The View From Here

Locked away in my solitude, the illusion of isolation is complete. And it is here, at the boundary of earth and sky, that I look out upon the forest and beyond, to where the hills and mountains climb endlessly upward, these great granite steps that lead to the very edge of Heaven.

Winter's bleak tableau, seen through this dirty glass, the snow a virginal white, a funeral veil, to cover the many sins and stains of man; the dense thickets of maple and pine lie dormant in the death grip of their slumber. My eyes drink in the grand spectacle of night; the stars line the edge of the world and burn so fiercely bright; scattered diamonds strewn by the hand of a god.

The songs of my youth tug at the strings of memory; a ghost, a wisp, these tendrils fade much too soon, only to return and I find myself flung headlong into the vast kaleidoscope of days remembered, frozen moments recalled. Images flash by, marching down the years, all that the heart is willing to reveal and the many dark secrets it still keeps. All that once was, all that was lost, and all that remains; ashes and shadows.

The city was vibrant then, it lived and it breathed, undulating with the flow of people. The mind's eye takes in the vast panorama of the beach and the ocean beyond, partially obscured by the roofs of the shops and arcades that once lined the boardwalk. Laughing gulls drift lazily overhead like so many summer clouds, their cries a lonely chorus of ephemeral notes. Blink and it's gone forever.

I remember too, another view of the world from the small, cramped apartment that my mother loved so much; her small comfort in those final days. Stars are seldom seen here, drowned as they are by the wash of garish neon signs and the mist that storms ashore with the coming of night. Memories smolder, yet it's the heart that always burns. Oh, but for one last glimpse of that infinite sea. All that remains... All that remains is naught but a dream; ashes and shadows; the pain and the loss of that last vestige of youth.

It's funny, those little things that you take for granted and then find so hard to live without, once they're gone, but that's just the view from here.

None of the pictures in this post are mine.

Atlantic City boardwalk, mid 80's

Steeplechase Pier

The old Steel Pier and the Planter's Peanut Shop

1970's Atlantic City

Fond Memories...

As always, comments are welcomed and appreciated.

Thanks for stopping by.

I thought this song would go perfectly with this post

Marillion - Find A Better Way of Life

Two of my favorite songs, by one of my favorite bands. Give these songs a try and experience something new. If you like it, you can find a better way of life at http://marillion.com/ (click listen), where you can get a free "crash course" CD mailed to you, or, if you can't wait, you can download a free mp3 sampler(http://www.marillion.com/listen/index.htm) of the band. Enjoy!





Hope you like the tunes...

Stick around and read something. You might enjoy yourself.

Primal Forces

A soft, southern drizzle was falling that night, a minor prelude to the main symphony that was soon to play out as the hurricane edged closer. Hurriedly, we tied our surfboards down and ran back to the shelter of my friend Rob’s apartment. Once under cover, the steady calypso rhythms of the storm gave way to the enraged tantrum of nature gone wild. Hurricane Bertha was nursed in the warm, tropical waters off Western Africa. This angry, petulant child cut a swath of destruction across the Caribbean and now she was steadily bearing down on us. My friends and I had hoped this storm would come. Indeed, such is the recklessness of youth, we had even prayed for it. As morning broke, the sky was a Rorschach blot of disturbing swirls and shapes that seemed a fitting backdrop to the insanity that was about to take center stage. I could barely hear the car engine start, the wind and the rain was that intense, but the engine managed to sputter and cough its way to life, and we were off to the beach. The deserted streets and the unnatural light created a nervous energy; a primal fear in those who strode forth to challenge the sea as we were.

