Time is more malleable than you think...
~~~
One of my first assignments working as a cub reporter for the local newspaper was to interview Mr. Oliver McAdams, a 99-year-old man living at Pine Springs retirement community in town. Since the 250th birthday of our country was only a day away, the paper thought it would make a good story to ask Mr. McAdams what it was like to live through THREE American celebrations: the Sesquicentennial Exposition in 1926, the Bicentennial in 1976, and now the Semiquincentennial on July 4th of this year.
I found Mr. McAdams sitting quietly in his room, both hands clutching the handle of his brown wooden cane, patiently waiting for my arrival for our scheduled appointment. He had just had lunch and was about to doze when I knocked on his open door.
“Mr. McAdams, I presume?” I said cheerfully. “I’m Josh Taylor, the reporter from The Herald. We spoke on the phone. It’s nice to meet you.”
The old man extended a trembling right hand, which I gingerly shook.
“Hello, sonny,” he greeted. “Nice to meet you, too. So, what are you here for again?”
“Just to talk,” I explained. “My paper would like to publish a story about your life in the July 4th edition. You’ve seen a few Independence Days come and go in your lifetime, eh?”
I took out my notebook and pen to take notes of our conversation.
“It’s always been my favorite holiday,” the old man replied. “Yes, counting tomorrow, when I turn one hundred, I’ve seen 300 of them so far.”
“300?” I questioned. “Surely you mean 100?”
“No, I was correct. You see, sonny, this old codger will be 300-years old,” he said proudly.
I made the mistake of questioning his reasoning. Never argue with someone who may be delusional or suffering from cognitive decline…as I soon found out.
“No one is 300-years old,” I said, chuckling a little. “I mean, that’s ridiculous.”
“Now, you listen here,” he said, pointing his cane at me. “I don’t care what the dang chart says or what any confounded doctor says or what any kind of piece of paper says! I’m 300 years old! Don’t you think I know how old I am? I’m not crazy, sonny, and I’m NOT confused! Just because you’re a young whippersnapper fresh out of college with a degree, just because you’re working for some dang newspaper doesn’t mean you know everything! Now, you listen to me and I’ll explain it to you and maybe you’ll learn something!”
Having been properly put in my place, I immediately backed off, not wishing to cause this old fellow a heart attack, nor wanting a whack from his threatening, quivering cane. I learned my lesson. I would sit and listen and agree with whatever this gentleman says, keeping in mind that he may be suffering from some sort of disease of the mind. My own grandfather suffered from dementia in his later years before he tragically died.
Right from the start, I knew my afternoon with Mr. McAdams would be not what I had intended it to be.
“Well now,” he began, clearing his throat into a wad of crumpled tissue. “Where was I? Oh, yes…my age. I was born on July 4th in 1726. I died in 1826, the same year I was born. I died again in 1926. I thought that maybe I would finally go to my heavenly reward with my wife and children but no…I was reborn later in 1926. Here I am now. In THIS LIFETIME I will be 100. I have walked on this earth for 300 years. I die every hundred years and I am born every hundred years.”
I sat there, not knowing what to say or what to think, almost afraid to utter a word for fear of his wrath. Slumping in my chair I simply asked “Why?”
“Good question, sonny,” he replied sadly. “Maybe I’m stuck…stuck in some old fangled time warp. Or maybe someone up there is asleep at the wheel. Maybe it’s because I died on my birthday. Not many do, you know. William Shakesphere died on his birthday. So did Mike Douglas, the talk-show host. But not many.
“Honestly, I don’t know. I keep hoping that each lifetime would be my last so I could rest in peace. So far it hasn’t happened. Maybe it will this time.”
Other than questioning Mr. McAdams’ sanity, I felt sorry for him. IF it was true, this far-fetched tale about living three consecutive lifetimes, it had to be frightful. Enlightening to see and live in the future, to witness all of the changes over the years, but still frightening to know you were helpless to this unusual stroke of fate.
He finally broke the awkward silence.
“Anyway, you mentioned Independence Day,” he said. “The stories I could tell you! Yes, I was there…in Philadelphia…for the very first Independence Day, on July 4th, 1776. But allow me to digress first as to how I got there.
