I DID IT

Convulsions wracked Dan’s body as he stepped inside the Valley Springs University Chapel. The vomit was literally building in his chest--he could feel it resting just above his heart. It stopped his breath into short little spurts and he knew he was sweating profusely. He concentrated harder than he ever had to control himself as he scanned the room for a seat, preferably in the back, of the already full chapel. He sat down next to a group of blonde, sobbing, obviously freshmen girls who took no notice of him as they leafed through the memorial program.

Dan looked over at them and his eyes instantly hit the smiling picture of Josh, beaming out from the front of the program.

The oxy…I gave him the oxy and the alcohol. I watched as his high took affect and laughed at his stupidity--at the way the drug took such instant effect on him and the ecstasy that crossed his eyes. He took another hit and another swig, like a seasoned addict. I didn’t stop him. His eyes lulled back and his body swayed. I wanted more. Had to have more. “Just across the tracks," I told him.

“What a bright future he had. Such a shame, to die so young," Dan heard an elderly woman say across the aisle. He glanced at her and realized it was one of the old Cafeteria biddies, who consistently served on them at 2 AM--even when the cafeteria was closed and she was just cleaning up-- when both had the munchies after coming off a high. Josh always smiled and flirted, trying to get her to knock off a dollar or two, which she always did. She caught his gaze, stared long and hard before Dan realized he was still looking at her. She smiled and waved. Secretly she wished it was he, and not the cute tall one, who had been killed. But Dan had already seen death. He had seen its bright lights…

He followed as I crossed the steel train tracks. 

I didn’t wait for him when his foot got stuck between the rails. My craving got the best of me and I turned and left him, as he yelled curses my way and struggled to free his foot. I heard it first--the haunting call of the train. I turned and saw the lights bouncing from tree to tree, showing its speed. 

But I couldn’t move. 

Wide eyed, fear had paralyzed me. Josh finally saw it and I watched him wrench at his foot. His high had worn off as fast as it had hit him, and he now knew his peril. He looked frantically from the train to me. He stared into me and past me, knowing I was leaving him to his fate for a stupid high. That this was it, and I was going to watch it from the safety of the trees. 

The brakes screeched, but it was already too late. The train slammed into Josh, instantly breaking his neck and tossing his lifeless body 50 feet in the air. 

And I watched as it slammed back to earth, twisted and broken. Drenched in blood.

                                               

Dan’s fists were clenched and sweat poured from his brow, as the memory hit him like a train. The people surrounding him noticed his discomfort but nodded it off, figuring he was just another aggrieved student. “Maybe he knew Josh," they thought. Dan opened his eyes and saw them staring. He could feel their gaze boring into his soul.

“They know,” he thought, as the guilt took over his sanity. They accused him without a single word. A girl whispered mockingly to the friend sitting beside her, then stared. Dan couldn’t take it; they were eating him alive. As he stood to leave, someone walked up to the podium. Dan sat back down as Josh’s older brother, Neil, stood before the congregation.

Neil looked almost exactly like Josh—sandy brown hair, fit, a Goliath among mere mortals, and gray eyes.

Josh’s eyes. He’s looking at me with Josh’s eyes.

He didn’t speak; he scanned the room with angst and an air of accusation.

“I want to thank all of you for the condolences and well wishes on behalf of my family," he addressed them, sounding more like a robot than a person. “This college community has touched the hearts of my family during this very hard time, and we will always remember that. This was home to Josh. And he made some true friends here, some better than others, obviously,” he stopped and looked for awhile into the audience. 

Dan’s limbs were burning. He couldn’t look up. He couldn’t face Neil.

