A Well Remembered, George Gadd

My daughter was seven years of age when she wrote to me the following note;

Some things should never be forgotten.

My father, George Gadd, was born into a dirt poor family on October 1st, 1939.

His father was a veteran of The Great War. As a child, his mother had sailed the Atlantic Ocean from Portugal to Hawaii.
His parents courted while on the island, were married, and soon sailed to The States.
They moved into a board and batten shack in "Bucktown" on the south end of town.

Alcohol was my grandfathers remedy for the troubles that ruled that era and his hands channeled frustration upon his family.

George was twelve when he was turned out upon the streets. His mother had fallen to a cancer and his father to another woman with other children.

George delivered groceries throughout the town and for a time lodged with an older brother; the brothers wife would skim the greater part of George’s pay and lock him from the home during weekend revelries.
George began to hide a portion of his weekly pay and eventually purchased an old car that would serve as his home until he graduated high school.

Upon graduating from high school he married and began Tool and Die trade school.
He and his wife began to fill their lives with children, but the full family he had hoped for would slip through his fingers as disease and death stole them away.

He labored with mind, muscle, sweat, and tears. Prayers poured from his soul, and still, life faded.
He held closely to five of his children as they passed from this world and left behind a loving father who groaned in great agony.

He pounded his days away from dark of morning to dark of night to cover his family responsibilities and never failed to extend himself to others, where needed; he paid for the education of employees that wanted to improve themselves, posted bail for their youthful mistakes, and counseled them on the definition of father and husband.

We were grievously insulted when we learned of his imminent death.

My remaining brother and I were at his home helping him with plumbing the bathroom.
He departed for the hardware store, a place he had been to many, many times before.
He returned hours later and secluded himself in the living room, holding his head, swaying in his chair, and weeping.

He had spent the previous hours in confusion trying to find his way home.

A tumor was found in his brain that night and he began the end of his journey with death.

During his final years he would experience every malady his children had experienced; surgery, medication, radiation, chemotherapy, infection, weakness, confusion, dementia, spinal meningitis, and finally death.

He parceled out what remained of his life, day after day; he gave his all, all of the time. He spoke with compassion, helped where he could with weakened hands, and offered a selfless love to all that would accept.

In the Fall of his last year, my wife and I drove to visit him at his home, arriving late, we found a note, "Took George to the hospital."
He had awakened from a nap in great pain, believing he had been shot in the head. He was lost in extreme pain and could not be comforted.

By his screams, I found him in the emergency room of the hospital. " My feet are on fire!! Fix my head!! Help me!! Oh, God help me!!" The doctors would not administer any pain medication for fear of masking symptoms of neurological problems. Their decision was to ship him to a larger medical center.

The ambulance was filled with his screams.

Magnetic images showed fluid on his brain and a spinal tap confirmed spinal meningitis.

Mercifully he fell into unconsciousness and into a coma, never to utter coherent words again.

I spent the following weeks at the hospital. On December 16th my mother called for my support in removing my dad from the machines that were keeping him alive.

I agreed to let him go.

He slipped away quietly one labored breath at a time on December 19th.

For years I removed family memories from thought. After living through their suffering, their absence became a respite from the turmoil.

I am finally able to remember them and choose to do so. Like prospects in a pan, the horror is washing away in waves and the gold in them is shinning through.

My father was an amazing soul. From birth, mountains of chaos were shoveled upon him. He was battered continuously, had futures torn, was physically afflicted, but always, without a single curse on his lips, chose the high ground.

In this state he lives on;

A well remembered, George Gadd

Among the Living

I observe the Canadian geese on the river behind our house.
Some of them are without mates, through predation, age, or disease. The ones without walk among the others, calling while shaking their heads, continually searching the distance for the return of those they are bound to. Their days are without end and their voices are withered by want of those lost.

I have been among the missing.

26 January 98
04:30

I left her standing on the cold wood floor of our living room. Her arms were crossed, trying to hold in the anger, pain, and hopelessness. My daughter was sleeping in her room upstairs. The remains of what I once was had been packed into boxes and slid into the far away corners of the attic.

