In The Beginning...

It is no small escape of the imagination that I didn't have a lot of Christian influence in my early years in life. I grew up in a small town in New Jersey called Burlington and attended the Tabernacle Baptist Church as far back as I could remember. Unlike churches today, Tabernacle was born in the community and served it and it's members for many years. Much like me, the church has grown and though I have grown away from organized religion, Tabernacle still remains a pillar in the community in Burlington. But, this is not about the church. Well maybe not intently.

I remember as a small child, sleeping in my grandmother's arms as the service drew through it's highs and lows. The sound of the pastor's booming voice would both soothe and awaken me. Not knowing what the words being spoken at the time meant, yet I would feel a sense of peace and strength in them. I would bask in the glow and warmth of environment that the church provided. As a child, I would often stare upon the smoothly plastered walls painted a faded pink or peer through the stained glass windows emblazoned with the names of the founding church members and short bible verses. The original sanctuary has long been demolished and was replaced several year ago by a brand new multipurpose center. Another sign of the church's growth and expansion over the years.

Like the church, the years have expanded it and it has grow. Now taking up most Second Street, it is no longer the a small community church. I have expanded a bit myself but that was a result of my going beyond the community I grew up in. So, why do I reference this humble beginning in my life? Like this once place I called my Christian home, I have grown beyond it's borders and beyond the basic concepts I once learned about from the bible. Let just say like Luke Skywalker discovering the Force, I too have discovered a power even deeper within my being.

Say it be some sort of logic or intuition, I see people now for what they are. At this point in my life, if I call you a friend, it really means something. Up until recent, I had lived a very reclusive life. Very few friends if any. I avoided family or even occasional contact with anyone. Not because I was made to, I was unwary of people's intent in my life. I did not want any close associations because I didn't want to be hurt or hurt anyone. Seriously, I was hurting myself more.

I refused this self imposed hermitage of so many years and started reaching out to people. Some embraced my friendship yet some drew away. I am thankful for both. Family members I either never knew about or only saw on that occasional family reunion trip, I now communicate with them as though I have been with them all my life. I wish I could explain what happened or why but I just asked myself; Self, why are you so lonely? You have hundreds of people who want to be your friend yet you disregard them. You have family who want to know what you are doing. Why don't you just get out there and first be a friend to yourself. So I did.

So, how does this all come together? The church thing, my early childhood, friends and family? I realized that like the walls of the church, they would have been lonely without that stained glass. The names etched into them where the names of friends and family who had been instrumental in the foundation of that church. Without them, they were just as lonely and empty as I had been for a good part of my adult life. The rich tapestry of family members and friends of that church allowed it to grow. I felt a bit of warmth not from the physical but from the love that was the church. Even looking at it now, it still remains the pillar but it is much stronger, wiser, friendlier. Like me. So I say to you my new friends, be that pillar, that strength, that warmth, that friend.

Great Grand Father's Story - Circa late1800's Texas

I posted this story several days ago on the West Virginia Surf Report when the questions was asked: "Tell us about your saddest, or most interesting family tragedies, from a long time ago. Not recent stuff, that’s too personal, but stories you’ve heard about people you never actually met." I have made some edits and grammatical corrections to this story. I chose to write my about my great grand father on my fathers mothers side. Other tragic stories about my family are just to close to me to tell.

The story was set in a small town nestled about 70 miles northwest of Houston, Texas. This story is short but very poignant and has some racial overtones so I need to warn you before you read any further. This story may have been played out millions of times all over the country throughout history but was kept inside the minds of the victims and survivors.

Needless to say, my GGF was born a free man around the mid 1800’s. This story came from my aunt and the only way that I know about it was that she was telling the story to my father and mother back in the 70’s when we came to visit them in Texas. I hid out in the other room listening to what she had to say.

My GGF owned land outside of Brenham, TX and had a small farm with livestock and enough acreage to grow a few things to feed his family. Enough said on that. He was lonely and decides to search for a wife. His search took him to New Orleans where he met a most unusual woman. She was Creole and her name was Lillian Spencer. They soon fell in love and married and he packed all her belongings and moved her back to Brenham and soon after started a family.

