| Black Mountain Lady |
Jay
Dyck
Dyck
Diary of a Goat herder 31 May 1981
I had some preconceived notions about how to herd goats. Some of these derived from an
earlier experience back in 1977, when I had a small herd of pure white Saanens. This was
also on Cuyamaca Mountain. From them I had learned two things. One is that goats are
not cows. In general, they cannot be herded from behind without a whole lot of help from
a whole lot of people (or dogs). For one person to try to drive them is like trying to push a
rope into a bottle from ten feet away. They double back, scatter, and do anything except
what the herdsman wants. The other thing is that they will follow. Sometimes.
If they follow (that is a big if), the herdsman's job is made infinitely simple. He merely
leads them to where he wants to go.
If they will not follow… well, maybe with a team of well-bred, well-trained dogs it would
still be possible, but that is a luxury I never had.
Anyhow, armed with these two pieces of quasi-knowledge, I set out to play goat herder.
At the edge of the property, where the government land began, I built a wire pen. I
arranged the gates so that the goats could be released directly onto the open range. I didn't
want them roaming around the property itself because there were young fruit trees and
pine trees which goats would ravage. But once away into the wild mountain side there was
no worry about what they might eat.
I had some preconceived notions about how to herd goats. Some of these derived from an
earlier experience back in 1977, when I had a small herd of pure white Saanens. This was
also on Cuyamaca Mountain. From them I had learned two things. One is that goats are
not cows. In general, they cannot be herded from behind without a whole lot of help from
a whole lot of people (or dogs). For one person to try to drive them is like trying to push a
rope into a bottle from ten feet away. They double back, scatter, and do anything except
what the herdsman wants. The other thing is that they will follow. Sometimes.
If they follow (that is a big if), the herdsman's job is made infinitely simple. He merely
leads them to where he wants to go.
If they will not follow… well, maybe with a team of well-bred, well-trained dogs it would
still be possible, but that is a luxury I never had.
Anyhow, armed with these two pieces of quasi-knowledge, I set out to play goat herder.
At the edge of the property, where the government land began, I built a wire pen. I
arranged the gates so that the goats could be released directly onto the open range. I didn't
want them roaming around the property itself because there were young fruit trees and
pine trees which goats would ravage. But once away into the wild mountain side there was
no worry about what they might eat.
| Chapter Forty-three FOLLOW THE HERD |
"I'm Vikor," he offered without preamble. He felt it too. This was the thing that had attracted him to this
closer look at Heidi Westbocker. Not the lust. Not the lust, which was as thick as cattails growing at the edge of
a pond. It made for rough going; the tendency to bolt and run was nearly overwhelming to the youngster, but
he stayed on for a line or two more.
"Well, I'm Heidi," came the retort. "You're Andrea Clare's grandson."
"Yeah," he said softly, pleased to be reminded of someone he loved. He was brown as a nut, his hair bleached
from the summer of sun just past, his eyes wild and blue and distant, from the hours and weeks and moons on
the mountain.
Her unapproachableness made Vikor's normal inhibitions subside, unneeded. He could say, and he did,
"You're beautiful."
And she could receive it as gracefully, even though she herself was poised to scoot should the air get weird.
That both of them had this same balance made it weird enough already. She loved to hear it. No one had ever
said it before, for no one had ever cut through the aloof barrier that she had carried with her like a cruel wind
ever since nineteen sixty-two. For Vikor it did not exist. "You are beautiful," he said.
"Thank you," she murmured. "Coming from such a majestic man as yourself, that is high praise. I am
honored.
"You know how majestic you are, do you not?"
"Yeah, but I don't let it go to my head," he said. It was nineteen seventy-eight. The kid was hip.
"How old are you?"
"How old are you?" came the sassy answer. But he immediately smiled, and then he said, "I'm sorry. I'm
fifteen."
Heidi already knew that, from her conversations with his grandmother. As each birthday had passed, during
the six years that she had been back in Dove Springs, she had been duly informed. Her spontaneous offer of a
gift was politely rejected. The small family gathering was only that. But she was told.
