And so I live

All I could think about was dying as I lay in bed trying to fall asleep last night. Does that sound morbid? Yes, of course it does. But such was the case. I'm not sure why, but I don't feel like I'll live much longer. I turn 59 in February. In Medieval England, life expectancy was 64; the world average in 2010 was 69; so, historically speaking, I suppose it could be said that I've already lived a fair amount of my expected years. I've known so many that did not make it this long, so many that should still be here, so many that were so much better than me; yet, they are gone and I remain.

Please don't assume I want to die. I think in many ways, I've only just begun to live. I've only just recently stopped flogging myself for my failures, and decided to accept what I am and who I am.

But there's no doubt that some will assume that I want to die. My friends know that I have struggled with suicidal tendencies. But perhaps they don't know that my struggle was because I had failed to live up to my own expectations. People have often told me that they'd give anything if they could drum or write like me. I suppose I can certainly drum, maybe even better than most, but I was never able to really make a living at it, never able to pay my bills by only drumming. I always had to subsidize my income with some other form of employment, or depend on my wife, which was humiliating. And yes I've been known to string a sentence or two together. I have a degree in journalism and worked as a reporter for two years; but in my mind, I failed as a journalist.

I've suffered from hearing loss all my life, working in my family's welding shop and drumming only added to that loss. The struggle to hear what people were saying slowed me down as a reporter. It was very hard for me to meet the daily deadlines, although I did do it. But while I was at the newspaper, I started struggling with other health issues. I had two back surgeries and a series of eye surgeries to slow the progression of blindness in my eyes due to low-tension glaucoma. Other reporters were having to work extra to cover my time off. This weighed on me heavily so I resigned from the newspaper. That decision still haunts me. I should've hung in there; I should've kept fighting. For years, I thought it was one of the worst decisions of my life.

But it is what it is. And in recent days, I've found myself glad that I resigned, especially now that so much of the media has become a bastion of Right Wing lunatic politics. I became a journalist because I believe in fair and balanced reporting, but I see very little of that anymore.

So although I failed at being a drummer and a journalist, I have succeeded in being a moralist. And that's really all that ever mattered to me. I'm not saying that I'm without sin, or that I don't make a mistake, but I am saying that I try to do what is right, or at least what I think is right. I think that's all we have when we close our eyes for the last time. We all wonder what is on the other side, where we're going, what we're going to leave behind or what we're going to take with us, but those things don't really matter. But what does matter is that you lay your head down in peace, and that peace can only be found by doing what is right and what is true, and the only way we can know truth is by doing unto others as you'd have others do unto you.

So now I have no more regrets in life. Now I know I can die in peace. Maybe that's why I could not stop thinking about death last night. It's only when we accept death that we begin to live.

And so I live.

My first memory

My first memory is of my father beating me in a baby crib. I was in a house with Victorian doors that came out of the wall and closed in the center. Laughter came from the other room. I was alone and crying. I don’t remember why. The reason doesn’t matter anyway. All babies cry. Suddenly the doors flew open. My father stood over me, shouting at me to shut up. Somehow in my hysteria, I observed my surroundings. My mother and another couple were in the front room. My father’s hand came down on me hard. I cried louder. My mother fought with him and tried to grab me, but he kept spanking me, telling me to shut up.

The doors closed and I was alone again. The wallpaper was brown with a paisley pattern. Odd as it sounds, it comforted me to stare at it. I followed the patterns up the wall.

When I was six or seven, I shared this memory with my mother while riding in the backseat of her station wagon. She circled the town square in Bowing Green, Ky., and drove down Main Street. She talked incessantly whenever she had an audience. That day she bragged on her memory and said she never forgot anything. As all boys, I wanted to impress my mother, so I shared my earliest memory with her. She turned her head around and stared at me in disbelief, then suddenly veered into a parking space in front of the Spot Cash store, where she bought my Levis jeans.

“But you were just a baby,” she said. “You weren’t but a few months old. I can’t believe you remember that.” 

