The Yankee Expatriate

I hoped to craft something witty and articulate about my experiences at The Woods, but I found myself struggling to understand and articulate just how that ten month experience has impacted me. I can say it was the single most important ten months of my life in Arkansas, in that it was the most unselfish job I held during my five years down south. I say unselfish, because the residents of The Woods are all (or mostly) elderly folks who are past being able to completely care for themselves, and the job of maintaining the building was only a small part of the equation for me. A building's heating and air systems, plumbing and electrical all deteriorate and require routine maintenance, but there is nothing personal, or particularly rewarding about fixing a light, or a leaky sink, in a building where the occupants can simply get up and leave if they get too uncomfortable, or where they have the capacity of simply dealing with the inconvenience for the day and going home. I have been in facilities maintenance for over 20 years, and in most cases, the people I serve take my work for granted, but I found the residents of The Woods grateful for every little thing I did for them, and they showed their appreciation daily. The residents of The Woods don’t have the option of leaving, and in many cases, their health and well being depended on the building systems functioning properly. Over a period of time, my services became more than just a paycheck, eventually evolving into a more personal mission to do what I could to make the lives of the residents more comfortable. Through the course of every day human interaction, the job became a labor of love, and I imagine that the nursing staff at The Woods, all of whom I have a great deal of respect and admiration for, come to feel the same over time.

The second unexpected impact working at The Woods had on me is the recognition of my capacity to care about people I hardly know. Perhaps the term “love” is too strong to use in this case, and perhaps it would be misunderstood in the context of daily life at The Woods, but certainly compassionate love describes what I came to feel while working there. When I first hired in at The Woods, I had concerns about getting too emotionally attached to the residents, as I imagined death stalking the corridors on a daily basis. I determined to remain detached, but daily interactions with the residents made that vow impossible to keep, and while death wasn’t a daily occurrence, of those that occurred during my tenure at The Woods, several moved me emotionally. There was, I discovered, no way to avoid such emotional ties, and I have learned that those deaths that affected me emotionally have strengthened me. The issue of mortality, particularly my mortality, still troubles me, but I am beginning to recognize death as a natural part of life, and if not completely comfortable with my own eventual demise, I am, thanks in part to my experiences at The Woods, beginning to value what time remains.

Finally, there’s no way to articulate the admiration I have for the staff at The Woods. From the Director of Nursing, to the bus drivers, from the housekeeping staff to the CNA's, the staff at The Woods work tirelessly to bring a little bit of normalcy to the lives of the residents who, for medical reasons, have left homes, lives and loved ones behind, and are forced to exist in an environment where much is out of their control. Working every day in that environment must be a calling, and it would take years to examine how the experience changes you over time, but some experiences leave lasting impressions on your heart, and some people you never forget. My experience at The Woods is such an experience, and the people, even more so, will be a constant presence in my mind and in my heart.

My Christmas Wish 12/17/2010

I considered writing a short story with a Christmas theme, but my muse took the holidays off and left me floundering, so rather than force the issue, I decided to share what I’m grateful for this Christmas season. The list is not prioritized, so, for example, if I write “I’m thankful for indoor plumbing” before I write “I’m thankful for my wife”, it should not be construed that I am more grateful for my toilet than my spouse. That said, the things I am most thankful for are as follows:

I am very thankful for indoor plumbing....
....Just kidding.

I’m very thankful for my wife. I am fortunate that she gets me, sometimes better than I get myself. She understands, accepts and even appreciates my idiosyncrasies, and knows that I dance to a different drummer, or what ever the hell that cliche is. She allows me to explore my passions, ask questions and examine the skeletons in my closet, and when I tumble into the dark places, she lights a candle, exorcises my demons, and shows me the way back. She gets my humor, challenges my intellect, and allows me the freedom to evolve, despite her own fears and insecurities. Being accepted and loved for who you are, faults and all, is a priceless blessing. I love you honey, now and always.

I’m thankful for my job. In today’s economy, having gainful employment is a real blessing. I’m fortunate that I can make ends meet, put food on the table and keep a comfortable house, and I recognize that a simple twist of fate could land me on the unemployment line without a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. I know many people less fortunate than I, and can’t help but be grateful for all that I have. My current job allows me to serve the needs of those who can no longer properly care for themselves, and it is humbling, and sometimes frightening to do so as it affords me a glimpse into my future. Still, I believe I serve a higher purpose by being there, and am grateful for the experience.

