Todd Allen - Leaves That Blew Away

Leaves That Blew Away

~ A Memoir ~

Todd Allen

Copyright 2020 Todd Allen

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

ISBN:

In memory of my parents, Chuck and Karen Allen, who built the foundation and left their footprints on the trail ahead leading me home.

~

~ Chapters ~

A WALK IN THE WOODS -

AN EARLY TASTE OF SORROW -

GOD'S TORNADO -

GROWING YOUNG -

THE LIVING YEARS -

WRISTBAND SONGS -

PINK & BLUE SIDEWALKS -

PINE TREES TALL -

IT DON'T MATTER TO THE SUN -

A DYING FAITH -

LETTERS & LIFE -

ANYTHING BUT MINE -

~ Chapters ~

BURNING BRIDGES -

SLOW DANCING IN A BURNING ROOM -

CAROLINA IN MY MIND -

AN UNCOMFORTABLE GOD -

THE COWBOY RIDES AWAY -

LEADER OF THE BAND -

THE DANCE -

I GO WALKING IN MY SLEEP -

SWEET DREAMS & FLYING MACHINES -

WAITING FOR LIGHTNING -

SOMETHING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO HEAVEN -

CATCH YOU LATER ON DOWN THE TRAIL -

Leaves That Blew Away

~ A Memoir ~

I had withdrawn in forest, and my song

Was swallowed up in leaves that blew away;

And to the forest edge you came one day

(This was my dream) and looked and pondered long,

But did not enter, though the wish was strong:

You shook your pensive head as who should say,

I dare not too far in his footsteps stray

He must seek me would he undo the wrong.

Not far, but near, I stood and saw it all,

Behind low boughs the trees let down outside;

And the sweet pang it cost me not to call

And tell you that I saw does still abide.

But tis not true thus I dwelt aloof,

For the wood wakes, and you are here for proof.

ROBERT FROST

Dream Pang

My father looked at me for a long time he just looked at me. So this was the last he and I ever said to each other about Pauls death.

Indirectly, though, he was present in many of our conversations. Once, for instance, my father asked me a series of questions that suddenly made me wonder whether I understood even my father whom I felt closer to than any man I have ever known. You like to tell true stories, dont you? he asked, and I answered, Yes, I like to tell stories that are true.

Then he asked, After you have finished your true stories sometime, why dont you make up a story and the people to go with it?

Only then will you understand what happened and why.

It is those we live with and love and should know who elude us.

NORMAN MACLEAN

A River Runs Through It

A Walk in the woods

T hey were wheeling her out of the bedroom when I got there. Strapped to a stretcher, deathly pale, an air mask tied to her face, the hand pump bulb dangling off the side. She was still, eyes closed, not breathing. The kids were huddled together in the basement, some crying quietly, some trying to comfort, fear writ large across all their wide-eyed faces. The police officer stood just inside the living room leaving space for the paramedics to get through, maybe already asking me questions. If so, I wasnt answering. Not yet. I just stood in the foyer, stunned, so afraid I could hardly breathe. Not again, I heard myself saying. Tears welled in my eyes. I looked up. I cant do this again, God. I cant do this.

But I did. I did it all again. For a while.

Life is like a long walk in the woods. The path of our life rolls out wide and well-marked for much of our journey, but there are places where our footsteps veer off and venture down unknown trails where the trees are closer together and darker and the brush pushes in and the branches weave their thin, knobby fingers together to oppose our passage. Dense thickets wait in the underbrush, luring us in then confusing us with shadows while we wander the thick foliage in search of a way back. Some are entangled in the dark thickets of lifes forest never to return, the wide, groomed main path lost and eventually forgotten altogether.

The great events in our lives stand out like towering white pines and maples arching over the trail. Sandstone cliffs dropping to the sea form the border of our sojourn in these woods. Any wealth or treasures we accumulate along the way must be given up by journeys end. We leave the woods much as we entered it, naked, alone, often afraid. Looking back, we see portions of our path clearly, the high peaks and valleys below remind us of our passing and the tears and joys that accompanied those times. All around us, memories like leaves bloom and grow and float and rustle along the path, skittering this way and that, their colors changing as they age with us, then falling, padding our steps so we walk in silence, then clogging the bright, clear streams crossing our trail seemingly at random. Most of our memories are lost along the trek, blown away by the fierce winds of fall and winter and spring, constant movement and change, by the storms of life arriving unexpected and unannounced.

Most of us walk on unable to see the forest for the trees, never taking time to climb the sturdy, leafy branches and break through the canopy and look back on all weve journeyed through. For some, the fear of falling from such dizzying heights is paralyzing. They feel safe on the forest floor, their present troubles already more than their attentions can bear. Occasionally, we find the circling seasons have slowed and the noise of the surrounding woods quieted, and we lift our eyes up to the treetops and we wonder. What of this path weve traveled, this life weve lived? Where have we been? Where are we going? What does it mean?

We reach for a branch and lift ourselves up, searching for a foothold, then the next branch, and the next foothold. Slowly, we climb, higher and higher, until we can look back and see all the parts that matter, and in the dying evening light, we see much to make us smile and much to make us cry, and through the tears, we remember the hard times and the happy times and the people and places we lost along the way, and from our perch atop the trees that have defined our lives, we wonder how we made it through at all.

This book is one such climb, one attempt to see the forest with the trees, the hills and valleys, the rivers forded and winding paths trodden, if not to make sense of them, at least to remember them, to know them and make them known and be known by them. I hope to rediscover the story as I tell it, to walk again the roads less traveled and find the purpose in the pain. I invite you, dear Reader, to join me, to walk with me back in time to a world I once knew and loved before the seasons changed and the storms came and the leaves blew away.

Well follow the path together and take the memories as they come. But memories are highly unreliable, morphing and fading over time. That bears remembering as we travel. These are my recollections, my impressions of the people, places and experiences well meet along the way. What follows is a story, my story, as best as I remember it.

He circled and stared

Nervous and scared

He knew both the thrill and the cost

But he didnt think twice

This amazing device

Was his last chance to see what hed lost

Now if time is really a river

And upstreams where he needed to be

He set his sights on the past

And finished his glass

And went back in history

COLLIN RAYE

The Time Machine

first verse

an early taste of sorrow

I m the older brother to two little sisters. Im the father to three beautiful daughters. Im comfortable around girls. I feel like I know that dark, mysterious sea which is womanhood about as well as it can be known by a man, meaning I can navigate the waters and generally get to whatever particular harbor Im aiming for. I enjoy the beauty and depth and soul-nourishing waters. And I know it can all turn on me in a moments notice without any warning at all. I try to sail accordingly, loving and enjoying all the amazing women Im blessed with in my life, and always keeping an eye on the weather. But it wasnt always this way. In another life, with another family, I had a younger brother, and by all accounts we were thick as thieves, like two close brothers will tend to be, especially when theyre young. Ive seen the pictures, but I dont remember that. I dont remember Chad, not alive anyway. Over the course of one week, just seven days, in the early summer of 1984, one life ended and another life started, one family disappeared and a new one took its place, and I was there for all of it.