This was originally posted on the 5th anniversary of the invasion of Iraq by US forces. The Alien Trucker site crashed a couple of months ago and it was lost. I am reposting it on the eve of this very important election. It serves as a reminder of McCain’s promise of 50 years…maybe 100 in Iraq.
Please vote to get our soldiers home. Vote against McCain. He is just another Bush/Cheney.
There are moments in time that will always be a major part of your memories, Some can be that very moment when something wonderful happens that changes your life. Some are the moments spent with friends and family over many years. Some come from a traumatic moment that you or someone close experiences. This story has all three. Try to bear with me as this post may get long with memories hitting me from all sides and pouring out.
My hero literally stumbled into my life one September afternoon in 1985 in Oakland California. I was sitting in line waiting for security to open the doors of the Henry J. Kaiser Auditorium so I could race to a good spot to set up my tape deck to record the Grateful Dead’s show that night. Sitting against the wall with my gear in a booksack at my feet I watched the colorful parade of Deadheads scurrying around in a frantic circus of anticipation. One tie-dyed t shirt was filled with a cute preschool kid with flowing brown hair streaming behind him. Laughing and playing evasive games with his mom he was making all of us in line smile. On the last pass he tripped over my bag and landed in my arms. Startled but ok he smiled at me and my heart melted.
“Its my birthday”, he opened.
“Happy birthday.”I replied helping him back to his feet, “How old are you?”
“Four.” he told me holding up first three then four fingers on his small hand.
“I’m sorry. Somebody gave him a cupcake and he’s not used to sugar. I’m trying to let him run the energy off before the show.” his mom said looking harried.
After telling her it was all cool I picked up the conversation with him again. “How many times have you seen the Dead?” I asked. Holding up his hands he got confused and looked at mom. She told me this was his 20th show. Funny enough it was also mine and I told him so.
He looked hot so I asked his mom if he could have some apple juice I had. He took it and sat down chattering away between long pulls on the bottle. I asked his mom if she wanted to sit down and rest for a bit and lucky for me she said ok. Offering her his juice I picked up a southern drawl from both of them.
“Where y’all from?” I asked.
“Walker, Loosyana.” he said.
That was nice for me. A conversation starter of sorts since I had attended Louisiana State University for a couple of years before moving on to my illustrious career of following a band around the country. Baton Rouge is only about 20 miles from Walker and I had friends that grew up there. We hit it off and by the time they opened the doors we had begun to be friends. All three of us.
It was pleasant having someone to see the show with. I had been traveling by myself, living in my van and hustling for temporary work between tours so the company was fun. He was tired by the time the first set was over and asleep by the time the guys came back for the second set. We tried to make a pallet on the floor for him but there was too much traffic. I eventually picked him up and he slept on my shoulder while I swayed to the music. By the end of the encore I knew I wanted to know more about this kid and his beautiful mother. My recording equipment never got set up that night but I realized I didn’t care. Looking back I know that it was the best Dead show I ever experienced.
Returning to the parking lot we discovered her ride back to her new hometown of Santa Cruz had already left. Since it was on the way, sorta, to the Chula Vista shows a couple of days later I offered them a ride. She and I talked and got to know each other well and by the time we had finished the 75 mile drive we were friends. By the end of the next day we were very close and by the end of October we were dating steady.
Santa Cruz became the between tours “home’ for me and the van. Their apartment soon became ours and before summer tour came around my hero was calling me Daddy. I was as happy as could be and so were they. I worked temp jobs and she stayed home as a full time mom. Thats a full time job so she always seemed grateful when I got home and he would rush me demanding hugs and attention. Life seemed perfect
I loved my new family and it expanded with another son by the beginning of 1987. I started calling our oldest son my hero sometime back then because he had brought all of us together at that Dead show. I would have never gotten to know them if he hadn’t have tripped into my arms. Never would have had our beautiful second son.
Our boy adored his little brother and sometimes got in the way trying to help take care of him. He was a great big brother and showed it through all of the years. He taught him the things kids learn growing up. Riding a bike, how to bait a hook. climbing trees and yes, his first cuss word. The laughed, played and seldom fought. The little guy adored him and followed him like a puppy. It wasn’t until they were teens that they stopped hanging out together all of the time.
