My Trek thru Time – Intro

I haven’t published a personal post for quite a while; to my loyal followers, I apologize. I was in an accident March 09 of this year where I came close to being paralyzed from a neck injury; fortunately, I wasn’t. While recuperating, some friends and a relative or two urged me to start writing my memoirs; it gave me pause to reconsider some things about myself and my outlook on life.

`           My life has not been easy, nor has it been ordinary; what it has been was one emotional struggle after another each a lesson unto itself. Since coming into this arena we call earth, I’ve been forced to attend challenging classes not found in any school curriculum. I’ve learned hard lessons that might have destroyed a weaker man; I won, I overcame adversity to finally, for once in my life stand tall, proud of who I am.

I would like to share some of the insight I’ve gained.

With your permission, I will begin this by stating that I will never again apologize to any member of my family for my past or present actions. I do not emphasize that to be mean-spirited or arrogant; I do it to forewarn any who may read my words.

If I were to apologize, it would be to myself for not getting the help I needed when I could afford it. Therefore, my introduction intends to be an opening of a massive door into my being, into my very inner pains and terror to release what was and allow what is to enter. It is my challenge to the shadows that once brought only loneliness and anxiety to an outcast, punished for not meeting the expectations of those who should have loved.

I will speak of the unseen tears shed over many years; the cries in the night unanswered, a family always out of reach. The trauma that permanently destroyed a lonely child leaving him to struggle as an adult.

If I were better educated and more intelligent, I think I might find worthier terminology for what I feel, and it’s causation, but I’m not so I’ll take a SWAG (scientific wild-ass guess) and call it: Abandoned Child Syndrome [1] – Parental Alienation Syndrome [2]

I will share my life story in the hope of maybe, one day being able to cry again; to shed the tears suppressed even now.

Papa Nyk

[1]              Overview on Abandoned Child Syndrome – Its Causes and Symptoms, Threads of Feeling (2018), (last visited Sep 16, 2018).

[2]              Linda Turner, Abandoned child syndrome Parental Alienation Pas (2018), (last visited Sep 16, 2018).

Nana didn’t know Henry.

Nana didn’t know Henry.


Henry, who was to become my best friend in elementary school was a chubby black kid with a heat of pure gold.  We met in the fall of 1950 when we began first grade and remained friends until he died at age eighteen from a congenital heart defect,

It’s funny, how when looking back at friendships many people cannot recall precisely what it was that triggered your liking for each other. I know Henry and I were in the same first-grade class, but he, being black had to sit in the back of the class. Yep, I grew up in that era when segregation was still alive but in its death throes. Hell, even at recess, Henry would be with the other black kids in their corner of the playground.

Racism you say, sure it was, it was early 1950s Minneapolis, Minnesota and I went to an integrated public school where black kids sat in the back rows of everything and had their own play area outside. We were making progress in the cafeteria though, at least there, everyone could get into the same line, course there was only one line for everything.  I loved chocolate milk too (not important to this story, but thought you’d like to know ). I didn’t usually eat the cafeteria food, my mother had me on a strict diet; took me awhile to adjust to Peter Pan peanut butter with my grape jelly over Skippy’s but PB&J was the menu of the day, almost every day.

We had a great teacher for first grade. She was smart, fun and didn’t believe in using brass knuckles or a wooden ruler to get our attention. What she did have was a shrill voice that was louder than a claxon when she got upset. But, we liked her.

We had a class project just before Thanksgiving that year. It involved caring for a pair of white mice Why? Damned if I know now but we did. Each Friday after school, one student would take the mice home in their cage to care for them. My turn came Thanksgiving weekend, and I was thrilled to be involved because it made me feel like I was a part of something. So, when school let out on Wednesday the day before Thanksgiving, I picked up the cage, put the cover over it and trudged home in the midst of a massive snowfall.

When I got home, no one was in the apartment we lived in over our little dairy store, so I took my two small charges in their cage into my bedroom which was kind of hidden behind the refrigerator, and I put them in the corner. At last, I thought, I have my own little family.