Arriving at the nearly deserted beach, we could see that the swells were enormous. Sets of ten to twelve foot waves and even the occasional fifteen foot monster were storming across the great stone jetty like a panzer blitzkrieg across the Low Countries of Europe. The jetty was nothing more than piles of carelessly placed, enormous stones, shaped like a “C.” The jetty ran due east for about one hundred yards and then curved south for another fifty or so. Like a sheltered cove, it provided a safe haven for us to paddle out into the ocean, out to where the waves were breaking. The three of us started to paddle out when we were suddenly caught in the death grip of a rip current that shot us down beach about three hundred yards. In a calm spot for a moment, we settled in and waited for the next set of waves to break; the wind and the rain swirling about us. It wasn’t much of a wait. Rob caught the first wave, a nice twelve footer that he peeled like an apple before slicing and dicing it. I was next in, on a similar wave, rushing down this raging wall of water before snapping back up; thrashing and grasping at empty sky before plunging back down; forty-five seconds of pure adrenalin rush. Jeffy went next, flipping off the backside of his wave in a truly spectacular wipeout. Catching wave after wave, we were having a great time. The three of us were young and indestructible in that idiot way that only youth could be.

Paddling back out, another set loomed large behind us. Rob caught his wave and was off, while half a heartbeat later, there was, I think, well over eighteen feet of water at my back. Realizing what a bad position I was in, relative to the wave, I began paddling like hell, hoping to gain position on the wave without being crushed by it. Blink. It was do or die time. I jumped up, planted my feet firmly; I did it; a smile and um, no I didn’t. Suddenly, the world turned upside down as I was hurled like a rag doll through the air and into the bottom of the wave; the leash on my ankle pulling my surfboard along behind me like an angry snarling dog; a dog that was soon to turn on its owner. Spun end over end, I was completely disoriented. I was deep and there was no indication of which direction was up. The logical thing to do would be to follow the surfboard to the surface as fiberglass and foam likes to float. Unfortunately, my board was below me. Large waves continued to crash down, keeping me pinned where I was. Realizing I was trapped,

I thought, “This is it, the end; game over.” Well maybe nothing quite that stoic but my thoughts did contain a lot of words that just aren’t fit for print. Strangely, I was calm and detached; resigned to and accepting my fate, when suddenly I was at the surface, gasping for air, my lungs straining to catch a breath. The surfboard exploded from the water right next to me, the nose smacking my head while the fins bit deeply into my flesh. Any relief I may have felt was short-lived, I had surfaced just in time to be hit by another large wave, dragged under, only now to find myself caught once again by the rip current. I can’t say with any certainty how many times this scene repeated, spinning over and over again, lost in the endless hours of seconds until the sea finally released its grip. Exhausted and bleeding, I washed up on the shore, more a piece of flotsam than a human being; but at least I was still alive. Maybe I should have been thankful, jubilant, even joyous to be alive, but I felt none of these things. Instead, I felt cold, wet and absolutely miserable. I felt as if I had tried to tackle a freight train, albeit a very wet one.

After choking and sputtering for a few minutes, coughing up what seemed like half of the Atlantic Ocean from my lungs; I managed to drag my waterlogged butt further up the sand and away from the ocean. I was amazed to see that I was over a thousand yards away from where I had started. After checking on me, my friends paddled back out, eager to catch a few more waves before the full fury of the storm landed upon us. As for me, I was done for the day. It had been man against nature, and nature had clearly won. Hurricane Bertha took the lives of two surfers that morning; I was lucky not to have been the third.

Here's a few pictures of where this story took place.

This is the jetty at Bal Harbor Beach, FL

Haulover Beach is on the other side.

Click on any photo to enlarge it.

I did not take any of these photographs.

Aerial view from the Harbor House.

Just to give you an idea of what the surf can occasionally be like.

Nothing like a stormy day and cutting school.

These aren't very large really.

This is mild compared to the day of Bertha.

It was never this crowded when I was a kid.

R.I.P. Shawn

Nothing like a beautiful day and cutting school too.

Long Boards and Old Guys. We Rule!

