Other Men's Boots

The roar of the guns and cannons was deafening as the men fired upon the inbound Japanese planes.
The blue Pacific sky was filled with flack and burning projectiles, like innumerable hornets released from a savaged hive, searching for reckoning in the hundreds of Kamikaze that bore down upon the picket.

The sailors howled in anger as the damaged planes penetrated the swarm of steel and dove for the deck of their ship. The angle and range to impact were uncertain so they ran port to stern and stern to bow in hopes of evading the burning havoc of ordnance and fuel that was hurtling toward them.

The dismembered wreckage slammed into the deck; the ensuing explosion rocked and twisted the ship, blasting hot, fragmented metal through the men, cleaving bodies and scattering them like chaff in the wind.

The battle lasted for fifteen days. The torn remains of their shipmates were stacked as high as a standing man and bloated in the blinding sun.

As the battle subsided they were allowed to bury their brethren;
shame, rage, and disgust washed over the mourners as sharks came to feast on the swollen flesh of the dead.

A halt was ordered on the procession as live munitions were lashed to the cadavers in hopes of speeding their descent into their cold, murky graves, fathoms below.

Carl "Junior" Stanger , who is slowed by injuries from logging camps, the second great war, and age, still carries himself impressively. Though stooping and shuffling a bit, he is still striking.
His glinting silver eyes reveal an active mind that contains unfathomable chapters and verse; his voice is booming with conviction and passion; his snow white hair and beard command reverence.

During his war, Carl heard a Voice that would lead and drive him through the many years that followed; restless, he wandered in the south western deserts and mines, searching.

For brief numbers of days he would return home to visit and share his spiritual experiences and life lessons brought to him by the voice of his God. His revelations were met with glazed eyes and discomfort, because His messages that came from Carl’s lips did not fall in line with our family’s accepted spiritual beliefs. From the moment Carl began to share his guidance, he was disregarded; believed to be "off" and "out there", he became the source of jokes and unanswered phone calls.

Shamefully, I admit that I believed my families opinions of Uncle Carl and accepted them as my own.

He knows all of this, and he is loyal to his spirit.

The pursuance of my beginnings led me to the place of my birth and to the home of my Uncle Carl.

His residence is a disintegrating trailer, strangled with Virginia Creeper and wasp nests that is slowly sinking into the earth.
I sat opposite to him, that August, separated by a veil of afternoon sun. The light settled on his hoary visage, radiated about him, flashing, manipulated by his gesturing hands as the conversation carried him over memories and time.

He shared with me the adventures of his youth, the work in the forests that broke his body, and the lone journeys through wind carved canyons, abandoned shafts in the ground, and the founding of the fading utopian idea that lay scattered, moldering among the hills surrounding his habitation.

As the hours passed, a calm settled about him and he began to speak of spiritual experiences. The words that poured from his mouth connected the fragments of conversation that had been hidden in my heart as a child.
I suddenly remembered his visits to our home and the images of he and my father sharing words in a similar light and a kindred manner.
Until my reunion with him I was unaware that he was one of the pioneers that settled the village with my father, and that my father was one of the few who accepted his council and communion.

I had to know the source of my uncles passion and vision; I asked where his spiritual journey began and he told me in a manner like one would describe a well known fact.

"I heard the voice of God."

He described to me the battle that he endured in the Pacific, and of the moment when a string of words, that would reshape his mind and his heart, resonated in his soul; in a tick of seemingly frozen time that fastened his feet to the wooden deck of a man made ship and locked his eyes on a man driven bomb one hundred feet above his head, he heard, "I will save this ship because of you."

Did Carl hear the voice of God?

There are countless stories of men, under horror and great duress, experiencing unexplainable events; they report, with great feeling, that they would not believe what transpired unless they had been there themselves.
They understand that common sense and psychological theories will negate their irrational, absurd, and unbelievable attests; they hammer and chip-away at the occurrence, hoping to sculpt and shape the phenomenon into something smaller and manageable, and in the process, degrade themselves prostituting the purity of the action.

Carl and his ship were saved; they survived, battered and scarred, and managed to transfer many other wounded, dead, foundering souls and vessels to safe harbors.

I believe that Carl experienced something extraordinary during an unbelievable moment that triggered the expanding of his consciousness, leaving him void of doubt.

Nearing the end of this life he is collected; an aggregation of history, experience, and thought, still searching for traces of a Voice that only a few will truly hear.

I am fortunate to have reconnected with him and I find him much less threatening, having spent some time walking in his boots.

Lucent

The moon, he is near.

Stone creeps slowly, and water silently; drawn to his primal counsel.

