The following is the beginning of chapter 1 in Above His Shoulders.

Tears rolled down his cheeks as his father offered him a ride on his shoulders, as he had done so many times in the past. Seven years on Earth may seem brief, but they already felt like a lifetime. How could he? He was no longer a child. No more innocence, no more children’s games, and no more rides on his father’s shoulders. He ran to the confines of an old oak tree, expelling screams and tears from a tiny heart filled with emotion. The large roots came out of the ground like humps on a camel. He could easily hide between them and commune with the large black carpenter ants moving rapidly to and from their homes. He had hurt his father’s feelings without explanation, but he couldn’t tell him. He could never tell him why he couldn’t climb onto one of the safest places he knew, his dad’s shoulders. A tear fell to the ground, diverting an ant on his busy journey. Feelings of anger clouded his head. Where was his dad that day, the day the horrific event took place? His dad had always been there to protect and comfort him. He was a large man, 6′2″, solid, lean, with a Marine Corps tattoo emblazoned on his right arm. No one else would dare hurt him, but he had. He knew he had hurt his feelings, and there had been no resolution. He lay down between the roots of the old oak tree, staring up between the limbs at a bright blue sky broken by branches. It reminded him of a large cobweb, and he was just a fly caught, waiting for the tremble of an approaching spider.

He remembered how it had started, how his father would get down on all fours, pretending to be “Silver” from the Lone Ranger. He would hold on with all his might as his father tried to buck him off. He knew he could break that wild horse if only he could hold on long enough. But he also knew the longer he held on, the quicker his steed would tire, and then the ride would be over. He desperately wanted to hold onto “Silver” forever.

He couldn’t recall when he had progressed to the shoulder ride, but it didn’t matter. He knew it was oh, so special. The three acres the old house stood on might as well have been the size of Texas and through the years, they had explored every inch. They had seen where the garter snakes dwelt, where the rabbits burrowed, and where the squirrels buried their acorns. The day he rose up on those shoulders, he could see it all. It was amazing! He could see farther than he could have imagined, as if to touch the sky. He could grasp at branches, was forced to duck upon entering the house, and could even reach the ceiling once they made it in. His father grasped his legs tightly, and never was there such security as was to be found above those shoulders. He longed for those days, but they had come to an end. He knew his life had now changed forever.

The jaunts on his dad’s shoulder’s weren’t merely for pleasure, but oftentimes for necessity. Whether trekking on fishing trips, walking the fields of Southern Illinois, or searching for Indian artifacts, sooner or later they would come upon a cool stream or muddy canal and the refuge of his dad’s shoulders became his safe passage. His father was still his “Silver”, carrying him safely across the waters, giving respite when his legs became fatigued, and just lifting him on high when the occasion or the view compelled it. In his tears was also loss; the loss of his childhood, the lost contact with his dad, the lost security on those powerful shoulders. He could recall many hot summer days, where the humidity forced people out onto their porches like ants scrambling off a burning log to drink tall glasses of lemonade or iced tea. On days like that, the shoulder rides would always be shorter, and many afternoons he felt the bristle of his fathers unshaven beard upon his knees. His father was aware of this, and would from time to time unexpectedly kiss his knees, or use his hands as a barrier to prevent the soft skin from chafing.

He was bombarded by memories. In his life, he had never experienced this degree of anguish. There were days he dreamed of pitching for the Cardinals, imagining himself up on the mound while at the same time trying to focus on both his homework and Topo Gigo, Ed Sullivan’s little Italian mouse. Never had he experienced so many memories, and in such little time. Though his heart was racing, his tears began to slow, and he allowed his thoughts to enter.

There was an unseasonably warm December Saturday, which led to a rabbit hunt with his dad. He was too young to carry a gun, but had with him his hickory stick, with which he was skilled. He had taken down many wild animals with that stick (usually in the confines of his bedroom, where the brass hooks of his clothing tree became the points of powerful buck). He rarely missed, and on this crisp day, he hoped he would have the same luck. His travels had taken him by this weed patch before, but he had never ventured in, due to the height and thickness of the undergrowth. The coming of the summer brought spiders, snakes, bees, lions, and other, more exotic creatures from distant lands. Of course no one had ever reported seeing a lion, but surely they could exist, he thought. Why should he go into the weed patch alone? Why should he place himself in danger for no reason? But today was different. Today he was with his dad, the protector, the human ladder that had always served him so faithfully.