I’m thankful that I have the most amazing family. We’ve been through so many good times together, celebrating holidays, birthdays, weddings and a multitude of other moments, but it’s the hard times, when you know you can lean on any one of them, that make them irreplaceable. There’s no way to measure the love and admiration I have for my brothers, their amazing wives and children, my sister, my aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws, etc, etc, etc., and I’m thankful for my mother, and step father, both gone but not forgotten. I’m also very grateful for my biological father, who returned to my life after a 36 year absence and proved the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

I’m thankful for my friends, both past and present, and though the years have passed us by, and the miles have separated us, you have left your mark on me. Mark, Froggie, Belly Button, Dan, and Alex, you have all significantly affected my life in your own ways and I feel fortunate to have been a part of your lives. Shelley, you most of all, have shown me what friendship means by always being mine. For 32 years, through high school, my military service (remember when I talked you to sleep on the phone?) and a failed marriage (when I recklessly abandoned our friendship) you never gave up on me, always found a way to reconnect, and when I came back to my senses, you received me with open arms. Even today, with 700 miles between us, and the fact that I never call, you still forgive me for neglecting you. Either I am very, very special, or you are. I’m inclined to believe the latter. I am so fortunate to have you in my life. God alone knows why you put up with me, but I love you most, who knows me best.

I’m thankful for my son, who is bright, funny and has a good heart. There’s only so much you can say about a young man who has so many years (God willing) in which to grow and change. I’m fortunate to have had a chance to watch him become a fine young man, and hope to have many more years to continue watching his evolution.

I am so very grateful for my health. I’m no spring chicken, and have the usual aches and pains associated with age and manual labor, but I have escaped many of the maladies that have struck down stronger men than I. My years working among children who carry and distribute every illness known to man built in me a rock solid immune system and I can count on one hand (ok, maybe both hands, but that’s it) the number of times in the last 20 years that I was truly sick. I haven’t had any unplanned surgeries, only one minor outpatient surgery, and a blown disk notwithstanding, (c-5, whatever the hell that is) am blessed to be walking upright on a daily basis.

I’m grateful for my country. Despite the many failings of Democracy and capitalism, I am fortunate to live in the best nation in the world. I’m proud to have served her and proud and grateful to be an American. I’m thankful for our military. No other nation can boast of such an awesome volunteer fighting force. I’m grateful to members, past and present, and am grateful to and humbled by those who gave the ultimate sacrifice for our country. God bless our men and women in uniform. Your nation, and I, owe you a debt of gratitude.

I’m thankful for me, and glad to be who I am. I am not you, you are not me, we are not the same. We each walk our own road, and sometimes those roads go the same way, and when that happens, it is a true blessing.

I owe a debt of gratitude to God for giving me the many blessings in my life, and for allowing me the ability to recognize and appreciate those blessings.

Finally, I have one Christmas wish, and only one, that every man, woman and child on earth find peace in their hearts, because that’s where peace on earth begins...

....in your heart.

So, this Christmas I wish you all peace in your hearts, peace in your homes, peace in your communities, peace in your nations and peace in our world...

....but it all starts with peace in your heart...

....and so...

....this Christmas...

....I wish you peace.

Butterfly 11/20/2010

Coming up with another topic highlighting the differences between my previous life up north, and my southern experience, has been a struggle, not owing to the lack of subject matter so much as the fact that I no longer want to delve into the minutiae of everyday life here. Over the last few weeks I have discovered that the differences are insignificant compared to the bigger picture, that of the human condition, which is much the same here in southeast Arkansas as it was, and still is, in northern Illinois. The physical demands, and tools required to live this lifestyle in the woods differ from those of my suburban life, but that is where the differences end. Life here still requires that I work everyday to maintain my standard of living; I get up every day, go to work, come home and deal with the everyday issues of relationships and responsibilities. I do this daily routine with the aim of sharing some love and compassion while trying hard not to lose my sanity thinking about what was, or wishing for what could be.

I battle the same inner demons here that I did up north, proof that you can’t run away from your problems, be they internal or external, and I meet the same kinds of people here that I met up north- rich, poor, good and evil, all manner of humanity in all stages of the life cycle. Make no mistake, I am still a Yankee Expatriate, both here in southeast Arkansas and back in northern Illinois, where time and progress has erased or changed everything I knew and loved. I still have stories to tell, poetry (such as it is) to write, observations to make, philosophies to share and, as those who know me, know all to well, opinions to express. In short, rather than plotting out my next blog according to one particular theme, I’ll let inspiration take the lead, and go where it follows. My writing and I continue to evolve, and I hope you will return occasionally to watch the metamorphosis. My only fear is that the chrysalis that embodies both my writing and my inner self may never become the swallowtail I see in my minds eye. Still, I intend to pursue the butterfly within, embrace the changes that come, and enjoy the journey, which is far too short to let slip by unobserved.

