She…..

She is beautiful, but not just physically. She has an immense inner beauty from being loving, compassionate, big hearted, a wonderful mother, a friend, a confidant, and a genuinely good person.

She has an inner strength that she doesn’t realize. Overcoming many personal obstacles and working to overcome more.

She has more intelligence than she gives herself credit for.

Her eyes change with her mood.

Her eyes and smile light up a room when she is happy.

She hates my Challenger, but buy’s me new parts for gifts.

She lets me buy parts for her Explorer, on the condition I show her how to install them.

She lets me have control over the remote at night.

She is hard as a rock when her mind is made up and soft when she holds me during times I need comfort.

She is my shotgun rider in the Challenger and I am hers in the Explorer.

She is my fiancée, my Queen, my lover, my best friend, the mother of the daughters I have taken as my own.

She is Love.

The Night

The road winds, twists and turns. It runs over hills, down valleys and cuts across the arid flats like a scalpel, two lanes bisecting the deserts sandy body. He looks out the car windshield, knowing where the road will take him but not the night. His only reassurances are the comforting weight of the .45 on his hip, and the sound of the modified V8 as it roars down the road, the car as black as the night it rips through.

The engine roars a little louder through the pipes as he presses down on the gas pedal.

The Ghost of Tom Joad comes through the speakers.

Leather on leather, his holster creaks against his gun belt.

He doesn’t know how the night will end, only that one it will end.

Monsters

You know how when you are a kid you are afraid of the dark? Your imagination would populate the shadows and the night with all manner of monsters. Some would be things you saw on television, read or heard in stories, or just things you saw that scared you that your child’s imagination would morph in to some shapeless boogy man.

I’m here to tell you that those monsters are real.

They live inside you waiting to take control, scratching away at your brain and conscience every day. Every mean thought and every dark impulse is theirs. Some people are better at fighting their inner monsters than others. For some, the monsters are just too big. Others have to maintain a daily fight against the growing darkness inside them! Building a virtual Hadrain’s Wall between them and the monsters, populating the garrisons with every mental defense and offense imaginable to wage mental war. Sometimes they win, sometimes they lose, for some it’s a stalemate.

The monsters are real, they are you.

Rain Day

He stood there outside his front door, looking up in to the sky. The rain washed over his face, through his beard and down his neck, cleaning the dust of the day off his skin. He took his grease stained gloves off and shut the garage door; a cement floor was not a place to be lying on when the temperature started to drop. Besides, the day was called because of rain. Rain days were few and far between, they were days for sitting on the porch with a hot cup of coffee and looking out across the desert to the mountains.

The desert is a hard place, he thought as he gazed at the landscape that surrounded his home, full of jagged and sharp edges. In the summer it was hot, dry, dusty and shades of brown as far as you can see, if your not looking closely that is. In the winter, cold, dry, and dusty. Not as cold as other places, but still colder than most people realized and of course, windy. It didn’t matter what time of the year it was, it was almost always windy. Normally just breezy, but it could change to the kind of wind that blows over telephone poles and rips the roofs off houses. But today wasn’t windy, today was rain.

The rain would be welcome by everyone, especially if it were to be a rainy winter. A rainy winter meant that wildflowers and desert grasses would be abounded in the spring. The desert wildlife might have a chance to live a little easier this next year, instead of coming in to the towns for food and water. He didn’t know how many cats and dogs the people in town had lost to the coyotes this year, but he knew it had been a lot. Just the other day he read that a bobcat was actually seen in town carrying off a small dog. The animals were desperate if they were getting that close to people. He hoped this was the sign of a rainy winter, to change all that.

In his own way he was like the animals that lived in the desert; wary of other people, only going in to town when he had to and full of scars from a hard life. He gave a small smile and shook his head at that thought; the things he thought of when stopping to enjoy the rain. He walked under the porch, wiping the water off his face and kicking the mud off his boots before going in the house. It was time for that coffee.

