"The Storyteller"

Before people read this and start correcting me on dates, times, places and the actual Storyteller, please be advised that while based on a real event, I had fun with the story and made a few changes.

“The Storyteller”

I was working Renaissance Faire on the weekends, at the archery booth. Hawking the booth and helping the children and drunks to not kill themselves with a bow. Honestly, it was easier to teach the kids not to kill themselves, the drunks have a innate suicidal tendency which I never understood. I can't really complain because half the time I was drunk too, while teaching them, well maybe not drunk but certainly comfortable.

The hawkers would wander in front of the booth trying to get customers to come in, for the drunk men it was a matter of simply insulting them in front of their girls. I haven't remembered any of the actual insults, but insult their strength and ability to protect their women and men will pay anything to show you up. Yep, you taught me you big burly man you, you just paid $2 to shoot arrows at a target and win absolutely nothing but your pride back. Kids were easy too, you show a kid a dangerous weapon and they leap at the chance, you just have to convince the parent that you won't allow the children to hurt themselves. That isn't easy if you're wasted, but a few drinks and don't talk directly into their face and you got them. I hadn't thought of it at the time, but the one thing I considered embarassing was actually a great way to meet women.

We'd put an arrow in our pants and walk around yelling “come see the finest shafts in the shire, 3 feet of fine English wood guaranteed to always stay hard and always find the target.” In fact, several older drunk women in groups of other older drunk women would find this to be an invitation to touch my chest or attempt to reach in my pants. Young and dumb I was embarassed by this and didn't understand how much it had worked to my advantage.

This isn't the story about that though. It wasn't long after I started working those weekends I began hearing people talk about The Storyteller. “Is The Storyteller coming?” they'd say “When's The Storyteller coming?” they'd entreat. As I had never heard of The Storyteller, I would ask quietly “who is The Storyteller?” The answers were always vague, “I heard he might come”, “Maybe the last weekend of Faire”, “he's magic”. My interest was piqued, how could it not be, the vaguer the concept the higher the excitement.

Every weekend we the actors and actresses (aka the workers) of the Faire would have different themed parties after hours. The Faire would close, we would head to our tent to change into appropriate attire for the after hours event and then commence to getting drunk. The parties were fun and a way to let off steam after an exhausting day of pretending to like everyone. At each party, I heard mention of The Storyteller, whoever he was, he was mysterious and popular. It seemed the only person with no knowledge of the man was me.

Eventually, the rumors became more solid and we found out indeed The Storyteller was coming the last night of Faire. We could watch him on one of the many stages, though which I cannot recall now. My excitement grew with each passing week, The Storyteller was coming, I didn't know what it meant yet, but I was anxious to find out. Weekends came and went and finally the final weekend was upon us.

I could not wait for the last day to end, even though I knew I would miss the Faire and the people I had met and the beer, I could not wait one more second to find out who The Storyteller was. I got rather inebriated that day and in fact met my now ex-wife at some point during it. I joined the end of Faire parade and made my way to the May pole, I danced like I had never danced before or since. The excitement of the moment overtook my body, I would soon see The Storyteller.

I quickly ate my meal and made a few quick goodbyes with those that couldn't stay, then made my way to the area where The Storyteller was going to be. I sat with my girlfriend (not the woman that would be my ex-wife) on the hay bales that were set up for seating around the stage. The audience was tense with anticipation and I could feel the electricity of the moment in the air. People in groups spoke about the years The Storyteller had come in the past and how wonderful it was, but again nothing specific. Then a hush fell over the audience and as if by magic there on the stage was a man.

The man was rather non-descript, I think he had a beard, his hair was dark I believe, he was of average height and build I am certain, but I just cannot describe what he looked like. Then the man began to speak, he wove a tale of a dragon and a lady, or maybe it was a dark knight and a lady. It's funny but, I cannot seem to remember what he said, or what he looked like as I search my memories.