The earth sighs, releasing her sweet breath of loam and dew.

Live things stir and are wakeful, lucent in the night.

Lamb's Creek

Lamb’s Creek is a long, lazy, cool collection of spring water and rain, dappled with sunlight and shadow.
For thousands of years, like an aged serpent, it’s glistening, dark body has undulated through the forest and tall grass fields, polishing stone and shifting sand.
Small, shimmering fish, dart in it’s shallows; larger, older, colder bodied things lurk, deep under the wet limestone banks, waiting.

My mothers family settled along the branch more than a century ago.
For generations, the creek was a place to hunt and a refuge from the permeating presence of Summer.

When I was nineteen, I chose a Memorial Day to return and feel the waters, and maybe collect a few geodes that had been washed from their places of birth.
Heat had come early that particular May. The Cottonwood trees were releasing their progeny; the young, suspended on the sultry air, innumerable in the afternoon light, were slowly making their way to the surface of the shade covered stream.
I followed them to water, jumped from the high bluff that was covered with fern and moss, and sank my feet into the cool with the others.
Earlier in the day, after visiting my parents, I had brought a kitten home to my young wife; she quickly, without words pulled the cat into her arms, where recently, had been an erroneously trusted friend.

When I was younger, my father told me many times, "You will have many friendly acquaintances, but few, true friends."
He could have been sharing lessons from experience, but, maybe he was offering counsel for behaviors I was exhibiting.
What may father had said about friends and friendship was so very true, but I would be long in understanding it.

The Sunday morning that my sister began my religious indoctrination, I watched my brothers and my father pull away; their bodies, blown in the wind and jostled, disappeared into the distance as I stood on the sidewalk, shackled.
I knew where they were going, and I knew what they would find, I had been with them before and relished the shared experience.
The wonderful, wild, and weird, were substantiated when our eyes met across the encounters between us; the fears, we each understood, were lessened and courage festered in our hearts as we stood, shoulder to shoulder, facing the unknown.
But, those times were over, and they, all too soon, would be gone as well.
I would spend much of my life searching to get back into that green truck with the souls I had known.

I faced the unknowns of my adolescence with a group of acquaintances; hooligans who are now found in addiction or prison, but one, a shining example, was a friend, a surrogate for the brotherly relationship I was missing.
Together we honed our talents, raided pantries, sought beautiful girls and their treasures held, shared stolen cigarettes between gulps of similarly acquired alcohol, wondered at the stars over frosted stubble in broad corn fields, endured punishments, and laughed at it all, but eventually, and unfortunately, we were to part ways.

As a young adult, continuing my quest, I suffered an acquaintance as a friend. As Lamb’s Creek, he stole through my life, eventually wearing and separating lands that were joined. I survived the encounter, wounded, with a religious respect for my fathers advice.
The concurrence left me bitter and guarded, but unconsciously I continued to prospect for my elusive brothers.

After Lamb’s Creek I found associations, for a short period in time. We shared an occupation as soldiers, and with the duties, shared many memorable times.
Those links, often called Brothers In Arms are scattered now, among the grass, under the wind. We drift in and out with one another through phone calls and letters place by me. Not real friends, but friendly, they are there, each validating our life experience.

Upon reaching middle age, the yearning subsided; I had experienced most of the grand events expected in this life, many without the presence of a proponent. The close confidants that held the proof of my life together were fewer, and further away, and frankly, I was no longer interested in parceling what was left to others. What more was to come, I was willing to face alone.

Yet, a few years ago, seasons changed, along with the currents of the wind, and like the Summer Snow on Lamb’s Creek, strangers blew into my life; serendipitously drifting beside me. Being apprehensive and tired, I held them warily at a distance, as acquaintances, but, they, being seeds of something I lost long ago, found purchase near me and have grown into entities that I am happy to know, and they, swaying in the wind with me, shoulder to shoulder have become more than friends.

They are my brothers and I am thankful to share what's left of this life with them.

Drink Your Fill

The border of trees, naked, limbs like arthritic hands, made of coal, stand unmoving as the gun colored fog rises from it’s hidden abode and breaches the cordon of slumbering entities.
Stealthily , void of sound, it crosses the ink hued waters, silently steals up the frosted banks, and without notice entrenches for assault on my damaged ground.

My old friend returned to share a drink with me. I didn’t hear his feet upon the cabin floor nor receive notification of his passing. While enjoying a bit of comfort I mistakenly left the door unbolted, which to him has always been a sign of invitation to my hearth. I must say, I am always a bit startled when I enter the room to find him quietly sitting.
I can’t recall how long we have known one another, or even our introduction; it seems as if we have always been familiar, but him of me, more than I of him. I call him friend, not out of friendliness, but from time accrued. Truthfully assessing our relationship would have me admit that I really do not like him at all; surely, I have enjoyed his company from time to time, but out of youthful melancholy. I don’t know why he has always been so fond of me.

