Whitey 'n Me

“It’s not fair. No one listens to me just because I’m younger than Mr. Jones but I did see it.”

“Run along and play lad,” said Joe’s father. “Got to get this sermon written.”

“You don’t believe me either, do you.”

“Go” said a sterner voice.

Joe knew better than to cross his father so took off to the shed. He liked to spend time in that shed, it was full of memories. Good times, sad times, even scary times at Halloween. Joe felt like he could be himself within those walls.

The shed was dark inside and had a dirt floor - fun place for a boy. He had spent hours throwing stones against the walls, scuffling his shoes (his mother did not like that though) and dreaming of a world where people believed what he said. Most times they patted him on the head and said 

“That's nice son.”

How infuriating that was. Just because he had a good imagination. One day he would show them. Although he didn’t know it, today was different. Joe was about to find something in that shed that would change everything for him.  

One of the stones he threw hit something metal on the ground.

What was that? Joe thought. He knelt on the ground and felt around the area. He had a little pocketknife (he had saved lots of pennies to get it) and used it to scrape around the edges of the thing. It felt like an old metal box, like the toolbox his dad used. It wasn’t that toolbox though; he could see it sitting on the shelf.  

“Lunch Joe” his mother called from the front doorstep.  

“Coming mom.” He would come back to this later, keep it a secret for the time being.

When they were all seated his father said 

“For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly grateful.”

“Amen” from all.

Lunch was fresh baked bread with slices of ham. There were always the carrots and celery sticks cut up and in a glass on the table. His mother cut them thin, so they looked to Joe like chopsticks. They were fun to eat. He didn’t mind that kind of food, although some of the kids at school turned their noses up at them. Joe was grateful for whatever food they could get. Ever since he was small, he had helped in their garden patch, growing the seed, planting, weeding, and picking the things when they grew. He was amazed the first time he saw a tomato from the little tiny seed he had planted. Wow! And oh, it tasted so good, not like the ones in the grocery. After that first taste Joe decided he would always have a garden to grow food if he could.  

“Why don’t you go down to the riverbank this afternoon since you’ve already done your chores” said his mother.

“Thanks mom. Maybe I’ll catch a big fish for our supper.” The fish Joe caught were only small ones usually, but one could always dream, and dream he did.

“Mind you come home before dark though son” said his father.

“Yes sir.”

Joe’s mother handed him a brown paper bag. He peeked inside and saw two of his favorite cookies and a carton of juice. He smiled.

“In case you get hungry before you catch that big fish” she said. His mother understood him. She always had a smile on her face for anyone (most times that is). 

That afternoon it was difficult to concentrate even on fishing (his favorite thing to do) because he kept thinking of the metal box and what was inside it and who it belonged to.

He fell asleep in the warm afternoon sun but luckily woke in time to high tail it on home before dark.  

“Phew” he thought. “Almost got the strap.”

Joe always tried to be a good boy, but he was a boy. Being good all the time was near impossible. He just wanted to play as much as possible while minding his folks. It was hard sometimes to keep everyone happy, but he did the best he could. He had a quick wash before sitting down at the supper table. Conversation was kept to a minimum. His dad hadn’t even said anything about the grades he got. Never mind, Joe was pleased that they were good.

After supper was over the family sat in the living room and read until it was time for lights out. That was the way it had always been, and Joe thought it would always be like that. They would listen to the radio in the morning, but not at night. A set routine or way of doing things. Joe wasn’t sure if it was good or bad, but there was little room for change.

“That box, what was in that box?” The thoughts would not leave his head. Joe had a journal that he would write his thoughts in, especially ones that kept on and on. They all had one. It pleased his father to see Joe writing. He hoped his son would become a preacher like he was or at least do something that he could be proud of. Joe was so much like his great grandfather. Maybe he had done the wrong thing naming his son after his grandfather - too late now.

“Bedtime son, see you in the morning.”

“Good night” called Joe as he trotted off to his bedroom, clutching his journal in his hand.

“Don’t be up all-night writing now, ya hear?”

“No sir.”

“We’ll go out for pizza this weekend to celebrate your good grades lad, we are very, very proud of you.”