Monkey's Behind The Wheel 10/24/2010

I drive a four wheel drive Jeep Cherokee, but I don’t particularly enjoy driving it on a daily basis. I do it out of necessity, obligation, and habit, but the actual act of driving on city streets does not bring me joy. I enjoy the radio and playing my favorite CD’s, I enjoy the ability to control the environment in my Jeep, four wheeling through the woods, and the prospect of getting to my destination, but the physical act of driving, and the associated psychological and emotional elements of that act, are not at all appealing. I’m proud of the fact that I drive a Jeep. It’s a manly vehicle, and does manly things like carry my tools, my hunting gear, various supplies for projects around the house, and it has a nifty cup holder for my Coca-cola and sweet tea habits. Beyond the utilitarian uses of my Jeep, the testosterone rush I get out of owning it and four wheeling through the wilderness, I can honestly say joy does not factor into the equation on the open road. I’ve heard others expound on the joys of driving, brag about the thrill of driving 150 miles per hour down a long stretch of highway, or the high they get from cruising slowly around town while folks stare at their vintage ride, but for me, once I clear the woods and hit the pavement, the fun stops.

The main reason I dislike driving around here is the blatant disregard for the Rules of the Road shown by many of the drivers who share (I use the term “share” loosely here) the road with me. Unlike myself, many of the local inhabitants, my son among them, did not have the benefit of a Driver’s Education course in high school, and I believe the lack of that course contributes to the disregard shown for the Rules of the Road, and the number of automobile accidents, many fatal, involving Drew County’s youth. One such accident claimed the life of a family member, and I can’t help but wonder if Jesse would be alive today if he had the benefit of Driver’s Education. The evidence of drivers who don’t understand or follow the Rules of The Road overwhelms me every time I get behind the wheel. It seems that using a turn signal is optional, lane changes go to the fastest car, and mirrors are an accessory for applying makeup, not a tool to be used to avoid accidents. Speed limits, especially on country roads where many of our fatal accidents occur, are frequently ignored, especially by our youth, and no one talks about the consequences of driving while drunk until after the funeral.

I cannot count the number of times I have had to make allowances for someone ignoring the arrows in the Wal-mart parking lot, or blowing through a stop sign, or rushing through the yellow light at an intersection. I mean, really, how hard is it to go ten more feet to the next row in the parking lot, where the traffic flow is designed to accommodate the direction you want to go in? Is it so important to you to get into the prime parking space that you have to jeopardize your safety, that of other drivers, and, God forbid, pedestrians, by ignoring the traffic flow arrow? How many little red octagonal shaped signs marked STOP, or blazing amber (that’s yellow) lights do you have to race through before you actually kill someone and realize that safe driving requires due diligence and a knowledge and obedience of the Rules of the Road?

I have a very clear memory of my driver’s education teacher. He was the drill sergeant of the roadways and sat beside me, foot poised over the break, while drilling into my head that traffic signals, signs and driving habits have a purpose (namely keeping me and other drivers alive), obeying the Rules of the Road is the law, and failure to obey will result in traffic citations and my having to walk everywhere. I don’t recall how many times I bordered on whiplash from the driver’s education instructor slamming on the breaks to prevent me from killing us all, but I do recall every Rule of the Road I broke preceding each of those neck-snapping events. The driver’s license exam up north lasted over an hour and was a grueling, terrifying test of memory and skill. Not only did I drive on a variety of roads, with a variety of traffic flow, signs and signals, but I also had to parallel park, merge into and out of oncoming traffic, maintain the proper speed limit and keep a safe driving distance from the vehicle in front of me. The test I took accurately gauged my ability to drive safely, follow the Rules of the Road, and recognize and obey traffic signs and signals. The fear of being ridiculed by my friends and family for failing to get my license insured that I studied and practiced enough to pass. The road test for my son’s license consisted of him driving on a deserted road by the airport, stopping at the one stop sign and keeping the proper distance from the deserted intersection, and returning to the test station. Really? This is how the local law enforcement agency, and the associated government, determines how safely my son drives? That test might have been apropos in 1850, when the local population was one thousand, instead of over nine thousand, and the local road system consisted of gravel and dirt instead of asphalt, but it is a sad test by today’s standards. A trained monkey was sent into space once, and I’m certain, if it were alive today, that monkey could pass the local driving test.

The importance of Driver’s Education became clear to me when my own son came of age to drive, and I had to teach him. The real meaning of fear is being responsible for teaching your own child the Rules of the Road, and knowing you’ll never be able to communicate effectively the lifesaving importance of those rules. I don’t have a brake on the passenger side of my Jeep, nor have a strict curriculum, nor the years of experience behind the wheel with inexperienced drivers. In short, I am no driver’s education instructor, whose skill is monitored by state and local regulators, and whose curriculum is set by the school administration. Consequently, my son’s driving education was a crap shoot, and as such, puts him and those on the road with him, at risk every day. This is no fault of his. He’s done the best he can with the tools I gave him, and I can only pray that what he’s learned, or intuited, is enough. What I really fear are those drivers “trained” by adults who barely understand, have had no exposure to, or have no regard for the Rules of the Road, and then pass all their own bad driving habits on to the next generation...

....And so on, and so on, and so on.

