DADDY CAME HOME FROM WAR
I was so happy to see my daddy. People inside the airport clapped their hands for my daddy and the soldiers around him.
Daddy gave me a great big hug and mommy got a kiss on the cheek. I was so happy that we were all together again.
Days went by and daddy sometimes wanted to be alone or sometimes he even cried. Daddy had changed
Mommy and I didn’t know what to do.
Mommy and I always gave him a big hug. Daddy would tell us that he was glad to be back home.
One day we went grocery shopping. I could see that my daddy seemed nervous and shakened. He told my mommy that he wanted to wait in the car.
Mommy kissed him and said, “Okay.”
Mommy and me got the groceries and the nice man who worked at the grocery store helped us take them to our car.
When we got home daddy helped us bring the groceries inside our house.
After that daddy hugged mommy and me, and told us that he was going to the veterans hospital tomorrow.
The veterans hospital is a place where soldiers go after they been in the service.
Daddy got up early in the morning, and I watched Tv
While daddy was away our neighbors came over. They asked about my daddy. Mommy told me to go out and play. I went out to play.
Daddy finally came back home. I held his hand and we went inside.
My daddy looked at mommy and said, “It is PTSD.”
Mommy came over and hugged daddy.
“What’s PTSD?” I asked.
Daddy looked at me and smiled. “Post traumatic Stress.”
I looked at my daddy. “What is post traumatic stress?”
“It is when you experience something bad and your head doesn’t know how to take it.” Daddy answered.
“Is it like when I got my stitches or when I skinned my knee?”
Daddy smiled. “It is something a lot worse then getting stitches or skinning your knee.”
“Like what?” I asked.
Daddy padded me on the head. “Don’t worry about that now. What matters now is that I love you.”
Daddy and I hugged.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
FOR THE BEST
There was no smile from my mother as she poured another glass of lemonade. She had a lot on her mind the baby was coming any day now. I could tell. But still no one came to visit, and she hadn’t even start to knit wool socks for the new addition to the family.
I remembered what it was like when my little sister was born and my feet barely touched the floor at the breakfast table. Grandma’s number was beside the phone for me to call when there was a rush to the hospital. I would walk into the kitchen on a Sunday morning and see my mother and father embracing one another. I walked up to them and stretched my arms out as far as they could go to hold them both as I stood on my tipy-toes.
Now she stayed inside all day as if she was hiding. My father barely looked at her when he came home from work. He gave me a nod and cracked a smile to me, and he would spend the time before suppertime in the woodshed. He would sit on his handmade stool leaning in one direction in the corner while his hands covered his eyes like he was refusing to cry.
During supper I would make these monstrous towers of mash potatoes hoping one of them would raise their voice at me and send me to my room without any desert. My sister would look at me in admiration. I would then begin to tickle her and she would exaggerate her giggles demanding the same attention I was.
“Boy! Take your sister to the front yard and stay away from the river - don’t come in until the sun comes down.” My father scowled then tried to cover it up with a,”please.”
I picked up my sister from the highchair, and started walking outside. My mother stared at us in a trance slightly rocking back and forth with her hands on her belly.
“What’s wrong with momma?” My sister asked.
“Nothing she’s fine,” I said.
We played until the sun went down and the lightening bugs came out. There were more of them tonight then last. I walked up the front porch steps and looked back when I didn’t hear another set of footsteps close behind. My sister was trying to catch one. It was her favorite thing to do at night.
“Got one,” she yelled in excitement.
“Come on. We are supposed to go inside.”
Still holding the lightening bug she started running towards the front door her legs got the best of her as she fell to the ground. She slowly got back up with a concerned look on her face as she opened up her hand. The light that once flew freely in the darkness was now just sticky florescent glue. She looked at me preparing herself for a scolding.
“It’s okay,” I said as I smeared what was left of the flying illumination from her hand.
“Don’t let momma see that you have grass stain on your school dress.” I told her.
We went through the front door my little sister went straight to her room-avoiding momma.
There was a single lamp, behind the sofa where my parents were sitting; showing a silhouette of my parents crouched together on the wall. My father was caressing my mother’s hand staring down at her stomach containing another one of us. My mother was staring at the miniature rocking chair my sister could still sit comfortably in. The phone was off the hook and the busy signal was being ignored.
“It’s for the best,” my father whispered over and over…
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“It’s time for bed,” my father said, “brush your teeth I’ll tuck you in.”
I did what I was told not understanding what was going on with my parents. I stayed in bed staring up at the ceiling waiting for my father. My sister was in the bed next to me, and she was already asleep. My father entered the bedroom and surveyed the two beds holding his creations. He went to the window with the view of the river near our house.
