condition was worse, and the clock was ticking down. His main thought was to delay the jackals that had become his family, taking possession of all he had. And his grandson was especially annoying, with his demands to know where his collection of old pocketknives were. He patted the daypack and thought of his old Case knives safe and sound with him on his final run. He'd go fishing at his old childhood fishing spot on the nearby Monocacy river, and Dutrow's sandbar, where he and his friends had spent many a night.
That day he switched buses a few times, and then got off near a large shopping center with several box stores. At one, he bought a bicycle, some basic camping gear and fishing tackle. Taking it easy in the summer heat, he peddled slow and coasted a lot, he made his way out of town, to where he remembered the section of river of his youth. The old Dutrow farm was gone, replaced by an industrial park, but as he coasted through the buildings, he saw the woods and the river bank. It was still there. He stashed the bike in some brush, and made his way down to the river. Years rolled away as he saw the same scene as in his memories, the sandbar, the quiet slow river shaded by the towering poplars and sycamores. Sam set up his camp, stringing his mesh hammock he'd bought between two trees, and then set about trying to catch his supper. Opening his daypack, he reached into the cloth sack that held his knives, and took out a large Case stockman. The jigged bone scales were a deep lustrous chestnut brown, with the well used but not abused blades showing a medium gray patina on the CV steel. He trimmed some fishing line, and set the knife down on a rock. By the time an hour had passed, he had a few panfish that looked promising. Then a voice behind him gave him a start.
"Hey mister, are they biting any good?"
Sam turned and saw a boy, about 12 years of age standing by the edge of the woods looking down the river bank. He looked like a boy out of a Norman Rockwell painting, with a fishing rod in one hand, a small tackle box in the other, and dressed in worn overalls, t-shirt with a hole in it, and frayed sneakers that has seen better days. Sandy brown hair and a scattering of freckles across his nose completed the Rockwell effect.
"Got a few little ones, but I'm still hoping." replied Sam.
The boy came down and set up by Sam, and they talked while they fished. The boy was open and friendly, and Sam saw in a short while that he was bright to say the least. The boy, Jimmy it turned out was his name, pointed out the curve in the rock face of the cliff wall on the other side of the small river. How it was volcanic forces and pressure that made the base of what was once an ancient seabed rise. Sam, was impressed, and said so. They landed some fish, and while the summer afternoon passed, the old man and boy became friends. When the sun was slipping down in the sky, an old man appeared from the woods.
"You ready to come home for supper, Jimmy?" the old man said. It turned out he was Jimmy's grandfather, and they lived at the old farmhouse not far away from the river bank. The family was renting the land, farming and scraping by a meager living. Jimmy went on back with his fish, the grandfather stayed a bit and talked with Sam. He eyed the basic camp that Sam had set up.
"Camping out are ya?" he asked Sam
Sam was a bit evasive at first, but then relaxed and told the grandfather he was on the run from the nursing home. The story came out, and the grandfather shook his head sadly.
"Look, why don't ya come on home with us, we got enough for an extra plate, and the boy likes you. That's good enough for me."
"Okay, but I don't want to put you all out any." Sam told him, "And I like Jimmy, he's an uncommon bright boy. He was telling me all about the geologic forces that made this area. I didn't expect to run into a pint-sized geologist today."
The old grandfather laughed.
"Yeah, he's bright 'un. The school says he's gifted, and he reads everything he can get a holdt of on volcano's, rocks and all kinds of stuff. But it breaks my heart too. He's so smart, but it ain't likely we'll ever be able to afford college for him. Even with some scholarships, I don't reckon he'll ever get to be what he wants. And things have been rough since his pa died last year in a car accident. "
They talked as Sam broke camp and walked home with the grandfather. Along the way, he felt dizzy, and stopped to slip one of his pills under his tongue.
"Say, you all right, mister?" the grandfather asked.
"Just the old ticker, it ain't what it used to be." Sam told him in an offhand manner.
That night, Sam saw how close to the bone Jimmy's family were living. It was a sharecroppers life, living from month to month with barely making expenses. The old farmhouse they rented was run down, and the car and pickup outside had seen better days, with rust holes in the body work, and maybe not able to make a long trip if need be. They offered to put Sam up for the night and the grandfather and Sam talked long into the evening. The grandfather took out his pipe to smoke by the fire, and Sam did likewise. Sam took out his medium stockman to use the small pen blade to scrape his pipe bowl, and the old man and Jimmy both were interested. Sam dug out his small knife collection from his pack, and Jimmy was enthralled by the different size stockman pocket knives Sam had accumulated over the years.
