Piper

The Final Legs...FINALLY

2012-01-31T20:38:00.005-05:00

Arrived in Santa Fe, New Mexico, November 29th, 2 A.M.
Jeep Odometer: 194,889
Trip: 3,880

I drove out of Texas on a wimb (sp?)—a wimb of Faith. After getting my oil changed in Austin, I stopped at the gas station across the street to fill up for a long drive to Santa Fe. I pumped. I paid. I got back in the Jeep. But it wouldn’t start. I tried again and again, but no luck. So I walked back to the oil change joint, told them the news, they acted surprised (I wasn’t), and they drove me over to check it out. After the mechanic tried several times to start it, with no success, he offered to call a tow truck to haul it back over to the shop.

“Let me try one more time,” I said. I tried and it turned over. The check engine light was on.

“You can take it, or we can bring back over for a diagnostics check,” he said.

I wanted to go. I want to say “F it” and ride, but I erred on the side of caution.

After an hour of drinking bad coffee, reading even worse magazines, and wondering what the hell the Latino family next to me was talking about, a mechanic came around the corner as I puffed on a cigarette. I followed him to the back where the Jeep was running with four guys standing around it.

“So what’s the word?” I said.

All four of them just looked at me with no answer. Finally, the head guy spoke up. “We don’t know. The check is bringing up nothing. I’d love to just tell you something and work on it, but I can’t.”

Twenty-six years and eight months later and I finally met the first honest mechanic of my life. It must be a Texas thing.

“So what does that mean?” I asked.

“It means you can take it as is…if you wish.”

I shrugged my shoulders, as if saying, “Okay, I don’t have any other choice,” and I got back in the saddle.

“Have a safe trip to Colorado,” he said, and patted old Charlie on the hood as I waved and pulled away.

So I pulled away from Austin around 2 P.M., roughly four hours past my original plan. A recurring theme in my life. Like this blog—17 months in the works.

I knew I’d run out of daylight much quicker than I wished. But when the sun is heading west over Texas in the late fall, it looks as if it will never set.

Wrong.

It sets.

And it gets awfully dark when it does. If I can provide any bit of advice from my Odyssey, this is the most logistically important: GET GAS EVERY CHANCE YOU GET. Especially in west Texas on I-10. It’s IMPERATIVE! There are 100 to 150 mile stretches between gas stations. And the one I found, the gauge on the Jeep eerily close to “E” wasn’t attended by anyone. If I didn’t have a credit card I would’ve been screwed.

All through the night I rode like Cassidy and Sundance, leaving no trail behind…unless Hail Marys leave a trail (not sure), because I said more than I could count. I was never scared. Honest. I can truthfully say that that was the most dangerous drive of my life, and I was never scared. You can’t be scared. If you are, you won’t make it. Or, you will, but you won’t realize how unbelievable it is to be alone with God, your safety and wellbeing entirely in His Hands. I believed and He answered. I showed no worry and He rewarded me. I believe the Bold of Faith are always blessed. And I can say that from experience. I just wish I could say that I’m ALWAYS Bold of Faith.

Probably the most unsettling moment of the leg was a stop I made just south of Roswell, New Mexico. As I pulled into a gas station, somewhere around 2 A.M., a full contingent of Banditos were gassing up their motorcycles. I had seventeen hundred bucks cash in my pocket, but I had a beard that nobody, I repeat, nobody F’s with. I believe a man’s physical size is irrelevant if he walks with conviction, wears a beard like a lumberjack, and carries a look in his eyes like he’s wanted in several states for murder. That, or I looked like a broke homeless man who lived in and out of his Jeep. Either way, it worked.

I pulled into Santa Fe early in the morning and found a room at the Motel 6 just off of I-40. I carried my valuables into the room, brushed my teeth, and called it a night. I spent almost 14 hours, 11 of which were in the pitch dark, driving across the southwest, and I was beat. I slept like a baby.

I have to admit, as sad as this is to me, I have since lost my trip log and atlas. Therefore, I cannot remember the exact time or mileage for the final two legs of my Odyssey. I can only hope that I left both somewhere that someone picked it up, looked at it, and grew inspired to do the same. However, 13 months later, I will recount the last two legs of my Odyssey the best I can.

I woke up in Santa Fe just before noon, checked out of Motel 6, and ate breakfast at an I-Hop. Then I gassed up and hit the New Mexico road, west by northwest, with Colorado on my mind. I can honestly say that New Mexico is one of the most beautiful states in the country. I used to always think it was just a barren wasteland of brown. But I learned that it possesses colors like I’ve never seen anywhere else.

I crossed the New Mexico/Colorado border in the late afternoon hours. The Rocky Mountains were mine for the taking, and I had no other choice but to belt out John Denver’s “Rocky Mountain High” as best I could. Be grateful you weren’t there to witness it. It was a butcher job at best.

I went as far as Durango and checked in to a Super 8. I went into town, sat at a Starbucks, and made a last ditch effort to find a Telluride residence on Craigslist. Nothing was giving. I would have to just drive into town the following day and find out in person.

When I woke up the following day, what was supposed to be my last on the road, it was cold as hell. I can remember that distinctly. It was the kind of cold that makes breathing a painful task. I looked at my atlas and wrote down the last directions. Then I put my things in the Jeep and I started cutting north through the teeth of the Rockies.

When I finally got to state route 145, forty miles south of Telluride, I stopped at a gas station. That was the moment I realized I was in the wild of a lightly developed wild west. The gas pump was one of those types that has a revolving ticker and nowhere to pay with a credit card. So I went inside, where an older guy in blue jeans and a flannel shirt attended the counter.

“I’m going to fill up on pump two,” I said.

“Okay. Go ahead,” he said.

“Do you want a credit card or a hundred-dollar bill to hold until I know how much it is?” I said.

“No. I can’t run, but I can shoot,” he said. He was dead serious. No chuckle or laugh followed. I’m absolutely convinced he had a shotgun loaded and ready to roar behind that counter.

So I filled up, paid, and turned up 145 North to my destination. If you ever get the chance to drive into Telluride, Colorado, on a sunny winter day, from the south, do it. Don’t think about it. Just do it. You will be very glad you did. Granted, if you drive a 1995 Jeep Wrangler, there will be times you think you’ve pushed your luck. That moment will probably come on descent from Devil’s Pass. It’s the only time in four years of owning Charlie that I thought she was going to explode. It sounded like Tommy Lee was trapped under the hood with nothing but his drumsticks and an eight-ball of cocaine. Also, certain moments come back to you in an instant, like the moment a mechanic on Cape Cod said I should look into having the brakes worked on. He said it wasn’t imperative, but he also said it 4,000 miles earlier, nearly at sea level, not 10,000 feet above it.

Obviously nothing tragic happened. Unless you can describe the panoramic sprawling snowdusted mountain views as tragically beautiful. I can. It’s one of those views that, in looking back, makes me think I can die peacefully one day, knowing I have it locked in my memory somewhere.

I pulled into Telluride around 11 A.M., and I had driven through it by 11:05. And that might be a liberal estimate. It’s THAT small of a town. But where it lacks in size, it makes up for in personality. I was there. I had made it. Home sweet home. Or so I thought.

I will forever hold that day and night close to my heart. I will never feel like a failure for leaving it behind. Maybe, perhaps one day, I will experience more than 24 hours in that little ski town atop the world, but it just wasn’t in the cards that time around. In the short time I did spend, I made several friends, drank good beer, an even better margarita, and I met, possibly, the love of my life. Man she was a doll. I teamed up with half a dozen locals in a losing effort on Trivia Night, lost my winter gloves, and fell wearily to sleep, utterly lonely for the first time in a long time.

My decision to continue west the following morning was probably initiated by a myriad of factors.
1. I was so hung-over I vomited profusely, first in my hotel room, and then on the side of the road as my head pounded. And I never vomit after drinking. I’m not 16 anymore.
2. I had absolutely nowhere to live, and the only hotel room I could find was $100 a night.
3. I had nowhere to work. I could have found a place, I’m sure, but I was a little more concerned with the place to live part.
4. Panic. The funny thing about having money, as opposed to not having it, is the fear that is born, paralyzing your spirit to live in exchange for living not to lose the tiny little monetary treasure in your bank account.
5. Loneliness. I knew I would make friends. I already did. I’m probably the best guy I’ve ever known at making friends. Seriously. I haven’t met a person yet that hasn’t wanted to be friends with me. And I say that with humble honesty.

Looking back, however, the factors that initiated my spur-of-the-moment change in plans were God’s Way of telling me where I really belonged—with my brothers.

On the 20 hour drive from Telluride to Los Angeles, only stopping for gas several times, I convinced myself I was doing it for “career” reasons. It was time to finally use my college education to make money. And where else was a better place to use a Professional Writing and Multimedia Production degree than Hollywood? I still believe that. However, I now know that wasn’t the reason God wanted me in Southern California at all.

I pulled into the back parking lot of Cliff’s office in Hollywood just after midnight. I was tired. I hadn’t eaten a thing besides an apple all day. I was probably delirious from staring at the road for almost a full day straight. And I wish I could say that I knew I’d made the right decision the moment I first saw Cliff’s face. But life doesn’t work like that. No matter how hard you try to turn life into a movie, and I have countless times, it’s not. I wish I could say I knew I made the right decision the moment I first saw Matt’s face, but I can’t. I knew I made the right decision countless times over the five months I spent in Los Angeles. Because that’s where life is real—those “in between” moments. That’s where reality always surpasses anything you can dream up in your mind.

It was the nights Cliff and I watched basketball games together, or, I ashamedly admit, The Bachelor…which I still think Brad should have picked Chantel O. For some reason he suffers from the same “Blonde-haired, blue-eyed Southern Belle Obsession” that I do, and that has plagued many a men for the better part of the past three-hundred years. It was the nights Matt and I sat at The Counter, indulging in monstrous burgers and splitting a plate of fries and onion rings. It was the hikes Cliff and I took up Runyon Canyon, philosophizing like two artists, two brothers, always seem to do. It was the late night hangouts Matt and I shared over a couple of brews and the Master Kush. It was the friends I made at Morel’s, and the laughs and fear of the general manager we shared. Really, when it all comes down to it, two things can summarize everything I learned about life in those five months:

1. Nothing, absolutely nothing can take the place of family. There’s just something about blood that doesn’t lie. There’s laughs and moments only to be shared by brothers. There’s more to learn about yourself through your brother’s eyes than anyone else. There’s more joy in one minute with your brother than ten-thousand with your best friend.
2. Anywhere you go, anywhere at all on planet earth, if you are willing to open up, you will make friends and learn new things. One of my favorite things to do, when I say my prayers every night, is to ask God to bless each and every person I’ve ever spent time with. My father once said to me, “One thing you can’t ever say is that you don’t have friends everywhere.” It’s funny how it takes someone else saying that to fully realize it.

And so, there it is, 13 months past due, but completed once and for all. My 2010 Westward Odyssey covered 45 days, 5,200 miles, and crossed 17 states. I climbed mountains and crossed rivers. I slept under blankets of stars and the roofs of all eight of my siblings. I spent time with friends, from Massachusetts to Ohio to Tennessee to Texas to Colorado to California. I held each and every one of my 23 nieces and nephews in my arms. I spent time with my father. What in the world could have been better than that? Nothing. There’s nothing I dreamt up before I embarked on that journey, and nothing I’ve dreamt up since, that even comes close to what I actually experienced during those 45 days of my life. Reality always surpasses imagination. But you can only know that for sure if you really go out and do that which you imagined.

God Bless, Your Brother in Christ,
Anthony P. Vasko

Leg Ten

2011-02-27T02:41:00.009-05:00

Arrived in Houston, Texas November 16th, 6 P.M.
Jeep Odometer: 193,868
Trip: 2,859

Deep in the Heart of Texas, the Eyes of the Parks upon me…

I made it to Jackson, Mississippi the day before, cutting the longest leg of the odyssey so far in half. I knew I was in for a pretty wicked and eventful 10 days when I called Sarah around four o’clock, just after crossing the Louisiana-Texas border, and what sounded like military-conducted bomb testing was, in fact, just Frances, Thomas, Elizabeth and Hannah playing like usual in the backyard.

Shortly after sundown I pulled into the driveway on Graceland, logged my miles, and carried my bag onto the front porch. Frances swung the door open and bear-hugged me, along with Thomas and Elizabeth. Hannah took one look at the grizzly and bearded, unfamiliar man, hung her head in fear, sobbed, and then dove into Peter’s arms. I was 3 for 4 to start, and 10 days ahead of me to warm up to the only Spanish-speaking and only gringo-looking one of the bunch.

The funny thing about visiting Sarah and Peter is that little has changed since they were a couple of co-eds at Franciscan, and I was seeking whatever guidance I could find, entrenched in the forever-lost grounds of adolescence. Of course they’ve grown, and I’ve grown, and their love has blossomed five times over, but the formula of our visits remain the same: I seek guidance and bring humor, they offer support and yield laugh after laugh after laugh, because, I’m sure you know, I’m that funny.

But seriously, there’s definitely a recurring theme on this odyssey—I’m the little brother, and that won’t ever change. So, like Ali and the water-pump, Missy and carving pumpkins, Karen and making dinner and washing dishes, and Diane and dusting off the old gym shoes, I woke up the first morning to yet another task, just a different sister. Sarah says, “I was wondering if you could touch up a few spots on the back windows with some paint. Just two. Won’t take very long.” Of course I agree, and of course I find myself wrapping up the eighth window (scraping, priming, taping, and painting) five days later. It’s all just a part of the gig, I understand, yet I get suckered in from the start every single time. I guess I’ll just chalk it up to all of the little jobs I never got to do for my mother.

In short, here are a few things to keep in mind if you plan a trip to South Texas:
1. There is a leader of the chaos. She reads a lot under a pair of plastic-rimmed spectacles, very respectfully asks for “seconds” at the dinner table, and will be the first one to ‘plead the fifth’ when justice is being sought by the patriarch. She’s a doll, but she’s the leader nonetheless.
2. There’s a cowboy in the bunch. He likes fast cars, books about fast cars and super-heroes, and he’ll surely but slowly find a liking for football—he’s growing up in Texas, after all. And finally, if he says there’s a large June Bug in the room, listen to him, and don’t just tell him to go back to bed and shut the door, the way the grizzly, bearded, unfamiliar man did.
3. If there is a culprit, a master-mind of the plan, don’t look to the oldest or the only boy, but rather, look no further than the one who is the smallest, giggles the most, and defies physics by the way her tiny lungs emit sound the way lightening causes thunder.
4. If you find yourself thinking, “Where did she come from?” or “Is the white girl speaking Spanish?” you’ve found the toughest nut to crack. To answer the previous questions: nature has a sense of humor, and yes, the gringo is the only one who knows Spanish. However, once that nut is cracked, what is inside is well worth it. The giggles alone are worth the cracking.
5. Just pick her up. It doesn’t matter if you’re her mother, father, or God-father with a lumberjack’s whiskers, the sweetest pea west of the Mississippi will smile and laugh and do the same for you, as long as she’s in your arms. My favorite time of the entire trip was rocking this sweet pea the first morning I was there, while saying a Rosary and asking the Blessed Mother to protect her with my love when I have to go away.

Also, don’t expect to make a trip to Texas without being invited to go fishing, hunting, or just meet up with a bunch of other guys on a Saturday afternoon to shoot shotguns at piles of dirt in a backyard somewhere. I passed on the last one, but I cordially accepted on the first two, and I have the pictures to prove a Midwestern-boy can catch a few red fish on the Gulf—even if it is his first day. As for the hunting, no luck, but I was only out there for an hour or so before it got dark. I had the chance to go on Thanksgiving morning, but a few Shiner Blondes kept me up late enough with Sarah to pass.

We spent the last three days of my Texas trip at the Parks’ seasonal abode on Lake Travis. And no trip to Texas can be complete without a full rundown of Texas history with Mr. Park—the born and bred Texas patriarch. I could probably fill another ten paragraphs with the information he conveyed to me, but I’ll spare you until I pair up with him for a full-length book in the future.

Finally, after watching Ohio State kick that school up north’s ass yet again—7 in a row—I packed up the Jeep once more, with a brief stop at a friend’s in downtown Austin ahead of me, and then the long trek across west Texas and southern New Mexico, with Telluride still fully in mind, still fully in heart. I took a few pictures with Sarah, Peter and the kids, and then I made my farewell. There was nothing in front of me but my destiny—the concluding legs of my 2010 Westward Odyssey.

Leg Nine

2010-12-16T21:46:00.006-05:00

Arrived in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, November 11th, 4 P.M.
Jeep Odometer: 192,918
Trip: 1,909

Smoky Mountain Sun keep on shining! Sweet Home Rocky Top…Rocky Top, Tennessee! 33!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Oh how the sight of those mountains felt as I came into east Tennessee on I-75. Also, how the house of horrors have changed because of 33 Miracles and ten months of separation.

If you’ve never been to east Tennessee while the autumn foliage is at its peak, you haven’t witnessed true beauty. Also, if you’ve lost hope in the kindness of others, swing down to east Tennessee any time of the year. It is still my favorite place I have ever lived, and it never loses its appeal, no matter how long I’m away from it.

I had a bucket list, you can call it, and with the exception of climbing Mount LeConte, I reached all of my goals. The following are a few things to take into account when camping in the Smoky Mountain National Park:

1). If you tent, bring an air mattress or sleeping pad. The tent “pads” are gravel, and you are not permitted to pitch a tent on the grass—a rule I broke the final two nights.
2). If alone, get drunk. It’s really the only form of entertainment after two hours of solitude by a campfire.
3). Don’t count on the campers one site over, with a roaring fire and music, to invite you over. Just accept being alone with nature, drink a few more Yuenglings, and call it a night.
4). Most important of all, layer-up before going to bed. You will be sweating when you fall asleep, but you won’t be freezing at 4 A.M. when you wake up to go to the bathroom.
5). Try to remember that you left a white garbage bag right outside of your tent. Therefore you won’t freak out at 4 A.M. when you unzip the tent to go to the bathroom, zip it back up, lie down until the pain in your bladder is too much to handle, and finally break out of the tent like it’s San Quentin and you’re on Death Row for a crime you didn’t commit. The whole process is unnerving, and terribly embarrassing to tell anyone about.

The following is a journal entry I made on the second day of my trip:

“Last night was a perfect example of why I drink when I camp by myself. Once again, I couldn’t get a fire going. I’m 0 for 2 on the Odyssey. I’m not sure if I keep getting wet firewood, or if I just suck at building fires. Oh well. Tonight will be another opportunity. I went out today to work on “33”. In the process of taking pictures for the front and back covers, as well as the chapter pages, I was faced with many demons of the past year. I had not been up to Bluff Mountain in 13 months. It was interesting. I felt emotions of joy, want, disappointment, heartache, triumph, and then nothing at all. It’s funny because I lived there for 8 months, but when I pulled up to it, it felt like it was Daniel’s cabin all along. I have to admit, however, that I took pleasure in seeing it vacant. Selfishly I don’t want to think of anyone else living there but me.”

As for my bucket list, I climbed to the top of Chimney Tops, Bluff Mountain, visited my old cabin on Bluff, consumed many mugs of Thunder Road and Harvestfest at the Brewery, and took over 100 photos for the illustrations in “33”. Although I planned on staying until Monday, I decided to ship out on Sunday instead. While sitting at Grandma’s Kitchen eating my breakfast, I looked around the room at all of the religious signs on the walls. My personal favorite: Expect Miracles. I’m expecting 33 of them to hit the bookstore shelves by summer time.

Leg Eight

2010-12-16T00:35:00.004-05:00

Arrived in Dayton, Ohio, November, 8th, 5 P.M.
Jeep Odometer: 192,454
Trip: 444.00

One of my favorite things about visiting the Lukes is how Diane and I are so far apart in age (17 years), yet simply brother and sister when we’re together. Of course I hold an admiration and respect for her, and I’m sure I’ll always be a little boy in her eyes, but amidst the jokes and laughter we might as well be the same age.

The moment I rolled into the neighborhood I saw Nastia, Mariana, Jacinta, and Charlie waiting for me on the street corner. And I thought my celebrity didn’t extend beyond Huron! It’s funny to me how the traditions of my youth have progressed to the next generation. I can remember when I stood on the street corner, or end of the driveway, waiting to run alongside Diane’s car. Another frightening sign of age: Elena is going to college next year! I thought about giving her some advice regarding college, but I hardly doubt it would’ve gone over very well with Jim and Diane. I’ll just save all of it for the memoir.

On my first night in town, Charlie kicked my ass at Stratego, although I will say he definitely plays by his own set of rules. Reminds me of someone I know. The second day, I took Nastia, Mariana, Jacinta, and Charlie to the park. We played tag and made several laps around the small lake on bikes, roller blades, and my feet. Later on that night I laced up the old sneakers and attended basketball practice with Elena and Valya. I figured I’d take it easy on those high school girls, but they didn’t share the same compassion. At least three times I thought I had an easy break-away lay up, but by the time I reached the three-point line I was swarmed by at least two defenders. I almost always passed it to Valya, who is a natural jump shooter. With a few tweaks to her form and 500 miles of dedication, she’ll have a college scholarship within three years. My only moment of true glory came when I dusted Elena and the rest of the squad on the first suicide. That’s a fact she will dispute, but it’s a fact nonetheless.

On my third and final day, I hung out with Nastia and Jacinta. We played catch, and I determined that Jacinta will be on the 2026 gold medal winning U.S. softball team. I’ve never seen a girl, who tips the scale at 45 pounds, launch a hardball 30 yards with the flick of her wrist. The night wound down with dinner, warm apple pie, and a lengthy conversation between Jim and I. Then I printed off a copy of “33” for Diane. I know, I know, she’s the only one I printed a hard copy for, but she’s the oldest, so she deserves it.

The final morning we woke up early, went to Mass, and then Co-Op. One side note: please shut down the “arts and crafts” room. 105 degrees, no air circulation, and various adhesive substances cannot be safe for my nephews. Nevertheless, their log cabin looked fantastic. Around 10 A.M. I decided it was time to move on. So I said goodbye to the kids, Karen, and Diane, and I moved the Jeep southward to yet another home from my past.

Leg Seven

2010-12-15T00:57:00.009-05:00

Arrived in Huron, Ohio, October 30th, 4 P.M.
Jeep Odometer: 192,237
Trip: 1,229

Going back to Huron always brings back memories. Of course there’s the running joke, “How long are you staying? Ten months?” Gregg breaks that out without fail every time visit. I can’t blame him, though, because I’d probably do the same thing.

But going back to Huron is as close to going home as I’ll ever feel when visiting a sibling. I did live there for ten months, two years ago, and I still feel very blessed to have done it. There’s no substitute for living in such close proximity to your nieces and nephews, especially in such formative years of their lives. Mya is the most hilarious four-year-old in the world, Ava is the modern-day princess, with a heart of pure God, and Lucas possesses a striking resemblance of the boy I once was—small for his age but well beyond his years both playing and watching sports.

I got to carve pumpkins with the Winnestaffers, which consisted of them choosing a design, and me actually carving them, but it was a pure blast, despite the inevitable arthritis I developed within the three-hour process. I also got to dress up as a pirate, and I took them trick-or-treating. Along the way we were joined by half a dozen neighbor kids, all of which called me Uncle Piper, and half of which I’d never met before. I always dreamed of being famous, I just aspired for a little more than ‘legend’ status among the four to ten-year-old range in the Eagle Crest Development. I’ll still take it as something, though.

Later on that week, Karen brought Marissa, Jonah, Ethan and Zachary up from the ‘Boro, and the party finally got into full-swing. We had an epic 56 to 56 tie on the backyard grid-iron, and I will forever plead the “Fifth” regarding whether or not I “fixed it”. All I will say, being a man who prides himself on individual statistics, is that my interception in the fourth quarter destroyed my nearly flawless quarterback rating.

On Saturday, Dad and Gerry came up from Youngstown, and Jon and Maeve came over from South Euclid. As only a Vasko could put it: who says nine is enough when there can be thirteen? The kids were animals until bed time, as was expected, and the adults stayed up late eating potato chips and drinking cold beers, as was expected.

Everyone should get to experience a week like that, at least once a year, even if it involves the self-induced pain of damaging a quarterback rating to keep any kids from crying :) In other words, everyone should have a family like mine!

Leg Six

2010-12-15T00:38:00.005-05:00

Arrived in Cleveland, Ohio, October 28th, 4 P.M.
Jeep Odometer: 192,143
Trip: 1,134

Back to Bryce’s old stomping grounds. I remember when this town was my getaway. I remember creating an alternative world here to escape the pains of adolescence. The beauty of my line of work, however, is that the fictional story I once created in these neighborhoods never was but forever will be untouched, in my mind at least.

The reality of the situation is that I wasn’t here to reminisce on those stories of the past. I was here to see my brother and his family. And from the moment I arrived, I realized how unique of an opportunity my “odyssey” was: seeing my family members and loved ones in their natural environment, amidst the day-to-day routines of their lives. Not the usual frazzled mess that is forty different people at a family reunion every two or three years.

After arriving I spent about two hours with Bridget and Maeve, catching up on the South Euclid news and the present day happenings of a six-year-old in Montessori school. Then Jon came home, and it was a mad rush to get to the soccer field. I’m pretty sure, at least I hope, that that was the coldest soccer game I have and will ever attend. I’m also not sure why I even made it out of the house with flip flops, but I soon found myself agreeing with one of Boompa’s backwards theories: you lose more body heat from your feet than anywhere else. I won’t lie, either, and say the game was fun. It wasn’t. In my opinion, it was dangerous for everyone involved. But that’s the way northeast Ohioans like to do it—on the edge of hypothermia.

Later that first night I drove over to the west side and met up with old friends from last year’s five-month stint in Rocky River. We shared laughs and drinks, caught up on gossip and each other’s lives, and solidified my father’s assessment from a few days earlier: “You definitely can’t say that you don’t have friends everywhere.”

I spent most of Friday morning hanging out with Jon, and late in the afternoon we went down to Little Italy for Mary Maeve’s Halloween party. She was the most beautiful Egyptian princess I have ever seen. Sadly, (no pun intended) I couldn’t get a picture with her that didn’t involve tears—she didn’t win the costume contest or musical chairs :( But the tears subsided later when we went out for pizza, and she showcased her emerging talents as a mathematician. She was very good with her riddles, too. She stumped me on all three of them. On the way home we grabbed a movie and some beers, cozied up in the living room, and wound down the night as a family.

On Saturday we had another soccer game, and I was much more prepared. Following the game, Jon took me to my old bank, and I closed the account. That may not mean much to anyone else, but to those close to me, they can understand how a simple act of closing a bank account meant closing a much larger door to my past. The next door down the long and twisting hallway of life was westward. So I said my goodbyes and headed towards Huron.

Leg Five

2010-12-12T01:36:00.005-05:00

Arrived in Youngstown, Ohio, 4 P.M.
Jeep Odometer: 192, 044
Trip: 1,036

Home. At least, another home that once was and no longer is. The house still looks the same, the old ball fields and basketball courts across the street still resonate with the same youthfulness of days gone by, and my father still waits for me with a smile and a handful of jokes I’ve heard at least ten times before. I’ve often said that the most peaceful place in the world to me is my parents’ home, the home of my youth, and the place where my wings were created and once set free. It still rings true to an extent.

The only thing better than lying on the couch in the family room watching football and awaiting the words, “Dinner’s ready,” from my stepmother’s voice at the top of the kitchen steps, is sitting at the kitchen table with my parents eating the home-cooked meal. We shared food and conversation, laughter, and our growing philosophies of life as all three of us progress down the road of wisdom. It’s also very peculiar to sit with my parents as an adult, free to make my own choices, and free to take their advice or let it go.

It’s also funny to see the faces of old friends, friends I still think of as sixteen, seventeen, and eighteen, even though they grew the same as I have, some of which have taken the steps in life such as getting married and having children. There’s always a mixed response amongst those I once saw on a day to day basis. The first response is an aw-factor of “you’re going where…I could never do that”, and the second is simply “you’re back home now…let’s drink these beers and enjoy each other’s company.”

The late night run-ins with my father are still the highlight of those trips down “homeward bound” lane. Papa V often wakes up restless in the middle of the night, fixes himself a sandwich, and goes down to his “man cave” to work on his book or paint Santa Claus figurines he plans to give to each son and daughter as Christmas gifts. I make my way down there, sit across from him, and listen as he talks about his book, his views on history, politics, and sports, and his vault of memorized corny jokes. It’s time that I treasure and bury away in my heart, because I know there will be a day when he’s no longer with us except in spirit, and it will be my duty to carry on his legacy for my children and grandchildren.

There’s the old saying, “Home is where the heart is,” and for those four days in October, my heart did not yearn to be anywhere but with my parents, in their home, amongst their love, protection, and guidance.

Leg Four

2010-12-12T01:27:00.003-05:00

Arrived in Columbus, Ohio, 7 P.M.
Jeep Odometer: 191, 870
Trip: 862

Homecoming 2010. I haven’t been on the old stomping grounds of the Ohio State campus for a little over a year. Things have changed, like always, and not just the ever-revolving faces of students, but some of the buildings, like the Ohio Union, and the ever-present reality that I’m becoming the “old man on campus” more and more with each return trip. Nevertheless I tried running with the young bulls one more time.

First, I met some random Indian kid from Craigslist who sold me a pair of tickets for the game at $120. This is a decision I would lament the following day, but I’ll get to that. After leaving Long’s Bookstore, I went to north campus to meet up with my old co-worker from the Cape, who is a senior in the Music school. Some things never change, like four 21-year-old guys sitting around a bedroom in an old, should be condemned, campus house, playing video games and smoking pot. I can’t say that scene didn’t ring a bell, even if I further displayed my “old man” status by not partaking. I also further cemented my “old man” status in my own brain by getting bored with such an environment within twenty minutes. But could I do, these kids were letting me crash on their futon for the night.

The rest of Friday night was rather uneventful. I went with the boys to a pool hall, drank a couple of beers and missed two dozen easy shots, walked to Little Bar—the old home base—met up with an old college friend, was ditched by him twenty minutes later, and randomly ran into another old college friend. We rehashed old memories, as we always do, and ultimately decided to call it a night by 1 A.M. That’s sad in itself—going to bed at 1 A.M. the night before a game because you’re old and tired.

Saturday followed much of the same uneventful blah-blah-blah. It was great to meet up with my brothers-in-law Brian and Gregg, to tailgate, crack jokes, and disregard the fact that we were, in fact, three old men. But the game was a bore. OSU beat Purdue 49-0, and we actually left at the end of the third quarter. I can’t remember the last time I left the Shoe, blowout or not, before singing Chimes and Carmen Ohio. Further cements how things have changed, I guess.

I then spent the rest of the day with a dear old college buddy and his fiancée, drinking $4 cans of Budweiser, and watching a cover-band who hasn’t progressed in their musical or performance ability since I left that town three years ago. By the time we went to El Vaquaro for dinner I was fading fast. I hardly remember the cab ride back to my buddy’s house, not because I was so drunk, but rather, I was so tired. If I were in Pamplona that weekend, the bulls would’ve run me over by the third turn in the road. Sad, but true.

It’s funny how a place like Clear Creek stays locked in time, but a place like my old college town escaped me like a dream that once was but can never be again.

Leg Three

2010-12-12T01:16:00.005-05:00

CLEAR CREEK, PA

Arrived in Clear Creek, PA, 9:30 P.M.
Jeep Odometer: 191, 611 mi.
Trip Odometer: 602 mi.

The only thing worse than a four-hour drive turning in to a six and a half hour drive (thanks American Recovery Act!) is arriving at the campground just as the rain starts falling. First it was just a sprinkle, then it was a light drizzle, and finally it was a steady downpour. I had one moment where I lost my temper. I won’t share what I said, but it involved wanting to sit by a fire and a four-letter word turned into an adjective. Momentarily I thought about turning around, heading back to the highway, and driving another ninety minutes to Dad’s house. But in that same moment I had to question my manhood. I can live with other people thinking I “gave up” because I don’t really care what other people think about anything, but I can’t live with myself thinking, “I gave up” or “I’m a __” (I’ll let you fill in the blank).

So I drove to my campsite (32) and found a slightly dry spot under a large pine tree. Then I debated what was worse: sleeping on a dry tree roots or wet grass? I went with the tree roots and set up the tent in a matter of minutes. Then I made a run to the “wood shed” that everyone RAVED about, and the d*mn thing was locked! It’s a really good thing they keep it wide-open mid-day when it’s seventy degrees and sunny, but fastened with a heavy duty/Hurt Locker deadbolt when it’s cold, dark, and steadily raining. So I sifted through the stacks of wood that were next to it, attempting to find the driest logs possible. I tossed about fifteen in the back of the Jeep and shunned the “honor code” drop box. I wanted to see how “honorable” their wet logs would be before dropping any cash in the box.

When I got back to the site I tried building a fire. It appeared to be roaring after a few minutes, despite the rain, and so I cracked a celebratory Yuengling…okay, my fourth celebratory Yuengling by that point. Five minutes later I realized the “roaring” part was the newspaper, church bulletins, and fire starting chips. I must admit, it was quite deceiving. Maybe the Lord wasn’t happy about the bulletin part, but I’ve never seen a paper fire sustain through a rainstorm for ten solid minutes. Time after time I tried getting the logs to ignite but with no success. Around midnight I decided to build the best paper fire possible and cook the grass-fed sirloin Sean gave me. I roasted that sucker on a steak knife to a perfect medium-rare. Then I took it down to the bank of the Clarion River and I devoured it with my bare hands. It was truly the most animalistic moment of my life.

