Monday, October 28, 2013

Week 7 - "Pistol" Pete

During the day, there is a man who wanders the streets. Behind him he pulls a Red Rider Wagon full of Windex and window scrubbers, hawking his services to every business owner who will listen. After dusk, he checks the doors of every shop on Main Street, making certain they are not open wide for any enterprising burglars. Over the years he has built for himself a bit of a legend. Pistol Pete is what he is called by locals, but his real name is Peter McEldowney. He is somewhat of a local institution to those who know him; and believe me, they are numerous. Yet however notable Peter is, he has become so due to the many uproarious, and sometimes downright dangerous situations he has created, often unwittingly. Yet despite the setbacks, he rolls that wagon out every day, determined, and puts his nose to the grindstone. Or perhaps to store front window glass.

Pistol Pete lives just off Main Street behind a Mexican restaurant. I believe he has someone who is there to help him with the goings on of day to day life, but Pete is fiercely independent. All of this is because Peter has a mental disability. I would not say he is a severely handicapped, but he does get himself into trouble. Peter is a tall man. Probably around six five. He wears a graying beard and always has a colorful pair of suspenders that he likes to snap against his chest. When he is feeling particularly assertive, he enjoys flexing his arm or ballooning his stomach and then asks you to touch it. I have never been one to do so. He is loved by many, but every so often, a situation arises and you can't help but chuckle thinking, “there goes Pete.”

I used to work on Main as a barista at a coffee shop. While there one day, I was startled by water suddenly being sprayed at the windows. It was Pete giving what I thought was a complimentary hosing. A little obnoxious, sure. But I though, “well it's Peter. What are you going to do?” A lot it turns out. Once finished, Pete trotted in and asked for payment of his services that he had not been commissioned to undertake to begin with. Once he was told that he would not be paid, he demanded a free lunch in stead. My superiors, not wanting to start another World War, consented to his threatening demands and he ordered a bowl of soup and a juice, both hand delivered by me. Moreover, I can personally attest to a tremendous level of satisfaction on Peter's face as he sipped that last drop of lentil of the rim of the bowl. To top it all off, the windows were still dirty.

Amazingly, a similar thing happened that winter after a blizzard hit and dropped more than a foot of snow on our heads. I came in early in the morning to shovel only to find that the walkway was already clear; mostly. It came to my attention that Pete had come during the night and shoveled the walkway; over and over and over again. He said he should be paid three times over because he had come three times to shovel the snow. This time my boss refused. Pete had not been asked to do it and furthermore, instead of waiting until the snow stopped, he decided an easy way to stack the cash was to shovel four inches three times instead of twelve once. Admittedly a brilliant plan, but fruitless nonetheless. Needless to say, Pistol Pete never came back to shovel.

Perhaps the best story of all is the one that cemented the “Pistol” in front of the “Pete.” Legend has it that late one night, at the Citgo station that once stood midway up the street, Pete approached a Brinks truck that had stopped for an exchange. At that time, Peter carried a hand radio tuned to the police frequency (something the police knew about), and a plastic gun that happened to look very real, (I think you know where this is going). Peter, probably thinking that the two Brinks men might be burglars merely dressed as money transporters, pulled his gun on the duo. Predictably, they reciprocated and pulled their guns, both very not plastic. Peter then demanded that they drop their weapons in a brave attempt to thwart a non-existent robbery. Again, they did the same. The entire incident may have gone terribly awry if it had not been for a local resident who knew Peter and stopped what would have made a very tragic story, and not a staggeringly hilarious story. Thus, “Pistol” Pete was born.

Now that I have left Main Street for greener pastures, I only occasionally bump into Peter. And when I do, he snaps his suspenders and asks me to touch his muscles. I still have not.

Sunday, October 27, 2013

Prompt 33 - We Gather Here To Remember

Every seat is filled by a friend. This is the very first memorial in a new church. The beautifully decorated stage with its flowers and sentiments is merely secondary to a single photo on a pedestal. An older man, smiling at the crowd that has gathered to remember a life fully lived. He is tall. About six foot ten, I believe; judging by where my head stood while shaking his hand every Sunday morning. I stand in the back for a lack of seats, just another friend.

Music begins and pictures fill the screen overhead. A newborn baby in his father's arms. A child posing for his photo high atop Cadillac mountain, knickers held high by a pair of suspenders. All of the images are black and white, taken many decades ago. Tears begin to stream down faces as they look at the passing memories, remembering the moments they captured.

The young boy in the pictures becomes a man, married with children. Photographs of family Christmas's and summer picnics. The man grows old until a final, lasting image remains on the screen. A John Wayne type character standing in front of his truck, the wind in his face. The music ends and there isn't a dry eye.

Singing follows. Not mournful, grief filled songs, but hope filled songs. They sing with an assurance of a future greeting at a pair of gates. The tears on his aged wife's face trickle down her cheeks to a smile below.

Saturday, October 26, 2013

Week 8 - Bubble Pond

It all begins with a sudden gust of wind from the south, through the break in the mountains that leads to the Atlantic, and rushing across the water of this modest valley giving life to everything. The glass is dissolved, transformed to rippled waves that slosh against the small, pebbled shore. Water grass fans as the breeze runs up the pond and into the trees, shaking the red, yellow, and orange foliage from its slumber. A chill runs up my back as the winds breath upon my sun drenched face. I shudder and lean over to zip up my jacket.

The sun casts long shadows against the vibrant, dying mountainside. From where I stand, the top cannot be seen. I begin to walk along the thin gravel pathway that traces the water on its western shoulder. Gust after gust break the fragile leaves away from their birthplace high in the canopy and shower them like painted snowflakes down to the mossy, wooded floor. The dusty dirt trail twists through the shedding trees that now blanket the forest floor in a sunning palette of color. The ground crunches under my feet as I tread lightly, taking in the beauty of the scene around me through all my senses.

