Walk in the Woods
Abstract: The Man With Nothing
A poem, about the generosity of my friends. (Something I find hard to accept and I wrestle with.)
I’m sure a billionaire can wrangle a thousand men to his call,
when he’s need of prayer or task to be done.
And the men who rush to his side will ramble on about his grace and integrity,
as the true reason for their reply, instead of his gigantic funds.
Yet, of the man who has nothing, no money or favor to give,
what does it say about him,
when in need,
he only need to ask, then watch as men pour their resources forth, active and supportive?
Vol IV: #24 Rich Amid Crisis
Though I sat alone in my room, I did not feel alone. And though I do not have resources to travel home, offers of assistance poured in, should I need it. And in a moment like yesterday, after spending weeks mired in self-pity, I’m made suddenly aware of how rich I am, in love and life. And no amount of money can buy a healthy parental relationship or loyal friends.
The welcome clarity brought about by the urgency of death hit me yesterday. Suddenly, my economic and romantic states were no longer important, and everything petty fell away like the way the wind blows dead leaves off a tree. I reacted by texting all my praying friends, those who believe in miracles. And they responded as I knew they would. And then I feel to my knees like a child before bed and begged for my father’s life.
Today, that scene seems dramatic. Calm has replaced the chaos as tests and more test commence. The news of my father’s demise will have to wait for another day. And this is what it feels like to live in the aftermath of a miracle. Of course, he was going to be ok. But was he? What if I- and I assume other family members- didn’t pray and ask others to call down heaven? The modern western mind will say answer in the affirmative. Yes. He was fine. No need for alarm. In fact, no. He was not.
My dad’s entire life is a string of miracles and sideswipes at death. The fact that he made it to sixty-six years old is a testament to the good hand of God. And while I will be grieved the day death makes the final call, I will not be angry or bitter. I have loved my dad the best I know how. And I know he loves me. And I’m grateful to have had a good father-son relationship, the type craved by so many.
I’m also grateful to known and loved by my community of friends. Though I sat alone in my room, I did not feel alone. And though I do not have resources to travel home, offers of assistance poured in, should I need it. And in a moment like yesterday, after spending weeks mired in self-pity, I’m made suddenly aware of how rich I am, in love and life. And no amount of money can buy a healthy parental relationship or loyal friends.
Vol IV: #23 Feeling Alone
Everybody means well. But their words fall often fall short. And this is why I keep to myself, especially now. A 43 year old man is suppose to be buying houses and starting a family and making regular 4(O)1K contributions. He’s not suppose to be writing his first novel and learning to draw. All this, I know. But here I am, and I see no other way forward in my life.
“The writing had better be good,” he said, as if I needed that sage advice. Good writing? Who knew? Thanks man. I’ll add that to the list of what I need to do. These I thought but did not say. My friend was trying, in desperate way, to give me the best advice he could. And he’s not wrong. If my writing is good, I’ll go far. And if it isn’t, I’ll be an internet hack till I die. But did he need to state the obvious?
And this is why I keep to myself, especially now. A 43 year old man is suppose to be buying houses and starting a family and making regular 4(O)1K contributions. He’s not suppose to be writing his first novel and learning to draw. All this, I know. But here I am, and I see no other way forward in my life.
And, rather than complain- which is super boring- I’ll ask for prayer. What I need, in addition to more resolve and peace, is community. In Redding, I feel like a like an old ball on a dusty field, half deflated, left to sit alone in the sun and rain. I’d relish the opportunity to find support in the company of other writers and artists, and to not feel like an irresponsible moron or untalented hack.
Abstract: Finishing Frost
A poem, about what we encounter on the “road less traveled by.”
When Robert Frost wandered off the beaten path and took the road less traveled by,
he said nothing of toll is required of him and his soul.
Failed to mention the steely resolve or tolerance needed to endure the venture,
And never let it slip the misunderstanding or discouragement leveled his way.
