I have been here in the Commonwealth of Virginia for two months now--with a few excursions to Maryland and Pennsylvania. I have made some observations about similarities and differences after living in Texas for the greater part of my life. I don't know if this information will be helpful to anyone. They are just observations.
Virginia is very much like Texas. Virginians are a very proud bunch of people...and they should be. The state is geographically diverse (much like Texas) and there is abundant scenic beauty. The Southwestern part of the state is filled with lush mountains--part of the Southern Highlands and the Blue Ridge. People there are generally pretty friendly. Like rural Texans, they tend to lean politically on the conservative side but they throw a lot of southern hospitality in to make up for that. I could say this is true for much of rural Texas. Though I didn't often visit the rural areas in Texas, when I did I was generally pleased with the friendliness of people I met along the way. So the mix of rural/city, blue/red, conservative/liberal is very similar to Texas.
Texas drivers are worse. This is, in my book, an indisputable fact. Though many people in Virginia drive just as crazy as their Texas counterparts, they almost always use their turn signals. This makes them better crazy drivers.
There is a vast amount of "southern pride" with those who were born "in state" within each of these respective states. With Texans, many of them will brag about the fact that they were born and raised "in the great state of Texas." On my second week here in Virginia, I was taking photographs at the old city hall in downtown Richmond and the security officer there struck up a conversation with me. After telling him that I'd moved from Texas to Virginia, and before I could tell him that I was born in Pennsylvania, I'd stated that I was glad to move to the northeast. The smile on his face quickly vanished and I suspected he was getting ready to reach for his gun when he said, "We don't take too kindly to that kind of talk here. We are definitely not the northeast. We were both on the right side...the south." At that point, I quickly begged his pardon and decided not to let him know I was a Yankee. They are proud of being Virginians, too. This "regional" or state pride never has made much sense to me. We are supposed to be united. I'm proud to be an American, but I can't say I've ever really had what one would call "Pennsylvania pride."
I will say that one of the strongest positives about Virginia--and Texas, Texans, should take note--is that here in Virginia, there is a stronger appreciation for all things historic and preservation of history is highly valued. This is a refreshing change from Texas, where all too often (at least in Dallas/Fort Worth) I witnessed blatant disregard for historical structures and it was all to easy for developers to demolish buildings that were irreplaceable. This is even sadder in Texas, given the fact that so few of these structures from the 1800s and early 1900s still exist.
Now, for the weather. This is the surprising one--at least as far as summer is concerned. It's just as damned hot here as Texas...maybe even more so because of the drenching humidity. Air conditioning is essential if one is to survive a summer in this place. But I hear that the autumn and winter seasons are simply wonderful. I'm looking forward to it!
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Grand Prairie (Part 3)
All summer I had been saving money for a permanent wave. I was convinced this would give me the edge in the looks department. I was pale (despite spending a hot summer in Texas), wore glasses, and was very skinny. A perm would change all that!
My Aunt Kay had a hairdresser and salon that she used regularly. She made an appointment for me with her stylist--a middle-aged lady with red hair and a strong southern accent. I don't remember her name. The perm would cost $30. That was a lot of money in 1981. But I had it--thanks to all of my hard work at the donut shop. I had visions of becoming the post-perm version of Mike Brady. The day of the appointment had me giddy about my impending transformation. I was ready for my re-birth as a stud.
The appointment took longer than I expected. The shop was filled with middle-aged women, a few of them a bit curious about my procedure. I liked the smell of the chemicals used to give my hair that weather-resistant curl. When finished, I looked in the mirror and saw Mike Brady--with glasses. Oh well, I could remove my glasses for short periods of time if I found myself in a disco-- using my newly seductive power of the perm. I was ready to head back to Pennsylvania with my new look, and my richly rewarding experience as a donut seller.
When I got off the train in Pittsburgh, mom and dad were there to greet me of course. Dad had been busy all summer remodeling my bedroom. It now had faux wood paneling and brown carpet (so the dirt wouldn't show) and was ready for my arrival. New me. New room. And, to top it all off, I was to be a senior in high school. I had my whole life ahead of me. Mom seemed a little reserved as she hugged me--eyeing the perm with some suspicion. I'm not sure if Aunt Kay got her approval on this. At this point it didn't matter. I think she recognized that it made me happy and that was a good thing, given the fact that I literally attempted to run away from home just a year earlier.
