EVERYTHING IS ALL RIGHT
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD (RICK) SWAIN
Mother traded her life for mine during the difficult birth. The town’s only doctor, often drunk by evening, lost his way in the deep snowdrifts, and father was helpless to stanch the bleeding. My earliest memory of experiencing his grief was when I was age three, when he left me alone for two days. Looking back, I realize our wilderness life was just too difficult for a man facing his self-imposed demons.
My name is Charles Florence, but the only name I respond to is Florry. A week before my tenth birthday, Uncle Roger hiked up our northern tract of red fir and found me marking trees for the next cut. My father and Roger are identical twins, and by habit, my first glance is to the right cheekbone, as Roger has a large black mole. He was shy by nature, while father was outspoken, and quick to anger. Uncle Roger motioned me to sit against a tree and sat next to me with his knee pressed hard against mine. After several minutes, he spoke, staring forward, “They found your father floating face down in the river.”
That river has always been a part of my life. The brothers helped Mr. O'Neil build the bridge that gave our small town its name, O’Neil’s Crossing. It was their trees and their labor that helped the community to prosper, and I make no excuse for believing that somehow father found his peace in that frigid water.
When I was age sixteen, Uncle Roger signed the papers that placed the 640 acres of forest in my name. His section was next to mine, and together we were a key source of timber for building the Central Pacific Railroad. Once Charles Crocker realized he had a young buck to deal with, an interview took place in my cabin. Opening the door, he looked at what appeared to be a twelve-year-old boy, and promptly asked to meet Mr. Charles Florence. “If you’re Charles Crocker, I’m Florry. Let’s get to our business, as I have a mountain load of work waiting for my attention.”
Lucia was two years older than me and felt she needed to be a mother figure and my protector. From my standpoint, she was a cook, housekeeper, and friend. She made her family’s favorite baked salsa chicken, and Mr. Crocker, after two large helpings, never had a chance to one up me on our contract. He even had the nerve to suggest a place was available in his Sacramento home if Lucia ever wanted to live in a more civilized town. Later that night, we laughed ourselves silly over his pompous demeanor, and my tonnage price set twenty-five dollars higher than Uncle Roger’s.
The harsh winter of 1865 caused tremendous grief and challenge, starting with the accident. During a heavy rainstorm, logs broke free from the wagon chains and crushed my right shoulder as I tried to jump clear. From that moment on, my right arm would forever hang useless. Lucia moved into the cabin to nurse my recovery, and it was a revelation to find she also had an innate business sense, seriously needed for Florry Timber to survive. Land speculators and corrupt bankers teamed up to wrestle the land from my name as I lay motionless in bed. A year earlier, I had borrowed money using my acreage as collateral to build a sawmill still under construction. Lucia uncovered an illegal plot to buy my loan from our local and under-funded bank. My loan repayment schedule was based on a handshake that would protect me from such an accident, but lawyers conspired to demand repayment in full within thirty days. She brought us needed time by threatening to have newspapers print an expose of their scheme, and with the help of Uncle Roger, arranged a new loan with the Wells Fargo Bank of San Francisco.
A stunning rainbow to the south met my first day outside in months. The closeness with Lucia during my recovery was leading to more than just friendship, and we celebrated with a buggy ride to town. While I could not lift my right arm, my left hand could grab hold and move it as needed. My hand muscles were intact, and able to grip the reins once placed in the needed position. We had an early steak dinner at the Horseshoe Cafe.
Our horse was a beautiful chestnut mare named Roberta. My father won her with a bluff of five unrelated cards against the infamous card shark Willie Garson. Garson, outraged by the bluff, pulled a derringer from inside his coat and tried to shoot, but father was quicker, upending the table and pushing table, gambler, and chair ten feet into the wall before reaching across and knocking him cold with a left hook.
As time passed, Lucia turned our cabin into a lovely nest, ready to receive a young one. By the fifth month, she could no longer hide her expanding waistline, and we planned a wedding to give our child a proper reception as husband and wife. Uncle Roger was my best man, and Lucia’s younger sister Esmeralda was maid of honor. With the mill now completed, a group of our workers and their families filled the chapel for a glorious celebration.
