When I was a Boy...

2011-06-23T22:49:00.000-04:00

I see you there, in the surf, splashing about with your sister on holiday. You are ten, going on twenty and as wonderful a person as a dad could hope for. Normally I write fanciful stories of when I was a boy. Stories about growing up in the hills and the silliness I did. Today, well…today is different. Today I want to tell you about when you were a girl.

When you were a girl with your sun-drenched hair and sun-bright smile, so full of promise and hints of the woman you will become, we vacationed every year at The North Myrtle Beach Travel Park the first week after school was out. It seemed to make the last days of May a whirlwind of activity that both flew and dragged by.

Finally we would load up the wagon and head south, sometimes watching the rugged southern mountains of WV, sometimes playing slug-bug but mostly you and Sissy with your heads in your I-pods or watching a movie. The inevitable choruses of “Are we there yet?” would make your mom and I smile a little on the inside, even as we scolded you for the constant haranguing. I’m sure you rolled your eyes more than once when I told you we would be there when you could see the ocean.

First order of business when we checked in was how soon we could go to Broadway at the Beach so you could build your annual Build-A-Bear creation. You always put such thought and care into your selections, a careful and emotive mind at work. I remember them all, even if I forget the names sometimes. You always managed to talk us into getting the baby version to go along with your new wolf/dog/dragon. Don’t think for a minute we didn’t know you were angling for a second stuffed animal instead of one. And, don’t think for a minute that we ever regretted it.

Sometimes, back at the camp, we would spend days at the beach or lounge in the pool. You and your sister always seemed to make new friends and were delighted to meet old ones from previous visits. You always were shy to start, but made connections there that were deeper than expected, often surprising in their intensity. I like that about you. I like that you are easily moved to tears, that you feel the world around you in such a unique way, that you are so present in your relationships.

I know you have struggled with finding your way sometimes, especially with the girls at school and learning to navigate the cliques and meanness of young girls. I wish I could tell you it gets better soon, but it doesn’t. The way you have handled yourself so far gives me faith that you will do well. You are stronger than you know, regardless of having the lowest pain tolerance in the world.

I see you there, when you were a girl, a bit self-conscious about being so much taller than your classmates and a little resentful of having grown-ups treat you like a much older girl. You have had to grow up a bit faster than the other kids and it makes you more of a leader than you know. That’s a good thing, but I know you sometimes wish the lady at the movie counter wouldn’t single you out with her questioning eye when we tell her you are still only ten.

You handle it well, mostly. That little surly pout only comes out from time to time. You wouldn’t be a kid if you didn’t know how to pout. It has also made you funny. I wish you knew just how funny you are, with your quick wit and easy laugh. You can say the most insightful and hilarious things. It shows how well you see people and what occasionally ridiculous things we are.

Watching you in the surf, I had visions of the woman you may become, a mom, an executive, a veterinarian. The images flashed by like the sun sparkling on the waves each one seeming full-blown and tangibly real. Flicker and flash of what might be spinning inside my head. And I wasn’t worried at all about any of it. Yes, I know there are hurts and struggles to come that will break your heart and try your spirit, but I’m not worried. You see, I knew you…when you were a girl.

Mom

2011-05-08T00:55:00.000-04:00

The faithful reader of this blog will know all about my mom and her issues with the DC police and Federales. If you missed it, catch up here…http://wheniwasaboy.wordpress.com/2011/04/29/my-mom-the-felon/. I just want to take a moment to fill in the mental pic of the woman who gave me birth. She is more than the felon on the lamb you have been introduced to.

When I was a boy, my mom was always there. In the magick-heavy valley of Sinking Creek, mom filled the traditional role of house-wife. Today that seems less than it did in the 70’s. Back then, most mom’s in WV stayed home. Kids needed tending to, as did the garden, house, laundry, etc. The value of a rock to which the house could be pinned was like air. Always there, constant and sure.

Mom came from a very musical family and taught me to sing and the beginnings of piano playing. I can still remember sitting on the piano bench with Mom, learning the finger positions of the “F” chord. Like a stumbling first step, I may not be running yet, but at least I can walk and to that I owe a great debt to mom.

Besides the mere physical and emotional aspects, mom was the spiritual garden in which I was planted. I have grown to be what I am because of her. Funny thing is, she is the off-spring of her mom and often told the story of her salvation and the beginnings of what it means to seek the face of God. So to tell mom’s story, I have to touch on Grandma Wine’s story too.

When my mom was a girl, she lived up a holler in central West Virginia as one of the middle of 10 children born to Melvin and Eddie Wine. Think pre-TV, rural Appalachia with all the crushing poverty that implies. Boonies and beyond.

One day, as mom was walking to church with grandma, they had a conversation about God. Grandma told a young Rita, “My salvation won’t stand for you. You have to find God on your own and not depend on me to see the face of God.” I want to expand on that….but I can’t. It is the essence of “Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling before the Lord” from a woman who had very little formal education, but was as wise as you could ever hope to meet. And yes, I know how blessed I have been to have such spiritual giants in my life.

So even though I grew up in church, mom never let me be complacent about my spiritual growth. Never let me be complacent about much of anything, really.” See what isn’t there….look beyond what your eyes can see.” Rita could give lessons to Mr Miagi in confusing mysticisms. That and the yodeling lessons pretty much summed up my youth.

Not really. There are no words to describe the sense of safety and reassurance I have from my mom. That unconditional love and painful longing for my security and happiness I have seen pour from her eyes both lifts and pushes me forward. Today, when I get to spend time with Rita, it is invariably an uplifting time when we both walk away refreshed and happy with where the other is. For that, and so much more, I am thankful.

So happy Mother’s Day, Miss Rita, and all you other mom’s out there. What you do is not in vain regardless of how it seems on those dark days, when everything seems to crash down around your ears and you are filled with despair for your offspring. As a very wise woman once told me, “There is no way to be a perfect mom, but a million ways to be a good one.”

Here's to all you ladies looking for one of those million ways.

My Mom...The Felon.

2011-04-30T02:30:00.000-04:00

I have to beg your indulgence on this one. The events that I am about to relate are true. They happened after I was a boy, but not yet married. I apologize in advance to my mom and a few other people for dragging this out of the closet. If you see Miss Rita after reading this, try not to tease her too much.

I come from a long line of famous-in-their-circle musicians. My great-great grand pappy was a fiddle player who is often credited with composing Soldier’s Joy during the Civil War. His boy taught his boy (Melvin Wine) who influenced my mom, who raised me. I learned all sorts of cool stuff from mom: gardening, milking cows, music and a directness with people that is sometimes to our detriment, which is a big part of this story.

In 1991, my Grandpa Melvin was honored by the National Endowment for the Arts as a National Heritage Fellow for his lifetime of work at playing and preserving Appalachian Folk Music. It’s kinda a big deal…http://www.nea.gov/honors/heritage/fellows/fellow.php?id=1991_16&type=bio The award came with a big poster, some pocket jingle and an invitation to play a tune at the Kennedy Center. Not too shabby for one of the most humble and peaceable men I have ever known. Seriously, he could have taught Gandhi a thing or two.