Finally I decided to take a walk “around the Circle”. I had never done it alone. So I grabbed the flashlight, tucked an extra brew in my fleece pocket, and started the 1 A.M. trek into the darkness. I won’t describe the walk; I wouldn’t want to scare you, but it was SPOOKY indeed. I also learned that a great weapon in defending fear is inebriation. But no matter how many brews you put down, you sober up immediately when a 10-point buck thunders across the pavement at the darkest stretch of the walk. I was lucky the six or seven Yuenglings didn’t go from “down the hatch” to “down my leg”…or perhaps they did; I was already soaked from the rain, how could I decipher which was which? When I got back to the tent the fire was completely out. So I set up my bed and called it a night.

In the morning I went for a walk and took some good pictures. I packed the Jeep and prepared to leave. But before I did, I wrote the following:

10/22/10
1:40 P.M.

I was going to wake up and just leave so I could make it to Columbus by four o’clock, but I decided against it. I went for a walk with my camera in hand and I talked to myself about the recurring childhood memories of this place and the times I spent here with my family. It’s a place that’s locked in time, nestled so far down in the Allegheny Mountains that either no one knows about it, or they do, and they wish to keep it as it is—a secret.

There is no cell phone reception, no internet, no television, and only a faint chance of catching a radio signal. When people pass one another it’s with a “hello” and a smile. Even the river seems to whisper secrets as it meanders over and through the moss-covered rocks. And in between the chirping of the birds, there it is—the beautiful sound of silence.

I don’t know if it’s the multitude of fond memories, memories of youth and now memories of adulthood, the nostalgia of Marnie and Boompa first making the trek down Route 739 almost sixty years ago, or the echoes of children playing both then and now, but I hear it all, I soak it all in, with each autumn breeze that sifts past my eyes.

Sometimes I think I could sit here forever, like the kid in me who once vowed to live here when he was “grown up”, but I think it is the brevity of the visits only so often, which keeps this well of joy from ever running dry.

Now I must go.

Love and GOD Forever,
Anthony Paul

Leg Two

2010-12-12T00:57:00.005-05:00

DINGMAN’S FERRY, PA

Arrived in Dingman’s Ferry, PA, 9 P.M.
Jeep Odometer: 191, 321 miles
Trip Odometer: 313 miles

I arrived at the Wilson’s very relieved to see the faces of a sister and a brother, two nieces, and a warm bowl of chicken noodle soup—I have a bad habit of not eating on long drives. As usual, Sarah Marie was standoffish at first, but after roughly five minutes she was all over me. Lucy has grown so much since my visit in May, and not just physically. Her personality is emerging by the day and she even muttered “Pppp….piiii…pppp…a” by the third day.

Ten minutes after I arrived the water shut off. Although I still question the proximity of my arrival and the need to suddenly replace the water pump as quite a coincidence, I’ll take Ali’s word for it, and eliminate the idea of being coerced to northwest Pennsylvania as cheap labor :)

The next day, around one o’clock Sean walked into the kitchen having just replaced the water tank in the crawl space below. He turned the faucet and nothing. I’m pretty sure he muttered something that I won’t repeat, and I can’t blame him, I was muttering those same words just an hour later. “I’m going to need your help,” he said. From the tone of his voice it sounded like it was a tug here and a pull there…fifteen minutes later I’d be playing Chutes and Ladders with Sarah Marie. How gullible could I have been? If someone makes something sound like it’s ‘not that big of a deal’ put your gloves up because you’re going to get punched in the mouth. Nevertheless, I followed him out to the well and peaked in. “See that pipe down there?” he said. “We need to pull that out.” It looked simple; it sounded simple. The top of the pipe was about seven or eight feet from the top of the well casing…

Two and a half hours later I’m sucking wind, as well as second-hand smoke, as Sean and I yank the water pump (100 pounds of dead weight) over the top of the casing and onto the ground. In the yard was five-hundred feet of rubber piping spiraling left and right. The job was halfway done. We had to go to Lowes, buy a new pump, return home, hook it up, and drop it back down in the well. All in all it took us about nine hours to do it, but we had some good laughs, and I found new respect for blue-collar laborers, both present and past. There’s something to be said about getting your hands, forearms, elbows, shoulders, chest, face and hair covered in muck and mud and mountain well water just to insure that your sister and nieces will be able to bathe and wash the dishes. Not to mention, a cold Yuengling and a hot dinner never tasted so good.

Wednesday was much more “chill”. Ali and I took the girls to Dingman’s Falls and went for a walk. We took some good pictures, too. When we got home, Sean called and said he was sent home from work (lower back pain)…that’s the difference between 32 and 26, I guess. So Ali made dinner while Sarah Marie kicked my ass in Chutes and Ladders. Then we played “Party Jenga” after dinner, and I learned some interesting “truths” about my sister and her husband…for the right price I will definitely share. Just kidding. Snitches get stitches where I come from.

Finally, I packed up the Jeep on Thursday afternoon, four hours behind schedule, and said my goodbyes. I blessed the Wilson home as I pulled away, and I started heading in the direction of my favorite place in the world.

2010 Westward Odyssey; Leg One

2010-12-12T00:53:00.002-05:00

Monday, October 18, 2010
Departing Cape Cod, 2 P.M.

I am finally packed and ready to depart…six days behind schedule. I have decided to pass on the New England (Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont) portion of the trip on account of weather, time, and a desire to share those moments of newness and awe in the future with someone by my side.

Instead, I am going to visit Ali, Sean, Sarah Marie and Lucy Rose. I have been able to spend a great deal of time alone this past year, which has been tremendous towards the building of my Faith and trust in God. I am sure, as well, that I will get to spend a significant amount of time alone on the road and, finally, the Rocky Mountains of Colorado this winter. Although it may not be as exciting as braving the elements of nature, I am first choosing the warmth and unconditional care of loved ones.

Bon Voyage! Au Avoir, my cottage by the sea,
APV

Guilty But Forgiven

2010-12-11T00:48:00.002-05:00

Roland stood humbly between his past and his destiny. He was dressed in orange from head to toe awaiting the words of the man with the gavel. Then he was asked if he had anything more to say before the decision was made final.

“No sir. I’ve said all that I needed to say.”

“Okay then,” the man said, “due to insufficient evidence of rehabilitation, and an unconvincing remorse for the crimes committed, the motion for parole has been refused.”

Roland was guilty; he never denied it. He fully intended to rob the gas station nearly thirty years to the date, but he never intended to kill anyone. Night after night he tossed and turned on his cold metal bed, the sights of a mother and daughter lying face down in each other’s blood haunting him until he fell asleep and the nightmares set in. Three decades of prayer and asking God’s forgiveness didn’t change the way he felt—guilty, and the warden’s gavel cemented the feeling into him for what he thought would be forever.

The guards walked him back to his cell, and when the steel door opened he was pushed inside. He held his hands through a small opening and waited to be unchained. When the shackles were removed, the slot was closed. He was home.

“No luck amigo?” his cellmate said.

“No, Miguel. No luck.”

“I’m sorry, amigo. Hopefully next time.”

“Yeah. Next time.”

There would be no “next time” though. It was his last chance at parole. It was his last chance for freedom.

Before climbing into his bed and hiding under the coarse woolen blanket, he sat down at the small desk and picked up his pen to write a letter.

Dear Mother and Daughter,
May the peace and joy of God’s Resting Place be with you. I should be there, in the ground, not you. My life should have been taken, not yours. God brought three lives into this world, and I took all three of them away. I have tried and tried, but I don’t think I can ever forgive myself. I am prepared to endure the fires of hell, so long as you may rest in peace.

I was denied parole for the final time today. The warden says I haven’t been rehabilitated. I know that I would never do such a thing again, but I also know that I did do it, and so I must pay the full price.
The walls and the steel bars and the shackles do not bother me anymore. I feel no more imprisoned by them than I would an open field. What imprisons me is not being able to forgive myself for what I’ve done. This world is no longer in need of me. I have taken and taken, but I give nothing back. Perhaps I will finally give the world something good by taking myself away.

Rest in God’s Peace,
Roland

He folded the notepad and stacked it on top of the others. Thirty years of writing letters, all of them more or less the same, with nowhere to be sent, so they piled up instead, serving as a reminder of the wrong he had done. Finally, he climbed into bed, pulled his blanket over his aging body and said, “Buenos noches, Miguel.”

“Good night, Roland,” the voice from above returned.

As he lied in bed, unable to sleep, he accepted his fate. He was going to find a way to kill himself. He would wait until the next day, so Miguel wouldn’t have to be in the room when he did it. With his parole denied so was his chance to seek the forgiveness of the family he deprived a mother and a daughter, a wife and a sister. He didn’t say his prayers that night. He no longer sought salvation. Both had escaped him at the warden’s desk.

Morning came and the slot in the door slid open. He reached his hands through and waited to be shackled for the last time. Then he followed Miguel and the others down the long, narrow walkway to his last meal.

He chewed slowly, enjoying every bite. He was sure they didn’t serve breakfast in hell. When he was done, and the bell rang, he joined the others in line. He looked at Miguel, who was on his way to the library for school, and he said, “Farewell, brother.”

“I’ll see you later, amigo.”

Then he walked coolly and methodically to his resting place.

The steel door opened and he stepped inside. He held his hands through the opening and waited. He was relieved of the shackles, and as usual, they left rings around his wrists. Rings he often sat and stared at for hours.

He sat down at the small desk, looked at the stacks of notepads to his left, and took the ink pen into his right hand. He held it over his left wrist. Then he raised it to his neck. He wanted it to be quick. He wanted it to be final.

Three knocks echoed through the steel door. Then the slot was opened.

“Looks like you’ve got a letter,” said the voice on the other side.

“No letter,” he said. “No one sends me letters.”

“Roland Tynes? Number 06772?”

“Well yes, that’s me, but I don’t know anyone who would send me a letter.”

“Do you want it or not?”

“Yes. I’ll take it.”

The envelope was dropped through the slot, sailed up and down through the air, and landed on the cold cement floor. He set the pen down on the desk and walked over to the letter. He picked it up and sat down on his bed. Then he opened it and read:

Dear Roland,

This letter is very difficult for me to compose. I believe it’s been a long time coming, and I only wish it relieves you by reading it as much as it relieves me to write it. Thirty years ago you killed my mother and sister as my mother was finishing her shift at a gas station in north Houston. That crime and loss of my loved ones orphaned me at the age of 6. I was in school when it happened, causing me to never see either one of them again. I spent the rest of my youth in and out of foster homes, until succeeding enough in high school to earn a full scholarship to the University of Texas.

I never forgot what happened to my mother and sister, and because of it, I set out to pursue a career in law. I graduated top of my class, applied and was accepted to law school in Chicago, and since I have made a very comfortable life in the Midwest with a wife and three kids. Slowly over time the wounds of my childhood healed, but not fully. I came to grips with the loss, and I believe that both my mother and sister are at peace with the Lord.

I have prayed and prayed, but the wound has never entirely healed. Then I sought the guidance of my priest. I told him my entire story, from beginning to end, and I explained to him how I can’t find the last bit of healing I need. Word for word he went through the Lord’s Prayer with me. When we neared the end, a light went on in my head. “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

He advised me to think of all of the people who have done wrong to me, and if possible, find those individuals and offer my forgiveness. I sought every friend, co-worker, and businessman who I felt “wronged” me at some point or another. I extended my hand, and in most cases I was well received. Little by little I felt the wound closing up. Finally, I couldn’t find anyone else who had done wrong to me. The wound was only one stitch away from being closed forever.

I never thought I’d be able to do this. I was sure that I’d hate and revile the man who took the lives of my mother and sister forever. I wanted that man to be executed and taken out of this world with them. The anger and hate took deep roots within my soul, and by ignoring the memory altogether, I didn’t know I possessed such evil within me. I would like to note that I am not only doing this for myself, but for you as well. I want the healing I’ve yearned, but I also want healing for you, too. I want you to know that I forgive you. I have prayed for you. I have asked God to forgive you. I truly hope that you have sought the Lord’s forgiveness. I no longer wish evil upon you, rather, I wish you salvation.

I cannot imagine we will ever meet. I don’t know if I’ll ever possess that kind of courage. But the Lord works in very mysterious ways, as evident by this letter. Please accept my forgiveness Roland. Please know that you are one of God’s children like everyone else, regardless of your past, and that He wants you with Him when He decides.

Your Brother in Christ,
Juan Jose M.

Roland trembled as tears rolled off his cheeks and fell through the air before landing like raindrops on the letter’s surface. He was free.

He carried the letter to his desk, grabbed the notepad at the top of the stack, and opened it to the first blank page.

Dear Juan Jose,

Thank you. You saved my life. You freed me from the shackles that have imprisoned me for thirty years. I accept your forgiveness. I hope to see you and your mother and your sister one day in Heaven. Thank you.

Your Brother in Christ,
Roland

When he was finished writing the short letter, the first of many similar letters he would compose over the last years of his life, he closed the cover of the notepad and placed it on the ground, next to the tall stack of others, as new beginning.

Pray; Just Pray

2010-09-16T01:11:00.002-04:00

In light of the unfolding events in Cleveland politics, I urge everyone close and far away from me to pray. Please pray for Jimmy Dimora, his family, his friends, those close to the allegations, and those far away. Certain things "come to light" as the hour glass sifts towards a bottom-heavy weight, but what is human and what is Divine is often misconstrued. Now is a time for compassion, not hate. Now is a time to look in the mirror as you brush your teeth this morning, and ask yourself, "Am I perfect?" You and I both know the answer; it's rhetorical. Nothing great has ever been accomplished by malice, or callous judgment. We are all faced with demons every day. Sometimes it's just a chocolate chip cookie, other times it's a slew of worldly pleasures. A real human being stops, listens, and offers love and compassion, no matter the personal gain or loss, in hopes of the betterment of his or her companion. The ultimate goal in this life is to reach the Presence of The Creator and His Home--Heaven. The next goal shall always be to bring as many other souls with us. Earthly justice should be served, if deserved, but that is NO reason to turn our hearts and souls away from the Grand Prize. I seek for this to be a life lesson to me, you, and as many people as you share this piece with. We err, as humans, always have, but only the Father decides who is left out and who is left in. Please just pray that we are all invited In.

Love and GOD Forever,
Anthony Paul

Amazing Grace

2010-03-31T23:44:00.001-04:00

I first saw him out of the corner of my eye. He shuffled his body sideways towards me, braced himself on the pew in front, and sat down a few feet to my right. He looked lost, but as I watched him, he was responding rather well to everything around him. He stood up when he had to stand, and he knelt when he had to kneel.
The Gospel hit especially close to home that Sunday. It was the story of the prodigal son. I kept myself together to the end, but I lost it when the baskets were being passed around and Amazing Grace was being sung. I cried and cried, with my head in my hands, trying to stop before anyone noticed.

Then I followed him as he slowly shuffled his feet to the end of the pew and shuffled them some more until he stood underneath a hanging cross, awaiting the Host. Then I knelt down next to him and prayed.

His fingers were brittle and scarred. There were hardly any wrinkles because there was hardly any skin. His arms, once strong, were the size of a young boy’s. He must have been twice the age of the building, which was twice the age of myself.

I closed my eyes again and bowed my head. As I prayed, he leaned over and spoke to me, “You know…I was your age once.”

And that was it. He went back to praying, and when the Mass was over, he slowly shuffled his feet out of the church the same way he came in. Over two decades of pain and suffering were behind me and many more were still ahead, but at that moment in time, his words brought the healing I needed.

Never Taller Than When We Bow

2010-02-17T23:03:00.002-05:00

Jl 2:12-18
Even now, says the LORD,
return to me with your whole heart,
with fasting, and weeping, and mourning;
Rend your hearts, not your garments,
and return to the LORD, your God.
For gracious and merciful is he,
slow to anger, rich in kindness,
and relenting in punishment.
Perhaps he will again relent
and leave behind him a blessing,
Offerings and libations
for the LORD, your God.

Blow the trumpet in Zion!
proclaim a fast,
call an assembly;
Gather the people,
notify the congregation;
Assemble the elders,
gather the children
and the infants at the breast;
Let the bridegroom quit his room
and the bride her chamber.
Between the porch and the altar
let the priests, the ministers of the LORD, weep,
And say, “Spare, O LORD, your people,
and make not your heritage a reproach,
with the nations ruling over them!
Why should they say among the peoples,
‘Where is their God?’”

Then the LORD was stirred to concern for his land
and took pity on his people.”

2 Cor 5:20—6:2
Brothers and sisters:
We are ambassadors for Christ,
as if God were appealing through us.
We implore you on behalf of Christ,
be reconciled to God.
For our sake he made him to be sin who did not know sin,
so that we might become the righteousness of God in him.

Working together, then,
we appeal to you not to receive the grace of God in vain.
For he says:

In an acceptable time I heard you,
and on the day of salvation I helped you.

Behold, now is a very acceptable time;
behold, now is the day of salvation.

Mt 6:1-6, 16-18
Jesus said to his disciples:
“Take care not to perform righteous deeds
in order that people may see them;
otherwise, you will have no recompense from your heavenly Father.
When you give alms,
do not blow a trumpet before you,
as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets
to win the praise of others.
Amen, I say to you,
they have received their reward.
But when you give alms,
do not let your left hand know what your right is doing,
so that your almsgiving may be secret.
And your Father who sees in secret will repay you.

“When you pray,
do not be like the hypocrites,
who love to stand and pray in the synagogues and on street corners
so that others may see them.
Amen, I say to you,
they have received their reward.
But when you pray, go to your inner room,
close the door, and pray to your Father in secret.
And your Father who sees in secret will repay you.

“When you fast,
do not look gloomy like the hypocrites.
They neglect their appearance,
so that they may appear to others to be fasting.
Amen, I say to you, they have received their reward.
But when you fast,
anoint your head and wash your face,
so that you may not appear to be fasting,
except to your Father who is hidden.
And your Father who sees what is hidden will repay you.”

Today is Ash Wednesday, and so the Lenten journey towards Christ’s Resurrection begins. When read and examined closely, the first reading, and the Gospel seem to contradict one another. I don’t know much about the Old Testament, I must admit, nor do I know as much as I should about the New Testament, but I do know that Jesus spoke the truth, and the truth only. So I know that He would not contradict the old Law, but revive it, as He revived the destiny of man with his death and Resurrection.

After I took a closer look, and referred to my Catechism, I corrected my initial reaction. The Third Commandment “Honor The Sabboth” is where I started.

2176 The Celebration of Sunday observes the moral commandment inscribed by nature in the human heart to render to God an outward, visible, public, and regular worship “as a sign of universal beneficence to all”(109 St. Thomas Aquinas, STh II-II, 122). Sunday worship fulfills the moral command of the Old Covenant, taking up its rhythm and spirit in the weekly celebration of the Creator and Redeemer of his people.

That summarizes much better than I can why it is so important to join one another for worship—for the Catholic, Sunday Mass. When two or more join in prayer, so, too, is the Lord. As Saint John Chrysostom puts it:

“You cannot pray at home as at church, where there is a great multitude, where exclamations are cried out to God as from one great heart, and where there is something more: the union of minds, the accord of souls, the bond of charity, the prayers of the priests.”
--De incomprhensibili 3, 6: PG 48k 725

What better way to ask forgiveness than with each other? In a novella I am working on titled, “A Real Man” I put it as thus, “When you are with your brothers and sisters, you will see the needs of others. You will feel compelled to work for God, by working for others.” I am no saint…far from it, but I do feel an amazing presence of warmth and joy when I am surrounded by so many others in church.

Saint Paul, in his second letter to the Corinthians insists upon togetherness and unity, as well. He calls us to be “ambassadors of Christ”. He goes on further to say, “Working together, then, we appeal to you not to receive the grace of God in vain.” To me, this means that if we gather together, praising God for our work, we are much more likely to stay humble, than if we accomplish a great task on our own. Why? For the same reason we must join each other in church: where two or more gather, so, too, is the Lord. I don’t know why it is, but when we work alone (a golfer), as opposed to working on a team (football), the likelihood of personal congratulation, increases.

Now, onto the Gospel, which is rather self-explanatory. Because God wants us to be in union with each other, He wants only Himself to stand out. I have struggled greatly with this Gospel reading lately. Having made a concerted effort to start over in my Faith this past fall, I also made a concerted effort to share the Faith with as many people with questions as possible. I also tried becoming more reverent during the celebration of the Eucharist, knowing in greater detail of its Sacred importance. I don’t think that Jesus is telling us to be any less reverent in Mass or daily life. I don’t think He would ever do that. Rather, He wants us to remember that only One is supposed to stand out. We are all equal members of God’s Body. Whether you are a saint or a murderer, you are the same to God. I don’t know how He will judge you, nor will I ever know, or should know. But it is for that very reason that we should always bow humbly to our Creator—most especially when we are in front of others—by putting ourselves above anyone else, we are trying to take the place of the only One who is above all of us.

When we are alone, in the darkness of our inner-room, we must face God one on one. There is no hiding from Him. It is the only time that all of our attention is on ourselves before the mercy and might of God. That is when we should pray for our wants and desires, which I have found to be His will. Amen.

Love and GOD Forever!
Anthony Paul

All That I Am I Will Share With You

2010-02-07T17:23:00.002-05:00

“I am reminding you, brothers and sisters,
of the gospel I preached to you,
which you indeed received and in which you also stand.
Through it you are also being saved,
if you hold fast to the word I preached to you,
unless you believed in vain.
For I handed on to you as of first importance what I also received:
that Christ died for our sins
in accordance with the Scriptures;
that he was buried;
that he was raised on the third day
in accordance with the Scriptures;
that he appeared to Cephas, then to the Twelve.
After that, Christ appeared to more
than five hundred brothers at once,
most of whom are still living,
though some have fallen asleep.
After that he appeared to James,
then to all the apostles.
Last of all, as to one born abnormally,
he appeared to me.
For I am the least of the apostles,
not fit to be called an apostle,
because I persecuted the church of God.
But by the grace of God I am what I am,
and his grace to me has not been ineffective.
Indeed, I have toiled harder than all of them;
not I, however, but the grace of God that is with me.
Therefore, whether it be I or they,
so we preach and so you believed.”

1 Corinthians: 1-11

Today’s second reading by St. Paul was very special to me. In October, I read a book titled “The Personality of Saint Paul” and I truly believe that he intercedes for me, to help me find the words I need to relay Christ’s Word. I wish I was half as eloquent as Saint Paul, or I should say, spoke with as sweet a tone.

Recently I reached another epiphany—that I am who I am, and my calling is to use my creative talents to spread God’s Light, Love, and Word. I believe God has challenged me to use the gifts He has given me, to spread the Word to as many people and places as possible. Unfortunately, we live in a society that takes constructive criticism, or even guidance, as judgment. I have been made aware of that by a great deal of my peers. It confuses me, but I have to learn from it, not disregard it.

I feel as if I am convicted to tell the truth, and I cannot feel guilty for how people react to it. Recently I have learned how my words have a great impact on people, because I speak with conviction and passion. This is good and bad. It is good, because people listen to me, and seek the truth from me. It is bad, because I am merely human, and so prone to error. Also, I did not think about it this way until a few days ago, but there is no editing in conversation. Everything I say is first and final draft. With all of this in mind, I have decided to think very carefully before talking about anything, but especially the Faith.

My writing is another story. I have been blessed with the opportunity to spread God’s Love with stories of fiction, as well as interpreting scripture into modern day relevance. I can write something, read it over, re-write it, edit it, and mold it as much as needed until it is a TRUE act of LOVE for all who read it.

Jesus spoke to those who listened, but he died for everyone. I am going to sacrifice my life for others, not by dying, but by really LIVING. I am devoted to speaking the truth and being honest at all times. I am devoted to sharing with anyone my struggles and sufferings, my sins and shortcomings. In short, I would like to live an extraordinary life, as a very simple man, who positively affects the lives of many.

I believe that I have a great deal in common with Saint Paul (the man, not the saint). For too long I blasphemed God, not through my speech, but through my actions. I will sin until the day I die, but the great challenge is repentance, and growth. Actions speak louder than words, it is true. And an ACT of LOVE is always more endearing to the heart, and to God, than merely saying the words.

I invite all to join me on my spiritual journey, if even for just a short while. I have not been called to the priesthood, nor am I going to live in a monastery in Tibet. I will be right here, in the middle of this chaotic world, as a rock for those need me. Amen.

Love and GOD Forever,
Anthony Paul

Clementines and Circus Rides

2010-02-04T02:29:00.000-05:00

They played together in a traveling one woman and one man band. It was his dream, but she had the talent. His guitar was okay; her voice was angelic.

She never knew of her talent until meeting him. She was raised in a traditional, by-the-books family. She was raised to speak when spoken to, use the salad fork during salad, and the dinner fork for dinner, while ‘elevator’ music softly echoed off of the velvet walls.

He was raised to run around on bare feet, chase chickens, and pluck the feathers before it was sliced open, gutted and cooked in the kettle pot along with the vegetables. When dinner was over, and the dishes were washed, he could pick up the banjo and play his heart away.

She was destined to meet and marry a man of high class and social distinction. The families would unite, and the heavens would sing.

He was destined to marry one of the down-south country girls he had been around since birth. They would inherit the humble family farm, and do exactly as the generation before them had done—work and raise a family.

They met by pure coincidence, or Intervention by a Higher Power…it’s up to you to decide.

She was in town, like every summer, to enjoy the sun and beach.

He was in town to bring fresh Clementines for the rich folk to enjoy with their early afternoon brunch, as well as their poolside cocktails at night.

She was passing by the grocery on her way to an afternoon social with the other debutantes, and he was moving crates of produce off of the old pickup to a dully.

They exchanged glances first. And then a moment later, they exchanged smiles. Sometimes that’s all it takes for a couple of seventeen-year-olds on a hot summer day.

She was staying in a twenty-two-room mansion; he was staying in a room that often felt like it was shared with twenty-two other men.

She knew his class, and he knew her class, but neither cared.

She wasn’t supposed to venture out to the southern end of the beach; that’s where the summer work bums hung out.

He wasn’t supposed to venture out to the north end of the beach; he would stick out like a sore thumb.

As she walked south, he walked north. Under a hot July sun they met halfway. The rest is pretty much history.

She fell in love with him, and he fell in love with her. She discovered his simple, warm-hearted southern charm; he discovered a young lady whose talents needed to be experienced by the entire world.

In a moment, hotter than a pepper sprout, they hopped in his old truck and drove to Gatlinburg to elope.

She was certain her family would never talk to her again.

He was certain his family would greatly miss his help on the farm.

But what could they do, they were young and in love, living on a dream.

When it came to hit the road for a tour of one-night singing stands, with suitcases in hand, they still needed a name for the band. That’s when she hollered out, “How ‘bout Circus Rides?” It sounded good enough to him, so they went with it.

The old truck broke down several times on the first three legs of the tour. Luckily, it was warm enough to sleep next to one another in the bed, under a cover of stars. They put the money for lodging towards the flat tire, water pump, and oil change.

Through each setback they grew closer; they grew stronger.

Then came the fateful night, which would test their love forever. After nearly three hours of cover songs and original material, they were approached by an executive from the record industry.

He said that he loved what he heard and saw. But he was only talking about her.

Without a single thought she said, “No thank you. I’d rather stand by my man.”

And so Clementines and Circus Rides finished its first and only tour before returning to the old farm to work all day, raise a family, and play sweet music when the Good Lord allowed it.

Flat Broke But Full of Faith

2010-01-31T02:19:00.000-05:00

They were flat broke, but you would never know.

The timing belt went out on the station wagon, so they piled the kids in rows of two between them in the old pick-up, and made do.

When she dropped him off at work she rolled down the window and said, “I love you…and I’m proud of you!” Then she blew him a kiss and drove away. No matter how hard times got, she always said it. More importantly, she meant it.

She drove the kids to school. He labored.

Then she went to church, knelt down at the feet of the Blessed Mother and said, “Mary…Queen of Heaven and earth, please give me the strength to be his rock.” She recited the Hail Mary twelve times, and kissed the feet of the statue.

He moved one bale of hay after another, struggling to keep up with the younger pups, because his bones were aged and worn.

When she got home, she looked in the pantry for items to set aside for supper. Pickens were slim, so she had to make do.

At noon, he punched his time card and sat down. When he opened his lunch box he found a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an apple, and a note, which read, “I love you. And I’m proud of you!” He smiled and said his mealtime prayer.

She washed the clothes by hand, and then hung each item over the line in the backyard. Then she carried the empty basket to the house while singing “Amazing Grace”.

He labored through the second half of his day, growing weaker with each task. Then he punched his time card and waited for her.

She picked up the kids and drove to the grain and feed. He was waiting when she pulled up, and once he got in, she leaned over and kissed him. Then she said, “I love you. And I’m proud of you!”

On the way home, they stopped by the ‘pick and pull’ for a used timing belt. After ten minutes of picking, and ten minutes of pulling, they were ten dollars poorer, but they had what they needed.

When they arrived home, the kids played, she cooked, and he labored under the old station wagon. He took one break to eat, and then got back under the car to finish his work. She washed the dishes, put the kids to bed, and walked out to the driveway where his work was done.

He slid out from under the engine, grabbed her hand, and pulled her near the driver’s door. They closed their eyes, and held their breath together. He turned the key, and the engine roared.

They opened their eyes and danced with each other—first in celebration, and then in love.

Then the used timing belt snapped in half, and the engine died. He dropped his head in despair, so she placed her hand under his chin, lifted his head back up, and said, “I love you…and I’m proud of you!”

They went inside, washed up, and lied down next to each other in bed. Then, like every night, he said the Our Father, and she followed with a Hail Mary. Together they said a Glory Be, and then kissed each other good night.

Before he fell asleep he said, “I guess we’ll try again tomorrow.”

To which she replied, “You bet your ass we will.”

They were flat broke, but you would never know.

Let Go and Let God

2010-01-30T00:17:00.000-05:00

I wrote this back on October 13th, 2009. I was flipping through one of my notepads when I discovered it and realized I never put it on the old blog page.

There is no greater way to set yourself free than to “let go and let God”! Why do we try so hard to have things our way when there is Someone who knows much better what we need, and where we should go? Why don’t we listen to the all-present Truths He has given us first-hand?

He made us in the Likeness and Image of Himself. Why do we deny our true identity to become something we are not?

Without God nothing would exist! Not our music, our pictures, our ability to write, read and reason. Then why do we refuse to use all He gave us to give back to Him?

We do it because Adam and Eve ate the apple. Since then He has given us the choice, and He wants us to choose Him. And choose Him we must!

Love and GOD Forever!
Anthony Paul

We Sow and We Reap

2009-12-07T22:02:00.000-05:00

Sow a thought, reap an act.
Sow an act, reap a habit.
Sow a habit, reap a character.
Sow a character, reap a destiny.

--Taken from Peter Kreeft’s “Fundamentals of the Faith”

This hit me hard when I read it, because it is true. It is so easy for fallen human beings to go from a single thought to a destiny, without even realizing it.

It reminds me of an F. Scott Fitzgerald quote: “Have a drink. The drink has a drink. And the drink has you.”

All it takes is the seed of evil to be planted within us, and an entire garden of bad fruit can grow, and ultimately devour our paths toward God.

Jesus said, “Love thy neighbor,” for a reason. He also taught us to pray to the Father by saying “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us,” for a reason. We cannot enter the gates of Heaven with any hate in us, just as we are turned down at the stadium if we are carrying a firearm. There are no exceptions—leave the gun behind, and you shall enter the stadium, leave the hate behind, we shall enter into God’s Stadium.

Therefore, human relationships are the most important possessions we have on earth, because it is a direct connection between one of God’s creations with another. God’s LOVE connected with God’s LOVE.

Just as it is hard for an alcoholic to acknowledge his addiction when surrounded by other alcoholics in a bar, it is hard for two people to acknowledge that they are in a sinful union until they are apart. That is why so many people stay within the “comfort zone” of an abusive relationship, because by leaving it, they will have to acknowledge it is truly abusive.

The difference is that two human beings make up a marriage (union with God), whereas a human and a material item (alcohol, products of shopping, pornography, etc) make up no relationship at all, but rather, a sinful disillusion.

Human beings can find God’s LIGHT, the path of righteousness, and follow it, but a material object will forever be a material object, and a material object will NEVER bring you happiness, because happiness is God.

The drunk must eliminate the booze to get better. Human beings, to get better, need each other. Even the most holy of saints needed other people, because if there were no other people, there would have been no one to pray for.

We all sow thoughts into actions, actions into habits, habits into characters, and characters into destinies. We do not have a choice, because we all have a destiny. And we cannot control our every thought, therefore, bad seeds will exist in the garden. But a good farmer tends to his fields. A good farmer does not allow the bad seeds to overcome the good seeds, otherwise he ends up with a harvest full of bad crops.

Just as the good farmer possesses the necessary tools of discovering the bad seeds before they grow into plants, God provides us the necessary tools of discovering the bad thoughts we sow into actions, and so on, and so on.

Because of free will, it is up to us to tend our fields. That is, if we would like a profitable harvest.

Love and GOD Forever!
Anthony Paul

Why We Look to the Sky

2009-12-02T20:48:00.000-05:00

“If Christ has not been raised, then our preaching is void of content and your faith is empty too…If Christ has not been raised, your faith is worthless. You are still in your sins…If our hopes in Christ are limited to this life only, we are the most pitiable of all men.”
--1 Corinthians 15:14, 17, 19

To paraphrase Bishop Fulton Sheen ‘Christ is the only person ever born to die.’ The reason for this is the Resurrection. If Christ would not have suffered and died on Calvary, He would not have resurrected from the dead, and ascended into Heaven, thus raising us from the death of our sins, and making us, not worthy (for we can never be worthy), but made possible to reach salvation.

It can be said that the Resurrection is the cornerstone, the absolute foundation of Christianity—His Church. If we deny the Resurrection we deny our own salvation, which is what our hearts most fervently desire. We are put on this earth as preparation for the homeland—Heaven. And we can only reach the homeland if we are invited by the homeland’s resident landlord—God.

