November In My Soul

Contraband

2012-01-15T23:32:00.000-05:00

I was not on the job for a week before the team stopped an old powder blue imported station wagon. The driver was one of the expendable pack mules doing his best to appear ordinary, innocent and innocuous. He did not speed, he had no defective equipment and he passed through in the middle of the day. What he did not do was look over at the deputy sitting in plain view perpendicular to the interstate in a large and clearly marked bristling black SUV. No glance, no nod, no recognition. The mule made a point to look straight ahead and did everything in his power to be invisible. Glued on his dashboard was a topless hula dancer swaying in the 70mph rhythm and a small flag holder holding an American and a Canadian flag. Normal and ordinary. Horseshit. All this intensive attempt at normalcy succeeded in doing was drawing the deputy’s attention. And the interdiction deputy on duty this day was Buck Blackwell. Buck is of medium height, thick set, with a sense of latent power and irresistible sense of humor. He was the only man who wanted out of Mississippi so bad he drove himself to boot camp at San Diego and into Jarhead legend.

Buck’s contraband gland thumped hard in his chest when the ordinary station wagon rolled by at 69mph. He pulled out from the median accelerating rapidly to catch the wagon before it passed over the Theotokos River into Nassau County, the headache of Florida extradition and the sharing of the spoils with another agency. Almost immediately the driver’s fraying normalcy betrayed him and he drifted over into the center lane and gave Buck just what he needed, the old standby, failure to maintain the lane. He lit up his blues and radioed dispatch. The fun was at hand.

Many innocent travelers (with you probably included) see Buck and his brethren as stereotypical Southern cops complete with standard issue donut and blackjack. They are nothing more than simple Roscoe P. Coletranesque wise-fool cracker hillbillies enamored of racin’, wrasslin’, dippin’ and The Lost Cause or just as likely a badge-and-attitude smartass in love with his ticket book and just looking for a reason to lock somebody up. Either iteration is annoying and tiresome but ultimately just another trial the weary traveler must endure before he can be on his way.

Think again. This day the dear harmless traveler (or any number of imitators) has just ridden into a well-crafted web from which he may or may not escape unscathed (or at least unburdened). This peace officer you think is a borderline inbred idiot is a professional outfitted with the best training and equipment (including an MP-5 fully automatic machine gun if things get real ugly) drug dealer’s money can buy (it spends as well as any) and he is using the incompetent doughnut eating stereotype to your disadvantage. He appears affable, almost apologetic for having to stop you, luring you in. He will ask you and your passengers a few seemingly routine questions. He will watch your hands. He will keep his back away from the flow of traffic. He will keep his weapon well out of your reach. He will watch your hands. Buck Blackwell is a near-cyborg, bringing to bear the practiced eye of experience and a full range of skills to identify even the most subtle clues. He is also paying the closest attention to the intangibles, his nearly infallible internal alarm and he takes full advantage of the gift of fear. He sees the small signs, the subtle shifts in body language; he will note your hands behind your back, your nervous inability to stand still, your lack of eye contact, your pulsing carotid. You won’t know it but he is asking your passengers the same questions. Do your timelines, your destination and your reason for taking to the road match up? One time there was even a rented family. The driver said it was his wife and kids. She didn’t even know his name. Criminal stupidity is sometimes our greatest ally.

But I digress. All these processes, the question and answer, your body language, your vehicle type and the look in your eye are all running in the background of Buck’s mind while you think you’re just shooting the breeze with Barney Fife. Just when you think you’ll walk away with a warning he will very politely ask to speak to you again. He’ll say we have a very real problem with drugs and weapons being transported on the interstate then he’ll ask if you have any guns, knives, drugs or perhaps an atomic bomb in your vehicle. He’s looking for a chuckle the normal response. If you were to say no in a serious or offended tone it’s another piece of the mosaic. Your response will determine the next step.

In his vehicle is a dog that is your worst nightmare. She doesn’t/won’t take commands in English but in Dutch or German or one of a host of other languages depending upon her country of origin. She is so highly trained/proficient she can find almost any drugs, drug paraphernalia or large currency stash no matter how well you think it is hidden. She has found cocaine smothered in axle grease, she has found cocaine wrapped in a plastic bag in the gas tank, and in coffee, and in moth balls, in produce, in spices, even formed into china tableware. No matter which precautions are taken scent molecules are left behind which her sense of smell, which is 400 times more sensitive than yours, will detect. The courts see any positive alert on her part as probable cause to search your vehicle and if Buck told the dog to do so the bitch would chew your arm (or some other appendage) clean off. Like a thoroughbred horse she is bred to be one thing, a supreme synthesis of form and function, breeding and temperament.

Imagine if you can a workplace where no encounter is ever routine. This is not a world of familiars but a steady stream of strangers, some compliant and respectful but also others who are openly hostile and hating what you stand for, the authority of which you are the embodiment. Every shift is life and death. There are always at least two interdiction deputies working together and watching each other’s back, they can even listen to each other’s body mics. If you’re fool enough to tangle with one you’ll soon have to contend with the other. They value teamwork so highly because experience teaches that when hunting dangerous prey it is far safer to hunt in packs. They live and die by the belief that it is better to be tried by twelve than to be carried by six. So the next time you go flying by remember to be polite and wave.

Slave To The Machine

2011-05-30T17:42:00.003-04:00

I was rereading Fred Saberhagen’s excellent short story collection The Berserker Wars (the Berserkers are machines that destroy all human life) and considered how much we fear that our own creations, our own attempts will turn against us. I guess then we’ll know how God felt.

Thinking machines, machines beyond our control? I suspect they already are. It is fashionable to see machines and computers (which are the machine equivalent of brains I suppose) as symbols of evil, as Jungian projections of our ultimate nightmare, an electronic Ragnarok. Reason run rampant.

This view is imprinted on our culture as entertainment, interesting conjecture, pap for the masses, a klaxon unheeded. This anxiety of man vs. machine or even man and machine is deeply rooted. Edgar Allan Poe in 1839 published the Man Who Was Used Up about an old military veteran made almost entirely of prosthetic devices (even his tongue) as the result of injuries sustained fighting the Indians.

The Six Million Dollar Man (based on Martin Caidin’s 1972 novel Cyborg), Darth Vader, the Borg in Star Trek are not far removed from the creations in Blade Runner, the Terminator movies, The Matrix, the Cylon’s in Battlestar Galactica, 2001: A Space Odyssey and a host of others. These are just fear echoes of the same anxiety felt in A Clockwork Orange, Children of Men, 1984, Brave New World, We, The Handmaid’s Tale and the all too true One Day In The Life Of Ivan Denisovitch.

Our failure to act against oppression, our failure to value our solidarity, our willingness to que up at the computer/phone store and take what they hand us will have catastrophic consequences. I write this knowing it to links forever back to me, that I carry a phone that is essentially a tracking device, that we live in a world that not many decades ago would have been unthinkable. A cell phone to a railroad baron would be like the Spirit of St. Louis to Shakespeare. The world changes at the speed of light and we must be vigilant. It should be more obvious. Any freedom we surrender whether it to a tyrant, a system or a machine is freedom cheaply sold. That which we do not control enslaves us.

One need only read Tadeusz Borowski’s achingly horrific This Way For The Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen to be reminded our fears are well founded.

Life After Death - A Thanksgiving Story

2010-11-24T23:30:00.001-05:00

Thirty-nine years ago today my father failed to pull out of the final plunge of his decades-long death spiral. Like today it was the eve of the designated day for giving thanks. I was eleven, the third of five children. We all witnessed both his descent and it’s fatal culmination because we had no choice.

My youngest daughter’s life at eleven is vastly different from the frozen hell of death and despair that was my reality then. There is no abuse in her life. Meals are regular, love abounds and ghosts have no place here. She has never witnessed me hitting my wife nor my wife reciprocating in kind. Screams never shatter her sleep, bloody whelps never scar her skin. She never has and never will see me in an alcoholic blackout bathed in my own piss and vomit.

While far from perfect hers is a life of plenty. There is no alcohol. The bills are (for the most part) paid. She has no real hunger, no want, no lack. Life is not marred by violence or the permanence of memories best left buried. Love and laughter abound. Thanksgiving is for her a time, a state of mind, an acknowledgement of the good life that everyone in this family enjoys.

It has not always been easy and has frequently been a process of three forward and two back but I am a proud husband and father with a family well cared for. Finally the past has passed as the Lord continues to bless me and mine. We all give thanks.

Death Of A Friend

2010-08-25T00:57:00.000-04:00

It was a broken leg that so abruptly ended her life. Descending the three stairs she had gone down thousands of times she fell and shattered her leg, a fracture almost as long as the bone itself spiraling down from near the top to the lower joint. My wife was there first and saw the leg hanging at an odd angle and clearly unmoored. A strange, almost nauseating sensation, a limb should not just hang free, out of control.

She shared our home nine years and was as firmly a part of the family as any of us. Her fast days were behind her but was still breathtakingly beautiful. She slowed with the coming grey but her nobility, her innocent beauty only increased. Cancer had weakened her bones. Incurable. The break would not have healed. Amputation and chemotherapy would have only delayed the finality, the slope to death perhaps not as steep but just as sure, just as final. She died in the embrace of the man who perhaps knew her better than all the others. For her the crash of pain eased then ceased. For us the pain ebbed with false hope then came the flood with the true loss.

Angie was a beauty, as kind and gentle a soul as ever there was. She was a Greyhound, an ancient breed and to my mind, the most beautiful of all dogs. Before injury forced her out more than a decade ago she had literally lived in the fast lane, racing under the name Angie’s Foxy Lady. She was more than a friend, more like a daughter. It was an honor and a privilege to have been there holding her when she crossed the bar.

Mysterion

2010-06-19T00:47:00.005-04:00

Lardas Johnson has a decision to make. Not an ordinary 'smoking or non-smoking' type of decision but one that truly troubles him. It perplexes and taxes his mind. There is a deep-seated doubt in Lardas that he cannot shake.

Faith.

That is the core of his quandary. He cannot decide whether or not to send more money to Brother Carl Wayne Speck, the pastor of the Blood Bought Baptist Church Of The Risen Savior Who Bled For Us.

Lardas is a big man, just a smidgen over 350 pounds. His suit de jour is a faded and oft repaired pair of bib overalls over a blue t-shirt. Unless he's going to work when he puts on his white mechanic's shirt under the overalls. Handsome is never used in the same sentence as Lardas. Except by Stormy. Stormy is the other half of the Johnson clan and built to fit Lardas. She knows he is a gentle man and always content with his lot in life.

Until a year ago when the miracle happened.

***

"But Darlin' I feel obliged. We pledged to send the money and we ought to keep our solemn oath," said Lardas.

"I don't care. That man ain't nothin' but bad news. He is a liar and a cheat and I hope he burns in hell for what he done to us."

"Come on Stormy we got to keep our promise. What happened was not his fault."

"The answer is no Lardas. As long as there is a breath of life in me that man will never get another penny of our money."

***

The Johnsons live in the middle of a barren field in Cumberland County, Georgia at the bottom midsection of the state not far north of the Florida border. Not quite the middle of nowhere but somewhat west of Hahira and the Okefenoke Swamp

The doublewide is in Hidden Oaks, a community of trailers just off of State Route 188 between Cairo and Ochlocknee. In the yard there is a battered blue plastic swimming pool full of stagnant brown water and black bugs. A brindle mongrel dog, vicious now from the captivity, is staked in the middle of the yard. His only respite from the unflinching Georgia sun is a doghouse made from an oil drum. It has been seven human years since the dog has been free of his chain. He believes his name is Shut Up.

Stormy and Lardas have been married for 10 years. They married because they both realized they had found someone they could at least tolerate. But over the years as they shared life they fell in love and Lardas, like most married men, wanted to perpetuate himself by siring a full brood of little Lardases.

But despite their enthusiastic and not infrequent exertions the younguns were not coming. Both went to the doctors in Jacksonville and medically they were fine. So Lardas and Stormy started praying and seeking the Lord. Lardas was especially smitten by the program from the Blood Bought Baptist Church Of The Risen Savior Who Bled For Us.

The show was broadcast from Valdosta where Brother Wayne Speck and his bee-hived wife Sister Angelica Jean preached a peculiar message they called plantation faith. They seemed to be saying that if you sent your seed (money) to God (but addressed it to them) then He was scripturally obliged to use all the workers on his earthly plantation to bring about doubling your harvest (usually money) and send it back to you. Brother Wayne and Sister Angelica Jean never came right out and said God was willing to swap favors but it was clear that Brother Speck was willing to grease any palms, even those with scars.

But that was not what necessarily interested Lardas. He was interested in the miracles Brother Wayne performed. It was American primitive kabuki. The stock characters, the obese woman, the child in a wheelchair, the blind man or the gaunt heroin/crack addict Satan worshipper would be pushed into the frame and Brother Wayne would announce their malady. He approached them like a man with a newspaper ready to swat a cockroach and smack them dead center in the middle of their forehead with the palm of his healin’ hand while screaming with holy spittle thick in the air, “In the name of Jeezuz I rebuke Ye Satan, flee this child of God in the name of Jeezuz I command it!” Suddenly the blind could see, the lame could walk, the mongoloids quit drooling.

Lardas, despite believing in his heart of hearts that some of the healees made repeat performances, secretly sent off a substantial love offering for a miracle prayer cloth and reverently placed it on Stormy's stomach while she slept.

A month later she was with child.

"See Honey, I told you it would work if we had enough faith," he said.

"I wish you woulda told me you was puttin' that thing on my stomach every night," Stormy said. "It's kind of spooky is what it is. How do we know that ain't nothin' but an old cheap piece of pillowcase?”

“That don’t matter. What matters is Brother Speck putting his healin’ hands on it and praying to the Lord. My faith paid off and God answered my prayer. And now we gonna have us a son.”

“How do you know it’s gonna be a boy Mr. Smartass?”

“Because that’s what I prayed for.”

Despite her initial misgivings Stormy succumbed to the power of Mommyness. Her love for Lardas deepened as she slowly accepted the idea that here was the opportunity to create their own family and to break the chain of some of the issues that plagued both their families. Together they would raise their boy right. Wayne could teach him to hunt and fish, to respect the land to only kill what you can eat. Stormy would make sure he had good manners and treated women right. He would be a little gentleman.

And so they did. Darnell Wayne Johnson (they both called him Bubby) came fully into their lives as the days cooled and the world turned brown, red and yellow. It was love at first sight. Bubby was a handful, curious and gregarious. Lardas insisted he wear overalls and a Mohawk. Stormy insisted he brush his teeth and say Sir and Mam. Lardas took him riding on the four-wheeler. Stormy made sure he was buckled correctly in the carseat. Lardas taught him it was OK to pee in the yard so long as no one saw. Stormy insisted he lift the lid and wash his hands.

The only thing missing was another one just like him. But as a girl of course. Stormy longed for tea parties and calico dresses. Lardas longed to meet a little version of Stormy, to watch her grow to be as beautiful as her mother. To be able to say, “That beautiful young lady is my daughter.”

So they tried. And tried. They tried to count their blessings, to be grateful for the precocious boy who filled their days, who hijacked their lives and set them free with his unadulterated, unconditional, non-judgmental love. He saw only the good, still blind to their faults, still innocent. Still. Another child would complete the family picture.

***

“OK, OK. We’ll talk about it later.”

“No we will not.”

“But Stormy I feel like I owe him for all he done for us.”

“And just what has he done Lardas other than bringing us more heartache than anybody oughta ever have?”

***

The call came at work.

“Lardas you gotta meet me at the hospital.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Bubby. Just get to the hospital fast.”

The boy was in the grasp of many monitors. Unresponsive. Asleep. Lardas hated himself as soon as the thought crossed his mind, but it looked like a pit crew. They were checking the boy's oil, looking under his hood while others filled his tank and checked the pressure. The crew chief/doctor said it was like a coma but not. Such trauma was hard to treat but children are very resilient and can often endure much more than we believe they can.

Inside himself the boy was at peace. He was playing, running and jumping with his father on a cool November evening. Outside his inner reality, unable to pierce the veil, Lardas and Stormy were stunned, frenzied, unable to cope with their only son, their only child, reduced to this.

“What happened?”

“I’m so sorry. I was backing the truck up. I didn’t see him. I told him to stay in the house. He could not have moved that fast. The back wheel, it ran over him. It was the mudhole, the ground was soft but still I run over him. I am so sorry.”

“Oh my God Stormy how could you do that?”

“I didn’t mean to I love him just as much as you do don’t blame me please don’t blame me it was an accident oh God oh God please don't blame me.”

Together they stood lost on the tide of grief and unbelief.

Next came the vigil. The boy was never alone. Always Stormy or Lardas were with him. Lardas began putting the prayer cloth on the boy’s head. Weeping in prayer, crying out to a deaf god. Stormy talked to him hoping her voice would pierce the veil, having to believe her son could hear her. Her voice was the voice of God for the boy. He more felt than heard her but it eased his pains, slowed his decay.

Lardas wrote a letter to Brother Wayne telling him what happened and asking for a new prayer cloth, a new miracle. Instead Brother Wayne came and stood all night with the father joining him in prayer, easing his mind.

Still. It was not enough. At shift change with Lardas and Stormy both in the room Bubby’s body jolted, his small body tensed and went limp and he released/set free a long slow breath as this life left him. Alarms screamed as all signs of vital activity ceased. Stormy’s soul erupted in a scream, a primal otherworldly blood chilling lament, the sound of all hope and joy forever gone into the ether, the cry of a mother left bereft and now childless by her own hand.

Lardas found he needed to rest. He could no longer hold his body upright, he fell to his knees, his head slumped onto his chest. His mind slipped into a void of nothingness, the pain, the grief too visceral, too much.

The doctor and chaplain came. One offered only physiological reasoning, the other trite observations on our inability to understand God’s plans or his reasoning. In essence he told these two no longer parents that they would just have to reconcile themselves to the ways of an unknowable and unfathomable God and wait for time to ease their burden.

