Men of a Consequential Age

When we first arrived, I didn't think much about it. It bugged me a little, but I didn't speak up then, the fact that one of my best friends from four decades ago and then some, who I hadn't talked much with for the past 21 years, had gotten out of the car and greeted another mutual friend with multiple expletives.

It was again our annual trek to Chico to see another mutual best friend, one who had broken his neck during a swim meet way back in our senior year of high school. Everyone had already arrived and we were the last three to get there. I unloaded my stuff from the car and noticed Robby's neighbor standing in his yard, since I had to parking partly in front of his house, and I was sure he heard the F-bombs being dropped during the affectionate greeting.

In all fairness he wasn't the only one cursing. Every year when we get together we catch up and talk about our lives and the world around us and always make it a priority to congregate and elevate our connected spirits.

Yes, we're a lot older and supposedly more mature, having somewhat successful professional lives, and half of us having families and children of varying ages, but of course we're not too mature to completely devolve into our ranting, cursing, snorting, pig-like beings of old.

C'mon, give us a break, right? We love each other.

When you've been friends for over 40 years, there's a lot emotional crap that has transpired within our ranks. There are moments like Robby's accident that altered all our worlds dramatically, that forever bound us together, our lives and futures inextricably linked in a lifetime of friendship, always laced with happy silver linings and much needed laughter.

And for guys to stay friends as long as we have, even when some of us had a falling out for a time, that's something to celebrate with beer, fist bumps and F-bombs.

Now back to the latest visit -- after an hour or so I went outside to unload some more of my stuff for the weekend and in front of my friend's neighbor's house sat two little girls in front of a lemonade stand. A pretty decent one for that matter. They were both around my girls ages and they called out to me to buy a glass.

"Do you want to buy some lemonade?"

It's really hot in Chico California during the summertime, and this day was no exception. It was at least 96 degrees outside.

I walked over to the lemonade stand and said, "How much?"

One of the girls said, "Twenty-five cents."

"Wow, that's a great deal. You should be charging more."

I could see them thinking about that, and then one said, "Well, we've already made some money, and twenty-five cents is the going rate you know."

I could see about five quarters nestled neatly in the bottom of one of the plastic cups they served their pink lemonade in.

"Thank you, this is delicious," I said after taking a sip.

"You're welcome," one of the girls answered. "Thank you."

I went back to Robby's house and set the lemonade on the counter. It wasn't until the next morning I realized I hadn't finished it (it was actually really good). I also realized I needed to ask the guys to please keep it down when we were outside together in the backyard and to watch the cursing. Again, half of our group are father's with grown children as well as younger children like mine. Just like the two girls at the lemonade stand.

We are men of a consequential age, and although I have no qualms about the levity we share and the inappropriateness of some of it in the context of our pasts and the present, what we share doesn't need to spill out over the neighbor's fence to the ears of young children, especially little girls. My friends agreed, of course.

Because we're trying to be the good guys, we really are, and unfortunately today more than ever a toxic incivility abounds everywhere we go, one that has seeped into our societal ground water and continues to poison future generations. Too many hateful people think they can and should be able to do whatever they want regardless of race and/or gender and/or socio-economic status and/or political affiliation, spouting hate and untruths and running people down in the streets like what happened with the protests in Virginia, all during the weekend my friends and I spent together.

I love these guys, my friends, I really do, and we have a responsibility to our boys and girls and others younger and older to understand personal responsibility, consequence and empathy. We are men of a consequential age, and our friendship is telling of the healing bonds that can be.

Like Men Knowingly Bound to Their Future

There we were on the power walk. Not the When Harry Met Sally Billy Crystal and Bruno Kirby overly-animated Central Park stride, but a power walk nonetheless. Moving at a nice four-mile-per-hour clip. Walking and talking along a creek in Chico California about knee surgery, staying in shape and hitting plateaus. We walked and talked, huffed and puffed, my friend Craig and I, and I thought, Wow, we just keep coming back, after all this time.

And for good reason as I've noted before in Men of An Unremarkable Age and Because That's How It Works With The Guys That Work. Being friends for decades isn't unusual, but it's usually more emotionally intimate for women than for men, especially over the long haul.

Usually, but we're an exception to the rule. Every year is like reliving a single point in time that solidified our emotional connections forever; we had all experienced a mutual metaphorical monster that forever challenged our sense of normalcy: one fateful spring day at a swim meet our senior year in high school.

My best friend Robby had wanted to go with a group of us to the coast instead of his swim meet, but we all knew he wouldn't miss his meet for anything. When we returned early that evening, we learned he had broken his neck and crushed his spinal cord on his third false start. We rushed to the hospital to see him, and his mother claimed we were family so we could see him in the ICU the next morning when he was conscious.

