Rock God Revisited

I want to tell you a story about someone.  Someone I was once very close to.

Sean was a friend once.  Hell, he was more than that.  We met on campus in 1992.  He approached me to tell me that my pro-choice button on my lapel sucked . . . but that he admired the guts it took to wear in Mormonville.  It wasn't long before Sean was giving my then-husband guitar lessons in return for tutoring in algebra.  My husband never did master the guitar, though Sean did teach  me the following fancy Allegro (no, that's not Sean playing):



My ex did manage to drag Sean through Algebra--a good thing, as Sean had already failed it twice and had no hope of finishing his degree without it.

When my husband and I separated in 1993, Sean and I embarked on what we affectionately called our "three month stand."  So called because there was no way we could have ever maintained a long-term relationship, so we went into it knowing it was only for a while.  Our politics, our world-views, and especially our relationship with intoxicating substances--none were compatible.  But Sean was fun, smart, impossibly tall, and had long, bleached-blond hair halfway to his ass.  Hey, it was the very early 90s.  Hair was still in.

Before you get any ideas about me, Sean was my THIRD partner.  The other two had been HUSBANDS.  He was my first AND last "fling."

For three months, Sean and I were together almost every moment.  I often blame my car accident, which really did do a number on my "impulse control" and ability to make rational decisions.  No doubt, that was part of it.  Sean had an ex-girlfriend, a toddler, and was only paying 25 bucks a month in child support while his ex (later his wife, even later his ex-wife) was living with (and being supported by) her hyper-disapproving Mormon parents.  We tangled often about that--about his being able to afford smokes and beer but not child support.

I remember one day, the ex showed up at Sean's (he was in a roommate situation with four other college students at a condo owned by the father of one of the students).  She was always nice to me, but always looked utterly wounded by my existence.  She considered me gravely, then said wistfully, "I wish I could be you--then he'd love me forever."

That poor girl.  Sean really did put off a shine that drew you, a warmth that made you feel you needed to be close.  I doubt it ended that way, but for a long time I think she was helpless to resist the draw.

For a few months, I hung out with the band Sean played with, learned how to run their sound board.  I don't say "Sean's Band" because it wasn't--they'd lost their guitarist and he was a hired gun.  They were called "Genghis Khan," and holy cow, they were derivative.  They practiced at an old farmhouse in the country.  Place was crawling with hundreds of ferel cats and kittens.  The vocalist was a Tom Keifer wannabe (vocally--looks-wise he was more a Sam Kinison clone), the other guitarist was so wasted most of the time it was impossible to get much out of him, the bassist . . . wasn't (they had no bass player), and the drummer . . . was sober and so much better than the rest of them. He and Sean should have started a band, left those losers behind.

Instead, he slogged along and fell deeper and deeper into the booze and drugs.

One day, Sean said he was really wishing he was back together with his ex, the mother of his lovely little boy.  I said he should go for it.  And he did.  Sadly, Sean had some serious impulse control issues.  He went back to his ex, I hooked up with my now-husband, yet Sean kept trying to get back with me.  Not for a long-term thing, but a "friends with benefits" arrangement.  He really just never could stop himself.  Something that haunted him all his life.

Finally, his advances became so enraging that I cut off all contact for years.

When we reconnected, it was via Facebook.  He'd gone through years of addiction, had flipped hot and cold hard-core religious (you know how the addiction thing can do that), but his politics had taken a hard swing left.  He admitted to barely remembering me--turns out, he'd been utterly addicted even then.  Most of that time was a blur for him.  We palled around on Facebook for a couple of years, but then he and his latest wife (not sure how many there were, at least two) fell apart.  It started with him taking responsibility, admitting it was his temper, his sarcasm, his drug use, but, as he always said, one of his greatest talents was turning things around on folks, and it went from being his fault to her being a faithless whore in record time.  It was all played out very publicly on his wall, and it was horrible to see.  Like a train wreck of meanness and deceit.

And then, because (he later admitted) this is what he did when things got rough, he turned on me.  And, to be fair, his other friends, too.  There was nothing special about me.  Because addiction circles so often fall into the "higher power" trap, Sean, seemingly out of the blue, went nutty on me over my atheism.  It was insulting, immature, unreasonable, and really quite shocking.  Like I said, "out of the blue."  My response?

I smacked him down so hard my hand is still stinging.