“Papa…Papa are we going fishing this year?” I asked.
He cracked the window so a cool breeze could come in then he sat beside me.
“Yeah. Who loves you boy?" Papa asked rubbing his eyes.
“You, momma, and Jesus.”
He padded me on the chest, went to my sister’s bed and just looked at her as he covered her small body with the sheet. Then he left.
I don’t remember falling asleep, but I remember waking up to the shrieks of my mother. Suddenly, there was silence and a set of footsteps creeping down the stairs. I put on my shoes and my robe and tip toed out of my room seeing my father carrying my mother out the front door. I walked softly down the steps to the front door and waited. Staring out the window near the door I saw my mother was holding a rod in her mouth preventing her to scream, and to bite down on. My father carried her to his old rusty tractor. They boarded, my mother on my father’s lap as my father drove away in the direction of the river. I followed occasionally hiding behind a tree out of sight of my father’s eyes.
He stopped at the edge of the river. I stood behind a dying tree watching. My father picked up my mother again, stepped out of the tractor, and entered the river using a tree that was down from the last storm as a guide. My mother’s face was red, her eyes revealed a devastating pain, and her tears rolled off her cheek into the river. My father was talking to my mother rubbing her head, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. My mother spread her legs and pushed. I stood there behind the dying tree hearing my mother grunt and moan as she pushed for the longest time. My father held her against the tree that was disconnected from the ground. The newborn package, finally, came unwillingly.
I started to come out of my hiding place to see my new baby brother or sister. My walk became petrified, when my father took the creation with both hands and shoved it under the water. I remained frozen. They still didn’t see me.
My mother took both fist and started hitting my father shrieking, “ No… Don’t! Don’t!”
The determined look on my father’s face ignored my mother’s pleas his elbows were still locked. Then he let his hands up and started crying as one of us drifted away with the current.
There was no smile from my mother as she poured another glass of lemonade. She had a lot on her mind the baby was coming any day now. I could tell. But still no one came to visit, and she hadn’t even start to knit wool socks for the new addition to the family.
I remembered what it was like when my little sister was born and my feet barely touched the floor at the breakfast table. Grandma’s number was beside the phone for me to call when there was a rush to the hospital. I would walk into the kitchen on a Sunday morning and see my mother and father embracing one another. I walked up to them and stretched my arms out as far as they could go to hold them both as I stood on my tipy-toes.
Now she stayed inside all day as if she was hiding. My father barely looked at her when he came home from work. He gave me a nod and cracked a smile to me, and he would spend the time before suppertime in the woodshed. He would sit on his handmade stool leaning in one direction in the corner while his hands covered his eyes like he was refusing to cry.
During supper I would make these monstrous towers of mash potatoes hoping one of them would raise their voice at me and send me to my room without any desert. My sister would look at me in admiration. I would then begin to tickle her and she would exaggerate her giggles demanding the same attention I was.
“Boy! Take your sister to the front yard and stay away from the river - don’t come in until the sun comes down.” My father scowled then tried to cover it up with a,”please.”
I picked up my sister from the highchair, and started walking outside. My mother stared at us in a trance slightly rocking back and forth with her hands on her belly.
“What’s wrong with momma?” My sister asked.
“Nothing she’s fine,” I said.
We played until the sun went down and the lightening bugs came out. There were more of them tonight then last. I walked up the front porch steps and looked back when I didn’t hear another set of footsteps close behind. My sister was trying to catch one. It was her favorite thing to do at night.
“Got one,” she yelled in excitement.
“Come on. We are supposed to go inside.”
Still holding the lightening bug she started running towards the front door her legs got the best of her as she fell to the ground. She slowly got back up with a concerned look on her face as she opened up her hand. The light that once flew freely in the darkness was now just sticky florescent glue. She looked at me preparing herself for a scolding.
“It’s okay,” I said as I smeared what was left of the flying illumination from her hand.
“Don’t let momma see that you have grass stain on your school dress.” I told her.
We went through the front door my little sister went straight to her room-avoiding momma.
There was a single lamp, behind the sofa where my parents were sitting; showing a silhouette of my parents crouched together on the wall. My father was caressing my mother’s hand staring down at her stomach containing another one of us. My mother was staring at the miniature rocking chair my sister could still sit comfortably in. The phone was off the hook and the busy signal was being ignored.
“It’s for the best,” my father whispered over and over…
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“It’s time for bed,” my father said, “brush your teeth I’ll tuck you in.”