The Loneliness of Exile

The stories down below are much better. Skip this part if you want. ;-)


The crash of cannons blared
The colors streamed and pennants snapped
And a bolt of bonny blue was tossed upon the wind
As these proud few, these brave and doomed
Men advanced through the maelstrom
Of angry metal bees darting overhead
Impale themselves in flesh to end their flight
While the grape rakes row on row of dead

Still they marched onward
And they raised a ragged cheer
As the shot poured through their ranks
And the canister fell near
The gods of war they raised a toast
And took comfort in their wine
Whilst mothers cried into their cups
They drank the salty brine

And in the loneliness of exile
With my sorrows pass the time
I'll raise my glass to absent friends
And walk that field a final time

Some bad poetry for y'all this time around. This piece is about an officer in the War of Northern Aggression who has lost his regiment and it is very much a work in progress, so expect it to change over time. Comments and/or suggestions, as always, are appreciated.

There's No Place Like Home

I just happened to be driving by when I saw these.

Click on any picture to enlarge it.
Down in Back Creek Valley. Demolished.
Same place as the above picture. 
Demolished.

It's just an explosion of color in the Fall.

Back Creek Valley

We spend a lot of time down at Back Creek.

A lazy day along Back Creek.
We get a lot of ice storms during the winter.
I can't help wondering what that spider was thinking.

Click on any picture to enlarge it.

Like I mentioned, lots of ice storms.

Somewhere on the Shenandoah River
Staring off into eternity.

Take me home country roads

These are all pictures that I took of the area where I live. It's beautiful here in the Shenandoah Valley. There's nowhere else I'd rather be. I'll post more pics as I find the time, and, incidentally, as I find the pics; they're scattered everywhere, and they're much nicer than these. Comments are always appreciated. Thanks!

In My Father's Footsteps

Every little boy wishes to be just like his father. I've seen this in myself, with my own children and with every other little boy I've ever encountered. A father's habits are acquired by their sons, both consciously and unconsciously, and thus, these little quirks of personality are passed down through the generations. Sons learn to become their fathers both figuratively and literally. Be careful what you wish for may be borrowing an old cliché, but the truth rings through, and, like any other bargain made with Fate, you often find that you get more than you'd bargained for. Little did I know that when my grandfather died, it would echo down the years with a sense of déjà vu at the death of my own mother, and I found myself relying on the behavior and lessons learned from my father, for better or for worse, some twenty-five years earlier.

I don't remember much about my grandfather; he was already very old when I was born and sometimes I feel a little guilty that I can't remember him more, or better. The memories are small things really, more like vivid thoughts; there are no color to these memories. A gaunt and grizzled old man in a dark suit, standing in the doorway; a crown of gray hair and that enormous Roman nose. The ever present sparkle in my grandfather's eyes that spoke to me of youth and mischief, even though those eyes had grown weary, wrinkled and tired. What I remember most though, was when my father took me to say goodbye to my grandfather.

My grandfather, the patriarch of our family, had been in the hospital for some time and now he was quickly fading away. I hadn't known; it wasn't the sort of thing that adults tell a five year old boy. My father told me when it was time for a final goodbye and he took me to the hospital to see my grandfather one last time. To the eyes of a young boy, the old man seemed to have faded to almost invisibility. The tubes and wires coiled around his body like angry snakes, writhing, living beings. I took tentative steps toward the bed, trembling with, not fear, but perhaps nothing more than the infinite sadness of a young boy's heart, for I knew, as those too thin arms encircled me and pulled me close to him, his large, bony hands tousling my hair, I knew that this was the end. I remember all of the love that had the heart of that little boy bursting apart at the seams, as my grandfather spoke to me, telling me to be a good boy and a great man; he told me of all of the love in his heart, and then he told me goodbye.

As I left the room, there seemed to be a shadow hanging over my grandfather's bed, a sound that seemed to be almost a rustling of wings, half heard and haunting, it echoed through my mind as I closed the door. Moments later, my grandfather left the mortal prison his body had become; the betrayal of time chiseled so evidently upon his face. And I remember too, the realization of true loss, even at that age. I'm glad I was there, thankful to have had the opportunity to say goodbye.

