THIRD WRITING PRIZE WINNER –
SUMMER 2021
is Jim Layeux
of Toronto, Ontario, CANADA
HURRAY FOR HERB
By Jim Layeux
‘I planted a cedar tree next to the old school in honor of your father,’ the email read.
The text was accompanied by a photo of a wooden marker protruding from a mound of freshly turned earth. The message had been posted by Herbert Kindle. Though my father had passed away several years earlier the gesture was kind. Herb knew my dad. They used to chat at the end of the driveway about everything from lawnmowers to earwigs to drainpipes. The bond they’d forged made the photograph special.
I recall coming home on holidays and hearing my father say,“ Herb stopped by and was asking for you.”
Herb and I were in the same class and baptized in the same church. Eight years later we entered our local high school. Around this point things get fuzzy.
‘PS…I’ll send updated photos as the tree grows.’
He wished me well and the message concluded.
As a youngster, Herb was competitive in all school sports. He was a keen participant in classroom debates and eager to please his teachers. As we matured this fact resonated more profoundly. By the time we were twenty, most of the old crowd had dispersed. I left home and moved downtown to seek employment. Only Herb remained behind.
He’d met a girl at the skating rink named Sherry. Following a lengthy courtship, they married and moved into the house his parents owned. Employed outdoors with a utility firm, Herb remained in touch with most of our parents. Sunday’s following service he’d hold forth on the church steps with older members of the community. Observers would have thought he was running for office.
Herb had no political ambitions he was just different. Sucking up to adults was as low as one could get – or so the rest of us thought. It soon became apparent Herb wasn’t exactly Mr. Popular at high school. We both played guitar despite our differing tastes in music. In the late 1960’s an aggressive form of blues-rock had captivated the hearts of young listeners. Herb’s preference was to pluck lilting notes on an acoustic guitar while eulogizing about trees, log cabins, and snowshoes. The hermit-minstrel persona made him even less popular. Meanwhile, the rest of us were listening to Cream or Hendrix and puffing joints behind the arena. We were doing precisely that when we encountered Herb one day. The arena bordered the woods and a trail. Herb emerged one afternoon sprouting a beard and carrying a wooden staff. He was accompanied by a pooch named Flowing Energy or Flo for short. We were in Grade 11 at the time.
To celebrate our final school year the rock group I played with was selected to perform at the upcoming dance. We were under-rehearsed and forgot words, but played loud and kept the crowd dancing. As an encore, we played ‘Back in the USSR’ by the Fab Four, which lasted fifteen minutes. Before the summer holidays, an assembly was held in the gymnasium. Herb was the featured performer for a thirty-minute set. Five minutes into his first song the audience was drifting. Three rows back Derek Bligh was snoring like a sawmill. By the midway point, most of the audience had fled to the lobby. Polite applause greeted each song until no one was left. Herb had his eyes closed and was oblivious to the fact. He emoted into the microphone of snowy mountaintops and how cliques don’t matter in the enormousness of eternity. The latter was the title of his second song.
In the lobby, Dick Danelli quipped sarcastically, “The Stones got nothing on Herb.”
Dick played bass in a psychedelic band and thought he was king shit. “Can anything be more numbing than a Herbie Kindle concert!” he persisted.
“Can anything be more boring?” muttered his groupie girlfriend.
Everyone laughed except Derek Bligh who was still snoozing in the gym.
On reflection, Herb was ahead of the curveball. Several years later young people were performing in a similar style. Guys grew beards and women wore long denim skirts. They crouched over acoustic guitars and sang about open spaces, healing, and wild strawberries.
Herb’s desire to become a performer gradually subsided. Devotion to his community never ebbed, however. If a neighbor needed help replacing eaves troughs he was there to assist. Being a skilled mechanic, Herb would bury his head beneath the hood of a car or crawl beneath it to aid an acquaintance.
Once a month dances were held at the local Legion Hall. Herb would attend and hang out with the vets and their wives. Glen Miller would stream from the jukebox, while Herb would swing with the ladies on the dance floor. His wife Sherry always attended and enjoyed herself immensely.
The rest of us wouldn’t be caught dead having fun.
Despite Herb’s reputation as a stellar athlete even the jock’s began to shun him. They never forgave the fact they had to endure his first song at the school assembly. Others resented his beard.
“Put Kindle on another line,” the captain pleaded with his coach.
When Herb reentered the locker room everyone got quiet.
