The distance to here

Human Nature - Epilogue

2008-06-27T16:44:00.000-07:00

Have you ever been eating a meal that had food that you wanted to eat and food that you didn’t want to eat yet you had to eat the food that you didn’t want just so you could get to the good stuff? Or have you ever been eating a something like a dry biscuit and as you chew it begins to dry out your mouth so you have to take a drink just to get it down? Well that that is how I see the stories of my youth. The stories about my parents’ divorce, the trauma that is caused my sister and I, the long arduous path towards family redemption and healing. These stories were about some of the darkest times of my life and how those times shaped me into who I am today. I have more or less been putting pen to paper and finger to key to make the healing that God was performing in my life seem somehow tangible. Something I could look at. I wrote about some of the dark and sometimes evil sides of my family, exposing my own fears, insecurities, and dark nature. I know that the person looking at my family, particularly my mom and dad, through the perspective of my writing alone would only be seeing the less than flattering side of my folks. I wrote without them having prior knowledge of my intent and they have both been put under the microscope of my scrutiny. They both have been supportive and understanding of my accounts and I hope they have gained new insights into who I am, what I felt then, and the way I see now.

To put the dark side of my family’s darker nature into perspective I look at what I am surrounded by everyday. I am surrounded by the inmates that are housed at one of Florida’s largest maximum-security prisons. I spend more time with convicted felons then I do my own wife and children. My hours are spent in the presence of some who were just reckless drunks who made that fatal error of getting behind the wheel and inadvertently killed someone in a collision. Men who have ingested, in every form, dealt, manufactured, and delivered every type of drug imaginable. I work with a guy who killed his girlfriend and then took a cigarette and burned the clitoris of his 6-month-old daughter. Rapist, murderers, gang bangers, felons, convicts, inmates, crooks, wards of the state, are who I see all day everyday until I get home and get a few minutes an afternoon with my crew. Let me paint an even more sinister and convoluted picture of the dark side of human nature. This past Tuesday, June 25, 2008, Officer Donna Fitzgerald, of Tomoka C.I. (near Daytona Beach) was raped and murdered by an inmate serving 2 life sentences. This part of the story is not about his dark side but my own. When we heard the news of an Officer Down in the line of duty it brought a hard realization of the dangers of what we do for a living, but it also brings to me a cold, evil, rage that makes my eyes narrow and my heart harden. I imagine that inmate. I see him in the cell at FSP (Florida State Prison – deathrow where Ted Bundy fried.) I have seen the very cell he is in now. I now where he sleeps, where he shits, what he eats. I know that I could take his life from him and regret not being able to take more. I could stomp the living from him and despise him more for getting my new Bates tactical boots bloody. I could do it and I could feel like I avenged the death of an innocent but then I would have made that choice to make myself as evil as him. Don’t get me wrong he deserves to die a slow painful death. He deserves to be publicly humiliated. Defecated on by the masses. But I cannot make that decision and I can’t think about it, I can’t become like him – the wolf. I am not a sheep, I am not a wolf, I am sheepdog. I am the one who protects the sheep from the wolf. I am the one who fights the wolf. I am the one that reminds the sheep when there are no wolves around that there are always wolves out there. I am compared to the wolf because I am strong, I am mean, and I have sharp teeth. As a sheepdog I see the wolves and I see the sheep. I walk alone on the edge of darkness, never treading the actual path of darkness, but never enjoying the ignorant slumber of the mindless sheep either. I realize that I stepped too far into darkness when I fantasized about killing Enoch Hall. I pulled up his rap sheet and reviewed everything I could about him. I even wrote the paperwork in my head covering my ass making everything right within state guidelines. I had form numbers and state statutes covering my “use of lethal force.” That’s the moment that I realized that I was reacting emotionally and that I would never premeditate a murder no matter how justified it seemed. That’s the moment I decided that the stories I wrote detailing my perceptions of my family’s divorce were, in perspective, closing the chapters of darkness from my youth. I’ve sucked the venom out, applied the medicine and bandages, ripped out the sutures and can now see that the wound is healed and no longer needs medical attention. It is now just a mark that I can look at and remember a story in its’ entirety. In contrast the darkest of dark side of my family is nothing in comparison the real evil in this world. So now I get to make some choices. I get to choose how to remember my childhood and youth. You want to know what picture I see? I see my sister and me playing the pool, I see my dad grilling steaks on his Brinkman, I see mom slicing tomatoes from the garden. We eat and laugh, we watch America’s Funniest Home videos, enjoy company, play baseball, listen to music, tell funny stories about each other, or work on a building project.

“Oshean, Haven, you see that? That is Monticello.” I point to the TV as we are watching the History channel special about the America Revolution.

“There’s the Yorktown battle field where Cornwallis surrendered to George Washington. That’s the home of James Madison. It’s called Montpelier. That’s Mount Vernon. It’s the house of George and Martha Washington. That’s Washington D.C…there’s the Capitol… there’s the Lincoln Memorial…the Jefferson Memorial…the National Monument…the reflecting pool…the mall…”

“Dad HOW do you know about all these things that the TV is going to say before it says it?” Haven asks.

“Well I’ve been to all of those places. I’ve been to most of them more than one time, some of them a whole bunch of times.”

“WELL HOW did you get there? I mean, dad, that is a lot of places.” He states in his very matter of fact manner. That’s when I think about some of things that I forgot made me happy, and define who I am, and what my mother gave to me…to all of us. She took us to some of the most important and historic landmarks in America’s history. Appomattox, Bacon’s Castle, Yorktown, Jamestown, Civil War museum, Revolution Museum, Monitor and Merrimac reenactments, Chincoteague Island, Saint Charles Lighthouse, Williamsburg and its many treasures, the beaches, the parks, the picnics, all the things that I look back on and realize that I was privileged to see and experience. My experiences were not confined to the prepackaged controlled environment of a theme park. They were real tangible experiences. I could smell the smells that a slave in a Williamsburg cotton field smelt. I could walk on the bricks that George Washington walked on leading to his house. I could see the chair that my relative Ulysses Simpson Grant sat in when Robert E. Lee surrendered to him and ended the Civil War.

From the day Jessica was born mom spent every day and night working on solutions for making Jess comfortable. She spent countless hours talking to doctors, preachers, anyone who might have information or advise that could help Jess in any way. She never missed a baseball game, basketball game, and came to most tennis matches. She poured herself into organizing the rat nest that my school called a library and of course and of course we never missed church. She was more dedicated to health food and herbal nutrition than I thought was possible. We ate wheat germ pancakes with karo syrup and to this day she starts the day with a barley green extract drink.

Trying to explain my mom is like trying to dig a well with a plastic spork. When I look at my mom I see someone who has tried her whole life to leave the small town little girl of her youth behind. She was too big for a little town and even now I see that little girl trying to be something different – forcing herself to grow into something else. I see her searching for something that will heal some wounds that no one can see. Looking for a philosophy that makes her whole. Trying to find that perfect the alignment of spiritual logic. She shops for jobs like she does cars and clothes – it has to be perfect. One thing that I respect about her that I don’t see in others is that she is always looking and though she tries many things she is just not willing to compromise. She does what she needs to do to make ends meet but she is always looking for the perfect arrangement. May be that’s something I will do once my kids are grown and gone for as long as Jess and I were at home she worked at the Stonebridge library. She was a model of consistency in that sense.

“Dad I think you are doing it wrong.” Haven informs me.

“What’s the problem?” I ask.

“I don’t know but your pie crust does not look good AT ALL!”

“Yeah dad Grandma Lainey’s pies actual look good and taste good.” Oshean says rubbing it in that my pie didn’t look good and probably wouldn’t taste good either. For at least the past 5 years mom has taken up baking pies with the boys every time she visits. It’s what they remember most about her. Taking time, teaching them something, giving them a unique memory that they will carry with them forever.

Mom and dad share some things in common and they are both probably too proud to admit it, but they are alone. They are living their lives in near solitude and they both seem to be running from something. I don’t know what. Don’t get me wrong I’m not working on a parent trap reunion reality show or anything but it seems that they share more in common now than ever.

So here I am trying to show my readers that my family was not and is not the screwed up broken unit from the early 90s as described in my early stories. I’ve grown and I have had to write this to sum up all of my stories. I am ready now. I’ve gotten this summary of perspective out of me and now I have an outline for a book that I have wanted to write for a long time. I finally feel that freedom to write. To write the fictional fantasies based on my life, really historical fiction. I have so many stories to tell. Some happened and some should have happened. I am inspired. So like that dry biscuit I have cleansed my mouth and I am ready for the next portion of the meal.

I should mention that I am really proud of my family. When I was a teen I didn’t pray that my parents would get back together, it would have felt easier, been romantic, but I’ve learned that life’s best rewards seldom have anything to do with easiness. I prayed that we would eventually get along and that we would eventually heal. I think we have, at least the family relations. There are parts of me, parts of all of us that should always be growing and healing. It seems that mom and dad both have some wounds that are not healed. I wish that my mom would look at herself and see the beautiful energetic person that Yahweh created, and even though we should always be growing as people she should know that she is a mom to be proud of, a woman that He is proud of, and a person that she should love and nurture and not be ashamed of. I don’t see big problems that need to be fixed but it always seems that she is trying to fix them.

“Who is that?” Oshean asks as we thumb through some old pictures. My God that’s second ex-wife the barfly whore…

“That’s P-paw’ second wife.” I inform him. I watch him mull it over.

“So are P-paw and Grandma Lainey married?”

“No, but there were for years and years."

“Well if they are not married how come she is always here at P-paw’s house.?” We visit every three years and when we do mom usually stays with dad so we can maximize our visit time.

“Granny Laine likes to spend lots of time with you and Haven and the best way to do that is to stay at the same place as us.”

“well shouldn’t they get married again?” He poses the impossible question.

“I don’t think so buddy. They used to be married and they were not very happy then.”

“Well they are happy now!”

I hope so…I think so.

Life is beautiful…

Personality Profile: Richard Simpson

2008-06-13T18:24:00.000-07:00

I've known my dad for 31 years now. Scratch that, after 31 years I feel like I finally know my dad.

Most young boys growing up in America, that have their dad in their life, usually think that their dad is the biggest, strongest, toughest man in the whole world. I knew my dad was the biggest. I didn't think he was the strongest of the strong, but I knew without a shadow of a doubt that my dad was the toughest man on the face of the earth. I knew that deep down in my inner core. I knew that if we were at the bank and an armed robber tried to hold the place up that my dad would probably rip his throat out...very literally rip his throat out. I knew that if any person on earth tried to harm my sister or I that he would put them down like an AH64 Apache Attack Copter fighting a wooden canoe. He would turn heads with his blazing speed on the softball field and he could cook a pretty mean steak. As a kid I think I pretty much had it made as far as cool dads go. My friends were impressed with his knife collection and to this day my friend Eddie will recall the time that dad lay in wait for him , behind the door, wearing all black and toting a Samurai sword. As we walked into the house dad jumped out screaming like a banshi and waving the sword around his head. It was quite the memorial moment.

When we went camping with my uncle Jim or as a family something primitive would come out of him. It was as if he tapped into his "inner Rambo" when we got to the woods. He would be decked in camo and packing hi 12" Gerber knife. He would have food meticulously packed and planned out and we ate good when we camped - better than at home really. He is known throughout the eastern seaboard for his campfire french toast.

He would get excited when he would hear his favorite songs on the radio and would tell stories of where he was and what he was doing when that song became special to him. We rode our mountain bikes all over southeast Virginia in cycling based charity events and logged hundreds of miles and countless hours combing the back roads of tidewater on 2 wheels. He taught me how to play baseball but more importantly how to compete. He gave me lessons on how and when to fight. The same lessons I am teaching my boys now. He taught me to tap into my deep well of adrenaline and to never give up and never give anything less than 100%. He adored my sister and protected her like a grizzly would it's only cub. Though there seemed to always be conflict between him and mom my early years were pretty much the American dream.

Then in a matter of months it all disappeared. The happiness, the security, the comradery...it was all gone. During my early teen years the only times I was around my dad were chaos filled and traumatic.

Let me backtrack a bit...

"Gabriel, your father wants to speak to you." Mom hands me the phone.
"Gabriel. Hey."
"Hi."
"Look I know we haven't talked in a few months but I wanted it to come from my mouth when you heard that I have met someone that is special to me."
(dead silence)
"We plan on getting married someday. Look I don't want this to be weird. I want you to meet her...here why don't you talk to her now."
He hands the phone to his future second ex-wife and from that moment on things only went downhill.

The things I held in my heart were anger, hurt, and unforgiveness. I didn't understand him and I felt very misunderstood myself. The disconnection between us grew.

3 years ago something happened. Dad's second wife became his second ex-wife. In my view she gave him the ultimatum of choosing her or choosing his daughter. Jessica needed dad and dad needed her and though I know he hurt like hell he made it clear there was no choice. He gave the second ex-wife more than enough headway to make things work and bent over backward to try and keep his marriage but when the frying pan came down she made him make a decision that no parent should have to make. He chose to take care of my sister.

My dad was back!

I can't tell you how proud of him I was, and am. He regeared his daily life. He changed his lifestyle in nearly every way to take the reigns and be dad to my sister her special needs. It wasn't as if he was just letting his 25 year old daughter just crash at his house. He was taking on the burden of getting her back and forth to the doctor, making special meals, helping her get her medicine crushed so she could take it, making up the bandages that cover 80% of her body at all time, and many many other countless things that most parents don't have a concept of the amount of time and effort involved to do it. He changed his life so that he could be a part of Jessica's life.