"Them's fine knives, Sam," the grandfather said, "I ain't had the scratch to get a fine knife like that in a long time. I jist carry this little thing here to do my cutting with."
The grandfather pulled out a well used old barlow knife that was a lower cost knife, and Sam, in an instant told the grandfather to take his medium stockman. The old man stared at Sam.
"Why Sam, I cain't take that knife. Jist cain't do it, it don't seem right." he told Sam.
"Look, you know the score. I'm on thin ice to say the least. I'd like to know that my knives are going to where they will be appreciated. You and Jimmy will take care of them for me. Just give me a coin each for them." Sam told the grandfather.
A deal was struck, and Sam "sold" the medium stockman to the grandfather, and the large stockman and small stockman to Jimmy. A coin for each was passed over. The boy was overjoyed, and went to bed that night with the two knives under his pillow. Sam and the grandfather finally turned in, and Sam lay awake a long time thinking about things. About how this poor sharecropping family had so little, yet were willing to share what they had. How this very bright boy may never get to go to college, and about how his own family had turned out to be a bunch of vultures not willing to wait until he died to get their hands on what it had taken a lifetime to accrue.
The next morning after a good breakfast made by Jimmy's mother, the grandfather gave Sam and his bicycle a ride back to town. Sam had a plan.
He went to a store and bought a legal pad of paper and a pen, and then sat at an outdoor cafe and wrote. Then he wrote some more. He took another two pills for the pain in his chest, and he knew this had to be done fast. He went to a pay phone and called an old friend. A half hour later a black Town Car pulled into the parking lot, and a tall white haired old man in a very expensive looking suit got out and looked around. Seeing Sam sitting at a table he quickly walked over and sat down.
"Jesus Christ and his mother Mary, do you know they have the police out looking for you? They even had a picture of you on TV last night, asking if anyone had seen you. They think you wandered off from the home." the man said.
"Wandered hell, I ran like an escaped convict. Hid out down on the river. You remember Dutrow's sandbar?" Sam asked.
The old friend of Sam's thought for a moment, then a grin spread over his face.
"Heck yes, I remember the times we had there. And not all sober ones either!" he said.
"Hank, you're my oldest friend, and I need you do me a favor, and I need it fast." Sam told him as he passed over the yellow legal pad.
Hank took out a pair of reading glasses and read. He looked up at Sam with raised eyebrows, then read some more. He looked up a few more times, then kept on reading. Finally, he let out a slow breath.
"You sure about this?" Hank asked his old friend.
Sam was slipping another pill under his tongue against the pain in his chest. Hank looked at him in a worried way.
"As sure as I'm sitting here!" Sam told him. "But you need to get it done like right now. I may not have a long time. You're not just my oldest friend, you're my lawyer, and I need you bad right now in that capacity. " Sam said.
Hank looked at his old friend that he'd known for almost their whole lives. He felt fear for his friend, but he could see the urgency as well. He'd hated to see how the family had treated Sam, and now Sam was asking for this help. There was no way he could say no.
"Okay, Sam. You got it. Just sign it in front of me, and I'll witness it. " and Hank reached over the table and they shook hands on it.
"Go on, get out of here so they can call an ambulance. You'll have a running start on them. " Sam said.
Hank had tears in his eyes, as he realized that this was the last time he'd see his old friend. But he knew what he had to do.
After Hank had gone, Sam sat for a while at the cafe, and then slowly fell over onto the floor. The manager called an ambulance, and Sam lasted a day in the ICU. But in the end, his heart gave out. After the funeral, his family gathered at the lawyers office. Henry 'Hank' Brubaker read the will, and the family sat in shocked silence. Finally Sam's son, the one that had pressed Sam to sign over everything before the died, broke the silence.
"He can't do that! This is crazy, and who the hell is Jimmy Collins?" he demanded angrily. "I'll fight this in court, you can't get away with this!"
Slowly Hank Brubaker stood up to his full six foot two inches height. His face slowly going red with anger as he stared at the people in front of him.
"Sam McGee was my best friend for a lifetime. And I watched how you shoved him into that nursing home and gathered like a pack of hyenas for the kill. Not only will this last will stand, you fight it and I'll throw the entire force of my law firm against you. I will break you! Now get out of my office!"
They filed out, muttering threats that would never be realized. They cursed Sam McGee and every Christmas and special occasion they cursed his name.
But there was one who didn't curse the name.
