There is a reason trains run on tracks. Anything else and there would be chaos in the rail yard.
How do you think you would feel if you were sitting on the couch one afternoon eating pizza and watching Leave it to Beaver reruns and 30 minutes you found yourself in the basement of a police station answering questions from investigators in a grisly triple homicide case? Well I can tell you. Here's how it happened.
This memory popped into my mind when I was scanning some news archives and came across this; Ronald Ward dies in prison hospital at age 37.
On April 12, 1985 Ronald Ward was a 14 year old child in the mid-term of repeating the 7th grade for the 3rd time in a West Memphis Arkansas Jr. High School. After school on that day he went over to the home of his best friend to play. After that things went haywire. Ronald stabbed to death his 12 year old friend and the two great-aunts that his friend lived with. They were ages 72 and 76. Multiple stab wounds on each. A butcher knife was the weapon either of choice or opportunity. Soon afterwards it would take a jury only 2 hours of deliberation to make Ronald Ward the youngest death row inmate in the nation at that time. His sentence was changed to life without parole later on appeal. He died of a medical condition 21 years later.
That provides the background information of how that connects to me. I was living in West Memphis at that time and on the couch watching Leave it to Beaver when the police knocked on my door and asked me to come down to the station. I was managing a store in West Memphis at that time and figured it was something to door with an employee or a business related incident of some sort. Anything is possible in West Memphis, so who knows what it could be? I was directed to the basement where investigators asked me a series of questions. Many concerned my mother. What kind of car does my mother drive? Where was she at a certain time and date? Where was I? Do I know this person and that person? I answered the questions calmly and politely. My mother lives in Mississippi. She has no car. She does not drive. I was at work. At least 100 people can verify that. I am on camera all day long.
It became evident very quickly that I had no idea what they were talking about. At the end of this event I did get them to explain to me what was going on. It seems that they had picked up a suspect and in his explanation of where he was at that time had randomly pointed at my apartment as they were riding in the police car. I have no idea why he did this. He didn't commit the crime. He must have been doing something else at the time that he didn't want the police to know about. Go figure. As it turned out there was no harm done. I didn't get mad at the police. They have a serious job to do and must do it thoroughly and systematically. That is how justice is found. The thing that you have always been told is usually true. "You don't have to worry if you have not done anything". Respect authority.
This crime would soon be overshadowed by some even bigger news that would happen in the same general neighborhood: The Robin Hood Hills Murders. Another triple homicide. Ronald Ward, the family in the 4-room house, the young inmate on death row, all would be pushed to the pack pages of relative news.
I missed Leave it to Beaver. In case you wonder about it Beaver skipped school and went to the fair with his friend Lumpy. They ate too much candy and got sick. Ward came down hard on The Beaver, but his mother intervened. Beaver missed dinner. I missed dinner. Ronald Ward probably missed dinner too. A lot of dinners are missed in West Memphis. A lot of dinners for a lot of reasons.
been There are colors we don't see. Colors are visible wavelengths that pass thru the atmosphere. The near infrared and medium infrared wavelengths lie outside of human vision although they may been seen by some other animals. There are colors that some animals see but humans can't.
Have you ever thought about how hard it would be to describe a color that no one has ever seen? It would be impossible really. It would be like trying to describe how the number 39 smells. There is no point of reference.
I have a theory on colors and on the question of whether our futures are predetermined from birth or are just the random results of happenstance. I think the answer is both. Here's how it works: (I'm using an analogy of course) When we are born we come into life with a bucket of paint. The bucket of pain determines the path we set out on. Mine may be blue. Yours may be green. We will more through life in a predetermined direction. That direction will not change unless we do something to change it. This is what is called "free will". When we take actions that send us off our path even slightly or become involved in the affairs of others their paint and our paint mixes, sometimes just a little, but sometimes in a big way. We know that the mixing of paint changes the colors. If your red paint becomes all mixed up and stirred together with someone else's blue paint it becomes purple and so on. You are now purple and might take on an even different hue if you add another color. We are now off the path of the red paint you started out with and the trajectory of your life will never be the same. Some might explain this as fate or karma or reaping what you sow.