You can’t go home again

The other evening I walked the silent streets of the neighborhood I grew up in. The streetlights gave a dull yellow light, throwing small anemic pools of light on each corner that brought the shadows in instead of driving them back. A few porch light’s tried to drive back the night that the street lights wouldn’t. They were fighting a losing battle, most of the houses stood dark and silent. Some families were away to celebrate the Thanksgiving weekend with family in other places, but most houses just sit empty. The former residents have either died or moved away. The only living things that I saw were a few dogs, guarding their owner’s yards from the increasing crime. The night was still and silent, no cars passed by, no television sets or radio’s carried their sounds from houses where there used to be life, to train rumble or horn; just an almost malevolent silence that followed me back to the warmth and glow of my grandparent’s home. A shrinking oasis of light in an ever increasing desert of dark.

Grandfather stories, part 2

The second in my series of stories my grandfather tells. This will be about my Grandfathers childhood:

My grandfather grew up during the great depression. As a child he remembers people in soup lines because there was no food, people trading services for food that they grew because there was no money and he remembers the Hobo’s. Growing up, my grandfather used to frequent the hobo camps. He would sit and listen to them play harmonica, tell stories, eat their food and generally have a good time. He described them not as the Hobo’s that we think about, but as honest men that were just traveling place to place looking for work. Sometimes they would steal crops or chickens to eat, but that was because they were hungry and there was no work to be found.

He said that growing up his family never went without food. When he was young and his dad was a lawyer in Cleveland, he would trade his legal services for food. Some people would pay in vegetables if they grew vegetables, if they raised pigs they might pay with a slaughtered pig, etc. Later on, after moving to California, my great grandfather was able to provide food through working and my grandfather would provide food from hunting and other means. One of these other means was road kill.

Back then the bumpers of cars were a lot higher off the ground than they are now, and the speed limits were a lot slower. My grandfather says that these cars would be going down a road and hit a bunch of “prairie chickens.” Evidently these birds had long necks, which put their heads at just bumper eight of the car. The car would go by at 30mph or so, and “Thwock!” the bumper would start hitting the heads of these birds, killing them but not harming the bodies. My grandfather would gather them up, take them home, clean and dress them. Dinner is served.

If he didn’t get his birds this way, he would get them with his rifle. At the age of seven my grandfather received his first rifle, a .22 Iver Johnson self cocking safety rifle . As he states, his father didn’t believe any boy should pass the age of seven without a rifle. My grandfather said that he immediately went out and shot all the glass insulators off the telephone poles. My great grandfather found out and immediately took the bolt out of the rifle, hiding it in a drawer somewhere. My grandfather said that some months later he came across the bolt, put it back in his rifle, and went on his merry way. My great grandfather of course knew, but never said or did anything.

I know in the previous segment I wrote about my great grandfather, recounting my grandfather’s stories. However, I didn’t tell the ones that specifically detail some of the interactions between him and my grandfather.

When my grandfather was young, he always went around barefoot in the summer time. Shoes were expensive and as a child he would have out grown them or wore them out too easily. He said that one time he stepped on a board that had a very large nail in it. The nail went in the bottom of his foot, out the top, effectively nailing the board directly to his foot. His brother and his friend Billy (who I will talk about more, directly) helped him in the house and sat him in the kitchen. My great grandmother put a big enamel wash basin under my grandfather’s foot to catch the blood, then went and brought my great grandfather in. My great grandfather kneeled down, looked at the board and then looked my grandfather in the eye, pointed at him and sternly said “Now don’t you cry.” He then proceeded to pull the board and nail away from my grandfather’s. My grandfather says the he sniffled, but never cried.

My grandfather often speaks of his friend, Billy Masters. Billy lived in a severely abusive household and many times my grandfather remembers Billy having bruises and welts all over his body, received by his father for some offence that had been given. My grandfather often tells a story about the two of them playing out in the woods one day and Billy missing his curfew. My grandfather repeatedly tried to get Billy to go home, but Billy was having too much fun. The next day when Billy came over, he had been beaten black and blue. When my grandfather tried talking to him about making it home on time, Billy just said “I was having fun. Besides, a beating only lasts a little bit.”

