Author: ljandkari

I am tired. Like really tired. Like did not get enough sleep for the last six months tired. More like too much sleep mixed with not enough sleep, then tossed in a bag of emotional fuckery to be mixed with a magical blend of spices that include anxiety, joy, depression, confusion, anger, shapeless ambiguity, and a constant on state to create the most delicious middle finger-lickin’-good bucket of cosmic twaddle this side of a pandemic. And it’s an election year! Between an incompetent old man and another incompetent old man, I feel as though my choices are full virtual school with no internet or a limited blended model with classes every other Friday with band still meeting every day at 5 AM.

I feel disconnected. I feel overwhelmed. I feel as though the house of cards will soon fall. I feel. And for this, I am grateful. I am able to feel. I am indeed in a funk. And G.I. Joe would tell me that self-awareness is half the battle. And I would tell G.I. Joe to mind his own business before I remove his arm from his socket. Of course, I am now talking to a G.I. Joe doll but this isn’t strange, is it? As long as he does not talk back, we are good, right? Goodness! But don’t I want to feel? Existence has a lot to do with pain! The religious among us will quote some obscure book, chapter, and verse to a promise of a better afterlife. I am here now. Suffering happens in real time, and if God cannot deal in real time, what’s the point?

Now before anyone offers an essential oil, invites me church, or brings a brother to admonish me, stop. Just stop. Here’s what you can do. I’ve been praying for six years for God to take away MS from my wife. It hasn’t happened. My righteousness needs more righteousness. Maybe you really are more righteous than me as you believe. Let’s find out together as we bow our heads to pray.

I am tired of the twaddle, the tweets, the twats, MS, and the fuckery. Aren’t you?

All you do is scare and lie to try and get what you want. You’re a godless woman. Ain’t you tired, Miss Hilly? Ain’t you tired?

Thin walls have a burden to hold in the sights and sounds of those inside their confines. They never did their job worth two shits when I was growing up. Between the ages of thirteen and what felt like forty, I lived in Plattsburgh, New York – a small town in upstate New York nestled on the shores of Lake Champlain close to Vermont and nowhere. Plattsburgh Air Force Base found refugee in the beautiful and serene landscape with a dozen intercontinental nuclear missile silos scattered about the landscape. As young teenagers, my friends and I wondered if the silos were actually as cold and empty as we were told by the adults. I do know the concrete bunkers held secrets tighter than the fragile walls of the quarters where we all lived at Plattsburgh Air Force Base.

My father was stationed at PAFB in the Air Force during the end of the era of the Strategic Air Command. Responsible for the land-based intercontinental nuclear arsenal, SAC was the enduring phallic symbol of war never fought with a set of brass balls in a sac of kevlar. There was plenty of testosterone to go around, and nowhere to exercise it. My father did not work in a silo guarding over a set of codes. Rather, he sat in an office and handled paper for the assignments, promotions, and separations of his fellow Airmen on base. Not nearly as spicy as guarding over a blinking red button, but processing paperwork has its perks. For one, my father did not beat the shit out of me. For another, he was not in harm’s way. It was a win win. Sadly, not every military brat was as lucky as me.

I moved from Springdale, Arkansas to PAFB in 1987 during the decline of glam metal – voices were high and leather pants were tight. Def Leppard’s Hysteria album dropped shortly after arriving on base as did U2’s Joshua Tree album. With or Without You and Love Bites equally shared and fueled my young teenage angst. I still find comfort on U2’s One Tree Hill, and Def Leppard still ignites my Rocket. I never could sing high or wear my leather pants tight, but damn, my high and tight haircut was the bee’s knees.

On the south side of base was a large swath of trees stretching as far as my imagination would allow. The South Side Trails held many paths for me – none of them good, yet all necessary. I learned to smoke cheap Doral cigarettes, drink cheap wine, and enjoy the fine essays written in Playboy. I learned what made a true friend and what did not. I learned I was alone with others in this world and it was a fucked up place. The South Side Trails was the place within the place that I grew up. Not that I knew my head from my ass, but I woke up while my father was stationed at PAFB. I was able to see the world was not all Ho Hos and Sno Balls.

