Great Hair Day (more Esplanade Manor Era '90s crap)

You know what?

Fuck it, cause I'm having a great hair day. At least I got that. I need not tell you that in today's emotional currency it is equal to a malted milkshake, a cigarette, a small bong toke. Nice.

Like I said, it's a great hair day as I see it for a couple of reasons: 

1) I can get a fine tooth comb through it.

2) It has a shiny, bouncy appearance, quite unlike its usual mosquito nest of dried coyote thistle. 

3) Jesus himself would have been happy with the peace, love and understanding generated by my flowing amber locks.

4) Why the hell not feel good about something when everything else seems so wrong.

Like my $4.50 hr. job at the Esplanade Manor (for the mentally ill, it is understood locally). And my luck (or lack of it) with females--and I've tried, goddammit, really I have.

Like the Adventuress Wanted dual ads in the Chico and Sacramento News and Reviews.

Like the Adventuress Wanted sign with phone number posted in the window of my travelling Green Metal Army Van Camper.

Like the emotionally suicidal letter to Wreath, with whom I will have to work forever knowing that she knows that I know that she knows that I want to fuck her like a bandit.

Like all my admirers being mentally ill. And you can't date the mentally ill.

Although, within their own society no one wants for sex for long. It is paid for with cigarettes, coffee & lifelong mementos. It is sad to see some people part with their durable goods for something so cheap, almost without value but precisely beyond value, like the rise and decimation of some crazy postwar European economy.

Masturbation is free. Always will be. You know that’s one thing the Bush Administration really hasn't tapped. Like Abstinence. Hey! Masturbation, it's the right thing to do. Yah! We going to show you how to POMP YOUSELF UP.

And all those uncomfortable tv ads for petroleum based lubricants. When you’re down on your luck, I know you all sympathize--Have a sex change and become a girl with far away eyes.

And just what the hell is being accomplished here?

Later.

Wreath Picture Story (1992)

Today I drew this picture. And it offended Wreath. And she said something about it. It hurt my feelings, but I didn't show it, naturally. Oh, you know me, as transparent as a speedboat.

So I hid it pretty well, and then excused myself for the day and (it was time to go already) did a Clyde Blankenship. Yeah, I cursed Wreath all the way home. And it didn't make me feel better.

The only thing that made me feel better was 1) resigning myself to the fact that she has no taste 2) running to the marijuana, putting a pipeload in the pipe and smoking it down fiercely 3) perhaps knowing that I would eventually talk to you about it and it would be all better.

Here is the offending picture. It's a joke for crying out loud. And I mean CRYING. I don't know what possessed me to draw it. Satan? Perhaps... But some people appreciate my work, my art MY REALITY. MY WORLD. MY ... I... Wahhhhh!!! A-Haught...a-haugh....whaaaaa!!!! Haaaaaaa!!!

Hard to tell just what emotions were expressed there but it sure felt good. Primal. I think I am cured. Goodbye!

Wreath's not human (1992)

Well, she's not human--I can see that myself

And she's not the kind you can buy off the shelf

Lovingkind maiden of mental health

I wanna tell ya, man she's something else

Medication queen of the morning madness

Dispenser of happiness pills and gladness

On a bike, in the wind, it's a different girl

Heading out all alone in this sidewalk world-- letting her hair unfurl

Vocalist Ad (1992, Chico News and Review)

Vocalist/Front Man Available for Garage, Parties--) Club Dates....

"A class-conscious, politically aware 27 year old subculturally insignificant partier type individual, with equipment, image and experience is seeking select musicians to form a junked-out, farm animal bleating, unpopular band to begin at once enraging and entertaining the public at large. Also play a little guitar."

"Musical influences? Influenza? The Today Show, Cheech and Chong's Next Movie, Humpback Whales: the sine wave collection, Spinal Tap, Walter Mondale, ETC, Jeff Beck, Carlos Castaneda, Eric Clapton, Evita, Carlos Santana, Beethoven, Jimmy Page, David Bowie, Hair, Led Zeppelin, Cat Stevens, Samantha Stevens, Patty Loveless, Jimi Plays Berkely, The Who, Madonna, The Dead and Jerry, Mudhoney, Nirvana, Wasted Youth, Flipper, oh, hell…whatever."

Call Andrew at once for more information: 343-2372

Captain's Log Re: Wreath

1-2-3-4 (5) Captain's personal log. Damn! God-damn.

 

I sense a great burden of emotion, and I'm constrained to write. Wreath, goddammit now, I really wanted to go on that bike ride today. It was not just some "wild hair" that I might have had, it was our first date you cancelled.

 

I knew it was too good to hope for. Too wild of an assumption. You're toying with me. I am nothing. I should have known I didn't stand a chance.

 

So I may cry in my beer while you file your nails and get ready to spend this memorial day weekend with your old friends from Magalia. Be Careful, Honey Child. May we ride bikes again on another day,

assuming no one snatches you up this weekend forever.

