Stripped

They needed each other’s assistance, like a company who, crossing a mountain stream, are compelled to cling close together, lest the current should be too powerful for any who are not thus supported. Sir Walter Scott

In their friendship they were like two of a litter that can never play together without leaving traces of tooth and claw, wounding each other in the most sensitive places. Colette

Leaving is like tearing off skin. Larry McMurtry

Eleven. Seven. Four years separating them. You’d never know it. They are teachers of one another. Best friends. Buddies. Alternatingly, they share titles: good guy, bad guy, cop, robber, hero, villain. They are comrades. Allies. Enemies. Playmates. Chums. Brothers.

As their parent, I sometimes succumb to the force of imminent doom. Perceived doom, perhaps, but as their parent, that’s all it takes. Fourteen months from now, Mr. Eleven will prepare to move to the junior high school, middle school here. For the first time, Mr. Seven will go through his school days without his rock. Oh sure, when Mr. Eleven entered first grade, Mr. Seven stayed home. There are other rocks there. Security. No pressure. Just a need to occupy the time until Eleven got home. Things change. It’s a lesson that tends violently to be learned at times. Seven’s heart is vulnerable. I hurt vicariously.

What tramples this analytical soul to a worn-bare dogpath is what is sure to accompany Eleven’s academic progression: a new comrade; perceived maturity that distorts the importance of Seven and shoulders him aside; new interests; girls. Understand that I am not a pessimist. I love, though. Some may argue that there is no difference. Come, walk with me. There is beauty in the challenge.

As their parent, I accept as my duty the role of teacher, referee, counselor, provider. I am thrilled with the job as much as I am overwhelmed by it. The impending change in my sons’ dynamic is just another step in my education, my on-the-job training. I have been here before, back when I was the trellis for another. I suppose I can be forgiven because I was a child, merely an older brother with angst of my own; but I moved hard and fast into my new, older, "cooler" world and left my brother behind. I did not look back until, seven years later, he was beyond reach. He faced incarceration but got out of that by entering the service. The gravity of the perceived rejection delineates our relationship to this day. I hope I am a better teacher for it.

I wrote of roots. I live to provide water. I want my sons to recognize in one another the nourishment of life. I want nothing to be thicker than the blood they share. I want them to understand that their meaning, their bond, never needs to be sacrificed on the pyre of their independence. I want the wisdom to bring them to this place. I seek it. It is my job. I long to be the third pea in the pod. It is the golden parachute that follows the job of parenthood. One day we will sit in the pod and laugh at the shenanigans they concocted when they were eleven and seven.

Roots.
In the mathematical universe, so much of numbers theory revolves around the identification of the root.
In many different areas, diagnostic issues focus on the root cause of the problem, the issue.
In the computer world, we have the root directory.
In music, the fundamental note of a chord is the root.

Eight-year-old Son (speaking from the shower): I’m sore!

Me: What’s sore?

Son: um… my balls, Dad, my balls are sore.

The Mom: Oh yeah, I meant to tell you that he said his balls were sore.

Me: Really, really sore, or just a little sore?

Son: Just a little.

Me: Well, stop playing with them.

Son: Ok.

A few minutes later, he exits the shower and walks past his mom and me.

The Mom: So, you play with them?

Son: Not much. (Delivered as matter-of-factly as, "Fine, how are you?")

He continued to his room to get ready for bed.

When I was five, I walked down the aisle, carrying the rings that would signify that my favorite aunt, my most beautiful "girlfriend" and confidant, the one who would steal me away from Sunday school and take me to the store for candy, was no longer "mine." I didn’t stumble but, instead, walked proudly, oblivious to how absent she would become.

When I was nine, I walked into the lawyer’s office and told my dad not to worry, that I would live with mom until I was fourteen, and then I would live with him until I was eighteen. It seemed extremely equitable to me, about four and a half years each.

When I was eleven, I ran away from home. I left at 4:00 in the afternoon, before mom got home, and was found down by the river aroud 10:00 that night. I learned to run away from home in my mind after that.

When I was thirteen, I walked around the block with mom, answering questions she had about decisions which lay before her. I remember telling her to not sign the papers that dad wanted her to sign. I told her she would not see any more child support if she signed them. She signed them anyway. She didn’t get anymore money, but dad spent a few nights in jail several times.

