# The Old Man in the rain



## MJ Preston (Sep 6, 2010)

*THE OLD MAN IN THE RAIN 
Category- Non Fiction*
*Approximate word count 970*

I don't know what spurred me to follow him that day in 1977. I was 12 years old, knew who he was, so curiously I ventured out and began to move stealthly up Yale Road East as the old man trudged ahead of me. The sky was overcast, a callous mixture of depressing grey black clouds and the rain tapped away on the ground as we pushed up the street toward town. 

I was wearing a blue jean jacket that day, made by GWG as I recall, and my shoulder length hair was a tangle of wet curls. The poor old man was wearing a suit and hat, as men from his era often did. I felt a pang of guilt in my heart for this unintended victim, but I could not abandon the pursuit. The rain came down a little harder on us, but we continued on, a few hundred feet separating us.

I had to keep my pace at a minimum as the old man moved slower than I and if I didn't I would no doubt pass him. He'd traveled a couple blocks now and I decided to cross to the other side of street to avoid being noticed. As I did this I took a glance at his house and wondered if his wife was in there alone.

It didn't matter. I had to make sure he didn't see me as I followed, and I cut my pace a bit more looking away, as though I were trying to find a house on this side of the road. _What is he thinking_, I wondered. 

We had walked better than two miles now and were in the center of the town. The streets were not all that busy today and the bench he decided to sit down on was situated where five roads intersected in the little town of Chilliwack. This place was aptly called "Five Corners" and it was still the heart of the town's business district. I stopped and watched with guilty fascination as the old man stared off into the distance. He was broken, his eyes weary and tired, his heart battered and he could not see me or anyone else as the rain fell a little harder.

I leaned against a telephone pole, my jean jacket was spongy with water and the air smelled moist sending a cold shiver into my bones. _Did he know I had followed him? _I doubted that now and I wondered whether or not I should approach him. He was an extremely sad spectactle sitting there in the rain trying to make rhyme or reason of the madness. Perhaps I could sit down beside him, tell how sorry I was for his troubles, but no, I would never do that.

How long did I stand there watching the old man in the rain? Ten minutes? A half an hour? I don't know, for a 12 year old boy standing in the rain it felt like an eternity, but it was not. 

_He's dying,_ I thought. _This is killing him. _

And it was, but there was nothing I could do about it. 

The night before I had been camping two doors down with a friend of mine, named Warren. We had decided to camp out in Warren's back yard. At first I raised alarm. "What about the killer?"

Warren laughed. "That guy is five hundred miles from here."

Not long before this night, a group of five young teens had ventured down to the Fraser River to party. On that night a gunman came out of the woods and ambushed them. Their names were Leola Gulliker, Evert Den Hertog, Egbert Menger and Jan Den Hertog. Of the five, the only survivor would be Ed Menger who ran after the first shot rang out. The only female victim Leola Gulliker's body was not recovered at the crime scene. The news media dubbed the killings: THE ROSEDALE SLAYINGS as they occurred in proximity to the farming community of Rosedale, British Columbia.

All of the kids were talking about the murders, my older brother went to school with the young victims. To us, the Rosedale killer was a monster, perhaps a guargantuan man without a soul and there was speculation that the missing Gulliker was still being held by this monster.

An hour after Warren and I had set up the pup tent the street was awash with red and blue police lights as the RCMP cordoned the street off. One of the neighbor kids came by the fence and said, "the cops are arresting someone."

"Who," I asked.

"Probably some drunk," Warren rolled over and went to sleep.

The next morning we found out different. They had arrested the Rosedale Killer and he was not anything like we had painted him. He was a teenager as well, an average looking young man, tall thin, glasses. He had gone to school with these people and for reasons only he could offer, he decided to ambush them on the river. When news broke I smacked Warren in the arm and said, "five hundred miles eh."

He was speechless.

Now, I was watching the Father of Walter Murray Madsen sitting in the rain staring into the abyss and trying to comprehend what his son had been arrested for. He was a sad figure sitting there in his suit, while the rain dripped down on him mercilessly. I truly felt for him, but there was little I could do and I eventually withdrew leaving him to his sadness. 