The summer of 1981 had been a smashing success in my book. I was ready to conquer the world in my devastating curls.
My Aunt Kay had a hairdresser and salon that she used regularly. She made an appointment for me with her stylist--a middle-aged lady with red hair and a strong southern accent. I don't remember her name. The perm would cost $30. That was a lot of money in 1981. But I had it--thanks to all of my hard work at the donut shop. I had visions of becoming the post-perm version of Mike Brady. The day of the appointment had me giddy about my impending transformation. I was ready for my re-birth as a stud.
The appointment took longer than I expected. The shop was filled with middle-aged women, a few of them a bit curious about my procedure. I liked the smell of the chemicals used to give my hair that weather-resistant curl. When finished, I looked in the mirror and saw Mike Brady--with glasses. Oh well, I could remove my glasses for short periods of time if I found myself in a disco-- using my newly seductive power of the perm. I was ready to head back to Pennsylvania with my new look, and my richly rewarding experience as a donut seller.
When I got off the train in Pittsburgh, mom and dad were there to greet me of course. Dad had been busy all summer remodeling my bedroom. It now had faux wood paneling and brown carpet (so the dirt wouldn't show) and was ready for my arrival. New me. New room. And, to top it all off, I was to be a senior in high school. I had my whole life ahead of me. Mom seemed a little reserved as she hugged me--eyeing the perm with some suspicion. I'm not sure if Aunt Kay got her approval on this. At this point it didn't matter. I think she recognized that it made me happy and that was a good thing, given the fact that I literally attempted to run away from home just a year earlier.
The summer of 1981 had been a smashing success in my book. I was ready to conquer the world in my devastating curls.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Grand Prairie (Part 2)
I think my Aunt Kay was kind of surprised that they had entrusted a key to such a relatively new 16 year-old employee but I took my job duties very seriously and made sure that I did everything that was expected of me. The leftover donuts were a bonus on this closing shift. Although I was supposed to throw them away, I would load them into trash bags and take them back home to Aunt Kay's house. We had discovered that when briefly heated in the microwave oven, the nearly day old donuts tasted close to fresh. Also, my cousins had voracious appetites so this was good for everyone involved except for me. One night, as I was totally focused on taking the store's trash out while separating the trash bags full of leftover donuts, I inadvertently locked myself out of the store. I had no phone numbers. I hadn't even remembered everyone's names at this point. Aunt Kay and my cousin John came to pick me up at the usual time (at night--especially with the donut stash--I didn't risk walking home) and found me outside the store. We quickly loaded the bags of old donuts into the car and then tried to figure out what to do. As it turned out, the only thing we could do was call the police. The Grand Prairie police came to the store and were able to open the door without management ever having to find out. They didn't even ask me for ID. I guess my uniform was enough for them. My cousin John helped me finish cleaning the store and we were off to enjoy the day's take of donuts.
The summer wasn't all work. My cousin John was then working at a place in Arlington as a busboy. It was a restaurant with a fairly large staff. One night, they were having a 4th of July party. I was dropped off there and waited for him to finish his busboy duties and we were waiting for the party to begin. Someone had promised to give us all of the alcohol we could consume. I was ready. I know that at some point I was drinking tequila. This was a new alcohol experience for me and I liked it! Before I got sick, I remember hearing a song piped into the speaker system:
Ooo wah, ooo wah cool, cool kitty
Tell us about the boy from New York City
Ooo wah, ooo wah c'mon kitty
Tell us about the boy from New York City
Tell us about the boy from New York City
Ooo wah, ooo wah c'mon kitty
Tell us about the boy from New York City
I don't know why but I just started dancing until I fell over...yes, just dancing by myself to this catchy but irritating song. By then, it was determined that we should leave--and not determined by us. We decided that we could walk to Grand Prairie--from Arlington--at 1:00 am! I know that each of us fell several times along the way. We were lucky to have not faced any major harassment from passing motorists. By the time we got to Grand Prairie, we took a break at the sign entrance to "Cottonwood Park." I remember this sign very well because I vomited all over it. When we made it to the house, Aunt Kay wasn't very amused. But at some point I do recall her laughing at us. The next day, I had the worst hangover of this summer. But I was still determined to do the one thing I wanted before returning to Pennsylvania. I had saved enough money for a permanent wave.
