Chapter VIII : Matilda and Me

Posted on October 24, 2008 in: life

All is well on the Midwestern front this brisk, rainy autumn eve in my wonderful home. The Elm tree is finally just about bare, and soon very soon my yard will be leafless. They’re calling for snow flurries over the weekend, which is just what you expect here in my hometown. It’s one of those odd cities in America where we do still get four seasons, however every year Summer and Winter seem to last longer and come earlier than ever. Oh but yes, soon, and very soon the snow will blanket the ground and Old Man Winter will show his face to the Buckeye State once again.

It should be a quiet weekend at home with the wife, the two felines and Matilda, our Welsh Corgi. There are plenty of songs to be sung, drinks to be had and moments to be shared. Its the perfect weekend to curl up on the couch with a cup of hot cocoa, a decent book and celebrate life.

Now I make mention of the other members of our home, the real rulers of the roost if you will. There is of course, my wife’s pride and joy, our six month old Welsh Corgi, Matilda. She very well may be the most rotten thing you’ve ever laid eyes on, however it’s impossible to stay angry at her, with her large ears that look slightly like over sized elm leaves, her short stubby legs - like the legs on my grandfather step stool, or the stub to where her tail used to be until it was docked as a baby. Many a nights, Matilda, or Maddie if you will, have spent in this very room of our home, rounding out the midnight hours as my wife dozes to sleep in the other room. I know Maddie is sleepy, she can barely hold her head up, her ears lose some of the perk that they had just hours ago, but she keeps her eyes on me - being sure that she doesn’t miss a moment of our time together. If I catch her dozing off, she’ll quickly lift her eyes to look at me, sort of how my grandfather did all those late nights on the farm. After a hard days work, all he would want to do was be in the same room with me as I watched TV. He couldn’t stay awake, but he did. Because he cherished his time with me. I tend to believe Matlida cherishes her time with me.

We tend to have one sided conversations about a great flurry of things, ranging from the Boston Red Sox, to theology to politics (although, I tend to believe Matlida very well may be liberal. She’s just afraid to tell me). She just stares at me when I talk, with her tongue hanging slightly out of the side of her mouth, sort of like “Ed” from “The Lion King”. We share a special bond. She is my dog. I am her master. She is loyal, through and through. With everything that has happened in my life in the last several months, her loyalty means a lot.

As I suspected, The time has come and Matilda no longer seems to want to discuss the long debated, and oft on my mind topic of “How does Socialism fit into the Kingdom of God here on earth”. It’s time for us to end the night. Here eyes are heavy. Her ears have fallen - and right about now I know she’s thinking, “Dear God, can we just talk about baseball again?”

Oh Matilda.

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(Editorial) Wallis on The Election

Posted on October 24, 2008 in: Editorial, Politics

Jim Wallis has issues his list of “Faith Issues” for the 2008 election. I can’t say that I disagree with him. I do think however, he may be a little too broad, especially in the issue of life.

I. With more than 2,000 verses in the Bible about how we treat the poor and oppressed, I will examine the record, plans, policies, and promises made by the candidates on what they will do to overcome the scandal of extreme global poverty and the shame of such unnecessary domestic poverty in the richest nation in the world. Such a central theme of the Bible simply cannot be ignored at election time, as too many Christians have done for years. And any solution to the economic crisis that simply bails out the rich, and even the middle class, but ignores those at the bottom should simply be unacceptable to people of faith.

II. From the biblical prophets to Jesus, there is, at least, a biblical presumption against war and the hope of beating our swords into instruments of peace. So I will choose the candidates who will be least likely to lead us into more disastrous wars and find better ways to resolve the inevitable conflicts in the world and make us all safer. I will choose the candidates who seem to best understand that our security depends upon other people’s security (everyone having “their own vine and fig tree, so no one can make them afraid,” as the prophets say) more than upon how high we can build walls or a stockpile of weapons. Christians should never expect a pacifist president, but we can insist on one who views military force only as a very last resort, when all other diplomatic and economic measures have failed, and never as a preferred or habitual response to conflict.

