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Jigsaw
Jigsaw
Jigsaw
Ebook165 pages2 hours

Jigsaw

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If you couldn't drive anymore, even to work, what would you do?
Dr. Beatrice (Beat) Duncan and her friend Darla lose their jobs when multiple missile attacks force the country to adopt a complete ban on gasoline affecting all transportation. To find work they decide to make the journey to another city on foot. As they struggle with the perils of long distance walking, a terrorist follows them to get something he believes they have. If they make it to Pittsburgh, romance and the promise of jobs await them. But only if they stay alive.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherJB Clemmens
Release dateJan 12, 2013
ISBN9781301347711
Jigsaw
Author

JB Clemmens

Jeanie Clemmens lives in Pennsylvania with a great dane and her husband, who takes her motorcycling. Her background is in math but she enjoys writing to exercise her right brain. Skype-ing her son in Japan and e-mailing her daughters in California and Virginia keep her close to family that she cherishes.

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    Book preview

    Jigsaw - JB Clemmens

    JIGSAW

    SMASHWORDS EDITION

    Published by Jeanie Bryson Clemmens at Smashwords

    Copyright 2013 Jeanie Bryson Clemmens

    ISBN9781301347711

    Cover by caligraphics.net

    Chapter One

    I put down the pamphlet I was reading. A More Humanized Approach To Helping Patients and focused on me. Why not? Does the psychiatrist who treats herself truly have a fool for a patient? I don't believe so. My most puzzling patient to date had been a 29 year old man whose superego would not let him be anything but adult in his actions and thinking. Not that bad? Well, refusing to acknowledge the childhood, juvenile and adolescent stages of one's life was an avoidance that would certainly cause problems eventually. But if I was going to help him, I needed to find ways to draw out good memories for him. It was trying.- Back to me, though - In order to be effective as a professional, I needed to have an honest understanding of my past, motives, tendencies and all. Though most people say they can't remember anything before they were three years old, the memories of my childhood and the journey through adolescence to adulthood were this:

    She was uncharacteristically silent watching the old man work in his basement shop. Her quick mind was full of questions about his progress with the power tool, but out of instinctive reverence and patience, she didn't disturb him until he looked up. He shut the saw off, and smiled lovingly at her where she was perched on Grandma's kitchen stool.

    Noisy isn't it, Beatrice? He held his hands over his ears so she could understand.

    But the little girl knew his words well enough and answered, Whiny sound!

    Well now, my dear Sugar Beet, those are words I didn't think you knew. Aren't you two anymore? Just how old are you?

    Three. Bea is three.

    A big girl like you must be getting hungry for lunch. We'll go upstairs as soon as I finish this puzzle. The wood is just right for the jigsaw. Can you tell me, my three year old wonder, what I'm making? Beatrice looked over at the bench and the pieces slightly apart from each other. At first the jumble of curvy and knobbed wood shapes resembled nothing. Then all at once she exclaimed, Bus, a bus.

    Yes, but a special bus. It's a school bus like the one your brother William rides in the morning and brings him home in the afternoon. When it's finished, I'll paint it yellow and let you play with it. Beet smiled and looked adoringly at her Grandfather. It wasn't just because he made her toys. She felt safe and loved with him. She loved her parents as well, but Grandpa and Grandma were special. When they were together there seemed to be no other agenda but enjoying each other's company. Beatrice didn't understand how old they were. She just sensed calmness and experienced satisfaction about them. From their voices, a mix of soft and delight, to their gentle touch, Beatrice" heart felt a sense of belonging and being loved timelessly.

    After her Grandpa meticulously cleaned and hung up his jigsaw, he took Beatrice's hand and helped her down from the little ladder. He was still strong enough to carry her up the cellar stairs, but he took the steps at the same rate she did, pausing to steady her when necessary. Grandma heard them coming and swung the door open to greet them.

    Who do I spy on the stairs, oh my? she asked chuckling.

    It's me, Grandma, and Grandpa too. Can't you see us?

    Yes, Beatrice. I was expecting you. Come eat a sandwich and have a cookie.

    Cookie! Beatrice rushed into the tiny kitchen of the one bedroom house next door to her parents.

    They're for after lunch, Beatrice. I have peanut butter and jam sandwiches. Grandma never called it jelly and when she said the word calm, it rhymed with jam. She had left Scotland when she was a little girl, but she retained a slight accent. She handed Beatrice her cup and the girl struggled to open the refrigerator to get the cold water inside. Grandpa helped and soon all three sat at the table and ate. They laughed and chatted with Beatrice saying, Grandma, she tugged on her sleeve, Grandma. Grandpa made bus.

    Did he now?

    A cool bus.

    Oh, Grandma corrected, a school bus. It wouldn't be the first time, dear. Your grandpa ran a real school bus company many years ago.

    Beatrice didn't know about her grandpa's businesses or that he was an amateur farmer or even that he had taught Sunday school at church for thirty-five years. She didn't know that her grandmother made and sold exquisite embroidered and crocheted doilies (though she'd seen some samples in the living room.) She just knew that in her youthful realm, her grandparents weren't members of a community, they were hers. To think that they existed just for her was of course naive, but she was still just a toddler.

    After lunch, Grandpa scooped Beatrice into his arms for their daily afternoon walk. Grandma did the dishes and slipped a cookie to each of them for sustenance.

