Walk in the Woods
Short: Saying Goodbye, Part 1.
Saying Goodbye, Part 1. My grandfather’s death was the first death of a person I deeply loved.
Late on a cold February afternoon, my mother told us we’d be going to Pennsylvania to visit grandpa. He was sick and we need to go see him, she said plainly. I thought it was odd timing. Family visits to Pennsylvania were often announced far in advance and occurred during summer or winter breaks. This trip would require a few missed days of school, a welcome prospect to my nine year-old mind.
Early that Thursday morning, we rose early, packed our gray station wagon and started northward up Interstate 77. The road was dark and nearly empty save a few big trucks. The mood in the car was solemn and quiet. And I stretched my neck to gawk at the glittering Charlotte skyline as we passed uptown. A few minutes later, we were beyond the city and the lights, colorful fast food signs giving way to rolling pastures, then foothills rising into mountains. When the sun finally appeared, we were in West Virginia. And the snow mixed with salt and fumes and filth. I thought it was beautiful and preferred to watch it sail by as we motored up route 19. My older sister sat beside me and chattered away as my brother remained silent in the front seat beside our mother. Mom focused on the road, making half replies to the the onslaught of questions and observations made her daughter.
As we neared Grove City, a light snow fell from purple clouds. And finally we left the interstate for good, on our way to the powder blue farm house where my grandparents lived. A mile or so from the house, mom pulled off the road to have a word with my sister and me. “Grandpa is really sick, And I need you to be respectful. No yelling or screaming. No fighting. Understood?” We both nodded, and I believe we both understood, perhaps for the first time, this visit would be different. We weren’t on vacation. We were saying goodbye.
Grandma Lean greeted us on the side porch as the snow began to fall in heavy batches, slanting with the wind. Fido, an asshole of a dog, yipped and barked behind the storm door and high jumped to view the action. My brother bolted into the house first while the rest of us waddled through slick snow to the porch. Once inside, we peeled off layers of jackets and sweaters, and sat around the kitchen table for a spell.
“I didn’t think I’d see you for a few hours yet,” said grandma, which was as close to a compliment she could offer. From my seat, everything about the narrow farmhouse seemed as it always was. Despite being old as dirt, the house was warm and comfortable, especially in the kitchen next to the pot belly stove. The smell of bacon and coffee still lingering from breakfast. “The roads were clear and we missed all the traffic in Charlotte and around Pittsburgh,” mom answered. The reunion had all the hallmarks of normal visit, except for the noticeable absence of grandpa, asleep in his bedroom.
After being warned to be keep quiet, I decided to go play in the den until supper, and pushed my army trucks around on the navy blue shag carpet. Grandma was an excellent cook and we ate sautéed pork chops, lima beans and mashed potatoes. I hated lima beans but scarfed them down anyway. Grandma always made delicious deserts and I would not be held hostage by beans. After I cleared my plate, I patiently waited for the rest of the table to finish the meal. And soon enough, Grandma produced a mouth watering lemon meringue pie.
While we talked about school and finished desert, mom slipped away down the back hallway then reappeared a few minutes later. Her face was puffy, her nose red. “Alright y’all,” my mom ordered in her emerging southern accent, “Get ready for bed.”
* * *
The next few days were a bit of a blur as we shuffled from house to house, town to town, calling on expectant family members from both sides of the family. After the first few stops, each visit became a bit of a routine: the shedding of winter clothes, discussions about the weather, offers of food and coffee, and questions about school. Bombastic uncle Kurt asked me if I had a girlfriend. And when I answered no, he immediately asked if I intended to be an old bachelor. Had I been old enough I would’ve responded, “Not as long as you plan on being a sonofabitch.”
Eventually, each visit included conversations in low, adult tones, just out of ear shot of us kids. And my mother was more tense when visiting my dad’s family yet more at ease when with her sisters. As a nine year-old, I didn’t know or understand why certain dynamics exist or why they continue. I simply noted the difference and amended my behavior accordingly.