The funeral was standing room only. Family friends and complete strangers gathered to remember the boy, to love the parents. Wayne Speck sat and wept unobtrusively on the back row. An unfamiliar sensation overwhelmed him. Prayer cloths and plantation faith were no solace as the fist of God held him.

Lardas arranged with the funeral director to have the prayer cloth that brought them Bubby put into the boy’s hand before they sealed the coffin. He felt the boy should have it with him over on the other shore.

After the red-hot grief had cooled enough to speak the boy’s name without it burning his tongue Lardas continued the conversation with Stormy. She had resolved within herself that the trouble lay with that piece of shit so-called preacher in Valdosta. He had done this. If he had stayed out of their lives none of this would have happened.

“But Stormy it ain’t his fault and I gave him my word.”

“If it ain’t his fault then who’s is it? Tell me Lardas, who’s fault is it?”

“It ain’t nobody’s fault. We just have to remember the time we did have with Bubby. They were good times Stormy, the best times of my life.”

“I’m telling you right now and you listen good Lardas Johnson. You send that man another dime and I will leave you. You gotta decide, me or him.”

Lardas decided his wife, blind in her rage was wrong and he took the biggest gamble in his life. He sent cash money to Brother Wayne to get another prayer cloth as full of the anointing of God as Brother Wayne could make it.

At night when left with only his thoughts and his regrets and the sound of his forever wife succumbing to the solace of sleep he took the cloth from it’s hiding place, unfolded it like an altar cloth and laid it on her belly.

A Killer Poet

2010-06-15T11:45:00.002-04:00

I distinctly remember the first time I worked a full shift at the Sheriff’s Office. I was driving northbound on the interstate enjoying the sensation of being THE MAN. The Poe-lease. The Five-O. I was armed with a 9mm Smith & Wesson semi-automatic firearm, pepper spray, a ticket book and just enough experience to be dangerous. A poet I was not. A warrior I was really trying to be.

Then, reality. My mind began trying to embrace the reality that whatever came out of that state-of-the-art super-duper Motorola radio would be my responsibility. Whether it be a burglar alarm, a murder, a broken down vehicle, a rape, a funeral escort, a suicide, a stranded traveler, an armed robbery, an unruly juvenile, a molestation, a hazard in the road or any of the other innumerable versions of malice and mayhem I would have to respond.

My mind might have the luxury of having a few minutes to formulate a plan en route. Or it might not. It could erupt so quickly right in front of me that my body would respond quicker than I could think. And either way I would have to get it right. And fix it. Or at least contain it till the fixer could get there. This was heavy and I was suddenly not sure I could handle the weight.

What to do? I could trust my instincts. Believe in my training. Clear my mind. Respond to the situation at hand with flexibility and react appropriately to even the smallest changes.

Sounds easy enough.

Except it isn’t.

It’s life and death.

To be unprepared is to be defeated.

How did I get myself into this? Am I as ready for this as I can possibly be given the amount of mental and physical preparation available to me? Many times while practicing aikido I have asked myself the same questions.

One of the reasons aikido attracted was the notion of being a gentleman warrior, to be able to defend myself without resorting to unnecessary violence, to possess the latent ability to respond to a threat quickly and effectively, to be a coiled spring. To contain the dichotomy of the calm, polite, well-mannered berserker.

There has been a great deal written about the concept of the warrior-poet, just exactly what the term means and the role of such a person in different cultures. It is an interesting concept but I am too much of a novice to speak intelligently about anything but my own experience. I profess to be no expert. My thoughts reflect a great simplification of a very complex concept and are not my final thoughts on the subject. This is just one of the ways I have examined the idea of a warrior poet in my own life.

For me the concept of the warrior poet can be fairly straightforward and not necessarily an esoteric dissertation (although there is a time and a place for such things) on mind and no-mind. Simply stated in this train of thought the poet is my conscious mind, the warrior is my body. Training the mind is much harder than training the body.

There are times when my body takes over with reflexive movement faster than my conscious mind can formulate. Call it instinct. Call it training. Call it muscle memory. Either way I know that in some threat situations my body will respond independently without me knowingly/deliberately willing it to.

One day at the office a co-worker came up behind me wielding a pencil as if it were a knife. My arm rose in response so fast I drove the pencil lead into my arm where it promptly snapped off. I do not remember seeing her until after I responded. My body acted of its own accord. There was no time to dash off a haiku. No time for mushin no shin (a relaxed but hyper alert state of mind). No time to decide which stance I should assume in response to what was basically a shomenuchi (overhead blow to the head) attack. My body responded in defense of itself, true self-defense.

In this situation it is to my advantage to have a body that is flexible and strong, to be relaxed but alert. The kind of body developed through the steady practice of aikido, the situational awareness fostered through the consistent practice of aikido techniques both on and off the mat and the mindset of not expecting a threat to be around every corner but to be prepared for it nonetheless.

One night while again patrolling a stretch of I-95 I pulled over a passenger car for speeding. The location of the stop was miles away in either direction from the nearest exit. Any backup would be at least 10-15 minutes away.

The driver got out and so did five other adult males. Then to really jack things up the driver proceeded to urinate right in front of me. He was saying he believed himself to be the alpha male and that I was just another dog.

My first response was to notify dispatch to have my brothers in arms coming to me. Just in case. In this case having a strong and flexible body would help. Aikido technique would help a great deal but if this situation escalated the S&K .45 semi-automatic high velocity projectile tsuki (a straight punch) would have been my optimum technique choice.

It was my strong and flexible brain, the poet, the thinker, the rational, conniving part of me that kept me alive. The aikido training, the breath control, the soft focus, the confidence. No panic. Staying calm and cool and waiting for backup. Keeping all of them in sight and not let them get behind me. Use my training and experience both on and off the mat to place my body in the best possible defensive position. To keep my weapon guarded but available

And to talk. The five passengers leaned against the car and broke out the cigarettes. I kept a running conversation going with the driver, consciously trying to defuse the conflict, to avoid the use of deadly force. But if they had bumrushed me the warrior, the instinct, the training, the muscle memory in me would have taken over and I would have fired at them. I would have done everything possible to go home and not to the morgue at the end of the shift.

Of course the best possible way to avoid conflict would have been to never have put on the badge. Or the gi. But where’s the fun in that?

This essay was also posted on my dojo's blog and on two prominent aikido websites.

A Great Legacy Pt. 2

2010-06-07T18:09:00.002-04:00

These are but a few of the many talented writers and poets from the great Southern tradition in American literature. My favorites in this particular group are William Faulkner, a visionary and genius by any definition and the writer who set the standard for all who came after, Flannery O'Connor, unrivaled writer of short stories and Fred Chappell, a ferocious talent as a writer and poet.

I was not aware of the strong Southern contribution in American letters until I was introduced to some of these artists in college. One of the reasons for this outporing (especially with Faulkner) was their ability to combine their sense of history, a tradition of story telling, a strong sense of history and place with new ways of writing and thinking (stream of consciousness etc). They were able to look both forward and backward across the historical landscape.

At a time when many considered the South a land of poor, racist, unlettered folk who couldn't get over losing the Civil War these artists were creating works that will stand the test of time and remain some of the best writing in any language from any time period. It is a tremendous legacy of which I am very proud.

Come Listen To My Story . . .

2010-04-20T00:57:00.008-04:00

How I found myself sitting in my driveway at 1:00 in the morning with a loaded rifle across my lap is a short story that can be summed up in one word.

Armadillo. Or more specifically the nine-banded armadillo (Dasypus novemcinctus).

He drew first blood.

I’m sitting here in my small town Georgia bliss minding my own business when out of nowhere, divots. All over my pristine, immaculate lawn divots the circumference of a saucer. The sod torn up leaving a hole just big enough to be very, very annoying.

I tried mediation. I sealed up every spot under my fence through which he could launch his nightly raids. He only redoubled his assault mocking me with his ability to appear out of the ether to continue his nefarious nocturnal munching before vanishing back to whatever hole he called home.

I considered using a trap but scuttled that plan when I realized I didn’t have one. There was only one option left. I would have to launch a projectile at more than twice the speed of sound into his abdomen with extreme prejudice. A bushwhacking was in order.

This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine. My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. My rifle, without me, is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless. . . Oops, sorry, flashback.

It took about two weeks of nocturnal missions until last night I finally had him in my crosshairs. He crossed my perimeter not realizing his nights of digging divots were about to cease. But he didn’t come alone. Another armadillo from his squad came with him. There was no safety in numbers.

In the end it was not really a fair fight. My ruthless cunning, my well-honed killer instincts, my bigger brain sealed their fate. They are now a part of the circle of life taking a dirt nap in the empty field next door. I love the smell of de-lifed armadillo in the morning.

The Acid Kiss Of The Jelly Fish

2010-04-13T01:17:00.008-04:00

Life weary children roam the blue hills

On paths half hidden through the wild woods,

Across deep creeks, over sharp fences

Out running the demons at their heels.

The demons dance in the growing night.

Strengthened by hardship, hardened by pain

As night drops the deep valley darkens,

Mother’s voice carries down the dark holler

The porch light calls the blind moths home.

To home, home, the pain in the night.

Wading now in sleep's black pool

Today fading into yesterday,

Cadaverous King Nightmare awakens

Patient, waiting for dreams not yet dreamt.

Dreams of hope, hope in the night.

Without warning Her pain is loosed

Warm blankets yield, baring white flesh,

The wide black belt brings bloody red welts

Like the acid kiss of the jellyfish.

The merciless belt biting in the night.

We are the anvil for Her hammering rage

The legacy of all the wrong done to Her,

Beatings beyond measure on innocent flesh

Her father wielding a wire coat hanger.

Her father beating her in the night.

Don’t inflict wounds they only fester,

Rotting into scars that won’t ever heal.

Don’t leave your children

Trapped in the cold night.

In A Surrogate Tomb

2010-04-08T23:34:00.005-04:00

D___,

I have a visitor.

I possess a deadly seed. The doctor, young and arrogant in his omnipotence, told me It had spread.

It.

The cancer. This is, I suppose, the ultimate irony. A body that has always been clean, almost immaculate, would turn upon Itself. What triggered the malignancy? I smoked for a lot of years, ate too much red meat and was as sedentary as a tree. Or maybe it was the bran muffins, the vitamins or the sun screen.

Carcinogen. Car-sin-o-gin. Such a ghastly word. It is inside me now, blind and voracious in Its' hunger and unaware that the host It feeds upon is Itself/Us. By consuming me It consumes Us. The damage is done. Inoperable. Malignant. So do not weep, do not pity. I do not need or want your cheap consolation, your words, your unbearable sorrow. Do not come to me with tears, or cards, or flowers, or cheer.

But, if only. The memory is forever etched in my mind of the shafts of summer sunlight slowly slide up the wall as the sun dipped away. The room is quiet, the dust slowly swimming in the sun's amber beams. Outside boys played a noisy game of basketball oblivious to our presence. Many days we spent there forgetting the world moving on around us. Or the embrace of my child, to watch her sleep. Her unadulterated love and energy held at bay only by sleep. Do not think me vain or shallow. I know the embrace of a good thought, the immeasurable joy of a solid book as well as I do the pleasures of the flesh. But in those arms, in the embrace of my child I was whole.

No. Enough already. The past has passed and the future is futile. Please accept my apology. I have been feeling sorry for myself again. My intention was only to let you see that I am well and to describe this odd habit that I have recently developed.

I like to grow cold as the warm soapy bath water gurgles away down the drain. I lie still as a corpse, forgive the morbidity, and concentrate on the sensation of the minute ebb and flow of the water as it follows the unalterable principles first articulated by Johannes Kepler and spirals down and away. I bathe because I can. The bath keeps away the ghouls. Every trip to the tub is potentially a matter of life and death. So I am careful. I bathe every night. I keep my home so cold the hot water makes copious steam clouds that flow out into the hall like a cheap magician's act. Step right up folks and see the dirty old man perform his death defying act before your very eyes. Watch and be amazed as he soaks beyond any measure of human endurance and then soaks some more.

But I digress. When I have soaked until my fingers are prunish I slide down into the tub and pull my head under. I would pull my whole body under but the tub is short and I am long so my old knees stay exposed like gnarled Cyprus roots in some bubbly primordial swamp. I bring my head out of the water and kick open the drain.

At first there is no sensation as the molecules fight gravity. As my warm skin is slowly exposed a ring of chill starts on my neck and knees. It is an eerie, ethereal sensation. The sensation grows as the water continues to fall away. Eventually my shoulders, calves and thighs feel the creeping chill. The water spirals full force now, pushed down by gravity, the drain choking with the flow. The soapy water slowly reveals a faded prison blue tattoo of a snarling bulldog on my right forearm. A constant companion in my journey to stupidity. The flow slows because I sometimes put my foot partially over the drain to extend the sensation.

As the water drains, more and more of my body chills. Old age has not been particularly kind. You are as old as you feel. Forget the platitudes. Old age sucks and then you die. My memory is shot, I can barely hear and my glasses make me look like an owl. If only the memories faded as fast as the flesh.

My torso is prison camp gaunt and unearthly white. I look, and feel, like the victim of a personal holocaust. An unholy ghost. Spindly legs, with ankles like rocks under my opaque skin. Oh, such ghastly horrid flesh.

Epiphany. Last night as the last of the water drained I realized what I have been doing. These long baths letting the water drain as my body chills.

I have been practicing.

© 2010

This is a work of fiction. I am healthy and whole.

Icarus Too Young

2010-04-05T00:42:00.007-04:00

Instrument Of Grace

2010-03-31T01:55:00.001-04:00

This seemed appropriate for Pascha.

How I found myself standing in the Holiness Church of Deliverance during a Wednesday night prayer meeting pointing a loaded pistol at Bob is a short story with long-term consequences. It started the week prior when Bob asked me to come to church. Bob is Pentecostal and I am strictly part-time high church so that puts us at odds theologically speaking, he’s dancing in the basement and I’m sleeping in the attic. In his own not so subtle way I know he is trying to proselytize me (I am long since immune), but we grew up together and he has been a good if somewhat too enthusiastic friend. So I agreed.

I found the pistol in Bob’s car on the way to the service. Small and compact it easily disappeared when I closed my fist. Without being too consciously aware of it, I slipped the pistol into my coat pocket.
As Pastor Wayne Mueller pulled the service along to it’s crescendo I felt the pistol warming in my hand. It was not premeditated, but during the altar call, with every head bowed and every eye closed (except mine) I discretely took aim directly at Bob. I unlocked and unloaded and in the last microsecond, I swear the water was en route, he leaned back and threw his arms up like a funnel to catch the Holy Ghost. Problem was, he ruined my shot.

The squirt went between Bob’s right arm and his head, through the Holy Ghost and hit a small, elderly woman whom I did not recognize more or less between the eyes. She fell/dropped like one of the little plastic parachute men children get out of the quarter vending machines at the entrances to restaurants. This was not a choreographed collapse like you see on TV when the so-called faith healer slaps people between the eyes with the palm of his hand and yells out, “In the name of Jesus be healed,” and the so-called healee falls gracefully into the arms of a waiting usher. This was a genuine, honest to God collapse. Slowly, first forward, then back, she threw over her aluminum walker, succumbed to gravity and crumpled to the carpet with her white beehive coiffeur still intact, water running out of her left eye like a dirty tear.

When she hit the ground it started a ruckus that I thought would never end, I’m not so sure it has, at least for me, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Her husband knelt beside her calling, “Grace, Grace” as he lightly chafed her cheek. Needless to say I did not ‘fess up. The last thing I wanted was to be known/thought of as a man who would engage in such tomfoolery during a Holy Ghost meeting. Everyone in the place congregated in a large circle around Grace gawking, unsure if she was dead or just dying. Even for a Pentecostal meeting this was something to see.

Pastor Mueller began braying, telling everyone to step back, to give the woman some air. Grace opened her eyes and looked straight at me. Or more accurately she looked through me or maybe didn’t even see me. Our eyes locked but there was no acknowledgement on her part, we were on different frequencies.  

Just then the paramedics arrived, bundled Grace up and took her away, her frightened husband in tow. While waiting to clear out with Bob and bring this nightmare to an end, I heard several people say Grace was in the very last stage of inoperable, incurable cancer. The consensus seemed to be that at least she died in church.

Now I was really feeling poorly. I had scared an old woman to death, pushed her down the stairs of life. Outside, in the cool Arkansas evening while Bob smoked and talked tractor repair with one of his business/church cronies I dropped the pistol into the unshorn grass and ground it underfoot.

Bob was strangely quiet on the drive home. I thought for sure I was busted. He seemed to be struggling with something he couldn’t name.

“I just cain’t believe she died in church,” he finally said.

Despite my best efforts the truth was knocking hard, pressing to be let out. I started to mutter.

“I just cain’t believe she died in church,” Bob said again, relieving me of the burden. “I know you don’t know her but she is one of the sweetest souls you could ever meet. Would do anything in the world for ya. Her only daughter died a year ago in a car wreck, then about six months ago she found out she was eat up with the cancer. We were surprised she lasted this long. Wow. Dying in church. Now I seen it all.”  

Bob reverted back to his reverie, aiming the car toward home, the headlights parting the curtain of darkness that cascaded shut in our wake.

I told no one and for a few days my life continued unabated on its long slow slide to senility. But ours is a nosy newspaper, rife with gossip and not immune to innuendo, to flights of fancy and spells of speculation. True to form there was the headline: Holy Healing At Holiness.  

Halleluiah, I was off the hook. Hot damn. The story said the old woman did not die but rose from her bed, claiming to have been healed in church. She would tell what happened from the pulpit Sunday morning.

I called Bob.

“She didn’t die?”  

“Naw man, she just got the Holy Ghost. Ain’t that great. We have witnessed us a genuine miracle.”  

Bob and I were back at Holiness Church of Deliverance Sunday morning. It was as crowded as Easter Sunday when all the backsliders slink in. Nothing like a miracle to titillate the masses. Only it wasn’t. It was just me and a squirt gun.  

The old woman, there was no frailty in her, ascended to the pulpit.  

