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The Measure of a Man
The
past several years, I’ve posted a Father’s Day story in honor of the special
men in my life. Sticking with tradition, “The Measure of a Man” features not
one, but two, Bob-White fathers. Join us now as we peek back into the college
years of Win Frayne and Matt Wheeler, and then be prepared to fast-forward
several years to see how the past influenced the future. “The
Measure of a Man” is dedicated to Kari. I don’t know if you’re still reading
fan fiction, sweetie, but if you’re out there, this one’s for you!
Sixteen years before The Secret of the
Mansion… Win Frayne
meticulously folded his favorite flannel shirt and then laid it on top of the
neat pile of clothes already in his suitcase. He was so engrossed with the
task at hand that he failed to hear his best friend’s approach. “I hate to tell
you this, Win, but the Boy Scouts aren’t outside handing out badges for the
guy with the neatest bag,” Matt Wheeler teased, a devilish glimmer in his
deep aquamarine eyes. “You never know,”
Win countered. Matt snorted. “I seriously
doubt the dean’s going to keep you here over the weekend because you forgot
to properly fold your underwear in half.” “I assume you’re
already packed and ready to go,” Win commented. He smirked over at his
friend, who was without a doubt the more carefree one of the pair. “Of course.” Matt
sat on his friend’s twin-size bed. “It took a whole five minutes, most likely
a new Matthew Wheeler record.” “Well, don’t come crying to me
when all your clothes are wrinkled when you unpack them,” Win scolded
lightly. Matt shrugged his
broad shoulders. “That what irons are for.” “Do you even know
how to use an iron?” Win inquired, one ginger brow quirked skeptically. Matt grinned like
the cat that had just eaten the proverbial canary. “No, but that’s what mothers are for. Or in my case, housekeepers.” Win tossed back
his head and chuckled heartily. “You’re not gonna
win any favor from the feminists, my friend.” “True,” Matt
agreed with a chuckle of his own. “It’s a good thing that I’m so charming and
good-looking that I can win over everyone else. And according to my
grandfather, winning over the majority is the key to success.” Although the
exchange was lighthearted, Win sensed a serious undertone. In spite of how
his friend claimed to be out for himself, Win realized it was a farce. The rest
of the world may have bought Matt’s cutthroat persona, but Win knew the real Matthew Wheeler, the Matthew
Wheeler who was caring, compassionate, and considered others above himself.
Although the Wheelers were wealthy, they were by no means rich. However,
Matt’s family was powerful. His
mother and father loved their son fiercely, and had groomed him for
greatness. Completely devoted to his parents, Matt was determined to succeed.
If Win knew his friend as well as he thought he did, he knew that success wouldn’t
come at any cost. Somewhere along the way, Matt had missed the “go for the
jugular” mentality the rest of his family possessed. Win just prayed that
Matt would be strong enough to rise above his family’s influence and become
the man he was meant to be. The man,
Win knew, that Matt truly wanted to be. “You’re destined to be highly
successful in life, my friend,” Win said quietly. “I only hope that you’ll be
satisfied with the road you’ve chosen.” Win closed his suitcase, and then
walked over to Matt and thumped his back affectionately. Sensing it was time
to change the subject, Win steered the topic of their conversation in a more
lighthearted direction. “So, how’re you spending your holiday weekend?” “Dad and I are going fishing,”
Matt told him. “That sounds like fun.” Matt nodded. “Yeah, some of my
best memories are on that lake. Dad and I have really bonded there through
the years. How ‘bout you?” “Well, I’m making a slight
detour so I can visit Uncle James and Aunt Nell. I’m going to spend the night
with them, and then I’ll head to Gloversville on Friday,” Win explained. “Do you have any plans after
you get home?” “Mom has a list of chores
waiting for me,” Win said. “Since Dad died, the garage has become so
cluttered that she can barely squeeze the old Buick into it. Of course,
that’ll have to wait until Saturday, because I have big plans for tomorrow
afternoon.” “Since Katie’s going home to
White Plains, I’m assuming your ‘big plans’ don’t include a hot date,” Matt
remarked. Win shook his head, a boyish
lopsided grin parting his lips. “Unfortunately not.” “Don’t tell me you’re
volunteering at the soup kitchen again?” Matt’s voice hinted at his
exasperation. “No, that was last month,” Win
corrected. “The Salvation Army?” Win shook his head. “No, I’m
not scheduled to go back there until after Thanksgiving.” “All right,” Matt proclaimed,
lifting his palms in surrender. “What charity are you volunteering at?” “A children’s home.” “A children’s home?” Matt
repeated incredulously. “Will there be children there?” “I’m not an expert on the
subject, but from what I understand, a ‘children’s home’ does usually house
children,” Win replied in his most smart-aleck tone. “Ha-ha, that was hilarious,”
Matt responded sarcastically. “Don’t tell me. You’ll be wowing the kids with
your comedy act, right?” “For your information, I’m hoping the nun in
charge of the orphanage will allow me to teach the kids a nature class over
summer break.” “Are you kidding?” Matt
snorted in disbelief. “You’d give up your summer break to teach a bunch of
snotty-nosed munchkins the difference between an oak leaf and a pinecone?” “Actually, I thought we’d
start with something more basic…such as, what
poison ivy looks like and how to
avoid it,” Win argued good-naturedly. “But if they catch on quickly, I have
my leaf samples all ready to go.” He cast his friend a sidelong glance. “Wanna tag along?” Matt wasted little time
considering the offer. “Thanks, but no thanks. I like fish a lot better than
kids.” “I thought you liked
children,” Win remarked. “Oh, I do.” Matt grinned. “I
just happen to like them a lot better at a distance.” “Don’t you want kids of your
own someday?” Matt’s expression grew
sentimental. “Well, maybe one. But not in the immediate future.” “Don’t tell me,” Win said. “You
want a strapping, young lad to carry on the proud Wheeler line.” “Actually,” Matt began, “I’ve
always wanted a daughter— a dainty, little girl that could wrap me around her
little finger with one bat of her huge eyes.” He cleared his throat
nervously, eager to shift the attention off himself. “I’ll bet you want a whole houseful.” “Yeah, that’s what Katie and I
have planned,” Win affirmed. “What if you only get one?” Win chuckled. “Well, if Katie
has her way, we’ll get a freckled redhead who’s the spitting image of his
father. Of course, I wouldn’t mind a little girl that looks just like her
mama, but I admit that I would like a son to carry on the Frayne legacy.” “Think your son’ll be a Boy Scout like his old man?” Matt asked
teasingly. “If I do my job right, he
will,” Win countered with a laugh. “Frayne, without a doubt, you’re the biggest
do-gooder on the whole planet,” Matt commented with a shake of his head.
