Fallon Park by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

Saturday, December 27, 1969. It is an overcast-quiet, wind-chilled, decidedly cold (29° Fahrenheit; -1.67° Celsius) morning in the Anderson Heights neighborhood of Raleigh, North Carolina. A 6’-3” (1.91 meters tall), 32-year-old Caucasian American father is walking with his two sons, ages 5½ and 4, across curb-less Kittrell Drive, a slender, unlined, sidewalk-less, unmistakably residential, dark-asphalt-surfaced lane. Once on the right side of the traffic-less street, the toboggan-donning trio walk northeastward on a shoulder path for about 200 feet (61 meters), and then pause at a trailhead. The low-slung, front-window-walled Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic School and attached brick church on Overbrook Drive come into view off to their left. The father stares at it.

“Are you liking kindergarten, Michael?” the father asks his older, red-haired son. Why did dad ask me that?

“It’s ok, dad. I have two friends: Mark and Kirk. We always eat lunch together.” Glad he’s made some friends. He seems so shy. Worry about him. He’s kind of like me in the early years. Hope he can shed the shyness earlier than I did.

“When can I go to that school, dad?” the younger, blonde-haired son asks excitedly. Joey sure is raring to go. Someday he will realize that the age of 4 was best, and should have been savored. Bet that Michael wishes that he was still 4 and not in school, as he already appears to be a bit of an introverted daydreamer. Though, it seems that all kids want to grow up as fast as possible. I sure did.

“In twenty months, son.” 20?!

“Is that a long time, dad?” a very curious-to-know Joseph asks. Twen-tee sounds like a big number.

“No, not really, son. It’s less than two years.” Two years!

“How much less?” Joseph demands to know.

“One sixth less, Joey. Imagine a super-large apple pie cut into six slices. It takes two years to eat it all. Now, imagine one of those big pieces taken away. You’ll start in August the summer after the one that is coming up.” Gosh, that still seems like a long time. 

They then turn and take the oaks-and-pines-bisecting trail that descends to a small stream in Fallon Park, which is essentially a very wide, mostly wooded greenway. The wool-winter-coats-clad threesome begin walking upstream on a bankside footpath. Wonder if there is a pipe crossing. / This feels like a great adventure.   

“I bet that water is cold, dad,” NCSU (North Carolina State University) Wolfpack-scarfed Michael posits as he looks at some gray stones in the creek bed.

“You would be right, son. We certainly can’t search for crayfish today. The water is quite frigid now. Hypothermia could set in.”

“High-poh-what, dad?” the younger son asks.

“High-poh-thurm-ee-uh, son. It can be a life-threatening situation. We must not get wet today. The creek in winter is not the same as in summer.” Life-threatening? Yikes!

“Could we die in that creek, dad?” the older son then asks.

“You could, Michael, but I would never let that happen to you guys. I’d pluck you right out of there in an East Flatbush second. But, your mother might not let you come down here anymore. So, let’s not get too close to the edge. This creek bank is undercut in numerous places, and sometimes has a styrofoam-plate ledge. Your weight could cause it to break and collapse. So, let’s stay at least five feet [1.52 meters] from the edge. Ok, guys?” Undercut? Styrofoam-plate ledge? Collapse?!

“Ok, dad; we will,” the two sons say in unison.

The trio keep walking. All are now silent. The only sounds are the snapping of small, brittle twigs under their boot steps. All three are completely immersed in their thoughts. Never knew that a person could die from being in cold water. That’s scary – really scary. Must not fall in that creek. Must watch where I step. Falling in that creek would be bad, really BAD – we couldn’t come down here anymore. / So glad that mom and dad bought me that [maroon] tricycle for Christmas – the exact one that I wanted. I will ride it again later today. Hope mom will let me go to the school parking lot. If my friends go with me, she will probably let me. Need to call Kirk and Mark later. Hope they can go. / Kinda miss the [United States] Navy and the [USS] Sam Rayburn. [an early nuclear-powered submarine] But, 70 days at sea is not fair to my wife and kids. It was time. Wonder how Wally [Burton] is doing in Peru. [Indiana] Maybe give him a call later.  

Seven minutes later they arrive at a low-profile, compact, rectangular, old, brick-and-mortar structure that is set atop a large, oblate boulder on the west bank of the brook. (These mill ruins are located just downstream from the footbridge between Oxford Road and Royster Street at Cooleemee Drive.) The boys are fascinated by their unforeseen find, and immediately begin to climb about it.

“Be careful, guys,” the father warns. “That moss is very slippery.”

“Ok, dad,” Michael assures.

“What’s moss, dad?” Joseph asks.

“It’s the green stuff on the bricks,” the father answers as he looks up at the thought-inducing, lead-gray sky. Sure feels like it could snow at any minute. It even smells like it. But, don’t think snow is forecast. Raleigh is quite nice, but we need more money. Hope I get that Greensboro [NC] promotion [with Aetna Life & Casualty] next year. [He would get it in the spring of 1971; a promotion to Charlotte would follow in the fall of 1972.] Graham Bostic.