One day, while out in a farmer’s field, they came across the farmer’s tractor. He and Billy jumped on the tractor and started it up. The tractor started rolling along and my grandpa looked at Billy and said “Do you know how to drive this thing?” Billy of course applied in the affirmative. Well they went rolling along and pretty soon were heading to a swamp at the back of the farmers property. Billy said that he couldn’t stop the tractor, so both the boys jumped off. My grandpa said that the tractor ran itself in to the bog, the turning back wheels digging it deeper in to the mud, until it eventually sank almost the whole way in. When I asked my grandfather if the farmer ever was able to get the tractor out of the swamp, he said that he doesn’t know. He did say however, that whenever he and Billy would pass by the famer’s house, the farmer would watch them like a hawk.

One of the Billy Master’s stories that my grandfather tells more than the rest is about the time that Billy sold my great grandfather a lock. Evidently my great grandfather had just finished building doors for a big barn like shed. It may have even been their garage. Standing there he said that all it needed was a lock. Billy Masters heard him, went over to him and said “Mr. Heath, I have a lock I will sell you.” My great grandfather told him he would look at the lock, so Billy went home and retrieved the lock.

My grandfather says that his dad looked at it, pronounced it a brand new lock, and asked Billy what he wanted for it. Billy told my great grandfather that he only wanted a nickel for it, so my great grandfather gave him a nickel for the lock. He then put the lock through the hasp of the doors, locked it and began to walk away, when he stopped and asked Billy for the key. Billy looked at my great grandfather and the exchange went like this:

Billy Masters: “Why Mr. Heath, there isn’t any key.”

Beverly: “WHAT?! NO KEY?!”

Billy: “No Mr. Heath, you don’t need a key, just these.”

At that point Billy produced what my grandfather says looked like a couple bent nails. He walked over to the lock, stuck them in the tumbler, stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth and proceeded to pick the lock with them. When he was done he handed the bent nails to my great grandfather. My great grandfather laughed at Billy and said “Take your lock and give me my damn nickel back.” He then walked away, shaking his head and smiling.

As my grandfather grew up he was separated from Billy. He often states “I wish I knew what happened to him.” My mom and I looked the name up some time ago, and we found a few different ones that might be him. Unfortunately they all turned out pretty bad, so we never said anything. We don’t even know if any of them were the right Billy Masters anyway.

My grandfather didn’t need Billy Masters around to get himself in to mischief, even as an adult he has a mischievous streak a mile wide, though it has been tempered with age. One of his favorite stories is about the time he took a bucket of grease and brushed it up and down the railroad tracks. He said a steam locomotive came along, hit the grease and that was it. The tires started slipping and the train wouldn’t go forward. Of course me grandpa was standing there, smiling sweetly up at the train engineer. The train engineer looked down, smiled back and pulled a lever. The lever opened bins of sand underneath the locomotive, which covered the grease. The locomotive was then able to move its way down the track.

As a side note, not knowing this story, I did something similar as a child. I’ll save that story for a later date though.

As my grandfather got older he became a fighter in school, a smaller guy (he didn’t get bigger until about 18) that bullied and fought the big guys. He actually caught the eye of a man named Gus Gursing (Gurzing?), a gym teacher who had at one time been a professional boxer. He taught my grandfather how to fight, which may have been a mistake because he just found himself in more fights after that. Always beating up bigger kids, or putting up enough of a fight that it just wasn’t worth fighting him.

He gained a well-deserved reputation as a trouble maker and hung out with the same. He likes to tell the story of how he and his friends would go to the gas station next to his high school at lunch where they kept bottles of beer and various kinds of soda in a barrel of ice. Of course the ice would melt and become ice water. He says that the bottles of “Dad Old Fashioned Root Beer” looked just like the bottles of generic beer that were floating next to it. The ice water would make the labels on both the bottles loose, so he and his friends would switch the labels and buy the beer to drink with their lunches. He says that after a while the gas station caught on and stopped putting the beer in that barrel.

My grandfather said that early in his school career he had been held back a year, so his senior year of high school he was already 18. He was still very much a trouble maker and getting in to fights, when one day someone picked a fight with him, not the other way around. Even though he did not start or want the fight and the gym teacher went to bat for him, the principle of my grandfather’s school told my grandfather that he was being expelled and transferred to another school. I do not remember the name of the other school, but it is where they sent all the juvenile delinquent types; my grandfather says it was more of a prison than a school. Being 18, my grandfather said “Nope, I’m not going.” He walked off school grounds and that was it.

