Here you’ll find some of my published writing, a little about me, and my ongoing, Notes from Virginia. Please leave a comment and/or feel free to contact me directly – Thanks!
“Nice shot,” I say. My daughter smiles.
The garage across the alley opens. I fetch the ball and congregate with my daughter in our little alley driveway. I put my arm around her shoulders and we are safely out of harm’s way as the car backs toward us.
We wave to the pretty woman behind the wheel as she proceeds on her way. She waves back, smiling. This is the extent of our relationship, she having moved in with her husband over a year ago. I always thought to take them a housewarming gift but could never bring myself to do it, and now the appropriate window of time for such a gesture has expired.
An awkward sense creeps over me and I wonder for the millionth time if she knows anything about the tragic events that transpired in her house before they moved in.
• • •
I got to know Dave, who’d lived there before, pretty well during the few years we were acquainted. Casually meeting outside our garages in the alley, we realized that we both surfed and worked in the same industry. Still, our promises to go surfing together or for him to come over and check out my video editing system always seemed to fall through.
I met his wife, Mary, too. She was lovely and outgoing, athletic and funny. She was the one who invited me in from the alley one Friday evening. I had just come home from work and she waved me over to check out their remodeled kitchen.
We had a beer and laughed and joked, his eyes twinkling, his long hair unapologetic. He reflected the spirit of a free and easy soul – an artist. Someone it would be easy to call friend. He was sincere, listened, shuffled his flip-flops and nodded as we discussed their remodel, houses in general, the Middle East crisis and gas prices. Mary, too, was articulate and bright – the two of them components of what appeared to be a strong, happy couple.
Mary’s teenage daughter from a previous relationship came downstairs, and I met her briefly. She was beautiful and polite, a wonderful addition to a little family in a charming home, making their way through life.
• • •
A month or two later, my wife and I were at a neighborhood party. It was raining on and off, so everybody mingled inside.
I had gotten into a conversation with a Rodney Dangerfield type who lived around the corner.
“The guy down the street … killed himself,” he said in passing.
“What?” I asked, suddenly paying more attention, diverting the conversation.
“Who down the street killed themselves?”
“You didn’t hear about that?” he said. “Oh, yeah, Dave down there slit his own throat yesterday.”
Sadness and horror washed over me as I remembered Dave’s face.
“What are you talking about?” I said. “Why would he do that?”
“Got himself in a pickle and couldn’t see a way out – the guy was a loser.”
“Shut up,” I said, not able or wanting to believe it. “That sounds like a bunch of neighborhood rumor garbage. Who’s passing that around?”
I was disgusted, sad, wanted to hit the guy I was talking to, as if that could erase what had just come out of his mouth. Maybe it was his nonchalance.
Whatever the circumstances, the simple fact that my friendly acquaintance across the alley had found himself in a situation so dire that he killed himself in such an awful way – not to mention all of the other people he forever touched – left me sick with sorrow.
I found my wife and we left the party, walking home through the rain.
I saw Mary in her garage across the alley a few days later. Dave was still in evidence behind her: his surfboards, bike, tools on the workbench. She tried to smile, the poor woman’s pretty face a torn landscape. I tried to smile too as we met outside her garage.
Without a word we hugged. I’ll never forget how she shook as she cried; a booming hollow shell. With all of my heart I wished there was something I could do – or maybe could have done. But of course it didn’t matter anymore at that point.
Dave really was gone.
• • •
“What are you looking at?”
My daughter is squinting up at me, watching me as I watch the new neighbor’s car turn out of the alley and disappear.
“I was just thinking,” I say. “We really need to take something over to those new neighbors, welcome them to the neighborhood.”
My daughter looks up at me, her head cocked to the side like a puppy that’s just heard a funny whistle. “They’re not new,” she says. “They’ve lived there for like … seven years!”
“Only about one,” I say, smiling at my daughter as she grabs the ball away.
“No,” she says. “At least two or five. And that’s not new.”
I look at Dave’s old garage and for a moment I see him standing there. I hear my daughter serve, the ball bouncing, and realize there’s no winning an argument with a 6-year-old.
ORANGE COUNTY REGISTER – Following my battle plan, I wheel into the Toys ‘R’ Us parking lot around 6 a.m. I can’t recall the last time I’ve been up this early on a Sunday.
As anticipated, I do see some shoppers more hard-core than me camped in the darkness at the entrance of the store. Still, I am confident my 6 a.m. arrival is early enough.
Careful not to spill what remains of my coffee, I charge through the gloom. But as I approach, a bugle suddenly blasts in my mind, bringing me to a halt:
There aren’t just the campers in front of the store, no, but a line of people attached to them stretching around the corner of the building.
I am in shock – a general faced by a force he has badly underestimated, his troops and cavalry retreating over the horizon behind him.
I try to push my distress aside and continue forward, hoping for the best.
•••
My two young daughters first experienced the Nintendo Wii in August while visiting their cousins in San Jose. Since then it has been their hope that Santa Claus might deliver them a Wii of their own this Christmas. After all, they’ve been very good little girls.
