Edd's Gatherin' Place

Rage – The American Heritage Dictionary defines rage as the following: 1.a. Violent anger, b. A fit of anger, 2. Furious intensity, as of a storm or disease. Rage of frustration, helplessness, and self-pity struck me like a lighting bolt from the sky last week for the second time since sometime in late September 2001. I went into a self-pitied, asinine rage literally wiping out my Novelette and Novel, all 16 chapters, and destroying their respective back-up disks because of my increasing inability to think coherently and continued bouts of confusion - the Coup de Grâce for over two years worth of writing.

After an extensive writing campaign on my Novelette – due November 30, 2004 – and my Novel all day Wednesday and late into the morning, Thursday raged across the landscape similar to, “The Perfect Storm.” Words raced across pages as if a herd of notoriously and dangerous rogue elephants frighteningly rampaged across an African plain directly towards me while I perched directly in front of them on the pinnacle of a deep canyon. The writing was pure garbage, inconsistently driven, deviating from plot lines, and at times looking like pure gooblygook.

Today finds me grotesquely critical of my impotency and the irrationality of my actions. Two words come to mind when thinking of the finality of destroying these works, statutorily senile. Back in 2001, soon after hearing from the Mayo Clinic of my rare brain disease, I went into the attic removed all my Journals kept since the age of sixteen and literally set them afire in the open field behind our house and then again erased all electronic entries made on my computer. Eventually a hacker friend of mine helped me restore three-fourths of the electronic journal but unquestionably, the paper journals fell to the heat of the fire.

My wife knows but now comes the disappointing and difficult task of informing my publisher. I do have a knack of getting myself in these cockamamie and constricted positions on such a sweeping regularity it’s almost comical if it wasn’t so downright bizarre.

Sure, sure she worries about me because, well, in all honesty, I tend to wander at the most inappropriate times. A condition brought on by my disease. When one of these occurrences happens, I do not have any memory of it. It is the same as having a gran mal or major seizure in which you generally fall to the ground unconscious - one of the results is that you have no memory of the episode.

One of my wandering episodes found me walking down the middle of our farm-to-market road in the fury of a thunderstorm and rain. After walking for about a mile, I began pounding on a house door asking if they knew me or where I lived. This was somewhere around two o'clock in the morning.

If you live in the country as we do, everyone knows a little something about everyone. In this case, the house I came to belonged to a lifelong friend. Jane came in a panic (so I was later told) and retrieved me to our home. More and newer medicine now keeps the worst of my wanderings to the barest of minimums.

Jane goes to bed early but if she wakes up at one in the morning and I am not in bed, she goes into a panic. I don't really blame her it is that I enjoy the nighttime with all the quiet but mundane background noise - the automatic icemaker making ice, the turning off and on of the gas-fired heater and the sound of the barn owl hooting at close to the same time every night, 12:30 AM. Now if it is raining and thundering, there is no sweeter sound than of the claps of lightening and the rain falling on the roof. Hey, even the sound of the occasional mousetrap snapping shut just knowing you have caught another one of those pesky field mice.

When getting into bed I had to listen to the proverbial “dressing” down but after 39 years of marriage, they have become less frightening than at 22 years of age. I did suggest tying a string around her ankle and mine but all I heard was, “Yeah, right!” Oh well, life continues for another day.

Sally jumped up as soon as she saw the surgeon come out of the operating room. She said, "How is my little boy? Is he going to be all right? When can I see him?"

The surgeon said, "I'm sorry. We did all we could, but your boy didn't make it."

Sally said, "Why do little children get cancer? Doesn't God care any more? Where were you, God, when my son needed you?"

The surgeon asked, "Would you like some time alone with your son? One of the nurses will be out in a few minutes, before he's transported to the university."

Sally asked the nurse to stay with her while she said good-bye to son. She ran her fingers lovingly through his thick red curly hair.

"Would you like a lock of his hair?" the nurse asked.

Sally nodded yes. The nurse cut a lock of the boy's hair, put it in a plastic bag and handed it to Sally. The mother said, "It was Jimmy's idea to donate his body to the University for Study. He said it might help somebody else. "I said no at first, but Jimmy said, 'Mom, I won't be using it after I die. Maybe it will help some other little boy spend one more day with his Mom." She went on, "My Jimmy had a heart of gold. Always thinking of someone else. Always wanting to help others if he could."