Now I wonder what the color of the paint that I was given might have been originally been and I think about what other colors might be out there that I cannot see and probably couldn't describe even if I could see them. And I think long and hard about the paint can that I came across in my path and stared at for years thinking it was red, convinced it was red, because I was told it was red and I believed that it was, I had faith that it was because of that belief even though I had heard whisperings and mutterings and careless words that I thought said" yellow" or sometimes "mustard" or "canary and I was sure it couldn't be, shouldn't be until there came a day when I awoke and looked at the can and saw that it was yellow. It had always been yellow. So maybe now it's mixed with my paint and I can't be sure of just what that color is anymore. I can only hope that the color is a color that people can see. Sunsets are different for me now. When I look at the orange sun setting I wonder how the orange got there and why. It's a mixture of red and yellow you know.
I have this habit of sometimes not really listening to people when they are talking to me. Someone might be telling me about their serious medical problem and I'm looking at them and thinking about how would life be different if Eve had told the snake to just "Shove Off!" or if the first natives Columbus encountered had been cannibals. When I hear a key work or phrase that draws my attention I ask them to repeat the story. I call it "speed listening" and it works much like "speed reading". My wife hates it.
Sometimes I happen upon a real gem. Such was the case when I overheard an employee mutter something about "getting his ass chewed by Bozo the Clown" Wait a minute. Stop the presses! What did you say? THE Bozo the Clown? Tell me more.
Well it turns out that this employee (Gary) a guy that was in his sixties and someone I would describe as having that matter-of-fact dry sense of humor and attitude that I associate with most people from "up north" had been a little kid of six years of age or so when his mom scored tickets to the live Saturday morning taping of "The Bozo Show" at the old WGN-TV studio in Chicago in the early sixties. A man named Bob Bell had made the clown somewhat famous at that time even though Bozo the Clown was actually a franchise character and there were Bozos all over the country in various T.V. shows, but the Bob Bell Bozo was the one I saw on live T.V., he was the one most associated with the name. Bozo would dazzle and entertain the little kids with his antics and prizes while they sat attentively, dressed in their Sunday best, many of the young boys in ties, the girls in church clothes. they hung on every word the clown uttered......except for Gary. Gary had completely blown off the pre-taping instructions and only cared about ransacking Bozos' "Chest of Toys" during the taping. His single-minded focus on this had apparently kept Bob Bell (aka Bozo) distracted and concerned during the first half of the show (after all, it was live T.V.) and so at the first opportunity, which occurred at the mid-taping break ran over and chewed Gary a new ass hole.
I had to know: Do you have lingering effects from this? Are you scared of clowns now? Have you tried to look Bob Bell up and tell him what you think? Come on, there has to be a follow-up story to this. Maybe you went to see him in a nursing home and put a pillow over his face? Maybe you winked and said "Hey clown, remember me?" as you entered the room and reached for the pillow. Come on, tell me more. You have my attention!
Turns out that there was nothing like that. Gary just responded with that same dry detached humor: "Nah, it knew it was just some dude in a clown suit. Screw what he thought. I just wanted to play with the toys"
And as Bozo would say "Wowie-Kasowey! Remember kids "Keep laughing!"
Josh and I sat on the old weathered dock that extended a little ways out into the small lake that rested at the back of the woods about half a mile behind granddads old home place. When I felt Joshs' hand jab into my side I turned and when I turned I followed his gaze because I too then saw what he was looking at. Two round, clear, spheres; soap bubbles as best I can describe them that floated out of the pines, crossed the lake and stopped motionless, still, taking a stationary position probably no more than ten feet in front of us hovering a mans' height above the water as we sat paralyzed in our place.
The spheres communicated to us although no sounds were exchanged, it was all telepathic. The first things they said was "Why are you afraid?" Why do you think about escaping, running away, why are you thinking about the dangers that you imagine?" "Understand this: We had the same creator. We started on the same course. You rebelled. We didn't. You now live in fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of what you call death. In the beginning you wanted and you took the apple. We did not. You tied yourselves to the earth. Now for you everything has weight. Now your gravity, that is , the earth, pulls on you all your days like hands from the grave. To deal with this you invented things but still they were the wrong things. You created time and now you life is measured by it. You took random worthless things, just rocks and coal and dirt and assigned value to them. Why? Just to fight over. To create jealously. So some can have and some can not. To long for, to covet. Strive for a diamond. Kill for gold. I have My rocks! You can't have MY dirt! And later you become dirt and dust yourself. You become someone elses' coal, another persons forest floor. You invented hate. Because we did not rebell we spent our time thinking, being, not doing. We evolved into spirit. We do not rank. We do not assign value. WE know everything created has value. That is enough. You are afraid because you know these things. You know these things are true. Your first reaction is to run, to hide. Like the two in the garden. You learned all to well to hate and fear the snake, but you still want that apple. You still want that apple. Think about that."