There was no guarantee of my return.

I slowly closed the door and stepped into the cold dark of morning to bring an end to my path.

We met when I was thirteen and she was fifteen; years later, we bound ourselves, one to the other. Unknowingly she had also bound herself to a heart that was marred from darkness.
Below the surface, of what she had known me to be, was damage that I could not repair myself.
I was saturated with depression; like fresh tar, it had crept from the earth into my shoes, onto my back, around my heart, and into my mind.
With all of the love within her she tried to wash it from me, but it would not go away. With tears and words she called to me, but was answered by echoes.

My experiences with death and dying were treated like obstructions on a path; I dodged them, crawled over them, and put them behind me, out of sight and mind.
I refused to give time or space to these incidents and did everything I could to physically separate myself from the perceived weakness of my family members and the horror that surrounded them.
I had little compassion for my siblings that were ill. Their illness drew attention to my family and validated the fact that we were weak and dying.

Compassion was the channel that could have drained the building waters of grief and darkness, but I was selfish and turned my face from the immediate pain.

I managed, poorly, to contain the darkness for years; the memories pressed and manifested themselves in destructive activities. Desperately I built the retention walls higher and deeper, effectively occluding myself from the love and compassion around me, I prepared no thoughts for the morrow and laughed when friends spoke of planning a future.
I did not expect to live long. Every headache or eye twitch made me question and discern; when will the seizures come, am I harboring the disease, is the sickness growing in my brain, pushing cells and synapses, making it’s nest, setting it’s defenses against chemotherapy, radiation, and scalpels?
I expected, daily, an early end to this life. I believed, I would be reunited with my family long before I reached maturity.

But, there was a quantity that would eventually ruin my wall and allow those deep dark waters to overwhelm me.
In the fabric of my body it was quietly working; from conception it ticked and whirred, suppressing the illness that had surrounded me and taken my loved ones, one by one.
There it sat, functioning properly, culling cells that could grow radically and form cancerous tumors. Permeating my flesh, it was keeping me alive.

After my fathers death I volunteered for genetic testing and a few weeks later held in my hands the business size envelope that would be the ruin of my expected demise.
I tested negative for Li-Fraumeni Syndrome. In my genetic code, Gene P-53 was not mutated.

Gene P-53 is important in multicellular organisms where it regulates the cell cycle and thus functions as a tumor suppresser that is involved in preventing cancer. As such, P-53 has been described as "the guardian of the genome," "the guardian angel gene," and the "master watchman," referring to its role in conserving stability by preventing genome mutation.

Elvis left the building.

The train I had packed so dearly for passage on, departed with all aboard but me.
I was suddenly separated from my birth family. I was not marked as they were and therefor not accepted.
A chasm formed between us because I was found unworthy.

The waters I had contained breached my wall and carried me towards the chasm. My baggage was strewn and there was hell to pay.
I could no longer hold the deafening memories as they bore down upon me.

The memories perforated may days, interrupting my work, and raged at night through the quiet.
I could not suppress them with alcohol or counselors. The promises of the good in life could not tame them.
The more I attempted to befriend them, the stronger they became.
I could not swim their currents.
In despair I succumbed to their tides and drifted further from my wife and daughter.

I dove for the deep in search of silence and peace.

I sought my physical destruction.
If death would not come for me, I would search for him. On my terms.

When I walked out on my wife and daughter I engaged death through the military and life as a soldier. I volunteered, trained, and prayed for war, but death was elusive.

Through the daily challenges of preparing for war I eventually found the surface of my life; after distancing myself from the physical haunts and connections of my history I was afforded the opportunity to heal.
In a way I was born again, and as a castaway coming to rest on a pebble strewn shore that is washed with clear water and bright sunshine, I was able to stand with a clear mind.

Through it all the love of my life followed me and continually held my daughter to me; as the din of the pain slowly subsided I heard her impassioned calls and began my return.

