ARNIE AND WOODROW
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD SWAIN
Arnie Bishop was considered good looking. Those who knew him said he was the nicest young man in town, always a smile on his face, and quick to wave when at a distance. At 23 years of age, Arnie weighed 185 pounds, stood 6 foot 2 inches tall, and cut his hair in a butch style. He helped his father with manual labor and was physically quite strong. It was only after such compliments about Arnie that a person would say he had the mind of a five-year-old child.
His parents, Harold and Marge Bishop, had long ago moved on from the false guilt that they could have prevented the asphyxia before birth. They declared from the beginning that their son would always live with them, and never considered other options. He was their first child, and he would be their only child.
Living in Wilderville Oregon, Harold had a landscaping business with both commercial and residential customers. His only employees were family. Arnie worked out in the field, and Marge answered the phone, shuffled the paperwork, and packed the daily lunch sandwiches and coffee. The only other family member was a big black tomcat named Oscar, but he was not on the payroll.
Camping, fly fishing, and hiking were the family activities, and Arnie excelled at all three. The Applegate River was at their doorstep, and numerous trails provided hidden places where the family could enjoy nature at its finest without the presence of others. Harold splurged on a special edition Jeep that could handle the rugged terrain.
It was a crisp Friday afternoon in March when the Jeep was loaded, and the family headed out to a new campsite that promised great views, and hopefully salmon for Saturday dinner. Once the tents were pitched, and a fire ring built, the trio set out to explore the area. The heavily forested terrain had a steep decline down to the river, and each had to be careful of footing on the narrow and wet hillside trails. Once back at the camp, Arnie eagerly helped his mom prepare for the favorite hot dog roast. As they settled in for the night, Harold was not pleased to see dark clouds appear in the sky. They were out of cell phone range, so he could not bring up a weather report or call for information. The concern was Arnie’s fear of lightning and thunder. There had never been an issue when the family was together, but loud noises could often cause a mild panic in their son. Mother and father discussed breaking camp and going home, but the darkness was now a factor. The solution was to crowd into the same tent for the night.
After a dry night, the morning still held a dark and threatening sky. It was decided that they would go home in the early afternoon, but father and son would try to get in one good morning of fishing. Hiking away from the campsite, they found a way down to the river that look promising. Two hours later and with three beautiful salmon in the creel (a wicker basket for carrying fish), the sky opened up and a heavy rain fell upon the men. As they struggled up the steep slope, both slipped numerous times as lightening and thunder cracked around them. Harold sighed with relief as they came upon the trail and headed back to camp.
If this was a movie, the director could shoot the scene and play it back to the audience in slow motion. Unfortunately this was real, and the accident unfolded in seconds. The rain was pouring down through the trees and visibility was greatly diminished as Harold led the way with his right hand extended back, held by Arnie. The steep decline down to the river was on the left. The lighting struck the tree with the simultaneous clap of thunder that was deafening. Both heard the crack of the large limb and instinctively looked up. As the limb started to break and fall, Harold pushed Arnie back along the path and tried to jump forward to the left. The heavy limb broke free from the trunk and fell upon Harold's legs pinning him to the downward side of the hill.
Arnie had fallen backward and saw the limb fall on his father. His body convulsed as panic froze his mind. Harold called out reassurance that he was ok and calmly asked his son to come forward and lift the limb off his legs. Before Harold could give a warning, Arnie came to the left side with one foot on the trail and the other lower down the hill. Another nearby lightning strike and thunderous sound caused Arnie to look up and lose his balance. He fell backward and tumbled down the hill, falling into the fast moving river.
Arnie was an excellent swimmer, and as we have previously mentioned, he was strong. This time was different. As he tumbled down the hill, his body struck several good size boulders and clipped a tree before falling into the frigid water. Before he could collect his senses, he was being carried downriver at a rapid pace. His actions at this time were involuntary, flailing his hands upward one moment, and face down the next. Again his body was taking great abuse as he banged into rocks and floating logs. Attempts to call for help more often led to gulping water, gagging, and missing the chance to breathe. He lost consciousness.
Doctors will debate how long the body can survive without oxygen. Arnie would have exceeded their wildest estimation. Just as his lungs were ready to burst, an arm reached into the water and pulled him to the edge. This heavily clothed and grizzled old man struggled to pull the lifeless body ashore at the rocky beach. Laying him face down on the small rocks he tried to press down on his abdominal area to expel the water. At first, there was no response. He stuck his hands in his mouth and freed his tongue. Once again pressing down brought a reflexive expulsion of water and food matter. The young man struggled to breathe.