When I was fourteen, I stumbled home at 1:30 in the morning, severely violating my 11:00 curfew. We had recently moved to Fort Lauderdale, and I had gotten high for the first time. I am unsure how I made it home, considering I do not remember anything between the moment two girls undressed me in the front yard of Robby’s house and the moment I got out of the shower and saw a Reader’s Digest on my pillow, opened to an article on marijuana.

When I was fifteen, I stood on my feet for hours on end, washing dishes at Po’ Folks restaurant. I was trying to make money so that I could take my girlfriend to the best restaurant in town - it wasn’t Po’ Folks.

When I was sixteen, I walked on stage in Greenville, South Carolina, playing keyboards for a band I had recently joined. I caught that virus, and I still have it.

When I was eighteen, I walked down the aisle to receive my high school diploma. I felt as though everything worthwhile that I had learned had been taught in places other than school.

When I was nineteen, I walked out of the university, throwing away a scholarship and much more because mom made me live at home and because the band was a hell of a lot more fun.

When I was twenty-one, I walked back into another college in another state. I had a different plan, and I decided to major in classical piano performance.

When I was twenty-three, I decided to marry someone who didn’t appeal to me (almost word-for-word a Bob Dylan lyric).

When I was twenty-nine, I walked around the delivery room holding my first son.

When I was thirty, I walked out of the courtroom, single, happy, and ready to move on.

I have walked in thirty-two states. I walked to and from work for months, waiting until I could afford a car. I ran from the cops more times than I care to admit. I walked before the Supreme Court and raised my right hand to get sworn into the Bar Association. I walked around carrying several more kids. I walked into bedrooms and out of them. I walked into lives and out of them. I walked with God, and I ran with the devil. I danced in the street at 3 in the morning, and I danced at wedding receptions and one funeral. I jumped rope, played hopscotch, kicked ass, kicked footballs, and walked for never-enough-time with my kids. I have walked and ran and strolled and skipped and lumbered through retail jobs and retail shopping excursions, through churches and strip clubs, down dirtroads and Madison Avenue, into courtrooms and into schools. I have walked to the light. I have walked away.

So far, so good. Now, as new days dawn and wisdom falls like scattered, singular flakes of teasing snow, I promise to take better care of you. Most importantly, I promise to direct your steps in a much wiser manner. Feets don’t fail me now.

"Sometimes you can listen so hard for the faintest of sounds that you don’t even hear the louder ones." Ivy Elgin in Velocity by Dean Koontz

The wind in the trees provides the white-noise backdrop as I stand on the roof wishing I had never decided to start this project. Not on this day. Torn and scattered tar paper and shingles litter the yard below, and the heat is smothering but not smothering enough to erase the realization that the lawn needs mowed, the storage building needs organizing, the oil needs changed, the shower faucet needs to be replaced…. The wind of this existence is silent and screaming, tangible and invisible, tedious and lovely.

"Daddy, hurry! Come, look!" One of the boys. "It’ll have to wait until I’m done here." That or something close to that is my reply.

The roofing project provides a focus, a purpose and goal that carry a certain peace. The sweat dripping like water from a soaker hose when the water is barely on, the scraped knuckles and knees, the noticeable progress - all leave signs for future seekers, trackers: life has been here. On the roof, I have a measure of solitude and quiet, allowing me time for my own tracking. Still seeking answers to questions I should have never had, I easily delve into self-analysis. My spirit is perpetually splayed on glass, pinned back for my never-ending dissection of desires and their motivations and the search for purpose and discerning between the purpose I desire and the purpose I have. Peace may be on that glass, too, but I have not found it yet. So maybe peace is in acceptance, in ceasing such contemplation, and maybe such acceptance is faith: faith that purpose will find you in its time.

"Daddy! You have GOT to see this!" One of the boys again.
"Yeah! It’s sooo cool!" Another one of the boys.
"OK, it won’t be long." That or something like it is my reply.

Hogwash. Bullshit. Pick your poison.
Even if purpose will find you, you must be ready. Anyway, I believe smaller purposes DO find you, every day. Unfortunately, we do not always recognize them. As for THE purpose, well, I believe you must strip away the dust of this world, then the grime and mildew of your learned biases, and then the cheap veneer of a mask you’ve come to believe in. Then and only then can you view yourself and come to know yourself in such a way that you can discover the larger path. Afterall, it lies before us all, in some form or fashion. Smaller purposes, life diversions, and so on - all those things will digress the days but should not keep you from traveling the path.