As I mentioned, the walls were thin. For my house, it was of no issue. My father did not beat me or my mother, and my brother and sister were out of the house. My parents did not talk much to each other or me. Before you assume I found this to be a problem, I did not. It was just the way it was. My neighbors, friends, and my friends’ neighbors were not so lucky. The walls of their quarters did not contain the domestic violence, the alcoholism, the porn addiction, the hate, the vocal emptiness, and the gross abuse. There was a reason we all hung out at the South Side Trails – no one got hit, raped, or cursed out because they forgot to replace the lid of the trach can or rinse the sink after doing the dishes.

Recently, I have been wanting to connect in a meaningful way with my childhood domiciles. I started with PAFB because it was the most impactful. I found a treasure trove of photos online that brought a flood of emotions back. Those walls did not contain the human sensations – no matter how gross – back then or now. I am thankful for my awakening at PAFB that led to years of angst because peace has come. I reminisce about the outings of my friends and me at the South Side Trails and I know I took the right path.

Two million coconuts a month are exported from a small island in Thailand Kari and I visited back in 2001. The island smelled like a 1970’s ad for Banana Boat tanning oil. The locals were golden, the vacation was golden, and the company was golden – may the “Great Eight” reunite soon! Kari and I went on many excursions while we visited this beach paradise. One of those excursions involved a hike into the jungle to enjoy the scenery offered by the surroundings. On the way to the trailhead, our hair waving in the wind as we rode mopeds sans a helmet – nothing bad could possible happen while on vacation, right? –  we spotted a few monkeys swinging from the trees.

As we approached the trailhead on our mopeds, we noticed several signs warning tourists not to feed the monkeys, as it would upset the natural order. The long-tailed macaques feast on fruits, seeds, and a variety of opportunistic food sources – including cheeky tourists throwing Pringles their way. I looked up into the trees and I saw these relatively small monkeys jump limb from limb using their tail as a shaggy counterbalance to make sure they remain in the trees. It was amazing to see. The entire scene – the Banana Boat coconut aroma, surrounded by a jungle older than Jesus, monkeys jumping in the canopy above me, all while holding the hand of my bride – created a perfect moment. A moment I often recall with a smile!

That day, I never did see a monkey fall from a tree. But I have witnessed a monkey fall from a tree. Six years ago on a Tuesday in the late afternoon, Rick Reed fell from his tree. This day has hung heavy in my life ever since.

Hollywood does not accurately capture the last moments of a human being clinging to life. It’s not tranquil, spiritual, profound, or any other bullshit we sell ourselves. It’s ugly. It’s slow. It’s painful. It’s unavoidable. It’s tragic. Six years later, I still wake up more times than I care to admit from the sounds of my friend trying to breath.

Life does not play fair despite the belief that it does. Rick Reed was taken far too soon. He was a good man that lived his life in a beautiful struggle for so many to see. I miss Rick and have thought lately about our last two weeks together.

I regret passing up a meal with Rick shortly before he went to the hospital for the last time.
I am joyful to know I kept the pad of paper he scribbled on to communicate at the hospital.
I regret packing up his apartment and throwing away his belongings before he died. Oh, I lament this. And all under the guise of when he gets out of the hospital he wouldn’t be able to live on his own. Really?
I am joyful to know Rick Reed owned the movie Legally Blonde on DVD and a pantry full of Japanese food.
I regret the last day I saw Rick Reed because he couldn’t write what his eyes so clearly communicated – fear of the unknown.
I am joyful to have held his hand and to have been with him when he died.

The struggle of the regrets and the joys is something I know Rick would have loved to help me through. Oh, the ironic tragedy.

Somedays you must observe the ramen. Other days you must observe your beautiful bride while enjoying ramen!

I learned to read from an early age. Words were my friends. Words did not leave the page. Words stayed. People did not. The military made sure of that. I was accustomed to the ebb and flow of people in my life. I was either the new kid walking into a cafeteria of nondescript nameless eyes never brave enough to do more than offer a second glance, or I was giving the second look and offering nothing more than what was given to me to some poor soul. But words never left. Words always were welcoming and welcomed. Words wanted to sit next to the new kid. Words wanted to sit with me. So I often found myself sitting alone with words, never bothering with “Operation Awkward Blank Look”, knowing the the war had already been lost long ago.

