Into the Second Springtime
by
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July was hot and the hills looked sunburned. Grandpa Gallagher took me with him to doctor a sick cow at Kilkenny Point. Grandpa and I came upon a broken down Volkswagen bus. It had peace signs and rainbows, sunshine, and flowers painted all over it. "Clack with Butterflies” was printed on the side. One bumper sticker said, "Make love not war.” I read a second one, "Heaven waves a white flag and Hell runs a victory lap.” A third bumper sticker didn't say anything, but a picture of Uncle Sam hung upside down in a bull's-eye like a target. Dirty drapes clung from windows and smoke poured from the cab. "Is it on fire?” Grandpa asked. He climbed out of the truck and strolled warily up to the vehicle. I got out and walked with him, interested. Two or three people were crammed into the front seat smoking kooky smelling cigarettes. So there was no fire, and I suddenly knew what dope smelled like. Grandpa jerked the door open, looking disgusted. “What's wrong here?” A long haired, unshaven, unkempt, and all around dirty guy was slumped behind the wheel. “Peace,” he said, laughing in the dignified face of my Grandpa. Just then the back doors of the bus swung open and three other people staggered out, looking around, dazed and dumb. One of the dirty things was a lady --a real hippie chick with matted hair and a tatty collection of necklaces. She wore a tie-dyed skirt and a little tank top with no bra. Her feet were bare and dirty, and I wondered how old she was. “Hey Mister,” she said. “We're all broke down.” "Hell yes,” Grandpa agreed. His mouth was tight and grim, and his jaws clenched and unclenched. He didn't mind helping people in need, but this sight was appalling to him. The back door opened wider. A tiny little girl peered out at me. The stench from inside the bus was atrocious --worse than any can of rotting worms. It smelled of dirty, filthy, unwashed bodies, bad smoke, and I didn't know what else. I stared at the intolerable conditions of the hippie wagon. It was the filthiest thing I'd ever laid eyes on, with clothes, food containers, garbage, beer cans, and stained blankets scattered everywhere. I cast my eyes around, counting one more chick and four grown men. Were they living in this caravan? A five gallon bucket of human sewage in the corner told me they were, and my stomach turned. I looked at the little girl again. She couldn't have been more than three or four. I felt sorry for her. Black hair, oily and matted, clung against her head. She wore an oversized T shirt and didn't have on shoes. Her little hands were black with grime, and her face hadn't been washed since Roe v. Wade sold America down the clapper. "Mister, that kid's hungry,” the first chick said, jutting a thumb towards the child. The tiny black eyes peered up at Grandpa. He groaned at the sight of the child. “Wesley, meet The Least of These,” he said. Of course! Gospel lessons bigger than Sunday school slapped me right in the face. The poor, filthy little girl was but innocence in peril. “Bring me my tool box, Wes.” I did as Grandpa said, and he talked to the woman, “Pop the hood on this traveling junkyard and let me see what's wrong.” The woman responded, reaching past the stoners in the front seat. She seemed to be the only capable one in the bunch, and her judgment was questionable. "What's your name?” Grandpa asked. "Joni.” "Well Joni…do your folks know where you are?” "No.” "That's a damn shame, don't you think?” "My folks are squares, and I am free from the bondage of society.” "Pfft.” Air hissed between Grandpa's cheeks in a disgusted manner.
Grandpa turned to me. “Take that little girl down to Maggie's at the Point. Get her something to eat.” He handed me five dollars and I took it, feeling awkward and kind of ashamed to be seen with the bedraggled thing. "Want something to eat?” I asked her. She nodded and climbed outside, squinting in the sun. “Does she have shoes?” I asked Joni. "She did, but I haven't seen them for awhile.” "Pfft.” This time the sound came from me, and I locked eyes with Grandpa and he just shrugged his shoulders at me, bidding me to use my head. “Come on little one,” I said. I picked up the dirty little thing, hoping I wouldn't catch head lice. The smell of her sickened me, the barnyard odor of the sick cow had been more to my liking, but I bucked up and trudged toward the quaint café on the corner with the love child in my arms. "What's your name?” "Yarrow.” Yarrow? That's a terrible name! Surely yarrow wasn't even a real flower --just a plant, and not beautiful sounding at all. “Yarrow?”