III. “Choosing life” is a constant biblical theme, so I will choose candidates who have the most consistent ethic of life, addressing all the threats to human life and dignity that we face — not just one. 30,000 children dying globally each day of preventable hunger and disease is a life issue. The genocide in Darfur is a life issue. Health care is a life issue. War is a life issue. The death penalty is a life issue. And on abortion, I will choose candidates who have the best chance to pursue the practical and proven policies which could dramatically reduce the number of abortions in America and therefore save precious unborn lives, rather than those who simply repeat the polarized legal debates and “pro-choice” and “pro-life” mantras from either side.

IV. God’s fragile creation is clearly under assault, and I will choose the candidates who will likely be most faithful in our care of the environment. In particular, I will choose the candidates who will most clearly take on the growing threat of climate change, and who have the strongest commitment to the conversion of our economy and way of life to a cleaner, safer, and more renewable energy future. And that choice could accomplish other key moral priorities like the redemption of a dangerous foreign policy built on Middle East oil dependence, and the great prospects of job creation and economic renewal from a new “green” economy built on more spiritual values of conservation, stewardship, sustainability, respect, responsibility, co-dependence, modesty, and even humility.

V. Every human being is made in the image of God, so I will choose the candidates who are most likely to protect human rights and human dignity. Sexual and economic slavery is on the rise around the world, and an end to human trafficking must become a top priority. As many religious leaders have now said, torture is completely morally unacceptable, under any circumstances, and I will choose the candidates who are most committed to reversing American policy on the treatment of prisoners. And I will choose the candidates who understand that the immigration system is totally broken and needs comprehensive reform, but must be changed in ways that are compassionate, fair, just, and consistent with the biblical command to “welcome the stranger.”
Healthy families are the foundation of our community life, and nothing is more important than how we are raising up the next generation. As the father of two young boys, I am deeply concerned about the values our leaders model in the midst of the cultural degeneracy assaulting our children. Which candidates will best exemplify and articulate strong family values, using the White House and other offices as bully pulpits to speak of sexual restraint and integrity, marital fidelity, strong parenting, and putting family values over economic values? And I will choose the candidates who promise to really deal with the enormous economic and cultural pressures that have made parenting such a “countercultural activity” in America today, rather than those who merely scapegoat gay people for the serious problems of heterosexual family breakdown.

Yes, the health care issue needs to be addressed, but which is better?

Yes, the genocide in Darfur is terrible. How do we address it while already engaged in two wars?

How do we, with a stance against war, battle the genocide?

I don’t think anyone, Christian or Non-Christian would disagree totally with Wallis. I just think the issues are touched, but without any sort of resolution. In fact, it actually compounds the issue of confusion regarding who I am going to vote for, if anyone.

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Found on YouTube : This Too Shall Be Made Right

Posted on October 23, 2008 in: Uncategorized

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Chapter VII : The Red and Blue Afterglow of October

Posted on October 19, 2008 in: life

All is well in the midwestern front. The leaves on the trees have all turned and are now littering my front lawn. My old Elm tree serves as a reminder that work does not end at 6:30 when I clock out from my job. In fact, work is only beginning.

It’s October in Ohio (as I suppose it is in the rest of the world). It’s not just any October though, it’s October - in an election year, in Ohio - the swing state.

I can’t help but be completely turned off to politics at this point in time. Being asked if I support the Old Guy with Yellow Teeth or the Young Guy with Big Ears is like asking which way would you rather die, being tickled to death or dying of laughter. They both cause the same result in the end, it’s just one is a little less invasive.

For the first time that I can remember, I’m going into November with entirely no one to vote for. I may only vote for the issues this time around.  Even on those, I’m so confused. Do I want a casino in Ohio or not? I tend to think I do, if only to keep those gamblers in Ohio from going to Indiana or Michigan or West Virginia to engage in dirty deeds done dirt cheap. It really has nothing to do with the morality of it all, or even the taxes - but more so in saving a life. I figure the more stupid Ohio drivers I can keep from leaving the state, the less casualities will be caused on foreign highways.

Yes, it’s campaign season. There is nothing more divisive than politics I’ve discovered. Politics is much more divisive than religion. I must say, as a youngster, I was always intrigued by politics.  I was always intrigued by religion as well, I would assume. I’m pretty sure as a child, my purpose in life was to grow up and be divisive - however, being entrenched in both at such an early age has left me more indecisive.