His sister worked at a supermarket and married a Southeast-Asian gentleman named Vin. He served as Maitre D’ at an exclusive Thai restaurant downtown. Sharing the same family home, Vin found his brother-in-law abrasive and reluctant to embrace change. For his part, Herb resented his culinary concoctions at mealtimes. One evening both men were bickering over the merits of steamed rice and noodles. Herb was intent on making hamburgers. Vin pointed out the high cholesterol and carbs associated with such questionable fare. Herb shoved him aside and reclaimed the kitchen. With a background in martial arts, Vin assumed the stance and uttered a sharp cry. Herb tossed noodles at him and Vin attacked. When their spouses were finally able to pull them apart, Herb stormed from the house and went to MacDonald’s.
My father failed to mention Herb dropping by during one of my visits.
Puzzled by the omission I asked, “How’s Herb?”
“Don’t know? Haven’t seen him – hasn’t been at church neither?”
Curious about his whereabouts I drove by his place and noticed the driveway empty and the houselights extinguished. Someone would have mentioned if anything unfortunate had occurred. I wondered if Herb had tossed in the towel, and decided to forsake the kindness he’d extended toward the community. Who else would wander the old neighborhood, and inquire after folks, and take time to chat with them? Our generation wasn’t made of such stuff – Herb was the exception. We later learned his mom had passed away and the family went to stay with relations. When he returned things got back to normal.
One event which thrilled Herb to no end occurred twenty years after graduation. Our first high school reunion was slated to take place. Herb helped extend invitations from a list of over two hundred former students. Sadly, the word ‘deceased’ was written next to several names. He closed his eyes and recalled their faces.
More than ninety ex-pupils confirmed they’d be present. When the evening arrived most lived within driving distance. I attended the event and greeted Herb enthusiastically. Dick Danelli arrived accompanied by his pretty wife. He’d recently opened a pizza parlor.
“Still pluck guitar?” he asked Herb.
“Um…not too much.”
Dick looked relieved.
Carol Shelby made a stunning appearance and was still a ravaging creature. The guys used to gravitate to her like moths to a flame. Now she had a husband.
Herb encountered her in the lobby and froze.
“How’s things, Herbie?”
“Is it you Carol!”
“Well, it’s not Obi-Wan Kenobi.”
Throughout senior high Herb had an enormous crush on Carol. It wasn’t until after graduation when he’d met Sherry, he overcame his infatuation. When Sherry noticed her husband talking in an enraptured manner with the former heroine of his heart, she was curious. Herb trailed his high school queen into the gym, converted to a dance hall for the occasion. While Sherry stood off to one side, Herb led his companion onto the dance floor. After six minutes of boogieing to “American Pie’, the disc jockey played ‘He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother’. Herb embraced his dancing partner in the slow waltz. Meanwhile, Sherry caught sight of a tall man lurking by the gymnasium doors. He approached the pair and tapped Herb lightly on the shoulder. Herb ignored him and continued waltzing. The gentleman tapped again and Herb guided his reluctant partner further among the throng. On the third attempt, the tall man didn’t tap. As Herb turned around a fist landed on the end of his nose. Stretched along the dance floor, Sherry ran up and cradled him. Meantime, Carol gripped her fuming husband and whisked him from the gym and out the nearest exit.
Herb was assisted to his feet and Sherry guided him to a restroom to rinse the blood from his mustache. As he splashed water on his face, the door to one of the stalls opened and Haggis McPherson emerged. Proprietor of the only service station in the neighborhood, their frosty relationship stemmed from the fact Herb was repairing automobiles at no cost to locals. Naturally, Haggis resented him undermining his business.
“Quit robbing our livelihood Kindle!” the burly Scotsman stated in no uncertain terms. “You’d steal milk from a baby.”
“Take a hike…”
A fist landed on Herb’s kisser just beneath his battered nose.
He emerged from the washroom with his hand cupped over his face like a parrot’s beak. Sherry ran to his side and guided him out the front doors before someone else could deck him.
Needless to say, the reunion was a disaster.
Occasionally, I’m able to join Herb for morning coffee at Tim Horton’s in the old neighborhood. A crew of old-timers gathers daily to chat and reminisce. Local issues are debated and Herb provides commentary and antidotes. When a lull occurs the silence is transcendent. A calm settles over the tabletops and rests gently on the faces of those present.
Herb retains the family home and bought out his sister’s share. She and Vin purchased a condo and intend to retire there. A treaty exists between both males. It states neither shall enter the kitchen when the other party visits. Haggis McPherson has seen an increase in his auto-repair business and Dick Danelli opened a second pizza franchise.
Herb still shovels the walkways of the elderly neighbors in winter and cuts their grass in summer. His contributions in a lifetime of giving, are like the trees he plants next to churches and schoolyards in honor of departed community members.
I responded to Herb’s email.
‘ So grateful for the tree you planted on my father’s behalf. Somewhere he’s smiling.’
-30-
~By Jim Layeux
About the author:
I’ve composed and released self-penned songs. In addition, I’ve written one novel and roughly a dozen short stories.
