South I headed alone on my motorcycle. I needed to clear my head of this world and had enough cash for two weeks.

I was a left leaning non-practicing New York Jew. I was heading to Georgia where my father lived, then after, I’d be riding through other “southern” states like Alabama and Kentucky as I headed up through the Ohio River valley to my sister, then back home.

To be honest I was a little anxious about some of the areas I’d be riding through and sleeping in. “Man alone is easy prey.” Clint Eastwood said in one of his movies. And man alone on a motorcycle is even easier. Perhaps I would be indoctrinated into a clan or found dead in a farmer’s field or simply run off the road. These things have happened to others in the past. So I didn’t know what to expect.

After the visit with the old man in GA I headed northwest on state roads. It was raining in Kentucky and I parked under an overhang at a gas station to wait out the storm. I paid the forty-something skinny counter guy with the heavy southern accent. I nodded and didn’t want to give myself away.

I stood outside under the overhang sipping my hot coffee. He came out to smoke a cigarette and saw the license plate on the back of my loaded bike. I wanted to be anonymous riding through, but was no longer.

“You from New York?” I got tense at his inquiry and nodded slowly.

“No shit?” I guess they don’t get too many New Yorkers down there.

We started talking and the tension in my body eased.

I must’ve had four cups of coffee standing there talking to him.

“Git yurself some more.” He’d keep saying.

He told me about his family, gave me solid directions, about the upcoming town and some routes to avoid.

We weren’t northerner and southerner, just a couple of guys talking.

I learned on this trip that people generally just want to help, learn about others, and share about themselves.

Our conversation wasn’t political, or agenda based, and that is what I often find on the open road – people interested in each other. We are Americans, yes. But we are humans first. And humans are concerned with others, interested in who they are, where they came from, and well, where they’re going…

 

 

Softball and Zen are two ideas most would think are mutually exclusive – fat guys drinking beer and flowing meditation. Sure the waistlines aren’t what they once were, and reaching down to grab a grounder isn’t easy, but we still play with spirit. Running is definitely harder. There is no gliding down the base path gracefully. It’s more like, “Is that guy walking? He looks like he’s in pain.”

 

When I was a kid playing baseball, the game flowed for me with spirit and ease. I never thought about hitting to right field or left as I stood in the batter’s box. I just did it.

 

I now play softball in a forty and over league. I’m a little, a lot, slower, and I think, a lot more. Playing left field the other night I dove for one that though my mind thought I was moving fast enough to catch, my body knew I was not. I came up about two feet short with only grass in my glove. As the ball skipped by me to the fence, I wondered what happened. Age is what happened. Deteriorated skills. Ego. The center fielder close by laughed and enjoyed that we are all moving slower as he picked up the ball and threw it in.

 

Errors are a given in this league. Laughter a must.

 

My instincts used to dominate my fielding and hitting. I never judged what I was doing. I just did it and did it well, moving like a cat to my left or right in the field. At the plate I swung the bat like a Titan. Emotion and ego weren’t involved in the process.

 

Now the ball comes fast and I wear glasses and sometimes guess where the ball is going. Many I get. Some I don’t. I have to learn to let go and be in the moment. Because when I worry about missing the ball, I do. However, sometimes I miss it anyway.

 

My ego is demanding that I do better. It wants me to be as good as I was.

 

I try not to think too much about the pitch or what field I’m hitting to, not to be in the past or worry how I will look if I strike out or miss a catch. I have to get up to the plate, wait for the right pitch, and swing the bat hard. I shouldn’t play fearing mistakes, but play for the joy, camaraderie, and laughter. I will try playing for the Zen and flow of the moment, the way I always did.

Hi Mom, it’s me.

We haven’t spoken in a long time. But I got married. I know, I know, who would have thought, huh?

Yes, I even have kids now. Yes, they’re sweet kids. You’re very kind saying that they wouldn’t be anything else. You’d like Jessica. She’s the little one and is filled with love and laughter. She is pure light that kid.

And Jennifer, my wife, oh you’ve seen her. I think you would get a kick out of your daughter-in-law. Oh, you already do.

Well I wasn’t sure what you could see from over there. More than I realize. That figures. I know, I know, I never thought I wanted kids or a wife for that matter. But I guess things change. You’re glad I changed my mind? Thanks, Mom.

Oh by the way, happy birthday. I’m sorry I can’t be there with you to celebrate. Hopefully dad is with you and made you a cake. Though cooking was never his forte. I know, I know, he liked everything burnt.