I was a homegrown Republican. I grew up in a home where I was lead to believe that Mt. Rushmore had the unmistakable busts of Abraham Lincoln, Ronald Reagan, Clint Eastwood and Jesus.  There was nothing at all wrong with the way I grew up, or even those convictions of my folks. It was definetely a conservative home. I grew up thinking the Clintons were the most terrible people in the world and the only thing that was to be respected with the word “democrat” in it was “The Putnam Democrat” newspapper my grandparents got every week in the mail.

Now, I’m not so certain it’s the right life for me. Being so engulfed in politics. It’s made me a very bitter person and has even made me look at those that I respect - who view things differently than I - with a hint of disgust.

So, for now, I’m going to turn off the TV. I’m going to to turn off the radio. I’m going to pop in that old album that I haven’t heard in years and wave at my neighbor - the one with the donkey sign - and let them know I wish them well. I’ll help my Republican friend move into a new home.  I’ll ignore maps that depict the United States as Red and Blue.

And come that Tuesday in November. I’ll go to the ballot and vote. Not for Ol’ Yeller Teeth. Not for Big Ears.  Not for anyone. That’s the best change I can think of.

(Just kidding, you know I’m totally voting for the old dude.)

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Chapter VI: Cincinnati

Posted on October 14, 2008 in: life

There are some people in life you just never forget. Many people have impacts on your life. Some in big ways, like teachers, pastors, Nitro from American Gladiators. Then there are those who have those subtle little impacts on you. You may not realize it at the time, but they shape you in a way you wouldn’t expect.

For me, one of those people was an old man from my hometown in Beckley. I don’t even really know his name. I’m not sure if today I could pick him out of a lineup, but I remember him.

I was probably only about 14 or 15 years old at time, working at a soup kitchen our church put on in the coffee shop where our church met. (Confused?) He was sitting in the corner playing checkers. Playing checkers with my mom of all people.

He was big and thick, gray hair peaking through his Cincinnati Reds hat. In fact, that’s what everyone called him. Cincinnati.
Every Tuesday afternoon, Cincinnati would stroll into the old department store that was now a coffee shop (that was then a church - which later became a gay bar - and is now a hole in the ground, but that’s a different story for a different day, any who as a I was saying…)

Cincinnati would stroll into the old department store, get some food from the counter and sit down in the corner for his weekly checkers game with my mom. It was through mom I learned an awful lot about Cincinnati.

I learned he was a Cincinnati Reds fan (not that the hat and jacket were any indication). I learned that, unlike the majority of people who came into our soup kitchen, Cincinnati wasn’t homeless. He lived directly above the Water Company in an old apartment. He was single, never been married, never had any kids. Just kind of a loner. He worked for the courthouse, cleaning in the evenings, and spent a lot of his time, walking around downtown with his headphones on, listening to… what else… Cincinnati Reds baseball.

I often wondered what his apartment must be like. Would it be a shrine to the Big Red Machine of the 70’s? Would it be a giant checkerboard with different furniture sitting in different squares? Possibly bunkbeds in the backrow, where the piece had been “Kinged”? Perhaps would it tell a different story?

Would it possibly tell the story of an older, white haired man who had been in the War, fighting for freedom, fighting for something he believed in? Or perhaps, it may be full of books, shelves upon shelves of books, like William Forrester’s apartment in the movie?
And just what did he do in the courthouse after hours when he was in there cleaning? Could the courthouse possible get dirty enough that it would need cleaning for 8 hours a night, every night except for Sundays?
Maybe he spent his time searching through Public Access information, looking for dirt on the latest politician to try to gain his start. Maybe he was looking over the voting records of every person in the county. Who knows… Maybe he was hosting a giant checkers party and gambling ring on the county government’s dime.

Cincinnati made an impact on me though. It was subtle, something so slight as looking at people differently. In a different light. Like maybe, just maybe, everyone had a story to tell - and they were just waiting for someone to tell it for them.

It leads me on an introspect of sorts, thinking of my story. What will the chapters of my life truly be like? Will it be a comedy? Or a tragedy? Who will be the minor characters? The major? Will my setting change? Or will I adapt more and more to this midwestern mentality? Will it be short? Or long?

