Afraid of Death?

The afternoon sun was still burning hot right into my eyes as I walked the dog. I had not walked her for quite awhile because when I do my back starts to hurt. The pain can be very intense after a twenty minute walk. Why or how my thoughts turned to death I'll never know. But they did and I will try to re-create them here. I believe in the here-after but not necessarily the Christian definition per say but definitely a spiritual world. And believing this I am not afraid to die. I would no longer be in pain. I would no longer have a foot that is numb. I would no linger be fat for a spirit has no mass. Is this something to be afraid of? Will I cry on my death-bed? I will for those I leave behind as I know they will experience a pin that no medicine will numb. I do have feelings, deep feelings that surface in agony when a friend or loved one passes away but still no fear, no anguish and no worries of my own demise. I write today knowing that at age forty-eight my life is more than half over and I will welcome my death whenever it finds me. As told in Kurt Vonnegut's book Slaughterhouse Five,
"So it goes."

"So it goes."

Mom

My Mom is the sweetest woman in the entire universe. She is always giving of her time, money when she had some and her boundless love. Mom is sweeter than honey fresh off the comb. Mom is sweeter than the homemade caramels she has been making since I was little. Mom is sweeter than the taffy being pulled in the kitchen at Christmas. Mom is sweeter than the pan of fudge that has turned to sugar. Did I mention what a wonderful person my Mom is? She is wonderful like the first snow of winter so clean white and fresh. So wonderful as a full autumn moon shining down lighting your path home. So wonderful as the aroma of baked bread drifting from Grandma's kitchen throughout the house warming your heart and stimulating your senses. Yes she's that wonderful and more. I would gladly sacrifice my life to save hers. Thank you Mom, I love you.

Vietnam

I can remember growing up in Copperas Cove, Texas just on the outskirts of Fort Hood. Home of the Third Armored Division and more. My Dad was stationed there from 1963 to when he retired in 1970. But I can't say I remember much about him during those years. He went to Vietnam twice, 1965 to 1967 and 1968 to 1970. He also was sent to some temporary deployments too. I can't remember where they were. He would be home and then gone again in what seemed like one day to me. To me he was essentially gone. Vietnam standard duty for so many of our Dads and mine wasn't any different. Most of our Dads eventually came home but we always knew that the next time they might not. Everyone knew at least one person who lost their Dad to Vietnam. It just wasn't talked about. The only talking about Vietnam was done on the news by people who weren't there or only went to make a name for themselves. I would see Dan Rather or Walter Cronkite on the news and they would talk about Vietnam or Cambodia and all the political crap surrounding those battles. Then a lonely graphic would appear about once a week during the newscast showing so many Americans dead but always emphasizing the number of Chinese was higher. Did it really matter to us kids what the difference in dead soldiers was to the Chinese? Hell no! We just wanted our Dads to come home and maybe just maybe they would be all right. Every trip I ever made to the doctor between 1963 and 1974 was at an Army hospital, Darnell Army Medical. Every time I sat in the same waiting rooms that always had wounded soldiers watching TV or reading or what ever. And most of them weren't just mildly wounded, these were men that had arms or legs missing, bandages still wrapped around their face. and casts on limbs sitting in wheelchairs. There were so many I'm sure the hospital didn't have the space for them. Did anyone ever ask me how I felt about that? No. Did anyone ever ask how I felt about my Dad being in Vietnam so long? No. Did they ever offer to give counseling? No. Did anyone even care about all those men that didn't come home or the ones that did but were missing legs and arms? No. I don't ever recall the news talking about those stories. My Dad came home one day. But I could tell in that brief period of time, he had changed. He bought a truck and a shotgun the next day. He took me squirrel hunting with that new shotgun. It was the first time he had ever taken me hunting. No squirrels that morning as the Army was doing flight maneuvers right over the stretch of woods we were hunting. Then he packed the truck and was gone. In my memory it was the next day but I am not sure. It has been nearly forty years since he left and he is still quiet about what he saw there. I am sure he will take his thoughts and memories of Vietnam to his grave. I often have wondered just what was it he saw or what were the things he did that compelled him to put in for his retirement while still in Vietnam. I do respect what he did for our nation and I respect the Army. I even tried enlisting myself but that crack on my skull kept me out (remember the brain damage post). I didn't even get the steak dinner the recruiter had promised me. But now I write my memories instead of re-living my Dad's.

Dawn

When I was in grade school growing up in central Texas, it was important to have a good wide receiver in football. Texas was all about football, that also included street football. We played all year long only quitting long enough to play some baseball too. That's where Dawn comes in. She lived about five houses down the street from my house, she could run faster than any of us and catch anything thrown her way. A natural athlete she was. She was always the first to get picked no matter what was being played. I remember her as a small to medium build girl, long blond hair, a few freckles and blue eyes. We played together for more than seven years or so that I can recall.

Brain Damage

Concussion, definition from WordNet: injury to the brain caused by a blow; usually resulting in loss of consciousness, any violent blow.