His reaction?

Shock.  He was stunned that I had come back on him.  Said that people usually just took it from him because that's how he was.  That was, in fact, the backbone of his apology:  this is how I am when things aren't going right in my life, and I am helpless to stop myself.  No promise to never do it again, just a wow, sorry I did that, I was out of line, but this is how I am.  Get used to it, because it's sure to happen again.

No.  No, I refused to "get used to it."  And I told him so.  Told him that I was sorry, but that, at my age, I didn't have a place in my world for someone prone to spontaneously erupting on me like that.  I didn't have what it took to tolerate abusiveness or drama.  I didn't NEED to tolerate it.  If he couldn't assure me that this was never, ever, EVER going to happen again, I was going to have to walk away.

He couldn't, and I did.

That was a couple of years ago.  Today, I opened the paper to come across Sean's obituary.

I gasped when I saw it.

Says he died of a perforated ulcer, and I'm sure that's true.  But what he really died of was a life of alcohol and drug abuse and an inability to get his act together in any meaningful way for any real length of time.  Apparently he'd just gotten a new job, was very happy, very optimistic.  But that was Sean--the same scenario played out again and again.  Like he was trapped, doomed to repeat that pattern until . . .

Until now.

Poor Sean.

And my son?  Well, he still plays that old white Ibanez (gone cream-colored with the years) I bought from Sean all those years ago.  Sean had two of them--he kept one, and the other wound up being my son's.  Is there some meaning there?

Probably not.

An update here:  the landlord is booting us, has given us 60 days notice to vacate.  This isn't an eviction--he says we're the best tenants he's ever had, has offered a glowing reference.  But he's selling, and he needs us out so he can do that.  Which leaves us utterly screwed and possibly facing homelessness.  Truly.  So please.

Colorado Floods and Mean Obituaries

So, Colorado and flooding.  What a terrible mess!  Terrifying, and the destruction is breathtaking. I'm noticing, though, that much of the devastation is being visited upon the very counties threatening secession.  I'm wondering how long before Pat Robertson begins shouting to the heavens that this is GAWD'S judgment for sinful rebellion against our leader (Romans 13:2) -- oh, wait.  No, he only does that when the victims of whatever perfectly explainable natural phenomenon are gay, uppity women, minorities, or democrats.

Silly me.

Weld County is one of those nut-baggy secessionist counties--or, rather, Weld County is unlucky enough to have a County Commission packed with the sort who object to regulations of firearms and oil exploration.  No reason to paint the entire county with that broad brush, right?  I'm sure not everyone there is . . . well.  You know.

And Weld County is utterly devastated--140+ roads closed (possibly washed away), oil pipelines and fracking operations damaged/leaking/otherwise compromised (you remember the oil pipelines--the ones the secessionists don't want the dirty democrats regulating?), and untold waste flowing with the flood waters.  Farms and ranches underwater.  How long, do you think, will it take for "we don't need no steenkin' liberal government interfering" to turn to "Please, sir, I want some more?"   I'll bet the relief/aid dollars are already flowing into Weld County and its ding-batty, "Patriots R Us" neighbors. And you know what?

That's as it should be.  Despite their stupidity, their hyperbole, their tea-baggery self-aggrandizing, they are Americans and Coloradans, and helping them is exactly why we pay our taxes to fund the very programs they hate.  The very programs that will now save them.  I'm glad to have my taxes go to rebuild their roads, I'm glad to know that my money will help Americans rebuild and recover.  Not the NRA's money, not Ted Nugent's money, not Halliburton's money.  America's.

That's part of what being an American is all about.  And I hope the secessionists of AMERICA take away that lesson, so the next time a Hurricane Katrina or a Super-Storm Sandy hits, they'll think before mouthing off about how New Jersey and Louisiana should have better planned for disaster, how it shouldn't be their state's job to help rebuild the Jersey Shore.

How they don't want/need those liberal dollars.

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Speaking of wingnuts and taxes and infrastructure, those very Colorado wingnuts might have some 'splainin' to do.  Turns out, when you refuse to fund things like dam and road and bridge repairs, they--well, they fall down and wash away in floods.  Funny how that works, huh?  

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Had a rather wild blow-out on my Facebook wall a couple of days ago.  I posted the latest "we hated you, Mom" obituary, and had a gentleman tell me that, regardless of the truth of the matter, the children should have been quiet, that their speaking out was "cheap" and "ill mannered."  He went on the suggest that the these children were probably just upset because they didn't get the cell phone they wanted for Christmas.

