Killing Minderalla- unedited

It doesn’t take a very smart person to be able to tell how healthy a person is. A caring, well-tuned person can easily see it in the eyes of another- the hurt, the pain, the damage done by a loved one. I can’t help but wonder if my damages were revealed to Danny, that day, at Konkles Bar in the winter of 1999.

Throwing myself at Sarah's feet, as I seemed to do whenever a woman within my reach was in need, but having always been too ignorant to discern which ones were worthy, I hoped for a relationship with her.

Never mind that I was not emotionally healthy enough for one with anyone, for that matter. All I knew was, that I desperately needed a relationship of some sort, of any sort.

After having researched this, and, attributing my condition to not receiving any attention, affection or love from my own mother, is what gave me the wisdom needed to correct my path. I could see her but not touch her, like a carrot on a stick. 

She finished (Sarah) with me and tried to do some magic to rid her of me. This became clear one day when I was drawn to the room used as the library/study, where I snooped to find a book of Spells.

This book brought itself to my attention more than I searched for it, revealing what I needed to know. It wasn’t possible that she wanted me to learn what I had learned but I am still confused as to why she didn’t just ask me to be gone. 

At some point, in my refusal to read the writing on the wall, she called for a pizza, and, ended up seducing the poor schmo on the other end, in a last stitch effort to relay to me that she wasn’t interested. 

Eventually, I got it through my thick head, but by the time I had returned to McReynolds Street, it was too late. Bruce had blown the money I had left for the rent. 

On, what the money got spent on, I can only wonder.

Bruce’s only concerns were cheap beer and rolling tobacco so, how four hundred and fifty dollars ended up gone is still a mystery, and, though I am not interested- it’s a mystery just the same.

After escaping, I realized, what would later be recognized as a new beginning, with the end of her in my life entirely. Some time later, she would resurface in a junk store, on the west side of Grand Rapids, tempting my reality with her re-entry into it. 

After offering Sara one of the CD’s, that I was promoting at the time from my residual band, The Bandana Brothers, I never really thought of her again- until now.

At this point in my life, I had gotten through a lot of bad situations. These situations tempted my patience and willpower, and, my very life, reshaping my existence and potential future into the needs of the people I was surrounded with. 

The coke and degradation was an everyday thing, a re-run. It was like the movie “Groundhog Day,” with Bill Murray. Only, on one of those mornings that I had hoped to awaken in my death, I awoke to find Life, and fought back in a whole soul effort, and what I thought was, finally, meeting a female companion to help me to save me from my self. 

Little did I know, I was about to order a beer, and, meet someone who would prove to be the only good thing I had found in Grand Rapids since my selfish, arrogant, ignorant wife took my children, destroying my family empire, my identity, and, my heart, refocusing the sights of my reality to the bottom of a pit. 

The only things that I felt prevented me from killing her were my children and my love and grace. It’s been a bit of an unsettling thing to deal with. It is frightening even, when you come to learn how easy and instinctually familiar it is to you- seeing the images of the act of killing. And, seeing yourself handling the body, feeling the various sensations from the emotions, from the exertion, the sting of the sweat in your eye, the smells of bodily discharges, and, a smell like wet rusty steel. 

And there is the splattering and taste of the blood- like copper, the stickiness of it on your hands and between your fingers. And then, the sensation of it as it cools and the water moisture evaporates, causing it to thicken in a short time. And then, there are all of the ways of disposing of it or of them, cutting it up on a band saw after having had it in a freezer for some period of time. And then, the burning of it, dumping the ashes in the river or even, a blow to the head that would indicate a slip and fall that resulted in drowning while they may have been hanging out on the river, alone, while extremely intoxicated. 

Then there is always the old way, feeding the pieces to some pigs or the dogs. And then, my favorite sensation: the feeling of my hands around her throat, the sounds of her last struggle, the feeling of her body twitching and finally going limp as her head changes in form, from round to flattened on the backside, becoming softened as I repeatedly pound it on the pavement like it’s a coconut and it’s all I have to use to stop the Earth from spinning.

These are all very dark images, I am well aware. The funny thing is that I even imagined my imprisonment for the crime/s. No part of it bothered me any more than my usual nightmares I have. These thoughts had become to be, just another thought playing on another of the multiple theater screens playing in my head. It was, just another day that I had to live through. And, out of all that I have lived through, been through, and was forced to endure, it would be learned that this would have all been expected. 

These images really paled in comparison to my nightmares. But who was I to interrupt her fate in my hands by resisting? 

Well, I have not always felt that I had a purpose, a gift, or a calling in Life on Earth. No matter if I have found it or not, I do not want my donations to Humankind to be ignored or rejected by something as petty and as self serving as satisfying an itch for wrath on such a deserving individual. It was only because of the Children, that I didn’t do it. Had I done this terrible thing, they would have hated me, but had she never given birth, this would never have been a torture that I had to feel. I accept, that I’ll never be given credit for my restraint, but a large part of me would like to hear a “thank you” and an apology. One I do not expect in any foreseeable future.... Mindy.

Other than that, I really have no concerns. And, with nothing to lose, I am going out fighting.