I come to rest near a small brook peppered with flat stepping stones. The breeze courses through the forest once more, bending the white birch trees and emptying their crowns of their bounty. The line of demarcation moves slowly up the mountain as the sun sets over the horizon. I turn and snap several pictures. A moment fixed for eternity. A windswept pond nestled like a baby, cradled between the long arms of the Fall mountains; for me, unchanging.

Thursday, October 24, 2013

Prompt 34 - Poetic Graf

Thanksgiving is when you really hit your stride Uncle. Ohh! I can already taste that chocolate fudge. And the turkey is so moist it dissolves in your mouth. Did your wife teach you how to cook like this or was it Nana? If they are the King Arthur of the kitchen kingdom, you are certainly Merlin. The magic you put into the food is something to behold. And then quickly after beholding, eating. And then quickly after eating, watching football with the family; holding our bloated stomachs hoping they don't burst. I can't wait.


Your wrinkled face shows no signs of aging. You would think a trial like the one you faced in the second World War might have worn you to the bone. But no. In the past, you never did talk much about the war. Like a secret sealed chest, you kept it closed, afraid that like Pandora, it would somehow get out. But lately, I've heard that chest creaking open, breaking its rusted locks to reveal wondrous treasures within its tattered facade. Grampa, you're as sharp as a tack that has been filed down on a whetstone wheel. I've got an ear, waiting, if you ever want to share those tales with the world.



Chris, where did we loose each other? Was it right after high school when we both went our separate ways? I know you as well as anyone. We were best friends. I hope we still are. You always tried to fit in, not realizing our friends and I didn't care about that. I remember planning to start a business together. The plans we made and the dreams we dreamed were as good as done. Yet now, you are as far off as an untethered ship, loosed in the night by the rocking waves. I feel as if I should, sort of, climb into a boat, sail out and bring you back to the safety of the harbor. Back to shore where we dreamed about today and called it the future.

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Prompt 30 - Her Eyes Convict Me

I have so many questions to ask her. “How are you doing?” That is the question I ask as I look at her profile picture she has uploaded to Facebook. She has a smile on her face, but it looks painted there as though when the camera's flash bulb breaks, immediately after that smile will disappear. Like a shooting star tearing across the black of space; that smile is gone as soon as it arrived. She lived out her teenage years in our home. An adopted daughter of my mother, but born to my father and a previous wife. My mother captained a tight ship, and my sister never could do as she was asked when she was asked to do it. Maybe that drove her away, maybe not. We all have our reasons. Most of them are not particularly good. Many of our actions seem admirable at the time, but we soon come to regret them.  We all harbor regret. The story of her life.

Her hair is dark as the night sky. Shimmering like silk and naturally curvy. Like the ocean, her temperament was restless. Always searching. Always running like she was being chased by a ghost. Never staying in one location, or with one man very long. Yet as I look at her photo, she seems to be finally settled. Like a shooting star, turbulent and volatile, but striking the ground and then laying for eternity at rest. I wonder. Has she found rest?

The endless searching led her straight into the arms of drugs. Hard drugs. The kind of drugs most people never come back from. Her arm almost didn't. She contracted hepatitis on a used needle. An infection caused doctors to come close to an amputation. But in her photo, I see determination on her face as well. She fought back. She has been weathered by the tempest, her face one of experience. And with experience, the ability to teach. Young girls need to hear her tale. Is she telling her story?

The room in which she is sitting in the photo appears to be a dorm like apartment. I believe she is in some sort of rehab center fighting to make a life beyond the one she has now left behind. She has gained weight too. Her face was once bone thin because of the drugs, but no longer. Her naturally tanned, Passamaquoddy complexion is evident. Once pale and gaunt, she now appears healthy. She may now be healthy, but is she happy?

We don't really speak these days. Haven't in years upon years. The anticipation of that awkward feeling one gets when there is nothing to say seems to great to overcome. To powerful to allow either one of us to move beyond just looking at photos on the web. Yet the words just won't come out. I want to ask her how she is doing. Ask her all of my many questions.  Her picture, more than anything else, says to me, “I am different now.” It says to me, “you will have to get to know me all over again.” Maybe someday I will put my fingers to the keys and ask her. I'd ask her all the questions shooting through my head.

Though her smile seems put on, her eyes tell the true story. They are deep and dark. Her body may be scarred and her face much older now than when I remember. Her eyes, however, have not aged a day, yet they carry a lifetime of knowledge. Those eyes reveal that she is still searching. Content, but still searching for a place to belong. A person who will be accepting. Those eyes convict me. My conscience asks, “will you be the one who will end her search? Will you quit being a coward and speak up?  Forget your silly questions and get to know her again!” Her photo online fades off the screen as quickly as it appeared.

Sunday, October 20, 2013

Prompt 31 - Mum

When asked, “who is the first person you remember,” like avalanche, the faces of those I love pour into my head, crushing it into jam. But sitting pretty atop that mountain of wonderful people is more often than not, my mother. I never actually call her “Mother.” I don't even use the title “Mom.” As a little bit of a Downeaster, I simply call her “Mum.” My mother is far and above, more Downeast than me, so naturally, she is accustomed to such breaches of etiquette. She raised us children with a humility that matched her own beginnings. While there are many who I hold dear, she is dearest.

My mother was born and raised in the village of Blue Hill, Maine. Much like what you read in Charlotte's Web, White could not have penned the time in which my mother grew up any better; save for the talking spiders and such. Much like myself in childhood, she did not have much in the way of what the world deems as wealth. But the life she lived, and the things she learned were seemingly more than sufficient to supply us children with a very “wealthy” upbringing.

I remember her and my father getting a divorce. You already know the whole story as theirs was no different than the ones you read about. But after that, she had to work hard to keep us fed. Work hard to keep us clothed (though much of what I wore were hand-me-downs. A trick moms use). She had to work hard to keep us warm in the winter, walking miles a day to work and back on account that she never earned her license. She worked hard, plain and simple. Necessity dictated so.