The world turns, a carousel; years pass, life rises and falls. I had acquired all of the accoutrements of a family, a wife and two sons. Life was good, or so it seemed. The idyllic peace of a Sunday morning was shattered by the tortured shrieking of the telephone. My mother was in the hospital, the prognosis going from bad to worse; she wouldn't be leaving. The boys weren't told much, an adult shouldn't burden young children with these things, but as my mother started fading faster, the children were told and offered the opportunity to say goodbye to their grandmother. Of course they said yes. I remember standing in the hospital room with my sons, when I came to the realization that I was the same age as my father, and my oldest son, Anthony, the same age as myself when my grandfather died. I watched in almost disbelief, as history repeated itself and the scene continued to unfold.

Dominic, my youngest son, gave his grandmother a quick kiss and a hug before running out the door with tears in his eyes, whereas Anthony, at age five, was different. I looked up and I saw the tubes and the wires coiled around my mother's body, once again conjuring an image of angry, writhing snakes; her too thin arms encircling Anthony and pulling him closer. I watched as he held her bony, frail hand in both of his, and it seemed as if she had shrunk; Anthony's hands seemed to envelop hers. I watched as he gently patted her hand and reassured her that everything was going to be alright. I listened to my mother's voice, thin as a reed, as she whispered to him of her love, told him to be a good boy and a great man; how she didn't want to say goodbye. I was so proud watching my stoic little man, my heart bursting at the seams. When we left, he told me, with tears in his eyes, "I'll never see my grandmother again." And in that moment, I knew what he knew, and I knew that he had that same prescient knowledge of death that has haunted me through all of my days.

Despite the many similarities between the two scenes, they were each distinct in their own ways as well. My grandfather's death was caused by a stroke, my mother's was caused by lung cancer. My grandfather died in the hospital, whereas, my mother did indeed make it home once more. She passed away, in her own bed, three days after leaving the hospital, but it wasn't her, it was just the shell of her body; that was all that remained. In a sense, my mother never left the hospital at all; the person that came home just wasn't her. Yet it's only the similarities that seem to play through my memory.

I'm not sure if my father or I made the right choice. Was I condemned to suffer the same fate twenty-five years later? Have I condemned my children and grandchildren to the same fate as my father seems to have condemned me to? I feel that I am not fit to judge, but it would seem that even a history remembered is doomed to repeat itself. I always wanted to be just like my father, my sons want to be just like me. I'm afraid that we've all had our wishes granted, for better or for worse.

Small Comforts

A decision is such a simple thing, a simple choice; a or b, yes or no. Even the acts of indecision, or refusing to choose, are, in themselves choices. Sometimes the decisions we make aren’t consciously made, but rather pure instinct, guided by the invisible strings and hands of some unseen puppet master; the hand and strings that guide us, subverting our free will.

I was running late for work that day, though not by much. I had been late for work quite often the past few weeks and I knew that even though I was a valuable employee, I was close to crossing the line with my tardiness. I had thought that I could make up the time by driving like a maniac; once on the road, it was nothing more than a straight shot to the top of the mountain and then down to the highway, where I could put the pedal to the metal and make up for lost time by speeding. As I reached the crest of the mountain, I turned right, picking up speed for the descent, when I suddenly had to apply the brakes, tires screaming, as I slammed into the seat belt, narrowly missing the car in front of me. Instinctively, I knew there had been an accident, but I was late for work and just did not have the time to stop and offer assistance.

Seeing the long line of traffic stopped ahead of me, stretching off into infinity, I realized that the detour that I would now have to take would add another twenty minutes travel time to my commute and I decided to get going before I would be in even more trouble for arriving late to work. Frantically, I turned the steering wheel, pressing the accelerator to the floor whilst busily cursing my luck as I pulled out into the opposite lane. That was when I saw the overturned SUV. Standing on the brakes again, for the second time in moments, I slammed into the seat belt like a fighter pilot maneuvering against a heat seeking missile, and I felt the straps cutting into my chest and midsection. “What am I doing,” I thought, “I don’t have time for this. I can’t afford to risk losing my job!” But it was if another hand was guiding mine that day as I turned off the ignition; unseen hands pushing me out of the car as I took off at a dead run down the mountain toward that overturned truck. That was when I saw the other vehicle, a rust colored car that I thought was a PT Cruiser, with the entire front end like an accordion, smashed against the side of the mountain. Seeing the driver of the SUV crawling out from her vehicle, I hurriedly asked if she was okay and she nodded yes and I could see that she was shaken up more than anything. I then made a beeline for the rust colored car, stripping off my work shirt so as not to damage it. What I saw when I reached the other vehicle stopped me in my tracks and froze my blood like an ice filled river.

