Boys and Guns

For the third time in as many years I got to take Jaime hunting up at the honey hole. I spent two mornings and an afternoon watching him sit and hunt, spotting deer that my old eyes couldn't even see without the ten by fifties. I was amazed at the deer he did see; excited by the real ones and the phantom ones that pop up as the sun climbs higher in the sky changing the lighting as it goes, making a brown stump magically look like a doe, head down, sneaking up to the stand.

After he shot, he glassed for his dad. And dad took his picture.

The last evening we hunted together in the same stand (probably for the last time--no fifteen year old's gonna have sitting in a stand with his old man) and when I looked behind us, tip-toeing down the trail, was an orphan fawn. A doe, to be sure, but all alone, and as the sun was just about done for the day, I told him to shoot. Two predawn mornings up at 4:15 and one long day is an eternity to young boys (and some old men too) and since the range to the doe was minimal, we were both what I'd call confident, with extreme prejudice. He'd earned it.

A quick shot through the vitals and the doe was done. We stared at the spot on the ground the exiting bullet had made, and felt like we could sit a while longer and let me wait for something to show...of course, another deer stepped out and thanks to my hesitation, was chased away by a non-shootable buck. That's okay, next year when he chases dinner away, he'll have even more antler and won't get that golden ticket in his proverbial candy bar.

Well, we got down to collect the doe, and that's about the time we realized the ground shrinkage that occurs after the adrenaline's gone from the first blush of seeing a deer heading your way. It's pretty common, and it's nothing new, but I don't think there's any shame in it--not for a boy (or girl) afield! In my mind, a boy can hardly do any wrong when hunting.

Now I don't mean that young-uns should be let loose and allowed to clobber any and everything they see like bloodthirsty savages, but they ought to be able to collect a deer, any deer, for their first of the season after hours of talking about it, hours in the car to the range, and long boring, shoulder-pounding hours shooting their rifles. You might disagree, but after so many hours of watching so many deer saunter away after having been in range, you might think different.

Take your kid hunting, saddle him (or her) with all these rules and regulations about what he can shoot, what he can't...it'll wear thin, and you'll be getting up in the morning by yourself, riding by yourself, and hunting by yourself. It's why I don't play Hearts: too many rules. Curb the kids' enthusiasm enough, and there won't be anyone hunting anymore--it's us old mens' job to get a younger crowd into the woods, and what better way than to let them shoot deer.

I'd already stopped him from shooting this doe and that buck before, but now was his turn and he took it. And I'm happy for the boy. Sure, I took a ribbing from the guys, but I was and am happy to take it, because there's a tender fawn's meat in the fridge aging to perfection before Mom slowly roasts it in the crock pot or magically grills it "indirectly" so it's just as juicy but with the hint of smokiness that reminds us of woods and pioneer pasts.

Yes, the next time we go out, maybe the next baby'll get the golden pass too...or maybe not. I've said it a hundred times, the little ones taste better, are more tender, and are easier to handle after the fact. I'm sure my son'll start "editing" his own choices when he hunts alone in the stand in his coming years, I can only hope he'll continue hunting. When he's my age, maybe he'll be taking another Mothershead-ito out into the woods, up a tree, and feel the thrill when his son takes his first deer of the year to get on the boards. I just hope he buys his own rifle and gives me mine back!

Exercise in Mortality

If you're like me you blow your nose in the shower.
If you're like me, sometimes you overdo it.
Want an exercise in mortality?
Hold your hand out and let your bleeding nose drip into your palm.
See that bright red bloom spreading?
Watch the next drop double into the first.
Watch the third, the fourth.
Bright red because you're still alive.
Get the feeling that if you didn't do anything,
In thirty minutes they'd know downstairs that something was wrong;
They'd find you in a cold shower, bloodless and pale.


Step back and let water splash into your hand.
Your red blood dissolves and dilutes until Kool-Aid coloured.
Your nose tries to keep up, but the water flows like time;
Tilt your hand and let your blood hit the tiles.
Watch long enough and bright stars of fresh red explode between your feet,
Chasing the diluted pink with a droplet's red glare.
But the more water you spend the more you blend;
And the cliche continues,
And your crimson cocktail;
Water, time, and life,
Goes down the drain.

The White Deer 2

    Part two of my serial in an attempt to get me to finish something I started. Here's a link to Part 1 if'n you need it: http://dumbasscarpenter.blogspot.com/2011/09/im-still-drunk.html

2

     I'm sitting on the tailgate of my truck waiting for Brian to snap shut his 1990's phone and teach me how to shoot a compound bow. Everything's here--his bow, his arrows, which I hope not to lose, and some beer, which I plan to lose down my pie-hole, and a little foam cube about 20 yards away that we're supposed to hit with said arrows.