Don't get me wrong, however. I remember plenty of times in which I thought none of these things about her. You try loving someone when they are whaping your hind end with a wooden mixing spoon you bought them for Christmas when you were seven. It's hard to do unless you know you deserve it. And much of the time I did. But when you are a child, you don't understand these things. Pain is only temporary. Spankings only last for the few minutes they are administered and until you mother asks you why you were spanked and gives you a hug and kiss. Oh kisses! Better than bandaids. If you could wrap them up and sell them you be sitting down with Bill Gates holding a pen and asking him “how much?”

When asked, “who is the first person you remember,” I really do have a hard time. There are so many people that have graced my life and played such enormous roles in developing who I am as a man. But few can come close to making a man what he is than a woman. And as it was for Lincoln, so it is for me. That woman is my Mom. I remember my mother first because I knew her first. I was buried in the darkness inside her womb for nine months, just getting to know her. I remember her first because she taught me the most. The importance of hard work. Not just hard work, but hard work without boasting. She did it all with quiet humility, something I strive to match. Maybe most importantly, however, she fed me first. As a tiny baby. And on the occasional Sunday when I drive over to her apartment, she continues to feed me. I shouldn't have to tell you how good her potato's and meatloaf is. She isn't my Mother, she's Mum. And she's first.

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Week 6 - Our Dogtown

It was our sanctuary. After the sun had set, and the lamp lit streets grew silent, we grabbed our skateboard and flew down the hill toward the city. It was summertime. We had no where to go when the sun decided to rise, so we took advantage of our surroundings. During the day, we would be driven away by businesses and police alike, banned from skating most places due to some misplaced stigma that comes with the banished sport. So when those business people locked up, and the police went home, we came out of hiding.

It was like a movie. We would roll at about twenty miles an hour, carving our way down the largest hill in the city like a unbound dragon. Picking up speed we would turn sharply, cutting across the roadway and leaning into the turn. We would try and lean far enough to skid our fingers along the pavement, just like the original Z boys of Dogtown. Though in our fantasies, we were fearless, in actuality our fearlessness ended at around thirty miles an hour. That feeling of loosing control; the thought of impending injury or death slowed us down as we reached the bottom of the hill. In all of our days skating, only one of us ever conquered the whole hill, and when he did it, we almost hailed him as king.

At the bottom of the massive hill lay a bridge, and on the other side, one of our favorite spots. In a small town, particularly an old New England town, there are few places to skate. Unlike bicycles, a skateboard requires a smooth surface. A single crack or the tiniest pebble can end your ride and quickly. Brick, cobblestone, or crumbling concrete are like kryptonite for the small hard rubber wheels of a skateboard. Our city was covered in such places. We had to make due with a select few spots. And those spots were only accessible during the night time hours. The spot we rolled towards tonight was one of the best.

We skated over the three lane bridge. Its lines were worn and faded, built over a river that one hundred and fifty years ago was more logs than water due to the mills that littered the shoreline. Past the dam. It was an imposing monolith holding back the lake from before I was born, perennially making me wonder if someday it would break and destroy the whole town in a violent torrent not seen since Johnstown. It already had almost one hundred years ago. Around the homeless shelter. My sister had to stay there once, the inside walls covered in colorful paintings of children dancing over rainbows and beds around every corner of the building. Then down the street past the pub. You had to avoid the drunks that would stumble out and ask to ride your board; the red neon lights in the window alerting you to the nature of the business before you even saw the main sign.

This street was hundreds of years old. Horses once hauled lumber and ice up and down its muddy surface. Schooners constructed hundreds a year ago were built right on this very road which borders the shore of the river and were employed to to ship lumber to the West Indies. Even after the great fire, this street was a place of industry. And now, here we were, twenty first century, a group of hooligans rolling towards one of the town's larger businesses late into the night.

The tangerine colored streetlights illuminated our way as we popped onto the roadway and cruised down the center line. The smell of fish wafted into our olfactory glands, causing us to grimace in disgust.. Coming to a stop, we picked up our boards and walked up to our destination. The loading docks of a seafood company. The smell was bad at first, but after about one half hour, you didn't even notice. The concrete of the docks were so smooth. One push off with your foot could propel you the full distance if your bearings were good. Each and every truck port had a varying distance and height, making the loading docks a versatile location to practice a vast assortment of tricks. We did so with reckless abandon, giddily taking turns, one after the other, giving it everything we had.

The night waxed quickly and we soon found ourselves staring at a clock much later than we had expected to see. The old saying, “time flies,” seemed particularly relevant on these occasions. We made our way home. Past the pub, around the shelter, over the bridge, and up the gargantuan hill. The final crucible of a late nights ride. We would crash into our beds, like a drug addict coming down from a high; adrenaline giving its place to exhaustion. But we were free. Free to skate, free to go, free to be ourselves. Scraped knees, bruised shins, sore muscles. These were our battle scars. And those scars do not disappear, and neither do the memories. I often reminisce when I drive past those places where, in the early morning, we would consecrate the ground, building friendships on the cheers of a successful ride.

Monday, October 14, 2013

Prompt 26: Hospital Visits

I broke many bones as a child. I broke my right wrist jumping from my bunk bed, then a year later sprained it. I sprained my ankle causing it to swell up like a balloon. My left elbow was broken after falling out of a tree. I wouldn't stop poking an older kid with a stick apparently making him quite angry. He picked me up and threw me, and landing on my back, I broke my collarbone. Finally, to top things off, I was attacked and bitten by a chow; that's a big dog for those who don't know. To summarize, I was making headway for while on beating Evil Knievel’s record. I spent many an afternoon in the hospital back then. But after all of that, I did not return to the hospital for over ten years. Not one broken bone. Not one bog bite. I was as healthy as a hockey puck in a hurricane for over a decade. But then came the stomach pains, and I returned once again. This time without my Mom or Dad to pay for it.