[“Die With Your Boots On.” Iron Maiden]

As for you- Minderella,
I only Hope Cody could learn the truth before he furthers his decisions at the lie of a life you have subjected him to. Thank God Scarlett is on a good path- yet... Cody is my only son. And, you have condemned him in my stead. For that, you will be reprimanded. Peter should feel lucky that I have not sued you for the very many things people get sued for. You have no money due to abandoning the suit against the trucking company. You hired my custody battle lawyer, while she worked for me- to file divorce against me. She is also liable. 

I was never to blame for your decisions. You abandoned me when I could not care for myself.
That has to be the biggest Marital Violation a person could make.
Happy Mothers Day.

A Recent Dream... or was it a Prophecy?

A Dream? 05-07-19

It was early morning or was it evening, the ominous sky made it hard to tell. Sunlight seemed to pierce the dense clouds… Was it rising or setting? Rain sprinkled down in short bursts, as if someone was vigorously shaking the trees, freeing the gently clinging droplets like cherries – deeply reddened; over-ripe.

The building, houses, chimneys and limbs from what preservation of trees there were (and lack of light), made for us to have to crouch low to the ground in order to service the engine on the antique trash pump. This pump was a gift for various reasons. It had been stored for 15 years. It was presumed that the ownership would prove to be temporary – We will see.

The basement was filling with water, submerging the mechanical for the well. We were in a hurry, but the fuel system failed… and time ticked on as water continued to slowly fill the room. Crouching around the machine, we removed the air filter cover to get to the carburetor. As if by magic, the cover raised from where it had been laid (the ghost that haunts me?), only to hover in the area I worked on the engine. Was I under so much stress that I was imagining this? 

Out of desperation to continue and not to alarm Julie, I said nothing; moving it out of the way. Had she noticed? 

Just as I wondered if it was my imagination, the cover raised again! Julie still said nothing – blinded or in disbelief, or was she even still there to see?

I never looked over my shoulder. 

Again the part rose up to the motor, almost as if I asked it to in order to hold screws?

An invisible helper? 

I moved it again. Several more times, this part annoyed me – to the point of anger and frustration. Moving it farther away, I continued working on the pump. And then I felt words for a sentence in my mind: Fine, if you don’t want my assistance, you may become destroyed.”

Just then, there was a rumble in an upward distance in my mind and I panicked. Unbelievable! How could I get so deep with trouble here? The well, the sump, the pump – What did I sign up for? 

The Evil that seems to lurk here! I can feel it all of the time. The harder I try, the more fighting I can feel against me. My face is literally bruised with the blows from the dark world and demons. Is this one of them? Looking skyward, I saw a red meteor or comet hurling towards me. There was a trail of smoke, and its surface was dark red, mottled with blackness between the flames: as I searched for a place to hide, it was too late. Just then, I awoke in a sweat. It was just a dream or was it? Or is there an Angel trying to tell me that they will help, if I let them?

the cookie jar unedited draft book 1

We were working on houses for Ancil Mitchell, a preacher for a church called, The Grand Valley Voice of the Pentecost. This man built simple homes and duplexes for financially disadvantaged people who wanted to get out of the city and away from the potential hazards that went along with life in the inner city. Knowing Ancil would have been helpful after Mindy left. That’s when I found out the house wasn’t mine at all, only to be thrown out by her father when I could no longer pay him the rent, which was seven hundred and fifty dollars per month. Him, along with Minderella’s sister, Amy, (so she claims), packed up what was left after Minderella took everything of value despite the judge’s fifty-fifty ruling. Trash bags suited this procedure because that’s how they treated my belongings, like heirlooms for my children- my great grandmother’s cookie jar.

Great Grandma Lindner was always known as the cookie Grandma. After her death I was given the cookie jar. This particular jar was a mother Pelican with a small baby Pelican on her bill, which happened to be the lid- baby made the handle. Minderella had already smashed it once in the past during one of her infamous tantrums of princess temper. I used my skills and wounded sentimentality to glue it back together, filling in areas with plaster to sculpt it back into wholeness while trying t hide the fact that it had been smashed. I should have stripped the familial reigns from her hands that very day. Why I didn’t divorce her for that alone probably had a lot to do with the children and my love for them. The beloved cookie jar was an item synonymous with our very dear Great Great Grandmother Lindner but was now marred with the scars of a loveless marriage. The thought of it now, still aches my heart. When Cody was born we were five generations living; then, a pretty serious thing for our family history, we photographed the event.

Looking back, mistakes are a dreadful thing or is it dreadful to see how the easy solutions were always overlooked, leading to the most difficult situations and needless suffering? None of it had to be that way but when you are alone in life with no one and nothing to count on, you are forced to make all of the mistakes that you could have learned from others having done them before you. But there is those who would rather you made them instead, after all, it didn’t kill them. Oh well. I didn’t know Ancil but I did know Charles, and when I was out on the street he tried to help by taking me to the only place he knew of where I could find a room to stay- at Ronald Jackson’s. This is the same place where I was going to take Selena that morning we were attacked, and incidentally, was not the right place for me to go. The drug issue was about to get worse because this guy was a daily user.