     I don't know shit about bow hunting except that an arrow will kill a deer. 

     I reckon he's talking to his girlfriend because he's waving his hand around and cussing. He shoots a glance at me every so often to make sure I'm not getting all of it, but I am. I try to act casual and pick up the bow laying on the gate. He eyes me under his hat and finally sees me seeing, and hearing him, and walks around the corner of his house.

     I don't really care about his love life, but I don't quite get how a guy like him--bald, need I say more--could even get a chick to fuck him. Maybe it's the awful earful he's giving her that keeps her coming back. The old saying, treat a queen like a whore and a whore like a queen never seemed to fit so well. Not that she's a queen. The one time I made a pass at her, she ratted me out to him.

     So now I'm left all alone with his crazy rig thanks to her. I look down at the bow and can't hardly believe what the hell these things have come down to..or up to I guess. It's the regular old compound configuration with the ex-ed up string wrapped around two cammed pulleys on each end of the struts which are bolted to the mainspringy arm. There's a huge phallic counterbalance thing sticking out the front.

     There's also a wrist strap on the bow so you don't drop the thing. And if you think you'll hurt your finger tips yanking the 'string' back, you're in for a treat, because now we have to use something called a release which is this thing you hook to the 'string' and use to pull it back to fire. It has a damn trigger. When you get the bow drawn, and your shot lined up, you just pull the trigger to shoot.

     Well, damn. We're back to what I like to do best, pulling the trigger and shooting stuff. I'm looking at all this gear, nursing a beer, and waiting. I pick up the bow out of its clamshell-like plastic case just to feel its heft. Professor Baldy's no where to be seen so I hold it up and check out the sights. The three of them glow brightly thanks to fiber optics which was how I was gonna get rich with my pre-lit Christmas tree invention that someone else got around to sooner than I did.

     The bow's heavier than my sad little recurve I brought with me. Brian laughed at it. What a dick. Of course his bow's heavier, it's got all this crap on it. I do a half-assed test pull on the 'string' without the release. It feels like I'm pulling on a guy wire to a telephone pole. Damn. Brian steps around the corner.

     -Don't dry fire it, he says, -It'll fuck it up.

     -I wasn't. I was just lookin'.

     He walks over phoneless now, holds his hand out for the bow which of course I hand to him. He takes it and grabs the release off the tailgate and an arrow.

     -How's the ol' lady? I ask.

     -We ain't married.

     -Not yet.

     -We ain't gonna get married either, he says nocking an arrow and attaching the release to the 'string'.

     -You might as well be, I say, watching him point the arrow skyward then rotate the bow horizontally while at the same time drawing the string back smoothly, effortlessly. -You hate each other enough.

 He's supposed to laugh and shank the arrow into the ground, but he doesn't. He holds at full draw then 'fires'.

     The arrow takes off with a snap and whacks into the target, just about dead center of the 7 inch Santa Claus paper plate he taped to the target cube. Die, papa, die is all I can think.

     -See there? Nothing to it. He picks up another arrow out of the little stack of identical arrows and nocks it as well. -But you ain't shit until you can shoot a group. He fires and the next one whacks right beside the first, and the third sinks in just under them two. In the rifle business we call that a three shot group and it looks like he's done this before.