I vaguely remember the times in which I visited the local hospital as a child. I can recall entering the ER and being ushered to a waiting room where I would sit in excruciating pain for what seemed like forever with a dozen other people who looked as bad as me. A lady with strings on her glasses sat behind a pane of sliding glass, a quizzical look on her face. When finally we were brought into the ER and sat in an exam room, we would have to wait even longer for a doctor to show up. I remember sitting their on a crunchy, paper covered bed, waiting. Most of your time in a hospital is spent waiting. Everything was so white. White floors. White walls. White ceiling. Even the pens the doctor wrote with were white. He wore a long white jacket and had short, white hair. You can almost go snow blind with all the white in a hospital.

My Mom would sit there next to me in a chair, comforting me as best she could. It smelled like plastic. Plastic and bleached linen. I would be taken to get X-Rays which were scary. A huge metal machine being brought to bear on your tiny little arm. And the people taking the X-Rays would take shelter in a dark room. If they are way back there, I thought, why am I out here? The doctor would set the bone and then a bright colored cast would be gooped onto my arm, wrist, or whatever, and over a month later I would return to get the thing chopped off. Not my arm but the cast.

I had not been to the hospital for a long time until over a year ago. Pains in my stomach forced me to return. Yet the whole place had been flipped inside out and upside down. I had met with a doctor and scheduled a colonoscopy to determine if the doctors tentative diagnosis was correct. Funny thing is, my dad showed up to visit with me. As a grown man, it was a little awkward to have your parent be there with you, but he wanted to come so I was not about to say no. Lucky for me though, he would not be allowed into the operating room.

The whole place looked different. They had renovated the entire building, adding on a massive new structure. The entrance was now different, the hallways were different. There were more windows, more light. But one thing remained the same. The waiting. And in the words of Tom Petty, the waiting is the hardest part. I arrived in the pre-op area after weaving my way through a labyrinthine maze of hallways that were totally unrecognizable from my past visits. I was ushered behind a light blue curtain, given a gown, and told by a very kind nurse to strip down. The curtain seemed like the flimsiest way possible to ensure that my dignity remain intact. It hung there like the drapery hiding King Kong from the theater audience, hardly an effective protection measure. I quickly undressed, putting on that gown as fast as I could. Stuffing my clothes into a tiny locker on the wall, I then sat down in a crunchy, paper covered chair. Everything you sit or lay on in a hospital is crunchy.

When they renovated, they must have realized that a little color never hurt anyone. They had added a dash of color here and there, mostly neutrals, making the whole place as least a bit more hospitable on the eyes. The doctor came in as the anesthesiologist placed the IV in my arm and explained what was going to take place. I was nervous having never been in an operation before. But nervousness soon gave way to delirium. They wheeled me through the double doors and into the operation room area. Immediately it was like being plunged into a meat locker. I instantly started to shiver in the antarctic like climate. I could feel the chemicals in my body start to take hold, making me a little goofy. There were around half a dozen people in the operating room. Each of them was calibrating something or wiring something; busy getting ready for the procedure. I stood up out of the crunchy chair and laid on the crunchy operating table. I was freezing. The temperature must have been forty degrees. Moments after I laid down, I was gone. I don't remember one single thing. It is like a thirty minute black hole in the span of my life.

I woke up feeling like a Monday morning drunk in the room where I began; that thin, blue curtain hanging in front of me. Wondering how I got there, I moved my arms to see if they were still functioning. The groggy delirium soon wore off and I put my clothes back on; quickly. The doctor told me that he believed that the original prognosis was confirmed but that a biopsy had to be done to confirm it. I left the institution feeling a sense of relief, winding my way back through the opal corridors and into the freshly paved parking lot. I had been dealing with this for some time and had waited for an answer. I hate waiting. At least now I knew what I was dealing with. It may be another decade before my next hospital visit though. I wonder what it will be like then. Maybe an espresso?

Prompt 29: Beethoven's Fifth

As my final project in an elective music class a few years back, I chose to attend a classical music concert and write a review. The concert was being held at the University of Maine Orono's Collins Center for the Arts and was to be a performance of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. Very Exciting. I had been to the Arts Center before as a member of the Maine All State Choir, a wonderful experience. But I had never had the pleasure of attending a classical music concert ever before. So as you can imagine, I had no idea what to expect. As the days grew closer to the date of the concert, I started to think like a high school girl after having just been asked to the prom. What would I wear? I need a haircut. I was prepared for a masquerade ball like the one in the Phantom of the Opera. But what I got was something a bit different.

I dressed in my best, and it should be noted my only suit. Fitted black charcoal with a blue patterned shirt; black tie of course. I was ready to be filmed. I looked good and I smelled good. I drove up to the Orono campus and began the Carmen Sandiago like search for a parking lot. Being it late November, the air was cold and crisp and a little snow covered the brown lawns and frost bitten pavement. I finally found a space what seemed like seven miles away. I locked up the car and began to walk in my shiny, black shoes toward the hall. I observed many of the other people walking in the direction I was, presumably attendees of the same show I was destined for. But what threw me off was that many of them looked like they had just left the gas station. Sure there were a few who looked the part; well dressed with a black overcoat and red scarf. Yet, many did not look as though they were attending a fancy shmancy orchestral performance, but a local McDonalds. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but the reality was not meeting my expectations.

I entered the Hall vestibule and presented my ticket to the two young college students in the booth. I then made my way through the large lobby that surrounded the concert hall in a half moon shape. Artwork plastered the walls. Everywhere I looked there were African tribal masks or abstract impressionist oil paintings. The place was borderline ostentatious. Yet the observations I had made of the attendees outside were magnified within the hall. I was comforted and reassured that I had not overdressed after seeing several individuals and families dressed in a manner befitting a classical music performance. Others attire, however, made me, a dude from Downeast Maine, feel like a first class passenger on the Titanic.