 

Goddamn fuckin' tragic, the way I've fallen for you all of a sudden. You matter more to me right now than, oh, say alot of things, and I don't just mean like brussel sprouts, which I wouldn't like anyway.

 

Honey, please don't change over this weekend and be gone forever and ever. I couldn't stand that. I so recently found you. You are a treasure. One in a million. 

 

I may be a compulsive wretch, in writing these desperate words of praise, but at least I'm a wretch with taste. You are the finest. And well, to be without you or at least the hope of you in my heart, is, well, unfulfilling, to say the least.

Ok, well, my brain and body are conking out on me anyway.

Letter to my ex co-workers at Hondo Die Supply

 4-10-92

To all my dear friends at Hondo:

Well, here I am still in Chico, and there you all are. I miss you all, miss my old crappy apartment, my mail order Mexican girlfriend and that dirt-bag band I was playing with. I miss driving that piece of shit orange truck and all the big time money I was making there.

At this point, you may ask, "Well, so what?" 

Good point. I miss the good times that were under my nose, but which I could not appreciate (due to sinus congestion). 

Anyway, after my uncle decided to  keep the house, I figured I'd better stay and make a go of it up here and so here I am, still working at Esplanade Manor, a board and care facility for the mentally ill. The pay is $4.25 per hour, but the work is kickback. One hour of work per 8 hour shift (a little mopping and trash) and the rest is reading, playing pool or eating in the kitchen.

Everyone here is nice, with the exception of Arvada, the graveyard supervisor who I work with 3 out of 5 nights a week. She has been nicknamed the Queen of Ice because of her chilly disposition. She plays her fucking country music all damn night and picks at a scab on her wrist (which is turning green and looks cancerous, or at least like an animal bit out a chunk and puked it back onto her arm).

The patients here are your average Winchell's Donut, trailer park, shopping basket, bowling alley types. They are all chain smokers and chain coffee drinkers. They would sell their soul or body for a smoke and 25 cents. 

One lady watches her purse for hours on end, waiting for it to do acrobatics. Another says she's from Mars and took a crap in the dining room the other day. She's better now that they increased her meds. 

Most people here just shuffle around like zombies. Glenda Stowe, a night robe clad, Bible totin' granny, yells at the top of her lungs at voices she hears in her head all day and night. 

Most are delusional, paranoid, schizophrenic, manic-depressive or psychotic. Some are just drunks, druggies or bums. But their social security allotment is more than I make in a month.

I go fishing every other morning, right after work, in the Sacramento River, which is about 10 minutes out of town. I bought I kayak for fishing the inaccessible spots, and the first day I used it went great. The thing is homemade, so I worried about leaks, but there were none. 

The second day, I took it out and capsized it. I had to abandon ship, as I was drifting downriver with no paddle. I salvaged everything except my lunch and my pride. I still have not caught a single fish in that river, though they leap out of the water right in front of your face.

I had to quit hanging around with Brian (what is it with people who have this name) a fellow I met in class, when I was still going. We'd watch football, drink beer, fish and get high -- which is all fine. He'd usually pay. That was also fine.

Then he began making homosexual advances and innuendos, so I had to shit can the relationship. He'd say shit when we were playing pool in a bar like, "So, you wanna go home and have some oral sex?" Why can't women ever ask me this?

Chico is a small town, so although this dude is out of my life, he still works at the Chevron downtown. I'll miss the bong hits, though.

My plans are this: 

Sell my car and get a van. Save enough money for a six month U.S. tour. Find a cheap trailer park slut who wants to cut loose and then blow this town. 

After the trip, we'll either return to Chico and work for a while, then save up and buy a trailer. My ultimate goal is to get about five acres of land, grow pot on it and pay my property taxes. Then die.

I'd like to get a dog, too, but that's optional. No kids. I'll probably wait until I come back to town, and then join a band. Maybe take a class or two. 

Anyway, L.A. doesn't seem to be in my plans, except as a party stop along my voyage. My best regards to you all, till we meet again.

Love and (heterosexual) kisses,

Andrew

Mental Love Song (4-3-92)

I’d foam at the mouth if it got me put under your care

I’d take off my clothes and run around in my underwear

I’d howl like a banshee and bark at the moon

Yes, for you I’d go as crazy as a loon

For you I’d baste myself in peanut butter

I’d stand in the corner and just let my eyelids flutter

For you I’d give up my sanity

If being mentally ill could get you next to me

When you’re near, the rest of the world’s out of focus

When your gone, I’m like a Catholic that’s Popeless

I long to see you dressed up all in white

Even if it’s because I’m institutionalized

I’ll take medication, if it helps me to see you

Be my conservator, baby, you know I need you

A million voices in my head can’t be wrong

Be my Faye Wray, and I’ll be your King Kong

I’ve got those psycho self-destructive

Bipolar schizophrenic blues

Beautiful Gal (Another Wreath Love Song - 92)

 

                                                                                                                           4-3-92

You're such a beautiful gal

And you work for a guy named Hal

If I could, I'd like to be your pal

But you're such a beautiful gal

 

Tall, but not lanky

Monday mornings, never cranky

Like to know -- are you into any hanky-panky?