As I see dad making these mega changes and sacrifices I realize that I'm off in left field holding onto some old irrelevant emotional baggage. I was looking on and feeling like a fool to even feel unforgiving...especially when it was in fact that me who was the one that needed forgiving. I was holding dad to the standards of a 10 year old son looking up to his dad and not giving him the chance to succeed. Once the second ex-wife was gone and no longer a distraction to him or me we began to grow and heal. Seldom does a week go by when we don't talk 1-3 times on the phone. We talk about the boys, about baseball, about cars, and about life among other things.

The past 6 months my dad and I started a project together. It's bigger than the deck, or workshop we built together when I was a kid, more important that than the play fort we put up when we lived in Suffolk, and more thought-out than most skyscrapers. We have been building a studio. It's a 20'x30' building that is intended to relieve the cramped living quarters of our house by giving us unlimited storage but also the much coveted and dreamed about guy-land. It houses all of my musical equipment, Heather's easel and art supplies, a large upright deep freezer, gives us a place to play, and a proper place to have parties and house visitors. Even though dad hasn't seen it in person yet he has been a part of every aspect of the build. When I call and ask him a construction question he will bounce logic off of me
"how deep do I need to dig the footer for a monolithic slab?" I asked
"What does FL building code call for?"
"double the width of the wall."
"I'de go no less than 12" wide and 12" below the bottom of your slab."
"Isn't that overkill?"
"Yes."
"Good lets do it."
With the building nearing completion I can confidently brag that every aspect of the building has been overkill. The building code calls for concrete anchors every 48", we placed them every 32". Code calls for a metal roof to screwed off in 24" increments, we put screws every 18" and every 12" on end wall pieces. We put more than double the requirement for metal bracket and bracing along the wall, tying it into the slab. There was no requirement for re-bar in the footer or slab, we chalked it full of rebar and poured an extra thick footer and slab. The excitement I feel in building this with my dad is equal only to the first time I drove a nail on my own while building that play fort.

The years of old garbage and nonsense have finally melted into the past and I can say that my dad is one of my best friends and one of my most trusted advisors. He is also, hands down, the alpha-granddad to my 2 boys who adore him.

Here's to you dad! My your heart grow stronger and may you live to play with your great-grandchildren. I love you man.

life is beautiful...

Big Fish

2008-06-13T14:15:00.000-07:00

It’s oh so quiet. It’s oh so still. It’ 330am and I am in my office here at work. The soft hum of the air conditioner is the only sound I can hear. It is calming in a way. It is like a mechanical lullaby removing humidity and cooling the air in the room. I don’t want to start the mindless paperwork or review the sticky notes left on my desk by coworkers reminding me of the problems they are having with whatever it is that they want me to give my attention to. My heart isn’t in it today, not even a little bit. I don’t want to deal with convicts’ sorting out their issues. I don’t want go behind a 40 year old man and inspect how well he has cleaned a toilet. I don’t want to worry about a surprise visit from a state inspector and certainly don’t want to deal with the internal affairs investigator who is doing his job but has to swear me in and tape record my testimony in regards to an inmate’s claim that I ordered food service line workers to spit in his food. As crazy as this place can be right now it is my sanctuary. It is the place that I am claiming my “me” time for myself. This reinforced concrete office with steel bars covering 1” bullet resistant glass. Someone has left a tray of fresh sugar cookies on my desk. It must be somebody’s idea of a bad joke or may be they just haven’t heard that my doctor told me that I am “borderline diabetic.” No cookies for me this morning. Even in my momentary distraction with the cookies my mind cant get past the email I got yesterday.

“Hello Gabe,

I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but Richie

passed away this morning…

Best regards,

Dan”

Damn it! He was only 30 years old!

I met Richie when he came to Stonebridge in 7th grade. We hit it off immediately. He had a big toothy grin, was not much more than skin and bones, and had lightness in his step. He had lived in North Carolina and was living in Suffolk after his parents split up. He was the secret weapon from the second string on the basketball team. He was better than most of the starters but it didn’t seem to bother him a bit that he wasn’t in the first string line up. I remember the first time he spent the night. Our French teacher, Mr. Ferguson, took all of the French classes to the Naro Theater in Norfolk to see Cyrano de Bergerac. The field trip was optional and the only people that went were Richie, me, and I think Kim Watkins was there. After the movie we went back to my house where Richie impressed my mom with his manners and southern charm. Every time he said “yes ma’am” she would cut her eyes at me as if saying “this is how a good son speaks to his mother.” We stayed up late going through mom and dad’s record collection. He was very impressed that we listened to the Grateful Dead, Pink Floyd, and the Doors. We bawdily sang the lyrics to Uncle John’s Band at the top of our lungs while swimming in the pool well after dark. Mom came out and stopped us before we got the “Goddamn, well I declare, have you seen the like?” lyric. As we walked through the house getting ready to go bed Richie did his best Jim Morrison Impression from the end. “He came to the room where his sister lived, and then he…he paid a visit to the BATHROOM! And then he…HE WALKED ON DOWN THE HALL!!!” Mom interrupted our cackling “that’s enough boys. Go to bed.” I fell asleep learning about fishing as Richie rambled on about his favorite hobby.

We used to make up the most complicated handshakes that we could think of. “shake, grab, slide, snap, point, pivot thumbs to pinky shake, top fist/bottom fist, dat, forearms, and then hips.” One night at a basketball game we were standing in line to get a pop and our dad’s walked up. They had met each other before and when they shook each other’s hands they addressed each other. “Dick” my dad said as he shook Rickkie’s dad’ hand “Dick” said Mr. Spears as shook me dad’s hand back. Me and Richie fell out laughing. From that day forward we never called each other by our names, we just continued to mock our dad’s and call each other “Dick.” We weren’t trying to be ugly we just thought it sounded funny.

“As we get closer to the river, we see everybody's already there. And I mean everybody… And that's the way it happens.” Will Bloom is describing his dad’s death in the fantastical way that Edward had been telling stories his entire life. “You become what you always were. A very big fish.*” At that moment Heather and I lost it at the same time. It has only been 3 weeks since Grandma died and we are just now beginning to feel the loss. We have been so preoccupied with taking care of her before she passed, then the funeral arrangements, then taking care of her stuff, talking to all of the people, family, and whatnot, and then wrapping up all the business ends of things that no one took a chance to grieve.

Bruce sang in Terry’s Song “They say you can't take it with you, but I think that they're wrong /'Cause all I know is I woke up this morning, and something big was gone.”

In 84+ years of living, and I mean living, there are many stories. Too many to be told here but I can tell you that grandma was a big fish and her stories will be told in my family for generations to come. Grandma was sort of an enigma to me. At first glance she was a little old church lady from the country, a widow who kept to herself and made little impression. Grandma did the sorts of things that grandmas are supposed to do. She would compliment my guitar playing, even if I was butchering Hendrix, she would fatten you up with the best home cooked meal ever tasted, kept a clean house and could spoil grandchildren and great-grandchildren with love and treats like no other. After years of seeing her every week I realized that that was perhaps what made her special. She was always there. Not just at the birthday parties and holidays that everyone makes such a thunderous big deal out of but during the in between days. The days when the living of life takes place. She rarely missed a week. She was there when my kids took their first steps, learned to talk, run, throw, and get into to trouble. She would change diapers, mow the yard, clean house, cook a huge supper, and still find time to sit on the couch and watch the kids watch spongebob. The things that made her an enigma were the stories that she would stare when we were one on one. The stories that reminded me of her granddaughter when she was 19. Funny stories from when she was a newlywed. Stories that made her sound like she was a cool 17 year old girl that I would have wanted to hang out with when I was that age. Just when I assumed she was a sweet old lady who someone might try and take advantage of or who seemed unaware of the seedy way that the 21st century worked she would surprise me. She knew exactly what was going on and didn’t miss much. She was like an old stoic Indian chief sitting, waiting, listening, watching, and absorbing everything that she was around. I cannot fathom what Ginny and Heather are feeling. Ginny was her only child and Heather her only grandchild. I can’t know what they are feeling and I won’t insult them by attempting to explain them or what I think they might be feeling. I can only describe what I have observed within my own relationship with grandma. She adopted me as a grandson and I am proud that she is the matriarch of my family. I will honor her by passing her values onto my own children and grandchildren and hopefully great grandchildren.

After watching Big Fish the boys and me went to the shop to work on the bathroom cabinet for the studio. As I stood working at the bench my gaze went past what I was working on and rested on my youngest son and what he was working on. He had taken a 12”x4”x1” piece of wood for a base, 2 long skinny pieces for rails, and 2 short pieces that he stuck in the middle. He had taken wood glue and was clamping each piece down with Jorgensen wood clamps just like he had seen his grandpa and me do before. He looked up and saw me and said “look dad I am building a boat. Actually it’s the Titanic. Look these are the smoke stacks.” Here is this kid who has difficulty speaking properly, who “hates learning” (his words), and it borderline defiant about doing homework…here he is applying design theory, geometric concepts, and construction techniques that most adults don’t get. Behind him I see my 8 year old holding my old Les Paul copy guitar. The one that I bought when I was 15, the one that was originally red, multicolored cosmic swirl, was once covered in pennies, upholstered in velvet, but is now bare wood. I asked Oshean what he was doing and he said “I was just practicing the peter-tonic scale that you showed me.” I was floored. I had thought, until that moment, that I had left my dreams of being a structural engineer and a rock n roll guitar player. But I hadn’t left my dreams, my dreams left me and went to my kids. My boys are better than they ever hoped of being at things they are good at. Those dreams are their dreams now, and new dreams came to me as well. My dreams, my goals, my life is now with the life of my family. I want my home, not just my house, to be a sanctuary for my family, and those they choose to make a part of our family, for generations to come. My dreams, and I think its safe to say Heather’s dreams too, are to see our children succeed, to see our family grow and be successful in life, not just at a career but in their families and their relationships. I realize just as my dreams passed on to my children, I think that grandma’s dreams passed on to Heather and me. We want to raise intelligent, sensitive kids into wise, wary, loving people. I want God to use them to bless others just like Richie and Grandma did. I want them to know that no matter how big the pond, lake, river, or ocean they find themselves in that they can become big fish.

*Big Fish is a Tim Burton movie staring Albert Finney and Ewan McGregor. You need to watch it again. Every time I watch it I gain something from it.

Life is...

On my back

2008-06-13T14:12:00.000-07:00

"To hell with the eagles they are over rated." I hear my dad tell Cadillac Jim.

"You don't know your ass from a hole in the ground." Dad and Jim are learning to play guitar together, well at least at the same time, there is nothing "together" about it. Jim lives in Dumfries, VA which is about 170 miles away. He has an old sunburst finished box, but he splits his attention by trying to play mouth harp too. Quoting a recent movie about blues music called Crossroads, Jim adds, in his best attempt of an 80 year old negro from the Mississippi delta: "if you don't play no harp, you don't get no pussy." Of course my mom would have had a heart attack if she knew I heard him say that. As much as I love my uncle Jim I am enamored with the instrument in my dad's hands. It is bright and clean and new. It says Dixon on the headstock and sounds like what I imagine every guitar player on earth wanted their guitar to sound like. Dad had saved money from his overtime checks and I remember him and mom fighting over the purchase of the Dixon 6 string and the Takimine 12 string guitar that he bought. I remember we ate a lot of scrambled eggs and toast for supper for the next 2 months. The 12 was also very awesome but seemed complicated and daunting. My future lay with the 6 string git fiddle.

"gabe, what the fuck was that?!" Rob yelled at me. I was laying in my bed in Dunn Hall at Chowan College in Murfreesboro, NC. Apparently I had rolled over and banged my guitar against the block wall that my bed was next to. "Why in the hell do you sleep with that fucking thing anyway?" Rob talked as if he was a construction worker from Staten Island even though he was born and raised in north east North Carolina. No sentence was complete without the "f" bomb. Of course this seemed natural to me. Anytime a building project was going on at our house we were in for barrage of steady vulgarities from dad and before long it was accepted into the normal Simpson family lexicon.

I started sleeping with her in 8^th grade. She would lay there as I hugged her curves, fingering chords in the dark, singing butchered versions of Midnight Oil, U2, Mellencamp, and Cure songs. I fell asleep many nights on my back with the Dixon on my chest. Every now and then I would wake and she would have a song waiting for me. I would just know what to play as if she were guiding my fingers and the words were on a piece of paper that I could see in my head well enough to read and sing along to. Dream songs are some of the best gifts she has ever given. We still nap together sometimes, nearly 20 years later.

"listen to this." Andy begins to play the intro to Sunday Bloody Sunday.

"play C-D-G, like this." He shows me the rhythm part and he starts back into the intro. He amazed me. We had started playing Guitar around the same time but he could just listen to a song one time and then sit down and pick out the chords from inside of his head. We played the verses to that song for 5 hours straight. In 9^th grade Andy came to Stonebridge and I knew that we would be playing music together for the rest of lives. Hopefully we would get better at it. We eventually did. That night we stayed up until dawn drinking Food Lion brand orange pop, eating popcorn, and laying with our guitars strumming the half a dozen chords we knew.