Now she wondered why she had asked. She felt fairness demand that she answer his question too.
"I'm thirty-three," she volunteered, and it stood out like a rebel on a hill.
No, for Vikor the aloof barrier was not there. What was there, was ever so much deeper, more subtle and
more profound. It was genetic. Neither of them understood it, nor did they need to for it to have its effect. But
they had to feel it, to sense it, to see it, even to hear it in one another's voices, to smell it. They had to be
aware of it for it to work. They had to be aware, and they had to respond. They didn't have to understand their
own responses. It had been working for ten thousand years.
closer look at Heidi Westbocker. Not the lust. Not the lust, which was as thick as cattails growing at the edge of
a pond. It made for rough going; the tendency to bolt and run was nearly overwhelming to the youngster, but
he stayed on for a line or two more.
"Well, I'm Heidi," came the retort. "You're Andrea Clare's grandson."
"Yeah," he said softly, pleased to be reminded of someone he loved. He was brown as a nut, his hair bleached
from the summer of sun just past, his eyes wild and blue and distant, from the hours and weeks and moons on
the mountain.
Her unapproachableness made Vikor's normal inhibitions subside, unneeded. He could say, and he did,
"You're beautiful."
And she could receive it as gracefully, even though she herself was poised to scoot should the air get weird.
That both of them had this same balance made it weird enough already. She loved to hear it. No one had ever
said it before, for no one had ever cut through the aloof barrier that she had carried with her like a cruel wind
ever since nineteen sixty-two. For Vikor it did not exist. "You are beautiful," he said.
"Thank you," she murmured. "Coming from such a majestic man as yourself, that is high praise. I am
honored.
"You know how majestic you are, do you not?"
"Yeah, but I don't let it go to my head," he said. It was nineteen seventy-eight. The kid was hip.
"How old are you?"
"How old are you?" came the sassy answer. But he immediately smiled, and then he said, "I'm sorry. I'm
fifteen."
Heidi already knew that, from her conversations with his grandmother. As each birthday had passed, during
the six years that she had been back in Dove Springs, she had been duly informed. Her spontaneous offer of a
gift was politely rejected. The small family gathering was only that. But she was told.
Now she wondered why she had asked. She felt fairness demand that she answer his question too.
"I'm thirty-three," she volunteered, and it stood out like a rebel on a hill.
No, for Vikor the aloof barrier was not there. What was there, was ever so much deeper, more subtle and
more profound. It was genetic. Neither of them understood it, nor did they need to for it to have its effect. But
they had to feel it, to sense it, to see it, even to hear it in one another's voices, to smell it. They had to be
aware of it for it to work. They had to be aware, and they had to respond. They didn't have to understand their
own responses. It had been working for ten thousand years.
| * * * |
How wide the ways of self-deception. Perhaps most of us would never make a move, were we not able to
mollycoddle the rebels of every urge that would paralyze us with indecision, were they not in some way
suppressed. Suppression itself comes up with the awards for managing brilliance and a life well-lived. She takes
the bows for the virtues that she allowed to thrive. Hard work, thrift, self-sacrifice… thank you, thank you,
thank you. Love, concern, and generosity, dedication, patience and perseverance… thank you; I am honored.
But out the back door, tail between his legs, go laziness, and his brothers, rebellion, selfishness, and sarcasm
and all of the other puppies begotten of ill-blessed, mud road liaisons. They wander like a rangy, senseless
pack, led by emergency, chaos and inertia. The riot, the gang fight, the dog down and every mutt takes his bite.
They are taught that the trail leads to prison and the slab, and so it does; so it does. How late to learn that it is
not the strong who survive. Misfit can mean too strong, too smart, too fast, too brave, too bold, too daring, too
energetic, too passionate, too reliable.
Tee-oh-oh. Too. The little word has damnation built right into it. Too much sugar in the pie. Or too little. Much
or little, it makes no difference, it's the breach of some boundary that makes it lose, makes it fail, and makes
its fit a miss.
Too much killing. Too little.