Had he added a few stanzas addressing the difficulty of the road that “wanted wear” to his long cherished verse,
I doubt the poem would be smeared on memes and coffee mugs,
Enjoyed by people who’ve never colored outside the lines a day in their life,
the mass content to dream but never do.
If Mr. Frost had been more forthcoming,
He would’ve mentioned how lonely the untrodden road can be.
That without an income to show for the work,
people will wonder what you do and why you do it.
Or worse, they’ll try to advise you.
Yes. He took the road less traveled by,
And it did make “all the difference.”
Still, would’ve been nice if he added:
“And let not the reader be deceived or caught unaware,
Though uncut and overgrown,
The road I traversed was still visible to the risk impaired.
Thus I fought the road and their disaffected groans.
As I should, to find myself and my home.”
Vol IV: #22 Personal Admin Day
A day of full of administrative tasks leads to reflection of who I was ten years ago.
So, I decided to clean out my inboxes…Yep. You know how that went.
I have two email addresses, one is over 25 years old and probably on every stupid spam email list imaginable. It’s a Yahoo account and it receives all the boner pill emails, Lusty Ladies Now emails, and Get Out of Debt scams. Still, I had several important accounts linked to that ancient service. And I spent the better part of an hour cleaning the inbox and updating my contact information.
As I do with all inbox cleanups, I checked every folder for anything worth discarding as I prefer an empty folder as much as possible. In the Notes folder I found two dozen ramblings and a handful of lists and poems. They were from early 2013 to mid 2014. And buddy, lemme tell ya, the ramblings and poems weren’t pretty. I hated women and myself and Charlotte. I questioned everything and everyone. And I saw myself as a hopeless sinner before the Lord. It was all very cringe, like cringy-cringe-cringe.
I didn’t like being reminded of who I was ten years ago but I found room to laugh at my words. That guy was full of shame and didn’t believe in himself. And he had all the wrong priorities. And yet, he stumbled forward. I can’t hate him.
Short: Gary and David, West Virginia #3
Gary and David, West Virginia. Part 3 of my to time I spent working and living in the southern coalfields of West Virginia. (This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)
(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble all the parts into one cohesive story.)
I decided to follow Jonathan and Tom in my garnet Honda rather than ride with them in Jonathan’s white Dodge Ram. And David elected to ride with me rather that the gray beard in the truck. We got into my car and turned around in the drive behind the house and waited for Tom to join Jonathan.
“Ha,” laughed David, as he stared out he house. “He always drags out the door.”
David was young and handsome with cropped black hair and matching dark eyes. And he punctuated his conversation with laughs and nervous energy. He’d come to West Virginia with Jonathan back in the spring and seemed to relish the life he was living here.
“Where are we headed, again?” I asked as we waited.
“Gary High School. It’s where our base is. The volunteers will stay there when they come in November.”
“Ah.” I nodded as Tom strolled out the door.
“Finally.”
Over the next half hour, as we slalomed through the colorful mountains from Kimball to Gary, David became my tour guide. He pointed out the only hardware in the area, several “ok restaurants” and the houses of locals he’d met.
“Where do you hangout?” I asked.
“Hangout? Ha. We don’t really have a place to hangout. Sometimes when I’m bored I go to Walmart just to walk around and talk to the employees. Jonathan calls it a ‘loser lap.’ Other than that, we get beers- because Tom doesn’t allow alcohol in the house- and drive up the mountain near Big View. There’s no light up there so we can see all the stars.”
“I like stars.” I replied.
“Yeah? We should go up sometime.”
A moment later he pointed to several freshly painted houses across the river.
“A couple families from McDowell Mission live in those houses.”
“Who are they? McDowell Mission?”
“They are another NGO here. They get funding from the Presbytery and focus mostly on construction projects. Jonathon wants them to help us find projects for the volunteers.”
Once we passed Welch, the conversation steered toward personal facts and details. Like Tom, Jonathan told David about me, but I knew nothing of David and so I commenced to pepper him with questions.