She said my father only beat me that one time, and that he felt sorry for it the next day when he sobered up. The two of them divorced soon afterwards, but she still loved him. You could hear it in her voice. She even said so. “There was a time when I’d have gone to the moon and back for your daddy,” she’d say. “I still love him, but I wouldn’t have him back for love nor money.”

I never really believed her. I think if he had only halfway tried, she would’ve jumped into his arms and never looked down. 

My dad loved his whiskey. I got to know him when I was in my twenties; some of my fondest memories are those of him sharing a drink with me. He was a good-hearted drinker and a happy-go-lucky sort of guy most of his life. I never mentioned my first memory to him. We all make mistakes. 

Be Happy

Today is the first day I've felt happy in several years. I suppose that statement begs the question, "why?" The answer is easy. I finally decided to live my life for myself, and not for others. I was able to sit down and write on this blog today without the guilt of not doing something for someone else. It felt good to not have the cloud of servitude hanging over my head.

No news is good news

I took a personality test on facebook yesterday and the result was that I am a realist. I consider most such tests foolish, but I perceive this one to be very credible, no doubt because I agree with its results. I have always considered myself to be a realist. I look at the world the way it is. My outlook on life is probably one of the main reasons I was a good reporter. I taught myself to ask questions, to view any given scenario from every different angle I could imagine and then to make a logical conclusion.

Being a realist isn't always a good thing. People often think I'm judgmental or cold hearted. I think most people are generally an optimist or a pessimist; although I have no scientific proof to back up my theory. For instance, three weeks ago my wife's ex-husband, whom she had not seen for 18 years,  paid her an unexpected visit. He walked into her office unannounced, sat down and stuck up a conversation. She said he talked as if he wanted to renew their friendship and even invited the both of us to pay him and his new wife a visit if we were ever in their neck of the woods. Almost everyone we have spoken to about this event has said his behavior was BIZARRE. And they have all said his actions were inappropriate. But I think, or I'm assuming, most people generally believed that the matter should be dropped unless he visits her again. But I strongly disagree. The reason being is that I look at the situation logically. I cannot help but do so; after all, I'm a realist. Remember? And as said, being a realist isn't always a good thing; people often draw inaccurate conclusions about realists: because I was upset about his inappropriate visit, some people assumed I was jealous. But I would say I was much more selfish than jealous: I like my life the way it is! I'm very reclusive and I'm very happy being that way. My wife is very reclusive, also, and she often says how much she likes our seclusion. We don't have a lot of company; we don't go out with people often. Neither of us have any desire to attend high school reunions, so why would either of us want to have "reunions" with a former spouse? I know I'm speaking for her, and I probably shouldn't, but we have discussed these things countless times. We both run interference for each other and make excuses so we don't have to visit anyone no more than it is absolutely necessary. We are very reclusive. We try not to talk about it because we don't want people to think we're snobs, but we enjoy each other's company. So, when I consider this intrusion into our lives by her ex-husband, I cannot envision any outcome that would not result in conflict of one form or another.

Let's assume that I had walked into my wife's office the day he was there. I frequent my wife's office occasionally and am friends with several people at the university where she works. So, it is very conceivable that I could have walked into her office that day. As a matter of fact, had I not been lollygagging around, I would have. My brother was in town for a visit and we had already planned on meeting my wife for lunch. Following this train of thought, it is only logical to ask myself what my reaction would have been had I walked in while her ex-husband was there. I think it would have not been that different from most husbands in that scenario. I doubt very seriously that I would've been overjoyed and turned cartwheels. I don't think I would've given him a big hug and and handshake. I would have probably said hello and then asked, "what are you doing here?" Then I, more than likely, would've asked again with much greater inflection,

"What the Fuck are you doing here?"

Obviously, the scene could have played out in several different ways, but any way you look at it, the outcome would not have been good. Even if none of us had lost our tempers, it would have still been stiff, rigid and extremely uncomfortable. As mentioned, I cannot envision any outcome that would be wholesome.