I’m not really sure. I’m not sure I care to know. Just as it is no fun to read a story when you already know the ending, it’s even worse when you play the lead role.

It’s been years since I’ve seen Cincinnati. I’m not sure where he is today. Things changed. The city came in and tore down the Water Company, which also tore down his apartment. They came in and tore down the soup kitchen too. One thing I know for sure is - he still listens to Red’s games… and he probably doesn’t like Dusty Baker, either.

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Chapter V: The Red Headed Whore, Autumn

Posted on October 9, 2008 in: Uncategorized

Things have been somewhat calm here on the Midwestern front. Fall is gently moving in to town. The leaves are changing to a lovely shade of red, then to a different hue of orange and finally jumping off the branch to the dreadful brown death that they are so destined for. Such is life for the fine piece of foliage who awakens our spring, shades us in summer and leaves us cussing as they litter our lawn like a million little peaces of candy wrappers. They once provided such great joy for us, and now all that’s left is the clean up.

 

Old men are turning on their leaf blowers to clear the natural debris from their yard to their neighbor’s yard - the neighbor without the lead blower, who in turn has to rake all his leaves and their newfound friends that jumped the border. The old man look out their window and let out a laugh at the young, poor neighbor as he tries to pick up the leaves and place them in an orange garbage bag with a pumpkin painted on the front of it - only to have the majority of them fall back on the ground.

 

But alas, Autumn has arrived for her annual visit. Supermarkets are filling up with the fruits of the harvest - pumpkins, gourds, squash - the smell of fresh apple cider is in the air. Bags of candy corn are filling the shelves beside chocolates wrapped in foil with pictures of spiders and cobwebs. Little girls who 11 months of the year run from such eight-legged creatures come running the other way, just to taste the sweet goodness that Autumn brings to town.

 

However, Autumn like the practical joker that she is fools us every year. Every year we get the feeling she’s coming to visit a little bit earlier. We can hear her coming. We can smell her sweet aroma in the air. However, like the Red Headed whore that she is, she leaves us after making us fall in love.

 

Every year it’s the same thing. We celebrate the jubilation of her arrival like a father with his prodigal son. Soon, all we’re left with is a mess of brown leaves and rotten pumpkins. Our cupboards are left with stale spider candy and our fridges stocked full of apple cider. We thought this was the year. The year she committed to us. The year that she stayed around a little bit longer… but no. Autumn is a gypsy. She’s moved on. Maybe it’s time we do too.

 

Soon however, Autumn will be leaving again. That’s not the bad news. No. The bad news is in fact; her older, uglier brother winter will be in town before long, depressing us to no end.

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Chapter IV : My Unfortunate Disease

Posted on September 23, 2008 in: life

All is quiet on the Midwestern front. Well, I don’t know if quiet is the correct term, but nonetheless, not much has been happening around here these past few days.

Melissa’s knee is healing up okay, we’re really hoping that she won’t have to undergo surgery. It would be quite a relief on the mind and our pocketbook.

I caught something this weekend. It happens to me just about every year at this time. It’s something that can really ruin any good harvest season. It’s something that’s pretty rare, but can be quite contagious if it’s not contained to keep from spreading. While this disease isn’t deadly and can make others around you run for cover. There is no real medicine for this tragic disease, it just heals over time. Doctors aren’t quite sure where it comes from. Some believe it to be hereditery, some believe it to be created by your enviorment and lifestyle, some believe it to be a figment of your imagination. Sadly, I suffer from this disease.

You see, I suffer from PCSS. Yes, that’s right. The dreaded Premature Christmas Spirit Syndrom. Every year during this time, I begin to show the symptoms. Whistling a carol here or there, buying candy canes once in a while… leaving milk and cookies out over night.

In fact, this isn’t the first time I’ve been diagnosed with this unfortunate illness. It slowly developed out of CCMD (also known as “Childen’s Christmas Musical Disorder”) that I came down with as a kid - spending many Saturday mornings and afternoons at my local Baptist church practicing and rehearsing for the annual Christmas pagant. While other kids were at home watching football games with their dads and brothers, I was there, humming a Bing Crosby number, pretending to be Gaspar, The Third of the Wisemen.