David, a slight young man, not yet 21, grew up in the Bronx and he was the son of a Polish mother and Ecuadorian father. He moved South to get out of the city and met Jonathan while attending community college in Charlotte. Jonathan taught outdoor survival skills and David was one of his students.
“It was the one class I enjoyed. I almost failed everything else. Ha ha,” he stated in his jovial way.
And then we crested a steep hill on the outskirts of Gary. And David pointed to a long brick building, down between the road and a creek, towering mountain ridges to either side.
“There is it. Gary High School. Or, what’s left of it.”
“What’s left of it?”
“Yeah. Ha ha. It’s a closed school. Craig T bought the building a while back. And now he runs used clothing store out of the gym.”
“What are we doing here?”
“Jonathan wants you to see the kitchen and see what we’ve done to the place.”
“Right. Ok.”
Then, I followed Jonathan through a brick archway between the gym and the school, around the back the of the school. The abandoned building rose three stories tall with an engraved cement block above the entrance that read, “Gary High School Est. 1925.” The craggy red brick exterior was decorated with kudzu and graffiti, most of the single pain windows knocked out. And at once, the school represented the former prosperity and the present struggle associated with the coal town. As if to drive home the point, the faded words “Welcome to the home of the Gary High School Coal Diggers” hung onto the dented metal doors leading to the main hallway.
Jonathan hopped out of his truck and smiled at me as I parked beside him.
“Whadda think mate?” He asked through my window and before I had a chance to get out of my vehicle.
“I don’t know. Gimme the tour and I’ll tell ya.” I yelled, trying to match his cheek.
David chuckled, then leaned over as he unbuckled his seat belt and whispered, “I know it doesn’t look like much, but we’ve worked really hard to turn this place into a proper dorm.” His words felt like a bit of a warning as much as an expression of pride. And I knew from that moment forward I needed to be positive and hopeful with my feedback. For when the odds are long and the work is thankless, the last commentary the man on the front line wants is the criticism from an asshole who’s invested nothing in the endeavor.
Vol IV: #21 Finally, Adapted to the Weather
I am proud to write, after ten years, I’ve finally adapted to the weather in Redding. The searing summers no longer bother me like they did, and the endless rainy weeks don’t bum me out. Oh? Have you not heard of them, the rainy weeks? They are the dreary distant and lesser known cousin of the summer heat, though less predictable.
I am proud to write, after ten years, I’ve finally adapted to the weather in Redding. The searing summers no longer bother me like they did, and the endless rainy weeks don’t bum me out. Oh? Have you not heard of them, the rainy weeks? They are the dreary distant and lesser known cousin of the summer heat, though less predictable. The rainy weeks first appear during the winter and last into early spring. And they are know to hangout for a week or three at a time, days on days of low gray clouds and rain, though the pace and volume may vary. The rain may fall as heavy mist or a steady drizzle or an outright downpour. And the amount of rain will range from a tenth of inch to 2 inches a day. And yes, they take some getting use to.
The key, I’ve found, is to get out into the weather. There’s nothing to be gained by sitting inside all day, every day. If it’s hot as an oven, I go for a walk. If it’s cold and windy and drizzling…I go for a walk.
Thankfully, California is not a humid orifice during the summer. And short walks at all times of the day have taught me to appreciate the weather each day offers- the coolness of the early morning and when the heat finally relents late in the day. Yes, the midday sun is oppressive, but this type of appreciation only comes by taking a stroll midday, when the sun is high and pounding Redding with all its might.
The rainy weeks are another matter. If the heat is oppressive, the rain is depressing. And when the wet days start to pile up, I begin to question if the sun still exists and if I’ll ever feel it warm my face again. Sounds ridiculous, I know, but it’s true. Thankfully, last winter I decided I’d go for walks anyway. (Mostly because I refused to sit inside and stare at my drab apartment.)
