It’s Thursday, January 01, 2009. Lorilee and I are taking the opportunity to drive three (3) hours south of our home to Muncie, Indiana to visit our friends JC and Rosie. Over the years we’ve spent quite a few summer weekends together at the lake. JC’s health has left him shut-in at his home in Muncie. By the time we met them, JC and his wife, Rosie were already in their early 80s. JC’s eye sight has gotten worse every year and he finally gave up driving completely in 2002. He has had to rely on his wife, of 62 years, to drive their 1967 ford pickup the 2 ½ hour drive up I-69 to the lake. It’s a good day to get away while the kids are sleeping off their all night New Year’s Eve party that they had last night with their church youth group. Lorilee and I brought in the New Year with friends playing cards and watching rock bands on the tube. We did plan to bring it in with a bigger bang this year, but, like usual, the party never really got off the ground. We talked it up big though, and in the process assembled quite an array of various alcoholic beverages. This morning I placed two nearly full Amaretto Liqueur bottles away, into the cupboard, right next to the nearly full bottle from last year’s New Year’s Eve party.
I feel good this morning; not so much because I don’t have a hang over but because I am on my way to see JC. I first met JC on the first Saturday in September back in 2001, just before 9/11 happened. We had just purchased our little cottage on the lake and I was out in the yard raking those pesky little leaves that large willow trees give up in the fall. JC startled me with his booming raspy shout that demanded my full attention. “Hey you,” he shouted, “You, come over here.” I came over to him quickly not wanting to disobey his commanding voice and wanting to begin our relationship on a good note.
As I neared JC’s position in his yard he pointed to the newly placed surveyor’s flag nestled in behind his old tattered white metal shed. Our property had been surveyed so that a title insurance policy could be issued to us. His shed was a beat up rickety piece of junk that had white painted metal for both its roof and side walls. All of JC’s possessions were clearly precious to him. As I approached him, he explained to me with a guilty look on his face that he was going to have the shed moved 6” to the west so that it no longer encroached on my property. When I got over to him I reached out and shook his hand and simultaneously shook my head violently. I made it clear in my own commanding voice that JC should leave his shed right where it was. The corner of his shed was welcome on my property and if I had anything to say about it that that shed would stay put right where it was.
As it turns out my accepting JC’s encroachment on my property was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made in my life. Things are very simple to JC and few things are more important than property lines. Property lines provide boundaries. People are free to do whatever they like as long as they do it on their own property. And property lines also draw the boundaries for feuds that existed quite often between JC and his neighbors. It also turned out that JC had been nursing a long standing feud with the lady that we had bought our new cottage from. And part of the feud was over the location of JC’s very own junky white shed. The husband of the lady we bought our cottage from, Fred, had been JC’s best friend for years until Fred died in 1998. When that relationship ended the feuding started. JC had bitterly refused to move the shed off of her property and I had unwittingly given him permission to keep his shed on her property. That decision started what became a long and deep friendship between JC and me. Kind of like father and son only we made a choice of it. And since JC’s shed was on my property we did not have the normal boundaries in our relationship that other people necessarily have to put up. As the normal boundaries collapsed we talked, about everything. And we made great friends. JC had abused his body and it was really worn out. He’d had both knees replaced and they were just not stable enough to bear the weight of his tall large frame for very long at all. But he liked to talk about the good old drinking days. And I enjoyed the listening. I’d bring up a couple of old empty bottles up from his shed, left there from more healthy days and we would sit on the bank of the lake pretending to drink while JC talked of his home days in the south of Alabama, about his short stint in World War II or about his 33 years as a union steward in the factory looking out for the little guys.
Over the years we’ve spent quite a few summer weekends together at the lake. As JC and I had few boundaries between us I could go over to his place anytime where he'd be sitting in his easy chair in front of the TV waiting for one of our talks. He couldn’t really see what was on the TV but he did like having the background noise. I’d walk past his cottage as early as 6:30 in the morning and hear him yell out in his raspy voice. “Brian, you there? Is that you?” I’d simply say, “It’s me.” And he would yell back, “Get your scrawny ass in here. Take a load off. You work too much.” And there I would sit and listen to JC’s stories about how things used to be. Then I would get up and go out and work around the place. It nearly killed JC to watch me work because he was too weak to help. JC soon gave me the complete use of his cottage and yard when ever he was not around the place. And I enjoyed the up keep work. JC would just have to sit and watch with a wistful look on his face. I wouldn’t let him pay me for mowing the yard. But he always gave the kids $3.00 and sometimes even $5.00. After the mowing was done we would fish from the banks.