Thinking we were comfortably on top of this humble request, my wife and I began searching for the Wii two weeks before Thanksgiving. We quickly found, however, that Bigfoot or the Loch Ness monster is easier to locate than the elusive Wii, especially one on sale.
I have never been a radical shopper. In fact, only through necessity have I ever “shopped.” You would never find me in line at 4 a.m. at Wal-Mart the morning after Thanksgiving. But my new nemesis, this Wii, changed all that.
Before I became a dad, I’d laugh at the news stories about those people desperately trying to get a Tickle Me Elmo or Cabbage Patch doll. I remember one story where a radio station announced that a plane would be flying over a particular field and all you needed to do was stand in the field with your credit card raised to the sky. The plane would scan your card from above and then drop you your Cabbage Patch Doll. Several hundred people allegedly showed up at the field to find it was just a gag.
I wish I could say, now, that they were stupid.
My initial Wii search started online, of course. But messages declaring “sold out” were all I could find except for cleverly packaged “Wii Bundles” which upped the ante from $249.50 or so to the mid-$600s and higher.
Then there was Craig’s List and eBay – $400, $500, $600. Supply and demand, pal. It’s not about the price you’re willing to pay but what the market will bear.
Thanksgiving came and went. My shot to win a Wii in a contest on Amazon failed. Panic began to rise.
After coming away empty-handed multiple times from the multiple stores I was now frequenting, I found myself seeking intelligence, chatting it up with the good folks at Target, Costco, Toys ‘R’ Us, Best Buy, desperately trying to gather any inside knowledge that might lead to victory in my quest for the Wii.
Typical responses included, “We may get some, we may not,” “We never know when they’re going to arrive,” and “Check back periodically.” I often wasn’t the only poor player standing around staring at the empty Plexiglas Wii cabinet. And the frustration on the faces of the clerks was evident, from having to answer the same Wii questions over and over.
But Lady Luck then threw me a bone. While visiting Toys ‘R Us for the seventh or eighth time, I overheard one of the employees telling another Wii hunter that they would be receiving a shipment of 40 Wiis late Saturday night. Doors opened at 8 Sunday morning.
“If you’re here by 6:30 or so you should be fine,” she said.
My eyes narrowed. My mission was clear.
But now at Toys ‘R’ US, as I pass the campers and follow the line around the corner, I see my mission is in jeopardy. Even so, I take my place at the end of the line, with others falling in behind me.
Rumors swirl: Best Buy would be receiving 40 Wiis, maybe 42; Circuit City estimated 10 and didn’t open until 10 so … President Bush had intentionally set up this Wii shortage in an effort to make holiday shoppers drive great distances during their searches, thereby driving up gas prices and the profits of oil companies.
I entertain myself by making up Wii-isms that reflect the scene: This is Wii-diculous, a Wii-tail nightmare, to Wii or not to Wii – that is the question … .
A pulse of chatter suddenly moves through the line – there is news from the front. A manager has emerged from the store (like Willy Wonka from his chocolate factory) and is, at this very moment, handing out tickets to the lucky 40.
People stand on tiptoe, quivering as the sun brings the morning to life. The manager rounds the corner, comes our way – 20 people ahead of me, 15 – I think I will say “Wii, monsieur, merci,” when he hands me my ticket. But it is no good.
The manager politely severs the line about 10 people away, leaving the rest of us behind like the detached tail of an escaping lizard.
“Operation Wii unsuccessful,” I report to my wife through my cell phone.
“Why don’t we just get one off Craig’s List?” she replies.
I meet the man that afternoon in an underground parking structure near South Coast Plaza. I am fortunate to be the first of many to reply to his ad, posted only 45 minutes before.
I give him the money and he hands over the Wii. We shake hands, closing the deal.
I watch him stuff the cash in his pocket as he disappears into the sea of cars and I clutch the Wii, protecting it. I work into a jog as I head up the stairs toward my sleigh, reflecting on the long search, humming “Feliz Navidad,” battered and bruised but victorious.
The other day I was robbed – A Monday that was supposed to be a Holiday.
I was enjoying the cool onshore breeze of the Huntington Beach morning, goofing around the house with my wife and two daughters, finishing science projects, playing fetch with the dog –
Then my nine year old, Shannon, and I decided to return some library books before going on a search for monarch butterflies at the park.
I carried the books and my black fanny pack – my excuse for a purse – out to our Honda Pilot, placing the stack of things on the front passenger seat.
The fanny-pack, embarrassing now but popular in the 1980’s, provides me with a central location for all of my stuff like keys, wallet, checkbook, notepad, pocket knife, surf wax, $10 off Walgreen’s coupons for Rogaine Foam – Without this purse equivalent I would spend much of my time searching for the items it faithfully keeps in its care. Little did I know this longtime companion would soon be in jeopardy.
Shannon had run up stairs to find one last library book. Suddenly, I heard her scream.
I bolted back inside and flew up the stairs, screaming myself: What’s going on? (though not in those exact words).
Shannon met me at the top of the stairs, still disturbed. “It was a big spider,” she said. “He was crawling up my arm.”
Though relieved I also felt some anger bubbling up.
“Well, you gotta get a grip,” I said. “A spider? I thought your arm got cut off or something –”
“I’m sorry,” she said, her panic now gone. “I just really don’t like spiders.”
