Redneck Resort

Madden Hole was a natural swimming hole located deep in the woods a number of miles from our home in Marche; a rather long hike to say the least. We would often frequent this “hole” on a regular basis in the summer just to cool off and have fun. Madden Hole was also a good place to camp and fish.
It was late one summer afternoon, after all of our chores were done that the four of us, Ray, Joe, Mark (adopted brother and neighbor) and I stepped out onto the gravely road in front of our home to begin the several mile hike to our beloved Redneck Resort locally known to our polish community as “Madden Hole.” However, today’s march to Madden Hole was more than just for a swim. Ray had proposed (a week or so earlier) we go on a two day camping trip with Madden Hole as our destination. We all were excited about his idea until he mentioned that we would just take the bare essentials for cooking food along with some fishing equipment. We would survive by catching or gathering our meals from the forest or fish from the waters of Madden hole.
So off we went, taking and jabbering about the upcoming two days. The question of food was a hot topic but Ray assured us we would not starve. Running along side and at time racing ahead were our two dogs, Curly and Michael. These two dogs were strays that over different times in the past appeared at our home. Their names somehow magically became part of their characters as each was adopted and became part of our childhood.
The march to the site traversed three long gravelly and rocky roads each ending with the other and each reaching out in a totally new direction. The eye of the late afternoon sun soon was glaring down on us. Our T-shirts displayed a cool dampness as if having been soaked in water as a result of our sweat pouring out like rain. The longer we walked the less we talked due to the dying heat of the summer day. The previous excitement expressed in the beginning had now gone up in flames in the heat of the long trek to Madden Hole. Each of us was lost in our imaginations looking ahead and immersed in the cool waters of Madden Hole. Finally, we reached the grassy trail that cut of the main road and led deep into the forest to Madden Hole. This old wagon trial lay like a snake through the thick woods trailing off into the distance before us. With the heavy foliage of the surrounding trees now providing shade, our excitement and chatter perked like water that reaches a boiling point as we began our final journey to this ole swimming hole.
We had just gone just a short distance when young a rabbit just ahead of us kicks up his heals in a rapid race to safety. Curly and Michael, the dogs, give chase and soon disappear into the wooded environment ahead with their bellowing howls echoing throughout the trees. It was not long before their baying became infrequent and sporadic indicating their loss of the rabbit. Soon both dogs were back with their tongues hanging out and panting for each breath, each having lost interest in a rabbit deep in a hole.
It was a welcome relief for all to see the ole trail finally ending at a large rivulet flooded with water from a storm of the previous week. The loud nosy water poured and splashed it way down the creek over or around the many large rock and boulders that refused to give up their position. We stopped for a minute to remove our shoes and socks and began wading in the knee deep waters. Ray began scooping up and throwing water balls at who ever was the closest to him. Thus began an all out war between all of us with water being the only weapon. It was truly moments of fun and laughter as we all welcomed the many exploding balls of water that seem to come from out of no where giving instant relief from the heat of the day. Suddenly realizing that the sun was now sinking towards the edge of our visible world, we quickly climbed once more into our shoes and made a mad rush for the camp site about two hundred yards away.
(to be continued)

Debris and Other Routes to Grief... (warning this is sad)

Well a casual observer may conclude that I am a bit of a pack rat or even a bit untidy, and there may be a bit of truth to that. However a deeper truth is that I have the heart of a poet, and I understand that things can transform into symbols, and that symbols can possess the magic to transport, to carry significant weights for the soul, and to connect across time and space. And so it is not by accident or coincidence or the lack of a trash can that I reach into my sock drawer this week and reveal that my hand was drawn to a scrap of history that takes me to a place I've been leaning towards in my mind all month. Several places...

One is standing in front of MD Anderson Cancer Clinic in numbed and relieved shock on Christmas morning talking to my kids on my cell phone saying that Grandpa is feeling better now and I will be home soon.

Another is sitting there at his side Christmas morning as his breaths spaced further and further apart, thinking of how he was getting closer to his God and marveling at how his face looked like a saint in an El Greco painting. Stroking that fine and noble forehead and clasping his hand that finally was releasing its firm grip that I recognized across the whole broad sweep of my life.

Or earlier when I knew the end was near. Standing in the school yard in the flat but bright light of a December afternoon. The last week of school before vacation. Waiting for the school bell and to pick up the kids. Standing there I called him at his hotel in Huston where he was staying for treatment - to say hi, to offer encouragement to check in, to say I'd mailed a package.

He answered. In pain. In fear. In quiet desperation. In a room alone far from home with only my voice. He didn't have the strength to be brave for me. My knees buckled imperceptibly - matching the sinking feeling in my gut, I measured the tone of my voice and did not let him understand that I appreciated the fear and pain in his voice. I knew before the doctors told him that it was over. I had been buoyed by Dad and Becky's optimism occasionally throughout the preceding months. I had ignored the statistics that said 95% mortality in the first 18 months, despite teaching statistics and knowing better. I had listened when he said come and visit after Christmas when we get back to Arkansas. But in a moment I knew better.