     -Not bad.
     -Not bad? It ain't as easy as it looks. You'll see.
     Untold, I set off down the line to retrieve the arrows from the block. Santa's smiling face has three holes in it grouped fairly close together. The arrows are sunk in pretty good so I flip the target on its back and step on it to yank them out. The bow can fling 'em.
     I saunter back to the tailgate and plunk them down in the pick up sticks stack. Brian takes off the release and hands it to me. -Your turn, he says.
     I wrap the velcro strap around my wrist and let it dangle there while I pick up his bow. I'm leaning against the tailgate and slowly choose an arrow and nock it right where the little tab is on the 'string' for the release. Brian starts coaching. -All right, we're twenty yards, so use the top dot. Once you get the peep sight, get it lined up on the top one.
     -the yellow one?
     -I don't know what damn colour it is. It's on top.
     -Gotcha.
     -Now hook the release on--right there--and draw it on back.
     I raise the bow and start my draw. -Whatever you do, don't pull that trigger until you're full draw and ready to shoot, Brian says.
     I pull back on the string and it fucking doesn't budge. I push with my left arm as hard as I can, and pull with my right arm as hard as humanly possible, and I can feel the red-hot start to climb up my neck soon to be wrapping around my entire face. The only thing happening is a whole lot of shaking.
     -Jesus, dude. Brain's not looking down range for my arrow to hit, he's looking square at me now.
     -Hang on, dammit. I rest up a second and then go again. With the grunt and yank, I get the thing, the damn 'string' about halfway back before I give out. -Fuck! What's this thing set at?
     -Sixty pounds or so.
     -Jesus H. Christ, man.
     -Here, look. Do what I did. Point the thing straight up in the air and then just rotate it down. Kinda lock and push away with your left, and kinda pull with your right.
     I shake my head but try it again. I point the thing skyward and say a prayer to the puny arm god. I start the roll down and can hear the grunt and feel the strain from the center of my clenched ass to my locked jaw and all points in between. Now, I feel the cams rotating at the ends of the spars, and I feel the arrow move closer and closer to my chin.
     I see the peep sight twisting its way to my eye and then my elbow cracks! Speaks for the first time with an audible snap. The shock of hearing my elbow's voice and the painful jolt--somehow I touch the trigger off and send a half drawn arrow up and out of sight with a weak twang. My arm's falling to my side and I'm trying to untrundle my arm from this thing, just to set it down.
     -Dude! You're gonna kill one of the Mexicans!
     It's true, the neighbor's across the hay field and pond may not be from around here. I just hope they weren't out in their yard!
     -Holy shit! I laugh. -Did you see where it went?
     -No, Idgit.
     -Fuck that bow, I say smiling, placing the heavy ass thing back on top of its open case.
     -Dude, you better stick with a rifle.Or eat a hamburger.
     I roll my eyes. -You can't shoot a rifle in city limits.
     -Shit, no one'll care around here.
     I start to say, but I don't. -Maybe, I say shrugging.
     I walk around to the passenger side door and pull out my recurve and take my place by Brian on the tailgate again.
     -No, says Brian.
     -Yes. I grab another ten dollar arrow off the stack and nock it in my bow where it looks like it's square to the fuzzy rest. I wrap my three fingertips around a real, honest-to-god bow string and pull the thing back all the way until the string is on my cheek and I can see where the arrow'll go when I let it loose.
    Which I do, and it burrows into and under the fricking sod and grass five yards from the cube.  -Dammit! I say, and grab another arrow.
     This time I walk up a few steps, not quite halving the distance, draw, shoot, and hit Santa's fat, smiling face. -There! Goddamn it!
     -Yeah. Here, Brain says as he tosses me another arrow. I chunk that one just off the paper plate. -Let's get another target. Something bigger!
     -Good idea, I say, playing the straight man.
     -I don't have anymore Santa Clauses.
     -I don't care, all I need is something white.
     -That's good. I got plenty of paper plates. He disappears into house and quickly pops back out with a plate and some duct tape. He pulls the arrows out and pulls Santa off and attaches a bigger, pizza stained paper plate to the cube. -There. Now shoot three.
     I'm already ready with three more arrows. Brian skips past in front of me and, frankly, cowers behind me before I get another arrow nocked up. I ignore the burning in my elbow and slowly shoot one ten-dollar arrow after another into the white plate from about the fifty foot mark where I'd walked up to.
     -What the fuck? It's in your blood.
     -Racist!
     -Don't hate.
     -I have shot this thing before...a basketball here, mailbox there.
     -It's legal. It'll kill a deer.
     -Not bad, eh?
     -Not too shabby. If you can get the deer to stand that close.
     I smile. -Not a problem. All's I need is a good stand.