God damn, you're a beautiful gal

 

It only takes a giggle

(I like to watch your body wiggle)

There are places I'd like to tickle

'Cause you're such a beautiful gal

 

Your name sounds like a whole bunch of flowers

I could stare at those pretty dark eyes for hours

You know you're the reason I been takin' showers

You're such a beautiful gal

 

Some day when the time is right

After I been up drinkin' coffee all night

Gonna call you sweet baby in the AM light

Gonna call you my beautiful gal

 

In your cow colored jeans you're a dream, my queen Wreath

I just want to see for myself what's underneath

When I die, to you my worldly goods I bequeath

'Cause you're such a drop-dead gorgeous, fucking beautiful gal

 

 

I Wanna Take You On A Camping Trip

I Wanna Take You On A Camping Trip                                                      4-3-92

I wanna take you on a camping trip

On account of 'cause you're totally hip

So what I let my intentions slip

I wanna take you on a camping trip

 

California, Montana and New Orleans

Just you and me in our sandals and jeans

I like my women frisky and my salads green

I'd like to take you camping, if you know what I mean

 

We could take off down the road

And never have to make sure the the front yard's mowed

You ain't no princess, and I ain't no toad

And I smoke the best dope that's ever been growed

 

We'll see rocks, we'll see trees

We won't have any money, but we'll do as we please

Like a couple of tomcats (except for the fleas)

'Cause I like you like a mouse likes cheese

In our painted school bus

With tie-dye curtains, just the two of us

We'll park in places, but we'll gather no dust

Me, my baby and a dog we both trust

When we leave, our friends will all gather 'round

But we won't tell nobody where we're bound

As we raise our middle fingers to salute this town

You be the juggler, and I'll be the clown

Paulette and the Med Room Door letters (many partially completed attempts)

Dearest Paulette:

Hi there! Well, I guess you're wondering what you are doing reading a letter that has been slid under the Med Room door by me--Well, I could ask myself, "What am I doing sliding things under the Med Room door to be read by you?" But I won't. 'Cause I know why. Wanta know? Really? Ready--ok: Paulette, I really think you are great, an incredibly sexy woman who I feel is being robbed and shortchanged

(attempt no. 2)

Dearest Paulette:

Hi there! I guess you're wondering what you're doing reading a note that has been slid under the Med Room door by me...Well, I could ask myself, "What am I doing writing things and sliding them under the Med Room door to be read by you?" -- but I won't. Know why? 'Cause I already know why I'm writin' and slidin' to you. Would you like me to tell you? Oh, Paulette, really now.


(attempt no. 3)

Dearest Paulette:

Hi there! I guess you are wondering what I'm doing sliding notes under the Med Room door. Well, I could ask you what you are doing reading notes that have been slid under the Med Room door by me--but I won't. I'm too polite.

But say, since you're sitting here reading this anyway, I guess I'll say "Hey, Paulette--come here." No, serious. Come over here by me. Great--hi. Ooh! Nice to see you!

Umm, Paulette, my congenial co-worker, can I tell you something? Please, now you know me to be the shy type--ahem--but (excuse me) I think you're sexy. Oh, did I say that?! I mean, you know, I like you, because we've talked and I've found your company, well, rather pleasant. And not being one to avoid pleasant things, rather I pursue them, nourish them and hope they are non-toxic and


(attempt no. 4)

Dearest Paulette:

Hi there! I guess you are wondering what you are doing reading a note that has been slid under the Med Room door by me...Well, I could ask myself--what am I doing writing things and sliding them under the Med Room door to be read by you. I could but I won't. 'Cause I know the reason already and it would be pointless, you know, asking yourself questions you already know the answers to. What, you don't know yet? God, I can't believe you! How incredibly slow, I mean, not to pick up on it, if you haven't by now.

No, really, what I mean to say, this is way too difficult to manage in person--'cause, you know--I'm shy. But here goes:

Paulette, I like you a lot. And I find you very sexy and attractive. And I believe that no one should be lonely who is as warm and kind as you. In the words of Janis Joplin:

I don't understand why--when everyone wants/needs the same damn thing--how come ½ the world is still crying too and they can’t get it together
(unintelligible scribbling about “cat 1 day 365”) 1 day better be your life. You gotta call that love

Response to Sensual Mystical Windblown Personal Ad (fragment)

Dear Sensual Mystical Windblown One,

You sound like the best thing to pass thru these parts since the Grateful Dead booster bus broke down in Biggs.

I'm an attractive Jesus/John Lennon/Chewbacca/Charlie Manson lookin', guitar playin', Mother Nature lovin', Liberal-votin', motorcycle ridin', incense burnin', sandle wearin', long-haired hippie.

If you haven't already met your Bohemian soulmate, I'd like to try out for the position.

Even if you have, I'd still like to meet you and be your friend--you sound cool.

Response to Sexpot (another personal ad)

Dear Sexpot:

Hi there! Needless to say your ad caught my eye. I respect a woman who orders "1 or 2" of something she really wants. Your list of quality characteristics shows that you are sensible and confident. I like that. I love it! You are so straightforward.