“You’re going to win the Nobel Peace Prize before you’re thirty.” Win made a face. It appeared
he was uncomfortable with his friend’s praise. “I’m not finding the cure for
cancer, Matt. I just want to do my part to make the world a better place.” “And you think you can do that
by teaching orphans the difference between a pine needle and an oak leaf?” “Well, it sounds like a good
place to start,” Win said. “And teaching a nature course isn’t nearly enough.
These kids need a lot more than just a few hours every Saturday.” Matt studied his friend
closely. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a strange guy?” “Only once or twice,” Win
answered with a wink. “However, in my
opinion, a guy’s strange if he doesn’t
want to help the people who need it the most.” Matt’s conscience burned,
something that happened almost every time he spoke with his honorable friend.
“So, what does Katie think about this?” “She’s all for it,” Win
replied, surprised that Matt even had to ask. “Of course she is.” Matt’s
comment held no sarcasm. As much as he hated to admit it, the tenderhearted,
generous Katje Vanderheiden was the perfect match
for the civic-minded, honorable Winthrop Frayne. “It doesn’t surprise me a
bit that Katie supports you. However, since you two are connected at the hip,
I’m shocked that she’s willing to spend the summer away from you.” “Actually, she wants to
volunteer at the orphanage, too,” Win told him. “She loves working with kids.
In fact, we’ve talked about starting a school for needy children someday.” Matt shook his head in
disbelief. “You and Katie never fail to amaze me. Sometimes I think God just
sent you to be my roommate to make me look bad.” “Maybe He sent me here to talk
some sense into you,” Win joked. “Maybe you’re right,” Matt
said in a voice barely audible. “So, do you want me to sign
you up?” “Sign me up for what?” Matt
inquired. “Why, to join the staff of our
school, of course!” “Are you serious?” Matt
snorted. “Have you given up your Boy Scout lifestyle and taken up smoking
crack?” “Why do you sound so
surprised?” Win asked with a shrug. “I think you’d be good addition to the
staff.” “You have started smoking crack,” Matt stated. “Hey, I’m being serious,” Win
argued. “Kids like you, Matt, and they’re a good judge of character. I’ve
seen how they gather around you at the park. Why, I’ll bet someday you have a
whole crowd of teenagers who’re always hanging around your house.” “Great, something to look
forward to,” Matt responded wryly. “Someday you won’t be nearly
so cynical,” Win said, chuckling at his friend’s horrified expression. “When
you’re older and wiser, you’ll see things differently.” Matt quirked a skeptical brow.
“Is that so?” Win nodded. “God has big plans
for you, my friend. If you’ll yield to Him, He’ll use you in ways you never
imagined.” He paused as he cocked his head pensively. “He might even use you
to help start my school.” “Yeah, who knows,” Matt
mumbled. He shifted, uncomfortable by the direction this conversation had
taken. “Maybe after I’ve struck it rich, I’ll be able to back you
financially.” “Maybe.” With a close-lipped
smile, Win turned to the shelf that neatly housed his textbooks. “Guess I’d
better pack a few of these in case the nuns ask me to start immediately.” Matt stood silently for
several moments as he watched his friend gather the materials he’d need for
his class. Finally, the question niggling at his mind had to be asked. “Win?” “Yeah?” “Why do spend so much time
helping people?” Win turned around, his emerald
green eyes wide with surprise. “Do you really want to know?” “I do.” “I once heard someone say that
the measure of a man is his family,” Win explained. “I don’t want my own
father not to measure up because of me. And when I have a son, I only hope that I can show him what’s truly
important in this life, as Dad taught me. After all, my son will measure me
someday.” Matt nodded mutely. Although he
didn’t speak, he would remember Win’s words for the rest of his life.