If this community wants to protect our youth, and reduce the number of automobile related deaths, pushing for a school regulated driver’s education class is a no-brainer, and maybe someday we’ll get there. Until then, the roads will continue to be a greater hazard than need be. Risk management of any sort involves an understanding of the factors related to the risk, and Driver’s Education reduces the risk of road-related accidents. Without proper education on the Rules of the Road, preventable accidents will continue to occur due to ignorance of, or a disregard for those rules, and with the way the local community handles the training of new drivers, we might as well have monkeys behind the wheel.

Rest In Peace Jesse, we love and miss you.

Wise Up 09/12/2010

Given the importance of the pending vote on September 21, this entry is a departure from the anecdotal nature of previous entries.

On September 21, local community members will have an opportunity to help shape the future of their schools by voting to pass a tax increase. My son graduated from Drew Central this year, and having no other children in the school system, I have nothing to personally gain by voting in favor of the increase, but I intend to do so, and encourage every community member to do the same. My vote is not a vote for my child, but a vote for your children, a vote for their children, a vote for my grandchildren, and God willing, my great grandchildren. Most importantly, my vote is a vote for the future of this nation, whose security and prosperity in a world economy hinges on the educational prowess of our youth.

Having worked seventeen years for a prosperous school district in Northern Illinois, I have first hand knowledge of what it takes to make a school district great. I have seen what the future can be for the schools of Drew County, and all of Arkansas, if local communities support the schools as fervently as the voters of district 204 supports theirs. Between 2004 and 2006, I worked as Facility Manger for Neuqua Valley (pronounced Nee-kwa), a high school in Indian Prairie School District 204. District 204 is a public school district with a challenging curriculum and excellent extra curricular opportunities. Neuqua Valley is nestled within the affluent city of Naperville, where the average annual income is over $100,000, and, in spite of property taxes that average around $6000.00 annually, homes in district 204 are in high demand, largely due to the quality of education available.

While it is true that district 204 is a premier school district in Northern Illinois, it has not always been so. Before evolving into the educational powerhouse it is today, Indian Prairie School District 204 was just a small collection of rural districts, and, much like the schools in Drew County today, those districts struggled to make ends meet while trying to provide a quality education on a shoestring budget. How then, did district 204 become one of the state leaders in education? The answer is simple. The community helped make it so, by continually approving referendums to increase taxes, and volunteering their time, thereby providing the financial and emotional support the district needed to do things like recruit and retain highly qualified teachers, make building improvements, add extra curricular opportunities, and enhance the overall educational experience for the students. Indian Prairie is a living example of a community and educational system working together to insure the highest possible quality education. They have shown that, by supporting your local schools, financially and emotionally, you produce better educated children, and better educated children help build better communities, and better communities help build a stronger nation. Given the nature of how public schools are funded, it is impossible to imagine a school district succeeding, let alone becoming as successful as district 204, without the financial support of the community, a fact that makes the pending vote on September 21 vital to the ongoing improvement of the local school system.

I challenge you, the voting residents of Drew County and Monticello, to wise up our children by casting a vote for their future, and the future of their children, and their children’s children. The cost to us is nothing compared to the cost to our children’s future, and that of our nation, for our failure to support our schools.

Doe, A Deer 08/21/2010

Here in southern Arkansas, deer hunting is a centuries old tradition and, in many cases, still an economic necessity. The tradition begins early, with boys and girls as young as four (and some even younger) joining a parent or a sibling in the deer stand. The season opens in October with archery, which is followed by muzzle load and modern gun seasons. The hard core hunters hit the woods on opening day of archery season, but the real parties begin the weekend modern gun opens. Long before that weekend arrives, cooks and caretakers begin preparing the deer camps by cleaning the camps and stocking the shelves for traditional meals like venison chili, venison steak, gumbo, and beans and cornbread. The hardy southern fare is often followed by cobblers or homemade pies for desert. My in-laws are members of a local deer camp, and the evening before opening day we join them, the hunters and their extended families around picnic tables to enjoy the outdoors, companionship and great food. After the first hunt is over and any white tail taken are cleaned, the stories of the twelve point buck that got away begin and reminiscences of past hunts are shared by the light of a campfire.