(To be continued...)
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Grand Prairie
The summer of 1981 forced me to grow up a little. I had made an arrangement with my Aunt Bernice to stay with her for that summer and get a job where she and my Uncle Carroll lived--Hurst, Texas. I was between my Junior and Senior years of high school at Elk County Christian in Saint Marys, Pennsylvania.
I took the train because my father's job allowed me to ride for free as long as I was under eighteen. I was so excited because I would have an eight hour layover in Chicago--and I was thrilled to finally be able to see the Sears Tower since I had never been before. But that's another story.
When I arrived to Texas, the job search got off to a very slow start. One day, my Aunt Kay--who lived in Grand Prairie--came to Hurst and asked why I couldn't just try to find a job there. I was welcome to stay with her. I'm not sure how Aunt Bernice felt about this but I don't recall any objections. So, off to Grand Prairie I went. According to my Aunt Kay and cousin John (her son, a year younger than I) there were numerous opportunities for 16-year olds in their fine city. For those of you not up to speed on Texas geography, Grand Prairie and Hurst are really bedroom communities. Cities in their own right, their growth was facilitated by their proximity to two large cities; Grand Prairie to Dallas and Hurst to Fort Worth. They were right. I was able to find a job within a couple of days. I would be working at a place called Winchell's Donuts. Today, there is little evidence that this chain of donut shops ever existed in North Texas. Though still in operation as a subsidiary of a new company, Winchell's once ubiquitous presence in Texas is now just a memory. Some of my contemporaries may remember the music video for Rock the Casbah by The Clash which was filmed in Austin, Texas. In this video (filmed in 1982 I believe) there is a scene where an armadillo is seen passing by a Winchell's Donuts location.
I immediately became fond of the menagerie of characters that worked in this little donut shop. It was located a few blocks from Aunt Kay's house in a shopping center anchored by a Piggly Wiggly grocery store. I soon made friends with the guy who fried and baked the donuts every morning around 3 or 4 am. His name was John Hernandez. One day, he invited me to his house to have a few beers but I soon found out that there was something even better at his place--and so I smoked weed for the first time. I loved it! From that day forward, I would be spending a lot of time with John, his wife and their children. He was a very sweet guy, even though I can now say with reflective vision that he was corrupting a minor. I never really had any conversations with his wife for she didn't speak any English. She was always very nice to me though.
There were also others quite busy at work in this little donut shop. I'd heard of them before but had never seen one. They were everywhere in that place and every once in awhile, one of them would end up in a donut. Yes, the cockroach situation was very bad. The manager must have had some kind of deal with the Grand Prairie health inspectors because there is no way a legitimate inspector would not have immediately closed that place down witnessing the inhabitants of the back rooms. It was as though they knew to stay out of the front counter area.
The older lady with no teeth who trained me on the cash register was named Blanche Brigg. She was always spiking her coffee with whatever liquid was contained in the little flask she carried in her purse. She also chain-smoked which was pretty cool--especially when it came time to serve a customer. She would simply rest the cigarette in the ashtray while she removed donuts from the display case. Once she had them boxed or bagged, she'd put the cigarette back into her mouth where it dangled as she rang up their purchase. No one ever seemed to mind.
There was another younger woman who worked there named Lynn. I can't remember Lynne's last name. She didn't like me and I didn't like her. I think she had something going on with the store manager although she was married. The manager--the guy who hired me--was young and good-looking and always smelled of Aramis. At that time, I thought he was incredibly sexy. His name was Ruben and, although I've met quite a few Ruben's since then, I can comfortably say he was the first.
Just a few days after I was hired and trained, I was given a store key and my job was to work evenings, clean and lock the store up at night and dispose of any remaining donuts.