They eventually produced several children, one being my grandmother who was given my GGM’s name. In 1800’s Texas, it did not take long for the word to get out regarding my next bit of details. If you know anything about Creole people, well dammit, go read about, I don’t have time to explain.

The problem was that a great mistake was made one day; a nearby white farmer came by my GGF’s land a saw my GGM out hanging clothes on the line. What he thought was a white woman was actually my Creole GGM. He stood back and watched my GGF come up and get a glass of water and then give her a kiss. Enraged at this sight, he got back on his horse and rode off. Later that evening, a group of men came a calling and they were not there for my GGM’s biscuits. They wanted to know why a (you know what they said) was kissing on a white woman.

Most of them being drunk and already looking for some retribution, they were able to subdue my GGF, take away his shotgun and tie him up. My GGM shouted to them that she was not a white woman, and that she was Creole, being both ignorant and drunk they did not want to listen to her. My GGF was carried off into the night and hung. Several of his close friends went looking for him the next morning and they found his body beaten and mutilated. My GGM never recovered from the loss of her true love and died several years later from grief leaving my GM to raise the siblings and run the farm. They buried his body on the farm near a pecan tree he had planted. The tree now shades both of their graves, the land was eventually sold back to the city long before my birth.

So that is my story. It is one that I have kept secret for a long time since I was a teenager. Peace ya’ll. I’m outta here…

A Day In My Life - The Cafeteria Days

I attended so many schools; it would take a novel to just to get through kindergarten to middle school. The price you pay for being a military brat. One story sticks in head from my middle school days.

Being a very awkward teenager and just returning to my hometown of Burlington NJ from a school in Hampton VA, I found reconnecting with childhood acquaintances was becoming quite difficult. To avoid being ostracized, I hung out with the smokers, occasionally taking a puff just to show I was cool. We always hid out between a building and the statue of Wilbur Watts, also the name of the school, and did our dastardly deed. Since this was the bad ass crowd, not to many people fucked with us and we remained relatively safe from the threats and hazing by the jocks. They were afraid we might cough on them and give them some kind of disease.

I remember this day so vividly. After the bell rang for classes to start, we all grabbed our books and head into school for first period. I was finishing up the last puff so I smashed the cig on the ground and took off for the door. Some dickweed jock came running up behind me and pushed me into the door and didn’t even have the good graces to say excuse me. I was pissed and I recognized him as one of the asshole wrestlers who pinned me down in the gym and rubbed his funky ass arm pit in my face. It was time for retribution.

I sat through all my morning classes not even paying attention, just thinking of a way to get back at this douche wad. What made it worst was that I had seen him in my lunch period before with his other jock buddies. I would have my chance for revenge before the day ended.
Lunch time came around and we had “shit on a shingle” that day. For those who don’t know what shit on a shingle is, its ground beef in some horrible tasting tomato sauce served with mash potatoes and sitting on top of toast. Not a pleasant looking meal.

When lunch period started, I got my meal and hid behind a pillar so not to be seen. Sure nuff, said asshole comes strolling in with his entourage of hooligan’s grab-assing and all sorts of jock shit. After drinking my carton of juice, I opened the carton up and tried to make the folds as weak as possible then stuffing it full of the nasty crap and those watery mash potatoes. I folded it back up and waited for the right moment when they were so engaged in their own laughter and banter they would not see it coming.

They were so full on themselves and talking about their glories on the mat and conquest with the girls that they where oblivious to my presence. Then it came, he mentioned a name that just sunk into the pit of my stomach. This was all the catalyst I needed to launch my attack. I launched the carton in the air and it sailed towards its intended target with the grace of an Eagle sailing on the up currents of the wind.

Oh the name, I forgot to tell you about that. Well I had a deep crush on a girl at school named Tony Tupea. She was an Italian girl who I knew from grade school and we always walked to school in the mornings and I carried her books to school for her. Boy was I a sucker.