Oh, gosh.  You know how I get about victim-blaming.  About telling people they should shut up about abuse they've suffered because, gosh, we don't want to hear it.

To my credit, I didn't totally explode.  But this guy (who started out his argument with the "I put on the uniform to protect freedom" crap that's pretty much always meant to somehow bolster a weak argument or shut down dissent) kept arguing that HE would never do that, HE would never stoop so low, that even if HE were being beaten daily by lunatics, he'd never "air dirty laundry."

But Mark, it's not about YOU.  Who gives two spits what YOU or *I* might do?  It's not up to us to decide how these tortured children deal with the death of their torturer.  And publicly condemning, castigating, and "shushing" people is hardly "defending freedom of speech."  I'm glad you "put on the uniform"--really, I am, thank you!  My dad did, too.  But it doesn't lend your words more weight or somehow make you an expert on just any ol' thing you choose to weigh in on.  You want to talk to me about your MILITARY experiences, by all means, I defer to your superior knowledge.  But your knowledge of psychology, child development, child abuse, and the Bill of Rights?

Sucks, babe.

Here's the obituary:

And here's the full story, which makes it clear this was about just a titch more than bitterness over a Christmas present.

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I want to finish with a thought.  It occurred the other day, and it was a joyous thing, really.  I almost cried when it came to me.

You know the old saying that how important a thing is can be measured by the number of words or terms we have in our vocabulary to describe it?  I have dozens and dozens of endearing terms I use to refer to my beautiful boy, from "Spy Boy" and "Pie Boy" to "Binge-Bopper" and "Snug-Bupper."  He has been "Seanie-Sean," "Sean-a-Lingo," "Ringo," "Bump Majingo," "Buboes" (yes, I know what that means), "My Heart," "Mungo," "Muppers," "Budget Baby," "Kiddlie," "Mustard," and a whole host of others.  Because it's true, I guess--the more you love something, the more you seek to paint it with words.

Yam-Face

Every Kid Deserves a Frank

When I was six years old, I found myself lost in Ogden, Utah. Not lost like hey, where’s my house? But rather lost in that whoa, this isn’t my home, I’m all alone sort of way. I did a lot of sad meandering about, a lot of hanging out in my room with my toys, and a lot of dreading school because so many of the kids were less than friendly. All of this was made much, much worse by a father who hit and ridiculed, a mother who had a tough time getting out of herself long enough to care about her kids, and an older sibling who had no time for her clumsy, desperately sad little sister.

It was a rough time. Until Frank.

There I was, one long, miserable fall day, moping about the back yard. I heard a familiar noise from near the fence dividing our space from the neighboring yard to the south. A noise that made my heart leap and my eyes widen.

I heard a horse.

I crept closer to the fence and, sure enough, there was a horse. There were TWO horses, in fact. Two horses, and no humans to be seen. Being the timid, fearful child I was, I scaled the fence in seconds. I approached one of the horses (a blue-eyed vision named Zen, as it turned out), took him by the halter, and led him over to the horse trailer parked in the driveway. I climbed onto the fender of the trailer, then scrambled onto Zen’s back. No, I didn’t actually know how to ride. In fact, I’d only ever been on pony rides at Susquehanna’s Harford Fair before.

And Zen KNEW it.

He turned, blinked scornfully at me astride him, then wheeled about and merrily dragged me through the clothes line. I was scraped neatly from his back and thumped rather impressively to the grass, flat on my back. He considered me for a moment, snickered (I swear), then returned to his task of mowing the lawn with his teeth. I lay, sprawled in the warm grass, and gazed adoringly at him. It was love.

Imagine my surprise when, in the middle of this little one-way love-fest, two big, strong hands slid under my arms and yanked me to my feet. I closed my eyes and waited for the blow I knew had to come. My Dad had caught me. My Dad had found me screwing up and now he was going to slam me around until I cried . . . and then slam me around some more for crying.

But it wasn’t my Dad. It was my neighbor, Frank. Frank of the horses. My relief was only temporary, as Frank kept his grip on one arm and began marching me home. Oh, please no! The only thing worse than being caught by my father was being ratted out by someone who’d WITNESSED my stupidity. With my father, anger + embarrassment meant a whopper of an ass-kicking. I was dead. I was dead and I didn’t even have the strength to plead. I stumbled along beside Frank, knowing that this was it. This was the end of me. Frank pulled me up the steps onto our front stoop, reached out, and banged on the door.