“I know,” I said. “But you can’t let yourself go totally berserk.”
We found the book and headed back down to the car. It had been about 2 or 3 minutes since I’d run back inside.
While Shannon buckled into the back seat I went to add the new book to the stack on the passenger seat. But the stack was disheveled, something was wrong, distorted, out of place, missing – My black fanny-pack – holder of all posessions – was gone.
Involuntary panic jolted through me, a hundred giant spiders climbed up my spine.
But wait, no, I couldn’t believe it – I must have taken it back inside during the spider drama, dropped it on the stairs or the kitchen counter.
I hustled Shannon back inside, scanning the empty street for potential thieves, sprinted through the house, retracing my steps, not wanting to believe I had been so badly violated, preyed upon, burned.
I willed the faithful bag to suddenly materialize in front of me, could envision my relief, laughing at myself for being such a paranoid fool: Robber? There’s no steenking Robber!
But it was no good. Me long lost black bag was truly gone!
So I rushed back out to the street intent on tracking down and capturing the perpetrator.
***
I’d been robbed before in my time. Once in Jr. High School – allegedly by one of the FBI’s currently most wanted, Jason Derek Brown. One kid told me it was he that picked the lock and broke into my locker, but of course when I confronted Jason he swore up and down he didn’t do it. I’d grown up with him, played baseball with him, and was never any good at just hitting possibly innocent people in the face, let alone a kid smaller than me. At the same time, fast forwarding, the reason he’s one of the FBI’s 10 most wanted is because he murdered an armored car guard outside a theatre in Arizona following Thanksgiving weekend in 2004. It makes me sick to think he might be running around out there somewhere while the family of the poor guy he’s accused of murdering continues to suffer. But he’s most likely dead.
Another time, during college at Humboldt, I was at the Laundromat (doing laundry of all things). While popping quarters into the dryer I realized I’d left my wallet on the change machine. I ran back to find my wallet gone, along with a man and two little kids that had also suddenly vanished.
That wallet showed up in my mailbox a few days later, everything intact including some Pato Banton tickets, just in time for Pato’s show that night. The only thing missing was three bucks and some change. I’ll never forget being strangely, abundantly, appreciative that sunny afternoon.
***
I jumped in the truck and took off down the street, trying to put myself in the mind of the perp – The Creep that stole my stuff !
I swung into the alley, no one, just trash and recycle bins, fishtailed around the block, patrolled a wide perimeter around the neighborhood before bashing the steering wheel with my fists in frustration, finally parking again exactly where the crime had occurred only a little while before.
Then I spotted a stranger coming up the street, a suspect perhaps returning to the scene of the crime as I’ve heard criminals so often do. I get out of the truck.
“Hi,” he says.
“You see anyone carrying a black bag?” I say, blocking the sidewalk. “A kind of … fanny, butt-pack?” I continue, trying to be more descriptive.
“No,” he says.
He has on shorts and a t-shirt, Vans slip-ons, nowhere to hide my bag.
“Thanks,” I say. “Have a good one.”
He nods and continues up the sidewalk.
I’m at a loss, have no leads. I’m a rotten detective with a case gone cold in under a half hour.
“Honey,” my wife says, leaning out the front door, speaking in a soothing manner. “We’d better cancel your credit card, ATM … Call the Police.”
She’s right and I am suddenly blinded by anger, the breach, the hassle – think of all the things in that stupid bag: Financial stuff, pictures, membership cards, insurance, the kids’ library cards, Our Identity! The thought that some shameless, hideous predator was now in possession of so many personal things – Things they could possibly use while we suffered the unknown consequences, truly made me sick.
And there was nothing I could really do except just feel stupid. Why? That’s just the way we are – We tend to blame the victim, even if it’s ourselves.
But I remembered my Gramma Daisy once telling me about a time that she and my Grampa’s house got robbed. “I wished whoever did it got a broken arm,” she told me. And sure enough, a few days later, a guy who’d done some work for them, and who was on the list of possible suspects, broke his arm.
Karma! Whoever stole my bag, I hope they break their arm, I thought. Or at least slam their fingers in the door, bite their tongue, or stub their toe really bad.
***
After we called the bank and the credit bureaus and the police took the report, I noticed Shannon, face in her hands curled up in the chair.
“Are you alright, kid?” I asked. She didn’t answer at first, but then lowered her hands from her eyes and looked up at me.
“I’m sorry, dad,” she said. “I just feel like the whole thing was my fault – I mean if I wouldn’t have freaked out with the spider and everything.”
I gathered her up, feeling like a jerk. “It wasn’t your fault at all,” I said. “Don’t think that for a second. It was the fault of whoever stole my bag.”
She smiled a little and a great cloud seemed to lift. There would be other black bags, perhaps even an 80’s style fanny-pack if they ever came back into fashion.
We then left for the park to search for butterflies.
***
The next day I arrived home from gathering my morning crime reports – Yeah, crime reporting is one of my things – Funny, that.
Anyway, I had already scoured the neighborhood, alleys, trashcans, drains, and across the street over the wall for any sign of my stuff, finding nothing. But still I held out hope. Maybe it was because of the time in Humboldt when my wallet had triumphantly appeared in the mailbox, or that I’m a hopeless optimist.