Anyway, as to meeting up to your standards...hmmmn! We would have to be our own judges of that now, wouldn't we? I can say honestly and confidently that I am all of those things. Except 5-10+. I'm 5-9. Does this mean that I can't go on the ride? 'Cause I'll throw a tantrum. I'd wear high heels for ya, babe. No, really...if you wore garterbelts and fishnets. Accessories are optional. Ah, now we digress.

I hope to keep this letter short and to the point, so I will tell you forthrightly that I do not have AIDS or HIV or whatever they are calling it these days. My history has been one of religious celibacy and long term monogamous relationships. Except for high school, but I think we can forgive anyone of high school excesses. If they were committed before 1983.

That's when I was flung into the monastery, but I don't wish to speak of that now. It makes my loins burn with anger to think that for 5 years I did not plow. My seed went unsown. Poor Henry, poor poor Hank...But I have become vulgar. Let's just say I'm back.

But the world has changed. No more free love. Nome more safe love or safe nuthin. I guess life is a game of chances, but the prudent--who live--don't chance jumping in front of a train every day. Now, on a good day, with a good running start, favorable tailwind, and a Wheaties breakfast behind them...the prudent might try just about anything! But prudently. Which, at times, means being a prude. Better prude than dead. Ha. Enough on that, I am a completely safe risk.

But other qualities, which are equally important, I find hard to discuss without sounding pompous. I really am attractive, considerate, in shape, respecting of women and--ahem--erotic and sensual. So why waste this lovely sheet of paper on subjective delusional abstractions?

I am 27 years old. I stay in shape by bicycling, swimming, canoeing and weight-lifting. I keep my fingers in shape by playing guitar. I read a lot, but mostly on the job. I'm graveyard shift at the local board and care for the mentally ill. Nice job. Nice people. Schizophrenic and bipolar, mostly. I like camping and fishing. Regular sort of guy. Who looks like a cross between John Lennon, Jesus and, oh, yes, Adonis. Or was it Narcissus?

Anyway, 'nuff about me. Let's talk. Let's meet. Let's get wild and crazy. In a sensible and prudent fashion. Much affection, hugs and kisses.

Andrew
343-2372

Response to personal ad #246264

Dear #246264

Hi there! Say, 246264, what a pretty number you have. I'll bet your box is neat, clean and centrally located (not up near the ceiling or down by the floor). I perceive that you are a very fine postal patron, one with whom I'd be delighted to correspond.

I am intrigued by the vagueness of your list of qualifications. In themselves, they reveal a lot without revealing anything. "Commitment" is very important to you. Number one on your list, right after Male. I surmise this means you have been treated badly by someone who was less than committed.

You probably have a poor self-image, as you seek only "average or better looking" and do not even attempt to describe yourself. You are either a Circus Fat Lady, or a club foot, or a hairlip with eczema, or have the personality of a bowl of jello. Anyway, whatever it is about you, I like it. You probably come from a rough neighborhood where only Portuguese is spoken. I could be wrong.

So, what's my story? Well, I'm 27 years old, I live in Chico and work graveyard shift at the local board and care for the mentally ill. I am a neo-hippie, outdoor wilderness bum. I live with my uncle, but will be moving out onto the open road in my '63 Dodge Commando Van. I like fishing, canoeing, hiking, biking, guitar, drawing, writing, etc, etc.

I haven't had many girlfriends in my life, mainly because I hate the initial rejection, the lying and bullshit headgame jealousy rut, the broken dreams and pain of parting. That's happened 2 or 3 times and I always get hurt and absorb all the damage. I have learned to stay out of situations that could cause emotional pain. Being a rugged outdoorsman, I do all right solo. But it gets lonely, and I think, "God, if I only had that 'one true love' with me, all life's problems would seem so small and its joys so grand."

So, occasionally I reach out to another lonely soul through a Classified Ad. But come to find out, these people aren't lonely at all. They are accountants, looking for an early retirement plan. They are ex-game show hostesses, quite used to the Lottery Lifestyle. They are sociology students who report the findings of their Personal Ad Response surveys directly to George Bush.

I don't have AIDS. I'm not a substance abuser or an alcoholic. I believe in monogamy, fidelity, honesty. I am on no career path currently, but have educational resources which may be tapped whenever it is I decide what I want to do with the rest of my life. Right now I'm enjoying the years of carefree youth that I believe our workaholic society robs us of.

I am looking for someone warm, open and non-materialistic who is not a whining sissy. I like to take this female on a 6 month camping trip after which time we can settle down into the white picket American Pipe Dream. But commitment is important to me, especially in these times of economic uncertainty. What could be worse than to lose your job (and thus your house, car and assets) and then have your wife leave you because you are a bum.

I believe in Love, thick or thin. I feel that I am at least "above average" in looks and intelligence (at least potentially). I hope we can meet, fall in love, go camping , get married, etc. Like to? Write me.