Many years later, in Yellowstone National Park, the crowd had gathered to hear the talk about Old Faithful. They were grinning and nodding, infected with the enthusiasm that the young park ranger giving the talk had. A young man with light brown hair sticking out from under the Smoky the Bear ranger hat and a scattering of freckles across his nose. He was animated, telling them of the geologic forces that drove Yellowstone, how Yellowstone was a giant caldera of a volcano, the mud pots, hot springs and geysers were outcrops of those forces. He had glanced at his watch, and now stamped his foot and held out his hand as if presenting a celebrity, and right on cue Old Faithful erupted. A geyser of boiling water and steam shot up toward the blue Wyoming sky, and the grinning audience of tourists applauded. Afterward a few came forward to thank him for the great presentation. One man was shaking the young rangers hand while thanking him.
"I can't say enough about your presentation Ranger…" the man glanced down at the name plate on the uniform shirt." Ranger Collins. Thank you very much."
As he was shaking the man's hand, the ranger noticed the man's son was trying to open a souvenir that was wrapped in one of those plastic blister packages.
"Here son, let me get that for you." Ranger Jimmy Collins said. He took out a large Case stockman from his pocket, and opening the sheep foot blade, neatly slit open the package.
"Say," the boys father said, "That looks like an oldie. Bet that knife has some stories to tell!"
Ranger Collins looked down at the knife, at the bone handles where only a ghostly outline of the jigging remained, at the old dark gray blade with the slim line of bright steel where the edge was. At how the chestnut bone had taken a deeper lustrous tone over the years of handling.
"Yes," he said, "You could say that."
The crowd drifted off and Ranger Collins, a geologist with the National Park Service, looked around at the surrounding mountains still wearing the winter snow caps, at the azure blue Wyoming sky, and thought about how he had the life he'd dreamed of. He thought of his wife and two year old son, named Sam, and felt the Case stockman in his pocket.
"God bless you, Sam McGee!" he said quietly.
He'd planned his escape carefully for a month. Supplies had been laid up in secret. The nursing home that his family had put him in was situated on a main road, so escape could be made on one of the buses that ran there. He had hidden a credit card the day they had taken him there, so he knew he had funds to run on. The vultures that were his family visited him just that morning, wanting him to sign over a power of attorney that would let them sell his house and access his funds. He'd refused of course, and made up his mind to escape that day. His grandson, a mohawk-haired and face-pierced young man, had pestered him about his pocket knife collection.
"Oh come on grandpaaaaw!" the young man had whined, drawing out the word grandpa until it sounded like an insult. "Where's the knife collection at? I looked all over the place grandpaw."
The old man had answered in a vague way.
"Oh, I can't remember very well, did you check in the drawers in the work bench downstairs?"
Finally the vultures had left, and as Sam had watched them leave, he went to the closet in his small room and took out a small nylon daypack. In it was a few items, and then he went to the bookshelf. He took down the thick dictionary, and opened it. Inside, was revealed a cut out cavity almost the size of the book, Sam took out a cloth pouch that was heavy with Case pocket knives. He dropped the pouch into the daypack and carefully made his way to the back door of the home. Nobody noticed as he drifted out the employees entrance, and in just a few minutes, was on a bus.
Sam McGee knew where he was going and what he wanted to do. He knew he didn't have much time, self delusion was not one of his traits. His heart condition was worse, and the clock was ticking down. His main thought was to delay the jackals that had become his family, taking possession of all he had. And his grandson was especially annoying, with his demands to know where his collection of old pocketknives were. He patted the daypack and thought of his old Case knives safe and sound with him on his final run. He'd go fishing at his old childhood fishing spot on the nearby Monocacy river, and Dutrow's sandbar, where he and his friends had spent many a night.
That day he switched buses a few times, and then got off near a large shopping center with several box stores. At one, he bought a bicycle, some basic camping gear and fishing tackle. Taking it easy in the summer heat, he peddled slow and coasted a lot, he made his way out of town, to where he remembered the section of river of his youth. The old Dutrow farm was gone, replaced by an industrial park, but as he coasted through the buildings, he saw the woods and the river bank. It was still there. He stashed the bike in some brush, and made his way down to the river. Years rolled away as he saw the same scene as in his memories, the sandbar, the quiet slow river shaded by the towering poplars and sycamores. Sam set up his camp, stringing his mesh hammock he'd bought between two trees, and then set about trying to catch his supper. Opening his daypack, he reached into the cloth sack that held his knives, and took out a large Case stockman. The jigged bone scales were a deep lustrous chestnut brown, with the well used but not abused blades showing a medium gray patina on the CV steel. He trimmed some fishing line, and set the knife down on a rock. By the time an hour had passed, he had a few panfish that looked promising. Then a voice behind him gave him a start.
"Hey mister, are they biting any good?"