And since I desire a peaceful and secluded life, and because I'm a realist, I tend to disagree with the opinion that we should just all sit back and wait to see if he visits my wife again. Because, after all, the next time might just be the time I unexpectedly walk in to her office while he's there.

So my wife sent him a note telling him she was glad they had a chance to catch up, but added that things have been fine and dandy without any communication between them for the last 18 years and that she saw no reason to communicate any further. I included a note telling him that he had no sense of proper protocol and informed him that had I walked in on his little office visit, that I would have not been cordial.

I suppose some would see my behavior as rude. Many would think that we should just sang Kumbaya, be the best of friends, hold hands and go skipping off into the sunset. But I, however, am a realist; I know that would never work. Hells-Bells, I never even knew the guy. I met him twice. So viewing the situation realistically, I do hope he adheres to my wife's letter. The holidays are coming up, and I want nothing more than to celebrate good tidings of great joy. And in this case, no news is good news.

As God is my witness, I will be me.

In the movie, Out of Africa, Denys Finch Hatton said, "I don't want to live someone else's idea of how to live. Don't ask me to do that. I don't want to find out one day that I'm at the end of someone else's life."

It is my favorite quote. I have long lulled myself with the lofty notion that my life was built upon that philosophy. Nothing is further from the truth. Finch Hatton was very secure in his beliefs. What other people did mattered very little to him. He was, in fact, completely comfortable with himself. It was hard for him to commit himself to a relationship because he was committed to himself. And there is an honor of sorts in that. He beguiled no one with false illusions of love. But he was a loyal friend, but above all, he was truthful. 

He was truthful to himself. I have long admired that, perhaps because deep down, I realized that I have not been truthful to myself. I have been a man of many insecurities. And that is a foolish way to live. Nothing on earth is secure. We all live from one breath to the next. 

Just this week, someone intruded uninvited into my life. My first reaction was to lash out. "Why?" I kept asking myself. "Why does this person want to fuck up my happiness?" 

But the truth is that only "I" can fuck up my happiness. 

I must not care what happens. I must not care what others do. I must only care about what I do. And what I intend to do from here on out is to stay the course. If someone else wants to ride with me, that's fine. If they choose not to, that's fine, too. 

As God is my witness, I will be me. 

bittersweet

I had a very bittersweet experience watching the remastered 75th anniversary showing of Gone With The Wind. It was bitter and sweet because my mother loved it so much; when I was a child, the theaters ran GWTW every four years. My mother made sure that we saw it at least once ever time it ran. Remembering my mother's love for that movie and how it affected me as a child is very nostalgic for me. It was also very sad: one reason my mother loved it so was because she identified with Scarlet O'Hara. My mother's father started our family business, which was eventually passed down to her. She had every intention of passing our land and business down just as Scarlet's father passed it to her and her sisters. After my mother passed, family greed ruled and I eventually sold out to my relatives ( a mistake I'll always regret ). So, I love Gone With The Wind, but when I watch it, I'm filled with angst because I did not run roughshod over the lot of ‘em, as Scarlett did, and keep what was rightfully mine. 

I Want To Wake Up

I have been chasing an unobtainable dream. I wanted to be a writer.  But I don’t know how to write. I didn’t grow up reading the classics. I didn’t pursue a literary degree in college; instead, I studied journalism, which in my opinion isn’t creative writing at all, and I studied theology: the endless search to find God. Many journalists and theologians write, but most of it is simply reinterpreting what they’ve seen or read and trying to say it in a new way.

But real writers write. Stories flow from them. I’m not saying they don’t work; obviously it takes dedication. I’ve had the dedication but not the ability. Why did I not realize sooner that I have no gift for the pen?