The Wine family being what it is, we loaded up a tour bus and went along with Grandpa for his visit to the big city. If you are hearing the theme song from The Beverly Hillbillies, then you are on the right track. As a brief aside, if you ever have the chance to ride 6 hours in a tour bus….don’t. Seriously, trust me on this.

So we roll into D.C. and check into the hotel with the admonition from mom not to raid the mini-bar. It’s a Friday and not much else is going on. My little brother and I, along with our girlfriends, decide to take in some of the sights. Walking along the Mall and seeing the spotlighted Vietnam Vets bronze statues appear out of the gloom of a summer evening is a vivid memory that I hope sticks with me forever. That and The Wall, and the Lincoln Memorial, and….well, you get the picture. Of course, the P.O.W.M.I.A. people looked at us askance, it being dark in D.C. and we being very white on the Mall. They feared for our safety and made us call a cab to get back to the hotel.

The next morning we boarded the bus to go to a reception for that year’s honorees in some Federal building. Milling around in the lobby, I was a bit starstruck to note B.B. King was also being honored that year and we would later get to meet him. So imagine the scene: A hundred or so people in a Federal building, waiting to go thru the metal detectors and hang out with various Senators and fellow honorees with their families…when all of a sudden, momma Rita turns to me and says, “I’ve got a gun in my purse.”

Let that sink in.

Gun. In. Her. Purse…..Federal. Building….Washington, D.C.

Holy. Crap.

I quickly offered to take it back to the tour bus, but whipping out a pistol seemed a poor idea at the time, given the crowded venue with looming guards and men with ear-pieces who were talking into their sleeves. So mom and Melissa went back out to put her purse on the bus and be done with it. Of course, the bus is gone. Of course, they can’t come back in and face the metal detectors. Of course they decide to toss the little .22 caliber pistol in the bushes….outside a Federal building….in Washington D.C. ….in broad daylight….within a couple hundred feet of a police box.

No. I am not making this up.

So mom comes back in, just as cool as a cucumber and rejoins the tour group. All is well. We pass the detectors and meet the other honorees and marvel at the cool artisanship of their work. The quilts were stunning. B.B. King was gracious to anyone who wanted a picture. The displays of traditional artwork were impressive, as were the men in suits who eventually accosted Miss Rita.

Just as a public service, let me point out that when approached by D.C. police it is never a good idea to spout off, “Oh, I see you found my gun.” It is a weak opening gambit that leaves you little room for debate or discussion. This we learned from mom’s example. We also learned that the D.C. police and the Federales despise each other and love nothing else so much as a good pissing match over jurisdiction, which is exactly what we had since mom’s clever repartee had been heard by representatives from both forces.

So my mom, 50-something widower from the hills of WV, who wouldn’t say “poo” if her mouth was full of it was caught up in the machine of D.C. justice. She was booked and searched like a dangerous felon. I’m sure a few of you understand what that means. Not Fun.

Also not fun was the pre-cell phone era chase around town trying to catch up with her and bail her out. Eventually, Senators Byrd and Rockefeller got involved to expedite the process. So my mom was convicted of weapons possession and run thru the system in record time. She managed to make it to the concert at the Kennedy Center just in time to see her dad play.

Overall a pretty standard trip for my family.

If you would like to hear a few of Melvin's tunes, here's a link...http://www.myspace.com/melvinwine ... Cold Frosty Morning is a personal favorite. Pretty sure mom is a big fan of I'll Fly Away.

Ringing the Bell

2011-04-19T16:59:00.000-04:00

I was looking back at some of my earlier posts on this blog, smiling at this, shaking my head at that and wondering how I could even publish some of those other things. Something all writers do. Well, not just writers, any creator looks back at his creation and sighs sometimes or laughs. “Wow, that didn’t turn out the way I expected.” Or maybe, “That looks better now than it did when I started.”

When we boys were born, he decided he didn’t want to raise us in the pollution of the Ohio Valley, so we settled in the magick-heavy valley of Sinking Creek near Glenville. For awhile he continued to work at Murray’s, but the commute was too long and he felt like he was missing out on raising his sons and so, Chapman Sheet Metal was born.

It was a small operation, dad and us boys really. But it put food on the table and kept us connected. Back then, air ducts for heating and air conditioning were made by hand at a metal brake. Bent to spec and installed by hand. Not cookie-cutter tubes that get tacked up in basements or slung thru attics. It was custom work. Individualized and special. It was an act of creation every time dad put in a furnace.

Dad created tons of things: tall bikes, winch-powered cranes, an underground house, solar heating systems, a metal bed….one of mom’s least favorite things. His creations weren’t always pretty or even functional, but he never stopped making something. He always had an idea for how to make it better. Everything.

He was a church leader, yet was for legalization of marijuana, quite the shocker during the 70’s. He thought the criminal element was worse than a few stoners eating pizza all night. He wanted to sing, but couldn’t carry a tune, so he worked like crazy at it. God bless JoAnn McHenry for her enormous patience. He knew, at an instinctive level, that The Church had gone wrong somewhere along the way and he applied all his work ethic and creativity to trying to fix Her.

He wasn’t always right, but he was always sincere. Thousands of people came to know Christ thru his ministry. He touched the lives of people wherever he went with a message that was accessible to working men and professors. “Try to do just a little more next time” was one of his main themes. “If you can say ‘Pray for me’ in church, then next time say ‘Please, pray for me.’” He was joining a long line of theologians who saw that something was amiss and worked to advance The Church as best he knew how. Something more than simple human failings was to blame, in his mind. There was some fundamental flaw in modern Christian teachings.

I think Earle Chapman would have liked Rob Bell.

For those of you unfamiliar with Rob Bell, he is causing a bit of a stir. He has a few books out, most notably Velvet Elvis and Love Wins that re-examine current doctrine and teachings. He is looking for that fundamental flaw in The Church and stepping on some toes while doing it. He, like my father, is part of a long line of discussion that has shaped and formed the church for ages. He, like my father isn’t always right (ask mom about that clunker of a metal bed) but he seems sincere and asks questions no one else wants to answer. Earle and Rob wouldn’t have agreed on everything, but it seems to me they think the same way.

I have only read thru the two books I mentioned earlier, just a single reading so far. I’m not buying his conclusions, but I’ll amen a lot of what he says about the love of God and the exclusion mind-set of The Church. He answers a lot of questions I was poorly asking in an earlier blog you can read here…http://jc-wheniwasaboy.blogspot.com/2010_07_01_archive.html.