Both of our families were bugging us to get married and although we weren’t much into the idea we were joined in a civil ceremony at the 1988 National Gathering of the Rainbow Family in the Angelina National Forest in Texas. All of our parents made the trip and were somewhat taken aback by all of the hippies running free in the woods. But it satisfied their nagging and my hero was really into the idea. All he could talk about for the rest of the gathering was how his mom and dad were married.
We worked together to perfect tie dying t-shirts and eventually bought a screen printing press so we could support our addiction to the Grateful Dead by selling shirts in the parking lots. My hero was a big help by watching his little brother and doing small errands while we were dyeing or printing shirts. Our family had grown and so did our means of transportation. An old school bus with few renovations came cheap and we converted it into a camper. He was always there to hand me a wrench or hold the paneling as I screwed it onto the interior walls. He liked spending time with me and I, of course, loved those times as well.
Times spent in the bus were close. There was never enough room for the four of us inside as the boys grew, so many days of stopping to play in parks and wayside rest areas became common. Camping between tours replaced the apartment in Santa Cruz and soon we moved our home base back to southern Louisiana. As the boys grew their wonderful mother and I home schooled them. Our lifestyle had no solid roots so enrolling them in a traditional school seemed futile since Dead tour would just uproot them anyway. They learned the required subjects well and passed all of the state required testing with high scores. We taught unity and peace along with their math and reading. Love for our earth and fellow beings was as much on the program as history and language.
Watching them grow into little men was a joy to me. With all of the ups and downs of daily life we stayed close. The skinned knees were healed with kisses and bactine. Skinned hearts were soothed with hugs and positive attention. Thats not to say everything was always peachy, growing up in a bus could sometimes be tough on the boys. They both longed for a normal life and we did too. A couple of years before Jerry Garcia died and the band stopped touring we settled down. We rented a house in a semi-rural neighborhood and enrolled the guys in school. I got a job driving truck so the money was good. We eventually bought the house we had been renting. It was a major change for all of us but my hero adapted fast.
Always outgoing he never met a stranger. Friends were made the first day that would last until well after high school. Everybody always seemed to like him immediately. He preferred the outdoors and fishing soon became his number one hobby. The Amite River was close to our house and most afternoons he and his friends could be found there swimming, fishing or just playing around.
We lived close to his grandparents place and both of the boys spent a lot of time there. Our youngest wasn’t very interested in outdoor activities and spent a lot of that time at grammas side. My hero, however, preferred the openness that being outside brought. Under his grandpa’s watch he would ride his bike, run, or sometimes just sit quietly with the old man. Grandpa taught him how to change the oil in the car by the time he was 11 but wrenching on machines wasn’t for him. His woodworking skills showed great promise however, as they worked closely building things in his grandfathers shop. Always thinking of others he would build small toys for his brother, a spice rack for Gramma or a small cabinet for over his moms bathroom sink.
One day in 1994 he came to me and asked me to walk with him to the river. He had something to show me. Something he said was very special. A thing that only he and I could share. Making me promise I would never show it to even his mom or brother he led me through the thick underbrush to a huge oak tree near the water. The area around the tree was somewhat trampled but other than that it looked like any other area in the woods between our backyard and the river.
“You gotta promise that you wont ever bring anyone else here Dad,”He pleaded again.
Of course I vowed that this was our secret. No one would ever know that he and I had a secret place. Just the fact that he had some secret to share with only me made my heart melt once again and I realized my 13 year old boy was becoming a man. It would be easy for me to keep this secret. It was that special place for us. Just him and me.
I started to sit on the ground when he stopped me. Showing me a ladder of sorts leading into the branches above he grinned.
“You didn’t see them, did you?” he asked with joy pointing to the plank steps he had nailed to the trunk.
They were painted to match the color of the tree and blended in so well that I admitted I hadn’t seen them. Looking up I made out the shape of planks that were as carefully painted as the ladder. If you weren’t looking for it you could never have seen the tree house he had built. It wasn’t till many years later that his grandfather told me he was in on the secret and had done much of the building with him. Grandpa said he had sworn he would never go there without an invitation and it wasn’t until just last year he returned to the place.