With this, the spheres assured us that there was no particular reason why they were here. They were in essence just visiting. Now they would leave. There was no good-bye. The spheres or soap bubbles as best I can describe them just floated away.
Me and Josh never spoke of this. I've kept it to myself all these years. Nobody believes things like this anyhow. I guess I'm old enough now that I just don't care anymore.
I still fish there. Josh never returned to that place.
A couple of summers ago I came across by chance an old Bible that had survived through time and remained in one piece while tucked away in an old rail travel bag in the attic of my fathers house. Inside the back cover of this relic I discovered an old and faded passage, a crude warning of sorts written in pencil so long ago that I had to tilt the page to gain better light in order to read it. The words bore on my mind greatly for some time before I submerged myself into the research necessary to discover their meaning. This passage was apparently written by my great grandmother shortly before her death in 1939. She was 82. I suppose it was directed towards her immediate family. My fathers family was descended from a line of people that had been deeply embedded in the mountain areas of Kentucky over and around where the boarders of Kentucky and Virginia and West Virginia intersect. It was a community called Macklinsville. It no longer exists. Here is what I read:
Dec. 28, 1938
"A skift of snow fell this morning and Bud prepared the balm from the balm-a-gully buds and the Jerusalem oil poltice and let all holds go. He cut a big figure hisself for a while but this neumony fever will not break and I think I'm headed for the shuck bin. Acrost the water they argy all day and all night . I fear darlins thut it will come over har and we'll hat to go back to the castin of lots and the sicklethrones. More chilrin will perish. Not jest yourn."
Well I hardly knew what to make of this but I was determined to learn something about it. First off, there was hardly anyone left to speak of it from first-hand knowledge and those who might have, wouldn't speak of it. I did eventually claw my way to some truth, and in this case the truth didn't set me free. It was actually a sad and grizzly tale. You see after the War for Southern Independence , there was a noticeable shortage of men not just here, but every where, and the effect on every day life in these mountains was especially devastating. This was a brutal country even in the best of times. In order to survive the harsh and barren winters the locals arrived at the solution that at a certain time of each year lots would be cast to reduce the population, ease the burden so to speak. Included would be all those under six years of age and all those over sixty. In effect, the sacrifice would be taken from those too young to have a life or those that had already lived one. The number involved would depend on how many had been born that year and how many had died. This took on sort of a noble connotation in the community, a necessary part of life. It was even sanctioned in the local pulpits. The word "Cyclethrone" referred to the time each year that the event was to take place thus "cycle" referring to the time of year (fall) and "throne" referring to going to your heavenly throne. In writings from that era and place one will sometimes see "cyclethrones" used as a time marker such as "it happened right after the cyclethrones" or "my youngest was born just a few years after the last cyclethrone". In the dialect of that time and place it might come across as sounding more like "sickle-thrones".
There is not really more to add to this story. I stumbled across it, I wondered about it, and now I know. Does it effect me? Not really. My family broke the links to that time and place a long time ago. I guess really it could have been anyones ancesters. I hope that's true. Anyway I'm just going top go on thinking it. That's all I can do.
I looked at my hand. It was swollen like a baseball glove. This glove was black and purple and looked like it could just bust right open at any time. It was not at all like the one I had stolen at Wal-Mart. I wish now that I had neither of them. My head pounded. My arm and my shoulder were red and sore. They hurt. I hated to feel this way but it was my own fault. The serpent had smelled the lies in me and he struck out at the lies and the fear and the guilt. It was just like paw-paw had said it could be. I was not only the snake-bitten, I was also the wicked. That hurt just as much, even more probably.
Paw had went back to his house, By now he had returned the serpents to their hutch. This trial by fire was ended, at least for the time being. I knew we would build our strength, strengthen our faith, battle Satan in a test of our faith and his resolve all over again, when the time was right, when the signs of the times said it needed to be.
Doctor Hinkle was in the room. He looked me over. He told me what to expect in the coming weeks. He told me how to care for the wound and when to come back. He was kind. He wasn't all excited and throbbing like I was. I looked at his shoes. They were clean. For a minute I wished I was his boy. I wondered where I would be and what I would be doing right now, right this very minute. I thought that maybe I'd be sittin' somewhere eatin' spaghetti and playing video games, maybe on a porch overlooking a pond. Funny how your mind wanders, and me sitting here with a swole-up hand just allowin' these thoughts to go on.