Regardless, I arrived home, took another look over the wall down the ice-plant hill across the street, then turned, looking back toward my house. And there, perched on the wall of my neighbor’s planter was my black bag, as if Boo Radley himself had placed it there for all to see.
And everything was inside except the little bit of money that had been in my wallet.
I was stunned, an awkward bucket of good feelings washing over me, projecting goodwill to the thief who’d brought my bag back – As if giving a Lost Dog Reward to the person that stole the dog.
“Thanks!” I yelled down the empty street. “About you breaking your arm – Or stubbing your toe – I take it back!”
Maybe if that guy would’ve returned my Gramma and Grampa’s loot, he would’ve been spared bad Karma too. We’ll never know.
But as it was, I was just glad to be standing there in the coastal breeze, holding my freshly found bag in the glowing afternoon.
*****
April 2020 –
I remember when last year was winding down, a lot of people were telling 2019 not to let the door hit him in the ass on his way out. They loathed 2019, expressing their disgust with him on Facebook and Twitter, hurling virtual tomatoes, rotten eggs, and M-80s as 2019 loped like a battered werewolf toward midnight.
Pardon the language, but some retorts included things like this from Jennifer D – “Good riddance 2019! Thanks for nothing asshole!”
Or this, from Mike P – “Rot in hell 2019 man! This has been a shit year and as far as I’m concerned 2019 can go Fuck itself.”
And lastly, from Francis K – “Bring on 2020. 2019 cannot be over soon enough!”
So now here we are 3 months into 2020 and I wonder what these people would say now?
Our front row seats for this ongoing potential apocalypse have been from here in Winchester, but Episode 1 of our personal East Coast Covid-19 Series began in Philadelphia on the weekend of February 28th, 2020 – my birthday.
We went up to the City of Brotherly Love to see this Irish kid, Dermot Kennedy, sing. I’d never heard of him but a lot of other people sure as hell had because the Philadelphia MET was packed! Crowds also swirled in the surrounding Phili streets that cold Saturday night, the bouncing lights, music, and honks hardly a warning that some invisible flying black Virus of death was lurking about, preparing to shut down one of the toughest cities in the world. I guess it was kind of like everyone was at Elizabeth Kubler Ross’s first step – Denial. The Founding Fathers would’ve kept on working, the Flyers had skated to a win on their home ice the night before, and given the chance, I’m positive Rocky Balboa would’ve stepped into the ring no problem!
But the first hints of the Virus were there – perhaps its scouts or spies – Devious fuckers.
That magical night in Philadelphia feels like years ago now, but I remember thinking to be cautious – You know, wash your hands, don’t touch your face, wear a condom if offered sex by a voluptuous stranger (wife clobbers me over the head with purse). But despite a sense that everyone vaguely knew something was going on, there was also a flamboyance in the air, like, screw it! As if the Virus was a terrorist, and we weren’t going to let the terrorists win.
But the great thing about the Phili MET, once we got there, was that there were dudes right in the entryway of the lobby selling big cans of Irish beer out of iceboxes for $5 bucks – cash only. I felt like Dorothy except it was, We’re not in California anymore, instead of Kansas. You get a beer at most shows in California and it’s $15 bucks for a 12-ounce cup of dog piss, AKA, Bud Light.
Anyway, Sandi had to go to the Ladies’ so, like a mom, I told her not to touch anything and to wash her hands. I downed one tall-boy then got another, glad that I’d brought some cash.
Like most places, the Ladies’ Room had a line which gave me some time to stand around and look at the people and to think. Phili ain’t our stomping grounds, both of us being mostly Southern California beach people, so it was all wonderful novelty to me.
Even inside in the Winter-Time Phili Met lobby, it was colder than a polar bear’s gonads. But given my anxiety issues and being amongst the young where I once confidently roamed, I was still sweating a bit, even with my 1990’s era purple Patagonia jacket shed and hung over my arm. The floating faces of happy young people bobbed around like planets in a great celestial maelstrom of goodness and hope and joy – Forever was theirs. They all wore scarves around their necks, gloves, and cloaks of vibrant youth that no virus could penetrate, and several of them smiled at me as I gave them a Saturday night smile back, suddenly remembering I had Sandi’s purse slung over my shoulder which always gives any guy an interesting look. Cheers to them and I drank my beer.
I finally saw Sandi, smiling, working her way toward me through the jovial crowd. I’d also been able to hit the bar while she was away to get her a cup of red wine, and she was pleased.
The show was fantastic, and there was a bar up in this mezzanine-area just a few rows up behind our seats where I kept getting those beers. The classic opera house venue was gloriously packed, the seats and people seeming to hang over the stage. There were also those neat little side theatre balconies that I Love except they always remind me of the same kind of theatrical box in which Abraham Lincoln was shot. One lady in one of those was so hammered that I thought she was going to dance and pitch herself right over the rail and fall screaming into the crowd below. In fact, in one of those secret horrible ways that I would never reveal to anybody, I kind of hoped she would. Like watching a car race, you don’t want to admit you’d like to see a crash, but she was flailing wildly to the music and came close to going over several times. But an old guy – I’d like to think older than me – prevented the catastrophe by keeping an arm around her waist. There was also a huge chandelier hanging in the theatre which was cool – Reminded me of Superman’s planet Krypton, hundreds of jagged crystal-looking spires shooting out – if only the hammered lady could just leap from her private balcony far enough – WHEEEEEEEE!!!