We climbed into the tree and I was amazed at the craftsmanship that went into the place. The floor and walls were solid. There was a shingled roof with about 6 feet of headroom. The door built into the floor was hinged perfectly. A couple of low handmade benches sat facing the window that looked through the branches towards the river. Both windows were screened to keep the bugs out. It was beautiful and I told him so. He beamed with pride.
Above the window was a picture frame with a tie dyed piece of cloth hanging to cover it. Reaching into his backpack and bringing out two bottles of apple juice, our drink of choice, he opened them announcing a toast. With a flourish he swept the cloth away and we clinked our bottles. The framed wood was engraved with the words, “My Daddy’s Place For Peace”.
I broke down and cried. My boy had done this for me. For us. With love. For peace.
He sat down and hugged me. Holding each other we both dried our tears and took embarrassed drinks from our juice. I looked down from the window marveling both at the fine work that went into it as well as the view he had chosen for the window side of the structure. Choking back tears I told him I loved it.
We spent many afternoons in that tree house. His mom knew we had a special bond and never questioned when we would takes our walks alone. We talked a lot. He always felt comfortable telling me about his life. Never afraid to ask questions he helped me learn what it meant to be a life guide. No subject was out of bounds as we talked about puberty, social topics and of course girls and dating. We grew up together in that tree house. Like the plaque on the wall said it truly was a place for peace.
His first car came on his 16th birthday. Of course that took priority over our afternoons in the tree. Girlfriends came and even less time was spent together in the woods. Sunday afternoons became our time together in the tree house and eventually even that tradition waned. We began to only go to the tree when there was a major problem he needed to talk about. During his senior year in high school we only got to the tree 3 or 4 times. Then they stopped completely.
In 2000 I got hurt on the job and was classified as disabled. Between surgeries and hospital stays I had a lot of home time. It seemed like the old days when my family were together 24/7. Somehow my injury became a blessing to me just to have the time with my family. Time the big trucks had taken away had returned. But the boys were growing to be men and their time spent at home got less and less. Times in the tree house were just for me most of the time.
When my hero started college there was never enough time for our walks. His girlfriend got the attention he used to give to us. They had been dating for a couple of years and there were hints of a lifetime commitment. I understood his need to live his own life but I still missed our time together.
I would sometimes take a joint to the tree house and just sit. Remembering our times there alone would help this aging hippie get through the fact that he had outgrown our place of communion. His life had become independent and although it was hard to let go I knew it was important that I did. One day in November shortly after his 20th birthday he asked me to take a walk with him. Something big must be happening and he needed to talk. I didn’t know how big but needed to find out so off we went.
Our trail through the woods had become overgrown. When we got to the tree we saw the peeling paint was allowing the Louisiana humidity to start rotting the boards that made our tree house. One of the steps was missing and another came free when he put his weight on it. We climbed up carefully and settled into our places on the bench. facing the river. This time he brought two bottles of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, my favorite beer, out of his pack. After clinking the bottles and drinking to the old days he stood and straightened the plaque on the wall.
Pulling a small bowl and a baggie from his pack he told me he thought we should have a smoke before we talked. He said he rarely smoked weed but knew it would calm both of us while we talked about the most important decision he had ever made. One that was sure to change all of our lives. A decision he had labored over for a long time. A choice to put the lessons of peace we had shared aside. The decision to become a member of the United States Marine Corps.
My heart sank. This couldn’t be real. His mother and I had tried to teach him peaceful ways to work out conflicts. The Marines weren’t about peace especially since the 9/11 attacks just a couple of months before. I was frantic. I didn’t want him to go to an inevitable war. I needed him here not in Afghanistan. Not anywhere except his classes. Sleeping in his room not in some barracks. Shooting at cans down by the river not at people who were intent at shooting him.
Tears started coming but I held them back. I also knew we had taught him to stand firm for his convictions. To defend his beliefs. All I could do was ask, “Are you sure? This is something you are positive you hafta’ do?”
“I have thought about it a lot Daddy.” he said.