So, if you are disenchanted with The Church or have left entirely, I am going to recommend you pick up a copy of Velvet Elvis: Repainting the Christian Faith by Rob Bell. Does it have all the answers? No, but it asks questions you never thought of and answers some you are too afraid to voice.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UBSr-2THXxQ&feature=related

Ringing the Bell

2011-04-13T15:48:00.000-04:00

      When I was a boy, my father worked with his hands. He spent years working as a welder and craftsman at Murray’s Sheet metal shop in Parkersburg where his mates eventually made a little wand with a star on top that they gave him due to his wizardry with metal. It was made of stainless steel and rather heavy. I wonder what became of it? He had a unique way of seeing problems and often came up with surprising answers, which is why the really hard jobs came to him so often. He was a creator.

      When we boys were born, he decided he didn’t want to raise us in the pollution of the Ohio Valley, so we settled in the magick-heavy valley of Sinking Creek near Glenville. For awhile he continued to work at Murray’s, but the commute was too long and he felt like he was missing out on raising his sons and so, Chapman Sheet Metal was born.

      It was a small operation, dad and us boys really. But it put food on the table and kept us connected. Back then, air ducts for heating and air conditioning were made by hand at a metal brake. Bent to spec and installed by hand. Not cookie-cutter tubes that get tacked up in basements or slung thru attics. It was custom work. Individualized and special. It was an act of creation every time dad put in a furnace.

      Dad created tons of things: tall bikes, wench-powered cranes, an underground house, solar heating systems, a metal bed….one of mom’s least favorite things. His creations weren’t always pretty or even functional, but he never stopped making something. He always had an idea for how to make it better. Everything.

      He was a church leader, yet was for legalization of marijuana, quite the shocker during the 70’s. He thought the criminal element was worse than a few stoners eating pizza all night. He wanted to sing, but couldn’t carry a tune, so he worked like crazy at it. God bless JoAnn McHenry for her enormous patience. He knew, at an instinctive level, that The Church had gone wrong somewhere along the way and he applied all his work ethic and creativity to trying to fix Her.

      He wasn’t always right, but he was always sincere. Thousands of people came to know Christ thru his ministry. He touched the lives of people wherever he went with a message that was accessible to working men and professors. “Try to do just a little more next time” was one of his main themes. “If you can say ‘Pray for me’ in church, then next time say ‘Please, pray for me.’” He was joining a long line of theologians who saw that something was amiss and worked to advance The Church as best he knew how. Something more than simple human failings was to blame, in his mind. There was some fundamental flaw in modern Christian teachings.

      I think Earle Chapman would have liked Rob Bell.

      For those of you unfamiliar with Rob Bell, he is causing a bit of a stir. He has a few books out, most notably Velvet Elvis and Love Wins that re-examine current doctrine and teachings. He is looking for that fundamental flaw in The Church and stepping on some toes while doing it. He, like my father, is part of a long line of discussion that has shaped and formed the church for ages. He, like my father isn’t always right (ask mom about that clunker of a metal bed) but he seems sincere and asks questions no one else wants to answer. Earle and Rob wouldn’t have agreed on everything, but it seems to me they think the same way.

      I have only read thru the two books I mentioned earlier, just a single reading so far. I’m not buying his conclusions, but I’ll amen a lot of what he says about the love of God and the exclusion mind-set of The Church. He answers a lot of questions I was poorly asking in an earlier blog you can read here…http://jc-wheniwasaboy.blogspot.com/2010/07/for-love-of-god-usually-i-post-cute.html.

      So, if you are disenchanted with The Church or have left entirely, I am going to recommend you pick up a copy of Velvet Elvis: Repainting the Christian Faith by Rob Bell. Does it have all the answers? No, but it asks questions you never thought of and answers some you are too afraid to voice.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UBSr-2THXxQ&feature=related

2011-01-22T00:36:00.000-05:00

Fox and Hound

       Today, I took my daughters and their friends sledding on Quincy Hill. The snow was fluffy and light with the sunlight pouring down, fighting a losing battle with the frigid temps to melt the snow. As I watched them load into their plastic sleds and rocket down the slope, I was reminded of when I was a boy, skidding down the hills up Sinking Creek holler.

       I know I have written about tubing off the mountain after we moved out of the valley, but today, the memories that flooded back were of when I was a little boy, down in the valley, where magick hung heavy in the air and each breath steamed with possibility.

       The 70’s were the coldest and snowiest decade of the past 100 years. I remember one year when we had snow around Thanksgiving and never saw the ground again until St Patrick’s Day. Where Mr Heckert crawled under the school bus and put on chains to get us to school in a half-foot of snow. Winter had teeth and we learned to avoid getting chewed on.

       One of the ways we dealt with snow was to play in it. Sledding was a first option, but sometimes a kid needed more to do than just trudge up the hill time after time. Thrilling as it was, sledding grew old after awhile. That is when we came up with “Fox and Hounds.”

       Imagine a game of tag played in snow, on a track made by tramping out grooves in the newly fallen snow. We would slip on our four-buckle arctics (remeber those?) and start making a design, a little train of young boys chug chug chugging after each other to fashion a web in the snow. The idea was to play a classic game of tag and stay in the confines of the pathway we had stamped out earlier.

       Often, we would start with a hub and wheel formation, but would eventually have a wider design with many rays and long winding paths that radiated off into the drifts. It seemed like hours were spent chasing each other around the labyrinths we had created, although I’m sure a few minutes passed for each seeming hour.

       What strikes me most, looking back thru the lens of time, is how we would often include a few paths outside the main wheel. Paths that would be just beyond reach, that paralleled the the paths most tred. Often we would be leaning out over those paths to desperately try to make that connection across the gap, fingers aching to touch another, to complete the game.

       It seems to me that we worried about those moments most of all, those times of near connection. And I came to realize that the fulfillment wasn’t from just catching someone to not be “it,” to not be the fox; but to play the game, to strive, to make the connection. Sometimes we have to be content to reach across the void and get close to someone else before drifting away on a precocious whim of the path we are on.

       Relationships are that way sometimes. We get close, but despite how much we strain and reach out to connect, we must eventually be content with running a parallel path. Friends are sometimes just a breath of a finger width away, to drift away and be drawn together thru the funnel of events and time.

       I miss those days of innocence and joy that shaped who I am, but even more, I miss the friends who stretched out a hand that was a whisper of a breath from mine. Friends I have lost, and friends I have found who reflect what I am. No matter how we drift apart or near, know that you are in my heart.

       God bless you all.

GPS and Banjos

2010-12-03T11:39:00.000-05:00

     When I was a boy, we lived out in the boonies of West Virginia (yes, it’s a whole other state) where roads frequently became paths and those paths often stopped in someone’s yard. I know that concept may be unfamiliar to many of you, so let me repeat it. THE ROAD ENDS!!! No intersections, no round-abouts, just a car on blocks in the middle of an occasionally mowed area we will call a lawn. Usually, the owner would look darkly in your direction as his half-wit son would stop playing the banjo, prompting a quick wave and u-turn to get out of there in a hurry.

     Not really. That’s the sort of stuff we tell the tourists to keep them from moving in and setting up another Starbucks. More often than not, if …no no…WHEN you found the end of a road, there was no one home or you could have a nice visit and make a friend (not the Ned Beatty kind of friend.) Seriously, who believes that stuff? The boonies can be dangerous, but hanging up your truck in a ditch is about as bad as it gets.