Times were changing. They renamed our small community Verdi in honor of the Italian composer Giuseppe Verdi, a favorite of Charles Crocker. There was less wilderness and more hustle and bustle. In 1868, Truckee was established as a neighboring town, and soon gained a stronger role surpassing us as a railroad community linking Reno and Sacramento. A well liked Paiute Chief whose name sounded like “Tro-kay” led to naming the town and our river.
Nature will make no excuse when it shows its power, and our list is long with lightning storms, heavy downpours, and mudslides a constant winter risk. Lucia was expecting any day, and I was worried about a sudden and ominous darkening of the afternoon sky. We had rehearsed the birthing process in case we were alone without the aid of a doctor or Esmeralda, who planned to stay with us for several weeks. On cue, as if my fears had orchestrated the arrival, the sky turned a blinding white and a roar of thunder placed the strike within a mile from the cabin.
The jolt caused Lucia to clutch her stomach and emit a cry of pain as if the bolt had struck her. Before I could react, a simultaneous brightness, roar and explosion knocked both of us to the floor as debris rained against the cabin and the front door blew inward. I instinctively turned toward where the door lay on the floor, but jerked my head back to Lucia as she cried out. Lying on her back with knees pulled back toward her head, I almost fainted to see the head of our child appearing between her legs. “Florry, the baby,” she cried out. The first minutes were a blur. I remember cursing my useless right arm as I struggled to make my left hand a nest to hold the baby’s head. I swung my body in a way that moved my right arm toward the appearing shoulder and gingerly clutched an upper arm to ease the baby into our world.
Lucia cut the cord and brought our son to her breast as I waited for the afterbirth. The surprise and revelation appeared moments later as a second head appeared. We had twin boys, and perhaps identical by our first assessment. If our family of four could survive that first night together, we could survive anything nature wanted to throw our way. With the door nailed back against the entrance, I started a fire to warm the cabin. We both worked to wash the babies and wrap them tightly in thin blankets and then huddled in bed with screeching wind and pounding rain.
As morning light beckoned, I headed out to fetch Esmeralda. Stepping outside, reality struck with a vengeance. The second lightning strike was a direct hit on the barn, and it left little of the structure standing. We were saddened that our horse did not survive. Fortunately, the mules used for the logging wagons were in an enclosure farther away, and I rode one bareback to get sister and spread the good news of our boys.
The sons were identical and no questions as to their names. Ronald and Ralph were two healthy and vocal young boys and kept the sisters busy throughout the day and night. They relegated me to outside repairs and a focus back to our business. As soon as Lucia regained strength, her first request for a proper meal was that of baked salsa chicken, and Esmeralda did not disappoint. It was, as promised, a family tradition.
A key interview was the start of a new chapter in our lives, and an ambitious young man named Frank Simon ushered in that change. Florry Timber soon became Florry Timber & Homebuilding, and the first project was a new and larger home on the southern border of our property overlooking Lake Tahoe in the distance.
Frank was an exceptional architect and construction superintendent. Although shy like Uncle Roger, the newly established building crew soon learned to heed his word and follow instruction without question. He quickly became our key employee overseeing homebuilding in Truckee. Happily married, the Simons had five daughters who soon took the role of big sisters to the twins. Frank built his home near the mill and became our closest neighbor and my best friend.
The foray into Truckee was not a smooth transition for our company, and we often had to wrestle with established builders who resented our encroachment into their territory. Early on, we had homes in partial completion that mysteriously burned down in the night. No longer the quiet one, Frank mounted a strong defense of both muscle and appeasement to quell the tension and bring peace. In reality, the population growth because of the railroads drew ample opportunities for all.
With the sun behind us, and a light rain falling over the lake, a magnificent rainbow appeared. We sat on our deck with the boys chirping away and swinging limbs like a pair of Dutch windmills. We remembered our challenges and reflected on our abundant blessings. Lake Tahoe was a vibrant azure, and the sounds of the river water cascading down reminded us of the namesake Chief Truckee. His Paiute name spelled correctly is “Tru-ki-zo” and the meaning stands for “Everything is all right.” We claim this credo like a crown over our family with gratefulness.
