The Particle Lapse ('90s era enlightenment)

Of the 27 times that I have been sucked up into the partical lapse, the last time was certainly the scariest. I normally am given a warning of some gentle nature. Once I was watching televixen and I was told by a gleeming pair of dentures that my turn was next. I smiled knowingly. "Your turn is next" was an old adage of the coffee room. You were going to get the axe. History.

So, I bundled up my soul and got ready for the escalator, the chair-lift, the steamship (to take you across to the Entrance of the Clouds), then the ice boat, the trolley car, the tube tunnel subway car, then the incredibly long wait in the refueling station. I was ready for the 86 hour trip. But, to get to the Highest Court, it is necessary to commute this great way.

Anyway it seems like a science fiction story even to me, when I ponder it late at night. Then I usually get exhausted mentally and fall asleep. Not something I care to do much of these days. In these times of so many mirror dimesions with rubbing compound and earwax, too many of us still base our little worlds on just the obvious.

There's ever so much more to be seen but the obvious. My entrance into the Next Life told me that. It wasn't meant to be fair. There was nothing in the part-icles of ice that clung to our beards on the ski-lift. Not one express written anything, not even a warning lable saying "You tear off this tag and you are going straight to mutherfuckin hell!"

So, I said, onward and upward. Hi dee ho.

So I kicked off my shoes and put on my travellin' sandles. Given to me at one of those spiritual traffic crossings where a School Guard jumps out in front of the traffic for you.

So it was with our first trip. I was seeking an alternate dimension within our own, and LSD seemed like the right thing to do at the time. Mild fever came over my body and sweat glistened in beaded patterns on my forehead. I screamed. It did not matter.

There I was. And there I wasn't. I had achieved Non/Being. It was gratifying and terrifying. Give me more or none of it. It was like junk. A powerful weight of peace on you, heavy. So much was the traffic of souls going on that I had no inkling of before.

Blurred images of batteries being painted by some Mexican for sale to his relative.

Blackness.

Total and complete blackness, for two days and nights.

Fabulous nights.

At the Tropicana.

chnk--

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ zz z

Friday, July 3 1992, the morning I had an epiphany (or maybe I was just super high)

Dear Day,

You suck. And now there's too much light. And I can't stand anything right now. Ok, so I've got a few problems, so put me away. At least then I won't have to be responsible anymore.

Enough. Self-indulgent childish rubbish! So, what deep things have you discovered, my blue eyed son?

All right, I’ve been keeping it a secret. I have some real inside shit on the, um, running of the Universe. Yeah. It's definitely not your average 3 foot, wading-only, no diving thought. After all this buildup it has to fail miserably. Yeah. But I found out, just before I sat down, no, after. And then I smoked some pot.

With a vengeance! I was wiping away hostilities from 1992, some painful thoughts from today, Friday, July 3, AM. They were bad thoughts, they needed killin'. So I lost some math skills in the process. So, indeed! I really wasn't goin' to use them anyway.

So I killed these bad thoughts and in the process there was this leftover space in my head. Four centimeters, I think. Anyway, it wasn't being used, it was just sitting vacant, ready for a blinding revelation of wisdom (which I do get by the way, believe it or don't). It is at times like these when they come. You know, when your brain is between channels and you just let the static play at full volume.

Suddenly, a voice (James Earl Jones, to be precise) says unto me: "Hey, you. On the couch. Drop that pipe and get thee to a typewriter for I have words to speak unto thee!"

Before I could even get up he just started talking, like I'm supposed to be getting it all down. Yeah, right. This supernatural voice doesn't know me very well.

Ok, so one thing stuck in my mind as being important. I forget what it was, but it's the reason I'm sitting in front of the typewriter. Oh, yeah.This voice, God, or Satan or some radar-connected intergalactic being revealed to me THE REASON WHY THINGS HAPPEN.

I don't believe you've caught the super relevance and interconnected significance of this magnitudinous statement. Hmmn. Maybe I won't tell you what it is. You don't seem impressed enough. Well, ok, since you beg.

It's all very simple really. The reason why things happen is so that later, when there is a dull moment, say throughout an eternity, you'll have something to have a good laugh about.

You’re sitting there, in heaven, in the front office, you know just chit chatting with the Staff. It's shift change or something. A couple thousand years go by between each breath. The conversation got old, oh, a few millennium ago.

Then someone cracks a joke, “Hey, what about that time you went fishin' and the mosquitoes almost ate you alive.”

“Yeah. And the next day, when I opened up the camper and…”

“Yeah, yeah. You've told it 14.82 million times! They followed you into the house. Like the terminator. And got you. It's funny. Ho. Hum.”