     Actually, holler hoppin’ was a frequent pastime for me and Lori. I had a little Subaru wagon with 4-wheel drive that could put a young hormone-driven couple in the remotest areas. Not that parking was the only goal of our drives. We had no money, and gas was cheap, so random drives were our best entertainment. Even when we were out of college and could afford those fancy picture shows, we would often rather take a drive down a new road just to see what was there than spend a couple hours in a dark smelly room with a hundred strangers.

     As a quick aside: somewhere in Braxton county there is a back road that has a wooden bridge over a railroad track. It is on a little dirt road and the bridge arches steeply, leaving a blind drop where you just have to pray there is no turn at the bottom. If any of my WV peeps knows where that is, drop me a line.

     Flash forward to Fall of 2010. The family is loaded in the Freestyle AWD on our way to a wedding reception, when daddy decides to try out the GPS function on his phone. I know how to get where we are going, but I just wanted to check the toy out. Lo and behold! The GPS says there is a shorter route which will cut 20 minutes or more off the trip. What it doesn’t show is that a bridge is out on the chosen path. No problem, I’ll just hit this handy dandy “re-route” function and viola, a 4 mile detour pops up.

I hesitated when the detour started with a left turn onto a gravel road, but forged ahead. I was a little nervous when the road narrowed and we bounced over some rock ridges, but pressed on. The GPS was with me and was my guide and comfort. When the GPS said “turn here” and all I could see was a deer path, yea verily, I was filled with doubt and misgiving. I looked over at my wife of 20+ years and saw the sparkling eyes of that little red-headed girl in a belly shirt from the 80’s and knew in that moment, that we were taking the kids on their first off-road experience.

What Sprint Navigation called a road was a series of welltender paths meant for ATV use only. Two narrow mud ruts casually defined our new route across the ridgeline of some unknown hill in Doddridge County. The squeal of brush scraping down both sides of the Ford was matched by the two girls in the rear seats. For awhile, I thought we had lost them when we splashed thru a couple hundred yards of creek bed as a road, but they were just drawing in breath to squeal again. Good times, good times.

Eventually we found a house (no banjos) and gradually the road led back to pavement. We had a good time at the reception and when the time came to leave, we considered the detour again, for about a second. The mud quickly washed off the roof of the truck, but I hope the memory sticks with the wee ones. It was a good trip, and a great reminder that the boonies are never more than a couple of turns away.

What a Wonderful World it Would Be

2010-11-19T00:03:00.001-05:00

     When I was a boy, we lived in a deep valley in the middle of West Virginia, where TV reception was poor and so were we. Seriously, we had a single TV set. I remember when we got a 19 inch COLOR TV! What a day that was. The case was a deep gray and white, so when mom asked if it was color or black-and-white…we could honestly say…”Yes.” Awful, I know. I sincerely apologize to my mom for that. It was mean.

     The new TV sat on a small table at the end of our living room where everyone could gather to watch the single station we could get. WDTV Clarksburg, with as much snow as program, but it was as good as it gets to a kid who had never seen regular programming before. It was to us as though the Gods had come down from heaven and poured nectar into our eyes. You just can’t imagine the impact this had on our lives if you have grown up with cable.

     Later, we would move up on the mountain and get FOUR stations!!! I felt like a luxuriant man of leisure then. But when we lived in the valley, and magick was heavy in the air, we had one channel…CBS. Fortunately, The Wonderful World of Disney was on CBS and our eyes were widened by this program. Mom and dad were very careful with what we watched. An hour of gospel music on Sunday morning before church, maybe half an hour of The Bullwinkle/Rocky Squirrel show before school during the week, but WWoD was an EVENT each week.

     We would gather between the wood-burning stove and the TV during the winter months and be glued to the screen by Davey Crockett, or Benji, or The Alamo. Perhaps a Don Knotts/Tim Conway movie would be on and we would roll with laughter to the Apple Dumpling Gang or Bedknobs and Broomsticks.

     What a unique treat it was to share a few hours together as a family, watching such family-oriented and…wholesome…entertainment. It is a time that we can never reclaim, much to the detriment of children today. With so many media outlets/gaming platforms available now, I long for the simplistic days gone by. Today, to get that same closeness, we have to go out into the boonies and isolate the wee ones in random off-road events, but that is another story.

     For now, I wonder….what was your favorite WWoD moment? Did you have anything similar in your past? Dig deep, and bring up those smiles from your childhood to brighten our days.

When Love Comes to Town

2010-10-21T23:40:00.001-04:00

When I was a boy, my parents raised us as fundamentalist Christians (sometimes I think Fundamentalist was capitalized too.) We were in Church every Sunday morning, Sunday evening and Wednesday evening with occasional other nights thrown in if some other acceptable Church was having service. We were a separate and peculiar people, seeking the face of God.

It wasn’t easy on us boys, being peculiar. We couldn’t be in sports that interfered with church, so if practice wasn’t over by 6:45 for us to make church by 7:00 on Wednesday, well forget about it. Sports on Sunday wasn’t even an option. We kept the Sabbath holy, and never mind you seventh-day people.

One episode stands out in memory as being particularly painful. Some “forbidden books” were being taught in English during my grade school days. Due to my parents’ belief and protest, I and a few other kids were separated from the class and sent to the library. Our precious ears couldn’t be offended by the heathen literature of Poe or Wordsworth.

As a parent now, I know it must have hurt mom and dad to cause us boys pain. I would rather cut off a finger than subject my daughters to ridicule unnecessarily, and I’m sure my parents felt the same. They did what they did on a principle that they believed in, and I learned something from that. I learned principle matters, especially when it makes you uncomfortable. I learned religion can make you do things you don’t want to do. I learned religion can divide. Mixed messages, to be sure, but that’s the way it is sometimes.

This Saturday, there is a funeral planned. A young man, a soldier, died in a foreign country doing something he probably didn’t want to do, but doing what his country asked of him. His family is proud of him. His family is grieving. This being a small town, we are all grieving. We either know him, or know his family and it hurts.

There are some people planning to attend his services who believe he died because his country, our country, is being punished by God for its sinful ways. They plan to jeer at his family and blame the community for its moral failure. There’s about a hundred of them. Most people believe they are complete nut cases, and that may be. There are counter protests planned and many people pray the hateful group stays home. I am thankful they are coming.

I am thankful because, without these people protesting, we would have grieved alone. The young man, the soldier, would have otherwise had a small private service and his family would have suffered at a distance. I am thankful because we, our little community in the fly-over states, gets to stand with them and wrap our collective arms around them and say with a unified voice, “We are proud of your boy. Proud, Thankful and above all else, Honored by his service.”

The same may be said for all our servicemen and women. But on this day, in this small community, we say it for the young man, the soldier, SPC David Hess, may he forever rest in peace with the thanks of a grateful nation, state and town. His stand on principle enables mine.