I did what I was told not understanding what was going on with my parents. I stayed in bed staring up at the ceiling waiting for my father. My sister was in the bed next to me, and she was already asleep. My father entered the bedroom and surveyed the two beds holding his creations. He went to the window with the view of the river near our house.
“Papa…Papa are we going fishing this year?” I asked.
He cracked the window so a cool breeze could come in then he sat beside me.
“Yeah. Who loves you boy?" Papa asked rubbing his eyes.
“You, momma, and Jesus.”
He padded me on the chest, went to my sister’s bed and just looked at her as he covered her small body with the sheet. Then he left.
I don’t remember falling asleep, but I remember waking up to the shrieks of my mother. Suddenly, there was silence and a set of footsteps creeping down the stairs. I put on my shoes and my robe and tip toed out of my room seeing my father carrying my mother out the front door. I walked softly down the steps to the front door and waited. Staring out the window near the door I saw my mother was holding a rod in her mouth preventing her to scream, and to bite down on. My father carried her to his old rusty tractor. They boarded, my mother on my father’s lap as my father drove away in the direction of the river. I followed occasionally hiding behind a tree out of sight of my father’s eyes.
He stopped at the edge of the river. I stood behind a dying tree watching. My father picked up my mother again, stepped out of the tractor, and entered the river using a tree that was down from the last storm as a guide. My mother’s face was red, her eyes revealed a devastating pain, and her tears rolled off her cheek into the river. My father was talking to my mother rubbing her head, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. My mother spread her legs and pushed. I stood there behind the dying tree hearing my mother grunt and moan as she pushed for the longest time. My father held her against the tree that was disconnected from the ground. The newborn package, finally, came unwillingly.
I started to come out of my hiding place to see my new baby brother or sister. My walk became petrified, when my father took the creation with both hands and shoved it under the water. I remained frozen. They still didn’t see me.
My mother took both fist and started hitting my father shrieking, “ No… Don’t! Don’t!”
The determined look on my father’s face ignored my mother’s pleas his elbows were still locked. Then he let his hands up and started crying as one of us drifted away with the current.
Friday, June 11, 2010
COMBAT
There have been several battles I have fought as a child. A battle for a child is what helps form their personality rather it is a victory or a loss. Some battles can be a small as sitting still during church, but other can be so big that the person will think of them for the rest of their lives. Need more in this introductory paragraph
I was in kindergarten living in a subdivision outside of Charleston West Virginia. In my neighborhood there were woods to play hide and go seek. Occasionally we played war. One day we weren’t in the woods we found a tree house in one of our friend’s back yard.
In those days I played with my brother, and I’ll neighbor across the street. I don’t remember what exactly we were doing in the tree house. I guess we were just messing around like kids do. Suddenly the neighborhood bully heard us. I don’t remember his name but I remember he had blond hair. On this particular day he had his bee bee gun which was a in the shape of a rifle. My brother and I weren’t allowed to have a bee bee gun.
He started loading it up. Then he started shooting at us in the tree house. The bee bees would either ricochet inside or hit the roof and bounced off. The three of us were ducks on a pond. I started crying hysterically. I think we all did. He kept shooting at us.
I looked up at my older brother with tears in my eyes.
“Are we going to die?” I asked innocently.
My brother wiped the tears out of his eyes, and whispered.
“When he loads again that is when we will run for it.”
We waited as he ran out of bee bees. Then he stopped shooting.
We stepped down the ladder and jumped out of the tree house running for our lives.
We didn’t surrender. We did, however, retreat.
Next in the fifth grade I was at Cherry Hill. It was called Cherry Hill even though nobody ever saw cherries on it. Sometimes underagers went their to drink and smoke cigarettes. Sometimes that was where kids would fight their nemisis of the school day which usually drew a crowd. The hill was usually used for sledding in the winter, but that day in Roanoke Virginia it was spring.
I was with a friend of mine, however my thoughts were distracted. A couple days before my speech therapist said I would never talk like the other kids. I was sure how I could tell anybody because I didn’t think they would understand.
My friend and I just had gone to 7-11 and our mouths were full of candy. The 7-11 was in my neighborhood which was considered to be a rich neighborhood. However when you first entered the houses weren’t as big as the once further up the street.
A kid came out with his brand new bike. It was a Schwinn, and it looked expensive. My parents bought me a Huffy, and it didn’t matter who I was with they usually brought it to my attention that my bike wasn’t as good as their bike.
That was how the rich kid made his presence known. I said a few words the wrong way (because of my speech impediment) and He started to mock me, and make fun of me.