(...to be continued)
I took the train because my father's job allowed me to ride for free as long as I was under eighteen. I was so excited because I would have an eight hour layover in Chicago--and I was thrilled to finally be able to see the Sears Tower since I had never been before. But that's another story.
When I arrived to Texas, the job search got off to a very slow start. One day, my Aunt Kay--who lived in Grand Prairie--came to Hurst and asked why I couldn't just try to find a job there. I was welcome to stay with her. I'm not sure how Aunt Bernice felt about this but I don't recall any objections. So, off to Grand Prairie I went. According to my Aunt Kay and cousin John (her son, a year younger than I) there were numerous opportunities for 16-year olds in their fine city. For those of you not up to speed on Texas geography, Grand Prairie and Hurst are really bedroom communities. Cities in their own right, their growth was facilitated by their proximity to two large cities; Grand Prairie to Dallas and Hurst to Fort Worth. They were right. I was able to find a job within a couple of days. I would be working at a place called Winchell's Donuts. Today, there is little evidence that this chain of donut shops ever existed in North Texas. Though still in operation as a subsidiary of a new company, Winchell's once ubiquitous presence in Texas is now just a memory. Some of my contemporaries may remember the music video for Rock the Casbah by The Clash which was filmed in Austin, Texas. In this video (filmed in 1982 I believe) there is a scene where an armadillo is seen passing by a Winchell's Donuts location.
I immediately became fond of the menagerie of characters that worked in this little donut shop. It was located a few blocks from Aunt Kay's house in a shopping center anchored by a Piggly Wiggly grocery store. I soon made friends with the guy who fried and baked the donuts every morning around 3 or 4 am. His name was John Hernandez. One day, he invited me to his house to have a few beers but I soon found out that there was something even better at his place--and so I smoked weed for the first time. I loved it! From that day forward, I would be spending a lot of time with John, his wife and their children. He was a very sweet guy, even though I can now say with reflective vision that he was corrupting a minor. I never really had any conversations with his wife for she didn't speak any English. She was always very nice to me though.
There were also others quite busy at work in this little donut shop. I'd heard of them before but had never seen one. They were everywhere in that place and every once in awhile, one of them would end up in a donut. Yes, the cockroach situation was very bad. The manager must have had some kind of deal with the Grand Prairie health inspectors because there is no way a legitimate inspector would not have immediately closed that place down witnessing the inhabitants of the back rooms. It was as though they knew to stay out of the front counter area.
The older lady with no teeth who trained me on the cash register was named Blanche Brigg. She was always spiking her coffee with whatever liquid was contained in the little flask she carried in her purse. She also chain-smoked which was pretty cool--especially when it came time to serve a customer. She would simply rest the cigarette in the ashtray while she removed donuts from the display case. Once she had them boxed or bagged, she'd put the cigarette back into her mouth where it dangled as she rang up their purchase. No one ever seemed to mind.
There was another younger woman who worked there named Lynn. I can't remember Lynne's last name. She didn't like me and I didn't like her. I think she had something going on with the store manager although she was married. The manager--the guy who hired me--was young and good-looking and always smelled of Aramis. At that time, I thought he was incredibly sexy. His name was Ruben and, although I've met quite a few Ruben's since then, I can comfortably say he was the first.
Just a few days after I was hired and trained, I was given a store key and my job was to work evenings, clean and lock the store up at night and dispose of any remaining donuts.
(The once ubiquitous Winchell's sign)
Our friend...the cockroach
Piggly Wiggly, the anchor supermarket. Another disappearing icon
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Home
This most recent journey home made me think of so many things. My latest trips to my hometown always make me consider where I came from and what role my hometown plays in my life today.
I grew up in Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania. Johnsonburg is an industrial hamlet tucked into the northwestern corner of the state. It's chief industry (some say it's only industry) is a paper mill which has been there for over one hundred years. Today, there is a declining population due to an aging demographic. Many young people leave the area and do not return. Of course, there are many who stay.
I have written about Johnsonburg previously--both in this blog and in personal essays. Though some of those essays were the result of assignments for various classes I was taking at various times, there were others I wrote to express myself. I shared some of these with select individuals, but not many. My circle of critics is deliberately (or used to be) few. With the advent of technology, and the blogosphere, I have been more sensitive when writing about my home because of the audience--or potential audience. I didn't wish to offend anyone who still lives in the town of my childhood.
