Blog

Rowe Mesa

Posted by on Dec 1, 2017 in Blog | 0 comments

THE KID FROM SANTA FE,

Santa Fe

Excerpt Nov. 30

…When I had a firewood business I’d drive from Galisteo over to Rowe Mesa near Pecos. I had a 1949 3/4 ton Ford pickup that came off the assembly line black and was now sea blue. I loved the wood business because it put me alone with the wilderness. I’d been cutting on Rowe for a couple of years off and on. Even pre-Spanish Indians from the nearby pueblos cut here. I’d find the stumps of juniper and cedar with stone axe marks.

One day I came to an island of tall Douglas fir mixed in with what looked like desert piñon except these had straight trunks and grew as tall as the fir. I entered a lush cool fragrant copse of trees and a spring seeping along a rock bed growing fern from its banks. This was unreal because Rowe Mesa is high desert, dry as a bone in summer and the trees are gnarled because they come from the gnarled that were passed over for bigger, better trees for so long only the gnarled were left to perpetuate the species.

I’ve never seen tall straight piñons even in Truchas where I lived, high in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains north of Santa Fe, where there was plenty of snow and rain. There were big ones but their tops were like other trees’ roots, all over the place. These were majestic and twice as tall as the tallest I’d seen. I strolled around with my axe, tried the water, spoke to the trees, mainly questions. There was no cicada buzz or bird song. It was still. No litter. A sanctuary, that’s the word. I could still see the same sky way up there but everything else was different. I was in a parenthesis in time.

I knew I was being allowed to see this, to be here. To others it must just be land with cactus and stuff, otherwise it would’ve been cut down long ago. Part of me was at peace and wanted nothing more than to be here, another wanted to go get the chainsaw and start cutting. There was enough to keep me working a week. The problem was that once I started I’d break whatever invisibility it had and others would move in fast. I’d laid down truck tracks in the grasses getting here, someone else would follow these out of curiosity. If I left now could I find my way back here? There were no landmarks I could see driving in, just craggy mesa top on all horizons.

The part that only wanted to soak in the stillness and beauty kept acing out the part of mind that was the woodcutter. Eventually I found a big-trunked cedar on what felt like a boundary line between the sanctuary and the rest of the mesa top and decided to start there and see how it felt. It took an hour to saw through because the dry cedar wood soaked up the oil on the chain so I kept having to stop and sharpen the cutters and refill the reservoir a half dozen times. When I got nearly through the tree didn’t lean into the notch and fall as expected, it just sat down on the blade. I used the axe as a wedge and axe as hammer to lever it up and pull the blade free. But nothing would budge the upper part.

Farther out from the cedar was a towering dead fir riddled with wormholes. It was easily a truckload, cut to length and stacked to the top of the Ford’s barred sides, maybe a cord and a half. It was around noon and would take the rest of the afternoon. I’d check out the cedar tomorrow and see how I felt about toppling it.

I cut the notch in the dead fir and took a break before starting in from the other side. There was something spooky about this one. Nothing was regular about its branch arrangement. There was a fullness toward the top where all the branches were twisted and tormented as if the tree had been in pain during its life. If a tree can have slow motion epilepsy this one did. Seizures of its spirit guided the wood growth. My feeling was to leave it alone. I was good at telling where a tree’d fall but couldn’t figure this one. Still I was here, it was here, I had a saw and truck, and it had worms and nowhere to go.

The vibration of a saw will travel up a dead tree and sometimes loosen broken branches, so I kept glancing up ready to move away if anything dropped. When I was almost through I stood up to take a breather when something tapped me on the top of the head. I felt a stick not bigger round than a pencil but twice as long arrowed into my skull at the soft spot where the cranial plates join. I pulled it out and looked at the end that’d been in my brain. No blood, only wetness. I felt okay, but figured I better sit down. There was something not quite right and I needed to track it down. I sat with my back against a tree, clicked off the switch to the motor and checked my body out mentally. There was an itch on my cheek and something moving across it. I swatted and a big violet and cream-colored centipede hit the ground running and chased itself away. How did it get there in the few seconds since I’d sat?