At one point while living at one of Ron’s apartments, I managed to find the Independent Living Services in the phone book so, I called them and spoke to a woman named Tina Tilney, who did come to speak with me. She was clearly overwhelmed because she had never followed through with finding me a home for “high functioning individuals”, as she called it. She also mentioned various jobs I could get into and some therapies to learn how to deal with my injuries. She took all of my files I showed her and I never saw her again until I called her at a desperate point when I injured my hand on a table saw while working at Bob’s again. My thumb got cut on the table saw while trying to rip a board that I knew was too short to begin with when I was doing it. Tina came and took me to the hospital to be treated. I had thought it was minor but realized shortly after I was home, that it was a bit worse. This was while living off of Alpine and Leonard with Ron Groenlier, which was right around the corner from where I had lived with Ronald Jackson.

Ron Groenlier’s father lived upstairs but was too sick to drive me, and Ron was always drunk. His father was dying of cancer and alcoholism. Ron had just recently returned to Michigan from Texas, where he spent time for a drunk driving charge, and leaving behind a woman and child from a failed marriage. He had his own psych issues that were made worse by the time spent locked up and would rarely go outside

Bob and I were trimming houses for Johnny Van Soest at the time. One day Johnny called Bob to a private luncheon, leaving me at the jobsite where I continued to work, eating my lunch as I went along in my details. The thing about me, I am told, is that the work I do is exemplary, setting the standards of those around me, and would be expected of a well-trained Finish Carpenter. Bob, on the other hand, was an imposter. His accumulated skills gave him the resemblance of a carpenter but he was not. It was more accurate that he was a general laborer. Truth is, he had such an attitude, (much like Stan), and was so snide that nobody could stand him long enough to get any kind of work done at all. He was so insecure; anyone getting the attention of the superiors other than him self, was targeted to be slowly and subtly whittled away at with Bob’s tone. It was all fun and games on the surface but it was malicious in it’s intent; cowardly passive aggressive attacks veiled in humor. This is one of the purposes I had for my craftsmanship, passing my work off as his own where ever and when ever he could get away with it… until now.

Bob would soon come back from his little luncheon at First Wok on Northland Drive to make light of what ended up being an out right confrontation. John discovered that my work was what he had been promised in affect but with Bob on the job, trying to maintain a dominate grasp on the contract while fearing me taking over- the truth spilled out for the only one who mattered in the scheme to see… the man who signs the check.

Bob’s insecurity constantly rewarded me with information. If it hadn’t been for his uneasiness and guilt emanating in the disability of not being able to handle silence, he may never have told me what was said at the luncheon. Instead of a discussion about the next house or a price negotiation, Johnny flatly stated, “I don’t think you taker pride in your work.” I was a bit shocked that Bob shared that with me but maybe he needed me to help him make light of it so he wouldn’t feel the psychological sting, and threat. Bob and I both knew who’s work they all hired him for, and as they would learn that it was mine, he would paint out a gruesome picture of me- making himself look like a star for dealing with me. As long as he controlled me he could benefit from my work and keep me on the weak end of the payscale to insure I was starved to keep performing. Constantly beating me down in my mind, extinguishing the flames of desire that burned in my heart giving me spirit; he would toy with my life as if I were a lab rat or a fly, only to torture me and keep my wings from being able to lift me back up to who I was.

His mouth would leak things it never should have, he was his own worst enemy in that way. He’s one of the first people you’d shoot, if he was in your crime family because he would run his mouth off causing your inevitable ruin. He was an employee at a dowel company in Marne for a while but quit when they scolded him for performing excessively in his position, denying him a raise- rejection issues. Before he left, being a deviant and a psychiatrists dream, he altered all of the company’s production jigs which caused a huge problem and the blow to the business that would rob it’s employees of their security by going out of business because of it. This was a problem in the area because there were few jobs around that contributed to the local economy.  This would be bragged about every once in a while, just for the sake of inflating his own ego and subtly letting me know that he owned me. Occasionally he would remark to me that I, “just don’t know how to suck up right.” This implied that maybe I should be sucking his dick. Later, he would reveal a problem at home involving the computer and the discovery of gay porn being viewed, passing it off on the part of the younger of his two nephews that were being cared for in his home- his brother Joe’s kids. The boy was around thirteen at the time, and very meek, more than likely fearful of Bob. How convenient it was to use this poor boy for a scapegoat. Cheryl would now giggle a bit over the discovery, and continue to monitor the traffic on her internet service.

At one point, while staying at ny mother’s house, a guy convinced me into meeting him to go out. He picked me up and then doubled back to his apartment, the same building the Selena and Diamond lived in. When we got there, I realized I had made a mistake. Apparently this guy owed money for dope and had just taken me hostage so I would give them money in order to be allowed to leave. I spent ten hours trying to figure a way out of this situation without giving them what they wanted but ended up calling Bob to come and get me using some of the money he owed me to fund these pieces of shit their precious crack. Just knowing they’re their own hell is satisfaction enough.

Yeah, it was another convenient situation to use to his advantage. Not too long after this is when I lived by the creek, saved Laura and Matt from losing their kids, and then got a job working for the carnival, which is a very interesting story, especially since it took about a year or less from the time Mindy left until I left with them on my suicide run.