My parents chose to settle in Johnsonburg. They were both from small towns--dad from Kane, Pennsylvania, roughly same size and composition of Johnsonburg. They both made serious moves after graduating high school--though they had not yet met each other. It was World War II. Can you even imagine what it was like graduating during this uncertain time? A world war is serious business. I would guess one would do all they could to live life to the fullest. Dad joined what was then the Air Corps, mom went to Chicago to work in a factory that assembled war planes. Though dad never saw combat (thank God, for I may not have existed), he travelled the U.S. as he trained to become a combat pilot. Mom gained enough experience and money that she could have easily pursued a higher education or another path. But it was family that compelled them both to send as much money as they could back home. It was also family that compelled them to return to Kane and Johnsonburg, respectively. Before this, mom had even lived for a few years in New York (Manhattan) and on Long Island. So, when I say they were compelled to do things because of family, it was because that feeling was so strong and there was a sense of responsibility that overrode their personal desires.
I had already been living in Texas for nearly twenty years when my father's health began to seriously decline. I had recently returned to school upon his advice. I was on disability after being diagnosed with a life-threatening illness and forced to undergo a painful hip replacement. I remember the conversation we had over the phone very clearly.
"What do you think I should do, dad? Go back to work or go to finish my education?"
"Well, I think you ought to go back to school. Once you get that diploma, no one can ever take it away from you. I wish I would have finished school."
"I guess that's what I'll do. I'll let you know what happens. I've got a meeting with a counselor from the school tomorrow."
Returning to my second year of school, dad wasn't doing well. He had already suffered a heart attack and before long, he would suffer a major stroke. I seriously considered, since I was still drawing disability and working sporadically, that I could move closer to Johnsonburg and complete my schooling there. The thought frightened me. I had established a life in Texas. I hadn't made any money--with the illness having sidetracked my working for some time. I was comfortable with my medical team. There was some sense of security in Texas, though I sometimes longed to be elsewhere. I thought often about my aging parents--especially dad--and how I was in a unique position drawing disability to spend some time with them. I opted to finish school in Texas. I also had a succession of failed relationships during this time. I was constantly looking for someone to take care of me, I was drinking and drugging heavily, and I had shifted into a serious survival mode. Despite all this, I considered moving.
After dad had his stroke, he was never the same. Mom's life had evolved to one of a 24-hour caregiver to the man she had given her heart to in 1953. I had finished school and graduated, finally getting a bachelor's degree. They couldn't even attend my graduation. Travel for them was now out of the question. I debated once again whether or not I should move to be with them and help. God knows, they had helped me considerably through the years. Instead, on the well-meaning advice of someone I was then involved with, I interviewed for a job that I got (thanks to his influence--he helped to arrange the interview) and actually liked. It was the first job that I ever liked--honestly. Taking this job was a leap. Even though it wasn't full-time, I had high hopes that it would develop into full-time eventually. It gave me enough hours so that I would be forced to give up the security of my monthly disability payments. Once again, I opted to stay in Texas. I visited Pennsylvania frequently but my heart ached each time I saw dad's diminishing health.
Eventually, dad had to be placed into a nursing facility. None of us wanted it, but mom was killing herself taking care of him. It was getting dangerous for both of them. The whole situation seemed an accident waiting to happen. Trips to Johnsonburg became ominous. We all knew dad was never going home. I considered going home for an extended time to help mom but it didn't materialize beyond staying with her for a couple of weeks. Then I got the dreaded call...or should I say the one I didn't expect. Dad was still with us, but he wasn't expected to last much longer. I made it in a day before we lost him.
I looked at family and Johnsonburg much differently after I returned to Texas, the funeral behind us. I started to think about sacrifice and love. I began to think of how much I'd really changed six months into sobriety. There was something far less selfish about me. It was dad...and mom that came to my mind over and over. Family--done right--is an awesome responsibility. They did it right. They weren't selfish.