“I’m not gonna stand here and paint a perfect picture of Josh, because Josh was nowhere near perfect. He had a mess of problems and those problems don’t go away just because he’s dead. His problems are more profound now that he’s gone, and that’s what killed him. And no one could stop him, or save him in more ways than one. I know because I’ve tried to straighten him out, for my parents’ sake and that caused a huge riff in our relationship. And for years, I've written him off as a waste of air. But he was still my brother and he didn’t deserve this. Three days ago, he wasn’t my favorite person in the world, but I wouldn’t wish this on anybody. He should be alive right now still giving my parents heartache and trying to figure out life for himself. But a bottle of pills and a train took that away from him."

"Someone was there that night; I know someone was with him. Josh never partied alone. Someone saw what happened and anonymously called the cops, this much I've been told. That person needs to stop being a coward and speak up. My family needs closure; we need to know why he was out there and why this happened. You, whoever you are, are just as responsible as Josh if you remain silent. I just…” he stopped, trying to stiffen his anger, “come forward if you have any decency.”

Neil stepped down from the podium and walked straight down the aisle, towards the door. Dan held his breath and tried to disappear.

Why did I come? Why did I come?

Dan felt a hand tap his shoulder. He opened his eyes and there was Neil, standing right in front of him with no safety space of 30 feet for Dan to cower in.

“Sorry we haven’t come to the dorm to pick up his stuff. I know what a pig he was,” Neil said, trying to stifle a laugh. The light from his eyes faded in an instant, as if he again realized where he was. His head dropped and he took Dan’s hand in his. “I’m not wrong in this; someone was there and we’re gonna find that bastard. We’re gonna find him, right Dan?”

Say something! Say Something! Open your mouth and spit something out!

“Sorry,” Dan said with an exhale of breath. Neil smiled and nodded. He dropped Dan’s hand and walked out.

Dan could still feel the grip of Neil’s hand, even after he was gone. The pressure was building in his body. He needed to leave. He needed to run--to get away from this place and the memories pounding his brain. He stood to leave, as the congregation began to react to Neil’s onslaught of anger. No one noticed Dan, walking stiffly out of the chapel and staring straight ahead.

           

Three days later, Dan’s body was found hanging from the water pipe of his dorm room. His RA nearly fainted when he came to investigate a strong smell, reported by the others in the wing, and found Dan’s lifeless body instead. 

University Police immediately came to investigate. They scoured the room for clues; anything to justify the suicide of a young man with no reported psychiatric problems. They found nothing until they searched the jeans on Dan’s body. 

Inside his left pocket was a crumpled, blue program.

“Hey that’s the kid who got hit by the train last week,” one of the officer’s said, as the program was straightened and laid flat on the floor. Upon closer inspection, the officers realized something was written across the picture on the front cover of the program.

In large black ink, right below the dead college boy’s smiling face were three words;

                                    I DID IT

Blow it Down

*This next post was inspired by the Carrie Underwood song "Blown Away" off her new album of the same title*

The winds are picking up, after a day of excessive dry-heat and thunder. All the windows in the small ran-shackle of a house are open, the glass straining against their panes and the curtains blowing haphazardly. Strength is building in the wind with every minute that goes by. Dust and foliage whip up in it, making it hard to see beyond the porch. The skies are dangerously dark--huge, fluffy, pitch-black clouds linger in clumps. Rain so desperately needed is not building inside them, but something much more dangerous.

Something deadly.
 
I stand in the kitchen, holding my new born calico kitten close to my chest. We both know what is coming--the danger we will be in the path of. The kitten nuzzles into my neck, trying to comfort me in the midst of our shared terror. But I am stuck, stock-still. I don't know what to do. I know exactly where we need to go, the decision that is only too easy to make. I just can't move. I can't force my mind to make that decision. My eyes are locked on the couch the sits in the living room in front of me. The couch that Daddy is passed out on.

The television by his feet is flashing the red and embolden tornado warnings for Greenboro county, telling all viewers to take immediate shelter below ground, but Daddy still sleeps. In a drunken stupor, his head to one side still clutching his bottle of Jack Daniels--his one and only love and solace in life. He wreaks of disappointment and whiskey. His unconscious form shows a man who has worked hard every day of his life, but pissed it all away on a bottle of brown liquid. He was out cold and completely oblivious to all going on around him.