On Thanksgiving day, we all piled into dad’s 1950 Oldsmobile 88 Sedan and drove down to Mankato, Minnesota to share dinner with my paternal grandparents. It was the typical non-earthshattering event, but I did get to tell Nana about my mice. I remember her saying it was a huge and very significant responsibility for so young a man as me, but she was proud of me. She knew how to say the things I needed to hear and wasn’t hearing at home.

When we returned to Minneapolis later that day, I was exhausted and went right to bed. In the morning, my mother came into my room and demanded to know where I got the “rats” and cage. I explained it was part of a school project. Of course, she also demanded to know why I didn’t ask her permission before bringing them home. Apparently, she had forgotten signing a permission slip at the start of the project. Whatever the case, “take those rats back to school now!” was all I heard.

I was destroyed! How was I going to get them back into the school when it was closed for the holiday? Even if I did, who would care for them until school on Monday? It made no difference, I had to “take those rats back to school, now!”

Following my usual breakfast of somewhat lumpy oatmeal, I bundled up and trudged my way along the five snow-covered city blocks to Adams Elementary School at Bloomington and Franklin Avenues only to find it covered in snow with no signs of recent activity. I didn’t know what to do, so I went over to the swing set, brushed the snow off and sat down with the cage on my lap to think. I was upset. No, I was terrified, I didn’t know what to do except sit there crying.

I don’t know how long I sat there before the local cop stopped to ask me what I was doing. Luckily, at least for me, he knew me from our family dairy store which was open from seven AM to midnight, seven days a week. Guess he could come in late at night when I was already in bed asleep.

When I told him what had happened, he took me to his squad car, put me and the cage in the back seat then turned up the heater. He said he thought he could help and to relax, then started talking on his police radio to some woman. When he finished, we drove a few blocks to a house where a man I recognized as a janitor at my school came out and got into the front seat. We then drove back to school where the janitor let us into my classroom where I left my little charges after giving them fresh water and food. We then took the janitor back home, and the officer drove me back to our store where the policeman talked to my dad. I went to my room where I think I cried myself to sleep.

I was a mess the remainder of the weekend because I knew my classmates would make fun of me for having to bring the mice back to school. Come Monday morning, I was up early, skipped breakfast and was about to rush out the door when my brother David told me school was closed due to the snowstorm the night before. Not only were the schools closed but the streets were blocked with knee-deep piles of snow; I’m not talking my knees, I’m talking Paul Bunyan’s.

All I could think about was “are the mice ok” Are they safe?” I didn’t know, and it was tearing at me.

Tuesday morning wasn’t much better; schools were still closed but the roads were getting plowed, and I knew there would be school on Wednesday. There just had to me!

I got up extra early Wednesday morning, did my usual morning stuff, including not brushing my teeth, but then no one else in my family did, and no one encouraged me to. I ate my oatmeal, put on my overboots, you know those old black rubber boots we put on over our shoes, my jacket, gloves, and hat then out the door, down the stairs and around the corner I went. I think I ran, and slid all the way to school, desperate to know.

When I arrived at school, I found the front doors closed and locked. I couldn’t get in. It seemed as though the world were conspiring to hurt me, but I was not about to let it happen. I sat my butt down on the pile of snow next to the steps and waited. I know I had to have waited for 10,000 hours before the principal finally opened the doors and let us in. The winter morning ritual of entering school had begun. Boots off, at the door, hat and gloves next then your coat and snow pants if you had them. I always had a pair of my older brothers worn out jeans I put on over my pants. Then you carried everything up to your class where there was a cloak closet across the back of the room the room to hang them up.

As I was hanging my things up, my teacher came into the cloak closet and said she needed to talk to me. We went out into the hallway where she asked me why I allowed one of the mice to eat the other one. If that wasn’t piss down your leg moment, there never has been one.

What happened? I screamed.

She said the when she got to school there was only one mouse in the cage along with remnants of the other one; remnants meaning fur, and a bone or two.