4 years later Andy and I had come full circle. We went from the kids in the youth group at church sitting and listening to teen leaders to becoming the teen leaders of the new batch of younger teens. We were at a weekend camping trip in Newport News, VA. I had showed up late as I had to work at the grocery store that evening. Andy was there and had been involved with all the activities like hiking and canoeing and whatnot. There was a campfire and Bob Keller had brought his guitar. There was a time of singing praise and worship songs that we had all had heard in church our whole lives. Then there was a time of prayer. Somebody started crying, and then a few more. They were repenting on their knees in the dirt, laying their heart out before Elohim inviting Him in and feeling the comfort only He can offer. I had my Dixon and felt lead to play. Andy borrowed Mr. Keller's box and I began a song in G that I had never played before.

"I have loved
I have lost
I have fought with my brother
I have loved
And I have lost
And still I have found no other"

I was singing words I didn't know and playing chords I had never practiced. I listened to Andy and he was playing the most melodious lead and alternate chords as if we had been practicing this for years. My heart was aching from a recent break-up with my high school steady and I was still in a constant stressed out limbo between my parents whose intent seemed to be nothing less than to make their divorce as horrible and painful on me and Jess as they could. I don't know what Andy was feeling but it was all over his face. His eyes closed, head back and wailing on the guitar in a peaceful yet ecstatic rage of love and yearning. The kids had circled and some were still crying and praying. Some were head to head bowed together supporting each other. Andy began the next song. This one I did know. It was called This Love and was a tune that Andy had recently written. It was a simple and beautiful story of How a loving Father and Savior sacrificed everything for the life of His children. At the end of the chorus the lyric is "my son I love you with This love" and Andy spread his arms to indicate the ultimate price ever paid – the crucifixion. We went straight into a song we wrote together called Like a Dove, which was about the comfort of Yahweh's spirit giving one rest and warmth and healing. Mom said that the music reminded her of a James Taylor tune – which was the biggest compliment my mother has ever given me.

It was over 20 years ago when she entered my life, and I still play my Dixon everyday. She hangs on a rack in our living room watching our family grow. I imagine it sees my boys and hopes that they too will pick her up and have a life full of experiences all across this land one day with her like I did. I am waiting for her to give me her next dream song.

Life is beautiful...

The story I have avoided telling so far

2008-06-13T14:09:00.001-07:00

"And we live by the side of the road / On the side of a hill / As the valley explode / Dislocated, suffocated / The land grows weary of its own"

The train gently rocks back and forth as we wind our way through the Pennsylvanian country side. I watch the sunset over distant hill and loose myself in the image of my own thoughts escaping over the horizon. My body shifts forward as the train comes to a stop. It is about 9:30pm and I have no idea why we have stopped. Just then I hear an explosion, then another. It sounds like guns and canons going off. "Look mommy!" a child exclaims "fireworks!" I was so preoccupied that I didn't realize that we had stopped to watch the Independence Day celebration of a small town in the middle of the American heartland. "May be we are in Youngstown." As soon as the fireworks are finished we continue on our way. I am bound for Birmingham, Michigan, a suburb of Detroit, to get some serious tennis instruction at Keating Brothers tennis club. I lay back against the window, put my headphones back on and try to get some rest. My eyelids let a single tear escape. My heart and head had been racing for 2 weeks solid. Full of anger, chaos, and sorrow I press play.

"The city walls are all pulled down / The dust, a smoke screen all around / See faces ploughed like fields that once / Gave no resistance"

I am soothed but still swollen and sore from the sickness of the situation in the Simpson home. My parent's divorce is wrecking everything and everyone involved. I can see my sister's skin disease getting worse by the day. My mom is so emotionally erratic that anything seems possible from her. Whenever we see my dad he is drunk, angry, or aloof. The only time we do see him is when he is getting his stuff from the house with barely a hello or goodbye to us. He is living with some woman now and things didn't seem like they could get any worse. Of course anytime one thinks that things can't get any worse they usually do.

"And you know it's time to go / Through the sleet and driving snow / Across the fields of mourning / Light in the distance"

There is some shuffling about in the seats a few rows up and across the aisle. There is an Arab looking couple wearing robes, veils, and turbans. They are chanting some prayer. "They must be really religious to pray out loud like that." I think to myself. My own spirituality and religion had been something that was very important to me. I was praying almost constantly, reading scripture daily, at church all the time, and having deeply religious debates/discussions with friends and classmates on a regular basis. With all the chaos in my life my relationship with my savior seemed to be the only thing that sustained me. It was the only thing that was concrete and rooted deep enough to keep me from not being completely blown away. I was holding on very tightly to a scripture in Psalms that says "though my mother and father have forsaken me, the Lord will take me up (hold me as a child.)* Just 2 weeks before I believe that I lived that promise. I felt like I had the strength of Sampson. ("Sampson Simpson – now that's a good name for a baby boy.")

I was in Birmingham for 2 weeks and for 2 weeks I was in a different world. I was staying with the brother of my high school principal/tennis coach, his beautiful wife, and amazing 9 month old daughter. For 2 weeks I ate awesome food and got to see such things as the home of Isaiah Thomas, the high school of BJ Armstrong, and the Detroit Tigers beat the Anaheim Angels, in old Tiger Stadium. I got to go to an awesome church full of young people who thought like me and were alive like me. Above all I got to play tennis with some of the most talented junior tennis players in the country at that time. I got to hang out in the pro-shop with beautiful college girls that were teaching lessons during their summer break. They flirted with me just enough to make me fall in love all 6 of them. I played in a USTA sanctioned tournament against nationally ranked juniors and even though I played the best tennis of my life I came in dead last. I was proud to play against the caliber of players that I was surrounded by. I was becoming a better player just by being around them. I was becoming a better person just by being around the Keating family. I was feeling quite sane for the first time ever.

"Tonight we'll build a bridge / Across the sea and land / See the sky, the burning rain
/ She will die and live again / Tonight"

It was an awesomely beautiful Saturday morning in mid-June southeastern Virginia. The humidity was rising as were the most blood thirsty mosquitoes on earth (the mosquitoes indigenous to P-town have been known to drain cows and horses in a single drink.) But I had beaten them both by 10am and had already mowed over an acre of grass with my trusty push mower. Jessica was up when I came in and was watching Saturday morning cartoons and eating Kix straight out of the box. I wasn't sure where mom was. It had been about 8 months since the whole separation/divorce thing had kicked off and no one was feeling stable. Dad had been working and living in Maryland for a few years, so we hadn't seen much of him before but now that he was living with his whore of a girlfriend in Maryland we hardly ever saw him. Mom walks in and its clear that she has been crying. She puts on her smile and mixes up some vitamin herbal shake that reminded me that I needed to clean off the lawn mower – as her drink was indeed the same color, smell, and texture as gasoline and fresh cut grass mixed together.

The day was bright and almost hinted at the sign of hope. I was going to tennis camp in 2 weeks and that night I was going to youth group with my best friend. Summer vacation had really just gotten going good when it all seemed to end so very abruptly that day.

"The wind will crack in winter time / This bomb-blast lightning waltz / No spoken words, just a scream..."

Bono's soaring vocals, Larry's impellent drumming, Adam's driving bass, and Edge's swirling, chiming guitar soundscapes are mixing in my mind like a whirlwind carrying me to another place. The conductor taps me on the shoulder and says "excuse me young man. Dinner is being served on the dining car." So I'm like "OK! I'm starving." I had been on the train for 24 hours at this point and was no further than Ohio on the evening of the 5^th of July.

As I was seated at the fancy dining table I couldn't help but feel important. "That must be some important rising tennis star." I could almost hear them say "he must be sponsored by Reebok since he has matching Reebok shoes, shorts, and windbreaker!" they must be too embarrassed to say it out loud. I am reviewing my choices for supper when a young married couple was seated at my table. The said little more than "hello" and offered no travel stories, no tails from the road, and were down right rude by not asking me about my journey. I thought all of us travelers were supposed to be full of war stories from adventures abroad so I was disappointed by this couple. "Posers" I tell myself as I wait for my food. I had Salisbury steak. It was dry, bland, and the side dish was sautéed onions. So I was more of less starving by the end of the meal when I got the bill. "Wait a second! Isn't the food included in the price of the train ticket?" I thought to myself. I saw the other people paying so I pull out my Reebok wallet and pay the $40 for a bad meal that I didn't even eat. I walked back to my seat dejected. That's when I realized that the real travelers had not even gone to the dining car. They had saved their money and were eating trail mix and pre-made sandwiches. I also realized that no one was looking at me, the mediocre tennis player from a broken home, wearing last year's Reebok apparel bought at a discount outlet store. If I was getting any looks or thoughts it was that I was too young to be traveling by myself. It was at this moment that I felt more alone than I have felt in my entire life. I sit down and put my headphones back on, noting that my wallet held half of the cash that it held when I started this trek.

"And your heart beats so slow / Through the rain and fallen snow / Across the fields of mourning / Lights in the distance"

I hear dad's truck pull in the driveway. Mom continues trying to swallow her vita-grass-shake and Jess and I look at each other. We were excited to see dad, anxious as to what might come, and already a little angry at his presence. His presence was merely a reminder of his absence. We hear dad shut his door and walk around the house to the back yard. We watch him get some things out of "the boat" [we named our shed "the boat" since we built a state of the art shed instead of getting the boat that we had talked about getting for years.] He walked back around to the front of the house. All the while Jess and I are sitting there not knowing what to do and mom acting like he wasn't there. Finally he walks in and goes straight to his old bedroom directly avoiding us. Mom had had enough and waited for him to come out of the bedroom. When he came out she asked "what? You are not going to say hi to your children" ignoring her he stuck his head in the kitchen and said "hi guys." That was it. He turned around to leave when mom started following him and grilled him about how he was acting. He turned around and said "fuck you bitch! Get off my fucking back!" As he turned and tried to leave mom exploded. "You can't talk to me like that in front of my children!" at this point they both started screaming and nearly every word was indecipherable. Mom was in hysterics. I heard dad open the door to his truck and told her to get away. This is the moment that the mushroom cloud formed. There had already an explosion but now we knew that this was getting ready to go from bad to really bad and really serious. As mom was standing at dad's truck door screaming he revved up his motor and snatched it in reverse. The side mirror brushed up against mom and she spun loosing her balance. As she stumbled she reached out and grabbed the, then new and very popular, bug shield on the front of dad's truck breaking it off in her hand. Instead of continuing backwards down the driveway he put it drive and gunned the truck towards mom. She had stood up and was then directly in front of the truck. She pushed herself up and off of the hood and was flung into the flower bed. Jess yelled "Go Gabe!" As I ran out the door I saw that dad had gotten out of his truck and was walking towards mom with a clinched fist and a pointing finger. "Get away from my mother!" I screamed as I jumped down the steps and over the bushes where mom had fallen. Mom had stood up and was taking backward steps but still running her mouth. Dad was cursing her using the most vulgar words of insanity and chaos I had ever heard at that point in my life. I stood between them told mom to run inside. "Jessica call the police!" I shouted. Mom did not go inside and I was chest to chest with my dad. He was reaching over me towards mom when I finally pushed him. He only took a step back absorbing the weak shove and pushed me aside as he grabbed mom with his left hand. His right fist was balled up and in a "cocked" position and he was moving in to punch her in the face. Mom's voice was full of fear and sounded like a wounded puppy when she whimpered "Dick. Let go of me. You are hurting me." As soon as I regained my balance I mustered everything I had inside of me and I tackled dad around the waist, picking up his body and using all of my force to land him on his back. Over the bushes both of us went. He hit his upper back and neck against the house and pelvis hit the ground. I could hear the wind being forced out of his lungs and my shoulder and all of my weight crushed his chest. I stood up quickly ready for another blow if need be. I saw that mom had finally gone inside. I told dad "this is my house now. Leave and don't ever come back!"

"And you hunger for the time / Time to heal, desire, time / And your earth moves beneath / Your own dream landscape"

I had 2 tapes with me on that trip Mortal's Lusis album and Wide Awake in America by U2. The Mortal tape broke early on and so I was left with U2's 4 song EP to carry me the entire way. Every song was burned into my permanent memory on that journey. Every song seemed ultra relevant as if Yahweh Himself was the DJ. The train rolled into the station 9 hours behind schedule at 2am. I thought I knew what a "bad part of town" looked like. I soon found that my definition of bad was going to have to change. The train/bus station in downtown Toledo, Ohio looks like it had been built in the 1920's with little improvements since then. Its architecture was somewhat art-deco with huge arched rafters and square glass tiles, everything else was black and grey. The floor was concrete and my footsteps echoed across the empty place. It smelled of urine and vomit and there were homeless people lying all along the edges of the walls. I found some chairs to sit in and they all had TVs attached to them. Most of the TVs had been broken with baseball bats or pipes. The chairs were filthy and there were a couple drunks passed out occupying as many as they could cover. I moved as far as I could from the drunks happy to be on solid ground. It was cold, I was hungry, and I was carrying a bag full of tennis rackets, and a suitcase full of shorts, and t-shirts none of which would fill my belly or warm my body. I admitted out loud that I was scared. I sat with my eyes popping out of my head looking for bad guys and bums who would want to take my tennis rackets. Around 4 am I heard gunshots outside and soon after I saw lights of police cars. The bullet holes in the bathroom stall door were nothing if not unnerving. I put my headphones back on and immediately hear bono scream "I'm wide awake, I'm wide awake, wide awake
/ I'm not sleeping / Oh no, no, no!"