“I feel led to talk this morning because of what God has done done in my life. Most of ya’ll knows I been real sick, ate up with the cancer. Most of ya’ll also know I fell out during the Wednesday night meeting. I’m truly sorry for causing so much commotion. But what ya’ll don’t know is that right before I passed out, while Pastor was praying for the Holy Ghost, I felt the Spirit come upon me. It felt like warm water on my face, then I was taken up into the heavenly places.”  

Grace stopped to wipe the tears of joy from her face. 

“Lord it was purdy, shining so bright and I didn’t never want to leave. I saw Jesus and he looks just like His picture. He told me I was healed.”  

He was telling me I was a heel for letting this go on. It was time for confession, time to set the record straight.  

“That’s not right. She doesn’t know what really happened.”  

I found myself standing amidst the stupefied stares. Grace stood stunned, my words had pierced like an accusation.  

“Continue, Brother,” said Pastor Mueller. “Give us the word of the Lord.” 

“I know what happened.”  

For the second time I met Grace’s eyes. This time she was not looking through me, but in me. Expectantly. Trying to find my frequency.  

Bob nudged me out into the aisle.  

“What you think happened is not what really happened. It was me. I had a squirt gun in my pocket. I aimed it at Bob. I was messin’ with him during the prayer. Lord knows I know it was wrong and I never meant for any of this to happen. I had no intention of hurting anyone, especially you Grace. I mean, you seem like a decent woman and I know you think you’re healed, but it was just water.”  

I stood, ashamed.  

“Brothers and sisters,” Pastor Wayne said, “This man is a healer sent into our midst by a providential God, the God of Abraham and Isaac.”  

What? 

“God has taken this unbeliever unto Himself and through him has revealed Himself to us.”  

What?  

“We are all instruments of grace in the hands of the Lord.”  

Lord no. No.  

“Brothers and sisters the Lord is telling me that we need to lay hands on this young man, to share in his power.”  

I fell into the dark embrace.   

© Copyright 2010

Melville/Ahab

2010-03-16T02:04:00.016-04:00

"Not a word he spoke; nor did his officers say aught to him; though by all their minutest gestures and expressions, they plainly showed the uneasy, if not painful, consciousness of being under a troubled master-eye. And not only that, but moody stricken Ahab stood before them with a crucifixion in his face; in all the nameless regal overbearing dignity of some mighty woe."

This post was inspired by Matt Kish at his http://everypageofmobydick.blogspot.com

In The Gloaming

2010-02-22T23:34:00.004-05:00

As Day succumbs to the persistent entreaties of Night
When Daynight becomes Nightday
That moment when charms and curses are best hurled
A moment when potions in the cauldron best swirl
The gloaming.

That momenternity when rules don’t apply
An open portal wherein all things can be,
When the ghost at the foot of your childhood bed
Was just your winter coat.
When the tree in your yard
Was a shaggy green demon.

Living stars flutter in the falling twilight
Persistent fireflies glow in the growing gloom
Flashing out their desperate SOS
Seeking that brief tryst before dying their work done.

We sit locked in our houses, trapped in our homes,
We've gorged on the electronic teat
We fail to mark the days passing from one kingdom to the other
The eternal cycle of welcome and goodbye,
An ending that is a beginning that is ending.
Equipoise.

Night knows that with the slow glow of morning
He too must flee to the west.
A billion repetitions seem an eternity
In the endless rhythm of the heavens.

Day pushes out over the great Pacific expanse
Bringing life/light to the islands scattered over the deep
Like diamonds on dark velvet

Day continues Her eternal retreat
Bringing abundant light but scarce heat
To the frozen Siberian steppe
Scattered across the tundra/forest
Like black blood spatter
The Gulags.

I Know A Man

2010-02-09T00:29:00.001-05:00

I know a man who has a daughter. She is a woman-child, grown but unready. She is beautiful and bright, a father’s dream. It is an unsteady relationship. His father abandoned him and for a time her father abandoned her. He tries his best to do right. Raw, she struggles to set her own course but runs aground again and again.

Well into middle years the father struggled to steer. He sought a sure current but his battered, tattered sails tore in the blow. Time and again he altered course but still the storm held. He sailed into the swirl, spilled and only just broke the surface. He learned to work the oars, to steer, to tack.

The woman-child now suffers. The roar of the past permeates/envelops at every point. She is blind to the storm approaching and sails an erratic course, seeking a safe harbor but finding only choppy water and more rocky shores. No anchor, no calm, no still.

From his safe moorings he watches her struggle to trim the sail but again and again the ropes foul. He longs to pilot as she is no hand at the tiller.

His cries to her to take to the oars, to save herself as he cannot. Too late. The child plunges unprepared into the maelstrom. He prays please right yourself, navigate the gale. Too late.

I know a man. He has a daughter. She is lost.

I know a man. He lost a daughter.

He is lost.

I'm So Special

2010-01-28T00:09:00.004-05:00

Steve over at Pithless Thoughts is posting a series of his original Ortho-Graphs in which through humor he does a wonderful job of deflating my (and probably your) sense of self-importance. He points out most eloquently that (among other things) we are all guilty of false piety, of an inflated sense of self, of believing that we are set apart and special, of pride.

The problem is that the act of writing about false piety and about how guilty I am is probably in itself false piety. But here goes.

“Look at me and how bad/depraved I am/was, how my childhood/upbringing was worse than yours, how I have had to work harder to achieve what I have and any degree of normalcy.”

I know I am guilty of writing about how I have had it worse in life than most folks and that I am therefore special and deserving of empathy/pity and admiration. I have used my struggles as an opportunity to proclaim like a chanticleer my specialness. I know that in some sense I am just sharing my life, my life experiences but I have to admit I enjoy getting responses. I guess the fact that all four sentences in this paragraph start with “I” pretty much says it all.

Steve also explores the always popular, “Look at me, look at how much of a sinner I am/was, look at how prideful and un-orthodox I used to be. You have no idea how far I have come on my journey. I was so Baptist, so Church of Christ, so pagan (you fill in the blank)….” Guilty as charged. In fact I can go one better and say my first church experience was at a Salvation Army church in the neighborhood in which I grew up. We were all so poor the SA had to put down permanent roots. Sad, but true. See, don’t you feel sorry for me now?

Do I write and post photos here because I want you to admire my work, to validate that I am a good photographer/writer/artist? On some level yes and I suspect I am not alone. This blog, this seeking of attention is a form of vanity. I check to see how many people have visited, how many people have commented, how many electronic contacts I have made. And despite my poor intentions I have come to know some very excellent folk through blogging (Steve being one of them).

Steve reminds me that I am nothing new under the sun, that my feelings of smugness are sadly not particular to me. Vanity, vanity. All is vanity.

Talking In Circles

2010-01-19T23:27:00.004-05:00

Memory

Many Years, Brother

2009-11-10T10:23:00.004-05:00

Today is my brother Terry's birthday. Below is an essay I posted about him in October 2006. Happy birthday, Brother.

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

Teddy Roosevelt

My younger brother Terry and I sometimes greet each other with the words, “Strength and Honor.” It’s a line lifted directly from the movie “Gladiator.” Not a great movie and perhaps greeting each other this way is a bit hokey, but what appears on the surface to be just light-hearted bravado hides a much deeper significance.

I am the third of five siblings. Terry, the fourth of five, and I have always enjoyed a particularly close relationship and have many interests in common. Nevertheless, we were, and to a large degree still are, polar opposites. Terry was always handsome, strong, brave, impetuous and headstrong, even violent. I was always homely, weak, scared, cautious and compliant. Truly yin and yang. Our strengths and weaknesses complimented each other. Ours is a relationship based on mutual respect and admiration.

We grew up in an alcoholic, abusive household with our other brother and two sisters. My mother had us one right after the other and by the time she was 22 she had five kids. In the days before disposable diapers, in a house with only cold running water, no bathtub, no bathroom facilities. It was a poor existence. We often felt winter’s bitter bite. My father did not try to save us. He did not come to the rescue. He was not true or strong or brave. In fact he did everything he could to abandon us and leave us at the mercy of our alcoholic mother. By the age of 36 he was dead. I’m not sure how much his disease killed him or how much it was him simply trying to escape the pain of existence.

One of the mechanisms I used to cope was to develop a fascination with warrior societies. The Spartans, the Samurai, the Vikings. I even went so far as to join the U.S. Marine Corps at the ripe old age of 17. I realize now that this fascination served at least two vital purposes, it helped me to address the very real fear I felt and it helped me to define what a man should be. Most of my life has been the search for strength and honor. Trying to find internal strength to face the fears and trying to find a way to be a man of honor.

In 1986 Terry gave me a lesson in humility, a lesson in how to be a man of strength and honor. In that year he fell and suffered a spinal cord injury in a construction accident. Terry survived the horrors of rehab and now spends his days in a wheelchair. Only those who have lived with someone recovering from such an injury can understand the magnitude of the physical and emotional struggle involved.

Terry never finished high school. To be more accurate, he never finished junior high school. He was kicked out for being too violent. Later in life, after his accident, Terry got his GED. Then he went to college (we started the same semester when I was 27 and he was 26) and eventually graduated with a B.A. in English from James Madison University. Years later he worked for a while as a teacher at the Virginia School for the Deaf and Blind teaching deaf students (using sign language). He is now learning to play the bass guitar.

Terry is not handicapped in any real sense. He is completely self-reliant. He simply cannot walk. Terry has done more than most people without any physical impediment. He is a warrior and the bravest man I know. He has survived many trials. Not just survived, thrived. The fire of adversity has refined his spirit, purified his commitment to do whatever he sets his mind to do. One of the foundations of the Japanese martial art of Aikido is blending with the attack. If the attacker pulls, you push, if he pushes, you give way. By blending with the attack, you defeat it. Much the same in life, much the same with Terry. He took what came, blended with it and emerged complete.

I know Terry reads this blog. To him I say, strength and honor, brother.

New Planet Discovered

2009-10-28T22:51:00.008-04:00

Scientists were flying high when they were able to capture this photo of recently discovered exo-planet DeZKo-54. The atmosphere of the exo-planet is marked by strong pulsations and a fine white powder.

Scientists were also able to capture one photo of this whirling phenomena located in Boelin Alley, an area of the galaxy marked by numerous violent and often ill-aimed collisions. They suspect that bizarre objects of this type are everywhere in our solar system where they exert a tremendous monetary-gravitational pull on other rotund-bipedal objects and strip them of their precious metals.

Far On A Dark Wind

2009-10-24T23:09:00.005-04:00

A depression settled on me this week the likes of which I have never experienced. Every movement, every endurance of every moment was an agony. At night I alternated between sweating and shivering and driving my wife crazy. No real sleep, no real rest for either of us.

When these depressions come each is more severe than the last. I don’t know how any could be heavier than this. No life. No interest. Having to do something every moment to take my mind off how deep I am in the fugue state. An old friend recently sent me an article about how depression, mental illness and addiction often go hand in hand. Those afflicted resort to a variety of dysfunctional practices to keep the day-to-day, moment-by-moment horror of life at bay.

I have endured addictions of many sorts. I have to be careful of everything to make sure I don’t begin to like it too much. I can/will grasp at any distraction to keep from seeing my life the way it really is, to keep from feeling the pain my decisions cause others, to avoid see the mess (literal and figurative) all around me.

Like many others I also turn to art, the process of creation. Trying to re-create? This urge/drive/need to forge the ugly dysfunction into something at least I recognize as a thing of beauty has been with me for many, many years. It is truly a blessing and a curse because any solace it provides is transient, only the passing over of the eye of the storm.

I struggle to get at the heart of it. Genetic? My family is living proof. My father and my mother’s father died from the long-term horror of alcoholism. Both sides of my family are riddled with cases of addiction and the inherent dysfunction. But for me it is also the weight of November. My father died on the eve of Thanksgiving in 1971. It was bitterly cold and the end of his battle with the bottle. At the age of 36 he died in his own piss and blood. My four siblings and I watched as his dead, emaciated body collapsed, pinning our mother to the couch. I was eleven. Following his death our lives of poverty, disgrace and abuse actually marginally improved.

His death has proven to be the axis mundi of my life in many, many ways. It is the event from which I cannot free myself. To compound the issue (as I was reminded recently) I am pretty much physically identical to my father. I guess in other ways we’re also the same. He was a talented man and an artist in his own right but the weight of it all was just too much.

How long is his reach? Why? Why? Why? Thirty-nine years later and still I sit here in tears trying to put the ghosts to bed. Sleep well Dad. I wish I could.

In The Gloom

2009-10-17T01:09:00.006-04:00

These photos were taken on a very foggy day on or near the Blue Ridge Parkway in Virginia. All three have been modified to highlight not how the scene through the viewfinder looked but how it felt. All three are darker than the originals and gloomier. Although not faithful to the light and shadow of the moment they are faithful to the somber beauty of the Appalachians.

Or perhaps it is a reflection of the gloom that seems to permeate my existence of late. November is yet weeks away but already I feel its cold grip and cache of memories better left buried. The elasticity of memory. Some seem to remain forever attached like barnacles, hard to break loose only to come back again.

King Cotton

2009-10-13T00:06:00.004-04:00

While on the way to Statesboro to visit my daughter at GSU I stopped long enough the take these photos of cotton in the field. Much of the wealth of the antebellum south came from cotton sales as the raw cotton fed mills in the United States and in Europe. The process of growing, harvesting and turning the cotton into thread prior to the invention of the cotton gin was very labor intensive and helped make slavery a sad reality in the southern states. This is cotton in its raw state.

Fort Clinch

2009-10-09T23:33:00.007-04:00

These photos were taken a week or so ago at Fort Clinch on Amelia Island, the northernmost of Florida’s barrier islands. We were there for a field trip/picnic. As with most structures this old it lends itself well to being photographed.

More photos of the fort are available at The Bosom Serpent.

Prefab Beauty

2009-10-07T22:41:00.004-04:00

I took these photos earlier today a few blocks from the house when Sophie and I were out for our daily walk. Even in prefabricated public spaces there is beauty if we really open our eyes to look. What at first glance appears to be just more plastic and metal is transformed into a hypnotic repetition of form, a face with glaring eyes, a metal backbone. Discovering or "seeing" this art hiding in plain sight is one of the great joys of photography.

Down At The River

2009-09-24T08:27:00.006-04:00

While down at the water I was speaking with an elder man, a native of the city. We were talking of many things as old men will do and we eventually got around to his new vehicle. I was shocked when he said, “Yeah, I ran into this nigger woman down in C________." I was shocked by how ordinary it was for him to just use the word in daily conversation. The ordinariness of what he said was strikingly matter of fact, commonplace. He apparently felt I shared his views and kept talking.

He kept up about the incident about how more “n_____s” kept arriving. He said he felt threatened until friendly deputies showed up. He believed he got the last laugh as he believed the crowd thought the deputies were taking him to jail when in fact they were only giving him a ride home.

Let me tell you as a white man in the deep south that incidents like this are not uncommon. Despite some claims to the contrary there is a very deep vein of racism running through some of the white population. In most cases the N word doesn’t come up until the speaker is sure everyone present shares his or her views. Others just don’t care. It is their worldview and they see/have no reason to change.

The implication is that white folk are superior and that all African-Americans are slow, stupid, inferior, a segment of their society that just has to be tolerated. Their world is literally black and white. Here there are still black and white funeral parlors, black and white churches, even black and white barber shops. Many whites have no interest in dying, worshipping or spending any time in the company of non-whites. The problem is systemic and endemic.

Personally, I don’t understand it. I have felt the sting of being ignored, demeaned and mocked because of my social status. How much worse to endure centuries of organized and (but no less strident) individual, perpetual racism? Are we not all in the image of our maker? Would our Lord create any of less value in his eyes than the other? We are told to love without reservation, not to pick and chose only among those who we believe look like us. The vestiges of racism are an embarrassment to the South, to America and to humanity.

What does it say about me that the old man thought it was ok to speak this way in my presence? I know what it says about me that I was only silent in protest. Lord have mercy.

Aikido

2009-09-20T23:47:00.004-04:00

Here are a few photos from a seminar held Saturday at my home dojo. We trained for five hours then had a wonderful barbeque dinner. My Sensei is third from the left on the front row. I'm the old man with the beard on the back row.

A Great Loss

2009-08-13T23:43:00.005-04:00

Pictured above is Col. Charlie Easterling and his beloved wife Wanda. Charlie passed away a few days ago after a short battle with cancer. He was only 57. Charlie was one of the two dozen of us fired by the new sheriff when he took office in January. Charlie worked in law enforcement for more than 30 years and served as Chief Deputy for the last two decades. I'll write more about Charlie later but please pray for his family as they try to come to grips with the realization that their patriarch is dead. Pray especially for Wanda, his daughter Renee and his granddaughter Candice.

That's Charlie peeking in the window. He and I were out riding around looking for photo opportunities. Though not a native of Camden County Charlie knew the county and its people very well.

Charlie had long since made his peace with the Lord. May his memory be eternal.

Updates

2009-08-04T23:25:00.009-04:00

Sunset over the Satilla River.

I am still here and alive and well despite my often feeling to the contrary. A few updates are in order.

My father in law is still with us and improving every day from his open heart surgery. Today he walked from here to the river and back. He goes back to see his surgeon in a few days.

I start home schooling my daughter tomorrow. Please pray for all of us especially my wife who is a teacher and would do just about anything to trade places with me. The first day of classes for her are also tomorrow (Wednesday). We'll see how all this works out.

I started back training in aikido after a hiatus. My daughter has attended twice and may continue. It feels very good to be back in the dojo. I had not realized how big a void it fills.

My oldest daughter goes back to college in a week or so. We hope and pray it goes well.

The first two photos on the previous post are my brothers and I along with my daughter and her cousin on The Skyline Drive looking east over my old hometown of Waynesboro, VA. The lights in the distance are fireworks, hundreds and hundreds of fireworks going off all over the Shenandoah Valley. It was beautiful and moving.

The bottom photo is yours truly with three of my siblings and our mother. It was really good to see my oldest brother Robert (beside me wearing the bunny ears) who I had not laid eyes on in more than a decade. Here is proof that I am the better looking one and the smartest. He is also shorter and balder, but he knows we all love him. Sadly our youngest sister could not attend the gathering due to an ongoing personality issue. It's sad but it's really hard to get all of us together in the same place for any length of time without sparks flying.