YF,
Andrew

"Ernest" by Sharon D. Orrick

I found this in the filing cabinet last year and it was like getting a glimpse into the mind of an 18 year old Sharon. I was amazed at the creativity and detail. I laughed and cried, because I could really hear her voice and feelings coming through this little story. Some of the details of the story were eerily coincidental or perhaps prescient. Since I'm digitizing everything, I wanted to make sure to preserve this too, which is why I cross-posted it on Facebook as well.

From the Cemetery

“Ernest”

Sharon D. Orrick English 4 3/20/92

Ernest F. Hawkins

New Hampshire Private Commissary First Regiment, New Hampshire Infantry

Born: April 22, 1868

Died: March 31, 1967

It was a miserable evening on that December of 1893. The city of Concord, New Hampshire was drenched and only a few people dared to run across the road. Some brave souls whipped and yelled at their teams as they sloshed their way home. Night took its toll on the town and gave way to the storm. House lamps were lighted and store lights were blown out, accept for the only inn in town. It was a night that was for sitting at home in front of the fire or going to bed early.

Down the muddy road came a black figure. As it drew closer to the inn, one could make out the figure of a tall man astride a young, vibrant horse that carried him well. The rain had drenched him to the bone and he shivered as he slid off his horse. The stout, little horse let out a nicker and stood there with his head turned toward his master. The man reached in his pocket and gave the wet horse a carrot. As he brushed past the horse he gave it a little pat and spoke words of kindness.

Slowly the man made his way to the inn. He was tired, lonely and cold. The door creaked as he opened it then closed it behind him. He stood there, savoring the smell of fresh brewed coffee and wood in the fire-place. It smelled like home where he was just a few hours ago. He looked around to see if there was anyone there that he knew. In one of the corners were four guys. He looked over each of them carefully but there wasn't a familiar face. They were obviously having a good time playing poker. In the other corner was a pianist dreamily playing waltzes.

His eyes moved to the center of the room behind the counter where the most beautiful red headed girl stood. With his eyes fixed upon her he took off his slicker and tossed it up on the hook against the wall. As his tall, masculine frame strode over to the counter he took the hat off of his light brown hair and sat down.

"Hello ma'am." he stated in an exhausted tone, "I am Ernest Hawkins, I don't believe I have ever met you before. What might your name be?"

Unpleasantly she snapped, "I'm Sheila Radrick, and if you have to know I am single but I am NOT available. Now, what do you want to eat? I don't have all night, you know.”

Ernest gasped with astonishment at how such rudeness could come out of such a beautiful woman.

"Uh, well, I just wanted a cup of coffee and maybe some hot cake, that is, if you have any."

"Oh, is that all you want?" She said in a little calmer manner.

"Yes ma'am." Earnest sighed, thankful that he didn't have to ask her for anything again.

While Sheila fixed Ernest a nice large meal, he struck up a conversation with the guys playing poker. "Who's the fiery youngun?" Ernest said.

"Oh, don't worry about her," replied the gray haired man, "she's more bark than she is bite. Her daddy died when she was just a little one and he willed the whole place to her. She is so independent that she don't want a man to settle down with. She thinks she's invincible. On top of that she has her father’s German blood and her mama's Irish hair. Don't try to get to friendly with her or she'll bite your head clean off."

"Thanks for the tip," Ernest replied with a relieved tone.

He thought that maybe she had some potential and maybe with some training could learn to love a man. Ernest remembered her father when he and his dad would come to town for supplies and buy him a candy bar. It had been so many years since Ernest had been home that he had no idea what had happened in the city of Concord. He had a lot to catch up with and a lot of old friends to see, if they were still there.

Soon Sheila came back and gently set the big plate of steak and beans in front of the hungry man. Ernest looked up and saw a sparkle in the girl’s eyes and knew that he had already made progress by being kind to her and not terrorizing her like many other men had probably done.

"Here is your meal, kind sir, it’s on the house so don't even try to pay for it." She looked down embarrassed and muttered, "I, I'm sorry for yellin' at ya, I was only protectin' myself. I am so used to guys comin' in here and wantin' to buy something else besides food or liquor. They think I am some kind of whore just because I work in an inn."

Ernest looked deep into her brown eyes with his own light green eyes and softy said, "I understand, and thanks for the gru..., I mean food ma'am."

Sheila went to work cleaning dishes and such. She couldn't help but think that this man might have some potential but after what she just did, maybe not. Could this be true love? She didn't know if she could fall in love. She was too mean and she knew it.

A few days later Ernest was standing near the jail waiting for a friend and he over-heard a cluster of women gossiping. They were giggling about how Sheila had just run off her eighth suitor. Ernest turned and walked the other way. He didn't want to know. He didn't even want a clue because he wanted to start out fresh with her, no rumors and no gossip. The reason he came to Concord in the first place was to get away from the past five years. He didn't have a good past and was running away from what haunted him.