“No man has a greater love than this, that he lay down his life for his friends” John15:13

Water and Trees

2010-08-27T00:37:00.000-04:00

Growing up in the boonies of central West Virginia meant a lot of life had to do with water and trees. Little river valleys with forested hillsides carpet the landscape and breathe their presence into many of our stories. When I was a boy, I had some tangles with trees and water. They don’t mix.

One summer dad decided to do some timbering on our property above the main road. One of our neighbors was a timber man and promised to work the hillside for a certain percentage of the wood. He was to cut and haul the timber to the mill for half the profit. Problem is we never rode with him to make sure he stayed honest. When he got to the mill, he would point out about a third of the logs (all the worst ones) and say those are for Chapman. Then he would claim the remaining two thirds as his. The man stole thousands of dollars that way.

Jay Clayton, wherever you are, that was dirty.

That part we found out later, all we knew then was that the tops of the big oaks they left on the ground made great climbing places. We spent hours climbing over, under and thru the deadfalls that summer. The best deadfall was on the hill right above the bend in the river where the pixies lived. A truly massive white oak had been felled across the gully, leaving its top almost intact. Basically the tree top filled the little ravine and made a bridge across the small trickle of a stream below. Far below. Top to bottom was nearly 50 ft. Of course we had to be playing tag on it. That’s what boys do.

Imagine a hot August day with not much breeze and a gaggle of boys kicked out of our houses by overwrought moms. Now see all of us scampering about this huge deadfall, soaked in sweat and making ridiculous jumps to avoid being caught. Every branch trembles and shakes with every leap. Each leap bigger and bolder than the last. I don’t know how long we played there with the cicadias buzzing in the background. I remember being aware of the sun having shifted quite a bit and that built in alarm bell chiming to say we’d best be getting home. Of course, that is when it happened. I was inching along a high branch, headed down when I fell.

I remember seeing the deeply shadowed pit of splintered branches at the bottom of the steeply sloped ravine and wondering how we had never noticed such a lethal hazard. I remember thinking there was no way my brothers could pull me up out of the muddy wet hole I was plunging into. I remember a sharp pain in my back as I landed squarely across a branch that spanned the gap and being bent backward like a gymnast then snapping skyward as the branch bounced back. (pinball) I don’t remember the trip home, or how I hid the bloody shirt. I wonder if my brothers or neighbors will remember.

Anyway, after surviving my great fall you might think I would have been a bit more cautious. Well, …no. Just a couple of months later I was climbing a massive sycamore down at the bend in the river. The tree was nearly 100ft tall and leaned out over the shallow river below. Of course I’m by myself. Of course I am too far from the house for anyone to hear a call for help. Of course I fall.

I was way up there when it happened. The main branch was only a little bigger than my arm and was swaying a little in the warm October sun. The view was impressive. Partly cloudy azure sky with the gentle fall sun beating down on me. The whole valley below was a cascade of color. It was the best time of the year. A good day to die.

This is where the details get fuzzy. I don’t remember what made me let go.(pixies) One minute I am holding firmly to the center beam and reaching for the last branch to pull myself up to within a few feet of the top, then I am in freefall. Then the detail snaps crisply to mind. That deep blue sky overhead, the smell of leaves, the rustle of wind, the texture of the bark still in my now open hands and the taste of copper in my mouth. The only thing missing is the connection with the tree. The river below is far too shallow to be any help, and I was falling from near the top of a 100ft tall tree.

Then suddenly, I wasn’t. Suddenly I had a pair of branches slam into my arm pits, and for just a second I am in cruciform pose before I snap my arms around those perfectly placed limbs and cling for dear life. Now I had that connection with the tree again, and I could no longer move. Not sure how long I held that terrified position or how long it took to get down. I do remember the decision to move again was one of the greatest achievements of my life. The shear amount of will that first step took could have lifted the space shuttle.

You would think that would have given me enough warning for a lifetime. But I’m a bit dense. Remind me to tell you about Hickory some day. Someday when it’s nice outside and you don’t have to sleep for awhile. Goodnite.

2010-07-16T19:40:00.000-04:00

For the love of God!

Usually I post cute little tales that I spin for my daughters on this blog, today….not so much. You see, sometimes things happen that open your eyes a bit and make you reexamine your what’s and why’s of life. It’s that kind of day.

Today, Lori and I were talking about relationships and that led to church and that led to me voicing some long-held and unpopular opinions about The Church…those who have ears to hear…

{CAUTION: Legal flashback ahead}

When I was a boy, no…before I was born, I was raised in church. Well, not so much a church as an outdoor tent revival where my parents were singing gospel music for a long running and very popular evangelistic outpouring. Mom was about 8 months along with me and suffering from the long nights and heat, so dad brought her to his mom’s house and said, “Have that baby, I’m going back to the revival.” And that is exactly what she did, about 4 weeks early. Today that would be no biggie, but this was the mid-sixties. Infant mortality was startling for healthy babies, let alone a preemie. The doc said my odds were low. So while I spent a week in the respirator, people I will never meet joined my family and church family in falling on their faces in prayer for me. In the seer, dry grass and dirt under a faded white and red tent, they sent up unending intercession. And I love them all for it.

So I am a miracle baby (don’t tell anyone, but we are all miracle babies.) The parents didn’t make toooo big of a deal about it, well…OK, they actually did. I became part of the show. That sounds much more cynical than it should, but there was an element of showmanship to leading worship that dad was pretty good at. I lived in church with my brothers. I was that kid crawling under the pews and making gum boogers to make my friends laugh at the worst times. Today I would have been on something for the ADHD. Then, I wound up on stage.

We travelled from Pennsylvania to Florida during the summers as itinerant minstrels of God’s gospel. I remember loading up the bus just after school was out and having no idea where we would be the next day. We always (God’s providence, some say) had money for fuel and food and another town to sing to. So I’ve seen a lot of churches. More importantly, I’ve seen a lot of church people. That is the problem.

Perhaps this over-exposure is to blame, or youthful rebellion or the pride of intellectualism led me astray. Whatever the reason, I became disenchanted with The Church at an early age. It is a seriously flawed place. The Ideal is too hard to live up to and when we inevitably fail, we fall into the feeding frenzy of gossip and condemnation that isn’t supposed to be there, but is. Grace is preached, but rarely practiced.

Please don’t get me wrong, I am still moved by the message, but The Church is just awful. It is static and more often a social club than the Bride of Christ. Petty bickering and power struggles are the norm. And God forbid you should ever have toooo great a sin. Then you have to sit in the pew of shame for as long as Mrs. Grundy decrees. Awful. Just awful.

So Lori asked me, “Given all of your problems with it, why do you still go?” I had a few answers. Could be habit and wanting to pass along the same message to my kids, but that’s not true. Could be a sense of community and belonging, but that’s not it either.