And the bell was ringing now and laughing and oblivious children were streaming out of the school... and mine would be swirling about in the torrent in moments. Compose compose. Grapple with the world spinning apart and yet swirling tight to the hearth of home all in the same moment. "Hey kiddos how was school today? Are you excited about Christmas vacation? Grandpa says "Hi" "

Every time I've passed the school this week - the last week before Christmas break - I think of standing there in the faintest of snow falls as the sound of my father's voice faltered in my ear and sent a chill through me deeper than any December ever has. I can't escape it. I'm not sure I want to. I drove past tonight and balled like a baby.

So many of these December memories are now over taking me. Like waves that do not relent - marching out of a darkened night sea and I feel that soon I'll be trying to catch my breath and I won't succeed.

It took me until July of this year to clear my desk of a lot of what collected there last November and December. I filed some away. Threw out a few things. But there is more debris I'm sure - things I know of things I will discover - a receipt for a taxi from the airport to the hospital. A mint. A napkin from the hospital cafeteria... A scrap of paper with one of many itineraries that may or may not have got me there on time. Broken wood from the barn he made by hand. A scar on my hand from the fishing knife he gave me as a boy.

A certain quality of my children's generosity or sense of justice. Some of the things I strain to teach them. These symbols will keep pulling me to a place of reflection and appreciation. Perhaps when I least expect it, but I trust always when I most need it.

now thats a big fish paul

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This is Brice Green he crewed for me this halibut season . I have all four boys home now that Adems back from collage. He had a blast and is ready for more in about a month.Anvil has stepped up his schooling and is interested in sports and is learning the guitar. Atlas is still goin a 100 miles an hour likes to dance and fight a little kongfu once in a while ( hes got a lot a Ray in him )Archer is 5 month now and after a slow start is growing like a weed(17 lb I think) and doin all the things that make a person smile.
I still am pretty mad about the whole dad die in thing, just sucks the could of beens keep kickin my but.

Happy Holidays!

Well guys....it's that time of year.
I'm finding it harder and harder now that Christmas is around the corner.
Dad would have gotten a kick out of my Thanksgiving excursions though...and I smiled a lot knowing as such.

I ended up driving to Eureka, OR with my boyfriend and spending it with his family. On the way back, we drove through an Animal WildLife Safari (yes, in OREGON...Winston to be exact) and had a blast watching the giraffe walk by our car and being stared down by a Rhino (like Jurassic Park...."Don't move...he'll know we're in the car"). I know Dad was laughing his butt off up there at us. (I'm not even going to mention the humping Elk or the crazy ostrich).

I also made an apple pie, from scratch, with memories of making them with Dad. (The secret is cream of tarter....shuuuush) It turned out damn tasty and I know he would have been proud of the 'awe' and silence as people dug in. You know it's good when everybody stops talking and concentrates on not losing a single crumb. lol

So...yeah....
I find myself wanting to yell & scream at work now, though, to drown out the Christmas music that started pumping through the speakers the day after Thanksgiving. It's just too soon.

How was everyone else's Thanksgiving? Any fun stories to share? :)


*Please forgive my absense in posting etc...I have extrememly minimal net connection and mostly get to check my email at work or at the library. I read the blog on a regular basis...I just tend to get all teary and blubbery when I attempt to write. It's a bit embarrassing in public places. lol

whats up dad

The last month or so I've found my self wanting to give dad a call. See how things are how the gardening went his Summer . Ask how he felt about the bail out of bad business. Tell him how the grandsons are doing .Talk about how good fishing was this Summer and how I felt him next to me when ever I was at my best. Then it hits me dads not goin to answer the phone any more . Some times I would call way to late and he would all ways answer he new it was me some how we would talk about the garden or the boys , politics , plans ,dreams

Your Country Thanks You

Tuesday was Veteran's day. I've always been proud of my Dad's service to our country but I could not help but feel just a bit more connected to it all when I flipped through the paper and saw a picture of a boy of 9 or so placing a wreath on his Dad's tombstone in a military cemetery. Every since Dad was diagnosed I've been back to my feelings as a boy and there I was again lost without him - yet proud. It took a long long time and I'm thankful for the blessing of that time. But in the end... yes he died in the line of duty - serving his country. I'm sure he was a hero in small ways.. and maybe even bigger ways than we may ever know.. but he did his best and served his country and died because of his service so although he may not been noticed in name in services, I still hope he was there in the thoughts and prayers of so many who said thanks to the men and women who serve and have died in service to our country. I guess this is also on my mind as Dad's flag from retiring from active service has been on my busy desk for the past month.. sitting silently with me each day...

persimmon memories

I received a couple persimmons in the mail yesterday and it got me to thinking about Dad. You see if you were to take a right at the end of the his driveway on a lovely fall afternoon on your way to visit Moses or just to get some fresh air you would pass a great, tall Persimmon tree. Dad would sing the praises of a ripe persimmon and proceed to determine if the persimmons were ripe as yet. I seem to recall one of the ways he knew they were ripe without getting a horribly puckered mouth was if he had seen the deer eating them. I like these memories of "Nature Dad" , like how he could tell if it was an armadillo with a slight limp that had crossed the riverbed or a raccoon hunting crayfish in the moonlight. And man could he locate any troll in any state under any bridge!!!