The bigger takeaway, I believe, is learning to work with the seasons rather than hunker down or curse them. In Redding, it’s going to be hot as shit every summer, cold and wet in the winter. And if I let the sun and rain dictate my actions, I’d only go out in April, May, and October. But I need nature and the sun and to feel the temperatures change.
Short: Tom Martinez, West Virginia #2
Tom Martinez, West Virginia. Part 2 of my to time I spent working and living in the southern coalfields of West Virginia. (This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)
(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble all the parts into one cohesive story.)
Tom Martinez was a short with a medium build and shaggy, silver hair man. He wore faded Wranglers and an old black sweat shirt, both stained by splotches of paint. From behind his large wire- framed glasses, his eyes sparkled and he smiled upon seeing me. And, why not? Jonathan had talked me up, obviously. And, more importantly, I was another foot soldier in the battle to revive the coal fields.
Over that first hour together, huddled in the kitchen, I learned a great deal about my host. Firstly, Tom spoke softly and laughed at his own jokes. And to complicate the conversation, he had a slight mountain draw and often cupped his chin with right thumb while rubbing his mouth with the forefinger. On several occasions I had to ask him to repeat himself, which became increasingly tedious to the point where I stopped asking and simply nodded. From what I could discern, Tom was a self-taught artist, had lived through plenty of rough moments, but managed to hold onto a grand vision for McDowell County, the giant brick house being part of the plan.
After high school, he married his high school sweetheart and moved to Mt Airy, North Carolina. Quite bitterly he said he “never wanted to leave the county” but his wife wanted to “live like the people on TV.” The statement stirred my funny bone, but I kept a straight face.
Over the next two decades Tom worked in various cigarette factories outside Winston Salem, started a family and taught himself to paint. After another layoff, Tom and his wife split over whether he should find a new job in Winston or move. He pined for his home, for the country roads where he belonged. She did not, being the “upitty” woman she was. When the divorce was finalized, he to moved back to McDowell while she remained in North Carolina with their sons.
Back on home soil, Tom worked odd jobs in the small towns of Welch and Kimball, mostly handyman work, until he earned his first artist’s grant. The grant- from the National Endowment of the Arts- commissioned Tom to paint a mural on a water tower next to the main thoroughfare of the county, the Welch bypass. He never mentioned how much he was paid, but it was enough to buy the old Coal Baron’s house and renovate a small corner of its basement containing his bedroom and studio. His vision to create an artists colony out of the home seemed feasible given it’s size and number of room. In the meantime, he continued to earn income by painting government funded murals.
My initial impression of Tom was that he is like most men not given to criminal behavior or drowned in wealth, a mix of hope and disappointment, earnest yet hypocritical. He was in one moment a principled conservative in love with America, yet made his money via government grants from the NEA- a department most Republicans would happily ax given the opportunity. And despite being complicated, he truly loved his home and worked to built a network of people with similar notions.
Tom would’ve talked our ears off if we let him, but Jonathon finally interrupted.“I think it’s time we head up to Gary. You coming?” he asked Tom.
“If you don’t mind. Let me go put up my paints and thinner first,” Tom responded already halfway down the stairs.
“Yeah mate. We’ll wait,” Jonathan called down after.
With the local out of hearing distance, I finally offered my thoughts.
“Interesting guy.”
“That’s one word of it,” chimed David, who’d been fidgeting quietly in the corner of the booth for the duration of the chat.
“He’s a bit odd, that’s for sure, but’s he’s a good guy,” added Jonathan in a low voice.
“I’m glad I met him first.”
“Yeah. He’s a good introduction to McDowell and the type of people we’ve met.”
“Oh?” I asked, wondering if they were all oddballs.
“Yeah. Lots of good people here who just want what’s best for the county.”
Abstract: Yeast And Belief
A poem, about the way real yeast works and molds a baker into someone more patient and faithful.
There’s magic in the air, despite the warnings to the contrary.
There’s little, microscopic bits of life aching for flour and water, and not much more.