Oh, please. Please.

My Dad answered, his eyes immediately narrowing at the sight of Frank beside me. He knew. He could SMELL my screw-up. And his eyes lit up with that manic glow—like they always did when there was an ass-kicking in the offing. Frank smiled, exchanged polite greetings with my Dad, and then it came . . .

“Would you mind if I taught your daughter how to ride horses? She seems quite enamored, and I think she’s got a knack.”

Wha?

I goggled. My Dad goggled. We both looked at Frank, sure we’d misheard. My Dad, ever hopeful, asked, “Has she done something she shouldn’t have? Has she caused you any problems?”

Frank smiled and shook his wonderful head. No problems. No trouble. Would it be okay, then?

My Dad agreed, reluctantly. What he really wanted was to clout me in the ear, but since that wasn’t going to happen, at least he could get me out of the house for a while.

And boy, did it ever get me out of the house! Every afternoon after Frank got off work, we were at the pasture, caring for the horses. Every weekend, every holiday, we spent entire days doing the things that must be done for horses. And no, this wasn’t some easy thing. I wasn’t even allowed out of the paddock until I could catch my own horse, do a good job grooming, mount up by myself, and pick my mount’s hooves. I didn’t get to use a saddle and bridle until I could care for my own tack, saddle the horse myself, get that bit in there on my own, AND correctly identify, on command, equine anatomy.

Yeah, I still know my hocks from my polls, my croups from my pasterns.

For seven years, it was heaven. For seven years, Frank kept me alive with trail rides in the Uintas, overnighters on Monte, and the occasional rounding up of the chickens just for fun. Even baling hay and souping out chicken coops was bliss. Because with Frank, I was competent. I was valued. I was possessed of expertise that was acknowledged and appreciated. I trained horses, I filled in muskrat holes, I even drained wounds, de-wormed, gave injections, trimmed hooves, and, as a crowning glory, I stitched up wounds. I wasn’t ridiculed, belittled, or ever, ever hit. When I mounted a horse, I was someone worth admiring. When I say that Frank “kept me alive,” I mean that in the most literal sense. Frank, Janith, Susan, Brian, Nola, plus Zen, SiSi, Fairy, Red Cloud, Tony, Musti, and Shahla. My life preservers.

I let myself be jerked away from Frank in 8th grade. I’d say, “Blame my bad-ass Camaro-driving friend,” but that’s not fair. It was me. My Dad was finally gone, and I was angry. Angry, and looking to show the world that I didn’t have to buckle to authority any more. No, Frank never told me, “I don’t want some drunken stoner hanging out with me.” I told myself that the two were utterly incompatible, and then I made my choice. I chose poorly. I remember watching with regret and longing as he would back the horse trailer out of the driveway in preparation for a fishing trip or trail ride without me. I never dared walk over and ask if I could come along. He might have said yes. I’ll never know.

Decades later, I sat down for a few hours and talked to Frank. About what he’d done for me, about the compass he’d provided that, even through my darkest druggie days, never failed me. About the scared, self-hating little girl I’d been, and how his heart had saved me. I told him that my greatest hope for every lost, lonely child is that they, too, find their Frank. Every kid in trouble deserves a Frank.

A year after that, Frank told me that he was done. He was tired, and he’d done everything he’d ever wanted to do. It was years since he’d had horses—a bad heart and arthritis had spoiled that for him. He smiled and said he was all tuckered out. It was time to hang up his spurs. Three months after that, Frank fell in his kitchen, fracturing his pelvis. He lingered a few months in a nursing home, seemed poised to come home when he gave it up and—well, he went home. He was almost 85 years old. Born in the long-gone town of Devil’s Slide, he was a Navy man, he was a lineman for the power company, he was a horseman extraordinaire, he was a conservationist before anyone knew what that was, and he was the best neighbor anyone in this town ever had. But more than that, he was my hero. He was my proof that men didn’t have to be abusive, sarcastic, or mean. He was everything I loved about this place, and he saved my life. He was my Frank, and I will miss him forever and ever.

That's me on SiSi (Cecil).  Ignore the awful 70s attire.