So it was a great show except for the obnoxious dude in front of us trying to impress his date. Was just one of those dudes – I mean the drunker he got, the lamer, and the patience of his good-looking date drained and drained. They’d made friends with the couple next to them – and actually with us – but that couple next to them knew how to have a good time, drink a few, etc. But this guy – Sorry Philadelphia – this guy must’ve been one of the worst things you’ve ever let – Just loud, goofy, not funny – I kept having to push his arm out of our space. But most of all he annoyed the shit out of his date. Decent looking kid except for the hat on backward and the beers upping his volume.
Toward the beginning of the show I thought he had a shot, but by the end, the girl was like, “Get your damn arm off me.” And he obliged.
There was a girl behind us screaming constantly too, “AHHHHHHHHHHH-WEEEEE-YEAAAAHHH-AHHHH!!!!” Like to blow out your friggin’ eardrums. Have you ever had somebody behind you like that? It’s a concert yet the biggest danger to your ears is the person screaming behind you. Gawd! Shut the (you-know-what) Up! you want to say. But you don’t. You’re at a concert together, having a good time. I turned around and gave her and her friends a few high-fives instead, which helped a little. My Mom probably would’ve turned around and told her to STFU. But that’s why I don’t do that, even though my Mom’s techniques are generally pretty effective. Maybe I’m a coward, maybe I just want everyone to have a good time, but that girl behind me grabbed me playfully by the collar at one point, gave me a potential covid-kiss on the cheek, and one of them bought me another one of those beers.
Anyway, it was a helluva concert and the freezing Philadelphia streets were swarming outside when it was over – ADRIAN! ADRIAN!!
Alright, enough with the Rocky jokes. We’d called for an Uber and could tell that everyone else in the sea of maniacs had as well.
“Let’s walk up that way out of the crowd,” said Sandi, looking at her phone. “Says it’ll be 6 to 9 minutes …”
”69 minutes?!?” I exclaim
I know, old joke, but it really did go something like that. I think of myself as a laid-back kind of cool half surfer bro, half here to help you as a psychologist type wearing a nice sweater, but if I don’t watch it I can be a really uptight ridiculous douche.
”69 minutes?” I repeat. “That’s like almost 2 hours! Jee-Shitz-dog-licker …”
“No,” says Sandi. “We just need to walk up to the Wendy’s up there …”
God, I Love her and Thank You.
It was an amazing ride through the dark back-Phili streets and alleys to our hotel, our driver explaining to us the benefits of filtered water for both us and our dogs. Also, healthy Vitamix smoothies are a positive way to start the day and to count our blessings.
Our hotel bar was blessed with an after-wedding party and we had a good old time. I don’t know how late Phili bars are allowed to stay open, but it sure was later than California’s 1:45 am last call.
Thank you, Philadelphia for a wonderful night.
*****
In the morning we woke up and walked around the old town where the likes of Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Jefferson chatted about changing the world and perhaps having a revolution against those tax-happy oppressors across the pond.
We saw Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell, the sunny crisp morning breathing the history of all that had happened on the hundreds of years of mornings previous.
And then we saw the Irish Memorial.
Even with tears in my eyes, I knew there was no way I could grasp the full pain and suffering of what my Irish ancestors had gone through. And shamefully I didn’t ever really know what they had gone through until I started reading the plaques and studying the statues that morning.
Like so many things they teach you in history class, they teach it all in black and white, using books that just gloss over the hideous realities of desperate individuals dropped into circumstances that were usually no fault of their own. I mean they told us about the potato famine and that a bunch of Irish people came to America because of it, but nobody ever told me entire villages of Irish men, women, and children simply wasted away and starved to death. And did so under the watchful eyes of British landowners that apparently couldn’t care less. Evil doesn’t even begin to label the atrocities those limey bastards let befall the people. I mean can you imagine having to watch your children, your babies, spouse, parents, brothers, sisters, everyone, just suffer and starve to death while freezing in dank, wet, disease-ridden, horrible conditions? Your crops a puddled mess of inedible veggie slop, the crying, and suffering surely echoing across the channel to deaf British ears? Gawd. Just so beyond awful and you want to go back and avenge all the wrongdoing.
And then it struck me that it’s still going on today – right now – people, children, starving (not to mention beaten, tortured, and killed). And then even when an effort is made to get food and medicine to them, there are usually politics, warlords, and other shameless bastards that get in the way. It makes me want to puke while realizing that being able to puke is kind of a luxury, a temporary setback but at least a sign you’d had something to eat.
“You ready?” says Sandi.
“Yeah,” I say, holding her hand as we walk back toward our hotel to check out. I realize I’m hungry, much to my shame.
***
It was a lovely drive out of Pennsylvania, through Maryland, and on into the pastoral country of sweet Virginia. We knew there was some kind of invisible sickness about, but even if the Sweet Lord Jesus himself came down and told me about the surreal craziness to come, I probably wouldn’t have believed him.
