Forecast

This is the first piece I wrote for Burt Prelutsky's class. He wanted something short and snappy which he could read to the students. There were eight of us. I had not written short and snappy before and didn't know about his deadpan delivery. I chose Zeppha Wilder for my pen name (the Neuf was added later). The story was a big hit with a woman named Joyce Burditt who dropped out of class and wrote the bestseller, The Cracker Factory while the rest of us plugged away.

FORECAST

Oh the good old days! With nostalgia around every corner, I have taken to putting on my rose-colored glasses and turning them to events in my childhood which could not take straight out thinking on. This morning, when trying to decide a minor matter, I turned them to 1949 and the lesson in choices that I learned on the road to Popayan.

In 1949, my dad was on an assignment in Colombia. Where we were located, Avianca was over by the river somewhere and if anybody got sick he was sent to the States with the assurance of thirty Masses being said over the repose of his soul.

As an educational device, my dad liked to take side trips to show my brother and me that no matter how bad we felt things were, they could always get worse. So in the spring of '49, we were off to Popayan to see a cathedral where the bones of Bolivar were said to really have rested. And for 50 pesos extra, the bones of Magellan.

It was a long, tortuous road but we were ready; with three loaves of bread and a gallon of boiled water, we considered ourselves in the lap of luxury. Along the way, we sang about Killarney, argued about the bones of Columbus and giggled over the mountain air. Close to Popayan, we came around a bend where we were confronted by an astonishing sight: a fork in the road. Who had a map? A few yards in front of it was a roadblock of soldiers in assorted uniforms. We were stopped by the command, “Conservativos? Liberales?” My dad leaned out showing his identification. Who could read? Again the command, “Conservativos? Liberales?” Some of the soldiers were kicking in the back of the car and I was pulling at my dad, “Hurry up! What are we?”

My dad didn't know who was toppling whom, didn't know what the terms meant as in general the countryside was split into Federales and Barristas, didn't know what we were in for. Prompted by the noise and the obvious fact that we had to get out of there, he called, “Liberales?” The soldiers cheered and we were told to take the fork to the right, which we did for about 50 feet. There my dad asked what would have happened if we had chosen,“Conservativos.” “Oh,” the reply came, “you would have taken the other road.” (loosely translated).

“What happens on the other road?”

“You would have all been shot.”

We decided right then against Popayan as we had become suddenly concerned with our own bones.

The day after we came back, my dad advised his staff of three. Lowell Pachalka was the hardest hit. He was a horticultural specialist. He knew grain and coffee beans, mangoes and papayas. He couldn't keep up with world affairs, didn't know a Marxist from a Fascist, and cared only for his growing things and his wife, Narina Pachalka. Narina Pachalka was a tiny Oriental in striking contrast to the big jolly man that was Lowell. She stood so fragile and still, her hair in China elegance, that sometimes I thought when night came, Lowell set her carefully on the mantelpiece with the porcelain figurines and whispered a gentle goodnight. They had no children.

That noon, Lowell went home for lunch to tell Narina of our close call. As he got out of his car, he was approached by a group of soldiers in assorted uniforms. They called out, “Conservativos? Liberales?” as he ran in his gate. He yelled, “Liberales” and was hit by a bullet as he rushed in the door. Narina nursed him back to health but he didn't look ever well and took up stuttering.

Sometime later, there was a flurry of speculation as to what to do if sent a recall notice to appear in Washington, D.C. for purposes of investigation. It was generally accepted that if one got a notice that his reputation was gone and the only thing to do was anything one could.

Lowell was sent a notice of recall.

How he ever got on somebody's list, no one could understand. Narina felt it was because she was Oriental. Bewildered by this incredible fork in the road, not knowing the terms and prompted by the noise, Lowell went out into his mango grove and was never heard from again. Narina asked that his papers be searched so that his family back in Montana would know that his name was cleared.

The good old days. I find that even with rose-colored glasses, there is no getting around the forks in the road. And I think it is a fortunate thing. The lessons of the past should stay with us. I have come to understand Lowell's terror and his shame. I wish he had been able to muddle through and could have known with the rest of us that no matter how bad things get, they sometimes get better.