Being alive has been difficult to accept, but I have come to terms with my history and I am now enjoying my life and all that it holds. I owe a great debt to my wife and daughter for holding tightly to me through the darkness. I continue to miss my siblings and my father very much and hopefully, in some way, I can honor them for the strength that I gained from walking next to them.

Maybe the best way to thank them is to span the void between us by living a long life filled with the fortunes they were not afforded.

I am fortunate, thankful, and once again, among the living.

Earn your keep

I have spent too many days scraping to acquire.

Out of a sense of loss and privation I have scrounged and coveted.

I have requested quarter, but given none.

I have reaped the harvests of others only to transport them to strangers.

My actions of hoarding and heaping have been perpetuated when I have looked to my stores and found them empty.

My life has been a market; I have lacked value and sold myself short, day after day.

My hands are my most valuable tools, but unfortunately they have been as sieves and whatever monetary gain I have attempted to grasp has blistered my hands and covered my feet like grime.

I am worn from want. I can no longer live negatively.

I have never experienced monetary excess, but my years of clawing for it have racked me with experience, character, talent, love, and blessings; I don’t have room for these intangible items anymore. My bank is full of this form of wealth and it is time to pay out.


I will divulge.
I will bless.
I will pardon.
I will accept.
I will value.
I will rest.

And maybe, in this manner, earn my keep.

Into Night

The sun set ablaze the fog and dust that settled above the brown cornfields as it mingled with the crisp air in the autumn sky.
We were bathed in the odors of wood smoke and harvest and surrounded by the golden light of September.
The cool winds of the day buffeted us as we were bounced around in the back of the old green truck, rambling and grumbling down the tar coated gravel roads.
Earlier we had fought for ownership of the trucks wheel well housings; we all knew that they afforded the best view and offered the bed rail to hold on to. The smaller of us normally found ourselves sitting with our backs to the cab where the fine particles of dirt, churned by the wind, would sting our faces.

The feeling of defeat was not lasting.

As the glowing colors of evening turned to a dark starry night, the temperature dropped and bastions of fog silently assembled from field to road in efforts to reclaim their taken ground.
Danny and Carrie held positions of windswept sentry and we younger and smaller huddled for warmth behind them, covering our cold, aching ears.
Hurtling into the night.

You don’t always have the opportunity to choose the souls that journey with you through this life.
There is no guarantee of the person’s quality, or that all of you will endure and arrive at the same end.

We are all fragments of the same stone; separated, sorted, and faceted. Each, ground and polished over time to different degrees. Tumbling like gems on dark velvet, turning and resting, for a time, as light and color are captured and reflected.

Each one of us is comprised of what the other is missing; possessing for the other a memory of what we once were and the knowledge of what we can be; searching for purchase and acceptance, like so many keys for so many locks.

Where are you?

What do you need from me?

I will reach for you,

as we pass in the night.

Coyote

10 April 2008, 21:32
The team of coyotes padded South off of the blacktop road and down into the wet grass of the ditch bottom.
Pausing, they glanced over their shoulders, through the drizzle and into the dark of where they came.
The wet shadows of the night covered them as they continued on their fog entrenched path. Leaving only silence and an image seared upon the mind and soul.

Every one has a path to tread through this life; mine was marked before I was born.

My father had a dream years before my birth. The dream was filled with dark and dread. From the dark, an image of a boy formed and was given the name Lamech. A second boy appeared from the gloom and was named Amalek. I am the second boy born to may father after that dream and am named Amalek

"The Lord will have war with Amalek from generation to generation."

At an early age I found this scripture while sitting on a pew in the local Pentecostal cult that we were members of.
I knew about the dream and had the name so I took what was written to heart and wished I hadn't been born.

Amalek: Warlike; Dweller in the valley.

I was immersed in that religion for eighteen years. Spiritually I tried to reconcile my dark birth by repenting, speaking in tongues, praying, memorizing my bible, and separating myself from the things of this world. I tried to be "In the world, but not of the world." as the pastor said I should be.
But, I still never measured up to all of the 'saints' around me. I knew I could never be as close to God as all of the white haired elders who spoke in the tongues of angels.
After all, I was born to be rubbed out and never brought to mind again by the chosen people of God.
During these years my brothers and sisters fell around me. But, I survived, waiting for God to fall upon me with 'all, consuming fire.'