“Some things always come back to haunt the house.” Flash Fiction Magazine, May, 2019.
I’d been focusing on chores yesterday, Sunday. Primary was to get rid of the freaking fruit flies that decided to hold their annual company picnic in my kitchen as soon as this August monsoonal heat hit.
Normally my wife would help me, but she got fed up a while back and split. Which at least got me to quit drinking, but some things always come back to haunt the house.
Anyway, I went to Ace Hardware and bought this fly paper ribbon stuff. It was nasty, and I got sap-like crap all over my fingers, but pretty soon I also had three sticky fly ribbons hung up and spiraling precariously down from the ceiling over the kitchen sink, inviting the fruit flies to their doom.
Problem was, even hours later, hardly any fruit flies had been caught. In fact, they didn’t seem to show much interest in my strategically placed sticky fly ribbons at all, the little beings flying right by toward more preferable regions of the kitchen.
One of those regions, a place the fruit flies did very much show an interest in, was the last wine glass I’d drank from before getting on the wagon and quitting drinking for good. I’d left the glass above the sink with just a hummingbird’s puddle remaining at the bottom, never to be washed or rinsed, as kind of a symbol, an empty reminder that I was through with the sauce, and boy weren’t those fruit flies pleased I had!
But they’d also given themselves away, the aggravating little pests, and their weakness would be my strength.
So I went out to the garage where I’d stashed the remaining wine and booze I had, in case any imbibing guests might stop by (just because I quit drinking didn’t mean I had to burden everyone else, I figured), dug out a nice Sonoma County Pinot Noir, popped its cork, and drizzled some wine down the fly paper.
Then I sat back and waited to see what would happen.
Sure enough, just moments later, the little sons-of-bitches came swarming around the wine-soaked tape, me remaining quiet and still by the counter so as not to frighten them off. One landed, stuck, then another, and another. Ha!
I uncorked the bottle of pinot again and carefully drizzled some more of the purple magic on the top of the fly ribbon catchers, the wine trickling down the spiraling tape like a miniature dream.
I looked down at the bottle, completely full except for the drops I’d poured for the fruit flies, and just like that (yes, just like that—that’s how it works for me, anyway), it made sense to have a glass and, feeling a celebratory mood, I hopped down from the wagon and drank.
The fruit flies continued to arrive at the sticky ribbon for the wine, me growing more jolly in the brightening kitchen light. I continued to share my wine with the fruit flies as the night grew late, my new little wino friends going through four bottles, and well through a fifth (one of my wife’s chardonnays she’d left behind) before I suddenly found myself floating in the early Monday morning gloom. I realized I’d fallen asleep on the kitchen counter using a dish rag and an oven mitt for pillows.
The oven clock said 7:23, and I would be late for work, again. I was looking down the barrel of a long, nasty day, and thought to throw my legs over the side of the counter and force myself up. But I couldn’t.
From my pounding head through my bloodstained view I saw the fly papers, hundreds of melting little fruit fly carcasses drunk and hanging over the kitchen sink. Even some big, meaty, black flies had crashed the deathly party and become stuck in the irresistible trap.
I wanted to move, but, strangely, like the fruit flies, was stuck. I didn’t know if I was going to throw up or not, but it didn’t really matter. The bathroom may as well have been on the moon, and, come what may, it was all apparently out of my control.
* * *
The weather can shift here like a violent mood, and the seasons explode like a sunrise into Spring, dogwood blossoms, birds and humming green life dance across the sky toward sunset, echoing over the horizon through the silent bare branches of Winter.
A cloud that looks like a Timber Rattler slithers through the orange dusk fading out my window over the dark Appalachian Alleghenies in the West. It’s Friday night and the icy trees outside seem to watch it along with me, peering over neighborhood chimneys as the stormy viper welcomes the night.
The Timber Rattler cloud reminds me there are two other poisonous snakes in these parts – The Eastern Cottonmouth and the Northern Copperhead, all collectively known as Pit Vipers which is a pretty cool name.
While I haven’t seen any of them yet, and they’re probably hibernating right now, I have seen another resident snake in our backyard – A big black rat snake. It looked like it had just eaten a squirrel when I saw it. I say squirrel instead of rat or mouse or cat because we have tons of squirrels all over our little Shangri La, skipping jolly and hanging upside down from our bird feeders. But in the weeks after the picture below was taken, squirrels became mighty scarce.
This snake ain’t poisonous, but just as lethal since she bites critters then squeezes the F out of them until they suffocate and die. Then she eats them.
Anyway, all these snakes reflect a part of this North Virginia countryside – Along with the country living, pastoral beauty, farms, woods, wineries, mountains and streams, a history of violence, death, pain, and suffering are also baked into the pie – – –
* * * * *
It’s a new day and I’ve decided to finish this here at a bar in Old Town where I can enjoy the afternoon and have a beer – Much better than a Starbucks, even though Starbucks has started serving beer. Which I think is weird and unnecessary. Who the F would get a beer at Starbucks? If you would, my apologies, but it strikes me as being like if Taco Bell suddenly started offering Chinese food and sushi.
