When we meet again, I’ll bring the chess set

This is the second of a two-part Front & Center. The first part was published in the Aug. 27 Frontiersman.

I have been having a series of dreams lately, dreams that have taken me back through the foggy mists of time and memory. I have tried to sort out all the images and scenes into some kind of order. This column is the result.

•••••

Inside what was essentially a box 40 feet up the tree was Matt sitting there drawing something really tripped out in a well worn sketch pad with a ink pen. He was like me, just two years older. We both looked at the other in wonder. His even thicker mass of hair and red flannel shirt of black and red plaid squares was worn just under the armpits by those crutches. It also showed his Native American heritage in spades. His massive arms and hands had paint on them, a result of painting masterpieces of surrealism, an art style we both loved. He became a true master of it later in life while I remained a gifted lover of it.

We both sat back pointing to each other and shouted “hippy!” and laughing so hard it hurt. His deep, rumbling laugh echoed. We stopped suddenly and then laughed some more until our eyes watered.

“What the heck is going on, Matt?” I squeaked.

Matt snorted and busted up.

“What? Hey that’s not funny!” I retorted with a high voice.

“Oh yes it is!” Matt shot back.

Remember, you’re a 16-year-old kid again, your voice is still changing. Of course, mine already has so no squeaking from me! He swung his arms wide and took in a deep breath.

“I haven’t felt this good in ages. I’m loving it. Live it, Dan, and love every second of it all. Or should I call ya Danny?”

We both laughed. I looked down at the young version of me. “Well, you a got a point there. Danny it is.” I paused for a second. “But just for now.”

I slumped in the corner, folded my arms and sulked. “And its still not funny.”

Matt just beamed a huge smile.

“Look what I found sitting next to me when I appeared here,” he said pulling a battered box from behind an old backpack. It was my old wooden portable chess set. It was scratched up and dog chewed on the corners. Its hinges were busted off and one rook — thankfully a black one — was replaced by a lump of coal. It was held together by a leather strap. The pieces rattled inside as Matt shook it.

“How about a game of chess old friend?” He said with a peculiar gleam in his eyes.

I lit up. “Oh, hell yeah! Just like the old days. Nothing better than to do battle with you.”

We dumped out its contents onto a beat-up carpet that covered the wooden floor in odd shaped patches and colors and quickly set up the pieces.

Besides sharing a love of art, chess was a close second. I took black, giving Matt the first move with his white pieces. While we played on, we talked about the old days, and since we retained all of our adult memories in our teenaged forms we talked about our lives, our children, our dreams for the future and even laughed at our follies in the past.

The game was coming to an end. Matt was beating me and it was a matter of a few moves. I looked just past his shoulders to the view to the west. I could see the roof of my old home below. It shimmered a little, not quite focused, just like everything else around us. It was the sun that got my whole attention. It was setting. The sky was turning a red-tinted gold. Time was taking hold of the dream.

“Hey Matt, look behind you.” I said.

He sighed a little, a sad sigh. “Yes Danny, I know,” he said cryptically.

That puzzled me as I bent to make a move with my rook. I was in trouble chess wise. I looked over to the east. That opened up to a view of Meyers field, with all its brambles, Scotch broom and the little patch of wild grass surrounded by tall pine and cedar trees. It, too, lacked focus, as if everything was under water. Just beyond was the fog. It was building up behind the trees.

“That fog is coming back, too,” I said, making another move.

Matt looked up for second. “Yeah, I know about that, too. By the way, checkmate, old buddy.”

He sat back grinning from ear to ear. I was stumped and beaten soundly. “Darn! Shall we …”

Matt laid a callused hand on my arm. “Danny, we have to go now. That fog is rolling in. I don’t think you want to be here when it touches this tree. “

That sobered me up quick. The tree didn’t exist in our time.

We clambered down quickly. I was first to hit the ground from the last branch. I got up as an old man of 52 again. All the aches and pains flooded back in one big rush. The gray was back in the right places. I could see my young alter ego standing there. A ghost now of my past, he was waiting for the Matt of his time, totally unaware I stood in front him. I heard Matt coming down. I turned to get one of the crutches for him, just like I used to in those days, and stopped in mid-motion.

A pair vines were working their way up them. With each wrap of the vines, two small white flowers would appear and bloom. There were four now. A fifth pair began to appear before my stunned eyes.

“Hey Matt you got to …”

“I don’t think I need those anymore, Dan,” Matt said in a tone of voice I have never heard before, like a stunned whisper. That quiet voice came from behind me. I turned around to see Matt, looking up to him standing on two very healthy legs. I didn’t hear him jump down, but there he was, standing very tall, a little over 6 feet. He was back to his real age as well, dressed in his favorite shirt and jeans topped with a woolen watch cap decorated with spatters of paint on the pants and a little on the shirt — hallmarks of his profession of a master artist. He radiated great strength and a greater smile. Tears were flowing down that rugged face, tears of pure joy. He nodded toward our young counterparts. I followed his gaze.

The two younger alter-egos were walking away from us, fading into the growing fog, fading back to 1977. The fog was nearly upon us. The flowering vines were nearly to the top of the crutches. The tree was pulling them into itself, absorbing them.

“We will meet here again, Dan,” he said. “Right here at the old tree fort. I will be waiting for you. Bring the chess set.” He chuckled at that. “I’m free Dan, I’m freeee…”

The last words were just whispering echoes that swept through me and beyond. I whipped around. Matt was gone. Before I knew it, the fog swept in and I awoke in my bedroom in Wasilla. It was the very early morning of Aug. 14. I rolled over to sleep some more. I tried to go back to that dream, but it had run its course. I remember mumbling, “That was no dream.” I slept on until my usual wake-up of 5 o’clock.

Later that morning I got word from family down there in Seattle that my best friend in the world — my brother in every way except blood, proud father of Maxx, Uncle Matt to my three children (all of them, including Maxx, are now young adults) — quietly passed away during the night after losing his battle against a very aggressive form of cancer. I was right, it wasn’t a dream. It was something much more.

The news of his passing shook me to the core. Those “dreams” shook me even deeper. I haven’t had them since. They only replay in my memory. I believe they were much more than dreams, more than a goodbye. It was a message of hope. Yes, old friend and brother, when we meet again I’ll bring the chess set.

Wasilla resident Daniel D. Grota retired from the U.S. Army after more than 21 years of service.