Woodrow Benson was a hermit living up in the hills in an old abandoned cabin. While he would observe hikers, fishermen, or folks rafting down the river, he had not spoken to another person for twelve years. His first inclination was to move back up the hill and not get further involved. This river was his constant source of grief and pain. As he started to walk away, a voice spoke within him, and it was a feminine voice that caused him to shake. He looked back to see this young man struggle to sit up, and he returned.
Woodrow got the young man standing, and hooking arms and grasping hands, the two slowly progressed up to the cabin. The old hermit had no interest in talking and the other was silent. Finally at the cabin, he started a fire, gave a heavy blanket to the visitor, and indicated for him to get out of the wet clothes. Wrapped in the blanket, Arnie sat in a chair, and stared at the wall across the room.
The old man went outside to check on his traps, and came back with a rabbit to roast. With berries, nuts, and rabbit, both men ate their fill, and soon the young man was asleep on the one bed. As the fire turned to glowing embers, several tears fell upon the salty-colored beard as Woodrow gazed at his companion.
Both men were awoken by the early morning sound of a helicopter overhead. It would move away and bring silence, then buzz back with a horrific beating of the blades. With his clothes dry, Arnie had dressed and walked around the cabin looking into cupboards, drawers, and the one closet. He pulled a box out of the closet, and sitting on the floor, placed the five wooden train cars between his legs. He looked up to Woodrow and spoke. “May I play with the train?” Woodrow beamed a smile and nodded yes. Several children's books were also in the box, and Arnie slowly read aloud as breakfast of nuts and berries was prepared. Pausing between bites, Arnie looked over at his friend and asked his name. Woodrow’s eyes glistened as the young man smiled at him with warmth. “Woodrow is my name” he said. “Do you know my father, a tree fell on him” said the young man, “his name is Harold Bishop.” The old hermit was suddenly fifteen years younger, he paused for a moment and then spoke. “Is your name Arnold?”
Woodrow was fearful as he pondered his need to take Arnold back to his family. His mind was spinning with memories of loss and isolation. Wanting to clear his head for a moment, he said he would get some more wood for the fire. A few minutes later, Arnie heard the yell and ran outside. It took a moment to see Woodrow laying on the ground, and the rattlesnake moving back under the woodpile. Holding up Woodrow’s hand, Arnie saw the two bite marks, and quickly put his hand down and told him not to lift it again.
Harold and Marge worked tirelessly to provide a normal life for their son, and just as tirelessly to have the community accept the young man as being the same as their children. Not every attempt was successful, but scouting was one of the great positives. Arnie had collected many badges and “survival” was one of his favorites. He knew he needed to get help quickly, and that the old way of cutting into the bite was no longer the preferred method. He pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and tied a tight tourniquet above the wrist to lessen blood flow up the arm. Picking up Woodrow as if he was a small child, he started down the hill to the river. Several times he fell backward and they slid down until he could gain his footing to rise back up. As they approached the bottom of the hill, the helicopter flew nearby and the noise started a panic attack within the young man. Momentarily he froze in place. Looking into Woodrow’s face and seeing his eyes roll back and hearing his troubled breathing, Arnie moved out onto the small rock beach and starting turning in a circle to spot the chopper. As it came whirling up the river, he frantically waved with one hand while struggling to hold the man with the other hand. A dip and hard turn indicated they had been spotted.
As the helicopter sped to Grants Pass, the medic attended to Woodrow, as Harold clutched his son in a death grip. For the next three days, Arnie insisted on being at the hospital each morning by 8:00 a.m. to sit by Woodrow’s bedside. Word soon spread throughout the area of the heroic saving of lives, first Arnie’s and then Woodrow’s.
Twelve years ago, Woodrow Benson, his wife, and five year old son were rafting down the Applegate River, when a rush of water flipped the double person kayak. Woodrow was thrown out as wife and son struggled to stay with the boat. By the time he could get downriver to where the upturned kayak was found, his family was missing. The bodies were discovered two days later. A month later Woodrow disappeared until the day he found Arnie.
Yes, there is an epilogue to our story. Clean-shaven, hair-cut, and with new working clothes, Woodrow looks more like the forty-five year old man, and not the grizzled hermit. Bishop Landscaping has a new employee, and the community of Wilderville chipped in to rent a cabin near town for their old friend. Arnie calls him Uncle Woodrow, and this once grief stricken man has new joy in his life.