“Back in 1755 I was but a twenty-nine-year-old, wet-behind-the-ears Wagoner. That’s what they called the men who drove wagons for a living. Normally, I would transport supplies for the British during the French and Indian War, but in 1755, they needed help on Braddock’s Excursion, so I signed on.”
“Braddock’s Excursion?” I repeated, unfamiliar with the term. “The British were planning a surprise attack against the French at old Fort Pitt, where Pittsburgh stands right about now,” he explained. “The plan was to cross the Monongahela River and attack the dang fort. We had fourteen hundred soldiers whereas they only had eight hundred and fifty-five French troops and Injuns. We should’ve won the battle but things got kind of messed up and soon we were hightailing it for our lives. Me and Daniel Boone and George Washington.”
“THE Daniel Boone…and THE George Washington?” I asked wide-eyed, my mouth hanging open.
“That’s what I said, “he replied. “They were along on that trip, Boone driving wagons, just like me, and Washington helped to organize the retreat.
“Anyway, after returning home in one piece, I continued to be a Wagoner, right through the revolution,” the old man said. “Somebody had to do it! I had a way with horses all my life…or should I say…LIVES. But getting back to Independence Day, you’re darn tooting, I was in Philadelphia, at the mall with the crowd, on July 4th, 1776, listening to the very first reading of the Declaration of Independence.”
“Incredible,” I murmured. “So, you actually KNEW the Founding Fathers? Washington? Jefferson? Adams? Franklin? You knew them?”
I thought if I repeated his words back to him that he might sense how ridiculous it all sounded.
“Not really,” he admitted. “I was just a Wagoner, no statesman. I didn’t have the smarts for that. I was just a pioneer, doing my duty. But could I recognize them? You’re darn right I could!”
“What was that first Independence Day like?” I asked.
I still didn’t believe a word, but decided to play along with his fantasy. If it made him happy and content, so be it.
“We were still at war,” he responded. “Just because they signed a piece of parchment paper didn’t mean the fighting for freedom stopped, especially when the British didn’t exactly agree to our independence. Oh, there was some celebrating, don’t get me wrong. Thirteen-gun salutes, ringing of bells, and the whole city was illuminated, signifying the light of liberty we hoped to achieve. I heard tell Washington ordered the rum rations doubled on that day, which naturally made the boys happy. And there were plenty of mock funerals for King George the Third, that snake. We weren’t having any more of that, being subjects of a king. But there would be four more years of hard fighting, of loyal American patriots losing their lives before our freedom was finally won and victory was ours.”
Mr. McAdams stopped here to blow his nose and to calm himself. Whatever it was, as he told the story, he was most invested in this chronicle of his life. And so, he continued.
“Well, I was fifty in 1776, which was considered old back in those times,” he said. “After the war ended I settled down on a farm with my wife and children. I still had my horses and did some wagoning when the opportunity presented itself. The years flew by and pretty soon my entire family had died before me. I was about the oldest…and loneliest… person alive, living to one hundred, which was unheard of. I should’ve known then that my destiny was…unusual.”
“So, you died in 1826?” I asked, taking notes.
“That’s right,” he confirmed, “just after Independence Day that summer. Exactly fifty years after the Declaration of Independence was signed. I vaguely recall the celebrations: There were parades and speeches from the politicians. The Veterans of the Revolutionary War were saluted. There weren’t many of them who had survived. Many moved out west and were never heard from again. Many passed away from natural causes or from disease or in the War of 1812. I remember President John Quincy Adams visiting Philadelphia on Independence Day. But what made the holiday a somber occasion was the death of his father, John Adams, AND the death of Thomas Jefferson, both on July 4th. Who would’ve ever thought those two great men, framers of the Constitution, both former presidents, would die at the SAME TIME, miles apart?”
I noticed a teardrop running down his cheek, and I scrambled to grab the nearby tissue box, offering it to the old man. He plucked a fresh tissue, wiping his tired eyes. He sure was taking his own narrative hard.
“Were you always known as Oliver McAdams?” I questioned.
I already had plans, once I got back to the newspaper, of doing a little research into the validity of what I was hearing. I wasn’t totally convinced of his claims but, to satisfy my own curiosity, I decided to search the internet and the library. I needed more information first.