I do remember one thing for sure, he arrived at a part in the story when he required the audience to participate. First he pointed to the cloudless moonlit sky and said “There is no rain tonight, so we will have to create some for the story” then he gave us our parts, we would become the wind and the rain and the thunder that night for the story. Our bodies were his sound effect machines for the tale. As he told more of the story he directed us to make the noises, first one section then another and another, eventually we were in a storm of sound. Then as if on cue rain began to actually fall from the sky and he kept telling the story. As the story wound down, The Storyteller said “and the winds stopped”, so we stopped making wind “and the thunder no longer rumbled” and again we stopped making thunder “and rains no longer fell from the sky” he said with finality and as we stopped tapping our fingers on our legs, I looked up to see a cloudless moonlit sky and not a drop fell upon me.

I looked back down to the stage to find it empty, I didn't ask where he had gone, I was sure noone knew, if they did, I certainly did not want to know. The moment was magic, The Storyteller was magic, and that is really all I can tell you.

The Art Lesson

This story is completely fictional, but it is my way of telling my real daughter why a boy may find beauty in a girl that is nothing like her, but still like her.

“The Art Lesson”

I enjoy days like today, walking through an art museum with my lovely daughter Ariel. Ariel's mother and I split a few months ago and now I try to find things that interest both of us and today was a great day to visit the art museum, it was a brisk winter day and well outdoor activities in the winter aren't really something either of us find fun. This isn't our first trip to the museum and we both like looking at the paintings and sculptures and just walking casually hand in hand. I joke about her boyfriends and she teases me about my age or retreating hairline, but the smiles on both our faces betrays that this is all part of the fun. Yes, I truly love spending days like this with my daughter.

Today though I found there was a lesson in art that I had not ever thought of before, something I had never seen. There is always the “is it really art” lesson, that one never fully ends, because when you point to a Piet Mondrian and discuss how lines can be art, you end up looking at “Piss Jesus” and wondering where the line really is. Today though, the lesson came to me from the question of an innocent 10 year old girl.

The last time we were at the museum they were doing an exhibit on the Renaissance period, which happens to be my favorite artistic period. However this month was they were doing an exhibit on the art of the Early 20^th Century. With works by Picasso, Matisse and Duchamp being the focal points. I was standing in front of Matisse's “The Dessert Harmony in Red” which was on loan from St Petersburg and I was describing how beautiful I thought the work was. Well, I must have impressed how much I loved the Renaissance upon Ariel because she interrupted me.

“Daddy, this doesn't seem your style” she said questioningly

“What do you mean sweetie?” I asked completely befuddled by her statement

“Well, you seemed to love Giorgone's 'The Tempest'” she paused considering her words “and this is nothing like that.”

Well the child had me alright, those two pieces were nothing alike, plus the fact she could remember our conversation from last time blew me out of the water. I had to think of how to respond, because I didn't want to give the typical “all art is beautiful” lecture because she'd know I was lying. We had discussed that before, all art isn't beautiful, some art is intentionally ugly, some art is unintentionally ugly to me and to her. How could I possibly then lie to her and say all art had intrinsic beauty? Then I kind of just decided to go with my gut and just let out what I was thinking instead of thinking about what I should say.

“Well Ariel, I do find this painting to be beautiful as well as I do 'The Tempest'” I began slowly considering only whether I was being clear “I can love the Renaissance period and particular artists from that period, but I can also appreciate the greatness of Modern Art or something even as old as a cave painting.”

I paused for a moment “Art is like loving a woman or in your case a boy” I teased “I can find blonde women to be the most attractive, but still appreciate the way a brunette or redhead looks” I didn't want to leave her thinking that it was about looks though, so I knew I had to go deeper.

“However, the paint isn't always what you're looking at, when you look at art, sometimes you're looking at the brush stroke, sometimes the meaning behind it, what was the artist feeling as he created it, or what type of paint was used.” I took a breath “you see what I find beautiful in art isn't what someone else finds beautiful.” I looked into my daughter's eyes and spoke once again “Ariel, art is like love, because every piece of art has someone that finds it fits them personally, some day a boy will see your outer beauty and want to know every brush stroke that created you” she giggled “he'll want to know the type of paint and the emotions of your creator, but most of all he'll want to know you”. Today because a young girl asked a good question, we both learned what art truly is.