"Daddy! Are you coming?!" One of the boys.
"It’s almost dark!" Another one of the boys.
"Just another minute!" Me or someone like me.

After stripping fully, you can better choose how to reapply the veneer, if you apply it at all. You can even become mildew-resistant. You can notice the dust for what it is. Damn it! Lots of beating around those freakin’ bushes, but not even a bird in the hand… Answers, I tell you, I want answers! I stand slowly, back sore and showing its age more than I care to admit. The roof is covered in tar paper, roofing felt, call it what you will. The shingles go on tomorrow. In the dusky twilight, the boys’ shapes flit beneath the eucalyptus and poplar trees. I climb shakily, tiredly down the ladder.

"Daddy is done!" One of the boys, speaking more truth than he knows.
"Daddy, you should’ve seen it!" Another one of the boys, speaking more truth than he knows.

They had discovered a maimed but alive rabbit, apparently. They know enough to not approach or try to capture the animals they enncounter out here. They tried to keep it hemmed in, but I took way too long, they inform me. They are excited, wanting to share this with me, wanting me to capture it and try to save it, as I’ve done for countless birds and frogs and lizards. Six weeks ago, I mowed the lawn and inadvertently maimed a toad badly. The toad was in tall grass and was unable to escape the blades in time. On my next pass of the area, I saw it. It had lost one rear leg and the "hand" on a front leg. The boys love toads, and so they were saddened somewhat. They are realists, though. Afterall, the oldest shot a bluejay with his BB gun a few weeks ago (they are allowed to shoot at bluejays and crows and mean, strange dogs and squirrels only) and the jay did not die. Of course, this attracted the attention of the dog and the cat. The jay had no chance, flopping so enticingly as it was. The oldest asked me to help. I gave him his choices: shoot it again and kill it, or let the animals have at it. He turned and walked away, choosing to leave it to the dog and cat instead of shooting it. It was a lesson, of sorts. Anyway, we recently had dug a hole and put an old kiddie pool in the ground, filling it with rich soil and rocks and moss and plants and flowers. It was the beginning of a living diorama or something, not really sure. Well, we washed the maimed toad and made it a home in the transformed pool. The toad lives still, happy and safe, for now.

So, to assuage their disappointment at losing the rabbit, I grabbed three flashlights and we went searching. For almost forty-five minutes we scoured the forest. We found loads of toads, saw a fox and three deer. We heard an owl, thought we saw bigfoot, and watched two low-flying planes cross to points unknown. The night was perfect for a marshmallow roast, so that’s what we did for dinner. Then, we decided to sleep finally in the tent that has been set up in the forest for two weeks. Just us boys. One fell asleep quickly, over-tired from living a life of catch-up to his older brother. Another talked a bit about stars and dinosaurs and their coexistence before drifting to sleep to dream dreams that confound those of us who think we’re wiser. The third boy stared at nothing in the darkness, realizing that he had been stripped bare at some point during the evening and that the layer that sheltered his spirit, that enveloped him with perfect comfort was one that had been there all along. Still, it was as fresh as if it were just created. And, in a way, it had been.

It’s way cool to be a daddy. I will never, ever forget that again.

~ for me, at least, another level of nekkidness ~

Saturday morning. Early. Baby brother is sleeping. Dad is building a house. The woods are beckoning, longing to be revived by the foot-to-path, the mouth-to-mouth that I provide every Saturday. For hours. Exploring, building dams in the creeks. Catching crawdads. Lying on the bank as still as the owl, with hope as strong as time that a dragonfly (we called them snake doctors) would land on me. They were deep neon green and had black wings. They were everywhere. I dug for wild cucumbers that matured underground. Finding them, I washed them in the creek, sprinkled them with wild pepper seeds and ate. And ate. Running endlessly to find the end of the forest, to find that place where the sun was headed. Only to be shepherded back by a singular voice. A voice that carried through the leaves and over the rushing waters and found its way to me. "Dinner!" It sang.

But that morning, before the day’s adventures were unfolded like fresh linens, Mom was at the piano. The Baptist Hymnal presided over the ministrations of her nimble fingers. Even when she ventured to Dolly, Loretta, Don Williams and The Everly Brothers. Especially when she hiked further and found Jerry Lee, Charlie Rich, and Willie Nelson. I began my travels at her feet, pushing the pedals with my hands. I eventually found my way to the bench, where I watched. Listened. She could sing the angels to sleep as well as she could cause the devil to dance.