When my father was dying he recounted the dream and the dread that it was filled with. He was impressed with the accuracy of the dream; out of the dark, dread, and death that had stalked his family he had been given two sons that would continue. Two healthy sons who don't carry the mutated gene that killed his other children.

My father left this world and with him went many of the difficult life situations that had kept my heart and mind alive. The era of emergency, critical decisions, camaraderie, and adrenalin was over. My soul was empty; I was a cavernous well-shaft that had been propped and braced with rotting timbers and fissured stone. My heart was a vacuum and as it strained to pull the ceiling down I began to follow a dark trail of self destruction. I sought the occupation of a warrior. I chose to meet God on my terms.


It is insanity, but so often necessary to close the doors on so many memories; good and bad are sickly laced with an ache that radiates out of my skin. It is a fragmented life, a partial being, an incomplete person that needs to clip out, tear off, and utterly remove portions of his life to take further steps to continue a path in life.
I have robbed other people in my life by being so incomplete….
Who reached into my soul and hollowed me, who scraped the insides of me and left the cavernous well of empty…….
Did a God do this? "Ask anything of Me, I will give it….." What you want, I will give, I will make it so…..Ask anything of me, I will grant it….." "….. Guide my feet, take me, Guide my feet……"

I chose the hard ways, the tough and the bitter. I volunteered for the arduous, the dark, the wet, and the dirty. I pressed the veil that separates this world from the next.
I pressured that old God to meet me, but he pushed back and obscured my fields of fire.
I cursed him and sharpened my knives.
I authored my operation order and he let me run my reconnaissance behind enemy lines.
I prepared the field of battle and he sowed it with poppy's.
I was born again, hard. Hardened by my enemy.

I chose a path that in my mind was far different from the one I had been taught to walk, far removed from the way that I was raised.

I searched for destruction, but found healing.

My years as a soldier repaired my heart and mind. I educated and strengthened myself, I buried the parts of me that were dead, and I gained innumerable brothers in arms.

I have met my God and have accepted my name.
I have accepted who I am and what I was formed to be.

Looking over the years, I can see where I have been and I can see how seamlessly my path had been directed.
I have become what I was born to be; I am a living promise to a father, a human article of war, and I have walked in the valley, in the shadows of death.

My path continues. The waters are sweet, the grass is plentiful, and I fear no evil.

Resonance

I am absolutely unable to deny that there is a substance that fills the voids in this world with unseen tethers.

An element, ancient, that continues to reach beyond years, and time.

Vibrations that permeate mass, the peripheral of sight, and the infiniteness of silence.

Without question, I am not the first to witness the inescapable artifices of this quantity.

This essence has been filtered and manipulated into the God’s of primitive men and worshipped for what it once was.
I cannot relinquish the understanding that it is much, much more than saviors, prophets, saints, and angels.

It reaches through me to draw and connect the particles of this existence.
Yearning for the good in things, the good as embers that seem to have been cast from the fire.

It resonates, whispers, pushes to pull, shines, and guides.

I am bound to it, and I am as much a part of it as I am the earth, the sky, the stars, and the void that holds them.

It is undeniable.

It is.

Currency

For a price, people have the ability to live long beyond the time that they shed their mortal coil.

The only legal tender accepted is influence.

I have been fortunate to live a life that has been filled with people of character who poured out this currency like water on open ground.

They were tinted with the hardships of their lives, not the typical issues of bills and schedules, but the kind of experiences that leave calluses on the heart. The Great War and Depression, blood soaked feet on foreign soil, abuse, death, and scraping a meager living out of barren dirt had tempered them; they were wise souls who wanted joy and found it only in small increments.

For years I handled my memories of them like one would photographs taken towards the sun; I accepted them as significant, but poorly manipulated, and stuffed them into the bottom of a box.