Approximately week or two later the news would announce that the old man had died of natural causes, but I knew better. He died of a broken heart.

The following spring Leola Gulliker's body was recovered from the Fraser River.


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## garza (Sep 6, 2010)

Beautifully written with a sense of timing that is right on. This is marketable material, I suppose you know.


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## MJ Preston (Sep 6, 2010)

Thank you garza. The real life stuff is always free.
At least for me it is.


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## garza (Sep 7, 2010)

You make me hang my head. It's the real-life stuff I've written all my life to pay the rent and buy the groceries.


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## granty1 (Sep 8, 2010)

Again, great stuff. It's your nack of bringing experiences to such a palpable 'nearness' that grabs me. So many people have got these sort of memories, but few are able to bring them to life like this. I certainly can't at least!


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## apple (Sep 29, 2010)

I too, enjoyed the story, It caught me right away.  But there was one problem I had with it and it was that you were writing in first person reporting what the child observed, felt and experienced. In these two spots you told us how the old man felt  Even though the boy can only imagine how the man felt and what he might be thinking, he is only able to observe the man's action and appearance .  

 "I stopped and watched with guilty fascination as the old man stared off into the distance. _*He was broken*_, his eyes weary and tired, _*his heart batte*_*red *and he could not see me or anyone else as the rain fell a little harder.

 He was an extremely sad spectactle sitting there in the rain *trying to make rhyme or reason of the madness.* Perhaps I could sit down beside him, tell how sorry I was for his troubles, but no, I would never do that." 

So saying something like _he looked_broken  his heart _looked battered_ or some other phrasing would keep it in first person reporting.
Other than that , I think you wrote a wonderful piece.  You write very well, a feeling for character and with sensitivity.

my best,   apple


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## MJ Preston (Sep 29, 2010)

apple said:


> I too, enjoyed the story, It caught me right away.  But there was one problem I had with it and it was that you were writing in first person reporting what the child observed, felt and experienced. In these two spots you told us how the old man felt  Even though the boy can only imagine how the man felt and what he might be thinking, he is only able to observe the man's action and appearance .
> 
> "I stopped and watched with guilty fascination as the old man stared off into the distance. _*He was broken*_, his eyes weary and tired, _*his heart batte*_*red *and he could not see me or anyone else as the rain fell a little harder.
> 
> ...


 
Apple I was writing in first person because the story is non fiction. I can see where you would find the analysis of a boy unusual in drawing such conclusions, but I did just that. Perhaps it is the voyeur in me, like most writers, I drew conclusions even at a tender age. I never wrote about that day or even spoke to anyone about it until I posted it here. Perhaps my conclusions are tainted by 35 years of reflection. Either way, I thank you for your feedback.

Mark


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## apple (Sep 29, 2010)

Honestly MJ, I'm not trying to be argumenative, but maybe I wasn't clear with my point.  I respect you as a writer very much but I think my point is valid when writing  fiction or non-fiction. 
I wasn't saying the analisis, conclusions or feelings of the boy was out of line.   Quite astute for a young boy under the circumstances.  
But , even though I might know all the facts and circumstances, I truly couldn't know that his heart *was* battered, I can say his eyes were weary, but I can't know he *wa*s broken. It might appear that way to me but I'm not privey to be inside the man's body or mind to know for a fact.  That's why I suggested to say that  it "looked as if"... his heart was battered, etc. 
 If I write from my own point of view.  I can't assume that I know someone's elses point of view.  example: I watched her eat the apple.  I knew her favorite was the MacIntosh. When she finished , she licked her lips and thought how delicious it was.   (how would I know what she was thinking.)  Anyway, MJ, I'm giving it one more valiant try to splain myself.   Just say "Nice try, Lucy." and I will skulk away and say Damn it!    :grin:    yours,   Sondra


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## Draxia (Sep 30, 2010)

What he's trying to say was how the boy knew that he was... "trying to make rhyme or reason of the madness."

Good writing.