“Dad, what was this?” Michael enquires.

“I believe that it was part of a mill, son.”

“What is a mill, dad?” Joseph asks, looking up from inside the well-weathered, tomb-like, masonry construction.

“A mill is a building where grain, such as wheat, is ground into flour. Flour is the powder that is used to make bread and cake – birthday cake like we ate just a few days ago. Based on the size, it was probably a family mill – not a commercial type.”

“Commercial, like on TV, dad?” Joseph asks.

“Commercial just means business, son.”

“The loaves of bread and cakes from this mill must have been tiny, dad,” Michael states. Not sure if he’s joking. What an odd line of thinking. Wonder what he becomes.

“Maybe so, son.”

“Where is the rest of the mill, dad?” Joseph then asks.

“Long gone, son. It was most likely made of wood, and the wood rotted away many years ago. Or, maybe a flood or fire occurred.” A flood or a fire? Wow!

“Hey dad, I see a rusty gear down here!” Michael exclaims.

The younger son takes a look, too. “Dad, come look at this!” Joseph is very eager for his dad to analyze it.

The father peers down from the bank at the rectangular vault. “Looks like you guys found the vertical gear. It would have been attached to a thick metal rod called the driveshaft. Its teeth would turn the lantern gear.” Lantern gear? / Green Lantern?

“Oh, did it power a light?” Michael asks, noticing his breath in the dank air. Wonder why I can see my breath in the winter, but not in the summer. Must ask dad later.

“No, son, it turns the millstone – a very heavy, flat, round rock – kind of like a giant wheel made of stone. However, the millstone had lain horizontally – not up and down, or vertically, like your tricycle wheels.” How does dad know all this stuff?

“Dad, if the millstone was very heavy, why isn’t it still here?” Joseph asks. Keen observation. / Did it sink into the mud?

“That’s a good question, son. My guess is that the millstone was salvaged – removed and sold – when the mill was destroyed. A good millstone was worth a nice sum of money back then.” Back then? How long ago?

“What happened to the person who made this mill, dad?” the older son asks. Michael’s so inquisitive. Maybe he becomes a researcher or an investigator. Or, a technical writer?

“Another good question. He probably had a good, long life, son.”

“And then died?” Joseph tacks on with a shocked expression. Mortality. How do I break this to them?

“Everyone dies, guys. It’s natural. But, you won’t have to worry about that for a long, long, very long time.” Hope he is right. / Wonder when I will die. What will the day be? A windy Wednesday? With Wanda the witch. The wheel on the well was worn. It all blew away. Even the weasel. On the easel. / Wonder what my sons are thinking. Are they too young to know about death? Hope I didn’t spook them.

“Dad, when do you think this mill was ab-and-oned?” Michael then asks. Who taught him such a word? Maybe his grandfather or grandmother. / What did my brother just say?

“Maybe fifty years ago, son. Maybe back in 1919.”

“Dad, what will be the year fifty years from now?” Joseph asks.

“The year will be 2019, son.”

“Gosh, dad, that is a long time from now,” Michael then declares. “I wonder if this will still be here then.”

“It might still be here, son. Well, maybe just a part of it. But, you never know. It looks like it was built pretty well. It depends if the City of Raleigh wants to preserve it.”

Joseph then begins to look closely at the mortar joints. “Dad, is this stuff like glue?” I bet that he ends up in construction. [Joseph would later become a general contractor.]

“Yes, it is, son. It’s called mortar. It glues the bricks together. Well, are you guys ready to go back home now?”

“Ok, dad,” Joseph relents.

“Hey, look what I found on the ground!” Michael shouts, and then hands a small, flat, round object to his dad.

The father scrapes the brown silt from the copper coin. “Ah, a 1968 penny. It was minted just last year. Ronnie was born in 1968. Do you guys like your adopted brother?”

“Yes!” both of the boys respond.

“I want you two to always treat him just as you treat each other. Will both of you promise me that?”

“We will,” the two sons reply.

“Very good,” the father says.

“Dad, where was Ronnie born?” Joey asks.

“Ronnie was born in Charlotte. It’s another city in this state that is about three hours from here in our car. Would you like to visit there someday?”

“Yes!” the two sons excitedly reply.

“Ok, guys, before we go, I will flip this good-luck penny in the air. Make a wish before it hits the water.”

“Any wish, dad?” the younger son asks.

“Joey, it can’t be a long wish. If your wish is not finished by the time the coin lands in the creek, it won’t happen.” Must think fast. 

“Ok, dad; I’m all ready,” Michael informs. “You can go ahead and toss that penny.”

“Ok, guys, here we go. One, two, three …”

The penny twirls 20 feet (6.1 meters) up into the now-still, dense, steely air; stops for a split-second at the parabola’s apex; then pike-dives. Sure hope that they all turn out ok. / I wish for Lincoln Logs next Christmas. / Please let me remember this day in 2019.

<sploosh>

R-I-P, dad, Robert Fulton Bozart (1937 – 2019).