Three months later he was brought by ambulance from the hospital rehabilitation center to graduate with our senior class, and I had the honor of pushing him into the football stadium and standing by his side throughout the commencement.

Then five years later he moved to Chico and that's where we've been going to hang out with him ever since. Our mutual circle of friends had grown during high school and beyond, and since has remained more or less intact.

We waxed poetic this year, as we always do, with a sprinkle of family chat, economics, colonoscopies, politics, music and more, and added yet another year upon year that we make it a priority to congregate and elevate our connected spirits. Emotional evolution has looked kindly over us since junior high and high school, although we're not too mature to complete devolve into ranting, cursing, snorting, pig-like beings who flip through old yearbooks and comment, "Did you date her? She was really hot."

It's a controlled setting, though. One that we've sealed off from the rest of the world. One that no longer seeps into the groundwater of our daily lives, or worlds of work, or our families. More like a private swimming hole that only we can find one or two times per year, lost the rest of the year inside our tangle of low-testosterone time.

Our swimming hole is always a little chilly at first, but dive in we do, the hot sun taking off the edge and then we're 16 again. And then we're 18 again. And then we're 21 again. And then we're 30. And that's when we remember saying, "Hey, will we be getting together when we're 50?"

The answer to that is a resounding yes. Because we're here today, men of a certain age, an unremarkable age, who continue to invest in a friendship that’s seen many ups and downs, ins and outs, and others who have come and gone over the years. Men divorced and married, with and without children. Men who have experienced hardship and loss as well as success and enduring love. Men finally comfortable in their own skin and who be friends of years to come.

"Do you think we'll still be getting together when we're 70?" we ask each other.

The answer to that, like men knowingly bound to their future, is another resounding yes.

Because That's How It Works With The Guys That Work

“It seems to me I could live my life
A lot better than I think I am
I guess that's why they call me
They call me the working man…”

—Rush


The social notification popped up on my phone.

Craig R kettlebellied

I'm sorry, what? I thought.

Wait, that's not quite right. I squinted and read again.

Craig R kettlebelled

What?

I opened up the MapMyRun app to make sure I got it right. Then I made a sarcastic comment on my friend Craig's MapMyRun feed. Then he responded. And then I did again. And so it goes.

And I still didn't get what kettlebelled was, until we got together and talked workout shop that help us old guys fight the effects of age and gravity's depravity.

Because that's how it works. Between friends that work. When you've known each other a long time you're rightfully comfortable in calling each other out, calling each other names and calling the kettlebelly black, all the while like big brothers (although sometimes like stepsisters) who always have the other's back, practicing the lifestyle of true friendship.

For nearly 40 years we’ve collectively been the guys that work. Some of us are childhood friends, some of us meeting later in high school or right after high school, all who in adulthood continue making an annual trek to hangout for a rest day like we did again recently.

Men of a certain age, an unremarkable age, who continue to invest in a friendship that’s seen many ups and downs, ins and outs, and others who have come and gone over the years. Men who have had varying careers, varying relationships, some with children and some without, who have experienced hardship and loss as well as success and enduring love. Men who have created an inclusive culture from a shared collective of unique behaviors and experiences that extend well beyond the bounds of their own inner drum circle, affecting many others in their lives – family, friends, colleagues and today even passerby on social networks.

The guys that work. But it’s not all unconditional bromance love-fest because there’s a valuable return for us all – the catch phrases, the sounding boards, the support networks, the referrals and all the memories that keep us motivated, working hard to keep working together and reinvesting in our mutual friendships.

Just like the guys at work reference that Geddy Lee makes about his bandmates and long-time friends in Rush, a progressive rock band that’s been playing together for over 40 years and my favorite band. But the “guys at work” include everyone who works for, in and around Rush, and their extended families and friends. (Yes, they make fun of me for always fitting in the Rush reference. Hey, I'm only a fan, not a fanatic.)

But the guys at work that work isn't usually the norm, since women still having older and longer-lasting friendships than men. But we've been an exceptional footnote to that data, one that I hope my girls are proud of someday when they look back over 40 years of their friendships.

Because that's how it works with the guys that work. Amen. Let's do a little kettlebellying, my Brothers.

Keep the Pop Hopping Popping

HOP POP We like to hop. 
We like to hop on top of Pop. 
STOP You must not hop on Pop.

--Dr. Suess

No, actually they must hop on Pop. You can hear it in earnest, in their gleeful squeals.

"Daddy, we want to jump on you!"

All right. Fine. Jump, jump, jump around. Jump, jump, jump around. Ugh. Whoosh--

That was the air rushing out of me as Beatrice, nearly twice the size and weight of her little sister, jumped on my midsection. Even with pillows and stuffed animals galore on top me, the physics of impact are inescapable. At least Beatrice telegraphs her jumps so I can plan for impact and the roll off.