RICHARD SWAIN
A SHORT STORY BY RICHARD (RICK) SWAIN
Mother traded her life for mine during the difficult birth. The town’s only doctor, often drunk by evening, lost his way in the deep snowdrifts, and father was helpless to stanch the bleeding. My earliest memory of experiencing his grief was when I was age three, when he left me alone for two days. Looking back, I realize our wilderness life was just too difficult for a man facing his self-imposed demons.
My name is Charles Florence, but the only name I respond to is Florry. A week before my tenth birthday, Uncle Roger hiked up our northern tract of red fir and found me marking trees for the next cut. My father and Roger are identical twins, and by habit, my first glance is to the right cheekbone, as Roger has a large black mole. He was shy by nature, while father was outspoken, and quick to anger. Uncle Roger motioned me to sit against a tree and sat next to me with his knee pressed hard against mine. After several minutes, he spoke, staring forward, “They found your father floating face down in the river.”
That river has always been a part of my life. The brothers helped Mr. O'Neil build the bridge that gave our small town its name, O’Neil’s Crossing. It was their trees and their labor that helped the community to prosper, and I make no excuse for believing that somehow father found his peace in that frigid water.
When I was age sixteen, Uncle Roger signed the papers that placed the 640 acres of forest in my name. His section was next to mine, and together we were a key source of timber for building the Central Pacific Railroad. Once Charles Crocker realized he had a young buck to deal with, an interview took place in my cabin. Opening the door, he looked at what appeared to be a twelve-year-old boy, and promptly asked to meet Mr. Charles Florence. “If you’re Charles Crocker, I’m Florry. Let’s get to our business, as I have a mountain load of work waiting for my attention.”
Lucia was two years older than me and felt she needed to be a mother figure and my protector. From my standpoint, she was a cook, housekeeper, and friend. She made her family’s favorite baked salsa chicken, and Mr. Crocker, after two large helpings, never had a chance to one up me on our contract. He even had the nerve to suggest a place was available in his Sacramento home if Lucia ever wanted to live in a more civilized town. Later that night, we laughed ourselves silly over his pompous demeanor, and my tonnage price set twenty-five dollars higher than Uncle Roger’s.
The harsh winter of 1865 caused tremendous grief and challenge, starting with the accident. During a heavy rainstorm, logs broke free from the wagon chains and crushed my right shoulder as I tried to jump clear. From that moment on, my right arm would forever hang useless. Lucia moved into the cabin to nurse my recovery, and it was a revelation to find she also had an innate business sense, seriously needed for Florry Timber to survive. Land speculators and corrupt bankers teamed up to wrestle the land from my name as I lay motionless in bed. A year earlier, I had borrowed money using my acreage as collateral to build a sawmill still under construction. Lucia uncovered an illegal plot to buy my loan from our local and under-funded bank. My loan repayment schedule was based on a handshake that would protect me from such an accident, but lawyers conspired to demand repayment in full within thirty days. She brought us needed time by threatening to have newspapers print an expose of their scheme, and with the help of Uncle Roger, arranged a new loan with the Wells Fargo Bank of San Francisco.
A stunning rainbow to the south met my first day outside in months. The closeness with Lucia during my recovery was leading to more than just friendship, and we celebrated with a buggy ride to town. While I could not lift my right arm, my left hand could grab hold and move it as needed. My hand muscles were intact, and able to grip the reins once placed in the needed position. We had an early steak dinner at the Horseshoe Cafe.
Our horse was a beautiful chestnut mare named Roberta. My father won her with a bluff of five unrelated cards against the infamous card shark Willie Garson. Garson, outraged by the bluff, pulled a derringer from inside his coat and tried to shoot, but father was quicker, upending the table and pushing table, gambler, and chair ten feet into the wall before reaching across and knocking him cold with a left hook.
As time passed, Lucia turned our cabin into a lovely nest, ready to receive a young one. By the fifth month, she could no longer hide her expanding waistline, and we planned a wedding to give our child a proper reception as husband and wife. Uncle Roger was my best man, and Lucia’s younger sister Esmeralda was maid of honor. With the mill now completed, a group of our workers and their families filled the chapel for a glorious celebration.