The light was odd, the sun way over there. And it was chilly. I got the feeling I’d been in a sweat. I touched the Husquavarna and it was cold and that didn’t feel right. I felt wetness on my neck and traced it up to the crusted over hole in my skull. There was a burning itch all over my face and neck now, even my lips hurt where the centipede had been exploring.

I stood and looked around, didn’t have a clue to where I was. When I came upon the truck in wandering around I didn’t know what it was. I’d never seen a truck before. All there was in memory was an impression of three old bearded men in gray robes angry with me, and that happened just when I felt the centipede on my face. I saw them in profile next to me emerging from wherever I’d been those six or seven hours.

There was no worry. When a person doesn’t know who he is or even that he is supposed to know, there is no worry. I was free of everything that wasn’t automatic, a just-born babe in men’s wear. I was untagged consciousness becoming aware of where I was by virtue of being there with it, whatever it was.

Putting the saw in the truck was automatic, tying it down and watching my hands do something I didn’t know how to do was fascinating. What smart hands. I looked into the cab and didn’t recognize or understand anything more than the seat. I touched the things I saw but there was no connection. I climbed in like a little boy and sat there holding the steering wheel and then some things came to me. I made a motor running sound. My left leg twitched. I looked down and saw the clutch pedal and tapped on it with the boot. It went down. My right hand was holding the knob of the floor gearshift.

Savvy nerve patterns got the truck started and scouted the way out by following the squashed down grass, and knew where to turn once we got to a Y on a dirt road, and then the main road off of Rowe and through the village at the bottom to the freeway where I drove at ten miles an hour till I understood the meaning of all the horn honking going on from passing cars. Same thing when I got to the turn-off to Lamy, and then the village of Galisteo where I rolled into the wood yard at sunset. A woman came out the back door and smiled. Who was she? Where was I? Who was I?

I stayed at home for a few days till my memory came back. Never did go back to Rowe Mesa. From then on I cut only standing dead Engelman spruce over on Santa Clara Peak, north of Santa Fe…

(Online version of TKFSF to be published in January at Amazon Kindle, Macbooks, Smashwords, & bookstore copies nationally in February)

The Hounds of Heaven…

Posted by on Nov 29, 2017 in Blog | 1 comment

Us Kids’ Favorite Game

Our favorite game in those first months of 1944 was the hunt for mother, tracking her like young hound dogs, down to the plaza and cantinas, over to La Fonda and Alfonso to ask which Bohemians she left with, calling Lucy, the town operator, to find where her last calls came from or went, over to Jack Stacey’s to see if one of his taxis’d taken her somewhere, Geri Granger’s, Joan Jordan’s, Stanley Breneiser’s, Shusie’s? God’s place? George Blodgett’s?

We were the hunters, Maid Marion the game. Whenever we found her was a time for the laughter of discovery, and her special joy at being tracked down by her kids.
We wanted her to be free always…so we could find her again. It was the best-ever game…

(From the soon-to-be-published THE KID FROM SANTA FE, from www.augustawindpress.com)

Fingers itching to get going…

Posted by on Nov 21, 2017 in Blog | Comments Off on Fingers itching to get going…

Hey, How About Fingers? Geez!

Fingers are servants
to the entire body and universe, they scratch where the universe itches, write down the thoughts and poems of brain and soul, pick fruit and flower and lint, and point out bears and lions and heroes of the constellations at night.

They explore the jungles of lovers, the rivers, volcanoes, laplands, and saharas of their vastnesses, opening flowers and melons and seedpod for the soul and loin.
They test for heat and cold and wet and dry and enemy and friend, tend to wounds on the body they work for and others they love, sketch the air with emotion and didactics. They cradle small living things and pieces of old life and new they find, and bring these treasures to the lips or heart or mind they give away free.
They are born to serve and bring unto us everything we can imagine, and introduce us to what we never imagined. So they are creators too, weaving us matter-of-factly into tapestries of adventure our brains are a bit too contrived to.