When I walked back into the house after I made sure dad was gone, I found mom and Jessica sitting on mom's bed crying. I took their hands and I prayed for peace and rebuked the spirits of chaos and dysfunction in our home. As the days dragged by before my big trip was to come I was doing everything I could to make money to buy clothes and to have my rackets restrung in preparation for my trip. About 2 days before I was to leave I was mowing the neighbors yard across the street when I saw my uncle Wade drive up. I walked across the street to see him but soon realized that he chauffeuring my dad. Mom and Jess had gone to the doctor so I was not in fear of another situation occurring but I knew walking up to the passenger window of Wade's truck that this was going to test me as the leader of the family.
"Gabriel"
I nod in acknowledgement, trying to be tough.
"You still going on your trip?"
"Yep."
"Look I wanted to let you know that you did the right thing the other day."
"I know."
He sat dumbfounded.
"I am going to be gone for 2 weeks. Do NOT come around while I am gone."
"You'll need this for your trip" he said as he handed me an envelope with $100 in it. Uncle Wade poked his head out with that "what the hell am I doing here?" smile on his face and said something like "have a good trip." I stood in the street for a moment after they left. As I walked back to the neighbor's yard I ripped up the five twenty dollar bills in the envelope and threw them in the sewage drain.

Life was changing. It was opening up for me. Waiting for me to taste it, to taste and feel the things I had dreamed about. I was not the first 15 year old to travel across the country alone but this was my time and it was all new for me. I was going to earn my experiences. They would not be bought with guilt money.

"Oh, oh, oh...on borderland we run... / And still we run / We run and don't look back / Ill be there / Ill be there / Tonight / Tonight"

In retrospect I can see that the 2 weeks I had with the Keating brothers, their families, and the people that I got to meet and be with and the experiences I had were a 2 week buffering period for me mentally. They were like a 2 week crash course in learning how to be a man. After that time I have fought with and fought for everything and everyone I have ever loved. I never found rest and acceptance like I did in Birmingham until my girlfriend (now wife) brought me to the enchanted land of Lafayette county, Florida. Her family accepted me without hesitation, without judgment, confusion, or fear. They brought me in and showed me how a family is supposed to act and they loved me for who I was. I felt immediately that this place would become my home.

"Ill be there tonight...i believe / Ill be there...somehow"

The combination bus and train ride back from Detroit was nothing less than a marathon/endurance test. It took 39 hours to travel 700 miles. It felt like I could walk it faster. After 8 hours of lay over in DC we finally started the last leg of the journey towards my home. I put my headphones on for the last time. I had gone through 24 "AA" batteries on my walkman playing 1 tape that had only 4 songs on it. The batteries that I had in it leaving DC were already dragging. The last song that played I thought was so fitting for my recent adventure. It had been a month since my world was shaken to the core and now I was coming home a difference person. A boy accepting that he was being thrust into an awkward role as a man. I stepped off of the train at the Newport News train station proud to be blessed with the opportunity to earn the few miles I now had under my belt. I made a few decisions and had done a lot of praying on the trip home. I resolved to never be afraid again. To never let fear rule me. To never show weakness and to never fail anyone I loved. I would never cry again and I hardened myself to be strong in my heart and mind. One journey ended and a new began and the words to "a sort of homecoming" rang in my head.

"Oh don't sorrow, no don't weep / For tonight, at last / I am coming home / I am coming home."

(If only I could have kept those promises I made to myself that day.)

life is beautiful...

Blue faced demon

2008-06-13T13:57:00.000-07:00

Today I saw the face of a demon. He possessed a black man, age 36. I was to observe him one-on-one for 8 hours as he has attempted suicide. His rich hued skin was as red and bronze as it was brown. His muscles were smooth and his eyes tranquil as he greeted me. He lay silent on his mat. As I made my inspection of the dormitory and filled out my daily paperwork I heard a fight break out in the black man's cell. There was shouting and scuffling about. When I arrived at the cell door I did not find the man I had left, instead I found a man standing straight up, his muscles rigid and his veins bulging. He opened and closed his fists as if they were marionettes controlled directly by his beating heart the puppeteer. His eyes were blood shot and his pupils black. His hair was standing up and he wore a grimacing smirk across his face. He had thrown off his smock and suicide blanket and from the tip of his penis dripped blood. He had been ripping at his penis violently as if trying to tear the tip off. He had been punching the walls and floor and then threw himself against the door, cutting his forehead. The most disturbing thing was not that his muscles were twitching all over his body, or that his penis was bleeding but that his skin tone had changed from a rich earth tone to a grayish-blue, cold, and scale like leather. He looked across the hall and yelled through the one inch thick bullet proof glass cell door "do you know Miss Rodriguez? When I get out I will find her and rape her in the ass and then I will kill her." Just then the nurse left her station and walked down the hall. He screamed "let me out of this fucking cell! Wait until I am out! Wait until that nurse HAS to see me. I will fucking kill her and I will rape her white ass until it bleeds!!!"

This is that moment that I never thought could happen. This is that moment when all these years of becoming a man come together and something inside takes over. This is when that "fight or flight" instinct takes over. I do not claim to be a great spiritual warrior. I do not claim to be a great man of God, but I know my place. I know what is in my heart. Or, I should say "who" is in my heart.

At this point he had been looking past me, never looking at me or in my eyes. As I walked closer to the cell door he began to scream threats. "I'm gonna kill your cracker ass. You devil. I'm gonna get out of here and I'm going to find your wife and I'm going to kill her and rape her! I'm going to kill the captain and I'm going to rape his wife until she bleeds." Then he got on all fours, still nude, and backed up to the door screaming, taunting "I'm your dog, you're my master. Fuck me in the asshole master. Fuck me master." At this point I called for his attention. He turned to me and said "Fuck your Jesus Christ! Fuck your messiah! Fuck you!"

In a firm but calm voice I ordered the "beast" to stand up, put on his smock, walk to the back of his cell, lay down on his mat, and to be quiet. He immediately, as if he were a robot, obeyed my orders. He was fast asleep within minutes.

A few hours later I opened the flap to his cell and let the orderly place his breakfast tray on the flap. The orderly left and the black man in the cell looked up, made eye contact, and in a gentle voice said "thank you officer Simpson."

The balance of things

2008-06-13T13:46:00.000-07:00

Ever had one of those days, or weeks, or even months when you feel like you are really hitting your stride? When you can do no wrong. When you are feeling accomplished and whole. When you are happy and you know that you are bringing happiness and wholeness to those around you. Those days when you walk to the mailbox knowing that there should be nothing but bills and junk mail and finding of those rare things of the past - a hand written letter from an old friend telling you how good life is for them and how they are thinking about you. One of those days when you reach into your empty pocket and find a dollar bill and then it turns out to be a twenty. One of those days when you wave at a stranger and then see them smile. One those weeks when you somehow spend enough time with everyone who wants to see you and have somehow gotten the quality alone time that you feel you need. One of those weeks when you impress your boss. One those weeks that you hit no red lights, gas prices drop, your check book is balanced with a surplus, and you have change to put in a blind man's cup. That week that that big idea that you went out on a limb for and talked everyone else to believe in pays off and everyone benefits for it.

I have had those days.
I have had those weeks.

But his is not one of those days.

This is one those weeks when everything that can go wrong, does, and then gets worse. When you can't get enough sleep. When your body aches all over, all of the time. When you don't get to be with the ones that you love. When you have an abscessed tooth and it’s over a week until your appointment to get it out. When you feel ugly inside and out. When you burn a good meal that everyone has been looking forward to. When you bust you ass at work only to not be noticed or appreciated, and then have only more shit work dumped on you. This is one of those flat tire, late for school, forgot your homework kind of days. This is the day your dog gets hit by a truck and you have to put him down because his back is broken and he is writhing and screaming in agonizing pain. This the day that your favorite grandpa dies. This the week that when you want and need your family the most that you cant seem to find a minute to spend with them. This is the day that you walk out your back door and scream "my God why have you forsaken me?!" and hear nothing in reply. this the day that you lay on your face on the floor to wail but no tears will come out. This is the day that you want to talk to someone but no one calls and every number you dial has been disconnected. This is the day that you have twelve new messages in your inbox but every one of them is spam, not even an automated myspace message.

This is the day that your child says something that throws your life into perfect crystal clear perspective. This is the day that you realize you have been only thinking of yourself and that the world moves with or without you. You realize that you don't have problems, you don't have any real obstacles, you have on blinders and have not seen the cushion of hands outstretched towards you, holding you up, pushing you to succeed, caressing you when you fail. This is the day you look at your children playing and your beautiful wife sleeping and realize that no matter how shitty you think you have it your life is a thousand times better than any one you have ever met. You are more blessed than you ever hoped, prayed, or dreamt about.

son: "mom can we go to grandma's house?"
wife: "grandma is at work."
son: "is she at the same work as you?"
wife: "No she watches ms. martha's kids. you kow ms. martha from the doctor's office?"
son: "I mean, I know that thats good for grandma but why does she have to do that? I mean, where is ms. martha at?"

son walks away mumbling "those kids must have a bad dad."

life is beautiful...

The Ten Year Story (August 2007)

2008-06-13T12:37:00.001-07:00

So have you ever sat down to something nearly impossible? For the past month I have been writing a blog in my head, on napkins at work, on the back of discipline reports, and on various pieces of construction paper laying around the house that haven’t been marked with monster trucks or dinosaurs. I have tried to approach it as a biographical piece, or a straight telling of the history, but 10 years of marriage, 11.5 years of dating in a blog is like trying to herd cats, or count sand. I could write about our plans. I could write a lesson-oriented blog about the trials of marriage, but we are still learning those lessons everyday. I could write about the kids and the supernatural, surreal moments that being a parent provides, but this blog isn't really about the kids. Its about a country girl escaping the one the most remote areas of the country and an immature guy trying to be an adult. I guess this blog will just be whatever it is...a story about redemption, a picture, a feeling, a culture, a winding trail in the mountains.

"I don't ever want to get married."
"me neither. Its a good thing we are dating since we both agree that we never want to be married."
Sitting on our swing in Squirrel Park feeling the warmth of the summer sun we never could have imagined that our lives were about to begin. Sort of like scadooing* into the encyclopedia of life.

When Mrs. Lucas asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up I said "I want to be married and have kids." what makes a kid want that sort of thing? I don't know but that’s what I wanted. That same year, in first grade, we sat and figured out how old we would be when the century changed. Who knew that my dream of being a husband and a dad would be realized before the end of the century?

"What do you want to do this weekend?" heather asked.
"I’m not sure, what do you want to do?" this is how most conversations start between us, the question and counter-question. Both of us trying to be considerate by not pushing an agenda.
"I don’t know that’s why I asked you first."
"Well what do you have in mind? You must have some idea since you were thinking about it."
"I wanted to know what you wanted to do, that’s why I asked."
"I’m not sure what I want to do. What do you feel up to?"
heather was pregnant with Oshean at this point.
"Do you want to go the beach and go camping?"
"Yes"
"Okay lets go"
So we load our tent and gear into the back of heather's red mustang and head towards the outer banks. We drive for 2 hours and get to the campground at Oregon inlet (south Nags Head Island in North Carolina.) We get to the campground at about 11pm. It looked totally full but we found one spot. We went to register and pay but no one was in the office. So we got an envelope but we didn’t have our checkbook and we weren't going to drop our only $20 in the box for an $8 campsite. So we decided to go ahead and camp since we came so far. It was cool that night. The sound of the ocean caressing the sand all night eased us both into a deep sleep. We snuggled and around dawn we both cracked our eyes open and breathed in some of the best air in the world. As heather got up and was getting ready for the day I was standing at the back of the mustang loading in some of our gear when I saw the park ranger coming around. He was looking for people who had stayed the night and had not paid - which would be us. Wanting to be honest but to not get in trouble I warned heather that the gig was up and we needed to head out. The site of my beautiful pregnant wife scuttling about with her cute little pregnant belly was permanently burned into my long-term memory. She was like wind moving in and about everything effortlessly. In one movement we picked up the tent and folded it like a burrito and threw it in the back of the mustang. It wasn’t that we thought that we would get in serious trouble its that we wanted to eat and only had $20. So we piled our junk in the mustang and hauled booty out of there. We felt like Bonny and Clyde. The butterflies of naughtiness were in full flight in our bellies as we went down the road. We popped in our smashing pumpkins tape, grabbed each other’s hand and smiled. We were in this together.

[I don’t remember much of anything else about that trip. the next couple of times we went camping there we overpaid to make up for our heathen criminal act.]