On Friday
afternoon Win arrived at the orphanage. The large, open room in which he sat
smelled vaguely of Play-Dough and peanut butter, an odd combination which he found
surprisingly soothing. Several children played in the area around him, and
more than once, Win had to pry his briefcase away from sticky fingers. He
chuckled ruefully as he noted the tiny fingerprints covering the brown
leather satchel. Almost instantaneously,
the children ceased their playing. The very same boys and girls who had been
whooping and hollering only minutes before now stood in silence, their backs
ramrod straight. They marched out of the room in a single file line,
reminding Win of miniature soldiers. He had just opened his mouth to ask
where they’d received their military training when he saw a tall, thin nun
standing in the doorway. She looked down her nose at the children as they
filed past her. If her icy glare wasn’t threatening enough, she held a rod in
her right hand, and every so often would smack it against her left palm. Once she and Win were the
room’s only occupants, she strode purposely to her visitor. Win observed her
perfect posture, noting this must have been the person who’d trained the
troops. Here comes the
drill sergeant, Win thought to himself with a grin. Now that the children
were gone, he expected the nun to smile in greeting, or at least remove the
stern frown from her face. Much to his surprise, the grimace remained, as if
it had been set in concrete. He found himself almost quaking in his shoes as
the nun approached him. “Mr. Frayne?” she inquired briskly. Win instinctively
gulped as he felt the pressure of the nun’s intense scrutiny. “That’s me,” he
said as cheerfully as possible. Any pretense of joy screeched to a halting
stop as the woman’s disapproving gaze bore into him. Her dull gray eyes
reminded him of a magic measuring stick, and Win was positive he didn’t come
close to meeting her rigid expectations. He had to fight the urge to squirm. The nun studied
Win disapprovingly through the bifocals perched at the end of her nose. “I
assume you’re the young man who wishes to enlighten our residents this
summer.” “I’m prepared to
do my best.” Win cleared his throat nervously. “By the way, you can call me
Win.” “As an example to
the children, I’ll refer to you as Mr. Frayne,” the nun replied, almost
uncaringly. “My name is Sister Mary Agnes.” Win smiled
politely. “A pleasure to meet you.” Sister Mary Agnes didn’t respond, only
making Win more apprehensive. “When we spoke on the phone,”
he continued anxiously, “you mentioned that you wanted to interview me before
you made a decision. Do you want to do that here, or did you have somewhere
else in mind?” The stern-looking
nun pulled a watch from her pocket and looked at the time. “You’re twenty
minutes early, young man. As much as I commend you for your punctuality, we
do have a schedule to keep. My duties as administrator require my attention
until “Yes, ma’am,” Win
answered. Strangely, he felt like a little boy who’d just been forced to sit
in the corner wearing a dunce cap. “I hope you’re
prayed up, Mr. Frayne,” the nun warned with a shake of her long index finger.
“These children are surely the spawn of Lucifer himself, and I have serious
doubts that an inexperienced teacher such as yourself
will be able to give them the rigorous instruction they need. However, I plan
to keep an open mind until after our interview.” With that, the nun turned on
her heel and marched away. “Thanks,” Win mumbled as she
left. He exhaled slowly, relieved to be free from the intimidating presence. With nothing else to do, he
walked over to the seating area and sat down on a threadbare couch. The lumpy
sofa proved to be as uncomfortable as it looked, and Win struggled to find a
spot where he wasn’t being jabbed by a spring or sinking to the floor. After
a lot of wiggling, he finally found a position that wasn’t torturous. Suddenly, a small head wearing
a cowboy hat poked up from behind the couch. “Is she gone yet?” Startled by the unexpected
voice, Win jumped several inches into the air. When he landed, he leaned back
and clutched his racing heart. “Where did you come from?” he panted. “From behind the couch,” a
little boy answered in a stage whisper. “This is my hidin’
spot.” Win struggled to keep a
straight face. “Who exactly are you hiding from?” “Ol’
Hatchet Face.” The boy’s eyes nervously darted around the room. “Did she
leave?” “Who’s ‘Ol’
Hatchet Face’?” The boy rolled his eyes. “Jeesh! You don’t know nothin’. Ol’ Hatchet
Face is what I call Sister Mary Agnes.” Win had to cough to keep from
laughing. He did his best to muster a stern expression. “That’s not a very
nice thing to call a nun.” The little boy appeared much
older as he studied Win with great skepticism. “Have you ever met Sister Mary Agnes?” “Briefly.” “Did ya
like her much?” Win decided to change the
subject. “Why’re you hiding back there? Don’t you
have schoolwork to do?” “Guess so,” the boy replied
with a shrug. “Well then, shouldn’t you be
in class with the rest of the boys and girls?” “I s’pose.” It was Win’s turn to look
skeptical. “Won’t your teacher realize you’re missing?” “She’s usedta
me skippin’,” the boy answered matter-of-factly. “I
do it all the time.” “Why would you do that?” The little boy sighed wearily.