I took my seat in the hall next to a beautiful, finely dressed young girl. Now that's what I'm talking about. The show was amazing; everything I anticipated it would be musically. The infamous four note motif echoed through the hall, filling everyone with natural exhilaration. The second, third and fourth movements truly moved me as I closed my eyes, studying the music for my final paper. I let the music sweep me up and carry me with it. And when I finally came to rest, I knew I had chosen the right course. I was indeed going to have and amazing paper and presentation.

But the coup de grace, though not quite the grace part, was awaiting me just as I exited the main hall. As I made my way through the lobby and to the doors, I saw to my left what appeared to be members of the cast of Mad Max. I could not believe my eyes as I saw a couple, clad in leather, torn blue jean, and spandex, walking my way. They were speaking with someone, laughing, and generally having a good time. I thought to myself, “I never in my wildest dreams could have imagined this.” They were a living, breathing stereotype with dyed mohawks and giant earrings. I exited the building and made my way home with an entirely new paradigm. Did I judge them? No. Did I assume a little too much about who I might find at a swanky classical music concert? You betcha. And we all know what happens when you assume.

I earned an A on my paper.

Saturday, October 12, 2013

Prompt 27: The Safest Place On Earth

It is not the within the historic ivory washed walls of the White House. Neither is it deep underneath Cheyenne Mountain where the North American Aerospace Defense Command resides. No, it not stacked on top of the piles of Gold in the vaults of Fort Knox either. The safest place in the world is most certainly my home. My dwelling is filled with the things I love. Books, sports, family heirlooms, and even what we will call here, “center-fired bad guy repellant.”. More than what I need to be happy. But according to Maslow, happiness requires safety first and foremost. The darkness is all around us these days. Every day, there are new stories of violence and crime. It is easy to just let the darkness in. But my home is full of light.

I have always felt safe here. My neighborhood is one of the safest in the city. Families here are mostly lower middle class. They mostly keep to themselves and no one causes trouble. All of this creates a slice of peace and quiet not to dissimilar to the fictional village of Hobbiton. Except without all the hairy feet; save for mine of course. The crime rate is almost non-existent and when there is crime, it is limited to domestic situations and family problems. Those things, while they can have an obvious adverse affect on the community in the long term, have no direct impact on my abode. My home remains safe and secure. More importantly, because my home is a basement apartment, if someone where to break into the house at large, it would likely be the house upstairs that would be the obvious target.

But my home is not safe only due to external circumstances, but internal ones as well. As one of the one hundred million in America who actively put the Second Amendment to use, I take my safety and the safety of my family seriously. I refuse to rely on other men, however skilled and professional, that are minutes away from me when an assailant is only seconds away. I am the real first responder. Due to the touchiness of the “G” word in our society today (especially in schools, the one place where, ironically, the danger is tragically the greatest), I will leave that portion of this expose where it stands. But I will say that the presence of such tools in the home do not make the home more unsafe. Yet when used with training, safety, and proper care, they make my home drastically more safe.

Lastly, my home is a place of emotional safety too. While my primary place of emotional and spiritual solace remains my church, my home holds firm at second. I am very busy. Between work, church, volunteering, and school, I look forward to finding my way home every day. It is a relief, most times, when I walk through the door and lay down my keys and bag. I often make my way straight to either my bathroom chair or living room chair, plopping down, kicking off my shoes and turning on the TV to see if the world has ended yet. I turn on my computer, see what my friends abroad are into, and do some homework or play a game before it's lights out. Sports populate much of my time at home. As does the news. Though both probably raise my blood pressure slightly, only one typically has a positive outcome.

My home is simple. It is more safe than anywhere I know. Cut out of the earth and crammed about five feet into the soil, it has truncated windows that serve just enough light to not feel claustrophobic, but not quite enough to dispel the darkness. I have adapted, however. I have lamps and lights that compensate, filling my home with light. Darkness has a funny way of creeping in, like with the dwindling intensity of a candle. It comes slowly with the setting of the sun, sinisterly working its way from the ground up to the points of the trees. It takes people who will lite a fire to scare the darkness away, sending it slinking back into its cracks and crevasses. It was Einstein, I believe, that once stated that there is no such thing as darkness, but only the absence of light. Which makes me think; I think I need to invest in bigger windows.

Thursday, October 10, 2013

Week 5: Operation A Night to Remember

We were not afraid at all, but we should have been. Kids, particularly teenagers, don't always acknowledge the benefits of fear, and because of this, they sometimes charge headlong into danger without blinking. My friends and I were no different We went to high school during the day, but we would be there that night, as well, for an extracurricular activity, if you will. It was Halloween night, 2005, and we had retrieved two dozen eggs for a top secret mission that would leave egg white destruction in our wake. We dowsed ourselves in camouflage pants and jackets and took a picture of our expedition force. We looked like a group of underage South American militia. But we were ready for a night we would not soon forget.

What our parents were thinking I do not know. They purchased the eggs for Pete's sake! I guess they realized that there could be a whole lot of terrible activities that we could be involved in as teens and this was least among them. Or maybe they figured that they had done similar things as kids and they didn't want to “egg our bus” so to speak. But regardless of their motivations, they soon released us into the city like a pack of wild hyenas on the carcass of a wildebeest.

We left my house and made our way through the jungle streets, eager to reach our destination and carry out our Navy Seal style operation. We didn't stop anywhere but made our way straight to the staging ground. Passing the main driveway entrance of our school and working our way to the left flank, we rested for a bit just on the edge of the property. We suddenly saw something we did not expect. While we assumed that this attack would be as easy as making an omelet, there were now before us several huge obstacles. A truck, presumably driven by some sort of school staff, was patrolling around the building in a winding loop. There also appeared to be someone walking around the back with a flashlight. Things had just been kicked up a notch and the fear that had, till now, stayed at bay, entered our minds with force.