July 1997.
"We have a problem. Every pastor we have asked to do the wedding has been unavailable or has backed out for various reasons." Heather's mom told us. We went into scramble mode and finally the new pastor at the local church agreed to do it. This was within one week of the wedding. I spoke to the pastor on the phone and his one condition before marrying us was that we had to sit through one session of marriage counseling. We arrived at the church in the middle of one of the hottest days I have ever experienced. We walked in the empty church and sat down. It was quiet and empty. Finally the short chubby preacher with rosy cheeks came out and greeted us. He gave us some books to read and work books to go over after we were married and then began a sort of interview process. It became clear that heather and I were the least likely candidates for a successful marriage. My parents were divorced. Her parents though married were pretty much the example of what we did not want to be, closed off and seemingly uninterested in each other. We were too young, too poor, too immature, I was still in college, heather would be supporting both of us...the situation was not ideal for efficiency, but we sat there and answered his questions. We have never done things the easy way. In fact we have probably looked quite foolish to others. It feels that we have spent 10 years figuring out that we will never have it fully figured out. in fact we are now really leery of people who insist that they have anything figured out. Right now this life is about the journey. The journey together. We are journeying together towards eternity. We feel blessed by Yahweh to have any success, yet at the same time we are oozing with success.

After our conversation and bonding over the fact that we didn't want to be married we realized that we were perfect for each other and that we didn't want any more than to be married to one another.
"I want to spend the rest of my life with you, do you mind?"

*Reference to blues clues when Steve "scadoos" into a book and is transported to another world

Life is beautiful…

All along the train tracks.

2008-06-13T11:53:00.000-07:00

The wind is from the south and is uncharacteristically cool as my youngest son Haven and I set out on our adventure. It is Monday morning and we have all day to ourselves. Oshean is at school and Heather is at work so we intend to enjoy some one on one father son time out in the woods. We head due west behind the old barn with the combine in it and around a dried-up pond; we find a deer trail and follow it. We found fresh deer, hog, raccoon, and turkey signs along the trail as we come up to the old LOP&G railroad track (Live Oak, Perry, & Gainesville,) also affectionately known as the "lopin' gopher." The crossties and tracks were taken a long time ago, before I was ever around here, creating a path that is wide and smooth. When Heather was a little girl the train still ran through here. We continued along the railroad path south by southwest and then headed off into the woods. Haven found some pottery fragments used by the Crackers years ago to collect the sap from the pine trees which was later used to make turpentine. We made our way through the woods looping back around to the lopin' gopher line. We found a section that was very rough and overgrown. The cross ties were still there and Haven discovered a load of treasure. Railroad spikes, track plates, and a glass wire insulator that was used for electrical lines along the tracks years ago. Haven didn't want to go back home just yet and he wanted to play on a dirt hill next to the track. As haven played with dirt clods making "blow ups" I laid down on a crosstie starring up at the clear blue January sky. I remember the last time I did this…

My parent's divorce is in full swing now. Our car was reposed and the bank has foreclosed on our home. My parents declared bankruptcy. Dick, also known as my dad, has apparently decided to have nothing to do with us and to let us sink like a stone while he is off in Maryland screwing some barfly whore. Christina Spears' family gave us a car and mom has found a townhouse that will suit us just fine as long as Dick pays her the child support and alimony that he owes her every month. The cracks in mom's psyche have been showing for a while now. Every time the doors of the church were open she was there. Every support group, prayer meeting, and counseling session that was available she was at. Jessica was now going to public school and I was beginning to struggle in my classes. The stress of Jessica going to a new school, moving to a new house, a new to us car, and me becoming a failure was too much for her to deal with on top of the hand that the divorce dealt her. We began to fight. First about small stuff like normal moms and teenagers do...you know "do your homework," "it's too late to be talking on the phone," "you need to be doing better at school," those types of arguments. But now it is spring 1992 and the arguments have started to change. They have become less about teenage issues and more about adult issues. I have become "Dick" to her. The person I despised most and was striving to be nothing like was who she was accusing me of being. We could be arguing about the most mundane thing when she will throw in "you are just like your father!" I haven't been smart enough to catch the ploy and I usually take the bait. There was something inside of me that burns. It burns like the fury of hell itself. I was in a rage and I would bite my lip and my face would turn red. I would try to control myself to a point but I wanted blood redemption for such accusations. Someone's blood…anyone. After a recent argument I left the house. I felt like there was a hole in my chest. When I breathed-in I could feel the air pass through me. My heart hurt – physically hurt. I could feel heat radiating off of my skin. I grabbed my journal and decided to go walking. I was too angry to ride my bike or skateboard so I just walked. I hopped the fence in the back and walked through the neighbor's backyard. I walked the three blocks out of our neighborhood, Hunter's point, and crossed the 4 lanes of West Norfolk road. Then I got on the railroad track. I walked and walked. I talked to myself, I prayed out loud, I cried. I passed the entrance to the Coast Guard base and behind the Chinese restaurant that used to be a gas station. I knew that if I kept walking that I would eventually reach Cedar lane, but I never made it that far. I got to a point where I was just repeating myself "God why doesn't mom understand?" and so I lay down. I laid across the railroad tracks and starred up at the sky. It was cool for June and I let the breeze and the cold steel rails pull the heat from me. I closed my eyes for a time thinking and praying and eventually letting my mind go blank. I am 15 and I don't want the burden of my parent's divorce, but that is what I am getting. I wandered if Jessica is going through the same thing? I'm sure she was but I never could tell if it was getting to her like it was me. She was tough and mean. I decided right then that if I was going to survive that I was going to have to be tough and mean. No more crying, ever. I was not going to buy into the lies that somewhere, someone, or something was planting in my head about self-inflicted death. I wasn't going to buy into the accusation that I was becoming Dick. After a few hours I got up. Apparently I had been writing in my journal at some point but I don't remember writing and I can't read anything that I wrote. It is pure scribble, not even gibberish. It looked like something that might be put to paper if you tied a pen to a dog's tail and put the book behind him. Nonetheless I had resolution when I got up. I was not going to be like Dick, I was not going to cry from weakness ever again, and I would simply run away if things got too bad between mom and I.

"BOOOOOOOMMMMM! Hey dad did you see that blow up?" Haven is having an awesome time. I can't blame him, I love throwing dirt bombs myself.

By the middle of summer we had moved to our new place. It was nice but it was a constant reminder that we were evicted from our last house because Dick decided that we didn't need a home if he wasn't going to live there. He never once thought about Jessica, and me it seems. Mom did her best to make the place livable. It looked like a model home that a realtor would use to tempt potential buyers with. The front room was country chic with blue furniture, oak coffee table, and perfect accenting pieces on the walls. The den was a bit more modern with warm and neutral colors. The couch was tan with zig zag corduroy. The adjoining dinning room had a walnut dining table and matching thick dark walnut shelves. The kind of table and shelves that you can't find at furniture stores these days. The stress on mom seemed insurmountable at this time. I remember hearing her mumble to herself like a crazy person. She would get lost on the way home from school. She could start crying in the grocery store. She was going through hell but I guess she forgot Jessica and I were bearing it too. We were having our fights still but in my mind I was winning since I was not into the highest state of rage I knew I could reach. One night my resolve was tested. We were fighting about something that was more than likely the tiniest of tiny things when she used her hole card and slammed me with a bunch of comparisons to my father. I looked at her and told her "go to hell." I walked out got my bike and left. I didn't know where I was going at first but then I thought that may be I would go see my girlfriend. I road behind our neighborhood behind Churchland elementary then down by the bike shop and the old hot dog place, across High street to where Churchland High School used to be. I cut through behind the Masonic temple and then past the pool store and onto Tyre neck road. Once down Tyre neck road I get on the sidewalk and in front of Oak point and then finally to the dirt exercise trail that parallels Tyre neck. I passed point Elizabeth and headed to the big curve where Tyre neck meets Bruce road. I was breaking a sweat when I headed into Green Acres. I pedaled up Greenview Road and stopped in front of the Copperthite's home. I was sitting in front of Beth's house contemplating going up to talk to her when I realized that I didn't want to bring this onto her. She was a smart, pretty girl who was already putting up with a lot just by dating me. Her mom loved me and her dad never spoke. As I was about to leave I could hear the phone ring inside. Then I saw the door open and her mom, still on the phone, was looking outside. I ducked behind her dad's truck and waited a few minutes. Once I was satisfied that she wasn't looking outside anymore I left. I started back the way I came. Andy's house was a few blocks away. I road by but no one was home so I headed out of Green Acres and ducked into Point Elizabeth. I headed to Eric's house. I sat and thought about it but I began to wander if Mrs. Copperthite was looking out the window to see if I was there. May be she was being warned on the phone by my mom that I had ran away. Mom would assume that I would go to Eric or Andy's next. It then dawned on me I was "running away." It had a certain appeal to it. I was now among the ranks of Neal Cassady, Tom Sawyer, and Huck Finn. With my two closest friends out of the picture and my girlfriend's house off limits I had to sit and contemplate where I was to go. I could try for Andrew's house. A place I knew I would find refuge and comfort but also a place where I know my journey would end. It would end up being 25 or more miles of riding but instead I decided to go to Mr. Keating's house. He was my high school principal, tennis coach, English teacher, and friend. It was at least 8 miles to Florida Ave in Port Norfolk from Eric's house. I bowed up my chest and headed to High Street to cross the Churchland Bridge and on to Port Norfolk. I made it to Mr. Keating's in about an hour. The ride through Port Norfolk was a bit unnerving. The south end of the neighborhood was full of drug dealers and whorehouses. My white skin was like a neon sign saying, "look at the out of place white boy." At one corner there were a couple of guys standing looking tough and mean. I looked up at them, nodded and gave them the "I'm tough, I'm cool, please don't beat me up" look. They just laughed at me as I went by. I rode up and parked in Mr. Keating's yard. I saw him and Mrs. Keating eating a late supper together on the couch in their living room. I watched for a minute imagining my wife and me doing the same thing years from now. I felt far away and alone. I could not disturb Mr. Keating so I rode on. I made it to Mt. Vernon Ave and began my accent up the West Norfolk Bridge. It was a tall and long ride up the bridge and once I made it to the top I was rewarded with the rest that only gravity and a bike can provide. At the end of the bridge was my old church, Liberty New Testament. I loved that place and the people that went there. Some of my very best friends from my childhood went there and still did. We left the church when my parents started the hell that was their divorce. It was shame and guilt that drove mom away from Liberty. I got on the railroad tracks and decided to head to Churchland Park behind the Junior High. I could sleep in a dug out at the softball fields. After shaking my teeth loose riding across the cross ties I decided to make my way on West Norfolk Road. I knew where I was but I had not planned to be riding by our old neighborhood. I needed a break so I decided to duck into Hunter's Point from where we had recently moved. I rode up to the old house and saw that it was for sale. I walked up to the front porch and found our old spare key still under the carpet and the front porch. I went in. Remarkably the power was still on. There was no food of course but I happened upon a jar of Tang. "I wander where this came from? We never drank tang – ever." I found an old fast food cup in the trash outside and made myself a strong cup of orange Tang. "No wander we never drank this stuff. It's horrible!" I walked around the old house and inhaled all the memories I could stomach. I eventually went into the den and lay down. It had to be about midnight when I finally fell asleep.

"Hey dad! Hey dad, look. A choo choo train!" Haven had found a long rectangular shaped rock and was playing trains with it. I grabbed him up in a huge embrace, wiped off a tear that had been trying to build, and told him "I promise…" He didn't care what I was about to say he just hugged me back. He then looked me straight in the eye and said "NOW lets go home and wait for mom and Oshean!" A better plan I'd never heard, so we started home.

A few points of interest that go along with this story: When heather and I moved from North Carolina to Virginia we lived in a house on Broad Street exactly 2 blocks from where the Keatings lived in this story. Andrew and I road our bikes from his house to school and then to my house one time (or may be reverse order) and by looking at a map now I think our trek was close to 30 miles. Beth later told me that it was indeed my mom on the phone with her mom while I was standing in front of their house. Her mom told her that they would not turn me away or tell on me if I were to show up. I stayed at the old house 2 nights. I don't remember exactly how it came about but Eric, his mom Lilly, and my mom drove up in Lilly's burgundy SAAB. Lilly made me and my mom hug and she drove us home. I hope I don't offend anyone by including you in my tale but this is how it happened to the best of my memory. I still have the journal that I wrote in on the railroad tracks. It is completely indecipherable. There was only one other occasion in which I have pages which I cannot read. I will save the events surrounding those pages for another time, another blog, another place. Thanks for reading, Gabe.

life is beautiful...

Letter from a Reverent Friend

2008-06-13T11:43:00.000-07:00

Hello Jesse my name is Gabe. My dad is a vet. I wanted to finally drop you a line and recall the first time you entered my life. When I was 10 years old my dad and my uncle Jim took me to visit the Wall. (Both are Vietnam Vets.) I had been there before during the day when I was even younger but I was hardly aware of what the Wall was back then. This time was different. It was spring 1986. It was late at night and I am not sure what Dad and Jim intended but what happened seemed to be my first steps towards becoming a man, or least tasting life beyond what I had experienced at that point. It had rained earlier in the night and the streets were wet and a light fog covered the reflecting pool. The lights at the Washington Monument and Lincoln Memorial looked eerie through the night mist. When we walked into the memorial Dad went one way and Jim the other. The way the Wall is built is like 2 long triangles that funnel you in. I felt like I was walking into a big empty hug. There were a few people there but I felt seriously alone. First I felt foolish as if I was a trespasser on some sacred ground, but then I realized that there was an energy there that I had never felt before. As I read over the names of all of these men I was overwhelmed with the understanding that they were dead and I was not. Dad had told me that before we left I was to find a name and remember it until the next time I visited. Your name, Jesus Cruz, found me. I cannot recall why. There were other men with the first name Jesus and there many men with the same last name of my family. I read literally thousands of names but when I reached out and ran my hands over a few names I opened my eyes and my fingertips were rolling over your name. Over the last 20 years I have visited the Wall and I always picked a name, like Dad had told me to do, but I have, for some reason, always remembered you Mr. Cruz. I wandered how you lived and how you died. I have often prayed for you and your family, wherever they were. Now that I have an adult understanding of the war and the overwhelming facts surrounding the war I find that you have somehow become my own personal connection to Vietnam. Yes I am connected through my dad and uncles, but finding your name allowed me to wander and to imagine things about someone I didn't know and create my own images. I still don't know much about you, but the little I have found out about you on the Internet has helped fill in some blanks. We were sort of neighbors as I am from Indiana and you are from Ohio. I respect you for what I do and do not know about you. You fought and you died for our country and me and for that I am eternally grateful. Mr. Cruz I hope to meet you one day and hear of your tale from your own mouth. Until then thank you.