The doctor said something to me before he left the room. He said " I've known your granddad for over 50 years. He's a good man. You are a young man. You can have a good life if you pay attention to the things you do". "See if your paw might get interested in something else. Maybe you could get him interested in baseball or wresting or something. Something you can do together to take your mind off things"
I still think about that a lot.
I carried the 6 2-gallon jars to paw-paw. 3 for the deacons, 2 for the elders, one for paw. He had me to bring them out to the hutch that sat elevated on concrete blocks under a pecan tree a ways back off from the yard. Paw opened the top of the hutch and using a metal rod bent crooked on the far end, hooked the snakes one by one and dropped them down into the jars. Hooking onto a seventh snake he deposited this serpent into a large-sized playmate cooler and after carefully closing the lid, he handed it to me.
Paw had told me a lot of things over the years. He told me the difference between snakes and serpents. "The ones with venom in em' are serpents boy." "Man and snakes never got along, but a serpent, well a serpent is in close relations with the Devil." "These serpents hide from the light. They live under rocks, in holes, in creeks. They hate the light of day. They fear the light of the Lord. Today we're exposing em' to the light of the Lord. Today we're bringing em' to the house of the righteous. Watch how they act. Just watch how they act. And I tell you son, Satan has given powers over to the serpent . A serpent will spent his whole life just waitin' for a chance to strike at the heel of man. It's their wicked nature. A serpent can smell a lie. To him it smells just like a fresh apple pie. He can see the truth and the truth hurts his eye bones. A serpent always squints. It hurts his eyes like black smoke from a burning log. Always remember that boy."
Well I did remember that and I was remembering it more and more often lately. I hadn't done anything really bad but I had done a lot of little bad things in my time. Would that ole' serpent, that ole' slithering demon smell the lies on me? Would he strike at me to reveal my wickedness? To expose my shame? Should I be the one down a hole somewhere, or layin' out warming on a rock somewhere squintin' when the sun strikes my brow?
Paw-paw said it's time. I walk to the car resolute. It's too late to take back what I said to that girl on the school bus. It's too late to put back that wrench I stole, or that ball glove I stole at Wal-Mart. I can't take it back. I can't say "un-fuck you" and turn around the cussin' I gave the girl in the parking lot two weeks ago.
Nobody should have to be scared to tote a play mate cooler to Sunday school. It just ain't right, but paw says it is. He's almost never wrong.
. We were driving back to our home in Corbin Kentucky. It was mama and daddy and my big sister Jenille and me. I was 5 years old. We had been to the Disney Land. Daddy told me to "Remember it son, cause you may not be back for a while". I think he was right about that. I'd had a lot of fun at the Disney Land as best as I can remember. I'm 19 now. It was a long time ago. We lived in the house with paw-paw. I reckon he didn't care anything about the Disney Land. He said " I don't see why your daddy drags you 500 miles to watch The Whore of Babylon ridin' a roller coaster". I didn't understand much then. I'm smarter now. Paw used to say my daddy was a" black heart and raisin' me in his black- heart ways" . He probably was. Paw is usually right about things. I kept the mouse-eared hat that I got at the Disney Land for a long time until I got ashamed about it. One day out in the yard I heard paw tell daddy " What's that boy still wearing them damn rat ears for?" "He should have a lick of sense by now". I reckon he was right. Paw was right about a lot of things. He had made atonement with the redeemer. He said he aimed to walk them celestial hallways and march up them sapphire stairs. He said he aimed for me to do that too. I reckon I will, directly, but for now I'm going to the old smoke house down in the holler to fetch the 6 2- gallon jars that sit on the shelf down there. One for each of the 3 Deacons and 2 for the elders. The last one is for for paw. Paw says "The sting of the serpent is no match for The Word." I suppose he's right. He tells me that I will know that some day. I do believe that I will know that some day.