All these years later, I recall seeing my grandpa once the entire visit and only for a few minutes. A man I’d come to know as strong and deliberate was laid in his bed and suffering. The cancer left him frail, eating away the life left in him. He moaned a bit as my mother tried to talk to him. But I said nothing as I stared at the bed.
Of all my grandparents and extended family, Grandpa Lean didn’t treat me like a child or make the mistake of expecting me to act like a full grown man. He never asked me to do more than I could and translated confidence without words. And he expressed value for me by including me in his daily routine. We’d march through the snow to milk cows in the barn, dodged flapping hens to collect eggs, picked blackberries, and split wood. But, my favorite is when he’d let me sit on his lap while he drove from field to field on his red tractor. Occasionally, he let me stand between him and the big black steering wheel and I’d pretend to be the driver. I loved spending time with him. And I hate that my last memory of him, of dying on bed, is the last memory I have of my grandpa.
Abstract: Itchy Skin
A poem, about dry itchy skin as a result of dry air.
You ever itch to the point when you fantasize of taking a wire brush to your body,
because having no skin would be better scraping your nails up and down your arm and across your neck every ten seconds?
I have and I’m desperate for it to stop.
Stupid curse, begging for attention.
Reducing a man to a child.
Please go away.
I’ll give you what you need.
Take my wallet if you must.
Just leave me be.
This dry air is causing my skin to hate me.
Vol IV: #13 This Drawing Stuff
When I was a kid in school, art class was my favorite class. Always. The art room was the most colorful room in the school and it was the only place where I could make a mess without incurring the wrath of an adult. In high school, I enrolled in as many art classes as possible (which helped inflate my GPA.) During those years I began to see my talent, particularly in sculpture/3D classes. I was never much of a drawer, but I could assemble random materials into something new and intriguing. I even won an award for best 3D sculpture in the district my junior year. That was 25 years ago.
A few years back I bought a handful of online drawing classes. And within the first thirty seconds, I could I tell it was money well spent. The instructor was an experienced teacher and began by demystifying the drawing process. He started by debunking the talent myth and plainly stated drawing is a skill. Anyone can learn a skill, talent isn’t part of the equation, he said. This simple approach set me at ease and gave me confidence in his teaching. And as of today, I have yet to progress beyond the first 10-12 lessons.
* * *
When I was a kid in school, art class was my favorite class. Always. The art room was the most colorful room in the school and it was the only place where I could make a mess without incurring the wrath of an adult. In high school, I enrolled in as many art classes as possible (which helped inflate my GPA.) During those years I began to see my talent, particularly in sculpture/3D classes. I was never much of a drawer, but I could assemble random materials into something new and intriguing. I even won an award for best 3D sculpture in the district my junior year. That was 25 years ago. But I continue to cling to that award as a reminder of what’s I can do, what’s possible, especially when I’m waist deep in anxiety and shame.
What I need is a process, because process is more important than location. Process is what grounds us, and the lack of it shows when we’re blown of course by life. I want to be like Paul, and I identify with his words: good times come and go, but I learned how to be in every season, for He is in me (Nik version.) I have a writing process, including goals and such.Why not have a similar structure and drawing?*
So, starting today, I will produce one drawing per day, six days per week, for the next 90 days. The year I spent writing was a real boost to where I am today and I believe a similar approach to drawing will yield hearty results.This is in addition to daily practice and the aforementioned lessons. Improvement is in the doing. After the 90 days, I’ll reassess where I am and set the next 90 days.
The real hurdle is going to be my mental approach to each day. All too often I allow myself to be discouraged at the results, as my inner critic slaps me squarely across the face. He’s a demonic asshole standing between me and my destiny. And it’s time to get past him. This one comes out by doing and persevering. The last bit here is to hold myself accountable which is why I’m blogging about my newest process. Be on the lookout for what comes.
*Drawing is the foundation of all art- even 3D art. Once I can sketch the sculptures I see in my mind on paper, I can work from those blueprints rather than try to recall what I saw in mind. It’s important.
Short: Love And Not Love, Part 2.