If you or I were to greatly offend and hurt another person, as far as brutally murdering the person’s only son with no remorse, would we expect that person to welcome us into their home with open arms? We wouldn’t even ask.

Yet, we feel as if we can do it to God? The Creator? He who made us with and through His LOVE, and continues to forgive us our trespasses time after time?

Sounds pretty naïve and foolish to me.

“If Christ has not been raised, your faith is worthless, you are still in your sins…”

What is the point of believing anything if we do not believe in the Resurrection? We can believe every other facet of Christ’s life, however large or minute, but what would it matter? We have to believe ALL of it! Just as a car needs an ignition (the Annunciation) to start the engine, it needs a gas pedal (the Resurrection) to allow the car to propel forward to its destination (Heaven).

Lastly, “If our hopes in Christ are limited to this life only, we are the most pitiable of all men.”

Christ came down to this earth, professed the Father’s Word, and endured His Passion, so the gates of Heaven would swing open, making it possible for us to enter our REAL lives—a life with God. If there is no Heaven, no life after this world, we are already living in hell!

Love and GOD Forever!
Anthony Paul

Live Right Now; Not for Yourself but Others

2009-12-01T20:37:00.002-05:00

“Now is no time to think of what you do not have. Think of what you you can do with what there is.”
--The Old Man and the Sea

I was struggling today while saying my mid-day prayers. I was feeling helpless, and fighting as hard as I could to keep from feeling hopeless. Aside from the physical discomfort of doubt and anxiety, I feel great spiritual emptiness when I allow doubt and anxiety to overcome me—I feel it is a great offense to God, a lack of faith and trust in Him.

Why should I expect to have anything more than what I have at the moment?

Why should I feel as if what I have—from Him—at the moment, is not good enough?

Often I see people sitting with others, looking down at the i-Phone or Blackberry in their hands, rather than appreciating the person right in front of them. And not just a person but a creation made from, by, and for God’s LOVE.

How often do we sit down with others for a meal in front of the television? Or not with each other at all, but in separate rooms?

How often do we kneel down alongside one another and pray together?

How often do we thank God for the present moment? How often do we look towards the sky, or bow our heads in reverence, and thank Him for providing such a beautiful day? And not just the sunny and warm days, without a cloud in the sky, but the cold, dreary, rainy days, as well? Every day is beautiful, and should be accepted as a blessing and gift from God!

I have tried my best to offer such short prayers to God, during all moments of my day, and I feel at peace, knowing that He is happy, and He will continue to bless me.

Very recently, I have been more mindful of these things, but I still have my shortfalls. I feel more and more homesick than ever, and I keep telling myself that I only have one month until I am near many dearly beloved family members and friends. But then, I try to remind myself that I am ALWAYS near dearly beloved family and friends—no matter where I am—because, not only is God ALWAYS with me, but every person I pass is a family member—brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus.

“Nevertheless do not rejoice in this, that the spirits are subject to you, but rather rejoice because your names are written in heaven.”
--Luke 10:20

I hope and pray that my name is written in heaven, but I have been trying to pray more and more each day, that as many names as possible, will be written next to mine.

Love and GOD FOREVER,
Anthony Paul

JESUS; OUR EUCHARISTIC LOVE

2009-11-19T19:38:00.000-05:00

“I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and Himself for me.”
--Galatians 2:20

We were ALL crucified with Christ. Through His crucifixion and death it was made possible for ALL souls to enter the gates of Heaven, and spend eternity with the Father and all His Glory!

Before Christ, the gates of Heaven were closed—no matter how virtuous a life someone lived, he or she had to wait for the Son of Man to take flesh, preach love and forgiveness, be ridiculed and slain, and rise up on the third day, so they could enter the Presence of God.

How sad and meaningless is life without the reward of Heaven on the other side? With Christ’s death this reality died.

What I want to stress is the necessity of God’s sacrifice—Christ, and in turn, Christ’s sacrifice—His body and blood, which is ever-present in the Eucharist.

Saint Paul says, “it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me.” I would have to imagine Saint Paul was referring to the Eucharist in this statement. There is no replacement, no better way for Christ to live in us that through the Blessed Sacrament! There is NOTHING more surreal, beautiful, miraculous, and all-LOVING than the celebration of Holy Mass, which occurs so close to us, so many times a day, re-enacting the ultimate sacrifice—that of GOD, for us…for us sinners!

There are countless saints whose ONLY desire, ONLY passion, every minute of every day, was to celebrate Mass and receive Christ into their bodies through the Eucharist. And how happy God was with them! How merciful He must have been when their earthly lives came to an end!

There is NO greater way to praise, give thanks, obtain healing of body, mind and spirit, as well as humble thyself, than to receive Christ into us. But be very mindful of your sins. We should always be as pure of heart and soul as possible when receiving the Blessed Sacrament. And receiving the Eucharist in a state of mortal sin is actually damaging to the soul (see the saintly quotes at the end of post for further explanation of this)!

So be mindful of Mass. Pick up a copy of “JESUS; OUR EUCHARISTIC LOVE” by Father Stefano M. Manelli, FI, to learn of all the majesty and holiness of the Mass.

Make time for Mass. We make time for countless hours of smut and temptation-inspiring television, but we are too busy to attend Mass? Daily Mass is twenty minutes at the most. An episode of “Nip Tuck” is thirty minutes. An episode of “Desperate Housewives” is three times longer than daily Mass. Which do you think serves God, and makes him happy? I’ll put it on a line all its own for further emphasis:

We are too busy for Mass? For God? For the One who was wounded over 5,000 times so that we can be forgiven, and obtain eternal bliss?

Really? What if God was too busy to ever create us? What if He was too busy to create the world?

I am not perfect. I am far from perfect. Do I go to Daily Mass? No. And I should. I need to.

Go to confession, repent your sins, attend Mass as often as possible, and let Christ LIVE inside of you!

I will conclude this post with a series of quotes from various saints, regarding the Eucharist. I found these quotes in a little book, aforementioned, “JESUS; OUR EUCHARISTIC LOVE” by Fr. Stefano M. Manelli, FI. Thank you, Sean, it took me a few years to pick this book up, but is a life-changer, indeed!

“The Eucharist is a daily Bread that we take as remedy for the frailty we suffer from daily.” --Saint Augustine

“Every consecrated Host is made to burn Itself up with love in a human heart.”
--Cure´ of Ars

“We should not forget that Holy Thursday was the day for which Jesus had longed.”
--Luke 22:15

“It is not in order to occupy a golden ciborium that Jesus every day comes down from Heaven, namely, our soul, in which He takes delight, and when a soul well able to do so does not want to receive Jesus into its heart, Jesus weeps. Therefore, when the devil cannot enter with sin into a soul’s sanctuary, he wants the soul to be at least unoccupied, with no Master, and well removed from Holy Communion.”
--Saint Therese of Lisieux

“Endeavor not to miss Communion. We can scarcely give our enemy, the devil, greater joy than when we withdraw from Jesus, who takes away the power the enemy has over us.”
--Saint Margaret Mary Alacoque

“My distractions are numerous, and with Jesus I learn to recollect myself. The occasions of offending God are frequent, and I receive strength every day from Him to flee from them. I need light and prudence to manage very difficult affairs, and every day I can consult Jesus in the Holy Communion. He is my great Teacher.”
--Saint Thomas More

“Those who have little to do must receive Communion often, since it is not inconvenient for them; the same also goes for those who have much to do, since then they have more need of it.”
--Saint Francis Desales

I pray that this post may inspire all to, not only attend Mass more regularly, but to do it with greater passion, love, and humility.

Love and GOD FOREVER!
Anthony Paul

Wait...wait...wait...He Answers Us Always!

2009-11-17T18:26:00.001-05:00

“Let us conduct ourselves in all circumstances as God’s ministers, in much patience; in tribulations, in hardships, in distresses; in stripes, in imprisonments, in tumults; in labors, in sleepless nights, in fastings; in innocence, in knowledge, in long-sufferings, in kindness, in the Holy Spirit, in unaffected love; in the word of truth, in the power of God; with the armor of justice on the right hand and on the left; in honor and dishonor, in evil report and good report; as deceivers and yet truthful, as unknown and yet well known, as dying and behold, we live, as chastised but not killed, as sorrowful yet always rejoicing, as poor yet enriching many, as having nothing yet possessing all things.”

2 Corinthians 6: 4-10

In this passage Saint Paul is describing the perfect apostolic man. It is especially important to take notice of the overlying theme—patience. God does not work on our clock. As put by the pastor of Saint Mary’s in Gatlinburg this past Sunday, “God does not acknowledge time. Time does not even exist to Him.” And in very eloquent, as well as beautiful imagery, he went on to mention that ‘we are as close to the foot of the Cross on Sunday in Mass, as Mary and Saint John were on the day of Christ’s crucifixion!’

How could this possibly be?

God transcends time. He transcends everything. And He so loves us that, not only did He give His only Son—an extension of Himself, to atone for our sins nearly 2,000 years ago (in human time), He continues to give Christ as a sacrifice to us every single time a Mass is celebrated!

Why are the doors not flung open, with people pouring out onto the streets to receive the Most Holy Blessed Sacrament?

Because we are too impatient to take a very short amount of our daily time—time that is a privilege given to us by the Father, not a right obtained at our conception, to learn of God’s unending, unfathomable love and mercy.

Last night there was a football game. Of course there was a football game; there were many of them; it was Sunday. That’s the day we wake up, consume alcohol, eat fattening food, drape ourselves in various colors, and worship football. The last game of the night ended with a “questionable” coaching decision. On 4th and 2, at their own 29-yard-line, the team winning by 6 points decided to go for first down rather than punt. They didn’t get it, and ultimately lost.

Why is this so important, you may ask. It’s not.

But every time I look up at the televisions of my workplace they are talking about it, discussing it, beating the issue over the head with a thousand pound club, until we are all sick to our stomachs over the very thought of it.

How many times today did I look up and see a program about God or the Eucharist? Not once.

For thousands of years man has given God every reason to lose His patience with us, and he remains merciful and loving, no matter how many sins we commit against Him. We miss Sunday Mass, but we do not miss a single second of the football game. We consume our minds and lives, seeking the answer for riches and the ‘good life’ through “Secrets of the Mega Rich” articles in man-made business magazines, yet our bibles and prayer books gather dust on the shelves, while our churches remain half full. The very moment something “bad” happens in our lives, we give up hope, lose patience, and question His very existence. But He remains patient.

It is difficult to sit back and wait, especially in the “want it now” society we have built with various forms of technology. We want even our prayers to be heard immediately, and rewarded immediately.

I remember being a sophomore in high school, and saying a nightly devotion to Our Lady of Guadalupe, hoping to become the starting point guard on the basketball team. I was more devout to that chaplet, and that cause, than many since.

Day after day went by, and I practiced harder and harder, to no initial answer of my prayers. I persevered through the rest of my sophomore year, and was even stripped of my varsity jersey by the end of the season.

Over the following seven months I practiced every day, and I prayed every night. As the beginning of the season neared I was sure that my time had come. Then, one week before opening tip-off, I was demoted to second string, and days later, third string. Ultimately I spent the majority of my time playing junior varsity basketball for the third consecutive year. My hopes were crushed, but I did my best to endure the internal disappointment.

Finally, my senior year rolled around, and shortly into the fall we began practicing for the upcoming season. The idea of sitting out the season never crossed my mind. I had put too much time, sweat, and devotion into that team for three years to give up. Also, I had not reached my ultimate goal—starting point guard. So I practiced every day, and prayed every night, and just as it happened the previous two years, I was demoted from first string to second string days before the first game.

I was not discouraged; I was irate. I wanted to quit, but I loved my teammates, and I didn’t want to walk out on them. I figured I would still get to play quite a bit, even if I wasn’t a starter. I was wrong. I hardly played at all.

Four games into the season, I quit. I have never revealed that to anyone before now. I didn’t turn my jersey in, though, which I still believe to be a blessing. I skipped four consecutive practices. In my mind, my career was over. Then, on the afternoon of the next game I felt an irreplaceable feeling of emptiness. I could not imagine what I would do, or how I would feel if that game went on as scheduled, and I was not in uniform with my teammates. So I swallowed my pride, walked back in that gymnasium, and then into my coach’s office, and I pleaded for my spot on the team. He must have been in a good mood, or God somehow intervened, because he agreed to let me rejoin the team. I was sure that I would almost never play again, except in practice. But I was okay with it. I was satisfied knowing that I had not quit.

Several games later, one guy went down with the flu, and could not play. I walked into the locker room from pre-game warm ups, and my name was on the chalkboard, along with the other four starters. I had waited three and half years for that moment, practiced three and a half years for that moment, but most importantly, I prayed for three and a half years for that moment. And I started every remaining game in that season. My patience and perseverance was rewarded.

I still remember that story, every time I want to quit or succumb to a hardship. And that’s when I pick up my Rosary and pray. He’s patiently waiting, always!

I would like to conclude this post with a passage from Saint John Chrysostom:
“The weak and lazy quit immediately at the first difficulty; the earnest and the ardent, instead, persevere in Divine pursuits even in the face of a thousand obstacles; and as much as it lies within their power, they accomplish all things. It is particularly characteristic of the lover never to cease doing what pleases his beloved.”

Love and GOD FOREVER,
Anthony Paul

Prayer to Saint Francis of Assisi

2009-11-16T09:58:00.002-05:00

Dear Saint Francis,
you reflected the image of Christ
through a life of poverty and humility.
You touched the poor with compassion
and joyfully served the sick and oppressed.
You gave away all your earthly treasures
to bring the heavenly glory of God to all people.
Though marked with the wounds of our Precious Lord's Passion,
you never exalted yourself above others.
Meek and gentle Saint Francis,
pray for me that I may be willing
to dedicate my life to Christ as you did.
Amen

Love and GOD FOREVER!
Anthony Paul

Prayer to Saint Anthony

2009-11-15T14:44:00.002-05:00

Dear Saint Anthony,
Be near today,
Help me seek and find
What's gone astray.
When darkness enters
Show me the light
To bring the lost
Into God's sight.
With the Infant Child
Embrace my soul;
Bless all my ways
And make me whole.
Amen.

Love and GOD FOREVER!
Anthony Paul

2009-11-14T09:52:00.002-05:00

Pray for others more than you pray for yourself. Love others more than you love yourself. God will be very happy with you if you do.

Love and GOD FOREVER!
Anthony Paul

2009-11-12T19:16:00.001-05:00

“I BESEECH you therefore, brethren, by the mercies of God, that you present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service.
2 And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God.
3 For I say, through grace given to me, to everyone who is among you, not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think, but to think soberly, as God has dealt to each one a measure of faith.
4 For as we have many members in one body, but all the members do not have the same function,
5 So we, being many, are one body in Christ, and individually members of one another.
6 Having then gifts differing according to the grace that is given to us, let us use them: if prophesy, let us prophesy in proportion to our faith;
7 Or ministry, let us use it in our ministering; he who teaches, in teaching;
8 He who exhorts, in exhortation; he who gives, with liberality; he who leads, with diligence; he who shows mercy, with cheerfulness.
9 Let love be without hypocrisy. Abhor what is evil. Cling to what is good.
10 Be kindly affectionate to one another with brotherly love, in honor giving preference to one another;
11 Not lagging in diligence, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord;
12 Rejoicing in hope, patient in tribulation, continuing steadfastly in prayer;
13 Distributing to the needs of the saints, given to hospitality.
14 Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse.
15 Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep.
16 Be of the same mind toward one another. Do not set your mind on high things, but associate with the humble. Do not be wise in your own opinion.
17 Repay no one evil for evil. Have regard for good things in the sight of all men.
18 If it is possible, as much as depends on you, live peaceably with all men.
19 Beloved, do not avenge yourselves, but rather give place to wrath; for it is written, “Vengeance is Mine, I will repay,” says the Lord.
20 Therefore “If your enemy hungers, feed him; if he thirsts, give him a drink; for in so doing you will heap coals of fire on his head.”
21 Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.

--Chapter 12 of Paul the Apostle’s Epistle to the Romans

This chapter is a simple “guidebook” per se, to living a Christian life.

Paul starts off by saying, “present your bodies a living sacrifice, holy, acceptable to God, which is your reasonable service.” A living sacrifice, there is much to be said about this apparent contradiction, but, in short, God wants us to do everything for Him, and with Him in mind.

Being good, or, being a Christian, is not easy. The devil waits around every corner to trick us into what “feels” good. When we get home from work how often do we sit down and read the Bible, as opposed to watching television? And watching television is not a bad or sinful act, but it very quickly can become one. Although there is a great deal of “good” content, there is also a great deal of “sinful” content, which misleads our minds. Programs that contain violence, sex, idolatry may feel like harmless entertainment, because we are merely watching, but God is clear in stating that a sin is a sin in the mind just as much as it is a sin when physically acted.

Further on, Paul mentions the often overlooked principle that we, “have many members in one body, but all members do not have the same function, So we, being many, are one body in Christ, and individually members of one body.” Everyone gathers to hold hands and sing God’s praise at church every Saturday or Sunday. We listen to the words of the priest or preacher, and they fill our hearts with peace and joy. The words make sense, and during that moment we become filled with the Holy Spirit. Why does it turn upside down so quickly after we’re on the other side of those church walls? Is not the entire world God’s church? We could not bring ourselves to curse at another in church, or wish them evil in church, but we so naturally do it when we don’t like the way someone in front of us is driving. We so easily use insults and criticize others for the way they dress, talk, sing, act, but we would find such things blasphemous inside of a church. We must not forget that every place in the world is God’s church, and so we should try our best to act is if we are in God’s company, because, I assure you, we always are.

And we have gifts, so many gifts, but we do not use them, or even acknowledge them, because it is easier to do and think the opposite.

Some other line of work always seems more rewarding or fulfilling to us than what we are doing. Would daily life not be easier to enjoy and endure if we took pleasure in all the things we do, however menial, knowing we did our best job, and God is proud of us for it? Would we not sleep better at night if we took joy in our ability to accomplish the tasks we considered so meaningless when we were doing them? More often than not, I hear my co-workers complaining—about tips, getting refills, the way a customer ordered, the “stupid” questions the customer asked and how they are “stupid” for asking them. And when the customers leave a good tip, so rarely are the damaging words taken back. But when the customers leave a bad tip, every mean and evil comment one person can make towards another comes thoughtlessly flying out of their mouths—to the point, even, of wishing evil things upon them. It’s sad. It hurts God. He understands that we rely on those tips for a living, but would he ever condone or understand wishing illness on another person for any reason? No.

Very recently I decided to be very conscious of those negative habits of mine. By calling someone a bad name, I was calling God a bad name. By wishing them ill-fated occurrences, I was wishing God ill-fated occurrences. By valuing the money they would leave for my service over valuing my opportunity to serve them, for God, I was valuing money over God. And since I started looking at every table, every group of people, or just one person, as an opportunity to serve for God, I have found much greater daily peace. Even if I was required to wash their feet, and I used it as an opportunity to serve God, I could find reward in it. So I urge everyone to look at the tasks of your day in that way. You will find peace, I promise.

The second half of this chapter is rather self-explanatory. My favorite verse is 16, “Be of the same mind toward one another. Do not set your mind on high things, but associate with the humble. Do not be wise in your own opinion.”

If you try to live like this, for no other reason that to please and serve God, you will be fulfilled. Even in times of darkness and hardship you will not give up, rather, you will overcome, and God will help you, and God will be happy with you. If you do.

Love and God Forever,
Anthony Paul

Endurance

2009-11-11T15:08:00.001-05:00

“You therefore, my son, be strong in the grace that is in Christ Jesus.
2 And the things that you have heard from me among many witnesses, commit these to faithful men who will be able to teach others also.
3 You therefore must endure hardship as a good soldier of Jesus Christ.
4 No one engaged in warfare entangles himself with the affairs of this life, that he may please him who enlisted him as a soldier.
5 And also if anyone competes in athletics, he is not crowned unless he competes according to the rules.
6 The hard working farmer must be first to partake of the crops.
7 Consider what I say, and may the Lord give you understanding in all things.
8 Remember that Jesus Christ, of the seed of David, was raised from the dead according to my gospel,
9 For which I suffer trouble as an evildoer, even to the point of chains; but the word of God is not chained.
10 Therefore I endure all things for the sake of the elect, that they also may obtain the salvation which is in Christ Jesus with eternal glory.
11 This is a faithful saying: for if we died with Him, we shall also live with Him.
12 If we endure, we shall also reign with Him. If we deny Him, He also will deny us.
13 If we are faithless, He remains faithful; He cannot deny Himself.

I just happened to stumble upon this passage while at work a few days ago, browsing my pocket bible for a passage on “endurance”. My very recent past has been filled with many obstacles and hardships. Fortunately, I saw the “light” and fearlessly walked towards it. That does not make me perfect, in the wildest of imaginations, rather, as I said, FORTUNATE.

No one, in the history of the world, endured greater hardship than Christ. The very carrying of Him in the Virgin Mary’s womb was a hardship, because it was known that she and Joseph were not married—and out-of-wedlock intercourse was a much more scandalous occurrence in that time.

His birth and early infancy were hardships, as He was born amongst the filth and unsanitary conditions of a manger, in the dead of winter. Then, the Holy Family were forced to flee, from one place to another, in fear of the wrath of King Herod.

No one knows much of Jesus’ adolescence and young adulthood, but, being that Joseph was a carpenter, it can be assumed that Jesus himself was, first an apprentice, and then a carpenter. Daily life alone was difficult in that time and place of the world, let alone, being a carpenter.

Moving on to when Jesus commenced His ministry (around the age of 30), He was constantly confronted with outward and inward difficulty. First, His purpose was not to come out of the sky as an unavoidable “light” or super-human being, such as the Jewish people believed he would be. His purpose was to be human, experiencing every facet of human existence, other than sin. Imagine how difficult it would be for you or I to convince others that we are the Son of God, the Savior of the world, through only our words. Our failure at doing so would hardly affect us at all, because we know we are not the Son of God. For Jesus, though, He knew He was the Son of God. He knew it was His mission, His sole purpose in life, to convince the world of it, and mostly through His words. Even His miracles could be disbelieved or rejected by any who did not witness them. There was no television, internet, or any other technological device to record them. And maybe that is one of the main reasons He lived when He did. The purpose of faith is to “believe in something you cannot see.” Not when someone puts it on YouTube.

The last of Christ’s hardships is, quite obviously, His crucifixion and death. We all know how that went. Over five thousand wounds covered His body at the moment of His death. That is incomprehensible, to say the least!

When we face hardships in our lives, physical or emotional, it is easy to lose faith in God, because we assume God should always want nothing but happiness for us. But, we are indeed closer to Christ and, in turn, His and our Father, when we are entrenched in despair and lowly times. We could never experience truly what it felt like to be Christ—nowhere even close! But we can “endure” our hardships, and even find joy in some of them if we always keep in mind Christ’s hardships.

I said yesterday, to a very dear friend of mine, “Count the blessings, not the hardships. But know that we must endure pain to appreciate the good when we have it.” And I believe that, to the core of my being.

Skipping ahead to the end of this passage, I think it is crucial to look at the final three verses by themselves.

“This is a faithful saying: for if we died with Him, we shall also live with Him.”

Because God is everything, so we are God—not literally the almighty Creator of all, but literally a creation of God, who is everything. That is nearly impossible to grasp. But when Christ died, so we died, since both He and us are creations of God, and therefore, a part of God Himself. The most important thing to remember is that Christ died so that we can live—not on earth, but in the company of God the Father, in heaven. And so, Christ died so we can die, and enter the gates of heaven, to LIVE with Him.

“If we endure, we shall also reign with Him.”

Once again, to revert back to what I said earlier about enduring hardships, God puts us in situations of hardship, because He wants us to overcome them by having faith in Him, so that we can enter the gates of heaven, and REIGN with Him.

“If we deny Him, He also will deny us.”

The second to last verse is rather self-explanatory. If we deny Him, and sin against Him, He will deny us entrance to heaven.

“If we are faithless, He remains faithful; He cannot deny Himself.”

The last verse provides the most impact. I cannot find it in me to interpret this in any other way than: God was! God is! God will FOREVER BE! Whether we believe or not, the treasure of our existence lies with Him, and it is ours for the taking, if we believe!

Love and GOD forever!

Anthony Paul

All We Need Is Love

2009-11-05T13:31:00.004-05:00

"Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a clanging symbol.
2 And though I have the gift of prophesy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.
3 And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, but have not love, it profits me nothing.
4 Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy; love does not parade itself, is not puffed up;
5 Does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil;
6 Does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth;
7 Bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
8 Love never fails. But whether there are prophecies, they will fail; whether there are tongues, they will cease; whether there is knowledge, it will vanish away.
9 For we know in part and we prophesy in part.
10 But when that which is perfect has come, then that which is in part will be done away.
11 When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things.
12 For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known.
13 And now abide in faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these IS LOVE."

1 Corinthians Chapter 13

"Love--it is the only rational act."
--Stephen Levine

“Love is the only way to grasp another human being in the innermost core of his personality.”
--Victor Frankl

There is the old saying, "If you love something let it go. If it comes back to you, you know it loves you, too."

Love and let love. Let go and let GOD.

The hardest thing for us humans to do is love, even though it should be the most natural thing for us to do. Love is God, therefore it is impossible for us to love in its purest form, because we are not God. To forgive is human, to forget is Divine. No matter what we do to God, He will not only forgive us, but He will forget our transgressions, as long as our hearts and souls genuinely long for it. However, I am not sure if He forgets before or after we enter the gates of heaven.

We may please another by providing he or she with the necessary means of life--shelter, food, protection. We may also please another with gifts, both big and small. But where our LOVE is for them resides within the work we do to obtaining the needs and gifts. We love each other by peeling, slicing, and boiling the potatoes. We love each other by washing, seasoning, and cooking the meat. We love each other by getting in our car, driving to the store, and purchasing the items that will nurse our counterpart back to good health. We love each other by folding the laundry so that our counterpart does not have to. We love each other by washing the dishes so that our counterpart does not have to. We love each other by taking a trip we do not want to take, because we want to keep our love one safe, secure, and entertained. We love each other by handing over the remote control, and watching the program the person opposite of us wants to watch.

All of these acts are acts of service for another. Because we know God loves us by serving us, we know that we love God when we serve Him, and likewise, we can know we love each other by serving each other. But be very mindful of how you are serving that person, because love can only exist if God is present--and God is not present in wicked ways. If someone desires drugs, it is not an act of love to go get them drugs. If someone wants to watch a movie or television program that strays the mind, it is not an act of love to give them access to that material. If your boyfriend or girlfriend--not spouse--wants to feel the pleasure of intercourse, it is not an act of love to perform intercourse with them. There are innumerable ways to love someone, and there are innumerable ways to think you are loving someone. But the only way to truly LOVE someone is to bring them closer to God, with the help of GOD.

That is why a family that prays together stays together. Praying is LOVE. Asking God to protect someone, nourish someone, heal someone--that is LOVE. When we begin praying more for others than we do for ourselves, that is when LOVE will reign supreme, and all the earth will be happy and rejoice.

LOVE, LOVE, LOVE...it is the ONLY rational act.

Love and GOD Forever,
Anthony Paul

A PRAYER FOR HEALING

2009-10-31T23:55:00.003-04:00

Lord,

You invite all who are burdened to come to You.

Allow Your healing hand to heal me.

Touch my soul with Your compassion for others.

Touch my heart with Your courage and infinite love for all.

Touch my mind with Your wisdom, that my mouth may always proclaim Your praise.

Teach me to reach out to You in my need, and help me to lead others to You by my example.

Most loving Heart of Jesus, bring me health in body and spirit that I may serve You with all my strength.

Touch gently this life which You have created, now and forever.

Amen.

Love and GOD forever,
Anthony Paul

This Little Light of Mine

2009-10-30T00:52:00.003-04:00

"And seeing the multitudes, he went up into a mountain, and when he was set, his disciples came unto him, and he opened his mouth, and taught them, saying, "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see GOD. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of GOD. Blessed are they who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for My sake. Rejoice, and be exceedingly glad, for great is your reward in heaven, for so persecuted they the prophets who were before you. You are the salt of the earth, but if the salt have lost his savior, wherewith shall it be salted? It is thenceforth good for nothing, but to be cast out, and to be trodden under foot of men. You are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid. Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house. Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven."

--Matthew 5: 1-16

Be your true self. That is what Jesus is saying in this speech to the multitudes. But know, that by being your TRUE self, you are an extension of God and all of His wonderful creations. God is pure, and so we were created pure, but by the Fall, and ensuing presence of Original Sin, we are destined to become impure, time after time, until our sins are washed away in purgatory, and we are admitted to God's kingdom in heaven.

However, just because we are inevitably destined to sin against God, does not mean that we should EVER take ANY pleasure in doing so. It is next to impossible for any of us to be perfect, and I say "next to impossible" because with God ALL things are possible--hence, the Immaculate Conception of Mary--just don't count on it in your case.

"Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth." The definition of "meek" is: 1. characterized by patience and long-suffering; 2. deficient in spirit and courage.

This sounds like a gift and a punishment, if you ask me. The gift is for the members of the first definition--patient and long-suffering, who are worthy of obtaining God's most awesome creation. The punishment is for the members of the second definition--deficient in spirit and courage, who are unworthy (at present, not forever) of obtaining the ultimate goal, heaven. He blesses both. One in applause, the other in hope for change. Try putting your head around that...it's hard, I know.

All of the things Jesus talks about are virtues. And the definition of "virtue" is thus: 1. conformity to a standard of right; 2. a particular moral excellence; 3. manly strength or courage.

Therefore, a virtue is hand-in-hand with God, because He is ALWAYS right, and He can do NO wrong. On the contrary, we are prone to do wrong, because of the Fall, and when we do "right" we finally find ourselves in the company of GOD.

The most virtuous thing we can do is be loyal to GOD. And by being loyal to GOD we imitate Him as closely as humanly possible. Therefore, when evil and wicked spirits take over the hearts of men and women, we must stand strong and profess the Goodness of GOD, no matter the earthly consequences. We must be a "light", a "house on a hill" for all of those we encounter throughout life. And if we do so, we will be greatly rewarded by He, in His house--the only place we should ever truly wish to go.

Time after time we find ourselves asking God, "What do you want? Just tell me." The funny thing is, He does, and has, since the creation of man. We just don't listen. He wants us to imitate Him as well as we can...to be a light that sheds love on everything that passes us. Our lives, our existence, means NOTHING unless we do.

Love and God Forever,
Anthony Paul

He is Our Only Protection

2009-10-29T00:55:00.004-04:00

"He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, "He is my refuge and my fortress; My God, in Him I will trust. Surely He shall deliver you from the snare of the fowler and from the perilous pestilence. He shall cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you shall take refuge; His truth shall be your shield and buckler. You shall not be afraid of the terror by night, nor of the arrow that flies by day; Nor of the pestilence that walks in darkness, nor of the destruction that lays waste at noonday. A thousand may fall at your side, and ten thousand at your right hand; but it shall not come near you. Only with your eyes shall you look, and see the reward of the wicked. Because you have made the LORD, who is my refuge, even the Most High, your dwelling place, No evil shall befall you, nor shall any plague come near your dwelling; For He shall give His angels charge over you, to keep you in all your ways."
--PSALM 91: 1-11

First and foremost, I would just like to say that I really like everything this guy Psalm has to say. He and his brother Proverb were truly enlightened individuals...light years ahead of their time. With that said, I would like to dive into the meaning of this passage.

It is so easy to be overwhelmed by life, as a whole, because life is a giant collaboration of obstacles and pitfalls. Too often we look at the big picture, and feel helpless, because it is too much for us to handle at one time. And it is. Even with all of the technological advances in the very recent past, man is STILL man, and a man or woman is only capable of accomplishing one goal at a time.

Whether you are a fan of sports or not, you can appreciate the old saying, "We're taking it one game at a time...one play at a time." It is such an over-used and overheard soundbite in postgame news conferences, but it is the only successful way to go about winning ballgames, and, in turn, championships. Life is very much the same. For one to accomplish the equivalent of a "life championship" he or she must first focus on the goals of day-to-day life. Do not overlook the importance of any given task, no matter how minute it may appear to you.

Have no fear, too, because the LORD will never abandon you. The Holy Spirit is Ever-Present, insatiably waiting for our call of distress. Our guardian angels, as well, wait, just to be acknowledged by us, and even when they are not, they perform their role of protection with fervor and passion. I have been in many dangerous situations, and I have survived all of them, because of my guardian angel, who is an extension (an outstretched wing) of the LORD.

God wants us to succeed, as long as the main purpose and end result is to serve and please HIM and His agenda. And He will protect us, through anything, as long as that is our main goal. He will never leave us unprotected, period. He built this beautiful world, with all of its splendor and wonder, so that we may dwell in it and give thanks to Him!

Love and God Forever,
Anthony Paul

Be Careful What You Wish, I Mean, Pray For

2009-10-27T23:19:00.003-04:00

"So Jesus answered and said to them, "Have faith in God. "For assuredly, I say to you, whoever says to this mountain, "Be removed and be cast into the sea," and does not doubt in his heart, but believes that those things he says will be done, he will have whatever he says. "Therefore I say to you, whatever things you ask when you pray, believe that you receive them, and you will have them. "And whenever you stand praying if you have anything against anyone, forgive him, that your Father in heaven may also forgive you your trespasses. "But if you do not forgive, neither will your Father in heaven forgive your trespasses."
--Mark 11: 22-26

I really struggled with this passage today, because, after reading it, I said a few prayers, and then I walked over to the corner store to purchases a lottery ticket. I scratched away all of the numbers, and I didn't win crap. So I said a few more prayers, scratched away again, and nothing! I was close to giving up all-together.