The White Deer 1

1

     I'm still drunk from last night. I finished my coffee and I'm heading through the kitchen. I said my goodbyes and shook the hands and I am almost there.
     -Hang on, he says, I wanna show you something. 
     I turn around and lean on the cold doorknob--cold 'cause the other half of it is outside where I want to be. He, Cary, is digging in his pocket. His pants are so tight that once his hand is in and down to the faded outline of his iPhone, it's as if he's caught in a Burmese monkey trap.
     -What? I smile while warming the knob.
     The phone pops out and goes right to his face, inches from his face, and he peers at it over his glasses as he swipes at what I reckon are pictures. He stops flicking the screen, looks at his find and grins at me.  
     -Look, he says and points the phone at me. He holds it out in front of me and I let go of my knob.
     If he thinks I can see it, he's sadly mistaken. His arm is meandering slightly and I grab his wrist to stop the sway and look at the little picture, a blurry whitish blob in a sea of green. 
     -What is it?
     -What does it look like?
     I raise my eyebrows and reaching back for my steadying knob I shrug.
     -Hang on, check this out. And he goes back to flicking the screen. -Here, he says finally.
     I just take it out of his hand and hold it and see what he's been trying to show me.
     Centered more or less is an albino deer. Buried in all that summer green is an eight point, albino deer still in velvet. The nubby antlers already showing the promise of greatness.
     -Holy shit. Where'd you see him?
     -Right out back.
     -Here? When?
     -Last summer. Cary's smiling now. He's looking at me over his glasses now.
     -That's a hell of a deer. I start jabbing at the screen myself and it all goes away.
     -Is it? he asks taking the phone from me.
     Now I'm smiling. -Season's over now, man. Should've shown me that three weeks ago. Have you seen him lately?
     -Few days ago. He was out--
     -Did he have his full rack? I asked, holding my hands up, thumbs to my skull, fingers spread in the international sign of antlers -I mean, is he worth poaching? Damn, dude, he's worth trying.
     -You can't shoot him, man.
     -Not legally, naw, not now, but we can--
     -No, you can't shoot him. My kids love him.
     -Are you kidding me?
     -No, they love him. Cary starts stuffing the phone back down into his pocket. It slides in and he does a move, a leg thing, to shake it back down to the outline. -I knew I shouldn't have shown you.
     -yeah, you should've shown me when he was still in season. He's the trophy of a lifetime!
     -But you're not a trophy hunter you said.
     Me and Cary look over to the kitchen table at his girlfriend who's sitting behind her laptop, ignoring the last coveted cup of coffee from the pot. 
     -That's right isn't it? she asks.
     I step away from the door. -Well yeah, but this, I say pointing at Cary's crotch -this is the trophy of a lifetime!
     -Well what about, You can't eat antlers? and, It's disrespectful to the spirit of the deer. DEER. she says throwing finger quotes.
     -That's what hunters say to people who don't hunt! People who drive Volvos and went to Chapel Hill. People who ain't got guns. But that bad boy. again with a crotch wag -he's worth a fortune.
      -But he's practically a pet. Cary's kids love him, and I like to see him when I see him.
      -Yeah. Cary says from the kitchen. -I shouldn't have told you.
      I say to them both, -Sure, I get it. He's your little woodland buddy, your pet. But he's gonna get shot, the temptation's too much. Somebody'll--
      -He can't get shot, we live in the city.
      I open my mouth to say something, but I stop myself. -Well, he's got that going for him don't he? I step over to the table and sit down with Cary's girlfriend. -When's the last time you saw him? This winter?
      -Oh, I don't know when. A few weeks ago. It was one morning on my way to my car. Just before--
      -Was he huge? Was he full on, eight shiny white points of sexy mo-fo?
      -Um, how's that?
      -Was he everything that picture of him from last summer promised he'd be?
      She looks up from the screen at me. -I think he was pretty...
      I'm waiting for her to finish, but she already is.
      I get to my feet, and lean over onto the table. -Well, y'all got a hell of a pet I hafta say.
      Cary steps up behind me and very lightly touches my elbow. -Promise you won't shoot him.
      Laughing I say -I can't, man. The season's over! Besides, you live in the city remember? I stand and look him in the eye. -Anyway, I gotta get. Thanks again. I beeline for the door again, and wrap my hand around the knob. Twisting and yanking as hard as it takes for the vintage door to open, I get the rush of cold, dry air that feels like a hangover cure and a slap all at the same time.
      -Well, thanks for the bed, and the party, I say over my shoulder. -Or the party and the bed. Had a good time!
      Cary holds a hand up and waves. His girlfriend looks up again at me as I back down the stairs shutting the door. She smiles?
      The door gets shut and outside, at last, I crunch through the gravel towards my truck. I'm smiling 'cause I'm still drunk. I'm smiling cause I can feel a plan gurgling around.
     

Fatty Catty: The Start of a Good.. or bad thing

Someone else around here started a blog. I hope she sticks with it. I mean, when's the last time you saw one of her movies?


Fatty Catty: The Start of a Good.. or bad thing: Okay, so this is the sweet wittle start of my blog. Yes, it feels quite weird typing to the world BUT-........ well... i don't really know...

Hurricane Ivan's Tornado. Sept 17, 2004.

To this day, the speed limit sign in Meadow Ridge stands bent by the wind and it is the first thing you see when you pull into our neighborhood.