JC loved to fish all his life but now he was too old and all he could was watch and listen. JC had collected 40 years worth of fishing gear. By 2005 he had given up the idea of ever fishing again. One day during the summer he just gave all of his fishing gear to my son Trey. We would sit on a bench watching Trey and his friends’ fish for bass, carp, or catfish. When Trey would catch a particul
arly big fish he would carry it over and show it to JC and me. And JC’s reaction was almost always the same. He would yell out Trey’s name in his gruff hoarse voice, “Trey, you are a good boy. I am so proud of you. I am so proud of you. I can’t believe how much you have grown. You are taller than your daddy.” And Trey would just stand there drinking it in sometimes looking sheepish and probably feeling a little foolish. I think I would drink the praise in even more than Trey. One day I kind of fell into a trance imagining the huge fish falling from Trey’s hands and Trey continuing to stand there before JC totally naked with the sun glistening down off his bare tanned back and shoulders. Trey, just stood there, totally naked, his skin soaking up the blessing; absorbing it through his skin, the loud spoken words of praise like a sponge soaking up water. “Trey, I am so proud of you! You are such a good boy. And so is your daddy. I am so proud of you.” And I knew the blessing had nothing to do with the fish or any other feats that we could possibly have accomplished. The blessing was just part of JC’s nature. He gave the blessing freely without even being aware that he was giving it.
JC got particularly sick during the summer of 2007. He and Rosie drove up to the cottage on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend. I met them at their cottage as they drove up. It was all JC could do to hobble into the cottage and collapse on his easy chair in front of the TV. Just walking into the cottage had taken all his strength. As he rested there, for a moment I could tell that something was weighing heavily on his mind. He looked at Rosie and asked her to find a garbage bag. She did and then he went on to tell me that he needed to get rid of some dirty magazines that he had in the shed so that Trey would not get into them. He proceeded to work his way out of the chair pulling his walker toward him. I told JC I’d meet him out at the shed. By the time JC had made it across the 200’ stretch of lawn to the shed he was completely out of breath. Rosie made her way around him and came through the overhead door where I was waiting. Rosie said, “Where, JC? Where do you keep the dirty magazines?” Lorilee, who had been putting fresh oil into the mower that we kept in JC’s garage, looked up as she heard Rosie’s question. Not wanting to be a part of this discussion Lorilee turned away and hurried from the shed. “Over there,” breathed JC weakly, pointing to a large white metal cabinet on the east wall of the shed. The cabinet was 6’ tall and almost as wide with full length metal doors. I moved over to it and so did Rosie. She was standing there holding the large black garbage bag firmly in both hands as I pulled open the doors. I few magazines sprang out and onto the floor as I opened the cabinet. It was stuffed, every shelf from bottom to top, with magazines. I immediately pulled out a few and dropped them between Rosie’s waiting hands and into the bag. The weight of just a few magazines weighed heavily on Rosie’s arms. I smiled at Rosy. She was a sight. JC had already gotten his walker turned around and pointed back toward the cottage, his mission completed.
Now the mission was mine as I looked down at Rosie. “This bag is not enough, Rosie. I’d be glad to help JC get rid of these magazines but I think I’ll do it tomorrow.” Relief crossed Rosie’s face as she let the weight of the bag sink to the floor. I pulled the overhead door shut and walked across the yard to our cottage wondering what I’d gotten myself in for. JC and Rosie were soon in their truck headed for home. The kids and Lorilee were in no mood to spend any more time at the lake and we headed for home that evening also. It had been a long hot summer. As I lay in bed that night I thought about the unexpected task I had received. It was something important that I could do for JC. But more than that the task was taking me backwards into a former life of mine; I knew this was a big task for me and was already weighing heavily on my mind. I’d guessed that part of the attraction between JC and I was our strong individualism, the shared distain for organized religion, and of course our vices. But I never could drink very well and certainly not as hard as JC did in his prime. I now knew the vice we shared; the penchant for exotic women and pictures of them.
The next day, Sunday, I made my way back out to the cottage to dispose of the task at hand determined to do it quickly and completely. I thought about the various methods I could use to get rid of the magazines. I thought for a bit about starting a bon fire but quickly discarded the idea. The thought of charred pictures of women in various poses and sexual gyrations floating about the neighboring barbeque pits and lake houses was too scary.
I started by sorting the magazines, hunting and fishing magazines in one pile, soft core porn in another and hard core porn in a third pile. But it was just too much for me. It was taking too long and I did not like where the task was taking me. I had to get some help and that help certainly could not come from anyone in my family.
I went home thinking that I would tackle the job again on the next day, Labor Day. I thought of my friend, Lyle. I called up Lyle, the next morning, Monday, Labor Day, to see how he was planning to spend his holiday. He told me that he would be home from his camping trip by 3:00 pm or so in the afternoon and that he would be free to take a ride with me. I didn’t tell him what I needed help with, just told him I’d stop in later in the afternoon to pick him up. I wanted to keep some of the demons in my past down and I knew that Lyle was just the person to keep me on the straight and narrow.