"Daddy, more jumps!"

Bryce, on the other hand, is much lighter and easier to deflect, but is more fearlessly random than her big sister. There's no time to set or reset with her -- as soon as I think I've got her pattern figured out, I don't, and the shelling of Daddy mountain commences while my core workouts continue.

"Daddy!"

"No more jumps."

"Yes, more jumps!"

And then there's the daddy-handling of picking them up and flipping them upside and landing them safely on our couch or cuddle chair, kind of like a kiddie catch-and-release program.

Sigh. But of course, I wouldn't have it any other way, even if days later I feel beat up, bruised with specific muscles and tendons contorted and sore.

I know these days will one day pass, and that the Mama and I will reminisce about them all while the girls grow into young strong, caring women and have lives of their own.

But these days are now, and I want to ensure they have a strong, caring male role model and an involved father in their life they can trust (even if I'm a little gruff sometimes), one that I never had as a child, only experiencing later as a teenager with my Pop (although I never hopped on him, of which he was surely thankful and grateful). Their pragmagical Mama's got everything else covered, so for that I'm always thankful and grateful.

Yes, these days are now, so let's keep the Pop hopping popping.

Stop, Bryce! You must not hop on Pop. Ugh.

Men of An Unremarkable Age

The pushups, situps, arm band toning and the walking workouts became the "running" joke. I first referred to it affectionately as my Olivia Newton-John workout back in 1989. That's when our annual trek to Chico started, five years out of high school.

But let's jump into the "way back machine" to over 35 years ago, to when a gangly, tall boy by the name of Robin Christopher Day befriended me. We were in the 7th grade at the time and in Mr. Franks "hot hockey stick" history class together. I say hot hockey stick because Mr. Franks had a sawed-off hockey stick he used to rattle the young minds in his class.

And rattle us he did. If you were out of line in class – slam – right on the desk in front of you. Scared the crap out of us every single time. He never physically hit any of us, and God knows no one really gets away with that today, but memorable it was.

During that first year of friendship Robby made me a cassette tape of two Cheap Trick albums and our rock and roll friendship has never looked back. Yes, a mix tape. Feel free to tease (while you reminisce the dozens you made for friends and lovers).

Fast forward to a fateful spring day at a swim meet our senior year in high school. Robby wanted to go with a group of us to the coast instead of his swim meet, and he knew perfectly well he wouldn't miss his meet for anything.

We returned early that evening to learn that he had broken his neck and crushed his spinal cord on a third false start. We rushed to the hospital to see him, and his mother claimed we were family so we could see him in the ICU the next morning when he was conscious.

Three months later he was brought by ambulance from the hospital rehabilitation center to graduate with our senior class, and I had the honor of pushing him into the football stadium and standing by his side throughout the commencement.

Five years later he moved to Chico and that's where we've been going to hang out with him ever since. Our mutual circle of friends had grown during high school and beyond, and since has remained more or less intact.

There are moments like Robby's accident that altered all our worlds dramatically, that forever bound us together, our lives and futures inextricably linked in a lifetime of friendship -- through all the personal tragedy, incremental joy, marriage, children, divorce, career success and failure, falling outs and ins, illness, injury (a recent bum knee for me), addiction, depression, and even death -- always laced with happy silver linings and much needed laughter.

You know, like a bunch of girls.

I write that not disparaging women at all. No, I write that because men don't have the same societal or genetic capacity to stay together in tight-knit support groups like women have for thousands of years.  

But us guys? We've managed to do just that.

Now we're all men of an unremarkable age, just north of prime, more so for Robby, getting together as often as we can, banking all those happy silver linings and laughter, plus a shitload of usually inappropriate "inside baseball" comedic catch phrases.

"Low T, low T!" (which is one of the milder ones)

As in, low testosterone alert. Hey, that's life, kids. So slip on those pink wristbands and headbands and let's get physical. The B-hive is a proud endorser of girlie-men everywhere.

Unremarkable is the new black anyway. Love you, my Brothers.

Retro K: The Men in My Life

The visit to Visalia this last weekend combined with Father's Day being less than a week away has stirred up the sediment of my soul. Fortunately the days of dredging my heart solely to wallow in emotional muck have long since fled.

But I have no control over natural phenomenon.

Unfortunately I haven't had many decent male role models in my life. Those few I've had have been precious to me, honest and strong men who aren't afraid to be vulnerable when necessary. Both my grandfathers, my mom's dad Len and my biological father's dad Newt, left nothing but fond memories for me. My mom's dad especially. He was a good, loving Christian man whose actions and words I held onto like life preservers. And his colloquialisms, no matter how many times his said them, were always welcome:

"This coffee is as hot as a fire cracker on the fourth of July."