I will post when I can. I really miss the days when I could post well written reflections on my life and an occasional piece of fiction. This blog has sunk oh so low.

On the Road Again

2009-06-30T21:06:00.007-04:00

There will be no new Parris Island entries until next week. We leave early tomorrow morning to drive to Virginia and we will drive back on Sunday. My sister's 50th birthday is on Thursday so my oldest brother (Robert) is flying in from California to surprise her. We decided to show up at the same time unannounced and really shock her as she has not seen my wife and daughters in several years. We have not seen Robert in a decade or so so this promises to be a big reunion. On the way home on Sunday we will meet up with my father-in-law in Richmond and bring him to stay with us. While here he will have open heart surgery and recover at our home. Whether or not he will be able to go back to his nomadic ways after his recovery remains to be seen, but I doubt it. I suspect he will be a a permanent resident which will be good for everyone involved and teach our daughters the proper way to treat your parents as the begin to age.

As always we covet your prayers both for our travels and for the future and for all the issues looming large.

Here, for no reason whatsoever is, a video of Townes Van Zandt, one of the best songwriters ever. If you like good country/folk music you can't do much better.

Parris Island: Part 3

2009-06-25T16:38:00.008-04:00

The Marines I have seen around the world have the cleanest bodies, the filthiest minds, the highest morale, and the lowest morals of any group of animals I have ever seen.

Thank God for the United States Marine Corps!

First Lady of the United States Eleanor Roosevelt, 1945

Two of the first hurdles all recruits immediately face is the position of Attention and close order drill (COD). But it is probably fair to say that every Marine begins at the position of Attention. It becomes instinctive, as central to every Marine as the Marine Corps Hymn, his rifle or Iwo Jima. Before all things there is Attention and one of the very first commands every recruit hears is to assume the position. First attempts are always sloppy, sad affairs but eventually every Marine can snap to Attention perfectly at a moment’s notice.

The position of Attention is to stand with heels together and touching and on the same line with feet spread at the all-important 45° angle. Chin up, eyes straight forward, knees not locked, chest out, no slouching, shoulders square, arms hanging straight without stiffness, hands at you sides thumb forward, fingers naturally curled and lightly pinching the seam in your trousers. And you do not move. Do not look to the side, do not move your eyes to the side, do not shift your focus from the point on which you have locked your eyes, do not scratch an itch, do not cough, burp, laugh, cry or pass out, all of which are considered breaking the position of attention. The hard part is when you have drill instructors screaming into both ears giving you conflicting orders and a third glaring straight in your face, punching his finger very deliberately into your chest and wondering at the top of his voice why you are queer for his gear? Try that without flinching or even looking to the side.

Proper Attention is important whether alone or as a platoon. And you are always with your platoon because recruits go everywhere as a platoon. Recruits are rarely alone (except maybe in the dentist’s chair) because recruits do every thing together. Privacy and modesty are impossibilities. Always together, always suffering /learning. It is the beginning of the process of many becoming one. While you may become an individual Marine it is only because of the Corps that you exist. The goal is to learn to count on your fellow Marines and ultimately if necessary to die for them. This shared Hell, this experience few people will even attempt much less complete has a powerful bonding strength. And one of the first place it starts is close order drill.

Close order drill is an ancient military tradition designed to instill discipline and order into the ranks. In the Marine Corps it is honed to a fine art as anyone who has ever seen the Silent Drill Team can attest. Initially drill practice is done on a huge asphalt drill field. Watching the new platoons you always see the practice interrupted periodically by one or all the still learning recruits stopping to do push up or mountain climbers (running in place while in the push up position) to the DIs satisfaction. It becomes a matter of great pride to be able to execute the maneuvers perfectly, partly to make your DIs happy (and eventually even proud) and because it feels very good to work so closely together as a team, to move as one organism, to have each heel hit the pavement together, to turn at the exact same instant, to stop exactly together. After learning basic drill, the rifle is introduced into the mix which is another set of routines done while marching and standing.

A good DI can take a large platoon anywhere and place them exactly where he wants. It gets to the point where your DI can have a seventy man platoon march from a distance away then, without stopping, take the platoon half-stepping through the double doors into a crowded, busy chow hall and have the platoon stop precisely together at precisely the same place right where the chow trays stand stacked. It is minute precision executed expertly. Trust me, it is impressive, especially to the new recruits.

While marching you listen to and follow the DIs cadence. It can be very cool to hear and every DI sings differently. Many times they don’t even really pronounce the words but you know what they mean. It is through his cadence and correct issuing of orders that the platoon moves where he wants it to go. While marching the platoon is walking at 120 steps per minute and every step has to be in sync. This drill training follows every recruit into Marine Corps where it is utilized every day.

But enough about close order drill. One of my frustrations in writing about this experience is having to leave so much out. Pardon me if I drag on. But I would ask you to remember how young these men are when they undergo this trial. I was barely 17 yet I was ready to go fight and die. No matter what you may think of our military remember all these young men today are volunteering to put themselves in harms way for us. Semper Fi.

Watch how the guy with the camera flinches when the platoon comes marching straight at him. Even after all these years I can still understand the DI say, “By the left flank, march” which is the command that sends the platoon to their left and at the cameraman. Later you can also hear him say “By the left oblique, march” which straightens the platoon up before going through the archway.

Apology

2009-06-25T01:17:00.005-04:00

I apologize for the delay in the next Parris Island installment. It's in progress and will appear in a day or two. We bought a new computer (see above) and went back to Apple. Nice computer but it has taken a little while to adjust. I also got Photoshop CS4 and it takes a while to adjust. I have been writing on another project, I am setting up a separate photo website and I am preparing to home school our daughter in the fall. My wife's father had a heart attack and may well be coming to stay with us prior to major heart surgery and for part of the healing process. Its summer with all it's distractions.

Parris Island: Part 2

2009-06-13T00:44:00.009-04:00

Boot camp doesn’t really start until you meet your Drill Instructors. The sleep deprivation, the shaved head, the new uniforms, the unfamiliarity are just warm ups for the main event. The meeting is a life-changing event where you realize that there is no backing out. This is real. These guys mean business.

The Drill Instructors are the gatekeepers and to pass through you will have to do it their way, the Corps’ way. Only those who meet the standard may pass. Without such strict guardians, such high standards the Marine Corps might as well be the Army. It is these high standards, strict discipline and unwavering obedience that sets the Marine Corps apart and it all starts with the Drill Instructors. The journey is fraught with danger but the reward is membership in the Corps, one of the few, the proud. There is no way to prepare yourself for the onslaught.

The initial introduction to your four Drill Instructors (never, never, ever Drill Sergeant) is when they begin to set out the rules, the behavior they will henceforth expect from you. There will be no leniency. You will be living under a microscope and even the smallest mistakes will matter. Attention to detail is paramount.

The four menacing men in immaculate uniforms and wearing razor sharp campaign hats introduced themselves. The three Drill Instructors wear green web belts but the Senior Drill Instructor wears a black leather belt. It is a small but very important difference. Titles are very important as each thing has a proper name and every Marine has a proper title. To call the Senior Drill Instructor a Drill Instructor is to take from him something he has worked very hard to achieve. Proper titles and rank promote order and discipline as every Marine knows his place in the chain of command.

Following the introductions the you-know-what hit the proverbial fan. When they say they will be your mother and your father they mean it. They will be the source of almost unbearable physical and psychological pain but on rare (but very important) moments they will be a source of encouragement. It is the start of a complex love/hate relationship. Initially you hate them for being so mean, so insensitive, so exacting. Why are they mad all the time? Who peed in their cornflakes? You try very hard to please them, to prove that you deserve to be part of their Marine Corps. Hate slowly changes to admiration as you see that they can easily do everything they ask you to do. Through their efforts lowly recruits become thoroughly indoctrinated into the way.

The thirteen weeks aboard Parris Island are a deliberate and total break from the life you led before. The DIs begin teaching recruits a new vocabulary, a new way to speak, a new way to dress and to get dressed, a new way to do practically everything. The first and last word out of your mouth has to be “Sir” and you have to refer to yourself in the third person. “Sir Recruit Terrell requests to make a head call Sir.” And woe to the lowly recruit who ever refers to himself as “I.” A hat is now a cover, walls are now bulkheads, the floor is now the deck, left is now port and right is now starboard. The bathroom is now the head.

These traditions and vocabulary are part of the Marine Corps’ naval heritage. In the British Navy the Marine’s served as the ship Captain’s personal force on board ship to prevent mutiny. The Marines would also go up into the yardarms during a conflict and serve as sharpshooters as well as serving as landing parties. This tradition of having Marines aboard Navy vessels continues to this day. In general Marines hate being a Department of the Navy. Right or wrong they are unofficially taught to have a healthy lack of respect/use for any of the other Armed Forces, especially the Navy. We just need them to get us where we were going. But Navy Corpsmen are different. The corpsmen assigned to Marine units are given the same respect given to other Marines because they have earned it in combat time and again.

At 5:00 a.m. sharp one of the DIs threw one of the heavy metal trash cans down the middle of the squad bay and all four came yelling and screaming loud enough to wake the dead. I unwisely decided I would stay in bed, that I needed a few more winks. I quickly realized that what I wanted mattered not at all. The DI pushed me mattress and all off the top bunk onto the hard concrete deck. I never made that mistake again. We stood on line in the position of attention wearing nothing but our new boxers and t-shirts. Day one would not be fun.

Parris Island: Part 1

2009-06-01T01:48:00.022-04:00

I became enthralled by the Marine Corps after reading Battle Cry by Leon Uris as a young boy. This tale of heroism and valor (based on the author’s own experience) of the Marines fighting in the Pacific in WWII left a deep impression on me. It was a seed that began to mature when I enlisted and headed off to boot camp. I have struggled for years to adequately describe my thirteen weeks aboard Parris Island and my introduction into the real Marine Corps. It is a complex tale that requires a great deal of background information to capture even a little of the experience. The closest on screen depiction I have ever seen to the actual experience, at least psychologically, is Stanley Kubrick’s movie Full Metal Jacket.

Coming aboard Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island (there is another Recruit Depot in San Diego but they don’t really count) is a descent into a physical and mental maelstrom from which I was sure I would never escape. For every new recruit it is a perilous journey down a dark dangerous road with no streetlights, no road signs. He/she (they also train Women Marines at Parris Island) is left with only their will to endure. As soon as the bus stopped a very angry red-faced staff sergeant rushed aboard insisting we were only fecal matter, making deprecating remarks about our mothers and the uncertainty as to who fathered us. He loudly insisted with great vigor that we get the hell off his bus and step into the yellow footprints (painted with the heels together and the feet splayed at the all important 45 degree angle) on the asphalt. Then it was through the infamous door with the sign above it which reads “Through This Portal Pass Prospects For The World’s Finest Fighting Force UNITED STATES MARINE CORPS.” Personally it was more akin to a descent into Dante’s Inferno.

Upon arrival everything familiar is deliberately either taken away or modified as part of the process of breaking us down so they could mold us their own image. One of the processors wrote what looked like “bEll” on my hand. It was my platoon number. I was to join First Battalion, A Company, Platoon 1139. Following the initial haircut (during which the mad barbers rendered us bald in about the time it takes to sneeze) the real dislocation began to set in. All our clothing and belongings were put into storage until our graduation or pre-graduation discharge. It was a time of transition for the Corps so we were issued four uniforms, two of the old solid green sateens and two of the new standard camouflage.

By this time I had been up for two days with no sleep and was in just the right condition for the indoctrination to begin. The old/young me was ready to be replaced by a physically fit, aggressive, confident young man who bore little resemblance to the drifting, undisciplined, long haired slacker. I eventually discovered much later that while I did change in many ways the demons that were to haunt me for years to come were very much alive and well beneath the spit and polish exterior. In the Corps I found many kindred spirits willing to tag along on the road to addiction and disintegration. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Back to Parris Island.

After being issued all the other gear we would need for the next three months it was time to meet our drill instructors.

Here is a photo of me some time after graduation. I am flanked by my brother Terry (shirtless) on the left and an old family friend, Charlie Wolf, on the right.

Busy

2009-05-26T00:09:00.004-04:00

I am writing the next post detailing my journey through Parris Island. It's a lot to cover so please be patient. Here are a few photos you might see.

The third head from the left is mine.

From Girlie Man To Manly Man

2009-05-18T12:57:00.007-04:00

This photo was taken in the summer of 1977 just prior to starting my senior year in high school. In September 1977 (I had just turned 17 in August) I quit high school and joined the United States Marine Corps. You could actually do that in those days but you had to score higher on the entrance tests than a graduate. I arrived at Parris Island, S.C. on December 6, 1977 for what was the most interesting and difficult experience of my young life. The second photo was taken in February 1978 just prior to graduation from USMC boot camp at Parris Island. Needless to say the barbers had fun with me. In about a minute all the hair was on the floor to be swept up with all the others like the dregs of childhood.

I’m not sure why I took such a radical step. I was skipping school, drinking heavily (we were often in the ABC store parking lot waiting for them to open) and smoking all the marijuana I could inhale. I was very much a social outcast in high school and had very few friends. School was boring. I could do the work without much effort but had no interest in being seen as someone who actually cared about their grades. Life was beginning to spiral out of control.

I wanted a real challenge, wanted to prove myself, wanted to be a man. My decision shocked everyone and almost everyone said I could never do it. Once my mother recovered from her initial shock she was very supportive and kept her fears under control. Most everyone saw me as a very shy, introverted loner (which I was) with no real potential (there they were wrong).

The train and bus journey from Waynesboro, Virginia to Parris Island ended at about 3:00 a.m. A Drill Instructor stormed onto the bus and thus began a journey that in many ways will end only with my death. It was the beginning of my voyage of discovery, the initiation into manhood, the making of a warrior. It is a journey with many twists and turns and a very sad ending. More later.

The Blessing Of Friendship

2009-05-14T23:36:00.003-04:00

This morning I traveled about five miles up the road to visit a friend (that's him in the photo) I haven’t seen since the first of the year. We worked together at the sheriff’s office and were two of the twenty-eight fired by the new chief law enforcement officer. I was there for a mere ten years; he was there for thirty-five years and served under three different sheriffs.

We sat and talked for several hours about old times and about what’s going on at the office now. We both realized that in many ways being fired was a tremendous blessing. He was the Chief Deputy and I was the Public Information Officer. We were both on call 24/7 and most days the job dominated our lives. Not being tethered to a pager and a cell phone all the time gave us the opportunity to catch our breath, to enjoy life at a much slower pace.

When we moved into this house three years ago he was one of the men who showed up with truck and trailer and made what could have been a hellish day almost pleasant. After we got settled he also came over several weekends and helped me renovate our guest bathroom. Part of his job as Chief Deputy was being the heavy. He meted out the discipline and could be a terror when the situation called for it. He was a very astute, pragmatic, survivor and a little rough around the edges at times. But it was his job and he did it to the best of his ability. Out in the community he had a reputation as a hard nosed, almost Machiavellian character.

He and I never locked horns. We had our disagreements and there were times when we didn’t stay in the same room together for very long, but it was always work, never personal. As I sat there talking to him I realized how much I enjoyed his company. He is a few years older but he’s also a country boy and on many levels we seem to understand each other. I also realized how wrong most people’s perception of him is/was. He was/is no saint by any means but he is a husband, father and grandfather committed to his family. He knows most everyone in the county and has helped a great many of them over the years. When I worked as a newspaper reporter prior to join the sheriff’s office I was aware of his reputation as a ball-buster (pardon the term), as an almost mythic figure with legendary fits of rage. Time and time to reflect have mellowed him. Well maybe not mellowed, but allowed the real Charlie to come out.

We were talking about photography and how I liked photographing old buildings in the county. He knew of an old church close by that I had never seen so we drove out in his truck and took some pictures. We enjoyed it so much we’ll do it again next week. And he didn’t say anything about the beard. What a friend.

A Bittersweet Birthday

2009-05-11T22:18:00.002-04:00

Saturday was a most bittersweet day. We were celebrating my niece’s seventh birthday at a private pool in one of the local subdivisions when a horrible accident occurred. It was all family except for a classmate of the birthday girl who was there with his mom and his younger brother and sister. My sister-in-law was going to grill hotdogs so she fired up a small grill that sat on the concrete well away from the pool.

The younger brother (probably no more than a year old), of the classmate was wandering (and wondering?), around playing in the sun. Suddenly he started screaming. He found the hot grill. There were six adults present and five children all told. For just a second he slipped below everyone’s radar and went straight for the thing that would hurt him the most.

His mother took him to the local emergency room and we later learned he was carried by air ambulance to the regional burn hospital in Augusta, GA. He suffered second degree burns on both hands. Surgery was performed Sunday morning. The surgeons used artificial skin to cover the wounds and reported that the damage to his hands was not as bad as originally believed. It’s not much consolation but fortunately the boy is so young his body will do miraculous things in healing him. He will most likely never remember the event and additional surgeries will help with the scarring.

My sister-in-law is wracked by guilt believing that the accident is her fault. I’m sure the mother is feeling much the same. The mother called my sister in law and told her not to worry that it was not her fault and there are no hard feelings. It was a most noble gesture on her part to resist the temptation to place blame, to lash out in anger.

Please pray for everyone involved in this terrible situation. My sister-in-law is already facing a number of major life issues. Because of some on-going health issues she is facing the prospect of permanent disability and can no longer work. This is the last thing she needed to worry about. Her name is Carrie and her daughter (the birthday girl) is Catherine. Please raise them up in prayer as you also pray for the boy and his family.

Happy Birthday To The Artist

2009-05-08T11:07:00.005-04:00

This photo was taken when Sophia was about 5 or 6.

Our youngest daughter Sophie celebrated her tenth birthday yesterday. She is very much an artist and took these photos on the way home from school yesterday. I will post some of her other photos at The Bosom Serpent.