Love and Not Love, Part 2 Drake Honeywell has had enough of abusive relationships and looks for answers.
“Why am I attracted to these people?” Drake asked Todd a few days later.
Todd Mayo was Drake’s counselor. A slender black man with a thin goatee and calming voice. Drake started counseling when he learned it was free to all students at the university. And he felt safe in Todd’s office regardless of his condition when he arrived.
Todd leaned forward from his seat across from Drake and his eyes grew larger. “Why do you think you’re attracted to them?”
“I don’t know. I think something’s wrong with me. Or broken.”
“Describe broken for me. What’s broken about you?”
The question stumped Drake for a minute. And though accustomed to Todd’s approach, he felt unprepared to answer. He stared at the beige, ordinary carpet for a few seconds, then closed his eyes before answering.
“Something isn’t working. Not all relationships are like this.” Todd nodded but remained silent. Slowly, Drake continued, “I’m the common factor in each of these relationships. I’m the one trying to save people. But somehow, I’m the one who feels exhausted and foolish when it’s over. And I can’t blame an addict for being an addict. You know? I’m the one who kept going back to Abbey, and stayed in touch with Clint.” Tears began to run down Drake’s face and hopelessness crept into his heart as he spoke. He wanted to say more but didn’t see the way out of the pattern.
“Drake, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to help people. Look at me. My desire to help people got me here, helping you,” offered Todd, with a bit of a smile. “Lots of people get stuck in cycles like this. You’re lucky you finally see it. Some go there whole lives in a constant struggle. Now you have an opportunity to make a change.”
“What about them? What about people like Abbey and Clint?” Drake shot back, feeling attacked.
Todd’s face sank and his eyes narrowed.
“They aren’t here Drake. But you are. When you first sat on that couch you said you wanted to learn to love people more. How’s that working out for you?”
Drake was stunned by the question. Todd hadn’t been so blunt or direct, his words thrown back in his face. Yet, deep inside him, he knew. Months of counseling had led him to this moment. He knew he needed to press onward, but could only see what lay behind. Drake was scared
“I tried Todd.”
“And what happened?
“They shit on me.”
“And how does that feel?”
“Like shit. I’m a piece of shit.”
“Why?”
“Why? Why, what? I just told you. I tried and failed.”
“Ok. Why does that make you feel like shit? What’s wrong with failure?”
Drake’s thoughts began to unravel and a hot anger began to simmer inside him. What’s wrong with failure, he gruffed. Fucking everything dude. It means I’m not good enough, he concluded. The thought hit him like a hammer. Todd observed a softening of Drake’s shoulders and eyes. And he waited for Drake to speak first.
“I’m not enough,” Drake stammered as he covered his face with both hands.
Todd let the notion hang in the air for a beat before he asked,”And why is that?”
“Because if I was enough, my friends wouldn’t be addicts. They wouldn’t steal and cheat and hurt me.”
“And do you believe that true? That if you were perfect and did everything right, they’d be drug free?”
Drake knew the answer. He knew Abbey and Clint were addicts long before he met them. He knew they treated all their friends and family as resources. They use people too, he thought.
“No. I don’t. They have to choose to walk away from their addictions.”
Todd took a deep breath and smiled and allowed Drake space to continue down the path.
“It’s not about me. I waged a losing battle with Abbey. We didn’t want the same things.”
“Correct. And no amount of love was going to change her. She didn’t want to be changed.”
Drake nodded and wiped his cheeks.
THE END
Abstract: Fading Sun
A poem, about the slow change of summer into fall.
After months of early mornings and scorching cloudless days, the sun is losing her steam.
She shows up a little later and leaves a little earlier than she did the day before.
The mornings now cool and the forests ever just starting to red and yellow,
And evening shadows grow longer due to her shifting flight pattern.
I applaud the effort and dedication to her profession- to give us warmth and light and direction.
But as August fades into September, it’s time for her to retire,
to rest and recoup for next year.