The words on the pages of the books I held so dear never changed; they were the same as yesterday, as they were today, and will be tomorrow. Max would sail to the island of the Wild Things, Sally and Dick would meet the Cat in the Hat, Charlotte would spin her web for Wilbur, and Miss Twiggley would live in her tree with her dog Puss no matter if I lived in Alaska or Arkansas. The stories never changed – the words were always the same. My story may have moved from base to base, but Tikki Tikki Tempo never left the well. Books allowed me a sense of control in where I was, who I was with, and what we were doing because my reality dictated no control over any aspect of plot, setting, or character.

There may not be a bologna sandwich with mustard and a juice box in a brown paper bag, but there is still the proverbial cafeteria. The weird kids are still to the left, the popular kids front and center, and everybody else on the right – and once again, I have to walk into that room and pretend not to give a shit I am alone. But, I am alone.

I was deemed redundant in my job on August 9th, 2016. My job and department were cut by one of those front and center kids because popularity and power always demand fuel for the ego no matter the expense of burning it. I thought I had finally unpacked all my boxes to stay happily ever after. I was wrong. I packed my office and said my goodbyes with a familiarity only time and practice perfects like art marrying form and function. I brought the boxes home and I placed them in the back closet and shut the door.

I opened that door 315 days later. I opened the door to see the boxes looking back at me with nondescript eyes offering nothing – nothing but names like Hammermill, Xerox, and Georgia Pacific. I pulled out Mr. Hammermill and sat next to him on the ground. I opened the box and began unpacking – unpacking all of it! Next was Xerox. She offered little more than a box full of ties, hangers, and a suit coat waded up in haste not taking advantage of any of the hangers piled on top or below. But sweet, sweet Georgia Pacific offered gem after gem – Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Learning to Bow, Hard Laughter, Sophie’s World, and Miss Twiggley’s Tree. Miss Twiggley’s Tree! I had not seen Miss Twiggley and her dog Puss in many years. I pushed aside Georgia Pacific and opened to page one of Miss Twiggley’s Tree:

Funny Miss Twiggley
Lived in a tree
With a dog named Puss
And a color TV.
She did what she liked,
and she liked what she did,
But when company came
Miss Twiggley hid.

Introverts unite! I love Miss Twiggley. She was still living in that tree after all these years! She still hated people and kept the company of bears. And she still slept in her crazy hat not giving two shits what people thought. I loved it. I soaked up each word on the pages being sure to take in the illustrations as it was the first, last, and only time to see them. I hunted each page for my handwriting as I often wrote in my books as a kid. I smelled the book. I think it smelled like one of the twenty-seven houses I lived in as a kid? I tried to remember how the back cover received its early departure and why my sister’s name and address were written in the front of what was obviously my book! I wonder when we lived at 103-3 H Street? Where was it? Hell if I knew, but I knew Miss Twiggley was still in that tree just where I left her. Words are precious and so was the love that Miss Twiggley had for those that laughed and ridiculed her. Wait. What? She did what? The mayor and his bitch wife, the plumb Mrs. Honk, and the lethargic Joe Pettibone? After all they did? Those front and center little twits were welcomed in to Miss Twiggley’s tree house? Yes.

And Miss Twiggley found out
Something wonderful, too:
When emergencies come,
You don’t think about you.
You help all you can.
And you never ask why.
Then the first thing you know,
You forgot to be shy.

Miss Twiggley may have stayed in her tree, but it seems she is “adulting” much better than me! And honestly, I do not remember that ending! What the hell? It’s a woman that lives in a tree with bears! Where is she going to put everybody? Ain’t nobody got space for that! Did the story change? These pages look original – yellowed and stained with what can only be peanut butter and jelly and crayons. What changed? Me? No. I am that same kid. Yes, I am that same kid. But rather than look at those nondescript nameless eyes and not be brave enough to do more than offer a second glance, I have spent my adult life making those nameless eyes my friends. I gave myself worth by giving others worth. The words did not change, and the story remained the same, but my story changed allowing me to understand Miss Twiggley in a way I had never done before. Change has always been hard, but my own literacy and love for words has proved to be a catalyst for my own understanding for what was needed, when it was needed, and where it was needed. Together, Miss Twiggley and I are changing the world…but I am leaving the “mayor” in the boat!

As I prepared dinner yesterday, I watched the live floor debate of SB441 of the 57th Oklahoma Legislature. The crux of this bill is to create a minimum number of instructional days in a school calendar year – a good thing!