Sophie is a wonderful child who enjoys playing her Nintendo DS, her Wii, dancing, reading Archie comics, her 40+ Webkinz, being goofy and taking her best friend Bunny everywhere. Sophie, is loving, tender hearted and a joy to be around. The Lord has blessed us with such a treasure.

It is very hard to believe that next year she will be a fifth grader. She is growing tall and slender with blue eyes, fair skin, freckles and increasingly thick blonde hair. Sophie is very proud to be into double digits but insists that she is still very much a kid. We agree and hope she stays that way for a very long time.

Strange Reflections

2009-05-06T00:05:00.003-04:00

These photos of the reflection of clouds in the Satilla River were taken this afternoon. They have been cropped and the colors tweaked as I was going for the look of Earth as seen from space with the clouds perhaps as continents, sort of like Google Earth. I am always looking for ways to bridge the gap between the written and visual arts so I superimposed some text on the photos. Click on them to enlarge them and you will be able to see the text. I am very interested in what you think. Is this interesting? Does it enhance or detract from the photos?

I just realized that the bottom photo does look look a map with name places on it until it is enlarged to see what the text really says. Very interesting.

The Lonesome Drifter

2009-05-02T23:11:00.007-04:00

This is a pretty hokey video but it is as least an accurate original recording of one of the most influential and covered songs in all of Country music. I was at the Woodbine Opry earlier this evening when the band played this song. This crowd broke out in spontaneous applause and three couples started dancing. Despite the fact that it was played in Woodbine, Georgia in a refurbished school house by an all volunteer band the power of the song reached out across the sixty years and gave me chills.

I love Hank. Hank Jr. is OK and Hank III is doing well but the shoes they have to fill are just too big. No one could channel pain and loneliness like the Lonesome Drifter and on this song you can feel the despair, the pain. Like most great art is it deceptively simple and unadorned but very powerful. This is the best Country music has to offer.

Most of what passes for country music today is simply over-produced pop music. It has no heart, no soul. Break out the Hank, the Ernest Tubb, the Jimmie Rogers, The Carter Family, the Stonewall Jackson to hear good Country music.

There are many new photos at The Bosom Serpent.

Beard Discrimination

2009-04-29T12:01:00.006-04:00

This sign sits in Tarboro, a small community just north and west of where I live. Am I the only one who sees humor here? This is the kind of support some troops might really appreciate.

This is gonna hurt but I have to write about a painful experience (other than the $158 for groceries) at Wal-Mart the other day. As I was walking out I stopped to look at the red box video dispenser to see if any movies looked appealing when the girl greeter/cop came up behind me and asked to see my receipt. I’ve got about a dozen bags of groceries, no large screen TV’s, no cases of beer, no firearms or fishing poles, no Bulldawg paraphernalia, just groceries. She actually perused the receipt long enough to verify that I had indeed bought Eight O’Clock coffee, Horizon organic milk and (I am shamed to admit it) Oreo’s.

I stood there wondering what was going on, this had never happened before. Then I saw the look in her eye. It was the beard. I was being follicley profiled! Can a hirsute man not go to the store without suffering this injustice? I was never stopped when wearing a moustache, even a shaggy one. Rise up my bearded brothers (and even a few sisters truth be told) and demand to be treated the same as all the other men afraid to let it all hang out, the same as those pour souls still enslaved by Gillette. Clean cut and respectable do not have to be joined at the proverbial hip. What’s next? Mandatory little white beard booties? Beard burning? Beards to the back of the bus?

I definitely get very different looks with my fine beard, especially from the womens. Unfortunately it’s either, “That poor man.” Or more commonly, “His poor wife.” I can handle the looks of pity and disdain but to actually be stopped on suspicion of stealing deliciously addictive cookies is just too close a trim. The hairy man in me says I should call Arkansas and protest of this injustice, and then go berate the store manager.

Or maybe I should just shave.

At least the folks at church understand.

First Tentative Steps

2009-04-26T22:17:00.006-04:00

Well the Crawfish Festival is finally over. It was a long day starting at 4:00 a.m. and ending at about 6:30 p.m. My wife and daughters and two of my daughter's friends helped a great deal to ease the burden.

Many people stopped by to browse and many had positive comments about the photos on display. I displayed a little of everything from abstract to landscape just to see what the reaction would be. I was surprised when most people responded to the more abstract works, especially the black and white. It’s what I tend to be drawn to as well, but I thought popular taste would run differently.

I sold four photos and recouped the fee to set up a booth at the festival. No profit was made but I actually sold my art. I have seen my photos in the local newspapers many times of fires, wrecks etc. which I took with the access afforded by my last job. This felt very different. This was more satisfying knowing the photos will hang in someone’s home.

This photo got the greatest response. I printed it as an 11x14 to get a better sense of scale. People seemed to sense it was saying something about the Church standing unconquered.

The first customers (a married couple) purchased these two. These are two of my favorites.

The second customer purchased these two. I guess she likes sunsets.

Next weekend it’s on the even bigger Shrimp Festival just south of here in Fernandina Beach, Florida. Thank all of you for your prayers. I am feeling better and am hopefully on the mend.

A Little House Whine

2009-04-21T00:36:00.003-04:00

It has been a while since I have written anything of substance here (I apologize for all the photo filler) so I’ll try to catch up on life as I know it. The last days I have felt untethered, uneasy, bleak. I was too ill to attend the Pascha service Saturday night and that really compounded the problem. This does not feel like Bright Week.

I have really been feeling poorly. Very little sleep, nausea, abdominal pain, headaches, cold sweats. I threw up on the way home from dropping my daughter off at school this morning. I went to the hospital for blood tests but it is not my pancreas flaring up so we have no idea what the problem is now. The fast is over but I have no appetite.

I will be manning a booth at the annual Crawfish Festival this weekend (if I feel up to it) putting my photos on display for perusal and for sale. I can take a decent photograph but on the technical side I am not very knowledgeable. I am much more comfortable with writing. I have done a lot of it, I know what I am doing and I can speak about it intelligently. Writing takes times. It forces me to think, to know what I mean and how I feel. It is my first love, my sanctuary. I see myself as a writer and not yet as a photographer.

I am trying to deepen my knowledge of photography but there is so much to learn. I have found a mentor and that helps a great deal but I am still flying blind. I also don’t like having to man a booth like this. It is my nature to be shy and keep to myself. This venue forces me and my attempts at art to be on display all day. Thousands of people will be there and I will be nervous the whole day. Even if I sell every photo we will still not break even on the cost of prints, frames, etc. I feel guilty taking money for this out of our already depleted coffers.

I would love for my wife to be able to stay home and not work. It would make her very happy. But she is the primary breadwinner and even if I found full time work she would still have to work. I am drawing unemployment and it helps but many of the bills are behind or stay unpaid. One of my dreams is coming true (trying my hand at making a living as an artist) at the price of crushing hers. We have prayed over this for years and change has not come.

Because of my job situation we are looking at some other options for our daughter who will be a fifth grader next year. She is in her third year at a private Montessori school. This is a very important issue for us and it greatly increases the stress load.

But having said all that life is good. The Lord continues to bless us, we have a wonderful family and a good home. My mother is doing much better and is finally back home. Please pardon my candor and my whining. As always I covet your prayers.

There are a few new photos at The Bosom Serpent.

Birthday, Anniversary, Time Alone

2009-04-13T23:40:00.005-04:00

We recently celebrated my wife's birthday and our 13th wedding anniversary. She is the love of my life, my best friend and a tremendous blessing.

Over the weekend we experienced the most rare of events for most parents, we had several days to ourselves. It is Dawn’s spring break week and with the oldest daughter off at college and the youngest daughter at Disneyworld for a few day with family friends we have time for us with no schedule, no deadlines. We slept late and then took naps. Glorious, glorious uninterrupted sleep. Sunday afternoon we took a long drive north from where we live up into Glynn County and McIntosh County.

Our first stop was at Hofwyl/Broadfield Plantation just north of Brunswick. This property stayed in the family’s possession for five generations from the early 1800s until the 1970s. It was originally a rice plantation and later a dairy farm. Hofwyl is not one of the huge mansions with the driveway lined with live oaks and immaculate gardens. It is a very nice but functional, pragmatic working farm/home. When the last family member passed away the property was turned over to The Nature Conservancy then to the State of Georgia. The house remains exactly as it was left. No renovations, no construction/deconstruction. It is a window into the past. Standing there we saw just what the family would have seen when the home was still occupied.

This tree on the plantation property is more than 800 years old. It was already an old timer when William Shakespeare walked the earth. Dawn standing at the foot of the tree gives some sense of just how massive the tree truly is.

This is the ice house. Notice the thickness of the doors.

Our second stop on Highway 17 was in McIntosh County at what is supposed to be the smallest church in the country. It is indeed small and is very popular. The logbook was full of names of folks who had been there earlier the same day and the day before. It has a very quiet, comforting atmosphere. Visitors leave pictures and mementos of loved ones asking for prayer.

The church on Cumberland Island where John F. Kennedy Jr. was married is not much bigger than this. I don't know the story behind this church or why it is so small but it is clearly a very special spot for a lot of people and God is here to be found..

Met. Jonah - Church Unity In North America

2009-04-07T23:11:00.004-04:00

Pan - Orthodox Sermon by His Beatitude Metropolitan Jonah @ Yahoo! Video

Okefenokee & Virginia

2009-04-07T01:46:00.004-04:00

Here are a few of the photos I am working on and considering putting on display for sale at the annual Crawfish Festival here on the last weekend of the month. This is only my second time doing this and there will be thousands of people there sampling the good food, the music and checking out the great variety of items on display and for sale.

I realize this has turned into a photo blog recently but soom I'll be back to posting what I am writing. Please bear with me. And there are more new photos posted at The Bosom Serpent.

The Artist As An Old Man

2009-04-02T09:55:00.003-04:00

My daughter Bethany took this photo of me on the afternoon of my (our) first public photo display recently. I told her I think it is a wonderful portrait. She seems to have the photo bug too and a very good eye for what makes a good photograph.

Blue Ridge Mountain Beauty

2009-03-31T12:11:00.006-04:00

Here are a few photos I took on the Blue Ridge Parkway while in Virginia. The above photo was taken just south of Love Gap.

Taken in almost the exact same location south of Love Gap.

This is a Mennonite Church in Sherando, Va. Photo taken looking west towards West Virginia.

This photo taken on a back access road to the Parkway. You just hope you don't meet anyone coming down as there are very few places to turn around and some very steep drop offs. To give credit where it is due friend and mentor Robin Childers helped me with drawing out the beauty in these otherwise dull digital images. She is a very talented photographer in Fernandina Beach, Fla. I will be posting more photos from the trip on my other blog.

Thank You

2009-03-29T20:22:00.002-04:00

Thank all of you for your prayers. My mother was released from the hospital Friday and went to a rehab facility to build up her strength before going home.

It was very bothersome seeing this 69-year-old generally very sturdy woman so frail. Given the life she's had I am very surprised she's still with us. She wanted to go directly home from the hospital but between me and my two siblings, the doctor and the social worker we convinced her that going straight home would be a serious mistake. I reminded her that being home alone and unattended was what got her in the hospital in the first place. She had been home for several days in bed and her kidneys had nearly failed. The treatment for that flooded her lungs with liquid so that had to be resolved. Also, she has some serious issues from radiation treatment for uterine cancer when she lived in the wilds of Montana.

But thank you and Praise The Lord she is still with us.

Please Pray

2009-03-23T09:23:00.003-04:00

Dear Friends,

I am on my way to Virginia to see my mother who is very, very ill and may not live out the week. Her name is Carol Phillips and please lift her up in your prayers. Please also pray for my family here in Georgia where things are very stressful for my wife and daughters. I will post again as soon as the opportunity presents itself.

Thank you all very much for your support and prayers.

William Terrell

The Evil Inside

2009-03-04T12:07:00.008-05:00

Let me start by saying that the previous post, This Means War, was ill thought out and inappropriate. Posting the contents of this nightmare, that could have only have come from an evil place, was an act of pride. Instead of remembering that I am the chief of sinners it actually crossed my mind during the writing that I must really be "good" if Satan is coming after me this hard.

Using the dream for blogger fodder served no good purpose except as a lesson in how to handle matters of this sort in the future. I should have drawn no attention to it (or myself), prayed for protection/mercy and taken the matter to my spiritual Father. Forgive me for bringing this evil before you and for using the dream to draw attention to myself. Thank you all for your comments and for continuing to visit despite my shortcomings.

This Means War

2009-02-23T22:34:00.007-05:00

I had a very frightening experience Saturday night. I was up late thinking about Lent and reading about Sunday of the Last Judgment. My wife has been ill and on some nights I sleep in my oldest daughter’s bed (she is away at college) so she can be more comfortable (I tend to thrash around a lot). At about 1:00 a.m. Sunday morning I went to bed and dozed off.

Suddenly the blankets caught fire, a blinding conflagration quickly consuming the bed with me in it. I could feel the deadly heat, smell the burning cloth. I jolted awake, extremely glad it was nothing more than a bad dream. After a few moments I eased back into a troubled sleep.

Then suddenly there were three heavy claw hammers on the blanket holding me down. It was clear these were hammers of destruction and would be used on me (I have seen what a claw hammer will do to a skull and it is extraordinarily gruesome). Again I jolted awake and was profoundly glad to be back in this/our world. I crossed myself several times and asked our Lord to protect me and give me undisturbed sleep.

Again I dozed. Then knives, a frenzy of blades of all sizes jabbing at me, slashing into the bed, the blankets and me. Finally I surfaced out of the nightmare gasping for breath, really glad for the comfort of the known. Again prayers then sleep. Again a nightmare followed by a brief time awake. On and on until there was no asleep or awake, just pure terror.

A deep dread set in. I was aware enough to know that this had to stop or I would be in a very bad situation. I tried to get up but some force, some presence held me down. It was like being in the grasp of an immensely heavy and talented wrestler. Every move I made was countered. I struggled forever just to get my hand to the edge of the bed. My heart was pounding from claustrophobia but the fight just would not end. I was trapped. Finally I screamed three times for my wife to come help me. This seemed to cause the grip to ease up just enough for me to finally get up. I ripped every blanket off the bed and ran to find my wife (she never heard any scream). The struggle had gone on for 90 minutes.

I am a former U.S. Marine, and a former deputy sheriff. I have had about five years of martial arts training. I am about 6’3” and 240 lbs, a big gnarly guy not easily spooked. I was terrified. I know this sounds crazy but I have never been more aware on a visceral level of the evil in our world.

I have some idea about what may have led to all this but I’ll wait until after talking with Fr. Ted before going into any of that.

My Unbelief

2009-02-18T15:40:00.004-05:00

Forgive my unbelief. I know that the reasons for believing or disbelieving in God are almost as varied as all those who pose the question. This is not meant to be an exhaustive discussion of the most important of all possible questions. Below are just a few of the myriad ways I see and feel the presence of the Eternal and His energy in my life.

As an example. I was doing laundry earlier this week and folded a big pile of towels and left them on the bed. My wife at the end of the day when she is tired will set the towels aside and they’ll be put away later. Well I found myself deliberately leaving them there (I could just as easily have put them away) for her to move so I could have one more grudge to hold against her. This flash of insight floored me. Am I really that kind of guy? That kind of husband? Was my old traveling companion Mr. Passive Aggression back in town? I was ashamed of myself for setting up my beloved wife this way.

What was the spark of my insight? Certainly knowing myself better as the years go by may partially explain it. But it was in reality the energy of our Father there shoring up my feeble attempts to love in all things, to lift another’s burden, to show the love He shows to me. It is through these moments when despite my fallen nature I step up and do the right thing that I know God exists. My desire says, Me! Me! Me! Our Lord says, Others. Others. Others.

When I am on the throne in my life my belief waxes and wanes. I find myself full of questions that I’ve pondered innumerable times before. How could there really be creature that created this unbelievably large universe? How could any creature guide the lives and destiny of billions of people? How can an omnipotent God hear the dogs of war, the scream of murder, the slap of abuse and not rise up in righteous indignation? Why? How? I want answers. Again it’s me, me, me. I’m just looking for ways to wiggle out of walking by faith, by seeing God where I know He will be found.

And on a deeper level it is sometimes the deep sadness of the existential dilemma, the fear of the void. There is no hope of reward. Death is death. Then I remember that if anything this life is a type of death with the true, full life to come later. The impetus to keep walking, that small silent assurance that all is well is my Lord saying be patient.

When I want to listen to some creepy, old, loud, Black Sabbath and I remember what goes in affects and flavors who I am that I see the change, the indirect proof that our Lord is there quietly prompting me to behave. The urge to self indulgence is muted, the prompting is there to get back to the journey, the quiet walk toward salvation.

Lord forgive me even sometimes during the divine liturgy when my back is hurting I find myself wondering why it takes sooooooooooooooo long? But then I feel/know we are ascending into the heavenly places, we are joining the unending praise resounding through time and eternity and I am undone. Lord, I believe. Forgive my unbelief.

Midnight Musings

2009-02-17T01:09:00.003-05:00

It is a quiet evening. I am in the study having just returned from taking the oldest daughter back to college. Wifey and youngest daughter are safe, warm and sleeping. The lethargy/depression of the past few weeks seems to finally be lifting. I actually slept last night. Just a few nights ago I was up at 3:45 a.m. wide awake.

Today I was in the yard with my daughter painting one of my old sculptures and constructing a new one in the front yard. I wonder what the neighbor will think of that. I've been watching the Ovation channel on TV and they have some very interesting shows about artists (thankfully) outside the mainstream “ART” world who do some of the same type stuff I’ve done over the years. I’ve made mobiles and sculptures out of coat hangers and other assorted wire, I’ve made sculptures out of post-it notes and cardboard, I’ve painted several decent painting (my wife loathes one of them and it is doomed to living behind the door), I have made a piece that tries the bridge the gap between painting and story telling, I’ve taken lots of photos and I’ve done a little writing. I guess seeing these other artists and how they are treated with respect shone a little light into my dim brain. Forgive me if it sounds like I’m boasting. I’ve always felt a need to create and it just manifests itself in many ways.