As I grew older, I eventually grew out of CCMD and lived a normal life for several years. I’m not sure if us leaving the Baptist Church had anything to do with it, but that’s a different story for another day. As I was saying - I lived a normal life for most of my childhood and teenage years. Unfortunately, just as I thought I was healed of this disease all together, I caught a different strain.

When I was 17 years old, I ultimately came down with RWHSD. Yes, sadly, I developed Retail Workers Holiday Seasonal Disorder. The symptoms of this disorder are quiet noticable and can be widespread throught all retail establishments between September and January. It’s the sad disorder that causes a lose of holiday season scheduling, and ultimate leads to the uncomfortable disease I suffer from today. Where a normal person knows that Halloween is in October, Thanksgiving is in November and Christmas is in December, a person suffering with RWHSD is quiet thrown off. They come to believe that Halloween is in September, then Christmas lasts from October through January with blatant disregard that Thanksgiving even exists (however the Day After Thanksgiving does). Symptoms of this disorder include singing “Feliz Navidad” every hour on the hour, the inability to say “Merry Christmas” but “Happy Holiday” instead and a heightened ability to git wrap.

Luckily, with the help of the woman I would later marry, I was able to overcome this disorder as well. It wasn’t easy, it was expensive and meant changing my life around (such as moving out of state, leaving the retail world and enter the fascinating jungle of corporate America).

I thought I was over it all and on to living a normal life. I had begun to heal, celebrating such things as “Harvest Season”, doing yard work and watching football again. I had settled into my little house with my wife, our two cats and our dog. I was enjoying life. Then the unforunate happened.

It hits kind of like a cold. Just as a cold begins with what could be just seasonal allergies, a headache, a slight sniffle - then emerges into full fledged hacking and sneezing, so does PCSS. Instead of a sniffle, there’s the first taste of eggnog. Instead of a headache, there’s the first preview for a Christmas movie. Then comes the sneezing of buying Christmas lights. Unfortunately, before long you’re decorating your house like Clark Griswold, eating sugar cookies decorated like little elves and singing along with that 24/7 Christmas channel on the radio.

So just as I share my suffering with you, I ask that you keep my wife and I in your prayers. Since this disease is quite contagious my wife has sinced asked if I wouldn’t mind staying with all of our boxes in the garage for the time being.

Unfortunately for her, she failed to realize this is where I store our decorations.

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TLR Archive: Night of the Brethren

Posted on September 18, 2008 in: TLR Archive

From time to time, I will post thoughts of mine from previous blogs. This is The Landfill Rainbow Archive.

The Communion of the Brethren//originally posted on Rollinsville.net on November 22, 2005

It was a somewhat chilly night in Central Ohio, ecspecially on the east side of Columbus.

The car wasn’t too cold. I barely had the heat on, but it was cold enough you could feel it. The little lady and I headed out, down around Main Street, onto Waggoner and made our way to Broad St to our church.

It was getting dark out, and continued to get even more dark as we drove past the Catholic church, down past the work zone and finally past the Grand Host East to our destination.

We find a spot next to a Honda Civic and walk inside. It’s a calm and lived in feeling as we walk into the front door, past the church office where there are no lights on, and past the empty sunday school classes. It kind of feels like we’re somewhere we shouldn’t be - but it felt right, like we were onto something. Noises grew louder with each step and visions became much more clear as we made our way to the sanctuary and opened the door.

There, where this morning were rows and rows of chairs, all carefully designed in their layout to achieve perfect sound and viewing pleasure were now rows and rows of tables. Tables with ten chairs at them, all with table clothes and centerpieces and plates with a ham sandwich on a bun, a can of fruit and a chocolate chip cookie.

The house of God had been transformed into a banquet room where hundreds of patrons would honor the guest of honor.

We scurry inside and find a place to sit, along with some folks we know. I felt a large arm come up behind me and grab me. I knew who it was, and I was glad they were embracing me. For the first time in a long time, I finally felt wanted and appreciated in the body of Christ.

We made small talk, mostly about football and televisions and the wedding we’re planning. Finally, it was time for the ceremony to begin.