"I like three kinds of pies: hot and cold and all in between!"

[Smiling and holding up both fists] "All right, what will it be? Six months in the hospital or sudden death?"

He was a boxer in his youth. Huge hands that were as gentle as a child's. If only he knew those were sometimes my dark wishes as a child.

My cousin Daryl (no, not from the Newhart Show) was another role model for me. He's always been a rock for my family ever since I can remember, and helped us during a dire time in our lives.

My high school counselor, Doug, who wasn't even my direct counselor, but who was a tremendous help to me at the end of high school. Not a pretty time for me, but who's counting?

My boss at San Jose State University, Alex, was another big positive influence on me. An honest straight shooter who put me on the path of straight shootin'.

My boss now, Mark, whose business acumen, work ethic and integrity are impeccable. Plus, he's a nice guy and a good father.

One of my staff members, Andy, who battled cancer 10 years ago and now runs 50-mile trail races. Amazing.

Another colleague, Jonathan, who is a tri-athlete and heavily involved in the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society.

Another colleague, Greg, web-savvy with a gaggle of kids and another on the way. Very caring father.

And I can't forget my colleague, Elrond, who's my Battlestar buddy, writing co-conspirator, and wonderful father.


And my old friend and colleague, Scott, who helped open my eyes even further.

Amy's father and uncles, all of whom are good men and have become very dear to me. (Amy's father married us and her Uncle Greg is a Big Brother and I really admire that. Someday I'd like to be one.)

My ex-brother-in-law, Tony, and Amy's sister's husband, Steve, have really good hearts and both have had a positive impact on me over the years.

My friend Charles whose wife Taffy were both high school friends of Amy. His sense of humor parallels mine and if I was ever in a bar fight I wouldn't even have to ask. Charles has two young daughters. (God help the men who date them.)

My friends Troy and Greg, both of whom are fathers. Rush rules and I always sack up.

My best friend, Robby, who survived a harrowing accident in high school leaving him paralyzed, has struggled over the years, but who does his best to live each day to its fullest. "I really want to see what happens tomorrow," he always tells me.

And of course the father I've known since I was 12, Richard, the only real father I've known, who holds a very dear place in my heart, but I'm going to write more about him later in the week.

There are many more friends and family who have also been positive influencers on my life, and for that I thank them.

(What, am I signing year books? Yikes. I guess I have had a lot of role models.)

Sadly those who should've been positive role models weren't, but who's counting? I've included a short story below I wrote about five years ago that encompasses some of the emotions I've touched on in this post. And while it does draw on some of my own experiences, it's definitely fiction.

There's no obligation to read it, so don't worry if you don't. There's never any obligation to read any of my ramblings, but I always thank you for stopping by.

From a sink hole in the mud, I find my voice again.

As a prelude, here's another song for B Notes, "Love is the Answer" by England Dan and John Ford Coley:

Tell me, are we alive
Or just a dying planet
(What are the chances)

Ask the man in your heart
For the answer

And when you feel afraid
(Love one another)
When you've lost your way
(Love one another)
And when you're all alone
(Love one another)
And when you're far from home
(Love one another)
And when you're down and out
(Love one another)
And when your hopes run out
(Love one another)
And when you need a friend
(Love one another)
And when you're near the end
(Love)
(We've got to love)
(We've got to love one another)

Light of the world, shine on me
Love is the answer
Shine on us all
Set us free
Love is the answer

THE LARGEST LIVING THING

Copyright 2008

Kevin W. Grossman

A familiar silence filled the Nova. It poured over the front seat into the back like a freezing mist, pushing Jacob's face against the window. His throat constricted. He wanted to roll down his window but he knew Henry wouldn't allow it. Henry would tell him the air conditioning wouldn't function properly with hot air streaming in. Henry would tell him to relax and enjoy the view. Henry was always telling him to relax.

They headed east into the mountains. Jacob smelled burnt oil in the frigid air. It blended with Henry's sweet cologne, forcing its way into Jacob's nose and mouth. He wanted out of the car. He began to hyperventilate, fogging up the window, and then he quickly looked into the rearview mirror, only to find Henry's eyes. Jacob hated those blue-eyed slits. Every Sunday morning at First Calvary, as Jacob sat in between his mother and little brother, he could feel Henry's eyes upon him like wet hands.

Jacob broke free from Henry's eyes and stared down at the dash. There it was, half-hidden behind Henry's broad shoulder. Its skin was tanned leather, warped and stained. It used to be comforting, like when Jacob's grandmother would stroke his hand while she read stories out of it, each verse a gentle brush from her fingertips. He couldn't see it, but he imagined her name embossed in faded gold script in the bottom right-hand corner. He remembered flipping through the pages when no one was around. They flowed one after the other like a clear stream over polished stones.