He hadn’t called me Daddy for years. It was “Dad” now or “hey old man”.
“I know you won’t approve. Just know that I only decided to do this after our freedom was attacked. I don’t want anyone to come and change our lifestyle. I have to go.”
He continued talking while my tears flowed. He told me that he loved the life he had shared with us growing up. He knew the Deadheads and Rainbows were all about passive resistance and would never fight a war to defend their way of life. They do it their way and I’ll do it mine was what he was saying. He loved that freedom and would do what it took to make sure his mother and I would be able to live free until the end. He wanted to make sure I knew he was doing what we had taught, but in his own way.
I stood and hugged him. Holding him tight like I never would let go. We were both crying and after a bit he pulled free from my arms and said, “How are we gonna’ tell mom?”
“We?” I asked. “We?” but in asking I knew that this was a family situation and he needed me to stand by him as he broke the news to her.
“I have an idea.,” he said, “but I don’t want to freak her out too much.”
“Lets go tell her.”I said.
Walking back through the woods seemed endless. Mosquito’s buzzing and leaves rustling accompanied the sounds of our feet crunching the under brush. I could only think of my hero leaving. Probably going to a war that the whole nation was in a frenzy to start. Revenge was on everyones mind and the media hype was fanning the flames and keeping the war drums beating. I agreed that something needed to be done but I didn’t want my boy doing it. I was scared and flustered.
He talked about how the culprits that bombed us were from Saudi Arabia and stationed in Afghanistan. How he was going to be part of a team that would go and flush out the bad guys and keep America safe. How the Saudi’s had to be held accountable and how tearing down the Taliban would be the only way to stop al Qaeda from growing. He was excited to be doing his part. He dreaded telling us but he had to as he was going to basic training in just a few days.
His mom and little brother were just finishing the final touches on a simple dinner of curried rice with steamed veggies alongside a small beef roast. My eyebrows raised as she never cooked meat. The boys had started eating meat (always away from home however) as they got into their teens but our fare had always been vegetarian so this was a surprise. She was crying. I wondered aloud what had happened.
She ran to him saying “Don’t do it! Don’t!”
Someone had obviously already told her. She grabbed him around his waist and sank to her knees begging him “NO! NO! NO!”
After a bit she calmed down some and sat on the sofa weeping. She told us that a Marine officer had stopped by earlier with orders that he ship out tomorrow. That the Marines needed him earlier than he had thought. They were training the new recruits faster and sending them to Afghanistan to find bin Laden. To bring freedom to women. bring freedom to those who needed it and to protect ours.
Suggesting he run to a friends farm in Arkansas to hide she was figuring ways to stop her eldest son from heading into danger. Not able to hear his side of this she was as frantic and distressed as I had ever seen her. He just sat and held her tight and waited.
When she calmed a little more he started talking. While he tried to explain his position she told him over and over his opinion was wrong. He had to stay here and pray for peace. Sit in drum circles and chant. Teach other young men passiveness for peace. All of the ways he had learned from being a part of the Circle Of Light our Rainbow Family had taught him. Prayers were better than guns anytime she said. Pleading with him to change his mind.
Telling her the same things he had told me at the tree house he finally convinced her that there was nothing she would do to change his mind, even if he could he was committed. She called us to dinner. Explaining that her mom had prepared the roast she spooned the rice and veggies onto her plate. The boys ate well all the while talking between themselves excitedly. She and I picked at our food. Our appetites were gone.
“Something I want to do before Gramma and Grampa come by.” he said. “Come out on the porch.”
Leaving the table as it was we filed solemnly out. He had a package in his hands. When he handed it to us his mom started crying again.
The brown paper folded when I took it. It was heavy but flexible.
“Open It Dad.” he said.
Tearing the paper I found a US flag. Looking at him questioningly I asked, “What do you want us to do with this?”
“Hang it on the porch every day ’til I get home.” he responded.