Obviously, I'm joking. But the funny thing is how often we pray for such concrete but meaningless material items--sometimes without even knowing. I am actually guilty of saying short prayers before playing $2 scratch off lottery tickets in the past. I know it sounds lame, because it is...110% LAME. I'm not even sure if they can be called "prayers" when the outcome is winning a couple hundred dollars you don't deserve in the slightest.

Similarly, I remember when I was a kid, playing baseball, and I had a ritual of performing the Sign of the Cross while in the batter's box or on the pitcher's mound. I did it for two reasons: 1. That I would be successful at getting a base hit; 2. I would be successful striking out the opposing batter. When I look back now, I am sure that God did not care whether I was successful as a pitcher or a hitter. But he must have been interested in my well-being, because I was never hurt while in the batter's box or on the pitcher's mound.

A common misconception is that it is "only human" to be selfish. It is actually entirely inhuman to do so, because we are created in the likeness of God, and He is anything but selfish. That is most evident by Him sending down His only Son to atone for our sins! The Will of God WILL ALWAYS prevail! Therefore, when we pray it must be for something that is truly in His name and for His cause. When that is the case, we CAN throw mountains into the sea.

God wants us to be happy. He is happiest when we are happy. But it is impossible to be truly happy unless we are at peace with Him. He is Love, and his only commandment is for us to love one another. And we cannot truly love each other unless we forgive each other for the inhuman things we do to one another. Since we are all connected, when we sin, we not only sin against God, but everything that is God. Therefore, we must not only ask God for forgiveness, but our brothers and sisters, as well, to be truly absolved from the sin. It is then that we can live happily together, many branches, connected by One Vine.

Love and God Forever,
Anthony Paul

Apples and Oranges are Actually the Same

2009-10-27T00:44:00.003-04:00

"I am the vine, you ARE the branches. He who abides in Me, and I in Him, bears much fruit; for without Me you can do nothing. If anyone does not abide in Me he is cast out as a branch and is withered; and they gather them and throw them into the fire, and they are burned. If you abide in Me and My words abide in you, you will ask what you desire, and it shall be done for you."
--John 15: 5-7

What I find to be so important in this passage, is the notion that we are all connected. We wake up, shower, brush our teeth, dress, make ourselves breakfast, start the car, drive to work, and go on with our daily tasks feeling mostly independent, though we are so unknowingly dependent each step of the way.

First, we can only wake up at the proper time if by chance, or if our alarm clock works effectively. The alarm clock that wakes us was indeed designed and made by the hands of another human being, who we will most certainly never meet, or sadly, even acknowledge.

Then, we can only shower because of the resources of water (the men and women at the city or county water department), soap (the men and women at the soap factory), shampoo and conditioner (the men and women at the shampoo company), and the washcloth (the men and women at the fabric company).

When we brush our teeth, how often do we think of the men and women who created the toothpaste and toothbrush we use?

When we get dressed, do we ever consciously give thanks to the men and women who labored to sew and hem the garments we wear?

Even if we bow our heads to give thanks to God for the food at our breakfast table, do we take into mind those wonderful beings who grew the food, packaged the food, transported the food?

As we utilize our mode of transportation, do we focus more on what the car is not (a fancier, more sleek and powerful vehicle) or do we appreciate what it is, and the men and women who devote most of their lives to design and construct the vehicle that is doing what we ask of it?

When we drive to work, or elsewhere, do we become unnecessarily angry by the stoplights which impede our path, or are we mindful enough to appreciate that someone invented a device that keeps us from crashing into other vehicles?

The list could go on forever, and that is the point. We become so wrapped up in ourselves, as the only piece of fruit, that we forget to acknowledge that we are a part of God's vine. Without the vine, there is no fruit. Without God, there is no "us". One small bunch of grapes does not yield a full bottle of wine. Rather, many bunches, growing and sharing the vine together makes the bottle of wine. And that can be said about anything, literally.

No single grape will ever grow or even exist without the vine first. No single apple will ever grow or even exist without the tree first. Neither can we, nor do we.

Love and God Forever,
Anthony Paul

Believe in Forgiveness, Seek Forgiveness

2009-10-26T01:02:00.003-04:00

"And these things we write to you that your joy may be full. This is the message which we have heard from Him and declare to you, that God is light and in Him is no darkness at all. If we say that we have fellowship with him, and walk in darkness, we lie and do not practice the truth. But if we walk in the light as He is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanses us from all sin. If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unriteousness."
--1 John 1: 4-9

Brothers and Sisters:

We are so easily comforted by the distortions of our own mind. We simply forget our wrongdoings while taking so much pleasure in our so-called accomplishments. All along we forget Him. He is in everything! He is in the wrong we do, because, by ignoring His commandments, we do wrong. He is in the good we do, because He is in everything good. Either way, we shall acknowledge Him in everything we do--good or bad. By doing something good, we shall give praise and glory to His name, not ours. By doing something bad, we shall ask His forgiveness, and accept our humble existence.

We shall not fool ourselves or anyone around us into thinking the dark path yields any good fruit. When a path arouses your senses stand guard, and ask yourself if you are aroused by the Goodness of God or by the inquiry of evil.

But most of all, accept your subservience to Him, and be not afraid to ask forgiveness.

Love and God Forever,
Anthony Paul

God Gave Us Eyes to SEE

2009-10-24T21:34:00.002-04:00

"As Jesus was leaving Jericho with his disciples and a sizeable crowd, Bartinaeus, a blind man, the son of Timaeus, sat by the roadside, begging. On hearing that it was Jesus of Nazareth, he began to cry out and say, "Jesus, son of David, have pity on me." And many rebuked him, telling him to be silent. But he kept calling out all the more, "Son of David, have pity on me." Jesus stopped and said, "Call him." So they called the blind man, saying to him, "Take courage; get up, Jesus is calling you." He threw aside his cloak, sprang up, and came to Jesus. Jesus said to him in reply, "What do you want me to do for you?" The blind man replied, "Master, I want to see." Jesus told him, "Go your way; your faith has saved you." Immediately he received his sight and followed him on the way."

Mark 10: 46-52

Today's Gospel was very special to me. Of course, much of that had to do with my confession before Mass. We pray to God, but we do not always open our eyes to what he is showing us. We ask for things we want, rather than what He wants. And then, we get discouraged when we don't get what we want, and, in turn, lose faith.

I am somewhat reminded of the joke from the movie "Pursuit of Happyness" when the little boy talks about a man who makes a deal with God. He asks God to save him if ever he is in danger--God agrees. So, as fate has it, the man finds himself at sea, trying not to drown. One boat comes by and offers to save him, and the man says, "No, the good Lord has agreed to save me." So the boat leaves, and another boat shows up. Again, they offer to save him, but again he says, "No, the good Lord has agreed to save me." So the boat leaves, and the man drowns. When he gets to Heaven he asks God, "Where were you when I was drowning in the ocean? Didn't we have a deal?" In response, God simply says, "I sent two boats to save you...dummy! Why didn't you get in one?"

God works in so many mysterious ways. Ways that we cannot conceive with our inadequate human minds. But if we BELIEVE in HIM, and that He is always at our side, we will be able to SEE HIM wherever we may go.

Love and God Forever,
Anthony Paul

A Call To Action

2009-10-24T03:02:00.003-04:00

I have found my Faith again, and I wish to share it with anyone and everyone who wishes to join.

"BLESSED is every one who fears the LORD, who walks in His ways. When you eat the labor of your hands, you shall be happy, and it shall be well with you. Your wife shall be like a fruitful vine in the very heart of your house, your children like olive plants all around your table. Behold, thus shall the man be blessed who fears the Lord. The Lord bless you out of Zion, and may you see the good of Jerusalem all the days of your life. Yes, may you see your children's children. Peace be upon Israel."
--PSALM 128

I am a fortunate soul. I have been blessed with so many gifts and treasures, and for too long I have taken them for granted. I am a firm believer in God's plan, I just tried doing things my own way for too long now. I feel at peace to be back on the straight path, letting God guide me. I know I will not be perfect in the present or the future, but I will try. And when I fail, I will look to God again for the guidance I need. His Love is everlasting and ever-enduring, through any tragedy, downfall, trial or tribulation. I am just so blessed to be back in His good company.

Tomorrow I will be attending the Blessed Sacrament of Reconciliation for the first time in four years. It is more than daunting and scary, it will be life-changing! I strongly urge all followers of the Cross to do GOD a favor and REPENT! I will not be without sin for long after, but I will try.

I look forward to bringing the Word of God into as many lives and souls as God allows me, for the rest of my days.

Love, Forgiveness, GOD FOREVER! Amen,
Anthony Paul Vasko

Prayers that Help the Artist

2009-10-13T22:27:00.002-04:00

I thought I would share with you my nightly prayers. They have helped me get through the past several years, and many obstacles that I have ultimately overcome, or did not overcome but was reassured (through my prayers) that sometimes we must fail--whatever the reason. Ask HIM, not me. I have very few answers :)

PRAYER TO SAINT JOSEPH

Oh Saint Joseph, whose protection is so great, so strong, so prompt before the throne of God, I place in you all my interests and desires.
Oh Saint Joseph, do assist me by your powerful intercession and obtain for me from the Divine LORD all spiritual blessings through Jesus Christ our Lord so that having engaged here below your heavenly power I may offer my thanksgiving and homage to the most loving of fathers.
Oh Saint Joseph I never weary contemplating you, and Jesus asleep in your arms I dare not approach while he reposes near your heart. Press HIM in my name, kiss His fine head for me, and ask HIM to return the kiss when I draw my dying breath.
Oh Saint Joseph, patron of departing, please pray for me to the Lord our GOD.

PRAYER TO THE HOLY TRINITY

ALL GLORY BE TO THE FATHER, WHO BY HIS ALMIGHTY POWER AND LOVE CREATED ME, MAKING ME IN THE IMAGE AND LIKENESS OF GOD.

ALL GLORY BE TO THE SON, WHO BY HIS PRECIOUS BLOOD DELIVERED ME FROM HELL, AND OPENED FOR ME THE GATES OF HEAVEN.

ALL GLORY BE TO THE HOLY SPIRIT, WHO HAS SANCTIFIED ME BY SACRAMENT OF BAPTISM, AND CONTINUES TO SANCTIFY BY THE GRACES I RECEIVE DAILY FROM HIS BOUNTY.

ALL GLORY BE TO THE THREE ADORABLE PERSONS OF THE HOLY TRINITY, NOW AND FOREVER…AMEN!

PRAYER TO JESUS

“I am the WAY, the TRUTH, and THE LIFE! No one comes to the father but through me.” Live in us, Oh Jesus with the outpouring of the Holy Spirit so that we may love YOU with our whole my mind strength and heart; Love our neighbors for LOVE of YOU. Increase charity in us, so that one day, called from the sepulcher to the glorious life, we may be united with YOU in the ETERNAL HAPPINESS OF HEAVEN.

JESUS, MASTER, WAY TRUTH AND LIFE, have mercy on us.

PRAYER FOR SANCTITY

Wisdom
Knowledge
Counsel
Fortitude
Understanding
Piety
Fear of the LORD

I am going to reveal to you the secret of sanctity and happiness. Every day for five minutes, control your imagination, close your eyes to the things of sense and your ears to all the noises in the world in order to enter into HIM. Then, in sanctity of your baptized soul, speak to that DIVINE SPIRIT, saying to HIM,

“Oh HOLY SPIRIT, beloved of my soul, I adore YOU. Enlighten me, guide me, strengthen me, console me, tell me what I should do. Give me your orders. I promise to submit myself to all that you desire of me and accept all that you permit to happen to me. Let me only know YOUR WILL.

If you do this your life will flow along happily, serenely, and full of consolation. Even in the midst of trials GRACE will be proportioned to you, and you will arrive at the GATE OF HEAVEN laden with merit. This is the secret of Sanctity.

Our Father, Who art in heaven
Hallowed be Thy Name;
Thy kingdom come,
Thy will be done,
on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread,
and forgive us our trespasses,
as we forgive those who trespass against us;
and lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil. Amen.

Hail Mary, full of grace.
Our Lord is with thee.
Blessed art thou among women,
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb,
Jesus.
Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us sinners,
now and at the hour of our death.
Amen.

ALL GLORY BE TO THE FATHER, THE SON, AND THE HOLY SPIRIT. NOW AND FOREVER, AMEN.

Dear Mr. President

2009-07-02T23:47:00.000-04:00

So the Obama machine (I would call it an administration, but let’s be honest—it’s more similar to an army howitzer, bulldozing through the Constitution and all of our inherent rights) planted people in the town hall crowd yesterday to promote the Obama Wealthcare, I mean, healthcare plan.

Does this really surprise anyone?

Honestly, no president that I can recall has promised more and delivered less. A reference to Jekyll and Hyde is like comparing an anthill to Mount Everest. He promised “change” and that is just about the only truth to come out of his mouth since…well, maybe ever.

Americans raced to the voting booths in November (50% of voters did not pay taxes last year mind you) and penciled in their country’s “savior”. He feels a lot more like a villain to me—and not just when the teleprompter technician falls asleep.

He was the man who would end big government, and weed out the wealthy crooks from the hard-working blue collar citizens who deserved more…and they got it—more taxes for more government programs than ever before.

But don’t forget, this man who has spent more money in his first six months in office than every other president combined, rushed to sign his book deal before he took the oath in front of the nation’s Capitol building, sparing himself a substantial amount of taxes.

Apparently we all need to sacrifice a little bit more—live within our means—unless we’ve earned it by lying our way into the most powerful position in the world…then you should probably treat your wife to $300,000 date to the theatre...courtesy of the American citizens.

P.S. Barak, you’re not very good at the “doom and gloom” game, either. You are so much better at smiling and promising hope, and then hijacking our paychecks to pay back all of the worthless, crime-ridden government programs who helped get you into office. Your ratings would look a lot better, too.

But you couldn’t resist, could you? You couldn’t resist the control and power. You will be replaced in 2012, unless you pull an Ayatollah on all of us (which I do not doubt at this point). Unfortunately, you’ve already left your mark, or better put, your geyser on this nation’s history. With any luck you will have sold our children and grandchildren into Chinese slavery—well done!

Just another day at the office…for another slimy, all-too-smooth, politician. That is all you are—a politician.

Don't Poke This Bear, ACCU

2009-06-17T13:20:00.000-04:00

As a devout and practicing Catholic, I would appreciate very much if the ACCU did not take it upon itself to decide what is morally appropriate and what is not when dealing with higher education in the United States. To say “that it would be desirable for the [U.S. bishops] to withdraw” their 2004 policy...and "that juridical expressions of bishops’ or universities’ responsibilities should be kept to a minimum" is OUTRAGEOUS and ARROGANT!

Without the unending study, devotion and leadership of said bishops the ACCU would not exist, nor would the entire Catholic Church. To put yourself above the authorities of the church for political gain is not only preposterous but gravely sinful. Catholic institutions are solely responsible for upholding the core values and beliefs at the higher education level. I attended a secular, public university, and although I shone my light on as many people as possible, it was nearly impossible to reach as many people as is granted to higher education Catholic institutions.

I understand that President Obama and other noteworthy politicians create a "buzz" or attention nationally when they speak at universities such as Notre Dame, but at what cost? Is it really worth ignoring Christ's words and teachings to raise the academic admissions standards for incoming freshman, and therefore raise the cost of tuition and gather more donations from more sources? No. It is not.

But as long as organizations such as the ACCU continue to work hand in hand with the oppressors or our Catholic liberties, values and beliefs, and disregard the leadership and guidance of the authorities of the church, they will continue to head down a gravely sinful path. Not only are the ACCU and institutions such as Notre Dame doing their supporters and students a disservice, they are doing God and his church a disservice.

Please reconsider who you answer to.

God Bless You,

A.P. Vasko

I Urge All To Do The Same

2009-03-26T21:25:00.001-04:00

Dear Rev. John I. Jenkins, CSC:

I am a devout Roman Catholic, who has direct ties to the University of Notre Dame, and I am immensely discouraged by the disgraceful and downright shameful invitation extended by Notre Dame University to President Obama for its 2009 spring commencement address.

This an extremely sinful political exhibition by the university, which should protect, defend and honor the core values of the Roman Catholic faith first and foremost.

Notre Dame University should be revered as the United States leader in higher Catholic education. Sadly, that cannot be the case any longer if this invitation to President Obama is not rescinded.

Abortion is a disgusting act of individual selfishness, disregarding the will of our Creator. Any man, woman or organization who condone it no longer hold the privilige of calling themselves a Christian.

It is a tradition for Notre Dame to invite standing presidents to give commencement addresses, however, the traditions and practices of the Roman Catholic Church and God should be held in higher regard.

God Bless You,

Anthony P. Vasko

Contact Rev. Jenkins at:
president@nd.edu

PLEASE WAKE UP! Your Children and Their Children Depend on it

2008-12-17T23:37:00.002-05:00

This started out as a point my character, Bryce, is making about the need for a revolution within his generation...it went a lot further--God started speaking to me, and I was very privileged to record it! Please read with an open mind. Then go to zeitgeistmovie.com and watch the two films provided, especially Addendum. Thank you and may God grant us pardon for all the wrong we have done!

To call the three of us average teenagers would be a vast understatement. I thought of us as the founders of our generation’s revolution. It had to start somewhere. And I really doubted it would effectively come from a place like MTV or YouTube or any other venue for brainwashing the masses, and selling them crap they don’t need. Everywhere I looked in the world, I found lost souls. A bunch of robots, who do the same fucking thing as everyone else, every single day of their miserable fucking lives. Sorry for the language, but this is a sensitive subject to me. Somewhere in time, the human race was imprisoned by a very small number of people who thought of a simple yet brilliant scheme to enslave people worse than they have ever been enslaved, at the cost of their lives, and for the monetary benefit of this select few. The most endangered, and the most targeted mass of people is those of adolescence. If there was anything that I could be happier about, in terms of my relationship with Ashton, was the way he taught me how to think for myself—to recognize the ploys of those who wanted my soul, and to fight them. That’s what we were doing—fighting the miserable, greed filled hearts that seemed to own everything in the world but happiness.

What a sad thing it is to depend on money for happiness, because it is utterly impossible to fill one’s heart with bank statements, horsepower, cashmere scarves, and bottles of vintage wine that could feed an entire village in any one of the many third world countries. What a sad and discouraging grip the Devil has on so many people—most of which have no idea that it is purely the work of all things wicked, what they strive for, how they get it, and who ultimately pays the price. Foolish! We are so foolish when we try to put our heads together, and he or she who tries to speak the truth is made an outcast, un-American and tyrannous. What a pitiful reality it is that we send our sons and daughters off to foreign lands to shoot and kill other human beings who were less privileged to begin with—ALL IN AN ATTEMPT TO FREE THEM! WHAT A SAD, SAD, JOKE that has been played on all of us. In truth, we imprison more and more, from the top to the bottom, for the benefit of such a select few—THE BANKS!

Wake up from your dreams, and face the nightmare at hand. We our owned by a series of make believe numbers in a databoard in a computer somewhere. Yet we exhaust ourselves, neglect our families by working longer and longer hours, literally kill each other, even our sons and daughters, because we’re too proud to admit that we’ve been pawns in a horrifically brilliant scheme, for almost 100 years.
PLEASE WAKE UP!

There's Always a Reason to Love...Ask Steven

2008-12-06T16:05:00.000-05:00

If Steven could throw his arms around the world and hug every human being alive he would.

He is not an extraordinary man, with extraordinary talents, or an extraordinary history.

He is a man, and just that.

His mother died giving birth to him; his father died six months earlier, storming the beaches of Normandy.

He was raised by his aunt and her live-in boyfriend, who sexually abused him until adolescence.

He suffered from a special but minor case of Autism. He never saw a doctor. It was never treated.

Having great difficulty making friends, he constructed a basketball hoop out of a plastic milk crate, tied it around a tree in the nearby forest, and shot baskets every day with a used soccer ball on the walk home from school.

Winter came hard in 1955 and he caught pneumonia. He recovered but would never breathe without discomfort again.

He taught himself how to write and throw a baseball. In fall tryouts, he struck out every batter he faced, but did not make the team.

He was black.

After high school he was drafted by the U.S. Army and deployed to Vietnam.

He served two tours, and came home to no parade, no applause. But he did bring with him a Purple Heart.

He has lived alone, ever since, in an understaffed, undersupplied, and poorly financed Veterans Home.

If Steven could throw his arms around the world and hug every human being alive he would.

But Steven has no arms.

"With A Little Effort"--A Short Short Story

2008-11-26T23:16:00.000-05:00

Charlie was a prominent businessman at a very young age. He had everything—cars, women, money, a condo in downtown Chicago.

When I met him, he stood in front of me at the corner shop—two brown paper bags of junk at his feet. He leaned down and removed a five dollar bill from the inside of his green wool sock, and paid for the pack of off-brand cigarettes.

Charlie was nearly sixty-years-old and homeless.

“Sorry kid,” he said, apologizing for the long wait.

“It’s okay, sir,” I replied.

“Sir? Look at me…I’m a dirtbag!”

Then he walked out of the store.

As I exited I saw him fishing through the trashcan for a food.

“My name is Stephen,” I said to him, holding my hand out to shake his.

“Charlie,” is all he said, without looking up.

“Can I buy you a sandwich or cup of soup?” I asked him.

“You can buy me a beer,” he responded.

“How’s Rick’s?” I asked.

“What do you want from me, kid?”

“Your company.”

A smile came across his face.

And I knew, I had succeeded for the day.

Asleep in the Grass

2008-11-16T17:57:00.001-05:00

Ernie was a very simple man, with a mountain of guilt on his shoulders, which he would never overcome.

He wiped the dish sink dry with a rubber squeegee, flipped the switch on the industrial dishwasher from ON to OFF, and carried the last bag of trash through the back door of the kitchen, to the dumpster in the parking lot. Then he nodded his head, and waved to the manager, who, in turn, closed and locked the large metal door. Behind the dumpster was his bicycle—his most treasured possession. He hid it back there, because he could not afford a lock, and he would always say a prayer that it would still be there when his shift was over. He slowly lifted his 67-year-old leg over the frame, and sat down. The ride home was short, but always some of the most enjoyable minutes of his day. The night air in Key West was usually cool and warm, at the same time. And on most nights, there were stars in the sky—if only a few, there were more than he had seen in prison, the past 48 years.

Ernie was the proud new resident of a small, bug-infested room, in a mildew-ridden crack house. After his release from the St. Thomas Correctional Facility, he had stayed at the YMCA for two months, saving every penny he made at the restaurant, to obtain his new home. He was very proud of his room, which was complete with an army cot, small bookshelf, a lawn chair, and a small table, made out of plastic milk crates and a cardboard box—all of which he had found inside dumpsters in the surrounding alleyways. The only book he owned was his Bible—a gift from the warden upon his departure of St. Thomas.

Every night when he would arrive home he would remove a Styrofoam box from his knapsack, and eat his dinner—edible portions of leftovers from the plates that were slid across the soapy dish sink toward him that evening. He would eat while reading Bible verses. Then, when he was finished, he would wrap his rosary as tightly around his right hand as comfortably possible, and he would lay down to sleep.

When Ernie woke up on Wednesday, October 29th, his day began and followed exactly how it had every day since becoming a free man again. It would not be until he left the restaurant that night that everything would change.

At 6 A.M. he brushed his teeth, combed his white hair with a part down the right side, dressed himself for the day, and grabbed his knapsack and Bible before locking the door behind him. He walked down the steps to the first floor, and onto the front porch. He hid his bicycle off of the left side of the house, behind a bush and several large trash cans. On this morning it was not there. Someone had found and stolen his most treasured possession.

“Ah bien. ¿Qué hace usted?” “Oh well. What do you do?” he said to himself, and started walking up the driveway toward the road.

He would run a little behind schedule on this day, because he walked significantly slower than he rode the bicycle. This would not deter him from accomplishing all of his tasks, though. He just continued down the road, dragging his right foot a bit—the consequence of an injury he endured while defending his cellmate in a fight 35 years previously. He saved his friend’s life, but his Achilles tendon was snapped like a rubber band by the makeshift shank. He had never walked the same since that day. He was proud of his limp. It reminded him of that day, and the friendship he had with Juan.

He arrived at the food bank around 7:10 A.M., which was fifteen minutes later than his usual time. Due to his tardiness, the only food left were a few pieces of toast. Before he took a bite he bowed his head and said, “Gracias Dios para este alimento. Gracias Dios por este día.” 2 “Thank you God for this food. Thank you God for this day.”

He ate slowly and quietly. He liked to be very mindful of every bite, to thank God thoroughly for his blessings. As he chewed, he would think about the wheat, flour, water, sunshine and human labor that all worked together to bring that piece of toast to his mouth.

When he finished, he gathered his Bible and knapsack, and began walking to his second destination of the day. When paced correctly, he could arrive at St. Mary’s with enough time to say his morning rosary and novena before 8:15 Mass. On this day, he walked in late, but was very appreciative to have made it in time for the Gospel—his favorite moment of every morning. Confession immediately followed the celebration of the Eucharist, and he was always the first one in line—usually the only one in line.

Every day he entered the confessional and said the same thing. “Please forgive me, father. I have let my wife down, and for this, I am greatly sorry.” They were the only sentences he had ever been able to put together in English. If ever asked to give a further explanation, he would respond, “No comprendo.” 3

Then he would say his penance at the feet of the Virgin Mary statue, light a candle, and continue on in his day.

He left St. Mary’s around 11 A.M., and he began his walk to the pier. On the way, he stopped at Sam’s, and purchased his lunch—the same lunch every day—an apple. When he got to the pier, he walked to the very end, and slowly sat down, so that his legs dangled off toward the pearly blue water. He took great pleasure in his two hours of ship watching. And just as he ate his breakfast, he would slowly chew each bite of the apple, thinking of the fertile soil, the strong tree roots that supported the trunk, the branches that supported the growing fruit, and everything that God provided to make that meal possible. One by one, he watched the ships come and go. Sometimes it was a cruiseliner; other times it was a fishing boat. No matter what the size or significance of the ship was, he would entertain himself, wondering what it must be like to be the captain. When the two hours were over, he would slowly rise to his feet and continue on his journey.

On the walk from the pier to the cemetery, he would stop at the flower shop on Simonton, and he would purchase one rose, for one dollar. Then he would continue to Olivia Street, where he always entered the graveyard from the southwest corner. When he arrived at the headstone, he knelt down, placed the rose on the weathered marble, and said the same thing, everyday.

“Perdóneme, mi amor. Yo le falla, y para este soy mucho arrepentido.” “Forgive me, my love. I have let you down, and for this, I am greatly sorry.”

Then he would remove a small pair of garden shears from his knapsack, and he would clip the grass around the headstone, so that it was level and short. Once he was done, he would kiss the stone, and rise to his feet, to continue on his way. He never spent much time at the gravesite; it hurt his heart too much.

So he walked up Olivia, to White, and then two blocks to Truman. Slowly but surely he made his way to work on time, and at 4 P.M. his apron was tied, and he stood behind the soapy dish sink, waiting for the dishes and cups and silverware to start sliding toward him.

No one at the restaurant talked to Ernie. Even though a great deal of the staff spoke Spanish, they made no attempts to hold a conversation with him. The extent of their exchanges would come when they made fun of his being 5 foot 4 in height. Also, Ernie could not speak English, but he could understand it when spoken by others. Openly, the others would talk about him. They would make fun of him, and call him a killer, or a psycho, or a jailbird.

When this happened he would close his eyes for a moment and say, “Deme por favor fuerza Dios.” “Please give me strength, God.”

Hour after hour, the dishes would stack up, and the silverware would slosh the medal pans of sanitizer water into the air, and all over him, and without a doubt, he would be covered up to his shoulders and neck in dirty water and half eaten food. He never complained, though. He just washed them all—one by one—until the final rack of glassware emerged from the industrial washer. And this night, October 29th going on the 30th after midnight, was a very special night for Ernie.

He wiped the dish sink dry with a rubber squeegee, flipped the switch on the industrial dishwasher from ON to OFF, and carried the last bag of trash through the back door of the kitchen, to the dumpster in the parking lot. Then he nodded his head, and waved to the manager, who, in turn, closed and locked the large metal door. When Ernie looked behind the dumpster, he remembered that his bicycle was not there. So, on he walked with his limp, ever so surely and slowly, back to the cemetery.

Although Ernie was a free man for just over two months, he had been imprisoned by this date, October 30th, for 48 years. He would remain imprisoned by this date until the day he died. So he did the only thing he thought would make him feel free; he lied down next to his wife—in the cold grass, without a pillow or blanket.

On this night, October 30th, forty-eight years ago, Ernie lied next to his wife in bed. It was just past midnight, when he arose in their small one room apartment. The shipment would be ashore very soon. So he dressed quietly as she slept, and locked the door behind him as he left. He met his business partner and co-smuggler at the pier, just as their ship rolled into harbor.

“Hola,” a man said to him as he walked off of the small boat.

“Hola, senor,” a very young Ernie responded, and then handed him every dollar he had to his name.

The man pointed him to a large bag, fifty pounds in weight, at the portside corner of the boat. Ernie and his friend walked over to the bag, opened it, grabbed a handful of the Cuban coffee beans, and held them just under their noses.

“Muy bien!” Ernie said to his friend.

“Si. Maravilloso!” his friend responded.

They each grabbed an end of the bag, and they carried it through the dark and quiet streets of Key West. When they arrived at his friend’s home, they put the bag inside of the small shed out back, and locked it.

Cuban coffee had become illegal, along with all other forms of Cuban goods, just ten days earlier. On October 19, 1960 the U.S. government posed an embargo on Cuban goods, to counter the new Cuban dictator’s expropriation of American landholdings in Cuba. Coffee was Ernie’s business. It was his way of life. And now that Cuban coffee, in particular, was illegal, he could sell it to his customers, under the table, at an exorbitant price. He and his friend were sure to make a fortune. So they said farewell to one another, and parted ways.

When Ernie arrived home, the door he had locked was wide open.

“Rosa?” he said as he walked in. “Rosa!” he screamed as he rushed to her bloodied body.

She had been savagely murdered. Stabbed and strangled to death. Sobbing, he held her, and cried out, “¿Por qué? ¿Dios, por qué?” “Why? God, why?”

Then the sirens came. The police rushed up the stairs, into his apartment, and without asking even one question, arrested Ernie. In such agony, despair, and feeling of worthlessness, he could not muster the words to defend himself. He just continued to cry as he was dragged away from his wife, and off to jail.

Ernie’s friend and business partner had set him up. While they were at the pier, smuggling the bag of coffee, he had sent an assassin to Ernie’s house, to murder his wife. Then, a few moments after they had hid the bag of coffee beans in the shed, Ernie’s friend called the police, and reported that his friend had just come to his house and confessed to murdering his wife. The testimony held up in court, because the judge was promised 20% of all earnings made from Cuban coffee from that point on.

Ernie went to prison. Rosa went to the graveyard.

Forty-eight years later, Ernie lied alongside of his wife, like he had wished he would have every day for those forty-eight years. As tears welled up in his eyes, he spoke to her.

English Translation:

“My dearest Rosa. My Love. It has been too long since we have lied next to one another. That is all my fault. I can never forgive myself for what happened. I do not expect you or God to, either, but I pray for it every day. I served 48 years in prison, and I would serve it again and again and again, if it meant you would have life. I let you down, my love. I should have never left your side. I should have been a good husband. I should have protected you. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry. I love you. I love you. I love you. I will never leave you again. I will never leave you again. I promise.”

Ernie fell asleep to tears streaming down his face, and images of his young bride in his mind. When he awoke, he returned home. At 6 A.M. he brushed his teeth, combed his white hair with a part down the right side, dressed himself for the day, and grabbed his knapsack and Bible before locking the door behind him. He started his day the same way as the day before. And he continued it the same way, as well. In fact, the only way he changed his day to day routine, was the way he ended it.

Every night, for the rest of his life, Ernie lied down in the grass, alongside his wife, and said the same thing, before closing his eyes, and falling asleep.

Good as Gold

2008-11-13T16:39:00.000-05:00

Jimmy was a dreamer. He was born that way. When he looked into the sky as a child, and saw the stars, which shone brightly in the sky, he was sure he’d soon view them from the moon…and then Mars…and then Jupiter…and so on. Of course, he grew up a little bit, realized that a trip to outer space was not so easily obtained, and settled for being the greatest quarterback in the history of football. His body did not cooperate with his aspirations, however, and his growing ceased to continue when he was just 5 foot 10 and 170 pounds. At this point he settled for the less glorious occupation of being a movie star. His mother told him he had a knack for the spotlight—at the very ripe age of 6—he just kept believing it, all the way into his early 30’s. So he gathered all of his money and moved to Hollywood, sure as day that he would be the next big thing.

Within 3 months he was nearly penniless, worried about the eviction notice on his front door, and positive that his next paycheck from the corner gas station would not be enough to keep him from going homeless. So he packed everything he could in a backpack, and took the bus to the Greyhound station. A one way ticket back to Boston cost him everything he had, save for ten bucks, which he could hopefully stretch out for a couple meals on the long road home.

When he arrived, his mother greeted him with open arms. “My baby boy,” she said as he buried his head in her chest, sobbing and embarrassed. “Why are you crying? You should be proud of yourself for trying.”

The only words he could muster through his cries of pain were, “I’ve failed…I’ve failed at everything.”

“That’s not true,” she said. “You’ve been a daring explorer, and besides, you don’t want to be one of those movie stars…all of the good ones die young, and I need you to take care of me.”

Those words were a healing solution for his heart’s present troubles. She was older, indeed, and since his father had passed there was no one else to aid her. So he moved back into the room he had occupied as a boy for two decades. He was not the slightest bit surprised when it was exactly as he had left it, 14 years previously.