I’d gotten rid of sexual secrets in my past at least as much as they can be gotten rid of and I didn’t want a stash of some 400 exotic magazines to trap me again. Especially with a teenage son coming up; in fact it was Trey who had unwittingly helped me get back some of the freedom I enjoy today. When he was just an infant I decided that I wanted to be able to look him in the eye and swear to him that I was faithful to his mother. And now I could, look him straight in the eye and talk to him about anything that was on my mind. I’d talked to him about masturbation not too long ago. I wanted to be sure that he knew you won’t go blind if you do it. I supposed they stopped telling kids that many years ago but I just wanted to be sure that he knew. I told him that I hoped he didn’t do it too often though. I’ve heard that some men can do it 6 or 7 times a day and I know that can’t be a good thing. I’d ended up telling Trey that I hoped he could feel free to talk to me about sex or anything else. I didn’t have any high expectations that he would want to talk to me about sex though. It just makes me feel real good inside when he chooses to sit next to me at a basketball game. I did tell him that I liked the views of his youth pastor on masturbation even though I don’t know what they really are. I think I know his youth pastor well enough to know that whatever his views on masturbation are they will not permanately damage Trey’s life.
As soon as we got to the cottage I explained our purpose to Lyle and we both stood there trying to appreciate the huge stacks of magazines. I continued to develop the soft core pile noting that Lyle seemed to be having way too much fun with his stack. From time to time we shared stories or made a point concerning a particularly interesting magazine. I’d started a fourth pile for Play Boy magazines that were dated in the 1960s. On that stack I placed all magazines that were prior to 1970, that were in relatively good shape, and still had their centerfold in tact. Finally we were finished, but only after we had loaded all of five (5) bulging heavy duty garbage bags full of every sort of Men’s magazine into the back of my truck.
I’d also stashed my stack of Play Boys in the back seat before we headed for home. My task was not finished though. Lorilee wouldn’t hear of using our garbage service to haul off the magazines. I didn’t blame her for that. I could just imagine the talk among our neighbors if one of the bulging bags would happen to burst giving up just a few pieces of its contents. The next day I drove my truck into work garbage bags and all. I took a couple of the Play Boy magazines in with me just for a conversation piece. Those magazines were pretty tame but I didn’t feel real comfortable with them stuffed inside my executive desk drawer. But I had to do a little research on E-bay. I couldn’t bear the thought of throwing out a magazine possibly worth 100s even 1000s of dollars into a dumpster even if it is a magazine that exploits or even degrades women. When I did get on E-bay I did find that there is a thriving trade in old Play Boy magazines. However, the old magazines are not that rare and can be obtained quite easily for $12 or even $10 a piece. The first issue, I think it’s June of 1965, is the really valuable one and of course I didn’t have it.
Feeling a bit relieved I placed the stack of Play Boys among the other magazines in the back of my truck in a garbage bag. I called a friend of mine in Elkhart who is single and has a garbage service. He completely understood my predicament and agreed to help with the disposal. That evening he helped me unload the bags into his dumpster. We had quite a time joking about it and I was glad when I had rid myself of every last magazine. It’s a funny thing how something as ridiculous as a $3.00 magazine could completely control my weekend.
JC and I never talked about the job I’d undertaken again except for the few seconds it took me to assure him that I’d done it completely. I think I have earned a special place in JC’s heart because I helped him tie up a loose end.
Lorilee and I pulled into a rest area as we neared Muncie. She had grown a bit tired of driving especially after having such a short night of sleep the previous night. We both feel much safer when she is driving and I did appreciate the time she was giving me to write for my blog about JC. However, duty was calling and I finished the drive to JC and Rosie’s place.
As we pulled into their humble dwelling they were both standing there at the large picture window waiting for our arrival. JC was standing without his walker. He could walk around the house quit well without it. We exchanged warm hugs. They were ready to get on with our traditions. JC was going to venture out of doors today. The snow had melted and so he was willing to take the risk. He could not risk going out in the snow. The doctor had told him that one more fall and he would lose his leg and possibly both of them. His body would not be able to handle another surgery. With such a big frame just a little misstep and JC’s frame would be toppled over into a heap; on this cold New Years Day though they were ready to venture out.
To JC and Rosie there is only one restaurant in all of Muncie. It has become so for us too. That restaurant is Pizza King. We ate our Royal Feast in record time with one order of bread sticks and plenty of spicy cheese. JC with three (3) cups of black coffee, Lorilee water, and Brian and Rosie diet Cola. After the dinner we set out to complete anther task that has become our tradition. We pulled into the local convenience store for lottery tickets. As we pulled into the lot Rosie saw, for the first time, that gas prices had increased from $1.61 to $1.85 overnight. “Sheeit!” exclaimed Rosie, “Them god damned sons of bitches are at it again. Hell, raising gas prices for no good reason.” I smiled to myself as I hurried through the cold and into the convenience store. Rosie, the feeble white haired little old lady, her ability to communicate her passion was so endearing to me, especially that part of my Conservative Mennonite soul that, even to this day, cannot communicate itself clearly for fear of choosing the wrong four letter word. I purchased the lottery tickets for Rosie using the $5.00 bill she had thrust at me. I used to brag to anyone who would listen that I have never purchased a lottery ticket. Now I can only say that I have never used my own money to purchase a lottery ticket. I do enjoy a good Texas Hold ‘Em game but I can’t bring myself to take the bad odds that the local government run gaming establishments offer. Anyway, that’s how I know I’m part of Rosie’s inner circle; when she buys a lottery ticket for me. Rosie bought, JC, herself, Lorilee and me a single ticket. She carefully distributed each ticket, costing $1.00, to each of us. Then she proudly declared; “Now you can feel like a millionaire every day till Saturday night when they list the winners in the paper.”