A letter to a dead man was somehow more real to me that just about anything in my life when I was a teenager. I carried the memories of this man, or the memories I created around his name, during the years of my parent's separation and eventual divorce. I still haven't fully grasped how or why the Vietnam War affected me the way it has…but it has. I know that I can never understand how it affected Dad, Jim, or any other vet.

The nightmares began when I was about 8 or 9 years old. I had been rummaging through mom and dad's closet like children alone with too much time sometimes do, when I found my Dad's photo albums from his tour in Nam. I had seen one of them before. It was awesome. Pictures of tanks, shanuks, canons, m60s, b52s, hewies, and of course my dad's duster. This time I found a second album. It had pictures of dead bodies. Fields of dead bodies, dismembered, decapitated, scary images of dead VC. I immediately felt guilty. It was a combination of feeling horrible about the death of these humans, but also the knowledge that I didn't and couldn't help win the war. How could anyone understand what our soldiers went through?

When I was 17 years old I had been abandoned by my dad. Our family had. I resented him. I desperately and defiantly despised him. Something began to change in me. I became brash and hardened on the inside. I was also becoming free-willed and started developing my own political opinions. I was vehemently anti-abortion, anti-death penalty, and anti-killing in general. The guilt turned into resentment. Why would dad keep those pictures? Why would he be proud of death? The disconnect between us grew.

In 1997 heather and I got married. Dad and his barfly whore wife were there as well as my mom. Dad and I had a quick talk before the wedding. It was short and awkward and I didn't sponge in all the implications at the time. He tried to apologize for not being there for me as a teen and told me that now that I was a man he wanted us to be friends. A friend is what I had years before, but my friend had left me. So the ball was in my court and I had to decide what to do. It took over 7 years for me to forgive him. Part of me being able to forgive was coming to grasp what I had seen in those books, heard in his stories and had seen in my nightmares.

Tonight it is very hot and humid. The only thing worse than the stickiness of the blankets of sweat are the hummingbird sized mosquitoes that will not leave anyone alone. I was coming back from seeing my fiancé Heather in her new room in Parker Hall. Parker Hall was the only coed, upperclassmen dorm on the campus of Chowan College (now Chowan University.) I was taking the shortcut behind the back of the football field that leads up to the Graphics department building. The way is not lit and particularly dark tonight due to being under the shadows of pine trees, no lights anywhere, and no moon out to shine my way. As I head down the dry ravine next to the footbridge I make my way slow but sure. I had made this trek many times after dark. As I head up the side of the hill I climb out of the ravine. Before I could make it to the top I stepped on something that rolled under my foot and I fell to my hands and knees. I assumed it was a root or fallen tree limb but I was in for a surprise for it was a dead gook. I had fallen right over him and I was face to face with him. Sweat dripped off of my face and it dripped into his mouth. The most shocking feeling was the expectation of feeling his warm breath in my eyes but feeling nothing. A void of breath. A void of life. My hand was cramping as I tried to get up. My right hand felt sticky with partially coagulated blood and as I reached over to wipe my hand on the grass I felt the handle of my knife. It was a tactical combat style knife that my dad had given me before I went to war. As I got up I could see the dark patches of blood stains on the gook's clothes, apparently from where I had stabbed him repeatedly in the chest and side. I had stabbed him first between the 3^rd and 4^th ribs to puncture his lung so that he would have no breath to scream with. It worked. As we went down I used my left forearm to pin him down by the neck. My left leg had his right arm pressed down and my right knee was crushing his organs into his pelvis. I repeatedly stabbed him in his left torso with my right arm. It was as if I were squashing an ant. He was nothing and I owned him. As I finished pushing myself up to stand I see the dead pine branch that had caused me to trip. With the brutal images of my battle still in my head I turned and puked downhill. I was sweating like a sinner on Sunday as I regained my composure and finished my trip back to Simons Hall where I was living at the time.

A few years ago I got an email from a person who's name I did not recognize. The subject was "Jesse Cruz." She was his next door neighbor and friend from high school. She had seen the letter I had written to Jesse and posted on thewall-usa.com. We began to email back and forth for a year and I opened up about my feelings about my dad to her. The words of a complete stranger behind a computer in Ohio actually lead to my own healing and healing between my dad and me. I thought it was amazing how Yahweh brought the words of this woman to me by way of a man whose name I had touched on a marble wall when I was just a child. Healing began before I even knew there was trauma. It took a long time but when I finally and fully forgave my dad the nightmares stopped.

JESUS ROSAS CRUZ

LCPL - E3 - Marine Corps - Regular

LENGTH years
Casualty was on Feb 27, 1967
In QUANG NAM, SOUTH VIETNAM
HOSTILE, GROUND CASUALTY
OTHER EXPLOSIVE DEVICE
Body was recovered

PANEL 104

http://www.ncptsd.va.gov/ncmain/ncdocs/fact_shts/fs_children_veterans.html

life is beautiful...

the Church Bus Parade

2008-06-13T11:35:00.000-07:00

The dorm is abnormally silent this morning. The sun is sending in some ultra bright beams through the windows of Dunn Hall and it actually feels like a pleasant place to be. It is probably because the basketball team had an away game last night and they have yet to return. It is about 0730 so I decide to get dressed and head across campus only to discover that the dining hall is closed. Why the heck would it be closed? I have a few dollars in change and the snack machines underneath the stairs in the Columns building are calling. As I stuff my mouth full of nabs and drench the dry orange crumbs and peanut butter with grape pop I see a line of vans heading down the circle around Squirrel Park and come to a stop right in front of the Columns building and me. It's like a silent parade that no one but me even notices. Ahoskie First Baptist, Meherrin Baptist, and the Carpenter's Shop all had church buses sent to campus to pick up poor college kids with no transportation, like me. Seeing as I was the only person alive and moving on campus and I happened to be standing in the pick up spot for the church bus parade I can understand why the bus drivers might have thought that I was there viewing their silent callathump waiting to be picked up. They nearly rear ended one another in their excitement at a potential collegiate congregator riding in their wagon. Their chests were bowed up and they had their best "please ride with me" smiles on. One of my life illnesses then afflicted me like it frequently does, can't-say-no-itus. I have an inability to say "no," even when it doesn't involve saying "no." As I stood there bearing the burning stares from the church bus drivers I found myself at one of the biggest indecisive moments ever. I knew I had to ride. I was committed at this point if only because of a coincidental circumstantial freak occurrence in league with cosmic incidences like Haley's comet smashing into the moon twice. But, which bus was I to get in to? As I looked at the bus drivers I realized that they were not going to make this any easier on me. They all had the exact same suit on. The $49.88 Wal-Mart special, grey tweed blazer, white button up shirt, and a tarheal blue tie seemed to be the church bus driver uniform of choice. They had the same haircut, glasses, and late seventies mustache going on. I assumed that these guys all worked at the paper mill together, went to high school together, got married around the same time, had 2 kids, and all lived on the outskirts of Ahoskie, NC with their fried chicken and banana pudding making wives named DeLoris, Barbara, and Nancy. This decision was shaping up to be very difficult until the bright lights of sunny Sunday morning shown down upon one of the vans, its logo was a blue oval whereas the other two vans had bowties on the front. That's right I decided on what bus to get into based on the brand of the vehicle. So I got into the Carpenter's Shop bus. Apparently the Assembly's of God sect has good choice in vehicles.

The first half an hour was the longest. In my eagerness to please the bus drivers I never thought of the fact that we wouldn't be leaving right away. In my mind I pictured myself jumping in the van and immediately being chauffeured to the church while being escorted by the two Chevies. The chivaree would not end until we got to the church and the other two buses would drive away dejected with the sad Charlie Brown music playing in the background. May be they would be back at the end of the service to escort me back to campus, announcing to everyone that was awake that I, Eric Gabriel Simpson, just went to church. But the simple fact was that they were going to wait to see if other students showed up. I think that I saw a couple of kids get in the other 2 buses, but after a long awkward wait with 70s mustache Wal-Mart suit guy, I was the only one in the ford. That's okay I'm sure that if the Chevies broke down on the way there that we would tow them both into town. The 20 minute ride was as quiet as the wait. The church was midsized red brick building with an awkward curved front wall and single pitched roof, design indicative of late 80s architecture. I was greeted at the door and given a program. I went to the college kids bible study and sat and listened to a mid twenties redneck wax poetic about his views on morality. I appreciated his sentiments and shook his hand on the way out. Speaking of "way out" it was apparent that I was a bit underdressed. I had on a pair of green army pants that I had decorated with band symbols with a black magic marker, a black t-shirt, and my pink velvet covered combat boots. Not to mention I had recently dyed my longish, shaggy, curly hair black. These were the clothes that I had worn at the coffee house the night before. Source had opened for Sweet Nectar. The t-shirt I had on was one that I had got at the Sweet Nectar fan products booth. It smelled of sweat and cigarette smoke and I don't suppose that it stated really clearly that they were a Christian band. I was obviously not wearing the usual church garments of the Bible belt but the cool reception in the Sunday school class didn't seem too out of the norm. Next up was the main service. I headed into the sanctuary that looked as if it could hold 300 or more comfortably but only had a tenth of that in it. A band was playing some revamped classic worship tunes and the music minister was doing his best to get everyone to stand and clap along with the band. After 5 or 6 songs the preacher started in and things seemed to be going pretty good. He had a positive message and he seemed to be genuinely in love with his creator and savior. Then it happened. At the end of the service, the worst thing that ever happened to me in a church occurred, the preacher asked if there was anyone who had a prayer request or wanted to "give their life to the lord?"

You might ask yourself: "self, why would the preacher asking people for prayer requests and sending out an altar call be a bad thing?" Well, self, you must understand my sister, Jessica, the very next day was having a surgery on her hand. They were going to amputate one of her fingers in an attempt to create space between her other fingers enough for the skin to grown around each digit and not continue to fuse her entire hand together in a web of skin. Any surgery is serious, but this one was one of the more intense surgeries she was to undergo in a long time.

Most of the congregation had their heads down during this reverent time, as did I. When I heard the preacher call for prayer requests I raised my hand thinking about Jessica. There was an elder nearby and I figured he would come on by and we would pray together. Well that is almost what happened. The nearby elder shouted to the pastor "WE HAVE A WAYWARD YOUNG MAN WHO WOULD LIKE TO GET SAVED!!!" The preacher hollered "HALLELUYAH!" into the microphone and a swarm of elders dispatched from the shadows around the sanctuary like the liberation troops invaded the beaches of Normandy. They were determined and on a mission. This punk rock kid wearing clothes like an urban runaway crack addict would wear had just indicated that he wanted to become one of the fold. Before I could say a word men were around me speaking in tongues and shaking my shoulders as if I had ticks on me and shaking me vigorously would get them off. There was a man standing behind me with his hands up obviously prepared to catch me in case I pass out or get "slain in the spirit." This was perhaps the most awkward position I have ever been in. I think I might now have an idea of how Jess felt at all those tent revival healing services we went to as a kids. All these people dancing around her and speaking in tongues telling her that she would be healed if only she believed, mom sitting there holding her and crying, me wanting nothing more than my sister to be healed. Jessica was only 4 years old or so when this started happening on a regular basis. I remember the phone ringing on a Monday night, mom would answer and would get into an anxious tizzy. She would tell us "there is a healing service in Greenbrier going on this week and tonight a guy who had one leg longer than the other was healed. One leg grew out to catch up with other one – right then and there!" The next night we went to the service and we got there just in time to see a woman get out of her wheel chair and run up to the preacher, then a man on crutches threw off his neck brace and starting dancing and crying. I looked at Jessica and she was totally unaware of what was going on. She just wanted to play with her Strawberry Shortcake doll. I was asleep by the time they finally got to Jessica. They circled her and laid hands on her and prayed. Nothing happened and this man kept shouting "BE HEALED!" It was scary. Jessica started crying because she thought she was in trouble. I wanted to kick the guy's ass for scarring my sister. On the way home mom cried and kept calling out "God why don't I have enough faith for Jessica to be healed?" Even at 8 years old I knew this was wrong. I thought I had a real experience with God and at these meetings I didn't feel that peace that I felt when I felt the presence of Yahweh's spirit.