Anyway, I’m writing this in a bar which I’ve never done before, but last time I was here I saw others doing it, so when in Rome –
When we first got here to Winchester, Virginia, last Fall, I was talking to one of my next-door neighbors and her friend as they worked the front yard. The friend was a tough, longtime Virginia Woman whose spiked amber eyes would send a cottonmouth skittering for cover.
“Oh yeah, this ground is soaked in blood,” she said with a wave of her hand, addressing the entire surrounding Shenandoah Valley. “A lot of people died here – right where you stand – And many of those who didn’t probably wished they did – Amputations, piles of limbs, faces blown off. I tell you, it was awful.”
Things had gotten dark quick, but she wasn’t kidding:
Winchester was a major crossroads during the Civil War, with all kinds of turnpikes, railroads and other avenues leading both the North and the South to converge here with violent results.
Winchester is said to have traded hands between the Union and Confederate armies over 70 times during its brutally bloody war years – Some say that’s an exaggeration, but if it is, it’s not much of one. As the North and South got more and more pissed off at each other and puffed their chests toward war in the early 1860s, Winchester was like a rope in a kind of tug-of-war between the two.
Before the war, no need nor desire to secede from the Union was embraced by many of Northwestern Virginia’s hard-working farmers, tradesmen, artisans, and (surprise) free African Americans. In fact, that’s how West Virginia came to be – Those folks breaking off from Virginia with a Hail no! We ain’t gon’ go!
But many others in the region, including the relative few that relied on slave labor, leaned toward joining the states to the south that were melding into the Confederacy.
And then Johnny Reb put an end to any more debate by cracking off a few shots at Fort Sumter, whereby Abraham Lincoln called Bullshit, opened up a Costco-sized can of military whoop-ass, and it was game on! Sweet Virginia was not only in a war, but she was the frontline and home to the Confederate capital, Richmond, which is about 2 hours Southeast of here, on the other side of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
SIDE NOTE: If you’re ever in Richmond, Virginia, along with the rest of its history, there is a really cool Edgar Allan Poe Museum –
“But Edgar Allan Poe lived in Baltimore – Everybody knows that!” The man sitting next to me here at the bar has apparently been reading over my shoulder. “Why in Sam Hill is there an Edgar Allan Poe Museum in Richmond?”
“Well, Sir,” I reply, “I always thought Baltimore was Poe’s hometown too – I mean even Baltimore’s football team is the Ravens for crying out loud, and he did live in Baltimore a bit. But Mr. Poe actually spent much of his tragic and often miserable life in Richmond. That said, he did end up in Baltimore on the way to a writing assignment and that’s what sent him spiraling through all kinds of crazy, mysterious shit which led to his early and horrible demise on the side of a road there.”
“What? What happened? How old was he? What did he die of?”
(These are always the questions people ask about someone who has died, the macabre gears spinning behind their eye-balls, wondering if the same could happen to them!)
“Well, historians, scholars, some English professors, and other Poe-enthusiasts are still trying to figure that out. But if you’ll buy me a beer, I’ll tell you what I know after I finish writing this.”
“Bartender!” he says, slapping the bar.
Anyway, after the Rebs fired on Fort Sumter, Winchester found herself a key component in the South’s fight for independence, though many pro-Union folks remained in the town. These Unionists …
“Would you get to the damn point?” the man next to me pipes up again. “What the hell does this have to do with the mystery of Edgar Allan Poe’s death?”
“My apologies, sir, but I told you I needed to finish writing this first, then I’ll tell you what I know about Mr. Poe.”
“Very well – I’ll just order a pitcher then.”
“Thank you.”
So, Winchester being such a strategically important town for both sides, the Union by and by came on in and occupied it, much to the chagrin of the Winchester Women, who were notorious for telling Union soldiers to, literally, go F themselves. The Winchester Women would also reportedly shoot at the Union boys from the Old Town Winchester windows as they retreated when Rebel Yells began echoing down the streets.
Which is what happened in the First Battle of Winchester.
The Confederate boys marched up the Shenandoah Valley this way and, judging by the battle maps I’ve been able to find, must’ve camped in my backyard and all around where my house now sits. I can picture their tents in the field beyond our little woods too, tough people gearing up for a fight.
Their battle lines were just up the pike from our place, stretching across where the small airport now is, around the present-day Costco and onto the bluff overlooking Old Town Winchester.
Suffice to say, Stonewall Jackson and his boys proceeded to overwhelm the Yankees in that first Battle of Winchester and occupied the town for a time before their services were required elsewhere. I often think of them at their fires, telling stories, singing, smoking, dreaming of the ones they loved, likely hoping they’d get to see them again.
Anyway, those soldiers were all right on our property and it’s a strange feeling to behold, especially when you can feel their presence, consider their joys, sorrows, and pains. And sometimes they – or someone else – make their presence known. Whether it’s someone that lived in our lovely house previously or ghosts that are still finding their way, footsteps walking around upstairs making the floor creak are an eerie and clear sign that some folks, so far unseen, still wander around over our heads at night up in the room we call “the office.” I always hope it’s our dogs making the racket, but sure enough, I’ll peak into the living room and they’re in their usual spots, snoozing on the new leather reclining couch I got up at the Costco.