Too late to write more but next up will be, Lord I believe. Forgive my unbelief.

Unemployment Benefit

2009-02-15T02:04:00.001-05:00

I discovered one benefit of being unemployed. Last week I was very blessed to attend the divine liturgy at my parish presided (I’m not sure that is the right term) over by His Beatitude, Metropolitan Jonah and His Eminence, Archbishop Dmitri. They were both in Jacksonville for the Diocese of the South’s Annual Pastoral Conference. There are some wonderful photos from the conference Here.

I attended an ordination presided over by His Eminence a few years ago when I was just learning about Orthodoxy, but I did not fully understand and I could not take communion. This was a wonderful, memorable experience of a higher order. Both men demonstrated their great love and warm sense of humor and the respect they hold for each other. Being there was the best possible place I could have been in all the world that morning. At the risk of sounding hyperbolic I felt as if I was at the axis mundi. When we are led by such fine, humble, wise, practical, men we are in the best possible hands. The Lord has answered many prayers and we in the OCA and in the Diocese of the South are very blessed.

A Shameless Plug

2009-01-15T23:03:00.000-05:00

There is a new posting at The Bosom Serpent.

The Blessing Of The Waters

2009-01-11T21:35:00.009-05:00

The Only Constant Is Change

2009-01-06T21:56:00.009-05:00

Happy New Year. Thank you all for your prayers and words of support. We are all well and looking forward for what our Lord has in store next. We are in the process of trimming the budget and cutting costs wherever possible. Just today we turned in the license plate from our X-Terra and parked it for the foreseeable future.

I am still a certified peace officer in the State of Georgia with full arrest powers but I am no longer at the agency where I worked for the past 10 years. The new sheriff decided he wanted to clean house so he fired 28 of us. Well, technically he declined to renew our commissions at the start of his administration. His actions are perfectly legal in Georgia where the office of Sheriff is at-will meaning you work at the will of the sheriff and if he says you’re fired then you are fired with no avenue of appeal. The process worked as designed and the new sheriff is not burdened with the old sheriff’s staff.

I wish the new sheriff well. His brother and I were very good friends for five or six years. I suspect he’ll be in for a few rude awakenings along the way as the political backstabbing begins a new season.

I’ll now have time for a lot more writing instead of trying to hack something out at the end of a long day. The book will be my main concern but I’ll consolidate the recent stuff and see if any of it is worthy of seeking publication.

The photo above was taken in our backyard a few nights ago. My daughter had a friend over for a sleepover and we made smores and tried to pretend it wasn't 70 degrees. Like my lovely wife says……If you have a fire pit in your backyard…….You might be a redneck.

Stay Tuned

2008-12-17T22:08:00.003-05:00

Thank you all for your prayers. The emotional jolt is subsiding. There have been some frayed nerves at work as we try to adapt to the changes thrust upon us but the path into the future is slowly revealing itself. Stay tuned.

Fired

2008-12-12T09:02:00.004-05:00

Along with 26 of my coworkers I received notice this morning that our term of employment will end January 4, 2009. I ask that you pray for my family as we go through what is sure to be a somber Christmas.

I have worked here as the public information officer for ten years. This is a bitter pill.

Your Prayers

2008-12-09T09:24:00.002-05:00

I just received notification that come Friday 26 employees where I work will not have a job afterJanuary 4, 2009. The Sheriff I worked for for 10 years lost in the primary election in July. Under Georgia law we are all at-will employees who the sheriff can fire at his discretion. So I ask you to pray for my family during this very stressful time.

Like A Wayward Buzzard

2008-12-02T00:13:00.014-05:00

The sputtering headlights sliced the curtain of night making visible the bugs and dust caught blowing in the midsummer Texas evening. The poor pilgrims are bound for a weather-beaten cinderblock church perched like a wayward buzzard in one corner of a nondescript intersection in the darkness just west of town. The Baptists were not the first to lay claim to the building’s shelter from the roiling storms that ravaged the southern plains. It was built as a mortuary but death is a fickle business. Inside the unadorned sanctuary members mingled, milling around while waiting for the ringmaster. The Middle Child sat nearly invisible on the always empty front row waiting for the show.
****
Just three days earlier at their rented ramshackle house the children called upon their Lord Jesus to save them because they could not save themselves. Against the Preacher’s relentless emotional juggernaut they had no defense and had their souls saved whether they needed it or not. The Middle Child sat helpless, caught in a vortex where all futures hinged on his response so he mouthed the words, repeated the incantation, the invocation of the Spirit. A deep sense of gloom and despair hung in the darkening bedroom. The Middle Child felt the change. He felt a flutter in himself like an old bird rising from the roost. A longing, a small hope stirred and he was wary.
****
The show was Brother Jimmy Earl Bowie, a long, greasy, beanpole of a man with flaky, collar length black-from-a-bottle hair slicked straight back from a sharp widow's peak. He was an animated man manufacturing/conjuring attention with his every deliberate (and well rehearsed) gesture. Brother Jimmy Earl believed the congregation came expecting a show and who was he to restrain the Spirit? Hanging loose on his bony frame was a blue polyester suit with wide white stripes with a matching handkerchief, a once-white shirt and a pencil thin black tie. The handkerchief stayed in his left hand to wipe his holy brow. Following the service he would pray over it and offer it up for a small love offering. Brother Jimmy Earl wore a silver pinky ring on each hand because he thought it looked refined and helped to camouflage his eastern Kentucky white trash roots.

Becoming a man of God was one of the few avenues of power and authority available to a man of Brother Jimmy's education and breeding. But deep down he knew Baptist’s would ordain a potato. Still, he was a man on a mission. He prayed in Old English with a roaring torrent of thee's, thou's and thy's pouring out in a deep sonorous voice. He was Southern to the core but lacked the certainty of conviction. Eloquent? Every time. Honest? Hopefully. Sincere? Sometimes. He stepped into the cockpit, his eyes downcast with a pregnant pause hanging in the air waiting to be delivered.

"Our message tonight is taken from the sixth chapter of Paul's epistle to the Ephesians, verses ten through twenty. I just love the sound of them angel wings. I don't need to tell you that we live in a wicked world that ceaselessly assails us with its utter vileness. To combat this evil assault we will examine how the apostle Paul tells us to put on the whole armor of Christ. May we all rise for the reading of God's Word."

The words came like a calming flood filling the room with their mesmerizing, all-encompassing, unquenchable potency. He chanted the ancient words:

Finally my brethren be strong in the Lord, and in the power of his might. Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the Devil. For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. Therefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand. Stand therefore, having your loins girt about with truth, and having on the breastplate of righteousness; And your feet shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace; Above all, taking the shield of faith, where ye shall be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked. And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the spirit, which is the word of God: Praying always with all prayer and supplication in the Spirit . . .

"Do you beleeva?" He slowly pulled the words from deep in his gullet. "Do you believe God is walking and talking amongst us tonight? If we are prepared we can stand fast resting assured in the unshakable promise of His word when old Lucifer comes roaring as a lion seeking whom he may devour. Hallelujah! We must take an active part, we must be willing to wear the armor. Don't let wily Lucifer catch you off guard, just let him bounce off of your heavenly protection.”

“And notice with me if you will that we have an offensive weapon. Verse 17 says, "And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God." Just what is this sword of the spirit? How do we skewer Lucifer? With our beloved Bible, with God's holy infallible, inexhaustible word. But we are not like warriors of old, how do we wield this sword? By knowing God's word inside and out. Only with fervent prayer, daily meditating on the Word and the incessant seeking of God's will can we wield this sword of power. And you must petition the Lord with prayer. Yes you must petition the Lord with prayer.”

“Do not be caught unaware. Do not be mistaken. Do not be deceived. Do not let down your guard. Do not doubt for even one second that we face a mighty and a cunning foe. Satan is a slanderer, he is Lucifer, son of the morning, he is Beelzebub, the Lord of the Flies. He is the evil one, the tempter, he is the prince of this world and the god of this age. He is the serpent, the dragon and the false angel of light. But praise Him we have Jesus on our side and He is the dragon slayer.”

"We do not fight alone. The Apostle John says that we have an Advocate with the Father. We have no need to fear for Christ is the Lamb of God and the Lion of the tribe of Judah. He is the King of Kings and the Lord of lords. He is the Prince of Peace and the Prince of Life. He is the Son of God, the Son of David and the Son of man. He is the Chief Cornerstone and He is the skandalon, the rock that offends. He is the Way and the Truth and the Life. He is the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End. He always has been and He always will be. He is the Wonderful Counselor and the author and perfecter of our faith. He is the Dayspring, the Sun of Righteousness and He is the Morning Star. He is the Great Shepherd and he is the Bishop of Souls. He is the Light of the World, the head of the church and he is the Lo-o-ord Jesus Christ. Amen!”

“He is the Word of Life, he is the Logos. John says, In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God. That means He is indivisible from God. God is a triune God. He is all at once the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Jesus is fully God. He is Jehovah, He is the great I AM. He is El Elyon, the Most High, He is El Roi, the Strong One who sees, He is El Shaddai, Almighty God, and He is El Olam, Everlasting God. He is Jehovah Jireh, the Lord will provide, He is Jehovah Nissi, the Lord my banner, He is Jehovah Shalom, the Lord is peace, He is Jehovah Sabbaoth, the Lord of hosts, He is Jehovah Raah, the Lord is my shepherd, He is Jehovah El Gmolah, the Lord God or recompense, and He is Jehovah Nakeh, the Lord that smiteth. Glory be to God!" His voice rose to a sharp crescendo as he pranced. His thin chanticleer body refused to stand still as he strutted across the small stage. When he again began his voice was hushed and serious.

"Who will you choose? God says you are either for Him or against Him, lukewarm you cannot be. Will you wear the armor and do battle against Lucifer or will you join his army and speed your way to eternal damnation? Are you willing to stand up for what is right or will you be a spectator and sit idly by while our world slowly sinks into a quagmire of evil? Our Lord says we should enter by the narrow gate because the gate is wide and the way is broad that leads to destruction and many are those who enter by it. The gate is small and the way is narrow that leads to life and few are those who find it. Are you strong enough to stay on the straight and narrow? Those of you out there who think that you are too smart to believe in our God and his infallible word do not be fooled. The Bible says that the ways and the wisdom of God are foolishness to men. Throw off the blinders of sin and condemnation and look upon the manifest truth of God in the person of Christ."

The sermonic tirade continued punctuated by a steady beat of "amen" and "preach it brother." Eventually Brother Jimmy got around to dispensing the Lord's Supper. He was careful, as he always was, to warn his people not to eat of the flesh or drink of the blood with unrepentant sin in their lives or they would, as the Bible promised, face condemnation. The Middle Child sat spellbound. He sat the small clear plastic cup of grape juice on the edge of the pew until the deacons finished. He turned to look and when he faced forward he spilled the purple juice on Brother Jimmy Earl’s new red carpet. Only a momentary pause, a scathing glance, revealed the preacher's discomfort. The service continued unabated but less animated before finally ending with the inescapable and inevitable invitation. It dragged on through two complete renditions of "Just As I Am" before Brother Jimmy lifted his bowed head and nodded to the choir director. He wished everyone a good night and hoped that he would see them all Wednesday night for the prayer meeting, bible study and choir practice. Finally he descended.

The workman of the Lord had no control over his rage. With eyes flashing and a flushed face Brother Jimmy Earl exploded in a vehement whisper that by its very nature attracted attention.
"Why can't you be more careful boy? Do you know how much this carpet cost? What were you thinking? That was the clumsiest thing I have ever seen. This stain will never come out. My church needs to be clean and presentable, not stained and scarred. This is my house, my God's house and it is not a place for poor, dirty, ungrateful children who cannot sit still."

As the dressing down continued the church grew quiet but for the whirling wind's whine. The Middle Child stood helpless, nailed in place. He had no excuse and suddenly, clearly, saw that he needed none. He turned his back to this man of God, this pastor, this supposed shepherd of the flock. As he did the crowd cleared the Middle Child a narrow crooked path to the door. Alone the boy stepped out over the threshold into the cool wilderness of the darkened east. Behind him the dark wine spread into a small crimson bird caught, trapped in flight on the blood red carpet.

Pilgrims On The Move

2008-11-26T12:23:00.005-05:00

It is time for our annual pilgrimage. From the small towns to the towering cities we make our pilgrimage home or to some other table where we are loved and accepted. Families will drive hundreds of miles or even brave the horrors of flying to spend time breaking bread and sharing a meal together. Sitting at table together in an important ritual in every culture because it strengthens our relationships.

It can be a day of mixed feelings. We may dread the travel and the friction it brings. We may even dread being in the same room with family and friends from whom we are estranged. Or we may love being in the same room with family and friends from whom we are estranged.

From a large table covered with culinary masterpieces to a smaller table set with more plain fare we gather together to give thanks for our Lord’s bounty and to celebrate the ties that hold us together. This family table can become the table of our reconciliation with one another.

Our Lord taught his most important lesson while reclining at a meal with the twelve apostles. At the last supper He said eat for this is My body and drink for this is My blood. It is the table of our reconciliation with our Lord.

Thanksgiving is the manifestation of the eternal truth that our love/our family/our faith matters most of all.

Mother Of Despair

2008-11-25T00:22:00.022-05:00

Oh, Mother of despair

A mind unquiet

A mind dis-eased

Desperate in loneliness beyond measure.

Stumbling, fumbling

Tripping through life’s darkness

Her lantern of deliverance long since lost

Her guide, her companion cruelly cut off.

Crying from the other side

Too soon, too soon.

A refugee in the land of the dead

Give voice to the defilement

Cry out!

Too cruel, too cruel.

The wait too long

The weight too great

To bear.

A prose companion to this piece is at The Bosom Serpent

A Conscience Pricked

2008-11-18T00:29:00.005-05:00

Yesterday morning I very unexpectedly had my conscience pricked. It was an epiphany, a flash of insight that I suspect will forever alter how I see the world. Perhaps it’s appropriate that this would happen on the third day of the fast as I am trying to focus on prayer.

On this very blog just after election day I posted a short essay, Tears Of Joy, stating how much I supported Obama for president and how joyful I was that we would finally have an alternative to Pres. Bush. I understand now that instead of joy they should have been tears of anguish, tears of sorrow.

Within a few days of posting this essay I also posted a story about the horrors of child abuse. I said I was trying to shed light on this particular instance, that it was evil and needed to be dragged out into the light. Then this morning an Orthodox priest with whom I correspond told me that while the essay was well written he, of course, did not vote for Obama because of his pro life stance, and that he believed his position mirrored that of the Church. I was stunned and realized instantly that he was right. I had not looked at the most important issues. I basically had no idea what I was talking about.

I told the priest that one of my main reasons for voting for Obama was war fatigue. This response was in earnest, and I am greatly troubled at the waste of American lives in a country we will never convert, conquer, or even really understand. It is a tribal society and far removed from our sensibilities. I am appalled at these deaths and the grievous wounds (emotional and physical) the war is leaving on our brightest and best. In my opinion, veterans deserve our highest respect and an acknowledgment of our gratitude for all they have offered and lost on our behalf.

But while focusing on these issues I was ignoring the very real war being raged all around me. I can only plead ignorance. I know/knew in an abstract way that abortion is the American holocaust. That viable beings are killed every single day, and yet the cry of the slain innocents never made it past my ears. How can I hold up a pro-abortion president-elect one day and rail against child abuse the next? I am a hypocrite, I am the chief of sinners, and I am undone. Thankfully our Lord is always at work. I am embarrassed and ashamed by my own hypocrisy.

I wrote a paper about abortion in a college philosophy class. I argued that abortion up until the fetus became a sentient being (defined as capable of feeling pain) was acceptable but not after that point. To inflict such agony was a reprehensible, immoral act. I was looking only at the physical dimension, making a cold sterile assessment. There was no acknowledgment or even real understanding of our true nature. After the class, abortion was pushed to the back burner of my life. I saw both sides of the argument carry out heinous acts in defense of their belief.

Our Lord leaves us no middle ground.

As I thought about this and spoke with my wife I realized that many politicians/people may support abortion but not capital punishment. The opposite view is also held. Are the two mutually exclusive? How could a person support one and not the other? I have qualms about the death penalty for a number of reasons. Ironically, one of which is the possibility of killing an innocent man. Surely some innocents (especially the poor who cannot mount as vigorous a defense as persons of means) have slipped through the cracks and been executed.

I have often thought that is if the value of capital punishment is as a deterrent then execution should be public. Potential offenders could see what awaits them and our society could see itself perform what is for all intents and purposes state sanctioned and state executed murder. Instead, this public punishment is carried out for the most part in private, perhaps because we know it to be wrong. How many lives have we taken as punishment for the loss of another life through murder? Is the death penalty the state playing God, acting as the final arbiter and deciding who lives and who dies? Does this not reek of hypocrisy? Abortion and capital punishment are simple issues made needlessly complex. What does the Church tell us?

Thank you Fr. for being the catalyst of change, for opening my eyes to my blindness, for helping me to see myself as I really am. To those who read these words thank you for your patience as I fumble my way through life. I will strive to be more consistent and to conform myself to the teachings of the Church as established by our Lord. And no more politics.

Love The Little Children

2008-11-14T11:32:00.008-05:00

As Orthodox Christians we are called to follow our Lord’s example and to refrain from casting the first stone, we are enjoined to judge not. And our American criminal justice system rests upon the Constitution’s bedrock guarantee of a fair hearing and of being treated as innocent until being proven guilty. What I learned today made it very hard to leave that first stone at rest, to not cast it in anger. I suppose you could say I am casting it now.

Earlier this week we arrested a husband and wife for abusing their 23-month-old son. From all appearances and from interviews with the parents this young boy lived a life of horror, subject to severe beatings, beatings bad enough to produce the deepest and most dangerous bruises. There was deep bruising all over him, on his abdomen, his buttocks and even his scrotum.

The mother admitted to striking him with a closed fist in the past. She also admitted to throwing her son down so hard this week that the impact split his skull and caused swelling and bleeding of the brain. She also stated that she went outside to smoke a cigarette before calling 911. This incident led to the arrests. The child is in intensive care kept alive by a ventilator. The doctors want to do a full body scan to discover the full extent of his injuries but cannot because of his reliance on the ventilator. In the most bitter of ironies the mother is six months pregnant.