10 years later I find myself in the same situation. While they are shouting for me to repent and ask Jesus into my heart I was praying "Father forgive them for they know not what they do." I was embarrassed for them. After a few minutes the shouting died down and the speaking in tongues became more of a murmur when I looked at the preacher and I told him "I am saved. I have been for a long time. Living in God's will is what I strive to do everyday. I love Him and want to be more like His son. This has been what drives me for a long time. I am saved." The elders left with their heads hung low. One of them gave me a hug and said "sorry brother we are glad you are here." That was the most real moment of the whole experience and the only time I felt the presence of Love. This one elder who had a black suit on with a white shirt, a black tie with a dove on it, a tie clip with a silver cross, black hair, a thin beard, and thick pointy eyebrows, just stood there and stared at me like I was lying or purposefully wasting their time. He sat down in his pew and continued to cast glances at me as the preacher wound up the service. When the service ended the preacher came up to me and gave me a firm and handshake and we shared a laugh at the whole thing. He asked my name and I gave him the basic run down on my life thus far. Then the clincher happened "well, Gabe, if you plan to attend our church, and I hope you do, I want you to consider your attire and your appearance when you are in the house of God." I nodded my head and I told him "I think you just helped me make my decision on whether or not I will ever be back." This building was no more a "house of God" than the Jiffy store down the street. It was my understanding and experience that the spirit of Yahweh was wherever 2 or more of His followers were gathered in His name.

I walked out of that church knowing that I was being starred at and was more than likely going to be prayed for or used as an example of the wayward youth of the church in the decadent 90s. But I also knew that I just made some bold steps as an adult in my walk of faith. I knew that I was on a different path than the 9-5, Bible belt, Wal-Mart suit wearing congregation that I had just left. I also knew that the experiences of my childhood would be weighing on me. The meetings we had at our house with just a few believers sharing what they were thinking or may be sharing something that had inspired them that week from the scriptures, and a few people on guitar jamming out some tunes praising our Messiah, banging on congas, shaking the maracas and tambourines, encouraging the kids to bang on congas and whatnot to be included, I knew that this is what felt right, this is when I felt that I was experiencing the presence of the Holy Spirit. I also knew that there were some things to resolve in my understanding of religious traditions and common beliefs. Like the issue of God's name. We were being taught in Religion 101 class that His name was YHWH, a name I had heard occasionally in home church meetings all my life. It was never really an issue until I starting thinking about how many times the phrase "in the name of the Lord" or "praise God's name" was used but how no one ever spoke His actual name. Was I not in a personal relationship with Him? Does the word not tell me that there is power in His "name?" As I loaded up into the church bus I got to think about such things the entire way back to campus. I exited the bus in front of the columns building with a renewed confidence that I was becoming a man the way that Yahweh was intending. I told the van driver thank you but he made it clear he could not get away fast enough. I looked around and noticed that a few people were headed to the dining hall. That's when I realized that that pack of nabs had not really lasted me too well over the past 4 hours or so.

I started to the chow hall and that's when I smelled it. The smell of gold, the smell of warm nourishment, the smell of life itself was filling my nose. For it is Sunday and that can only mean one thing is on the menu– fried chicken! As I sat eating by myself I see John's girlfriend Heather come in and sit down by herself. I finish the most satisfying meal I have ever had at Chowan College and I go say hi to Heather and to tell her thank you for coming to see Source play last night. I wander if she notices how I have become a more confident man. Full of fried chicken and pride I head back to Dunn hall to the smell of dirty socks, jock straps, and defecation – the basketball team is obviously back.

life is beautiful...

Journey for Change

2008-06-13T10:50:00.000-07:00

the preface

I am going to tell you a story. It is a true story about something that happened to me in February 2005. With some time to gain perspective I can see that this was truly one of the biggest moments of change in my life. Nearly every aspect of my life has changed. Heather works full time, Haven is in PreK, Oshean is in First Grade, and I left my cush cush Graphic Design job to become a Law Enforcement Officer and work at the Prison. Who knows what changes will come at us in the near future? Gary Busey said "nothing changes but the changes" he was ridiculed but that makes sense to me. The big picture remains the same even if the setting and characters change.

I flew across the country with a few pieces of paper that I found in my truck and an overpriced piece of crap pen I bought in the airport. I felt something happening and I documented everything that seemed significant during those three days. The documentation was as much as a dialogue with God as it was a record for the future. You will see me use the names Yahweh for God and Yeshuah for Jesus. I hope this doesn't offend anyone. I hate being alienated by pious talk and hope that it doesn't come across that way. My freshman year of college I sat in Religion 101 class and the first lesson was about the Tetragrammaton YHWH and how it is generally translated into God or Lord in the Bible. It struck me that I had a personal relationship with someone who I did not call by name. Also after a history lesson it seemed to be more logical to call Jesus by what He was called back then, not a Greek derivation of His name. I choose to use His name and only wanted to clarify why. I have seen people get very angry at the very mention of a different name other Jesus or Lord and it is not my intention to anger anyone. I am struck by fads and fashions and hope that I don't get clumped into the group of people that change religious views like grass in the wind on the wide open plains, though I do change and hope to continually grow. I am also very turned off by people who hold a religious or spiritual difference over someone else in an attempt to either change them or make themselves look more spiritual. I hope that I don't come across that way. I am what I am and you can take it or leave it.

Also, I cuss. I say vulgar words. They are words that I doubt you want your kids to say. I don't want mine to say them. It was how I was raised. This is not an excuse or an apology. I guess its a warning.

Please feel free to comment or critique. Keep in mind that my grammar sucks. I generally write how I speak, free-flowing and sporadic.

Here are a few links for background info:
YHWH
http://www.thefreedictionary.com/Tetragrammaton

Yeshuah for Jesus
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yeshuah

about EB, the disease my sister deals with
http://www.debra.org/

Escondido, CA
http://www.ci.escondido.ca.us/

Arrogant bastard ale (pg-13)
http://www.arrogantbastard.com

Without further delay here is "The journey for change"

Be good, smile pretty,
me

-------------------------------------------------

February 14, 2005
0900 Jacksonville, FL

I just ate my first fisherman's friend. It certainly lives up to its claims. I zip up my backpack, lock my truck, and flag down a passing shuttle bus. This isn't the first time I have flown, its not the first time I have been to Jacksonville airport, but it is the first time I have flown alone since I have been married and the boys have been born. I am uneasy, as everything in my life seems to be hinges on the success of this journey. I just got my first cup of Starbucks coffee, at least that I have ever bought. I didn't need another cup, but I felt that I would be passing up an opportunity to support my brother Jeff's profit sharing.

I love people watching especially in an airport. There are two kinds of people at an airport: those who are all dolled up greeting those who are arriving, or because they like to look good when flying, business people and preps, and those who look like hammered horse piss. Standing next to the young business professional in three piece suit with brief case, a carry on pack containing laptop, video camera for conferencing, printer-fax-copier combo, back-up cell phone, palm pilot with GPS and internet, is a middle-aged woman with no make-up on, pink sweat pants, grey sweatshirt with a stain from where she spilled pop next to a faded image of Daffy Duck with some sort of quote underneath him that I cannot read because the sweatshirt is tucked into the sweat pants. I feel like a cross between an alien and an old cowboy – neither of which belong here. I am wearing my dress-up Levi jeans, black v-neck t-shirt underneath my denim pearl snap over-shirt. My cowboy boots are old and tired and covered in grey mud from the unpaved parking lot I ha to park in. Heather cleaned my John Deere hat but it still has some grease stains and burn holes. My backpack is the same pack I've had since high school.

A young shaved head alterna-teen is three rows ahead of me blasting his ipod. He breaks out in spontaneous rap once in a while. I've never cared for Lincoln Park at all. They are good musicians and they are tight but its gimmick music, nothing more than a teenage novelty act. These acts have existed ever since music has but it seems that in our day there is nothing but these types of bands being pushed on the airwaves. The TV to my left has CNN on it. They are showing a re-cap of last night's Grammy awards. U2 played. They seemed tired. Bono's voice was horse and kept cracking. I think of the lyric "I can't sing but I've got soul" from elevation. He is right and wrong. He can sing, but when he is lacking, like he was last night, it cracks open the window for nothing but pure heart and soul break out and carry the performance alone. They are playing "sometime you can't make it on your own" and Bono is saying goodbye his father. I have always loved the music. They have been the band that I grew up with, but now that I am a man I feel closeness with the band like never before. I think that my chance at long-term brotherhood in a band was washed away when Source disbanded.

I think that this is Sumatra or Kenya blend of coffee. I'll have to ask Jeff what the deal is. It tastes like it has a natural horse stable flavoring added.

The realization of why I am an alien just hit me. I don't have any technology with me. I am sitting here writing on blank notebook paper with a pen that I just paid $1.06 for. The guy next to me just sneezed. I said "bless you." He did not say a word. May be he didn't hear me. May be he wanted me to just fuck off. I think that it might have something to do with the fact that I am a chameleon and that no one can see me.

My flight is now twenty minutes behind schedule. My lay-over in Houston is going to be less than eighteen minutes now. I wander if they will hold the plane for me.

I am surprised that with all the super-duper security that they have that I have made it through so easily. I had to take off my shoes, my belt, my hat, and shoes. I emptied my pockets, which included a metal container of Altoids. I could have had some sort of narcotic in it or a dry powder that could be some chemical reactant that when mixed with the liquid bomb juice that I could have in my coffee cup – that no one looked at – could blow up the airplane. I should be in law enforcement because these people are slack.

I am going to have to go to the bathroom and freshen up sooner than later. I have been sweating profusely since last night. My fever broke sometime between the infomercial on that new ab-crunch chair and the watered down international news. Apparently I had a nose bleed last night and it drained into my throat as I hawked up some flem that was black, then brown, then red, then good old green. The combination of fisherman's friend, hot black coffee, and ice water seemed to calm things down. I have been joking with heather and my coworkers that I am going to have to start doing coke or speed or crack to make it through this week. I was being facetious but I knew that I was going to need some sort of physical jolt to get my through the end of this Wednesday. I think it has finally come by way of adrenaline. I have only worked with my uncle Brad and my Dad but I think that the Simpson men have overly active adrenaline glands. There are times when I feel that I could push a truck up a hill or build a house in a week by myself. May be its just pretentious-false-self-confidence. Simpson men also seem to have the corner on that.

I have always known it but today confirms it, I am a babe magnet. I have seen 5 babies today ranging from three to eighteen months young. They have all reached out or ran to me. The first one was a little black girl whose mom was putting on her pretty pink coat. As the mom was trying to get the zipper started the baby spotted me. She reached up and pulled her jacket collar from her face and then she grinned one of the biggest grins I have ever seen right at me. She giggled and reached for me. I winked at her and waved. The mother seemed nice and she gave me a warm smile. The second one was a little boy about 6 months old. His dad was holding him was looking pretty grumpy. The mom also looked pretty grumpy and they were obviously fighting. The baby made eye contact with me and he lunged at me with both hands out. It was an unsuccessful escape attempt. He dropped his pacifier and squealed with joy. I winked and waved at him. The parents were oblivious and did not respond. The third was a three month young old little girl in the bookstore. She was writhing back and forth in her stroller when she spotted me. She cocked her head over at an awkward angle and gave me a big open mouth smile and hello with her beautiful blue eyes. The mother never knew I was there as she talked to the store clerk whom she obviously knew. I made eyes with her for a while. The fourth I spotted just a minute ago. She is an eighteen month old or so. The mom looks like a girl I used to work with. The mom was reading a magazine as the baby started to wander off. She was holding a baby doll and was walking right for me. She had a big smile on face. She was about half the distance between her mother and me when the mother called her. "Emily!" she called as she got up and ran the twenty-four feet to pick up her child. I smiled and waved at Emily as she smiled at me over her mother's shoulder.

I have been off the farm for four hours and I cannot believe how much I miss heather and the boys. I don't want to actively dwell on them too much as it makes me sad. I have really become a homebody in the past four years or so.

I just heard those very familiar MAC power-up chimes. Its weird how apple computers have been the basis of my career and professional skills I never thought, and never wanted to, that I would be one of those sheeple that work in a cubicle wasting life away for a living. I can't see myself doing this forever. There are too many jobs that contain adventure and risk that call to me. I need to get outside and build something so that I can see the fruit of my labor or do something working with other people affecting change in their lives.

I still have forty-five minutes or to go and I see that the bar is open. I need something to distract me from this cold. They have good selection of beer on tap here. I can see the bathroom from my stool. I had better go.
1107 Jacksonville, FL

1137 Airborne over west Florida
We made it off. Not too bad I'd say. Some decent turb just after take-off but now its smooth sailing with a good view ahead of the clear azure sky. I enjoy looking down on the cottony white clouds below. I was hoping to watch the landscape go by trying to calculate my twenty as it went by but this is just as good. The pilot looks younger than me and the attendant looks to be about eighteen years old. A nice looking Texas Jew. I am not sure the model of the aircraft that I am in but it is only about eighty-five feet bow to stern and it is only three rows wide. I have a window seat and the seat next to me is vacant. I figured I would be asleep by now but I probably have my affection for Jeff to thank for that.

Emily is about eight rows in front of me. I wander what it going through her beautiful head. Everyone is quiet.

The two cups of coffee, three bottles of ice water, and the Sam Adams tall draught beer went through me and as soon as I was allowed I went to the latrine. It was the first private bathroom I have been in all day. In the airport restroom I was reminded of the two types of urinal using men, those who maintain strict eye to penis contact and those who don't. Those who don't can be sub-classified into the wall-starers and look-arounders. I am a wall-starer. I have been to the urinal enough that I can conduct business without staring at myself the entire time and I despise look-arounders. If ever there were to be a civil war between wall-starers and the look-arounders. I would be willing to fight in such a war.