As we’re all seated with our families, myself with my future in-laws and some friends of theirs, the pastor stands up to talk. The pastor begins to talk about coming together, as a group of five stand behind him ready to lead us in hymns.

Hymns.

I never grew up with that luxury of knowing hymns and singing hymns. Since I’ve been going to church, I remember being in Children’s Church signing Awesome God, and then going directly to a new contemporary service. It seemed the only time I heard hymns was when someone died.

Hymns.

We sang some Hymns. I have no idea what the number for each hymn was, or even if we had hymnals, I just sang along with the lime green words on the black screen behind them. I didn’t know all the words, but that’s the good thing about hymns. You don’t have to. They’re easy to pretend to know all the words.

The associate pastor stood up and lead us through a prayer. We talked about confession of sins and the three kinds of sins we all suffer from. Sins against God, sin against others, and sin against ourselves. I tried to follow along and pray truly about the sins I have, but for some unknown reason all I could think was “where should I move the liter box to when my parents come to visit?”, but finally I got myself on track.

We sang another hymn, and a modern worship song. Hearing those back to back makes me realize there is no one that knows how to write a song after 1850.

Our church is different than yours. We don’t do things the same way you do. We don’t baptize babies. We don’t baptize you one time, we baptize you three times. One for the Father. One for the Son. One for the Holy Spirit. We don’t bring you backwards like you’re falling off of a swing set. We dunk you forward. Face first.

We also wash feet.

The Pastor stood up to discuss this practice, and then read the passage in the bible about Jesus disrobing and covering himself with a towel, then washing his disciples feet. I hoped we wouldn’t get to literal, because I wasn’t very comfortable in just a towel in front of my future father-in-law. They weren’t.

My future father-in-law and myself made our way down the hall way, into the new wing of the building where we were each handed a towel. Inside a dark room were rows of chairs with basins of water in front of them.

“Come Thou Fount” played in the background on bagpipes.

I quickly took off my shoes, and placed my foot over the water. My future father-in-law humbled himself, and washed my feet in a moment of true servanthood. I did the same to him. It was a very sobering experience. We got up and walks out of the room, without saying a word, without sharing an embrace, but both of us knowing that something special happened in our relationship.

“How Great Thou Art” played as we walked back in the sanctuary, our feast was upon us.

After a time of prayer and worship, we began our meal and time of fellowship, making conversation about electricity and the future of television, while at the same time discussing our faith and the church we worship in.

Sharing is something I don’t like to do in church. I don’t know why, I never have. On this night, there was such a stirring in my soul to share what God is doing in my life, and the complete 180 my life has taken since the day before America celebrated her birth. I didn’t know. I never spoke up. I’m shy and akward. Something that isn’t very good for a future minister. Some day I’ll be able to share with perfect strangers, but this day, this night, I’m perfectly content not doing so, and just listening.

People share about being healed from cancer and the work of New Tribes in New Guinea. Some speak of top secret missions in foreign countries, and others speak of finding God in the loss of their infant son. Still others thank God for simply dying.

I didn’t thank God.

I think God a lot. Not thank. I think to myself, “God, thank you.” but very rarely do I actually thank him for what he’s done in my life.

“…Do this is memory of me.”

My bride to be and I broke bread and both drank our cup of white grape juice with our eyes tightly closed.

What was she thinking? Was she thanking God or simply thinking God?

We sang a Melody Green song and went about our evenings, but with a much more somber and sobering tone than we originally had entered with. I left truly wanting to serve.

It was a somewhat chilly night in Central Ohio, ecspecially on the east side of Columbus.

The car wasn’t too cold. I barely had the heat on, but it was cold enough you could feel it.

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Chapter III: The Night I Recall The Night

Posted on September 18, 2008 in: life

It’s been a long rough week. Things just haven’t gone the way I would like them to. I suppose they never really do. I mean, if life went the way we all wanted them to, I’m not sure anyone would end up happy. However, this week, for me has been especially troublesome.

As I made mention, Melissa returned from Europe on Sunday eve. She seemed to really enjoy the time and the culture. She’s really having a tough time adjusting to the time difference though, or so I’ve noticed. Upon her arrival back stateside, we discovered she can’t walk on water, as she slipped on some water in our kitchen floor and tore several ligiments in her left knee. The doctor informed her to stay off of it for several days, and he’d re-evaluate her then to see if there will be a need for operation. God willing there won’t.