RICHARD SWAIN
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD SWAIN
Arnie Bishop was considered good looking. Those who knew him said he was the nicest young man in town, always a smile on his face, and quick to wave when at a distance. At 23 years of age, Arnie weighed 185 pounds, stood 6 foot 2 inches tall, and cut his hair in a butch style. He helped his father with manual labor and was physically quite strong. It was only after such compliments about Arnie that a person would say he had the mind of a five-year-old child.
His parents, Harold and Marge Bishop, had long ago moved on from the false guilt that they could have prevented the asphyxia before birth. They declared from the beginning that their son would always live with them, and never considered other options. He was their first child, and he would be their only child.
Living in Wilderville Oregon, Harold had a landscaping business with both commercial and residential customers. His only employees were family. Arnie worked out in the field, and Marge answered the phone, shuffled the paperwork, and packed the daily lunch sandwiches and coffee. The only other family member was a big black tomcat named Oscar, but he was not on the payroll.
Camping, fly fishing, and hiking were the family activities, and Arnie excelled at all three. The Applegate River was at their doorstep, and numerous trails provided hidden places where the family could enjoy nature at its finest without the presence of others. Harold splurged on a special edition Jeep that could handle the rugged terrain.
It was a crisp Friday afternoon in March when the Jeep was loaded, and the family headed out to a new campsite that promised great views, and hopefully salmon for Saturday dinner. Once the tents were pitched, and a fire ring built, the trio set out to explore the area. The heavily forested terrain had a steep decline down to the river, and each had to be careful of footing on the narrow and wet hillside trails. Once back at the camp, Arnie eagerly helped his mom prepare for the favorite hot dog roast. As they settled in for the night, Harold was not pleased to see dark clouds appear in the sky. They were out of cell phone range, so he could not bring up a weather report or call for information. The concern was Arnie’s fear of lightning and thunder. There had never been an issue when the family was together, but loud noises could often cause a mild panic in their son. Mother and father discussed breaking camp and going home, but the darkness was now a factor. The solution was to crowd into the same tent for the night.
After a dry night, the morning still held a dark and threatening sky. It was decided that they would go home in the early afternoon, but father and son would try to get in one good morning of fishing. Hiking away from the campsite, they found a way down to the river that look promising. Two hours later and with three beautiful salmon in the creel (a wicker basket for carrying fish), the sky opened up and a heavy rain fell upon the men. As they struggled up the steep slope, both slipped numerous times as lightening and thunder cracked around them. Harold sighed with relief as they came upon the trail and headed back to camp.
If this was a movie, the director could shoot the scene and play it back to the audience in slow motion. Unfortunately this was real, and the accident unfolded in seconds. The rain was pouring down through the trees and visibility was greatly diminished as Harold led the way with his right hand extended back, held by Arnie. The steep decline down to the river was on the left. The lighting struck the tree with the simultaneous clap of thunder that was deafening. Both heard the crack of the large limb and instinctively looked up. As the limb started to break and fall, Harold pushed Arnie back along the path and tried to jump forward to the left. The heavy limb broke free from the trunk and fell upon Harold's legs pinning him to the downward side of the hill.
Arnie had fallen backward and saw the limb fall on his father. His body convulsed as panic froze his mind. Harold called out reassurance that he was ok and calmly asked his son to come forward and lift the limb off his legs. Before Harold could give a warning, Arnie came to the left side with one foot on the trail and the other lower down the hill. Another nearby lightning strike and thunderous sound caused Arnie to look up and lose his balance. He fell backward and tumbled down the hill, falling into the fast moving river.
Arnie was an excellent swimmer, and as we have previously mentioned, he was strong. This time was different. As he tumbled down the hill, his body struck several good size boulders and clipped a tree before falling into the frigid water. Before he could collect his senses, he was being carried downriver at a rapid pace. His actions at this time were involuntary, flailing his hands upward one moment, and face down the next. Again his body was taking great abuse as he banged into rocks and floating logs. Attempts to call for help more often led to gulping water, gagging, and missing the chance to breathe. He lost consciousness.
Doctors will debate how long the body can survive without oxygen. Arnie would have exceeded their wildest estimation. Just as his lungs were ready to burst, an arm reached into the water and pulled him to the edge. This heavily clothed and grizzled old man struggled to pull the lifeless body ashore at the rocky beach. Laying him face down on the small rocks he tried to press down on his abdominal area to expel the water. At first, there was no response. He stuck his hands in his mouth and freed his tongue. Once again pressing down brought a reflexive expulsion of water and food matter. The young man struggled to breathe.