Vol IV: #12 Hard To Write Stories
It’s a story worth telling, worth writing and publishing. Maybe someone will read it and see themselves in Drake as he sits in the chair, suffering verbal abuse. And they’ll find the courage to run as fast and far as possible, away from their Abbey. Or, perhaps this is my opportunity to practice sharing my ugliest stories.
Gary and Mary was fun to write (and I hope it’s fun to read.) I enjoyed creating the main characters, researching subway lines, and trying to recall the sights and sounds of New York in the spring. And the plot gave me room to explore new-to-me concepts. I couldn’t wait to write each day once I envisioned Mary the magic paint brush. And I experienced an ease to the process I didn’t expect.
My newest short is more complicated and personal than the first. For one, it’s almost entirely autobiographical. And two, the tale is unflattering, unfunny, and somewhat shameful to compose. Yes. I was buried deep inside a relationship with an abusive drug addict. Yes. I kept going back to her in an attempt to save her. How dumb? How stupid could I be? And the passage of time doesn’t make it easier to relate. However…it’s a story worth telling, worth writing and publishing. Maybe someone will read it and see themselves in Drake as he sits in the chair, suffering verbal abuse. And they’ll find the courage to run as fast and far as possible, away from their Abbey. Or, perhaps this is my opportunity to practice sharing my ugliest stories.
Abstract: Magic Coffee Can
A poem, about investing and reaping.
An old coffee can sits on my book shelf,
it’s got a magical power,
I’ve long left unused.
For when I put my quarters and dollars inside,
they multiply.
Oh, not in great quantities, and not over night.
But slowly, over years, one dollar can become two dollars,
a quarter produces dime.
All the worn coffee can needs is time.
But, I’ve been impatient and impulsive,
and spent all I had,
Trying to live in the now.
What a waste.
Now, I’ve got nothing for the future.
And that coffee can still sits on my shelf,
begging to be used.
Short: Love And Not Love, Part 1.
Love and Not Love, Part 1. Drake Honeywell has had enough and relies on the person he knows will come through.
“You’re not a man! You’re a fucking faggot!” she screamed as Drake sat in the over-stuffed chair beside the hotel room window. Abbey had come down from her high and frantically riffled through her suitcase for a little white bag of happiness. She’d spent the drive from Charlotte to Charleston entertaining her vices and wanted more. And Drake was sapped of hope.
As she ranted, he sank into his thoughts. Why was it so hard to leave her, he asked himself. In truth, he’d seen his relationship with Abbey as a mission or calling. He’d love her and heal her and they’d have a wonderful story to tell. But after ten months of trying, of threats and failure, Drake knew it was time. And he conceded defeat. “This is not my life. This is not my calling,” he whispered to himself. Then, he stood up, grabbed his bag, and marched toward the door.
“What are you doin’? Go ahead you bitch.” Abbey shrieked with sarcastic smile.
Drake understood her doubt. He’d left before and then begged her to take him back, like a cliche. What she couldn’t see was the birth of his resolve.
“You can stay for the night. The room is paid for.”
“How will you get back to Charlotte, dipshit? We took my car.”
Without looking back, Drake dryly responded,”I’ll figure it out.”
Down in the lobby, Drake tried to contact a few friends in the Charleston area. No one texted back or picked up the phone. I deserve this, he thought. He’d ignored his friends for almost a year. Now came the reaping.
Then Drake thought of his father and knew he could call him, knew his dad would be there for him, but it’s not a call he wanted to make. How would he explain it all? How he’d ended up submerged in a world of guns, drugs, and strippers?
“Hey, dad.”
”Hey Drake. How’s my son?” asked the cheery voice on the other end.
“Are you available? I need a ride from Charleston to Charlotte,” Drake asked quietly and without explanation.
After a pause, the joy of hearing his son’s voice gone, Drake’s father responded. “Send me the address. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Over the next two hours, Drake began to reclaim his life. Since he worked with Abbey and knew she wouldn’t resign, he gave notice to the restaurant they both worked at. “Are you sure? I can make it work.” was the reply of his boss, desperately trying to keep her best employee. Then he blocked Abbey and her friends on social media. He couldn’t block her phone number, not yet, not as long as they worked together. Abbey had sent Drake a steady stream of abusive text messages as soon as he’d left the room- lies mostly- and he was ready for it to end. Finally, Drake set his phone on wooden table beside him and leaned back in high-backed chair. A warm peace spread covered him like a blanket and for a time pushed away the dread.