“All we ever do is work, work, work. Why, I’ve been writin’ so much that my poor little fingers is nearly broked clean off!” With a petulant pout, he held up his
stubby fingers as proof. Although the aforementioned
digits appeared to be in fine working order, Win carefully examined them for
any sign of damage. “Hmm… They look fine to me.” “Well, they may look fine, but I wouldn’t be surprised
if I catched the gangrene.” The boy’s eyes were
wide with the severity of his situation, and he was so earnest that he almost
convinced Win that he should be taken to the infirmary. “Surely you don’t work all the time,” Win said. “I saw
children playing when I arrived.” “You jus’ happened to come durin’ our afternoon break,” the boy explained. “We only
get fifteen minutes to play, an’ that’s only cuz
it’s a law or somethin’.” He leaned closer to Win
and whispered, “Ol’ Hatchet Face is a real slave
driver. She’d work us forever an’ ever if she was allowed.” Win studied the young lad
through narrowed eyes, not knowing whether to believe him or not. “So, can I come out now?” the
boy asked. “I’m all smooshed up back here.” “Well, if you’re asking if
Sister Mary Agnes is here, she isn’t,” Win answered cryptically. He wasn’t
about to give this truant student permission to skip class. With a sigh of relief, the
little boy wiggled out from behind the couch. He carefully adjusted his
cowboy hat with one hand as he held a stick horse in the other. In spite of the fact that Win
knew he should shoo the boy back to class, he couldn’t keep from watching the
little imp’s antics. His eyes sparkled with amusement as he examined the
miniature broncobuster strut around, pretending to lead his faithful steed
behind him. Win couldn’t help but remember
the nun’s earlier warning. While she had tried to portray the children here
as little devils, Win had known better. Just as he’d suspected, the sister’s
description of the orphanage’s residents had little merit. The cowboy’s head
wasn’t spinning, and ectoplasm wasn’t shooting from his mouth as he levitated
off the ground. He’s just an ordinary,
little boy, Win thought to himself with a smug smile. Mischievous, perhaps, but that’s to be
expected… The black cowboy hat the child
wore was too large for his head, so the little boy had to keep pushing it
back so he could see. Although most of his features were hidden, several
freckles were speckled across his cheeks. He wore a red and white checked
shirt, and his patched blue jeans were too short for his spindly legs. Even
though his scuffed cowboy boots had seen better days, they put a swagger in
the boy’s step. “What’s your name, cowboy?”
Win asked. “Roy,” the little boy answered
without skipping a beat. “What’s yours, mister?” “Win. So, how old are you,
Roy?” Roy’s freckled nose wrinkled.
“Why do growing-ups always wanna know how many
years we kids are?” “Well, Roy, as ‘growing-ups’,
it’s our job to find out things like that,” Win teased, his voice solemn. “So, if I don’t tell you how
old I am, ya might get fired, huh?” Unable to lie, Win merely
shrugged. “I’m six,” Roy answered
helpfully. Win stifled a grin as he
noticed that Roy held up seven, not six, chubby fingers to provide a visual. “How many are you, mister?”
the little boy asked. “I’m twenty-two,” Win told
him. “Whew,” Roy whistled under his
breath. “That’s a lotta fingers.” “It sure is.” Win tipped his
head in the direction of Roy’s stick horse. “What’s your friend’s name?” “This is my horse, Trigger,”
Roy said quite proudly. “Ain’t he a dandy?” “He sure is.” Win reached out
a hand to pet Trigger, who was actually a ragged tan shirt, sewn and stuffed
so that it vaguely resembled a horse’s head. Trigger’s mane consisted of a
few patches of yellow yarn, and two big black buttons served as eyes.
Although the horse was in all actuality a rather sorry-looking steed, his
owner looked proud as punch to claim him as his own. For that reason alone,
Win deemed Trigger more valuable than the most recent winner of the Kentucky
Derby. “Why, I don’t think I’ve ever
seen a finer animal,” Win bragged. “You’re a lucky boy to own such a horse.” “I sure am!” Roy
agreed enthusiastically. “I had another horse before Trigger. His name was
Silver, but his head kept fallin’ off.” He leaned
closer to Win and added in a conspiratorial tone, “We hadta
put him down. Can’t have him sufferin’, ya know.” Win mustered a
sympathetic expression appropriate for such a tragedy. “I’m sorry to hear
that.” “Well, these
things happen,” Roy said with the maturity of a boy twice his age. “Yes, they do,”
Win murmured. “That’s why it’s always wise to take care of our animals.” “Yes, sir!” Roy
agreed, bobbing his head up and down. “I always tell the boys ‘round here
that they gotta treat their horses good. You gotta ride ‘em ev’ry day, and you also gotta take their saddles off and brush ‘em before you do anything else.” Win smiled.