I Dream

I swear I'm not a religious writer, but this is another true past influenced story.

“I Dream”

There I lay in tears once again, on my belly because my back, butt and neck were bruised from the beating with the belt. “Why God Why?” I cried, I closed my eyes. I heard footsteps as they walked gently across the room, but it wasn't anyone I knew, the steps were different, they were faint, I looked to the door and there was noone there. I closed my eyes again, partially in fear, but also to see if I could still hear the steps. The steps stopped at the end of my bed, then I felt the comforting feeling of someone you care for sit down on the edge of the bed. I had no reason to feel comfort, I should be afraid, but I knew this was the way I should feel, it was good. A hand that didn't exist in reality rested gently on my leg and I heard a voice I hadn't heard in 5 years since my Mother passed.

“Jeffy” it said in an almost whisper “Everything will be ok”

My fear passed, as did my anger, my pain, my tears. I felt nothing but the joy of knowing someone cared. It was after this the dreams started though. I would dream of my sister who also passed in that wreck 5 years now past, she would speak to me and the words would seem like nonsense.

“Jeff, listen carefully” she'd tell me “the cat is on the stove”

Then days later I'd hear the words in my wakened life “the cat is on the stove” and something big would happen, I'd find a dollar, or “the door fell on him” and I'd stop just before the car sped around the corner. I always just knew that when I heard in real life what I'd heard in those dreams I was meant to stop and take note.

These weren't the only dreams I had now though, no the first one of the other dreams happened around Christmas that year. In this dream I was at a funeral, an old man I knew vaguely sat next to me and he told me it was his funeral. It was ok he said to look in the coffin, he wouldn't bite me. He told me his name and we discussed his life, then he took me on a tour of his home. The next day, I was home alone when the phone rang.

“Jeff is your Dad home” my Aunt Tina said from the other end of the line.

“No he's out” I said

“Tell him to call me when he gets home” I could hear the tears in her voice now

“Ok I will”

When Dad returned I said “Dad call Aunt Tina, Great Grandpa died”

You see, nobody told me he died, I knew, because Great Grandpa told me he died. This happened several times throughout my life, always a week or two before they'd pass a family member visited my dreams and we sat through their funeral, we'd discuss their life and we'd smile, never tears, never fears. I tried once or twice to warn them, Grandpa Bonasse when he passed had just had a physical, he was fine I was told. I don't question the dreams, I don't attempt to stop the death, it's inevitable.

One other thing happened after my mother's visit. I no longer felt the sting of the belt, oh it left bruises and I wouldn't feel good if I sat afterward. I just didn't feel it as my stepmother beat me, the first time I made the mistake of laughing as it happened and she broke the belt on my back as she used more and more force. I learned though to pretend I felt the pain, to scream out, to flinch, but I no longer felt the pain in my flesh that I had before. I had won the battle of flesh, she could not inflict pain physically upon me. Now, when I dream, I dream of the love of a mother so strong she came back even in death to conquer her son's hurting heart.

Satan's Soul

I need to start this blog by stating the following story is based on something that did happen to me, it is not necessarily true.

“Satan's Soul”

Once again I was grounded, tired of the constant punishment, I went to bed in tears. How dare she ground me again? I had been grounded for not finishing my meal in a timely manner, coming home with dirt on my clothes, stepping in the stream in the field by our house and looking at her with anger. At least one of these was what I was currently grounded for, but who knows what the real reason was, it just wasn't fair and I knew it. I had already been hit with the belt too and now I couldn't go play with my friends outside my yard.

I heard the hag's voice from the other room telling me to say my prayers and it was the intention of my 8 year old mind to do so. Oh yes, I'd say my prayers, I'd ask for just retribution, I'd ask God to smite her evil soul. Sniveling, snot dripping from my nose, cheeks wet with tears and anger in my heart, I knelt to pray.