But his grandmother was gone. Now Henry read from it every Sunday after passing the collection plates among the congregation. His words were nothing like Jacob's grandmother's, though; they were a mountain slide that buried Jacob daily, making him wonder why God let bad things happen to good people, why his grandmother had to die, and his real father, too. Jacob prayed each day for an answer.

Jacob's brother David slept in the seat next to him, his seatbelt lying undone by his side. David slid back and forth across the back seat with every curve in the road, his mouth open, saliva oozing out of each corner. He slid across the seat again, and this time tipped over and rested against Jacob's shoulder. Jacob put his arm around him, held him tight. He thought of the folded up page from David's Bible coloring book tucked safely away in his back pocket—a picture of Jesus dressed in a flowing robe and sandals, his arms open wide to a dozen children gathered around him, and a smile on his face. David had colored in the robe with a rainbow and given it to Jacob the night before.

Jacob looked out his window as they drove farther into the chaparral-covered foothills. Blue oaks glowed in the shimmering heat. Broken granite exposed itself in the yellow grass. Jacob's mother coughed and he focused his attention on the back of her head. She fixated on her own view of the landscape moving past her window. He wondered if she saw the same things as he, and if she knew.

The silence continued to grow until it felt like the pounding heartbeat inside Jacob's head. In the rearview mirror, Henry's cold eyes met his again. He wished he could go to sleep, but he knew it wasn't going to happen with Henry watching him.

The car slowed, then stopped. Jacob released his brother who sat up and yawned. His mother turned and gave Jacob a weak smile, her swollen red eyes visible above her sunglasses.

They had arrived at the entrance to Sequoia National Forest. Henry paid the entrance fee and continued driving up the winding road. They passed an elevation sign: 4,000 feet. In the mirror, Henry winked at Jacob, causing Jacob's stomach to cramp.

"Goodness, it's just too quiet in here. You'd think we were still in church," Henry said.

Jacob jumped at the sound of Henry's voice. David rubbed his eyes. Henry turned on the radio.

"—going to be another scorching Sunday in the south valley today. Hot, hot, hot! Plus, big thunderstorms are brewing in the Sierras this afternoon, so I suggest you all stay inside with those swamp coolers cranked up high. Let's cool things down a bit by taking a trip along the Mississippi with a new one from the Doobie Brothers. You're listenin' to K-R-K-R, nine-seventy AM, the rocker!"

"Now, that's more like it, don't you think, Ruth?" Henry said.

She didn't answer. Henry chuckled. He looked in the mirror at David, then Jacob.

"No, there can't be any storms happening up here today. It's just too beautiful outside."

When no one replied, Henry continued. "Oh, and don't you boys tell Miss Foster we were listening to any rock and roll. Do you understand me?"

David nodded, but Jacob only looked out the window. Miss Foster, an obese woman who always wore sleeveless flowered dresses, played the piano and organ at First Calvary, and was also the center of the universe when it came to church gossip. Jacob wondered what would happen if he told her everything, but his fear of what Henry might do kept him quiet.

"Henry, the boys—they want to go to Moro Rock this afternoon—please," Jacob's mother said. Her voice squeaked in staccato tones.

Henry shook his head. "Well, we're not going there. You know I can't climb up that thing. Goodness, I'd get vertigo and pass out."

"But they—they really want to go."

Henry exhaled. Jacob's soreness flared, lighting a fire in his gut. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"All right, all right, we'll go to Moro Rock. I'll just wait for you all in the car. But first, we're going to see the General Sherman tree. I've wanted to see that tree again for a long, long time. Haven't seen it since I was your age, David. Did you know that it's one of the largest living things on God's green earth?"

David shook his head. Jacob kept his on eyes on his brother, but didn't move or say a word.

"Well, it is. Anyway, we'll be there soon."

Henry turned the radio up. Jacob rested his head back against the seat. The song lulled him. He dozed restlessly, recalling events from the night before.

It was after midnight when Henry pulled into the driveway. He'd been working late at the church again, or that's what he always told them. What he really did there at night, Jacob didn't know, and he didn't want to know. He prayed for Henry to never come back, to just disappear. Maybe Jesus didn't appreciate that kind of prayer, but Jacob knew God did. He read the Bible. He knew the difference between the Old Testament and the New—that God could summon vengeance, but his only begotten son forgave.

He heard Henry walk up the steps to the front door—open it, close it, and then enter the kitchen. Jacob wanted to hide, but he couldn't move. He listened intently as Henry walked down the hallway. Henry yawned and stopped in front of Jacob's bedroom door. Jacob held his breath and prayed even harder, but Henry entered his bedroom and closed the door. Jacob whispered, "No," but that's all he could get out, his throat as dry as if coated with burning sand. Henry whispered back, "Relax, Jacob. Everything is going to be all right. It's God's will." He approached Jacob's bed, sat down, and took hold of the boy's arms. Jacob didn't fight—he was paralyzed. Henry was too strong. Jacob tried to scream, but nothing came out except a painful rush of hot air.