I got a message the other day from the wife of an old friend and co-worker. It seems that another person we all knew and was very fond of had died of a heart attack a couple of weeks prior. I'm 58 and the departed was 7-8 years younger than me and I guess that would have made him 50 years old or so. Too young to die, but I'm heading a bit off subject and the subject is a story (a true story) that I want to share with you. Back in those days, in the small town we lived in , we did an awful lot of things to amuse ourselves and each other. Some of those thing involved trying to trick or scare each other. There were a lot of spooky places about and we would go on these ghost hunting outings or we might just be in the woods coon hunting or camping or any number of other things. Anyway, this guy (the departed), his little brother ( not really young, but certainly "little") myself and another guy were out in the deep woods for some reason or another in the middle of the night. I must point out that the "little brother" was about 23 years old, pale as a sheet, and terrified of his own shadow. He was someone that you could send into a fit of terror quite easily and we took every advantage of this. This guy would become physically shaken and might even bolt and run depending on if he was more scared at the time to be where he was or more scared to leave the group and run off alone through the dark. He was the perfect person to torment. Anyway, we are deep in the woods and we see in the distance, up in the trees, 3 glowing, illuminated spheres. One was yellow, one blue, one green. Now nobody knows what they are looking at and it's certainly not the kind of thing you expect to encounter in the woods back where nobody goes. So we continue to move towards these "things" and we're all a little scared, we're all a little concerned, anxious and we're getting a bit spooked, but we are all thinking the same thing: It's more fun to scare the "little brother" than to worry about it. Brother is probably going to pee in his pants at any minute and that's worth facing whatever spirits or UFOs or glassy-eyed swamp creatures might be up in those trees.
Well we arrive at the place and figure out that it's some glass balls up in the tree limbs that we have been seeing and they are hanging by chains from those branches. They didn't look dangerous, but we still didn't know why they were there.
It turned out that as we talked it up a bit around town the next week we found out that some other guys had carried some solar powered yard ornaments out in the woods with them in a backpack when they were out hunting one day and had thrown them up in the trees. The chains looped the tree branches and it marked a spot for them to find there way back to those same trees and the fact that they were solar powered luminaries meant that as long as the sun kept shining there was the chance of scaring the daylights out of somebody (like us) that happened to be moving about those woods at night. It's just a cute story but it's one that illustrates the friendships and fun times we shared during a simple, happy time not so long ago. Aliens, ghosts, coon hunts. RIP my friend, and RIP those by-gone times.
All Souls Day just came and went. That's the day that the Catholic Church and some other denominations set aside to honor the dead. It's a day of prayer, reflection and it's not necessarily a day of remorse and sadness although it could be. All Souls Day, or the Day of the Dead as it's also known can actually be quite festive in a spooky halloweenish sort of way as it's honored in Latin America and some Latin neighborhoods here. Anyway All Souls Day spurred me on to think about what else? Death! Actually, my own death and what I could do to make it more enjoyable, and by that I mean more enjoyable for me!
First I'm going on the assumptions that I will sort of somehow sense when death is imminent and my soul will be allowed the traditional 4 1/2 minutes to hover over the room right after I pass on. That's when the fun begins!
I'll need a "death kit", and I'll have one ready. The "death kit" is the shoebox full of crap that I'll carefully litter my bed with. These are the things the nurse or unlucky family member will see when they discover my demise. Let's see......I'll want a penny whistle, maybe a farmers almanac, a pair of needle-nosed pliers, a topographical map of Bolivia, maybe a pack of firecrackers, a recipe for New England clam chowder and a ticket to the drag races. Oh, and I'll be clutching an American flag, preferably one with 48 stars although that might be asking a little too much. I've gotta be reasonable. A good added touch or two would be a pogo stick tucked away under the bed and some empty D-Con boxes in the garbage. Yes, I think all of that would do the trick, and by "trick" I mean it would make the explanation of how they found me pretty spectacular and frankly hard to believe. A damn big fat lie! But why?
Now next there has to be a note, or notes. I want to leave one at my bedside that basically says nothing or at least only address superficial problems that may occur tomorrow at latest, something like "There's a coupon for 50%-off a family-size bag of Doritos in my top dresser drawer" or "The air looked low in your front driver-side tire, but I could be wrong about that. I'm dead now, you know?" Also, I have to leave a more serious note somewhere to be found later. I'm thinking "The money is under the seat of the swiveling captain's chair in the back of my Dodge van. It should be plenty to sustain you for a long, long, time" Now the joke is that by now the long gone van has either been crushed for scrap metal or is hauling illegals across Baja Mexico . There would be no names and no dates. I would just finish it with "Who could have thought one night in Paducah could end like that?"
I'm not making plans for my funeral or my estate. I figure those things just have a way of working themselves out, right? I do want one thing in the announcement for the service: "In lieu of flowers please stock his pond" I'm laughing already as I picture a scene weeks down the road when a well meaning person says to my wife "I sure am sorry to hear about your husband" and through tear filled eyes my wife says to them "Did you stock his pond?" and they have to sheepishly reply "no".
Well anyway that's how I imagine it. Tomorrow is All Saints Day. Maybe then I'll think about something else.