Too much of one color on the artist's canvas; too much magenta, or too little. The impish little adverb can
show up anywhere. Too much or too little on any gradient can be perceived as measured at any value. The word
is not even bound by itself, and that merely because it has already crossed every boundary, by definition, even
its own.
Too stupid; too smart.
A criminal has crossed some boundaries, maybe only one, maybe many. He should rejoice while he has the
time, for there are many boundaries that he will never cross, and as they draw in close, existence becomes a
funnel, until finally he flows with the forlorn freedom of a single direction, into the bottle of confinement,
torture and death.
Say this for Rico, he went head high and swinging. He had to be drunk to finally admit that the time had come
to hit the outlaw trail. The rest of history depended on it. The very legends of that little part of New Mexico
depended on his standing tall and blazing back at the ring of steel that hemmed him against the very bank
building where his wife's sister had buried her treasure, not so many years before.
Too famous, too tragic, too dramatic, too real.
Death on the sidewalk in cold, dry weather. She told it to Vikor, as much as she knew, and it all sounded so
familiar to him. He was nearly bored with recognition, yet charmed with empathy. Too bad. Too good.
mollycoddle the rebels of every urge that would paralyze us with indecision, were they not in some way
suppressed. Suppression itself comes up with the awards for managing brilliance and a life well-lived. She takes
the bows for the virtues that she allowed to thrive. Hard work, thrift, self-sacrifice… thank you, thank you,
thank you. Love, concern, and generosity, dedication, patience and perseverance… thank you; I am honored.
But out the back door, tail between his legs, go laziness, and his brothers, rebellion, selfishness, and sarcasm
and all of the other puppies begotten of ill-blessed, mud road liaisons. They wander like a rangy, senseless
pack, led by emergency, chaos and inertia. The riot, the gang fight, the dog down and every mutt takes his bite.
They are taught that the trail leads to prison and the slab, and so it does; so it does. How late to learn that it is
not the strong who survive. Misfit can mean too strong, too smart, too fast, too brave, too bold, too daring, too
energetic, too passionate, too reliable.
Tee-oh-oh. Too. The little word has damnation built right into it. Too much sugar in the pie. Or too little. Much
or little, it makes no difference, it's the breach of some boundary that makes it lose, makes it fail, and makes
its fit a miss.
Too much killing. Too little.
Too much of one color on the artist's canvas; too much magenta, or too little. The impish little adverb can
show up anywhere. Too much or too little on any gradient can be perceived as measured at any value. The word
is not even bound by itself, and that merely because it has already crossed every boundary, by definition, even
its own.
Too stupid; too smart.
A criminal has crossed some boundaries, maybe only one, maybe many. He should rejoice while he has the
time, for there are many boundaries that he will never cross, and as they draw in close, existence becomes a
funnel, until finally he flows with the forlorn freedom of a single direction, into the bottle of confinement,
torture and death.
Say this for Rico, he went head high and swinging. He had to be drunk to finally admit that the time had come
to hit the outlaw trail. The rest of history depended on it. The very legends of that little part of New Mexico
depended on his standing tall and blazing back at the ring of steel that hemmed him against the very bank
building where his wife's sister had buried her treasure, not so many years before.
Too famous, too tragic, too dramatic, too real.
Death on the sidewalk in cold, dry weather. She told it to Vikor, as much as she knew, and it all sounded so
familiar to him. He was nearly bored with recognition, yet charmed with empathy. Too bad. Too good.
| * * * |
Big goats, little goats. Dominance and leadership. In that order respectively, and yet, the big, dominant goats
loved to pretend to be leading the herd, and the little, submissive goats, driven to the edge of the herd by
common sense, loved to pretend to dominate, if only their tiny buddies. Life was a constant joke.
Certainly, life was a constant joke for Bob Cabler. When Johnny was with him, it was a joke for him too. They
were a pair, to Cabler's Aunt Marilyn and others who observed them. Perhaps Bob seemed a little older than
his seventeen years. Whatever age a stranger were to settle on the rangy youth, he would guess Johnny
Stream to be about the same. Make them both about twenty, even though the older of the two friends was five
years older than that.