“Jimmy,” his mother said as she handed him a warm breakfast on his first morning back, “You’ve always been such a good story-teller. Why don’t you be a writer? You can inspire people, talking about the things you’ve done and the places you’ve been.”

He picked up a pen and began jotting down ideas that afternoon.

A few weeks later, his mother became ill. She was getting older, and her body’s resistance was weakening daily. Money became tight, due to the doctor visits and prescription drugs, and Jimmy was forced to put down the pen and pick up an apron. He was in his mid-thirties, waiting tables at a Martini bar near Harvard.

Every day was a challenge, both physically—having to attend to his mother nearly twenty hours a day, and mentally—having to serve over-priced drinks to well-off Ivy League academics, who condescended him by the very way they demanded round after round, rarely leaving less than a 40% tip. Of course he needed the money more than they did. Look how old he was, and what he was doing.

Jimmy’s lone friend was a woman, close to him in age, who also worked as a cocktail server. Sarah was every bit his fancy. She was pretty, with blonde hair and blue eyes, and an optimistic approach to the tasks in front of her. She loved listening to his stories, and admired his youthful dreaming, despite the obstacles that always seemed to overcome it. She, too, had seen her share of troubles. When she was just 16 she lost all of her living family members in a plane crash, and had been on her own ever since. She refrained from telling him, because she preferred not to speak of it. Looking forward, for her, was always the more comfortable thing to do.

Evening after evening they would pass each other, back and forth, left and right, as they relayed orders and overflowing glasses of gin around the dimly lit bar. Night after night they would sit down and have their shift drink. She would have a vodka martini, up, with a couple olives; he would entertain a gin gimlet martini, with a twist of lemon. Most nights they would gripe and complain to one another about something that was said to them, by an intoxicated kid, in a derogatory way of putting them down—putting them in their place.

This night, the night before Christmas Eve, they talked about what they would like, if Santa Claus were to actually exist. Despite Jimmy’s nature, he asked for a time machine.

“Why a time machine?” she asked.

“So I could go back to when I was a young man, and do everything differently.”

He was worn down. He was out of dreams. He was a pessimistic realist of epic proportions. He needed to be relieved of the burden of failure that plagued him for so many years.

Sarah stroked his back lovingly and said, “If everything on Earth was perfect, we’d have no need to strive to be with God…in Heaven.”

“So how about you?” he asked.

“Me?”

“Yeah. What would you like if Santa Claus really existed?”

“I’d take a martini…just like this one—

“That’s all?”

“I wasn’t finished,” she continued. “I would take a martini just like this one…but instead of it being after a night of serving, it would be at my very own place.”

“So you would like to own a martini bar?”

“Exactly.”

“Why a martini bar? Don’t you hate this place, like I do? Putting up with crap from people ten years younger, who have ten times more money?”

“I don’t hate this place. It provides me a living. I can afford food and a home and money to buy the things I need. Besides, I’d be the owner. I wouldn’t have to serve anyone that I didn’t want to.”

“I’ll tell you what,” he began. “I’ll buy you a martini bar. I promise.”

In an instant, the dreamer side of Jimmy was ignited. He desired greatness again. But something was different. This time, he desired greatness, not for himself, but for someone else. And this time, what he desired felt like more of an obligation than a goal.

They closed the bar, and both Jimmy and Sarah went their separate ways. When Jimmy arrived home, he did as always and entered his mother’s room. The television set still beamed, illuminated by the pixels, which made up the moving images. This was not like his mother. She always managed to turn off the TV before going to bed. Worried, he walked down the hallway toward the bathroom.

“Mom?” he called out as he pushed open the door. “Mom!” he shouted, as she lay motionless on the floor.

He knelt down and lifted her body off of the cold tiles. She had no pulse. She had no life. He sobbed as he held her. And as he buried his head in her chest the only words he could muster through his cries of pain were, “I’ve failed…I’ve failed at everything. I should have been here. I’ve failed you!”

He stayed like that, embracing her until the paramedics came and took her away.

He did not sleep that night. Instead, he began drinking. He began drinking hard.

When he awakened it was mid-afternoon, and he was lying on the bathroom floor, aside the toilet, exactly where he had found his mother. He first looked down at the floor, where he had carved with a knife the words, “I have failed,” into the tile floor. Then he looked up, and saw the noose, tied tightly around a hook in the ceiling. He could not recall his suicide attempt.

So he pulled himself up—first to his knees, and then to his feet. He looked at the noose and thought, “I have failed at everything.” So he turned the footstool upright, and began climbing to the top of the three steps. “Alast,” he thought, “I will succeed.” As he turned on the top stool so that the noose would fit tightly around his neck, he caught a glimpse of a gold Crucifix, which hung next to the door.

Then he remembered the last time he saw a gold Crucifix. It dangled off of Sarah’s neck the night before when she said, “If everything on Earth was perfect, we’d have no need to strive to be with God…in Heaven.”

The grim and painful look on his face turned into a smile, and then a tear. All he could think of was his promise to her. She was all that he had, and even though he did not know it, he was all that she had.

He loosened the rope from around his neck, and stepped down from the stool. His heart was beating with a burning desire to succeed for her.

So he washed up, changed clothes, and went to work. It was Christmas Eve, and he was happier to be there than ever before. Much to his delight, the owner of the bar had reserved the upstairs room for a family Christmas party. Although they had never even met before, Jimmy asked the owner to step aside. Then he told him everything—all of his dreams that were shattered—all of his attempts for success that were sidetracked—all of his previous failures in life. He told him of his mother’s death, and his subsequent attempt of suicide the night before. He told him of his awakening upon seeing the gold Crucifix. And finally, he told him of his promise to Sarah. When he was done with the story, he asked if he could buy the bar.

Without hesitation, the owner agreed. He said, “We close at midnight, and you re-open at midnight. I will sell you the bar for ten minutes, at a dollar per minute.”

Amazed and totally astounded by the graciousness of a near stranger, Jimmy had to ask, “Why? I mean, thank you! But why are you so eager to do this for me?”

“Because,” the owner said, as he removed a chain from around his neck, “It’s Christmas. And Christmas is about miracles.” Hanging from the chain was a gold Crucifix.

So, Jimmy and Sarah closed the bar down as they always had—flipping chairs and stocking glasses before turning the lights nearly all the way off. Jimmy waited anxiously as the minutes slowly ticked away. Finally, it was midnight.

“Care to have a drink?” she asked.

“It’s up to you,” he said. “You own the place.”

“Sure I do,” she laughed. “In my wildest dreams.”

“No, really,” he declared. “I bought it for you.”

“Have you been drinkin?” she asked.

Then the owner came down from his party upstairs. He walked over to Sarah, and handed her the key.

“Take care of the place, huh?” he said.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“You own the joint now. And you’ve got nine and a half minutes until it’s mine again. So enjoy the drinks while they’re free! And please, lock up behind you.” He turned and winked at Jimmy.

By the time it was said and done, the barkeep had fixed their drinks. She had a vodka martini, up, with a couple olives; he entertained a gin gimlet martini, with a twist of lemon.

My father did not propose to my mother that night. He told me it occurred some time shortly after. But a plaque still hangs in my bar, directly above the two stools they sat in that night, which reads:

“Jimmy was a dreamer! I’m living proof of his success!”

An Enduring Truth

2008-10-30T23:25:00.000-04:00

Flowers are my favorite miracle of nature. They are like the inner-beauty that every human possesses but rarely can show. We all have a direction in society—a job, an education, a family—but these are all man-made goals and accomplishments during our time on Earth. What is most real and authentic and natural is that which God has made. Our beating hearts, our breathing lungs, our mindful sympathy and love for people, not things. What I find to be one of the biggest ironies in this world of ours is that which appears concrete and real is, in fact, the most expendable and perishable—the most non-existent. And that which one cannot see with his or her eyes, but must feel with his or her heart is what God promises will be with us for eternity. I heard a very admirable and humble priest once end his homily by saying, “For the Christian, love is all encompassing. It is the ONLY reality.” My heart leapt with joy. However, God has not only made Christians with this quality. Instead, every soul He has ever created has been created the same, and must be treated the same. Force does not defeat force. Nor does hate defeat hate. In the end it is LOVE which will conquer ALL. Because God is LOVE!

In My Opinion

2008-10-28T19:45:00.000-04:00

In my opinion, it does not really matter who is voted in as president of the United States in one week. It’s hard to pick the lesser of the two evils. The common misconception among the American people is that there are core differences between the Democratic and Republican parties. The sad and discouraging truth is that politicians are…well, politicians. I will not go as far as generalizing and saying that every politician is a liar and completely self-obsessed. But I will admit that a great deal of them are in the profession for the same reason that people are in many other professions—to make money—as much of it as possible.
Take for instance, the recent $850 billion bailout proposed and granted by the U.S. Congress, which did nothing to improve or benefit anyone but the criminals that caused it, and the criminals that passed it. Although we, as a people, are definitely guilty of living above our means, there should still be a great deal of blame to be placed on the shoulders of individuals who should have foresaw the ultimate crash, but for personal financial gain, did nothing but encourage it. Let’s practice some common sense right now—many people saw a loophole, a chance to benefit greatly off of a great number of people’s misfortunes, and they grasped the opportunity—causing an enormous economic downfall, which has affected everyone in the country but the extremely wealthy. Then, when those companies began to implode due to their own follies, they begged for help to Congress, which then decided to grant them the money (our money, via taxes) to get them back on their feet. So, if I am correct, the man or woman who could not afford to pay for the house they were approved financing for, and subsequently lost, still has to pay for it, and on top of that, must additionally pay money to stabilize the very company that swindled them out of that home. I could be wrong, but I do not think any one single member of Congress lost their home because of this scam. However, each member of Congress who approved the astronomically high (with no statistical basis of how high it should be) bailout, will in turn, benefit from it. That, I guarantee!

CONGRESSMAN: Hi, Mr. Banker who promised a family of five that they could afford that four bedroom, two and a half bathroom, home in the suburbs for $300,000, even though they bring in $50,000 a year in salary.

MR. BANKER: Hi, Mr. Congressman, who has embezzled thousands, if not millions, of dollars from taxpayers on various government projects which were granted to companies with higher bidding prices, because the CEO of that company is a “close friend” of yours.

CONGRESSMAN: How’s that housing scam going for you?

MR. BANKER: Great! We’ve suckered hundreds of people into thinking they can afford these houses. You should see the look on their faces when they’re told that they’re approved for the house of their dreams.

CONGRESSMAN: But they’ll eventually be foreclosed on…it’s only a matter of time.

MR. BANKER: Not my problem. They’ll pay for the house whether they live in it or not.

CONGRESSMAN: But won’t all of those foreclosed houses eventually cripple you when no one can afford to pay for them?

MR. BANKER: Like I said, they’ll pay for the house either way. I’ve got a suitcase full of cash, or a big check—Pay to the Order of: Mr. Congressman’s re-election campaign—that says you’ll pass an $850 billion bailout to save our ass.

CONGRESSMAN: Not only that, but when the Stock Market hits near rock bottom, we can buy up all of the stocks at unbelievable discount rates. Eventually they’re bound to go up, so long as my colleagues and I keep approving taxpayer bailouts to keep the companies from going under.

MR. BANKER: Now we’re on the same page! We should take a trip to my yacht in Martinique during one of your 6 weeks of vacation time this year.

CONGRESSMAN: Sounds good. I’ll see you there.

Sometimes you have to put things into fictional dialogue to get your point across. I hope you understand now. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer. The country that we live in is not very different from Rome. Corporate America is the savage and brutal captor and possessor of all of our freedoms. We are merely slaves to that captor. We work ourselves to death to serve the most evil of forces, but make ourselves feel better by claiming we only do it to house and feed our families. That is true, and it is also very admirable and honorable. However, it is still assisting the monster. There is nothing wrong with crunching numbers as an accountant, or proofreading text for company pamphlets, or hammering nails to build the frame of a house. Like I said, those are very necessary and important things to be done. What I have a problem with is the people on top. The leaders of these companies are held to different standards than the average person on the street. On top of that, the lawmakers who are supposed to enforce and penalize these people, are often close companions of the crooks.

We place entirely too much faith and trust in who will be the next President and Vice President. We are fools for thinking that either one will make a drastic difference. If anything, nothing will change at all. I laugh at the idea that there are two parties. In reality, there is one party, with two subdivisions. Every single time a third party has tried to rise in power and notoriety, the Republicans and Democrats have immediately began working together to crush that party. That does not sound very American to me. A man or woman who is truly devoted to the American dream and ideals set up by the founders, would welcome and encourage as many different political parties as possible. Our current leaders are not leaders at all. They are not free-thinkers, whether Democrat or Republican. They are puppets and followers, working together to ensure themselves employment every 2 to 4 to 6 years. There are over 20 former U.S. Congressmen and Congresswomen who are convicted felons, but still receive federal pensions. Most notably Senator Stevens from Alaska who has been recently convicted but will receive $122,000 annually. Think about that. If you are a member of Congress you can commit a federal crime and, despite spending time in jail, you will still receive annual compensation (taxpayer based) for time spent conducting criminal activity.

I hope and pray that a drastic change will take place in our country, but to be completely honest, I consider myself a child of God first and foremost. I do not think God prefers one man-made nation over another. I believe we are obnoxious and foolish for thinking so. There are a great number of good people in this country, and there is a great number of daily works that these people do, which makes God proud. But if we do not begin to rise as the people, in revolutionary form, against our oppressors—to create a multi party system, we will all suffer from it. That, I guarantee.

THE FIRST AND LAST PAINTING I EVER COMPLETED

2008-04-13T00:31:00.001-04:00

My days in California were numbered to roughly over a week. I was thrilled about my opportunity to finally begin college, and even more jacked about the cross-country road trip I was never able to make. I was a little bit nervous, however, and a certain piece of me was disappointed about not sticking it out on the west coast. I knew it was best for me, but in an uncanny, and most characteristic way, I managed to grow extremely fond feelings for Rachelle.

We had been rather close friends since meeting each other at the surf shop in October, but somewhere through the course of those six months, our friendship began to progress. We never so much as kissed, and I think the closest we came was one night in January when we watched her favorite movie of all-time, Funny Face, with Audrey Hepburn and Fred Astaire. We sprawled out on the couch, pulled the coffee table close enough to kick our feet up, and we shared a blanket and a bowl of popcorn. At the end of the night she asked me if I wanted to stay over, but I declined, worried that things might go beyond a kiss or two. Most guys will cringe when they read this, but I am still glad that I made the decision to go home. It reassures me, even now, of my respect for her.

Anyway, like the rest of my new friends in L.A., she had no idea that I was returning to Ohio for college. I intentionally refrained from telling anyone, similar to when I left Youngstown, for two reasons: I don’t like endings, I never have, and so I would rather see an ending to one situation as a beginning to a new one, and the second reason is because I hate how people begin to act when they find out you’ll be leaving—it’s unnatural. Every time you hang out with certain people it is inevitable that by some point in the night everything will turn to Oh, this is so sad…This could be the last time we do this or that.

So I was sitting around the apartment one night with nothing to do. I didn’t want to watch TV, and I didn’t have any desire to go out, so I decided to paint. I had a couple of canvases that I obtained at some point in high school, but I never made any attempt to use them. So I rummaged through Bennie’s closet where he kept his artwork, and I found an unused brush set, and a set of oil paints. I didn’t think twice about it; I just painted.

I started on the top, doing my best to re-create a Van Gogh like sky. It was a rather lame attempt to say the least. But there’s something funny about painting. Even when you set out to do one thing, and it miserably fails, you somehow end up with something else that completely works.

After the sky, I started on the horizon of the ocean, and then the beach. I had no idea where I was going with it, but I kept going anyway. I worked fervently for five days straight, but at the end, something was missing. I thought about it, and within moments I knew what it was. So I painted a little girl, with red hair, right where the tide came rolling into the sand, holding up her white dress just enough so that the water wouldn’t touch it.

I finally finished the painting around 2 AM, and I only had about twelve hours left in California. I didn’t think twice about it, I just got into my car and drove immediately to the grocery store. I bought a bouquet of flowers, and continued to Rachelle’s place in Venice. When I got there she happened to be up, watching a movie.

I knocked, and she peaked out of the side window to see who it was. Then she opened the door.
“G.C. what are you doin?”
“First off, here you go,” I said as I handed her the flowers.
She smiled bashfully and said, “Thank you, they’re beautiful.”
“It’s not all that I have. Come on,” I said as I motioned her outside.
“Hold on, let me put on some slippers.”

Then we walked out to my car on the street. I didn’t even realize it when I began the painting, but her birthday was less than a week away, which was ironically the day before mine.

“What is it?” she asked.
“Just be patient, and close your eyes.”

She closed them, and I opened the door, reached in, and grabbed the painting. I turned it around so that it was right side up and facing her.

“You can open your eyes now.”

As soon as she did, they lit up, and I felt like a million bucks.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

She took the painting, held it up, and I watched her as a single tear escaped the eye and began to run down her cheek. She set it on top of the car roof, and then reached in and bear hugged me.

“I love it! It is, by far, the best present anyone has ever given me.”

I just stood there and held her as close to me as I could. I smelled her hair; I smelled her skin; I ran my fingers across her back, but she didn’t know I was leaving in the morning. I remember not wanting the moment to end. I remember thinking, while she was still in my embrace, that maybe I could stay in California. Once we pulled apart, the magic that is intimacy, ceased.

“Hey,” I began, not so eloquently, “There’s something I have to tell you.”
“What?”

I tried, but at first I couldn’t get any words out of my mouth. All that I wanted to do was hug her again, close my eyes, and pretend that anywhere I was going she was going, too.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“What? For where?”
“Back to Ohio. I got into Ohio State about a month ago, but I didn’t tell anyone.”

She didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say anything more. I just grabbed her and hugged her again.

“Well,” she began through a sniffle, “You gotta do what’s best for you.”
Once again, I didn’t have a response. I just led her down the street, to where the beach began, and I took the blanket she had been wrapped in, and I spread it across the cool March sand. Then we just laid there, not speaking much at all, until the sun came up.

When I realized I had better get home, I knew it was over. I walked her home, kissed her on the cheek, and I left. It was the first time in my life that I left someone.

Every now and then I wonder what my life would be like had I stayed in California. But when I do, I remember the first and last painting I ever completed, and I realize that a piece of me never really has.

a nightly constitutional

2008-03-31T21:24:00.002-04:00

walking, wondering, praying, hoping
thinking, worrying, quaintly joking
twenty roses buried against my chest
seeking only a smile to ease my unrest
sweaty palms, glistening through the frost
I'd give it all away, no matter the cost--
to see her again, what a magnificent notion
my life, I'd give to her, with every devotion
places I've been, sights I have seen
humble to her, my beautiful queen
walking, wondering, praying, hoping
thinking, worrying, quaintly joking

The Drum of Demand Has Sounded

2008-03-31T03:06:00.002-04:00

I would like to reassure all of my readers that I am returning to my daily posts as of today. I had taken some time off of my daily short stories to pursue my second, third and fourth novels. Although the work is not nearly done on any of those, I feel it is necessary from a literary perspective to re-commence my day to day storytelling endeavors. I hope you look forward to reading as much as I do to writing. Thank you for your patience.

aPv

My Last First Day and a Book of Unwritten Pages

2008-03-18T04:26:00.002-04:00

Hamlet was a coward, Gatsby a fool, and Holden Caulfield a hero; at least that’s the way I saw it. I was probably the only junior in high school whose best friends were fictional characters. That happens when your old man is in the military, and you’re moving around so often that you don’t spend more than one year in one place. I was rebellious—about as rebellious as one can be when the consequences consist of a Captain in the Marines wailing on you for receiving a B in advanced Trigonometry. When I was young, around thirteen or so, I often thought about running away, but I always imagined the horrific outcome with my Pop after being found. So, I nestled my nose into every F. Scott Fitzgerald, J.D. Salinger and—God forbid if they were to be found—Hunter S. Thompson book I could get my hands on, and I made friends with the people whom I could never leave, rather take with me, every time my life was uprooted and transported to another town.

I have an older brother, Nicholas, an established novelist, living in the suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio. Our mother divorced our father just a year after I was born, and it wasn’t until three years later when she was killed in a car accident that it became just me and my old man. Nicholas, who is thirteen years my elder, was lucky enough to be on his way to college, never having to receive the abusive fate I inherited. When my father finally remarried—to a woman who never wanted kids—I was Seventeen, working on my first novel, and eager to cause whatever hell was necessary to be relieved from my father’s grasp. So, on my first day of school at Fork Union Military Academy, in a suburb outside Washington D.C., I dressed up as Adolph Hitler, marched right through the front doors, and made it no further than five steps before being assaulted by a half dozen proud-to-be future American soldiers. I made it all the way home before receiving my first broken bone—a cracked radius in my left arm as I tried warding off my father who violently swung at me with a 2 by 4. I’m still not very proud of it—definitely the most un-American thing I have ever done—but it worked, earning me a free pass to move in with Nicholas, after children’s services came in and cleaned up the mess. Anyway, I could get into a great deal of unneeded details about the life I wish to forget, but it’s painful, and I’d rather recount the first day of the life I could have never imagined. My name is Bryce James, and this is the story of my first day of school—that’s what I like to call it, because it was the day my life started anew.

Morning had finally come for my first day of classes at Charles F. Brush High School, a co-ed, public institution, yielding kids from the neighboring East Cleveland suburbs of South Euclid and Lyndhurst. Nicholas let me drive his 1974 Pontiac Firebird GT, with a four-speed transmission, a jet black exterior, and tinted T-Tops. It was his summer time, Sunday drive kind of car, which he never even thought to expose to the brutality of winter streets. He said he’d let me arrive in style on my first day, but I think he felt guilty for all of the time missed throughout our short lives.

He followed me to the school and pulled around to the visitor’s lot while I parked in the student one. Getting out of the car was an entirely new experience. First off, I had never driven to school before, let alone in a classic muscle car. Secondly, I couldn’t believe that girls were actually filing in the same doors as me. It was winter time, and there was at least a foot of snow on the ground, causing the vibrant energy and youthful fanaticism of teenagers to be expressed by hurling pineapple sized snowballs at one another. A couple flew right past my head, and I was praying to God that I could somehow escape the onslaught until I reached cover at the back doors. I was the new kid, and everybody already looked at me funny, so getting nailed by an iceball wasn’t first on my “to do” list.

I filed through the doors with hundreds of other kids, pretending I had gone there all along. I had no idea where I was going, and I didn’t want to ask anyone for directions. Then I saw Nick and a great feeling of relief enveloped me. He helped me get registered in the main office, signing all of the necessary paperwork and medical forms. Then, like that, he was gone, leaving me completely and utterly alone. After I received my class schedule from Mrs. Murdock, the guidance counselor, I stepped out of the office and looked down a hallway which seemed never-ending. I had to go to room 222, which couldn’t have been further away.

I swear to God, I couldn’t have looked like more of a nerd. I wore a pair of stone colored Dockers, much too short to exhibit any real fashion sense, a yellow three-button down polo, and a pair of sneakers that were so white you’d think angels came down and polished them overnight. I didn’t know what to wear, I had worn boarding school uniforms all of my life. I breathed in and out as I approached the door. I looked at my schedule at saw that it was European History. I slowly turned the knob and entered. As I made my first step inside the classroom I encountered Mr. Cherney, a short, chubby guy with thinning hair and glasses which encompassed the entire top half of his head.

“GO BACK AND KNOCK! YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST BARGE INTO MY CLASSROOM?”

My heart hit the floor. That was my first impression for twenty five kids who just stared at me, shaking their heads. So I left the room, shut the door, and knocked. He called me in, and then slightly lifted his pudgy left arm off of his desk top to call me over.

“Can I help you?” he asked.
“Yes, my name is Bryce, and I believe I’m in this class,” I said with a nervousness so extreme my hands began to sweat.
“Do you believe you’re in my class, or do you know?”
“It says here on the schedule, room 222, Mr. Cherney…European History—
“Well, you’re lucky I failed O’brien last week, or else you wouldn’t have a seat.” I assumed he was pulling my leg, but he said it with such a smirk on his face that I had to believe there was some truth to it. “In that closet over there, you’ll find a book…treat it like the Bible.”

I grabbed a book and walked back to my seat. I was lucky enough that O’brien sat behind the center on the basketball team, because I planned on slouching as far down as possible, hoping to avoid any interaction with Cherney. Honestly, you had to picture this guy. When he lectured he sat on an old leather chair stool, which rose a few feet up in the air, and his chubby legs dangled off the edge—too short to reach the ground. In front of him was an old, weakening wooden podium. Just like the chair, it rocked back and forth as he leaned his weight on and off of it. Every once in a while you thought the momentum was gonna cause him to fall right to the ground, and he must’ve weighed at least three hundred pounds, so if he did plummet he’d shake the whole goddamn world. His face had about three chins and he even had thick bags under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in a week. He’d belt out speeches that the gym class could hear from across the school.

After doodling in my notebook for a half hour I peeked around the wideness of the guy in front of me to see what Cherney was up to. There was a silence in the room, which was totally unlike him, because you could tell he was the sort of guy to lecture for forty-five minutes straight. Kids all over the room were holding their writing hands as if they just preferred them to be cut off. Old man Cherney, on the other hand, was eying one of his many doses of fat intakes for the day. Then he did something I couldn’t believe I saw. He took four peanut butter cups, stacked them on top of each other, opened his chubby little mouth, and devoured all of them with one bite. I thought I was watching Garfield. Then, he raised his 22 oz. cup of water and with one breath of air he took in every last drop. And if it couldn’t have gotten any worse, he attempted to talk before it all settled, and as I passed him on my way towards the door, he belched, and with it came a few airborne drops of peanut-buttery backwash, landing square on the left side of my neck. I made no motion to wipe it off until I reached the hallway.

I immediately walked across the hall to the boys’ bathroom. I leaned over the sink and thoroughly washed my entire face and neck area. Once I gathered my composure I looked at my schedule and re-entered the hallway. English with Mrs. Kubicek was next on my agenda, room 117. When I turned left to walk towards a set of stairs I was instantly face to face with the most gorgeous blonde haired, blue eyed, freckle faced girl I have ever seen. Due to my surprise and lack of space to even move an inch, I stopped.

“I’m Alison.” She reached out and forced me to shake her hand. “Pretty rough first impression,” she said, with the cutest half smile on her face. I just stood there, speechless. “So, you must be new.”
“Yeah, why? Are you gonna beat me up now and take my lunch money?”

Oh my God, I couldn’t believe that those were the first words out of my mouth. I was a total idiot. Worse. I was a dork, with absolutely no communicational experience or skills with the opposite sex.

“No,” she responded amidst a giggle. “Let me see that,” then she grabbed my schedule from my right hand. “Ooh, pretty rough set of classes.”
“I guess so. I didn’t really know what to take…I’ve only ever gone to boarding schools, and they don’t really give you a choice.”

Mrs. Murdock automatically put me in the four basic required classes of English, French, European History, and Trigonometry, and I figured that Journalism, Piano, and Film History would be a lot better than sitting in study halls.

She handed me back my death sentence, so to speak, and added, “You have a couple with me.” It was single handedly the best news I’d received about school since kindergarten, when we were granted time to take naps.

We began walking, away from the staircase I was first headed towards. I didn’t say anything, I figured she knew better than me where room 117 was.

“So what brings you to Brush?” she inquired as she removed the legal pad from my right hand, and began flipping through it.
“I decided to move in with my brother…my dad is in the Marines, and we moved around a lot.”
“So do you play any sports or anything?”
“No, I never really got the chance.” Truth was my coordination skills lacked from the day I was born. Also, my old man couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn when it came to pitching me batting practice, so I just got beaned all the time, and I couldn’t understand, at the age of seven, why anyone would want to play a game where you stood defenselessly, outside of holding a thin tube of wood, as a tight wound ball of string and cowhide was pelting you anywhere from your head to your feet.
“I’m a cheerleader, but don’t go thinking I’m a flake…I hate that.”
“I wasn’t gonna—
“So…what’s this?” she asked, referring to my novel, which was only about fifty pages, and still written in long-hand.
“It’s just some of my writings. I like to write in my free time.”

We kept walking for what seemed like a mile. I watched the classroom numbers gradually increase, and were still on the second floor. The time was rapidly running out between classes, and I could only imagine what was going to happen in Kubicek’s room—after the Cherney incident, that is. So I went to say something, and that’s when she grabbed my hand, dragging me toward a door that looked like a janitorial closet. She opened it, then yanked me in real fast, and shut the door behind me. It was complete blackness as she guided me through another door, and shut it while flipping a light switch.

“This is our little secret,” she said. “Hardly no one knows about it…it’s the second floor dressing room for the Auditorium below. It’s never used anymore, and it’s the perfect place to have a…” she stopped as she dug through her purse. “To have a smoke.” Then she removed a Marlboro Red from its pack, offered it to me, which I quickly accepted, before removing one for herself.

That was the first cigarette I ever smoked in my life, not inhaling a single hit. She talked, mostly about Cherney, and how to skip class and get away with it, and smooth talk your way out of getting detention if ever you’re caught. My heart raced like the Indianapolis 500 on a cocaine overdose, but somehow, knowing I was with her, I felt calm despite of it. We spent the entire period in there, sneaking back out just minutes before the bell would ring. I skipped the first class of my life, with the first beautiful girl I can honestly admit to holding a conversation with, and just minutes after first meeting her.

“Well Bryce, I’ll see you around,” she said just as the bell rang, classroom doors swinging open and kids engulfing us from every direction.

I struggled to keep my mind off of her as I finished the morning. Third period was Piano class, and I must admit, I couldn’t as much as play Chopsticks. There were only three others in there, and two were in my previous classes, so they didn’t pay me much attention. The other kid was a pretty nice guy that offered to show me around town if I wanted. His name was Ashton, and he was also a junior. He was the only kid I had seen all day who didn’t plaster his hair to his head with styling gel. He also looked like he was under quite a bit of stress. Like he hadn’t slept more than an hour or so the night before. He wasted no time opening up to me, explaining his disdain for anything Pop Culture or mainstream. He encouraged me to read Whitman and Thoreau, imploring that no one has thought like either one of them since their respective deaths. By the time the bell rang, and it was time for lunch, I was ready to make a run for the woods, I was just waiting for Ashton to lead so that I could follow.

The lunch period was set up so that the first half of the alphabet ate for twenty five minutes while the second half either went to study hall or the library, and then vice versa. I was always a sucker for books, and I hadn’t had the chance to peruse the library yet. So, without knowing that the cooler half of the high school population would rather read comics and throw spitballs at one another in the auditorium, I found myself in a sanctuary for the popularity challenged—which, I guess you could say, was quite fitting.

My actual lunch half scared the hell out of me. I was just worried that I was going to take someone’s seat, or not find one at all. The sort of stuff that should worry you as a freshman on your first day. Walking over to the cafeteria felt like an eternity. I8 was surrounded by the dorks. I’m not kidding. Seven or eight nerds suffocated me into a small pocket while walking down the hall. I felt like their chosen one. Worst of all, I looked like their chosen one. I had to diverge a plan as we neared the main hallway, which was clogged with kids. Just as we approached the intersection of the hallways I spotted another bathroom. I crossed quickly and entered it. Ashton was standing in front of a mirror.

“Bryce, what’s going on man?”
“Ashton? Do you have lunch now?” I asked, praying for him to say yes.
“Yeah, man, I do.” By this point I was leaning over the sink, splashing cold water on my face. “There’s an empty seat at my table if you want to join me.”
“Sounds great, I’d love to.”

He began walking, and I followed closely behind.
We walked into the cafeteria of about 300 kids, and I was shocked that there wasn’t a goddamn McDonald’s in there. It was probably twice the size of any other cafeteria I’d been in. He led me directly to a table along to far left wall. Three other guys sat a few seats down, but Ashton made no effort to acknowledge them.

“I usually just sit and read, but I can’t turn down company,” he said while placing his books on the table top. “You want something to eat? I’ll buy.”
“You don’t have to, really…I can—
“Don’t worry about it, I want to…you’re not a vegan are you?”
I didn’t know if he would take offense if I said yes, but I was starving, so I didn’t really mind if he brought back a large bowl of guacamole, I would have still scarfed it down. “Not particularly,” I reluctantly responded.
“Just stay here and check out some of these essays by Thomas Wolfe I was telling you about. There’s no need for both of us to wait in line.”

I hadn’t the slightest bit of desire to read any Thomas Wolfe at the time, so I began scanning the cafeteria. Then I spotted Alison. She was about ten tables away, sitting with a group of hormone ridden jocks and desperately anxious to look pretty female socialites. She might as well have been sitting by herself, because she made no attempt to partake in their conversations. She looked so perfect, sitting quietly, reading a book and casually eating one grape after another. I fought like hell all morning to rid her from my head, and when I finally thought I found closure, there she was, right within my vision, absorbing me again. I didn’t want to be caught staring at her, so I began flipping through the hardbound book of essays Ashton had mentioned.

“Here you go man,” Ashton said as he set a toasted turkey club sandwich in front of me.
“Thank you so much…but let me give you some money, I feel bad.”

He just waved me off, and sat down. We hardly talked during lunch. He mentioned that he liked to be as mindful as possible, chewing at least thirty times with each bite, spiritually taking into mind everything from the earth that went into providing that meal for him—a Buddhist practice he started after reading a Thic Nhat Hanh book. He was some guy, hard to get your hands around, but I very much liked that about him.