A few nights after we lost him, the family gathered in our living room on Elk Avenue and watched videos that dad had filmed before his health declined. They were old VHS tapes. One of them was filmed after mom and dad had returned from a trip to Texas, where we all took an extended trip to Las Vegas. Dad, for some reason, didn't have his video camera along on the trip. So he took photographs that I had sent him after they returned and filmed the photographs one at a time and narrated them as though he were narrating a slide show. I began to cry because there were photos of a day we spent together--just he and I--touring Hoover Dam. It was the best day I ever spent with my father. I'd never seen this video before. While he narrated, it was as though he were talking directly to me. It was as though he were telling me to live. It was as though he were telling me that what I did--finishing school, not moving from Texas, enjoying lovers and life--that they were all ok. But now, I needed to consider the rest of my life. I needed to consider the people who will never leave me. I needed to be home.
My parents chose to settle in Johnsonburg. They were both from small towns--dad from Kane, Pennsylvania, roughly same size and composition of Johnsonburg. They both made serious moves after graduating high school--though they had not yet met each other. It was World War II. Can you even imagine what it was like graduating during this uncertain time? A world war is serious business. I would guess one would do all they could to live life to the fullest. Dad joined what was then the Air Corps, mom went to Chicago to work in a factory that assembled war planes. Though dad never saw combat (thank God, for I may not have existed), he travelled the U.S. as he trained to become a combat pilot. Mom gained enough experience and money that she could have easily pursued a higher education or another path. But it was family that compelled them both to send as much money as they could back home. It was also family that compelled them to return to Kane and Johnsonburg, respectively. Before this, mom had even lived for a few years in New York (Manhattan) and on Long Island. So, when I say they were compelled to do things because of family, it was because that feeling was so strong and there was a sense of responsibility that overrode their personal desires.
I had already been living in Texas for nearly twenty years when my father's health began to seriously decline. I had recently returned to school upon his advice. I was on disability after being diagnosed with a life-threatening illness and forced to undergo a painful hip replacement. I remember the conversation we had over the phone very clearly.
"What do you think I should do, dad? Go back to work or go to finish my education?"
"Well, I think you ought to go back to school. Once you get that diploma, no one can ever take it away from you. I wish I would have finished school."
"I guess that's what I'll do. I'll let you know what happens. I've got a meeting with a counselor from the school tomorrow."
Returning to my second year of school, dad wasn't doing well. He had already suffered a heart attack and before long, he would suffer a major stroke. I seriously considered, since I was still drawing disability and working sporadically, that I could move closer to Johnsonburg and complete my schooling there. The thought frightened me. I had established a life in Texas. I hadn't made any money--with the illness having sidetracked my working for some time. I was comfortable with my medical team. There was some sense of security in Texas, though I sometimes longed to be elsewhere. I thought often about my aging parents--especially dad--and how I was in a unique position drawing disability to spend some time with them. I opted to finish school in Texas. I also had a succession of failed relationships during this time. I was constantly looking for someone to take care of me, I was drinking and drugging heavily, and I had shifted into a serious survival mode. Despite all this, I considered moving.
After dad had his stroke, he was never the same. Mom's life had evolved to one of a 24-hour caregiver to the man she had given her heart to in 1953. I had finished school and graduated, finally getting a bachelor's degree. They couldn't even attend my graduation. Travel for them was now out of the question. I debated once again whether or not I should move to be with them and help. God knows, they had helped me considerably through the years. Instead, on the well-meaning advice of someone I was then involved with, I interviewed for a job that I got (thanks to his influence--he helped to arrange the interview) and actually liked. It was the first job that I ever liked--honestly. Taking this job was a leap. Even though it wasn't full-time, I had high hopes that it would develop into full-time eventually. It gave me enough hours so that I would be forced to give up the security of my monthly disability payments. Once again, I opted to stay in Texas. I visited Pennsylvania frequently but my heart ached each time I saw dad's diminishing health.
Eventually, dad had to be placed into a nursing facility. None of us wanted it, but mom was killing herself taking care of him. It was getting dangerous for both of them. The whole situation seemed an accident waiting to happen. Trips to Johnsonburg became ominous. We all knew dad was never going home. I considered going home for an extended time to help mom but it didn't materialize beyond staying with her for a couple of weeks. Then I got the dreaded call...or should I say the one I didn't expect. Dad was still with us, but he wasn't expected to last much longer. I made it in a day before we lost him.