It was disconcerting enough to an observer, and perhaps a little embarrassing as well, that they had not yet
grown out of some forms of behavior. Playing guns, for instance. Little did Johnny know that by the time his
grandson, Vikor, was grown, "playing guns" would have developed into a regular industry for bored, fun-loving,
child-like adults.
For Johnny and Bob, all it took was a little imagination and an assumption, and any free time could be turned
into a total attention-getter. Critics might have argued, with insult intended, that the sum total of attention
available from the two was not that large to begin with.
The assumption was that the shooter never missed. The boys had real guns, if they wanted to practice their
marksmanship. By contrast, this game was a test of stalking, moving silently and invisibly, out-guessing and
out-witting one's opponent.
Imagination took care of the rest. Again, they had real guns if they wanted loud noises and the smell of
burned powder. For the game, a cocked finger and a whispered "bang" were equivalent to blue steel,
gunpowder, copper and lead. Imaginary blood would spurt as a surprised gunman reeled and fell. Sometimes
they played in the chaparral, sometimes in the maze of Marilyn's stables. Sometimes in the collection of small,
red-painted barns and sheds and silos and bins that formed the nucleus of the Heinz ranch.
In public was another acceptable arena for hijinks. In front of the little store in the heart of Rancho Santa Fe
was a favorite spot for impromptu gun battles, and for the quick death that went along with each one. In public
it was usually not a game or contest, but rather a quick skit, agreed upon in advance. Often it was not even
that. They just did it.
loved to pretend to be leading the herd, and the little, submissive goats, driven to the edge of the herd by
common sense, loved to pretend to dominate, if only their tiny buddies. Life was a constant joke.
Certainly, life was a constant joke for Bob Cabler. When Johnny was with him, it was a joke for him too. They
were a pair, to Cabler's Aunt Marilyn and others who observed them. Perhaps Bob seemed a little older than
his seventeen years. Whatever age a stranger were to settle on the rangy youth, he would guess Johnny
Stream to be about the same. Make them both about twenty, even though the older of the two friends was five
years older than that.
It was disconcerting enough to an observer, and perhaps a little embarrassing as well, that they had not yet
grown out of some forms of behavior. Playing guns, for instance. Little did Johnny know that by the time his
grandson, Vikor, was grown, "playing guns" would have developed into a regular industry for bored, fun-loving,
child-like adults.
For Johnny and Bob, all it took was a little imagination and an assumption, and any free time could be turned
into a total attention-getter. Critics might have argued, with insult intended, that the sum total of attention
available from the two was not that large to begin with.
The assumption was that the shooter never missed. The boys had real guns, if they wanted to practice their
marksmanship. By contrast, this game was a test of stalking, moving silently and invisibly, out-guessing and
out-witting one's opponent.
Imagination took care of the rest. Again, they had real guns if they wanted loud noises and the smell of
burned powder. For the game, a cocked finger and a whispered "bang" were equivalent to blue steel,
gunpowder, copper and lead. Imaginary blood would spurt as a surprised gunman reeled and fell. Sometimes
they played in the chaparral, sometimes in the maze of Marilyn's stables. Sometimes in the collection of small,
red-painted barns and sheds and silos and bins that formed the nucleus of the Heinz ranch.
In public was another acceptable arena for hijinks. In front of the little store in the heart of Rancho Santa Fe
was a favorite spot for impromptu gun battles, and for the quick death that went along with each one. In public
it was usually not a game or contest, but rather a quick skit, agreed upon in advance. Often it was not even
that. They just did it.
| * * * |
"See ya," said Vikor. He disappeared into the maze of the farm. Heidi collected the eggs. Later when she
mentioned the meeting to Andrea Clare, the older woman (she was fifty-eight) glowed with the same warmth
and pleasure as had Vikor.
"Vikor. Oh, my, yes. He is a positive wonder. Do you find him so?"