After lunch I went to my afternoon classes. Just as I figured when Alison told me we had Film History together at the end of the day, I spent an entire forty five minutes just observing her. I was weakened by a high school cheerleader worse than my military father ever could through vicious physical punishments. She drove me crazy. When the final bell sounded, I went to my locker, grabbed my coat and proceeded out of the back doors to my car. I got going after I had warmed it up for at least ten minutes—Nicholas’s orders. I took the same route home that Nick showed me in the morning, and as I turned onto a street I noticed a short blonde nearly shaking her legs off, walking along a snow covered sidewalk. I pulled over out of courtesy, because it was nearly zero degrees outside, no one should have been subjected to such weather. As I rolled the passenger window down, she turned to look. It was Alison. Just as if I had been walking out of the boys’ room to wash my neck from Cherney’s backwash, we were once again face to face.

“Bryce,” she said with a smile. “Nice car.”
“Come on…hop in, it’s freezing out there,” I said as I opened the passenger door.
She took the invite, making me immediately so nervous I forgot how to work the clutch.
“How’d you score this?” she asked, scoping out the interior from back to front.
“It’s just for the day…it’s my brother’s.”

We talked about my day in between the directions to her house, and how I liked Brush, and all that chit chat sort of talk you have with someone you hardly know. It was different, though. She cared, unlike every other stranger you first come across.

“Here it is…on the right,” she said before pointing at the prettiest house on the street. “Thank you so much…I’ll see you tomorrow?” Then she took her left hand and ran it across the top of my head, messing up my hair before she got out.

I wanted to just sit in her driveway for hours, looking at the pretty white fence, and the pretty bare trees, and everything else that was pretty. But I didn’t want her to think I was a lunatic. So I drove home and did it. Nicholas must have thought I lost my mind, sitting in the car, taking in all that had just happened to me.

I was gifted, God had blessed me with chapters of blank pages, and friends who weren’t susceptible to being put on a shelf, hidden behind the cover of a book.

A SHOT OF JAGERMEISTER AND MASS ON SUNDAY

2008-03-17T01:00:00.002-04:00

It was Thursday night, and that meant one thing junior year—Zigs for $1 drafts. I was only 20, but I lived next door to four guys, who were all a year older, so we made an agreement—I buy, they fly. It was only a dollar, so I figured it was like paying $3—including a tip. Anyway, we got there around 11:30, and I sent Collin inside with a five spot, while I scoured the front patio for anyone I might know. A few minutes later he came back with the beers, and proceeded toward a small table where two girls were sitting.

It was a golden moment. I didn’t really look at either girl, because it was dark out, and I was a little more concerned with getting my hands on the frosty 32 ounce Coors Light. Collin handed me a beer, but was preoccupied with a guy he ran into on the walk out. He was beginning to sit down, so I sat down, and immediately thereafter, he rose back to a stance, and walked away. There I was, sitting at a table with two girls, who were complete strangers, and I was faced with a decision—get up, without saying a word, and walk away with my tail tucked between my legs, or meet them. I chose the latter, or I should say, Anna chose the latter.

“Hi, I’m Anna,” she said, extending her hand across the table. She was cute. Actually, she was a total bombshell.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Giancarlo…but you can call me G.C. or Gianni, which ever you prefer.”
“Hi, I’m Steph,” her friend said, also extending her hand.
“Hey, how’s it goin’?”

In hindsight I might have been a little rude when meeting Steph, but there was something about Anna I immediately couldn’t shake off.

“So do you always just sit down with strangers?” she asked, putting me on the spot.
“Yeah, I just go from bar to bar until I see a couple of girls like yourselves.”

I wasn’t fazed.

“Good response.”

I was in like Flynn.

“I’ve been known to hold my own.”

She smiled, and held out her beer for cheers.

“So, do you go to OSU?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m a junior. How ‘bout you?”
“I’m a senior. Whuddaya studying?”
“English. You?”
“Special Education.”
“So you like kids.”
“No, they just pay teachers really well.”
I had a wise-ass on my hands, and I loved it.
“So whuddaya want to do with an English degree, teach?”
“Well, I’m not really sure. I was leaning toward being a writer, but I heard they’re paying teachers through the roof these days.”
“You’re good…you know that?”
“I’m good at a lot of things.”
Another smile surfaced. “Oh really? Like what kind of things?”
“First off, get your mind outta the gutter. I’m a good Catholic boy,” I said, lifting my cross necklace off of my chest.
“Do you go to Mass every week?”
“As a matter of fact, I do…haven’t missed a Sunday in years. What about you? Are you Catholic?”
“Irish first, Catholic second,” she said as she lifted her beer and took a swig. I liked this girl more and more with every exchange.

“Do you have any siblings?”
“A younger brother. What about you?”
“I’m the youngest of nine.”
“Wow, you are Catholic!”
“Well, my parents loved each other, and didn’t believe in birth control…you know, one thing leads to another.”

We had chemistry like we had known each other our entire lives, rather than the fifteen minutes it had actually been. She had a sparkle in her eyes, and the cutest button nose I had ever seen. Her wit was quick and on point, and I knew I had to make it go beyond that night. We continued to talk, had a couple more beers, and at one point, she reached across the table, lifted my right hand, and kissed it. Most guys would have run like the wind, but I thought it was the most adorable thing that a girl had ever done to me.

“Let’s do a shot,” she said promptly after we each finished our fourth beer.
“I don’t do shots.”

Nobody loved doing shots more than I did, but that was my problem. One shot was never enough. One shot turned into two, and then three turned into seven or eight, and before I would even know it, I’d be stumbling up Fifteenth Avenue, having completely blown it with her.

“Just one, come on!”
“I’ll make a deal with you.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll do a shot with you, but only if you agree to go to Mass with me on Sunday.”
“Fine. Deal.”
“You have to pinky swear, though. It’s only good if you pinky swear.”

So we interlocked pinkies, and each kissed the spot between our thumb and index fingers. She went inside, and a few minutes later came out with two shots of Jagermeister. I took the shot with her, got her phone number, and we parted ways.

And that’s how I got a date to Mass from a shot of Jagermeister.

Regarding My Third Novel

2008-03-09T20:58:00.001-04:00

I cannot refrain from admitting how naive and optimistic I was when I last sat down to embark on a literary journey. However, I do refrain from apologizing for it. For that is a beauty of this life—growth. You cannot know anything in this world without experiencing it. You may believe in a great multitude of things—from the reading of books and the lectures of college professors, but you can only say so much as I believe that, or I have faith that that is true or factual. The most common misconception of hard work I have ever came across was that provided by my collegiate colleagues. That average student attends no more than 100 lectures, and reads no more than ten books in a ten-week span, and they nearly fall faint from exhaustion. And what have they obtained? Lifeless knowledge. And I say lifeless, meaning: not being able to socially use that knowledge to obtain any productive personal connection with the better part of human beings you will come across during a walk down Main Street.

Life is people. That I have learned, and that I know. I can honestly say the person I have known the least in this world, whoever that may be, had a more important impact on me than any material possession. I also dare to say that I have learned infinitely more knowledge of life by observing people, than any other action or enterprise. So this is where I ultimately seem to stand: Wisdom, Hard Work, People—the three most important elements of life, which I have come to know, by experience.

TENNESSEE WHISKEY

2008-03-07T22:00:00.000-05:00

How my hopes came and left
That cool winter’s day
And despite constant efforts
My love would not stay.
She drove a dagger into my heart
Not once stopping before she did part.
She held everything I once had owned,
From my cares to desires and even my car.
She stole it all, it was quite bizarre.
My shirt, my socks, actually my draws
Hey, ain’t there something against this?
Like maybe some laws?
Up and left was I in Tennessee
Now all I have is a bottle of Jack D
I pour shot glasses, six to the top
Damn I’m only seventeen, and here comes a cop.
He grabbed and clenched under my elbow
I was like: “hold up, hold up, let me go.”
He said “Son, we got laws in this town
And your future I cannot let down.”
Ready was I, “Sir hasn’t your heart been broken?
Used, mistreated, spent like a token?”
“Actually it was,” he came to recall
“She was gangly, fat, and tremendously tall
She broke my heart, so I broke her jaw.”
“Now sir, I imagine that is against the law.”
That is when it all went down
And my head and stomach began to spin round.
“Son, I’m your uncle and your father
Hell, it’s Tennessee, don’t even bother!”

Move Over Brando

2008-03-04T15:18:00.000-05:00

--This is an autobiography I wrote for the character I performed in
“A Streetcar Named Desire”

I am Stanley Kowalski. I am twenty-nine years old, and I feel like I’m fifty. I stand a little shy of six feet in height, and I weigh an even one-hundred and eighty pounds. I work as an auto parts salesman, here in New Orleans, where I’ve lived my whole life. I’ve seen the horrors of the second World’s war, but nothing more horrible than my damn sister-in-law showing up at my front door. Some people tell me I walk around like a gorilla—swinging my fists and nearly dragging my knuckles on the ground. I say fuck those people—I walk how I walk. Some people think of me as a dud, a big head with no brain inside—those people can go to Hell. I am smart, I am mentally aware, and I won’t have some slut show up, take my wife from me, and live off my wages. I got friends. Good friends. Steve and Mitch and Pablo—good hardworking guys, who ain’t got much going for ‘em. They’re good to hang out with, play poker with. Problem is, I’m going places. I mean, I’m gonna get Stella and our baby a new place, a better place, with a yard, and maybe a garden. I ain’t gonna be no auto parts salesman for too long. I’m gonna start my own thing, and make lots of money, and then all those people can see I got real brains—that there’s something going on inside my head. I love Stella, she’s a real sweatheart. Thing is, she ain’t much when it comes to sense. She kinda takes everyone at their word, believes everyone about everything. Especially that damn whore of a sister she’s got. Oh how I’d like to put her in her place. I ain’t one to be walked on. Nope, I ain’t no doormat, and I ain’t gonna let Stella be one neither. I got two pairs of slacks—one for working, one for going out. I got four shirts—two white undershirts, one flannel work shirt, and another button down for going out. People look at the way I’m dressed and call me unrefined. Or the way I talk, or think, or conduct business, and say I’m unrefined. I happen to think most peoples are just fake. They wear their clothes and talk the way they do to hide their real selves. No one has the balls to just be themself. I believe there is a god, but I ain’t got much to say to him since I seen what happened in that war. Since I seen what kind of poverty some people are forced to live in. I just don’t think he cares too much about us. The year is 1945, and everyone is happy because we beat them damned Nazis. Everyone thinks we got some kinda heaven on earth now. I ain’t seen nothing pleasant since before I stepped on that beach in France. I won’t see nothing pleasant ever again. Even when it’s all sunny outside like today, and those fucking birds are chirping, and the air is pretty cool for it being summer time, it’s still hell on earth. I still gotta get up, go to work, take peoples crap, kiss peoples asses so that I can make goddam business deals. I earned more than this. More than this little dumpy apartment, in this dumpy old neighborhood, with these dumpy old neighbors. I’m damn near thirty and I ain’t got my own home. I ain’t got a shiny car, and I don’t take no damn vacations, either. Some fucking American Dream. New Orleans is a fool’s town. People drink too much, cuss and start fights. It’s a real underground. It’s a place where negros can play sad music they call blues or jazz or whatever it may be. It’s a place where fags can paint and write all sorts of gay poetry. I mean, no wonder every one drinks—you can’t walk five goddam steps without hearing a harmonica, or seeing some homo mark up perfectly good canvas with greasy paint. It’s always hot, too. Some days you wake up and walk outside and you can’t even breathe. The air is so humid and heavy its like trying to inhale honey or something. I ain’t got much for family either. It’s really just me and Stella, and the baby when it comes. My old man used to beat me with whatever was lying around. He’d come home all drunk and angry. Drunk bastard probably got his ass beat at the tavern, and so he’d come home and take it out on me and my mother. She took off when I was just thirteen, and so I left, too. I been doing alright for myself since I was thirteen. Sure I had to lie a little, and steal some food here and there, and do other sorts of bad things, but I survived. Can those things really be all that bad when you are just trying to survive? I’m sure gonna get that dame Blanche. That’s for sure. My buddy at work goes over to Laurel. He told me Blanche was kicked out of town. She was fooling around with the whole town I guess. And she comes here saying she doesn’t know what to do, and that she lost Belle Reve—but she ain’t got no money for us? I’ll tell you Louisiana’s got the Napoleonic Code. Says anything that belongs to someone also belongs to their spouse. I’m gonna put an end to Blanche’s lies and games. She ain’t gonna come here and take my wife and me hostage. She gonna pay for what she did. Soon as I get home I’m gonna tell her a new one, then she can pack her bags and be on her way. I’m Stanley Kowalski. I ain’t no fool.

Buon Giorno Principatia

2008-02-28T23:52:00.001-05:00

If you go there, wait for me. And remember that night, that one night in which the stars were lit in the sky. And all around, the smell of honey engulfed your senses. Everything was pure and innocent, and just upon the happenings of all surprise, a love was born. Don’t happen to forget the look in his eyes when his world before him turned upside down.

Just around that corner of shops, a handsome, yet gentle man came into glance. Initially he was taken off guard and fell at the hands of uncertainty. Then upon looking further, he recognized an angel of his past. She was provocative, seductive, and led his imagination crazy. Not only her beauty, which far surpassed any blossom or Azalia, but the unending mystique which drove a merely unstable mind crazy. He’d been fighting for weeks to escape the thought of it. Even taking to the sea, with high spirits and an empty canvas. But as he subconsciously wished, his dreams came true. He received another day of experience with the most stunning and surreal of individuals he had ever met.

For it had felt like an eternity to him since they last exchanged fancies, and uncontrollably his heart beat; overjoyed for such an unexpected opportunity to arise. So he set foot onto the dusty road, imbedded with rocks, and his sandals loosely kicked them as his hands turned to a glistening shadow of sweat. Never before had he reached a level of anxiety such as that, and not once in his young life did he feel as confidently dismantled. It was the sole impulse with which he acted upon; an array of ambiguity and amaze. It was descriptively ironic—He, a man, charismatic and cunning, found in a spiraling tunnel of unknowingness, all because she, young and beautiful, possessed the power to arouse every one oh his senses, with just one look. And characteristically that’s all she had given to him, to that point. But his imagination ran wild with it, and many nights did his weary mind stay awake, burdened by the thought of never again experiencing it. Over and over, and unintentionally, he’d picture her smile, hoping that one day he could be the reason for its existence.

He continued across the beaten dirt of tire tracks, avoiding those who traveled their own routine. As he neared her, he had not the faintest idea what to say. Their relations to that point had been a sunny day, surrounded at a table by many contrasts. And even then, he did not speak beyond several words to her. So his words ran dry, and all he could do was imagine. Imagine a life, which his dreams proved true. Bushels of flowers, magic, honeydew. A life of simplicity, not idolatry. Kisses, embraces, affectionate fetishes.

With that, he proceeded the last strides, before a moment of predictably profound persistence. She stood there, directing a couple stray shoppers to their destination. Her back was to him, preventing an early unattached awkwardness. He waited patiently for her to finish. And rather than preparing an opening line for conversation, he fell into a trance of romantic optimism. She wore the purest white dress he had ever laid eyes on, and her figure was struck just shy enough by the sun to add depth for his perception. He watched, enchanted by the movement in her hands. As she turned around, he remained in a state of admiration. She looked up, and in the sudden recognition, she smiled. Then they kissed.

The King's Castle

2008-02-27T22:39:00.003-05:00

Magnificently hung,
Were the stars that night
Tiny beams sung,
Bursting with light
The moon stared,
Horizons expanded
Enormity declared,
Human grasp disbanded
Might winds refrained,
Coldness paid its due.
Hope damned by pain,
Now saw a way through
To count them all would take his entire life,
He'd rather look into the eyes of his wife

We'll Take What We Can Get

2008-02-26T21:37:00.002-05:00

Their first date, as they would call it, was late in the fall of 1964. Frances, along with her sister Margaret, attended the first basketball game of John’s senior year. She would not miss another home game, always watching him and cheering him, and deep-down-inside insatiably waiting for him to walk her home, singing to her the entire way, as they walked along the snow draped front lawns of Fairmount Boulevard.

Then, Frances, at the young age of 18, was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s disease. The doctors performed the most up-to-date radiation procedures, ridding her of any traces of the ailment, but in turn, severely damaging her heart in the process. They told her, in their best wisdom, that she would be greatly fortunate to live to see the age of 30. Upon hearing the news John asked her to marry him. She declined, urging that she could not bear to love him not knowing when she would be forced to leave him.

John simply said to her, “We’ll take what we can get.”

Frances’ parents vehemently objected to the union, due to Frances’s age, and instead offered Margaret as a substitute. A week later, John and Frances eloped to Michigan. When they returned forty-eight hours later, they went on their honeymoon—a trip to the grocery store—and did their best, with what money they had from John’s graduate student stipends, to fill the fridge and cabinets of their first home, a small studio apartment on the lower East side of downtown Cleveland. John began his Master’s work in Chemistry at Case Western Reserve, and promised Frances every night he would provide her with a better home, even if it required building it from the ground up, with his own two hands.

By the fall of ’66 Annibella Marie was born, eight pounds and two ounces, brown hair and John’s hazel green eyes. They lived day to day, barely surviving on the stipends and student loans, but meagerly saved enough to upgrade to a one bedroom flat by the time Clifford Lemay arrived in the late summer of ’67. John received his Ph. D from Case in 1970, and accepted an assistant professorship position at his alma mater, John Carroll. The following Mother’s Day, 1971, John surprised Frances when he took her to see their first real home—a dinged up, weather-beaten, two bedroom Bungalow in South Euclid, which he was secretly ashamed of. Frances was floored with excitement, demanding that the house was all she could want, and continually dismissed John’s constant nightly promises to build her one better. A month later, on Father’s Day, Frances had a surprise of her own—Joshua Brian was due by Christmas. By the turn of 1973, John found himself building dual bunk beds for the expected Patrick James, who would join his three older siblings in the already overcrowded second bedroom. By the time Thomas Athanasius was born in June of ’75, John surprised Frances and their little contingent of five, with another house, this time a four bedroom brick manor on Belvoir, in University Heights. Again, the house was a work in progress, but it grew with the family, and by the time John obtained professorship in 1981, Frances had carried and given birth to Sarah Ann, Alison Mary and Jonathon Paul—the house had done its due. So, John purchased the most beautiful plot of land in Gates Mills the bank would lend him the money for, and built a five bedroom palace, as he promised, with his own two hands, Frances helping late at night once the kids were tucked away, bearing the cold as she held logs for John to saw. He sang to her as the snow fell, draping the front lawn of their much awaited estate.

Thirty four years after her diagnosis, Frances was 52, and heavily beating the odds. She had married, raised a family, helped build a house she had longed for from the ground up, and saw her first seven kids go on to higher education. However, years of bearing and raising so many children had put a great strain on her heart. By the time Jonathon Paul was graduating high school, she was taking seven different medications a day. Then, at the age of 53, she had a major heart attack. She was rushed to the Cleveland Clinic, and sustained two triple bypass surgeries within a week. All eight kids came back together, and in between the solemnity of prayer, they joked and laughed in the waiting room, recounting the stories which would come to define their family.

Only John was allowed to see Frances after the surgeries. She was in intensive care, fully conscious, but her heart was fading quickly. John didn’t sleep for the last three days. He read to her. He sang to her. He made faces which made her laugh. He told her things that made her eyes well up with tears. He held her hand and promised her that he did all he ever could have done.

By the very end—the last day—Frances couldn’t muster the power to speak, and in turn had to write down her responses to John on a small notepad.

The last thing John ever said to Frances was, “Who would have thought we could have created all that we have…the kids, the house…”

Frances took her pencil to the small notepad one final time, and slowly wrote, “You always said we’d take what we could get.”

Unexpected Intervention

2008-02-25T03:19:00.002-05:00

Cameron was close to giving up. He had given his best effort, but he wasn’t quite made out for the bright lights of Hollywood. He was a midwestern boy, having grown up on a farm in Western Iowa, plowing and tilling fields of wheat and corn. He was supposed to be the heir to a couple hundred acres of soil and livestock, once his high school football glory days came to a close. He did not have the money to go to college, nor did he want to. Cameron wanted to make movies.

His earliest attempts of theatre came in the rafters of the Dennison family barn—putting on one-man acts for his two younger sisters whenever they could find a few minutes away from their daily work. He had a natural talent and he could sense that from his audience—although it was small and biased. Most of all, Cameron had a dream, a burning desire inside, to pursue a life under the bright lights.

So, against his parents’ wishes, he packed everything he owned into two suitcases and hopped a train westward at the age of 18. He did not have much money, but enough to get started. When he arrived in Los Angeles, though, he lacked the necessary skills and trades to survive, and he had to learn on the fly. He got a job bagging groceries at a small market in East L.A., found a studio apartment he could afford, and set out on a dream.

He was in over his head. He did not have headshots, a resume, even a car. But every morning he would wake up and write. He did not know the proper way to write a screenplay, so he walked to the nearby library, and took out every book he could find on the craft. He read them cover to cover—only taking time away for sleep and his shifts at the market. With every penny he could save, and they were few and far between, he bought paper and ink cartridges for his very out-of-date typewriter. He wrote and wrote, script after script, and hand delivered them to the various studios in town. Not a single one made it past the secretary’s trash can.

After five years of this routine, Cameron was finally feeling defeated. He had tried every imaginable thing to break his way into the business—none reaped any reward. The closest he had come to making it was his move to the West Hollywood Ralph’s as an assistant manager. Then, one day, he was ready to give it all up—move back to Iowa, and continue doing the work he was destined for. He packed his two suitcases again, walked down to the bus stop, and was en route to the train station for a one-way ticket home. As he was sitting, waiting for the bus to arrive, a man sat down next to him. The man appeared to be homeless—wearing very ragged clothing, hair clumped and greasy, and a stench prevailed off of him that vaguely reminded Cameron of his days cleaning out the pig’s pen back in Des Moines.

“What do you have there?” the man asked, referring to Cameron’s final screenplay, which rested face down on his lap.
“Oh nothing…just a screenplay I wrote,” he said.
“Really?” the man responded, “I’m a writer myself.”
Most people would not have spoken a word to this homeless man. Not in West Hollywood, not in South Central L.A.
“What’s your name?” Cameron asked.
“Patrick,” the man said but did not ask for Cameron’s in return.

Patrick began rambling on and on about the children’s book he was desperately trying to finish. As he did so he began pulling out random scraps of paper—restaurant receipts, unwanted credit card envelopes, anything Patrick could have dug out of the nearby trashcans.

“The bigger problem is finding a pen or a pencil in those dumpsters,” Patrick replied.
Without thinking twice, Cameron removed two pens from his pocket and handed them to Patrick.
“Have mine,” Cameron said.
“No,” Patrick refused, “I can’t take those…you’re an artist and those are your tools.”
“I’m meant to be a farmer,” Cameron replied.
“What do you mean?” Patrick asked.
“I’m not cut out for this town. I’ve tried. I chased this dream with all my heart, but you can’t force luck.”
“It’s not about luck,” Patrick replied.
“Well, I don’t know what it’s about, but I do know what farming is about, and I can be good at that.”

Then a man and woman walked up to the bus stop, hand in hand, looked at Patrick and the man said, “Get out of here, bum…this bench is for people who are waiting for the bus.”
“Wait a minute,” Cameron intervened. “His name is Patrick, and he’s my friend…if he wants to sit here, he’ll sit here.”
“It’s okay,” Patrick said. “I have to go somewhere for a moment, would you mind watching my bag?” he asked, referring to a brown grocery bag full of folded up newspapers.
“Sure thing,” Cameron replied.
“I won’t be long,” Patrick insisted.

Then Patrick walked down the street and out of sight. The next bus pulled up and Cameron faced a dilemma. If he did not get on that bus he surely would not make it to the train station in time. But he did tell Patrick he would watch his bag until he got back. He decided to let the bus go. It was not his nature to put himself before others—whether it was a queen or a homeless man. It might cost him a small fee but he was sure he could trade in his ticket for a later one.

A few minutes later Patrick returned.
“Thank you for watching my bag,” he said. “Most people will not even talk to me. I owe you…I really do,” he said.
“It’s okay,” Cameron replied, “I told you that I would.”
“Well, I have to go,” Patrick said, lifting his brown bag off of the sidewalk.
“It was nice meeting you, Patrick,” Cameron said while shaking his hand.
“Yes it was…you will do very well, Cameron. You will do well.”

One of the small note cards Patrick carried fell from his pocket to the sidewalk. Cameron bent down and grabbed it. When he arose, however, Patrick was not there. Cameron rapidly scoured everything around him, but there was no sign of Patrick.
He looked at the card and it said, “Give it one more shot, Cameron: Your Guardian Angel, Patrick.
Cameron realized he had never given Patrick his name, and when he looked down at his screenplay he confirmed it was face down.

So Cameron gave it one more shot. He took the next bus to the nearest studio, walked in, told the secretary he had a meeting with the vice president of production—his name was miraculously on the schedule—and he went in and pitched his script. Two years later, Cameron’s first movie was on every Cineplex screen across the country. Three years later he directed his first movie. Just three months before turning 30 he sat anxiously at the Kodak Theatre awaiting the results from the stunningly beautiful actress’s mouth, “Best Picture goes to…Cameron Dennison for Empty as a Pocket.”

Cameron walked up the steps, took the Oscar in his hands, and removed a small note card from the inside pocket of his tuxedo coat. It was old and weathered, but he could still make out the words.

He said, “I want to thank God, first. I want to thank my parents. And I want to thank my best friend Patrick, if it wasn’t for his words to me one day many years ago, I would never be on this stage.”
Before Cameron put the card back into his pocket he looked at it one more time. Right before his eyes, he watched the words change to, “You did well, Cameron: Your best friend, Patrick.”

A Crime That Paid

2008-02-23T23:54:00.004-05:00

Had Thomas Chance never tried robbing the old man at the end of his street when he was fifteen years old, he may have never become the world’s greatest photographer; an explorer and mountain climber; a husband and a father. He was a lost child, a product of a broken home, with an absent father and a mother who was severely addicted to alcohol and painkillers. Thomas fell in with the wrong crowd at school. The misfits naturally seem to gravitate toward one another. He was a constant problem with his teachers and authority figures of every sort. His grades were satisfactory at best, but he greatly lacked motivation. He liked football but he was never able to play, because what little money his mother had she spent immediately at the liquor store. Thomas was lost, to say the very least.

When summer break had finally come around following his freshman year, Thomas planned on never returning to school. He failed ninth grade, and being that he would turn sixteen before the start of the next school calendar he was legally allowed to drop out. His best friend, Jimmy Foley lived down the street. Jimmy was a year older, and he was from a similar background. Jimmy was not going to drop out of school, he just wanted to play football, as well. However, Jimmy could not play for the same reason that Thomas was unable—money. So, Jimmy conceived the plan while sitting on his front porch one evening.

Mr. Carver lived in the house across the street from Jimmy. He was a very old man, appeared to live alone, and was the perfect target. Jimmy figured there would have to be something of value inside of the house. At least enough valuable things he could take down to the pawn shop to come up with the money to play football. He wasn’t sure he could do it by himself, so he called on Thomas for help. Thomas had been talking about getting some money together to skip town. He did not have any destinations, but he knew it would be somewhere very far from that small town. Thomas agreed to help Jimmy as long as they split everything right down the middle.

On the night they were going to break into Mr. Carver’s home, Jimmy bailed on the plan. He was not too coward to do it, though. He was the lucky benefactor to his uncle’s passing, and in return, would inherit four thousand dollars. He had no need to rob Mr. Carver. Thomas, on the other hand, needed to do it for more than one reason. He had to go through with the plan. He watched Mr. Carver’s house all day, and saw no movement. No one came, no one left. When the sun went down no lights were turned on in the house. Thomas was positive that no one was home.

When the clock struck three in the morning he decided to do it. He climbed over Mr. Carver’s backyard fence, and began his search for an open window, a broken door lock, anything that would give him a way in the house. Then he found it. The kitchen window had been left open. He popped the screen out of the frame and climbed through. He began casing the first floor of the house, grabbing every small little thing he could put in his pockets.

Mr. Carver laid in his bed. He was not asleep, despite the late hour, because of a condition he developed during his tour in World War One. He could only sleep an hour, maybe two, before the night terrors would set in, waking him in a state of panic and fear. After 50 years of nightmares Mr. Carver had discovered ways to get his mind off of the horrors he had seen first hand, horrors that revisited him on a nightly basis. He would think of every beautiful thing he could imagine—flowing rivers, snow draped mountains, fields of flowers on a warm Spring day. Thomas was not even in the house when Mr. Carver heard him. Despite his old age he had an acute sense of hearing. He did not call the police until he was certain that Thomas was in the house.

Just as Thomas reached the landing, between the front door and the stairs he saw the red and blue flashes in the driveway. He froze for a moment, and then made a break for it through the back kitchen door. Before he could begin climbing the fence he was hit on the back of the head by the police officer’s billy club. He knew it was all over. He was handcuffed and thrown in the back of the police cruiser.

The police officer went inside where he talked to Mr. Carver. Then the police officer came back out to the car and said, “I have two options for you, kid. I can take you down to the Juvenile Detention Center, or you can call Mr. Carver every night and talk to him for a half hour.”
“What?” Thomas was perplexed. “What do you mean, talk to him?” he asked.
“Just that,” the police officer responded. “He said he wouldn’t press charges if you called him on the phone once a night for the next week, and talk to him for a half hour.”
“Okay,” Thomas said, “Can’t be worse than going to jail.”
“Here is the phone number…you better call him, son. I’ve advised Mr. Carver to call me the first day that you don’t, and I will be at your house to take you to Juvenile.”
“Yes, sir,” Thomas said, and took the small piece of paper.

The next day Thomas took out the piece of paper, and called Mr. Carver at six o’clock. Mr. Carver answered the phone on the first ring, and began talking to Thomas. He did not ask him why he tried robbing him. He did not ask him anything at all. He just began talking to Thomas like they were old friends who had not spoken in a while. The first day he talked to Thomas about football. He said that he played when he was young, and may have played in college had he not been drafted to serve in the army. Thomas asked him why he did not play again after the war. Mr. Carver simply said he had other things to worry about. They talked for a half hour exactly on the first day.

Thomas called Mr. Carver at six o’clock on the dot the following day. Again, Mr. Carver did not ask Thomas any questions. He began speaking to him the same way he had the previous day. They discussed Mr. Carver’s death defying trek up Mt. Everest when he was young. Thomas was blown away, he could not believe Mr. Carver had summitted the tallest mountain in the world. On the second day their conversation last forty minutes.

Once again, on the third day, at six o’clock, Thomas called Mr. Carver, who picked up on the first ring and began talking. This day he told Thomas all about the time he sailed around the world—starting in California, going down around South America, across the Atlantic Ocean, down the Coast of Africa, up through the Indian Ocean, and finally across the Pacific to California. Thomas was even more interested than he was the day before. He could visualize every sentence, every description that came from Mr. Carver’s mouth. Their conversation lasted an hour on the third day.

Everything began exactly the same on the fourth day. But instead of mountain climbing or sailing, Mr. Carver talked about when he ran with the bulls in Pamplona. He talked about the entire trip with very vivid detail. He talked about how he nearly did not make it because he lost his passport, but that he snuck across the Spanish border on a fruit train, carrying the biggest and most delicious grapes he had ever tasted in his life. Thomas was floored once again, and pressed the phone against his ear for an hour and a half.

The fifth day nothing changed. It was six o’clock, Thomas dialed and Mr. Carver started talking as soon as he picked up the phone. He had shifted from Spain to the Caribbean. He told Thomas about the year he spent living as an island hopper. He said he would wake up early in the morning, before the sun came up, eat his breakfast on the beach, watch the sun rise, take a morning swim in the bluest and most beautiful water he had ever seen, and then would take tourists on a small plane from one island to another all day. During that year he gave a ride to all sorts of people, including JFK, Joe Dimaggio and Marilyn Monroe. Thomas listened with disbelief for two hours before hanging up.

On the sixth day Mr. Carver immediately started talking about Paris. He said that it was still his favorite place in the world. He talked about the buildings, the people, the way the Eiffel Tower looked at dusk, the way the flowers bloomed and smelled in May. He talked about the love of his life, too. The woman he met there and fell in love with. For the first time in Thomas’s life he became very interested and open talking about love—his heart opened. At the end of the conversation on the sixth day Mr. Carver made a request.
He said, “Don’t call me tomorrow. I want you to come visit me. I want to talk about you.”
“Okay,” Thomas responded without a second thought. “What time?”
“How about six o’clock…I’ll make dinner,” he said.
“Sure thing, Mr. Carver. I’ll come by at six.”
The following day Thomas walked down the street to Mr. Carver’s house. He knocked three times on the front door, and Mr. Carver opened it. Thomas looked at Mr. Carver for the first time. Mr. Carver was tall and thin, with wrinkled skin, a left hand that shook from the Parkinson’s, a right hand that loosely held a long white stick with a red tip. Mr. Carver was blind.
“Sit down,” Mr. Carver said, leading Thomas to the kitchen table. “I hope you like soup.”
Thomas was dumbfounded. He could not help but ask, “How long have you been blind, Mr. Carter?”
Mr. Carter replied, “Since I came back from the war…Eighteen-years-old.”
“But what about Mt. Everest, and Pamplona, and sailing around the world? What about Paris? What about island hopping? What about everything you told me you did?”
“What about them?” Mr. Carver replied.
“How could you tell me you did them? How could you describe all of that if you have never really seen it?”
Mr. Carver simply said, “One does not need eyes to see…he only needs his imagination. I did do everything that I told you I did. I saw everything I told you I saw. I did it in my mind.”
Thomas was not bothered or upset; he did not feel that he was misled. Thomas was completely and utterly at a loss for words.

“You see, Thomas…life does not always go the way you want it to go. When I was a young kid, not much older than you are now, I had set my mind to do everything that I described to you. God had other plans. I came back from that war without my eyesight, but I never lost my dreams. They could not be taken from me. You have the opportunity to do anything at all that you want. You have youth and health, intelligence and aspirations. Don’t let anything get in the way of your dreams. Don’t let anything stop you from imagining and then doing.”

