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May 16, 1999, was an exceptionally beautiful Sunday morning that started out with great promise. It was one of those rare Michigan days with full sun, low humidity and a prediction of a perfect temperature range between 70-75 degrees. The Michigan weather can be challenging, but the change of seasons remarkably wonderful. Michiganders fully appreciate days like this one. It just caused you to want to get outside and do something special to fully enjoy it. I thought a 50-minute drive to Lake Michigan or lunch at one of the unique restaurants along the shoreline would be fun. My husband, 11-year-old son and I were dressed and looking forward to a day together. At 10:00 A.M. the phone rang and it was my 36-year-old son, Ronnie, from Colorado. I could set my watch by his phone call every Sunday morning. He and his wife had twin boys that were weeks away from their third birthday and an older son, nearly seven. We discussed the home they were building "in God's country" as he always referred to the small town of Dolores. Ronnie was thrilled about the progress of the home's construction. After having the concrete poured for the foundation, he was so proud to announce to me that the concrete pad was "only 1/16th of an inch off" on the entire length of the house. He went on to share the many things he was working on as the general contractor for the house and gave me an update on his businesses as well. He always had so many irons in the fire that I often wondered how he kept it all together. Ronnie was like an energizer bunny that never wore down and didn't seem to need battery replacements; he made his own power. People would come into his stores to talk with him and be around his energy. They inevitably ended up buying something. During one of my visits I sat outside the main entrance of the convenience store just to count the number of customers he had in a 30-minute time frame. It was nonstop. Literally every three minutes or so another person would drive up and make a purchase. He just seemed to have the Midas touch with everything.
He had moved to southern Colorado about ten years earlier to share a business venture with his father. They were going to buy an old convenience/liquor store and make improvements to the structure while building up the business itself. When I first saw the old, dilapidated building I thought a strong wind could blow it over. The scant shelving inside held a few food products that you felt you wanted to check the expiration dates on before purchasing. The well-worn path in the floor tiles indicated the most direct way to get from the cold beverage coolers along the back wall to the cash register. It was quite apparent that liquid refreshments and a small package of assorted snacks were the biggest sellers for the existing store. The overall plan was that his dad, who lived in the area but worked elsewhere, would put up the money to buy the store and Ronnie would work it. When his dad was in town he agreed to help Ronnie, to give him a little break in the grueling schedule. By their projections, the business would be paid off in ten years and they would own it fifty/fifty. The reality was that what started out as a very small, decrepit convenience/liquor store was dramatically transformed. Over the next 10 years it developed into a brand new building three- to-four times larger that also included a popular pizza franchise, a snow mobile dealership, gas station, a separate building for tire purchases and storage, a snow plowing service and a crane service. All of these business ventures were situated close to the beautiful Dolores River and offered many recreational options to the residents of this small town as well as to the large number of hunting and fishing enthusiasts that came to this hunter's paradise on a regular yearly basis. Ronnie's charismatic personality combined with his work ethic and sales ability resulted in significant financial success in all of these endeavors. He had also opened the first tire store in the wealthy town of Telluride, 75 miles away. He always had a vision of what he wanted next to accomplish and lived life at a breakneck pace. To me he epitomized the quote from Yoda, the fictional character in George Lucas's Star Wars movie, "Do or do not ... there is no try." I tried to encourage him to slow down and enjoy the fruits of his labor but other than a few successful hunting expeditions to Alaska, he worked the stores nonstop. For music enthusiasts among you, the best way to grasp what this guy was all about was to know his preference in music. The group, AC/DC, and their songs, specifically, 'Highway to Hell', 'TNT' and 'High Voltage' best describe him. Of course, I must admit that he said the song that reminded him of me was also by AC/DC, 'She's got balls.' Often, he would take my breath away by his crude remarks about life and thought it quite hilarious. He was not being disrespectful, simply honest and funny. He decided that, in his line of work he could say just about anything he wanted to and get away with it and he did. When he would visit me in Michigan and we would run into someone from the school district he could put on the charm and act so refined in his manners and speech that they would immediately be won over. I used to shake my head later, remembering the chance encounter and think to myself, if you only knew him, really knew him you would be shocked. He was outrageous in so many ways, but serious about his family, his businesses and his responsibilities in life. Ronnie always said that he did not want to be old and infirmed when he died. He was quite serious when he would say that he wanted to die with his boots on. We both believed that every hair on our head was counted and that when your number was up it was up.
As a teenager he always had a job after school. My thought was to keep him busy and out of trouble. His thought was making money and making a deal. Work ethic was something bred into his DNA. Although his touch didn't turn things into gold, it did turn things into money. It was absolutely amazing. He would buy a car that looked like it was duct taped together, make minimal repairs and sell it within a month or so for a nice profit. He could sell, as they say, "bikinis to Eskimos" and then be thanked for the deal!