A while later, as the sun set behind the hotel, Mr. Honeywell drove into the round-a-bout at the front of the high rise building. Drake loaded his bag into the back of the old Jeep Cherokee and the pair motored back up I-26, away from Abbey and life meant to crush him. To Drake’s surprise, his father never asked why he needed to give his son a ride from Charleston to Charlotte, rather they chatted about the Pirates and the coming football season. He was glad to be in the old Jeep, reeking of rust and oil, and more glad to be with someone who truly loved him.
Vol IV: #11 Growth Of My Desires
At near 43, I want time and opportunity. I’m done with the dreams of a child, no longer hate myself, and learned to be grateful in every season. My life is good and I’m thankful for each second and every hour I have to sit and type and dive deeper into the Lord made me to be. It’s not something I’d trade to rich or publicly lauded.
When I was young, I wanted fame and money. That’s what being a football coach would give me. The prospect was enticing. And even when I set aside my dream of being a head coach, I kept the desire for fame and money- fame to affirm my manhood and money to buy peace and stability- though I wouldn’t admit it.
By my late 20’s, I was full of shame and tried to prove my goodness to everyone around me. Outwardly, I was generous and accommodating. For a time, I worked for a charity based in the coal fields of West Virginia. Like all humans, my motivations were a mix of need and want. And I admit now, one of my goals was to prove I my holiness.
In my early 30’s, I doubled down on self-hatred. And had you asked “Nik, what’s one thing you wish you could take back?” I’d answer, “I wish I could stop myself from using credit cards and watching porn.” Sounds good and noble. The desire to avoid pain and fix old sins is normal. But this is the response of a man focused on his sins, who viewed his life as series of failures. And now, I have no regrets, no sins I hold against myself. Why should I? If the Lord forgave me, who am I to overthrow Him?
At near 43, I want time and opportunity. I’m done with the dreams of a child, no longer hate myself, and learned to be grateful in every season. My life is good and I’m thankful for each second and every hour I have to sit and type and dive deeper into the Lord made me to be. It’s not something I’d trade to rich or publicly lauded.
Abstract: The Can And The Beach
A poem, about the contrast of what men make and value versus creation.
The frustrated man kicked his can down the street,
fuming as he went,
Why had he wasted his years obeying his fears,
and denied the power stored within.
Onward he kicked the now scratched and crinkled can,
up the alley toward the melody and glaring lights from the corner.
As alley gave way to avenue, the drifter paused to observe the action:
Diners slurping noodles and beer, chatting about culture and news of the day.
He could’ve joined them.
Yes, he thought of grabbing the stool next to the bar,
Of ordering dim sum from the waiter dressed in denim and sporting a cropped beard.
But, he doesn’t like beer or pride or being measured.
So, he crossed the street, can at his feet,
into the shadow.
He ambled west over the ridge toward the beach,
past giggling wino’s, concerned parents, and coked-up partiers,
until his feet felt fine sand beneath them.
The rhythm and thunder of the waves pushed all the world aside,
and he stood in awe as each of his five senses awakened.
Ordinary by definition but no less powerful or captivating.
He closed his eyes in reverence to the Creator, pulling the salty aroma into his nose,
and listening to the waves smack the rocks and spray foam on the shore.
And for a moment he turned back to the city and thought of its temptations and allure.
A sea breeze blowing at his back.
Then he looked down at the can, dented and scraped.
Abstract: August Rain
A poem, about the gifts a hurricane brings to Northern California.
When you plan your day to avoid a blasting sun,
dust covers your legs after a short walk,
and your skin is beaten red,
You welcome Hilary with open arms and a smile.
You laugh at her dark clouds and rejoice in the return of puddles,
having not seen one since June.
I pray she gives the fire fighters a hand before she leaves.