He says that two months went by before anyone noticed and called home to see where he was. His father answered the phone and talked to the school, with my grandfather right there in the living room. My great grandfather said something along the lines of “Well he’s 18, so he doesn’t have to go if he doesn’t want to.” Though I am sure my great grandfather was disappointed in him.

Next up, the years between school and Korea.

Grandpa stories part 1, family stories.

I’ve been visiting my grandparents more recently as they are not only getting older (86 & 85), but they are starting to have health issues. My grandmother was recently diagnosed with the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s Disease, and my grandfather is heading that way too. He was also diagnosed as borderline diabetic and told to go on a diabetic diet. He politely informed the doctor that he is 86 years old and that he would cut out the sweets (of which he doesn’t eat a whole lot anyway), but that he would NOT be altering his diet any further.

Realizing that they probably don’t have a whole lot of years left, I’ve decided to record as many of my grandfather’s stories as I can get down. I didn’t do this with my father and I regret it, so I won’t make that mistake with my grandfather. He is full of stories, many of them he tells over and over in true elderly person fashion. Many of them are entertaining, some are sad, most give you a glimpse in to a world long gone.

This will be just the first in a series.

My great great grandparents:

My grandfather tells a couple of stories about his grandparents, and his great grandfather. His great grandfather came home from the Civil War on the back of a mule, was helped in to bed by his family and never again left that bed. He died there some days or weeks later. Before he died he told his son (William, my grandfather’s grandfather, and the man my grandfather was named after), who was maybe a teenager, that he was now the man of the house and would have to take care of the farm and the family. William worked the farm and took care of his mom and his siblings until some unspecified time in which he had a family of his own in Texas. From what my grandfather says, he worked his hands to the bone for his mom and siblings and later for his wife and kids.

My great grandfather could remember that one night, when he was a young child, his father William was pacing back and forth in the little house carrying his infant daughter, who was sick. William’s wife Hattie was sitting in a rocking chair either sewing or knitting. William was trying to soothe the baby to sleep, and walking back and forth for some time. My great grandfather remembered that William stopped and checked his daughter because she had stopped fussing in his arms and when he checked her, this exchange took place:

William: “Hattie.”

Hattie: “Yes?”

William: “The baby is dead.”

Hattie: “Oh?”

And that was about the extent of it. The baby was buried in the yard the next morning.

My great grandfather and his brothers:

My great grandfather’s name was Beverly Carradine  Heath, back then Beverly was a unisex name. My grandfather used to never talk about his dad much, but he has been more in recent years. He describes his father as a “rawboned” man, about 6’1”, strong, stern, hard worker, never smiling, never laughing, rarely talking, instead preferring to let his actions speak for him, with the fastest reflexes he has ever witnessed in a human being.

My grandfather said that when he was a young child prohibition had just ended, so this would be about 1933 or 1934. He was in a Ford (Judging by the year it was either a Model T or a Model A) with his father putting down the road, when they drove by a bar. Outside the bar was a small gathering of drunk men, and one thought it would be fun to run up to the car, jump on the running board, and punch my great grandfather in the face. My grandpa said that his father saw the punch coming and moved his head, so that the man’s fist only knocked the pipe out of my great grandfather’s mouth. My grandfather said that just as quick as anything, my great grandfather snapped his hand over, grabbed the thumb of the drunk, and bent it back. My grandfather said that the man screamed like a woman. My great grandfather, without even looking at the man told him something along the lines of “Now you behave, or I will tear it right off.” My great grandfather then putted down a few streets to the back of a police station where the drunk was arrested.

He said these same reflexes about knocked him out when he was seven years old. He was in the back of a car when they were moving from Cleveland to California. My grandfather doesn’t remember what he did, only that he misbehaved in the back of the car. Without saying anything my great grandfather whipped around, back handed my grandfather, and then went back to driving. My grandfather said that he saw stars and it almost knocked him out.