“No,” he answered, “My name was Johnny in my first life…that I know for sure, but I could never remember my last name. When I was born in 1826, I was known as Jacob. Again, no last name. It’s like it was erased from history.
“I don’t remember dying. I don’t remember being born again. I was about five when I started getting these vivid memories of long ago, memories of horses and driving the wagon train, memories of life around Philadelphia. That’s when I started getting suspicious. Was I dreaming all of this? I didn’t know a thing about past lives…I still don’t. All I know is that these memories became more real as time went on.
“Since I had experience with horses, I decided to do what I did best for all those years: become a Wagoner again. That didn’t sit well with my mother. She wanted me to become a doctor or statesman but my heart was with horses and country life. So, I headed out west with the forty-niners and the trailblazers, riding wagon. I rode all over the west during those days. I managed to avoid getting involved in the Civil War. I never married during my second life, and had no children that I knew of, so I had plenty of freedom to find the elbowroom I always wanted. Indians, Rustlers, Gunfighters, Ranchers, Pioneers…they all crossed my path at one time or another.
“I almost joined the United States Cavalry at one point, only to reconsider all of their dang rules and regulations. I became a scout later in life, a darned good one, if I must say. I nearly signed on to scout for General Custer in June of 1876, especially since the pay was so good. I was squeezed out of that job when their regular scout, a fellow named Luke, felt better after a bout of food poisoning. Good thing he got better because that was the ill-fated Battle of Little Bighorn expedition. If fate had been different, that could’ve been me that lost my scalp, not old Luke. Imagine going from food poisoning to that? That boy had the worst luck.
“After that, I decided to head back east for the upcoming Centennial celebration. I hadn’t seen my family for a while, so I thought it would be a good chance to kill two birds with one stone.
“The Philadelphia Centennial Exposition, otherwise known as the World’s Fair, was my personal highlight that summer. There were all sorts of new-fangled items on display. It was the first time many of us saw a telephone and a typewriter. It was the first time we Americans had a chance to taste bananas, popcorn and root beer. I remember the great Corliss steam engine on display…over 700 tons of locomotive. And for the first time, we saw the arm and torch of what would be The Statue of Liberty.”
“I wish I could’ve been there,” I sighed, starting to see his tale come alive. “What was July 4th of 1876 like?”
“Pretty festive,” the old man replied nonchalantly. “There were fireworks and lots of noise from cannons blasting, pistols shooting, bells ringing and steam whistles whistling. Two things brought the proceedings to a halt: The number of fireworks accidents was one. There were no safety regulations back then, sonny, and many fools got hurt, trying to shoot off their own display. Then Susan B. Anthony and the other Suffragettes protested vigorously at Independence Hall, attempting to drown out the speech given by then-President Ulysses S. Grant. In the end, I suppose their protests for Women’s Rights worked.”
“Fascinating,” I said in awe.
I couldn’t believe that I was beginning to believe this crap. Me…the guy with common sense and logic…believing that I was talking to a soul who lived one hundred-and fifty years ago. And yet there was more.
“I grew old, just like before,” Mr. McAdams said, continuing his story.
I noticed a certain gleam in his eyes. Either he loved telling the story of his lifetime or he knew that he had baited me…hook, line and sinker. I was sent to get an interview…not the one I expected but it was an interview nonetheless.
“After the turn of the century, being seventy-four years old, I expected to meet my maker. I had led a good second life and was ready to meet the good Lord. Only I stayed alive another twenty-six years! I wasn’t complaining, seeing how I was in relatively good health, but I was just curious as to what exactly would happen to me when I did die.
“I was alive during the Sesquicentennial Exposition of our blessed country. 150 years, to be exact, and up until then, I had seen every one of them. Certain parts are clearer than others: Calvin Coolidge was president, and I recall the special commemorative coins that were issued that year…silver half-dollars.
“Once again, I died, this time in 1926 at age two hundred, but I can’t remember any of it. My current birth certificate says I was born in 1926, so the same dang thing happened: I lived through the Great Depression and served during World War Two, never thinking I had already lived TWO lifetimes before! I was still only a kid when I enlisted in the Army. I was in the European theater during the war, even surviving the brutal Battle of the Bulge. I took shrapnel in my right leg during the battle, and I spend some time in England recuperating. By then, the war was over, thank God.