Sam turned and saw a boy, about 12 years of age standing by the edge of the woods looking down the river bank. He looked like a boy out of a Norman Rockwell painting, with a fishing rod in one hand, a small tackle box in the other, and dressed in worn overalls, t-shirt with a hole in it, and frayed sneakers that has seen better days. Sandy brown hair and a scattering of freckles across his nose completed the Rockwell effect.
"Got a few little ones, but I'm still hoping." replied Sam.
The boy came down and set up by Sam, and they talked while they fished. The boy was open and friendly, and Sam saw in a short while that he was bright to say the least. The boy, Jimmy it turned out was his name, pointed out the curve in the rock face of the cliff wall on the other side of the small river. How it was volcanic forces and pressure that made the base of what was once an ancient seabed rise. Sam, was impressed, and said so. They landed some fish, and while the summer afternoon passed, the old man and boy became friends. When the sun was slipping down in the sky, an old man appeared from the woods.
"You ready to come home for supper, Jimmy?" the old man said. It turned out he was Jimmy's grandfather, and they lived at the old farmhouse not far away from the river bank. The family was renting the land, farming and scraping by a meager living. Jimmy went on back with his fish, the grandfather stayed a bit and talked with Sam. He eyed the basic camp that Sam had set up.
"Camping out are ya?" he asked Sam
Sam was a bit evasive at first, but then relaxed and told the grandfather he was on the run from the nursing home. The story came out, and the grandfather shook his head sadly.
"Look, why don't ya come on home with us, we got enough for an extra plate, and the boy likes you. That's good enough for me."
"Okay, but I don't want to put you all out any." Sam told him, "And I like Jimmy, he's an uncommon bright boy. He was telling me all about the geologic forces that made this area. I didn't expect to run into a pint-sized geologist today."
The old grandfather laughed.
"Yeah, he's bright 'un. The school says he's gifted, and he reads everything he can get a holdt of on volcano's, rocks and all kinds of stuff. But it breaks my heart too. He's so smart, but it ain't likely we'll ever be able to afford college for him. Even with some scholarships, I don't reckon he'll ever get to be what he wants. And things have been rough since his pa died last year in a car accident. "
They talked as Sam broke camp and walked home with the grandfather. Along the way, he felt dizzy, and stopped to slip one of his pills under his tongue.
"Say, you all right, mister?" the grandfather asked.
"Just the old ticker, it ain't what it used to be." Sam told him in an offhand manner.
That night, Sam saw how close to the bone Jimmy's family were living. It was a sharecroppers life, living from month to month with barely making expenses. The old farmhouse they rented was run down, and the car and pickup outside had seen better days, with rust holes in the body work, and maybe not able to make a long trip if need be. They offered to put Sam up for the night and the grandfather and Sam talked long into the evening. The grandfather took out his pipe to smoke by the fire, and Sam did likewise. Sam took out his medium stockman to use the small pen blade to scrape his pipe bowl, and the old man and Jimmy both were interested. Sam dug out his small knife collection from his pack, and Jimmy was enthralled by the different size stockman pocket knives Sam had accumulated over the years.
"Them's fine knives, Sam," the grandfather said, "I ain't had the scratch to get a fine knife like that in a long time. I jist carry this little thing here to do my cutting with."
The grandfather pulled out a well used old barlow knife that was a lower cost knife, and Sam, in an instant told the grandfather to take his medium stockman. The old man stared at Sam.
"Why Sam, I cain't take that knife. Jist cain't do it, it don't seem right." he told Sam.
"Look, you know the score. I'm on thin ice to say the least. I'd like to know that my knives are going to where they will be appreciated. You and Jimmy will take care of them for me. Just give me a coin each for them." Sam told the grandfather.
A deal was struck, and Sam "sold" the medium stockman to the grandfather, and the large stockman and small stockman to Jimmy. A coin for each was passed over. The boy was overjoyed, and went to bed that night with the two knives under his pillow. Sam and the grandfather finally turned in, and Sam lay awake a long time thinking about things. About how this poor sharecropping family had so little, yet were willing to share what they had. How this very bright boy may never get to go to college, and about how his own family had turned out to be a bunch of vultures not willing to wait until he died to get their hands on what it had taken a lifetime to accrue.
The next morning after a good breakfast made by Jimmy's mother, the grandfather gave Sam and his bicycle a ride back to town. Sam had a plan.
He went to a store and bought a legal pad of paper and a pen, and then sat at an outdoor cafe and wrote. Then he wrote some more. He took another two pills for the pain in his chest, and he knew this had to be done fast. He went to a pay phone and called an old friend. A half hour later a black Town Car pulled into the parking lot, and a tall white haired old man in a very expensive looking suit got out and looked around. Seeing Sam sitting at a table he quickly walked over and sat down.