We drove back to JC and Rosie’s home to wait for night fall. It was approaching 6:00 pm and darkness was upon us. JC began to settle in for the night. There really is no difference between night and day for JC except for the behavior of his beautiful black stray cat. The cat’s black coat was not always sleek and beautiful though.
A few years ago Blacky was a wild neighborhood predator that the neighbors said JC could never tame. But over one summer JC would sit on his porch and pour out rough insults down on the cat that he is so good at. But that stray cat must have recognized the same things in JC that I did. Eventually the stray would get close enough that JC could reach down and almost touch it. Rosie was the one who would set out a dish of warm milk each day but Blacky would never let Rosie get even close, only JC. Eventually, toward fall, Blacky took up residence on JC's lap for its daytime naps. Finally, when winter came, the cat made JC’s little house, its home.
Blacky is nocturnal. As night began to fall Blacky began its prowl of the house. It circled the whole house sniffing out each room in its low crouch. It always ended up circling JC’s chair. JC always kept his legs elevated, propped up by the sturdy arm of the couch next to his easy chair. And he is always careful to wear a double pair of insulated socks. The toes need the insulation to protect them since the cat does not let JC dose off too long. Every time JC would fall off to sleep for too long a sharp nip on the toe from Blacky brought him back to reality.
We watched a few home videos that we had brought with us from past vacations. JC and Rosie really did seem interested in the pictures. JC was only interested in the music. From time to time he would get himself up out of the chair and lumber over to the TV and kneel down within inches to see if he could make out a shape or two. Once he even set too dancing to a CCR tune until Rosie’s profanity sent him back into his chair.
Each time the large clock on the wall tolled out a new hour JC would begin a low monotone count that would crescendo into a loud bellow by the time the tolls were complete. That was his way of telling time and making sure the rest of us were also aware of its passing.
I sat up with him counting out the hours until midnight. Waiting. Lorilee retired, then Rosie. JC never left his easy chair. That’s where he spends 24 hours of each day staring out the window at the shadowy movements of cars and trucks as the pass down the busy thoroughfare past Ball State University. During the summer months, he is able to spend the warmest parts of the day closer to the traffic, on the porch. He can tell whenever a neighbor that he knows passes by because of their sound and never fails to yell out their name and offer a wave.
We did have the TV on watching the Rose Bowl and then the Orange Bowl. JC could not make out the picture; I could make out the picture but it was so blurry that I soon tired of trying to figure out which was the offense and which was the defense. Forty-four (44) players on the field with no penalty flags is just too much work. From time to time JC would tune in his 1960 styled hand held transistor radio. I’d brought him a brand new 9 volt battery and so that the announcer could come through loud and clear.
JC prayed for me once around 10:00 pm. He is the only one who can pray for me that does not cause the terrible feelings of anger and cynicism to come raging through my being. Even a pastor’s prayer often feels way too presumptuous for my troubled soul. I feel the presumption a hundred feet away. The feeling that we have received an inside position on the track. That the person offering the prayer understands more about what is happening to me than I do. The feeling that God is going to do something special for them or even me while leaving the rest of the world to its horrible fate. But I don’t get that feeling when JC prays for me. JC the man who held feuds his whole life now prayed before my very ears and even for those who might be wishing him ill at this very moment.
Finally Virginia Tech had made its final interception sealing the Cincinnati Bear Cat’s fate. I asked JC through the darkness between our easy chairs. “What’s next JC? What are you waiting for?” And JC answered, “I don’t know Brian, I just pray that God will let me live one more day.” I asked JC to pray a final prayer for me. And JC willingly did. “O God,” he pleaded, is his huge broken voice, “be with Brian this night and help him to rest. Keep him safe and just be with him. Amen.”
I went to bed and rested for a while next to Lorilee. Really rested, feeling safe, in a house where everyone loved me and wanted the best for me; where the only demand of me is that I work to be myself. And it is here that I can forget who I am, what I am about, and especially what I am supposed to be. It is in this house that time actually ceases and the clock pauses from its tolling.