The collapse of the western economy was four years away, and we didn't know it, but we felt the twangs of foreshadowing even if Ben Stein said we had nothing to worry about on CBS' Sunday Morning. That week in September, my old company, RBM Construction Co, Inc. was between houses so I took the guys up to the Rockingham County Gun Club to work on a shelter the club was building. I was just keeping them busy.


The thing is, there was the remnants of this hurricane blasting around us and over us as we worked, and since there wasn't any rain, we didn't think twice about it. Except for the strangely low and swirling clouds, you'd never know it was a singular weather event--we sure didn't, until the radio's music was broken by the National Weather Services' screechy alert.


We all laughed and yelled, "Aye yi yi!" as if we were gonna die unless we split. But then the alerts kept coming. And they weren't tests. They were real events, and they were real close to home. Then my cell phone rang and Lisa was hysterically telling me that she thought a tornado had just swirled down our street. I couldn't believe it at first, but here was Lisa and the national Weather Service telling me tornadoes were sweeping around Stokesdale, NC. I mean, they called us out by name.


Needless to say, we left. On the phone with Lisa at times, and chit chatting with the guys in the truck, (I had driven, so they had all met at my house and parked all over the yard) I drove home looking for damage--it wasn't the first after disaster I'd driven to--but didn't see anything. The gun club's a good 36 miles from home. So we didn't expect much until we passed the Stokesdale water tower...then we thought we'd see some carnage, but really we didn't. That is, until further toward home, on Highway 68 south, there was little tree pushed over in someone's yard.


We all kinda laughed and rolled our eyes--a tempest in a tea pot. Then Lisa got through again, and said a Sheriff's deputy wasn't letting anyone in our development, and I thought that's odd. One of the guy's car had taken a hit from our basketball goal and had a busted window. "Rasta" didn't take it too well and sat in sulky silence the rest of the ride. Apparently, we hadn't seen nothin' yet. We turned off the highway and soon enough saw what Lisa had described. A cop, blocking my way to home. What I thought was going to be a bad day made worse by a hard-headed deputy was quickly eased with a quick license check, and off we went to loop around our hood.


It wasn't pretty.


There were leaves all over the place, and little things from peoples' porches and yards were strewn about. The street we were on, Haw Meadows Dr. runs parallel to our street, Tall Meadows Dr., and when we got even closer to the intersection (OK, it ain't exact parallel) of the two, we saw this.

pulled right out

It's a Leonard!

Same driveway and house on the corner of Haw and Tall Meadows. Looks like the wind just sucked the door out.


The thing that freaked me out the most is that both of the kids were home from school that day supposedly sick. Lisa had opened the door to the garage to close the roll down door , but was blown back into the house on her butt. Of course, by then, Jaime, Emily, and the dog of-the-times, Molly, had scampered into the hall closet to ride it out. Lisa said it was raining so hard at the time, that she never saw a funnel, nor was even sure that a tornado had been by until she finally looked out front.


Now coming down our street in the truck, to our right was most of the damage, and to the left, was mostly just shingles and trees and chairs that had been pulled to the neighbors across the street by the F1 tornado.

Mooshed house and neighbor's roof in yard.

The Dubach's house. I didn't frame it. This is before everyone showed up to gawk and help. This house is diagonally across the street from ours. The tree between the house straight across flopped over onto the roof.

Mooshed house.

The poor people were at work I guess. Later, before anything could be draped over their house, the ceilings collapsed from the rain and the basement flooded as well. To this day, I wonder if the people living there now know their house was mooshed a little bit, then flooded.


The house directly across from us, didn't fare much better to be honest. When I got home, an entire piece of plywood over the front "porch" had blown off and a hunk out of the roof on the back corner had been removed. That's all their OSB you see in the yard of the Dubach's house. I did frame that house, and as soon as I could, I got on the roof and helped Kevan Comb's dad try and save the ceiling with an old discarded billboard--the big vinyl kind--using it like a giant tarp.

The Missing Sheet.

The back hip, pulled right out.

I took this photo before the hordes arrived. It was one of the first digital photos I ever took with my 150 dollar Kodak. Anyway, I did frame this house, and when I nailed the missing piece of plywood back into the roof, I saw exactly why it had blown off. The lazy ass help I used back when we framed it had only nailed down as far as they could reach without stepping out from inside, which was only about half way down! No wonder the wind got under it and yanked it off.

That's my ladder!