Fingers have ten individual souls working at the weaving rack of our lives, playing our lives like harpstrings or keyboards, our brain just the plainsong of right and wrong.
True, fingers are in service to mind and brain, but they are masters of our expressed happiness. They do what has to be done and wave away what mustn’t, they unite in prayer and ring-around-the-rosies, they slip bands of love onto others’ fingers to wear as ID of belonging to something or someone, they slip into infant mouths as creators of peace, and adult mouths as invitations to paradise.
Our toes balance the known universe with the feet, our fingers the universe of our desires with the hand. Our hands nailed Christ to the cross, but our fingers wrote his story and passed along his love.

New York City 1963…

Posted by on Nov 17, 2017 in Blog | Comments Off on New York City 1963…

New York

When I was laid off the AT&SF Railroad in the big national strike of 1961, I hitchhiked to New York City from San Berardino in California. A psychiatrist and his wife picked me up and took me as far as Philadelphia.
For the first few months in the city I collected unemployment from the Union and it was more than most salaried people were making in the early sixties. The Union’s grip on railroad management was what the strike was about. Too many men on a job with too much pay and no rights for management to fire anyone for any reason. What was the need of four brakemen on a freight train with four on standby in the caboose? When the four got off after their five-hour shift and the ones on standby took over, four more came on. Why was a ditch digger on a signalman crew like me getting $400 a week with room and board and full benefits, with no skills other than using a pick and shovel, and no seniority?
We were installing new signal boxes between Chicago and Los Angeles, living in converted passenger cars from the 1920s coupled to the cook residence and kitchen car, ice boxcar, and dining room. These were towed along the main rails to sidings where we loaded up food, water, and ice, and drive out to the old signal boxes and road gates.
Unemployed, I was picking up half pay from the railroad brotherhood at Penn Station as they looked around for a new position for me. Part of the deal struck between management with the union was for the railroad to pay half salary to those let go until they found other jobs. In return, the union would allow a thirty percent reduction of the work force.
I landed a position at Ronald Press, a publisher of college textbooks and scientific monographs by specialists in various fields. Ronald had the world’s definitive book on the sex life of the mosquito. It was big as an unabridged dictionary.

I was being trained to go on the road in the Midwest to get teachers to choose our books over the competition’s, mainly Prentice Hall. But somehow I didn’t know it. I was hired by a man fascinated by the mythology of the far west who hired me because of my Western-cut suit and stories about being a cowboy in Big Piney in Wyoming, and riding horseback from Sevilla to Madrid in Spain a few years before. I knew nothing about textbooks, publishing, or selling, and by the time they sent me out on the road with a trunk of books I didn’t know much more than I did five months before.
I don’t understand how these things can happen. Anyone should’ve seen that I was a simple person incapable of learning enough English, geology, math, and physics to convince professors who had degrees in their fields to change their Prentice Hall textbooks for ours. Maybe Bob Warner imagined qualities in me just to keep me around in my black Leddy cowboy boots, telling stories about the pueblo Indians and New Mexico ranchers. Or maybe he was too distracted by his Delta Airlines stocks and being on the phone with his broker. He retired two years later a millionaire, and one of the first things he did was fly to Santa Fe to see the places I’d talked about. He looked up my mother and her new husband to brag that I was the worst salesman in the 100-year history of Ronald Press. I wonder how no one picked up on that during my training.

I decided to be an actor. Uta Hagen and Herbert Berghof had an acting school in Greenwich Village. I signed up at HB Studios. Herbert Berghof assigned me a scene with a seasoned actress who in our rehearsals at my apartment taught me to act through her becoming the character. I was a chameleon, so as long as I believed her and felt her emotion, I delivered the goods. She was powerful, so I was powerful, and when we did our scene there was not a sound from the class at the end. The people stared wide-eyed, then exhaled as one. Herbert tapped his pencil and looked at the ceiling, asked where I’d studied.
I hadn’t, I said. At the end of class there was a swarm of women wanting to do scenes with me. I looked at the actress who had been so emotionally wrapped in her character that she gave life to mine, and she smiled as if to say I was in for it now.

