An Old Man and a Dog (partial?)

by Lee Gomer

April, 2000

The old man trudges slowly along the frontage road, a small woolly dog straining at a leash held tightly in the old man’s hand. The dog chokes from the pressure on her throat but continues to lunge forward. The old man calls her name, bends down and reasons with her, quietly, and jostles her ears to calm her down. There is much to excite the dog who sniffs each anthill, each weed, which must hold the aroma of an earlier dog passer-by. Adventure beckons everywhere. The breeze brings new smells of more and more unknown and curious aromas which must be tasted. The world for her is so immense, so interesting, so wonderful.

She very carefully selects the exact spot to wet her territorial boundaries. Places six or eight markers at the precise corners. Sniffs to assure herself of their correctness, and trots on. She charges into thick weeds along the fence, and comes out limping, and looks up for help. The old man bends down, pick up her hind paw, and feels the pad. She lets him feel her teeth on his hand, not biting, just pressure enough to let him know it’s hurting a little. Her eyes are on him, adoring, completely trusting, as he probes between her pads for a small stone or sticker embedded there. It’s removed and she trots on, wagging her tail.

I am unsure if this is the entire piece. I will double-check the hard copy and finalize it very soon.

Out of Touch

by Lee Gomer

About November 1, 1938, Orville, Herb Schriner and I were sitting on the bank of whatever river flows through Portola, California. We were en route from the middle of Kansas – Marquette – to Sacramento, California. I don’t remember why we were between freights, but we were at loose ends, for the moment, in this Northern California town.

We had walked to a grocery store, bought a loaf of white bread for ten cents and some bologna, and were enjoying sandwiches, and I felt as alone as I’ve ever been in my life. On the walk to the store, we had passed people hurrying off to their lives for the day: kids hurrying -- probably reluctantly -- to school; mothers pushing baby carriages; men in suits rushing to important meetings, no doubt. They all looked so necessary, so important. They all amounted to something. What were we? We were excess baggage, completely worthless, unnecessary souls, headed for an uncertain future. If we disappeared into the river, what would the world have lost? I felt completely outside-looking-in!

One other time in my life, I had had a like feeling. It was September, 1935, the fall after my graduation from high school. I was loading the Prune Wagon, the Model-T Ford delivery truck for Kumli’s Market. Passing me on their way to school were students, laughing and cavorting, carefree as I had been a short time before. Now I was no longer a part of that world. Nor, it seemed, a part of any world. Depression days ahead. No chance in sight of anything but a $1-a-day job delivering ice and groceries. I wasn’t a part of the business world nor the school world. Between two worlds, it seemed.

How I could have used a peek at the future!