I was introduced to deer hunting by my in-laws during the first of our many trips south before making the move permanent. I woke to my first hunt at five in the morning on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving 2001, and the crisp fall air chilled me. As a veteran of many harsh Chicago winters, I suited up against the cold by pulling on long johns, jeans, two pairs of socks, a tee shirt, an insulated shirt, and a hooded sweatshirt before heading into the kitchen to join my in-laws for a steaming cup of coffee and sausage biscuits. After fortifying myself with breakfast, I climbed into my insulated overalls, coat and pulled on my winter boots and gloves. No doubt I looked like a clown next to my father-in-law, who wore nothing more than an uninsulated camouflaged jump suit over jeans and a tee shirt, but he politely refrained from laughing as he explained the finer points on handling the rifle he lent me. After the brief lesson, we climbed aboard a four wheeler and headed out into the woods, crunching through the ice that covered the deep mud holes on the trail. The wind was cold in my face, made my eyes tear up and my ears hurt but within minutes we reached the clearing that led to the deer stand I was to hunt from. With dawn still a half hour away, Don gave me a flashlight and headed off down the trail to his own stand. I didn’t know darkness until I discovered it far from the influence of suburban lights. The benefit of Don’s four wheeler lights faded, and I was left with only the narrow spectrum of visibility from the flashlight, causing my sense of hearing to triple. Being a Yankee Expatriate, everything I heard freaked me out; the wind blew, trees groaned, and something rustled in the dry leaves. All my senses told me to flee, and I expected Cujo to come crashing through the darkness to eat my brain. Parents always tell their children, when confronted with fear of the dark, that there’s nothing in the dark that’s not there in the light...

....I am inclined to disagree.

There’s a lot of creepy stuff in the woods when it’s dark and, like any frightened Neanderthal would, I took to the high ground by securing the rifle over my shoulder and scrambling up the ladder and into the stand. The funny thing about these stands is that all the creepy stuff wandering around in the dark woods like to snuggle up in the stands when they aren’t out eating peoples’ brains. So, while I settled into the seat, set aside the rifle and waited, dawn slowly crept through the woods, illuminating the shooting lanes and, unfortunately for this arachnophobe, the intricately woven web above my head...

....And the very large arachnid that occupied it.

I couldn’t say if any deer wondered out onto the trail that morning to lazily munch on the corn spun out of the feeder, because my eyes and my rifle were trained on the huge spider lounging in the web above me. Today there would be a lovely skylight in the ceiling of that stand had that spider so much as twitched. I did finally see deer during that first hunt, from a different stand, and after lining up the shot, determined the doe to be too young. Only later did I discover, to the amusement of the locals, that the white tail here in southern Arkansas are much smaller than the brute that ran over my Datsun B-210 years earlier in northern Michigan.

I have since built my own stand and it sits, surrounded by pine thickets, in a clearing not far from a creek. Every morning during the hunt I see a multitude of deer track all around the clearing, as though they throw a barn dance in the dark while I’m away. Despite that obvious show of disrespect from the white tail population, I have learned some valuable lessons while hunting. For example, if one fills a stainless steel thermos full of sweet tea and ice cubes and then attempts to pour a cup of that tea while in the deer stand, the thermos becomes a cow bell, alerting every white tail for miles around that a Yankee Expatriate is hunting today. I have also learned to come to terms with the wasps that wander in and out of the windows during the warmer days of fall, the ladybugs that contend for hiding places and the little jumping spiders that like to peek out over the edge of the window sills. I also know that a comfortable chair, a cool breeze, a full belly and warm sunlight turn a deer stand into a nap stand, (which might explain why I’ve only taken two white tail in nine years) and that the glass jar in the corner is to pee in, not to drink from.

I won’t use this forum to debate the ethics of hunting. The reality is that many local lower income families benefit from the game they take during the hunting season, and while I am not an advocate of trophy hunting, that is, hunting for the sake of hanging horns on the wall or putting a stuffed bear in the den, here in the rural south hunting puts food on the table. Hunting has put food on my table, reducing my dependance on store bought beef as one white tail doe provided enough ground venison, venison steak and venison roasts to supply my family for a year. In an economy where many of the laborers make little more than minimum wage, the money saved by taking local game adds up. The children of the working poor here don’t understand the complex issues of wildlife population control, legal rights and animal activists’ concerns for the ecological welfare of the environment. They only know that somehow there was finally enough money for new shoes and school supplies, and their full bellies don’t care where the food came from.

Recently, in the pre dawn, I’ve noticed a slight drop in temperature suggesting that very soon the warm winds will give way to cooler breezes and frosty mornings, and with the seasonal change, excitement among local hunters will mount as the coming fall heralds the arrival of the hunting season. Four wheelers will be tuned; bows, muzzle loaders and rifles will be sighted in and tested, and new recipes will be created in anticipation of opening day. I have looked forward to November for years, anticipating our drive to southern Arkansas, the good southern cooking, the companionship of my in-laws and my wife’s extended family, and opening day of deer season. Today I’m happy in the knowledge that the long drive has been reduced to the ten minutes it takes to get to my in-laws house.

I acknowledge the fact that many people, for many reasons, find the act of hunting barbaric, and I support their right to refuse to participate and conscientiously object in whatever legal way they choose. Those objections notwithstanding, when October arrives I, like the pioneers who settled this land and their descendants who still live here, will hit the woods in the hopes of taking a white tail. Barbarians we may be, but with a little luck and a steady hand we will be well fed barbarians.

Editors Note: No white tail deer were harmed in the writing of this blog.