The morning came quickly after a restful night. I awoke to Rosie’s clatter in the kitchen. We always have exactly the same breakfast of biscuits and sausage gravy with a few fried potatoes sprinkled in. As we began to dig into our breakfast JC interrupted again with his prayer of thanks to God. I chimed in with a hearty, “Amen,” with my mouth full of gravy as he finished. After breakfast Lorilee and I were ready to hit the road for home, anxious to get in some holiday activities with the kids before the old grind starts up again on Monday. We made our final good-byes hugging each other closely as we parted. JC broke into his prayer and Rosie gave us that knowing roll of her eye brows. JC prayed for our safety on the wintry roads. And I knew one of the answers to my question, “What’s next for JC?” A purpose of JC’s during his long wait is to pray for me.
I feel good this morning; not so much because I don’t have a hang over but because I am on my way to see JC. I first met JC on the first Saturday in September back in 2001, just before 9/11 happened. We had just purchased our little cottage on the lake and I was out in the yard raking those pesky little leaves that large willow trees give up in the fall. JC startled me with his booming raspy shout that demanded my full attention. “Hey you,” he shouted, “You, come over here.” I came over to him quickly not wanting to disobey his commanding voice and wanting to begin our relationship on a good note.
As I neared JC’s position in his yard he pointed to the newly placed surveyor’s flag nestled in behind his old tattered white metal shed. Our property had been surveyed so that a title insurance policy could be issued to us. His shed was a beat up rickety piece of junk that had white painted metal for both its roof and side walls. All of JC’s possessions were clearly precious to him. As I approached him, he explained to me with a guilty look on his face that he was going to have the shed moved 6” to the west so that it no longer encroached on my property. When I got over to him I reached out and shook his hand and simultaneously shook my head violently. I made it clear in my own commanding voice that JC should leave his shed right where it was. The corner of his shed was welcome on my property and if I had anything to say about it that that shed would stay put right where it was.
As it turns out my accepting JC’s encroachment on my property was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made in my life. Things are very simple to JC and few things are more important than property lines. Property lines provide boundaries. People are free to do whatever they like as long as they do it on their own property. And property lines also draw the boundaries for feuds that existed quite often between JC and his neighbors. It also turned out that JC had been nursing a long standing feud with the lady that we had bought our new cottage from. And part of the feud was over the location of JC’s very own junky white shed. The husband of the lady we bought our cottage from, Fred, had been JC’s best friend for years until Fred died in 1998. When that relationship ended the feuding started. JC had bitterly refused to move the shed off of her property and I had unwittingly given him permission to keep his shed on her property. That decision started what became a long and deep friendship between JC and me. Kind of like father and son only we made a choice of it. And since JC’s shed was on my property we did not have the normal boundaries in our relationship that other people necessarily have to put up. As the normal boundaries collapsed we talked, about everything. And we made great friends. JC had abused his body and it was really worn out. He’d had both knees replaced and they were just not stable enough to bear the weight of his tall large frame for very long at all. But he liked to talk about the good old drinking days. And I enjoyed the listening. I’d bring up a couple of old empty bottles up from his shed, left there from more healthy days and we would sit on the bank of the lake pretending to drink while JC talked of his home days in the south of Alabama, about his short stint in World War II or about his 33 years as a union steward in the factory looking out for the little guys.
Over the years we’ve spent quite a few summer weekends together at the lake. As JC and I had few boundaries between us I could go over to his place anytime where he'd be sitting in his easy chair in front of the TV waiting for one of our talks. He couldn’t really see what was on the TV but he did like having the background noise. I’d walk past his cottage as early as 6:30 in the morning and hear him yell out in his raspy voice. “Brian, you there? Is that you?” I’d simply say, “It’s me.” And he would yell back, “Get your scrawny ass in here. Take a load off. You work too much.” And there I would sit and listen to JC’s stories about how things used to be. Then I would get up and go out and work around the place. It nearly killed JC to watch me work because he was too weak to help. JC soon gave me the complete use of his cottage and yard when ever he was not around the place. And I enjoyed the up keep work. JC would just have to sit and watch with a wistful look on his face. I wouldn’t let him pay me for mowing the yard. But he always gave the kids $3.00 and sometimes even $5.00. After the mowing was done we would fish from the banks.