I put my coat, hat, boots, and gloves back on and ran crying out of school right into Henry who was just entering. I bounced off him like a tennis ball off a racket and fell flat on my butt. Still crying my head off.

Henry sat down next to me, put his arm around my shoulder not saying a word until I stopped crying, then he asked me if I want him to walk me home. Up to that time, I hadn’t realized who was sitting next to me, I just knew I felt safe and protected.

I turned to look, and there he was, his smile about the size of Alaska, aglow in the midst of a face as black and shiny as the finest ebony. “Hi, I’m Henry, your classmate.” That did it for me; someone cared inclusively – I lost it and started crying again. By the time I calmed down some, our teacher, along with the principal had arrived by us telling Henry to walk me home, and so he did.

In that 30 -minute walk from school to our store, I made a friend. A real friend who, I sincerely hope remains my friend even though he has passed into another realm so very long ago.

During our walk, we discovered that we lived within a block of one another, left for school at approximately the same time but that he walked along the north side of Franklin Avenue, and I along with the south. We probably missed seeing each other because of the streetcars, buses with plumes of black diesel smoke or mounds of snow plowed to the curbs. Whatever the reason it ended; we were instant friends and planned to walk together on the north side of Franklin because that’s where the Old Dutch Potato Chip factory was and sometimes we got free samples.

That first year, Henry and I got very close. I could tell him anything, and he never shamed me, nor did I ever shame him. But, there was one thing that really bothered me, and I didn’t know how to handle it. I didn’t want to hurt Henry, nor drive him away because to me, he was a real brother, not just a name like my biological brothers. I was only six, and I was alone a lot, I was scared I’d lose him cause he was my bestest-of-all friend, but I was also curious. Henry’s mother was a white lady, and his father was a black man. .

Why didn’t Henry have stripes like a Zebra or squares like a checkboard?








Things I Never Told Nana


My father and I never bonded, hell sometimes I wondered if he even knew who I was. From the time I was born until age 15 when he died, he only actually communicated to me twice. Oh yeah, once in a great while he told me to do things, but that’s talking, not communicating. My bad, I forgot, he taught me the difference in spelling lavatory and laboratory when I was about eight, but that was it for father/son bonding. I can remember as a young kid how I wanted to badly for my dad to notice me the way he seemed to notice my two older brothers, especially the older one, Ronnie. But he didn’t: as a matter of fact neither did Ronnie.

I first began to notice this when we moved from our house in Camden, a suburb of Minneapolis to an apartment over the “dairy store” my parents bought at 1119 East Franklin Avenue in Minneapolis. In the front room, which was over the front part of the store, my parents had their bed set up in a closet area. Next was the living room with an inside staircase to the store, then my brothers’ room (I had two brothers) was next to the dining area where the space heater was. At the back wall of the dining area was a door into the kitchen, bathroom and my room sort of behind the refrigerator (a Kelvinator, in case you wanted to know). My room was the darkest as it only had one window which had a large tree overhanging it. I always wanted to climb that tree but never did because I was afraid of heights: the fact is heights still bother me but not as bad as when I was a kid.

The kitchen had a door leading out to a very scary old set of wooden stairs leading down to the dirt parking lot in back of the store. About halfway down, there was a small landing then where they made a left angle (if you were ascending) turn and ran adjacent to the “bottle shed” where we stored all the empty refundable bottles. Everything was refundable back then, well not exactly everything, I wasn’t, but then that was my fate. Almost from the time I could walk, it was my job to sort the empty bottles by make, size and what they were used for. I learned to hate Grain Belt and Hamm’s beer bottles cause their labels were always sticky.

Constructed of corrugated tin panels over the wood frame on a dirt floor, the “bottle shed” had no heat in winter and no air conditioning in summer. Winter wasn’t so bad, but summer was a killer with the heat, humidity, and bugs. Come to think of it, we had those same three problems in the apartment, the bugs especially in my room because it was almost right over the shed. I can remember having a lot of those sticky fly traps things hanging over my window and the doorway. The spiders never had to weave webs in our home, the fly traps provided their meals.