Hard sleep comes in waves

Troubled men and events

Confusion and repetition

These dreams and events repeat

Until I wake

Nothing horrible is happening

Other than loss and waiting

The men with gnarled faces are waiting too

I wake not scared

but empty

There is an emptiness in waiting

I can scream and wake Jennifer next to me

and the kids down the hall

Instead I cross my hands under my head

not drowsy or tired

But awake in my emptiness

Awake in the clarity of this moment

I know nothing

Yet the clarity is filled with confusion

I am clear about what confuses me

I am clear about the present

It is a hard sleep when I wake with the alarm for work

It is not restful

I am not rested

For tonight I will have these same dreams of waiting

Of wrestling with these men

And there will be no answers

There is no escaping death. No one here gets out alive, as the saying goes. Tragedy is everywhere we live and breathe. The news media harp on it as if tragedy and corruption are the whole of our worlds and thoughts.

 

In my book Max Johnny, the main character Max is a powerful and famous writer. The love of his life is ripped away which sends him into a tail spin. It is this tragedy and test that shapes or destroys. It is killing Max. The lessons and experiences we have are never easy ones. But as Bukowski said, ‘It is how we walk through the fire that matters most.’ Because there will always be fire.

 

Max Johnny wrote about possibility, never defeat. In his personal life he appears defeated yet knows to keep fighting.

 

– – –

 

Near my home there is a large reservoir. I go there to think. It is a massive lake, quiet and serene, that inevitably spills over into a waterfall. The opposing forces of the placid lake so close to the chaos of the falls remind me of the push and pull we all live and fight with. It is our daily battle between the light and dark of our lives and which direction each day will take.

 

Last Sunday two swans at the reservoir paddled up to the drop off where the water picks up speed heading over the edge. I stood watching from the platform above. The water fell spraying and thundering two-hundred feet down onto jagged rocks. Yet the graceful swans calmly swam only inches from each other while moving slowly forward. The swans appeared to be no match for the sheer speed of the rapid falls pulling everything towards it.

 

They paddled at arms length from doom then turned with one foot to go as water rushed around their curved bodies. They sparkled in the sunlight with their white shining feathers unruffled as to what was happening all around them.

 

There is always doom on the horizon pulling at us: sickness, war, fools to endure, bills, political shills and hacks. There is always fire to walk through that rages in our thoughts and world. But in the end all that matters is how well we walked through that fire and how close we dare paddled to the falls on a sunny afternoon.

 

So I put on a costume to escort Jen and the kids. We drove to the good neighborhood with houses close together. As we drove I thought to myself , “another Halloween with no candy other than what I can persuade out of the kids.”

As usual when we got close I asked Adam to share some candy and he said he would.

We parked the car. I grabbed an extra bag for the kids in case one of theirs broke. Then I started walking and realized, Fuck it, I can get my own damn free candy!

At the first house Jen waited in the driveway as Adam and Jessica walked up. I followed right behind them with a thick beard that no one could mistake for a child’s.

Though filled with shame I pushed that aside in my desire to score some free treats. No trick. But with each successive home shame greeted me at each door as I said, “Can I also have a piece of candy, you know trick or treat.”

One older lady looked at me like: that’s sad and because it is sad, yes, you can have a piece of candy.

Luckily I was wearing a costume from an insane asylum that I had Jen write DERANGED on the front. So, I worked the angle that I was just let out.

“Yes, I’m deranged and was just let out after twenty plus years. My childhood was taken away…Trick or Treat.” I smiled with the bag out in front of me. The door answerer’s were usually not sure if I was serious. That got me a few more pieces.

That’s when the politically correct mom in the driveway thought I must be the kids retarded older cousin who still thinks he’s twelve, but in a man body.

“You must be deranged.” She swiveled and said as we walked by.

“I am indeed. Trick or Treat.”

Whatever the case I walked away with a nice stash of the best chocolate and sugary treats my money didn’t have to buy.

Halfway through the neighborhood Jen took over. Her hair was done like a crazy drunk woman who had fallen off a ladder and hit every wrung on the way down. Blond hair stood in all directions shellacked with hairspray. While the smeared black on her face made her look like she had been sleeping in the mud for the last three days until she came to.

Now I stood in the driveway awaiting her spoils.

I could hear Jen’s angle to the door openers after the kids got theirs.

“Moms need candy too.” She said and stuck out her bag.

At the next house, “Shameless mom needs chocolate fix.” I could hear her shame in each word spoken.

One old guy looked at her with pity. His wrinkled face said something like Do you really go out in public like this? At least brush your hair. He slowly placed the chocolate in her bag.

The shame didn’t defeat us this Halloween and we all went home with a bag full. Next year Jen will probably have on a different costume and brush her hair. I probably won’t shave, but we will still be shameless.