    The duo visited the flower bed just outside the house where Grandpa dipped low so Beet could smell the fragrant phlox growing there. Then they headed up the driveway to the chicken coop. While Grandpa fed the chickens, he let her down to run free in the wide expanse of green lawn nearby. He kept an eye out and scooped her back up when she roamed too far. While they walked he told her the names of all the vegetables in the garden and showed her how the different leaves of each tree identified them. Slowly her head tilted toward his chest and her eyelids grew heavy. Grandpa circled the driveway to Beatrice's bedroom window, which was open. As he had done many times before, he guided her through the window and placed her in her crib just inside. She awoke slightly and he sang her back to sleep.

    If I were a tree, which one would I be?

    A pine or an oak Oh how strong I'd be

    If I were a tree, which one would I be?

    A willow that sways in the bright summer days.

    If I were a tree, which one would I be?

    A birch that's so silvery and graceful to see.

    Beatrice's mother, who loved her husband's parents too, thanked Grandpa for putting Beatrice down for her nap and walked next-door to thank Grandma for giving her lunch. You can walk Beet to her crib through the house, you know. He said, It feels more cottage-like to put the wee bairn in through the window.

    But his daughter-in-law knew he was just being considerate because of his dusty shoes. He was kind like that. Grandpa tip-toed to Beet's window and whispered, Sleep well, my Sweet Beet.

    In too short a time, I, Beatrice Duncan, awoke to the fact that my Grandfather was gone. Time, to children, like pets, is not measured as it is to adults. There were no more visits to his cellar workshop or strolls around the yard. The chicken coop was gone too. My folks tried to explain that Grandpa got sick from something the chickens carried and that now he was in heaven. I remembered seeing him in bed, but I was sure, so sure, he would be up and about the next day. I don't remember what he told me on his death bed or when God came to get him. I just knew that a valuable piece was missing from my life.-an important corner piece, which made my framework shaky and unstable for some time.

    Chapter Two

    My mother hosted a 16th birthday party for me. Lots of relatives, including my brother and grandmother wished me well. William was seven years older than me and I rarely saw him with college and all. It was a treat to spend time with my brother. Friends told me how lucky I was to still have my Grandmother at age 88. They went on and on about how lovely and charming she was. With her white hair twisted on top of her head and her slightly round figure in a dark blue Sunday dress, she was adorable. I agreed. Her hair was really very long. That fact I didn't discover until one night I slept at her house when my parents and brother were away. She took out the pins securing her bun and a long tail of white cascaded to her middle back. I was fascinated by the difference in her appearance. I'd never seen her without the bun.

    At celebratory times with my family, I was joyful and happier than anytime else. But I also missed those who had passed, especially my Grandfather. My parents said I didn't cry when he died but I heard them whispering years later that I was deeply depressed for months. But today I was fine and rarely thought about it. My aunts, uncles, cousins and friends supplied me with so much love and attention that day. I figured I would be good for weeks, anyway. But it was not to be. That night my Grandmother had a stroke and was taken to the hospital, a place she'd never been. Not even for her birth or the birth of her children. I was fearful that she'd be frightened, alone and convinced her life was at an end. When I visited, she was propped up in bed but not through her own power. Very weak and unable to speak, she didn't seem to know me. I helped her eat some of the gelatin on her tray, but most of it dribbled down her chin. I wiped her face and the slight smile she gave was more of gratitude than recognition. Grandma, you have to get better. We started that 1000 piece puzzle of Loch Ness, remember. It's all in pieces on your kitchen table and I can't do it without you. You're so good at finding edges and matching colors. Please get well, Grandma. I pray you will recover soon. I love you.

    Miraculously, she recovered all her faculties except the power of speech. When my father brought her home, she seemed resigned to the lack of voice but very grateful to be back in her home. After I started college, I only saw her at breaks. We worked on 300 or 500 piece puzzles so we could finish them before I had to return to school. But she was sharp most of the time. Dad and Mom had to check everyday to see that she had taken her heart medication. I adored my parents for many things and especially that. Being home was the best medicine for my Grandmother and her strength and love added a piece to the puzzle of my life. Maybe not yet a corner piece. And certainly not the piece I lost when I lost Grandpa. But it was an important edge piece that sustained me.

    Chapter Three

    "The eastern world, it is explodin', Violence flarin', bullets loadin'. You're old enough to kill, but not for votin' . You don't believe in war, but what's that gun you're totin' And even the Jordan River has bodies floatin' - P.F. Sloan, Eve of Destruction■1

    Life at colleges and universities in the 70's was probably no harder than it was before, or even now. But there was an atmosphere of turmoil that resulted in students with mild depression to students with severe psychoses. The subjects were the same for the most part. Okay, there were women's studies, outdoor forums and fringe lectures, but to me the psychology I planned to study was the same then as now. The theories and ideas of Jung, Maslow and Freud were still dominant. I was still in junior high when the peace movement started gathering momentum and even 13 year olds noticed the changes.

    There were war protests in LA, kneel-ins by nuns in Washington, D.C. and mock war crimes tribunals in places like Stockholm (Bertrand Russell) and the Netherlands. A poll showed that 69% of students identified themselves as doves in 1970. The Coalition for Sane Nuclear Policy adopted the slogan, End the nuclear race, not the human race. Ohioans for Peace, domestically, and Pacem, in Europe, joined Richard and Linda Whepplewhite in lobbying for the World Peace Pledge and the Anti-ballistic Missile Treaty. Whepplewhite was an influential Senator from Illinois and his wife, Linda, and he were Vietnam veterans. John Kerry, another veteran, testified before Congress, and the peace movement picked up. In Kerry's words (Winter Soldier Investigation) war crimes were committed in Southeast Asia on a day-to-day basis with full awareness of officers at all levels of command. He named incidents such as My Lai and Hill 881 where the US was "acting

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