I had just left eighty-four Lumber, trying to get my job smoothed over. I think I was fired that day because as a Sawyer, I cut the parts for the trusses we manufactured. Almost all of my cuts were wrong. With my brain injury dominating the situation, everything was all mixed up. As I crossed the highway overpass, going towards town, a guy driving a king cab pickup truck stopped and asked me if I needed a ride. People don’t just stop and ask you if you need a ride anymore, and I should have been weary, especially since I was already in town. I got in, of course, only to find myself on my way to the carnival with a man who had to run for potatoes to use in his food wagon that he operated there. He asked me if I needed a job since they always need schleps, and me- I nominated myself. What a typical Pisces.

It was the first day of the carnival, which was still in set-up mode. The show was being provided by Jerry’s Concessions. The work I was assigned to was running a ride called, The Force Ten. This ride was the feature on this med-way, going in circle fashion, lifting high and tilting, spinning at a speed that generated a G-force in excess of three G’s- all while several pre-amps, and over two dozen speakers blared music I felt was appropriate for the rhythm and rush. Metallica happened to be the best to choose from, selecting Battery as the main track I used. The intro is long, so I played it while loading the buckets on the ride. I would load a couple buckets and then jog the machine. Then I’d load a couple more, jogging tit around some more while burning through the introduction. When it got time to go, I would hit the run button choreographing the music and ride for the intensity and thrill- compounding the effect. What a Blast! People couldn’t get enough of it, the ride drawing crowds of one hundred people or more to watch. My costume helped a bit also, having long crazy hair, two-tone, from a dye-job I let some women talk me into. 

Craigslist ad "Wanted- band mate to preserve sanity"

It was cold that winter. The hills of Elmira were covered in three feet of snow. With my Carhart gear on, I'd be out there for over 4 hours; just running the walk behind snow thrower. The driveway was a winding uphill driveway. It was mostly of gravel, potted, uneven, and with many large rocks. The shear pins needed to be replaced often, and the blades were needing to be peened many times.

All day, was spent outside, between snow, and wood boiler/chopping details. Monoteny and boredom were broken up with toys. The snowmobile was a toy to drag wood from caches I had made in the forest. Archery was practiced, along with searching for sins (missing arrows). Target shooting of all kinds proved to be a good time. Wrenching on bikes, and what ever else needed it, provided a good time spent in the shop. Talking out loud, as I thought of jokes, made me laugh through the days... Days where I felt alone, and...abandon in my own home. All but for the animals; both wild and tame.

Petoskey was only 18 miles away, yet my girl and I never were together, together. We spent all of our time alone. Jacking up, and sex, was all that mattered, well... that, the casino, and shopping.

The internet has imprisoned the family. Casino style games have become the captor of my girl; spending up to $300 a month on pretend gambling through facebook.

Her daughter is online 20 plus hours a day, complaining about needing drugs to combat fatigue.
"You get coffee. And, you take medicine from the doctor." I overhear her berating her mother. The child is 11 years old. And, I know that they were talking about the medications their parents have them on. Not to mention openly discussing transgender and sexuality in minor grades, while attending Concorde Academy in Boyne Falls. Now she wants a sex change.

No one will pay attention to anything needing tending. The dogs are on their own. The discoloration of the paint finish, at the floor of the door latch jamb, expresses the dogs and their anxiety over being ignored. Their claw colors have been transferred to the surface. "I need to potty! Where are you? Are you okay?" the dogs seem to plead.

Cherokee, an Akita Chow, was a rescue. She had a litter, of which we kept 1. Her name was Ginger.  I love dogs. Their intelligence level has yet to be revealed, and may remain merely speculation. I believe they are psychic.

Anyway, having been overwhelmed with the need to preserve myself, I decided to place an ad on Craigslist. The idea was to find an artist/musician in the area, in order to further develop, as well as find some friendship and support.

Days go by, but few. The telephone makes a racket. "Hey, I found an ad for a musical friendship. My name's Jimmy" a voice said.

After giving him the address, Jimmy, and a friend who also played guitar, showed up. It was around 7 PM when they came to the salon entrance of the house. This was my office/studio space.

Jimmy played the hell out of his guitar. His friend, Mike, I think...was equally good, if not better. The classical studies could easily be noted. Many lessons were stolen by myself during that encounter. My gals daughter was there with us; soaking up the moments, since having been impressed with the world of arts and nature that she had recently been awakened to. It was the greatest gift I could give her.

It may have been that night, or one of the several other times we had met up, but he presented my daughter with a 12 string guitar. It wasn't a cherry, the neck was slightly bent, but it was a great gift of inspiration! It played just fine, with a capo on the second fret.

Several months later or, maybe more than a year, Jimmy called me, saying:

"There's a evening "Stroll The Streets" festival in Boyne City. I've got a music store that I rented for instrument sales and lessons. Why don't you come down and hang out with me? We can play, and work the crowd together. It'd be nice to have your company. My ol' lady and I have been having a hard time of things. She kicked me out."

Well, me...being a glutton for punishment, never having been deserving of anything (as told to me by mother), I looked around, as I digested his connotations.

The house was disheveled. Dinner was not being made. The firewood was my chore alone, and in cache piles along the trail; earlier preparations. The floors were stained with dog urine. My prize turkey tail had been eaten. My dentures were destroyed. My gal had 20 dollars free play money at Odawa casino. The chores were piled up. All of my life's work was on hold or, discarded for trash.

