Viet Nam, the hippie movement, Roe v. Wade, inflation, OPEC crisis, Watergate . . . the perceived loss of America's innocence provides the national stage for Into the Second Springtime. Meet Wesley Gallagher, a precocious young man who is prone to making mischief and scheming shenanigans. You'll laugh at Wesley's perceptions of the world and fall in love with the strong and steady influences in his life. With stormy issues facing the nation, you'll cheer at the bright beacons of light guiding Wesley, quietly instilling values that create a healthy and substantial anchor in this tender coming-of-age novel. Written with unpretentious messages of charity, forgiveness, hope, humor, love and respect, you will cheer Hurrah! for America again.

Into the Second Springtime

By June Marie W. Saxton

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 June Marie W. Saxton
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-8271-4

Chapter One

The plum trees were blossoming and the fragrance turned my thoughts to Mother's home bottled plum syrup. We would enjoy the sticky good stuff throughout the fall and winter months.

Wyatt was lying on his back staring at puffy clouds. "Whatdya think about it, Wesley?" he asked, chewing on a stem of spring grass.

"Yuck, that's what." My brows furrowed and my lips pinched together, for the matter which Wyatt spoke of was not as pleasant as Mother's plum syrup. Oh no, nothing that good! We just spied our fifth grade teacher kissing the principal. That shouldn't have bothered us so much, I guess, but Miss Annelaise Gallagher was our aunt, and we were now afraid that trips to the principal's office would require us to stir uncomfortably before a new and unrequested uncle. It was quite a kiss if you know what I mean. Surely marriage must follow such a heartfelt puckering!

"Miss Aunt Lace is nuts if she goes for the old guy."

"Get used to the idea." Wyatt couldn't say Aunt Annelaise when he was a little boy, so he just called her Aunt Lace and it stuck. He couldn't break the habit when school started this year, and I'd spent the last eight months stuck in a classroom with a kid who raised his hand too often, saying, "Miss Aunt Lace." Even I had sense enough to call her Miss Gallagher in school. It didn't matter though. Wyatt was Miss Gallagher's pet, her little darling, her lamb. For some reason, I, Wesley, just couldn't measure up.

"Why do you think Mr. Mulligan was running his hands through her hair like that?"

"Shut up, Wyatt."

"You're in a bad mood."

"Do I look like an expert in French kissing or something?"

"Sick! Is that what you think was happening? They were acting all sweaty and breathless."

"Shut up, Wyatt."

Wyatt was quiet for a few minutes. He might have been sulking, I'm not really sure. I looked over at him. He was using his hands as a homemade telescope. I wondered what he was seeing so I fashioned my hands in the same manner and studied the sky with telescopic vision. Its kids' stuff, but technically I am a kid.

Wyatt grinned when he saw I was copying him. His eyes were electric blue. His skin was pale and freckled, and his hair was as red as Lady Scarlet's nightgown. Actually I have no idea what color Lady Scarlet's nightgown is—I don't even know Lady Scarlet—but my great grandpa uses that expression all the time and Wyatt likes to hear it.

Great Grandpa Kelly Sheehan O'Rourke is older than anybody I know. He said he is so old he was nearly young again. Great Grandpa Kelley Sheehan O'Rourke says life is like a calendar. Springtime is childhood, and during summer you're grown up. Autumn brings grandchildren thicker than apples on the tree, and then winter hits, and Jack Frost paints your hair white.

"Most people die once they turn white and brittle, but I've drug all the way through December, January, and February. I think there's indecision about my future status. God doesn't want me and the devil is afraid I'll take over, so I'm stepping along, heading for my second springtime."

I smiled, thinking about Grandpa. He said he used to be a big man but winter had shriveled him down to size. He wasn't much taller than Wyatt and me, and we enjoyed his company better than anybody's. "That's how I know I'm a going around again," he said. "I'm shortening up and my mind must be youngering, for only children seem to appreciate my company. Yes sir, it's official. I'm in my second springtime, and I plan on racing you boys into summer."

I wondered if youngering was a word. I couldn't find it in the dictionary and Miss Annelaise Gallagher, my French kissing, school teaching, bossy aunt said it wasn't, but Grandpa Greaty Great said something didn't have to be in the dictionary to exist. "Look up my name in the dictionary—will ye find it? Oh no," Grandpa said. "But I'm here—I exist, just as real as Santy Claus."

"Some grandpas are good, and some grandpas are great, but I'm so good I'm Greaty Great," he chanted at least once a day. Wyatt and I learned the ditty when we were very young and that's how Great Grandpa Kelly Sheehan O'Rourke became simply Grandpa Greaty Great. The phrase was shortened down over time, and so mostly he's just called Grandpa Greaty. Of course that sounds like Grady, and half the town now calls him Grandpa Grady O'Rourke.

That's the way things get changed. Grandpa Grady says names, words, tales, and truth gets watered down over time and with each interpretation. "Cold hard facts become liquid, boys, and as watered down as Mrs. Margaret Mahoney's pitiful oyster stew." I've never had oyster stew, but I have vowed to never eat any of Margaret's.

My thoughts were just a jumbled bunch of circles that afternoon. "Let's go fishing, Wyatt. I need to do something." Wyatt was game and scrambled to his feet. We dogged along the side of the highway on our way home.

Wyatt's dad is fighting in Viet Nam. It's kind of terrible when someone you love has gone to war. Wyatt cries sometimes, although he doesn't want anybody to know. Aunt Aubynn and the kids moved in with Grandpa and Grandma Gallagher. They used to live in San Diego, but Aunt Aubynn got so lonesome that Grandma told her to come home, and back to Gallagher Springs they came. We live right next door.

My Dad has three sisters, Aunt Aubynn, Aunt Aura Leigh and Aunt Annelaise. Aunt Aubynn is great—soft and kind and gentle. Aunt Aura Leigh is indifferent, and Aunt Annelaise is basically my nemesis! She's the youngest and my mother claims she's spoiled rotten. I always agree with my mother on that subject. It's kind of interesting living next door to family, at least that's what Mother says.

We threw our books in our respective houses and grabbed our poles and tackle. Wyatt had a brand new pole he got for his birthday. I was a little bit jealous of it. It was turquoise and little metallic bits of paint glimmered in the sunshine. I had an old white pole of Dad's and tried to comfort myself by telling my friends it was good for ice fishing. "It's camouflaged to the snow so the fish don't get suspicious," I boasted one day.

The afternoon was hot for early May in northern Utah. The myriad of natural hot springs warmed the climate of our town quite substantially. Gallagher Springs was founded by my great, great grandpa, Errol Gallagher, although all of my other great, great grandparents came to America when he did. Grandpa Grady's parents were with them. According to the old men who liked to talk, the whole Irish village of Inis Pairc packed up and sailed across the sea when Grandpa Grady's father was fifteen.

We pedaled our bikes up Gallagher Canyon. We passed interesting signs as we went. The first one said, "Welcome to Gallagher Springs, population 300." It was a very old sign, mounted just after the settlement was built. A historical marker was near the sign to entertain bored tourists who had nothing better to do. Gallagher Springs' population was now closer to eight hundred, not counting the summer people.

The next sign said, "Gallagher Springs boasts the largest number of red heads, per capita, than any other city in the United States." We kept pedaling until we saw the sign, "The end of the rainbow is officially here!" The last sign read, "Gallagher Springs, where shamrocks and sagebrush bring Irish...