Sally walked out of Children's mercy Hospital for the last time, after spending most of the last six months there. She put the bag with Jimmy's belongings on the seat beside her in the car. The drive home was difficult. It was even harder to enter the empty house. She carried Jimmy's belongings, and the plastic bag with the lock of his hair to her son's room. She started placing the model cars and other personal things back in his room exactly where he had always kept them. She laid down across his bed and, hugging his pillow, cried herself to sleep.

It was around midnight when Sally awoke. Lying beside her on the bed was a folded letter. The letter said:

"Dear Mom, I know you're going to miss me; but don't think that I will ever forget you, or stop loving you, just 'cause I'm not around to say I LOVE YOU. I will always love you, Mom, even more with each day. Someday we will see each other again. Until then, if you want to adopt a little boy so you won't be so lonely, that's okay with me. He can have my room and old stuff to play with. But, if you decide to get a girl instead, she probably wouldn't like the same things us boys do. You'll have to buy her dolls and stuff girls like, you know. Don't be sad thinking about me. This really is a neat place. Grandma and Grandpa met me as soon as I got here and showed me around some, but it will take a long time to see everything. The angels are so cool. I love to watch them fly. And, you know what? Jesus doesn't look like any of his pictures. Yet, when I saw Him, I knew it was Him. Jesus himself took me to see GOD! And guess what, Mom? I got to sit on God's knee and talk to Him, like I was somebody important. That's when I told Him that I wanted to write you a letter, to tell you good-bye and everything. But I already knew that wasn't allowed. Well, you know what Mom? God handed me some paper and His own personal pen to write you this letter. I think Gabriel is the name of the angel who is going to drop this letter off to you. God said for me to give you the answer to one of the questions you asked Him 'Where was He when I needed him?' "God said He was in the same place with me, as when His son Jesus was on the cross. He was right there, as He always is with all His children.

Oh, by the way, Mom, no one else can see what I've written except you. To everyone else this is just a blank piece of paper. Isn't that cool? I have to give God His pen back now. He needs it to write some more names in the Book of Life. Tonight I get to sit at the table with Jesus for supper. I'm, sure the food will be great.

Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. I don't hurt anymore. The cancer is all gone. I'm glad because I couldn't stand that pain anymore and God couldn't stand to see me hurt so much, either. That's when He sent The Angel of Mercy to come get me. The Angel said I was a Special Delivery! How about that?

Signed with Love from God, Jesus and Me.

Life on the Train

A while back, I read a very interesting book that compared life to a train ride or a series of train rides.

Life is like a train ride, it read. We get on. We ride. We get off. We get back on and ride some more. There are accidents and there are delays. At certain stops, there are surprises. Some of these will translate into great moments of joy; some will result in profound sorrow.

When we are born and we first board the train, we meet people whom we think will be with us for the entire journey. Those people are our parents!

Sadly, this is far from the truth.

Our parents are with us for as long as we absolutely need them. They too have journeys they must complete. We live on with the memories of their love, affection, friendship, guidance and their ever presence.

There are others who board the train and who eventually become very important to us, in turn.

These people are our brothers, sisters, friends and acquaintances, whom we will learn to love, and cherish.

Some people consider their journey like a jaunty tour. They will just go merrily along.

Others will encounter many upsets, tears, losses on their journey.

Others still, will linger on to offer a helping hand to anyone in need.

Some people on the train will leave an everlasting impression when they get off….

Some will get on and get off the train so quickly, they will scarcely leave a sign that they ever traveled along with you or ever crossed your path…

We will sometimes be upset that some passengers, whom we love, will choose to sit in another compartment and leave us to travel on our own.

Then again, there’s nothing that says we can’t seek them out anyway.

Nevertheless, once sought out and found, we may not even be able to sit next to them because that seat will already be taken.

That’s okay …everyone’s journey will be filled with hopes, dreams, challenges, setbacks and goodbyes.

We must strive to make the best of it… no matter what...

We must constantly strive to understand our travel companions and look for the best in everyone.

Remember that at any moment during our journey, any one of our travel companions can have a weak moment and be in need of our help.