All anyone need do is set out an even mix of the pair and they’ll come calling, like Santa at Christmas, looking for milk and cookies.
Accept these tiny angels will leave gifts everyday of the year, should you let them.
Just keep feeding them flour and water, and they’ll sing happy songs as they push your breads and doughs to new heights.
And perhaps the best gift they bestow isn’t one you touch or eat.
You see, they need time and a warm space to work.
They ain’t like what you buy in a shop.
Not instance or quick.
They cannot be rushed and will refuse your hurried notions.
Rather, they’ll ask you to slow down, have some faith and a sit.
And any pair of hands who gives way to their ways will enjoy the fruit of patience and belief.
Vol IV: #20 Rough Drafts and Finished Work
A new wrinkle in the story writing process.
Yesterday I went forward with my decision to tag all my short stories as rough drafts, those posted to the main blog. I need to evolve my process in two ways. First, I need to keep creating new work, and secondly, I need to review, edit, and rework existing work. And I need to get into the habit of doing both each day. Next week, I’ll create a new page dedicated to finished stories and make them available for download. And by finished I mean, as complete as I am capable of completing a story.
Short: My Intro to West Virginia
My Intro To West Virginia. The following is an introduction to the time I spent working and living in the southern coalfields of West Virginia. (This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble them into one cohesive story.)
(This is a rough draft. When I complete the series, I’ll assemble all the parts into one cohesive story.)
When you’re young and insecure, you answer the call from someone like Jonathan Wildson. He was confident to the point of cocky, told a good story, and filled his time with manly pursuits like karate and mountain climbing. And, he dialed up his Australian accent at will, usually around single women. So I was thrilled when Jonathan called me on a late summer day and said he needed me.
“Hey mate, you busy?” he asked.
Was I busy? What a funny question given my status as a waiter.
“No. What’s up?”
“I’ve got a new gig up in West Virginia and I need a cook. You interested?”
Yes, of course, I was interested, beaming that someone wanted me to be part of their gig.
“Yeah, maybe,” I replied as cooly as possible.
“Why don’t you come up for a look about? Get a feel for the place. It’s rough but we have fun.”
“Yeah. Ok. That’s sounds doable. I’ll get the time off and let you know when I’m coming.”
“Great. Can’t wait to see you.”
* * *
Two weeks later I drove north from Fort Mill, South Carolina up I-77 to West Virginia. I was glad to be leaving my routines and boredom. And I knew, if anything, the drive would be worth the effort. Within the first hour, as soon as I cleared Statesville, the rolling hills grew into foothills and then to the west the Blue Ridge rose above them. And though just beginning in South Carolina, autumn was in full bloom in the mountains. Dazzling reds, bright yellows and oranges coated the rock. And the air was clean and cool as I turned off the interstate onto Route 52 near Bluefield.
And there on Route 52, as I wove my way deeper into West Virginia, the glory of fall began to contrast the ever increasing broken fences, cracked windows, and weathered wooden siding. Dilapidated homes and shuttered businesses were caked in mud. Then, just after I passed a sign reading “UNINCORPORATED ELKHORN,” old coke ovens appeared next to the road and beyond them a mix of fallen brick walls and kudzu and sycamores. The roof of a school gym had sunk to the ground, the rims ripped from the backboards. And per the posted price of unleaded, I calculated the filling station closed its doors a full fifteen years before my arrival. From Elkhorn, the drive to meet Jonathan lasted only another 20 minutes but I drove through three more towns of a similar fate. All dead or mostly dead. Then, after four hours of driving, I saw a big blue and yellow sign and pulled of the road into the parking lot.
We choose to meet in the Walmart parking lot because it was easier to find than punching an address into an app. Homes in McDowell County had addresses but Google Maps was of no use this deep in Appalachia. After stretching my legs and a proper introduction to Jonathan’s assistant David, I returned to my car and followed them another fives miles to a massive brick house on a hill, overlooking the river running next to the road. From the road, the house didn’t appear as grand as it was thanks to the surrounding overgrown ash and beech trees. Only when we swung up the drive around the back side of the house did its heft reveal itself. Brick walls rose into a steep slate roof with copper eves and drain spouts. I counted multiple chimneys, four perhaps, and three layers if single pain windows. Those can’t be the originals, can they? I wondered.