My room was the coldest one in our apartment, but I got used to it. Guess that’s why I can’t sleep well when it gets too warm in my bedroom now. Thank God for central air conditioning, back then we cooled at night by setting a block of ice in a large bucket then having a fan blow over it. If that didn’t work, we soaked our sheets, then got as much water out of them as possible before wrapping ourselves in them to lay down in front of the ice block. I’m surprised I never wet the bed, then or now.

I don’t recall my mother ever coming into my room at bedtime for anything other than to tell me to put the book down and go to sleep. My dad didn’t even come in to do that. Nope, I never heard: “Did you brush your teeth? Did you go to the bathroom? Did you say your prayers? I wasn’t subjected to any of those ridiculous practices. To this day, I don’t know if my brothers were either because they slept near mom and dad; I didn’t have to.

I was lonely at times, but I had my good friend Teddy with me. Yep, you guessed it, I had a real Teddy Bear. Nana gave him to me, and I named him Teddy; I was talented even as a child. Nana told me that Teddy was named after President Theodore (Teddy) Roosevelt so I should be proud; I was, and still am.

I told Teddy everything – all my hidden stuff and more. Even things I tried talking to Nana about, but they might hurt her to know. I don’t know why I felt that way other than the fact that I never, ever wanted to hurt her in any way. I guess I was afraid of losing her love yet knew Teddy would always love me: he was the brother I never had.

For awhile, I wanted to call Nana and tell her everything, but I didn’t dare. Back in the 1950s, we didn’t have cell phones, and long distances calls were expensive. There was no way I could hide calling on our phone, and I didn’t have money to use the pay phone on the corner. I think I once tried to call her on the police call phone next to the pay phone, but the operator told me to hang up. It was ok though, I probably could not have heard Nana with all the buses and streetcars making noise. I liked the streetcars but the buses always coughed black, smelly smoke when they started to more.

My older (by 3 years) brother David hated Teddy, but I think he hated me even more because he would do things to hurt me. He would think it funny to steal from me, lie about me and even harm Teddy. Once, he even cut Teddy’s neck so bad I had to suture it up. That’s when I learned how to sew, not real well but I did suture my Teddy until Nana could show me how to do it properly. She said I did a good job of basting it then gave me a curved needle and heavier thread to “heal your Teddy.”  I actually enjoyed hand sewing for many years and later in life when I began getting arthritis, I started to do satin stitch embroidery. I figured that is Rosie Greer could do needlepoint, so could I.

“Be sure you sew the cloth, not the fingers!” was Nana’s credo. Funny, even now, some sixty odd years since last we spoke, I can still hear Nana’s voice. She was a born teacher; one that never stood at the head of a class but she was always at the head of my class.










Nana and Henry

Don’t you love those nostalgic memories that seem to pop up at the oddest times?

When I was in the first grade at Adams Elementary School on Franklin Avenue at Bloomington Avenue, four long city blocks from where we lived above our little store at 1119 East. Franklin Avenue, Minneapolis, MN., I had to walk to school every day.

Now don’t start ragging on me about it being only four blocks from home. It was in Minnesota where winter starts right after Labor day and ends just before Mother’s day (sometimes), and I was only five years old. Between the street cars, the diesel buses, the other cars, and trucks spewing gasses and dust filling my lungs with all kinds of stuff I didn’t need, it was a challenge just walking down the sidewalk. Winter wasn’t so bad because the snowplows piled the snow up on the sidewalk so tall I couldn’t see over them. If the store owners got out early and shoveled, then it was relatively smooth sliding along on the ice because the wall of snow sent the smog above us. The sad part was that we always had black and brown snow because of all the crap in the air.

So, I would walk to school on the South side of Franklin Avenue and return home on the North side so where the Old Dutch Potato Chip company had a plant. Oh my god, if you haven’t smelled fresh potato chips on a cold winter’s day, you haven’t lived. We, my buddy Henry who walked to and from school with me, would stand in front of the big window and watch the chips being bagged by the machine. I think the imprint of our lips and drool are still on that window if it’s there.

