Speaker 1: High excursionists. It's way back Wednesday on Into the Night Anthology,
a return to a story that left its mark. And
if you're a library member, don't forget. There's another story
waiting just for you. Be sure to check your email
if you haven't found your way there yet, listen all
the way to the end to find out how you
can become a story in my library.
Speaker 2: Welcome to Into the Night. I'm Narri your guide on
today's excursion down a twisted path. Be careful not to
get lost. Be it dark or light, it's easy to
lose your way. Are you ready, then let's begin. My
best friend Roger. It's funny how time causes some memories
to fade while others are clear as yesterday. I can't
remember a thing I learned in algebra class, or the
name of our high school quarterback. I can't tell you
what the old neighbor on Filbury Street's name was. Heck,
I'd be hard pressed to tell you what I ate
for breakfast two days ago. But some memories are crisp
as an autumn morning. Roger Fenimore left a mark on me.
It seems like we were inseparable from the time we
were boys, where you saw one of us, you saw
the other. Our mammas were best friends, so it made
sense that we'd be instant companions, and we were. Roger
had a devilish grin and was funny that boy could
make a dog laugh, as the saying goes. He was
tall and lanky, could hit a baseball over the fence
by the time we were in junior high, and was
much better with the ladies than I was. We grew
up on a quiet street in upstate New York, far
from the bustle and crowds of New York City. Cosmopolitan
wasn't a word to describe our home town. There were
two banks, an ice cream parlor, a movie theater, two factories,
a bar, and about every denomination of Protestant church you
could name. We were Methodists. Just down the street from
us lived the Sullivans and the mc lardy's. Between the
two families, they had eleven boys and five girls. No
one dared ask one of the girls out. They were
strict Catholics and they went to private school. I'm not
sure who would have been more upset in those days
if a Methodist had married a Catholic, their families or ours.
That doesn't mean Roger and the rest of us didn't
notice how pretty they were in their sharp school girl outfits.
Our sisters were known a time or two to take
a long gander at the boys too, But that's not
the real reason I mentioned the neighborhood kids. There were
more important things than dating, at least when we were
much younger. We spent our evenings and summers playing baseball,
going fishing, and racing bikes. With so many kids on
the block, everyone had someone to play with nearly all
the time. Even Jimmy Perkins, who was an only child,
never had any reason to feel lonely. Our childhoods were
just about idyllic. Mamas always seemed to have cakes and
pies and cookies baking. Even when times were hard, no
one in our corner of the world went hungry. The
community pulled together and helped each other out. Back then,
each family raised a large garden, and every man I
knew could hunt and raise animals to feed his family.
Even in town, it wasn't uncommon for families to own
a few acres, so most of us raised chickens and
even a beef or two. While there were a lot
of kids to play with, Roger and I were always
a pair. I remember the time I caught the biggest
catfish I'd ever seen, and Roger just about tipped our
little john boat over its current trying to haul it
over the edge of the boat. One time I saved
him from being bitten by a sneaky cotton mouth. I
just happened to spy it before he stepped on the
log it was hiding beside. We always had each other's backs,
and we needed to because we got into some scrapes
we never told our mamas about. Some of those could
have killed one or both of us. Once we got
the crazy idea to explore a cave during a rainstorm,
the waters rose so fast we almost didn't get out.
In those days, kids went out and played and no
one felt the need to know where they were going.
If we'd drowned in that cave, no one would have
ever known what became of us. As bad as that was,
it didn't compare to what we saw during the war.
Back then, platoons were made up of boys from the
same hometown. Of course, all the boys on our block
signed up at the same time. We weren't going to
let the Japanese or the Germans get away with trying
to take over the world. It got our Yankee eyre up.
Some of us went into the Navy, and some of
us went into the army. Roger and I figured we'd
had our fill of nearly drowning, so we went with
the army. If trouble came along, we thought it would
be easier to walk to safety than to swim across
to foreign ocean. At the start of the war, we
believed we were invincible. Youth has a way of being
caught on fire by patriotism. Something about the uniforms, the
structure of boot camp, and the feeling of being needed
by our country caused us to hunger for battle in
our little town. We took the attack on Pearl Harbor personally.
Our second grade teacher, sweet Emily Watkins, lost her son there.
He'd called her no more than two days before the attack,
telling her he'd wished she was there to see the
beautiful beeches and enjoy a break from the harsh New
York winter we were having. We needed to avenge the
death of Joshua Watkins, and so we left, bright eyed
and seeking adventure. It felt like we saw every side
of the war there was in the next years. First
we went to the Pacific and then to Europe as
we tried to break Hitler's grasp and liberate millions. It
came at a heavy cost. Three of the Sullivans and
four of the McLardy boys died along the way. Some
were evaporated by mortar shells, but a few were held
in our arms in brutal jungle heat and frozen foxholes.
It never got easier watching our friends die. I don't
think it ever got better for most of us, even
in the years after the war. Some death stuck with
a person more than others. Tommy McLarty told me as
he lay dying that he'd always been sweet on my
sister Doris. He asked me if i'd let her know that. Then,
in the moonlight of a western front night, the light
left Tommy's eyes. Since that night, I've always wondered why
we let little differences like Catholic versus Protestant separate us.
I told Doris when I got back home, But it
was something Tommy should have felt comfortable telling her himself
in some movie theater or on a walk down by
the orchard. The sadness in her eyes told me, she
would have been happy to hear it from him. Finally,
after countless losses, the war ended, and we picked up
our broken lives and tried to piece together a good life.
We owed it to the ones who weren't so lucky.
Roger and I opened a business together, raised our families,
and spent many years living the American dream we fought
so hard for. We watched our own children and grandchildren
play baseball, go fishing, and find the magic of small
town adventures. It was a good life. But now, looking
out at the sun as it sols, I wonder whatever
happened to my best friend, Roger Fenmore. Do you happen
to know? Have you seen him around? The assisted care
nurse patted his arm. I think it's time I take
you back in. My shift ended fifteen minutes ago. Oh dear,
I'm sorry for keeping you. Thank you for listening to
me ramble on about long ago times. I don't mind
at all, but we do need to get inside. She
wheeled him through the automatic doors, where a young man
arriving for his shift met her at the door. James,
could you please return him to room three eighteen. Why yes,
I'll have you upstairs in time for dinner. I think
you'll like what we're having tonight. The two employees exchanged
a wink. James knew that he'd be hearing more stories
from the sweet old man named Roger Fenmore. Thank you
for joining me for this episode of the Into the
Night Anthology podcast. Written by Caroline Giamanco, narrated by Nari.
Theme music by Nico Rodriguez, all other original music, sound
design and editing by Ohmenhawk Studios. You can find our
links in the show notes. Into the Night is on
your favorite podcatcher, so make sure to like, subscribe and
leave a five star review to help other excursionists to
join us. I'll see you next time, and remember, whether
in the shadows or in the daylight, all twisted paths
lead you into the night. Into the Night Anthology is
a creative typo entertainment production you've been listening to way
back Wednesday from Into the Night Anthology. Library members already
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