The only other issue I have is why a boy would think this...

"_He's dying,_ I thought. _This is killing him._

And it was, but there was nothing I could do about it."

Why exactly would the boy want to do anything about it? What brought about this feeling? Simple empathy? Doesn't seem to jive from a boy following an old guy through the street.


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## The Backward OX (Sep 30, 2010)

This is posted in non-fiction. You use the personal pronoun. From these two things I assume this to be a true recollection by you the writer. This being so, how did you know the old guy sitting in the rain was trying to make rhyme or reason out of the madness?


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## MJ Preston (Sep 30, 2010)

apple said:


> Honestly MJ, I'm not trying to be argumenative, but maybe I wasn't clear with my point.  I respect you as a writer very much but I think my point is valid when writing  fiction or non-fiction.
> I wasn't saying the analisis, conclusions or feelings of the boy was out of line.   Quite astute for a young boy under the circumstances.
> But , even though I might know all the facts and circumstances, I truly couldn't know that his heart *was* battered, I can say his eyes were weary, but I can't know he *wa*s broken. It might appear that way to me but I'm not privey to be inside the man's body or mind to know for a fact.  That's why I suggested to say that  it "looked as if"... his heart was battered, etc.
> If I write from my own point of view.  I can't assume that I know someone's elses point of view.  example: I watched her eat the apple.  I knew her favorite was the MacIntosh. When she finished , she licked her lips and thought how delicious it was.   (how would I know what she was thinking.)  Anyway, MJ, I'm giving it one more valiant try to splain myself.   Just say "Nice try, Lucy." and I will skulk away and say Damn it!    :grin:    yours,   Sondra


 
Sondra: I take no offense at what you are asking and might be inclined to agree somewhat. While I could not really get inside the old man's head and he did not tell me his heart was battered it is what I thought. What I think, and that is what I conveyed to you and the reader. We writers do this sort of thing all the time, whether in first or third person. We do it when we describe the sweet nectar inside a tulip, when in fact we might never have tasted it. No need to skulk away dear lady, I welcome the discussion.



Draxia said:


> What he's trying to say was how the boy knew that he was... "trying to make rhyme or reason of the madness."
> 
> Good writing.
> 
> ...


 
Knowing the old man's circumstances I did feel a great deal of sympathy for him. My initial curiosity gave way to sadness.



The Backward OX said:


> This is posted in non-fiction. You use the personal pronoun. From these two things I assume this to be a true recollection by you the writer. This being so, how did you know the old guy sitting in the rain was trying to make rhyme or reason out of the madness?


 
Because I knew of the circumstances, I observed his distress and while he did not yell his thoughts at me, it wasn't that hard to put together.

Think about it this way. Yesterday your son was a normal high school student, today you learn he has been charged with mass murder. Would you not question the rhyme or reason for the sudden madness that is tearing your life and family apart. It is presumption on my part yes, but that is what we do as writers, we witness and we tell the world how we see it or saw it. Often we climb inside the heads of our characters both in fiction and non fiction. Granted, I did not write about it for better than thirty odd years, and add in that I am looking back at a boy who was only a part of who I am today, but I have revisited this moment in my life hundreds if not thousands of times. 

Cheers
M


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## The Backward OX (Sep 30, 2010)

MJ Preston said:


> Often we climb inside the heads of our characters both in fiction and non fiction.


 
We’ll just have to agree to differ. I agree that in fiction the narrator can climb inside anyone’s head. But non-fiction, by definition, limits the writer to what he observed and nothing else. Only a narrator of fiction is allowed to read minds. In a case such as the one I have brought up, it is known as “changing point of view”; the writer ceases describing what the kid saw, starts a new paragraph, and begins telling the reader what’s happening from the perspective of the old man.


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## MJ Preston (Sep 30, 2010)

Fair enough Ox.


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## MJ Preston (Oct 2, 2010)

Backward Ox and Apple, I have had a chance to really think on what you were trying to convey to me regarding my perception of the old man's thoughts and emotions and I have come to the conclusion that you are absolutely right.

