Freedom
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There were four friends—Jeff, Paul, Kevin, and Tim.
Ours was the generation that saw the death of idealism.
Yes, we formed our worldview out of the Beatles anthems, but the
Rolling Stones better symbolized our descent into cynicism.
And though we discarded the ideals of the hippie generation, we
kept its mantra refrain—if it
feels good do it. So,
imagining we were just too smart to be “straight,” we embarked on an
all-out campaign to experience freedom in its various forms.
Unfortunately, we found too little restraint in our quest for
freedom. At sixteen and
seventeen, we boldly declared our intent to leave for Yakima Washington
for the summer and our parents surrendered to our unwise plan.
Jeff Cupp was the natural leader.
Years before, in the 7th grade, he heroically vanquished
the Junior High bully. Charlie Otto had picked me out as the new kid in school and
routinely followed me home for “fun.”
And as bullies often do, he focused primarily on humiliation.
Some time later I learned that Charlie had been schooled in public
humiliation at the hands of his own father.
Then one day at school, Jeff told Charlie to leave me alone and
Charlie snarled, “Who’s gunna make me?” and lunged at him.
Jeff stepped aside, grabbed Charlie’s ears, and bounced his head
down every handle of locker row C. Jeff’s
heroic deed went down in Madison Junior High legend and we were fast
friends thereafter.
Paul Doty was our technician and social conscience.
He always carried the right tool for our assorted needs—a
multi-function pocketknife, fingernail clippers, baling wire, Chap Stick,
and other paraphernalia. Through Paul’s older siblings we learned of the ideals of
the sixties and in him we were reminded of the meager fruit of that
generation. Thus we dared
never litter when Paul was present, since he continually goaded our
otherwise dysfunctional conscience. In
time he converted us also as Jeff would illustrate by summarizing our
moral credo, “Just so long you don’t murder or litter, it’s OK.”
Before this time it was just the three of us,
but Kevin Culver was to round out our number that fateful summer.
Kevin was the one always getting in the most trouble, and we
thought, the one always having the most fun.
He seemed to have a way with the girls, and thereby, a way into
fights. On one occasion I
remember crashing a rival-school party and Kevin so enraged the guys by
the way he sweet-talked the girls, a fight broke out which ended only when
Sky Overstreet bested a 300-pound giant.
With all the girls that Kevin had chased, he caught me off guard
when he said that he was going to Yakima to forget one in particular.
We did have parties in that house.
As people walked by our open door they would hear the Rolling
Stones playing “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking” in an endless loop and
then see our furniture made from stacked cases of Rainier beer.
One night as we sat at the kitchen table a June Bug, the size of a
Huey helicopter, roared in the window and landed on the table before us.
We looked at each other in dumfounded amazement until Kevin jumped
up, grabbed a butcher knife, and with a scream impaled the monster onto
the table. Another night I remember Kevin and I standing head to head,
drunk out of our minds, and making vows about what we would always… and
would never do. Sadly,
neither of us was up to keeping vows.
Even so, Kevin and I formed a friendship that I will always
remember. Then one particular night while I stood alone in
front of a grocery store, it struck me that I had no one to answer to and
no curfew to keep. I felt I
was finally “self-ruled” and an uncommon sense of freedom sweep over
me. This was really the first
time I had ever experienced such a feeling and it seemed profound and
deep. And yet I later found
that this summer set a course for me—and really all of us—that would
eventually lead to bondage and not the freedom we so desired.
One typically hot Yakima day a group of us decided to
go rafting down the Wenatchee River.
We got our hands on inner-tubes, air-mattresses, and anything else
that might float and tied it all together in a makeshift raft.
This was a perfect day for a laid-back ride down a cool waterway
through this hot, dry country. Little did we know that countless others had been drowned on
this same treacherous stretch of the river.
At first we moved at a leisurely pace, but soon we were swept down
the rapids and perilously close to death.
Kevin was ripped one-way, Chubby another, as the raft was quickly
dismembered. Chubby was
pulled down under the roaring waters and was caught on a sunken tree that
held him there so long that when he finally came up he lay on the shore
vomiting water. Hidden rocks pummeled the others. Only I was saved by grasping a tree branch that kept me from
being pulled through the deadly whitewater.