“That’s right! It sounds like you have the makings of a fine equestrian,
young man.” “Yeah, I’m gonna be a cowboy someday. Jus’ wait an’ see.” “It’s hard work being a cowboy,” Win warned. “That’s okay with
me,” Roy said, shrugging. “I’m gonna round up
doggies all day, sleep out under the stars, an’ watch out for any Indians lookin’ for a fresh scalp.” Win forced
himself not to grin. “I doubt you’ll have to worry about being scalped by the
Native Americans.” “Who’s the
‘Native ‘Mericans’?” Roy inquired curiously. “That’s the
proper way to refer to Indians now,” Win explained. “And just so you know,
they don’t scalp people anymore. They’re pretty much like you and me.” “Oh.” Roy looked
truly disappointed not only by the name change, but also by the fact that he
was no longer in danger of losing the skin on top of his head. Noticing the
boy’s disappointed frown, Win added, “However, some Native Americans live on
reservations and continue the old traditions.” Roy brightened
slightly. “Hey, mebbe one of them’ll
try an’ scalp me.” “Maybe,” Win
encouraged, the corners of his lips twitching. “The Indians
‘round here’ll scalp ya,”
Roy proclaimed, his eyes wide. “Why, me an’ some other cowboys
jus’ barely got away from a tribe on the warpath the other day. They was whoopin’ an’ hollerin’ somethin’ fierce as they chased us. Well, at least until
Sister Mary Agnes started yellin’ at us to quit.
Some of the dumb girls here thought we was act’lly gonna get scalped, an’ they started bawlin’.”
Roy rolled his eyes in an exaggerated fashion to show his frustration. Once again, Win
found himself biting back a chortle. “Someday, you’ll come to appreciate
women and all their mysterious ways.” “Blech!” Roy scrunched up his freckled nose in disgust. “I
think I’ll jus’ stick with horses, mister.” “Believe it or
not,” Win began, “as wonderful as horses are, the fairer sex surpasses their
charm by far.” One side of Roy’s
mouth turned upward as he tried to make sense of what Win had said. “Huh?” “In some ways,
girls are better than horses,” Win interpreted. “Nuh-uh.” “Uh-huh.” “Like how?” Roy
challenged. “For starters,
ladies smell a lot better than horses.” After a brief pause, Win tacked on a
tentative, “Well, usually.” Roy snorted. “One
day someone bringed a horse to the orphanage for us
kids to ride. The man let me help put the saddle on, an’ when I did, I
smelled that ol’ horse real good.” He leaned closer
to Win, and then added emphatically, “He smelled a lot better than Sister Mary Agnes.” Win was suddenly
overcome by a coughing fit, which prohibited him from responding. “Anyways,” Roy
continued, “I’m never gettin’ married. It’s gonna be me an’ my horse, ridin’ off into the sunset all alone.” Having firsthand
experience at being a teenage boy, Win knew quite well that Roy’s opinion
would likely change in a few years. He kept that thought to himself, though.
“Well, I hope you both are very happy,” he replied instead. “We will be.”
Roy’s small chin edged its way up proudly. “As long as I got my horse, I
won’t need nobody else. I’ll have my horse, an’
he’ll have me. An’ it won’t be a stick horse, neither. It’s
gonna be a real, live, honest-to-goodness horse,
with a real mane an’ a real tail an’ everything. That way, his head’ll never fall off again.” “That sounds like
a fine plan,” Win commented. “Where are you getting this ‘real, live,
honest-to-goodness’ horse?” “As soon as I’m old enough,
I’m runnin’ away an’ headin’
out west,” Roy replied. “I’ll buy me a horse there. A real neat one, too,
that can do tricks like Wild Bill Hickok’s.” “That’d be
great.” Win assumed a thoughtful expression. “You know, horses cost a lot of
money, especially the kind like you want. How’re you going to afford to pay
for it?” Roy’s brow
wrinkled thoughtfully. “Whatcha mean?” “How’re you going
to pay for this fine horse you hope to purchase?” Win prodded. “I dunno,” Roy answered, shrugging. “I guess I’ll figger that out once I’m out west.” “How’re you going
to get out west?” “I ain’t figgered that out,
neither,” Roy admitted. He looked up at Win with wide eyes. “Hey, what would you do?” “Well,” Win
drawled out slowly, “if I were you, I’d go to school every day, graduate from
high school, possibly go to college or a trade school, and then find a
good-paying job that I’d enjoy.” Roy scowled. “I
thought you was gonna tell me how to get my horse.” “I did,” Win said
with a grin. “Once you have a good job, you can save a little from each
paycheck to put towards a horse. I’m sure if you worked very hard, it
wouldn’t take you long.” “But that ain’t no fun, mister.” Roy threw
up his hands and then slapped them against his thighs to express the
hopelessness of his situation. “It’ll take me forever to get my horse. Why, I’m only in first grade, and I gotta bunch to go!” “Once you
graduate, it’ll be worth it.” “Humph,” Roy
muttered. “That’s easy for you to
say. You’re a growing-up, an’ you don’t even hafta
go to school no more.” “Actually, I’m still going to school,” Win corrected. “Well, gee
whiz.” Roy collapsed onto the couch,
all hope a distant memory. “If you ain’t made it through yet, as old as you are, then there ain’t no hope for me.” Win chuckled.
“Nobody said you had to go to school for as long as I have. I’m in college now,
and actually I could’ve graduated last spring, but I have a double major.” By the look of
confusion on Roy’s face, it was obvious that nothing Win said had made any
sense. “You mean you coulda been done with school,
but you went back all on your own without anyone makin’
you?” “I certainly
did,” Win affirmed with a laugh. “And believe it or not, I actually like school.” Roy’s chin almost
hit the floor. “No way!” “Yes way.” Win
decided to try a new angle. “Roy, the key is to find something you enjoy about
school.” “But I don’t
enjoy nothin’,” Roy said, shaking his head. “You mean you
don’t like math or English?” Roy shook his
head again. “Nope.” “How about
science, social studies, or spelling?” Roy’s upper lip
curled in distaste. “I don’t like none of that junk,
neither.” “Well, what do you like?” “I like horses,
an’ I like doin’ stuff outside.” Roy frowned sadly.