"Jesus Christ and his mother Mary, do you know they have the police out looking for you? They even had a picture of you on TV last night, asking if anyone had seen you. They think you wandered off from the home." the man said.
"Wandered hell, I ran like an escaped convict. Hid out down on the river. You remember Dutrow's sandbar?" Sam asked.
The old friend of Sam's thought for a moment, then a grin spread over his face.
"Heck yes, I remember the times we had there. And not all sober ones either!" he said.
"Hank, you're my oldest friend, and I need you do me a favor, and I need it fast." Sam told him as he passed over the yellow legal pad.
Hank took out a pair of reading glasses and read. He looked up at Sam with raised eyebrows, then read some more. He looked up a few more times, then kept on reading. Finally, he let out a slow breath.
"You sure about this?" Hank asked his old friend.
Sam was slipping another pill under his tongue against the pain in his chest. Hank looked at him in a worried way.
"As sure as I'm sitting here!" Sam told him. "But you need to get it done like right now. I may not have a long time. You're not just my oldest friend, you're my lawyer, and I need you bad right now in that capacity. " Sam said.
Hank looked at his old friend that he'd known for almost their whole lives. He felt fear for his friend, but he could see the urgency as well. He'd hated to see how the family had treated Sam, and now Sam was asking for this help. There was no way he could say no.
"Okay, Sam. You got it. Just sign it in front of me, and I'll witness it. " and Hank reached over the table and they shook hands on it.
"Go on, get out of here so they can call an ambulance. You'll have a running start on them. " Sam said.
Hank had tears in his eyes, as he realized that this was the last time he'd see his old friend. But he knew what he had to do.
After Hank had gone, Sam sat for a while at the cafe, and then slowly fell over onto the floor. The manager called an ambulance, and Sam lasted a day in the ICU. But in the end, his heart gave out. After the funeral, his family gathered at the lawyers office. Henry 'Hank' Brubaker read the will, and the family sat in shocked silence. Finally Sam's son, the one that had pressed Sam to sign over everything before the died, broke the silence.
"He can't do that! This is crazy, and who the hell is Jimmy Collins?" he demanded angrily. "I'll fight this in court, you can't get away with this!"
Slowly Hank Brubaker stood up to his full six foot two inches height. His face slowly going red with anger as he stared at the people in front of him.
"Sam McGee was my best friend for a lifetime. And I watched how you shoved him into that nursing home and gathered like a pack of hyenas for the kill. Not only will this last will stand, you fight it and I'll throw the entire force of my law firm against you. I will break you! Now get out of my office!"
They filed out, muttering threats that would never be realized. They cursed Sam McGee and every Christmas and special occasion they cursed his name.
But there was one who didn't curse the name.
Many years later, in Yellowstone National Park, the crowd had gathered to hear the talk about Old Faithful. They were grinning and nodding, infected with the enthusiasm that the young park ranger giving the talk had. A young man with light brown hair sticking out from under the Smoky the Bear ranger hat and a scattering of freckles across his nose. He was animated, telling them of the geologic forces that drove Yellowstone, how Yellowstone was a giant caldera of a volcano, the mud pots, hot springs and geysers were outcrops of those forces. He had glanced at his watch, and now stamped his foot and held out his hand as if presenting a celebrity, and right on cue Old Faithful erupted. A geyser of boiling water and steam shot up toward the blue Wyoming sky, and the grinning audience of tourists applauded. Afterward a few came forward to thank him for the great presentation. One man was shaking the young rangers hand while thanking him.
"I can't say enough about your presentation Ranger…" the man glanced down at the name plate on the uniform shirt." Ranger Collins. Thank you very much."
As he was shaking the man's hand, the ranger noticed the man's son was trying to open a souvenir that was wrapped in one of those plastic blister packages.
"Here son, let me get that for you." Ranger Jimmy Collins said. He took out a large Case stockman from his pocket, and opening the sheep foot blade, neatly slit open the package.
"Say," the boys father said, "That looks like an oldie. Bet that knife has some stories to tell!"
Ranger Collins looked down at the knife, at the bone handles where only a ghostly outline of the jigging remained, at the old dark gray blade with the slim line of bright steel where the edge was. At how the chestnut bone had taken a deeper lustrous tone over the years of handling.
"Yes," he said, "You could say that."
The crowd drifted off and Ranger Collins, a geologist with the National Park Service, looked around at the surrounding mountains still wearing the winter snow caps, at the azure blue Wyoming sky, and thought about how he had the life he'd dreamed of. He thought of his wife and two year old son, named Sam, and felt the Case stockman in his pocket.
"God bless you, Sam McGee!" he said quietly.
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