Not being the flag waving type I had been amazed at the fervor that had swept the country after the September 11 attacks on out country. Those “patriots” who had snatched up all of the flags made in China or Taiwan to fly from their porches and cars. The false sense of belonging as they watched their neighbors kids sign up for the military while keeping their kids safe at home. The blind supporters of Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld and the rest of that gang. The sheep who screamed for blood when they didn’t even know whose blood they should shed, or why. Those who listened to the war chants on CNN and Fox News but didn’t look at the facts. Those flag wavers who were shoving a false sense of being a patriot down each others throats.
He brought me out of my angry fog by saying, “I know you aren’t the flag waving kind of people but I wish you would hang this for me. When I get home I will take it down and you wont have to fly it again. Just do it for me. Please.”
Without hesitation I said “OK”. He handed me a kit with a pole and bracket to install on the porch. Then another kit along with a Marine flag to hang as well. “For me.” he asked.
His grandparents arrived shortly. They had been told of the events happening and Grandpa got a drill from his pickup and installed the flag holders on the posts framing the screen door. Tears and hugs went around and the rest of the evening was spent trying to make small talk and soothe his mom and gramma.
I drove him to the recruiters office the next morning. We stopped at a C C’s shop for a cup of that Community brand dark roast that can be found only in the southland. Sipping the brew he told me that he loved me. For the first time ever he brought up the fact that I was his stepdad. We had never hidden this from him but it was never a topic of conversation. Just something that seemed to be forgotten as time passed.
He let me know he loved me. He thanked me for taking care of him and his mother all of those years. Told me that he had always noticed that he seemed as important to me as “my own” son had. How I always treated him the same and never seemed to care that another man was his biological father. He said he always felt like he belonged and never doubted the love I gave him. He hugged me there in the crowded coffee shop and laughingly promised he would be back soon to watch me get old.
The last little drive to the Marines office was silent. When we got out of the car he hugged me again. “I love you Daddy.” he said. “I’ll be home sooner than you think.”
“I love you too” I cried. “You are my hero. Take care of yourself.”
The hug lasted another bit and then an officer came out and barked an order at him and he walked away.
He finished training and came home for a day before they sent him to Afghanistan. What a thrill that was. Our boy, shaved head, snappy stride and all. Home for just a day, just to leave again. He told his mom he wanted to eat nothing but her veggies and pasta as he hadn’t had a decent meal for a while. He said the Marine mess was so foul he wouldn’t eat meat again when he got back home.
Just before he was due to leave he asked me for a little walk. Maybe to the tree house. He brought the trusty backpack and I wondered what goodies he had packed. I heard bottles clinking as we walked and talked. Blazing the trail that we had only been down a few weeks earlier the conversation was lighter. When we got to the tree he pulled a hammer, nails and a couple of two by four strips from the pack.
“I know you will probably come to smoke and get away from mom sometimes and I want your climb to be safe.” he said pounding the boards in place of the ones that had rotted away.
We climbed up and entered our ’place for peace’ he had so lovingly presented to me a few years ago. All of those old emotions rushed back as he brought two bottles of apple juice out.
“Nutrition first, then we’ll get drunk.” he grinned pulling a sixer of pale ale out. Here’s some Afghani hash I got on base for you.”
He handed me a paper wrapped chunk of black hash from the pack along with a hand carved wooden pipe.
“I did that one just for you” he said.
The craftsmanship of the whittling reminded me of the days when his grandfather would let him carve little trinkets when he was a boy. On the front of the bowl he had carved the eagle and anchor of the US Marines. But instead of the eagle perching on the globe it was sitting atop a peace sign. After the apple juice toast to peace and freedom we broke into the beers. I loaded the bowl and we had a few puffs of the hash. Only a few though because it was good stuff.
We talked until the sun went down. About everything. His childhood, college and the impending trip to a foreign land and the conflict there. We talked about our family and the impact this had on all of us. He told me he knew that all of us were affected by his decision and that although he felt a little bad it was something he felt strongly about. He reached into the pack and brought out a yellow envelope. It was sealed and he told me it should stay that way until he came home.
“There’s some special stuff in there but I want to be here when you open it.” Continuing with, “If I don’t come home I want you to come back here alone and open it. Just you though, nobody else.”