This experience was much like what would later happen to us as we
traveled down the river of life—ill-prepared for rapids that would sweep
us under deep waters. Then there was the hot summer night that Sky Overstreet came over from West Seattle with a pickup full of cheap beer and wild friends. That night we drove recklessly down the otherwise peaceful orchard-lined country roads. After a number of insane driving stunts—some jumped from a speeding car bumper to the bed of the pickup—we finally stopped to lie in the middle of the still-warm asphalt road. In minutes the crickets calmed our raging hearts. Even now I remember how clear was the night, how bright were the stars, and how sweet was freedom that swept over us. As our summer stumbled on we “began to be in want.”
You see, we found it difficult to remain faithful to the rigors of
orchard work, so we soon ran out of food and money.
One particular week we ate nothing but pancakes with peanut butter,
and when the peanut butter ran out, it was pancakes alone.
In time Paul returned from Seattle with some cash and we all rushed
to the grocery store to buy some eggs, bread, and mayonnaise.
Kevin made fried-egg-sandwiches and I remember thinking that
nothing in the world could possibly taste so good and wholesome. To this day, when left to fend for myself, I know what to eat
when I “begin to be in want.”
Because we were all so reckless, we often found
ourselves on the brink of disaster. Kevin
and I often joked about a childhood cartoon where “Tooter Turtle”
always got in trouble and when he wanted to go home would shout, “Help
Mr. Wizard!” Then Mr.
Wizard would say, “Drizzle, drazzle, druzzle, drone.
Time for dis one to come home.”
One particular night we were riding a wave of reckless abandon.
We had already been drinking a good deal at a party but then went
on to purchase a large quantity of Hashish.
As we drove heedlessly to another gathering, we finally noticed
some flashing lights and heard the siren.
Kevin and I were obviously drunk, so the police locked us in the
squad car while they discussed our fate.
As we waited for them to return to the car, Kevin whispered,
“Give me the hash!” and since I didn’t want to arouse attention, I
handed it over. Kevin stuffed
it in between the car seats and then we waited for a search of the car, or
us, and the bigger “bust” to follow.
They never did find the Hashish, but we were given a night at
“Juvy Hall.” Our parents
were called and my Mom said she would be there in the morning, but
Kevin’s parents were nowhere to be found.
Only as we showered did they search our belongings.
Finally, we were each locked down in solitary cells.
As I lay silently on a cot, I heard Kevin’s voice echo down the
empty hall. In his
characteristic comical tone, Kevin cried, “Help Mr. Wizard! Help Mr.
Wizard! I want to go home.” Silence
was the appropriate response.
About six months before this ill-fated summer, Dave
Brown helped share the gospel of Jesus Christ with me, but even though the
promise of “freedom from sin” seemed real enough, it soon became
apparent that my own experience was shallow.
Nevertheless, in Yakima we were seeking freedom—autonomous
freedom, that is. And yet it
was here that we rushed into relationships that should be saved for a
commitment of marriage. None
of us appreciated the indispensable role of purity in truly loving
relationships, and so, the choices we made sowed the seeds of later
relational failures. Two
thirds of the way through the summer, Jeff got that devastating call about
the divorce of his parents. He
left the next day and soon after we each were torn off in different
directions. The mounting waves of disaster began to break over lives. Then there was Paul. Without
a moral rudder, Paul soon went off course in an otherwise decent pursuit
of happiness. For years he
attempted to swim in the strong current of the West Seattle drug culture,
but eventually he floundered. He
was married, then divorced, and ultimately lost visiting rights to his
children. Still later, he
lost a baby born out of wedlock to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Once again, we can only imagine how difficult it would be to
bear such heavy burdens, but under the influence of drugs and alcohol, it
would be impossible. Paul,
who was always the most thoughtful, ingenious, and handsome of the four,
was now a soul adrift. Paul
took his own life while sitting alone in a hotel room on Rainier Avenue.
Paul, I miss you.
Tim Nordgren, 6/16/02 |
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