Oh, the carton is still in the air isn’t it? Ok, the carton came crashing down on his head splattering crap all over him and his crew. No sooner I started laughing my ass off then a teacher grabbed my shoulder and said come with me, you’re in big trouble son.

It was worth being expelled and the subsequent ass whopping I got that evening. My dad didn’t understand why I was laughing while he was whipping me. He quit in frustration and left nodding his head. I never forgave Tony for kissing him but that’s how love goes.

Keeping up with the bees

This was a an essay we had to write in creative writing about an embarrassing event. Hey, not everything I write is going to have a hot steamy sex scene in it. I have to break up the monotony with some boring stories about my childhood. I wasn't always a wild child eh, adult. I had a tamer more Beaver Cleaver side. But don't ask my brother Wally. No his name was actually Brad, Harold Bradley to be exact. But if you called him Harold or Harry, well, you just didn't.

I often reflect back to my younger days when I would always be on the heels of my grandfather. His wisdom seems to lead me even today, urging me to remember when life was innocent and a little less complicated. My grandfather was a retired steel worker who chose to return to his farming roots. He also kept bees, not as much for profit, but for the shear peace and contentment that it allowed him to enjoy. I learned many things about life from him, but one thing that will stay with me was his teaching me the fine art of bee keeping. From this, I gained not only a respect of the insect but a new found sense of how organized and methodical bees are and the process that it takes to make and extract honey from them.

It was one of those cool sunny mornings that I remember my grandfather asking me if I wanted to help him rob the bees. The term robbing the bees is the process of extracting the honeycomb from the hive. I was excited to be able to go out to the hives and help him extract the honey. I had watched him and my older brothers perform the ritual many times before. I donned a long sleeve shirt and long pants to protect my arms and legs from any potential stings. My grandfather gave me a helmet with a bee screen on it to protect my face and neck. I was ready for the extraction or so I thought.

As we approached the hives, my grandfather picked up one of the smokers and showed me how to pack the canister with material for smoking the bees. In the canister, we packed in leaves, pine needles, and cut up material from an old burlap sack. He said to me, “Now you gently squeeze the bellows while I light the material.” I squeezed the bellows in and out until smoke started to pour out the end of the nozzle. He said to me, “Now you take the smoker and cover me with smoke and then do yourself.” I eagerly complied with his instructions. We now smelled like burnt leaves and rags. He then showed me how to approach and smoke the hive to calm the bees. He then told me, “Now not to much smoke, I need to be able to see what I am doing.”

As I kept a light cloud of smoke going, he lifted the lid of the hive off to expose the top box. He pointed to me and said, “Now squirt some smoke along the top so the bees will move down.” The bees complied with the smoke and started moving towards the lower sections of the hive. My grandfather then took a pry bar and started lifting up the frames laden with honeycomb. He said to me, “See the combs; inside is where the honey is kept.” He then moved the frame to a set of boxes he had set up to place the frames loaded with honey in. He then removed the rest of the frames and placed new frames in their place. He told me, “This is so the bees can make more honey for the winter.”

We went to three more hives and continued the process over again. I was enjoying the time I was spending with my grandfather when a bee decided it had had enough. I thought through all my preparation that I had not missed anything. A bee would soon remind me. I had forgotten one minor detail. In my haste to get out and help my grandfather, I had failed to put on a pair of socks. The curious bee found pay dirt and gave me the pointed end of its argument. As the sting registered about my ankle, I screamed in agony, “Grandpa, a bee stung me!” He said to me, “Calm down and blow the smoke in the hive.” It was too late, I dropped the smoker and before it could hit the ground, I was halfway across the field with bees swarming after me. My grandfather laughed to see me in such distress. Off came the helmet as I ran across the tomato patch. I did not stop until I was inside the house and looking at my grandfather in the far distance going about his business still chuckling. When he finally returned from his chores, he asked me, “Why did you leave me?” I told him, “Grandpa, the bee found my weak spot!” He chuckled again as he hugged me. Several years later, my grandfather was near death and during one of the family visits, he remembered me and said, “You were the one who said the bee found my weak spot.” He smiled as everyone else laughed at my expense and embarrassment.