Mr. Carver and Thomas ate dinner for the first of many Sunday nights. Every week Thomas would walk down to Mr. Carver’s house to talk and eat soup. Thomas did not drop out of school, and after a year of getting his grades to good standing, Mr. Carver paid for Thomas to play football. Mr. Carver never missed a game, either. By the time Thomas’s mother had gone to rehab at the beginning of his senior year, Mr. Carver adopted Thomas, and had him move in. Thomas graduated in the top ten of his class, went to college, and took a job with National Geographic. Mr. Carver passed away shortly after, and Thomas lived every day to keep his promise. He did everything that Mr. Carver had told him about the first week they began talking. He even fell in love in Paris, married the woman, and had five kids with her. Every night that he tucked his kids in he thought about Mr. Carver, and what his life might be like had he never tried to rob the old man down the street.

The Camping Trip; Part Five

2008-02-22T21:18:00.002-05:00

The Camping Trip; Part Four

2008-02-21T22:35:00.005-05:00

"The Camping Trip" is a five day series, consisting of five different parts, to be presented daily--the 18th to the 22nd--from five different vantage points. If you get behind, don't worry because they'll be on here for good. If you want to get ahead, you're out of luck, because I'm making this up as I go. This is Part Four. If you haven't read Part One, Two, or Three they are directly below. Enjoy.

MANDY
When we got back from the canoe ride I just wanted to change my clothes and wash my hair. I figured the washhouse would probably be filthy but I couldn’t imagine it being any dirtier than my hair. It was tangled and smelled like a dirty river. So I walked up to Mark’s car and Leo was sitting in the driver’s seat. My stuff was on the passenger seat so I opened the door and grabbed it. Leo was listening to music.
“Take a seat,” he said.
“Are you alright?” I asked him.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“You had quite a meltdown out there,” I said, and immediately regretted bringing it up.
“It happens to the best of us,” he said. “So what’s going on with you and Mark?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if we should even be together anymore. He’s just so stubborn. He always does whatever he wants to do.”
“Just give him time. He’s an interesting guy, and he’s got a lot of issues from his folks and all of that sort of stuff…but who doesn’t?”
“I really said something I shouldn’t have.”
“What’s that?”
“I called him a drunk, like his father…said I should leave him like his mother left his father.”
“Let’s just hope he was too drunk to remember that,” he said. “There’s a pretty good chance…he’s passed out in the canoe down by the river.”
“I feel really bad. I just want the best for him. I shouldn’t have said what I did about his dad, but I couldn’t think of any other way to get through to him.”
Then he turned down the music. “I’m guessing you’re getting your stuff so you can go wash your hair,” he said, referring to my shampoo and conditioner.
“Yeah.”
“Does your hair always look or feel the way you want it to?”
“No. I feel like it never does. Only when I spend a lot of time on it does it work out how I like it to.”
“Think of Mark like your hair.”
“What?”
“He needs time. Like your hair.”
“I don’t understand.”
“If you just woke up and left the house without doing a single thing to your hair would it look great?”
“No. It would probably look terrible.”
“If you took a shower, got out, put on clothes and left the house without doing anything to your hair, would it look good?”
“No. It would be wet and tangled.”
“So, in order to get it how you like, you have to wash it, dry it, brush it, maybe put some product in it…right?”
“Yeah.”
“That probably takes a good amount of time, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Does it always look exactly how you want it to look when you do all of that?”
“No. Sometimes it’s exactly how I like it, but it’s never perfect.”
“Exactly.”
“Exactly?”
“You can’t expect Mark to just get out of bed and be perfect. Like your hair he takes time…washing it, drying it, brushing it. Mark’s a pretty layered guy. He may not appear like that on the surface but he is. He’s not gonna just stop drinking and start remembering everything, and do everything you want him to. Like your hair, he’ll never be perfect. But the more time you listen to him and spend time with him, the more willing he’ll be, like your hair, to cooperate.”
“Wow. I never thought of it like that.”
“If you don’t like your hair you’d just cut it off, right?”
“But I really do like my hair.”
“Well if you really like Mark, you’ll accept that he’s never going to be perfect…otherwise cut him off.”
Leo really put everything into perspective. I would have never thought about that the way he did. He was a really insightful guy. He really cared about things. That’s a rare trait to find in a guy. I felt kind of bad for him. He was the only one on the trip who seemed to really care about everyone having a good time. And in return, all it did, was make him the one most miserable.
“You’re a good guy, Leo.”
“Thanks,” he said.
“Really. You are. You seem to put others before you, and that’s not something you find in a lot of people.”
“I just want everyone to be happy,” he said, starting to turn the music back up.
“There’s only so much you can do for other people. You gotta start trying to make yourself happy sometimes.”
“I know,” he said.
“If you want to talk about anything just let me know.”
“Thanks. I will…Now go and wash your hair, it looks awful,” he said with a half smile.
I washed up, ate dinner, hung out around the fire with Bengi and Alyssa, and then went to sleep in the backseat of Mark’s car again. I woke up to Mark tapping on the window. He apologized and asked if I wanted to lay with him. I said yes. Then we talked. I mean I had to start washing, drying and brushing the hair if I was going to get him how I wanted him to be.

ALYSSA
I was just sitting there with Bengi and this guy Todd from a few campsites down, having a good conversation, when Leo threw another one of his tantrums. The guy was inviting me to his campsite for some of his wine, because I had run out. I wouldn’t have needed to get more wine if Leo would’ve just bought two jugs instead of one. He knows that I like Chablis in the big jug. And I told him two—not one and a box of Franzia. He listened to everything else I said, except for the only thing that mattered.
He came out of his tent, opened a beer, started cooking a hotdog, and acted like a total jerk to Todd. And Todd was a nice guy. We met him on the river when we were canoeing and he happened to be just two sites down. He brought over his own beer and sausages, and offered them to everyone.
I was gonna throw Leo in that river right behind Todd if Bengi wouldn’t have held me back. By the time Bengi let me go Leo was waving the fire poking stick around like was going to swing it at anyone who came near him. I feel so bad for Todd. I hope he’s still around in the morning before we leave, because I’m gonna apologize. He said he doesn’t live too far from Cedar Falls either, so I’ll give him my phone number, too. He seemed like a fun guy. He was pretty funny, and I’m sure he’d be great to hang out with back home.
So I went to the tent. Bengi had already crawled in when I got there. I was boiling hot. I wanted to go back out there and lay into Leo. I wanted to tell him how crazy he was, and that he needed help. That he should stay out of other people’s business. That was one of the most annoying things about him—he was always sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. Bengi held me back, though. He had a way of calming me down. For the second straight night I ended up falling asleep right next to him.

BENGI
If Leo didn’t throw that guy in the river I was going to. He was a total creep. We first saw him on the river when we were canoeing and he wouldn’t let us be. He paddled alongside us for the last five miles it seemed, and then just invited himself over. He said he had a bunch of beer and some food for everyone. He brought a six pack and two sausages. That guy was bad news from the jump.
He really crossed the line when he invited Alyssa back to his campsite. He said he had a couple bottles of wine over there, but just an hour before that he said he only drank beer. Alyssa was pretty drunk so I can understand how she missed that. But I’m a guy and I know guys, and that was just a ploy to get her over there. Anyways, he had a ton of nerve. There were three guys and two girls, chances are she was taken, but this guy just kept trying and trying.
When Leo came out I knew it would be the end of him. Leo doesn’t mess around when it comes to protecting girls—he’s got three sisters. I’ve seen him be a little bit overprotective, but I can’t entirely blame him. He’s a guy, and he knows how guys think. I was sort of relieved, to tell you the truth, that Leo came out when he did. He ended looking like the bad guy, not me. I thought Alyssa was gonna attack Leo so I held her back. Then I went to the tent. I was drunk, exhausted, and I just wanted to get some sleep. I told Alyssa to calm down and come to bed. Even if Leo got rid of that guy, hanging out wouldn’t be fun anymore.
As I crawled into the tent I woke up Smitty. He had been sleeping all day, so I didn’t feel bad. It actually worked out perfectly because he got up and left just as Alyssa was climbing in.

SMITTY
I woke up around 2 AM in the tent. Bengi was trying to climb over me to get into his sleeping bag and he nearly trampled me. I guess I had slept the entire day away. I got up and walked outside. Near the campfire I could hear arguing going on. I started to walk towards it when Alyssa came stomping past me, and into the tent. Then I saw Leo standing near the fire, and it looked like he was taunting the river. How drunk was he?
Then I saw a body emerge from the river, covered in mud and dirt.
“That should teach you,” Leo said to some guy I had never even seen before.
“You’re crazy!” the guy yelled back, waving something in his hand as he started towards Leo. Leo effortlessly threw him back to the ground.
“I don’t want anything to do with that girl, man,” the guy said, desperate to get out of the mud.
“Just go back to your site,” Leo said, “And don’t come back over here.”
The guy got up, started to walk away, and then made a quick rush at Leo, whose back was turned. So I stepped in and stopped him. The guy looked at me, realized he was in over his head and started walking back through the woods to his campsite.
“What was that all about?” I asked Leo as I sat down in a lawn chair next to him.
“He was being obnoxious…saying some things to Alyssa. Asking her to come back to his tent.” He poked at the fire.
“What was she saying?”
“You know her, man…she was just going along with it. She loves the attention.”
“You gotta let her go, man,” I said to him.
“I know. It’s just hard to watch her openly flirt with other guys right in front of me.”
“Just don’t hang out with her after this trip…that’s all.”
“I’m not going to. I’ve had it. I guess it was more about territory with that guy than anything. Imagine if some guy was over here doing the same thing with Mandy.”
“I’d kill him…but she’s my girlfriend.”
“For now,” he said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He cracked open a beer, threw another log on the fire and said, “It means that you’ve got a good girl, Smitty. She’s a real good girl. She might seem a little bit overwhelming at times. You might think that she’s asking for a lot, but she’s not. She just wants you to be there. She doesn’t expect you to be perfect. If you don’t want that…if you just don’t want to be bothered by the hassles of a relationship then don’t be. But I’ll tell you this much, girls like Mandy don’t come around often in college. She really likes you, and she only gets on your case because she wants to see the best out of you. Don’t misinterpret that for being nagging or annoying.”
“Sounds like you’ve really thought this through,” I said. The guy knew more about my relationship than I did.
“There’s good and there’s bad…in everything. You may have a perfect date with a girl, but you’ll never have a perfect relationship. Just like a pitcher might throw a perfect game, but he’ll never go an entire season without giving up a few runs and walking a few guys. He’ll probably lose a game or two, but without his catcher he won’t win a single game, let alone the World Series.”
Now he was talking my language. I get baseball.
“Just like a good pitcher needs a good catcher, a relationship needs a good girl and a good guy.”
“So she’s the catcher? Why does she get to call all of the shots?”
“Because that’s how it works. Girls call the shots. But you can always brush off a sign here and there…call your own pitch. Sometimes you may battle over that, but she’ll always come to the mound for a conference. You know why?”
“She likes to talk.”
“No. Well, maybe a little. But it actually means that she’s concerned…she cares whether or not you give up a home run on the next pitch. She’s concerned because she wants the entire team to win…to see how far the team can make it.”
I never would have gotten that message had I not sat down with Leo. He was always good for making things clear. He had a gift for putting things in a way that I could relate. Mandy was a good girl, and she did love me. Of course she was a little needy here and there, but what girl isn’t? I had never been in a relationship before her, and I guess I thought I was missing out on my single days. But Leo was right. I was on a good team. I may have wanted to be a free agent again if I was on a bad team, but I wasn’t.
“That all makes a lot of sense,” I said to Leo, “I need to apologize to my catcher.”
“If she’ll get out of your car, you guys can have my tent, I may not even go to sleep tonight…but no hanky panky, alright? That was my parents’ tent…it’s kind of special to me.”
I walked up to the car, knocked on the window, and she actually opened the door.
“Wanna be my catcher?” I asked.
“What? You think I’m gonna just hop in the—
“I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sorry. It’s something Leo said. Anyway, I’ve been an idiot all weekend, but it is our anniversary and I’d like to just lay next to you. Leo said we could sleep in his tent.”
“I accept your apology…just don’t do it again,” she said, and we went to Leo’s tent.
We actually talked all night. Leo was right, I had a good girl, and I didn’t want to lose that. We made an agreement, too. Every time we would go somewhere she wanted, she had to then go to a football or baseball game with me. Thank God for Leo. That guy should be a marriage counselor, or a general manager of a baseball team—that’d be way more fun.

LEO
I have to admit, throwing that guy in the river was the highlight of my trip. I just don’t care much for guys like that. He was drunk and rude and obnoxious. I didn’t even know where he came from, but he thought he was a real hotshot. I was gonna let the whole thing ride until he started insulting me. Of course I didn’t want Alyssa going over to his site with him, alone, in the middle of the night, in a dark campground. I wouldn’t have let Mandy go over there in that situation. So, I offered to walk over there with the two of them and help carry the wine back. That’s when he set me off. He made some wise crack about how I was the over-protective ex-boyfriend, and that he could see why she broke up with me. He said if I was a real man like he was I wouldn’t have to worry about her thinking about other guys.
Two things struck me at that moment: they had obviously been sitting around that fire for some time cracking jokes on my behalf, and that he was on my turf. First of all, I don’t go for anyone insulting me, and secondly, not on my turf. So I walked over to him, pushed him backwards, off of his lawn chair, and when he got up I shoved him the additional three feet over the small ridge where the river started. For added fun I grabbed the poking stick and began waving it around like a madman. Sometimes you just have to entertain yourself.
I got rid of the guy, sent Bengi and Alyssa to their tent, and I cracked open a beer. It was my first beer of the night, and boy did it taste good. Smitty came over and sat by the fire with me. I talked to him a little bit about Mandy. I told him he should just look in his heart. I think she’s a good girl, and since they had been together he was far happier than when he was single. I think I might’ve knocked some sense into him because he apologized to her and they took my tent for the night.
I just sat by the fire, poking at it, and throwing an additional log or two on when it was getting low. I thought about a lot of things. I thought about baseball, football, basketball, about how I didn’t get to go fishing, or how we never sat around and played cards just the three of us guys. Most of all, I tried to have my guys weekend for once—right there, at that fire, by myself. It was very relieving. I thought about how girls change everything. I don’t want to say ruin, but they definitely throw things off course. I was 21-years-old and I only had about a year of college left, and the last thing I wanted to do was spend it worrying about girls. So I made a pact with myself at that fire. When I got back to school I would finish my Italian class with Alyssa—wash and cut that tangled clump of hair right off—and I’d become a free agent again. But not the kind of free agent who is looking for a team to sign with immediately, rather a free agent who wants to take a season off, planning on playing again when the time was right.

The Camping Trip; Part Three

2008-02-20T23:55:00.001-05:00

"The Camping Trip" is a five day series, consisting of five different parts, to be presented daily--the 18th to the 22nd--from five different vantage points. If you get behind, don't worry because they'll be on here for good. If you want to get ahead, you're out of luck, because I'm making this up as I go. This is Part Three. If you haven't read Part One or Two they are directly below. Enjoy.

LEO
Saturday morning was pleasant. I woke up soaking wet—two inches of rainwater on the bottom of my tent. It didn’t make any sense. It hadn’t leaked once in the five years I owned it. I unzipped the door, peeked outside, and saw that it didn’t work because it wasn’t on my tent—it was over the other one. Pretty funny joke on me, I guess. Then I heard whispering from the other tent.
“I think he’s up…”
Then a female and male voice chuckled.
“I bet he’s soaked.”
Laughing again.
I got out of the tent and walked to Bengi’s truck to get my bag—at least it would be dry, I thought. I opened the passenger door and grabbed it. It was sopping. I looked at the door, and the window was rolled down six inches. So I removed my swim trunks, put them on, and hung the rest of my clothes over a makeshift clothesline.
To say the least, I was pissed off by that point. So I built a fire and took the eggs and bacon out of the cooler. I made breakfast with a caste iron skillet, and ate whatever bits of burnt bacon and scrambled eggs I could scrape off the bottom. Then I went on a hike.
When I got back everyone was ready to go canoeing. A bus came by and picked us up at our site, then drove us to the launch point about fourteen miles up the river. I cooled down by then. It helped that Smitty packed the cooler full of beer and Captain Morgan, not to mention, he wasn’t talking to Mandy at all, so I had a source for conversation.
At the launch site there were canoes and kayaks. I asked for two canoes, and then Alyssa barged in. She wanted a kayak. She said that having three people in a canoe was stupid. I figured she might want to share a canoe with Bengi. She didn’t like the suggestion. I told her I didn’t like waking up in two inches of water, but it happened. Anyway, she always had to have her way, so I let it go. Mandy refused to share a canoe with Smitty, so she jumped in Bengi’s. I didn’t mind sharing a canoe with Smitty; he had the cooler of beer.
So we walked down to the muddy shore, carefully put the cooler in the middle, and then launched into the muddy river. As soon as we got on the water I felt a calm come over me. There was something really soothing about the feeling of weightlessness and the ice-cold beer between my legs. Then, as soon as my mind was at ease, my world was turned upside down. Literallly. As I rose out of the waist high water I could hear them laughing. Once I got the water out of my eyes I could see Smitty trudging away from the canoe. Bengi started yelling at me to get the beer. “Save the beer!” he screamed. I flipped the canoe, while telling everyone within shouting distance to go “f” themselves, grabbed the cooler that was floating away and retrieved nearly every one of the 30 Natty Lights.
I had a meltdown—by every means—I admit it. But put yourself in my shoes. Can you blame me? My tarp was stolen from me in the middle of the night, because I didn’t want to stay up getting drunk while two people fought like starving pigs, and the other two made wise cracks on my behalf. But I let it go, despite waking up in two inches of water, and all of my stuff ruined. Then my breakfast charred to a crisp because Bengi had brought my old skillet—not the one I had bought the day before we left. Then I’m told that I’m an idiot because I think that having three people in a canoe is totally fine. Then…when I’m finally at peace, I’m flipped into cold dirty water, and my partner, Smitty, jumped ship at the first sign of discomfort—literally.
So when I emerged from that water and saw Alyssa laughing her little ass off I really couldn’t control myself. I trudged directly at her, grabbed a hold of the bottom of her kayak, and flipped it. She came up screaming, but I didn’t care. I just hopped into the kayak, paddled over to the canoe with the cooler, grabbed six beers, and I left all of them.
The final thirteen miles of that trip, alone in the kayak, with nothing but the beer and water and sky above me, was the only enjoyable time I spent on that camping trip.

MANDY
I woke up in the backseat of Mark’s car on Saturday morning. I wasn’t sleeping anywhere near him. All we did was fight on Friday night. I thought he would’ve learned his lesson when I threw his bag in the river. I felt bad about his phone and i-Pod, but I didn’t know they were in there. If he would’ve just apologized and acted like a decent guy I would’ve accepted his apology and let the whole thing go. But instead he started drinking. That’s his solution to everything—he starts getting drunk.
I didn’t eat anything at all before we left for the canoe trip. I took one look at the eggs and bacon Mark made and I lost my appetite. I didn’t even want to go canoeing. I just wanted to take a hot shower, wash my hair, put on clean clothes, and watch TV. Instead, I was stuck in honky tonk hell with a bunch of drunken idiots.
When we got to the place where they gave us the canoes I refused to share one with Mark. I was going to share one with Leo, but I’m glad I picked Bengi. If I would’ve been in that canoe when Bengi and Alyssa tipped Leo and Mark I would’ve demanded to go home immediately. Leo went bezerk and I can’t entirely blame him. He took the kayak and left. I wish I would’ve had a kayak, because I would’ve left, too.
So, somehow I got stuck with Mark in a canoe after all. Thirteen miles is a long way in a canoe. So I figured it would be a good time for Mark and I to talk. He did act like an idiot sometimes, but I loved him. I wouldn’t have been with him for an entire year if I didn’t.
“Can we talk about things?” I asked him.
“About what?” he said as he took a swig from his beer.
“About us. It’s our one year anniversary today and I don’t want to fight.”
“Here,” he said, trying to hand me a beer.
“I don’t want a beer,” I said. “I wanna talk.”
“Well, I don’t wanna listen.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I don’t wanna be given a lecture.”
“What?”
Did I hear him correctly, I thought. Now he was trying to say I was controlling.
“Just drink some beer and pick up your oar. Have you never been on a canoe before?”
“No. I haven’t.”
“It shows.”
“You’re a drunk, did you know that?”
“Yep,” he said, like it didn’t even bother him.
“This is the biggest day of our relationship so far, and you’re gonna drink all day.”
“Hopefully until I can’t remember it,” he said and finished his beer. He reached back and grabbed another.
“That’s your solution to everything, isn’t it?”
“Yep,” he said and cracked open his beer.
“You know who you’re like?”
“Nope…and I don’t really care.”
“You’re just like your father. A miserable drunk!”
“Yep.” He still seemed unfazed.
“I should learn something from your mother and leave you before it’s too late.”
I knew it was a low blow when it left my mouth, but what could I do, he wasn’t responding to anything else.
“What’d you say?” he said and hopped out of the canoe. I went flailing into the water. I stood up and I thought he was going to choke me.
“I’m sorry…I didn’t mean it,” I said, pleading with him—crying by now.
“Well, you shouldn’t have said it,” he said, immediately calming down. I thought maybe it was enough to knock some sense into the two of us. Maybe now we could start talking things through.
“Enjoy the walk back,” he said as he got into the canoe.
“What? You’re not leaving me.”
“It’ll give you plenty of time to think about what you just said.”
Then he started rowing away—grabbing every floating beer he could reach on the way.
“Get back here!” I screamed.
He didn’t stop.
I trudged over to the bank of the river, sat on a log and cried. How could this happen? It was our anniversary. One year since he stood behind me at Starbucks and ordered the same drink—Venti Iced Mocha with Peppermint and non-fat milk. I knew it was meant to be at that moment. I didn’t have the courage to approach him until then, and we’ve been together ever since. Now things were falling apart.
Finally, Bengi and Alyssa came rowing down the river—laughing and having a ball of a time. I got into their canoe and rode back with them. I wanted to have fun with them, but I couldn’t. They reminded me too much of what two people should be like after dating a year.

SMITTY
I tried apologizing to Mandy when I woke up on Saturday. I even made her breakfast in bed. Granted, her bed was the backseat of my car, but there was a perfectly good spot next to me in the tent that she didn’t want to use. She took one look at the plate of scrambled eggs and bacon and said she wasn’t hungry. I remembered what my old man told me one time. He said, if you and your lady get in a fight, make her breakfast in bed…if she eats it the fight’s over…if she doesn’t, start drinking and before you know it she’ll have forgotten all about it.
So I started drinking. We had two cases of beer and no one to drink it. Alyssa only drank wine—by the gallon, mind you, and Bengi was only drinking Captain Morgan’s that weekend. Leo was nowhere to be found until the bus came by and took us to the canoe launch.
I don’t really remember a whole lot past that point. I remember our canoe being tipped, hurrying like hell to the other one, and Leo in absolute meltdown mode. Then it all pretty much goes black. I guess I wound up canoeing the trip by myself, because I woke up at the bank of the river, next to our campsite, with ten or eleven empty Natty Light cans around my feet. It was still light out but I had no idea where I was until Leo grabbed me and took me up to the tent. I really have to stop drinking on an empty stomach.

BENGI
It was a good thing Alyssa went on that trip. The whole thing would’ve been boring without her. Leo was in a pissy mood since we got there, and Smitty and Mandy wouldn’t stop arguing. The entire night Alyssa and I had to listen to them bicker at each other while we sat around the fire. In my opinion, Leo needed a Xantax, Smitty needed to stop drinking so much, and Mandy needed to start drinking a little more—then everyone might meet somewhere in the middle.
I couldn’t get over how much fun Alyssa was, though. She’s the perfect girl. She’s hardly ever in a bad mood; she doesn’t have weird hormonal rages like other girls; she takes everything with a grain of salt; and she’s game to drink and laugh all the time. I want to take credit for it, because it’s hilarious, but I have to give her the credit for the prank.
We were sitting around the fire on Friday night—around 2 AM—when it started raining. Mandy was sleeping in Smitty’s car, Smitty was passed out in a lawn chair next to us, and Leo had already been asleep in his tent since about Ten. Both tents should’ve had a rain tarp, but Smitty forgot the one for the big tent. So Alyssa and I were standing under a tree and she thought of it.
“Let’s take Leo’s tarp…he’s gonna be pissy either way, so why should we be wet?”
So we drunkenly stumbled through the motions, laughing the whole time, but managed to take his tarp and put it over our tent before any of the initial rain soaked through our tent’s roof. It was an honest prank. I’d’ve laughed it was done to me. Leo took offense to it—what else was new? He’s the type of guy that can’t just let things go. He was probably still angry about the confederate flag.
After breakfast we took a bus down to the canoeing place. More than anything else I wanted to go ca-brewing on that trip. What could possibly be better than slowly meandering down a stream while getting boozed up? When we got there we decided to get two canoes and a kayak. Leo wanted to put three people in one of the canoes, which was just stupid. The kayak ended up being a great idea, because it kept Leo from whining in our ears for thirteen miles.
So we tipped his canoe, what’s the big deal? I have to take credit for that one. He was being a pest, Alyssa agreed, and so we snuck up behind their canoe and tipped them. It was the funniest thing I had seen in a long time. He got up screaming like a madman. He was cussing and flipping everyone off. Then he took the kayak from Alyssa. Just pushed her right out and took it. It was a little bit harsh, because I think she would’ve gladly given it to him had he asked. Anyway, we didn’t have to hear his crying for the rest of the ride, which was fine by me.
Just like Friday night around the fire, I ended up with Alyssa the whole time. She’s a riot. She told me all her and Leo’s little relationship. I could totally see why she dumped him. The guy did take everything too seriously. She said he was always worried about her cheating on him. She said that every time she went out without him he’d obsessively ask questions the following day. I wouldn’t want to date some girl who was paranoid every time I wasn’t by her side. Alyssa was a good girl. She wasn’t the messing around type—you could just tell. She was a fun girl who wanted to have a good time. That doesn’t mean she was out fooling around with all sorts of guys, and then lying about it.
We rowed and drank, joked and laughed, and really had a hell of a time. Then we found Mandy sitting on the banks of the river, crying. Smitty had tipped her out of the canoe for no reason, and left her. That kid really needed to stop drinking so much. He’d end up just like his old man if he didn’t. So we let Mandy ride in the middle, which was good for her because she didn’t have to do anything. It didn’t stop me and Alyssa, either. We kept on having fun—like Mandy wasn’t even there.

ALYSSA
Thank goodness Bengi was on that trip. I would’ve had a miserable time had he not been there. We sat around the fire Friday night and had a blast. Leo was in a bad mood, so we decided to bust his balls until he either flipped out or went to bed. Bengi won the bet. He said Leo’s only good for one meltdown a day, and that he’d just get frustrated and go to bed. I had seen multiple meltdown days from that kid, so I put my money on flipping out. Oh well, I owe Bengi dinner when we get home.
Around 4 AM it started raining, and Bengi and I started to worry. Smitty had forgotten his tarp for the big tent and we would be soaked in the morning if we didn’t do something. I have to give Bengi the credit. I want to say it was my idea, but he was the one who thought of it.
“Let’s just take Leo’s tarp…he’ll never wake up,” he said as we huddled under a tree.
So we fumbled around for a couple minutes and actually switched the tarp from his tent to our’s without him waking up. Then we crashed. I woke up on Saturday morning, kind of snuggled up to Bengi, and I heard Leo griping and muttering things. I woke Bengi up so he could hear, and I must say we got a pretty good morning chuckle out of it.
Breakfast was a fiasco. The frying pan Leo brought was a joke. There was no point in even using it, because the eggs and bacon stuck to it and wouldn’t come off unless you scraped them. So Bengi and I made hot dogs. He’s so hilarious. He must’ve lost three hot dogs off of his lousy little stick in a matter of one minute. He just kept putting them on, though. If it were Leo he probably would’ve thrown the whole fire pit into the river.
Then we went ca-brewing. It was so much fun. I had already gone ca-brewing once that summer. About three weeks before this trip. I had just got back from my family vacation and my best friend from high school asked me to go. That was a real drunken blast. I met this totally hot guy named…Kirk, I think. We had so much fun. He was so laid back. And hot. I think he’s what made me start thinking about breaking up with Leo. I still have his number. I should give him a call one of these days.
Sorry. Back to the story. I ended up getting a kayak for myself. Three people in a canoe isn’t a terribly bad idea. We did it three weeks ago and it was great because I didn’t have to do a lick of work. But then I thought about getting stuck in a canoe for fourteen miles with Leo, so I got the kayak.
I have to admit I had been thinking about tipping Leo’s canoe since we first left the campsite, but I knew I’d probably need help. I could hardly get the words out of my mouth when Bengi agreed.
“He’ll never suspect it,” he said. “Look at him, he’s a sitting duck.”
So we paddled up to him real quietly and tipped him. I kind of felt bad for Smitty because he was the innocent bystander. Leo looked like he was going to kill someone. He was shouting and swearing, telling little kids to go “f” themselves. It was hilarious. By far the funniest thing I had seen in a long time. All four of us just sat back and laughed as we watched him storm around—trying to hold the canoe with one hand while fishing for floating beers with the other. When he came my way I thought he was going to strangle me. He had a crazy look in his eyes. He walked up, grabbed my shoulders, and dunked me into the water. By the time I came up for air he was in the kayak floating away. What a crazy idiot. I think he should be hospitalized. I really do.
It ended up being a great idea of mine, because I wound up sharing a canoe with Bengi the entire time. We just drank, laughed, and forgot about Leo’s crazy antics. It was a blast. Halfway through the trip we saw Mandy crying on the side of the river. She said that Smitty had thrown her out of the canoe, nearly drowning her, and left like it was no big deal. I don’t know the kid that well, but he seems like a loon himself. I even joked with Bengi that when we get back we should send Smitty and Leo off to the mental ward together. It registered a pretty good chuckle. That’s what I liked about Bengi, he never took anything too seriously.

The Camping Trip; Part Two

2008-02-19T00:50:00.002-05:00

"The Camping Trip" is a five day series, consisting of five different parts, to be presented daily--the 18th to the 22nd--from five different vantage points. If you get behind, don't worry because they'll be on here for good. If you want to get ahead, you're out of luck, because I'm making this up as I go. This is Part Two. If you haven't read Part One it is directly below. Enjoy.

BENGI
What the hell, I thought. No way. He wasn’t bringing her. I wouldn’t allow it. I pulled up to Leo’s place and he was standing there with Alyssa. They broke up two weeks earlier. She called him boring! Who would want to go on a trip with someone who said they were boring?
“Hey guys,” I said as I parked my truck behind his car. Maybe she was just getting something back from his place, I thought.
“Hey Bengi,” she said to me. “You don’t mind if I come, do ya?”
Of course I minded. It was guys weekend.
“No, I don’t mind…Is your stuff here or do we have to swing by your place?”
“Gotta stop at my place…is that a problem? I’ll be real quick,” she said.
Of course it was a problem. Now the timing was off. It was five past one and we should have been on the road already.
“It’s not a problem at all. Leo throw your stuff in and let’s go.”
He threw his stuff in the bed of the truck, and they both got in the passenger door; Leo was riding shotgun, Alyssa was crammed in between us.
I drove to her house and she ran inside.
“Why is she going?” I asked Leo as I lit a smoke.
“She’s evil, man. Put me on the spot.”
“You’re so weak,” I said. He was. The guy always gave in to her. He flat out couldn’t say no to her under any circumstance.
“You won’t even notice she’s there,” he said.
She came out after fifty-five minutes with a sleeping bag and a backpack. It was 2:35. We were ninety-five minutes behind schedule. I tossed her stuff in the back of the truck, all three of us crammed into the front again, and we were off.
I took the scenic route—up old State Route 5 instead of the interstate. I was in a lot better mood the further we got into the country. We passed by a double wide trailer with a big confederate flag hanging outside, and Leo had to go righteous on us.
“That’s ridiculous!” he exclaimed.
“What is?” I asked.
“Confederate flags in general…let alone in the North. People are stupid…downright behind the times.”
“What’s wrong with confederate flags?” Alyssa asked.
“They’re a blatant sign of racism…not to mention everything this country stands for,” he responded.
“I disagree,” I said. “It’s about pride.”
Leo was a real city boy. He’d listen to country music and go camping and stuff, but he looked down on country people.
“They have nothing to do with racism,” Alyssa said.
“What?” Leo screamed. “Have you two lost your minds? It’s the symbol of the Confederate States of America! The people who tried forming their own country because they wanted to enslave other human beings! That was the whole point of the Civil War.”
“No it wasn’t!” Alyssa shouted back. “It had nothing to do with slavery.”
“It’s about country pride,” I said again.
“Yeah,” Alyssa followed.
Typical Leo. He’s real tight all the time. He thought everything was a big social issue. He couldn’t take anything for what it was worth.
I ended the conversation by turning up the radio for the last twenty minutes of the ride. Then I pulled into Appache State Park. I got out of the truck and walked into the registration stand.
“We have a reservation for a campsite under the name Smith…and Keegan.”
The lady looked at the reservation log.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t see anything for either of those names.”
Smitty. I knew I should’ve made the reservation.
“Hold on one second,” I said before stepping outside. I called Smitty. “Please tell me you made the reservation. No, I wasn’t. You were supposed to make the reservation! You’re an idiot! I’ll call you back!”
I walked back in.
“I guess he forgot. Are there still sites available?”
“Not this weekend,” she said. “You might wanna try Appache Valley…just down the river,” and she gave me a map.
“Thanks,” I said and walked out. I got in the car.
“What’s up?” Leo asked.
“We’re goin’ to another place. Smitty forgot to make the reservation!”
“He’s an idiot.”
I followed the map the lady gave me. We crossed a river and started heading deep into some woods, down a dirt road. It looked more ominous as we drove. Finally we got there. A small shack with a sign out front said “Registration.” You’ve got to be kidding me, I thought. I walked in and a big guy with bushy sideburns, a flannel shirt, and a mouthful of brown teeth set us up with a site.
I got back in the truck and we drove down there. Leo and Alyssa weren’t speaking one word to each other. We set up the campsite, built a fire, and I sat down with Alyssa, because Leo had gone off by himself some place.