To the left here is Kevan Comb's dad trying to keep the billboard from blowing off, but it was too late, while we were up there, we kept hearing parts of the ceiling collapse from the weight of the rain. While I was up on the peak, the ridge, I looked down and saw scrawled onto the top of the two by ten, in crummy, red-necked handwriting, "Fuck Brett Mothershead." No kidding! I laughed and poked Kevan's dad and said, "Look! that's me, Brett Mothershead!" True story.






At our house, the back twin window of the bonus room was pulled in and most everything loose and small in the room was sucked out through the eaves out front. A passel of canceled checks and papers and a wall clock that to this day we haven't seen again were pulled through the overhang. Even some things from the garage were pulled across the street into the neighbors' yard including our garbage and Jaime's batting helmet and a ball.

Jaime's ball and batting helmet across the street.

Later, of course, "they" came to look and help followed by the local media. There was a rush of gawkers and locals with chainsaws and even a backhoe. It was a steady stream. Even the Red Cross showed up to hand out sandwiches and bottles of water to the guys that were working. I felt like I had done my part, picking up my garbage and tax papers and climbing on the roof in the rain, so I stepped back and let the willing do all the work.


It got bad as the week went by. Our house was pretty untouched. The blown in windows were tilt sashes and it was easy to pop them back in. The only thing I had to work on was the soffit out front that got poofed out. By the middle of the following week, I was trimming hedges to keep an eye on things, but it looked like I was recovering from the storm so I was still able to soak up free water and ham sandwiches from the Red Cross.

Standing between my yard and my neighbors looking right.

Well I was thankful that no one was killed or really hurt. For some reason, tornadoes follow the women on Lisa's side of the family. Stoneville had a whopper chopper tornado that really tore up the town and killed two people before this one struck us. It also ripped the roof off my mother-in-law's house which makes me think that the Cain/Disher women are cursed--but--we've had our tornado, and thus need never worry about it again? Anyway, that's another story....

The curious and my father-in-law.

Jaime was even interviewed by Frank Mickens and some chick from Fox8, but for the life of me, I can't remember her name--but her face looked dipped in chocolate. I'd meet people a couple years later, and when they'd hear my last name they'd interrupt me and ask, "Do you have a son named Jaime? I think I saw him on TV..."


Hey! Much to his credit, he never said, "It sounded like a freight train!" And for that I'll always be thankful.

That guy killed his grass--not the twister.

It seems Jaime was the mastermind behind the seeking shelter in the hall closet. Molly had followed on her own volition, but to hear Lisa tell it, it was Jaime who dragged Emily in there while Lisa was peeking out the windows and getting blown on her ass in the garage!

Slack-jawed gawkers.

I wish I'd been at home when it hit because I'd have gotten a picture of the twister.

That's my truck stage left, and note the plywood back in it's place.

Looking past...

By the time this picture was taken, there were plenty of people to do anything your heart would desire.

They all started taking trees out, just 'cause.

That's when I was resolved to put the drive-byer's to work. I'd grab on or two and get them to help me lift heavy stuff or mow, or wash my truck. All it took was a point to my over-turned trash can and they were putty in my hands so to speak. I'll never forget the old man who helped me load a compressor into the back of my truck. I could see the look of disbelief as he got out of his Ford and stooped to help me lift the thing. It was fun to watch someone have that kind of out of body experience, and it might have been as close as a cult following as I've ever had! I might try again later.






There was one man, on tireles soul (with the backhoe) who worked as hard as any white man would (for free) that I have ever seen. And what cut him from the crowd, what made him singular was the silver of his hair that he had cut in the most regal mullet.

The Silver Mullet.

Looking back at my house from Pond Court.

Jim Dubach...that was his condemned house.

Frank!

The Booms.

In the strangest of coincidences, I had a guy named Ivan (ee-BAHN) working with us. So for the rest of my life, I'll pronounce the name of the hurricane that spawned the tornado with a Chilango accent--or at least I'll try. Earlier that week, Ivan had cut the letters to spell his name out of flashing tape and had stuck them on the back of his sweatshirt, and when we got home to the mess, he walked around looking at the wreckage proudly sporting the name of the storm. It dawned on me finally and he took it off, but for a few moments, he looked like one insensitive bastard.

Well the pictures tell more of the story than I can. So suffice it to say it was rather exciting around here for a few days, and we all had plenty to talk about for weeks and weeks. This neighborhood has had its share of interesting times for sure, and in fact, It reminds me of one of my favorite sayings: Never a dull moment.

Today, everything is just fine of course. Sadly, we're one of the few families still here. They call homes like ours "transitional" for a reason, and gone is the nod we had when we'd see each other this time of year, or at a super-bowl party. The quiet strangers we see now probably don't even know.

