King of the Sun

King of the Sun

Jeff Franjevic

King of the Sun

Smashwords Edition

©WGA copyright 2009, Jeff Franjevic

Internal design © 2012 by Mirella Patzer

Cover design © by Mirella Patzer

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Smashwords ISBN: 9781301022960

Table of Contents

Prelude: Confessions of a Montana Liberal

Story I: King of the Sun

Story II: The Wrong Way

Interlude: The Game

Story III: Left my Heart in ‘69

Story IV: Black Mondays & Bus Rides

Epilogue

About the Author

Prelude

Confessions of a Montana Liberal

On the east wall of his college’s student union building, my dad created a memorial for John Kennedy. Bobby Kennedy was scheduled to speak at the unveiling, but he got waylaid and had to cancel. Actually, I almost cancelled the event by freewheeling my bike and smacking into the sculpture just before it was moved to the college. My dad worked furiously to fix the dent and grounded me forever. He did allow me to attend the unveiling, but I was strategically placed in the back section, far from the display and podium. My dad was taking no chances

Even though I didn’t have a choice seat, I rather enjoyed the ceremony. They said nice things about my dad. They unveiled the memorial and people applauded. They seemed impressed. It would’ve been nice if Bobby had attended, but it still went well. When it was over, they served cookies, tea and coffee. Wow. His college was run by nuns who’re notorious cheapskates. They could’ve at least thrown in some candy for us kids.

I was thirteen. I could’ve cared less about politics. Political figures, like the Kennedys, had nothing to do with my world. They didn’t ride 3-speed bikes, skateboard, listen to the Beach Boys, read Boy’s Life, trade football cards - who cares? They were just TV blips, newspaper photos - shadows on a wall. I only knew they had something to do with running our country.

My dad created the memorial not long after JFK was assassinated. On that tragic day, I saw two or three teachers crying. Our teacher gave us the news at recess. Like most of my classmates, I was just confused. What did it mean? We all knew it was bad, but what did it mean? One kid said, I bet it was Khrushchev - he’s a bad guy. This kid had one up on most of us - he actually knew who Khrushchev was and could pronounce his name.

Two years earlier, the school had drilled us on how to avoid a nuclear blast - dive under our desks. This, of course, was during the Cuban missile crisis and I knew the Russians had something to do with it - they were bad guys.

Our teacher told us no one had much information. We headed back to class and sat quietly at our desks as our teacher conferred with the vice- principal. A few minutes later, they announced that school was cancelled. This was good news. We’d get Friday afternoon off and a long weekend. But, it was confusing. A kid’s brain

He doesn’t quite grasp the concept of good news coming from bad news. We get a get- out-of-school-free-card because the president got shot ‘n died? We exited the school, not knowing what to expect. What would it be like at home?

We had just moved into a new house. You could still smell the paint on the walls. That night, we just sat there quietly, eating and watching TV. This was unusual for a family of five kids - a quiet dinner. Even the youngest ate quietly, picking up the somber and hushed aura of my parents.

Walter Cronkite was the only voice in the room. His grandfatherly voice narrating the day’s tragedy, somehow had this soothing quality. I never watched the news much, but I always liked Walter Cronkite. He was like the adult version of Walt Disney. He just didn’t talk about fun stuff, only depressing news.

My dad was depressed. He just looked down at his plate and picked at his food. He was lost in thought. When my dad got lost in thought, we knew not to set him off. We always honored the invisible do not disturb sign on his forehead. He had a German temper and German tempers flare when brooding silence is disrupted - do not disturb.

After dinner, my sister and I helped mom with the dishes while my three little brothers went off to their rooms. Dad just sat quietly in the living room, watching the news. I only remember him saying one thing, What the hell’s wrong with this country? He didn’t say world, he said country.

At this point, nobody knew much about Lee Harvey Oswald who’d been arrested only hours after the assassination. Cronkite was still filling in the details. We would find out later how much he hated this country - how he once had defected to Russia.

The kid who accused Khrushchev wasn’t far off. It wasn’t our country’s fault - it was Russia; it was the world. When it was John Wayne versus the injuns, it was always the injuns. They were the bad guys, along with the commies. Movies and TV taught us this, our Weekly Readers taught us this - hell, our teachers taught us this. My dad was a teacher, but he never taught us this. He was a parent, but he never taught us this. He fought for America in World War II, but he never taught us this. What was wrong with my dad?

He was an artist. He was a world-type guy. He’d seen a lot of the world and absorbed it. He painted some of it - Italy, France, England, Germany. He was a college teacher and his world was stacked with books and high-minded discussion.

His father was a union leader who was, by some, branded a socialist. His mother was totally color blind, engaging with any ethnics that populated her Milwaukee neighborhood. Years later, the neighborhood was filled with black families. My grandma was one of the few whites left, but they liked her and she liked them. She dished out candy to their kids and invited adults over for iced tea.