A smile came across the lips of the young boy as he anticipated his favorite pizza. Maybe he could even have a soda too. His dad did approve of him, he realized. Sleeping would come easier that night. Sometimes people said one thing, but Joe got a sense they meant something else: but not his father and mother. They were honest when they spoke.

 Joe woke early the next day, his curiosity got the better of him; he had to see what was in that box. Quietly (he didn’t want to wake anyone) he put on his gym shoes (he slept in his track outfit the night before instead of pajamas so he could leave the house early) and took his flashlight from the bedside stand and crept outside. He could hear crickets in the early morning.  

He freed the box without too much trouble now and peered inside. An old photo of a dog, a feather, a stone, and an old leather-bound book. How intriguing. Joe looked at the back of the photo -

Skip, the best dog a boy could have.

He smiled. Joe would like to have a dog like Skip - one day maybe. He held the stone in his hand for a while. It felt smooth. It seemed to Joe that the stone had come from the White River years ago and had been held by someone like him. The book’s strap took some work, but he got it to come loose. Inside was written:

 “It’s not fair. No one listens to me just because I’m younger than Mr. Bateman but I did see it.”

“Huh?” That was almost the same thing as he had said to his father just yesterday. How very strange. Joe had a secret place for treasures - under his bed in a plastic biscuit box. The book, feather, and stone would go in there. He took the photo too, maybe his dad would know who the dog was or who the photo belonged to. He could track down the writer of the journal that way he was sure since they were found in the same place. For now, he put them all back in the box and covered the box up again so he could keep it secret. The photo he put in the pocket of his track pants. The sun was coming up; a good time to water the garden (one of his chores).  

“Looks like rain’s coming son, can you get the mowing done this morning?”

“I sure will.”

“Start mowing around 10 after the dew wears off or it will clog up the mower. Till then you can pick up branches and take them to the curb.”

“Yes dad.”

Joe worked extremely hard getting the yard cleaned up and mowed. Amazingly, just as soon as he had put the mower in the shed, it started raining. Just as his father said it would - he was so smart. He hoped he would be like his father one day and know just when it was going to rain and other things like that. Joe went to great lengths to gain approval from others; he hadn’t got the self-esteem or confidence that other boys had. He would work on increasing his self confidence that summer; maybe it would make a difference one day. He would start by paying attention to how amazing things were – like stones in the water that were smooth, rainbows after storms (and sometimes even double ones), and how fast the little hummingbirds beat their wings. 

 “Looks like fishing is out this afternoon son, maybe you can join us in reading instead” said his mother. Joe had a lot of books he wanted to read. He put the photo of Skip in one he was just starting and washed the lunch dishes then his mother put them away. The book was called “Among the Hidden” by Margaret Haddix - he couldn’t wait to get started.

2. Skip’s story

All was quiet except for the occasional sounds of pages turning as the family read and the rain (heavier now) pelting the windowpanes outside. The old photo that Joe was using as a bookmark during “family read time” fell onto the floor. His dad saw it (that guy never misses anything he thought).

“What’s that son?”

“Goodness. This is a photo of Skip - he was your great grandfather’s dog. Where did you find it?”

“It was in the shed.”

He kept the diary a secret, for now.

“I’ve heard stories about how Joe used to spend a lot of time in that shed; he must have put his favorite things in there for safekeeping.”

“I wish I had a dog like Skip.”

Your great grandfather loved that dog - they went everywhere together. Think he lived to be 23 or so. He’s buried next to that old oak tree.”

 Joe was not surprised to learn that; he always felt a sense of happiness when sitting under that tree. He would always look forward to summers after the chores were done when he could sit under it and listen to the chickadees and other birds and write in his journals. He would keep them all he decided. It might be good to go back and reread them. Sometimes he would write the date on the pages, other times not; but he kept them in order. Joe wrote his dreams, thoughts, ideas, wishes, and secrets. His journals didn’t laugh at him like people did and he didn’t have to worry about stuttering. Sometimes that would happen to him if he were talking to people. But writing, he never had to worry; he could be himself. 

 Apparently, Skip was the only dog his great grandfather ever had. He never had another after that. His dad told him some of the stories about the things they would do - walking trails, fishing, even sleeping on the same bed. 