The father admitted to knowing that his wife was severely abusing their son and also admitted that he conspired with her to keep her actions hidden. He said he feared coming home one day to find his son dead. Under Georgia law they are equally complicit and face similar charges.

This young boy was truly a child of wrath, born into a world of pain, pain dealt out at the hands of his mother. I know that most of you who read these postings never come close to such evil. Many times these stories become a window with a view of the slaughterhouse. If these writing offend you please forgive me, but I feel compelled to tell these stories, to shed a brighter light on the evil with which we share this world. The least I can do is tell the stories, to lift up their names up in prayer.

I believe God created us to be especially sensitive to these issues, to lay down our lives for our children (as He did for us) without question or hesitation. Children are our greatest treasure, the storehouse of our memories, the mirror in which we see ourselves as we really are. There is no reality check quite like having a child mouth obscenities and to know full well you were his teacher. Children are quite literally our future. They carry with them a distinct, individual combination of genes handed down from parents and grandparents. We are all individuals but we are also all the same. Each of us is a being created in the image of our Maker and as such worthy of all the love we can create.

Our own salvation was purchased at the price of a Son. We understand this sacrifice so well because the thought of losing a child resonates deeply, at the very core of our being, the one nightmare all parents dread. Could we willingly lay down the life of a child?

Such barbarism, especially between a mother and her child raises many questions. How could a loving, omnipotent, omniscient God allow such horrors to happen? This question tripped me up for many years. Having suffered abuse and having seen the depths of depravity into which we can fall I rejected the notion of a loving, caring God. How could he not lash out in holy anger? How could he stand to hear the wailing of his children?

God does love us and Jesus is the proof. These horrors are not of God. This evil is man’s brutality to man and it wounds our Creator at least as much as it wounds us. Still, some days this answer is not enough. Some days I still doubt. On these days I fall back on prayer, on expressing my pain, my questions, on asking Him why. Eventually I always come back to the calming wisdom of Psalm 46. “Be still and know that I am God.” Lord, forgive my disbelief.

Here is a link to the story in our local newspaper.

Still, Here I Sit

2008-11-08T23:39:00.012-05:00

November, the window to winter, the shutters closing on autumn. The days diminishing with the solstice still weeks away. From trees afire in glorious hues to a bare tangle of brittle branches as deciduous trees set their leaves free into the wind, into the cold, into the gutter. Other flora and fauna shake off their glory, take in the last bit of sustenance and horde it away before falling into their long sleep. Others put on thick coats of white or brown to dull winter’s bitter bite. Yet in even the deepest recesses of the cold darkness life is never snuffed out but patiently bides its time. Sleeping mothers birthing blind babies in their dark warm dens.

Memories of November in my Shenandoah Valley home, the smell of wood smoke hovering in the frigid air, the butchering of hogs and watching football at the neighbor’s house that had a color television, a television room, a patio, hot running water and indoor plumbing. The distance between our house and theirs was less than a block and the width of a gaping abyss that could never be bridged.

The November of 1971 was both the closing act of a patricide and the beginning of a troubled time in my life, the start of a long decline, a seemingly ceaseless struggle to know why my father died. At 36. I know how, I really need to know why. I was 11. As night strikes the colors and day takes the helm, on the eve of Thanksgiving you gave up the/your ghost. Did you not love us enough to set the bottle aside? Was life so painful that even the agony of delirium tremens became the better option? Or were you sick with a disease you did not understand and from which you could not escape?

Memories. Too many and not enough. Fighting, staggering, falling, filth. An artist consumed, a craftsman crushed. Or am I dwelling on the vision of a father with control wrested from his grasp while avoiding the reality that he had choices to make. And we/I lost out. Could it be he was enough of a bastard to deliberately push us aside?

My father’s journey took him through hospitals, in and out of prison, into the hell of psychiatric wards, through years of drool and piss, living through the death of dreams and the birth of nightmares with a wife/my mother who pirouetted in the same fatal dance and enabled him into his grave. In November.

Ah November, novem, nine but eleven. All Saints Day, Election Day, Veterans Day, my father's dying day, Thanksgiving Day, my brother’s birthday and the birthday of the Marine Corps, chrysanthemums and our Chrismation.

Herman Melville, in his, “…damp drizzly November in my soul…” from the opening paragraph of Moby Dick; or The Whale (one of our great novels which should be mandatory reading) at least to my mind, captures the feeling, the smell, the loneliness, the essence of November.

Still, here I sit. Making do while I make it up, the summer of my life fading to the autumn of middle age. Avoiding the shadows, the cold corners. The mask of happiness masking the demon of despair. Waiting for the fall into the long sleep. Here I sit. Come November.

Tears Of Joy

2008-11-06T16:05:00.004-05:00

I will always remember the evening of Tuesday, November 4, 2008 as one of the proudest and most profound moments of my life. To repeat the clichés, it was history in the making. It was one of those moments like the first moon walks or the Challenger explosion that is forever etched into our collective memory. The first comparison that came to mind that evening (aside from weddings and new babies) was graduating from boot camp at Parris Island in early February 1978 as a 17-year-old high school dropout newly minted Marine. But that was a personal pride, a solo accomplishment. Tuesday night I was proud as an American, proud that enough of us could look beyond skin color and elect a man based on the content of his character (sorry I couldn’t resist), on the hope of his potential, on the faith in his abilities. As a 48-year-old grizzled and often ill-tempered old man I nevertheless wept. Such joy, such unbridled emotion.

I am neither a Democrat nor a Republican. I voted for both Reagan and Clinton. I even vote for the deceased. On the local ballot Tuesday the position of Surveyor was open but there was no candidate so I typed in Henry David Thoreau. George Washington would also have been a good choice although he’s probably a little too old school for me.

Veterans (especially combat veterans) have a special place in my heart. When I used to put on a uniform and strap on my hand cannon I would never knowingly write a veteran a traffic ticket. I would simply send him on his way with the sight of my grateful salute fading in his rearview. The men and women who defended our country and our way of life do not need me giving them grief. Who better in our society to honor? We are a peaceful society but we rely on the mettle and resolve of our warriors, the men who answer the call, the men who stand in the breach, the watchmen on the walls, the eternally vigilant.

Having said that I honor Sen. John McCain and the tremendous sacrifice he made on our behalf. He is truly an amazing man, a hero in the truest sense of the word, an example to us all of how we can maintain our dignity in even the most trying of circumstances. He would be a great president and truth be told he probably deserves it more than just about anyone. In his concession speech Sen. McCain quieted those who were booing and urged everyone to unite together behind President-elect Obama. He once again demonstrated the qualities we want in our political leaders, tenacious fighters who when faced with the inevitability of defeat bow out gracefully and support the victor.

But I did not think his would be the steadiest hand at the rudder. That feistiness, that bulldog response is not the best approach to dealing with the almost insurmountable problems now facing President-elect Obama. In my mind these issues are better resolved with a cooler head, a longer fuse. I suspect we will see that Obama is indeed a man of tremendous resolve and able to keep his head when those around him are losing theirs. A man who understands that compromise is not synonymous with weakness, a man who will be willing to trust but will also verify. For too many years now we have bullied our way around the world stage and alienated pretty much everyone in the process. We have been the ugly American. It is time to embrace the hope of a brighter future and to reclaim our heritage as the greatest nation in the world.

Two works come to mind:

The Second Coming
by
Robert Butler Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

and:

Psalm 46

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Therefore will not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea;
Though the waters thereof roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake with the swelling thereof. Selah.
There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God, the holy place of the tabernacles of the most High.
God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved: God shall help her, and that right early.
The heathen raged, the kingdoms were moved: he uttered his voice, the earth melted.
The LORD of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge. Selah.
Come, behold the works of the LORD, what desolations he hath made in the earth.
He maketh wars to cease unto the end of the earth; he breaketh the bow, and cutteth the spear in sunder; he burneth the chariot in the fire.
Be still, and know that I am God: I will be exalted among the heathen, I will be exalted in the earth.
The LORD of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge. Selah.

Love's Legacy

2008-10-28T00:06:00.003-04:00

On the way home from Cairo (pronounced kay-roe) on Saturday we (my Primitive Baptist pastor friend Chris and I) stopped to visit with Chris' relatives Tom and Joyce in Moultrie. It is a heartbreaking story. Tom’s most recent checkup initially found that he was free of disease with no cancer cells. They were on their way home after receiving the good news when the cell phone rang. It was the hospital and Tom’s doctor wanted him to return to the hospital immediately. It was very bad news. Contrary to what they initially believed the cancer was not dead. Monday morning Tom went back into the hospital to begin an even more rigorous round of chemotherapy and to determine if he would be a good candidate for a bone marrow transplant.

Tom and Joyce see the end of the road, they know how this will most likely end. But it was not the specter of death sitting quietly in the room that moved me, it was their manners, their genuine-ness and the love that filled them both. I had just met them but I was treated as family. My hyper-vigilance set off no alarm bells (which is rare indeed) so I knew I could trust them. We went to them to offer assistance and prayer but we were the ones who were comforted. In the midst of what some days must be a nightmare they were genuinely concerned about us, about making us comfortable. It was not an act, no polite show of manners, it was genuine concern. I am in awe of such courage.

The terrible irony is that the cancer radiation treatment Tom had twenty-five years ago probably planted the seeds of this cancer. Tom injured his back and somehow it seemed to trigger the malignancy laying dormant in his cells.

Many times in our culture there is great emphasis put on how we die. Was it an honorable death? And I hope that when the day comes I will face my own death without flinching. But I now realize that the real test is how we live. What legacy are we leaving behind? Did we love our enemies? Did we love and honor our spouse? Did we raise our children? Do we feed the poor and clothe the naked?

While I spent only an hour with Tom and Joyce I have rarely spent an hour better. In their own time of need they offered love/comfort to a stranger. And I suspect I am not the first. Theirs is a legacy of love, of kindness, of sincerity. Before we left we stood in a circle and held hands while Chris prayed for healing, for endurance, for grace. Holding Joyce’s hand for that brief moment was like holding the hand of my mother.

Releasing The Bosom Serpent

2008-10-24T15:20:00.002-04:00

It may be a good idea or the height of folly but I have started a companion blog to this one. I see the new blog, The Bosom Serpent, as the equal but opposite reaction, the dark side of the force. NIMS will continue with posts from the narrative of my life through stories, essays, photographs and videos. The focus here will remain on Orthodoxy and the exploration of my faith.

At The Bosom Serpent there will be lots of creative pieces that are not a good fit here. There are already a few items posted at the new site but it is mostly silly stuff. Both blogs will continue until I get too burned out or just can’t keep up. If something has to give I suspect I would stay here at NIMS and let The Bosom Serpent go.

Let me know what you think. I have posted hyperlinks on both blogs linking them together and making it easy to shift from one to the other.

Orthodox Visions

2008-10-23T10:58:00.006-04:00

I hope the video speaks for itself. If you think it's worthwhile pass it on.

Too Tired To Move, Too Restless To Sleep

2008-10-20T14:32:00.008-04:00

Below is what more or less sprung from my mind on this very black day. I apologize for the subject matter.

Depression is moment to moment torment, trapped in the everydayness, the immediate now. Bleak with no hope of hope, her box now empty, the wheel in the bottom of the turn. No hope of transformation.

Sleep is the only solace where life no longer impinges on my senses unfiltered. Prone to tears when even the smallest sadness becomes a behemoth. Swimming in lethargy too tired to move, too restless to sleep. Beyond the transience of melancholy out into the deep water of despair. The fall into the blackness unceasing, the crushing pressure, the blindness, heart racing, lungs tearing, thrust to the surface for a teasing gulp of life before being dragged down again. Into the dark depths, stranded in the blackness.

Knowing it will pass but not knowing how to hold out that long. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe.

Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on me a sinner.

Prison Blues

2008-10-10T15:40:00.008-04:00

This my second attempt at making a video and my first posted here. The song is obviously not my creation but is Keb' Mo' performing his cover version of Johnny Cash's classic Folsom Prison Blues.

The images and poor production values are all mine.

Whisper Book On The Purple Cloud

2008-10-06T22:20:00.003-04:00

My daughter created these masterpieces on the front of the refrigerator this evening. For the better part of an hour she just let the logical world fall away and and gave way to the delights of word play. I of course did everything I could to keep from interupting her.

Beating A Dead Horse

2008-09-30T22:12:00.003-04:00

I am done with all the bridge photos but this one seemed especially intriguing.

Bifröst - The Tremulous Way

2008-09-29T21:42:00.012-04:00

These photos were taken near, or of, a bridge a few blocks from work. Even in the mundane everydayness the beauty is out there.

In Norse mythology Bifröst is the name of the rainbow bridge linking Midgard (our world) to Asgard (realm of the gods). To my Orthodox brothers and sisters, fear not. I am not a neo-pagan but I have long been a student of mythology (especially Norse). I find the stories, the images, the culture to be endlessly fascinating.

Rough Road To Nowhere

2008-09-28T23:02:00.010-04:00

One night last week a burglar struck in my neighborhood and made off with a large number of items including a riding mower on a trailer that belongs to the mayor. By midmorning the next day we had a suspect. When we arrived at where we believed he was living to serve a search warrant he fled into the nearby woods. After about an hour he was in custody and most of the stolen items recovered.

The mower was still on the trailer and sitting in plain view. The other stolen items were in a wooden shed on the property. Our quick response gave him no time to pawn or sell any of the loot. The home where the items were found is in an unincorporated area of the county largely populated by folks close living at or near the poverty line. We have responded many times to domestic disturbances, loud music, riding four wheelers, public drunkenness etc. I do not want to cast aspersions on the fine law abiding folks who call this neighborhood home. As is so often the case the whole neighborhood is identified by the actions of a few.
Searching the residence for stolen property brought back a lot of memories. There were piles of dirty clothes and dirty dishes everywhere. The child’s bedroom floor was littered with toys, clothes, blankets and the streamers from a set of pom-poms. We found a small amount of marijuana and a lot of drug related items including a box containing rolling papers and a syringe. The irony is that the box full of dangerous items sat on a sink with childproof locks on the cabinet. Childcare seemed to be just a series of empty gestures.

Despite the poor living conditions there were two large screen televisions (one of which was most likely stolen). I am not passing judgment on anyone but I do know what being raised in these conditions can do to a child. With little positive interaction between child and parent the child suffers. I have been very poor in my life and twice was saved from living on the street by a sister who loved me more than I deserved. Learning to make right decisions took a long, long time. Caring for your children should be at the top of the list and not something you do haphazardly. And I know that there is a big difference between being poor and being dirty. Being poor may be beyond your control but being clean and keeping a clean house is most certainly not.
I pray that the children in this household will grow to be healthy and happy but I know from experience the odds are stacked against them.

A Death Most Abrupt

2008-09-28T00:27:00.003-04:00

I was stunned again today by the abruptness of death. At about 10:00 this morning I received a page stating there had been an accident involving a motorcycle and that the air ambulance was en route from Jacksonville. Before I could get to the scene the air ambulance was cancelled which meant the patient perished. The ground ambulance carried him to the local hospital where the formal process of pronouncing him was done.

On a flat straight stretch of road in clear weather a woman driving a minivan pulled out in front of a man riding a motorcycle. The man on the motorcycle tried his best to stop (as evident by the skid marks) but to no avail. No one in the van was physically injured (the passenger side of the van was smashed and the windshield broken) but the driver was inconsolable. She was on her way from her home in a subdivision to a yard sale in the south side of the same subdivision. Her failure to yield will forever haunt her. She and this stranger/victim and his family are now inextricably tied together. As I stood there and tried to gather information and take photographs the husband of the van driver was trying to make sense of it all and find out what possible outcomes faced his wife. Some of the outcomes would not be good but there wasn't much I could tell him until the investigation was complete.

I don’t know the story of the man riding the motorcycle other than he was only 34-years-old. Helmets are mandatory in Georgia and it looked like his took a pretty good hit.

This particular stretch of road holds a number of bad memories including several other automobile related deaths. In one case the victim was my nineteen year old neighbor. He had no ID but I knew who he was. I went to tell his sister at work at Wal-Mart. As I was telling her she called his cell phone repeatedly and left messages, messages he would never receive. I was certain death had arrived but she needed time to take it all in. It was one of the most emotional moments in my life and I hope to never again have to make a death notification. This road also reminds me of the death of an 11-year-old girl on an ATV, three suicides from self-inflicted gunshot wounds to the head (one of which we listened to live on the radio, another was the conclusion of a chase as the driver killed himself with at least 15 cops looking on) and two young brothers who died in a house fire.

I guess the moral is that we should remain vigilant and pray as the angel of death can manifest himself anytime anywhere. Don’t carry grudges or hatred in your heart. Be the first to say you’re sorry, the first to offer the olive branch. Tell those you love how much they mean to you. Don’t assume they know. And lookout for motorcycles, they’re everywhere.

Icarus Too Young

2008-09-25T23:44:00.006-04:00

Icarus my son in a box inside a box lowered slowly into a hole
neatly trimmed. His broken body once supple now cold,
no blood, no warmth, no hope.

Too young, too young he soared from my hand
which shaped the wings of his escape. A man
he was not ready when the push became shove.

Now trapped in my mind’s labyrinth

the great artificer cannot free himself.

Cumberland Island

2008-09-25T12:17:00.006-04:00

Cumberland Island is the southern most of Georgia’s barrier islands. They only way there is by boat so it is largely free from the effects of tourism and development. The undeveloped beach is a wonderful place. It’s like stepping back in time. On this recent trip we never made it to the beach but still brought back a large stash of good photos. And you can never get enough Spanish moss photos. The photo above was taken at the pier as we waited to go aboard for the trip over.

Words To Live By

2008-09-19T23:37:00.003-04:00

“It is requisite for the ideal artist to possess a force of character that seems hardly compatible with its delicacy; he must keep his faith in himself while the incredulous world assails him with its utter disbelief; he must stand up against mankind and be his own sole disciple, both as respects his genius and the objects to which it is directed.”