Even today, 68 years later, when I smell fresh potato chips I think of Henry, one of the best friends I ever had, but he was a Negro. That seemed to be important to people sometimes cause when we would be walking home from school, they would make nasty comments about a white boy and a nigger walking together.

I once asked my Nana why people, especially my mom didn’t like Henry and she said it was only because he “is a knee-grow” and “those people were wrong because they don’t use the brains God gave them. Your friend is no different than anyone else, in fact, he’s better than most cause he let you be his friend.”

But Nana,  his mom is white, and his dad is black!

“So, what does that prove? Do they take good care of your friend? Do they love him? Are they nice people?”

I think so, yes.

“Then, their skin color makes no difference, does it?

But Nana, how can he be black like that when his momma is white, and his dad is black – shouldn’t he be like a zebra?

I think Nana, and maybe Henry too is still laughing about that one.

I never did see his knee grow, but that’s ok, because he was then, and remains in my heart as Henry, my bestest friend ever.

Nana said I was a gifted little boy because I saw people “through the eyes of a blind man” and heard their words “with deaf ear.”

“When you look at Henry, you don’t see his skin, you know his heart.”

Nana, though you are gone, yet remain. Your words still echo in my mind.

I miss you both.

The Wisdom of My Nana

As a child, I often sat with my grandmother beneath her grape arbor in Mankato, MN, there to talk and listen to her stories of nature. She was not a learned person in the sense of a formal education, but she was a sagacious woman in the ways of the world. Tragically for me, and the world I lost her when I was fifteen.

Before she died, she had to have one of her legs removed because diabetes had shut down the circulation and she was developing gangrene. I lived in Minneapolis, MN, at the time so I went to Mankato, (90 miles) and stayed at the hospital with her from the night before surgery, during surgery and most of the day after, when I had to leave. That was the last time I saw her or heard her voice. Her last words were, “we will share our love of nature under the arbor again one day.” I miss her wisdom.

Starting yesterday, and continuing throughout the night and into today, St. Louis, MO is experiencing severe storms. The thunder rages like the sounds millions of buffalo stomping over the plains in the days that were. Lightning, the arrows of Father Sky, piercing the darkness,   illuminating their way while torrents of rain assail their path. These were the visions my grandmother gave to me. She made me understand that nature is not science, nature is alive.

When I would ask her why storms came, she would tell me about how she had to do the spring cleaning of her house and that Mother Nature was no different.

“Mother Nature’s house is much bigger than ours.”, she would say. “She has more work to do, so she tells Father Sky he has to help her.”

“Make the Sky Buffalo run over the cloud prairies to warn all the creatures that we are going to clean. Wake them with the light of your arrows that they may prepare and seek shelter.”

But Nana, the wind blows so hard it shakes my brain to pieces!

“Child, pay attention, it is rare that the wind begins by blowing that hard but if it should then you best hide down in the root cellar cause a tornado may be coming. You don’t recall cause you were only two, but a big twister came through the town in 1946  killing eleven people and injuring a hundred or so more. They are very dangerous.”

Does Father Sky send tornadoes to hurt people?

“I don’t think so. I’m not sure what causes twisters but, like everything else in nature, they serve a purpose. Perhaps it’s a way for nature to make sure humans know who is really in charge. An old Lakota lady once told me that twisters were nature’s way of cleaning out the weak and cutting new paths for the strong. Heard tell on the radio that cold and warm air crashing together cause them. I just do not know.”

What happens to the animals when a tornado comes?

“Sadly, many animals are killed by twisters because they have nowhere to hide from them. Humans, at least the smart ones know enough to find shelter when they can.”

Nana, does the Sky Father always send twisters when he sends the winds?

“No darling, sometimes he just sends the big winds to clean out the old nests and dead branches from trees so there can be new ones.”

But Nana, if he does that, he might hit me on the head with a big branch or nest!

