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About the Book Viet Nam, the hippie movement, Roe v. Wade, inflation, OPEC crisis, Watergate...the perceived loss of America's innocence provides the national stage for Into the Second Springtime. Meet Wesley Gallagher, a precocious young man who is prone to making mischief and scheming shenanigans. You'll laugh at Wesley's perceptions of the world and fall in love with the strong and steady influences in his life. With stormy issues facing the nation, you'll cheer at the bright beacons of light guiding Wesley, quietly instilling values that create a healthy and substantial anchor in this tender coming-of-age novel. Written with unpretentious messages of charity, forgiveness, hope, humor, love and respect, you will cheer Hurrah! for America again. Preview July was hot and the hills looked sunburned. Grandpa Gallagher took me with him to doctor a sick cow at Kilkenny Point. Grandpa and I came upon a broken down Volkswagen bus. It had peace signs and rainbows, sunshine, and flowers painted all over it. "Clack with Butterflies" was printed on the side. One bumper sticker said, "Make love not war." I read a second one, "Heaven waves a white flag and Hell runs a victory lap." A third bumper sticker didn't say anything, but a picture of Uncle Sam hung upside down in a bull's-eye like a target. Dirty drapes clung from windows and smoke poured from the cab. "Is it on fire?" Grandpa asked. He climbed out of the truck and strolled warily up to the vehicle. I got out and walked with him, interested. Two or three people were crammed into the front seat smoking kooky smelling cigarettes. So there was no fire, and I suddenly knew what dope smelled like. Grandpa jerked the door open, looking disgusted. "What's wrong here?" A long haired, unshaven, unkempt, and all around dirty guy was slumped behind the wheel. "Peace," he said, laughing in the dignified face of my Grandpa. Just then the back doors of the bus swung open and three other people staggered out, looking around, dazed and dumb. One of the dirty things was a lady --a real hippie chick with matted hair and a tatty collection of necklaces. She wore a tie-dyed skirt and a little tank top with no bra. Her feet were bare and dirty, and I wondered how old she was. "Hey Mister," she said. "We're all broke down." "Hell yes," Grandpa agreed. His mouth was tight and grim, and his jaws clenched and unclenched. He didn't mind helping people in need, but this sight was appalling to him. The back door opened wider. A tiny little girl peered out at me. The stench from inside the bus was atrocious --worse than any can of rotting worms. It smelled of dirty, filthy, unwashed bodies, bad smoke, and I didn't know what else. I stared at the intolerable conditions of the hippie wagon. It was the filthiest thing I'd ever laid eyes on, with clothes, food containers, garbage, beer cans, and stained blankets scattered everywhere. I cast my eyes around, counting one more chick and four grown men. Were they living in this caravan? A five gallon bucket of human sewage in the corner told me they were, and my stomach turned. I looked at the little girl again. She couldn't have been more than three or four. I felt sorry for her. Black hair, oily and matted, clung against her head. She wore an oversized T shirt and didn't have on shoes. Her little hands were black with grime, and her face hadn't been washed since Roe v. Wade sold America down the clapper. "Mister, that kid's hungry," the first chick said, jutting a thumb towards the child. The tiny black eyes peered up at Grandpa. He groaned at the sight of the child. "Wesley, meet The Least of These," he said. Of course! Gospel lessons bigger than Sunday school slapped me right in the face. The poor, filthy little girl was but innocence in peril. "Bring me my tool box, Wes." I did as Grandpa said, and he talked to the woman, "Pop the hood on this traveling junkyard and let me see what's wrong." The woman responded, reaching past the stoners in the front seat. She seemed to be the only capable one in the bunch, and her judgment was questionable. "What's your name?" Grandpa asked. "Joni." "Well Joni...do your folks know where you are?" "No." "That's a damn shame, don't you think?" "My folks are squares, and I am free from the bondage of society." "Pfft." Air hissed between Grandpa's cheeks in a disgusted manner. Grandpa turned to me. "Take that little girl down to Maggie's at the Point. Get her something to eat." He handed me five dollars and I took it, feeling awkward and kind of ashamed to be seen with the bedraggled thing. "Want something to eat?" I asked her. She nodded and climbed outside, squinting in the sun. "Does she have shoes?" I asked Joni. "She did, but I haven't seen them for awhile." "Pfft." This time the sound came from me, and I locked eyes with Grandpa and he just shrugged his shoulders at me, bidding me to use my head. "Come on little one," I said. I picked up the dirty little thing, hoping I wouldn't catch head lice. The smell of her sickened me, the barnyard odor of the sick cow had been more to my liking, but I bucked up and trudged toward the quaint cafe on the corner with the love child in my arms. "What's your name?" "Yarrow." Yarrow? That's a terrible name! Surely yarrow wasn't even a real flower --just a plant, and not beautiful sounding at all. "Yarrow?" "Uh huh." "Not Heather?" "Nope." "Not Cindy, Jennifer, Kathy, or Michelle?" "Nuh uh." I switched to the plant names again, hoping the little girl would find one she liked better, "Fern? Ivy? Rose? Are you sure your name's not Heather?" A small breath blew against my neck. "You are funny." "How about Lilly? That's beautiful." "My name is Yarrow." "Yarrow who?" "I don't know. Just Yarrow." "How about Sparrow? That rhymes --or maybe Birdie? Robin?" "Don't you have ears? My name is Yarrow!" "Okay," I said, letting the subject drop. We walked into the front door of the cafe. Archie Gallagher, Grandpa's cousin, was saddled up to