Nathaniel Hawthorne
“The Artist of the Beautiful”

Honor And Old Glory

2008-09-15T21:43:00.008-04:00

I took the top photo at about 8:15 this morning. The river is the St. Marys River and the green horizon beyond that is Florida. It was one of those moments that held me transfixed as I was overcome by pride/joy/sorrow. I stood offering silent thanks to our Creator, to all those who have come before who held fast to the dream of a place where freedom reigns. The sight of our flag waving in the cool morning breeze reminded me once again that freedom is not free.

I don’t consider myself a super patriot. On probably too many occasions I criticize the Federal Government in general and the Bush administration in particular. But I understand just how blessed I am to live in America, to have the right to vote, to enjoy the freedom to live my life as I see fit, to worship free of government's grasp. And today I was once again struck by the simple beauty of our national flag. I think too many times it becomes ornamentation in our lives, just the backdrop to some group function. In our daily grind we forget just how important our Old Glory truly is.

Simple symbolism. Seven red stripes and six white represent the thirteen colonies at the beginning of our journey to nationhood. Fifty stars in a blue field for the fifty states, each separate yet integral to the inviolate whole. Our flag demonstrates our unity as a nation, as a people. It reminds us of who we are and from where we come. It is a symbol of our might and our commitment to right, of our compassion and of our steadfastness in the face of adversity. It is the reminder of the blood spilled, of the lives lost in our defense.

As a proud American and a former Marine the Iwo Jima image is for me and for many of us particularly potent. The Greatest Generation's fight on two disparate and but equally deadly fronts. We were still a nation in the making until the slumbering giant awoke to the sound of guns, the scream of battle, the looming threat.

Despite ourselves, despite the shoddy treatment we have too many times given our veterans we are blessed beyond all measure.

To ALL the veterans out there, thank you.

Friends In Deed

2008-09-13T23:00:00.008-04:00

A motorcycle run was held here today to raise money for two very ill children in our community. Both are on a long road to the ultimate goal of being disease free. I won’t post any names because I don’t know how the boy’s family would feel about it and I don’t want to cause them any additional stress. I ask that you lift these two precious children and their families up in your prayers. As you can see by the photos the entire community is doing everything they can to support the families.

She Is The God-bearer

2008-09-11T00:20:00.009-04:00

On Sept. 8, The Church celebrated The Feast of The Nativity of our Most Holy Lady the Mother of God and Ever-Virgin Mary. I’m not sure why but I found myself deeply contemplating (not easy with my shallow mind) this feast day in general and the Theotokos in particular.

As a good (sometimes) God-fearing (almost always) Protestant I never gave much thought to Mary other than at Easter and Christmas, those days when she intruded into the celebration and could not be ignored, diminished certainly, but not ignored. At that time anything to do with Mary smelled suspiciously of the Romans with their statuary and their candles and their incense (or Popery?). We were taught that the Romans (we never even knew the Holy Orthodox Church existed) did their best to elevate Mary to a full share in the Godhead and sought to change the Holy Trinity to the (un)Holy Quadripartite (I’m sure that’s not exactly the right word so please correct me Fr. Frank). I apologize for all the (excessive) parentheses.

My church experience prior to coming home to Orthodoxy was that we were in theory Trinitarian but in practice unitarian (not those Unitarians of the watered down gospel) in that the focus is almost solely on Christ to the exclusion of God the Father and The Holy Spirit.

In broadening my views on Mary I came to understand in a much deeper way how through Christ’s humanity and our shared humanity we need not fear death. The concept of sharing is His humanity for some reason just never seemed significant. I know this sounds a bit preposterous and points out quite clearly my cranial density but I eventually began to grasp that we are the beneficiaries of Christ’s full humanity (He having sprung from Mary’s womb).

As for venerating and lifting up the Theotokos, who better in the history of humanity to lift up? She is the God-bearer. Her unhesitant acceptance, her embrace of what God the Father through the Holy Spirit would make manifest through her is the model for us all.

I no longer flinch at, “Most holy Theotokos, save us.” I am comforted by:

“Remembering our all-holy, immaculate, most blessed, and glorious Lady, Theotokos and Ever-virgin Mary with all the Saints, let us commend ourselves and each other, and all our life unto Christ our God.”

“It is truly right to bless you, O Theotokos,
ever blessed, and most pure, and the Mother of our God:
more honorable than the cherubim, beyond compare more glorious than the seraphim —
without corruption you gave birth to God, the Word.
True Theotokos, we magnify you!”

And all God’s people said, “Amen.”

God Is Good

2008-09-05T11:03:00.006-04:00

I want to share an interesting blog I stumbled on the other day. The blog’s author is Fr. John Moses and can be found at Ramblings of a Redneck Priest. He is the priest at All Saints of North America in the beautiful Shenandoah Valley (where I was born and raised). Many years ago I dated his youngest sister. She and one of her other sisters are also now Orthodox. I was reacquainted with her while on a trip to Virginia and looking for the nearest Orthodox parish. While standing in the parking lot I heard someone yell my name. It was the sister of my old girlfriend. They are both parishioners at All Saints (imagine having your brother as your priest). It is also the church where my younger brother was baptized. He is the one on the far right in the first row.

A Gathering Of The Brethren

2008-08-29T16:47:00.005-04:00

Entries Removed

2008-08-20T18:48:00.006-04:00

I will no longer post new chapters of Ox In The Ditch and I have removed the three chapters that were posted here. This decision was made after discussions with family and friends, those who know the background behind the stories and characters. Better for all involved to wait until the book is complete.

I will however make the old entries and the new ones available by email as they are completed. There are several of you who I assume will want the entries and I will automatically forward them. Let me know if you're interested and I'll put you on the list.

I love sharing what I have written and I treasure all your comments and the time you spend with the stories. I will still post here but it will not be Ox In The Ditch.

Fire Destroys A Home

2008-08-15T01:00:00.006-04:00

One day last week fire destroyed the home of an 83-year-old woman. She is part of a vibrant community with Mt. Orum Baptist Church more or less in her yard. The Red Cross, her friends, neighbors and family are rendering assistance but the shock of this loss must be unbelievably devastating. She is in our prayers.

Chapter 3 of the "Ox In The Ditch" narrative is under construction and should be available for viewing soon. Thanks to all of you for your comments and your support.

Georgia On My Mind

2008-07-31T00:25:00.014-04:00

Below is a passage from another project on which I am working. It is an amalgam of truth and fiction and hopefully the genesis of a much longer tale. Over the years we've lived here I've noticed a great many songs that mention heading out for Georgia (or out of Georgia), like a mythical land of red clay and peach orchards, more an idea than a place. The idea of living the blues in the backwoods juke joints and on the verandas where Mint Juleps are sipped. Anyway, enjoy.

I was the third of five raised in fine Appalachian squalor in the Blue Ridge Mountains on the western slope of the Valley of the Shenandoah. My drunken parents, Wilmer and Carol, made sure we stayed true to the timeless mountain folk traditions of alcoholism, domestic violence and poverty. They were caught in the vortex, pulling us into the maelstrom, careening ever closer to the rocks of ruination. On the bitter snowy Eve of Thanksgiving in ’71 his emaciated body gave out and he finally crossed the bar. It truly was the best and worst of times as we escaped the storm only to find ourselves set adrift, rudderless, lost.

Thus began a long wandering voyage on which I somehow avoided starvation, incarceration and/or deathification to get an education at Hardnock's School for the financially and motivationally challenged as well as at ye olde crumbling ivy tower. Eventually like all the other migratory animals I drifted south. I arrived in southeast Georgia not with any larger purpose or direction but through a long sequence of decisions that at the time seemed the best alternative.

I was still living through the aftershocks/tremors of a nasty divorce from the woman who I affectionately call The Butch From Hell. I wanted desperately to put as many miles between Virginia and myself as possible. Of course the geographical cure wasn’t a cure at all, just a prolonging of the agony. My not insubstantial psychological sack of grievances barnacled on for the ride. I played lost and found with my mind/honor and innumerable times along the way I put everything of value to me in peril. In the spirit of the grand therapist understatement, I still had some core issues to work through.

My expectation/dread of life in Georgia was colored by stories of the infamous Forsyth County whose white residents were known for their embrace of racial bigotry and who warned black visitors to not let the sun go down on their head. And these Forsythians are proud to crow that black folks will never be welcome within their borders (the county seat is the Town of Cumming, “The Gateway to Leisure Living.” Someone must have had a good chuckle with that one.). To my way of thinking a man is a man is a man. Sadly, some of my less enlightened fellow citizens don’t/won't see it that way. I expected Georgia to be full of the stereotypical hayseed Bible-toting, overalls-wearing, snuff-dipping, trailer-dwelling, Confederate flag-flying, inbred, incestuous, ignorant racists living fiercely segregated lives with separate black and white churches, black and white funeral homes, black and white neighborhoods.

And I did meet some of these sad characters. As individuals. Or at least characters with some of these tendencies. The good, the bad and the in-betweens. But never as part of any grand conspiracy to deny any Georgian a life free from prejudice. Georgia has her fair share of good good-old-boys but she has no monopoly on the true corn-fed, good-hearted redneck (I’ve heard unsubstantiated tales that some may have actually crossed over to the other side into Canada to start new pods). They survive and thrive in every state of the union. Only South Carolina clings tighter to the memory of that honorable defeat. Proud sons of the South trying to hold on to the effluvial ghosts of a war lost, trying to continue with some semblance of honor while the rest of the world just wonders why. Three words to these proud, hard working men and women, "Get over it."

To be fair, Georgia is where I found the skills to piece together the pieces of me into a coherent, honorable whole. This has been the land of opportunity for my family. A state full of good black and white Southern folk, well mannered, generous, God-fearing, mostly free from prejudice and generally friendly.

Aqua Dreams

2008-07-26T23:08:00.010-04:00

We spent the day with some friends at their home in Orange Park. It was a double birthday party for their son and daughter who were born several years apart but within a few days of each other in July. Nothing like a pool to keep kids occupied.

Sisyphus

2008-07-23T18:58:00.012-04:00

There is a place,
Where my patches, my poultices
Find no purchase before
The rains fall.
The flood saws away
My impermanent marks
So I scratch,
I sow the seed,
I salve the scars.

Yet again,
The torrent erodes,
My dreams swept down stream.
So again I take up shovel and rake to fill
The deep slashes in my green field.

Not again.
Robbed by the rain overnight,
My work wrecked,
I will not win.

God help me
I cannot stop.

Days Slipping Away

2008-07-20T23:12:00.007-04:00

Walden Pond

Too quickly the days slip away into yesterdays. I realized I had not been here in more than a month. Sometimes it is the journal of my inner life and some times I just have to leave it alone. There is a great deal of change and uncertainty in my life these past months and many times I am too worn to stand the thought of even another moment in front of a computer screen trying to get my thoughts together. These are trying times and the decisions I must make will have long term consequences. Once again I am torn by the conflict between my conscience and my checkbook, between security and uncertainty. But we are all in good hands.

When life weighs too heavily I fall back on the comfort, the consolation of a good book. I am currently rereading The Hobbit. Gandalf does not seem so much like the serious wizard here as in the later books. I also recently re-read the Lords of The Rings trilogy and watched all the movies over again. I first read through the series many years ago when I was too young a reader to really understand the magnitude of what I was reading. I was spurred to catch up on these old friends by a posting by Deb On The Run here in which she mentioned Tom Bombadil. Finishing The Fellowship Of The Ring then watching the movie led to disappointment. The movie seemed not to be as good as I had remembered. With The Two Towers it was the opposite. The movie and the book were both engaging.

One of the things I find most interesting about Tolkien is that these books are just part of a much wider and deeper invention of his imagination. And he was a very well respected scholar who wrote one of the most seminal and important papers about the great Beowulf poem (one of my favorite literary works). Tolkien was one of the first to treat Beowulf as a work of art and not just an artifact of history.

I also recently finished The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini. First novels just don’t get much better than this. This story is so well written and rings so true it feels like an autobiography and it packs a powerful emotional wallop. As a bit of a (hack) writer myself it’s always a moment to savor when you come across such a craftsman. From the very first paragraph Hosseini pulled me in and I read in every free moment.

I also just finished Gone For Soldiers by Jeff Shaara. I’ve read two of his other books and found then to be good solid writing but with no surprises. This book is a re-imagining of the Mexican-American War through the eyes of (for the most part) Gen. Winfield Scott and Capt. Robert E. Lee. What I found most interesting about the book is how many characters show up here who went on to play pivotal roles in The Civil War. Besides Scott and Lee there is Ulysses S. Grant, Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson, James Longstreet, George Meade, George Pickett and Joe Johnston. I also learned a great deal about this war that finalized most of our nation’s permanent boundaries. Mexico was forced to cede Texas, New Mexico and California. This was Manifest Destiny in its ugliest form.

This is also the war to which Thoreau so strenuously objected in “Civil Disobedience.” Sorry for this tangent but Thoreau is a personal favorite of mine. Ralph Waldo Emerson said of Thoreau:

“He was bred to no profession; he never married; he lived alone; he never went to church; he never voted; he refused to pay a tax to the State; he ate no flesh; he drank no wine; he never knew the use of tobacco; and though a naturalist, he used neither trap nor gun. He chose, wisely no doubt for himself, to be the bachelor of thought and Nature.... No truer American existed than Thoreau.”

Thoreau’s Walden is one the great books. The passage below is some my favorite writing:

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, to discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and to be able to give a true account of it.”

These words never fail to inspire me even when I fall so short of the ideal.

In honor of Thoreau here are a few recent photos of our flora and fauna.

Almost looks like an alien landscape but it's just the tidal flat when the tide is out.

Random Photos

2008-06-11T00:43:00.005-04:00

This is just a random selection of photos. I will be back to writing later this week.

More Disney Madness

2008-06-11T00:34:00.002-04:00

Visions of Disney

2008-06-09T22:53:00.006-04:00

Down Time

2008-06-04T12:32:00.002-04:00

We will be gone on a Disney cruise to the Bahamas for the next few days. Please add us to your prayers that we might return safe and refreshed.

Mercy For Monsters?

2008-05-28T21:34:00.007-04:00

Warning: This entry addresses issues you may find very offensive.

I learned today that a man who molested his niece while visiting her family here pled guilty and received a sentence of 40 years in prison and will have to serve the first fifteen years with no possibility of parole. This sentence seems grossly inadequate for a man who repeatedly sodomized and raped his teenage niece. He then used the classic child molester defense and said she forced herself on him. According to him if she had not been so sexually aggressive none of this would have happened.

As bad as this guy sounds there are others who are much worse. In the county just north of hear a young boy was kidnapped and then molested by a man and his father while the mother/wife looked on and derived her own sexual pleasure. All this when the young boy has a plastic bag over his head. His body was found dumped not far from the scene of the crime. None of these monsters has gone to trial.

About five years ago a man who lived directly across the street from me pled guilty to 13 counts of child molestation and received an 80 year sentence on each charge. When caught he owned up to what he had done and made a full confession. This man was my neighbor. Hiding in plain sight. And there are always more. More horror stories. More very real monsters.

In cases like this I find it particularly hard to stick to my Christian beliefs. Having been on the receiving end of a great deal of abuse as a child I know my reaction is skewed, that it awakens demons in me best left alone. Part of me cries out with an eye for an eye, to make the punishment fit the crime. In fact many times I have said that if I discover that anyone has done anything like this to a member of my family I will settle the score myself and the courts be damned. I take no offense in knowing that while in prison child molesters often discover how it feels to be raped and sodomized. They stay on the lowest level of the inmate/prison hierarchy and find no peace, no solace.

Where is our God? Does the stench of this inhumanity not rise up to offend him? Is there really any shared humanity with these monsters? Are they really the likeness and image of our creator?

Or am I not asking the right questions? Perhaps I am not looking closely enough in the mirror. What does this rage, this cry for no mercy say about me? Is the stench of my sins any less offensive?

I have been many times been loved when I was all but unlovable. My actions shamed me and left me undeserving of mercy. But even during those times when the demons in me went unchecked I still found the hand of love extended to me. Even then I was not measured by my inhumanity but by my humanity, my potential for good.

It is easy for me to hate these men, yet we are commanded to love our neighbor as ourselves. To judge not lest we be judged. Some say to hate the sin but love the sinner. Who does this hatred hurt? Not the monsters, they have no idea I even exist. It is an acid that eats away at the goodness in me, making room for even more hatred, less room for genuine compassion. Lord help me.

Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat

2008-05-19T23:56:00.010-04:00

Bob Dylan stopped by the house last night. I wish. Actually this is me playing with the camera and a borrowed flash. For this photo, following instructions from the photography class instructor, I had bubble wrap over the flash to see what if any effect it would have. That wasn't quite enough to satisfy my curiosity so I also put bubble wrap in front of the lens.

I am however wearing the Bob Dylan t-shirt I bought when my wife and I saw him and Willie Nelson on the same bill at Metropolitan Park in Jacksonville. The hat came from the Animal Kingdom at Disney World. Leopard-Skin Pill-Box Hat is on Dylan's Blonde On Blonde album.

I think it is a good example of how photos can open more questions than they answer.

Dancing In The Dark

2008-05-18T00:30:00.006-04:00

This is not my daughter but I took this photo last evening at her (my daughter's) annual dance recital. It's been interesting watching her grow and become a better dancer every year. As with most kids the first couple of years it was pretty much either lock up from stage fright or mimic what the dance instructor was doing off stage in the wings (which nevertheless makes your heart swell with pride). This year she looked so mature and confident. She is growing up much too fast.

I am in the middle of an eight week photography class and this photo is testament to a terrific instructor/photographer. I have really enjoyed learning more about the technical aspects of taking a decent photo. I am certainly nowhere near as proficient as I would like to be but prior to this class I would have shot a lot of photos (with and without flash) and just hoped for the best. Without the class I could never have taken this photo.

Digital Explorations

2008-05-15T22:08:00.001-04:00

Recent photos. Double click on the iris photo and check out the detail.