Her arms dropped to her sides. “What makes them whack jobs?”
“Well, they always described themselves as hippies. New-age disciples. Free thinkers. Intelligent and experimental and artistic. They’re from that dropout generation. And Deadheads.”
“As in, the Grateful Dead?”
“Exactly. Just a little more complex.”
She dropped down to the ground like a child fascinated by a bedtime story filled with adventure and excitement. She circled her knees with her arms. He’d seen this before. It was kind of fun, as a matter of fact.
“Where are they now?” she asked.
“Living on my grandfather’s farm in Iowa. My grandfather passed away quite a while ago and my grandmother, just a few years ago.”
“Are they still whack jobs?” she asked.
“Oh yeah,” he said, working his spade again. “Or maybe it’s more kind to say they’re eccentric. My mother doesn’t hear voices or anything.” Then he smiled. “But my dad is another story. My father fancies himself a new age thinker. He’s incredibly smart. And he regularly gets...um...messages.”
“Oh, this is fascinating,” she said. “What kind of messages?”
“Come on, nosy. How about you? Are you the oldest in the family?”
“The only. My parents divorced when I was six. My mother lives in Golden with my stepfather. What kind of messages?”
“Well, let’s see...there have been so many. One of the most memorable was when my father believed space aliens were living among us and systematically killing us off by putting chemicals in our food. That was a very bad couple of years for meals.”
“Wow.”
“It definitely hits the wow factor. They—we—were gypsies with no Romany heritage and my parents glommed on to a lot of bizarre beliefs that came and went.”
“And this has to do with Jerry Garcia how?”
“He appealed to their freedom factor—no rules, no being bound by traditional ideas or values, crusaders of antisocial thinking, protesting the status quo. They were also very fond of Timothy Leary and Aldous Huxley. My father favors dystopian literature like Brave New World. My mother, on the other hand, is a very sweet lady who adores him, agrees with everything he says, likes to paint and weave and is really a brilliant but misguided soul. She usually homeschooled us since we were wanderers.” He took a breath and dug around a little bit. “My father is undiagnosed schizophrenic. Mild. Functional. And my mother is his enabler and codependent.”
“It sounds so interesting,” she said, kind of agog. “And you’re an only child, too?”
He shook his head. “The oldest of four. Two boys, two girls.”
“Where’s the rest of the family?” she asked.
“Here and there,” he told her. “My youngest sister was on the farm with my parents last I checked. There’s a sister back East living a very conventional life with a nice, normal husband and two very proper children. My brother is in the military. Army. He’s an infantry major. That’s taken years off my mother’s life, I’m sure.”
She laughed and it was a bright, musical sound. “You are no ordinary camper! What are you doing here?”
He leaned on the spade. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Looking after Sully,” she said.
“Oh, but that’s not all,” he said. “Neurosurgeons don’t just take weeks off when duty calls.”
“True. Not weeks off, anyway. I was already here for a vacation. My practice in Denver shut down because two of my former partners are not only being sued but being investigated by the attorney general for fraud and malpractice. I am not being indicted. I had no knowledge of their situation. But I can’t float a practice alone.”
“Well, they always described themselves as hippies. New-age disciples. Free thinkers. Intelligent and experimental and artistic. They’re from that dropout generation. And Deadheads.”
“As in, the Grateful Dead?”
“Exactly. Just a little more complex.”
She dropped down to the ground like a child fascinated by a bedtime story filled with adventure and excitement. She circled her knees with her arms. He’d seen this before. It was kind of fun, as a matter of fact.
“Where are they now?” she asked.
“Living on my grandfather’s farm in Iowa. My grandfather passed away quite a while ago and my grandmother, just a few years ago.”
“Are they still whack jobs?” she asked.
“Oh yeah,” he said, working his spade again. “Or maybe it’s more kind to say they’re eccentric. My mother doesn’t hear voices or anything.” Then he smiled. “But my dad is another story. My father fancies himself a new age thinker. He’s incredibly smart. And he regularly gets...um...messages.”
“Oh, this is fascinating,” she said. “What kind of messages?”
“Come on, nosy. How about you? Are you the oldest in the family?”
“The only. My parents divorced when I was six. My mother lives in Golden with my stepfather. What kind of messages?”
“Well, let’s see...there have been so many. One of the most memorable was when my father believed space aliens were living among us and systematically killing us off by putting chemicals in our food. That was a very bad couple of years for meals.”
“Wow.”
“It definitely hits the wow factor. They—we—were gypsies with no Romany heritage and my parents glommed on to a lot of bizarre beliefs that came and went.”
“And this has to do with Jerry Garcia how?”
“He appealed to their freedom factor—no rules, no being bound by traditional ideas or values, crusaders of antisocial thinking, protesting the status quo. They were also very fond of Timothy Leary and Aldous Huxley. My father favors dystopian literature like Brave New World. My mother, on the other hand, is a very sweet lady who adores him, agrees with everything he says, likes to paint and weave and is really a brilliant but misguided soul. She usually homeschooled us since we were wanderers.” He took a breath and dug around a little bit. “My father is undiagnosed schizophrenic. Mild. Functional. And my mother is his enabler and codependent.”
“It sounds so interesting,” she said, kind of agog. “And you’re an only child, too?”
He shook his head. “The oldest of four. Two boys, two girls.”
“Where’s the rest of the family?” she asked.
“Here and there,” he told her. “My youngest sister was on the farm with my parents last I checked. There’s a sister back East living a very conventional life with a nice, normal husband and two very proper children. My brother is in the military. Army. He’s an infantry major. That’s taken years off my mother’s life, I’m sure.”
She laughed and it was a bright, musical sound. “You are no ordinary camper! What are you doing here?”
He leaned on the spade. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Looking after Sully,” she said.
“Oh, but that’s not all,” he said. “Neurosurgeons don’t just take weeks off when duty calls.”
“True. Not weeks off, anyway. I was already here for a vacation. My practice in Denver shut down because two of my former partners are not only being sued but being investigated by the attorney general for fraud and malpractice. I am not being indicted. I had no knowledge of their situation. But I can’t float a practice alone.”