Herbert wanted me to read for a supporting part in a play by Horton Foote he was to direct on Broadway. He got Dick Baumann to be my agent and suggested I try out for his wife Uta Hagen’s advanced class, which I got into by doing a scene from The Rose Tattoo. Because there was no one in her class that wasn’t a professional, I was believable. But I was only as good as the other actor I was working with so, when I went out on auditions and was paired with someone without that spark, I was at a loss of how to become real because I had no technique.
If Herbert had done the Foote play and I’d gotten the part it could’ve been another Ronald Press deal. I was at best a collaborator, someone a professional could bounce off, which enlivened me. On stage I had good energy and eye contact, I really listened and looked at people as we do in real life. If the other actor believed, I believed, and once in the groove we sparked.
I went on TV commercial calls and small theater, then got a leading role in ABC-TV’s The Doctors and The Nurses from an audition scene Fred Underhill wrote for me and Judy Adler, Ben’s mother-to-be. The show’s producer, Doris Quinlin, sent me to the director of the television show the next day and he had me read a scene on camera with the woman lead. When I got the part it was only a matter of going in to sign the contract at ABC. Dick Baumann said he’d call my message service when the time came. I left the city with Karen Deming to go to her parents place in Connecticut for the weekend, and the next day kept going into Canada where I got a cross-country ride on a new school bus being delivered to the Northwest Territories. It was loaded with vagabonds and outcasts the driver picked up along the way. Weeks later I called home and heard I’d been replaced when ABC couldn’t get hold of me. I was fine with that. I’d been terrified.

My success and acclaim in theater and on screen was mainly on the streets of New York. One night between Sixth and Seventh on 44th I think it was, walking alone along a street faced by the backs of theaters and passing under a streetlight mid-block, a tour bus passed, slowed, and stopped. A man got off and trotted back, big smile, grabbed my hand and shook it with both of his, babbling on about how he loved my films and television series and how he had a bus load of tourists from Yugoslavia who had recognized me and made him stop. He wondered if it’d be okay for them to come over to take my picture and get autographs.

I couldn’t get a word in: What films, what series? I hadn’t any credits except one off Broadway play.
He was already running back to the bus, yelling excitedly in a Slavic tongue and the tourists were piling out and heading my way, working men in work clothes and women in shawls and bulky dresses clustering around taking pictures, handing me pieces of paper to sign, some of them quite moved. Then the tour guide gave an order and they trotted back to the bus with him, he shouted his thanks, saluted, climbed aboard and off they went.
I stood there a long time before realizing I’d made it in acting. I was a star. They’d show the photos back home and tell of finding me in this canyon of a street, the man they’d seen in so many films:
You know him, he’s the one who was in that film with that blonde girl.
Oh him? You saw him?
No, not just saw, I touched him, this is his picture, he signed his name on this paper.
What does it say?
It says his name, him, you know the one. We were all around him, we were so lucky the tour director saw him, I think he was trying to hide his face when we went by but the tour man saw him and stopped the bus and we got out. He is so handsome, he was so kind, I can’t believe how lucky we were.

Marilyn

Posted by on Nov 17, 2017 in Blog | Comments Off on Marilyn

When I met Marilyn in 1991 she was working three jobs, among them teaching pediatric nursing at Nazarene College in San Diego. To make ends meet she took in borders at her house on Hill Street by the cliffs—-that’s how I met her. I sat in on some classes and’d watch a roomful of students turn rapt by the warm authority of her lecture. She was spell-binding.
Today, 3O years later, I asked her what capital letters of professional ascent followed her name back then, and it came out to be RN, PNP, RSN, PHN and whatever a double Masters Degree caps into…MA x 2?

Only months before I met her, she withdrew from work on her doctorate in Nursing Science at USD. She was recently divorced after 2O years of marriage, her son Jonnie was living with her during his junior year in high school, she had a house full of boarders, and three nursing jobs. Me? I hadn’t finished college, was out of work, and my only credentials were MR.
When we were at a gathering of faculty at the college, and someone’d ask about my specialty, I usually talked about Marilyn, of how she’d been a Benedictine nun for 15 years in elementary school education, then pediatric nursing.

