Mar. 12, 2002 - 16:49 MST

THE WONDERING JEW

Bondage

In personal history, how much detail does it take to paint an accurate picture ? A time span, a small era a few people -- how many words ? And so it goes like this, in an attempt to show a time, a place and friends with the events back then.

Not too long after World War Two I had the parts department of a truck line, which was located of course in the garage and trailer yard. I became friends with Bob a hostler there (one who takes empty trailers to be loaded and brings full ones back to the yard to be taken on the road). He was about my age and had about the same outlook on life. In the process of a growing friendship we traded "sea stories" about periods of our life.

One thing that struck me was, he was deathly afraid of water yet had passed the tests and joined the Coast Guard and did quite well while in the service. I met some of his friends, men who lived in his trailer court who were going to the gunsmithing school in Golden, a suburb of Denver. And went out to several of their get togethers on weekend days.

Heather quite pregnant with our fourth took our three kids to Florida where we were going to live while she could still travel, me staying behind to catch things up and come later. We sold the equity in our house and I moved into an old hotel in the Stockyards, a short walking distance from the truck line where I worked. A room in a roach trap sort of place with rough and ready tenants, cattle truck drivers and roustabouts of one kind or an other.

Not too long after I hoteled, Bob's wife and two children went to California to visit her family for an extended visit. He knew I was making the best I could of batching in a hotel and eating in the nearby roach corral so he invited me to stay in his trailer with him out in Golden while I was finishing up my affairs and getting ready to join Heather in Florida.

I moved in, we swapped rides to work and I also joined his gunsmithing friends in the evenings and weekends. The gunsmithers were actually in the stage of school where they were more or less building high powered hunting rifles, one of which I remember the name of was a 300 Weatherby I think. We would go on top of South Table Mountain (a mesa) by Golden to a depression in the ground I think once was a quarry where they would target practise with their rifles. I got a demonstration of the power involved with those rifles by standing even with the muzzle of one, a few feet away from it and with my back turned while the rifle was fired. The escaped gases from the firing was almost enough to push me over, and that was just energy not used to propel the slug. But we enjoyed being together and doing a bit of picnicing while out.

One Sunday there were four of us, me, Bob and two of the gunsmithers. One of them had a canoe and his two dogs, for some strange reason Bob decided to stay with the canoe man rather than go with me and the other gunsmither. He and I proceeded to roam the territory just east of the foothills and found a good place to target practise. I was trusted to fire one of his rifles, a 257 Roberts I think it was. So we practised until we had run out of ammunition. Then we headed back to the lake where the other two were boating.

Often through the following years, including now I have those guilty, self lashing dreams about what happened that Sunday. We returned to the lake just a minute or two after Bob was taken away in a coronors wagon.

The two dogs began frisking around in the canoe and in the uproar it was turned over spilling the live men out. The canoe owner had all the lifeguard certification I think that could be had then, but was unable to save Bob from drowning. According to witnesses the man himself almost drowned in his attempt to save Bob. The two dogs ? They just swam to shore and laid around 'til their master came ashore.

It was a time for grief, and grieve I did but along with that I did what needed to be done, contacted his parents in Illinois and his wife in California, got instructions on the funeral arrangements advised the people at work that he would no longer be coming in and took care of his trailer. His Mother and Dad were at the funeral, but Bob's wife was unable to make it back to town. She and her family were dead broke.

For the short time we knew each other, he was one of the best friends I ever had. I continued to work, sleep, eat and mourn on the side until his wife and kids finally made it back to town, after doing the necessaries for her I spent a few nights back at the hotel again while I finished up my Denver affairs. A few days later I loaded up our car from our stuff at Heather's Mom's place and headed out for Florida.

I am not sure now whether three of us and the dogs could have got in the canoe and from what Bob's friend and the witnesses said they were too far from shore for me to swim out and help. Plus, I had never taken any of the lifesaving courses and had little knowledge of such things. Yet, even today I still have the feeling that I should have stayed with my friend rather than go off and do other things.

This Wondering Jew is still riding the guilt wagon despite knowing that there was little I could have done to save Bob. I still miss him. My feelings for him were so deep, that I am yet in Bondage . . . . . . .

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