Andrew Letter 50 - Depression and apartment life at The Colony Inn

 

 

Hello.

Well, in case you haven't already heard it through the Buck-vine (Steve, I mean), I am now an apartment-dweller. I have a studio with a private sink, common shower and toilet (shared with 1 other roommate) and common kitchen (shared by all four). It is a "cluster" type, if you will. Anyway, gas, electric and cable TV are included in the monthly sum of $239. There is also a swimming pool, sauna, gas barbecues, recreation facilities--all river close and bicycle range from work. Sounds like a travel brochure.

So, anyway, I have been letting myself get into a rut, and I've settled into a more or less depression. I had a talk with a clinical psychologist available to me through The Manor. Well, he said, he didn't know if it was a genetically based organic type or just psychologically triggered situational depression. I showed signs of both.

Well, anyway, I am doing all the right things, he says. I told him I exercise, and sometimes this makes me feel better. I also have a very good relationship with one of the female staff members. Although she is married, I find her to be very open and truly caring. I unload all my problems on her.

That's good, he says. Healthy. Free. She has her bad days too, then I cheer her up. It's nice.

But, alas, my depression is strangling me. I have no social life outside of work. I cannot bring myself to go out alone into the world and mingle. I would dearly like to, but I have developed a crippling form of shyness called the "that's OK, you probably wouldn't like me anyway, ho-hum, too hip, gotta go" disease. I may be more or less anti-social. But I'd like to have at least one other person, if not a whole group of friends, to be anti-social with. I am a loner, but even a loner needs lovin'.

Keep watch over yourself, he says, and see if you get better, stay the same or get worse in the next two weeks. If you stay the same go get some counseling in the private sector, and it ain't cheap. Or read this book "From Sad to Glad." If you get worse, come to me, and we can talk about medication. That's the only way I am allowed to work, is with a program of medication and counseling.

But, he says, he wants to know if you had a history of depression. Does it run in our family? Does it, I says! A mighty river of depression, a veritable grand canyon of misery. But she’s all pulled out of it. So I believe it must have been situational, with you as with me.

Well, just thought I'd write to tell you about what's going on in my life-- "O." I got no plans, I ain't goin' nowhere. I'm setting minuscule daily goals so that I don't fail attempting anything difficult. I live a boring life. Maybe Steve was right.

At least I'm looking better. Since my depression started, I've lost fifteen pounds. Maybe I can market this weight loss program. Limited food intake, exercise and lots of sleep. For when you are sleeping, your body has time to really burn up those fat cells, at the same time you are unable to eat to replace the calories.

Anyway, I'll bore you no longer.

Here's my address:

1225 Nord Ave #167 

Chico, CA 95926. 

 

My phone# (916) 343-2372

 

C-Ya

Andrew Letter 44 - Steve and I fight, and I start packing

 

 

Dear Mom,

 

Hi there. Well, I'm taking a brief moment from packing to write you on the status of my voyage. Snag city.

I don't know if you knew already, but I got my RV. It's an ex- air force SAC mobile command center. It is a 1963 Dodge UPS type vehicle, with an air conditioner, power converter and multiple lights and wall sockets, plus a couple metal desks and a shelf.

I bought it for its rugged tires, straight six cylinder engine and oil filtered one barrel carb. It has a roof rack and roll out awining. It weighs 7000 lbs. Anyway, I can fit everything I own in there.

And its a good thing. Steve is being a major weenie right now, and I fear that I have become like Tim in his estimation. He simply has no respect or liking or even tolerance for me anymore. He has again let things (which I have really conscientiously tried to avoid doing) bug him, like drinking the last of the milk. Or eating his 2 day old left overs. Or having my laundry in the washer when he wants to use it.

I don't know. He never said a word, and now it's over. He has told me that we are 180 degrees opposite and that he finds nothing in me to admire. He says he wants to have people who are his equals living with him. I, in short, bum him out.

But the thing is, I see no clues, so I proceed cautiously. I do things around the house if I think there's a possibility he will wank about it. So basically, when I do good, there's no clue that it mattered any, and it I miss something, it goes into my file.

I really have been trying to read and please him, but the man is an ocean. I can't see past the surface of calm and general disgust. I have tried to salvage it, really. I kept appealing to emotional sanity, that we could work it out. He said, “Why Try?”

He is completely isolating himself from any of his friends who he feels have not reciprocated exactly to his requirements. People are just liabilities to him. Friends are bottom line dollar amounts. He is going to wind up old and alone just like grandpa.