I quickly circumnavigated the car, assessing the situation. I checked the driver first as he seemed to have the worst injuries. I could tell that his neck was broken as he sat there twitching, his head at an unnatural angle against the side of the car. I checked his pulse and it was faint and erratic. I knew that there was nothing that I could do for the driver and I then ran around to the passenger side of the vehicle to check on the other occupant. The man was conscious, but broken and bleeding; I could tell that he was quickly going into shock. I threw my work shirt on top of the vehicle and quickly stripped off my t-shirt tearing it apart for bandages and then removing my belt to use as a tourniquet, if necessary. The man had deep gashes on his head and right arm; I could not appraise the damage to his lower extremities because they appeared to have been swallowed whole by the gaping maw of the crushed front end. I started talking to him, asking his name and his companion's name as well; introducing myself; doing anything I could to keep him talking. I knew that I had to keep him talking and calm in order to keep him from slipping further into shock while I worked on his injuries. I learned that the driver’s name was Stefan, yet I cannot remember the passenger’s name; but I do remember the crimson arterial blood that was like a fountain. I bandaged him and applied my belt as a tourniquet, just above his elbow, slowing the bleeding but not stopping it completely. I yelled out for more bandages from the onlooking crowd; blankets, shirts, anything that I could use to bind his injuries, all the while keeping a running conversation with the man while I was worked on his many injuries.

I learned that they were both from Germany and were here in the United States on business. I don’t know how he managed it, but, the next thing I knew, he was handing me his cell phone, asking me to call the man they had been on the way to meet. When the phone was answered, I quickly apprised their business associate of the situation and asked if he could get word back to Germany, in order for their families to be notified. He assured me that he would do just that, thanking me before I hung up the phone. I put the cell phone back in the car and started talking to the passenger again, trying to keep his attention on me and prevent him from looking at Stefan. The man told me of his wife and children and his life back in Germany while I stood there and held his hand. I said meaningless, soothing things, assuring him that everything was going to be alright. I held his gaze with mine the entire time, while still attending to his injuries as best I could.

I don’t know how long we stayed like that; it seemed an eternity before the paramedics and firefighters showed up, but it was time to let the professionals go to work. I told the man goodbye, assuring him once again that everything would be alright, telling him to hold on. I quickly grabbed my work shirt from the roof of their car and ran back to my own. I had to get back home, call my boss, get dressed again and get back on my way to work. When I walked into my house, my wife started screaming, apparently, I looked like a ghoul; I hadn’t realized that I was completely covered in blood. My precious work shirt, which I had tried so hard to keep clean was destroyed. Seeing the blood all over me, everything that had happened finally struck home, hitting me with the force of a sledgehammer. I was beyond distraught and, quite possibly, in shock myself. I called my boss and explained the situation, and that I would be in as soon as I could get changed and on my way. Dy, my supervisor, asked me if I was crying and I realized that I was, the tears streaming down my face. Unashamedly, I told him that yes, I was crying. Dy told me to stay home that day and to just come to work as normal the next. Realizing just how distraught and exhausted I was, I agreed; I was certainly in no condition to go to work.

The next day, I went to work as normal. When I arrived, I found all of my fellow employees gathered around reading the newspaper. Dy saw me and asked me to come into his office where he told me that both men had succumbed to their injuries and had died. I was devastated; I blamed myself, thinking that there must have been something more that I could have done; something that I should have done and hadn’t. Dy insisted that I take the evening off and go home, so that I could work things out for myself. I couldn’t stop blaming myself, even though logically, I knew it wasn’t my fault.