If they insisted on nailing me down to some professional status, I’d speak of recently hiking the Pacific Crest Trail and having a powerful vision of an angel telling me she would be in my life very soon, and that my life was about to start over again. By this time I had usually lost my audience, so I’d go join Marilyn and watch her natural gaity soften up the terrible seriousness of the other professors…

(For more, go to the book, Marilyn & Me/A Timeless Love, on the website www.augustawindpress.com )

Treasures

Posted by on Nov 15, 2017 in Blog | 2 comments

Gifts On The Half Shell

We’re born, we live, we die.
We all bring endowments to life, to humanity, to the whether and the weather.
But we don’t know what they are. Great men and women may know some of what they’ve endowed life with but even they and their greatness might miss their real endowments—-a touch to someone whose life balances on that contact, some laughter where there was none, maybe the awe of their beauty as they get drawn out into a story they are telling.
The ripple of a touch or a look or some kind words becomes a wave and sweeps around the world, and they are unaware of the gift that flowed from them to the rest of us.
We’re born, we live, we die and in this are treasures unfathomable forever.

Kiholo Bay

Posted by on Nov 15, 2017 in Blog | Comments Off on Kiholo Bay

Wake up this morning to Billy saying, ‘John, Ray and I come over to borrow some of your fire, it’s cold.’ They stoke up the embers into a blaze, cup in the heat and take off to cast their nets in Kiholo Bay, where Ben and I are camping.
It seems only a moment later when Billy comes back saying ‘John, John you have to come and take a picture of our catch!’ So I do. The dawn is just a smear but the birds are talking. We go over to where Billie and Ray have pulled their net up and there are a flippin’ mess of four to six pound fish he lays out side by side for their portrait. I get some good ones of them arranging the fish for their family photo.
Alan and Sandy are there too, Billie rousting them from their sleeping bags. Billie says to pick out the ones we want, so I take a four pounder with a reddish look to its silver scales and take it back to the fire pit to lay out on a rusty grill we’d found in the bush a few days before. Sandy brings over curried lentils from her camp while I get the Kona coffee perking, and in fifteen minutes we are picking fish, chewing lentils, sipping coffee and inhaling smoke. Some quail are in the clearing nearby single-filing around scratching up their breakfast.
Billie says he awoke at 3:18 to see a strobing yellow light holding over the sea with a circular shaft of silver light connecting to the water, turning slowly, a triangle of red lights shifting around within the shaft. He woke up Ray to see it and they watched it for a while, then Billie flashed his LED flashlight at it and the whole thing sped off. Sandy says she and Alan saw this thing four nights before.
Now Billie tells a story about the tiger sharks in the bay and how when he was casting one morning he saw a fin in the water streaking toward something, then a turtle breaks to the surface and the shark hit, tossing it into the air, or the half that is left, the other half turtle swimming in circles.
He tells of how an eel bit his son’s hand so bad it took fifty stitches to reassemble it. He tells how when he was his son’s age his uncle taught him to net fish by observing and doing the heavy labor for three years before allowing Billie to cast a net. It was an art form from way back that had spiritual undertones where the fish gave their lives, rather than have them taken. Billie keeps coming back here to Kiholo Bay to be with that part of his life, the best part, he says. His last name is Kennedy but he is native Hawaiian, talks pidgin. He works as a carpenter, and as a gaffer on the films shot here on location.
Billie drives us in today to the small town down the coast, Ben and Ray tucked in among the fish coolers in the backseat. The old Merc is pretty low to the ground and having a time of it on the dirt roads winding over to the highway. We’ve been camping here going on two weeks and need a few things. Alan, the other camper, spends his days marking the King’s Trail along the lava cliffs with white coral he gathers, marking it for hikers following the coastal hiking trail, and to reestablish it as the ancestral trail it is so new hotels can’t build anywhere close. Law says the trails have to be preserved as part of the Hawaiian heritage. Nearby us is the Paul Mitchell estate and the big house belonging to the inventor of the Pacemaker, so all the surrounding coast and tropical woods, like where we are camped, are protected
Beaches belong to the state, the inland to whoever has to money to buy it. Mitchell’s place nearby is a Bali temple constructed in Bali and reassembled here by the Bali builders. Billie worked on it in the foundation stage. He introduced the Bali builders to power tools. He gave them the power tools to take back and they told him they’d now be able to complete a temple in six months that once took two years. He says he isn’t sure he did them a favor.
Angus Mitchell just inherited his father’s sixty billion and is set to build his own house along the southern perimeter to the coconut grove and river emptying into the bay here. It may mean the end of this as our personal wilderness get-away. Angus’s son is bringing in twenty friends tonight to camp over the weekend, dance, sing, smoke big spliffs, swim and eat. Should be fun to watch.
We hiked to Kiholo Bay from the highway a few miles and it has been good. Ben is a raconteur; it’s like having a young Mark Twain at my side. He’s been living in these islands for a few years, most recently by an avocado grove on another island. Our food is simple, no tobacco or rum, just sweet air, sweet people, sweet turtles, a tropical paradise with occasional weird lights at sea to discuss over spontaneous breakfasts of fresh caught fish.
The other day we were fishing with poles and there were three big turtles having supper right below us on a ledge, eating algae and sea grasses, when a wave threw a Moray eel up on the ledge next to us, maybe seven feet long, big ugly thing. We tried to take a photo but getting nearer on the wet rock in flip-flops wasn’t working. Another wave came in and took it back.
Time has blurred edges here except when we hitchhike to Kona, and can’t wait to get back to fold into the life we left.