I can't recall a single day when I haven't found Daddy in this exact position.

 His typical day consisted of waking around noon, contemplating a shower, barking orders and reprimands to my sunken form about the waste of sperm I was, then driving into town to drink himself into an oblivion. The owner of the only bar in town knew our house number by heart and usually called me to come pick him up hours later. Even though I knew the verbal assault I'd receive the second he slumped into the front seat of my car, I always picked him up. That was the spell he had me under.

It only got worse once we were under his roof. Where he could beat the day lights out of me without worrying about others seeing it. He's broken my nose, jaw and both arms in his drunken rages. I've had bruises on each and every clean area of my body--bruises and injuries I had to make excuses for if I ever went to the hospital (which was rare). If I was lucky, I'd run from the car to the house and shut myself up behind my locked bedroom door. He'd chase after me, nipping and trying to grab at my heels, then pound on my door for hours, calling me every dirty word in the book until he finally retreated to the couch. The next morning, it would start all over again.

It never stopped and I knew it never would.

For the longest time, I asked myself why he did this to me. Why he hated me so much and found pleasure in my pain. If he ever loved me. I was his one and only daughter, but he was nothing like a father. He didn't cherish or protect me like all the fathers in movies.

But deep down I knew why he was the way he was. Why he beat me into submission and had me cowering in corners at all hours of the day.

Because I know his secret.

That night, fifteen years ago, he told the ambulance and police officers that she fell. That Mama tripped on the carpet on the first landing and tumbled down the stairs head first. That he was in their bedroom changing for bed when she left the room to get a glass of water downstairs."Her foot must've caught," he said, with no emotion. He was nowhere near her when she fell but heard her scream and the thud when her head hit the wall at the bottom of the stairs. I heard the police say her neck snapped like a twig and her face was littered with bruises. They carried her covered body out on a stretcher, right passed me in the front yard as I clutched a doll to my chest. They wouldn't let me see her--wouldn't let me say goodbye to the Mama I loved and who loved me with all her being. I cried silent tears as they raised her body into the ambulance and shut the doors behind her lifeless form.

I watched as the flashing ambulance lights pulled away, and only turned back to the house when I knew Daddy was behind me. I turned very slowly, when he was a mere few feet from me, but he stopped dead in his tracks from getting any closer. I stared him down. Stared at him with the hardest look a five-year old girl could give. I shot ice and hatred through my pupils and tried to pierce his soul. With every inch of my being, I tried to convey what I knew. What he knew, that I knew. As the seconds grew longer, he couldn't hold my gaze any longer and he looked away. He couldn't take the truth that was staring out at him through five-year old eyes.

The truth that my Mama didn't trip down those stairs. That those bruises were weeks old. That Mama was coming to get me, gather our things and flee Daddy's house forever. She had had enough of his drunken rages, of him taking it out on her face. His abuse and heartlessness. That Daddy grabbed her arm when she left their bedroom and fought with her at the top of the stairs. That he choked her lifeless with his bare hands and then pushed her down the stairs.

Daddy killed my Mama.

And I saw it happen.

And that was why he beat me. He beat me into silence. He beat me to forget. He beat me to remember my Mama.

Suddenly the room went silent. The television snapped to a gray, fuzzed out screen. The lights blinked on and off then went black completely. Only minutes left.

Then I heard the sirens. The tornado sirens that notified all in hearing distance that a spiral of dangerous wind had touched down and was headed our way.  That all who did not take shelter were at their own peril.

There was no longer a decision to make.

I dashed from the house that held only pain and hurt, still clutching the kitten to my breast through the wind and hail, and I ran to the storm cellar. I yanked and pulled at the doors--the wind beating them shut again every time I got them open a crack. Finally, with all my strength I forced the doors open and wedged inside. I scurried down the stairs, safely locking the door behind me. I lit some candles we had stored and found a blanket to gather myself into.