“Dear God, I hate her, why can't you take her away? Please God, I'll do anything, I'll be yours forever if you just take away my grounding. If my Dad says I'm not grounded in the morning, I know I'll be your soul forever and if he doesn't well then I'm not. Amen”

I climbed into my bed, but I couldn't sleep, it wasn't finished and I knew it. I had done the good side of things, now I had to do the bad side too. In my mind I opened the conversation again, but now I was talking to Satan.

“Satan, if you can fix this give me a sign tonight at midnight shake my bed, if you do I'll be your soul forever.”

I could now sleep because I had completed both halves of the spell. I drifted off to sleep and my dreams were fitful, I was burning in a pit of lava, I was in pain and afraid and I wanted my Dad to save me. Then I felt the bed shake a little, I woke in fear, looked to the old digital alarm clock on the nightstand. The numbers were like fire in my belly 12:00 the backlit pieces of cardboard read mocking my fear, I shook my head, maybe I just imagined the bed shaking. The bed shook violently as if in response to my thoughts. I pulled myself into the safe corner of the bed, the one against the wall toward the head of the bed. My legs to my chest my body rocking back and forth, I began to chant.

“No I won't be yours Satan, No I won't be yours”

The bed stopped shaking and I prayed again, but this time from the safety of my bed.

“Dear God, please don't let Satan take me. Amen”

It was a while later when I heard them come home from bowling league, I'm sure they had a few drinks after with their friends. They tried to be quiet, but adults had a way of speaking in a hushed tone that just made it worse. I heard their laughter, I felt my tears, I rolled over and pretended to sleep as the door opened slightly and then closed again. I don't know when I finally slept again, but eventually I dreamt, but this time it wasn't nightmares, it was a dream of nothing.

I awoke the next morning to the smell of breakfast and coffee brewing as I did most weekends. My father greeted me in the hallway to the kitchen.

“Morning son, hey we wanted to tell you last night, but you were asleep. You aren't grounded.”

Never again did I ask God for a sign and never again did I speak to Satan.

The Hunter

The Hunter

I’m going to hunt today. I’m skipping out of work, avoiding my wife and going for a hunt. I’ve had this planned for quite a while, months really. Once I found the maintenance tunnel in the boiler room that lead out to the street, I knew I had to use it for something big. Today is that something big.

I woke early this morning as I always do on work “days” because I work the graveyard shift as the maintenance man down at the McGinty chicken rendering plant. Its light work and I can usually hide for most of the night in some corner of the plant that nobody knows but the maintenance staff, I can’t stand the smell of the place and often find I need a break from it. I hopped in the shower, but no soap, no shampoo, just cold water to prepare myself for my hunting ritual. I kissed my wife goodbye, then whispered in her ear “goodnight deer”, (my term of endearment is my joke about our anniversary being the last night of deer season) and left for work.

My heart is racing as I pull up to the road next to the plant and mix in with everyone else as they come in from the parking lot, filing past the guard. Tonight I made the extra little effort and spoke to Jerry the guard as I passed through the gate. I punch in, put my cell phone in my locker and walk quickly to my “office”, really just a desk in the corner near the tool locker. Mr. Rodriguez the floor supervisor came by as he always does right after the start of my shift and gave me a rundown of all the equipment needing attention. Of course boiler 2 was on that list and I told him I’d be working on that immediately. I say of course because I broke it last night, so I could fix it tonight, knowing that Billy Rowe the day guy couldn’t. Billy was an idiot and if he even tried to work on that boiler he would probably make it worse, fortunately I told him to leave it for me to take care of.

Mr. Rodriguez trusted me and would never even bother to look for me unless there was an emergency and in the rare circumstance that would occur I’d tell him I was out getting a wrench from my car or make up some other excuse. When he left, I move swiftly to the boiler room and in to the tunnel, out to the street and finally in to my car.

I drive as quickly as I dare to my hunting spot, which was on my land. I put on my camouflage; grab my bow and the arrows I made specifically for this trip. Moving through the woods silently to my hide, I catch my first glimpse of the buck as he ambles up the path. I wasn’t in position yet and so I had to pass up this opportunity. Everything has to be perfect for this hunt.