His visits often last for months, though recently they are fewer and far between. He’s really not a person that brings warmth to a place; his appearance is grim, his countenance is consumption.
Draining, he is; the fire, quivering in the corner, recedes before his presence, food is un-filling, and drink is un-quenching.

I’ve never been a good host; when he visits I rarely speak, offering little to the union. We sit at my worn table; I with my arms folded, and he with his flickering yellow eyes set deep in his black face, searching my heart for the liquid that fills his cup. His voice not heard, but felt, like a hive of droning hornets, recalls and places before me the wretchedness of times past and proposes fearsome futures. Shifting my gaze, I look about the chamber for artifacts that might spur some lighter conversation, but to no avail; he commands his ensnared audience.

Rising, I reach for the iron to stoke the fire, hoping to provoke a flame and warm the cold that is embracing the space, maybe fuel the embers to lick at his heels and drive him into the night air, to move him along on his way. My selfish desire; for him to find some new friend, some new dwelling where he can draw his quarter and be done with me.
I lay the final piece of kindling upon the waning blaze, wishing it were his funeral pire.
He cranes his crooked neck to squarely place his lamp-like gaze upon me and continues his growling murmur.

Drink your fill my friend, drink your fill and go!

Resurrection

The Greyhound coach had taken what seemed an eternity to transport me and my small backpack to central Kentucky. But for the driver I was unaccompanied; throughout the day the rolling carcass had rumbled to stops at it’s pre-positioned hubs and disgorged the other travelers.
I had departed from the Indianapolis Military Entrance Processing Station in a limousine with a few other recruits. Upon arrival at the bus station we shook hands and went our separate ways. A few were heading to the Great Lakes Naval Center, some were on their way to the east coast to become Marines. I was traveling to Ft. Knox to be reborn as a soldier.

As the miles accumulated on the odometer, my old life was slipping into the dark. The physical span of this particular journey was minimal, but it might as well have been light years, unfathomable miles, from the sun.
I was a flesh and bone satellite tumbling away from earth. As the hours passed and the familiar sights shrank in the distance a great silence enveloped me. I was solitary in the hinterland of a great emptiness.
Ice began to form on my hull, obscuring my markings of origin. The processes inside began to slow with the cold and soon their noises would cease. The remnants of life were flickering, desperately drawing what energy was left, intermittently blinking in the dark until finally extinguishing in the subzero environment of space.

I was alone.

The cavernous aluminum leviathan lumbered to a halt on a small hill next to a battered concrete block shanty and opened its maw to spit me from it’s gullet.
I stepped out, into the gloom, and into a growing storm. The bus pulled away as a damp wind picked up the red dust of the ground and threw it against the diminutive weathered building. Lightning was flashing in the distance, silhouetting the unfamiliar horizon in crimson and gold. Thunder rumbled and mingled with the unmistakable "thud" and "krump" of artillery that was rising and falling in far away fields.

I stood on this forsaken purchase of ground with the vacant shack, inhaling the ozone, rain, and iron. The feeling was desolate and charged, causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand like prophets speaking of unavoidable action.

I had receive no instructions on what to do upon reporting to this post; do I wait here for some sort of shuttle? I had imagined that I would now be face to face with someone who would usher me into this alien world, but here I stood in the hollow of night with a frigid blast buffeting this remote, empty outpost.
The thought of walking away flashed in my mind; I could step away from all of this, evade into the tempest, and no one would observe my parting. But, I had no place to go; I had committed to this path and left my home as well as all that it had to offer. I was unprepared for any other option.

I looked to my broken associate who was anchored to the rise; in the shadow of it’s entrance, illuminated by a dim lamp, was a hinged metal box marked in with faded yellow paint ‘New Arrivals’.
I raised the cover, revealing a worn old telephone from a previous war. The receiver had been painted numerous times with varied shades of olive, and below it’s base was a single red button.

This moment was final; these terminal seconds that it would take my finger to touch the blood colored stud would be my last, as the person that I was.

The device was bitter against my ear. My chest expanded as I formulated words for the being on the other end of the line.
I exhaled old fears, my heart rushed and resonated in my ears. I looked into the imminent roar, drew one last breath, and depressed the flaming contact that would announce my entrance to this world.

Another flash in the blackness, another rumble, more thunder.

With great labor, I would soon receive my resurrection.