I suppose I have the gift of music, although I pretty much see that as a curse, also. I have pursued music way too much in my life. It has always paid in small dividends. Had I neglected that gift and just worked hard at a job, any job, and not been swayed by the starry-eyed dreamers lusting for stardom, then I would not be broke at age 58, unable to travel, unable to pay my bills, unable to enjoy life. But I do have the gift for music. I’ve always been able to play drums. It came naturally. And I’ve worked at it, I’ve sharpened my skills, but I did have skills to sharpen. Many times, more than I can count, I have been asked to help those who have almost no musical talent, no skills to sharpen. But they have a golden idol: stardom, or some foolish desire to stand on a stage, or to be heard. I’ve always complied with their requests. I’ve practiced hard to learn their songs and to help them in whatever way I could. And generally, I’ve had the highest of hopes for them, but deep down inside I knew their dreams would be shattered: they had no gift, no skills to sharpen.

And when it comes to writing, I’m just like those poor wretched souls who I have watched suffer so many times in my life. I have paid a heavy mental toil because I’ve never been able to finish a novel, but I don’t have a novel in me. It’s not that I can’t string sentences together, I can, but it’s because I never know where to go with a story. It just doesn’t come natural. I’ve been chasing an unobtainable dream, but I don’t know why. What makes a person want to write? Is it revenge? I’m afraid that might be my inspiration, and that’s not good. I don’t know why anyone should write, other than to pass information from one generation to another, but writing for revenge is like contemplating murder. And in the end, who suffers most, the one who is murdered or the murderer? I’d say the murderer. He or she has to live with what they’ve done, even if they thought they were justified, but the murdered are at rest, numb to the cares of the world. It is the living that suffers, and I am suffering for premeditated murder. I’ve planned it for so long that it is killing me. But I contend that this slow suicide would have not been my fate had I simply acknowledged years ago that I have no gift of writing. That is the dream I should’ve murdered. I should have buried it, threw dirt over it, put a marker on the grave and walked away.  

When humans collectively reach for the stars it is admirable because we know all things are possible if we work together. But when one person prattles on about how he is going to fly to the moon, we know he is insane. I have been that person, wanting to travel the galaxy with no spacecraft, no engineering team behind me to build one. There is nothing more pitiful than a man who does not realize that he is blind, yet he tries to walk with the seeing but he cannot stay the course; they can rescue him only so many times. There is nothing more pitiful than dreaming an elusive dream.

I want to wake up.

To want is to die

To want is to die
The world is quiet between midnight and dawn. Everything seems much clearer with only a few of the lamps lit in the house. With no television or stereo I hear the silent melody of life. In the stillness I see the worn patterns in wood grain of my desk that I never notice during the daylight hours. The moment is eternal. There is no need for anything other than now. 
To want for tomorrow is to die. 
(c)Mitchell Plumlee

When all is said and done

When all is said and done, I hope to write much about what I've said and done. There are so many things that have happened in my life that I feel I should share. Not because I'm narcissistic, but because I believe my missteps might help another to take a better path. If only one person is helped, then it is worth the time to write it.

I probably have not done so before now because of the legalities, i.e., the fear of being sued. But I no longer care about that. The way I see it is that if those who are offended by reading about the ways they wronged me, or aided me, then they shouldn't have done those deeds in the first place. Everyone who knows me has always known that I love to write, so they should've known better than to associate with me. Whenever I'm around writers, I'm very aware that what I say or do to them might well end up in print. And that's the way it should be. Writers should write about people, the good and bad.

Is there anybody out there?

So, does anybody write or read blogs anymore? I'm curious if the time I take typing this sentence is totally meaningless. Seriously, if you are out there in cyber world and you see this desperate plea for approval, be kind and send me a message.

The Drunkards Creed

What else can we do? 

Those of us who have given ourselves to drink and debauchery, we have no choice but to be in the moment, for we have not planned for tomorrow. 

We are the last who can say we have a right to be here. 

We know we have abused our privileges, thus we cannot bear ourselves. 

We are our enemy but we are your friends; we want nothing more than to please you, and for you to find happiness that we cannot. 

We turn heaven into hell.
Every blissful moment is chided by guilt. 

If we allow ourselves happiness, then we are no better than those who take pride in their profit.