I cannot stop him. I am caring less. I have indeed recognized and been grateful for the opportunity he has given me to stay here thus far. And he had earlier spoken of paying rent if my trip were delayed much further.

But the other night, when picking up on some negative vibes emanating from Steve, I mentioned that I really wanted to talk to him about paying rent, and staying there for a while longer.

At first he said sure, rent might appease him. Then he gets second thoughts. He wants female roommates, and he feels I'd be a problem. "I'd rather see you packing," he says.

So, I'm packing. Again. And I'll be unpacking again soon, too. And so it goes.

I am not ready for the trip. I am not sure where my life is going. I need to find a partner. I have been desperately searching all the usual places, including some naughty workplace note passing. But I have suffered only rejection. I am not their type. I seem to be nobody’s type. 

I hope the people with the room for rent call me back.

I am enjoying my job (and my weekends on the river) and the weather and the people I work with (clients and staff). My main admirers are all mentally ill. 

I wrote a letter to a girl at work and told her how great she was and how would she like to go camping for six months and such. She was very nice not to hurt my feelings. We are friends now that I know I am not her type and that she has a boyfriend and that she is trying to get her life back together from drinking and drugs, and maybe nine months ago she would've, but now she's too responsible. 

I believe her. I still like her, regardless, and I'm glad that I got it off my chest, so now we can be friends.

There's another great girl where I work (who's married--dammit!) who has been a particular comfort to me. I'm glad I don't lack for human contact entirely, even if I have to get it from co-workers and not at home.

Steve really bums me out. What can I do? I'm out of here.

It's way, way past that. He practically ridicules me when discussing my situation. He gets sarcastic and feigns mock incredulity, mimics me and taunts me. He does not speak from reason, but from those black, grandfather, pit of nothingness emotions which I cannot fathom. 

He is intensely bitter. I hate him. I wanted so much for us to be friends, but nothing ever works out. I am everything he hates, a suckhole liability, an unnecessary expense.

I got nowhere to go. I'm looking. Fast. Two or three days max. If I have to sleep on the street in my van or whatever. He needs his space or whatever, and I haven't got time for the pain. I'm trying to put my own life together and I don't need someone telling me I'm worthless, nothing to admire. Fuck him!

Look who's bitter. Way to spread a little family joy around, yeah. Sorry. You don't need it. I don't need it. 

 

He drives me to it by tearing me down so much, but I really don't want to be bitter and hate him. But he will just never understand that he was young and stupid once and not too far from recently. He thinks I should have all the answers, firm plans, never change my mind, never get confused. He can have his equals. I'll just take fellow human beings. 

I cannot say for sure who is to blame for the terrible way things have ended up, but they were destined. I fought the deterioration as long as I could, but he just gets nasty and there's no use. He is like I was as a teenager, emotionally. “I don't want to talk about it, you'll never change me, Why Try?”

Why try to get along when you can just cut someone out of your life? Adios, Familia. Nice idea, while it lasted. C-YA.

Greed, in the end, destroys all things. His greed, my greed. Life can suck. It can be great. I guess it's who you hang around with, how you look at it, how content you can be with what is sent your way.

I am guilty of letting Steve do me a favor so now he can hold it over my head forever. Enough. Forget it. Move on.

I really don't know how much closer I am to deciding what I'm doing with my life, but I'm doing some serious reflecting on what I want out of it. And what I have to do to get it. I am too carefree, but not carefree enough to live the carefree life to the fullest like it was meant to be lived. I get scared.

 

“What a sissy,” Steve would say. Such male bonding. Oh, well, I gotta go pack.

 

See ya when I see ya. Bye.

Andrew

More personal ad reply rambliings

5-2-92
 
Dearest Girl of my Daydreams,

Hello! I am very pleased to have this opportunity to pour out my soul, heart, lungs and innards into the empty void of this blank piece of paper. It is so refreshing to give utterance to the yearnings and wanderings of the mind and soul. It's easy, it's fun and it's non-toxic just like Play Dough.

Sorry to be ramblin' right off, however, ahem, you haven't introduced yourself yet. I will quickly take up the silence and tell you who I am. 

My name, is Juan Valdez. No, it isn't, and I am feeling not a little bit giddy, so I'll just settle THAT down right away. Hey! My name is. It really, really REALLY is--Andrew Paul Golding, aka "Hoody" or "Drew."
 
My current occupation, besides being a reformed window horticulturalist, is graveyard attendant at our local board and care for the mentally ill. I am currently living in Chico with my Uncle Steve. 