"Uh huh.” "Not Heather?” "Nope.” "Not Cindy, Jennifer, Kathy, or Michelle?” "Nuh uh.” I switched to the plant names again, hoping the little girl would find one she liked better, “Fern? Ivy? Rose? Are you sure your name's not Heather?” A small breath blew against my neck. “You are funny.” "How about Lilly? That's beautiful.” "My name is Yarrow.” "Yarrow who?” "I don't know. Just Yarrow.” "How about Sparrow? That rhymes --or maybe Birdie? Robin?” "Don't you have ears? My name is Yarrow!” "Okay,” I said, letting the subject drop. We walked into the front door of the café. Archie Gallagher, Grandpa's cousin, was saddled up to the counter sipping on a cup of coffee, and a pair of tourists in golf clothes canoodled in a booth, but other than that the place was empty. I pulled Yarrow into the bathroom and locked the door. "What are we doing?” "Washing your hands.” I started the water and pumped the soap dispenser. I began scrubbing those little dimpled hands, and blessedly the drain carried the sludgy water away. Yarrow giggled at the experience. “You like washing?” I asked. She bobbed her head. “Yes.” "When was the last time you were clean?” She just stared at me, and so my suspicions were correct --it had been ages since her last bath. With moist paper towels I scrubbed right on up both arms. Drips of water left clean marks everywhere they ran. Soon I pushed her sleeves up past her shoulders and scrubbed. Her arms looked good, and Yarrow examined them excitedly. “My face?” I nodded. Of course, I must wash her face. We lathered soap on our hands, both of us, and started scrubbing. I wiped her face dry with a paper towel, and then lifted the little girl up to see in the mirror. She stared at herself, blinking. “That's Yarrow?” "Sure, it's you.” I was befuddled by the question. “See how pretty you are?” Yarrow smiled at me. I smiled back at her in the mirror, and then I spied her poor, greasy, horrible hair, and I disapproved. I hoisted her up, making her tip her head over the sink. With another wad of soap in my hand I started washing the tangled mess of hair. I scrubbed her head like grimy sox to a washboard. The little girl smelled better and better. I patted her dry with more paper towels, longing to scrub her filthy T-shirt as well, but I was helpless on that account, as I didn't know what to put her in while I did it. I tried to smooth her hair with my fingers, but the child needed a good brushing. "Myself is clean?” "Kind of.” The top half looked a lot better than the bottom half. Her legs and feet were still polluted looking. "You'll let me eat?” I nodded and we left the bathroom. I parked Yarrow in a back booth and walked up to the counter. Maggie noticed me. “Hi, Wesley. What can I do for you?” "I need a couple of cheeseburgers, an orange soda and a glass of milk. Just holler at me when it's ready and I'll come up and get it and save you the trip.” "Well, alrighty then,” Maggie said pleasan
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About the Book
Viet Nam, the hippie movement, Roe v. Wade, inflation, OPEC crisis, Watergate...the perceived loss of America's innocence provides the national stage for Into the Second Springtime. Meet Wesley Gallagher, a precocious young man who is prone to making mischief and scheming shenanigans. You'll laugh at Wesley's perceptions of the world and fall in love with the strong and steady influences in his life. With stormy issues facing the nation, you'll cheer at the bright beacons of light guiding Wesley, quietly instilling values that create a healthy and substantial anchor in this tender coming-of-age novel. Written with unpretentious messages of charity, forgiveness, hope, humor, love and respect, you will cheer Hurrah! for America again.
About the Author
Into the Second Springtime
June Marie was raised on a cattle ranch at Sage, Wyoming, and loved the freedom associated with such a lifestyle. She liked caring for animals, climbing trees, riding bikes and horses, fishing, and spending time with her parents, brothers, grandparents, and cousins. She learned to respect the history of the land and was always fascinated by the Native American artifacts found on their property. “Our ranch was a training ground for an active imagination.”
June Marie married Mike Saxton and together they have four children, Shannyn, Casey, Justyn, and Tahnee. The Saxton's own and operate Saxton Ranch in Raymond, Idaho. June Marie is grateful to know her children have had the same opportunities to romp and roam, work and play, learning about life in the same zealous and free way.
June Marie owns Bear Necessities of Montpelier, a nutritional counseling center, beauty salon, and day spa. June Marie is a certified nutritional consultant and strives to help others find creative concepts to healthy living. She enjoys the unique personality traits of her clientele and forges friendships easily.
"Creating identifiable characters is one of my strong suits as a writer. I create a one dimensional name on paper then infuse it with cleverly crafted personality traits until it comes to life on the written page.”
June Marie is a champion of children and youth, willingly teaching and lecturing at schools and organizations about her adventures in writing. She enjoys being involved with programs that help strengthen and reinforce core values and standards.
To stay abreast of Saxton's current writing projects, log onto www.junemariesaxton.com or visit www.bearnecessities.us to learn more about her business, or to order personally autographed copies of her books.