I often joke about having brain damage and usually point to a prominent scar on my forehead. This particular occasion involved 23 stitches and several more that were internal. Cracked it all the way through the skull. My brother-in-law was the first to see me, sitting on the bathroom sink blood poring down my face and into my eyes as I was trying my best to see just how much damage I had inflicted upon myself. I remember him saying it didn't look good. I can't recall if he called 911 or drove me to the hospital but I do remember being under the lights. Doctors and nurses hovering over me telling me it would be okay. Now I bet you are wondering just how did I get this nasty gash on my head. Well it started the day before while I was working at the Bonwood Bowl. I had injured my knee the day before and was on crutches. It was a Sunday morning and I was alone in the house as Mom had gone to church. I can remember it was one of the hotter days Utah had had for July in that year and Mom didn't have an air conditioner or even a swamp cooler back then. I can't recall the exact year but it must have been 1976 or 1977 since I had left working for the Bonwood before the summer of 1978. I had taken a pain pill for the knee and was trying to make a bowl of cereal in the kitchen. I was using only a single crutch to hobble about when I felt all the blood in my head leaving and the feeling of light headiness overcame me. I crashed head first into the ceramic tile lining the picture window of the kitchen. A floor fan broke my fall as I stumbled or I surely would have gone straight through the window and most surely died. It would have been several hours before Mom would have returned from church and the glass on this window was double paned. So instead of the glass slicing me up I cracked head first into the tile. Broke a chunk off too. Pretty impressive impact! I was not quite knocked out but could see in tunnel vision. I dragged myself down the hallway and grabbed a washcloth from the hall clost and my phone before falling onto my bed. I don't know why I didn't call 911. I called my sister's house. They just walked in the door as their phone rang. I was bleeding heavily and I can remember the feeling of shock overcoming me. It tingles like a nervous twitch about to run up your spine except this was all over and didn't quit. Luckily I remembered first aid training from Boy Scouts and proceeded to apply pressure to the gash and covered myself with a blanket. I stayed covered up on the bed until I had the bright idea to crawl to the bathroom and get a look at myself. That is how Greg found me, sitting on the sink trying to look at the cut. So now, some thirty years later, I can joke about this and claim I have brain damage anytime I goof something up or I feel like acting silly.

The Mountain

I remember when we were young that this central Texas hill was always called the mountain. It was really a hill, but to my gang of friends it will always be known as the mountain. The mountain stretched for almost a mile in length and was the steepest on the north side which happened to be the side we played on the most. On the top here was a large round water tower with graffiti painted on its walls. Hearts with initials, love and peace signs painted along side words of hatred. I wondered how they had painted them so high up on the walls. Below the mountain was the cow pasture that sometimes had some cows in it and always a bunch of jack rabbits. With bows acquired from the local Five and Dime Store, we would pull the rubber tips from the arrows, sharpen them in a pencil sharpener and proceed to run as fast as we could always expecting to bag a jack rabbit. Needless to say we didn't even dent the population of rabbits with our expert hunting skills. But it was the mountain that drew our attention the most as the built in playground for our war games. Cedars nestled in the rocks created our ambush points and our forts. We always had to have a fort or a base to plan missions. Vietnam was raging in the far east and since most of our fathers were there or had come back, war games was always a fun past time. Our bullets were always imaginary and never drew blood. Part of the game was who could die the best after being ambushed from behind the cedars. Bam bam bam your dead one of us would yell. The one shot would flop and crawl sometimes getting back to their feet to be shot over and over and in true Hollywood fashion die flopping on the ground hand outstretched to the sky. But in our games we have the luxury of jumping back up to play again. We could not ever picture the reality of real war. Our fathers did not share these truths with us. To this day my Dad has only told me three different stories about Vietnam, none containing any violence. He was there for a total of about four years in two tours between the years of 1965 and 1970.

Billy

I feel really compelled to share this story today of Billy, one of my best friends back in the late 70's. I really can't remember the exact year but I was driving and I didn't yet own my Z car, so it must have been 1977 or early 1978. Billy was one of those guys that was immensely popular. Totally unlike myself who didn't make many friends. We came to know each other at the Bonwood Bowing Alley where I worked and his Dad came to bowl. Billy's Dad was also an important father figure in my life at this time. Without him I surely would have ceased to live much past my 18th birthday. Billy would later work at the bowling alley too. We bowled in the Junior leagues together on Sturday mornings. We went to tournements as a team and almost won a state championship. His Dad was Japanese and his Mom was Polynesian. They were both wonderful people and shared their home and hearts with all of Billy's friends. It was this good cultural mix giving Billy his exotic look with a smile that captured everyone in its wake. The mix of the Japanese and Polynesian traits fit him perfectly. His smile was the epitome of the great personality he shared so willingly with everyone. Billy was also very athletic always ready to challenge or take on a competitor to arm wrestling. It was easy to see why he was so popular. But it would be this popularity that would land him a seat in a powerful Camaro at the hands of a driver not yet skillful enough to handle the power it produced. Billy would die in an accident on a Saturday night when the car plunged off the side of the road falling more than a hundred feet below. Billy would be thrown from the back seat so I am told and land more than fifty feet from the car. He was the only one to die that night. A part of me died along with Billy that night. We were best friends as I said before. We bowled together and played foosball together. It was our foosball connection that had drawn us so close. He played the front man and I the rear or goalie. We would enter tournaments and were really getting quite good. Billy had a great fast move that allowed us to score rather easily on most opponents. I totally quit foosball after that night never seeking another partner. I look back at this some thirty years later and realize just how much I had loved Billy in almost every sense of the word. I can't remember the exact date of the funeral but there was still snow on the Wasatch mountains and it was rather cool but not cold. The funeral service was packed as the whole school had turned out to come. I do remember that when arriving at the grave site all the cars pulled up to the curb and no one would get out of their vehicles. I stood at the hole in the ground crying by myself for what seemed to be an eternity. Billy had just turned 18. Why did this happen to him? Why wasn't anyone else getting out of their cars I kept wondering? Don't they really care as much as I do? I tore myself up with this incessant self chatter while waiting for the casket to be placed over the grave. I said goodbye to Billy that morning but have never forgotten him. Billy's father would become my surrogate father in the next few months. He metaphorically saved my life through his counsel and the confidence in my ability he shared with me. As I reflect on these days years later, I know that our lives are never really as long as they seem.