I still go to church because God still speaks to me there. I hear Him profoundly in the sanctuary. I hear him in Nature, too, but The Church is where I have the most frequent and manifest spiritual experiences. You can have epiphanies anywhere, and I’m sure many people do. Many people devote their lives to spiritual purity and exploration, countless hours of meditation and prayer just to have a glimpse of the Face of God. When all over the world, it happens every Sunday. People with diverse agendas and mixed motivations come together and have divine communion, in spite of how flawed The Church is.

So why do so many people hate The Church when it is a clear road to enlightenment? Why do I hate The Church so much, so often? Is it the reflection of my own failings that I despise? I really don’t know. I also don’t know how a variable camshaft works, but it doesn’t stop me from driving my car. God speaks to me there, so there is where I’m going to go.

Unexamined life? No, just practical. I like food too much to be an ascetic monk staring at his belly button and pondering the meaning of life. I have too many commitments to run off and live in a cave. I could easily join the New Age movements around me. Many of them are appealing and are truly blessed. But, I’m a big fan of the whole Grace thing Jesus has going whether the churchgoers around me show it or not. So I will go to church and seek the Face of God right here in Parkersburg, West Virginia.

I bet I find Him.

Feels Like the First Time

2010-05-26T23:54:00.000-04:00

May 27th, 1984. It was the day after the regional track meet. I had qualified for State in the 110 meter high hurdles and in the shuddles. We had set school records in both and were totally psyched to be in the hunt for a state medal. The family had let me sleep in since I got home so late the night before. So here I was, full of good news and no one to tell. They had all gone to church and then over to Copen for the softball tourneys.

It was a magick day, like only May in Appalachia can be. High puffy clouds in a crisp blue sky with a warm day and low humidity heralded a top ten day. I loaded into the Subaru and headed out to the ballfield behind Uncle Junior’s house in Copen.

Copen is a little town up a holler in the middle of nowhere West Virginia. Its sole distinction is it is where my mom’s family is from. Another story, another time. I rolled in around noonish, just as the games were getting under way. My great aunt Carrie was in a lawn chair under the maple tree in front of the house. She was one of the greatest people I ever met and I had a great day chatting with her for an hour or two.

I was never a softball player, but I enjoyed watching. So that’s what I did. I sat and looked around. It was in the second game when I noticed a little red haired girl in a white belly shirt, watching the game and occasionally watching me. Cute splash of freckles with a coppery/gold cascade of gently falling curls framing the ubiquitous over-sized glasses that were all the rage in the 80’s. It wasn’t long before I was sitting beside her having a quiet conversation.

I found out she was the wingman to her friend Barb who was there with a specific target in mind. Since things were going well there, Lori had nothing to do but watch the game and chat with me. Eventually the games wound down and I walked Lori to her car. She was driving a brand-spanking new Dodge Shelby, silver with a blue racing strip, totally hot ride. I turned to this girl I had known for a few hours, kissed her on the cheek and asked her to marry me. She said, “OK.” Then I asked to drive her car.

I snagged the keys out of her hand and pounded that little roadster up the road, leaving her behind and opting for my brother Jason as copilot. How in the world she stuck around is a mystery to me. We finished the night with a trip over to Burnsville dam, along with about 20 other people from the game. Something special about youth and water worked its magic that night. All I will say is that I wrote her number in the dust on the rear windshield of my car and prayed to God that it would not rain.

That was 26 years ago today. Lori is still with me and I am blessed beyond reason. Thank you, Lori for being my wife and the mother of my children. I know you don’t believe me, but I still see that little red-headed girl in the belly shirt every time I look at you. Muah!

The Faerie Cotillion

2010-05-26T01:08:00.000-04:00

The Faerie Cotillion

This is the very first “boy story” my oldest daughter remembers me telling her. At the end is her version. She is nine.

When I was a boy….I had two older brothers who delighted in tormenting their younger siblings. Not an unusual set of circumstances I know, but torturous to me and my younger brother, Jason. Being tickled until we cried or held down while one of the older boys nearly dribbled spit on us was a pretty common occurrence. As might be expected, Jason and I banded together and tried our best to escape the harsh treatment that only older brothers can dish out to their own when the parents are away. Some days we got lucky. Some days not.

One day, when the teasing was particularly unreasonable, Jason and I retreated to the hillside just past the barn. It was a peculiar place at a bend in the river, over hung with thick, slow sycamore trees and a wet cascade of sandstone cliffs. The sun rarely shone full force on this steep slope and the ground was always wet. In the winter, amazing ice formations covered a low overhang of rock. The light danced blue off the thick columns transporting us to a cold, sere northern clime, full of mystery and magick. The summer was less fantasy and more foreboding, with a slick moss-covered plunge from the rock face to the river below waiting on anyone so foolish as to attempt the heights above the bend.

But this summer was different. A long dry spell had withered the moss and made once slick rocks a potential hand hold for young nimble fingers. Jason and I climbed away from the pestilence of older brothers and found a gap in the stone we had never seen before. A bare wedge of rock opened up into a shallow shelf full of shadow normally obscured. As we rested in this make-shift cave, we heard a faint musical sound from back in the shadows. Being young and convinced of our own invulnerability, we crawled into the narrow crevice, looking for the source.

Eventually we passed a point where the sunlight vanished and absolute darkness took over. For those of you who have never been deep in a cave or had some other chance to experience absolute darkness, all I can say is the disconcerting feeling it brings is nearly overwhelming. All references you are accustomed to disappear and you are stripped of defenses and reason. We held firm to the cool rock under our fingers and pressed onward toward a faint glow at the back of the tunnel.

We crept slow and quiet toward the light as it became clear we were closer and closer to the music deep in the mountain. One final crawl toward the edge and we could see below, a dance like something out of a story book. Just a few feet below us was a group of ….pixies(?) dancing a complicated series of steps to the high, lonesome sound of flutes and drums from out of the shadows. Perfectly formed young ladies of the smallest stature, we watched their whirls and bobs in the flickering torches, barely daring to breathe. Barely knowing what to think or even who we were.

From out of unseen corridors came equally small men in green coats and hats, with an arrogance and command that equaled the dainty refinement of the pixies. I can only believe these wee men were leprechauns. I know…I know. We were as stunned as you. And our actions eventually betrayed us, for as the Faerie folk below us danced in ever-increasingly complicated patterns, I leaned a bit too far forward and fell headfirst into the swirling cotillion below.

The second my hand touched the pile of gold coins they were swirling about, the lights went out and a reek of sulfur assailed my nose. I groped about blindly for some solid link in the mad confusion and noise, finally latching onto my brother’s hand just a second before landing in a pile of leaves with the sun shining down on us, gasping and blinking in the sudden light of day.

Eventually we found our way home and continued to dance the fine line of sibling abuse versus burgeoning adolescence. But from that day forward, Jason and I had a bond. Something special had passed between us and we were more than brothers, more than what biology had dictated. Some impossible to define essence was shared between us and we were forever changed because of it. Forever bound, also, by the small and ancient gold coin I had managed to palm in the deep darkness of the pixie cave.