I sit back in my hide, and wait for the next chance. The moon is full and there is a gentle breeze coming up from the path I saw the buck on. I smell the smoke from my chimney. This concerns me only for a moment as I see movement. It’s not much, but I still see it in the corner of my eye. As I look I recognize it’s just a tree moving in the breeze and I focus on that path again. He should be moving out of shelter soon, he’s a creature of habit and I have his habits down to a science. The young male has been courting a female for some time now and all males know that we will follow tail to the ends of the earth. The female is bedded down on that path just ahead. He can’t resist the female and neither can I.

Time is running out, I need to be back to get the time stamp on my timecard. I force myself to relax, if the time runs out this was never meant to be. My hunt must be perfect, every detail has been accounted for. Then off in the distance I hear a snap, I look up, I see him. I see he has found his female, but she wanders back in to shelter. I draw back on my bow, a few more steps just enough to make sure he doesn’t make a dash. A breath, another and let it all out, then release. My arrow flies true, through the throat of the beast. He takes a step, then another and then falls. Not quite dead, but life slowly releasing its hold on him.

I move quickly to the buck’s side, silently so as to not spook any other wildlife. I cut his throat to end his misery, and then because I don’t have time to string him and gut him, I make quick preparations. I dig a shallow grave I’ll be back soon to finish, hopefully no other animals will be aroused by the smell. I want the carcass whole, but I take my knife and remove his ear, an old trick so that a hunter can claim his prize in case another hunter decides to also claim the kill as his. I pocket the ear and move to my staging area, where I toss the camouflage and arrows in to a pre-dug hole, once again so other hunters don’t steal. I put the ear in the trunk with my bow and boots, hiding the ear in the toe of the boot so as not to upset my wife if she decides to go shopping. I shower using a set of wet wipes.

I drive quickly once again to the plant where I slip in through the tunnel, just in time to hear the whistle. I turn a valve on the boiler and it is once again working as it should. I wipe dirt on my face and hands from the boiler room floor, don’t want to look clean and cause Mr. Rodriguez to suspect I was screwing off.

I grab my phone from my locker, clock out and head through the gate. My hunt was a success, my absence from work unnoticed, I walk to my car and drive home. This time I take my normal pace, blend in with the crowd. As I pull up on the dirt road to my house, I see red and blue flashing lights. My heart leaps in to my throat and I worry that somehow my hunt has been spoiled. A state trooper has me pull off to the side of my driveway and as I step from the car I ask “Is everything okay? My wife is she..?” The officer is quick to reply “sir your wife is fine, but do you know a fellow by the name of William Rowe?”

Damn it, I think to myself, I know that name, my mind races confused by the question. “Um sure Billy, from the plant.” I finally say. I laugh “What’s he done?”

The officer coughs slightly “sir, Mr. Rowe has been killed, he was shot with an arrow, his throat cut and then the sick bastard cut off his ear” and as if he just remembered “where have you been sir?”.

The hunt was complete, perfect and I knew it. I want to tell him the young buck wouldn’t be seen rutting with my doe in my woods again, I want to scream it to the world instead I hear myself say. “I….I was at work, had to fix the boiler tonight.”   

Foreign Exploration

Foreign Exploration

      I find myself within the exotic beauty of a foreign land. Exploring hills and valleys yet unseen by my eyes. The taste of perspirant salt upon the air. Moving southward there is dew on the coarse grass here.  I push through the damp grass to a cavern.  The musk of the cavern fills my nostrils.  I feel the moisture that covers the walls and bring my fingers to my lips and taste the sweet liquid of it's mysteries. Anxiety fills my body as I push deeper within searching for the treasure I know lies here.  I am either getting larger or the cave smaller for now I fill it completely. I force myself ever deeper, harder I push into it.  Then the walls begin to shake and contract around me.  If I am trapped here  I will die joyful, but I find myself being expelled from this dark enigma. Unable to prevent my scream of delight my body pulses with joy and I collapse with exhaustion, tears of joy stream down my exultant face.