“But we never seemta have time to do that kinda junk.” “Don’t you get to
play outside?” “Not really,” Roy
said, shrugging. “We us’lly hafta
stay inside. Sometimes we ask if we can do somethin’
fun, but they ain’t got enough people workin’ here. The nuns say it’s more ‘portant
for us to do our work, anyway.” Win nodded
thoughtfully, carefully choosing his words. “Yes, it’s true that your
schoolwork is important, but it’s
also important for you to have fun.” “Do you think you
could tell Ol’ Hatchet Face that?” Roy asked
hopefully. The little boy’s
expectant expression was the only thing that kept Win from smiling. Something
about that look made his question sad rather than impertinent. “Actually,” Win began, “that’s
why I’m here. I’m going to talk to Sister Mary Agnes about teaching a class
about nature. Do you think you’d like that?” “Sure!” Roy answered
excitedly. However, his enthusiasm quickly waned, and his grin was replaced
by a pout. “She’ll say no, though.” “Why do you say that?” “ ‘Cuz she always says no,” Roy
retorted. “Sometimes I don’t even think she knows the word ‘yes’.” Win patted the boy’s shoulder
and offered him an encouraging smile. “Well, I’ll do my best to talk her into
it.” “Good luck,” Roy told him with
all the gravity a six-year-old boy could muster. “You know, maybe we could
convince Sister Mary Agnes that learning fun things would help you learn the
things that aren’t so fun,” Win suggested. “That’s a good idea.” Roy’s
eyes brightened. “Hey, I gotta idea! Why don’t you start a school that could teach
boys like me fun stuff?” “Me?” “Yeah!” Roy agreed, bobbing
his head up and down several times. “You seem like a real smart guy. I bet
you could teach me real good!” Although Win was tempted to
give an impromptu lesson about the differences between adverbs and
adjectives, he decided against it. “It wouldn’t be very smart of me to only
teach you about nature. There are a lot of other things you need to learn as
well.” “But why can’t you teach me
about that other junk, too?” Roy asked, his tiny
brows knotted in confusion. “If a school would mix some fun stuff in with the
boring junk, it’d make it a lot easier to learn the boring junk.” Win’s eyes narrowed
thoughtfully as he considered Roy’s words. He had to admit that the little
boy’s suggestion wasn’t half bad. “You know, Roy,” he began,
“that might actually work. If we mixed fun things like woodworking, horseback
riding, agriculture, zoology, and survival into the curriculum, it might be
an incentive for boys like you to give your core subjects proper attention.” “Would this school jus’ be for
rich kids, or could kids like me come, too?” Roy held his breath as he waited
for the answer. “Well, it’s all still in the
planning stages, mind you, but I think this school would be open for any little boy in need.” Roy’s expression grew even
more hopeful. “Am I in need?” A lump settled into Win’s throat
as he considered Roy’s situation. “Yes, I think we could squeeze you in,” he
answered, his voice husky with emotion. “Yeehaw!”
Roy whooped, throwing his hands in the air in exultation. “Gee, thanks,
mister!” “Whoa, hold on there a minute,
little fella,” Win said with a chuckle. “This isn’t
something that’s going to happen instantly. It could take years to tackle
something like this.” “But you’re gonna try, right?” “Yes, I am,” Win answered. “Do you promise?” Roy urged.
“Cross your heart?” Win smiled.