I snuggled into the blanket, still clutching my kitten, and rocked back and forth. The wind got fiercer, the cellar doors strained against their bolts and I could hear things crashing against the house. I tried to shut it out. I tried to remain calm.

And as the wind screamed louder and I knew the tornado was on my doorstep, I prayed. I rocked and prayed. "Blow it down. Blow it away. Blow it down. Blow it away," I said it over and over again. For hours on end.

Blow down my salvation. Blow away my misery.
Blow down my salvation. Blow away my misery.
Blow down my salvation. Blow away my misery.


I wake to my kitten lightly licking my fingers and sun shining through the boards of the storm cellar. Slowly I stand and approach the doors of the storm cellar, still firmly locked. With nimble fingers, I unlock the door and push them out into the blinding daylight.

I step from the cellar with unsure feet to check my surroundings. And I almost drop to my knees.

The house is gone.

Completely gone.

Where Daddy's house once stood was just a pile of brick, nails, broken glass and boards. The foundation was completely ripped from the ground, leaving no semblance of a house or even a shack. No signs of life beneath the rubble. No body. Just an empty bottle of Jack Daniels lying yards away from the mess.

And as the implications of what it all meant hit me, I cried for the first time since Mama was taken. I was free.

Beyond the Mason Dixon

A large bag of laundry, sunburn on every inch of my body, a new pair of shoes, and lots of pictures can only mean one thing--I just got home for my first real vacation in years. And when I say vacation I mean out of the Philadelphia area, more than 3 days of solid relaxation. My Uncle Joe (who is also my godfather) and Aunt Melissa live in Virginia Beach at this amazing house on a lake. My family used to go down to see them every summer for a week, but it's been about 10 years since I've been to see them. So when my parents were planning on going down there for a week, I jumped on the opportunity to see my uncle and aunt and get out of the area for a few days.

It was an amazing vacation, and I have a few stories to share about it :)


Not even out of the City...
My Dad always picks my Mom up from work everyday, and the Friday we were heading down to Virginia was no different. We packed up the car and headed down to North Philly to pick my mom up, planning to leave right from there. Before picking her up, my Dad wanted to stop in Port Richmond to pick up some Cajun kielbasa (which if you're not Polish, it's basically spicy sausage). Years back my Dad found this Polish Deli and swears by it. It's called Cserws (pronounced "Sirs") and it's really a hole in the wall deli--if you didn't know where it was, you would never find it. There's no sign or store front, or even windows! It looks like an abandoned building. So I go inside with my Dad to pick up his 6 pounds of kielbasa.

Now before I go any further, let me explain something about my Dad. He has this weird thing about T-shirts. If you have a business and sell t-shirts, he's bound to buy one. He loves cutting the sleeves off them and wearing them to "work" around the house. He has 3 that my sisters and I have tried to throw out on numerous occasions (a "Michigan" t-shirt that's a gross color yellow that is slopped up with paint and god knows what else), but have always magically appeared back in his drawers. He also has a plethora of navy blue PGW (Philadelphia Gas Works, a.k.a my dad's old job) t-shirts that he swears are collectors items (which in reality they aren't. His jobs gave them at least 12 every year and I swear he has bags of them stocked up somewhere).

So once we walked inside the deli, my dad noticed a Cserws t-shirt for sale. His eyes nearly popped out of his head. "This is great! Definitely getting one of these," he said inspecting the front and back of the t-shirt.

"Can I help you," the deli owner asked from behind us. Now the owner did not look like a typical Deli owner. Maybe this is a stereotype, but I always expect them to be round, old and bald. This guy was very fit, had shaggy blonde hair and a bunch of hemp bracelets up his arm. He looked like he should've been on a beach, waxing up his surfboard. Very strange to me.