It proved I would never talk like the other kids. I didn’t know what happened but I think the mocking on that day and all the other days mounted up. The words I couldn’t say festered inside me. Imagine wanting to say something but you can’t because you know either someone would not understand or they will mock you. Because of my speech impediament I was a quiet kid by choice even though I had usually had a lot to say. Eventually I took the rich kid’s bike and sent it riding down the hill without a passenger.
I was in awe at the bike when it went further than you would expect a bike to go without someone on it. Finally it hit a bump and went sailing in the air, and then came crashing down.
The rich kid went running down the hill. He dropped to his knees crying over the bike.
I actually started giggling. My friend asked me or whoever was listening.
“What is he doing? It is just a bike.”
There have been several battles I have fought as a child. A battle for a child is what helps form their personality rather it is a victory or a loss. Some battles can be a small as sitting still during church, but other can be so big that the person will think of them for the rest of their lives. Need more in this introductory paragraph
I was in kindergarten living in a subdivision outside of Charleston West Virginia. In my neighborhood there were woods to play hide and go seek. Occasionally we played war. One day we weren’t in the woods we found a tree house in one of our friend’s back yard.
In those days I played with my brother, and I’ll neighbor across the street. I don’t remember what exactly we were doing in the tree house. I guess we were just messing around like kids do. Suddenly the neighborhood bully heard us. I don’t remember his name but I remember he had blond hair. On this particular day he had his bee bee gun which was a in the shape of a rifle. My brother and I weren’t allowed to have a bee bee gun.
He started loading it up. Then he started shooting at us in the tree house. The bee bees would either ricochet inside or hit the roof and bounced off. The three of us were ducks on a pond. I started crying hysterically. I think we all did. He kept shooting at us.
I looked up at my older brother with tears in my eyes.
“Are we going to die?” I asked innocently.
My brother wiped the tears out of his eyes, and whispered.
“When he loads again that is when we will run for it.”
We waited as he ran out of bee bees. Then he stopped shooting.
We stepped down the ladder and jumped out of the tree house running for our lives.
We didn’t surrender. We did, however, retreat.
Next in the fifth grade I was at Cherry Hill. It was called Cherry Hill even though nobody ever saw cherries on it. Sometimes underagers went their to drink and smoke cigarettes. Sometimes that was where kids would fight their nemisis of the school day which usually drew a crowd. The hill was usually used for sledding in the winter, but that day in Roanoke Virginia it was spring.
I was with a friend of mine, however my thoughts were distracted. A couple days before my speech therapist said I would never talk like the other kids. I was sure how I could tell anybody because I didn’t think they would understand.
My friend and I just had gone to 7-11 and our mouths were full of candy. The 7-11 was in my neighborhood which was considered to be a rich neighborhood. However when you first entered the houses weren’t as big as the once further up the street.
A kid came out with his brand new bike. It was a Schwinn, and it looked expensive. My parents bought me a Huffy, and it didn’t matter who I was with they usually brought it to my attention that my bike wasn’t as good as their bike.
That was how the rich kid made his presence known. I said a few words the wrong way (because of my speech impediment) and He started to mock me, and make fun of me.
It proved I would never talk like the other kids. I didn’t know what happened but I think the mocking on that day and all the other days mounted up. The words I couldn’t say festered inside me. Imagine wanting to say something but you can’t because you know either someone would not understand or they will mock you. Because of my speech impediament I was a quiet kid by choice even though I had usually had a lot to say. Eventually I took the rich kid’s bike and sent it riding down the hill without a passenger.
I was in awe at the bike when it went further than you would expect a bike to go without someone on it. Finally it hit a bump and went sailing in the air, and then came crashing down.
The rich kid went running down the hill. He dropped to his knees crying over the bike.
I actually started giggling. My friend asked me or whoever was listening.
“What is he doing? It is just a bike.”
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
FOOTBALL AT THE FIRESTATION
It was a routine for us living in South Roanoke Virginia. Friday football at the fire station. Some of us had to go home first to change into our play clothes but others came as is. We were between the ages of watching Saturday morning cartoons and having girlfriends. However when Billy played there was usually a pack of girls watching him. He would either show off or leave the game to go with them to 7-11.
The fire station had a long triangle shaped field on the side of it. The field separated two streets. One went one way and the other went another. The grassy villa didn’t have very many bare spots except for a dusty one closer to the station. We probably created it.
First things first choosing captains. There were two, and if Landon was playing you could bet that the first captain was going to pick him, and that team would win.
Landon was quick and he was an equipped football player, but his passion was the gentlemen’s game known as soccer. He often treated the football we were using as a soccer ball. He would juggle it on his knees and feet like soccer players do with a round soccer ball.