We walked back home silently. His little brother, mom and fiance’ were sitting on the screened porch waiting. His mothers sad smile let me know she was glad we had had that time alone together. We went inside to dinner. Tofu burgers with broccoli in a cheddar sauce over his moms home made noodles. His favorite meal, of course. Then he and his best girl headed off to be alone for a while before he left in the morning.
We all saw his bus off the next morning. He sat at a window so we could wave and throw kisses. I could see the tears in his eyes as the bus pulled away and we all started crying too. Our boy was going off to be, once again, my hero. I may not have been supportive of the war he was fighting but I knew his heart was into it and I supported him and his decision.
We got e-mails and snail mail from him a lot. Then in March of 2003 he wrote telling us he wasn’t sure of what came next for him. He told us that somehow his president had gotten Saudi Arabia mixed up with Iraq and they were sending him to fight against a people that had never done any harm to him or his way of life. He was confused about why the Saudi’s were getting off free while the Iraqi people had to suffer attack for something someone else had done. He kept saying how the Saudi government harbored al Qaeda and Saddam never would have allowed them in his country. He knew he had to go but his dedication was waning. They were sending him to overthrow a government that had nothing to do with the 9/11 attacks, no matter what the administration told him.
The flags were hung every morning just as he asked. His mom got more used to the idea of him being a Marine and eventually talked about it with her friends and family. When some of our Rainbow Family would come through they questioned the flags but shared their love when we explained. I became somewhat of a proud flag waver over the months and although I was not proud of our leaders I still showed the love for my son and the country he was fighting for. He was the reason I had a flag and I honored him with it.
His mom began wearing a pained, worried look on her face all of the time. The smile lines that had begun to form next to her beautiful blue/green eyes were deepening. Almost undetectable at first her long blonde hair began to grey. The laughter that always came flowing at the slightest thing was waning. Her usually boistrous voice had quietened and conversation seemed strained. Things were tough for all of us but she was taking our sons absence really hard.
Arguments between us used to be rare but now everything about our lives caused some kind of distress. Day to day life always was a problem and I started spending more and more time with my weed in the treehouse. I rarely drank before but beer, then George Dickel whiskey, became a big part of my evenings. My actions were becoming a big point of strife and things were going down hill at home.
He visited at home a couple of days before he was shipped out to Iraq. I didn’t get to spend as much time with him as I wanted. His girlfriend took up most of his free time but we had some great times together anyway. We drank another sixer of beer in the tree house and talked about his work in Afghanistan.He hadn’t seen much action there and was happy to have done more positive work helping the new government rebuild the shattered society that had been the Taliban.
Then, all too soon, my hero shipped out to Iraq and began his part of the Marines daily work of overthrowing Saddam and “freeing” the citizens. The letters he sent told a little of the daily life he was enduring. He asked us to send him a Kevlar vest as the government wasn’t supplying them. We ordered one and when it arrived sent it right away.
Three days later his mom and I were sitting on the porch. A breeze was making the flags flutter. I had just finished patching a hole in the screen when a green Ford Taurus pulled into the driveway. My heart sank as I recognized the Marine emblem on the door. When 2 uniformed Marines got out of the car my hero’s mom ran into the house screaming.We both knew what that paper the officer was carrying said. I just sat there.
Hearing his mothers screams, our youngest came running from the neighbors house down the quiet road. His friends mother was right on his heels. When they saw the car they knew and our son ran to find his mother. Our friend and neighbor ran to the porch and put her arm around my shoulder. The officer asked if I was my hero’s father. I answered “Yes”.
“The President and The United States Marine Corps regret to inform y….”, the soldier with the paper started to read.
“Fuck the President!” I interrupted. “He lied and got my boy killed! I know what you are telling me so go fuck your President and all of the liars he brought with him! My boy wanted peace. My hero wanted…”
I trailed off. Regretting having taken my grief and anger out on him. I recognized him as the officer from the recruiting center that day when I took my son to go to basic training. He had known my boy so this must be hard on him as well. I don’t envy those guys their job.
“I’m sorry.” I said. “How did it happen? His mom will want to know.”
With a sad look on his face he told me we had lost our son to a sniper. He looked straight into my eyes and told me he was truly sorry. Then he went back to official mode and explained the details of how my hero’s body would be returned to the States and asked questions about funeral arrangements. Shaking my hand and again offering condolences the Marines returned to their car and drove away.