In recent years, nearly 100 districts in Oklahoma have added time onto the beginning and the end of the school day and either removed a Monday or a Friday. The main purpose of why schools have taken these measures is to save funds as the per pupil spending is down about fifteen percent since 2008 – a bad thing! – and class sizes and class loads have surged. Class sizes of thirty-five to forty students are not uncommon.

As I cut the sausage into equal widths to allow for uniform cooking (equitable pieces…a novel idea), it hit me that none of the ladies or gentlemen that spoke knew education. Indeed, all may have been well educated, but not a single one knew how to educate. No one spoke of the kids except a quick political theater snippet about “remembering the kids” – don’t mind me, I just threw up a little in my mouth.

As a whole body, the Oklahoma legislators would have a difficult time toasting bread with instructions. They continually make a common mistake of nearly all freshman theology students – failure to define the terms. I believe “to educate” has yet to be defined and agreed upon by all vested parties. The legislators want good grades, the parents want safe schools, the teachers want respect, and the students want to play and learn.

At my district, we test at the beginning of the year, the middle, and the end with the MAP tests to evaluate growth and performance – six weeks. Then, state testing – four weeks. Then, speciality tests such as the WiDA – twelve weeks. Total time in testing for the district is a minimum of twenty-two weeks for the district to prove good grades mandated by the State. School is in session for thirty-six weeks. That is the equivalent of the Oklahoma legislators, who work about seventy days with Fridays off (a four day work week – WTF?), working twenty-seven long days before their nine month summer vacation starts. Testing, in its present form, needs to pretend it’s Friday and take the day off!

Can we all agree testing is not education? nor is safety? respect? or play and learning? Wait, what? That last one sounds vaguely familiar and something this gentleman needs more of to turn that RLF (resting legislator face) upside down!

Bunk beds are utilitarian. Stack ‘em deep and wide! Thankfully, I showed up a day early to the dorms and claimed the widest and the shortest bunk – the bottom. My crazy ass roommate was stuck with the top, but he did not know that as of yet. When he did arrive, he was not pleased but never put forth an argument for the bottom bunk – he was on the top bunk, I was on the bottom bunk. And that was the extent of the relationship. We rarely spoke about the superficial and never spoke of more weighty substantial topics. There was never any quintessential freshman “why are we here” chats, but I do remember him asking several times on where to put items of mine he believed to be violating his space. I did not mind. He was quiet, and I was an introvert that needed to recharge when I entered my room – it worked – he was on the top bunk and I was on the bottom.

For this post, we will make my roommate’s name Frank. Frank had scars – lot’s of scars. I brought a boatload of baggage to the room and so did he, but his baggage was much more visible. Frank never shared his story, but at some point in his life, he was burnt. Half of Frank’s face and neck was visibly burnt. The first time I saw him without a shirt on, the same half of his chest and torso was also burnt. Later, coming out the shower, I saw his legs were also burnt. He wore his scars for the mirror and the world to see. I never asked how, when, what, or why, and he never volunteered. He was shy on Monday and apprehensive as hell the rest of the week. He was on the top bunk and I was on the bottom.

We lived together for four months. We spent most days together at some point during the day, and all of fall break and Thanksgiving break together never really speaking to one another. I was careful not to pass judgment on him for what had happened or what it had created in him. For all I knew, it was possible he was shy before the accident. Who knew if the way he was was baggage or just the shirt on his back? I never found out because he was on the top bunk and I was on the bottom.

My penitence for my actions is far less than my penitence for my inactions. When I was first reading scripture in my late teens and early twenties, I was not yet a believer. I fell in love with Peter the Apostle. He had brass balls and his faith allowed him to chew bubblegum and kick ass – and he was all out of bubblegum. He walked on water, he lopped off ears, he had big (and no) faith and big words, and he royally fucked his savior publicly three times. But he did not live life on the bottom bunk while others lived on the top bunk – he brought the two together with his actions. Like most apostles, his faith would bring worldly death – death on an inverted cross – head at the bottom, feet at the top. I love Peter. I gave my first born the Anglicized name of Petros – Stone. I pray Stone never lies on the bottom bunk while he hears someone cry on the top bunk.

