Written 2024Mar17
Special thanks to my dear brother Tom, who is much better known than I am in Boise, thanks to the quarter century he spent as manager of the Esther Simplot Performing Arts Academy and as principle of the Boise Philharmonic’s viola section, to name but two of his longstanding civic involvements. He helped me improve the following narrative with context and backstory even though he has no memory of the actual event, which he attributes to his lack of fear and uncertainty at the time. It simply didn’t consolidate and imprint for him as it did for me. That was probably a good thing.
The day: nice weather, mid-afternoon, summer 1962 or perhaps ’63.
Tom would have been about 11; I was (and still am) 4-1/2 years older. We were riding Schwinn bicycles with low mileage on them, 10-speeds that Dad had given us simultaneously on Tom’s birthday. He gave us something we could do together with exertion, as brothers and buddies, expanding our sense of the space we lived in – from our neighborhood on the “second bench” south of the Boise River to the whole small-metropolitan area – while developing confidence in our ability to plan and execute excursions, and to improvise if the unexpected arose.
As I recall, we had whizzed down the hill from the old train station with the wind in our short hair, hugging the edge of the north-bound lane of Capital Boulevard. We were approaching the two-lane bridge that crossed the river back then. I was deciding whether to take up the whole northbound lane and risk holding up what light traffic there was, or to hug the curb and risk being side-swiped, while considering the safety of Tom riding right behind me. I settled on a third option, allowing myself to be magnetically attracted toward the greenery on the south bank of the river with half a dozen ducks bobbing on the water. We pulled off the road at a wide spot in the sandy shoulder to take in the beauty of the moment. We dismounted and cooled our heels.
I had been preoccupied in the previous moments, so when I turned, I was surprised to see a middle-aged man approaching with a slight limp. Perhaps he had emerged from behind a bush or a tree. His clothes were a bit disheveled, his hair uncombed, his complexion weathered. Something about his lips made me think of cigarettes. I was put off by him – the word “hobo” came to mind – but my better angel scowled inwardly at my quick prejudice; I did not know this guy at all, his history, his family, his highs, his lows. He could have been a writer, a musician, a scientist, the grandson of a duke, down on his luck.
Tom walked his bike up beside mine and the guy arrived, striking up a mostly one-way conversation.
“Where ya goin’?”
“Into town.”
“You live around here?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Brody. What’s your name?”
“I’m Tim; this is my brother Tom.”
“I just got into Boise yesterday, gettin’ my bearings, ya might say.”
These were “the old days” in Boise – population only about 50,000 – when common sense and curtesy were the norms, when atrocities like kidnap and murder were rarely heard of, not pounded into our heads from all over the state, the country, and the world, by the papers, radio reports and TV news. Tom and I were taught as youngsters to greet strangers with a welcoming friendliness, a smile as the default, while being mindful of the potential threat from the rare people of ill intent to whom we must not turn a blind eye. The guy moved a little closer to Tom.
I had a hunch to give Tom a twitch of my head as a signal to jump on his bike and follow me, fast. But the guy could have grabbed his bike and created a scene. Would anyone driving by have stopped to help us if needed? No cell phones back then. But after all, nothing bad and tangible had occurred … yet. I told myself not to over-react.
Meanwhile, Tom did not seem perturbed or threatened. He asked the guy, “Where did you come from?”
“Back East,” he said, pointing vaguely up the river in the direction of Lucky Peak Dam. “When I was your age, I was calling Ohio home.” A tired expression came over his face. “And then it was Indiana. And then Nebraska, and then … just the road.” He put his hand on Tom’s shoulder. Tom didn’t wince or shrug or anything. He and I exchanged glances, but nothing really happened. “Where did you say you boys live?”
I kept it vague, and I lied slightly, “We live real close around here. Our dad teaches at the college right over there,” pointing to the campus across the river. But I noticed that the guy was not looking at me; he was looking at Tom and slowly putting his hands loosely, gently, casually, around my brother’s neck. A shiver ran my spine, a visceral alert that swift action might be needed at any moment. But I wasn’t sure that a red line had been crossed. In my imagination I grabbed my bike, and without hesitation hoisted it clear up over my head and brought it crashing down on the man with all my strength. He was taller than Tom and would suffer the worst, especially with his hands out of position to defend himself. But I could not rule out a glancing blow, with Tom becoming the unintended victim. I struggled mightily to maintain my cool, and avoid escalating the situation. I said simply, “Tom, it’s time to go, Dad will be wondering where we are.”
I stepped slightly closer to the guy while adjusting my grip on the bike, fore and aft. He turned his eyes to me, and we stared at each other for a couple seconds as I felt him sizing me up, me with my dad’s most deadly-serious look. He slowly released his hands from Tom’s neck. I stifled a sigh of relief and repeated, “Tom, it’s time to go.” There was no traffic at that moment. We crossed on foot to the south-bound lane and soon we were pedaling up the hill toward the train station.
Over the intervening years between then and now, I have revisited that day in my mind, wondering if I was too naïve, too trusting. Did I put my brother’s safety in jeopardy, and perhaps my own, for no good reason? Would I teach my own kids differently nowadays, given the chance? Have the times in general become more hostile? Has a default attitude of friendliness become an obsolete approach when meeting strangers. Or did our parents, Jim and Charlotte Tompkins (RIP) get it just about right after all. Not giving up on optimism, but using experience-based imagination to make contingency plans for handling situations that might turn in unexpected directions.
Welcoming and watchful.