I sat down on the porch swing and watched as our neighbor went into the house to find my special girl and our son. I was in some state of disbelief and denial as I sat holding my head in my hands. The voices from inside drifted by and I really didn’t hear them. I didn’t notice when our friend left. I just sat.
My in-laws pulled into the driveway and got out. They rushed up and thats when I noticed the sun had set and my wife was standing in the doorway drying her eyes. A rush of guilt came over me because she was hurting and I had withdrawn inside myself ignoring her. Her parents hugged her tight and were holding her when her little sister pulled up.
Getting out of the car with a couple of pizza’s she came running to the porch. “Y’all gotta eat so I stopped and got some pies.”
The thought of food turned my stomach right then but after she hugged me she went inside and put the boxes on the kitchen table. Turning to her big sister she started crying too. None of us had much to say just yet. Tears and closeness was what we needed. Our family needed each other.
My ma-in-law said she had called my parents in Memphis and they were on the way down. Other family that lived nearby were trickling in with tears and hugs of comfort coming with each arriving bunch. The folks would stay a bit then head out. When everyone was finally gone my family sat in silence for a while before we headed off to bed.
The whiskey bottle that had become my “friend” went ignored after that night. I realized that my family needed me and ol’ George Dickel wasn’t my family so I put him away for good. No matter what we did there was still such a change in everything in our lives that our daily life was strained. Even now that ache is my first feeling when I wake up and stays there until I try to get the sleep that should come at night.
The Marines had given my hero a decent ceremonial burial. My father-in-law had built a beautiful case for the folded US flag they had presented to us. It still sits central over the fireplace in our new home in New Mexico. Things were settling down in our lives but there was an emptiness that seemed to push us apart. We didn’t talk anymore. My wife started sleeping in the living room as she was unable to communicate with anyone. I was so angry most of the time I didn’t have the ability to try to talk or even be together with them. Our son spent most of his time away at friends houses. We were not being the close family we had always been.
It was over a month before I remembered the envelope he had given to me.Early that afternoon I grabbed my CD player and the envelope and headed off down the path to our tree house. I liked to listen to old Grateful Dead bootlegs while I sat with my thoughts. Sometimes soothing and sometimes exciting the old songs were familiar and after all they were being played by the best band ever. I just grabbed a couple of discs before I headed out knowing that whatever show I played would be a great comfort.
I climbed the steps and settled onto the old bench. I had brought the bowl he had carved for me and filled it with some of the bud I had grown. Taking a couple of hits I reached for the envelope and slowly opened it. There were a couple of smaller envelopes inside along with an unmarked CD. A slip of paper in the case told me to put this disc .. I opened the other packets that were there. I changed the discs and after adjusting the headphones I pushed “play”.
It was obviously a Dead show. The tuning and twanging from the stage was almost overshadowed by the crowd noise. Then the band broke into a “Greatest Story Ever Told”. I wondered what show it was that would make him want me to have it. What significance the disc would have that he wanted me to listen while I opened the other envelopes he had left. “Greatest Story” went into a rousing “Bertha” and it wasn’t until the band started singing Dylans “Its All Over Now Baby Blue” That I thought I recognized when it was played.
I tore the packet labeled “This one first” open and started reading the letter. It was short but he had written the date of the show on the top. I was right. It was what I was thinking. 9/12/85. Our first show together.
The letter started, “Because of me you didn’t get to tape this show. I found this copy from the soundboard and wanted you to have it Dad….”
The tears flowed as I listened and read. He thanked me for being in his life for all of the years. He told me over and over throughout the three page letter how he loved me and knew I loved him. When the letter was close to ending he reminded me that last song of the second set of this show really talked to him when he thought of us. “A love like ours will not fade away.”
The other packet held pictures of us over the years. Kind of like an evolutionary diary of a family growing and living together. Some with all of us but most with just him and me. Everything from concerts and gatherings to homelife on the bus and here at our house. Tears falling from my eyes stained the letter and the pictures. I wanted to share this with someone so I bundled them together and ran towards home. The “Help/Slip/Frank” storming into my ears as the second set of our first show together started on the headphones I ran. Knowing I had to do what it took to keep the rest of my family together I ran. Determined to make all of my shortcomings up to those who were still here I ran. Swearing to myself I would be better for my son and his mom I ran. I needed to go home. They needed me there as much as I needed them. So I ran.