My grandfather describes his dad as an Artillery Captain to the day he died. My great grandfather was a Captain in the Army during World War One and stationed at Fort Patrick Henry (he thinks).  It was during this time that an Artillery Battery could not pass the tests that they needed to pass in order to be sent to Europe and fight. The Command was under the gun from Washington to get this Battery to perform. My great grandfather was put in charge to get them to shape up. He figured out that it was about six or so men that were purposefully instigating the Battery to fail so that they would not have to be sent to Europe. My great grandfather weeded these men out and then began to train the Battery like they had never been trained before. He had them going over trajectory tables, learning how to factor in wind, humidity and everything else that affects ballistics. He had them studying math and memorizing these tables seven days a week in the beginning, until someone complained to the Inspector General. The IG informed my great grandfather that he had to legally give them Sunday off.

This angered my great grandfather. To make up for the Sunday loss, he had the Battery train night and day the other six days a week and the men were confined to the base until the Battery was able to pass the proficiency test. Evidently my great grandfather received a lot of anonymous death threats during this period so he as well never left the base, spending all his off time in the Officers Club, until the Battery and the six men he had weeded out were all either sent overseas or to another base.

My grandfather said that he never actually held a conversation with his dad until he was about 22, so some of the things he had to learn about from one of his uncles. Uncle Lally.

My grandfather speaks of a few uncles, but the only one he ever really talks about is an uncle “Lally” his full name was Lallance Lloyd Heath. Lally was a short and stocky man that had trained as a boxer and was the contender of either the light-heavy weight championship of Texas or the middle weight. My grandfather can’t remember which one. Evidently Lally, like his brother, had a temper. However, Lally tried to hide it behind laughter and jokes. Some of these were basically abusive jokes, like making my grandfather eat grass, which Lally thought was hilarious.

My grandfather told a story in which his dad, his brother in law (my grandfather had two or three sisters and another brother), and Lally went in to a bar in Los Angeles. He never said the year, but this was probably in the 1940’s. The three men were at the bar drinking beer, when three very large Mexican men came in. The men were some sort of construction workers as evidenced by the cement dust all over their boots and bottom of their pants. They wanted to sit at the bar but there were only two bar stools left, so one of them men grabbed my grandfather’s brother in law and told him very forcefully to give up the stool. Lally put down his beer, stood up off the stool and walked over to my grandfather’s brother in law, put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down on the stool. He then punched the large Mexican man in the face knocking him to the floor unconscious. He stepped over that man and punched the next man in the face also knocking him out. It was at this time the third man was running out the door. Lally, Beverly, and the brother in law quickly finished their beers and left.

During the ride home Lally made the men promise to not say anything to Lally’s wife, as he had promised her years before that he would no longer fight. My grandfather mentioned the story to Lally’s wife upon Lally’s death. Lally’s wife smiled at him and said the she had known all about it.

There were other aunts and uncles but he never really talks about them. Except for one which he described as a “Mountain Man.” He said that twice a year this uncle would kill a bear for the meet and fat. The meat was used in everything you would expect him to use the meat for. The fat was used for cooking, baking, etc. He said that the uncle would use it to bake pies the way people would normally use Crisco. Now, the real special part of this story is in how the uncle would kill the bear. He would shoot the bear at the base of the skull, somewhere just behind the ear, with a .22 Long Rifle! Now, if

you don’t know anything about guns or bears you probably don’t realize how dangerous and amazing this is. The man must have been one hell of a shot.

Speaking of bears, my great grandfather once punched and kicked a bear in the butt during a camping trip to Yosemite back in the late 1930’s. As my grandfather tells it, the family was all in a large umbrella tent for the night when a bear came in to the camp looking for food. At some point the bear backed in to the tent wall where my great grandfather was sleeping, annoying my great grandfather, so he punched the bear in the butt. The bear grunted and moved a couple steps, then again backed in to the tent. This time my great grandfather, without saying a word, began to repeatedly kick the bear in its butt. The bear ran away.