Sons Of Guns 08/01/2010

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The second amendment to the constitution guarantees American citizens the right to bear arms, and in southeast Arkansas exercising that right is an indispensable part of the culture, embodying traditional values that span generations. Southern guns are not just tools, they are also cherished heirlooms representing a lifestyle that harkens back to the frontier when firearms provided both safety and sustenance. Unlike many of my southern friends and neighbors, the culture of my youth excluded firearms with one fateful exception when, on a snowy Christmas morning, Santa Clause left four Daisy bee-bee guns under the tree. The arrival of those Daisy’s on that Christmas morning, 1978, marked the beginning of the infamous bee-bee gun war and, as my three brothers and I unwrapped our guns and bundled up for the cold, our excitement barely contained, we solemnly promised our parents to shoot only pop cans and paper plates.

Yeah, right.

I don’t remember who fired the first shot but within moments of stepping out into the frozen tundra, the backyard became a battlefield. Shouts of “I got you!” and “Did not!” rang out, and the steady clacking sound of the cocking lever preceded the air popping retort as a barrage of bee-bees sped on their way to various living targets. Our thick winter coats acted as Kevlar vests causing the rounds to bounce off harmlessly, and although childhood warfare is barbaric, the standard code of martial conduct demands a strictly enforced “no face shots” rule, with “time outs” permitted for reloading.

American child combatants are civilized that way.

The Bee-Bee gun war raged on for two more days and I’m pleased to report that injuries were minimal. Despite the warning, “You’ll shoot your eye out, kid,” given to Ralph by Santa in the cult movie classic A Christmas Story, no eyes were lost during combat, but hostilities were eventually halted by superior forces, namely our parents. That intercession resulted from a report by an unknown (and presumably Communist) source that the youngest combatant, who had taken up a sniper position on top of the shed, fell off the roof when struck in the forehead by a well placed bee-bee. Sources on the ground deny the event took place, but the physical evidence, namely the bruises on our youngest brother, was overwhelming. Consequently, and despite the objections of the combatants who protested that they were merely engaged in peace time “maneuvers,” a treaty was “negotiated” that included permanent disarmament. So ended the bee-bee gun war and my first exposure to guns.

Here in southeast Arkansas the natural developmental stages for children are: birth, speech, shotgun, then walking, or so it would seem, and in 1980, as southern youth were being weaned on shotgun, I, as a newly emancipated eighteen year old, was introduced to modern firearms by the United States Air Force. For the Air Force, a working knowledge of firearms consisted of a brief classroom review of the M-16, where we read a small handbook and studied a derelict M-16, no more than a relic that lay in pieces on a table. When the time came to fire the M-16, we found the guns were modified to shoot a .22 caliber bullet. Unlike the more aggressive military branches, like the Marines, Army, Coast Guard and Boy Scouts, the United States Air Force didn’t feel it necessary to waste time on weapons training. Having sensed this lack of interest, I was certain that if America went to war during my enlistment, the Air Force wouldn’t be involved. Why else would they spend so little time on basic firearms training? Despite Uncle Sam’s attempt, through inadequate training, to leave me for dead on the flight line of some foreign country, I managed to score high enough to earn the Sharpshooter ribbon. I would feel proud of that accomplishment if not for the fact that an eight year old southern girl could have done the same.

Today, like my southern friends and neighbors, I own several guns, including two muzzle loaders, heirlooms I received from my father. Although I wasn’t born and raised in this culture of the gun, owning my father’s guns is like having a part of him with me. I love those guns, the way they feel in my hands and the connection they give me not only to my father, but to the past. When I heft my Lyman Great Plains rifle and sight down the barrel, I can sense my father’s presence, can imagine the times in his life when he raised this very gun, and I feel a connection to him and to the men and women of history who tamed this land with similar guns. Perhaps that is how it feels to those raised on shotgun. As an outsider I may never know, but I do know America’s freedom from Great Britain was bought with the gun, and today, as throughout the history of this great nation, American soldiers, many of them citizen soldiers, continue to defend our way of life with them. How many countless battles over the centuries have been fought and won by citizen soldiers? Long before governments could afford to arm the militia, ancient history records that warriors, from peasants to Knights, called into service in defense of their homeland, were required to provide their own weapons, with the poorest soldiers often going into battle with nothing more than hoes and scythes. Yet the day may come when our government demands we disarm, and if the American citizen complies, it will mark the beginning of the end of American freedom. This southern culture, the culture of the gun, is as American as any symbol created by man, and I am confident that regardless of the laws that exist, or may yet be written or repealed, this culture will not (and should not) readily relinquish their guns.

Thirty years ago I took an oath to defend this country from enemies, both foreign and domestic. I hold true to that oath today, and I’m confident that the patriotism I felt when I took that oath, and still feel today, lives in the hearts and minds of my southern friends and neighbors. Terrorists do not have a monopoly on guerrilla warfare and my friends and neighbors here are every bit as well armed, and every bit as ready to lay down their lives for this country. If this country’s leaders are wise enough to respect this culture, and if the time ever comes that an enemy appears on American soil, these sons of guns will stand and deliver.