Not to sound too morbid, but with the recent loss of the Flight 370, and with the growing number of missing from the landslide in Oso, Washington, and now, once again, another shooting at Ft. Hood, I am reminded that our lives can end at any moment. Often there is no preparation. The people in Oso were eating at their tables, drinking tea, getting ready for work; seconds later, they were fighting a losing battle for their lives. The only moment guaranteed is the one just past. Most have a religion, many do not, but whatever you take solace in, you had better be sure it will sustain you in that last gasp for air; because, we are all fellow passengers on an unknown voyage. None of us know when the conductor will announce that we have arrived at our destination.

All the people in this article from the Seattle Times were busy about their lives; in seconds, all that changed. 

http://seattletimes.com/flatpages/local/victimsoftheosomudslide.html

Tripping

Life's a trip: Tripping can be fun if you let it. You might as well because good or bad, it's a trip you gotta take.

A favorite paragraph from Out of Africa, by Isak Dinesen

This paragraph from the chapter, Wings, by Isak Dinesen in her book, Out of Africa, is one of my favorites. It brings back memories of when I was in Kenya.


"The early morning air of the African highlands is of such a tangible coldness and freshness that time after time the same fancy there comes back to you: you are not on earth but in dark deep waters, going ahead along the bottom of the sea. It is not even certain that you are moving at all, the flows of chillness against your face may be the deep-sea currents, and your car, like some sluggish electric fish, may be sitting steadily upon the bottom of the Sea, staring in front of her with the glaring eyes of her lamps, and letting the submarine life pass by her. The stars are so large because they are no real stars but refelctions, shimmering upon the surface of the water. Alongside your path on the sea bottom, live things, darker than their surroundings,  keep on appearing, jumping up and sweeping into the long grass, as crabs and beach-fleas will make their way into the sand. The light gets clearer, and, about sunrise, the sea-bottom lifts itself towards the surface, a new created island. Whirls of smells drift quickly past you, fresh rank smells of the olive-bushes, the brine scent of burnt grass, a sudden quelling smell of decay."

Be

You know, every now and then you run into somebody who has had one of those kind of lives. I’m talking about the kind you see in the movies, where every dark cloud has a black lining and ever glimmer of hope is a mirage. Well, I just happened to be one of the unlucky bastards who has lived one of those lives. But maybe it’s not just me. Maybe we’re all just unlucky bitches and bastards born into the cauldron of constant drama. The amazing thing is that when the pot is not being stirred, the stew can actually taste good. That is the deceptive part. When our taste buds are tantalized by an exotic flavor we forget we could starve to death in a matter of days. But I guess that’s the beauty of life, to savor a moment. Cause moments are all we have. The next breath could be the last.

But what makes us breathe?  

The answer is simple: Fear.

Fear of not knowing.

But wouldn’t it be nice if we did not know fear? If we could just fly! Or just fall off the planet and go drifting in space with no worries of food or bath or sickness or health or politics or religion or relationships or wars or even wine. Would life have meaning if we could just float? Would we cherish it if there were no chaos to overcome? Probably not. We are addicted to drama. That’s why we love stories, movies, tales and even those dreaded news reports.

The impossible dream is to just Be.

I don’t know what the world is. I don’t know why I want to be in it, or why I want to leave it. There are those who claim to know why we are here, but I don’t believe them. I don’t think anyone actually knows what they really truly believe. Would you believe what you do if you had been born on an island with no contact with anyone? How can we ever know ourselves? From birth, we have been corrupted by others’ concepts. But if it were possible to be born just to Be; to BE in the moment with no need to be anywhere else or to believe anything, that might be bliss. But we can never know because we cannot just Be.

Be

A Forgotten and Useless War

 ( Originally posted January, 22, 2014 )

They buried my stepfather, Chester, Saturday. I did not attend. Nor did I see him in the hospital before he died. Those two decisions haunt me. I felt I was doing the right thing, but now it feels like I broke some moral code that may cause bad karma to come my way. But to acknowledge that thought is to recognize that I'm really only worried about me, and not his death, nor the damage my absence might cause to my son and daughter, who were with him in the hospital when he passed, and stood shivering at the gravesite on that cold, gray January day.

