This story is slightly different and again I have only borrowed the characters from Mr Bellisario and co. Any resemblence to real events, people or places is coincidental and typical of my rotten luck! Apologies abound if that is the case ...
Airwolf.
Growing Pains.
Eagle Lake California, Spring 1961.
Steven Hawke sipped at his drink and listened patiently to everything that his wife, Connie, had to say, his expression mostly hidden behind the raised mug of strong black coffee, piercing blue eyes inscrutable as he leaned against the small kitchen counter and watched the woman who had loved him for longer than he cared to remember and whom had borne him two wonderful sons, as she busied herself preparing the family dinner.
She was still an attractive woman, with a shapely figure, and she worked methodically with neat, economical movements around her familiar domain. The food smelled good and Steven felt his stomach growl in anticipation of the feast Connie would set before him shortly.
The cabin was unnervingly quiet this evening, neither of those wonderful sons kicking up a ruckus about something or other as they waited for their mother to summon them to the table. No shouts of laughter, or yelps of pain, no screams of "Moron, or Fat head," as they play wrestled on the carpet in front of the stone fire place ….
Generally they were good kids, but as there was five years between them there was often a little tension, some character building rivalry and a whole lot of hero worshiping, as well as a fair bit of posturing and some physical retaliation between the brothers, as they tested and stretched the boundaries of their relationship, but mostly there was a lot of very loud and exuberant, but good natured ribbing going on.
St John, the eldest boy had been confined to his room by his father, after flunking an important Math test in school, yesterday, Thursday, with strict orders to shape up or ship out. He was almost sixteen years old and should have been thinking about his grades and working toward graduation, and which college he was going to attend instead of playing ball and cruising around with his friends in their cars looking for girls ….
Looking for trouble more like ….
Seek and ye shall find my son, seek and ye shall surely find ….
Steven Hawke knew that the young man had taken him seriously this time, for when he had gone upstairs to take a quick shower and to change out of his work clothes into comfortable jeans and a sweater, he had poked his head briefly around the door to the boys' room and smiled softly to himself at the sight of his eldest child stretched out on his belly on his bed, legs and feet waving in the air in time to some new pop song spilling out of the earphone attached to his transistor radio, and various Math text books and folders spread out on the quilt and floor before him.
Amused by the sight, it had briefly crossed Steven's mind to ponder on just how much of the Math his son was absorbing, along with the Elvis Presley, Ricky Valance, Roy Orbison or whoever it was that was topping the charts this week, filling his head with music at the same time.
St John was a good student, but he had always had to work hard at it, and as he got older, both of his parents had realised that it was always going to be difficult for him to maintain his grades, with so many other cool things to distract him and occupy his mind.
As was their usual routine, Connie had collected both boys out of school and driven them out to the Van Nuys air field and the hangar that housed the air service that belonged to their old friend Dominic Santini.
Dom had then flown Connie and the boys up here for their relaxing weekend at the Hawke family cabin on Eagle Lake. A short time later, after taking an early mark, enjoying the sensation of playing hooky as he left the office for the day, Steven Hawke had made his way to Santini Air and the well maintained Hughes 500 that he usually flew himself up here, and then flew the whole family back to Los Angeles again in on Sunday afternoon, wanting to be away from the city before he lost the light.
To Steven Hawke, the wooded mountainous terrain and the soothing motion of the lake were as close to Eden as any man could ask for, and the weekends spent up here, when the weather improved, helped to keep both Connie and himself sane for the rest of the busy and often times, quite stressful week in the city.
It was also a wonderful place, so peaceful and remote, perfect for his sons to grow and experience the joys and perils of living in harmony with nature, as he had done at their age. A vast play ground where they could work off all that youthful exuberance, and in St John's case, the ravages of excessive hormones, teenage angst and rebellion, and learn life saving survival skills, how to safely track animals and fish in the lake.
Steven Hawke loved it up here, and more and more just lately, found himself wishing that he could turn his back on life in the city and bring his family to live out here permanently. However, he also knew that Connie would not hear of it, at least not yet, not until the boys had completed their High School educations and were making their own way in life.