It wasn’t until much later, and until after many long conversations with family and friends, that I realized that I had done the right thing. I had provided some small comfort to a man in his final moments and that was something to be proud of. I don’t consider myself anything special for any of my actions that day; I just did the right thing, even though initially, I hadn’t wanted to.

Growing Up the Neat Way

First and foremost, let me begin by stating that I am an unrepentant slob; always have been, always will be. I shouldn’t be this way, not after growing up in the white glove inspection household of my parents and attending military school for many years, but I am. Strangely though, I’m not always a slob; outside of my own home, I am one of the neatest, most organized people you will ever meet, and while sloppy at home, I’m still organized; I actually know where everything is in those mounds of paper and books that envelop my entire home office. Harking back to one of the oldest lines ever uttered by a parent, it’s my house and it’s my rules.

It wasn’t always like this of course. Once upon a time, I lived in a different house and under vastly different rules. My mother was, beyond a doubt, the most neurotic neat freak there ever was. A smudge on the refrigerator would have her get out the bucket and mop brigade to clean the entire house. Growing up in my parents’ home was like growing up in a living museum, and it certainly was. We were one of those families that had the showplace living room; the kind that no one was allowed to use, ever, under any circumstances. We had those horrible plastic covers on the couch and the drapes; antiques and artwork everywhere. One step into that room and the wrath incurred from my mother would be like having the flaming sword of God descending on you. I think that, perhaps, God may just have been a bit more forgiving. If you cleaned up any mess that you had made, it was imperfect and she had to reclean it herself. She would clean before the cleaning lady came and after she left. If toys were left on the floor of my room, I might as well have thrown them out myself. Even trying to keep my mess hidden and locked away in my bedroom was a failure. My mother was better at picking the lock on my bedroom door than a professional thief could have been. But what about my father, you may well ask. Dad was something else alright., he was a secret slob, one who’s many years of military training helped him in the arts of camouflage and subterfuge. My father had a secret stash of a pack rat’s nest hidden in the apartment above the garage; strictly man turf that my mother would not enter.

My father, the general, was almost kind of sort of a laid back guy, with the rod of military discipline shoved straight up his kiester. You would never imagine that outside of his job, he couldn’t even organize an expedition to the fridge for a midnight snack. Responsibilities? Bill payment? Forget it. Had that been left to my father, we would have lived as Neanderthals. Perhaps I’m being a bit unfair with my father. Dad was a highly decorated and terribly wounded veteran of World War II. Some of the things that poor man had been through and that had steeled his soul… he deserved whatever it is he wanted. The Air Force may have kept him around but it was more, I think, that they felt they owed him something. This was a man that had been through the veritable fires of hell and had returned, against all odds and he deserved a little slack, but jumping jehosophat, that man couldn’t bring himself to throw anything away. When I cleaned out his office after he passed away, I threw enough junk away to start up my own landfill; the junk seemed to be more treasured than the box of memories and honors that he had hidden away. Dad wasn’t going to be neat unless he was absolutely force to be, and while that may have been true in the main house, he was free to be a secret slob anywhere else.

And while I’m on the subject of secret slobs, it brings me to my tenure in military school; another home of enforced cleanliness and order. However, if you knew how to game the system, and I did, you could be a secret slob hidden under the very thin veil of neatness. For example, there was my footlocker, subjected to daily inspections. Everything in the upper layer of the footlocker was gathered in a tray and was always kept very neat and clean, except, well, don’t lift up the tray. Ceiling tiles above the bunk beds would hold all kinds of junk, and so would the locked dress uniform cabinet that I was expert at breaking into. In retrospect, I probably put more time and effort into hiding my messes than I would have spent just cleaning them up.

All in all, I would have to say that it was either the forced cleanliness and order or some kind of weird genetic mutation that has turned me into the slob that I am today. It certainly wasn’t hereditary. My sister and my brother both seem to have been bitten by the clean bug, although I do suspect that my brother is a secret slob just like my father was. It’s not that I don’t appreciate neatness, I just have more important things to do with my time.