I suppose I should've been there. It would've been the right thing to do. But I could not make myself go because of my stepsister, Maggie. I could not bear the thought of dealing with her again. There was actually a short, brief window of time when I could've seen Chester in the hospital without the worry of seeing her. Before she left the hospital that night, she even told my son that Chester was my step-father just as much was he was hers, and that I could come see him if I wanted to. But there's the rub, isn't it? In our family, or our family's business, she always felt that she had the right to call the shots.

Odd that she didn't know he was going to die that night. I knew it and I wasn't even there. My son knew it. Obviously, my daughter knew it: she drove more than an hour to be by his side during his final moments. Perhaps my sister did know it and didn't care to be there: she went home the night our mother died. She had to tend her cats. Or maybe she left the hospital in hopes that I could see Chester before he passed. For I had spoken to Chester a couple of times in the last few years, but it's been six or seven years since Maggie and I spoke. We had another one of our endless family arguments over the phone while I was on vacation in Florida. I don’t even recall the details. I do remember saying that’d be the last goddamn time she’d ever talk to me like that. I haven’t talked to her since. Nor has she talked to me. Upon the few occasions that I had to dial their house, Chester answered the phone.

To say the three of us had a troubled history is like saying the Vietnam War was only a skirmish. My mother was the fabric that held us together. She owned the business, and we were all dependent upon it. While my mother was alive, all the fights were generally quieted by her begging, moaning, crying, screaming and wringing her hands in torment until we all retreated and hid behind the mask called family. That shroud ripped to shreds when she died; the canker busted and the stench of decay still burns my nostrils.

In my opinion, Maggie always hated me, and Chester just wanted me gone. He was eight years younger than my mother. She'd been married four times before he put a ring on her finger. She was herself only a teenager and married to her first husband, Jay Lawrence, when she adopted Maggie. The reason, or reasons, for that adoption were, and are, shrouded in mystery: my mother took them with her to her grave.

I was four or five years old, and Maggie 11 or 12, when my mother married Chester. The first night I met him, he ran over my puppy, Pongo. I shouted out, over and over that I hated Chester. Not a good start to a relationship. 

My memories of Maggie are strange and cloudy. I really don't recall her being there much when I was a toddler, although she is in family pictures. There was a brief period of time when I lived apart from her in Indianapolis, with my mother and my real father. During that stint, Maggie lived in Kentucky with my grandparents, who ran the family business. Maybe this is where her hatred for me began. No matter how you paint the picture, her adopted mother left her and took me, her actual son, with her. My mother and father were too quick tempered and too strong-willed to stay together, so our stay in Indianapolis did not last long.

My first vivid memory of Maggie came sometime after my mother and I returned to Kentucky and moved back into my grandparent’s house. Maggie and I were in the living room. I have a vague recollection of looking out at the snow, which was plentiful during those harsh winters of the early 1960s. Maggie somehow tricked me into going outside on the front porch. When I did so, she locked the door behind me. The world was frozen, still and silent; it glowed with a soft, beautiful dull, blue hue. I was cold and shaking and had no coat or shoes. Our house was built like a duplex and had two front doors. I tried to open the other door, but it, too, was locked. I trudged through the snow and walked down our driveway to the back porch. My feet were frozen by then. The backdoors were also locked, so I returned to the front of the house. With each step, the snow swallowed the bottom half of my legs as I made my way back to the door Maggie had locked behind me. The door had a huge, rectangle glass pane in the center, surrounded by small, three-inch wide panes around its outer exterior. I could see her though the glass. She sat in the living room writing in her notebook, as if she'd done nothing wrong. I begged her to let me in. She sat unconcerned, never once acknowledging my presence, as if I did not exist at all. Finally, in desperation, I broke the outer pane with my bare fist, reached my hand through to the inside and unlocked the door. She pressed against it, trying to keep me out, but I shoved my way inside. She came at me with a pencil. In my anger and rage, I snatched it from her and jabbed it at her. She held up her hand to defend herself. I stabbed it with one, quick stroke. To this day, she still carries a mark the lead on the palm of her hand.