“Cross my heart and hope to die.” “I don’t want ya dyin’, mister,” Roy
protested. “Then I’ll never get to
come to your school!” Unable to contain
his laughter, Win threw his head back and enjoyed a hearty chuckle. He
affectionately patted the boy on his shoulder. “Roy, someday I hope I have a
boy just like you.” Smiling shyly,
Roy hooked his small hand through Win’s elbow. “Mister, you don’t hafta hope you get a boy jus’ like me. Right now, I ain’t nobody’s boy, so you can
have me!” Roy’s heartfelt offer
brought tears to Win’s eyes. His heart broke as he looked into the boy’s sad
green eyes. Then and there, he vowed to start his school, if it was the last
thing he ever did. Before he could
answer Roy, a shrill voice caused them both to jump. “William!” Win watched
curiously as “Roy” scrambled to attention. “Don’t you have
geography class now?” Sister Mary Agnes demanded. “Yes, ma’am.” The
little boy’s voice was meek, and his demeanor was respectful. “Then why aren’t
you there, young man?” Win watched as
the little boy stood silent, frozen with fear. His sage green eyes stared at
the rod in the nun’s hand, and Win could see him tremble. “Pardon me,
Sister,” Win quickly interjected. “I hate to interrupt, but I can’t let R... er, William take the blame. He was on his way to class, but I stopped
him. I guess I got kind of lonely, sitting here all by myself, so I struck up
a conversation with the lad. I’ve always been blessed with the gift of gab,
and it was hard for the little guy to get away. I hope he won’t be punished
for my foolishness.” The nun stared at
Win with disgust. Disappointment evident in her tone, she turned to her young
charge and said, “I suppose I’ll overlook your transgression this time, William. However, next time
I shall not be so lenient.” “Yes, ma’am,”
William whispered. “Thank you, Sister Mary Agnes.” “Now, say goodbye
to Mr. Frayne.” The nun looked pointed at Win, and then added, “I doubt
you’ll be seeing him again any time soon.” William
obediently stuck out his hand for Win to shake. However, instead of accepting
his hand, Win pulled the little boy close to his chest and embraced him. “Thank you,
mister,” William whispered tearfully. “I’m sorry I made Sister Mary Agnes mad
at ya.” “Let me worry about Ol’
Hatchet Face,” Win murmured in the boy’s ear. “That’s enough,
William,” the nun ordered sharply. William
reluctantly pulled away, his eyes clouded over with sadness. “Keep your chin
up, cowboy.” Win affectionately tipped the boy’s chin upward. “And hey, I
thought your name was Roy.” William smiled
broadly, revealing two missing front teeth. “Sorry ‘bout that, mister.” He
used a freckled hand to tip his cowboy hat farther back on his head,
revealing a thick shock of red hair. “Act’lly, the
name’s Billy. Billy Regan. See ya!” Billy turned on
his heel and dashed out of the room, Trigger in hand. Once he was out of
Sister Mary Agnes’ reach, he paused in the doorway and offered a final
request to his new friend. “Don’t forget about me, mister.” Win nodded, too
choked up to say anything. But he knew that, for as long as he lived, he
would never, ever forget Billy Regan or the promise that he made to him.
Twenty-seven years later… The
years passed. Although Win had kept his promise to always remember Billy,
Billy soon forgot about Win and the school. By that time, he was
well-acquainted with disappointment, and his defense mechanism was to remove
anything from his mind that could possibly cause him more pain. So, as he
witnessed the groundbreaking ceremony for Ten Acres Academy, Bill Regan had
no idea he had actually met Win Frayne or had hoped to attend this very
school. Regan practically beamed as he
listened to the speech of his longtime employer and friend, Matthew Wheeler.
The rest of the academy’s trustees stood slightly behind Matthew in a show of
unified support. During Matthew’s speech, Jim
waited on the right side of the platform, knowing he would have to speak
next. The future headmaster of Ten Acres Academy was surrounded by those he
had personally selected to serve on his staff: Marge Trask, Vice-Principal;
Brian Belden, school physician; Mart Belden, part-time teacher of agriculture
and journalism; Diana Lynch Belden, part-time teacher of the arts; and
William Regan, activities coordinator.
From his spot on the podium,
Regan could look out over the crowd. The rest of the Bob-Whites and their
families were sitting in one large group. He could see Dan in the front row,
his arm protectively draped across the back of his guardian’s chair. Regan
noticed that Dan would occasionally pat the old man’s shoulder in a
reassuring manner. It was a struggle for Mr. Maypenny to endure sitting in
such a large crowd, but he also knew the stubborn old coot wouldn’t miss this
important event for anything. Farther down the row, the rest
of the Beldens watched proudly. Trixie stood out to Regan; her wistful gaze
was clearly fixed upon Jim, her expression yearning. In the next seat, Honey
fiercely gripped her best friend’s hand. The hazel-eyed young woman looked as
if she’d burst with pride. Beside her daughter, Madeleine Wheeler, cool and
aloof when Regan had first met her, had to keep a tissue under her nose as
she softly wept tears of joy. Although Ed Lynch was on the platform, Carolyn
was sitting in the second row, a set of twins on either side. It was the realization of not
only Jim’s dream, but the dream of all who cared for him. The guest list of this grand
event wasn’t limited to Jim’s family and friends. Not only was the president
of the First National Bank of Sleepyside in attendance, there were quite a
few officers from loaning institutions in White Plains, Croton, and even New
York City. All of Sleepyside’s local businessmen and elected officials were
on hand, and Regan recognized several politicians, including congressmen,
senators, and the governor of New York. Quite a few of the audience members
were with the news media. Regan noticed the call letters of several
broadcasting stations, and the number of cameras flashing hinted that the
crowd also included reporters from the various newspapers. It seemed that
Matthew Wheeler had used every connection he had to draw the attention of New
York’s most influential and civic-minded citizens. Suddenly nervous, Regan
shifted from one foot to the other. As he looked around at the people
standing with him, he felt undeserving of such an honor. He was the only
person on the platform without a college degree. Forget college degree, he thought to himself. I didn’t even graduate from high school.