JC loved to fish all his life but now he was too old and all he could was watch and listen. JC had collected 40 years worth of fishing gear. By 2005 he had given up the idea of ever fishing again. One day during the summer he just gave all of his fishing gear to my son Trey. We would sit on a bench watching Trey and his friends’ fish for bass, carp, or catfish. When Trey would catch a particul
arly big fish he would carry it over and show it to JC and me. And JC’s reaction was almost always the same. He would yell out Trey’s name in his gruff hoarse voice, “Trey, you are a good boy. I am so proud of you. I am so proud of you. I can’t believe how much you have grown. You are taller than your daddy.” And Trey would just stand there drinking it in sometimes looking sheepish and probably feeling a little foolish. I think I would drink the praise in even more than Trey. One day I kind of fell into a trance imagining the huge fish falling from Trey’s hands and Trey continuing to stand there before JC totally naked with the sun glistening down off his bare tanned back and shoulders. Trey, just stood there, totally naked, his skin soaking up the blessing; absorbing it through his skin, the loud spoken words of praise like a sponge soaking up water. “Trey, I am so proud of you! You are such a good boy. And so is your daddy. I am so proud of you.” And I knew the blessing had nothing to do with the fish or any other feats that we could possibly have accomplished. The blessing was just part of JC’s nature. He gave the blessing freely without even being aware that he was giving it.JC got particularly sick during the summer of 2007. He and Rosie drove up to the cottage on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend. I met them at their cottage as they drove up. It was all JC could do to hobble into the cottage and collapse on his easy chair in front of the TV. Just walking into the cottage had taken all his strength. As he rested there, for a moment I could tell that something was weighing heavily on his mind. He looked at Rosie and asked her to find a garbage bag. She did and then he went on to tell me that he needed to get rid of some dirty magazines that he had in the shed so that Trey would not get into them. He proceeded to work his way out of the chair pulling his walker toward him. I told JC I’d meet him out at the shed. By the time JC had made it across the 200’ stretch of lawn to the shed he was completely out of breath. Rosie made her way around him and came through the overhead door where I was waiting. Rosie said, “Where, JC? Where do you keep the dirty magazines?” Lorilee, who had been putting fresh oil into the mower that we kept in JC’s garage, looked up as she heard Rosie’s question. Not wanting to be a part of this discussion Lorilee turned away and hurried from the shed. “Over there,” breathed JC weakly, pointing to a large white metal cabinet on the east wall of the shed. The cabinet was 6’ tall and almost as wide with full length metal doors. I moved over to it and so did Rosie. She was standing there holding the large black garbage bag firmly in both hands as I pulled open the doors. I few magazines sprang out and onto the floor as I opened the cabinet. It was stuffed, every shelf from bottom to top, with magazines. I immediately pulled out a few and dropped them between Rosie’s waiting hands and into the bag. The weight of just a few magazines weighed heavily on Rosie’s arms. I smiled at Rosy. She was a sight. JC had already gotten his walker turned around and pointed back toward the cottage, his mission completed.
Now the mission was mine as I looked down at Rosie. “This bag is not enough, Rosie. I’d be glad to help JC get rid of these magazines but I think I’ll do it tomorrow.” Relief crossed Rosie’s face as she let the weight of the bag sink to the floor. I pulled the overhead door shut and walked across the yard to our cottage wondering what I’d gotten myself in for. JC and Rosie were soon in their truck headed for home. The kids and Lorilee were in no mood to spend any more time at the lake and we headed for home that evening also. It had been a long hot summer. As I lay in bed that night I thought about the unexpected task I had received. It was something important that I could do for JC. But more than that the task was taking me backwards into a former life of mine; I knew this was a big task for me and was already weighing heavily on my mind. I’d guessed that part of the attraction between JC and I was our strong individualism, the shared distain for organized religion, and of course our vices. But I never could drink very well and certainly not as hard as JC did in his prime. I now knew the vice we shared; the penchant for exotic women and pictures of them.
The next day, Sunday, I made my way back out to the cottage to dispose of the task at hand determined to do it quickly and completely. I thought about the various methods I could use to get rid of the magazines. I thought for a bit about starting a bon fire but quickly discarded the idea. The thought of charred pictures of women in various poses and sexual gyrations floating about the neighboring barbeque pits and lake houses was too scary.
I started by sorting the magazines, hunting and fishing magazines in one pile, soft core porn in another and hard core porn in a third pile. But it was just too much for me. It was taking too long and I did not like where the task was taking me. I had to get some help and that help certainly could not come from anyone in my family.
I went home thinking that I would tackle the job again on the next day, Labor Day. I thought of my friend, Lyle. I called up Lyle, the next morning, Monday, Labor Day, to see how he was planning to spend his holiday. He told me that he would be home from his camping trip by 3:00 pm or so in the afternoon and that he would be free to take a ride with me. I didn’t tell him what I needed help with, just told him I’d stop in later in the afternoon to pick him up. I wanted to keep some of the demons in my past down and I knew that Lyle was just the person to keep me on the straight and narrow.
I’d gotten rid of sexual secrets in my past at least as much as they can be gotten rid of and I didn’t want a stash of some 400 exotic magazines to trap me again. Especially with a teenage son coming up; in fact it was Trey who had unwittingly helped me get back some of the freedom I enjoy today. When he was just an infant I decided that I wanted to be able to look him in the eye and swear to him that I was faithful to his mother. And now I could, look him straight in the eye and talk to him about anything that was on my mind. I’d talked to him about masturbation not too long ago. I wanted to be sure that he knew you won’t go blind if you do it. I supposed they stopped telling kids that many years ago but I just wanted to be sure that he knew. I told him that I hoped he didn’t do it too often though. I’ve heard that some men can do it 6 or 7 times a day and I know that can’t be a good thing. I’d ended up telling Trey that I hoped he could feel free to talk to me about sex or anything else. I didn’t have any high expectations that he would want to talk to me about sex though. It just makes me feel real good inside when he chooses to sit next to me at a basketball game. I did tell him that I liked the views of his youth pastor on masturbation even though I don’t know what they really are. I think I know his youth pastor well enough to know that whatever his views on masturbation are they will not permanately damage Trey’s life.