Woodrow Benson was a hermit living up in the hills in an old abandoned cabin. While he would observe hikers, fishermen, or folks rafting down the river, he had not spoken to another person for twelve years. His first inclination was to move back up the hill and not get further involved. This river was his constant source of grief and pain. As he started to walk away, a voice spoke within him, and it was a feminine voice that caused him to shake. He looked back to see this young man struggle to sit up, and he returned.
Woodrow got the young man standing, and hooking arms and grasping hands, the two slowly progressed up to the cabin. The old hermit had no interest in talking and the other was silent. Finally at the cabin, he started a fire, gave a heavy blanket to the visitor, and indicated for him to get out of the wet clothes. Wrapped in the blanket, Arnie sat in a chair, and stared at the wall across the room.
The old man went outside to check on his traps, and came back with a rabbit to roast. With berries, nuts, and rabbit, both men ate their fill, and soon the young man was asleep on the one bed. As the fire turned to glowing embers, several tears fell upon the salty-colored beard as Woodrow gazed at his companion.
Both men were awoken by the early morning sound of a helicopter overhead. It would move away and bring silence, then buzz back with a horrific beating of the blades. With his clothes dry, Arnie had dressed and walked around the cabin looking into cupboards, drawers, and the one closet. He pulled a box out of the closet, and sitting on the floor, placed the five wooden train cars between his legs. He looked up to Woodrow and spoke. “May I play with the train?” Woodrow beamed a smile and nodded yes. Several children's books were also in the box, and Arnie slowly read aloud as breakfast of nuts and berries was prepared. Pausing between bites, Arnie looked over at his friend and asked his name. Woodrow’s eyes glistened as the young man smiled at him with warmth. “Woodrow is my name” he said. “Do you know my father, a tree fell on him” said the young man, “his name is Harold Bishop.” The old hermit was suddenly fifteen years younger, he paused for a moment and then spoke. “Is your name Arnold?”
Woodrow was fearful as he pondered his need to take Arnold back to his family. His mind was spinning with memories of loss and isolation. Wanting to clear his head for a moment, he said he would get some more wood for the fire. A few minutes later, Arnie heard the yell and ran outside. It took a moment to see Woodrow laying on the ground, and the rattlesnake moving back under the woodpile. Holding up Woodrow’s hand, Arnie saw the two bite marks, and quickly put his hand down and told him not to lift it again.
Harold and Marge worked tirelessly to provide a normal life for their son, and just as tirelessly to have the community accept the young man as being the same as their children. Not every attempt was successful, but scouting was one of the great positives. Arnie had collected many badges and “survival” was one of his favorites. He knew he needed to get help quickly, and that the old way of cutting into the bite was no longer the preferred method. He pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket and tied a tight tourniquet above the wrist to lessen blood flow up the arm. Picking up Woodrow as if he was a small child, he started down the hill to the river. Several times he fell backward and they slid down until he could gain his footing to rise back up. As they approached the bottom of the hill, the helicopter flew nearby and the noise started a panic attack within the young man. Momentarily he froze in place. Looking into Woodrow’s face and seeing his eyes roll back and hearing his troubled breathing, Arnie moved out onto the small rock beach and starting turning in a circle to spot the chopper. As it came whirling up the river, he frantically waved with one hand while struggling to hold the man with the other hand. A dip and hard turn indicated they had been spotted.
As the helicopter sped to Grants Pass, the medic attended to Woodrow, as Harold clutched his son in a death grip. For the next three days, Arnie insisted on being at the hospital each morning by 8:00 a.m. to sit by Woodrow’s bedside. Word soon spread throughout the area of the heroic saving of lives, first Arnie’s and then Woodrow’s.
Twelve years ago, Woodrow Benson, his wife, and five year old son were rafting down the Applegate River, when a rush of water flipped the double person kayak. Woodrow was thrown out as wife and son struggled to stay with the boat. By the time he could get downriver to where the upturned kayak was found, his family was missing. The bodies were discovered two days later. A month later Woodrow disappeared until the day he found Arnie.
Yes, there is an epilogue to our story. Clean-shaven, hair-cut, and with new working clothes, Woodrow looks more like the forty-five year old man, and not the grizzled hermit. Bishop Landscaping has a new employee, and the community of Wilderville chipped in to rent a cabin near town for their old friend. Arnie calls him Uncle Woodrow, and this once grief stricken man has new joy in his life.
RICHARD SWAIN