 I know, big revelation eh, well duh MJ](*,)

I haven't had time to really reply over the last few days, but you are both quite right. If I am to write non fiction I have to convey that what he is thinking is purely my perception and I should make that clear when describing it.

Thanks
Mark


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## Julianna (Apr 18, 2013)

I came across this randomly on the internet and it struck me that for some reason this story was buried many years ago.I felt compelled to comment ..I am from the Chilliwack area and can remember like yesterday when this event happened.It froze a whole community in its tracks.My Mother knew the sister of Walter Madsen and she was a very troubled individual as well, her name was Barbara and nicknamed Babs. Walter apparently ended up hanging himself in jail or so my Mother said..so I know he does not walk among us as one of the commentors had suggested. The whole family saga was tragic. I did not know about the brother of one of the female victims committing a murder/suicide in the near proximity of the shootings by Walter several years later. There were rumors about the house where he lived and many of us as kids would avoid the whole block as we feared something would happen to us. The playings on the minds of children! As I said, tragic. It's odd they have never done a movie on this horrific story. It was a fairly large family and I wonder how they have all dealt with the madness over the years and if it affected them at all. Cheers, Julianna.


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## Julianna (Apr 18, 2013)

Just had to add another note here MJ..This really brought some sad moments back to life from an era in many lives that should never of been touched by such madness. I reviewed some of the articles on this story that were so close to my homefront and it pushed me to remember so many other stories and speculations on what happened. I forwarded your blog to many who were affected by Walter Madsens actions during that time. I still remember all the rumors that flew that the missing girl Leola was buried in the Madsen's house in the basement and when her body was found many months later it still did not lay to rest the many rumors. Many of us also remembered the news crews who tried to talk to the Madsens on what their son had done and the drama around a particular day when they showed up. Your portrayal of Walter Madsen's father's sadness was very true. My Mother remembers it all very well..she also noted as many of the articles pointed out that he was thought to be schizophrenic. Are you writing a book on this Mr. Preston or have you already and if so could you provide the title?


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## MJ Preston (Apr 18, 2013)

Julianna said:


> Just had to add another note here MJ..This really brought some sad moments back to life from an era in many lives that should never of been touched by such madness. I reviewed some of the articles on this story that were so close to my homefront and it pushed me to remember so many other stories and speculations on what happened. I forwarded your blog to many who were affected by Walter Madsens actions during that time. I still remember all the rumors that flew that the missing girl Leola was buried in the Madsen's house in the basement and when her body was found many months later it still did not lay to rest the many rumors. Many of us also remembered the news crews who tried to talk to the Madsens on what their son had done and the drama around a particular day when they showed up. Your portrayal of Walter Madsen's father's sadness was very true. My Mother remembers it all very well..she also noted as many of the articles pointed out that he was thought to be schizophrenic. Are you writing a book on this Mr. Preston or have you already and if so could you provide the title?



Hello Juliana,

 I have included this in a Memoir I keep, but at this time have no plans on publication. It is a personal reflection of my life. I will not provide a title for a memoir that is not published, as I am sure you will understand. As to the story regarding Walter Murray Madsen, I can tell that this story also impacted my family. My Brother went to school with the murdered kids and was invited to that very get together. Thankfully, he went to another party down the river. The prison guard who was in charge of Madsen was a close friend of our family. Although the Father passed not long after, his mother continued to visit her son. I don't know as I can blame her. The parents of killers are really victims as well.  And I guess that was the point of this short composition. 

As to what happened to the others, I had heard not heard about a murder, but an accident that claimed the life of a family member not far from where Leola was recovered. I do not know enough about the circumstances to comment. Thank you for your interest in this story. If you have anything else feel free to PM me.

Mark


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## spublogger (Apr 28, 2013)

I enjoyed the story and  thought it was well written. I do wonder what made you follow the man . I regards what the man was thinking, to a degree things are said by body language that could be interpreted by the observer.  Yes we can always improve that's why we post these stories so we can learn from others.


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## Super00141 (Apr 29, 2013)

Well written, it was well paced and painted a vivid image.


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