We could not go back now, so we discussed our approach. Would we work our way to the back and strike there where it was safer? No. It was not visible enough to gain attention, or even be noticed at all. Could we hit the front of the building without getting caught? The truck circled around and headed for the end of the long driveway. If we were going to make our move, we decided that this was the moment. We lunged over the railroad tracks, through the pukka-brush, and onto the front lawn. Dividing the eggs between us, we picked our targets and made ready. Some of us chose to pummel some windows while others, including myself, targeted the front doors. I whispered the countdown to everyone and on “go” we commence the barrage.

I have never seen more eggs scrambled in my life. We were like cocain addicts attending a party at Scarface's house. We grabbed egg after egg and hurled with glee at the brick edifice. We didn't do what we did out of spite, but we did it out of a simple desire to record one unforgettable moment we could point back to when we were old and gray as one of the great adventures in our lives. Yet whatever the motivation of our endeavor, the ending to this fairy tale was about to blow up.

We had almost extinguished our yoke stockpiles when suddenly, from out of the bushes a flashlight pierced through the darkness and shocked us into reality like a defibrillator to the chest. We realized within a second that the fun was over. I latched onto one last egg, throwing it at the door, and yelled “run!” We all took off. The man with the flashlight must have either been over weight or he didn't much care because we never saw him again. We ran as fast as we could back across the lawn, through the pukka-brush, and across the railroad tracks. We stopped on the edge of the property and looked back to see if we were followed. It did not appear that we were.

Once the fear and adrenaline had subsided, we all began to laugh and give high fives. It was exhilarating. Our mission was a complete success. We had even managed to save some eggs. The biggest victory, however, came in the days and months that followed. Once we had caught our breaths well enough to speak, we all swore to one another that we would say nothing; nothing, to anyone. While we had not attained the identity of the man with the flashlight because of the light in our eyes and the frantic getaway, we could not be certain that he did not see us. So for now, we would take a vow of silence, never disclosing what we had done until we could be sure that any egg crimes statute of limitations had expired. That too was successful.

I remember that night like it was yesterday. It is emblazoned in my mind. Branded on the medulla tissue. And a branding never fades. It never goes away. While I will not necessarily be purchasing eggs for my children and their friends, I will be able to point back at that night as one of my great adventures. I'm pretty sure there are still yoke stains on the wall at our high school too. Those don't fade either.

Monday, October 7, 2013

Prompt 24: The Uncomfortable Jury

It was my first time doing jury duty, and to be honest, I was a little excited. Most of the people in the room were in their thirties and up. I must have been the youngest person there. I dressed in my best clothes; a charcoal suit with a patterned shirt and tie and black shoes. I looked good if I may be so bold to declare it. Yet everyone else looked like they had either just come from work or their dry cleaning had not been finished in time. I figured better to be overdressed and look good than be under dressed and look like a pauper in the prince's court. And a court was exactly where we were.

Our case was simple enough. A woman charged her employer with wrongful termination. I had my thoughts when the trial began, but I kept an open mind, actively looking for a way out of my initial conclusions. By the end of day two, however, I was not only all but solidified in my opinion of the matter, but my butt had solidified too. The elongation of a relatively easy trail, redundant arguments, and principally the terribly uncomfortable chairs had turned what was initially a somewhat fun experience into an experience most closely related to the torture of terrorist suspects at Guantanamo Bay.

While most of my compatriots in the jury were quite vocal about their displeasure, particularly the chairs, I mostly kept to myself. I didn't want my own discomfort to drive me to a premature resolution of my opinion. I had seen the terrific movie “twelve angry men” before, and I wanted to make sure that I would play the part of Henry Fonda if the occasion arose. I took notes, payed close attention, even as I shifted in my seat what seemed like every two minutes. I was prepared to make my case. But the trial continued, as did the anguish of our undersides.

By the fourth day, two days beyond what most of us deemed necessary to formulate a fair opinion, I was reservedly exasperated with the whole ordeal. The judge seemed to be as anxious as we were and began to hurry things up considerably. I still searched and searched for a ticket out of my current position on the case at hand, but found none in the closing arguments of either side. The employer was one of the largest in the area and the requested restitution for the plaintiff was considerable. So I knew that my decision had to be fair and resolute. The judge explained our duties and sent us into the room.

For days I had studies the faces and words of my fellow jurors to find a clue about each of their positions. I had postulated that realistically, I might be one of the only people of my opinion on the case. Furthermore, I was prepared to back up my position with the many observations and fact that I had written down. Yet all my concern and pages of notes came to naught as we closed the door and began deliberations. All but one person agreed with my own conclusions. There would be no hung jury today. I was amazed.

I learned something that day (or four). I was perfectly capable of fairly assessing the truth of a matter and providing a fair verdict, even in a state of physical torment. I had doubted and questioned if I had made the right choice. I had been concerned that, based on my preconceived notions of what my cohorts opinions might be, I would be the odd man out. Turns out I was wrong about one thing, but seemingly very right about another.

We signed the paper that finalized our opinion and took it to the court room, the best part of the whole process. We had concluded that the employer was well within their rights to fire the employee. The finality of the whole thing was a little strange, however. Here this former employee would have to deal with our decision for the rest of their life, yet I would go home that day, make myself a sandwich and watch some TV in my ever so plush easy-chair. I indeed felt the responsibility of my decision, and today, I remain steadfast in my decision. I am not, however, so eager to sign up again as I was when the trial began. Thank goodness the jury pool has a five year minimum turnaround.

Prompt 20: Boys With Guns

When life was simpler and a kid with a toy gun wasn't tagged as a future mass murderer, my friends and I would play every sort of shooting game you can think of. Cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians, and definitely army. It was ingrained in us somehow. Deep in our testosterone filled boy blood. Like bacon or loud car engines. We would get that urge, dress up in camouflage from head to toe, and charge onto the battlefield of our front lawns or backyard woods. We had no fear of being taken by a crazy person or getting lost. Back then, everyone knew one another and crazy people only lived in the cities anyways. We were free to roam and free to be boys. Here in rural America, with our evil toy firearms, we learned about friendship, teamwork, and the honesty of a old fashioned gun fight.