Connie loved it up here too. She enjoyed the isolation, but only in small doses, seeing it as a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle of their real lives, back there in Los Angeles, but she was a city girl born and bred and she was more in her element back there than he ever would be.
"Steven …. Did you hear anything I just said?"
Connie Hawke fixed him with steady blue eyes as she closed the oven door gently, after checking on the baked potatoes that were to accompany their trout dinner, and straightened up, a look of exasperation on her face now.
"Sure I did …." Steven confirmed, draining the last of his coffee and waving the empty mug out in front of Connie for a refill, a tactic she recognised as a vain attempt to delay the inevitable.
"And?" Connie pressed as she poured more hot coffee into his mug with one hand, the other hand resting on her hip, lips pursed, eyebrow raised.
"And what?" Steven sighed softly. "It's all part of growing up, hon," he pointed out reasonably, but he could see from the look on her face that his wife wasn't having any of it, and in return he gave her a look that said; 'why me?'
"You're his father, Steven, and I guess it comes with the territory, hon. I've tried talking to him, but even if I had turned green, sprouted horns and grown a moustache he still wouldn't have taken a blind bit of notice …."
"Neat trick …." Steven spluttered on his coffee. "I'd like to see that for myself."
"It's not funny, Steven. If we don't do something about it right now, it is just going to grow and grow out of all proportion and get completely out of hand. You know what he's like …."
Yes, Steven Hawke did know what his youngest son was like.
A carbon copy of his father, with the same sensitivity and predilection for brooding.
In the main, Stringfellow was a normal, happy, outgoing child, but he was a thinker, with a tendency to dwell too long and too deeply on things he had no control over, and what he could not communicate in words, he did quite effectively with a look or a scowl or a sigh.
Just like his father.
That acorn sure didn't fall far from the tree …. Steven thought fondly to himself.
Now, it seemed he had found another way to communicate his frustrations, and Steven knew that Connie was right. If they didn't nip it in the bud right now, it could spell deeper trouble later on.
"Can't I at least finish my coffee first?"
"I'll make a fresh pot and you can drown in the stuff, after you've sorted out String."
"Bossy boots …." Steven mumbled as he set down the barely touched coffee and pushed away from the counter, reluctantly turning to move across the room.
"I heard that," Connie chuckled softy. "Sticks and stones, Steven Hawke, sticks and stones …."
"Yeah. Right. Here we go again …."
Steven strode across the room, knowing exactly what Connie was telling him, trying to work out what exactly he was going to say to his youngest son that would not make matters worse for him.
String obviously had a bee in his bonnet, and when he got that way, it was easier to reason with a charging bull.
However, Steven Hawke knew that he was going to have to find a way, or run the risk of his son turning a bit of minor childish nonsense into a major problem that could end up making the whole of the rest of his life miserable.
0 - 0 - 0
It did not take long for Steven Hawke to track down his son, Stringfellow.
The youngster was a creature of habit, and when he needed time on his own to think, to brood, or to rail silently at a world he did not understand and could not control, he sought solace in a quiet glade close to the edge of the lake shore, where he could conceal himself as he skipped small stones over the rippling surface of the water.
Steven could tell immediately that the boy was still upset, anger evident in his every movement as he kicked out at bits of long dead wood and shrubs then bent to pick up another stone, extending his right arm back as he launched the thing up high, only to watch with obvious irritation as it made a large splash as it disappeared into the deeper water further out.
Steven's heart went out to his youngest offspring, as he recalled vividly just how frustrated and angry the boy was feeling at that moment. He'd been there too, but not for the same reason.
Stringfellow spun around, seeking another missile to launch into the air, mumbling and cursing heatedly under his breath, and suddenly came face to face with his father.
"Hey," his father greeted him in level, neutral tones whilst inwardly wincing at the sight of the livid bruising around the child's left eye.
Ouch. I guess he missed school the day they were teaching 'em how to duck ….
Steven quashed his amusement as he took in the open hostility and belligerence in the young man's stance and eyes and realised that he was going to have to tread very carefully if he didn't want either of those things deflected at him self.