Short: Gary And Mary: The Artist and The Magic Paint Brush, Part 7.
Part seven of a short story: Gary Mellmack, tired of the grind in south Georgia, moves to NYC to live a dream. And then, the dream comes for him.
Gary immediately began to setup to paint. As he began to pull paints and thinner from his bag, Mary was struck by a new terror. How was this going to work, she wondered. And within seconds she felt herself go heavy under the wait of worry and fear. Her thoughts and fears drowned out whatever Gary thought and she barely noticed when he’d finished getting ready. She steadied herself in time to force a smile. “Ready?” she squeaked in the most pleasant tone she could produce.
“As I’ll ever be,” Gary mumbled.
Mary could see his thoughts again and prayed another prayer.
“What should we paint?” she asked.
“How about the scene this morning from the front window of the bodega, you seem to love it. Right?”
Mary felt the sarcasm yet ignored it. Best to plow ahead, she resolved.
“Yes. Let’s paint. I need you to think about what you saw and felt, again. So, I can see it.”
Without trying and in a flash, Gary envisioned the rush and life he observed every morning, the honk of yellow taxis, the ever present jack hammer, old ladies hauling metal carts to the grocery store, children zipping between zombie like commuters, marching toward the train station, and the occasional morning jogger. Mary saw it all and understood why it enthralled him so.
“Ok, let’s go to work.” she said with great confidence.
Awkwardly, Gary grasped Mary by the handle, then set her back down.
“Trust me, I’m the only brush you need.”
“Well see.”
Then Gary firmly grabbed Mary once more and dipped her into liquid white and began to cover the canvas.
***
Over the next two hours, Gary and Mary jostled and argued and cut-in lines, mixed hues, layered paints, reworked faces, and added highlights. And when they were finished Gary stood up silently and marched out of the room. For her part, Mary was exhausted but content. She took one last long glance at the painting and dozed off.
***
Gary froze as he entered the studio. The two from earlier over around the painting, heads askew and pointing to various splotches of paint. He took a breath and moved to join them. And as he approached the back corner, the two turned to him.
“You paint this?”asked the colorful Latina.
“Yes. Just now.”
“How did you do that, bro?” inquired the tiny black man, his hand held open, palm up.
“Do what?”
“That,” and this time he pointed to the cascading colors of the people as they moved across the canvas.
“Yeah. It’s as though the the people are under water, but not. They’re rippling across or something,” added the lady. “It’s fascinating. I can’t stop staring.”
Gary didn’t know how to answer and he looked down at Mary hoping for a sign she was listening. For indeed Mary was listening and happy. And when she saw Gary’s concern, she winked at him.
“This street corner is what I saw this morning on my way to class today. People talk about the energy of New York. I wanted to show it.”
After a few more questions, proper introductions and photos, Gary began to pack. The Maria took the hint and went back to work. Wallace continued to pester Gary with questions. He followed Gary to the drying rack and back, stooped when Gary bent over to pick up his bag, and straightened as Gary shoveled the last of his supplies into the backpack- lingering over the two inch brush still on the easel. Gary hoped Mary was till reading his mind, and thought he heard a low, faint laugh a few seconds later.
Finally, exhaustion got the better of the man from south Georgia and he interrupted Wallace mid question, “It was really nice to meet you Wallace but I gotta go. Do you work in here a lot?”
Wallace looked disappointed, but answered the question, “Yeah bro. Everyday.”
“Good. Then, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Gary responded, his hand out for a shake.
Wallace’s face lightened and he shook Gary’s hand. “Yeah bro. See you tomorrow.”
Gary grinned to himself and grabbed the paint brush, which he put into a side pocket of his bag, and started for the door. Wallace returned to his seat and found his headphones. And as Gary reached the thresh hold, Wallace called to him one more time.
“One thing bro, you can’t be talking on the phone in here. It’s distracting. Keep ya’ girl outside. Cool?”
A smirk filtered out of Gary.
“Cool. I can do that. My bad.”
“No worries bro. See ya’ tomorrow.”
THE END