One occasion that comes to mind took place one evening at the apartment complex where we all lived. Somehow, over the years, we had accumulated a myriad of army camo and paraphernalia. We suited up, each of us choosing whatever pair of pants or jacket fit the best, grabbed one of the plastic guns or wooden guns we had made on a band saw, and we headed outside into the late, fading sunlight. We split ourselves into two teams and headed to opposite sides of the property. My team was outmatched, however, five to three. The four on the other team were not as “experienced” at imaginary guns and convinced another to join their team to make it fair. Fine, we thought. We would have to employ some superior tactics in order to win this game. And I had just the thing in mind.

The sun was almost down at this point and our eyes began to adjust. I always had supreme confidence in my own ability to “win,” (we didn't really keep a score). Our reward was the satisfaction that came with killing the opponent. Of course, as soon as they were “dead” and laying on the ground, they would get up and run away with a ten second grace period in which they could not be shot again. Our rules were simple and mostly successful. We had no real ammo anyways. If the person across from you yelled out “bam,” you were dead. Our gun games were the poster child for the honor system.

My plan for victory would take advantage of the dwindling sunlight and inexperience of the other team. It was a location that no one would expect, where I could simply lie and wait for the pray to stumble into my trap. On this night, that spot was high up in a tree behind my friend Chris' house. It was so dark back there that no one would ever see me, even after I shot them and they lay on their back, staring up into the foliage.

I stayed up their most of the night, shooting people, usually the same people, as they would pass beneath me. I must have killed a dozen of the other team that had only four or five members. But my domination would come to an end after a few of them all charged me at once (curse their teamwork) and killed me. I pretended to fall out of my perch, slowly letting myself down branch by branch, finally reaching the bottom and dropping myself the remaining five feet or so to the grass. They stood over me and cheered and taunted which was largely business as usual. I then shot up off the ground and ran off following our spoken rulebook of a ten second grace period. They too took off in the other direction.

We finally made our way inside, a little sweaty, after a few residents called our parents and complained about the noise so late. But the damage had already been done. We tallied up kills and our team had won. Experience beats youth every time was one of the many lessons that night. Those games back then shaped us. They molded us. Not into killers as many adults are now supposing of any child holding anything even shaped like a gun. But our games helped fashion young men who understood teamwork and honesty. Lessons that stay with you longer than the sweet taste of victory from an evening of play. Though, personally, that taste stayed with me for at least a week.

Thursday, October 3, 2013

Prompt 21: The Skate Trip

It was my first time not only away from home, but away from adults as well. My friend Chris and I packed a few things into his utility van that his father used for his carpeting business, and we drove to Portsmouth, New Hampshire. It is what we called a skate trip. The weekend before summer ended and school began, we grabbed our boards and fled the state. We had no plans of purchasing any kind of hotel or motel room, and would not have been old enough to do so anyways. It was just the two of us in a van headed into the unknown. Perfect.

When we arrived in Portsmouth, we immediately headed straight for the epicenter of our skateboarding fantasies. It was an indoor skate park named Rye Airfield. Twenty thousand square feet or so of skate park glory. We spent the rest of the day there, treading every inch of the park that we dared to grind or kickflip on and sweating our butt off. As the day wore on, funds, or rather a lack thereof, pushed us back onto the streets. And the streets are where we spent the rest of our trip. It was the freedom of going and doing whatever we felt like that dilated our pupils. We were free for once, and it was awesome. Even if free, and awesome, meant no bed in which to sleep.

We realized soon after that all that freedom had made us stink to high heaven. With no place to stay but the back of Chris' van, we searched for an alternative. We settled on utilizing the Holiday Inn's pool as our personal bath tub. But we had not brought any swimming trunks, so we searched out a local Walmart. The racks of the store yielded little, however, as the only trunks we found were the left-overs from summer. A rack full of XXXL swimwear. Now I am a guy of about 5 feet 8 inches, and Chris was only a few inches taller. Yet here we were pulling up the largest shorts we had ever seen.

We went to the front desk and asked for a couple towels. They had no idea that we were camping out in their parking lot, not their rooms. We then made it to the pool and descended into the waters. Our shorts expanded with air like hovercraft pillows, taking on the shape of giant lily pads. It was truly one of the most hilarious moments of my life. The pool was more than an adequate bath.

The rest of our journey was just as memorable. The next day we ate lunch with a local rapper and his baby at their house in Lynn, MA. We grabbed the train into Boston and got kicked off the City Hall grounds. And we had a great time skateboarding all over downtown. My love of history allowed me to see our adventure as a clash of modern culture with the distant past; our skateboards rolling over refurbished, two hundred year old cobblestone streets.

We rolled into my driveway after two days of freedom with a fuel needle down in the basement below “E.” It was a journey I will never forget. An adventure that shaped who I am.