But hopefully what I lack in education, I’ll make up for in dedication… Out of the corner of his eye,
he could see Jim looking at him. He met his fellow redhead’s gaze, and saw
Jim raise a celebratory fist. The desperate look he’d seen in Jim’s eyes when
the boy was on the run from Jonesy was long gone. Those same eyes were full
of renewed hope. The crowd suddenly burst into
applause, snapping Regan out of his thoughts. He watched as Matthew motioned
for Jim to join him at the lectern. Tough as he was, Regan had to sniff back
a tear as he watched the father and son embrace. Before returning to his spot
with the rest of the trustees, Matthew tenderly clasped Jim’s cheeks and
leaned closer to whisper something to his son. Like the rest of the curious
onlookers, Regan had no idea what was actually said, but he could tell Jim
would remember Matthew’s words forever. After eleven years of
dreaming, the husky redhead claimed the microphone to officially designate
the parcel of land he’d inherited from his great-uncle as the future site of
Ten Acres Academy. Clearly overcome, Jim struggled to choke back the lump
that had risen in his throat. “In the book of Second Samuel,
we read of King David’s desire to build a permanent house of worship for the
Lord,” Jim began. “Although David’s intentions pleased the Lord, He wouldn’t
allow David to build the temple. The Bible says that David a man after God’s
own heart, but he had been a man of war. Instead, the Lord chose David’s
beloved son, Solomon, to construct His house. Young Solomon, feeling unworthy
of such an appointment, knew the only way he could accomplish such a
monumental task was if the Lord granted him wisdom. “As I stand before you today,
I understand how overwhelmed Solomon felt. When I was a little boy, I
remember sitting on my father’s knee, hearing him talk about his dream of
starting a home for troubled boys. Like Solomon, I inherited my father’s
dream. Also like Solomon, it wasn’t God’s will for my father to accomplish
his dream. However, just as the temple was a necessity, so is this school. It would be a tragedy for my father’s dream to die
with him. This home for troubled boys is bigger than Winthrop Frayne;
likewise, it’s bigger than me. If I’m to make this dream a realization, I
will surely need Solomon’s wisdom, the wisdom that can only come from the
Lord. “My father used to tell me
that the measure of a man is his family,” Jim continued. “As I recall his
words, I can’t help but wonder how I’ll ever measure up to such a great man.
I will be forever grateful for the positive influence my father had upon my
life. He took his role as the patriarch of our small family very seriously,
and made it his duty to not only talk the talk, but also to walk the walk. He
led by example, and by watching him, I learned invaluable lessons about life,
love, and responsibility. “Although his days on this
earth were cut short, his legacy will be never-ending. His integrity, honor,
and compassion left a lasting impression on all those he met. Therefore, in
memory of a man who should never be forgotten, I hereby dedicate this land to
the purpose of constructing Ten Acres Academy, Home for Troubled Boys. May
the vision of Winthrop Frayne be shared by us all.” Misty-eyed, Jim turned to
Regan, who immediately handed him the 14K gold-plated ceremonial shovel that
Matthew had purchased specially for the event. Somberly, the would-be
headmaster walked off the platform and over to a spot in front of it.
Sticking the shovel’s blade into the spot chosen for the cornerstone of the
building, Jim announced, “To whom much is given, much is required.” He
scooped a pile of dirt from the ground and tossed it aside as the crowd stood
to their feet, wildly applauding. From his vantage point on the
podium, the tears which he’d sniffed back earlier could no longer be dammed.
Moisture flowed down his weathered cheeks as he witnessed the birth of what
would prove to be the salvation of countless troubled boys. As proud as he
was of Jim, he only wished he could’ve had the honor of meeting the man who’d
been his example. Little did Regan remember
that, not only had he met Win Frayne, he
had been Win’s inspiration.
Thank
you to the wonderful ladies who volunteered to edit this story on such short
notice. Steph H and Ryl,
I greatly appreciate your help! According
to Steph, “The Measure of a Man” is the title of a
country song. Since I’d never heard that song, I did a search and found out
something interesting. Apparently, there have been several songs by that name
performed by artists such as Jack Ingram, Clay Aiken, Elton John, and 4-Him.
And believe it or not, I haven’t heard a single one of them, and none of them
provided the inspiration behind this story. A visitor to Jixemitri and Zaps
actually did that by asking what would’ve happened if Win and Regan had met.
That comment set my gears to turning, and this story resulted. While writing,
I tossed several titles back and forth, but during an episode of “Without a
Trace”, I heard one of the characters say, “The measure of a man is his
family.” Immediately, I knew that was the title of this story, and sorry,
country music fans, it came from FBI Agent Danny Taylor, not Clay Aiken or
Jack Ingram. ;-) Have I
piqued your interest about Matt Wheeler’s family background? I truly hope so!
More on him to come… The orphanage
Win visited was the one at Glens Falls, where Regan and Danielle were sent
after Angels of Mercy burned down. For a reminder, read “Revelations”. From all
accounts, Regan had an unpleasant childhood. How he would’ve benefited from
attending a school like Ten Acres! I once
heard the term “Ol’ Hatchet Face” in an old movie.
I’m not sure which one, although I do think it was in “The Private War of
Major Benson”. The term tickled me so that I used it in this story. Since
Regan was obviously a fan of old cowboy movies, I decided he’d call himself
“Roy”, especially since his horse’s name was Trigger. And I couldn’t very
well use “Billy”, lest everyone immediately figure out the identity of this
little imp! The
term “growing-ups” was coined by Sam, who used that word for a long, long
time. Ever
since I began planning my universe, I always knew the school was originally
Win’s dream with the David/Solomon comparison in mind. |