I have a past which, though not as colorful as that of river barge captain, but more interesting than full time caterer to the whims of Establishment Pigs and those who would strip us of dignity respect and 40 years of freewheelin', ramblin' and boogyin' and partyin' (but not to excess, that would be BAD). 

Let me be serious for just a moment. The typewriter on my lap, and leaning back in bed a bit too far and, you know, the blood wasn't getting all the way up to the top part of my brain. So now I am functioning a bit more goodlike. 

My name really is Andrew, and I'm just a lonely fool whose been lonely too long and whose lovelight has grown dim but who, like the solitary miner for a heart of gold, keeps a faithful watch for the morning sun bringing a new day and a new day's chance of finding his treasure. Yeah. 

I am, in fact, a very groovy and hip guy who, through slight disaffection with society (possibly due, in part, to the Rodney King Beating) has become slightly out of touch with the basics of human interchange. 

I live with my uncle, like I said, but would love to become self-sufficient real soon. In Chico, minimum wage jobs are competed over fiercely, so I am lucky to be employed and have an uncle who is understanding, to a point. 

So here I am, in Chico, since last year when my educational plans were temporarily set aside, as my Grandfather deteriorated and died. It was time for him to depart, all his life having been used up long ago. His only activities were TV watching and smoking cigarettes (even after they brought the oxygen machine). 

The magnitude of the isolation he suffered, self-imposed, through years of minimalism in the areas of human grace, was immense. He believed in the work ethic. And the save ethic. He died very well off for an uneducated North Dakota farm boy. But he shut himself all up inside and never let anyone in. Please, let me learn. 

So, who are you and what do you want in a guy? I tell you, it's a jungle out there. Don't just fall for the guy with all the stats.
 
Honey, you need a rebel. You need someone who hasn't got his priorities in order, who favors fun over futility, taking a vacation over toiling in vain. Hey, I don't have a prescription for life, but I do have a plan for a pretty cool six month camping trip, not for the timid of heart or committed of career path. 

I will, eventually, in say six months to a year, pick up the pieces of my life and make a nice little niche for myself, hopefully involving ownership of rural property and the raising of animals. Music figures in and video, art and writing. I hope to be a decathlete of the humanities. And I want to learn a trade.

I am 27 years old, a bit of a dreamer, but the right lady in my life could be a rudder in channeling the wind in my sails. I am an adventurer at heart, afraid I'll wind up a Walter Mitty, or worse, like Grandpa -- old and alone. I could use a friend, I could be a good friend. 

Ask me anything. What's fun? Driving to some isolated river or lake, canoeing to a remote campsite with the choicest of organic party supplies, tent & sleeping bag and living like Huck Finn for a while (Huck Finn with a girlfriend). Stargazing, fishing and bathing in mountain streams. Yeah. 

Work six months in a bum job, take six months vacation, travel extensively. Please, say you approve. Later on, six months to a year or so, we can get our lives on track and work toward that mythical Apple Pie Picket Fence Pension Plan. But for God's sake, lets enjoy this thing called youth and not waste it with the entangling encumberments placed on us all to readily by reality peddling establishment elitist dogs. Yah! 

What else could you possibly want to know about me that you wouldn't want to unfold in the natural language of romance (you tell me what you like, I tell you what you want to hear, etc)? I will ask you a question--don't write if you can't answer honestly--oh never mind, that's a leading question. 

I believe in love, despite economic or societal or any other constraints. I believe in fidelity and honesty, in hard work for the things that are good in life and in the bliss of kicking back and having fun in Nature. I love the quiet, majestic flow of a river or the smell of pine in cold mountain air. 

Oh, come on, what have I got to say to get you into my camper van? Ok, let's hear your version. I may be wrong: "Give me the gritty city and the sweatshop, yeah." Nahh! 

I like cats. I don't smoke cigarettes. Kids are optional and later (when I've matured satisfactorily). Let's discuss this further (unless you believe I am hopeless).  I don't know you at all. I'd like to. You seem sensitive, not the Beverly Hills 90210 type.
 
Please respond. I'll be waiting. And waiting. and come on...please? 

To us, to the future, to the moon,
 
Andrew.
 

 
19 Garden Park Dr.
Chico, CA 45926
916 345-5401

Sorry bout the red ink but you need it when you make these little goodies. And the paper gets a C- (weak)
 

 

 

The Story of My Life (Chico era personal reply draft)

This is the Story of My Life.
 
Hello. stranger! I am very pleased to be meeting you. I am hoping that very soon we will at least be friends and openin' up to each other and havin' a real real time together. Like, can you comprehend?  If you are young, attractive, insane of mind and single, then please respond. 