the counter sipping on a cup of coffee, and a pair of tourists in golf clothes canoodled in a booth, but other than that the place was empty. I pulled Yarrow into the bathroom and locked the door. "What are we doing?" "Washing your hands." I started the water and pumped the soap dispenser. I began scrubbing those little dimpled hands, and blessedly the drain carried the sludgy water away. Yarrow giggled at the experience. "You like washing?" I asked. She bobbed her head. "Yes." "When was the last time you were clean?" She just stared at me, and so my suspicions were correct --it had been ages since her last bath. With moist paper towels I scrubbed right on up both arms. Drips of water left clean marks everywhere they ran. Soon I pushed her sleeves up past her shoulders and scrubbed. Her arms looked good, and Yarrow examined them excitedly. "My face?" I nodded. Of course, I must wash her face. We lathered soap on our hands, both of us, and started scrubbing. I wiped her face dry with a paper towel, and then lifted the little girl up to see in the mirror. She stared at herself, blinking. "That's Yarrow?" "Sure, it's you." I was befuddled by the question. "See how pretty you are?" Yarrow smiled at me. I smiled back at her in the mirror, and then I spied her poor, greasy, horrible hair, and I disapproved. I hoisted her up, making her tip her head over the sink. With another wad of soap in my hand I started washing the tangled mess of hair. I scrubbed her head like grimy sox to a washboard. The little girl smelled better and better. I patted her dry with more paper towels, longing to scrub her filthy T-shirt as well, but I was helpless on that account, as I didn't know what to put her in while I did it. I tried to smooth her hair with my fingers, but the child needed a good brushing. "Myself is clean?" "Kind of." The top half looked a lot better than the bottom half. Her legs and feet were still polluted looking. "You'll let me eat?" I nodded and we left the bathroom. I parked Yarrow in a back booth and walked up to the counter. Maggie noticed me. "Hi, Wesley. What can I do for you?" "I need a couple of cheeseburgers, an orange soda and a glass of milk. Just holler at me when it's ready and I'll come up and get it and save you the trip." "Well, alrighty then," Maggie said pleasantly, throwing a couple of patties on a hot grill. I was afraid if Maggie saw the hippie child, she would refuse service, for she wasn't wearing any shoes, and a sign on the door said, "No shoes, No shirt, No service, No exceptions." "Where's the foods?" Yarrow seemed angry with me when I sat down empty-handed. "It's cooking." "What's that?" "It means it's getting ready." And I felt sick to think the girl didn't know what cooked food was. "What do you usually eat?" "Crackers." "Potatoes and gravy?" She shrugged, not knowing what I was talking about. "Pudding?" Again she shrugged and by now I wanted to bawl. "What's your favorite food?" "Little meats in a can." She motioned with her fingers and I thought she might have meant Vienna sausages. I was glad she'd experienced such cuisine. At least it was something. "Order out, Wesley!" Maggie's voice made me jump and I made haste to the counter, grabbing Yarrow's plate and mine. I doubled back for the drinks. I opened a straw and stuck it in the glass of milk for the girl. She stared at it, full of wonder. "Here," I said, sucking out of my straw. "Like this." Her eyes danced as she tasted the cold milk. She stared at me while I took a bite of my burger. She bit into hers hungrily, chewing only a few times before gulping the food down. Truly she had been starving and tears burned against my eyes at the thoughts. I'd never gone hungry a day in my life. "What is this?" she asked around a whole wad of burger. "It's a cheeseburger. It's good huh?" "Uh-huh!" She guzzled some more milk and then tried some fries. She smiled from ear to ear at the golden delights. "What's this?" "French fries." "I'll take some for Joni." "Is Joni your mom?" "She's just my Joni," Yarrow said, "but my Joni loves French fries." This was the saddest thing I'd ever seen or heard. "I'll bet," I choked. "Listen Yarrow, you eat all of your fries, and we'll take mine back for your Joni, okay?" I didn't want the child to go without one thing. "You're nice." "Thanks." I handed the money to Maggie at the register, and then pocketed Grandpa's change, careful to leave a quarter on the table for a tip. I didn't know if that was enough, but technically I'd waited on our table, myself. I walked out of Maggie's at the Point, surprised to see Grandpa's truck parked in front. He was just climbing out when he saw me coming. "Put the kid in the truck, Wes." I did and then joined him in front of the truck to see what he wanted. "I got the van started. They took off. They took off without the kid and without looking back. I had a mind to chase the dirty, rotten sons-of-bitches down, but I'm not sure that would be fair to the kid." His hands were trembling and his jawbones worked overtime, clenching with tension. "What will we do?" "Hell if I know." Grandpa was really rattled because he was cussing up a streak, saying words he generally saved for working sheep. "Take the kid home, I guess, and then call the Sheriff and I don't know what..." I nodded, feeling the weight of lots of problems pressing down upon us, but also a sense of relief. I didn't have to put that little girl back into the dirty bus! We rode into Gallagher Springs. "Mister, I'm taking these foods to my Joni," Yarrow said to Grandpa. "Pfft. You've got to come with us first," Grandpa explained as kindly as he could for as rattled as he was. The pickup pulled into the driveway. "I'll take her with me," I said. Grandpa's brows shot high, but he didn't argue. "Yes, maybe your mom can put her in some of Allyson's hand-me-down clothes, and..." I didn't wait for any more suggestions. I had Yarrow in hand, and I hit the back door, ready to show Mother what I'd found and ask if I could keep her.