The progression continued as I was kidnapped by a desire that has never relinquished its hold on me. I stood beside her and learned to harmonize vocally, then with my fingers on the keys. Older still, I sat beside her again, and we played for others. Together. Sang for others. Together. Then, I sang for her. I played for her. Until time could be kept no longer, as if it ever could. Until now. I visit and hear the request. And I will play. Sometimes. Not as much, for somewhere the magic became something different. Became something that doesn’t exist when she is there. Repressed. Jaded. So much more than simply water under that bridge.

The music is still magic, though. She is still Mom. She still sings and plays. She still amazes me. I should tell her that more often. I should play for her more often. I should wake up Saturday morning and run through that forest until I find the words. Until that dragonfly lands. Until that forest ends, and I come out on the other side, beautifully broken. Until everyone can see where the son is headed. Keeping time again.
I should.

Friends

In both photographs, the child on the right is my son. (bottom: Asher; top: Seth) So, you are looking at my two boys and their best friends. Believe it or not, Asher and Seth are best friends. My brother and I were best friends for a short while. From the time I was born until the time I was 16, we moved 11 times. As a result, my brother, who is 3 years younger than I, and I depended on one another. He especially depended on me. At age 16, however, I had a life. I worked. I went to school. I participated in community theatre. I dated. I partied my ass off. I lost contact with my brother. Years later, when I was 20, my mother called me greatly distressed. She needed me right away because my brother was uncontrollable. I drove 30 miles to confront a brother who did not know me. I knew him, though. Leaving most of that story for another time, I will say that three days later my brother was in the Army. He is a different person today. We have been better friends at times, but not best friends. I sometimes wish that I had not desired so badly to leave home. Or that I could have taken him with me. Other times, I understand that each person has to face life as they will. When I think back to that three and a half years when I "moved on," I honestly cannot remember him. I do remember seeing him in passing. I remember a day when I looked at him and wondered when his style changed, when his friends changed, who was he? I moved on, though. There is much to revisit on later posts, but these photos of Asher and Seth are nothing compared to the many photos of them together. I hope they are always best friends. I hope they never feel more compelled than the typical teenager to leave home. And when they leave, I hope they never move on so completely that they lose each other to time, to others, to a life that stands at the door and beckons. I want them to understand fully that a life worth living is a life shared.

My paternal grandmother had seven brothers and six sisters. She was somewhere in the middle in terms of age. Her father was a Baptist preacher. She never wore pants - skirts and dresses only. She wore her wedding ring, a watch, and a necklace - no other jewelry. She was a sweet lady and, to my knowledge, openly criticized no one. She and my grandfather paid cash for their car (they shared one) and drove it for at least four or five years before trading it in and getting another. They had no debt and were excellent managers of money, very thrifty. They had three children: Cora, Wes, and Lea, Wes being my dad, the blacksheep.

So, one day I stop by to visit. I saw Grandmom by the fence at the rear of her yard. She was tossing things over the fence. Initially thinking she was throwing food scraps for the foxes and deer and wild dogs (they lived in the country), I didn’t think much of it. The car was gone, so Granddad was not there. I opened the gate and started walking to her. Soon, I noticed that she was throwing jewelry, trinkets, and other knick-knacks over the fence. There were things like those collectable plates and stuff that you see on tv. "Where the hell did all of that stuff come from?" I remember thinking. My grandparents lived a simple life, adorned with the aroma of great cooking, the sounds of family and friends and old southern gospel music and bluegrass, and tales and photographs of long-ago family adventures. Adorned with little else - nothing else, really. It was one of the things that always enthralled me: thinking of visiting them created a dread of boredom. Then, when I was there, I never had time to be bored. I was interested, relaxed, surrounded by living history and love.

"What are you doing, Grandmom?"
"Throwing out the trash, hon."
"That’s trash?"
"In my house it is."
"It looks like new stuff to me. Where’d it come from?"
"I have no idea. I was cleaning the house this morning and found it."
"Where’d you find it?"
"Some of it was in my jewelry box. Some was on the shelves in the den. Some was still in boxes under the bed."
"Really? How’d it get there?"
"Goodness! I don’t know, but I will find out - probably Claude or one of your aunts’ jokes."