There was no way I could go hang with Jimmy, and feel good about it later. Little did I realize, it didn't matter. I would feel good about nothing later, either way.

After explaining that I just couldn't, he asked me if he could borrow some equipment. He needed my P.A. speakers, some components, the Dean guitar I had horse-traded with him for, and...the twelve string. We loaded it and took it right to him, after I said, "No Problem Jimmy."


Jimmy was arrested that night after a shootout with the police. There's more, but that's enough for this excerpt. I never got my equipment back.

I feel like, if I would have been there for him...that would have never happened.

Jimmy was U.S. Army- a Veteran. He was in charge of over 60 men. And, he was my friend...when I needed one the most. I should write him a letter right now. I think I will.
His name is James Franklin Cook. He is in Jackson Prison- Saginaw location, in Michigan.
www.miotis is where you can look him up. He will die there.

Thanks for reading my true stories. They are suppose to be useful to someone, somewhere... I hope.
Zachery S. Polk

AAA, an unedited excerpt from ebook 1 #Kindle

It was snowing and cold, with a below zero wind chill, the day Sandy was arriving at the Kent County Airport.

The morning was off to a late start, since I had a habit of drinking myself to sleep for fear of my nightmares but I had enough time to be where I needed to be to receive her.

It was a weekend, and there wasn’t much traffic, as I headed onto the highway from Coopersville.

As I went along at sixty miles per hour, in the 1986 Ford Econoline 150, (without a blower motor working to get heat in the rig), I noticed the engine temperature gauge quickly climbing past the normal operating range. It steadily climbed further and further until a loud popping sound, followed by a cloud escaping from the hood, forced me to pull over.

It wasn’t even two miles since I had merged onto the East bound lane of I-96. Now, I was broke down, parked at a most inconvenient time.

My heart started racing because I knew that I was going to be late now because of it.

Knowing how Sandy had just been dealing with a very bad situation in her life, it wasn’t hard to understand that she was going to be quite cranky and unyielding, especially since it was a little too early for the airline stewardesses to be serving drinks on the flight.

When I got out to look at the radiator, there was slush inside of it, and, the radiator hose had popped off of the water pump flowing into the top of the radiator.

The first thoughts I had were, that there wasn’t enough antifreeze in it, or that the thermostat was bad but I saw the disconnected hose and reattached it, thinking that it was just not tight enough.

The antifreeze was low for sure now, since it had blown out of the hose, and, the fact that there was slush inside told me that it was definitely in need of being drained and filled back up with the correct amount of antifreeze.

The gauge fell after twenty minutes, so I tried to start the van again but it wouldn’t go. I kept cranking the starter until the battery lost most of its power to turn it.

My cellular phone was going to be handy now, along with my AAA auto insurance- with roadside assistance.

This wasn’t the right time to be putting the service to the test but I was about to find out how reliable AAA, and my cell phone, would be in this circumstance.

Making a call that took me through an automated answering service, finally, took me to a service representative whom asked a series of questions, and if I could be put on hold while the few cars that were on the road passed me by.

As I explained that I was using a cell phone, and, that I would rather not be put on hold. The person heard no part of my statement. I began to hear the sounds of recorded music through the earpiece- getting an earful of Yanni.

The call was dropped within six bars of the music score.

Making the call again, I was reconnected with the same person I had spoken to. She got on her computer and started locating a tow truck in my area, placing me on hold again, as my battery showed the symbol of battery life dwindling.

Several minutes turned to half an hour, while my cell phone battery petered out to a trickle.

The call was lost again.

The third time I called, I was told that the tow trucks were all busy, and, that it would be three hours before one could be dispatched to aide me.

Now my phone was dead and I couldn’t plug it in to the accessory power outlet because the battery was too low in the van.

Lighting another cigarette, and working myself into a panic, I tried the van again but got only two full cranks on the motor before it started clicking again, the way Fords do.

I turned the key off, and hoped it would recharge itself enough to start it.

Now my bladder is full, my feet are freezing, my phone is dead, and, my mother and friends are all within six miles of me.

Help is all around me but there is no way to get to them.

I can hear Sandy screaming at me in my head, assuming that I had, “been up partying all night.”

Just then an Ottawa County Road Commission truck is coming up behind me in the distance. He is scraping the roadways, and dressing the ramps with the salt and sand mixture that they use.

The truck pulled right up behind me and stopped.

A man got out and approached my vehicle. He had stopped to offer some help.

Thank God for the few good people there seem to be left in the world.

Explaining what had happened to the van, he said that it had just frozen up in the radiator because of the wind chill, and, that it sometimes happens to their rigs, which is why they put the covers over the grill in the winter. Then, telling me to try it again- that it would probably start, which it did.

Relieved, and late, I thanked him for stopping to offer help, resuming my mission to the airport.

All I could do was continue on my mission, while thinking that this was a great way to start the day, and, to begin Sandy’s new Homecoming Celebration.

Too bad my phone had died. She could have called me to find out what had happened.

I limped the van all the way to the airport, which seemed like a hundred miles away but it was closer to sixty, only stopping once, at a filling station, to check the fluid in the radiator.

Finally, pulling up in front of the area where people wait with their luggage, and, for their transportation to arrive, it was pretty difficult for me to discern that it was Sandy standing there among a small group of people.