All is well now. That's my driveway!

My September Eleventh

Yeah, I know, I still cringe when I see the video of something so horrible that it still, at least in my mind, seems unthinkable. I think what a waste of human life, the poor folks inside who just wanted to work, and the poor, suicidal fireman who went in to "save" them. The firemen knew better. Of course I remember that day and where I was, who doesn't?

But guess where I was in 1997 on another September eleventh. At six or so that morning, I was, coincidentally, in an airport watching it rain, nervously trying to swallow and chit chat while waiting for a plane. I had a wife to go with me, and a parent or two to see us both off as we flew to Guatemala to pick up another Mothershead.

A little over a year before that moment, we had thrown in the towel trying to have a child the good old fashioned way and had gone to see about international adoption. Because of a book I read, I figured we'd do well to have a little girl, but at the initial meeting for Chinese adoptions (specializing in little girls), we found out that Lisa and I were too young (as if we were ever too young for anything).

We weren't far off, but after the "talk" we were leaving a little dejected. However, on the way out the door, I glanced down and saw a pamphlet about Guatemalan adoptions spread about on a folding table. And the little kids in the pictures looked alot* like yours truly--I mean, when I was a kid. There was a certain family resemblance and when we looked at the photos, we both knew.

Well, thankfully, I was in charge of doing absolutely nothing to promote the adoption process. See, I was still trying the old fashioned way whenever anyone would let me, and working. All that damnable paperwork and schmoozing with the adoption agency was Lisa's job. I don't know how many trips she made to the Guilford County Courthouse even though, these days, she claims she can't find it. And the home studies? Oh man, I can tell you now, don't call a deputy sheriff  "a doughnut-eating pig" while you're being interviewed--even on paper. That cost me two hundred dollars for a personality test.

Another twist of fate was a dead grandfather of Lisa's who, by some miracle, had left her some land and a sharecropper. Well, sure, it was fun to phone the "grain elevator" guys in Kansas and shout, "SELL SELL!" when grain was "up" and we needed Christmas presents, but there came a day when Lisa's step-mom wanted to sell her parcel and "it would just be better if we sold ours with hers". So we did. Suddenly the whole adoption was already paid for.

Jaime's foster 'brothers'. All smiles!

And, just like a pregnancy, we were told "You'll get what you get, and that's what you'll get." We waited and watched as the couple before us in the queue got a child, and then we waited some more until we finally got an email and a photo that choked our dial-up modem until we had a Jpeg of a crying baby boy. After the birth photos, we received more pictures from the foster family and I had a glimpse,  though I didn't recognize it at the time, of a happy, loving family...the one we were about to pull apart.


So then, cash in hand, with everything about us certifiably copied and notarized--in triplicate--and translated to Castellano, and all the right people bribed here and yon, and plane tickets bought and our bags packed, we took to the air in a rush of excitement and landed in Houston, Texas...staying there for...eight...hours.

It was ninety-three degrees at 9:00 AM that September morning. Everything of interest, of course, was closed. So I begged and begged and we finally got a room where we napped, tried the good old fashioned way again one last time, and watched TV until we danced past the passport-checking cops, boarded another jet that sweated us on the tarmac for awhile before it finally took off over the Gulf...of Mexico that is.

And in the dark, between the floating canyons of flashing thunderstorms, we finally felt the airplane slow and lurch like a city bus which was apropos because as we fell from the sky during our rain-streaked descent, we noticed the airport and runway were smack dab in the middle of Guatemala City, Guatemala. I could see Golden Arches just a few meters and roofs away as we hurtled down the runway hoping to stop before we rode through the business district.

Stopped then, we made a mad dash through the rain to the terminal, found a shifty looking guy with a "Mothershead/Cain" sign and got into a car with him. Once in the car, we were off to the hotel, or to be kidnapped, murdered and sold piecemeal for our wholesome organs--the thought did cross my mind as we jockeyed with a thousand other cars through the night.

Obviously we made it to the hotel, but I can't remember much in the way of checking in, getting the room, getting unpacked. I do remember the night was warm, but not too humid, and the city, which was just a few meters from the front door, was loud and noisy and relentless even at the hour we were there. Well, for us, it was 10:00 PM, for the rest of Guatemala, it was only 9:00.

I do remember not really believing it was the very same day that we had left NC, and that I was in another country. I felt like I could barely remember why we had even come to Guatemala until the hijo del abogado  showed up with a woman carrying a huge blue and white bundle. Then it started to dawn on me that all the fingerprinting, all the interviews, and all the "hassles", were for this moment, and that all the waiting was just about over.