A pain in my.....aka quityerbitchin

So, it occurred to me today that I don't really tell people my real problems, I mention petty crap, but most people don't know what's really going on with me, because I don't want to bother them with my problems.  This is a long time response to my life, I mean how many people actually know that my mother, sister and aunt died in a car accident when I was 5.  I don't talk about it unless it comes up, because my grief is long over and I don't want to diminish your grieving.

Today, I decided that some people need to know what's going on because they feel the need to whine about how crappy their life is.  It's not going to change their mind, but it just frustrated me to no end.  My response to your pity party is to overload you with pity party.

My mother died as already stated, but shortly after this my father married a woman who beat me regularly, she abused me emotionally, mentally and physically.  If I upset her I wasn't allowed to call her Mom.  Don't finish eating in 30 minutes, after the beating it was 30 days of grounding to the yard.  She made me wear a skirt for standing on my tiptoes, eat (chew and swallow) soap for cursing and for perceived comments that I might make, eat baby food out of a bowl on the floor like a dog because I ate too sloppily.  Their divorce was my fault, per her comments to me.

No shock that at age 13 I attempted suicide, the one and only time was a failure.  I have thought about suicide several times, just didn't have the courage to do it.  Then in the USMC I found I was severely depressed, mood swings were off the charts.  It took nearly a year to determine I had low testosterone or to be exact hypogonadtropic hypogonadism.  I can take steroids to increase my levels, but there is a chance of prostate cancer, so I don't take it.  This means I can suffer severe depression and anger.

About 2 years ago, I started feeling a tingling in my left leg.  A doctor finally diagnosed the problem as spinal damage.  The leg feels like it's constantly asleep, hypersensitive.  If I step on a stone my leg feels like it's on fire.  Sleeping with the leg has become a constant bother because I have to figure out how to lay my hip and leg just right every night.

At some point during all this, my wife decided she was no longer in love with me, she walked out on 10 years of marriage.  I don't have a home, I live out of my truck. My kids who I love and miss dearly live in Corpus Christi and want me home, but I don't have a home, I have no money for a home.

Here's the most important thing, I'm happy, sure I miss my kids, sure I hurt, sure I want to have a home and a car, but I don't.  I wake up each day happy I'm alive.  My pain is not the worst pain I know of, my mourning not the deepest nor most heart-wrenching, my loss not the largest loss.  I can go on because I know someone out there is in worse pain and could use my support, someone has had a larger loss and could use the $1 I can give them today.  Because I live, I am happy.  Like Andy Dufresne says in Shawshank Redemption "Get busy living or get busy dying."

I'm not saying your pain or depression isn't worse, it's just not the worst.  If you need medication take it, if you need psychiatric or medical care please get it.