The scowl on her face had distorted her from recognizable, having never seen her face contorted in such a way.

Most of the individuals she was standing among were women, who, judging by the looks on their faces, were forced to endure listening to an authoritative tirade of explicatives about me the whole time.

She was heavily cloaked in anger and vehemence, sharing the heaviness of it with me exclusively, now that we were alone- while all I could do was nothing but sit still to endure her expressions until the opportunity finally arose to make amends enough to offer my apologies without triggering more negative energy.

Having thought little enough about the situation to ask me what had happened, she assumed I had been flying high and was unable to get up to handle my responsibilities.

Sandy would hear nothing of my situation with the truck and kept screaming to be sure of it, berating me most of the way home.

It was odd that it was so normal because here I am grown up, beyond the physical control of my father but still in an environment that was identical to what I had experienced throughout my life.

It seems we don’t feel normal unless we are receiving that type of treatment to which we have been oriented.

Things only softened up after stopping at a liquor store, and, she smoked some weed but how soft…. I didn’t save any mental notes about that.

A Camper for Thanksgiving

 An excerpt from, Escaping The Despondent Sea book 1-

Thanksgiving drew near, with the leaves finally changing; late in the city due to the impact of concrete, asphalt, condensed populous, sewer gases and automobiles.

We walked around town quite a bit but especially now, enjoying the fall air, and the colors of the leaves blowing away from the trees.

We happened upon a small camper that was put up for sale after a member of their family had passed away. It was a Little Gem, made in Grand Rapids back in 1963.

The camper door was open, when we walked by it at eleven o’clock that night so, we went inside to look around.

We sat at the dining table with our mixed drinks, (vodka and grapefruit), getting a feel for it, while taking pleasure in our little hiding spot.

It was reminiscent of something we did as kids, back where I grew up- pool hopping at night when no one was home.

The sign in the window conveyed that they only wanted four hundred dollars.

Since we were getting hassled by Richard for being together, we saw it as an Opportunity to move somewhere else, living in the camper.

Sandy had lived in a cube van that was set up as a camper when Richard was a little boy, defecating on paper plates or in buckets, as an alternative to not having a bathroom or plumbing.

The camper was taken by the man she had been living in it with, when he broke off the relationship with her for another woman, causing for Richard to be taken by his father.

Sandy then turned to staying with friends, living with elderly persons she cared for. And, living in shacks in the mountains and desert, where water had to be hauled in from hundreds of miles away.

Living the life of a gypsy may have been the reason for Richard’s animosity towards his mother.

Living in the camper with me was very appealing to her since she was accustomed to living on the rough side of existence.

What appealed to me was to be out of the city, away from people who find pleasure in involving themselves in everyone else’s business but their own.

We decided to buy it, and went back the next day to secure it.

Salih had been providing me with work since the log cabin job with Dan Doyle had ended abruptly. His wife had a van that she was trying to sell at the time, which I bought for about three hundred and fifty dollars.

The idea was that I would use the van to haul the camper with but She had sabotaged the vehicle by slicing the serpentine belt with a razor, just enough to weaken it.

The problem was that it was broken at some point after I started driving it, leaving the motor and accessories to drain on the battery that was apparently already weak. The next time I tried to start it, I found that the battery was dead, and the belt was gone.

Sandy and I walked up to an AutoZone store on Fuller Avenue to have the battery tested and get a belt.

Who knows if the battery was any good, of course, the person who was selling batteries told us that it was not.

We walked back from the store, with the battery and belt, taking small breaks every block or so along the two-mile trip- kept elated with the thought of the day Sandy and I would finally have enough money saved for the camper, planning on the big day when we would be able to move away from the drama that wasn’t, entirely, our own.

Richard’s wife, Angie, would continue to taunt her mother-in-law by keeping the kid, and herself, too busy for Sandy to have any time with her grandchild.

Hiring a Babysitter to watch the child was especially grating since Sandy was there waiting for the opportunities to arise, as they had been Promised.

The day finally came when I got paid from Salih. We could pick up the camper and bring it to the house to prepare for living in.

That evening, around dinnertime, Sandy and I were inside the camper, celebrating the outlook on our new Independence, with a drink, and thinking of the new living situation.

Thanksgiving was ten days away. We had been investigating various RV parks, discussing the pros and cons of each one and, had just smoked a joint, when Richard and Angie knocked on the door.

Richard was smiling and seemed to be in a good mood. His hand went to his face as if he had a tear to wipe away, informing his mother of a phone call, relaying to her that her sister had just now passed away of Liver Cancer.

He tried covering the smile as it widened, having difficulty concealing it.

He had a hard time resisting a chuckle as he spoke.

It was a pain he felt she deserved, and he was laughing at her despair.

It seemed he was taking advantage of the in-your-face punishment.

A person could possibly perceive it to be dealt to Sandy by Jehovah.

The money we had been saving, for our season payment at the RV Park, would come in handy. It helped make it so that she could fly out.

There was money coming in from another two weeks of work to make up for it.

She got on the phone that evening to make arrangements for a flight, which happened to be two days before Thanksgiving- and the day before we were to make our move with the camper.