Jonathan interrupted my curiosity. “Come on, let’s go say hi to Tom, then we’ll all drive up to Gary together.”
David had gone ahead of us into the house, and I heard him call for Tom. As we waited for our host to come up from the basement, I chatted with Jonathon about the house and studied the kitchen I stood in. The room was cramped by modern standard and in need of a remodel. Due to the location in the back corner of the house, the back and side walls were comprised of large bay windows, allowing as much natural light as possible into the room. And underneath the back wall, to the right of the entrance, was a small electric stove, followed by a formerly white sink, then an L-shaped counter for prepping meals. Next to the counter, sat a wooden booth big enough to seat four people and no more. Opposite the stove sat a newer black refrigerator with magnets and coupons plastered to its face and to its right a heavy wooden door leading to the basement. Judging by the bowls in the sink and contents on the counter- two half empty jars of peanut butter, a bag of cinnamon raisin bagels, brown bananas, and several boxes of supposedly healthful cereal- the current residents of the house assembled meals rather than cook.
“This house is a lot better than our last house,” he giggled. “In the last house closer to Welch, I could take a shit, flush it, then watch it squirt out a pipe into the river. Bloop.”
“Really?” I asked, both horrified and full of laughter.
“Yeah mate. Straight pipe into the river. It’s common up here.”
“So all the pretty trout in these rivers and streams are shit fish?”
“I guess so.”
What a waste, I concluded just as David poked out from behind the basement door, Tom following behind him.
Vol IV: #19 Catching Up With Tom
The thing is, people like Tom are completely hated and belittle by the left. And while it’s appalling he was in DC the day an idiotic mob decided to break into Congress, I know the man is harmless. Misguided, but harmless. Tom is like so many Americans- scared our of his mind. And scared people do dumb shit. I see liberals do the same thing, in their own way.
Last week I began writing the first of a series of stories born from my time in West Virginia. And today, as I researched exact locations of various homes and events, I fell into a rabbit hole. It’s been twelve years since my last visit to and so my rabbit hole consisted of digging for up-to-date information on various personalities I came to know during my four years of work in the community.
I lingered mostly to find all I could on Tom, who I lived with for a year. Short with puffy silver hair, Tom always sported a black or gray sweat shirt, blue jeans, and white walking shoes (as known as ‘dad shoes.’) He was a proud local and self-taught artist with a focus on nostalgic Americana. And he aspired to turn his massive coal baron home into an artist colony.
From what I found on the internet, he’d run for House of Delegates in in 2014. The associated Facebook page stated Tom is pro-coal, pro-gun, and pro-Jesus. That’s a solid platform given the area, though he did not win. The Tom I know is soft spoken and avoided crowds. And he was not quick on his feet- a fact I’ll demonstrate in a coming story about our trip to New York. The election result was not a surprise. What was shocking was his involvement in the January 6th insurrection at the Capital building.
The thing is, people like Tom are completely hated and belittle by the left. And while it’s appalling he was in DC the day an idiotic mob decided to break into Congress, I know the man is harmless. Misguided, but harmless. Tom is like so many Americans- scared our of his mind. And scared people do dumb shit. I see liberals do the same thing, in their own way.
What I would tell Tom if I saw him is he will do more with a paint brush than in office. He will do more in his community by continuing to walk out his vision of an artists colony in his home. And this is what I’d say to anyone who believes the sky is falling. Most of power comes from how we live our lives and love the people around us. The enemy wants us to have contempt for our bosses and neighbors and our family. But fear cannot drive our fear just like violence doesn’t heal.
I know this post is little out of left field, but I had to get this out.