This is what Jenna remembers of the story….” When Dad was a boy, he went out with Uncle Jason. As they were out, they went exploring. Dad and Uncle Jason found a small hole in the ground. In that hole they found a fairy and leprechaun party. As they were watching, Dad fell through the hole and all of the fairies and leprechauns left! The lights went out and Dad was left there sitting in a pot of gold! Cool, right! So that’s the story of how Dad saw the leprechauns and fairies.

The End.”

Tubing

2010-04-18T09:35:00.000-04:00

     When I was a boy… we had magic winters. Snow fell often and heavy, staying for weeks and coloring the world in perfect white blankets. Some snow was wet and heavy, the kind that downed power lines for days. Some snow was dry and powdery, blowing and drifting but never amounting to much. Some snow was actually frost from the river water that diamond-coated the trees along the banks and left the hills brown and wanting.

     But no matter what kind of snow we had, we did what every kid always does with snow. We found a hill and slide down it. What we slid on varied widely. When my mom was a girl, her family would slide down hills on coal shovels or (rather terrifyingly) upturned truck hoods. Imagine a pile of kids clinging to sharp bits of metal while hurtling down a snowy hillside to roll off just before crashing into the creek at the bottom. Amazed the old girl lived to childbearing age, really.

     The first sled I remember had runners and those curious foot pegs which I suppose could be used for steering except they never worked. I remember spending far too much time waxing those cold steel runners while inside all I wanted to do was scream “LET”S GO!!!! The snow will melt!” I believe the wax ploy was a clever way for parents to minimize actual sled time and hopefully stave off the inevitable tear-filled post crash party.

     We weren’t limited to sleds for our snow riding adventures. We would use just about anything for a quick speed fix. Cardboard, trashcan lids, a plastic ice chest lid, even a simple trash bag made for a passable sled. But the greatest thing for winter fun, without a doubt, had to be a tire inner tube.

     I’m not sure who the first person was that decided to blow up an inner tube and slide down a snow covered hill, but I’m sure he is in every kid’s hall of fame. Tubing, as it was called, quickly left the cumbersome old wood and steel sleds in the dust. Lighter, cheaper and with a built in trampoline effect, what could have been better? Well, a longer run, I suppose. Which is exactly what we got when we moved out of the valley and up on the hill.

     Our driveway was over a thousand feet of terror in the summer with a steep slope and precipitous drop offs. Add a foot of snow, and a dream run was suddenly opened up. Of course, you can’t just hop on a tube and make it to the bottom in one go. No no no. The first guy would slide about 30 or 40 feet before the build up of snow overcame gravity, leaving him to hoof it back up while the next brother or neighbor kid had a go with the second tube. He would crash along a bit further and so on, until we had a bobsled run of packed snow that went all the way to the paved road below.

     Using a driveway as a sled run has a few drawbacks. Obviously, the track will be spoiled by the inevitable truck using it for …well, a driveway. Did I mention the precipitous drop offs? Ask your uncle Jim about those. I’m sure he had plenty of time to think on this short coming when he went over the edge and tumbled down a double black diamond slope filled with boulders and scrub pine. Worst of all was that once you dropped down that first pitch and rounded a turn, it was a solo sport. What fun is screaming down a death defying mountain if your buds can’t see you? The cure was a short hike away at the Collins’ house.

     The Collins family had a large open field behind their house that was just the right pitch for tubing. What it lacked in stomach-dropping plunges, it made up for in friends and wide open spaces with plenty of room for multiple tracks and a guaranteed audience. Even daylight was no limit to our fun.

     You see the tire inner tubes had to come from somewhere. That somewhere was a truck tire which also made for a great bonfire out on the hillside. A burning truck tire was perfect for light and heat and greatly extended our play time. I know, I know…not a very environmentally conscious thing to do. But the phrase “environmentally conscious” had yet to be invented, so shush. Of course, someone had to light these fires, and that is where the story draws to a sad close.

     One winter the older boys had gotten their drivers licenses and weren’t around to oversee us younger kids. A perfect snow day was winding down, when someone (name omitted to protect the guilty) decided we should start a tire fire and keep going. The idea is that you pile up a couple of tires, pour on a little diesel fuel (gas is too explosive) then light it while staying low and far from the open fuel. The first two parts I got right. The lighting bit went somewhat wrong.

     I intended to hunker down, extend my arm to the edge of the fuel, then turn my head and flick the lighter. That’s what I intended. What actually happened was that I light the Bic, then slipped in the snow and plunged my fire-wielding fist right into the center of the tires and the half gallon of diesel. I’m sure the ensuing fireball that completely enveloped my body was a thing of cinematic beauty. Imagine the napalm scene in Apocalypse Now. I’m also sure that the blackened and smoky toboggan I was wearing saved my scalp from permanent scarring. However, nothing could be done about the singed eyebrows I would sport for the next few weeks.

     Lesson learned.

The Crab King

2010-04-13T14:57:00.001-04:00

When I was a boy, I lived with my family in an old farmhouse down in a valley in the middle of nowhere. It was a magik heavy valley, full of strange and wonderful people and places. Us boys never lacked for puddles to jump in, trees to climb or trouble to find.

Just a few feet from our house was a small creek that dominated my early memories. In summer, it never quite dried up and during the heaviest rains was never enough to knock you off your feet. All in all, it was a perfect place for a small kid to play. We would create little pools by building dams with rocks and mud, then chase minnows and crawdads with equal parts enthusiasm and fear. I can still feel the warm sun on my back and see my brothers splashing the clear water as they ran thru the pools, little sparkling drops hanging in the air like diamonds.

Now, with any group of boys, you will need to create space. I was the third of four boys and survived the bullying of two older brothers by being funny and learning to wander away from them. It was on one of those West Virginia walk-abouts, that I first saw the Crab King. I was playing in the creek and was rather proud of myself for having picked up a crawdad of prodigious size (perhaps a shade over an inch), when I saw a hole about two inches round in the lee of a little waterfall.

Being raised in mortal fear of snakes, I assumed it was the mother of all snakes holes and was just about to run screaming to the house, when I saw something stir in the shadows, just inside the hole. Transfixed, I watched a brown-orange claw extend out into the sunlight. A huge, massive terrifying claw which was as large as any whole crawdad I had ever picked up. Slowly the eyestalks extended out, preceding a massive body of lobster size which had a yellow halo around his head. I must have flinched at the sight because this humongous crab darted back into its den and sent me running to the house inside a high-pitched shriek of terror that only a pre-pubescent boy can make.

I tried to tell mom what I had seen, but she was one poor mom with four boys stuck out in the middle on nowhere with our nearest neighbor more than rifle distance away. Since she was one of ten and grew up even more isolated, I gotta think a little crawdad scare barely registered. So I took the prudent course and avoided that part of the creek from then on, until the flood.

Part of the charm of valley living is the inevitable flooding and the flotsam it brings. Our little homestead was just high enough to avoid the normal spring floods, but the really big ones would get up under the house, which happened twice in my memory. This time, the flood brought a most unwelcome guest. No, not the Crab King, but his mortal enemy the Rat Lord.