What she would find is that it was a waste of effort on her part since the sister’s daughters were now getting a bit of money from it, and proved to be ungrateful, and unreachable as far as uniting the family. Truly selfish they were, causing a great deal of grief for Sandy to endure.

We drove to the airport, where I waited with her until she could board her flight.

The plan was that I would move the camper to the River Pines Camp and RV Park the next day.

When she boarded the airplane, I returned to the house.

Contemplated my options, I considered calling my mother while on my way back from the airport, to explain how I needed to move the camper.

It wasn’t going to be easy for me to ask her but I had no other person to ask.

She was accustomed to hauling her large horse trailer. I knew it wouldn’t be difficult for her.

The more to it was, that I didn’t feel confident that my van would pull it. Don’t ask me why I had that feeling but something told me it wasn’t going to work.

Trusting my intuition, and setting aside my pride, I called my mom to help.

Mom came out with her boyfriend, Tom, and hooked the “Little Gem” up to her truck.

It made sense to stash the quarter ounce of weed I had, inside a panel near the wheel-well, along the foot of the bed, so that if we got pulled over for some reason, it would not be found- just in case I had a warrant for child support, again.

We took the most direct and inconspicuous route, which was M-45, all the way out to Allendale, turning north on 60^th Avenue, where an intersecting road leads to The River Pines Campground and RV Park.

The RV Park was nestled in some very tall pines, and had a pretty nice pond out front near the road.

We checked in at the manager’s office and found our way to the site to place the camper, having chosen the site closest to the bathhouse because of the convenience of the washroom and laundry facilities.

It didn’t take long to drop it off, and, within minutes my mother and Tom returned to their home just eight miles back toward Grand Rapids, in Marne.

The next thing I needed to do was, go right over to Arek and Ruth’s house to surprise them with the news that I am living two miles away from them. [expand on Arek]

Some time after my mother had left, I was working at hooking the electricity up to the camper. The cord extended just short of my connection point.

No problem, I just backed my van up to the camper, attached the ball to the hitch, and lowered the weight of the camper onto it.

After backing it up to where I needed it, the Park Manager, Jerry, came cruising up on his little utility golf cart to see how I was fairing.

We discussed a bit about the park, with him making particular mention of the strict five-mile per hour park speed limit.

He zipped away on his cart at fifteen miles an hour while I returned to unhooking the camper from my van.

What I found was that the weight of the camper had collapsed the Reese hitch assembly, folding it down as if it were tinfoil.

The rust had taken over and eaten the steel almost entirely. The only thing that was holding it together was the paint and the rust that hadn’t been cracked apart.

Now, it hung like a wet noodle, and, if I would have been relaxed about it, I may have been able to see it being blown slightly by the wind.

That may be a bit cynical. The hitch maintained just enough integrity for me to stand on it but if I were another five pounds I’d have need to be treated for a laceration.

What occurred to me was that my intuition in calling my mother to move it was correct, yet I had no idea that the hitch was no good. And it hadn’t even dawned on me, when I had to pound the tongue into the receiver with a maul.

It was my first hitch and my first camper- never had any experience with towing.

The Cops were the ones who always towed stuff for me.

One of the things I have been searching for years for is, information to gain a better understanding of ESP and the paranormal. It’s been more of a subconscious effort than anything but my conscious curiosity and experiences keep motivating that search.

Anyway, my drinking wasn’t a problem at the time of moving in to the park, mostly due to having no one to wrestle with for ‘who’s got more in theirs.’ And it’s funny, I don’t recall scraping the bong either but I also didn’t recall stashing a sack of grass in the camper.

The Nature was Magnificent, at River Pines.

There were very, very few to no leaves left on the trees.

It was pretty windy the next day, as I climbed from the camper to soak up the sun of the morning.

Grabbing a cup of coffee from my campfire, I strolled out toward the river to check out the wildlife.

As I walked, there were Sand-hill Cranes standing here and there.

Bits of rabbit fur were lying about in quite a few places, looking like a hunting ground for something or other.

There were two Bald Eagles flying in the area, which happened to be over the flood plains and bayous.

There were plenty of areas to fish from around here.

I suspected the eagles as being the hunters, feasting on the rabbits, and that a nest must be somewhere nearby.

The river, itself, could not be reached on foot because of the nature of the swampy area outstretched beyond the bayou. Oh well, I was satisfied with the wildlife anyway.

It was time to get back to the camper and be off to work.

As the day progressed, I told my friend, Joe Grimminck, all about the new digs.

He was pumped about coming out after work to check the place out. We made a plan to get some beer and hang out at the campsite, and since it was Friday, he planned to camp out for the night.

When we got out to the campsite, with our thirty pack of beer, we went out back to explore the bayou a little bit.

Sitting on the bank, smoking a bowl, Joe spotted an otter that was floating on it’s back with some food he had found. It was an exciting thing for Joe, who had been out of the city very little.

A short time went by, when Joe suggested we go back to the camper, and, to make a campfire to sit around while knocking back some brews.

I tried to tell him that it was too windy but he set right to gathering wood from a row of trees that separated the adjoining westward field.

It was a bit windy but what the heck. I had to give Joe the real camp treatment- we just had to watch the fire closely.

Watching the fire closely was a pretty big job because the winds whipped up the flames, making the fire bigger.