"Hm. Yes, a wonder," Heidi murmured half to herself, trying to affect the haughtiness that she was every bit
entitled to when speaking of a fifteen-year-old. He was way more of a wonder to Heidi Westbocker than she
would be letting on to Vikor's grandmother.
They were extremely attracted to one another; the seams of their composure were nearly bursting with nose
flaring sighs when they drew near, each to each. And…
…they were repelled by one another.
mentioned the meeting to Andrea Clare, the older woman (she was fifty-eight) glowed with the same warmth
and pleasure as had Vikor.
"Vikor. Oh, my, yes. He is a positive wonder. Do you find him so?"
"Hm. Yes, a wonder," Heidi murmured half to herself, trying to affect the haughtiness that she was every bit
entitled to when speaking of a fifteen-year-old. He was way more of a wonder to Heidi Westbocker than she
would be letting on to Vikor's grandmother.
They were extremely attracted to one another; the seams of their composure were nearly bursting with nose
flaring sighs when they drew near, each to each. And…
…they were repelled by one another.
| * * * |
To Johnny, a lot of humanity seemed like a herd. Most of humanity, were it to be known, appeared to him as
members of a herd that butted one another's heads, and that followed the herd.
Then there were those, like the lion, that were not part of a herd. They were individuals, but they dealt with
the physical existence of the herd in a matter of fact way.
The physical existence of a herd of cattle or buffalo is an awesome reality that cannot be soft-pedaled by the
wolf or the lion that does not want to be mashed into predator mush. Several dozen tons of beef is no fist to
trifle with.
The predator has to remember that he is not there to demonstrate his superiority. He is not there to stand up
to the victims. He is not there to settle scores, to educate or to inform, to prove anything, to win glory, to
intimidate or to do anything but kill and consume.
members of a herd that butted one another's heads, and that followed the herd.
Then there were those, like the lion, that were not part of a herd. They were individuals, but they dealt with
the physical existence of the herd in a matter of fact way.
The physical existence of a herd of cattle or buffalo is an awesome reality that cannot be soft-pedaled by the
wolf or the lion that does not want to be mashed into predator mush. Several dozen tons of beef is no fist to
trifle with.
The predator has to remember that he is not there to demonstrate his superiority. He is not there to stand up
to the victims. He is not there to settle scores, to educate or to inform, to prove anything, to win glory, to
intimidate or to do anything but kill and consume.
| * * * |
Johnny didn't feel the cold of that winter night. He had his own blaze. The insolent trespass of the snarling
prowler in the pen, the scarlet crime at her feet, made him sweat with heroism and adventure. Damning
himself for his stupidity, he turned with his flashlight and dashed back into the shack that was his nighttime
quarters.
The sneer Tawngness had expressed toward him was right; he had thought the herd to be safe under his wing.
But his vigilance had waned as time passed following the first two losses. That had been just past Christmas.
Johnny and Bob had been too concerned to leave the herd alone once their imaginations had confirmed that
there was a mountain lion preying on their little flock. (Goat flockers?)
Because they could not be lured away, even for New Year's Eve, Johnny and Bob hosted a party in the pen. It
wasn't much of a gathering. A list would have included Johnny, Bob, Cathy, Danny, Stella, Jim, Lisa, Al,
Donna, Susie, Erin, Ben, Mike, Katie and Lawrence, fifteen in all. Six were children, however, and tucked
safely to sleep by midnight in their parents' trucks, lined up outside the goat pen like a circle of covered
wagons.
That left nine adults hootin' and hollerin' in the pen. It's fun to imagine Tawngness, outside of the pale of light
cast by the lanterns, watching. But she was off seeing the new year in down the trail toward the other end of
her range, and days away. Besides, she had already observed, that the days were growing longer, that the sun
was coming back, that spring would soon be in the air, that there was to be another year.