Creation In Our Wallet

Posted by on Nov 2, 2017 in Blog | 2 comments

Personhood, hmmm, maybe it’s a tribal cosmic system with the sun as the chief of the planets and their orbits and spins within us. The solar flares of pineal and pituitary incline the colonies of our selfhood.
Look at an atom–that’s us and everything and everyone we know, all distinct and all the same. Nucleus, electrons, protons. Sun, planets, moons.
Everything is a solar system modeled after the ones we share, the heavens and hells above and within. The mean streets of our neurological pathways of thought and action are equally divine as the freshly graded and maintained highways of our visible identity.
We shift between planetary influences. Let’s say Mars is heroic and tenacious and Venus benevolent and in love, and Pluto cold, deep, aggressive, brutal. We are too.
Let’s say Uranus is dictatorial and self-willed, Neptune mystical and artistic, Jupiter brilliant and humble. We are too.
We are inclined by all of these, some more than others, but in that particular divine connection we have been born as the Word that we ourselves speak, that we ourselves are incarnations of.
We are at the controls despite what it seems, and there are no mistakes we did not engineer at some level within us. Mistakes are high art. We have a plan in mind, and everything and everyone else are co-engineers, co-sponsors, co-planeteers, and ultimately equal beneficiaries to the payoff of who we have chosen to be.
We originate in the light of creation. If the light of life can be called yarn, we are the weavers.
Imagine humanity as eight billion distinct suns and planetary systems with a creative plan. In imagining us all dovetailing in shifting harmonies of love made manifest, we are on the cusp of knowing God.

Pepe & Pepe…

Posted by on Aug 28, 2017 in Blog | 2 comments

Pepe and Pepe..

Can’t remember when it was other than back in the days when the 2004 Winnebago Adventurer was our main home.
We liked driving into Mexico and living in the rig on the beaches at San Carlos, that’s on the Sea of Cortez down about 800 miles. We had Pebbles then, an Australian Shepherd who’d chosen us at one of those Boy Scout fund raisers in San Diego, on Navajo Road, in the parking lot of a market. Marilyn was the one who got me there, she’s one of those people who know things but don’t talk about them, just do what has to be done, and for her I needed to have a dawg. I was 55 and at the end of my rope. She doesn’t prattle on, she observes, she feels, she decides, all quietly. When she got me to go to that thing in the parking lot I had no idea that I was being set up.