The car stopped abruptly. Jacob's head snapped forward, waking him. He blinked, rubbed his neck. When he looked out his window, they were in a graveled lot. Dense groves of pine and giant Sequoia replaced the oaks and grasslands. Ferns and shrubs grew lush in the shady pockets under the trees. Jacob tumbled out of the car. He breathed deeply, the pine air cleansing him temporarily of the memory. In the breaks between the treetops, the sky was still chalk blue. He couldn't believe a storm was coming.

Henry got out of the car, all six-and-a-half feet. Jacob stood away from him, avoiding eye contact.

"Welcome to Giant Forest, boys."

Jacob watched as David got out. He gazed at the giant trees, and then high up into the canopy. He clutched Jacob's hand and squeezed.

His mother got out of the car last, her left hand holding her side as if in pain. She stared at Jacob and David, her face gray. Jacob wondered when she last slept. She drifted ghost-like in her paisley dress. She looked up at Henry and bit her lip.

Henry snorted. "Goodness, what are you all waiting for? Let's go."

Jacob's mother put her arms around both him and David. She squeezed their shoulders. Jacob thought he heard her sigh.

"Let's go," she said.

Henry led the way towards the General Sherman tree. David, Jacob, and their mother followed five feet behind. Families were everywhere: excited children held their parents' hands, pointing at the massive Sequoias with their free ones. Tourists from around the world weighted down with cameras and backpacks took pictures of the trees and squirrels. Kids covered in dirt screamed and chased each other in and out of the redwood giants.

Jacob didn't pay much attention to them; he was trying to plan an escape. He didn't know how, but he knew if they didn't get away from Henry soon, Henry would hurt David, too. He couldn't let that happen, no matter how scared he was of Henry. He kicked at pinecones while they walked, imagining they were Henry's head. Each punt sent up a plume of dust that settled on the front of his jeans.

Sometime after Henry left his room, Jacob heard him yelling at his mother. She cried and pleaded. Jacob shoved his head under his pillow, but it didn't help. Henry called her horrible things. Then it sounded like he hit her—a clap of thunder inside Jacob's head.

David crept into his room crying, a piece of paper dangling from his small hand. He gave Jacob the picture of Jesus and Jacob held him until he calmed down. When the fighting finally stopped, David continued to cry and Jacob stared at the ceiling listening to the house groan.

At some point David went limp in Jacob's arms. His heart sped up, thinking that David might be having another seizure, but he had only fallen asleep. His relief was short-lived, though; Henry laughed loudly from down the hall and said, "Well, well, looky here. Goodness, what are you going to do with that gun, Ruth? Are you going to shoot me? Well, go ahead, shoot me. Shoot me! You're all nothing but a bunch of—"

"Lost little souls."

Jacob flinched when he heard Henry's voice, bringing him back to the present. He stood next to Henry in front of the General Sherman tree. David and his mother were only a few feet away. A Mexican man and woman with five kids walked in front of them. David and his mother waited until they passed, and then she pointed into the tree, explaining something to David, his eyes and mouth wide open. Jacob desperately wanted to join them.

Henry slapped Jacob on the back and nodded towards two giggling teenage girls wearing tube tops and cutoff jeans. Jacob thought they seemed so happy—too happy.

"Watch out for girls like that, Jacob. They're all just temptresses—Satan's little tricksters. You make sure to stay away from them, do you hear me?"

As if on cue, the girls stopped giggling and ran down the trail away from the tree. Henry put his arm around Jacob. He pulled him into his side and Jacob stiffened.

"Relax, Jacob. No need to be so tense. Here we go, this is what I wanted to see, all fourteen-hundred tons of it," Henry said, pointing to the General Sherman.

Jacob looked up and down the tree—it was huge. The base of the tree alone was the biggest thing he'd ever seen. Its thick branches of green needles soared nearly two hundred feet off the ground, and its wrinkled bark was the color of dried blood.

"This tree is over two-thousand-years old, Jacob. It's seen more history than you or I could ever dream about. Goodness, it was just a sapling when our savior was born."

Jacob slipped out from under Henry's arm. "Can we go to Moro Rock now?"

Henry stood up straight and crossed his arms. "I hope you appreciate everything I do for you, Jacob. All right then, let's go. Ruth! David! It's time to go see the rock!"

High above the General Sherman, Jacob watched as dark clouds engulfed the blue sky. A gust of wind blew back Jacob's hair. The storm was coming after all.