Based on the storm systems on the Weather Channel maps that I looked at this morning before I left the house and what I am currently looking at we must be flying directly over the Mississippi river. It is truly an ugly river.

I remember my first trans-Atlantic flight. It was about twenty-two years ago. I was six years old. We were headed to Frankfurt Germany to admit my sister to specialized skin clinic. We flew out of O'Hare and stopped in Newfoundland before we crossed the Atlantic. We were on a huge Lufthansa jet. It was late evening and Jessica was already asleep. I fell asleep during the in-flight movie. I think it was Brian's song I remember James Caan and it being about football. Mom woke me up after day break. We were still in the air and flying into the sunrise. There were no clouds and I could see the ocean. It was so big that it fooled my depth perception. It seemed like we were only ten feet about the water. I though that if I were a pilot I would fly as close to the water too. In case of an emergency landing it would seem that could skip or glide into the water like a surfboard minimizing the harsh impact of a fall from a high altitude. I have pretty fond memories of Germany except for when I almost drowned.

I think that Oshean and Haven will love flying. Of course we would have to figure out how to get them both a window seat. I can picture Haven pointing out everything of interest that caught his eye. I picture Oshean quietly taking it all in and eventually falling asleep. Heather and I would enjoy the long silences and light conversation as we watched our boys sponging in this fun experience. I always enjoyed travel when I was young and think that I got to travel more than an average kid my age at any given age. When Heather and I were first dating and engaged it seemed that our best times were centered around traveling, mainly from North Carolina to Florida in her 94 mustang. It was the 93 body style manufactured in January 1994. The 93 and younger body styles was one of my favorites and I like the 94-04 body styles, but this newest design is dialed in just right. I can't wait to get Heather a new mustang. Anything from the 60s will do but I would love to get a hold of a Shelby or even a 05 GT. She is a mustang girl.

It is inevitable that I get heat rash after sitting for long periods of time and today is no exception. I just started leaning forward with the directional air fan pointed directly at my back. It is small relief but better than nothing. I can see that we are more or less following I-10 westward.

1209cst somewhere over Texas, February 16, 2005
My time with you is coming to an end. The past 2.2 days have molded me like a blacksmith working with a piece of tin. It has been nothing less than a successful trip through hell. I guess I should recap for the record. Let's go back to Texas on Monday.

My connection in Houston was scheduled to depart at 1435. We arrived at IAH 1427. there was an older couple on vacation and a kid just back from college baseball tryouts that were to also make the flight. I offered my help to the old couple but they wouldn't have it. I encouraged the ball player to "get with the program." I had to get on a tram and then run (okay jog and walk quickly) about a half mile. This airport is flipping huge. I was the last passenger to board the plane. The old couple and the ball player did not make it. Everyone was already seated and the attendant rushed me to my seat. I got to my seat and found someone already in it. The attendant left and offered no help. He thought he had a row to himself and did not want to sit next to an old lady that was next to his seat. I had to be firm with this forty-something, button-up, kaki clad prick as I was going to sit in my seat. He finally moved. May be it was the cowboy boots and the "I am going to kick your ass" look on my country boy face that inspired him to move. The flight was rough as we hit turbulence most of the way. I did get to see the desert, Mexico, and the Rocky Mountains all for the first time. I hummed "pirate looks at forty" to myself as we arrived in San Diego. The first thing I experienced in California was a Pacific sunset. It was a blessing and a sign. The sun was going down on part of my life as I experience old things for the first time.

There was a bit of confusion at the rental place. There was no way that Jessica's wheelchair would fit in a Chrysler Pacifica. Nor would it fit in the Chevy minivan or the Expedition. They had rented the vehicle that we had reserved that we knew would work so they bumper me up to the only vehicle they had on the lot that would work a Silverado crew cab. The 4.8 V8 is sluggish and it takes a lot of skinny pedal to get the go juice flowing but it will work.

Every person I met in San Diego has been nothing less than saintly. They are so kind hearted. The people at the rental place, the guys at the gas station, even the 12.7 million drivers that are on the 15 are nice. No flipped birds, no abrupt lane changing, I am not sure what is going on here. People are waving. They must now I'm from Buckville and guys in trucks always get waved at on the roads around Buckville. It did take me the 2.5 hours to make the thirty miles. My ears have not decompressed, as they are full of fluid. I am a little paranoid about driving since I am not hearing so well. Driving out of downtown San Diego I took an opportunity that I could not pass up. I exit off the 15 and got on Mission bridge. I took a side tour to Coronado Island. It looks a lot like the residential areas of South Beach Miami but more mellow. I finally made it to Jessica's and I see the mountain of boxes and junk that I have to load into a trailer in the morning. We watched the telly and I passed out after three beers.

After two horrible hours of sleep I was up at 0400 and one of the first major hurdles of the week presented itself to be jumped. My rental truck was gone. It was either stolen or towed. I called the local police phone number but it was disconnected so I had to call 911. Even the dispatcher was super sweet. She connected me with the police who were also very nice. They told me that it had been towed but did not know why. I am thinking that this will be easily resolved since I was not illegally parked, all the tags were up to date, and everyone had been so kind. The towing company didn't open up until 0800 but their dispatcher was nice. So I suck it up and start loading the semi-trailer. I loaded for over two hours and had every box in the trailer. The real fun was about to begin. I called to get directions to the tow lot and find out what I needed to gather the truck back. The guy was perhaps the most rude, ill-mannered person I have ever spoken to and was a demon in comparison to the people of San Diego and Escondido, where I was now. I played his game and would not be rattled. As soon as I got off of the phone I turned to see a 6' tall, buzzed hair, cockatoo sporting, twenty-something standing in front of me. He was there to help as he had previously worked in the moving business. Soon after that Lisa arrived. Lisa is a thirty-something who works as an outreach minister at her church. Not long after that Maureen showed up. She immediately reminded me of my high school track coach, Nancy Keating, wife of my principal/tennis coach, and friend Keating (who shall never be referred to as "Mrs. Keapong.") Maureen was the nurse who, in my mind, has kept my sister alive. To me she epitomizes the love of my messiah.

With three new characters in the scene I immediately felt like stranger in my sister's apartment. The amount of californianisms flying about the room was astonishing. Maureen was notably not a perpetuator of the chatter. She also offered to drive me to get my rental at the tow lot. Matt, the cockatoo clad horse trainer, helped load the bed ad bandage table and it was much appreciated. I did have to restack all of the boxes as he had rearranged them to his liking. Lisa and Matt left and Maureen and I set out to get my truck. That is when she pealed my eyes open to the direness of Jessica's situation. Little J has the choice of living in an assisted living facility and having good health or living on her own with all the freedoms and challenges that that implies, and in Maureen's opinion, quickly deteriorate and die. She also helped me realize, in vivid detail, how bad things were within the social services system. Jess is victim of her disease, the system, mediocre friends, and until now her family.

We made it to the tow lot after about forty-five minutes of misguided cell phone directions. The piss head of a man that managed the tow lot was sitting in an office behind a glass door and window that were both locked he barked out some unintelligible words that I assumed was a request for the purpose of my presence. I told him who I was and that I needed my truck. He gave me a hard time and was acting as if he wasn't going let me get my truck until I had something from the rental agency. "How in the hell am I supposed to get something from the rental agency if I can't rive there." So I called the rental agency and they set him straight. Everything inside of me wanted to run my fist through his head and pillage his tow lot but reality set in and my desire to get going overcame. I did give him the "what is your fucking malfunction" look the entire time. He said something gruff but I couldn't understand him as the fluid in my ears was popping loudly. Before he could be rude to me again his cell phone (a.k.a. the plague of the 21^st century) rang. The office was too small for him to hide and I heard him saying "yes baby…you got it sugar…you are the only one for me sweetie…whatever you want baby…" and so on. He was red faced with embarrassment. He walked me to the truck and told me, in a completely refined tone of voice, "good luck son." I told him how much I appreciated his "help."

We made it back and I finished packing and cleaning while Maureen did J's bandages. I called the moving company and Jess treated me to supper where I met another key player, Mickey. He was the 30ish owner of "the best pizza on earth" which also served Salvadorian food. He knew Jess and had a heart full of love. The restaurant was only 30' by 30' square, lined with booths with a few tables in the middle. The big screen had South Carolina cleaning the court with Kentucky basketball game on. Mickey recommended the Popuso or something like that. It was hand made tortillas, flank steak fried with peppers and tomatoes, spicy rice and salad. He started naming off the beer list (apparently no one in California has heard of Michelob or Busch.) When he got to the end of the list he muttered "and we got Arrogant Bastard Ale." I told him I wanted one. He warned me of its 8.3% alcohol content and its "punch you in the face taste." It was rich and good, the type of beer that beer snobs like. Mom called during the meal. She is really good at changing everything in her life without actually growing a single bit. Jess and I talked for two hours about our lives, the good and bad. We shared secrets and perceptions that neither us previously. Mickey came back and was impressed that I drank the whole. He brought me his favorite it was called "red doing blonde" or something weird like that. It was really good. Jess ordered a milkshake and Mickey brought me another Arrogant Bastard Ale. This one was called Dark oak and I liked it the best. Of course at this point the alcohol percent in these beers was starting to affect me. May be it was being helped by the sinus medicine, fever, lack of sleep, and general delirium that I was feeling at this point. Mickey was truly sad that Jess was moving and gave us the beer and milkshake on the house. Jess ate the entire order of bread sticks and a hog head sized bowl of ravioli. She also demolished the hand made milkshake that Mickey made with ice cream, and real strawberries and bananas. We watched to the end of the ball game Mickey hugged us both goodbye.

Jess and I both suffer from the same disorder – Random Spontaneous Trivial Decision Making Syndrome. We decided to get a movie at the Blockbuster but neither of us have an account. So we opened an account at the Escondido Blockbuster knowing that we would both be leaving the state for good within 10 hours. We got Napoleon Dynamite, an instant top ten movie for me. Still not above the Natural or the Godfather but somewhere on the list with Big Fish, Lost in Translation, Life is Beautiful, About Smidt, Shindler's List, The Doors, and Apocalypse Now. Jessica liked it. I drank a six pack of Heineken and then got another 2 hours of sleep over the next six hours or so. My sinuses were draining so I just sat against the wall and watched the clock for most of the night. I got to contemplate the things I didn't understand like – why I got towed, why people in San Diego and Escondido seemed so nice, and why I sweat like a pig even when it is cold. I got to think about being raised as a Christian by a Christian mother who later turns to the new age movement that she so adamantly cursed for years and years. I got to think about my dad whose approval I always wanted but never got, who for years chose everything else before my family but is now stepping up and choosing family first. I get to think about how my own views have been developed since leaving home, going to college, getting married, having kids, and living 750 miles from the place I grew up. I got to think about the people that want me to believe like them. I got to think about my wife and how I've been a mediocre husband to. I got to think about my sons who are growing and how I am influencing them. I got to think about how I am miserable at my job and I need to change. I got to think about how much of my adult life has been a reaction to my parents' divorce and the wholes that it left in my psychological development. I got to think of how I have a heart full of seemingly endless rage and at the same a heart full of love for all that I come across. I got to think about how much I love writing and playing music and how God has developed my adult life around music. I got to categorize everyone in my life and realized that there are only a few people that I could not live without and some of them I haven't spoken to in years. As I sat and thought about life, the universe, and everything else Jessica's alarm clock went off.

At 0500 we looked at the apartment and realized we had nothing to pack other than a couple backpacks. We got on the 15 and hit almost zero traffic. We made it to the airport with plenty of time to spare. As I told Jess goodbye it was the happiest I have seen her in the past 15 years. It was also the first time I told her that I love her.

1600 February 16, 2005 Somewhere over Alabama
I am somewhere over some of the most rural areas of America. I will be in JAX in about 40 minutes. I am trying so hard not to think about heather and the boys. I miss them and love them so much it hurts. Our family is in transition. We are trying to figure out how to handle Haven's seemingly untamable temper and help Oshean prepare for kindergarten. Somehow this trip is going to help. It has been like pushing a big reset button somehow. It has been the most painful, miserable, stressful three days as well as the most rewarding and meaningful. I think that I saw the true power of kindness while in California, where until last week I had only thought of in the Hollywood/Sodom and Gomorrah sense. As we approach Jacksonville I see the Atlantic and think that it is pretty neat that I got to see the Pacific earlier that day. Making up for the travel delays on the way there we hit a tail wind from California to Florida and I am over an hour early. I am humming "Yahweh" by U2 and think of the words as we descend "take this mouth/ so quick to criticize/ take this mouth/ give it a kiss…Yahweh…Always pain before a child is born." Amen.

I sure hope that Emily had a nice trip.

1821 over Jacksonville, FL

life is beautiful...

Gabe Simpson blogging on Blogspot

2008-06-13T10:02:00.000-07:00

I am going to be gathering and editing my blogs from myspace and facebook and putting them here on blogspot.

Most of the blogs will be stories from my journals from years past that i combine with today's perspective. Most of the stories are about healing.

Hopefully soon i will posting blogs with the lyrics and recordings of some of my songs. i just need to finish building the studio so i can start recording.