Months passed and what seemed like years to Ernest were only hours to Sheila. She made sure she was on her best behavior and never lashed out on anyone. Soon the town gossips had something else to giggle about. Ernest and Sheila were seeing a lot more of each other. They were the happiest couple in Concord. Soon after a year was over, and Ernest made sure that he could tame her temper, they were pronounced Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins.

It was a simple wedding but the whole town was there. Shops closed, and people flocked to the inn. The wedding was held on the steps. The exact place where Ernest had stepped up a year ago to meet his future bride.

For the next four years they made their home in Concord and both worked together in the inn. They were so much in love but one day Sheila let her temper go and like all the other times, Ernest cooled her down. But this time was not like the others. Sheila had been sent a telegram and it stated that Ernest must go to war. Sheila burst into tears and went screaming "NO!" around the room. Chairs flew and if any customers had come in at that moment, heads would have rolled. Ernest ran out of the back and grabbed her.

"Sheila, Sheila, what ever is the matter?" He yelled.

"No, your going to die, your going to die!" She screamed frantically.

"Why?"

"Look! Your going to die!"

Slowly Ernest took the paper from her trembling hands and read it. When he finished he looked up slowly. The Spanish American War had arrived and Ernest was enlisted as a private. He had to leave that night. In his quiet manner he picked up the sobbing little woman and held her tight in his muscular arms that were bulging from years of hard labor.

"No, I'm not going to die, Peaches, I'll be back.”

There was silence and they both savored the moment of one last passionate kiss before he had to part. They held each other and cried softly.

"Ernest," Sheila spoke with a shaking voice, "I need to tell you something."

"What?" Ernest looked at her with fear, that there might be something wrong.

"Do you remember two years ago when I went to a doctor because we thought we couldn't have children?"

"Ya. Why?"

"Well..." She stuttered not knowing if she should tell him or not. "We, are going to have a little one in about five months."

Ernest looked at her in astonishment. Dumbfounded he was speechless and held her even tighter. "But, I thought..."

"Wrong." She interrupted him. "Do you remember commenting last night on how you thought I was getting fat from eating all this good food?"

"Ya..." He still couldn't say anything.

"It's the little one, Ernest. We are going to have a little red-head baby running around the inn terrorizing everyone."

Ernest didn't know how to take the good news. He just stood there. That night Ernest packed his bags and they kissed there last goodbyes. While crying on Ernest's shoulder, she asked, "Until death do us part?"

"Yes. He said between sobs, "Until death do us part.”

During that long year, Sheila gave birth to two twin boys. She sent news to Ernest but he never received it. A week before Ernest was to come back home he was shot in the hand and lost three fingers. The hand became infected with gangrene and they almost had to amputate. Ernest was a true fighter and would not stand for anything like that. He knew he had a family at home waiting for him and he didn't want to disappoint his own child with only one hand. He hadn't heard from Sheila and was a bit worried. Reluctantly he did his own surgery on his hand and sewed the three fingers together. He took care of it very well and came back home. During this time, the weaker of the two twin boys died of scarlet fever. Luckily Sheila saved the eldest twin and nursed him back to health.

In the Spring of 1899, Ernest F. Hawkins arrived home. Beat up and skinny, he survived the front lines of the war and came home to his beloved wife but didn't know what had happened. Up the stairs to the inn he climbed. They brought so many memories back and he smiled as he climbed to the top. The door was shut and he heard nothing from inside. Ernest turned around to see if the town was still the same. People were walking about and talking about the weather as usual, but know one noticed him because he was unrecognizable with the beard. He turned to open the door that squeaked that familiar squeak.

"Sheila!" He yelled, "I’m home."

Sheila ran out of the room up stairs and yelled back. "Ernest you’re back! I thought you had left me forever."

"I'm here ain't I? Come down here and give your man a kiss before he leaves again."

"Oh, Ernest!" She screeched. Sheila ran faster down the stairs than she ever had before. Even when her temper had gotten the best of her she ran harder this time. At the bottom of the stairs she stopped short. "Why who are you, you ain't my Ernest. My Ernest is handsome, he doesn't have a beard. He's muscular and has flesh on him." Sheila didn't know what to do with this imposter.

Ernest dropped his bags and walked slowly over to where Sheila stood trembling. He kissed her so passionately it could have turned the world red. Sheila almost fainted as she drew back from his arms. She gathered herself together and ran into the kitchen to bake her man the best meal that he had ever ate.

In the mean time Ernest heard a faint cry from the upstairs. He knew that Sheila must have had a kid but wasn't sure if everything went alright. As Ernest climbed the stairs he knew that he had a little son and the thought hit him. Ernest was actually a father and had another responsibility.

Up in the room he saw a tiny figure squirming in the crib. Sheila had done such a nice job of fixing the room up that he almost didn't recognize it. The baby was so little that it almost fit into one of Ernest's hands. Gently he picked it up and cuddled it.

He guessed it was a boy by where his pants were wet and further inspection proved he was right. He looked around the room for diapers but all he saw was one of Sheila's blouses on the bed. It would work just fine and the baby wouldn't mind. When the duty was done Ernest took the baby and marched down stairs and into the kitchen.

