RELENTLESS RESISTANCE

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 13             


By the late 1980s Lindy could push through his tree-planting pain no more.



Dear Carol … 

Remember the new woman I told you I was in love with, the one with the blue hair? Well she lives on the most beautiful island I have ever seen. It’s called Cortes and it’s the last island served by ferry in the Canadian chain heading north. The population is 600 and land is relatively cheap. I’ve plunked down my whole savings to buy a five-acre parcel, one block from the ocean. It’s in large part a swamp but the soil is amazingly fertile.

You probably think I’m crazy, in fact you know I am, but I want to live there forever. I’m a good gardener and figure I can sell some produce and pot and be happy in a low impact, under the radar kinda way.

Hey, did you know that there are women that throw parties for other women so they can buy plastic bowls? Now that’s a unique way to make a living, don’tcha think? 

Anyway, I’m collecting building materials and am gonna start building a cabin in the spring. I want you to come visit then OK?

It’s a bit hard to see the boys cause they still live and go to school in Victoria, but there are buses they can catch on weekends. They’re doing real good in their studies and want to go to University! Imagine that, my sons in college!  Wouldn’t Mom get a kick outta that? Ever since Poppy changed his name to James he’s gotten real serious and wants to be an engineer. He and Prarie are both computer whizzes. I don’t even know how to turn one on … course one needs to have power and I like living by candlelight.

I love you … your favorite (ha ha) brother Lindy…

PS … my new girlfriend has talked me into seeing a surgeon about the pain my body is in. Doctors, as you know, scare the hell out of me.


Carol and her boyfriend came to visit the next spring. From the mainland of Canada it was a three ferryboat trip. Almost every place Lindy lived after taking up Canadian residence required at least one ferryboat transport. For him, maybe being separated by water from the rest of the world gave him the security a castle moat must have given royalty in days of old. Tree planting in remote woods all those years fostered in him the need for isolation and an addict’s connection to nature. His comfort lived there.
Construction proceeded slowly on Lindy’s cabin creation. Slowly, with the gathering of most building materials that were recycled, donated, scavenged or improvised, he happily plodded along. The metal roof boasted no two panels of the same color, inspiring other island neighbors to dub it ‘the rainbow house.’ 

Lindy, whistling while he worked, seemed to be at peace. Whether hammering, sawing or hoeing the soil, a smile graced his face as his longed for island masterpiece took shape.
After that short but sweet trip, Carol felt relieved her brother might have found contentment at last.

“Were you ever exposed to poisonous chemicals?” the Vancouver doctor asked while examining Lindy, noticing the jerky twitching muscles in his legs and arms.

“Often, after the logging and before replanting trees, the government would send in crews to spray the underbrush,” Lindy answered, wincing as the doctor probed. “Killing the competing bushes and weeds first gives the small struggling saplings a fighting chance to take hold.”

“My guess is that the chemicals have caused neurological damage, and put you in danger of contracting cancers, ” the doctor speculated. “I can fix you structurally with surgery, but it won’t repair the nerves,” he said. “Some people are more susceptible to this kind of harm. I’m sorry to say you’re one of them,” the doctor told him with a sigh and a shoulder shrug.

A few months later in Vancouver, three ferry boats and five hours away, during a post-op check-up, the surgeon pronounced the operation on his fragile neck and spine a success. How could it be 
a success, Lindy wondered, if he was still in so much pain and dragged his right leg? He’d been taking a powerful narcotic pain reliever ever since the surgery. It worked pretty well while he took it. Now the surgeon was not listening, calling it good, and refusing to renew more prescriptions. 
Lindy’s mistrust of authority figures, even doctors was validated. He left the office in despair.

For a couple of years Lindy managed his pain by hustling heroin off the streets. He tried downplaying the situation to his sister on the phone when she exclaimed her shock upon finding that out.

“Relying on drug dealers can’t be a safe thing to do,” she weakly advised. “Can’t the doctor’s do something?”
“I would have to get on some kind of register,” Lindy said skeptically. “It would be government monitored, and you know how I feel about trusting officials. I’m not hooked, really,” he told her, trying to sound resolute. “I’ve just gotta find something else to help me. It’s bad enough that my arms and legs don’t work right and it’s hard to walk. I can’t deal with the pain too.”

Months later, a letter to his sister boasted of being off heroin thanks to a little-known home remedy. 
Poppies.
It didn’t totally eradicate his pain, he explained, but it took a big edge off. He could function, albeit limitedly.

“Harvesting opium poppies is the ultimate do-it-yourself project, I reckon,” Lindy gleefully reported to his sister on the phone. “Every morning, I hobble out with my coffee to peruse my sprawling jungle of a garden and look for the pods ready to burst into bloom.” He continued explaining his routine, telling her that the hard shells of those special kind of poppies, before exploding into their colorful glory, ooze a dark sticky substance he would very carefully scrape off with his knife. It was tedious work to harvest enough pain-relieving sap to equal a teaspoon. 
“After an hour or so, I have enough to brew a vile-tasting tea that is so rank it could clean the barnacles off an anchor,” he chuckled. All summer long the daily ritual continued, he told her. He would carefully add any extra raw material to a large jar to save for the long winters without a fresh harvest. 
“So I’m not dancing the hoochy-coo or running marathons, but I can drag myself down to the shoreline or play my guitar without wanting to blow my head off,” he summed up. “And, it’s organic,” he added with another tee hee.

In 1996, their father was dying of colon cancer. His sister had moved to Montana and lived alone. She had flown their father from his home in Arizona to Montana by hospital plane to be cared for at hers. He’d been with her for six months and the end was near. Their Hawaii brother had come and gone, unable to leave his job any longer. As their father’s death loomed, Carol was not prepared physically or mentally to go it alone. She needed help. 

Calling Lindy, she knew was a lot to ask.
“Of course,” he answered at once, “I’ll catch the morning ferry and will see you in a day or two.”

Now dying, Gene, the uncompromising judgmental conservative had become sympathetic to the idea that government could be guilty of bad behavior when Nixon, his hero, was proven to be a crook after all. After Watergate, his attitude toward his wayward son softened. 

And while there was no exact kumbaya moment for Lindy and his father, they came to a place of peace, holding hands during the last few hours of a life that was confessed to be full of regrets.