“I returned to the States, met a girl named Martha, got married and found a job as a machinist in a tire factory back home. There wasn’t much call for wagon train riders anymore,” the old man said glumly. “That’s when I started having those flashbacks, just like in my previous life, flashbacks about BOTH lifetimes. That’s how I knew that I had lived so long. There was no denying it anymore: It wasn’t a dream. These experiences were REAL. I had to face facts that maybe, just maybe, I was meant to live and die every hundred years.
“I even told Martha about it, knowing she would never believe me, but I had to tell someone. She started calling me ‘The Centennial Man’ in jest. I laughed along with her but deep inside I was just as scared as before.”
Why did I feel this gentleman was telling me the truth? Well, maybe a great deal of his story was not true, but perhaps he was blending fact with fiction. Perhaps he did serve in the army during World War II, and perhaps he had been wounded in battle, but the rest? The time travel, the past lives, the famous historical figures he had met and the historical events he had witnessed…perhaps this was his delusional way of blocking the hurtful, tragic parts of his life that DID exist at one time? Whatever the reason, I fully intended on giving Mr. McAdams the benefit of the doubt. After nearly one hundred years, he had earned that right.
“Fate has a funny way of working out,” he continued. “No matter what lifetime, I never liked to live in the city. I always needed more elbowroom. And so, after the war, I moved to the Pennsylvania country near Birdsboro, not far from the Daniel Boone Homestead. For some strange reason, that area felt like home. One of the many ways that Pennsylvania was going to celebrate the upcoming Bicentennial in 1976 was forming a wagon train to join the other 49 states in an exposition journey, tracing the road of the pioneers. These wagon trains would ride famous roads, like the Oregon Trail and through the Cumberland Gap, eventually linking up in Pennsylvania for a historic climax to Valley Forge National Park, just outside of Philadelphia.
“Something told me to sign up and wouldn’t you know it? They made me Wagon Master of the whole dang Pennsylvania regiment! I had never been a Wagon Master in my previous lives, so I considered it a great honor.”
“You were a Wagon Master during the Bicentennial?” I asked.
“Yep, I sure was,” the old man confirmed. “On July 4th, 1976, our nation’s 200th birthday, and my personal 250th birthday, I was riding again. In fact, I was in the lead wagon as all fifty wagons from the states passing through this very town of Phoenixville, on the way to Valley Forge. It was quite a thrill, parading into town with the other wagons, waving at all the folks dressed in red, white and blue. I remember that day so well, fifty years ago. The patriotism was high, especially after the chaos in the Sixties, and then the damn Vietnam War and Watergate. The country needed to party…and we sure did!
“All the mailboxes and fire hydrants were painted red, white and blue. Johnny Cash was the Grand Marshal of the big Bicentennial parade in Washington, D.C. There was no grander sight than the tall ships sailing into New York Harbor, hundreds of them, passing right by the Statue of Liberty. I believe Queen Elizabeth visited around Independence Day, extending no hard feelings regarding the American Revolution. When we arrived at Valley Forge Park, we were met by a million people, many of them in attendance to hear President Gerald Ford speak.
“What a time it was!” he proclaimed. “I hear tell another wagon train is coming through town tomorrow for the Semiquincentennial celebration.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m covering the arrival of the wagon train for the newspaper. I can’t wait to see it.”
“I sure wish I was there,” Mr. McAdams lamented with a sigh. “But I had my time. And I suppose, if things go the way they’ve been going, I’ll have my time again.”
The old man commenced with a longer, more sustained coughing fit. I notified the nurse on duty to check on him. That’s when I bid my farewell, with many thanks.
“Look for the article in tomorrow’s paper,” I reminded Mr. McAdams.
*****
When I got back to the office, I decided to do a little research before writing the article about Mr. McAdams. The information about his past…fighting in the French and Indian War… witnessing the first reading of the Declaration of Independence in 1776… attending the World’s Fair in Philadelphia during the Centennial celebration of 1876…and all of the other crazy stuff he mentioned that afternoon, I decided NOT to include in the article. Who would ever believe such nonsense, no matter how compelling his stories were?