As I age I find myself pulling them from their slumber. I look through the grainy surface, tattered corners, and haze to remember and search for what was captured in time and why. Some are still obscured and difficult to look at, but many are like Saturday morning sunshine that beams through a large window, illuminates the dust in the air, and warms the floor.

When we moved to Martinsville we lived in an old bungalow behind Waltz's Liquor Store on Josephine Street. My dad purchased the home which was built by the father of our neighbor, Mr. Cooper. The house was entirely too small for a family of seven. Danny, Joe, and Lameck slept in the front bedroom. My oldest sister Carrie and I slept in a small room off of the original dinning room. Dad and Mom slept in the original living room. Entertainment was in the original dinning room and meals were held around a metal table in the tiny kitchen that was illuminated by the blazing glow of a single light bulb. The searing light was occasionally extinguished by an errant drop of rain water from the leak above.

The Coopers lived next to us and Mr. Cooper built the stone house that they lived in. Geodes (called Nigger Heads in the local dialect), wind chimes, pieces of foundry glass, and empty ham cans lined the window sills and side walks. A ‘glow in the dark’ werewolf poster hung above a freezer in their galley kitchen hall and dogs playing poker in a frame above their fireplace kept them company. Their home wasn't built with indoor rest room facilities and every morning you could see them, across the fence, making their way to the bath house for their morning duties.

The Coopers were a weathered old couple. Mr. Cooper (Luther) was a giant of a man who wore bib overalls, white T-shirts, worn work boots, and a graying, burr haircut. He had few remaining teeth and his lips that were always full of tobacco seldom parted but to mumble, spit, or roar "Bears Ass!" which was the expression that he used to begin or end conversations. He also shared this phrase with the larger world on a concrete plaque that was mortared into the top of his chimney.

Luther employed himself with his own concrete business making blocks, benches, bird baths, and the occasional grave stone. Many times he rescued me when my foot was trapped in the piles of block I was told not to climb. "Agh, Bears Ass!"

Mr. Cooper gave me my first taste of beer. He kept his small, brown bottles of Pabst in a crate on his front porch next to used ham cans filled with water for his large brindled dog named Brinson. "Mr. Cooper, what are you drinking?" "Beer. You want some?" "Sure!"

On my birthdays Mr. Cooper would pull big silver dollars from the chest pockets of his overalls and give me one for a gift. The weight of those thick coins in my small hands was empowering.

Mrs. Cooper (Lola) was short, stout, and spunky. She wore polyester slacks, sleeveless plaid shirts, curly unkempt hair, and black, horn rimmed glasses that were never in their correct place on the bridge of her too small nose. Her hands were scarred, callused, and always felt warm on the back of my neck or on my hands when she held them. She spoke with a high pitched nasally voice that was always broken with plenty of laughter. Lola mowed the yard and kept many flowers in her shade covered yard.

Next to the liquor store across the street she also raised a large garden every year. "Drunkards" urinating in her garden were a constant problem for her and she chastised them often. After buying beer for their trips home the "Drunkards" would step into the alley next to Waltz's and relieve themselves on her garden. The issues of errant urination ended one summer night with a loud blast and lots of screaming. Lola had loaded a shotgun with rock salt and emptied it into an unfortunate urinator. The sheriff arrived on the scene and simply told Mrs. cooper "You can't be shootin' people Mrs. Cooper."

We eventually moved from the home on Josephine Street and years later I was told that Luther had been moved into a nursing home. When I received the news I took my fiancé to meet Mrs. Cooper and to my great sadness Lola could not tie a memory to my face or my memories and apologized for the matter.

The Coopers and their shade covered stone house are no longer on Josephine street. Waltz's liquor store is named after the new owner, and the bungalow's wood siding that my father restored is covered in vinyl, but, the people, their words, their images, and my experiences with them glimmer and shine in the recesses of my heart. I believe those hardened souls managed in some way to polish me as well. I am thankful that they honored me by entrusting their memory to me.

They, in a great way, influenced me.

I will continue to write their receipts.

They will continue to live on.