As soon as we got to the cottage I explained our purpose to Lyle and we both stood there trying to appreciate the huge stacks of magazines. I continued to develop the soft core pile noting that Lyle seemed to be having way too much fun with his stack. From time to time we shared stories or made a point concerning a particularly interesting magazine. I’d started a fourth pile for Play Boy magazines that were dated in the 1960s. On that stack I placed all magazines that were prior to 1970, that were in relatively good shape, and still had their centerfold in tact. Finally we were finished, but only after we had loaded all of five (5) bulging heavy duty garbage bags full of every sort of Men’s magazine into the back of my truck.
I’d also stashed my stack of Play Boys in the back seat before we headed for home. My task was not finished though. Lorilee wouldn’t hear of using our garbage service to haul off the magazines. I didn’t blame her for that. I could just imagine the talk among our neighbors if one of the bulging bags would happen to burst giving up just a few pieces of its contents. The next day I drove my truck into work garbage bags and all. I took a couple of the Play Boy magazines in with me just for a conversation piece. Those magazines were pretty tame but I didn’t feel real comfortable with them stuffed inside my executive desk drawer. But I had to do a little research on E-bay. I couldn’t bear the thought of throwing out a magazine possibly worth 100s even 1000s of dollars into a dumpster even if it is a magazine that exploits or even degrades women. When I did get on E-bay I did find that there is a thriving trade in old Play Boy magazines. However, the old magazines are not that rare and can be obtained quite easily for $12 or even $10 a piece. The first issue, I think it’s June of 1965, is the really valuable one and of course I didn’t have it.
Feeling a bit relieved I placed the stack of Play Boys among the other magazines in the back of my truck in a garbage bag. I called a friend of mine in Elkhart who is single and has a garbage service. He completely understood my predicament and agreed to help with the disposal. That evening he helped me unload the bags into his dumpster. We had quite a time joking about it and I was glad when I had rid myself of every last magazine. It’s a funny thing how something as ridiculous as a $3.00 magazine could completely control my weekend.
JC and I never talked about the job I’d undertaken again except for the few seconds it took me to assure him that I’d done it completely. I think I have earned a special place in JC’s heart because I helped him tie up a loose end.
Lorilee and I pulled into a rest area as we neared Muncie. She had grown a bit tired of driving especially after having such a short night of sleep the previous night. We both feel much safer when she is driving and I did appreciate the time she was giving me to write for my blog about JC. However, duty was calling and I finished the drive to JC and Rosie’s place.
As we pulled into their humble dwelling they were both standing there at the large picture window waiting for our arrival. JC was standing without his walker. He could walk around the house quit well without it. We exchanged warm hugs. They were ready to get on with our traditions. JC was going to venture out of doors today. The snow had melted and so he was willing to take the risk. He could not risk going out in the snow. The doctor had told him that one more fall and he would lose his leg and possibly both of them. His body would not be able to handle another surgery. With such a big frame just a little misstep and JC’s frame would be toppled over into a heap; on this cold New Years Day though they were ready to venture out.
To JC and Rosie there is only one restaurant in all of Muncie. It has become so for us too. That restaurant is Pizza King. We ate our Royal Feast in record time with one order of bread sticks and plenty of spicy cheese. JC with three (3) cups of black coffee, Lorilee water, and Brian and Rosie diet Cola. After the dinner we set out to complete anther task that has become our tradition. We pulled into the local convenience store for lottery tickets. As we pulled into the lot Rosie saw, for the first time, that gas prices had increased from $1.61 to $1.85 overnight. “Sheeit!” exclaimed Rosie, “Them god damned sons of bitches are at it again. Hell, raising gas prices for no good reason.” I smiled to myself as I hurried through the cold and into the convenience store. Rosie, the feeble white haired little old lady, her ability to communicate her passion was so endearing to me, especially that part of my Conservative Mennonite soul that, even to this day, cannot communicate itself clearly for fear of choosing the wrong four letter word. I purchased the lottery tickets for Rosie using the $5.00 bill she had thrust at me. I used to brag to anyone who would listen that I have never purchased a lottery ticket. Now I can only say that I have never used my own money to purchase a lottery ticket. I do enjoy a good Texas Hold ‘Em game but I can’t bring myself to take the bad odds that the local government run gaming establishments offer. Anyway, that’s how I know I’m part of Rosie’s inner circle; when she buys a lottery ticket for me. Rosie bought, JC, herself, Lorilee and me a single ticket. She carefully distributed each ticket, costing $1.00, to each of us. Then she proudly declared; “Now you can feel like a millionaire every day till Saturday night when they list the winners in the paper.”