In school there was the popular crowd but at the fire station the only boundaries were the curbs. If you went into the street you would be considered out of bounds. Despite my mom asking me to make the game two hand touch; it was tackle- a rite of passage for us white boys living in the good part of town.
James was new to the game of football. For this reason we ordered him not to play quarterback, and when it came to catching passes, his hands were made of stone. His defense was in your face like a rodeo clown to a bull. His schoolboy exterior would quickly turn in to a ravage mad man. Some of us just thought it was funny to watch him play.
On a good day it was 5 against 5. On others the older kids would come and play ignoring us and just throwing the ball to their friends. Occasionally the fire fighters would come out and play quarterback for bother teams, but that only happened once in a blue moon.
Sometimes our true colors would come out. When big Dan was playing it took three to four of us to bring him down to the ground. Some would just watch not wanting to get hurt and others would join in.
Sometimes what ever was bothering the individual would come out. He would play harder or would start to cry. Trace started to cry one day. His face was red, and tears were pouring out of his eyes. I didn’t know if he was hurt from the last play or what so I asked.
He dried the tears for a second to answer.
“I am just thinking about my parents.”
His parents were divorced. He lived with his dad, and is mom lived in another state.
In South Roanoke a lot of the boys playing had divorce parents. It was like there was something in the water. My parents were still together so I didn’t know what to say to him. I just knew that there was a football game being played.
“Come on Trace; get your head in the game. Let’s keep going.”
Was that right? I didn’t know what to say. He later tackled Landon after a one yard gain. Everything seemed to be fine maybe even better.
We played football until we got too tired to stand up or when it was just before dinner. Some of the boys stayed back to throw around the football unless the football was going home with who ever brought it that day. I look down at my cuts and bruises that I got that day, and saw them as a badge of honor.
Now we are all adults successful in our own way. Some of us have moved out of the neighborhood. Sometimes we remince the days we would just throw our book bags down somewhere on a Friday and run to the fire station.
It was a routine for us living in South Roanoke Virginia. Friday football at the fire station. Some of us had to go home first to change into our play clothes but others came as is. We were between the ages of watching Saturday morning cartoons and having girlfriends. However when Billy played there was usually a pack of girls watching him. He would either show off or leave the game to go with them to 7-11.
The fire station had a long triangle shaped field on the side of it. The field separated two streets. One went one way and the other went another. The grassy villa didn’t have very many bare spots except for a dusty one closer to the station. We probably created it.
First things first choosing captains. There were two, and if Landon was playing you could bet that the first captain was going to pick him, and that team would win.
Landon was quick and he was an equipped football player, but his passion was the gentlemen’s game known as soccer. He often treated the football we were using as a soccer ball. He would juggle it on his knees and feet like soccer players do with a round soccer ball.
In school there was the popular crowd but at the fire station the only boundaries were the curbs. If you went into the street you would be considered out of bounds. Despite my mom asking me to make the game two hand touch; it was tackle- a rite of passage for us white boys living in the good part of town.
James was new to the game of football. For this reason we ordered him not to play quarterback, and when it came to catching passes, his hands were made of stone. His defense was in your face like a rodeo clown to a bull. His schoolboy exterior would quickly turn in to a ravage mad man. Some of us just thought it was funny to watch him play.
On a good day it was 5 against 5. On others the older kids would come and play ignoring us and just throwing the ball to their friends. Occasionally the fire fighters would come out and play quarterback for bother teams, but that only happened once in a blue moon.
Sometimes our true colors would come out. When big Dan was playing it took three to four of us to bring him down to the ground. Some would just watch not wanting to get hurt and others would join in.
Sometimes what ever was bothering the individual would come out. He would play harder or would start to cry. Trace started to cry one day. His face was red, and tears were pouring out of his eyes. I didn’t know if he was hurt from the last play or what so I asked.
He dried the tears for a second to answer.
“I am just thinking about my parents.”
His parents were divorced. He lived with his dad, and is mom lived in another state.
In South Roanoke a lot of the boys playing had divorce parents. It was like there was something in the water. My parents were still together so I didn’t know what to say to him. I just knew that there was a football game being played.
“Come on Trace; get your head in the game. Let’s keep going.”
Was that right? I didn’t know what to say. He later tackled Landon after a one yard gain. Everything seemed to be fine maybe even better.
We played football until we got too tired to stand up or when it was just before dinner. Some of the boys stayed back to throw around the football unless the football was going home with who ever brought it that day. I look down at my cuts and bruises that I got that day, and saw them as a badge of honor.
Now we are all adults successful in our own way. Some of us have moved out of the neighborhood. Sometimes we remince the days we would just throw our book bags down somewhere on a Friday and run to the fire station.
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