It was also on Monday that I discovered my school once again dropped the ball in changing my major, thus resulting in some serious paperwork backlogging, that included my financial aid paperwork. No financial aid means no school for me this quarter. I guess that’s okay though. It really lets me enjoy the crisp autumn eves that we’ve began to experience here in Central Ohio.

Men, there is nothing more chilling than to walk into your home, especially after getting the news about school, and hear your wife crying in agony from the kitchen. There is nothing quite like walking into the room, and seeing her lying there begging for healing to make you completely forget anything else. The only thing you possibly want to do is help her up off of the ground and rush her to the hospital. It doesn’t matter any longer that your bank account is in flux, that your education is in flux, that your cats are hissing and the dog is growling, all that matters is that beautiful woman that God created lying there. Lying there, needing you.

For those brothers of mine who have not quite experienced something like this, i pray you never do. However, I pray that you do realize the love that comes rushing out during that moment.

It’s starting to get crisp in Columbus. We’ve officially shut down the air conditioner for the open windows and ceiling fans for a while. As I write this, I can gaze out my window and see the dew on the freshly trimmed grass, hear the crickets singing their tunes and that beautiful orange glowing harvest moon shining down.  It’s something I haven’t experienced much since living in the city.  It reminds me, for the first time in a long time really, of being home.

I can recall many a nights sitting on the back porch of my parents home with friends and family, just enjoying company - and experiencing the cool mountain air, the croaking frogs and my mothers laughter.  Those are memories I can only look back upon, I can never quite get back. Maybe if I did go back they would all be slightly different. Maybe. Maybe they’re just perfect the way they are, in my mind.

I can recall nights at my grandparents farm, watching fireflies dance in the night sky. I can remember seeing my grandfather smile. Oh how I miss him. I can see my brother and my cousin, we were all so young. We were all so careless. Not a worry in the world, except who would win at R.B.I. Baseball.

Then there is those nights I would much rather care to forget, than to remember.  Like the night I never should have went out. The night when I was 16 years old and we had received several inches of snow. My dad told me I needed to stay at home, that the roads were getting slick. Instead my friend Justin and I drove to Pancake House and then to Wal-Mart, and then into the rear end of 1984 Ford Mustang. I will never forget the look on my dads face whenever he showed up.

I want to forget the night my aunt died. I wish I could. I can’t. I had just graduated high school and had gone and opened my first checking account. My mom tried to call my aunt, but she didn’t answer. Several minutes later my uncle called and told mom that “Julie’s gone”. As I drove home from mom’s office, I felt the shiver down my spine as my mom called and said “Julie… Julie’s gone. It’s over.” She then went on to tell me how they found my aunt in her car in a park outside Raleigh, NC, where she had died of a self-inflicted gun shot. That night I stayed home by myself.  Mom and dad had gone to my grandmother’s to tell her the news. I just wept. I wept uncontrolably. I was angry.  I was confused.

The night represents so much. So much life, so much death, so much heartache. It also represents that special moment that my wife and I get to share together. When the phones aren’t ringing. When the cats aren’t hissing and the dog isn’t howling. When the moon isn’t shining down on the dew soaked grass, and the crickets and fireflies have all been closed out. When it’s just me. and her. When we can let our guard down and laugh. When we can cry together. When the noise and stuff of earth can’t get in.  Those are those new memories that I will look back on some day - or maybe I should say, some night.

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Chapter II : Rex’s Barbershop

Posted on September 16, 2008 in: life

Melissa landed on Sunday night, finally getting home from her trek through Europe. It wasn’t an easy flight home, that’s for sure. Planes were grounded all through Ohio due to high winds, thanks to the coattails of Ike. Instead, she spent several hours on the runway in Washington DC stuck with a screaming kid. After being awake for 35+ hours, I’m sure it felt good for her to be home and sleeping in her own bed.