"How's the other guy look?" The words were out before Steven could stop himself, and he gave himself a mental kick.
"Like he got hit by Cassius Clay," Stringfellow Hawke responded through his teeth, without missing a beat, breathing hard as he straightened up to his full height and faced his father with his chin raised in defiance.
Steven Hawke found himself frowning mentally, then recalled the heavy weight boxer who had made a name for himself the previous year at the Rome Olympics, and understood that his son was telling him that he had given as good as he had got.
"Well I guess it's good that you stood up for yourself, String …."
"Don't call me that! I don't ever want to hear you call me that again!
"But it's your name Stringfellow, what else should I call you? Slugger?"
"I hate my name! And I hate you!"
"Wow, there, easy tiger …." Steven warned, pleased to see that his son had some guts, but not willing to allow him to cross the very fine line between showing spirit and disrespecting his old man.
"Why'd you give me such a weird name?" The boy demanded angrily, but there was a slight trembling of his bottom lip now and tears were beginning to shimmer in his sapphire blue eyes.
Steven Hawke again quashed the desire to grin, realising that now that he had gotten it off his chest, the anger and adrenalin that had fuelled the outburst were beginning to wear off and the boy was beginning to realise that squaring up to his father wasn't such a smart idea.
"Who says it's weird, String?" Steven asked in gentle tones, taking a small step closer to the boy.
"The guys at school …. Everyone. They laugh or snigger whenever they hear someone call me Stringfellow, or String, and then shove me around because they think because I have such a weird and sissy name, I must be a sissy too!" The boy spat the words out, his shoulders coming up around his ears as he fought the desire to make a fist and pound it into the nearest tree.
Ah yes, good old fashioned male pride!
"And when they're not picking on me because of my name, they're picking on me because of Sinj's name! Why couldn't you call me Charlie or Tom or Kevin …." The boy raged.
"Because there are lots of Tom's and Charlie's and Kevin's in this world, son, but only one Stringfellow Hawke," Steven explained patiently, keeping his voice low and even, his expression understanding and sympathetic in the face of the young man's anger.
"Your Mom and I gave you a strong name, a name to be proud of, but most of all, we wanted it to be a unique name to go along with the unique person you are," Steven paused, watching to see the boy's reaction, but Stringfellow remained stone faced, fingers curling and uncurling as he held his arms stiffly by his sides, still breathing hard as he tried to reign in his anger, and his father felt a jolt of pride that the eleven year old could exercise such control over his emotions.
"There will never be another boy quite like you, String, just as there will never be another boy quite like Sinj, even though he is your brother and you have the same genetic make up," Steven took another step closer to the boy, then casually carried on past him, toward the water's edge, where he too picked up a pebble and skimmed it across the surface of the lake, watching with surprise and mild satisfaction as it bounced several times on its way to the middle of the lake before sinking out of sight.
"You are two different, separate and unique individuals, kiddo," Steven turned back to face his son now, leaning casually against an ancient and rotting tree trunk, crossing his legs at the ankles and folding his arms casually across his chest.
"And your name is supposed to let people know that you are a one of a kind, your own person, not like Charlie from next door, or Kevin from down the block. When people say your name, they think of you, not some other kid who has the same name. As soon as they say or hear your name, they immediately see your face in their mind and hear your voice, not some other kid from across town, and they remember your achievements."
Steven paused for a moment to allow his son to digest the information, watching as he turned around to look at his father, a frown now began to replace the scowl on the youngster's face
"They will never get you confused with another kid with the same name, String. I know it sucks, especially when you foul up, you are instantly recognisable and memorable because of your name, it's a responsibility, but that goes the other way too, son, when you excel at something, or do something to be proud of. People will always know who you are. In this life, String, your name is something that stands for something, be that good or bad, and it is up to you what you make your name stand for."
Steven felt the gnarled bark of the tree trunk digging into the skin of his shoulder and paused to alter his position, scrutinizing the child through his eyelashes as he did so, and forced himself to smother a smile as he could clearly see the cogs at work in the child's mind as he assessed his father's words.
At least the boy seemed to be more open to reasoning than his older brother had been when he and St John had had a similar conversation some years back.