I looked at family and Johnsonburg much differently after I returned to Texas, the funeral behind us. I started to think about sacrifice and love. I began to think of how much I'd really changed six months into sobriety. There was something far less selfish about me. It was dad...and mom that came to my mind over and over. Family--done right--is an awesome responsibility. They did it right. They weren't selfish.
A few nights after we lost him, the family gathered in our living room on Elk Avenue and watched videos that dad had filmed before his health declined. They were old VHS tapes. One of them was filmed after mom and dad had returned from a trip to Texas, where we all took an extended trip to Las Vegas. Dad, for some reason, didn't have his video camera along on the trip. So he took photographs that I had sent him after they returned and filmed the photographs one at a time and narrated them as though he were narrating a slide show. I began to cry because there were photos of a day we spent together--just he and I--touring Hoover Dam. It was the best day I ever spent with my father. I'd never seen this video before. While he narrated, it was as though he were talking directly to me. It was as though he were telling me to live. It was as though he were telling me that what I did--finishing school, not moving from Texas, enjoying lovers and life--that they were all ok. But now, I needed to consider the rest of my life. I needed to consider the people who will never leave me. I needed to be home.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
January 21, 1980
On Monday (January 21st), I had an unusual anniversary. This day marked thirty-three years since I attempted to run away from home. I was fifteen years old and I remember the day very well.
The night before I took off, I packed a small green Samsonite suitcase and snuck out of my bedroom window to the roof of the garage where I dropped the suitcase down into a snow bank which was about three feet deep against the garage. The next morning, I didn't dress in my school uniform and told my mom we were having a "casual dress day" at my high school. From the house, I headed out to Route 219 and began to hitch hike all the way to Buffalo.
It was 1980. Jimmy Carter was President and the hostages were still being held in Iran. What possessed me to travel to a city farther north in the dead of winter is still a mystery to me. There are sights and sounds to this journey which have left indelible imprints in my memory. One is around midday--freezing cold--in my tennis shoes walking across a bridge in Salamanca, New York. A man had just let me out of his truck because he was taking a turn to another route. I walked across the bridge (a long one) as the snow was getting heavier and accumulating on the surface. It was dead silent. I wondered if I might freeze to death. Eventually, another trucker--a semi driver--picked me up and took me to Kenmore, New York. This is a suburb on the outskirts of Buffalo. It's strange. I never considered that I was ever in danger along this route. I was probably wishing for a little danger. Who knows? I do find it kind of crazy, however, that none of these drivers who picked me up thought anything about driving a fifteen year-old boy hundreds of miles on a school day. Perhaps they did. It was such an unusual day.
When I eventually started to wander the streets of Kenmore in the cold snow, I was shocked with the reality of my situation. It would be dark soon and much colder. Where would I go? What would I do? Long before the age of cellphones or even pagers, there was really no way I could reach out to anyone for help without using a direct approach. I stopped into a Catholic church to pray. It was warm there. I considered my options. It suddenly dawned on me that I could talk to a priest and the priest would have sympathy towards me. He would find me a caring family and that would be that. I went to the rectory which was right next to the church. An older woman answered the door and I told her that I needed to speak to a priest. A middle aged white man with cold eyes invited me in. I told him that I had run away from home and that I needed help. He quickly assessed the situation and told me that he would have to call the police. In retrospect, he did the appropriate thing obviously...but in my fifteen year-old mind, I was appalled! I couldn't believe that things had turned out this way. A couple friendly police officers (in uniform) arrived to take me to the local police station. I sat there as I was gently interrogated. My parents were called and they were on their way to retrieve me. The drive to Buffalo is around two and a half hours or more, depending on weather so I was in this small suburban police station just waiting and thinking. One of the officers offered to buy me a hamburger. I wasn't very talkative so I don't think I even responded to him. He brought me one anyway and I did eat it--if my memory serves me correctly. The ride back to Johnsonburg was quiet. When I got home, my entire family was waiting for me. The rest is a blur, as I know that I was answering many questions and trying to maintain my composure. Something in me clicked that day, however. I'm not exactly sure when it happened, but I began to change.