The thought of visiting the local library and trying to find Oliver McAdams in the history books, periodicals or ancient journals did cross my mind. But I only had first names to go by, nothing concrete. But I DID search through the newspaper microfilm collection, reading about the year 1976. In the July 5th edition of our paper, I was fascinated by all of the articles written about the Bicentennial celebration. Mr. McAdams was correct about everything: from the patriotic parades with the colorful floats and the glorious marching bands, to the historic wagon train which really did pass through our small town. When I read about that event, there were black and white photos accompanying the stories. Sure enough, the Pennsylvania Wagon Master was Oliver McAdams of Birdsboro, Pa.
He was a good-looking fellow from what I could tell of the grainy, old photo… middle-aged, dark hair, lean and physically fit as he sat on a lazy board (a wooden plank) on the left side of the wagon. Time stood still in that photo, but I swear I could feel the heat of the hot July day and sense the history and sheer fun of it all from the many smiles of the crowd waving to Ollie.
*****
The next day was July 4th of 2026. The weather cooperated, as it had in 1976, a carbon copy day filled with crystal blue skies and warm, sparkling sunshine. Not a puffy cloud was in sight. Of course, being a holiday, most people were off work. Kids were already enjoying their summer vacation. The town was splashed with bunting, flags and decorations of red, white and blue wherever I looked. After the pandemic and several rough years, our citizens were ready to celebrate our liberty once again.
I reached the corner of Starr Street and Church Street at approximately 12 noon, the time for our local Independence Day parade to begin. The various marching bands blared patriotic songs, all beautifully accomplished, especially our high school band, which received the loudest cheers. I was most anxious for the Bicentennial wagon train, thinking of Oliver McAdams. It turned out that I didn’t have to wait very long because along came the wagon train itself, slowly lumbering down Starr Street, the horses’ hooves clopping on the asphalt. It was dusty and hot as the procession began to pass in front of me.
Being the host wagon, the Pennsylvania entry in the parade led the way. There, riding on the lazy board, was a middle-aged man, deeply tan and strong, wearing brown, rustic, loose clothing and a cowboy hat. He jumped down from the wagon, deciding to walk along with the horses until he saw me in the crowd.
“Howdy, Mister Taylor,” he greeted, shaking my hand as he passed. “Happy Independence Day!”
I was too stunned to say a word, watching a young Oliver McAdams and the remaining forty-nine wagons proceed along the road to Valley Forge.
*****
I sat in my office, still perplexed. I wrote my story about the parade, listening to the cheerful sounds of a calliope filter in the open windows downtown. To ease my own mind, and to make sure I wasn’t going insane, I checked the microfilm again, the one containing all of the old newspaper articles and photographs from the Bicentennial fifty years ago. There was the picture of Oliver McAdams, just as I saw the day before.
There was absolutely NO DOUBT this was the same person I encountered today at the parade. Same looks, same appearance, same clothes, same hat. What were the odds of Wagon Masters, both leading the Pennsylvania delegation, being doppelgangers? Anything was possible, but I needed to find out for sure.
Hastily leaving the office, I found the once bountiful crowds dispersing, many carrying lawn chairs, many heading home to celebrate the Fourth with a cook-out, a swim or other summertime activities; Others were heading to the park for a community celebration with fireworks after dark.
I debated whether to ride to nearby Valley Forge Park and track down the Pennsylvania Wagon Master. I would confront him on the spot, asking him how did he know my name? Instead, I felt compelled to return to Pine Springs and visit the REAL Oliver McAdams once more.
Maybe I was out of line. Maybe the old man would think me crazy for asking him the questions I had listed in my mind, such as “How did you become young again? How did you get from the retirement center, a one-hundred-year-old man, barely able to stand, to driving a wagon again, a fifty-year-old man, vibrant and healthy?
The frightening idea occurred to me: Was his claim to be 300-years-old true? Had he actually lived three lifetimes? Even worse, had he convinced me to believe him?
I approached the third-floor nursing station and asked to see Mr. McAdams. The nurse on duty remembered me from the day before. She gave me a strange look before answering.
“I’m sorry but Mister McAdams passed away early this morning,” she said.
“On his birthday,” I murmured. “He turned one hundred…today!”
I left the retirement center, still confused.
Rest in peace, Oliver McAdams. Hopefully you are in Heaven as you wanted, and not somewhere in the world, just beginning yet another lifetime.
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