Morning came, but Jacob hadn't slept all night. He just laid there in bed with David by his side. He didn't know what to do, but he knew they couldn't stay there anymore. He wished his dad were still alive. He'd take care of Henry. Jacob knew he would.

Someone coughed in the hallway—it was Henry. Jacob pulled David in closer to him. He moaned and buried his face deeper into Jacob's armpit. Henry walked a few steps and stopped. He opened the door to David's room, laughed, and then closed it. Henry took a few more steps until he was right outside Jacob's door. He turned the doorknob; Jacob held David tighter. Henry wasn't going to touch his brother, ever. But after a few excruciating moments, Henry didn't come in. Jacob stroked the picture of Jesus next to him, and a half hour later, fell asleep next to his brother.

"Here we are, boys, Moro Rock."

Jacob couldn't see the rock yet. Henry parked the Nova next to a yellow Volkswagen van, painted with rainbows and shooting stars. The van's sliding door was partway open. From where Jacob sat, he could see hanging beads and apricot-paisley upholstery.

When they all got out of the car, Henry opened up the trunk and rummaged through an ice chest. Jacob watched as Henry yanked a pull-tab off a wet soda can. He tossed the pull-tab to the ground, took a big gulp from the soda, and belched with his mouth closed.

"Poor sinners—they know not what they do," Henry said, staring at the van.

David and his mother walked around to the other side of the van. When they were out of his sight, Jacob stood directly in front of the van's open door. Three longhaired bearded guys sat inside, drinking beer and listening to music. They passed a small pipe back and forth, taking puffs off of it. The strong smell reminded Jacob of when Henry burned piles of bottlebrush in their backyard.

He'd seen hippies before, usually on TV protesting out in front of some courthouse somewhere, but never in person. The largest of the three hippies wore an over-sized tie-dye with a rainbow splashed across the front.

Jacob's eyes widened and his breath quickened.

It was Jesus.

"Hey, little man," Jesus said.

"Hey."

"What's your name?"

"Jacob."

"Mine's Art. You guys goin' up on the rock?"

"Yeah."

"That's cool, man. Have a good time."

"Thanks."

Jacob smiled. It didn't matter that his said his name was Art; God had sent his son to help them escape. He opened his mouth to say something else, but Henry grabbed his arm and lifted him off the ground. He set him down firmly behind the Nova.

"Don't talk to them, son."

Jacob freed himself from Henry's grasp. "I'm not your son!"

He couldn't believe his outburst. He felt an active heat growing out of his stomach, igniting every blood vessel in his body and filling him with confidence. He expected Henry to hit him.

But Henry only laughed. "Go on now and climb up that rock, and then we're going home."

Jacob fumed, but then began to shake nervously, as if his skin was about to boil. He turned to look for his mother and David. He would get them alone and tell them his idea. They weren't that far away, both staring at the backside of Moro Rock. Jacob had learned in school that it was a large granite dome formed by thousands of years of the earth forcing its way up—

Henry wouldn't go up on the rock! That's where Jacob knew he could tell his mother and David about Jesus helping them escape.

The sky grew thick with gray clouds that pushed down on them. The wind picked up, sending brown pine needles skidding across the road. Thunder boomed in the distance.

Jacob walked towards his mother and David. His heart felt stronger and lighter. When he reached his brother, he put his arm around him.

David went limp instantly and crumpled to the ground. His face turned from white to red to blue. His tongue poked in and out of his mouth spilling saliva out over his bottom lip and chin. The thunder roared again, closer this time.

"Jacob, he's having a seizure!" his mother shouted. She dropped to the ground next to David.

David's eyes rolled back in their sockets. His mother stroked his arm. Jacob stroked the other one.

"It's all right, my sweet little baby. It's going to be all right," his mother said.

Henry ran over to them. Jacob stood up, his fists clenched.

"Stay away from us!"

Henry backhanded Jacob and knocked him to the ground.

"Don't you ever speak to me like that way again."

"Jacob—don't," his mother said.

"That's right, Jacob. You better listen to your mother."

Jacob scrambled to his feet. He ran at Henry and punched him in the stomach as hard as he could, but it was like hitting a backstop. Jacob cried out, cradling his hand while Henry laughed.

"Goodness, what do you think you're doing?"

Jacob shook his other hand in the air. "Don't touch my brother!"

"Can't you see I'm only trying to help him? I'm his father, Jacob. And yours. Now get out of my way."

"No, you're not!"

Henry flinched. He stepped back, looking confused. But then his eyes narrowed and he reached for Jacob.

"I told you not to speak to me that way, Jacob."

"You're not going to touch him! You're not going to hurt him like you hurt me and Mom! Get away from us!"

Henry grabbed the front of Jacob's t-shirt. "You're pushing it, boy."

"Henry, please don't—don't hurt him."

"All right, all right," Henry said. He let Jacob go and straightened his shirt.