So, Bring it on Osama, we’re waiting.

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The Arthropod Barbecue 06/29/2010

There are many religions that value the sanctity of life, and not just human life but the life of all living things. The spiritual treatises of many religions call for man to respect, if not revere all of creation, from trees and flowers to turtles and birds, and yes, even insects, those stealthy inhabitants of the dark places of the world whose role in the cycle of life goes largely unheralded. The abstention of harming sentient beings is a principle tenet of Buddhism, “Thou Shalt Not Kill” is one of Christianity's Ten Commandments and, although I claim no religious affiliation, I adhere to that Christian commandment because Christianity is the predominant religion in American culture. I apply my belief in the sanctity of life to every living thing around me and, despite the dangers posed by their overwhelming numbers, and the potential of many of them to inflict injury, insects (known as arthropods) are included in my sphere of benevolence. In short, arthropods are people too, so I tread lightly outdoors and try to respect the insects right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, even when that happiness involves rolling a ball of dung across the yard. I give due honor to the insects’ role in the cycle of life; the birds and bats feed on the flyers, the armadillos, skunks and other land animals feed on the crawlers and the spiders feed on them all. The sheer number of insects attest to how important their role is in the ecosystem and, sadly for them, they are at the bottom of the food chain.

My northern exposure to hazardous insects is limited to the few mosquitos that had the nerve to bite me while I mowed the lawn and the occasional tick that hitched a brief blood sucking ride during a nature hike, so imagine my surprise when, upon settling into my woodland homestead, I discovered the true potential dangers associated with insects. Three insects stand out as exceptions to my no-kill rule: ticks, assassin bugs and fire ants. The ticks are abundant here, Rocky Mountain Spotted Tick fever is nothing to scoff at (ask my mother-in-law, she’ll tell you) and over the course of any given summer I have pried a fair few out of my skin and applied the flame of retribution, that is to say, I burned them with a lighter, but the little blood suckers are only nuisances when compared to the other two insects on my “right to ruin” list.

Close behind the ticks are the fire ants who inhabit every square inch of my homestead. Now, I draw a firm line when it comes to ants invading my home. I don’t wander into the ant colony, eat their food and hit on the queen, saying things like “Nice thorax baby! What are you doing after the picnic?” So, I find it decidedly discourteous of them to take such liberties in my home. Thankfully, the fire ants have been gracious enough to remain outdoors, though their outdoor lifestyle has not kept them from inflicting their justice on me for invading their territory. One of the tell tale signs of a fire ant bite is the burning sensation they produce while chewing on and stinging you, and all it takes is one ant to send out the pheromone signals and every ant within sniffing distance joins in the attack. Oddly enough, I seem to be immune to this sensation, despite the evidence that suggests no less than a dozen ants were merrily munching on my flesh. My most recent encounter with these industrious little killers occurred while working on my deck. My awareness of the extent of my injuries began with the observation of a multitude of tiny red spots on my ankles. Over the course of a few days, the spots spread around my ankles and up my legs, their numbers dwindling to one or two as they crept up to the middle of my chest. It wasn’t until the spots began to develop into little fluid filled blisters that the fun began. The itching and burning sensation had my brain bordering on insanity. I’m on my third summer with the fire ants, my third year of living with the consequences of invading their territory, and I still haven’t figured out how to avoid being the main course at the fire ant picnic. While the fire ants linger in the daylight, waiting for me with open pincers, in the dark of night an even more insidious insect, the aptly named Assassin bug, stalks its prey.

That would be me.

I have had two skirmishes with the assassin bug and do not desire a third. It is my habit, in the evenings when taking dogs out, to capture and release when possible, any flying insect that happens to follow me back inside. Survival indoors, with dogs who consider moths and crunchy June bugs delicacies, is improbable, so my belief system demands that I return these critters to the great outdoors where they belong. (not to mention the fact we don’t want them crawling all over us while we sleep) I have proudly captured and released a multitude of unidentified flying arthropods without incident so thought nothing of scooping up the little critter with the orange edged wings. Now anyone with knowledge of the role color plays in the animal kingdom can tell you that red and orange are typically associated with danger. I’m sure I heard this warning somewhere before but somehow my brain dismissed it as I wrapped my loving fingers around an assassin bug. The encounter began simply enough, with the little critter cupped in my hand, but as I turned to the door for the quick release, one of the most excruciating pains I have ever felt pierced the pinky tip on my right hand. The assassin bug I held must have been on a suicide mission and after it stung me I was only to happy to help it on its way. I slung it to the floor and danced a tango on its head while raging in pain and shaking my hand. My wife thought I was having a heart attack but managed to discern, through all the expletives, the words “it bit me!” The dogs howled and barked while I ran around the room, shouting, swearing and shaking my hand and my wife scooped up the bug to examine it. I ran to the kitchen, grabbed an ice pack, pressed it to my pinky and slowly the pain receded, only to return again when I removed the pack to examine the wound.