Sparks were being sent into the air by the heat as it intensified, helped along by the wind.

Huge pieces of burning debris were being blown everywhere, causing for the leaves to catch fire and be blown into more leaves that had been piled up by the winds, where branches on the ground had grabbed them, holding them down in masses.

After running around, stomping them out in a panic, we got some water to put on the fire, knocking it down quite a bit.

My hopes were, that everyone was too occupied with their own affairs to have been watching the new guys try to light the forest on fire.

Joe never heard me say, “I told you so.”

After having about four beers, Joe wanted to make his bed near, what was left of the fire.

I tried to tell him that it wasn’t a good idea to sleep by the fire with the winds blowing as hard as they were because embers being blown about could set his clothing on fire.

He didn’t care. It was his desire to do it Cowboy Style, like in the movies he had seen.

It was pointless to argue with him, if that was what he wanted to do. He was going to do it anyway.

Joe said he would watch the fire. And, I went inside the camper to sit at the table, and to reflect on my day- an excuse to drink until I was ready to pass out.

The next day reminded me how windy it was during the night.

Beer cans were scattered all across the grounds, all the way past the tree line, which was fifty yards away. Most of them were stopped from blowing into the field by the remains of a fence and the weeds. The rest were over a hundred-fifty yards away, falling just short of the wall the forest made along the west and north sides of the field.

I picked up over four dollars in cans, matching up with the thirty-pack we drank, and what was left of the second one.

[This was an average night of drinking- one to two thirty packs of 5.9 percent alcohol by volume. At this rate a guy (me), can drink about four hundred and fifty bucks a month. That was taking into consideration, the beers Joe drank, and, that my average, alone, is thirty. Let’s not forget smokes and weed, which would be another two hundred and fifty bucks a month, for a total of approximately seven hundred dollars a month.

Strangely enough, that’s about how much money people get from the government who are receiving Social Security and other compensations- like monies for Native American peoples. So, you can see where it would be cost effective to grow your own “smokables” and brew your own Hooch.

Just food for thought for the underachievers in your life because this needs to be said by someone, and I know, for a fact, that unless they’re using this for study materials in prison or rehab, they aren’t reading squat except for…

Oh whom am I kidding? I don’t care what they read. Many of them spend their reading time trying to figure out how to “get down” on someone.

As far as I’m concerned, at this very moment I write, I am “getting down” on them by not sharing what little knowledge, or understanding, I have.

Now, if they search for it, that’s different.

Knowing stuff isn’t for everyone. It’s for sharing with your children, loved ones, your team members- whoever they are.

That makes me sound a bit dictatorial but you can only share knowledge with those you are bound by moral obligation to, and to those who seek it in earnest. Or, reconsidering the options, share with those who can evade the bullets- and the dogs.

Where was I before my display of disgust for my, so-called, fellow man, and for my foolish desires, motivations, concerns with the prison environment that I am forced into… the cost of existence when you are consuming all of the things that keep you in the maze, frittering your life away while working to replace them on a daily basis, and, never getting anywhere in life accept the poor house, which happens to come with a tell-lie-vision. That way, you won’t miss “the big game.”]

Shortly after cleaning up the mess, Joe and I were having a cup of coffee, while watching the northern section of the property, when we saw an Eagle flying over the trees to the right of the trail that led to the bayou. It was carrying a large stick in its talons.

Joe explained how Eagles are constantly building onto their nests, and that they will occupy them for a very long time.

As he spoke, the Eagle flew westward.

The area the Eagle flew towards was the forest that lined the corner of the field where I had just picked the cans up.

As I scanned the top of those leafless trees, I backed up to the camper, watching for a change in the direction it was flying in as I went feeling my way for my binoculars- grabbing them and zeroing in on the Eagle.

Then, I looked at the treetops for a sign.

Through the limbs, there was a dense looking area where a bunch of branches came together in one spot. I had found the Eagle’s nest!

The nest was the largest nest I had ever seen, the size of an upside down Volkswagen Beetle.

As I marveled at the sight of the nest, the bird flew around it, landing on the edge of it.

Just then, a head popped up. There were two! It was a functioning mated couple, and, it explained the pieces of animal fur that were scattered all over the morass around the perimeter of the bayou- (handing the binoculars to Joe so he could view the sight).

At that moment, Jerry cruised up on his golf cart- stopping, and getting out.

He wanted to know why we tried burning the woods down last night, exclaiming that we needed to be more careful with the fire pit.

After apologizing for it, I quickly tried to hand him the spyglass to see the Eagle, mostly to take the subject control away from him, and schmooze him over a little bit.

Jerry said that he had seen them before, that they were planted out here by the DNR as a rebuilding project, and, that there was a nest somewhere nearby that he has been unable to find.

Offering him the spyglass again, while I explained that he could see the nest pretty easily.

He snapped his head around to look where I pointed, saying that he had been here for years trying to find it.

His comment that I had come to find it in two days revealed a bit of animosity, and, didn’t help in building a good report with him. I sensed my troubles were already beginning with this man. And, between the speed limit, forest fire, and now, the eagle, my fate was almost certainly sealed.

Great. Wait until Sandy gets here. The rumors are sure to fly when they see us together. And they did.