Now, before you judge these men too harshly for some of these stories you have to realize the time of the world it was and where they came from. These were men that grew up in the pan handle of Texas in the late 1800’s, conditions were rough and life was cheap.  My great grandfather had to hide behind the front door with a loaded gun when the Apache Indian braves would ride up demanding food from his mother, under threats of violence. She always gave them food and they always behaved.

It was out of this life that my great grandfather became an Army Artillery Captain with an amazing aptitude for math, a Mechanical Engineer, a Chemical Engineer, a Lawyer that was nominated to the Ohio Supreme Court and a self-taught machinist. As I said before; hard working.

Next time: Childhood stories.

Morning

The sun was up in the clear and bright blue sky, hanging over the Eastern hills and warming the morning. What was probably the last of the sporadic cold winter storms had moved through the day before, and and a mist hung above the desert floor. It enveloped the base of the hills and stretched across the dry lake bed, giving everything a dreamy quality, almost like something you would see in a movie or read in a book.

He looked at the road out of town. Normally it seemed like it stretched endlessly across the empty desert, but now it disappeared in to the haze. He looked back at his car, his only possession. and new it was just a matter of time. 

Okay dear reader, I’m not sure where this came from, but it came. It popped in my head this morning as I was driving home from my girlfriends and saw the mist that was caused from yesterdays rain evaporating. I kinda like it, seems to be the opening of a story. Maybe more will come later. 

Something to think about

An old and close friend posted something today and I thought that I would share it, it is definitely something to stop and actually think about before responding to. Remember, the world is not always black and what.

“Here’s an idea….. for one day… lets stop talking about how wrong the other political/religious/whatever side is. Believe it or not, the world’s problems are not the fault of your opponent and you do not have the answers.”

Valentine’s Day has gone to the birds! Or, A Long Valentines Story.

Until last night I have never had a Valentine, that’s right NEVER. Always been single on V-Day, never had a date on V-Day, etc. My luck with women is known to be profoundly bad….until now. Seems I have found a woman that actually cares about me and wants to be with me, I’m still in a state of shock over this as it is a very foreign feeling and concept.

Anyway, I wanted to make Valentines Day nice for us. Now this is no easy feat when your significant other doesn’t have a set in stone work schedule, and only get’s to know what she is working less than a week in advance. So on Monday I found out that my girlfriend had to work util at least 7:30 on Valentine’s day. Which means that by the time she gets home, spends some time with her daughters, gets cleaned up, etc….she is at my place some time around 8:30 or 9:00. Every restaurant in this town, except for Dennys, closes at 9:00. I am getting really sick of going to Dennys on our date nights, let alone Valentine’s Day. So my solution? I’ll bbq!

I came home from work, cleaned up the apartment, did dishes, started prepping food, marinating steaks, and then cleaned myself up all nice and dressed all spiffy. I wanted to look and smell good for my girl after all. About 8:30 I had just put the steaks on the grill, potatoes were almost done, veggies were steaming, and the garlic break was warming up, (sound good?) when my beautiful girlfriend arrived. I won’t tell you what she was wearing, but I will tell you it distracted my cooking efforts, a lot.

After pouring her a drink I went out to flip the steaks. As I walked out the back door movement startled me, and I see a sparrow alight from the back porch light and start flying straight up in to the roof overhang, about 6 inches from my wide open back door. Not understanding why this bird is flying around at night but seeing what is about to transpire, I lunged to the back door to shut it. Alas, I was too late. The sparrow flew right in to my apartment, and that is when the hijinks began. My girlfriend and I spent about 20 minutes trying to shoo this stupid bird out of one of the open doors in my apartment. Only to have it panic and keep flying around, bashing its little birdy head in to the ceiling. Finally it became too tired to fly, or else it gave itself a concussion by repeatedly hitting its head on the walls, ceiling, book case, X-Box, clean dishes. So I was able to scoop it up and deposit in in the tree out front. It wasn’t there this morning, so maybe it’s okay. Either that or the mangy stray cat that was hanging around last night got a Valentine’s Day meal.

After depositing the sparrow outside…I realized the steaks were still on the grill! lucky enough I must have turned the grill heat all the way down by reflex when the sparrow startled me. Because the burners where turned down, and the steaks were not totally ruined.

Stupid bird.