I have waited my whole lifetime (or at least the last six months) in search of a woman-child or female creature who, being of acclaimable spirit and quite herself in her ways, would consent to spending some golden moments, some precious time, with the old Hoodmaster. Hoody. That's me.
 
O.K., so you expected Walter Maverick? No such luck. I am still in search of a direction for myself to go in. You know, regarding life and stuff. But I show some promising potential, I think. I believe we could enrich each others lives regardless of what type of people we both are. 

Unless of course you are a member of George Bush's personal entourage. I am of liberal mind, I believe, and find it personally unconscionable to get involved with "the Man" in any way. I get pulled over by him enough as it is. The last time was in Gridley. Talk about straight! 

Well, any-who, I sure hope I can rise above all that and somehow get around to asking you out for a date. Cause that's all I is tryin' to do any-whee. O.K., I could fall madly in love with you. It's not out of the question. In fact, I'd be diggin' it.
 
Ya know? It's real alone-ly bein' alone. I would like to make-ay you life less lonely too, honey-sweetness. 

I can't be makin' description desecration of myself cause I ain't that vain.
 
O.K., so I am a sex god. But, no really, you must take a chance on me, as I am on you. We can only talk, meet and see what is and what should never be. It couldn't be that bad. I is of the human species as like are you. It could be we have nice time together, love-lorn longfelt love of my heart. I wait for you call.
 
Andrew Golding (you friend) hey-mon
 
345-5401
 
You Friend - Hey Mon
 

 
 

The Esplanade Manor News and Review (April 29, 1992 -- week of the LA riots)

In the wake of the acquittal of four LAPD officers indicted on charges of police brutality in the videotaped beating of black motorist Rodney King, several instances of unrest were reported at the Esplanade Manor here in Chico.

Pat Rupp announced that he could not sleep.

Melinda Long, shoeless activist for the rights of the mentally ill, teamed up with long-time police benefits show entertainer, Anita Rose, in a singing duet consisting of a two hour set of slave music and a Vaudeville purse act. Proceeds from the event will be forwarded to Rodney King to “buy himself something nice.”

Arvada King (undetermined relation) announced that she would be retiring after more than 10 years of service at the Manor. Said King, “I drive in the fog sometimes at night—I don’t want to be mistaken for a black motorist and beaten.”

In widespread defiance of authority, clients at the Manor have been smoking in their rooms and allowing the cigarette butts to smolder on their carpets.

One client, Elizabeth Coolidge, announced that she would keep an all night smoking vigil outside her room until she had consumed 56 cigarettes, one for each of the inflicted blows on the taped beating.

Other clients, demanding cigarettes, donuts and coffee stormed the kitchen and SNC office.

One client, Janet Cree, an undercover CIA agent, on assignment from West Sac., was seen taking part in the looting. She emerged from the kitchen with 5 cans of Folgers, with a street value of $500.

Larry Rowe was arrested for public drunkenness, but this was believed to be unrelated.

Dennis Shoenick and love guru, Glenda Stowe, began a week long love-in to protest the violence.

Mark Ginter used the opportunity to promote some of his more controversial art pieces, in particular, one depicting a black man engaged in full penetration intercourse with a white woman.

Bob Shepherd today said that he would be doubling his medication until further notice.

In the confusion following the kitchen break-in, staff members were seen loading their cars with meat and dairy products from the well-stocked Manor refrigerator/freezer. One female staff member made off with an entire pie.

A fire gutted the smoking table, but determined residents sat at the table throughout the blaze and continued to sit on the charred metal frame well into the morning.

Sereena Mills staged a one-woman hunger strike slightly after lunch but reversed her decision when she discovered that mashed potatoes and gravy were to be served for dinner.

Medication Attendant Steve Knorr barricaded himself inside the Med Room, responding only to knock knock jokes and requests for Pamprin, which he slid under the Med Room door.

Night shift attendant Andrew Golding called for an end to mopping and sweeping duties because “those mop and broom handles look an awful lot like nightsticks.” When asked if this ban would apply to pool cues, he responded curtly, “that is an entirely unrelated matter,” and stalked off toward the Rec Room.

Desiring to take part in the incendiary protest, Mike Goldman, an Antabuse patient, helped out by making non-alcoholic Molotov cocktails.

Dan Beacon was arrested in Sacramento for looting a Thrifty Drug store.

Steve Couvrette, weekend night staff, only had two words regarding the violence in LA—“Send me.”

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.