Cathy was Catherine Carnahan, the woman that Johnny had been visiting of late. Upon hearing that the
relationship was going nowhere, and that Johnny was backing away from this one, Bob Cabler had petitioned
his buddy to be allowed to pick up the reins. Shades of another time. Johnny consented. He doubted that Bob
would get anywhere with the woman from Jamul, and he was right. Besides, Johnny could tell by the way she
was raising her half-grown German Shepherd that any reins in her relationships were going to be gripped in
Catherine Carnahan's own two fists. The irony was that, earlier in the evening, Cathy had asked Johnny if she
could share his bed in the shack when it came time to sleep, lest Bob get any ideas.
Danny and Stella Brown, the couple from the adobe down at the Boulder Creek crossing, were there with their
kids, Jim and Lisa. They were the life of the party, infusing cheer and jokes and smiles and just downright good
looks, at least in the case of Stella, country wife with long blonde hair, big breasts and a pretty face in glasses.
Danny was no dreamboat, but he was friendly and pleasant, and a mine of humor. If they were the souls of
good-natured congeniality, as the little group huddled in coats about the goat feeder which was serving as a bar,
they were also a source of soap operatic diversion for Johnny and Bob and the rest of the local mountain tribe.
Their marriage had its ups and downs, and its truck chases over the winding dirt. One time Danny stopped to
leave the kids with Johnny in the early evening. "Stella's run off," he said in the matter of fact and mildly
apologetic voice of a man at home in a world where such traumas occur. Certainly the children were hushed
with loss.
"I've got to go after her," he said. He did, and he caught up with her before she even got to town, for she had
stopped at a high, wide point on Boulder Creek Road, and turned off her engine. From there one could see
some of the lights of San Diego over on the coast, miles and miles away. They were there for hours, talking,
and before they collected their children from the goat farm they had Stella's jeep rocking in the sad, sweet,
lovable mountain twilight.
Al Douglas, his wife Donna, and their daughters, Susie and Erin showed up at the party in the pen. Like her
sister and the other four children present, Susie Douglas vowed to be up at midnight. Her vow came closest to
reality, for she was the oldest, already a scant fourteen. Johnny had thought it would be alright with him if
Susie made it to midnight, for he had noticed that the gathering was one kiss short. But when January arrived,
Susie Douglas was sound asleep, and so were all the rest of the children. The merry moment found Johnny
kissing Cathy Carnahan anyhow, and Bob tried to make it a point to kiss all of the women, though he didn't
even get that far with Donna Douglas.
Johnny mentions the Douglas family in his diary, recalling the time he borrowed a hand winch from Al. At the
time of the party they were the newest settlers in the region, still living in a tiny house trailer on the ten acres
where they planned to build. Al was a schoolteacher. Donna was a beautiful redhead. For sipping whiskey on a
winter night on the slopes of Cuyamaca Mountain, they were damned good company.
Ben Cameron and his boy, Mike, arrived with Ben’s wife Kathleen, and their son, Lawrence. Kathleen was
Johnny’s sister, the former Katie Malone. She had married Ben after the suicide of his wife Sandra. When Ben
went to prison shortly after that, Katie was left with his three kids to mother, and her own baby in the bargain.
Now that Ben was back, their relationship was about as stable as an icicle on a sunny morning, but for now the
fire crackled, and the stars were bright.
When the kissing and the shouted wishes had subsided, all nine joined hands about the little fire in the center
of the pen, and they sang:
prowler in the pen, the scarlet crime at her feet, made him sweat with heroism and adventure. Damning
himself for his stupidity, he turned with his flashlight and dashed back into the shack that was his nighttime
quarters.
The sneer Tawngness had expressed toward him was right; he had thought the herd to be safe under his wing.
But his vigilance had waned as time passed following the first two losses. That had been just past Christmas.
Johnny and Bob had been too concerned to leave the herd alone once their imaginations had confirmed that
there was a mountain lion preying on their little flock. (Goat flockers?)
Because they could not be lured away, even for New Year's Eve, Johnny and Bob hosted a party in the pen. It
wasn't much of a gathering. A list would have included Johnny, Bob, Cathy, Danny, Stella, Jim, Lisa, Al,
Donna, Susie, Erin, Ben, Mike, Katie and Lawrence, fifteen in all. Six were children, however, and tucked
safely to sleep by midnight in their parents' trucks, lined up outside the goat pen like a circle of covered
wagons.
