By Jim Boy O. Campiche

     "This vacation will be good for you," insisted Emil's wife, Cicily.

     They were driving down a mountain highway in a rented automobile.

     "Besides," she added, "you haven't been home in years."

     Emil Feeble shifted uneasily in the drivers seat. As a city dweller, he was more accustomed to mass transit. In fact, Emil could count the times he had driven an automobile in the past ten years on one hand - doing so, he observed how white his knuckles were, from grasping the steering wheel so tightly.

     A committed company man, this was the first time Emil had actually allowed himself what would be considered an extended leave of absence. Despite this, his briefcase, full of business reports, sat on the back seat. Emil glanced nervously in the rear view mirror, wishing he were working, rather than driving. He saw forty-five hard years etched in the lines around his eyes.

     "Watch the road, honey," his wife warned.

     The road ran next to a long line of elms, which projected their shadows against the speeding car in a way which reminded Emil of the shaky blasts of light emitted by an old movie projector. As the miles rolled by, bringing him closer to his home town, memories of his childhood played through Emil's mind. By the time the car pulled into his parent's driveway, he was humming Home Sweet Home.

     "Roof!" barked Custer, the family dog, in welcome.

     Out of the house ran Emil's parents, who had been peeling potatoes at the kitchen sink. Everyone stood in the open driveway, exchanging embraces.

     "Welcome home, Emil!" his Mother cried.

     Cicily had no way of knowing what would transpire over the holiday. She did not consider her mother-in-law's outburst at all out of the ordinary. There seemed no need for concern.

     The next few days were spent uneventfully. Emil's father kept the fireplace lit, and Mrs. Feeble kept good food coming. Cicily started a jigsaw puzzle. Emil enjoyed walking the dog in the afternoons, around and around the neighborhood. Their evenings were devoted to canasta.

     Then, on Wednesday, a funny thing happened. Emil decided to mow the lawn. As he wheeled out the lawn mower, he thought about all the time that had passed since he performed the chore last. As he pushed the lawn mower back and forth, he thought about the thousands of times he had clipped the grass for his weekly allowance. As a boy, Emil had a paper route and rode all over town on his bike at five o'clock in the morning, bringing the news. How easy life had seemed to him then...

     Konk!

     Just at that moment, Emil steered the lawn mower underneath a tree and hit his head on a low branch hard enough to render himself unconscious. When he awoke a woman was leaning over him, shouting above the roar of an engine, "Emil! Are you okay?"

     Emil blinked his eyes and wagged his head a little.

     "Who are you?" he asked his wife.

     Emil was helped inside and lain on a chaise lounge while a doctor was summoned. He watched a Popeye cartoon on television while awaiting treatment.

     After a full examination, the family physician concluded that Emil was suffering from a rare form of amnesia, resulting in a complete loss of memory beyond the first twelve years of his life.

     "That is preposterous!" Cicily complained.

     "No, it is not," the Dr. conceded, soberly. "Allow me to demonstrate."

     He retrieved Emil's briefcase and placed it before the subject. Emil eyed the offering unequivocally.

     "Open it, Emil," the Dr. urged.

     Emil glanced at all the typed pages inside, in triplicate, and closed the lid. "Can I go watch television?" he asked, impulsively. "I want to watch Leave It To Beaver."

     Cicily could not keep calm. "I'm getting you out of here," she said, taking Emil's arm. But Emil resisted her.

     "I don't want to go! I don't want to go!" he cried.

     His mother was instantly by his side.

     "That's all right," Mrs. Feeble soothed her son. "You don't have to go anywhere. Your mother will protect you..."

     "I am leaving," Cicily said. "You'll hear from my lawyer."

     "Well," the Dr. murmured, packing his medicine bag. "Well, well, well!"

     Mr. Feeble kept quiet. He hoped he still only had to pay ten cents a week for Emil's allowance.

     Not long after, Emil landed a paper route. Now he rides the silent streets at dawn, always accompanied by Custer. He rides no-handed, weaving the bike back and forth down the street, plopping the paper on peoples' porches, whistling Dixie.