Sheila took one look at them and laughed so hard that she spilled the milk in her hand all over Ernest and pretty soon the whole dinner was on the floor. Ernest didn't care so they sat down and ate it Chinese style. When Sheila had quit laughing she told Ernest that the baby's name was Ernest and she called him Erny for short. That night Ernest F. Hawkins never forgot.

Soon 1914 rolled around and Erny was enlisted into the army. The night before he left, the family sat down and talked. For the first time Ernest told Erny what had happened to his hand and how he fought the doctors not to amputate. Erny was so scared that he didn't want to go but he had to. Ernest knew exactly what he was going through and tried to sooth him but nothing worked. A week later Ernest and Sheila were sent news that Erny's right leg was blown off by a grenade. He was in critical condition but fighting like his father had.

In 1918 the war was over and Erny proudly came home with a purple heart and half a leg. He met a girl and wanted to marry her but she lived in New York. She was the nurse that had taken care of him and they fell in love. They were married in 1923 and had two children, Sheila and Ernest III.

World War 2 came and went but without any of the Hawkins' help. Ernest was growing older and Sheila became sick. In 1955 Sheila A. Hawkins died of heart failure and pneumonia. Ernest was eighty-eight at the time and it weakened his fight to live. By the time he was ninety-nine he was in a home for old people and died of a broken heart. He was lonely and depressed and wanted to join Sheila in the here-after. His wish finally came true on a beautiful spring day, March 31, 1967, only twenty-two days from being one hundred years old.

Profundity: Reality is really...real

You know, I've been coming out with some pretty profound religious thoughts when I'm asleep. This one made me chuckle:

"God does not need to be mocked...at least not all the time."

and on the nature of reality: "Reality is really real."

So much for voices and thoughts entering your mind from other places. Like T.V. stations. And bingo tournaments. Like covens of witches they hover, waithing in the dark. Yes, I said waithing, it is like waiting in a wraith-like state. Like grandpa used to do when he'd crouch down in front of the TV. We thought he was doing a football huddle. But he had actually been leaning forward trying to get his lungs to fall open, so he could breath, you know.

Well, say goodnight to spirits in the night, and to the Big Radio Antenna in the Sky. You must decide, Sinbad.

Part Two, the dependency series

So, much indeed! This boy has been smoking marijuana. How does it affect him? His manual finger dexterity, his facial features, his flaccid, spastic non-functioning penis...oh, go to bed!

 

Death March Revisited (early '90s prophecy)

Life is a death march

Hopi Indian prophecy

Speaks of a Turtle

La Tortuga

God, in His Infinite Wisdom

Has a hard candy shell

And He wins His battles

By boring everyone to death

Day after day

Sunset, sunrise

Winter, summer

High tide, low tide

Open sign, closed sign

And then you die

If you are fortunate

Before your kidneys and guts

And things give out and

Require constant attention

Conscience Bashing (Feb 29, 1992)

 Monday 2:30 Rainbow Chapel, Rose Hills Cemetery 

 

 

Conscience Bashing 

"It is enough," said Jesus of two drawn swords

There's too much hate to put into words

The whole world has gone black

And no one wants to see

And they're content to sit there & watch you bleed 

 

In a smile, there's a lie, better off all alone

You have no one to share your joy & your pain is your own 

Life is long, death is short, but there's hell for you to pay

Use your mind, don't be blind, I have nothing more to say

Einstein/DIE/FEAR

 

Why'd/I/write this? 

 

On the death and life of Arnold Buckwitz ('90s)

Grandpa died today, oh wow

Passed out of the death we call life, out of the here and now

From the clammy pale halls of critical row

Where the mighty have fallen and sunken so low

Never to think clear thoughts again

Or converse and commune with the sons of men

Whose task it is now the mourners to call

And gaze with indifference at death’s fearful pall

Too stricken to think of a damn thing to say

And wishing that everyone would just go away

I pick up this pen to wearily tell

The state of my heart, though it send me to hell

When your whole life is cobwebs and ashes and dust

What profiteth a man, if live on he must?

I’ll go to bed now

Forever

Goodnight—Dial tone

Back on the farm in ‘29

We were all three brothers, lads young and fine

Ridin’ horses and killin’ swine

Cause then we didn’t know no better

Years went by and I married a girl

And we had some kids—cause we had to

Moved to California and joined the church

Bought a house and the freeway plowed through our work

Never did much, never did see

Too much of the world, except in my dreams

In a spaceship—all of my own

I guess there ain’t no place I haven’t flown

The wife died and I crawled up inside

Deeper than I’ve ever gone before

Cause I just realized in the blink of an eye

How this life just sucks more and more

And the beat goes on…but we don’t know why

 

 

 

---

 

AB

Andrew Letter 43 - New job at Esplanade Manor, and grandpa gets an oxygen maching

Letters to My Mom, Part III

 

My room is dark. The curtains are drawn, and it is my fiscal 10 o'clock in the morning (about 5 pm, Chico time and 7pm Minneapolis time).