We drove back to JC and Rosie’s home to wait for night fall. It was approaching 6:00 pm and darkness was upon us. JC began to settle in for the night. There really is no difference between night and day for JC except for the behavior of his beautiful black stray cat. The cat’s black coat was not always sleek and beautiful though.
A few years ago Blacky was a wild neighborhood predator that the neighbors said JC could never tame. But over one summer JC would sit on his porch and pour out rough insults down on the cat that he is so good at. But that stray cat must have recognized the same things in JC that I did. Eventually the stray would get close enough that JC could reach down and almost touch it. Rosie was the one who would set out a dish of warm milk each day but Blacky would never let Rosie get even close, only JC. Eventually, toward fall, Blacky took up residence on JC's lap for its daytime naps. Finally, when winter came, the cat made JC’s little house, its home.
Blacky is nocturnal. As night began to fall Blacky began its prowl of the house. It circled the whole house sniffing out each room in its low crouch. It always ended up circling JC’s chair. JC always kept his legs elevated, propped up by the sturdy arm of the couch next to his easy chair. And he is always careful to wear a double pair of insulated socks. The toes need the insulation to protect them since the cat does not let JC dose off too long. Every time JC would fall off to sleep for too long a sharp nip on the toe from Blacky brought him back to reality.
We watched a few home videos that we had brought with us from past vacations. JC and Rosie really did seem interested in the pictures. JC was only interested in the music. From time to time he would get himself up out of the chair and lumber over to the TV and kneel down within inches to see if he could make out a shape or two. Once he even set too dancing to a CCR tune until Rosie’s profanity sent him back into his chair.
Each time the large clock on the wall tolled out a new hour JC would begin a low monotone count that would crescendo into a loud bellow by the time the tolls were complete. That was his way of telling time and making sure the rest of us were also aware of its passing.
I sat up with him counting out the hours until midnight. Waiting. Lorilee retired, then Rosie. JC never left his easy chair. That’s where he spends 24 hours of each day staring out the window at the shadowy movements of cars and trucks as the pass down the busy thoroughfare past Ball State University. During the summer months, he is able to spend the warmest parts of the day closer to the traffic, on the porch. He can tell whenever a neighbor that he knows passes by because of their sound and never fails to yell out their name and offer a wave.
We did have the TV on watching the Rose Bowl and then the Orange Bowl. JC could not make out the picture; I could make out the picture but it was so blurry that I soon tired of trying to figure out which was the offense and which was the defense. Forty-four (44) players on the field with no penalty flags is just too much work. From time to time JC would tune in his 1960 styled hand held transistor radio. I’d brought him a brand new 9 volt battery and so that the announcer could come through loud and clear.
JC prayed for me once around 10:00 pm. He is the only one who can pray for me that does not cause the terrible feelings of anger and cynicism to come raging through my being. Even a pastor’s prayer often feels way too presumptuous for my troubled soul. I feel the presumption a hundred feet away. The feeling that we have received an inside position on the track. That the person offering the prayer understands more about what is happening to me than I do. The feeling that God is going to do something special for them or even me while leaving the rest of the world to its horrible fate. But I don’t get that feeling when JC prays for me. JC the man who held feuds his whole life now prayed before my very ears and even for those who might be wishing him ill at this very moment.
Finally Virginia Tech had made its final interception sealing the Cincinnati Bear Cat’s fate. I asked JC through the darkness between our easy chairs. “What’s next JC? What are you waiting for?” And JC answered, “I don’t know Brian, I just pray that God will let me live one more day.” I asked JC to pray a final prayer for me. And JC willingly did. “O God,” he pleaded, is his huge broken voice, “be with Brian this night and help him to rest. Keep him safe and just be with him. Amen.”
I went to bed and rested for a while next to Lorilee. Really rested, feeling safe, in a house where everyone loved me and wanted the best for me; where the only demand of me is that I work to be myself. And it is here that I can forget who I am, what I am about, and especially what I am supposed to be. It is in this house that time actually ceases and the clock pauses from its tolling.
The morning came quickly after a restful night. I awoke to Rosie’s clatter in the kitchen. We always have exactly the same breakfast of biscuits and sausage gravy with a few fried potatoes sprinkled in. As we began to dig into our breakfast JC interrupted again with his prayer of thanks to God. I chimed in with a hearty, “Amen,” with my mouth full of gravy as he finished. After breakfast Lorilee and I were ready to hit the road for home, anxious to get in some holiday activities with the kids before the old grind starts up again on Monday. We made our final good-byes hugging each other closely as we parted. JC broke into his prayer and Rosie gave us that knowing roll of her eye brows. JC prayed for our safety on the wintry roads. And I knew one of the answers to my question, “What’s next for JC?” A purpose of JC’s during his long wait is to pray for me.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteSounds like a neat friendship.
ReplyDelete