We too may vacillate or hesitate, even trip… hopefully we can count on someone being there to be supportive and understanding…

The bigger mystery of our journey is that we don’t know when our last stop will come.

Neither do we know when our travel companions will make their last stop.

Not even those sitting in the seat next to us.

Personally, I know I’ll be sad to make my final stop…. I’m sure of it!

My separation from all those friends and acquaintances I made during the train ride will be painful. Leaving all those I’m close to will be a sad thing. But then again, I’m certain that one day I’ll get to the main station only to meet up with everyone else. They’ll all be carrying their baggage… most of which they didn’t have when they first got on this train.

I’ll be glad to see them again. I’ll also be glad to have contributed to their baggage… and to have enriched their lives, just as much as they will have contributed to my baggage and enriched my life.

We’re all on this train ride together. Above all, we should all try to strive to make the ride as pleasant and memorable as we can, right up until we each make the final stop and leave the train for the last time.

All aboard!
Safe journey!!

BON VOYAGE!

Friend,

Over the past several months, I have overheard some whispered conversations between my daughter and wife but thought they were talking about her divorce and never truly eavesdropped. Although a really thoughtful husband would NEVER eavesdrop on a woman’s conversation, isn’t that correct? Levity, my wife’s always accusing me of hiding my emotions behind the flippant wit or some form of humor.

Nevertheless, the conversations have not been about my daughter but about my son. After supper last night, he asked if he and I would go for a little ride around the farm. Since they are currently harvesting soybeans and plowing under cornfields and peanut fields, I thought nothing of it just getting out of the house is a joy for me.

A long story made short – he is changing career fields in the Reserves, which upon their next rotation to Iraq will put him on the front lines. Previously he has been further back in Munitions building the bombs and missiles for the F16 fighter planes. In fact, my son with his name written on the casing assembled the first bunker-busting bomb dropped at the start of the Iraq war.

What makes this even harder for me is that I am a Republican and from the beginning have supported the war on terrorism and in Iraq. Although after Vietnam – I never served because of a loss of one aye at the age of four but became very active against those opposing the war especially individuals like John Kerry. I was even among those activists in attendance when John F. Kerry gave his “Winter’s Soldier” testimony before Fulbright’s Senate Committee on Foreign Relations on April 22, 1971. Fulbright allowed Kerry’s followers to applaud and cheer while threatening us with expulsion.

Some of my experiences growing up I wrote in a post “About Me” awhile back that may or may not explain my state of mind at the time. Although I must admit, I did change my mind later on in life about our strategy in Vietnam but by 1971 several of my good friends died fighting leaving me here alone because I could not go. My friends along with slightly over 58,000 others gave their lives for our country in Vietnam. My change over Vietnam came about not because I came to believe America and their Allis were wrong but that I became an amateur student in the study of the principals of battle. I image there existed in me a sense of shame because first I did not or could not go and second being the only one left here and alive. I swore then I would never let my son go to war – don’t ever say never.

I have had to watch my son, with an M-16 rifle slung over his shoulder each time, board a plane to fight in the Gulf War, Afghanistan, and Iraq. Each time, deep down, I’ve felt the fear of every parent sending his or her child off to war but outwardly, I’ve always supported each action because of the world we now live in. These men and women are doing the job of the military protecting the very sovereignty of our country and the lives of us left behind – every individual to include, my wife, children, grandchildren and even myself.

Friend, I am now afraid, afraid at age 59. I do not think that through any of my most harrowing experiences growing up I’ve been truly afraid until now. Not even with the heart attacks or when Dr. Chabolla, Mayo Clinic, first informed me that I had a rare brain disease have I been this afraid. In most ways, I now feel like a true hypocrite abandoning all my previous beliefs. Yes, Marines will protect his forward position but somehow that does not alleviate the gnawing knot in my stomach.

Sorry to send such a tristful and depressing e-mail but I’ve been alone all day and since my illness I tend to dwell longer on issues than I should. I’m not the quick and decisive decision maker of the past.

After running this e-mail through my Word Prediction software – the only way that I can now write although the sentences may appear stilted at times – I am mumbling whether or not to send it. If you do receive it, then I apologize for the length but more so using you as a sounding board.

Cordially yours,

Edd…