Times were changing. They renamed our small community Verdi in honor of the Italian composer Giuseppe Verdi, a favorite of Charles Crocker. There was less wilderness and more hustle and bustle. In 1868, Truckee was established as a neighboring town, and soon gained a stronger role surpassing us as a railroad community linking Reno and Sacramento. A well liked Paiute Chief whose name sounded like “Tro-kay” led to naming the town and our river.
Nature will make no excuse when it shows its power, and our list is long with lightning storms, heavy downpours, and mudslides a constant winter risk. Lucia was expecting any day, and I was worried about a sudden and ominous darkening of the afternoon sky. We had rehearsed the birthing process in case we were alone without the aid of a doctor or Esmeralda, who planned to stay with us for several weeks. On cue, as if my fears had orchestrated the arrival, the sky turned a blinding white and a roar of thunder placed the strike within a mile from the cabin.
The jolt caused Lucia to clutch her stomach and emit a cry of pain as if the bolt had struck her. Before I could react, a simultaneous brightness, roar and explosion knocked both of us to the floor as debris rained against the cabin and the front door blew inward. I instinctively turned toward where the door lay on the floor, but jerked my head back to Lucia as she cried out. Lying on her back with knees pulled back toward her head, I almost fainted to see the head of our child appearing between her legs. “Florry, the baby,” she cried out. The first minutes were a blur. I remember cursing my useless right arm as I struggled to make my left hand a nest to hold the baby’s head. I swung my body in a way that moved my right arm toward the appearing shoulder and gingerly clutched an upper arm to ease the baby into our world.
Lucia cut the cord and brought our son to her breast as I waited for the afterbirth. The surprise and revelation appeared moments later as a second head appeared. We had twin boys, and perhaps identical by our first assessment. If our family of four could survive that first night together, we could survive anything nature wanted to throw our way. With the door nailed back against the entrance, I started a fire to warm the cabin. We both worked to wash the babies and wrap them tightly in thin blankets and then huddled in bed with screeching wind and pounding rain.
As morning light beckoned, I headed out to fetch Esmeralda. Stepping outside, reality struck with a vengeance. The second lightning strike was a direct hit on the barn, and it left little of the structure standing. We were saddened that our horse did not survive. Fortunately, the mules used for the logging wagons were in an enclosure farther away, and I rode one bareback to get sister and spread the good news of our boys.
The sons were identical and no questions as to their names. Ronald and Ralph were two healthy and vocal young boys and kept the sisters busy throughout the day and night. They relegated me to outside repairs and a focus back to our business. As soon as Lucia regained strength, her first request for a proper meal was that of baked salsa chicken, and Esmeralda did not disappoint. It was, as promised, a family tradition.
A key interview was the start of a new chapter in our lives, and an ambitious young man named Frank Simon ushered in that change. Florry Timber soon became Florry Timber & Homebuilding, and the first project was a new and larger home on the southern border of our property overlooking Lake Tahoe in the distance.
Frank was an exceptional architect and construction superintendent. Although shy like Uncle Roger, the newly established building crew soon learned to heed his word and follow instruction without question. He quickly became our key employee overseeing homebuilding in Truckee. Happily married, the Simons had five daughters who soon took the role of big sisters to the twins. Frank built his home near the mill and became our closest neighbor and my best friend.
The foray into Truckee was not a smooth transition for our company, and we often had to wrestle with established builders who resented our encroachment into their territory. Early on, we had homes in partial completion that mysteriously burned down in the night. No longer the quiet one, Frank mounted a strong defense of both muscle and appeasement to quell the tension and bring peace. In reality, the population growth because of the railroads drew ample opportunities for all.
With the sun behind us, and a light rain falling over the lake, a magnificent rainbow appeared. We sat on our deck with the boys chirping away and swinging limbs like a pair of Dutch windmills. We remembered our challenges and reflected on our abundant blessings. Lake Tahoe was a vibrant azure, and the sounds of the river water cascading down reminded us of the namesake Chief Truckee. His Paiute name spelled correctly is “Tru-ki-zo” and the meaning stands for “Everything is all right.” We claim this credo like a crown over our family with gratefulness.
RICHARD SWAIN