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

Week 4 Theme: The Man On The Hill

We hacked and sliced at the trees, shaping logs to reinforce our tree fort. The fort was positioned at the end of an old rock wall about 1000 feet into the woods behind our homes. The wall had been built over one hundred years ago when this property was owned by the Black family in Ellsworth. My friends and I theorized that it must have once contained a flock of sheep or something. Now it was the road that led us to our largest tree fort yet.
The fort had two parts; one on the ground with logs propped up against one of the tree’s large branches that jutted out towards a hill, and the other on the same large branch. The lower part of the fort was shaped like an isosceles triangle or wedge. Our task today was to reinforce the lower part by adding logs and then covering the surface with evergreen branches. After that we had planned to start work on the upper deck. Our plans were halted, however, by a series of strange events that are still unexplainable, even today.
As we toiled on our fort, probably the fifth one we had built in these woods, one of my friends suddenly yelled out.
Hey! Look.”
We turned to see what he was pointing at only to look upon a man standing about thirty or forty feet away at the top of the nearby hill. We all fell silent as we were nervous that this might in fact be his land we were rapidly developing. His face was obscured and slightly silhouetted by the setting sun at his back. The strangest part about him, however, was what looked like a parrot standing on his shoulder like he was a pirate. I could hardly comprehend what I was looking at. He stood there as stoic as a Greek column.
The forest fell silent for what seemed like forever until finally one of us, I forget who, said to the man on the hill, “Hello?”
He said nothing, and then walked away over the crest of the hill.
We looked at each other and postulated who, or what, this man was. We decided to go after him and find out. Less than a minute after he had walked off, we charged up the hill yelling hello into the empty woods. We spread out and took every path we knew of, which was every path that was carved into those woods. We searched and searched and searched, to no avail. We hollered and yelled but could not find the man. It was as if he had literally disappeared.
A short time later, days or weeks, there was a large lighting storm. The next day we tromped through the woods and down the rock wall road only to find that our fort by the hill had been hewn by a lighting bolt. The large branch that had supported the structure was sliced at the trunk of the tree. The fort was left abandoned.
Who was the mysterious man on the hill?



Somewhat Exaggerated:
We hacked and sliced at the trees, shaping logs to reinforce our tree fort. The fort was positioned at the end of an old rock wall about 1000 feet into the woods behind our homes. The wall had been built over one hundred years ago when this property was owned by the Black family in Ellsworth. My friends and I rebuilt it stone by stone over the course of a few summers. Now it was the road that led us to our largest tree fort yet.
The fort had two parts; one on the ground with logs propped up against one of the tree’s large branches that jutted out towards a hill, and the other on the same large branch. The lower part of the fort was shaped like an isosceles triangle or wedge. It was a huge edifice that rose twenty feet into the lower canopy. It had pulleys and cranes that allowed us to lift the heavier logs. Our task today was to reinforce the lower part by adding logs and then covering the surface with tar and pitch, making the fort entirely water-tight. After that we had planned to start work on the upper deck. Our plans were halted, however, by a series of strange events that are still unexplainable, even today.
As we toiled on our fort, probably the fifth one we had built in these woods, one of my friends suddenly yelled out, terrified.
Look!”
We turned to see what he was pointing at only to look upon a man standing about thirty or forty feet away at the top of the nearby hill. We all fell silent as we were nervous that this might in fact be his land we were rapidly developing. His face was obscured and slightly silhouetted by the setting sun at his back. He looked as if he were seven feet tall. The strangest part about him, however, was what looked like a parrot standing on his shoulder like he was a pirate. I could hardly comprehend what I was looking at. He stood there as stoic as a Greek column.
The forest fell silent for what seemed like forever until finally one of us, I forget who, said to the man on the hill, “Hello?”
He said nothing, and then walked away over the crest of the hill.
We looked at each other and postulated who, or what, this man was. We decided to go after him and find out. Less than a minute after he had walked off, we charged up the hill yelling into the empty woods. We spread out and took every path we knew of, which was every path that was carved into those woods. We searched and searched and searched, to no avail. We hollered and yelled but could not find the man. He had literally disappeared.
Later that day a large lighting storm arose and raged all night long. The next day we tromped through the woods and down the rock wall road only to find that our fort by the hill had been hewn by a lighting bolt. The large branch that had supported the structure was sliced at the trunk of the tree. The fort was left abandoned.
The conclusion we were all left with was that this “man” was in fact, a spirit from another realm.



Tremendously Exaggerated:
We used chainsaws to cut the surrounding trees, shaping logs to reinforce our tree fort. The fort was positioned at the end of a rock wall about 1000 feet into the woods behind our homes. My friends and I had built the wall stone by stone over the course of a few summers. Now it was the road that led us to our largest tree fort yet. A monster fort that encompassed the entire tree and rose three stories into the canopy.
The fort had three parts; one on the ground with logs propped up against one of the tree’s large branches that jutted out towards a hill, and the other on the same large branch. The lower part of the fort was shaped like an isosceles triangle or wedge and was a foot thick. The fort had pulleys and cranes that allowed us to lift the heavier logs. Our task today was to reinforce the lower part by adding logs and then covering the surface with tar and pitch, making the fort entirely water-tight. After that we had planned to work on the upper decks which would be our living quarters and a small kitchen. Our plans were halted, however, by a series of strange events that have haunted each of us to this day.
As we toiled on our fort, probably the fifth one we had built in these woods, one of my friends suddenly yelled out, terrified.
Look!”
We turned to see what he was pointing at only to look upon a ghastly visage of a man standing about thirty or forty feet away at the top of the nearby hill. We all fell silent as we contemplated what he might do to us. His face was obscured and slightly silhouetted by the setting sun at his back. He was over seven feet tall. The strangest part about him, however, was an eagle that stood perched on his shoulder. I could hardly comprehend what I was looking at. He stood there as stoic as a Greek column.
The forest fell silent for what seemed like forever until finally one of us, I forget who, said to the man on the hill, “Hello?”
He said nothing, and then walked away over the crest of the hill.
We looked at each other and knew that this was no ordinary man. Suddenly filled with courage, we decided to go after him. We then charged up the hill yelling into the empty woods. We spread out and took every path we knew of, which was every path that was carved into those woods. We searched and searched and searched, to no avail. We hollered and yelled but could not find the ghost. He had returned from whatever realm he had originated.
Suddenly, a large lighting storm arose, tearing through forest with a vengeance. We retreated to the safety of our wooden echelon only to see our fortress being hewn by a lighting bolt. The large branch that had supported the structure was sliced at the trunk of the tree and fell. The fort was abandoned.
We never returned to that place, haunted forever by the terrifying spirit that destroyed the strongest fort we had ever constructed.