Rats are awful. They are dirty and vile, given to rude speech and poor hygiene. I recommend avoiding them if at all possible. Even though they will eat just about anything, they have a passion for crab meat. As you can imagine, this tends to upset the crabs, and in particular, the Crab King.

The flood brought a bedraggled rat crew up under our house, which pleased the Crab King not one bit. Before the flood waters had receeded, he was up under our house and taking on the Rat Lord himself in mortal combat. Now I never saw the actual fight, and the Crab King was too modest to give much detail, but it was an epic struggle. The Rat fought with tooth and claw, the Crab defended with shell and his massive pinchers. As I understand it, the fight lasted well into the night and cost the Crab King a claw and some of his carapace, but eventually he prevailed. The rats were driven off and the crawdads were safe for another summer.

The Bear in the Woods

2010-03-07T16:53:00.000-05:00

I have had three encounters with The Bear. If I am lucky, I may see Him again.

The first time I saw The Bear, I didn’t see Him at all. It was winter, and we had just completed our underground house. My dad was annoyed enough by the 70’s oil embargo to be one of the first to “go green” in new construction. We had moved from the magik-heavy valley of my childhood, up to a west-facing site near the top of our mountain. This change in venue had opened up a vast forested area for an eleven year old boy to roam. Specifically, the Eastern face of our property on the other side of the mountain and the old Queen Family farm.

Just to give you an idea of the geography involved, it was a short hike to the top of our hill, maybe 400 vertical feet. Then the property opened up into a gently cupped hillside that funneled down to a sharp drop off ending in a briar-rimmed plunge to the river below. It was on the edge of this final flat above the brambles, that the Queen farm squatted. Long abandoned and nearly inaccessible by truck, the dilapidated house and outbuildings were a magnet. Never mind that it was half an hour from there to home, and even farther to anyplace else.

Now for those of you who live a sheltered life, you might think an 11 year old wandering thru the winter woodlands in the backwaters of West Virginia is poor parenting. Well, you might be right, but I was the third boy and somewhat expendable. It was also a much more innocent time, so hold your judgment of my poor parents. We all lived, with no major scarring. What more do you want out of childhood?

The winter of 78-79 was just about as perfect a season as a boy could want. It snowed enough to keep the ground covered for months, but not so much that we couldn’t get out to town. We may have spent more time outside that winter than we did the rest of the year. Well, no. But it seems like it looking back.

One bright January morning, I bundled up and headed out, four-buckle Arctic’s firmly in place. I don’t remember the trek over the hill top, nor the hike down to the Queen place. All that was blotted out by the massive set of paw prints I came across between the old Queen place and a sagging out building. I remember the sinking feeling in my stomach as I realized just how alone I was so very deep in the woods. I remember how sharp every crystal of every snow flake was. I remember being truly terrified. The cold air was suddenly hot, as every sight and sound was amplified. There, on the fresh snow were tracks with at least a 7 foot gap. Only a bear of epic proportions could have made such tracks.

I made it home, somehow, breathless and wide-eyed. A welcome chastisement from the folks kept me home-bound for a few days, sulking with more relief than regret. Yes, I told the family what I had seen. No, they didn’t really believe me.

The second time I saw the Bear, I saw Him at a distance in the trees.

It was a year or two later and summer had set in, hot and humid. I was mowing our rather expansive lawn on a rusty old riding tractor, when I heard it. A CRACK like a rifle, sharp and sudden. Stabbing at the clutch and slamming the “off” button, I scanned the forest above our house. I am still not sure I can faithfully report having seen the tall oak trees tremble, nor a giant hulking shape of golden brown under the canopy amble along. But, I can report that I did manage to break Olympic sprint records getting back inside my house. After a few hours I gathered my courage and went to see what had happened.

I found a large limb cast to the ground, with huge claw prints, some 12 or 13 feet above the forest floor gouged into the gnarly oak. The Bear had marked His territory, not 200 yards away from my house. Later, I remember thinking how absurdly low 12 feet would seem.

The third time I saw the Bear, I actually did come face to face with Him. It was at my Grandpa’s house, late in the Fall. We were playing Army, with sticks for rifles and horse droppings as grenades. Jason and I had gone thru a pine grove on a flanking maneuver to bombard our cousins when he tripped over a tree root. In the fall, he smacked his noggin and fell on top of a carpet of pine needles. Jason has no recollection of what happened next, but it is indelibly etched in my mind.

The Bear was just suddenly ….. there. I could feel His hulking presence over my shoulder, the hot steam of his breath wet against my neck. Everything slowed. I turned to see the unbelievably large creature sitting on His haunches, looking at me. There was an intelligence and weight in His eyes that let me know I was being judged to a fine measure. I don’t know how long He held me in His eye, seconds, days ….. who can tell? At some point He decided not to eat me. I blinked, and He was gone. I heard Jason stir behind me and I went to help him up.

Some day, perhaps in the spring, I will see The Bear again.

Brush with Celebrity

2010-02-04T19:52:00.002-05:00

Brush with Celebrity

So I'm in LA on business, hanging at the bar in the Plaza. Some co-drones and I are just sipping our way over-priced drinks, hashing over the days mind-numbing presentations and bitching as only drones can. When out of the corner of my bleary eye, I notice this little guy trying very hard not to be noticed. Ball cap pulled down, slouched down on the bar stool, no eye contact...you know the drill. About as subtle as the Carmen Sandiego disguise.
After a quick huddle with the co-drones, we decide he's the actor who played the obnoxious older brother on "Wonderful Life"...that Fred Savage launch vehicle. If you are under 30, ask your mom. No one can remember his character's name, let alone his real one, so we take the prudent course of keeping him under observation without blowing his awful attempt at disguise. Perhaps a poor president to set considering what followed.
Deep into our second or third round, another B-lister rolled into view. Some sit-com character actor who we recognized, but again could not name joined celeb 1 at the bar. Looked a bit like Newman from Seinfeld, but not. In any event, Not-Newman and celeb 1 struck up a conversation, while apparently waiting for the next Hollywood has-been to complete their trio. Leaving us no hint of what was to come.
Within a few minutes, the heavens opened, choirs sang and from somewhere a subtle spotlight landed on a familiar platinum haired behemoth of a man as he strolled up to his mates at the bar. Sleeveless muscle shirt, fresh dew-rag, bulging muscles...yes, all you ECW fans...HULK HOGAN bellied up to the bar, not 3 feet from your humble author.
The co-drones were shocked into gape-mouthed silence. leaving me alone to confront our A-lister as he took in the scene with steeley eyes and ordered a beer. For a moment, as he thanked the nonplussed barkeep, our eyes briefly met. What happened then, I can only blame on the liquid courage in me, as I suavely nodded and said...."Hey."
Perhaps thankful that a pen and napkin were not being shoved under his nose, perhaps just as part of his humanity, he responded with a quiet, "How ya doin'?" A four word exchange, meaningless to him, but a great story for this country bumpkin to pass on to friends.