Insomnia Sucks

     I have always had trouble with sleeping from time to time.  This never used to be a problem because I could always find a way to make up for the sleep later.  Now that I'm driving trucks this is a real problem because I don't want to be the guy that falls asleep at the wheel.  So, I don't drink caffeinated drinks in the evening, I don't eat sugary food before bed and still I sit here from time to time unable to fall asleep.
       The oddest thing about this is when I can sleep, I can do it at the drop of a hat.  I have absolutely no trouble at all sleeping at any hour of the day or night, I can even sleep in almost any position. I once slept standing up as a matter of fact.
      It was January 23, 1992. I know you're already asking how in the heck does he know the exact date?  Well, if you give me a second I'll explain, quit being so impatient.  I entered Marine Corps bootcamp January 20, 1992. To get to the sleeping standing up part of the story you need to know how I got to that particular day.
      If you've never been to bootcamp, and I'll assume you haven't for the purposes of this story, then you don't know that the first thing you do after getting off the plane is sit on the ground with a bunch of other idiots that signed on the dotted line.  Then a bus pulls up and you get on quickly and quietly, because the first thing you learn is to shut up.  Heads between our legs we were told to get sleep if we could, I could not because my stomach was doing flips and I was freaking out.  The reason they have you put your head between your legs is so you can't figure out how to escape from bootcamp.  Once you arrive a Drill Instructor enters the bus and yells, you run to some yellow footprints, you get yelled at some more.  They take you to a group of rooms where you either strip down and get dressed again in your new clothes, get a brand new haircut or make a phone call home.  Then they take you into a room try to convince you to give up all contraband you might have, admit to any drug use you didn't admit to before and essentially rat yourself out.  The funny thing is some guys actually admitted to stuff, which I was completely shocked by.  At the end of this night of fun you get to go to chow.
      Now we just finished day 1 it's January 21, 1992 and after you've eaten a meal in the proper manner, which of course you have never done in your life up to this point.  It's amazing all the things you haven't ever done properly in your entire life.  From this point you have to learn how to dress, how to march, how to salute, how to brush your teeth, how to address yourself (hint no I's or me's everything is this recruit), how to address Drill Instructors, how to shave, how to pee. What I'm getting at is you don't know how to do anything, every word you ever learned in life is even wrong.  A flashlight? No sir it's a moonbeam.  A pen?  An inkstick.  A door? A hatch. The bathroom? The head.  You know absolutely nothing, actually nothing is too much, you know less than nothing.  After doing all this with two more chow breaks at the chowhall, you might think your day is done but it isn't.  You now have to clean your new home known as the squadbay, which you don't do correctly and have to keep cleaning it all night.
       January 22, 1992 has come and you go to chow again.  You get yelled at some more and attend a class or two, but no sleeping or someone will smack you on the back of your grape or melon and you better not open your suck.  More lessons how stupid you are and a couple more meals and of course you now have to clean the squadbay once again, you don't do it right and spend the night doing it all over again.  Notice I haven't mentioned actual sleep at any point, that's because if you get caught sleeping you get thrashed, which involves pushups, jumping jacks (now known as side straddle hops), running in place and generally exercising until the Drill Instructor tires, which is half past never.  Eventually this day ends too.
       The next day we ate chow again and then it was off to medical (the doctor's) to do some tests, have blood drawn and finally get shots from a gun, not a needle.  They shoot a bunch of medicine into you with this nasty air gun.  It was then on January 23, 1992 that I finally fell asleep standing up, waiting in line to get my shots.  I know I was asleep because my eyes were closed and I was back home when I felt a horrible pain in my arm.  I woke up, looked at my shoulder and found that I was bleeding and that the nurse was now behind me.  That's the story, lovely as it is.
      For those with any interest we were finally granted sleep that night, but were awakened at an ungodly hour by Drill Instructors with trash cans and screaming and the lights coming on.  Guys on top bunks fell to the floor, those on the bottom bunks fell out just before the guy from the top bunk hit the ground which of course softened the top bunk recruit's landing.  Somehow a few recruits actually slept through the noise and lights and Drill Instructor's woke them up by tossing the entire bunk over, top bunk sleeper or bottom bunk sleeper did not matter.  I do miss bootcamp sometimes, I'm not sure why.

Why Do I Even Keep Trying To Blog?

      So here I am again attempting to blog, but let me catch up the loyal non-readers of my blog.  I'm truck driving, I've written a short story and have a few I'm working on and I'm a grandfather. Of course the most important of these things is the last one, my granddaughter the lovely little Xzaria Marie was born December 30, 2011.  I have yet to meet her as my job seems to be conspiring to keep me out of the Grand Rapids area.

      As to the writing, well I say I'm working on a couple short stories, a novel and my autobiography, but let's be honest, I've written a few lines and paragraphs in each and can't seem to move forward on any of them.  I think it's partially fear of failure that is holding me back.  I also don't enjoy reading my own writing.  When a friend critiqued my short story "The Hunter" (available on amazon.com) I was in complete agreement.  I am horrible at descriptive writing, I want to hurry the story along too much and I forget the little details like say describing the scene, developing the characters and working the dialogue.