My Dad gave his last name and the owner quickly went to the back to wrap it up. Once he returned my Dad asked about the t-shirts. "It'll be 2 weeks. That's our last one," he said curtly and kept wrapping up the meat.  The one on the hanger was too small for my Dad, so obviously he was pretty disappointed. The owner finished wrapping up the meat and shot a look up at me, noticing me for what seemed like the first time. And a smile stretched across his face, "Oh wow that's a great t-shirt," he exclaimed pointing to the Queen t-shirt I was wearing. "What's your favorite song!"

I was kind of caught off guard and honestly couldn't think. "Ughhh..." I started to say, then he cut me off--"How old are you anyway?"

"26"

He nodded and smiled again. "Where'd you get that shirt? I'd love one," he asked.

"Honestly I can't even remember--I've had it for 2 years," I told him.

He rang up my Dad's order and shot another look at me and said, "How much did ya pay for it? Here," he said and handed me 10 bucks.

"I'm not gonna take it off my back and hand it to you," I said laughing and half shocked.

"No, no. Just take this and if you find another one buy it for me. And I'll give your Dad our t-shirt for free." I took the money and said I'd try. My Dad could barely contain his laughter as we walked out of there.

"Penny, I can't tell if he was trying to pick you up or was just a really big Queen fan."

Thanks Dad!


7 hours later
After 7 hours of driving, 2 stops (Wawa for gas and Tylenol, McDonalds for dinner), we finally reached it to my Uncle and Aunt's house. It was almost midnight but luckily they made sure to stay awake for our arrival. We opened the doors to the car and it was unbelievable how hot it was even at that time of night. My glasses fogged up and I instantly began to sweat.

My Aunt ushered us out to the deck, where we talked for 2 hours then we all retreated upstairs to bed.

After a good night's sleep, this is what I woke up to

No, this is not photo shopped. This is my Uncle Joe's backyard.

I spent the first 2 days of my vacation swimming in the lake, laying on the dock, reading, and drinking cocktails under that tree. I can't even describe how relaxing it was to just wake up, put on my bathing suit and dive (well not really, please see last post) into the lake.

At night, we sat and talked for hours. And my Dad and I got to do the one thing we haven't done in years; fish. Yes, I'm a girl and yes, I like to fish. A father of 4 girls has no prejudice when it comes to gender related recreation. For as long as I can remember, my Dad would take us fishing on the creeks and rivers by our house. He taught us to bait a hook, cast a line, and take the fish off the hook once caught. He did everything with us that he would've done with a son. And casting out into my uncle's lake took me right back there--to those days when my Dad took us fishing.

"Remeber that one day at Tyler State Park when you caught 20, Pen" my Dad asked, telling the story to my uncle.

"Dad, I'm pretty sure it was the same one over and over," I laughed.

It was a nice moment to share with my Dad.



Walking with the Colonials
It was hard for my Mom and I to pull my Dad away from the lake, but we were determined to experience a different aspect of Virginia. Busch Gardens was a no-go as we are not really ride people, so Colonial Williamsburg it was. My parents had brought my older sister there when she was just a baby, and my Mom told me how great it was. Being from Philadelphia, I've seen reenactors and period dress, but I thought it'd be fun to experience something different.

Took us over an hour to get there (my Dad still hasn't gotten the hang of a GPS and kept making wrong turns) and parking was a bit of a hike, but we finally got onto the main street of Colonial Williamsburg, amidst all the colonial buildings, cobblestone streets, dress and foods. Here are a few of my pictures.

My parents....

 

The pictures really don't do it justice. I kept trying to get action shots of the Colonials, but they kept moving!

"Good 'Morrow," is how we were greeted by each Colonial. They never broke character or revealed anything about living in modern times (except for when I saw one of the colonials on their cellphone and smoking a cigarette behind the bathroom. I guess she was on her break?)