“He was named Skip because it was easy to say and seemed like a happy name,” his dad said.

 The rain had stopped by the next morning - everything smelled so fresh and clean. There were a lot more branches to pick up from the lawn though; the wind must have picked up during the night. At least he didn’t have to water the garden. Joe hoped he could go down to the river and fish that afternoon; it would depend on what his father said. Sometimes he would need Joe to help him with projects around the house - painting and the like. He would look forward to it when he got the chance to go and maybe catch a big fish - big enough to feed his family and the neighbors. Yes, he knew he had a good imagination; but anything was possible.

Joe held fast to the thought of his great grandfather’s journal and his account of meeting Whitey for the first time when he got to the river that afternoon. Would he ever see the creature he wondered?  

“I’m so glad I have you to keep me company Skip” he said to the dog who was always with him at the water’s edge (it wasn’t his dog but he looked so much like Skip he had to call him that and he always responded). His owners kept to themselves - Joe hadn’t ever seen them. The dog looked happy though, so he thought he was well taken care of.  

“I can tell you my thoughts and you don’t put me down or think me silly”.  

Skip nestled under Joe’s arm in response and settled in for a nap. With the warm sun, sand, and full tummy it wasn’t long before Joe was fast asleep too. A short time passed, and he heard a voice.

A special creature visits Joe

 “You look so much like your great grandfather lad, I just had to pay you a visit. His blood runs through your veins strong and clear. I can read your thoughts and know you have so many questions. Hopefully by the end of this visit I will have answered some of them.

We are not fierce monsters that attack and destroy. I and others of my kind are guardians sent to protect areas of the earth and its inhabitants. My area is the White River, Newport, and surrounding areas. We come from far away and long ago.

You, Skip, and other gentle souls are the hope of mankind - be yourself; don’t let anyone squash your spirit. Yes, animals can see us more clearly than most humans. The oceans have merfolk to oversee them; we take care of the inland waterways. We applaud efforts to take care of the water and land, cheering each time a tree or garden is planted.  

Sometimes the veil between us is thin so gentle souls are able to catch a glimpse of us but to those who have only personal gain or harm as their goal we keep well hidden; sometimes filling their heads with false ideas of our true nature.

The goal is not to deceive but to protect ourselves and the surroundings - we are guardians.

You saw what your kind refer to as sasquatch - they are the guardians of the land and are all over the world too.

Your great grandfather saw me while resting on this very bank - his account is true. Because he was a boy though, no one believed him. I’m glad you found his journal. The time will come when you will have the courage to honor your relative and tell his account to others. Then his spirit can rest.  

I and others of my kind are so proud of you and give you our blessing. Goodbye for now, young one.”

 Joe woke in time to see a figure in the distance. Was that Whitey? He gasped. His hand felt damp where the creature had touched him, it must have been real. He looked over at Skip who was still asleep but had a peaceful look on his face.  

“Thank you” he whispered to the water. “I will honor you and my great grandfather and when the time is right - your story will be told.”

 The years passed and Joe kept his promise to Whitey and his great grandfather by publishing the story of Whitey (some fact, some fiction) which was woven into his own life experiences and thoughts. Now both could rest. Joe smiled at the printed book that came in the mail yesterday. He had dedicated it to gentle souls everywhere and it had a message on the back that some of the proceeds from the sale of the book would go to the Jackson County Humane Society (JCHS). His friend Debbie Teague allowed him to be a ghostwriter for it and they had settled on a pen name of Sam Teague (both liked the name Sam). Skip would be proud too - he could still feel the dog’s presence on a regular basis when he rode his bike down to the water.  

The officer who had saved Jason had been cited for courage and given the key to the City by the Mayor of Newport. The policehad clubbed together and bought a new guitar for Jason who was now a children’s advocate. Joe was grateful to Mrs. Rock for giving him the start in his writing career.

 He looked into the eyes of his newborn son and whispered to him - I believe in you little Joe, my son, be yourself. When you are old enough to read you can enjoy the story of your great, great grandfather and his visit with Whitey as well as mine.

 You, dear reader, have done just that! Joe’s great grandfather thanks you and the spirit of Skip thanks you.

 The end –

Perhaps.