 

But alas, in just a few days she must return to the grind, and back to her clients. Melissa’s a hair stylist. Ya know, until she became a hair stylist I always had this preconceived notion about stylists. They were all either gay Frenchmen named “Jean-Luc” or uppity women who smoke cigarettes and drink appletinis. Now why this may be true for some, it doesn’t necessarily apply to my wife. No, I’ve learned over time that being a stylist doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a glamorous life style. For every high rollin’ woman who comes in wanting the latest style, there’s at least a dozen blue haired old ladies, whiney kids, and that one creepy married men who flirts with all the ladies because his wife’s not there to catch him.

 

You see, I’d never actually been in a “salon” per-say, until we got married. No, instead, I always took the hike down the mountain I grew up on, to a little one room tiny cinderblock building that smelled slightly like kerosene, Barber sol and pomade. It was a place where you always heard the latest about the local high school wrestling team and who’d be arrested the week prior. No, this wasn’t a salon. This was a barbershop. This was Rex’s Barber Shop.

It was the kind of place that you normally wouldn’t stop in, unless someone told you it was okay. If it were a restaurant, the health department would’ve closed it at least 20 years ago. The walls were covered with signs that could be considered offensive to many, disgusting to some but hilarious to those patrons who sat in those chairs. Such notorious signs as “The Happy Fisherman” and “Lucky the Dog”, as well as the infamous “Roadkill Cafe” menu.

 

There was a mounted bass on the wall that you just had to know that no one there actually caught, but more likely bought it at the annual flea market. It was right next to the hat rack that was just full of old trucker caps, mostly from local little league teams and old body shops. Every now and then you might find one with a union logo, or a World War II Veteran.

 

It was the kind of place that you heard those dirty jokes as a kid, that still make you blush as an adult. The place where you learned new cuss words you’d never heard before - and phrases that to this day you’re still not quite sure what they mean. Phrases like “Dowitcha?” and “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle…”

 

It wasn’t the “He-Man Woman Haters” club, but you’d be hard pressed to ever find a woman in there… unless of course you’re not counting the woman from the little bait shop/convenient store/u-haul dealership/taxidermy shop next door. I think she only came around because she could drink all the men under the table and spit chewing tobacco much further.

 

Rex’s wasn’t just a barbershop. It was an institution. Men of all generations sat there, waiting for at least an hour for their cut. No hairstyles, just a hair cut. For $5.00. It seemed you could always tell who in your high school went to Rex’s. We all had the same haircut. A 2 guard on the sides, 3 on top. I’m not sure if Rex even knew how to do anything else, I’m not sure anyone ever asked.

 

Every now and then, you’d get those comments that could only come from a small town barber.

“Want me to shave a Playboy bunny in it?”

 

Of course the little boys eyes would light up, and of course Rex never would. Nope, that wasn’t Rex.

 

Rex was a talker, a funny guy. I’ll never forget him telling me about the time he went Christmas shopping for his wife. As he put it “she’s a BIG woman”. Well, ol’ Rex had never heard of plus sized clothes, instead he bought his wife a bunch of maternity clothes and ended up ruining Christmas… and New Years.

 

Rex saw me grow up. I was there pretty much every two weeks, except for the month of November, when Rex closed shop for hunting season. I guess he figured it’d be easier to close his shop and not turn on that one single light bulb hanging in the middle of the room. He figured it’ be cheaper to not open, since all of his patrons would be in the woods anyway.

 

But no, Rex watched me grow up. He saw me as a kid learning how to tie my shoes, to a teenager learning how to drive, all the way up to an adult, getting ready to leave home, and West Virginia, for the first time to be with the woman I fell in love with. When he asked me what she did for a living, I laughed a little and said, “Well, Rex, she’s a hair stylist.”

 

He just chuckled like only he could and said, “Just make sure she knows. 2 on the sides, 3 on the top.”

 

I don’t quite remember the last time I saw Rex. It’d been a long time at this point. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’d give me the same deal he used to give my dad. The $4.00 haircut… ya know, because he didn’t have to cut as much off of the top.

 

I know that whenever I have a kid of my own, his mom will more than likely give him his first hair cut… but I’m pretty sure his dad and his grandpa will take him to Rex’s for his first buzz cut, first time seeing the “Happy Fisherman”, and first dirty joke.

 

Just don’t tell his mom.

 

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