We spent a little over two hours walking the streets, and probably would've stayed longer if it didn't get so hot as a the day progressed. One modern element of Williamsburg--all the buildings had air conditioning, which I don't think they had back in 1770.....

Good Vibrations

On July 3rd, my Uncle was able to get tickets for us all to go see the Beach Boys. Yes, the Beach Boys. Probably the closest I will ever get to seeing the Beatles (same genre, same generation). And I'm a big fan of the Beach Boys anyway, so I was super pumped.

Now I've been to a lot of concerts with my friends, and we had a pretty normal tradition. If its an outside venue, we get there a few hours before and tailgate in the parking lot. A few cases of beer, lawn chairs, and snacks are a must before the concert. So I really wasnt sure how this night was gonna go--the youngest out of my uncles friends had about 30 years on me. I was pretty shocked when my uncle explained we'd be going to his friend Jimmy's house to "pregame". Which for older people means sitting in an air conditioned house, eating pizza and drinking a lot of beer. Sitting there with a slight buzz, the only thing I could think was "God, I hope me and my friends are exactly like this in 30 years."

About an hour later, 11 of us headed over to the venue and took our seats on the lawn for the concert. Now I was not sure what I expected as far as an audience for this concert. Like the Beach Boys had their hay-day 50 years ago. I kind of expected it to be mostly people my parents' age. Maybe a little younger.

I was pretty shocked once the venue filled up with a mix of people my parent's age, my age, and younger. There were actually a lot of little kids there, running around playing with beach balls. It really, really warmed my heart to know that these kids were going to have this experience with their parents.

Then the show started and I was blown away. 

Again, I wasn't sure what to expect--let's be honest, the 4 remaining original members are pushing 70. But the vocals were amazing--they hit every single harmony like it was a piece of cake. They performed like they were still in their 20s. And Brian Wilson was performing with them. If you don't know, Brian Wilson is the founding member of the group and also wrote the majority of their music. He's basically a musical genius. But he had a mental breakdown about 30 years ago--he actually didn't leave his room for almost 3 years because of depression (the inspiration behind "In My Room"). He stopped touring after that--he literally could no step on stage. But finally, for the band's 50th anniversary tour Brian was able to rejoin the group and perform his hit "Surfer Girl".

It was amazing to witness the crowd, standing and singing right along with him. At one point my uncle turned to me and said "You know Brian Wilson hasn't toured with the Beach Boys in 30 years and he probably never will again. Now you'll be able to tell your children that you saw the Beach Boys 50th Anniversary tour and heard Brian Wilson sing "Surfer Girl."

I truly felt that moment was bigger than me. It also made me really wish I had been born in their generation--to have experienced the Beach Boys when they were groundbreaking and new. I've always kind of felt that way, but being with that crowd made me wish it even more. And in a small way during those 3 hours, I kind of was.


Heading on Home....
After 7 long days (including a spectacular 4th of July fireworks display over the lake), it was time to head home. I heard the soft knock on my door at 7:30 am on Friday and knew it was time to embark on the next 7 hour journey back to Pennsylvania. I packed my last few belongings and headed downstairs to say my goodbyes.

As I gave my Aunt a hug she whispered in my ear, "If you ever need to get away again, don't hesitate to come down south again. Even if you find a job down here." I was kind of shocked but also touched by what my aunt said. Could I handle moving down to Virginia? Leaving everything and everyone behind and starting a new life down south?

It's a lot to think about.

Before leaving, I walked down to the dock to take one last look. As I sat down, a big fish jumped out of the water and scared the crap out of me. My aunt had told me during the week that huge carp live in the middle of the lake, on top of cat fish and bass. "I don't think I'd like to be a big fish trapped in this small little pond. I'd really get bored," I thought to myself. There's only so much space and things to see. Then I realized something.

 I am the carp, and Philadelphia is my pond.

Pretty funny to have a life altering realization before 8 am.

Gave me a lot to think about on the ride home.....