It wasn't until many years later that I found out what my father did that day. He had been called home from work of course, and then he and my mother had to give a description of me to the local police. He set out on foot to look for me in the local woods. I can only imagine what my parents were going through. My mother says that my father cried only two times (at least where she saw him) in all of their married years. This was one of those times. He didn't even cry at his own mother's funeral. It's strange that at the time of my running away, I couldn't stand or understand my dad. As the years rolled on, it was he who made me cry each time he expressed his love for me in a caring letter or with sincere and wise advice.
On 7 January, I lost my father. He was eighty-seven years old. For some reason, I've been thinking a lot about that cold January day in 1980. I wish I knew then what I know now.
The night before I took off, I packed a small green Samsonite suitcase and snuck out of my bedroom window to the roof of the garage where I dropped the suitcase down into a snow bank which was about three feet deep against the garage. The next morning, I didn't dress in my school uniform and told my mom we were having a "casual dress day" at my high school. From the house, I headed out to Route 219 and began to hitch hike all the way to Buffalo.
It was 1980. Jimmy Carter was President and the hostages were still being held in Iran. What possessed me to travel to a city farther north in the dead of winter is still a mystery to me. There are sights and sounds to this journey which have left indelible imprints in my memory. One is around midday--freezing cold--in my tennis shoes walking across a bridge in Salamanca, New York. A man had just let me out of his truck because he was taking a turn to another route. I walked across the bridge (a long one) as the snow was getting heavier and accumulating on the surface. It was dead silent. I wondered if I might freeze to death. Eventually, another trucker--a semi driver--picked me up and took me to Kenmore, New York. This is a suburb on the outskirts of Buffalo. It's strange. I never considered that I was ever in danger along this route. I was probably wishing for a little danger. Who knows? I do find it kind of crazy, however, that none of these drivers who picked me up thought anything about driving a fifteen year-old boy hundreds of miles on a school day. Perhaps they did. It was such an unusual day.
When I eventually started to wander the streets of Kenmore in the cold snow, I was shocked with the reality of my situation. It would be dark soon and much colder. Where would I go? What would I do? Long before the age of cellphones or even pagers, there was really no way I could reach out to anyone for help without using a direct approach. I stopped into a Catholic church to pray. It was warm there. I considered my options. It suddenly dawned on me that I could talk to a priest and the priest would have sympathy towards me. He would find me a caring family and that would be that. I went to the rectory which was right next to the church. An older woman answered the door and I told her that I needed to speak to a priest. A middle aged white man with cold eyes invited me in. I told him that I had run away from home and that I needed help. He quickly assessed the situation and told me that he would have to call the police. In retrospect, he did the appropriate thing obviously...but in my fifteen year-old mind, I was appalled! I couldn't believe that things had turned out this way. A couple friendly police officers (in uniform) arrived to take me to the local police station. I sat there as I was gently interrogated. My parents were called and they were on their way to retrieve me. The drive to Buffalo is around two and a half hours or more, depending on weather so I was in this small suburban police station just waiting and thinking. One of the officers offered to buy me a hamburger. I wasn't very talkative so I don't think I even responded to him. He brought me one anyway and I did eat it--if my memory serves me correctly. The ride back to Johnsonburg was quiet. When I got home, my entire family was waiting for me. The rest is a blur, as I know that I was answering many questions and trying to maintain my composure. Something in me clicked that day, however. I'm not exactly sure when it happened, but I began to change.
It wasn't until many years later that I found out what my father did that day. He had been called home from work of course, and then he and my mother had to give a description of me to the local police. He set out on foot to look for me in the local woods. I can only imagine what my parents were going through. My mother says that my father cried only two times (at least where she saw him) in all of their married years. This was one of those times. He didn't even cry at his own mother's funeral. It's strange that at the time of my running away, I couldn't stand or understand my dad. As the years rolled on, it was he who made me cry each time he expressed his love for me in a caring letter or with sincere and wise advice.
On 7 January, I lost my father. He was eighty-seven years old. For some reason, I've been thinking a lot about that cold January day in 1980. I wish I knew then what I know now.
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