St John had had some trouble with some slightly older boys in school, and when he hadn't been able to deal with the situation, he had turned his anger and frustration on boys in his own class, and others who were younger, and things had quickly gotten out of hand, ending with the principle of his school threatening to expel St John if he didn't get his temper under control.
"Kids can be cruel, String, but remember what your mother always says 'sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me,'" Now Steven did allow himself a half smile as he recalled Connie's parting words as he had departed the cabin in search of their youngest.
"There will always be someone who will find something to tease you about, and not just you, but your friends too. You know I'm right. They pick on what they think is someone's weakness, or what makes them different, like being too fat or too skinny or having a big nose or sticky out ears …."
Steven could see that his son knew exactly what he was talking about, as he suddenly dropped his head and found his tennis shoes of great interest as he dug into the dusty earth with his toes, and the colour now creeping up from his neck was a good indication that he too had at one time or another, indulged in such teasing himself.
"It's ok, we've all done it, at one time or another, even your Mom and me …." Steven grinned as the youngest member of the Hawke family raised firstly his eyes, and then his head.
"And we've all been on the receiving end too, son, but what really matters is how you handle it. Now, you can stand up for yourself, like you did today, come out with your fists flying, and you can keep hurting and getting hurt, or, you can remember that your actions now will affect your good name in the future, your reputation. Do you want to be remembered as that angry young man who is always looking for a fight, the school bully, or do you want people to remember the smart, sensitive, talented musician who can make magic come from a cello and who is smart enough to maybe be an astronaut or a rocket scientist one day? It's up to you …."
"Did it make you feel better? Hitting this other kid?" Steven asked after a lengthy silence, during which Stringfellow moved closer to his father and resumed skimming his pebbles across the lake.
"Yeah …. Until he hit me back," String paused in the process of lining up his next shot, grimacing as he recalled the instant McKitterick's fist had connected with his face.
"Yeah, life has a habit of hitting back," Steven sighed. "And violence begets violence …. Sometimes you just have to bite your tongue and make yourself walk away, String. Sometimes it takes more courage to do that than to lash out with your fists. I'm not saying that you shouldn't stick up for yourself, if you have no other choice, and I'm not saying that you should always walk away, but you are the only one who can decide which things to fight for and which things are petty and can't really hurt you."
"I'm not a skinny runt …." String declared, hissing through his teeth, his jaw muscles working, bunching up along his jaw line as he ground his teeth, recalling the outrage and the anger and the frustration he had felt when confronted with Ricky McKitterick and his gang, pushing him around and shoving him into the boys washroom and threatening to duck his head in a sink full of freezing water, calling him a skinny little runt with a pathetic, weird name ….
Ah, so that was what had started it all.
String had focused on his name because he felt that it singled him out and made him a target ….
"Like I said, there will always be someone who will find something to try to make you mad, whether it be your size, your values in life, your love of your country, your religious convictions or your brother's dumb name. It is human nature to be jealous of others who appear to have more than we do, who are better looking and are smart, or to feel threatened by those who appear different to us …."
Steven paused to draw in a refreshing breath before continuing.
"Some things are worth getting a black eye for, String, but sometimes, it's smarter to just walk away. You have to find out for yourself which things are more important to you, but just remember, the way you react will change the way that people look at you for the rest of your life …."
Steven moved away from the tree and came up to stand beside his son, slipping his arm gently around the boy's shoulders as he turned him around to get a better look at the bruising around his eye.
It was a real beauty, the bruising already making its self known, and the lid already beginning to close up with the swelling, and Steven realised that Connie had been right about needing to put a swift end to this kind of retaliation. Many more shiners like this one and the boy could risk losing his sight.
"Now, Stringfellow, " he deliberately used the young man's name now, letting him know that not only was he proud of the name, but that he was also very proud of the young man who bore it. "Your mother has dinner almost ready, so you'd better go get washed up. And maybe see about getting something to put on that eye …."
Tipping back the youngster's head, Steven gently stroked the delicate skin beneath his son's damaged eye with the tip of his thumb.
"And next time, if you can't keep your guard up, you might try ducking …."