That left nine adults hootin' and hollerin' in the pen. It's fun to imagine Tawngness, outside of the pale of light
cast by the lanterns, watching. But she was off seeing the new year in down the trail toward the other end of
her range, and days away. Besides, she had already observed, that the days were growing longer, that the sun
was coming back, that spring would soon be in the air, that there was to be another year.
Cathy was Catherine Carnahan, the woman that Johnny had been visiting of late. Upon hearing that the
relationship was going nowhere, and that Johnny was backing away from this one, Bob Cabler had petitioned
his buddy to be allowed to pick up the reins. Shades of another time. Johnny consented. He doubted that Bob
would get anywhere with the woman from Jamul, and he was right. Besides, Johnny could tell by the way she
was raising her half-grown German Shepherd that any reins in her relationships were going to be gripped in
Catherine Carnahan's own two fists. The irony was that, earlier in the evening, Cathy had asked Johnny if she
could share his bed in the shack when it came time to sleep, lest Bob get any ideas.
Danny and Stella Brown, the couple from the adobe down at the Boulder Creek crossing, were there with their
kids, Jim and Lisa. They were the life of the party, infusing cheer and jokes and smiles and just downright good
looks, at least in the case of Stella, country wife with long blonde hair, big breasts and a pretty face in glasses.
Danny was no dreamboat, but he was friendly and pleasant, and a mine of humor. If they were the souls of
good-natured congeniality, as the little group huddled in coats about the goat feeder which was serving as a bar,
they were also a source of soap operatic diversion for Johnny and Bob and the rest of the local mountain tribe.
Their marriage had its ups and downs, and its truck chases over the winding dirt. One time Danny stopped to
leave the kids with Johnny in the early evening. "Stella's run off," he said in the matter of fact and mildly
apologetic voice of a man at home in a world where such traumas occur. Certainly the children were hushed
with loss.
"I've got to go after her," he said. He did, and he caught up with her before she even got to town, for she had
stopped at a high, wide point on Boulder Creek Road, and turned off her engine. From there one could see
some of the lights of San Diego over on the coast, miles and miles away. They were there for hours, talking,
and before they collected their children from the goat farm they had Stella's jeep rocking in the sad, sweet,
lovable mountain twilight.
Al Douglas, his wife Donna, and their daughters, Susie and Erin showed up at the party in the pen. Like her
sister and the other four children present, Susie Douglas vowed to be up at midnight. Her vow came closest to
reality, for she was the oldest, already a scant fourteen. Johnny had thought it would be alright with him if
Susie made it to midnight, for he had noticed that the gathering was one kiss short. But when January arrived,
Susie Douglas was sound asleep, and so were all the rest of the children. The merry moment found Johnny
kissing Cathy Carnahan anyhow, and Bob tried to make it a point to kiss all of the women, though he didn't
even get that far with Donna Douglas.
Johnny mentions the Douglas family in his diary, recalling the time he borrowed a hand winch from Al. At the
time of the party they were the newest settlers in the region, still living in a tiny house trailer on the ten acres
where they planned to build. Al was a schoolteacher. Donna was a beautiful redhead. For sipping whiskey on a
winter night on the slopes of Cuyamaca Mountain, they were damned good company.
Ben Cameron and his boy, Mike, arrived with Ben’s wife Kathleen, and their son, Lawrence. Kathleen was
Johnny’s sister, the former Katie Malone. She had married Ben after the suicide of his wife Sandra. When Ben
went to prison shortly after that, Katie was left with his three kids to mother, and her own baby in the bargain.
Now that Ben was back, their relationship was about as stable as an icicle on a sunny morning, but for now the
fire crackled, and the stars were bright.
When the kissing and the shouted wishes had subsided, all nine joined hands about the little fire in the center
of the pen, and they sang:
| Should auld acquaintance be forgot And never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot And auld lang syne? For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We’ll raise a cup of kindness yet For auld lang syne. |