Questions are always better than answers. Questions create movement. Questions allow for cross-reference. Questions generate thought. Questions are dynamic. Answers do not. Answers are final. Answers end the game. Answers place the peg squarely in place. Answers are static.

Holding the door at church is the worst job for an introvert – conversations are sure to ensue. Yesterday, as I did my ecclesiastical duty and held the door on Easter Sunday for those with hope against all hopes, it happened…again.

“Have we met?

“Yes. My name is Lj.”

“Lj? Does that stand for something? Oh yes…Little Joe.”

“Littlejohn.”

“You’re moving, right? I believe I prayed for your move recently.”

“Nope. I recently lost my job, but I am not moving.”

“Oh. What do you do?”

What do I do? Good question. But the answer eludes me. I used to think I helped. I used think I provided. I used to think I created an environment where questions were asked and answers were chased up barren mountains and down through lush valleys only to narrowly escape capture. I used to think I practiced bringing the culture of others to the door, knocking, and watching who opens the rap-tap-tappity-tap. I used to think I sat next to those giving birth to new ideas with new words for the chance to see a new world. I used to think I asked more questions than answers were given. I still do. But my classroom is smaller, and I am now both teacher and student. I now ask only the basics – when. I do not have an answer. That would end the journey. The waiting would stop. Faith has no foothold in certainty. So, I wait. I wait in fear. I wait in tears. I wait patiently. I wait in hope. I wait in anger. I wait in expectancy. I wait for answers that do not come. I wait.

“I wait.”

Rapala produces a fishing lure that guarantees “fish on”. The lure looks like a crayfish and comes in many different colors and sizes. I am not an avid fisherman, but I do enjoy fishing. Not so much that I would go out to the lake by myself, but enough to enjoy it with a friend – a fishing buddy. Stone, my son, is that fishing buddy now. Before him, it was my brother, James. He is a fisherman. James enjoys the lake all by himself, or with a fishing buddy. If he has a pole in his hand, he is happy. He enjoys fishing to the degree that he is always looking for the next best experience – a new lure, a new spot, a new method, or a new means to get out into the water. It is this drive to fish that brings us to the tale today.

James bought a boat. Not a bass boat. Not a Ranger, a pontoon, an aluminum flat bottomed, or a canoe. He boat an inflatable “two man” boat – a glorified pool toy to be used by the neighborhood kids for when playing Marco Polo was no longer interesting. He fitted the boat out with a wooden inner floor, a trolling motor, a battery, and all the gear it could hold. We would would load the boat in its deflated state into his Hyundai Sonata and drive to the boat launch at the Nashua River. We would muscle the boat of the trunk, plug in the air pump into the cigarette lighter and wait. While we watched the boat grow and be shaped by the air, other fisherman would back their boat trailers into the water and launch their real boats, park their real trucks, and give us some real looks as the whirring of the pump brought our “boat” to life. Before long, the boat was full, the floor installed, the trolling motor mounted, and gear loaded. We were ready to launch.

As we fished and continually pulled out fish on this day, we soon noticed the boat was not as firm as it was at the launch – a leak had obviously formed. Understanding the severity of the situation, my brother did what any fisherman would do; he fished. The boat began to make a taco of my brother and me, and it was time to attempt to make it to the boat launch up river.  We  made every effort to go against the current in a boat with a new and improved drag ratio, so the situation went from bad to worse. An audible hissing could be heard accompanied with bubbles. The trolling motor fought against the current, and we fought against the scenario of sinking. As we struggled to continue on to the boat launch, we could see the boat ramp not too far off in the distance. The launch was filled with fishermen pulling their boats out of the water onto their trailers. As we sputtered into the boat launch with a piece of saran wrap filled with rocks, the looks were relentless. The judgments were harsh – laughter was had at our expense. Dragging the boat out of the water, my brother grabbed the stringer filled with fish…big fish. The laughter stopped. Confusion set in as the fishermen looked on in shock at the quality and quantity of the fish. What we accomplished with a Building 19 inflatable boat, these fisherman were unable to accomplish with six figures of shiny fiberglass, and two tons of steel.

As I told Stone this story the other day as we mowed a lawn, I thought about my own boat springing a leak. I do not know if I will make it back to the boat launch, but I made out onto the water. I launched. I fished. I laughed. I lived. I’ll take it!