Pebbles took us everywhere, you’d think we took her since we were the drivers of the rig, but it was her who set the destination and the ways to get there. Her and Marilyn. Quietly, so I wouldn’t notice I wasn’t doing all this, wasn’t doing any of it, just moving when nudged.
Someplace along the way in Mexico we picked up a mechanical toy that was a singing Chihuahua. You’d press one of its paws and it’d start singing Jose Feliciano’s Feliz Navidad, and swaying as it sang, mouth moving, head swaying side to side, voice and music coming from deep down inside it. When Pebbles died Pepe became our dawg, giving musical voice to the dearest and deepest loving critter of all our lives. I don’t mean Pebbles sang with a Spanish accent like the Chihuahua, whose recorded song lip-synched within its head was really some guy singing with a Mexican accent. I mean the spirit of Pebbles stayed on through Pepe. We never once changed the batteries that played that song and orchestration, not in ten years of being on the road.

Then about six months ago Marilyn’s son Jonnie took her to the Foley Animal Shelter here in Minneapolis to get a dog to replace Pebbles, who’d died a few years before, and they found a little Chihuahua that’d just been shipped in among a bunch of other dogs from LA; so there were all these dogs yapping at Marilyn, pick me, pick me, ohhhh puleeze, I’m such a good dawg! And Marilyn and Pepe’s eyes met and locked and it was happiness for the rest of their lives.

Now the synching of this thing didn’t fully occur to me before now, sitting here at my typewriter, that THIS little Chihuahua was a smaller rendition of the one in our RV that sang Feliz Navidad a thousand times on the dashboard of our RV after Pebbles went to Heaven.
This real Pepe, whom we named after the dashboard Pepe, may not be the incarnation of Pebbles but is certainly the incarnation of the love Pebble had for Marilyn and me. Marilyn gave me Pebbles to save my life at a time when it was way down in value, there at the Cub Scout Dog-a-thon in San Carlos in San Diego, where we lived. Then the real Pepe came along to carry that love on. Saved both our lives. I mean Marilyn is 84 and I’m 80, all our kids have their own lives and chilluns and dawgs, but we only have one another…and the Pepes. One is still on the dashboard of the Winnebago, but the feisty one is here between us at night in bed.

Feliz Navidad. (All year)

Thunder Road

Posted by on Aug 8, 2017 in Blog | 1 comment

The package I carry driving through the valley of the shadows of death is important. I know in the dream this scene is lifted from a movie called Thunder Road about a moonshine transporter with a 200-gallon tank built into the bottom of his drag racer. I am the Robert Mitchum character and I’ve been chosen for this run because I’m able to keep my mind empty, more a natural state than anything I’ve mastered. I know nothing about it, the better to thwart energies reading my mind along the road and getting through roadblocks, the defenses set up against getting this important package to its destination. If it is found a lot of people and plans will be destroyed.

As I tear along I sometimes feel the probes of the mind readers in the darkness searching my memory and purpose so I focus on the driving and keeping the car on the road. Thunder Road is a mind field I am careening through.

Now I’m past the worst of it, I’m getting into a dark city and have to follow vague intuitions to get to where I’m going. I end up driving along hotel corridors and finally stopping outside a door where three nuns in black and white habits appear and take the small package from me. They say nothing and close the door.

This was a vivid dream, as real as anything I call real in waking life. So it’s stayed with me these 35 years. On a walk to the park today along the Mississippi it came to me that I was the the sender of the package. The three nuns were Marilyn, Virginia and Paula. The package they were keeping was my soul. Paula’s note to me yesterday essentially said here’s your soul back, you’re strong enough to protect and use it for good now.

When I came back from the park and told Marilyn of this discovery we sat at the round table in the kitchen. Sometimes a moment comes where there’s this flare of understanding, and we get all choked up and weepy? It was one of those.

That dream had troubled me for years. When I met Marilyn 30 years ago in San Diego I shared it with her because she had been a nun, no other reason.

Two years ago I had a dream of the three of them whom I knew by then, in a red Cadillac convertible racing down a steep hill in the city at night, but until this moment didn’t connect the two. The nuns in the black and white Thunder Road movie were the same as the three in the red Cad dream. The back country road through the boonies of Hell has been an adventure that nearly killed Marilyn and me off many times, but somehow we made it through, neither knowing the way but assuming we were guided by a force that did.