More swearing, more screaming.

Meanwhile, my wife the naturalist, gingerly holding the now deceased assassin bug, consulted one of the many reference books we have on insects, a “must” have if you live in the woods, and read aloud the description of the assassin bug and the excruciating pain associated with its sting.

Yeah, I kinda got that last part.

The book said I would live, though the pain in my pinky argued against the likelihood, and after about an hour, the pain ebbed into a tolerable throb. We consigned the deceased assassin bug to the darkness, wherein it would be consumed, and I committed to memory the image of the assassin bug, vowing to conveniently set aside my principles should another one get in the door. It’s a tough call, deciding which insect I would rather deal with on a regular basis. The tick bite is tolerable, and the lesser of three evils provided the bite isn’t laced with Rocky Mountain Spotted Tick Fever. The fire ant bites are numerous, long lasting and itch like hell, but the pain pales by comparison to the sting of the assassin bug. The question is purely academic because nature has predetermined that, when summer comes, I’ll continue to be the main course at the arthropod barbecue, and as for my theory that insects are at the bottom of the food chain, I know now that I was mistaken. Insects are not at the bottom of the food chain around here...

....I am.

The Ferryman 06/10/2010

I heard the call come over the Public Address system of the hospital; “Code Blue ICU! Code Blue ICU!” and watched emergency responders careen down the hall, propelling crash carts before them, their medical bags bouncing on their shoulders as visitors and patients alike flattened themselves against the walls. Hot coffee splashed, provoking a curse from one visitor while I.V. poles tethered to the scrambling sick and injured clanked and rattled in the wake of the passing medical staff. Paramedics, firefighters and nurses run amok in my family. I know what “code blue” means - The Ferryman cometh; that mythological Greek god that will, for a fee, transport the dead across the River Styx. Somewhere down the corridor, a beating heart faltered, and as frantic efforts ensued to restart the heart, The Ferry Man waited for his charge, doctors, nurses and medical ingenuity the only thing standing between him and another soul. Knowing that a clean up typically follows a crisis, I instinctively made my way to the Intensive Care Unit, wondering as I went who it was The Ferry Man came for, hoping it wasn’t someone I knew, but knowing, in a small town like this, the odds favored otherwise. I walked into the ICU and was relieved to find that I missed the action. The result of the code wasn’t immediately obvious to me until I overhead the doctor speaking to a nurse and noticed several other nurses quietly moving about in the room. A quick glance into the room confirmed two things; the code went bad, and I didn’t know the poor soul who passed.

As I stood apart, unsure of what to do, I realized someone was speaking to me. The request was simple. Please clean up the blood on the floor before the family comes in. I immediately understood the importance of that simple request. Who among us wants to face that moment of mourning with the evidence of their loved ones traumatic passing so evident? I did my duty as the nurses did theirs. As they pulled up the blankets, and tended to the necessities with tender compassion it struck me that they must have done this a hundred times. Maybe a thousand, and still they carried out the task as though tending to their own kin. I moved out of the room as the family came in, first by ones and twos, then in groups of four or more. I listened to the nurses murmur condolences and watched them slip quietly away. They didn’t stray far, were always within earshot, watching, waiting, ready to provide whatever support they could to the grieving family. I felt a pang of sadness myself, as memories of loved ones lost were stirred by the moment, but the sound of someone else’s real grief startled me out of my reverie, as, one by one, the family began to express the emotion of loss. Voices began to rise, tears began to fall, and as I moved out of the ICU and back into the corridor, more people poured into the ICU. One man trailed close behind me as we entered the hall, the grief overcoming him at last, and his soft sobs turned into wails that would break the hardest of hearts. The wails faded as we drifted apart, he to the waiting arms of family, I to my duties. For several hours, the family of the deceased came and went. Tears were shed, discussions were had, plans were made and through it all the medical staff stood ready to advise, assist, console. Television and theater don’t do the medical profession justice. You have to see it, hear it, feel it for yourself to understand the kind of character it takes. Healing the sick or injured is the easy part. Helping the living understand their loss is not so simple. It takes a special sort of person to be a nurse, or a doctor. You need a special sort of soul, and a special sort of heart; a heart that’s both stout and gentle, cool enough to handle the ugly stuff, and warm enough to hold the hand of the grieving.

This entry contradicts the purpose of this blog in that it doesn’t celebrate differences. This entry honors those who fight to keep The Ferry Man at bay. It celebrates those who deny The Ferry Man his due, at least for a little while, and when he will be denied no longer, it celebrates those who continue to help heal the living souls the Ferry Man leaves behind.