Maggie denied locking me out of the house. She told my mother and grandmother that I had gone berserk, broke the window and stabbed her for no reason whatsoever. I'm not sure if Chester was there that night, but he tended to always believe Maggie. I'm sure her accounts of that night might be somewhat different; but nonetheless, in my opinion, that night set the pattern for our relationship. 

For the next 40-some-odd years, we all endured one another. There were countless fights with Chester’s usual threats: "I'm gonna call the law on you." And the police were called. They always left, shaking their heads, thankful they did not belong to this war-torn tragedy. There are so many battle stories to tell, such as the time I was playing drums with my eyes closed and Chester backhanded me off the drum stool, and the time he thought he was going to get on top of me and beat me, but I broke his arm when he went to hit me, or the time he slashed my head open with a belt buckle, requiring several stitches. I can't remember the lie my mother made me tell the doctors at the hospital. And then there was the night that he hit my mother; I didn't say a word to him, I just picked up a kitchen knife and threw it at his head. He ducked and it stuck in the wall directly behind him. I was impressed with my accuracy. He was not. “That goddamn crazy son of yours could’ve killed me,” he shouted to my mother. “He needs to be locked up in the damn loony bin.” That was always the line: I was crazy. But … he never hit my mother again.

I’m sure there were fights I started, too. Especially during my amphetamine laced years. My mother had a “diet doctor” in Louisville who supplied the best speed I’ve ever taken. Chester rightfully called me out on stealing her pills. So I, too, was no saint.

Maggie, at times, was helpful. I remember her loaning me money to go on vacation once. I never had any money to speak of. I was paid only a pittance from the family business. I often felt like a beggar. And there were times when I was married to my first wife that Chester would bring several boxes of groceries to my house at Christmas. That was nice, but it never escaped my attention that I worked just as much as he did and that he and Maggie and my mother had the money to buy groceries, and I did not! My mother always insisted on big birthday dinners, so whenever any of us blew out the candles, we put on the façade of a family. And I worked in the wrought-iron shop daily with Chester for years. But everything that was done was damn sure done his way. He always made it crystal clear that he was in charge. But in actuality, he wasn't. My mother owned the business. She inherited it from her mother and father, who had started it. Neither Chester nor Maggie had any blood connection to it, but I did. Anytime I tried to discuss the legalities of business, such as suggesting that my name should be included in the ownership, or how I should be able to buy health insurance through the business, or expand the business, I always got the same reply: “Don’t you come up here starting that shit,” Chester shouted, sometimes slobbering at the mouth. “I’ll call the law on you, you goddamn crazy little son-of-a-bitch. You get the fuck out of here or I’m gonna have your ass arrested.”

I’d go home. My mother would cry. Then the next day a job had to be put up, and I’d go back to the shop.

As soon as my mother died, the fake facade of family immediately fell away. She left the business to all three of us. Before my mother was buried, while she lay inside the funeral home, Chester came up to the car as I was pulling out of the parking lot. Maggie stood directly behind him while he informed me that he and Maggie were not going to abide by my mother's will, and that they were not going to share the business with me.

I think that was the breaking point. I'd had it with them then. I should've fought 'em. As a matter of fact, my attorney later told me that their attorney had not correctly interpreted the will. It actually read that they had to pay me a percentage even if I opted not to work in the business. But after one of the meetings in the law office, the two of them gave me a ride home in their truck. Maggie spoke in a soft, smooth drawl, insisting that they were doing what was best for me.  That was always their line when they wanted to shut me up. They offered to buy me out. I sold my part of the business to them for a song. Some five or six years later, the business that had worked several employees, fed and clothed us, and sent us on countless vacations finally closed its doors. Now the old shop stands as a tomb, a monument to a forgotten and useless war.

I suppose I should have gone to the hospital and the graveyard and bid farewell to my old enemy, but I could not make myself do so. For that I still feel saddened and troubled and heartbroken. Perhaps someday Maggie and I will speak. Perhaps not.  

                                        Bernard M. Plumlee, Jr.

                                        January, 22, 2014