Grandpa is downstairs in his chair and alternately smoking cigarettes and fiddling with his new oxygen-respiration machine. It makes a noise like an alarm clock when it is first turned on and can be heard throughout the house.

Last night while I was at work at my new job at the Esplanade Manor, a board and care facility for mentally disturbed adults, Grandpa had a bit of a hard time catching his breath. Steve found him standing hunched over and turning blue at one o'clock in the morning (nothing too extraordinary about this except for the turning blue part. He's never done that before).

An overnight hospital visit ensued with the upshot being that he must have oxygen nearby at all times. He even has a portable tank he can use while driving. He is not going to stop smoking, however, except while the machine is on. He has asked Steve and I, in his own endearing manner, to be here to cook for him or take him to the diner. Not that I have anything better to do or anything.

Except to work for 40 hours a week, graveyard shift, as an attendant to 36 or 50 crazy people. Their cases range from mild neurosis (like Tim), to full blown schizophrenic psychosis. One lady appears normal except for occasional delusions that she is a Martian. Another very well-behaved older woman is there because she murdered her husband with a shotgun and stabbed her best friend in the back with a fork. Others creep around peering into the office windows, giggling.

On my first night, a tenant threw a chair through the office window two feet from the spot I had been sitting just five minutes earlier. The police did not want to arrest him because of the paperwork but finally took him in after we filled out a citizens arrest form. He returned at 7 am the next morning and was discharged and given the remainder of his medication (about 2 months worth, 70 or so capsules of Elavil) which he proceeded to take all at once with a twelve pack of beer. He then passed out and was taken to hospital where he was in a coma for a week. Other than that it was a quiet night.

So, what are my duties? Cleaning ashtrays, mopping floors, taking out the garbage and vacuuming, all of which takes me an hour and a half per night. The rest of the time is my own to read, play cards, listen to the radio and converse with the other night attendant, Arvada, who has been there 10 years. Naturally, the pay is minimum wage.

I have to go now to drive Grandpa to The Diner. C-ya.

Well, I'm back, and here I should note that Grandpa hasn't lit up a cigarette the whole time since we went to the restaurant. He had another episode when we first got there, and he had to stand crouched in his football stance for about fifteen minutes, and then the waitress brought him some hot water. The whole trip took an excruciating hour and forty-five minutes. Guess we should have taken the portable oxygen tank.

He mentioned something about funeral arrangements and said that he guessed it was the beginning of the end. At least he's coming to grips with the idea of checking out. I hope I go in a more expedient manner. Like bungee jumping without a cord. 

Steve's out with one of his friends, and I am alone in Buckwitz Manor with Mr. Excitement himself. Although I am working, I have still not gotten paid yet and am so far in the hole as far as people feeding me and paying my way that I dare not show up anywhere without some green in my hand. My job is not giving me that instant respectability that I so desire.

On to other subjects of interest. I went to get tested for TB, so I could get this job. You are familiar with the procedure: They talk real nice to you, send in their prettiest nurse, she rubs your arm and tells you look over there ... and Blam! It’s over. She's already injected the protein into your right forearm. Couple days later you come back, they read it, like an astrologer looking at your horrorscoop.

Anyway, the tests were negative, no festering ooze. But simultaneous to this, I began developing a red irritating allergic itching patch about the size of a nickle on the opposite forearm in approximately the same location. It has been a week now, and it just isn't going away.

My question to you is: Could I have a neurological problem with one of the hemispheres of my brain? All other motor activity is normal. Three or four years ago, I was prescribed Deconomine for similar allergic reactions on my feet, ankles and shins. I never found out what I was allergic to, and after taking the medication regularly for two or three months, it went away, never to return.

The expiration date on the prescription was 1/1/91. Do you think I should try taking them again? That bladder infection hasn't returned, as I have stopped drinking cheap beer.

I'm not in school this semester; I'm taking time to get adjusted to this working schedule. If I can ever come up with a plan of action, this job could be perfect for getting schoolwork done at work. That is, provided no more chairs come through the window.

I think I should like very much to be a writer/director/actor/editor. Or a singer/songwriter/performance artist/comedian. Or a painter/sculpter/hairstylist. Or a guy with a good job in the health care/plumbing/auto/electrical/food transportation industry. As long as I could have a dog.

Well, as for my advertisements in the local classified section, they have proven fruitless. You just can't go looking for it.

There's not much else to report other than that I have been going fishing every week and wearing a helmet when I ride my motorcycle. Please tell me another emergency room story about head injuries. I really miss that. Well, say hi to the rest of the Tribe.

Ciao!

 

P.S. I really like this typewriter! Thanks!

 

 

Edrie Joan Buckwitz (date approximate)

She was born in the winter of 1946

She was a physics major

She had a son named Andrew

And they went to Hawaii

She met Greg at the office

They got married and had 3 kids

She became a doctor

She likes DVDs, clarinet and Weird Al Yankovic

They moved to Minnesota

They live on a lake and eat chocolate chip pancakes

You did good, Mom

Don't know how you put up with 4 boys

I'm proud of you, I love you

This song's for you