Like grandpa, she believed in a just and equal world. They immigrated to the U-S to escape dire poverty, not to learn about equality and justice. That was in their bloodstream. They found out fairly quickly that the U-S was not so equal, not so just. As a union member working for the Milwaukee road, my grandpa found out a lot about the American management and ownership system - the hard way. My colorblind grandma found out a lot about American racism. Like my dad, my grandparents just couldn’t go along with the Joneses and be happy. What was wrong with them?

They were liberals. Even though they came to America years before the word was popularized, they were it. My grandpa was a union guy (socialist), so he was it. My grandma was color blind, so she was it. My dad got it all from them, so he was it.

My grandparents lived in Wisconsin, we lived in Montana. It was my mom’s home state and my dad liked it, especially the trout fishing. Montana actually had more trout than guns, or it was close. Dad actually tried hunting and rather liked it. I went with him a few times, but I never caught on to it. We had a bird dog, but he died when I was nine or ten. His name was Sandy and our family loved him. After he died, my dad quit hunting. His heart went out of it, or maybe it was never really into it. Deep down, I don’t think he liked to kill. Whatever - I never saw him pick up another gun. My aversion to hunting was sealed the night I saw relatives gutting a deer in the garage - drinking, laughing and gutting away. It made me sick. I was always a bit scared of guns, but watching this ritual added revulsion to trepidation. I had similar feelings when I saw my first rodeo. I felt bad for the horses, even the bulls. I attended only three rodeos in my life and that was enough. The last one was the best. I saw one cowboy bust his leg and another get kicked in the head - happy trails. That day, the animals won.

I attended our hometown parochial high school. These were interesting years - mid to late sixties. Vietnam, Nixon, hippies, bra burnings, Woodstock, race riots - the whole Electric Kool-Aid Acid Trip. The Catholic church was going through some weird reform movement. Nuns and priests started shedding centuries of fashion tradition and wearing street clothes. They were showing up to class wearing pant suits, skirts, sweaters and even bellbottoms. They actually looked like human beings. Some actually stood up like human beings and protested the war. At school mass, we’d hear some anti-war preaching, along with songs like Blowing In The Wind, but that’s about as far as it went. My school was in the middle of Marlboro Country (remember the Marlboro cowboy?) and Marlboro country is redneck - just as redneck as the deep south. There’s only one difference - no blacks. Excuse me, we had an air force base on the town’s perimeter where blacks did exist, but I never met one ‘til college. In high school, we’d throw snowballs at the base bus as it rolled down a street near our school. It was surnamed the Congo Queen in honor of its black passengers. We’d throw snowballs and they’d just grin or make faces, occasionally flipping us off. I didn’t know them, but I bombed them with snowballs. I didn’t know them, but I thought I might like them. Who are these people?

What are Indians? They were our minority. Our town had a sizeable population of them, but they were untouchables. They looked sloppy, dirty, crazy, lazy, drunken and scary. They were scattered about poor sections of town, but many lived on Hill 57. It was untouchable. Only the bravest whites would venture there. These brave whites had to come armed - milk, bread, toilet paper, medical supplies - before they could enter. They were, of course, clerical and social workers. It seems what made these crazy Indians so different was dire poverty. Hill 57 Indians were dirt poor, living in canvas tents, dilapidated shacks and even junk autos. In high school, a few of us idiots actually drove up the long, rough road to Hill 57. We were drinking and thought we’d throw some beer bottles at Indians. We were almost near the top when a blaze of lights hit us - truck lights. You never saw a car full of teenagers back down a hill so fast - gone in 60 seconds. So, except for a few that littered the halls of our school - this was the closest I ever got to Indians, one mile up Hill 57.

During the summer of ‘68, I worked for my uncle in Seattle. I washed dishes in his restaurant near the University of Washington campus. In Montana, which is ten years behind everyone else, I hardly met a hippie. Seattle was loaded with them, especially the U-district. They’d come in and smoke, drink coffee or tea and rap. To me, they were aliens. I was still a clean cut high school kid from Montana and they looked like escapees from an asylum - crazy and grungy. Some of them smelled. I’d been exposed to enough hippie lingo to understand them, but I didn’t care to. Until one day. A beautiful hippie chick sat at the counter, ordered coffee and smiled at me. I don’t know why, but we talked. We talked about books, music and art - all stuff I liked. For whatever reason, I told her about my dad’s Kennedy memorial. This struck a real cord - she loved Bobby Kennedy. She’d just been out canvassing for him and told me, He’s our last hope. If he doesn’t get it, we’re dead. I never forgot those words. I never saw her again, but I never forgot those words. A few weeks later, Bobby was dead. The dream was gone. A few months earlier, it was Martin Luther - now another Kennedy. What the hell’s wrong with this country? Good question, dad.

I attended our local