Jacob bent down next to his mother. David's face faded back to white. His eyes opened and he blinked.

"Where's Mommy?"

Jacob held his hand. "She's right here. Can you stand up?"

"I dunno."

"Jacob, he needs to rest—don't move him," his mother said.

The hippies approached, Angels Jacob thought, with Jesus leading the way. Jacob waved them over, thanking God repeatedly under his breath.

Henry laughed again. "Let's all calm down. No need for all this commotion. We're just worked up over David's seizure. Praise God he's all right. Let's get in the car and go home. Come on now, Jacob, let me help you with your brother."

"We're not going anywhere with you! Leave us alone!"

David pulled himself closer to his mother.

Henry bared his teeth. "You'd better stop this nonsense right now."

"I said leave us alone!"

Henry crouched as if to spring at Jacob.

Art took hold of Henry's arm and yanked him back. "What the hell are you doin', man?"

Henry spun and punched Art in the nose. He staggered back and covered his face, blood seeping through his fingers. Jacob picked up a rock and threw it at Henry but missed.

"Don't hurt Jesus!"

Henry spun back to face Jacob, but Art's friends were all over him now, forcing him to the ground. Henry roared as he fought them off. Jacob met his mother's gaze; it was both angry and confused. He wanted to run and lose himself in her arms, but he didn't. He scooped David off the ground and ran towards the rock.

"You come back here right now, Jacob!"

Jacob froze, his courage wiped away by the violence in Henry's voice. He turned slowly, David's weak body in his arms becoming heavier with each second that passed. He wanted to sit and rock his brother to sleep, to rock himself to sleep.

Henry beat the hippies off and jumped up to charge at Jacob, but his mother kicked Henry's shin as hard as she could, sending him back down to the ground. He fell, unable to stop himself with his hands, hitting the side of his face on the road. Blood sprayed from his nose and mouth.

"Run, Jacob, run!" his mother yelled.

Jacob's strength returned and he raced towards the stairs that led to the top of Moro Rock. Strong winds hit him head on. He heard distant shouting behind him, but he wasn't going to stop to see if Henry was running after them.

An old white truck skidded to a halt across Jacob's path. It startled him but he didn't stop. He veered to the right to avoid the truck, David bouncing in his arms, and just as he passed it he read the words "Park Ranger" painted on the door. He heard the truck door open and slam shut.

"Hey—are you boys all right? Hey! Come back here! You can't go up there right now! It's too dangerous! Stop!"

Jacob didn't stop. When he reached the stairs, his lungs burned and his heart felt like it was being forced into a box half its size. Sweat rolled down his face. Thunder growled overhead and the sky boiled. He saw a bright flash, followed by a loud crack that sounded like a tree splitting in half. He bounded up the steps without slowing. It was a quarter mile to the top: four hundred steps blasted into rock that wound up and around to the summit.

"Jacob, put me down."

Jacob didn't stop: twenty steps, thirty steps, forty steps—his knees and ankles ached.

"Jacob, I feel better. Put me down."

Fifty steps, sixty steps—he couldn't feel his shoulders or arms. His back bowed until he thought it would snap.

"Jacob! Stop!"

At seventy steps Jacob collapsed. He fell on top of his brother, then rolled off him and hit the metal railing. He couldn't control his breathing and his dizziness made him sick. He clung to the railing, his vision blurred as he looked out over the six-thousand-foot drop.

"You okay?" David said.

"Yes—yes—I'm—fine."

"Is Henry following us?"

"Don't—know—keep—going."

Jacob stood, teetering back and forth, his lungs fighting for air. He took David's hand and they slowly started up the stairs again. He and David were going to be all right, for now, even though their mother was still down below, trapped with Henry waiting at the foot of the stairs.

But Jesus and his angels were down there too, and this gave Jacob hope.

The storm swirled all around them as they reached the summit. To the east, the twelve-thousand-foot peaks of the Great Western Divide, half-hidden in the storm clouds, dropped off into the Kaweah River that threaded through the rocky canyons below. As he looked to the west, the Sierras tumbled down into the foothills and the Great Valley beyond, vanishing in a gray haze and the fading daylight. Jacob had no idea what time it was.

"Jacob, you think Mommy's okay?"

"I don't know," Jacob said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"Is Henry coming to get us?"

"I—I don't think so."

"What's going to happen to us?"

"I don't know, David."

"How long are we going to stay up here?"

"For a little while."

David sniffed twice and ran his hand along the railing.

"It's beautiful up here."

"Yes, I know."

"Love you, Jacob."

"Love you, too."

They sat together on the rock with their legs crossed Indian-style. Jacob put his arm around his little brother and David rested his head on Jacob's shoulder. They listened to the cry of thunder, watched the lightning dance. It began to rain.