As I hung up the phone that Sunday morning I remember thinking that there was a palpable difference in him. What was going on? He was calm, gentle and at peace. His voice, softer than usual, combined with the slower rhythm of his speech was a stark difference to his usual fast no-nonsense delivery. Even the words he used seem to be more carefully chosen. I had never heard him sound like this before. It gave me pause and I had the strangest feeling. I flashed back to my office setting. For three consecutive days before this Sunday call as I would answer my office phone I would automatically glance at a picture I had framed of him a few inches away. I seemed compelled to look into his eyes in the picture and the thought just kept coming to me, 'Why are you so sad Ronnie?' I couldn't seem to stop the feelings I had that seemed to be emanating from his eyes in the picture. It seemed crazy. This was the same picture I had looked at for three years and yet over the last few days every time I glanced at it I felt engulfed by such an overwhelming feeling of sadness. As I hung up the phone from his Sunday morning call I just felt something was either dreadfully wrong or at least terribly different in my son's world. What could it be? The significant change in his demeanor that I heard and felt would be confirmed by one of his friends the next day.
Ronnie was a handsome man with light brown hair and a twinkle in his hazel eyes that usually meant he had just done something funny or was planning on it. At 6'2" and 190 pounds, he would walk into a room and with his raunchy sense of humor and one-liners would control it in mere seconds. He always seemed bigger than life not only to me but to most people who knew him. My extended family always referred to him as the "Marlboro Man." He was like a gift that had been purchased that you were trying to neatly place into a gift box and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't make it fit. He was just more of everything than anyone would have expected. Ronnie would take people's breath away with his comments. Watching their reactions, at first they would seemed puzzled, then slightly offended and would then break out in a hearty laugh at his audacious manner. For example, a very well known and impressive five-star general stopped at his convenience store one day on his drive into Telluride. He asked for something and Ronnie told him to wait a minute he was working with another customer. The general was obviously offended and said to Ronnie, "Do you know who I am?" Nonplussed, Ronnie simply responded, " Well, do you know who I am?" The general, at first taken aback by Ronnie's response, paused to consider it and then ended up breaking out in a big grin and laughed at the encounter.
Ronnie had a passion for hunting, especially big game and was pictured, posthumously, in the Fair Chase magazine published by the Boone and Crockett organization for the Dall sheep that he bagged in the Chugach Mountains of Alaska in 1998. The ram scores were 167-2/8 points. He was absolutely elated! He felt strongly about never wasting or simply killing an animal just for the sake of bragging about it later. He made it a practice to always eat the meat of whatever was killed. I remember opening his freezer once to defrost some meat for dinner. A package was clearly labeled, 'Bear heart.' How in the world do you prepare that, I wondered? I was a city person and this entire environment was challenging to me. I searched in the wild game recipe book for directions on how to cook the bear heart to no avail. My vision of bear meat was that it must be tough and would need to be cooked longer certainly than beef. Not so much! Needless to say that meal was not one of my finest but we ate it anyway.
My mother who loved him deeply said to me once, "I hope you live long enough to raise that child." I replied, "Oh, I will!" He was four years old at the time. As a young child he truly was an "opportunity." He could think of so many things to try — just for the excitement and the thrill of the unknown that I felt I had to be constantly aware and on guard to protect him. When he was five years old we were still living in Michigan and I woke up one Saturday morning about 8 A.M. He was gone! I started to panic. I called his name over and over — inside and outside the house — was he hiding, trying to be funny? I continued to call his name and received no response. Since we lived in a more rural area, there were very few homes nearby. I started to half run down the street to the closest one. Disregarding the hour, I impatiently knocked on the door of our closest neighbors. Yes, they said, Ronnie was there visiting! I apologized to them and on our walk home I asked him why in the world he left the house. Before he could answer I added, "At least you could have written a note!" He looked at me calmly and said, "Mom, I was going to write a note but then I remembered I didn't know how to write." I knew I could not let him get away with anything or it would open the floodgate for his next escapade. My response was simply, "Then you should have drawn me a picture with arrows or something!"
He had a force about him that made those who were faint of heart stop in their tracks. After my divorce from his father and subsequent remarriage we moved to the Denver area. Since we had lived in a much smaller town in Michigan and bus service was provided to the local public school, I was particularly concerned that he be aware and actually practice the rules of safety walking to and from his new elementary school. He was eight years old at the time and together we walked the route to and from school three times on Saturday before school was to begin on Monday. Each time as we crossed Federal Boulevard with the flashing pedestrian light, I pointed out the need to be watchful for oncoming traffic, even if you did have the indicator light to walk. Most importantly, I talked about the issue of stranger danger. I explained to him that this was a huge change for us and we needed to be very careful in this new environment. "Never accept a ride from anyone," I said repeatedly. This was the big city and abiding by the rules of safety was essential. On his first day of school (and my first day teaching in a new school system across the city) I received a call from the Denver Police Department. They had picked him up trying to hitchhike the eight or so blocks to our home. Why? I guess the thrill of the unknown for him was just too much to pass up. He was always willing to try something if it sounded like fun or felt like an adventure. I learned not to ask him why he did something after this experience since his answer was always one of two responses, "I don't know why," or "It sounded like fun."