The Foster Mom hanging in there.

Jaime's foster mom handed him to Lisa and started wiping tears away. And at that moment, I felt as bad as anyone could have. I already knew how selfish it is to want a child, and seeing her cry while passing this little boy into the hands of strangers made that very obvious and real to me. Even now, if someone says, "You're so good for adopting," or "You did such a good thing," I cringe and beg them off with a curt, "No we aren't/didn't. We just got what we had so badly wanted."

And just like that, after a few penstrokes we were parents. I was a father. I swear, at that moment I felt like I hadn't seen it coming, as if it were some big surprise. Suddenly, all that aforementioned guilt washed away with the anticipation of this little baby boy waking up in the morning and, assuming his eyes were open, he would see his new mom and dad and love us like we'd dreamed he would.

Lisa signing the papers, complete with tiny foot prints from Jaime.

He didn't wait until morning. Apparently babies, and Jaime was barely three months old at this time, need to eat whenever the feeling hits them. And starting in Guatemala, and for the rest of those early months, it became my job to do the middle of the night feeding. When he woke us up with that horrible screeching (thankfully, to this day, I can't remember what it used to sound like) that first night, I was sleepily trained in the art of feeding a baby. And when I looked into his little black eyes while he drank, that sudden rush of "What the hell was I thinking?" slipped away into something without words yet understood between he and I.

Watching Willy Wonka.

I have rarely felt so selfless, maybe once or twice in my life, than I did in the low light of the single lamp, looking down at my son as he drank his snack and lulled himself back to sleep. It was love at first sight, that's all I can say.

We could've timed the whole encounter so we could jet back to the U.S. the very next day, but, hey, we were in Guatemala! I forced us to plan a weekend so we could see some sights and maybe take back some mementos and memories and photos. It hadn't dawned on me that we'd be parents when I decided we'd take our time, but we had help. A couple and their daughter took us around showing us some things, and Antigua, and a market. I thoroughly enjoyed myself.

If you've ever read anything I've written about this time, then you already know it was an eye-opening experience. All my life, I had never been surrounded by people of colour who just so happened to match my colour! Was it a racial awakening? An epiphany of sorts? I finally fit into a crowd and I liked it. For once, it was Lisa who looked a tad out of place as we saw the sights! At a bank, standing in line to exchange some cash, a fellow customer turned to me and started talking to me as if I had grown up right next door.

The face of discontent. "Who the hell are these people?"

Anyway, when it opened up, we had to go to the U.S. Embassy and sign some more papers and get Jaime's papers straight. I'm not sure what we were doing, but finally, we were on our way, and on the way home. And what had been an awesome adventure coming down to Guatemala, now had become a (new) parent's nightmare.  No one tells you how heavy these kids get after you've been carrying them for a few hours--not to mention all the accoutrements.

Jaime's passport! Note thumb print.

Also, no one tells you babies hate pressurized jetliners. And no one tells you how lonely two people can be when they've just become parents and there's no one for a thousand miles to help out. The only people around you are there to double check your paperwork, taking their own sweet time and denying you and yours access to the one thing you really need: your parents, and more specifically, your Mom!

Jaime's green card!

And that is why, when the plane touched down at GSO, and we walked out of the chute, I choked back tears of shear joy when I saw friends and family waiting for us three with eager arms outstretched to take the newest Mothershead out of my tired arms. Again, that kind of relief only comes once or twice in a lifetime. And once in a while, it feels good to feel as loved as we all did. Someone even got poor ol' Jaime to smile after the journey as he was passed around from uncles to cousins to grandparents.

Impossible to meet someone at the "people tube" nowadays, but there was everyone  in 1997.

The picture is bad, but on the floor at Lisa's feet is a bear that she dropped, but never stopped walking as she kicked it towards our family and friends. I'm behind her with the boy trying not to cry but eager to pass him around. My late mom and dad, who adopted yours truly, is on the left, and Lisa's mom is there on the right. Obviously, and sadly, the moment captured here would never be allowed these days because of hateful, deluded people and what they did on a later September eleventh. No one's allowed near the chutes now unless they're getting off or on a plane.

The world was indeed a better place when September eleventh was something we had looked forward to with anticipation, and then as the day we'd remember as the beginning of a completely different life for all three of us. It is the day I finally had a reason to be here, and for that, my September eleventh is good enough for me.

Jaime's 14th Birthday. June 17, 2011.

P.S. And even more "good enough for me" is the "good old fashioned way", which as it turned out, worked just fine after a while...but that's another story.