I ran onto the porch with tears streaming. I called for my wife. I called for my youngest son. I must have sounded frantic as they came rushing out to see what was the matter. My hero’s girlfriend also came running from the house. They all seemed worried. The Dead was still crashing in my ears and I ripped the headphones off. I grabbed them. all three of them, into whatever hug my arms could include them in and just cried.
“I’m sorry” I bawled. “I have forgotten all of you. I miss him but I forgot you.”
Begging their forgiveness I promised I would try harder to keep them close and try to salvage the family I have left. We all cried and held each other. We had seen our once strong family breaking apart and it seemed that our grief was driving a wedge deeper between the close ties we had always had. Then my beautiful wife smiled.
I hadn’t seen her smile since our boy was home the last time. Even then the smile seemed strained and insincere. I had missed the smile from her face and this one was different than when I had seen it last. It beamed. Her eyes were glowing and the smile was beaming. She hugged me tight and held me for a bit. Then she said that our sons fiance’ had something to tell us. Something that would make me smile as well.
I looked around at my little family. The woman I had fallen in love with so many years ago, our beautiful son and this girl that had been brought into our lives when my hero introduced us when they were in high school. We had grown to love her as our son had. She had become a part of our family over the last couple of years and we stayed close after his death. She had spent more time at our house than at home since the funeral and I think she did more good for my wife than I did. She moved closer to me and I thought it was going to be a hug. Instead she took my hand and looked into my eyes. A look of incredible love.
Smiling she drew my hand to her belly and sid. “Grandpa. Thats what you are now. Grandpa.”
My tears started again. Not from sorrow this time but from happiness. My son had left more than memories of love. He had brought us a new joy. A baby was coming and we had something new to look forward to.
Preparing for the new addition to our family helped us come to terms with the cruel loss of our son. It seemed that my realization that evening was being helped along. I have become much closer to the family my hero left behind. In the past few years I have enjoyed being with those I loved so much more. I get to play with a little girl who soon will be the same age as her father was when I met him. I am lucky to be able to watch her grow up and hope with all of my heart that the leaders of her future wont come up with a stupid reason to invade somewhere that will cause her to go fight in a foreign land. I get to grow old with her grandmother at my side. I get to watch my son attend college and hopefully find a peaceful place in this world we brought him into. And…and, I get to relive the happy memories my hero left me with.
I returned to that tree house often before we moved to New Mexico. The last visit to Louisiana I was told that a new subdivision was planned for the riverfront property it stood on. My father-in-law and I walked down to the tree and looked up. He said he hadn’t been there since the day he had helped build it. He asked if our boy had gotten much use of it and I told him as much as I could stand about our time together in the place. The floor had rotted away. Some of the beams that held the walls were still there but much of the place was rubble around our feet. Kicking around in the junk I found the picture frame with the engraving in it. I took it home with me. It now is stored with the other memorabilia I keep from his childhood. Sometimes I wonder if there really is a place his daddy can find peace anymore.
I am still angry that the lies from our leaders stole my hero from us. I am still calling for an end to the senseless war and occupation of Iraq. I am hurt when I look at the numbers of people killed and injured in Bush’s nasty hate filled drive to “world democracy” . I know that every loss of life and limb in this war affects a family and how it has devastated every survivor. I just live every day knowing we must end the insanity that took not only my son but the sons and daughters of many others. American and Iraqi. It must stop.
I still fly that old flag in front of the house. It has become tattered around the edges and I will soon have to retire it. I smoke a bowl from the pipe he carved for me after I hang the flag every morning. It is becoming too burned around the edges to last much longer. I will retire it when I fold the flag that last time. I still wake up with the emptiness every day but as I look at my son, granddaughter and my beautiful wife, the girl of my dreams, I know there is a fullness of life I would have never known if it hadn’t been for him. My son. My hero.