We were living in the home we purchased in north Denver, next to the Gaslight Theatre. The theatre was in a large corner house that had been refurbished to include seating for 100. It had quite a following with season ticket holders enjoying a new play every two to three months. The owner/director/producer lived in the back of the main floor of the stately building. Theatre patrons entered by going down five steps to the walk-out level and during intermission, were served wine on the patio. It was quite elegant actually. The building was quaint and the setting picturesque with gorgeous rose gardens and a manicured lawn. The only way you would even know the house contained the theatre was a small, rectangular sign discreetly placed in the side yard. Paul, the director was an unusual character. He was a large man with a distinguished British accent that was made more impactful by his habit of enunciating every single syllable with great flair. He was rather aloof and his shock of expertly trimmed white hair indicated a man who was a perfectionist and took everything in life quite seriously. He carried himself with a confidence and dignity befitting a professional. He came to my door soon after we moved in and announced that the previous owners made sure the Alaskan Malamute was inside the house during the evenings the plays were scheduled. This was not presented as a request but more of a formal explanation as to the proper protocol he expected from his new neighbors. No problem, I thought, this was his livelihood and he seemed like a good, if eccentric person. The following spring he came to the front door again but this time asked to speak to Ronnie and me. He explained that he was going to produce a play entitled, Friends and Enemies, which was about a spoiled, rich child and a tutor who had been hired to help him with reading. The story line was that this obstreperous young boy did not see the importance of perfecting his reading skills since his father was rich and could buy anything he needed or wanted. The boy looked at the tutor with a mixture of pity and disdain. It basically consisted of two people in dialogue for one and one-half hours on stage. He wanted Ronnie to audition for the part. Really? This rambunctious boy who lived for football and other rough and tumble elements of life in a play? Refined theatre? I don't think so. Not to be dissuaded, Paul continued by saying that he would pay Ronnie for each performance. Ronnie having absolutely zero interest up to this point looked up at the director and simply said one word. Pay? I tried to explain to Paul that Ronnie had no stage experience and even less interest in pursuing it. Wouldn't he want a young child who absolutely lived to do this sort of thing? I must have been less than convincing because they had both decided by the end of the conversation that this would be a win-win. The deal was sealed. All I could think of was that this was going to be a wild and hairy ride! The next few months involved me helping, actually demanding, that Ronnie memorize his lines and Paul coming to the front door on two different occasions during a break he had called in the rehearsal. Obviously he was at the end of his rope. With raised voice and his white hair flying madly about, he would place his right hand on his heart, as if he was having a heart attack and would seek my immediate assistance with Ronnie's laissez- faire attitude during rehearsal. Eventually, I ended up actually sitting in the first row or two of the theatre, every evening, for the last two weeks of rehearsal. My physical presence being a reminder to Ronnie that he was not suppose to give the director his next line when rehearsing and to pay attention and use emotion in delivering his lines even if this was just a rehearsal. It just about drove Paul crazy. He was 60- plus-years old and his ability to memorize lines was evidently not as good as it used to be. Ronnie thought it was funny to give him his next word or line as Paul would pause momentarily to search his memory for it. Ronnie would watch his face get red as he yelled, "Stop doing that!" Ronnie would also deliver a line in a monotone or too quickly or too slowly, anything to get a rise out of this poor man. At times I thought if Paul makes it through this experience it will be a miracle. Often, before an evening performance, Ronnie would be watching cartoons or still be in his football uniform, with black marks under his eyes at 6:00 P.M. The eye black or smudge that the coach applied to the players seemed to be a symbol of significance and importance to Ronnie as a young player and he left it on frequently during the evenings until reminded to wash it off. As I would feel myself getting nervous about the impending performance I would encourage him to get washed up and dressed since he had to be at the theatre in less than an hour. Completing these tasks, he would saunter, and I do mean saunter, next door in his white pants and navy blue blazer with the gold insignia on the pocket, totally unruffled to arrive just 20 minutes before the play was to start. Every Thursday through Sunday for 32 performances his delivery was perfect. There was never a misstep. He never reviewed his lines or became nervous or uptight before the play would begin. He was so nonchalant about the whole thing that I couldn't believe it. I was beside myself with worry, through each performance. This was a big deal. People paid good money to be entertained. The director's reputation was at stake. But Ronnie never disappointed them. I would go out and sit on my front porch about five minutes before the play was over each evening just waiting and praying that everything turned out all right. I would finally take a deep breath when I heard resounding applause coming from the small theatre. I would give a great sigh of relief and think, Thank God, one more down. At the end of the run the play was judged a huge success and significant accolades were thrown Ronnie's way by the theatre critic for the Denver Post. The extensive review written in the paper mentioned that the young boy (Ronnie) had quite a theatre career ahead of him. Immediately following the last night of the play, a major theatre company in Denver called and asked him to audition for Huckleberry Finn. I couldn't imagine that he would want to do it. We discussed it thoroughly and decided that neither of us wanted to go through this torture again. I called the theatre company back the next day and politely declined. With his earnings from the play he bought a new five-speed bike and put the rest of the money in the bank. At eight-years old he had made quite an impact in the theatre world. I don't believe Paul ever produced another play with a child in it.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Just Behind the Door by Mary Leiker Copyright © 2012 by Mary Leiker. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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