ALYSSA
Bengi pulled up as I stood outside of Leo’s place with him. I was really hoping Leo wouldn’t ruin the trip for me. I didn’t want to talk about us, or breaking up, or anything at all like that. He was gonna cause a mess, I just knew it. Oh well. Even if he did it would be more interesting than sitting in Cedar Falls alone all weekend.
“Hey guys,” Bengi said as he parked his truck.
“Hey, Bengi. You don’t mind if I come, do ya?” I asked.
“No, I don’t mind…Is your stuff here or do we have to swing by your place?”
“Gotta stop at my place…is that a problem? I’ll be real quick.”
“It’s not a problem at all. Leo throw your stuff in and let’s go,” and we all crammed into the front and drove to my place.
I ran inside while they stayed with the truck. I said I’d be quick, but what were they gonna do, leave me? So I took a shower, dried my hair, put on some make up and tossed a few things in my backpack. I did it all in less than an hour, and walked outside. Bengi threw my stuff in the bed of the truck and we crammed back into the front.
Bengi took Route 5. It’s so much prettier, and it made the trip a lot better until Leo had to ruin it by getting all high and moral. There was a trailer with a confederate flag hanging outside of it. That’s just a country thing—North or South—but Leo had to go and get on his high horse.
“That’s ridiculous!” he screamed.
“What is?” I asked.
“Confederate flags in general…let alone in the North. People are stupid…downright behind the times,” he kept screaming.
“What’s wrong with Confederate flags?” I asked.
“They’re a blatant sign of racism…not to mention everything this country stands for,” he said in a rage.
“I disagree,” Bengi jumped in. “It’s about pride.”
“They have nothing to do with racism,” I followed.
“What?” Leo cried out. “Have you two lost your minds? It’s the symbol of the Confederate States of America! The people who tried forming their own country because they wanted to enslave other human beings! That was the whole point of the Civil War.”
“No it wasn’t!” I shouted. “It had nothing to do with slavery.”
“It’s about country pride,” Bengi said.
“Yeah,” I said, backing Bengi.
I really don’t know why I ever dated the kid. He put on a real front at first. I was young and I just wanted to have fun. I didn’t want to sit around and debate moral issues all of the time. I was glad Bengi agreed with me. At least someone had some sense. At least someone wanted to have fun with me. I probably should’ve dated him that whole time. He was just a fun guy. Not at all like Leo—what a bore.
We finally got there around five, and Bengi went inside to register for the site.
“I can’t believe you think the confederate flag has nothing to do with racism?” Leo attacked me.
“Can you just let it be?”
“It’s just ridiculous. I mean you’re educated…you’re in college and you don’t know what that flag stands for.”
“This is why I broke up with you. I wasn’t lying when I said you were way too serious, and to be honest, just boring sometimes. Here we are, on a camping trip, and you want to talk about slavery and the meaning of some stupid flag. Lighten up. You take the fun out of everything!”
Then Bengi got back in the truck and slammed the door.
“What’s up?” Leo asked.
“We’re goin’ to another place. Smitty forgot to make the reservation!”
“He’s an idiot,” Leo said.
So there we were. Leo wanted to talk about some stupid history subject, Bengi was boiling mad, and I wasn’t sure if Smitty would even make it. I really hoped there would be some cool people at this campground. I was gladly willing to ditch those guys. Especially Leo. He wasn’t going to ruin my trip.
When we did finally get to the other campground it was a dump. There was hardly any grass, mosquitoes were everywhere, and the bathroom seemed like it was a mile away. After we set up the site—two tents and a big tarp hanging over the picnic table—Leo just disappeared. It was the best part of the day. I just sat down with Bengi by the fire and talked. He was hilarious. He was so different from Leo. He was laid back and didn’t let anything get to him. He was pretty cute, too.

LEO
I couldn’t believe I got myself into that whole mess. The trip up there was downright painful. Besides the fact that I was jammed up against the door, I had to listen to Bengi and Alyssa’s ludicrous claims about country pride. Who really thinks the Confederate flag doesn’t stand for racism, slavery, and the separation of the Union? I couldn’t take it anymore. I helped set up the campsite, and then I got out of there.
I decided to take a hike. The campground wasn’t great, but when I got into the woods it was fine. I didn’t know how I was going to do it. I didn’t know how I’d last the whole weekend without strangling someone. Once Smitty gets here it should be fine, I thought. At least I’d have someone on my side. It was like Alyssa was attached to Bengi’s hip whenever he was around. Those two are actually quite annoying when they’re together. It’s like they go out of their way to irritate me.
I just needed to cool off. I didn’t know why she always got under my skin. I shouldn’t have cared, but I did. I mean, you’d think I’d lose all of my feelings for her when she called me boring the first time. You’d think I’d lose all of my feelings for her when she said I took the fun out of everything. But I didn’t. I still really liked her for some odd reason. I think that’s why I let her come on this trip in the first place. I thought it might give us something fun to do—so I could prove to her that I could be fun. So she might give me another chance.
I had to get over the Confederate flag thing. She was right; it was stupid. At least it was stupid to argue about it. I’d just let it go. I mean, I guess she was right—no one wanted to talk about social issues on a camping trip. People want to drink beer and sit around a fire, and cook marshmallows on camping trips. When I finished the hike I’d go back to the site in a good mood. I’d show her I could be fun. I’d show her that I wasn’t so serious all of the time.

MANDY
I wanted to kill him. We pulled up to the campsite and it wasn’t our trip, it was everyone’s trip. He was such a liar. I wanted to kill him.
“You’re an idiot! Do you know that!” I screamed.
“I swear I didn’t know they were gonna be here,” he said. What an idiot. He dug himself a hole and now he was trying to dig himself out of it.
“Oh yeah…they just happened to find out exactly where you made a reservation and decided to crash our weekend!”
“You know how my friends are,” he said.
“Yeah, I do…they’re stupid like you are, and they’d never be able to discover where we were going.”
He got out of the car and started taking things out of the trunk.
“Come on, baby,” he said through the passenger window.
“I’m not getting out of this car. You ruined our anniversary! I bet you didn’t even know it was our anniversary!”
“Of course I did! Please don’t act crazy,” he said.
“CRAZY! YOU WANNA SEE CRAZY?”
I got out of the car, walked back to the trunk to start throwing his camping gear everywhere. But when I got to the trunk there was no camping gear—just our two bags.
“Where’s the camping gear? You’re telling me that you didn’t know they were gonna be here, but you brought no camping gear? You’re an idiot. Where were we going to sleep…in the car?”
“I can’t believe I forgot to pack the camping gear,” he said, still trying to dig himself out. “I swear, baby, it’s all a big misunderstanding.”
“Don’t talk to me,” I said before grabbing my bag and walking down to the picnic table where Bengi and Alyssa sat by the fire. “Hey guys,” I said. “How are you?”
“Good…Smitty didn’t tell me you were coming,” Bengi said.
“Well it’s nice to see you guys,” I said and stormed back to the car.
I was going to kill him. That dirty, two timing liar! When I got to the trunk I grabbed his backpack and started back towards the fire. I thought about throwing it in the fire, but he’d probably grab it before anything burned. So I walked to the edge of the river, wound up, and tossed it about fifteen feet out. Then I turned around, walked back to the fire, sat down, and watched him trudge out to his bag—soaked from his waist down.

SMITTY
I probably should have told her before we got to the campground. Then again, hindsight is 20/20. I didn’t think she’d go ballistic the way she did. It was like a light switch. One moment we were pulling into the campground, she was holding my hand and telling me she loved me, and the next thing I know she was a raving lunatic.
“You’re an idiot! Do you know that!” she screamed.
“I swear I didn’t know they were gonna be here,” I said. I probably should have given up at that point, but I dug myself a hole and I had no idea how else to get out.
“Oh yeah…they just happened to find out exactly where you made a reservation and decided to crash our weekend!”
“You know how my friends are,” I said.
“Yeah, I do…they’re stupid like you are, and they’d never be able to discover where we were going.”
I figured if I just got out of the car and unloaded our bags, she’d cool off.
“Come on, baby,” I said through the passenger window.
“I’m not getting out of this car. You ruined our anniversary! I bet you didn’t even know it was our anniversary!”
She had me there, but I wasn’t going to admit it. I’d be crazy to admit that.
“Of course I did! Please don’t act crazy,” I said. Rule of thumb to any guy out there, never…I mean NEVER use the word crazy.
“CRAZY! YOU WANNA SEE CRAZY?” she started screaming.
Then she got out of the car, walked back to the trunk, looked inside, and then just looked at me.
“Where’s the camping gear? You’re telling me that you didn’t know they were gonna be here, but you brought no camping gear? You’re an idiot. Where were we going to sleep…in the car?”
I had to think of something good at that point. So I said, “I can’t believe I forgot to pack the camping gear…I swear, baby, it’s all a big misunderstanding.”
“Don’t talk to me!” she screamed as she yanked her arm away from me and walked towards the fire.
She’d cool off. She always did. I’d just let her be until she sat down and talked to the guys for a little bit. Then she made a b-line back to the car. She didn’t say anything when she got to the trunk. She just grabbed my bag and headed right back towards the fire. She wasn’t going to do anything too crazy, I thought. But I trailed her by twenty or thirty feet just in case. She didn’t stop at the fire like I thought she would. She went all the way to the edge of the river and heaved by bag into the darkness.
That’s when I started sprinting. I didn’t care about the clothes or the bag, but my cell phone and i-Pod were in the front pocket. So the next thing I remember, I’m standing up to my waist in cold brown water, trying to turn on my cell phone and i-Pod. Both were ruined.
In hindsight, I probably should have told her before we got to the campground.

The Camping Trip; Part One

2008-02-18T15:31:00.003-05:00

"The Camping Trip" is a five day series, consisting of five different parts, to be presented daily--the 18th to the 22nd--from five different vantage points. If you get behind, don't worry because they'll be on here for good. If you want to get ahead, you're out of luck, because I'm making this up as I go. Enjoy.

LEO
I was pretty excited about the trip. I needed a little break. Summer classes were definitely more laid back, but they were five weeks instead of ten, so the pace of the curriculum was rapid. Not to mention, I just wanted to be done with Italian. I should’ve finished it in Rome last winter, but instead I was in Cedar Falls, taking summer classes.
Bengi had been nearly tripping with excitement all week. He had the idea since we started college but he could never round the troops enough to make it happen. He started getting his camping stuff together on Tuesday—had his truck packed on Wednesday—and probably couldn’t sleep a lick on Thursday night. He said he was taking a half day on Friday, so we could hit the road no later than 2 o’clock. The timing would work out just right if it all went as planned. I'd get class over with by noon, head back to my place, throw the rest of my stuff together by one--right around the time he swung by to pick me up. Smitty had to work until five, so he wouldn’t get up to Appache Creek until at least seven. That would give Bengi and me the perfect amount of time to set up the campsite, get a fire going, and start dinner.
So I'm walking to class and my cell phone starts ringing. It was Alyssa. We met in Italian in the spring. I saw her on the first day of class, talked to her on the second, and took her out for the first time on the third. We dated for three months and I really fell for her. Everything was great, and then, out of the blue, she told me it was over. She broke up with me about two weeks prior. She said I wasn’t exciting enough—that I lacked creativity. To tell you the truth, I didn’t mind breaking up. I just didn’t think she had to call me boring.
“Hello,” I answered. “Yeah, I’m goin’ to class. I’m walking in right now. Are you coming?”
That was my present dilemna; I was stuck in my final Italian class with her—two weeks in, and three to go.
I walked into the small room and sat down. No one really came on Fridays. There were three other kids and the instructor. Then Alyssa rushed in. She sat down right next to me. I wish she wouldn’t have come, and I was looking forward to an entire weekend two hours away from her.
“Hey,” she said with a smile.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing. Any plans this weekend?” she asked.
“Goin’ camping up at Appache with Bengi and Smitty. A guy’s weekend.”
The look on her face dropped. I knew immediately what she was thinking.
“I thought we were going camping next weekend,” she said.
We made the plans before she broke up with me. However, when she told me I was boring, I kind of figured I'd cancel any future plans.
“So…we’ll go a week early,” I said.
I never did well under pressure.
“Okay,” she said. “Sounds fun.”
At the time I already knew it as a bad idea.

ALYSSA
I had to get to class. I had to get that guy out of my house.
“Wake up,” I said, causing him to take his head out from under the pillow.
He was cute, I guess. I was so drunk the night before I couldn't remember exactly how we met. Oh well. I’d make him give me a ride to class, then I’d give him a fake number, and I’d probably never see him again. Problem would be solved.
“Can you give me a ride to class?” I asked him.
“Yeah…let me get dressed,” he said.
I rushed to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, threw my hair in a pony-tail, rushed back to my room, grabbed my bag and slipped on my flip flops. I was ready to go, and so was my fling from the night before. I definitely don't remember his name, but I remember he drove a black Siverado. I love guys with pick-up trucks. I don’t know why, I just think it makes them so much hotter.
“I had fun last night,” he said to me as he pulled his truck onto Campus Loop.
“Yeah. It was fun,” I said back.
“We should do it again,” he said.
“Yeah. Definitely.”
I pulled out my cell phone and called Leo to see if he was going to class. I should’ve called him before I got out of bed. I could’ve just skipped class and got his notes and copied them. He was good for that sort of thing. He would do anything for me; all I had to do was ask. I wish there was a way for him to take my tests. I bet he would've done it if there was a way.
“Hey,” I said as he answered. “You goin’ to class? Where you at? Yeah, I’m coming. I’m walking there right now. Just go in, I don’t want you to be late. I’m walking past the corner of Sycamore and Campus Loop. Bye.”
I had to tell him I was walking. If I didn’t he’d have all sorts of questions. Who was it? How do you know him? How come I’ve never heard about him? A bunch of questions that I didn’t feel like making up answers to.
“Alright, here it is,” I said to the guy as we pulled up to Dolan Hall. Class was really two buildings down, in Sherwood, but I was afraid Leo would be waiting outside. He was really annoying like that.
“Can I get your number?” the guy asked me.
“Yeah. 937-3564…Call me.”
I got out and walked past Dolan to Sherwood. I went downstairs and into the classroom. I sat down next to him.
“Hey,” I said, smiling at him.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Nothing. Any plans this weekend?”
“Goin’ camping up at Appache with Bengi and Smitty. A guys weekend,” he said.
What was I going to do? We were supposed to go camping the next weekend. I wasn't going to sit in that boring little town all by myself for the weekend. I’d just guilt him into inviting me. So I gave him “the look”. I had done it a million times. It never failed me. It worked when I wanted to go to that concert with Nick—my ex. It worked whenever I wanted him to change the TV channel. He really couldn’t ever say no to me.
“I thought we were going camping next weekend,” I said, knowing he'd cave.
I watched him as he twisted in his seat. It would only be a matter of a few seconds.
“So…we’ll go a week early,” he said.
“Okay. Sounds good,” I said before turn towards the front of the class.
HOOK, LINE AND SINKER…I got him again.

BENGI
Finally. It was about time we made the trip. Three and a half years we’d been talking about ski trips, camping trips, beach trips, and nothing. Now it was happening. It was beautiful outside. It was perfect. Flannigan was letting me leave work at noon, so I could swing by and pick up Leo by one. We’d get a bite to eat and hit the road.
I had been so excited about the trip that I started getting out my camping stuff on Tuesday. I had the truck packed since Wednesday. I couldn’t sleep at all on Thursday.
It was about ten-thirty, and I had one last quote to do for a guy out in Sugar Hills, then get back to the office to file the paperwork, and then I’d be on my way.
“How’s it going?” I asked the guy.
“Good,” he said.
He seemed like a real pampered, white-collar type. The house was about five thousand square feet. It would've taken me at least three hours to measure everything and get the numbers exactly right.
“I’m just gonna do some measurements, and I’ll have a quote for you in no time,” I said to the guy.
“Alright. Thanks,” the guy said.
I'd just call Smitty and ask him what we charged the Moore’s down the street for the molding and woodwork we put up over there. Then I’d walk around, pretend to do a thorough job, and get the hell out of here. I wasn't going to let that house get in the way of my weekend.
“Hey, Smitty…got a question. Look up the Moore file and tell me what we quoted them for the molding and woodwork…and then what it actually cost.”
It was just a summer internship anyway. They always made me do the measurements at least twice, and half the time they sent someone out to re-measure before they gave the final quote. I’d just tell this rich sap what we quoted the Moore’s, go back to the office, avoid Flannigan, and tell him I must’ve left the paperwork in the truck if he called me later that afternoon.
“We quoted the Moore’s at thirty-five hundred? Alright. Thanks, Smitty. So, Flannigan won’t let you out at noon? I don’t think we’d fit the three of us in the truck anyway. Make sure you’re on the road by five. Me and Leo should get up there by four. Don’t forget the tarp. Alright, man…later.”
So I broke out the old tape measurer, did a little bit of this and little bit of that, and by eleven I walked into the kitchen where the rich sap was reading the Wall Street Journal.
“Looks like it’ll be in the neighborhood of thirty-five hundred,” I said. “Could be a little higher, could be a little lower…I’ll probably have to make another trip out on Monday.”
“Sounds good,” he said. “Just give us a call before you head out. I should be here all day.”
What a bastard. The guy sat around in his linen pants and silk shirts reading about his millions of dollars all day. I should’ve quoted him at forty-five hundred—just out of spite.
Out the door, into my truck, onto the road, back to the office, successfully avoided Flannigan for thirty minutes, and I was on my way to get Leo. That trip was just what we needed.

SMITTY
105 lines. That was my high score in Tetris and it was only 10:30. Bengi always got to go out and do the measurements. I knew that S.O.B was probably hanging around Speedway, sitting in his truck, listening to Mike and Mike in the Morning, while I was sitting in there, at that desk, waiting for Flannigan to yell at me again. It was only a summer internship, what did that guy really expect from me?
“Smith!” Flannigan yelled from his office.
I closed the Tetris screen on my computer, got up, and walked over to his doorway. “Yes, Mr. Flannigan?”
“I need you to get all of these quotes and end costs into the computer, and filed by the end of the day,” he said and pointed to a stack of yellow files on the end of his desk. There must have been at least fifty there.
“Yes, sir.”
There went my chance of getting out by noon. Bengi always got the breaks. He got to go out in the field, do the measurements, and pretty much screw around however he wanted, and I got stuck in that cave, within Flannigan’s sight all day.
I went back to my desk. My phone rang and it was Bengi.
“Yeah? The Moore file? Cutting corners again, huh?”
Not only did this guy get out of the office, he didn't even do his job when he got to the site. That was the fourth time that week he called me for a quote on another house. I dug through the stack of files, looking for Moore. I couldn’t find it. Thirty-five sounded like a good number, so that's what I told him.
“Thirty-five hundred. Yep. No getting out by noon. Flannigan just gave me a stack of files—three feet high. I’m leaving straight from the office. The tarp is in my trunk. Later.”
I hung up. Then my phone rang again. This time it was Mandy, my girlfriend.
“I’m at work, what? Of course I have something planned for the weekend…Yeah, like I’d forget that tomorrow was our anniversary. We’re goin’ camping. Up at Appache. Just the two of us. So be ready by 5:15. Love you. Bye.”
Bengi was gonna kill me. What could I do? It was our anniversary…whatever that meant. Could've been fourteen months since we first kissed, could've been seven months since I first said I love you to her, which she really suckered me into by the way. It seemed like we had a different anniversary for something every two weeks. I was so toast. Right from the beginning. If Bengi didn’t kill me, Mandy would.

MANDY
I wondered what Mark was gonna do for me over the weekend. I was hoping it would be romantic. It was our first anniversary. He was clumsy and he forgot a lot of things, but I was sure he’d remember and plan something. I didn’t expect a lot. I just wanted it to be just the two of us. I wanted it to be special and memorable. So I called him. I didn't care much for surprises. Okay, I'm lying. What girl doesn't love surprises. I just figured I'd better remind him in case he did forget. I at least wanted a present.
“Hey honey, whatchya doin? Oh. So do you have anything planned for the weekend? You do? Because tomorrow is our anniversary and I was hoping for something special. Camping? I love Appache. Is anyone else goin, cuz I was kind of hoping it would be just the two of us. Perfect. I’ll be ready by then. Love you, too. Bye.”
I was really impressed. I had to hand it to him. A nice romantic weekend, just the two of us, camping. I actually hated camping—sleeping on the hard ground, and not showering for days, but it was the thought that mattered. I knew he wasn't made of money, so I wasn't expecting him to take me to the Cayman Islands or anything. But that would've been nice…the Cayman Islands. By the two-year mark we'd be ready for that sort of trip. He’d be graduated by then and should have a real job. Maybe we’d even be engaged by then, I thought. Two years. If we’re still together by the two-year mark I'd expect a ring.
There I went again. I was always getting ahead of myself. I needed to enjoy that weekend first. Our Weekend. Just the two of us. I really hoped he'd take me to the Cayman Islands the following year. I figured that may be when he’d give me the ring. It would be so romantic. Our two year anniversary, on the beach, sun setting, and all of a sudden he'd get on his knee and take the box out of his pocket. I’d say yes. In a heartbeat, I’d say yes.

for You

2008-02-14T20:50:00.003-05:00

walking in the rain
a fine and spendid day
withholding disdain
though still quite far away
the clicking of my heels
the spash on my shoulder
spray from car wheels
wind to make it colder
yellow raincoats
make a bold scene
like musical notes
formidable for a queen
cross the street
hop the curb
space incomplete
no one to disturb
pavement turns to grass
building to tree
how long does it last
search and you will see
there's a world to taste
sunshine rain or snow
a world we waste
behind our mobile pones
the trees don't hide their eyes
the flowers will always smile
they won't put on a disguise
and chat to another for a while
the river won't withhold
from running past my feet
or be intentionally cold
when causing my defeat
there's no currency they solicit
no image they're expected to display
no sinful desires to elicit
disgarding morals for impusive play
i shall wrap myself in a quilt
fall to the floor of the field
look at this world God built
where beauty never yields

Staying the Course

2008-02-13T22:01:00.003-05:00

Staying the course and believing that there is meaning and signfiicance to everything is not as easy as it sounds. One day may be great but the next just awful. But when you see everything that happens to you as good and bad little particles which make up a whole, the journey becomes a great deal easier. Peace and happiness is found within, not outside of the body.

"finding a meaning in life is by experiencing something--such as goodness, truth and beauty--by exeriencing nature and culture or, last but not least, by experiencing another human being in his very uniqueness--by loving him."
--Victor E. Frankl--

Every man and woman suffers from doubt. We doubt ourselves, our ability to face a challenge or overcome one that has already confronted us. So long as one is living he or she is successful; he or she has already faced and succeeded in the face of more challenges than he or she has been defeated. Every single breath is a challenge to the body, whether young and "healthy" or old and "terminal". It is not until a man or woman has taken his or her final breath that the body has been defeated--by any means! It is the same, therefore, with the mind and our subconscience. Every day is filled with endless challenges and obstacles, we just cannot see them because they are small--though not insignificant.

A man gets out of bed in the morning, walks to the bathroom, brushes his teeth, and walks downstairs to the front porch where he sits down on a chair for the entirety of the day, only coming in contact with the mailman, before climbing the same steps back to his bathroom to brush his teeth before lying back down in bed and falling asleep. Sounds like a pretty worthless day, right? Wrong. The extent of this man's success is actually immeasurable.

Let's call him Jack, for name's sake.

1. Jack woke up, therefore his body has defeated the possibility of dying in his sleep.
2. He gets out of bed. He could have decided to lie there all day.
3. He walks to the bathroom. At any moment his heart could have given its last beat for a step, and he collapses.
4. He brushes his teeth. He obviously got the toothepaste on the brush head and his arms were still able to move back and
forth.
5. He walks down the stairs without tripping and plummeting to his death.
6. He sits down on a rocking chair on the front porch. He very easily could have missed, fallen backwards and hit his head.
7. He smiles at the mailman, who in return, smiles back.
8. He is handed one letter, which he opens.
9. He listens as the mailman reads him the letter.
10. He cries.
11. He says one thing to the mailman and waves him off.
12. Once night falls he rises to his feet without his legs giving out from under him.
13. He successfully climbs back up the steps to the bathroom without tripping.
14. He brushes his teeth for the second time.
15. He walks back to his bedroom, his heart beating with every step.
16. Finally he lies down in his bed and falls asleep for the night.

Now, let's meet Jack. He was born in 1913 in the countryside of Austria. At the age of 28, Jack, his wife and three daughters are captured by Nazi soldiers and taken to Auschwitz where they are seperated. Over a dozen times Jack manages to avoid the crematorium and gas chambers--for no other reason than his will to work, in hopes of seeing the faces he loved again. The war ends and Jack is released from captivity. After an extensive search for his family Jack discovers that all three daughters and his wife perished. In 1944, Jack moves to the United States with less than one hundred dollars to his name, and no living relatives to his knowledge. He changes his last name from Schwartz to Smith, to disguise his Jewish ancestry. He takes a job at a factory, welding steel for an automotive company in eastern Michigan. Despite entertaining the idea of suicide many times, Jack always disgards the thought--sometimes immediately, sometimes after several days of inner turmoil. Nevertheless, he stays the course. Jack's life can be viewed as lacking action or great excitement. He spends most of his days after retirement reading on his porch, or walking along the creek near his small, four room house--just thinking and praying and trying to figure out the reason or meaning for his life.

At the age of 97, Jack lives with a terminal respiratory disease, caused initially by the working conditions in Auschwitz, and further made worse by thirty years of work in the factory of eastern Michigan. Jack also suffered from a mild stroke when he was 95, partially paralyzing the left side of his body. His fingers are riddled every day with acute arthritis, and his vertebrae is like a poorly assembled line of dominoes, at risk of giving out at any moment.

On the aforementioned day, Jack had not eaten for three and a half days. He was on the verge of becoming bed ridden. Jack woke up and lied in bed over two hours before gaining the strength to get up. After getting to his feet it took Jack 28 minutes to walk the fourteen feet to his bathroom sink. He has to stop five times, because he's out of breath. It then took him 3 minutes to get the tootepaste on his toothbrush--having missed eleven times--a glob of paste on the counter. Back and forth, back and forth...very slowly, Jack brushes his teeth in just under seven minutes. Now the ever-so-dangerous trip down the stairs. Because of the paralysis on his left side, he is forced to trust his very brittle right side to support all of his weight. Right hand clenches the banister, and supports his entire body as he steps down with his right foot and slowly swings his left down to meet it. 13 steps take one hour and seven minutes. Once Jack is at the bottom of the stairs he slowly walks out to the front porch--31 minutes. He positions himself in front of his favorite rocking chair, and after four minutes his backside is safely touching the seat. Jack then sits and waits. Finally, the mailman arrives.

"I've got a letter for you, Mr. Smith," the mailman says, and then hands it to Jack. The mailman, who's name is Micheal has been Jack's only source for human contact in over three weeks.
Jack looks at the letter. He tries reading the return address, but his vision is all but gone. He slowly opens it. Ashamed of his near blindness he says to the mailman, "Can you please read this to me, Michael?"
"Absolutely, Mr. Smith. Not a problem," Michael says.

Michael begins,
"Dear Mr. Smith, this letter is awfully difficult for me to write, and I ask that you please brace yourself as you read it. My name is Elizabeth Margaret Schwartz, and I am your great grandaughter. I am studying for my Master's degree in history at Columbia University in New York, and I recently became very curious of my Jewish ancestry. My grandmother, your daughter, Margaret, survived the concentration camp at Auschwitz. At the age of 17 she gave birth to my father, Martin Schwartz, while living and making a living as a housemaid in Brooklyn, New York. My grandmother came to the United States in hopes of finding you. I am assuming that she was unsuccessful because you had changed your name to Smith upon arriving. She, as well as my father, lived the remainder of their lives under this assumption.
After an extensive search into my heritage and ancestry I came across your immigration application. I know it is by the sheer guidance from God that I stumbled upon it. A Mr. John Smith from Vienna, Austria had two places to print his name, and one to sign. Clumsily, you printed John Schwartz on one of the lines. How this was overlooked by immigration I do not know. How I managed to see it while skimming through over four hundred applications is clear: God led me to you.
I wanted to write you, because you do not have a telephone, to tell you that I will be visiting you on Saturday, May 12th. I did not want my sudden appearance to come as a surprise. I hope that you are still at this address, as I have obtained it from a steel manufacturer's company directory, dated June of 1978--a year before I was even born. I look forward to meeting you.

Your Great Grandaughter,
Elizabeth Margaret Schwartz

Michael hands Jack the letter. Jack says, "Thank you so much, Michael. May God bless you greatly." Then waves him away.

Jack went to bed the night before, praying that God would take his life in his sleep. When Jack woke up, he knew it might be his last day. Jack could not imagine spending his last day on earth in bed.

The night before, Michael went to bed, planning on waking up for his last day on earth. Michael's wife and three daughters were killed in a car accident earlier that evening. He was going to wake up, go to work, deliver all of his mail, and when returning home, shut the garage door, stay in his running car, and go to sleep.

Once night had fallen, Jack got up, walked inside, climbed the steps, walked into his bathroom, brushed his teeth, walked to his bed, lied down and fell asleep.

The following morning Jack woke up, but could not get out of bed. He had exhausted nearly all of his remaining energy the previous day. Early in the afternoon, he met his great grandaughter, Elizabeth Margaret Schwartz. All evening long a fragile, tired and bed ridden Jack Schwartz lived like he had not lived in 70 years. That night, Jack Schwartz died.

That same morning, Michael McLarens woke up in his bed and lived.

A man gets out of bed in the morning, walks to the bathroom, brushes his teeth, and walks downstairs to the front porch where he sits down on a chair for the entirety of the day, only coming in contact with the mailman, before climbing the same steps back to his bathroom to brush his teeth before lying back down in bed and falling asleep. Sounds like a pretty worthless day, right? Wrong. The extent of this man's success is actually immeasurable.

"He who has a WHY to live for can bear almost any HOW."
--Friedrich Nietzsche--

Imagine a Life with Meaning

2008-02-12T21:49:00.000-05:00

Imagine what it would be like to climb into bed tonight without a remote control in your hand.
Would you feel less complete falling asleep?
Imagine if there were no iPods.
Would music not exist? Would you take the time to talk to the person next to you on the train or bus commute to work?
Imagine if there were no McDonald's or Olive Gardens or even grocery stores.
Would you go without food? Would you really starve if you so truly desired survial?
Imagine if there was no ESPN or Fox Sports.
Would sport cease to exist?
Imagine if you only had a few articles of clothing.
Would you freeze in the cold or be burned by the sun, having only those few articles to rely on?
Imagine if there were no banks, currency, debit or credit cards.
Would you feel more poor or more rich?

Human beings are dependent on a very minimal number of things to survive--water, oxygen, nutrients which come from either the sun or the earth, a body temperature of or very close to 98.6 degrees. Outside of our bodies we truly possess nothing physical. Without our souls we possess nothing at all. Just as a man can take your car he can take your body. But even in dying no one can take your soul.

What is it that truly makes a man feel complete? If a man is hungry he eats food, and his stomach sends a message to his brain that it has received what it desired. What is it that makes a man feel complete metaphysically? It is his sense of belonging--the reassurance internally that he exists for a reason. If that were not the case, no one would ever do anything, including seeking food to avoid starvation.

"Man's search for meaning is the primary motivation in his life and not a "secondary rationalization" of instinctual drives."
--Victor E. Frankl--

Where are the wires crossed in man? When does man become unfulfilled with just being? When is food, oxygen, water, and sunlight, not enough?

The earliest human beings did what was necessary to survive, and over the course of time, discovered ways to improve life.

Why would a "caveman" make many trips on foot to transport something if the wheel allowed him to do it in one trip? If he still chose to make several trips would the job be any less complete?

Why would a man go outside to retrieve water, to boil it over a fire, to fill a bathtub to bathe, if someone has created plumbing which transports the water from its source through a hotwater tank to his shower head? Would he be an idiot, though, if he chose to do it the first way? Would he be less clean? Would he be more susceptible to disease, germs or subsequent fatality?

We use the wheel and have indoor plumbing because it makes our lives faster and easier. I use the wheel and take very warm showers, with processed body wash and shampoo, because it makes my life easier and more efficient. But when do we cross the line? When do we go from a place of seeking for need to seeking for want? When do we alter the definition of "need" to fit into what is really "want"?

I believe it is at this moment, this threshold we seperate our selves from ourselves. We pull away from one another. The brand new big screen television we buy and hang on our wall to "get in touch" with the world outside of our home actually seperates us from the person who is across town, next door, or directly beside us, because we are not communicating or sharing our thoughts.

Why do we place such a high value on meaningless material items? Why do we hurt one another to obtain these idols of worthlessness?

If all one really has is his immortal soul, inside of his mortal body, than all we really have on earth is each other.

The Daily Piper is a source for independent creativity, on my part, through the use of my words and pictures. It is a source for everyone to express themselves in the most creative of enterprises. No bias, slander or judgement will be tolerated at The Daily Piper.

So it is with this first post that I commence my journey toward understanding and meaning.