I haven’t heard the inexplicable and tell-tale sound of those steps yet tonight, but when I get home I likely will. It always gives me chills and scared as I am, I’ll sometimes go up there to recreate the creaking floor for my wife.
“Yep,” she always says. “That’s it.”
“You about done there, son?” says my new friend next to me.
“Yes, I say,” wondering if I’ll hear the ghosts walking around tonight.
“Well, I’ve almost finished this pitcher of beer, so can you finish telling me about what all happened to Edgar Allan Poe?”
And I do.
Folks used to head West, risking their lives and all they held dear to seek new fortunes and pursue mythical dreams. Or maybe they were just sick of the East Coast weather, were ready for a change, or, like my Great Grampa James Peck, run out of town and sent fleeing for their lives, leaving everything except the shirts on their backs behind.
“Dark and dusty, painted on the sky
Misty taste of moonshine, teardrop in my eye …”
– John Denver, Take Me Home, Country Roads –
Apparently Great Grampa James had quite the way with the ladies, including good-looking married dames, so he had to hop a ship out of Maryland in the middle of the night, post-haste, escaping around Cape Horn and up to California before a pissed-off husband could stick a different kind of horn up his you-know-what. For all I know, he may not even have had his shirt – or his pants for that matter, given the compromising circumstances – But apparently he made it to sweet California. He was a showman and a professional roller skater so he did pretty well there, eventually going on to receive the first DUI ever bestowed in the great Golden State – Love You, Great Grampa James!
Anyway, back in the East Coast old country – long before Great Grampa James – others would pile all their stuff and provisions into a wagon for the trip from the East Coast to the West, crack the whip and head out, leaving behind friends and family they’d likely never see again.
A ways back up my wife’s family tree, some of her Great-great-greats traveled with the Donner Party. They decided to split off from the Donners when confronted by the Sierras, however, and hung back from trying to get over those mountains so late in the season. Which turned out to be a pretty tactful decision, and I’m grateful to them all these years later because, well – I love my wife.
Sappy stuff aside, my wife’s long-ago-relatives breaking off from the Donner Party are part of why my wife and I ended up together. Her gritty ancestors apparently made it over the Sierras in the Spring, headed for the California coast, and Abracadabra! A few generations later, we ended up building our lives in California too, skipping through the alpine sunshine of the mountains, digging our toes into the warm sandy beaches and deserts, working our asses off toward dreams of our own, never taking the breezy sun on our faces or a swim in the cool blue Pacific for granted.
But fast-forward to 2019 – With the highest taxes and gas prices in the country, brutal traffic, insane housing costs – Sandi got a great opportunity elsewhere, and with Disneyland also evolving into the most ridiculous place on earth (try Knott’s Berry Farm instead), we sat up like beach prairie dogs and looked around:
With our youngest kid off to the University of Washington, and California having seen better days, we decided to take on a new adventure of our own, and moved back East to Winchester, Virginia.
Founded in 1754 or so, Winchester is both blessed and haunted by its history. Cloaked in beauty that echoes through the Shenandoah Valley, which is formed by the Blue Ridge Mountains on one side and the Appalachians on the other, Winchester hosted several pivotal and bloody battles during the Civil War. The town has also been home to some notable folks, such as a young George Washington and Patsy Cline. Both left their footprints here, and now we will too while we make this place our little oasis for awhile –
The moving truck out front of our house was almost finished being loaded and that’s about when I realized things were getting serious. We were leaving our home in Huntington Beach, Southern California’s Surf City, the road ahead an open book, the road behind sweet memories.
It was the home where my wife Sandra and I built our lives, got out of bed every morning, stayed up all night with babies, fought for their future, laughed, cried, played, partied, and ultimately kissed our girls goodnight at the end of each day, tucking them in beneath the smiling moon.
But our youngest was off to the University of Washington, so we decided to adventure away from the empty nest too – to Winchester, Virginia, where my wife had a great work opportunity, and our commutes would go from hours to minutes.
Tucked away in the Shenandoah Valley, we were moving to the woods, over the Blue ridge Mountains far West of Washington DC near West Virginia and the surrounding Appalachian mountains. When I first visited Winchester, the surrounding rolling hills still seemed to echo thundering cannons, rifles cracking fire, and men shouting from the pits of a desperate fight. Surrounded by Civil War battlefields that were once soaked in blood, it was haunting, humbling, and a reminder of those who’ve sacrificed all, and the grit that is sometimes required to make it in this world.
Leaving all of our family and friends behind in California was the hardest part, and continues to be, but the world is a big place and getting to experience this little corner of it – its history, seasons, nature, people, and culture – has been a blessing and wonderful opportunity to add a magical chapter to our lives.
And even though I call it “the woods,” and say that we live out in the “Virginia countryside,” Costco is just up the road, and Home Depot, Pet Smart, Michael’s, and Books-a-Million are well within striking distance. I’m sure the tough folks that built and fought for this place would scoff at how soft we’ve become. But it seems like they’d also have to have some envy. And the fact that we can travel back to California in an afternoon would likely totally blow their minds.