It was odd that she didn’t stop to hug me, or offer me a slice of cake, as she always had a fresh pound cake or something. Still, I didn’t think much about it. I was 19, just trying to be a better grandson than I typically was during that time. Later, after I got her inside, after she emptied three more boxes, I had that slice of cake. Then, Granddad got home. He treated her more gently, with much greater care and concern than I had remembered. Later, he asked if I could help him move some concrete blocks out back.

We moved four blocks before he asked the question. "How has your Grandmother been?"

He has seen her much more than me. Hell, I haven’t been here in three weeks. I still couldn’t get my head around it all. "Well, she was throwing out a bunch of stuff when I got here - out there, by the persimmon tree, over that fence. You can see it from here."

We walked over there, and he shook his head once and looked at me.

"You know, she bought all that stuff."
"Really?"
"Yeah. That QVC channel or whatever it’s called. All our lives we were fine with just the free channels. Two months ago we get cable, and she starts buying junk - stuff she will never wear, doesn’t like, has no need for, no gifts for anyone. I think she’s losing her mind. I’m not saying it’s the tv’s fault, but it sure makes ya wonder."

She was later diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and died four years later.

My maternal grandmother is dead, too. Natural causes, old age, living too long with just one lung. Seriously, there’s a funny story about that. She caught me smoking when I was 17. She pulled me inside and told me. "I know what it’s like to live with one lung. I worked in the cotton mill all my life and lost a lung to brown lung disease. Now son, that’s what will happen to you if you keep on smoking. You see how hard it is for me, having one lung and all. You best quit now while you can."

I never knew she had just one lung. She went swimming with us in the summertime. She worked. She cooked. She never went to the doctor as far as I know. She just went to the hospital 14 years later and died. I asked mom one time, years after that incident. She said she never knew her mother only had one lung either.

Then there’s Seth, my youngest son. My ex, Hamilton, brings him to the office so that we could go to lunch. It’s a new job, and my coworkers have not met my children yet. Seth was almost four. He is a walking, breathing, real-live cherub - with character - lots of it. The dean and her assistant are standing at my office door, enjoying conversing with Seth. I am talking to Hamilton about some work that needs to be done to the house. Then I hear "Pull my finger."

I cringe, jerk hard on the reins of laughter that are so close to pouring forth uncontrollably. I look up and see that Seth has stuck his right index finger out toward the dean. She is laughing nervously as she pulls it. Seth lets loose a melodious, loud fart and starts laughing as he runs into my office. The dean and assistant are laughing, and that’s good because it seems genuine. I look at Seth. "Who taught you that?" Because I know it wasn’t at home, and I didn’t do it. "Oh, Daddy… Gran-gran taught me that."

For the record, that is her mother, not mine. Unfortunately….

The sun shone brightly yesterday and made long-sleeved shirts an adequate adornment for playing outside. Of course, the boys (ages 8 and 4) loved it. They do not like to wear coats, jackets, or even shoes. So there we were, jeans, long-sleeved t-shirts, no shoes, dividing up matchbox cars - excuse me, they like Hot Wheels much better - in the yard.

As is the custom, their job was to create roads and mine was to build houses, bridges, and other necessary buildings. They love it when I take the time to help them build a city. One day I hope they realize that I love it even more. In fact, I have developed quite a process for the building activity. First, we gather lots of twigs. Then I proceed to construct braces for the log-cabin-like structures. My process has improved greatly, because the buildings stand for weeks. The boys dig holes and I build bridges over them. We set up locations for everyone’s houses, and we use moss and other natural finds for bushes, trees, and so on. The boys are very creative.

For two hours we constructed our grand city. For two hours the bills didn’t exist. "Visitation" wasn’t an issue. The dishes were not dirty. The floor did not need cleaned. The car could go another 10,000 miles without an oil change. None of us would age another day. The worst thing I could see was that our nails were black due to the digging. A little water and a brush will take care of that. And the rain will wash away the roads. A few storms later, and the wind will scatter our buildings across the lawn, and the boys will say "Katrina hit us hard." But we will rebuild. We will always rebuild. Even when they are too old for it, I hope they will humor me. If not, I will adapt. I will pay attention. I will always desire to have this connection, this fun, this canyon in which to fall with them. I know they need me, and it no longer scares me. However, now I am beginning to realize how much I need them. Fear is relative.