“That is possible, yes but most of the time the Sky Father will send warnings such as gusts of wind, thunder and many times the temperature will suddenly drop just before the storm to warn us. Course, nowadays, we have the weather guessers who might be able to predict a coming storm.”

So the Sky Father makes the wind blow and the rain fall to help the Earth Mother clean her trees and stuff?

“That’s right hon, he washes out old branches, nests, leaves and even dead animals then rinses the trees to wash away the dust.”

And the Earth Mother likes for him to do this?

“I believe she does for aren’t we all a part of her? Don’t the minerals contained in decaying branches, leaves, and animals return to the soil to help fertilize it?

But Nana, if it rains really, really, really hard all that water will fill up the creeks and rivers to flood stuff!

“Yes, that is true but what happens when there is flooding?”

I dunno know.

“Just like the trees, when Father Sky sends his rain down upon Mother Earth, the water washes away natural debris and vegetations into our streams and rivers. There, the debris-filled water will carry its burden to larger rivers such as the Mankato River which in turn, flows into the Mississippi River. As the rivers fill with water and debris, they will overflow their banks and fill the land. When the water recedes, it leaves the sediment which is a natural fertilizer. I heard that this happens every year in the Nile river in Egypt and it may happen in your lifetime. “ (Nana, if you’re listening, it occurred in 1993 – worst flood in history.)

Nana, does the Earth Mother have a big dumpster or trash can to put stuff in?

“She certainly does, she has seven of them – the Seven Seas.”

But Nana, what happens to all that sediment stuff that goes into the seas?

“That which can be recycled by Mother Nature will be. That which cannot becomes deltas such as we saw down in New Orleans.”

I remember, but we saw stuff like soda bottles, and glass and stuff down in the delta place.

“Sadly, you are right. There are things that even Mother Nature cannot rapidly fix. It is a tragic mistake of human greed and indifference that produces the filth and poisons we see on our Mother Earth every day. Perhaps one day people will wake up before it’s too late and realize what they have done.”

Nana, I miss you and love you more now than ever before.

Mother’s Day

This is a rewrite of an event I was involved in many years ago.

Sunday, three A.M. a full moon illuminates a forest alive with night creatures. Their eyes aglow as if in wonderment as our emergency beacons pierced their world. Only the sounds of our engine broke the silence as we raced through the night. No need for the siren. We were ten miles from the nearest major road, fifteen from any community and hadn’t seen another vehicle since leaving the hospital garage.

My partner, a trainee, scanned the road ahead for a sign of our contact while I wondered what we were rushing into.  Our only information was a call received by the dispatcher requesting an ambulance to an isolated rural area. The caller did not reveal the nature of the emergency and his location directions were vague. He said someone would meet us on the main highway. That made me nervous! I decided to radio the dispatcher for police assist. Unfortunately for us, that meant a town constable at home in bed twenty miles away. On the plus side, the dispatcher at the time was my wife.  As she still liked me back then, she decided to request assistance from the Sheriff’s office and two other police departments from adjacent jurisdictions.

Suddenly, headlights flashed in front of us. A large, dark car pulled out from the shoulder of the road, its driver waving frantically as he turned onto a narrow, gravel township road forming a dust cloud between us.

Maintaining a safe distance back, we followed the dust cloud at a slower speed allowing my partner time to note any landmarks he could radio to the dispatcher.

Abruptly, the dust dissipated revealing the dark car with its mysterious driver stopped next to an open grassy area.  A dirt drive wound its way up to what appeared to be an old basement dwelling set good eighty yards from the main road.  We stopped a few feet behind him.  As I exited our rig in an attempt to approach and question the driver he silently pointed toward the dwelling then sped off down the gravel road.

My attention turned to the house. It was built on a low knoll, had large front windows and, thankfully, was well lit both inside and out.

“Something is missing!” I whispered. “No vehicles, people, dogs or movement.”

Slowly we inched our way up the drive. When almost parallel to the dwelling, it made a sharp right to an exterior wood frame, enclosed stairway atop the knoll. There, in the glare of our floodlights lay the body of a woman. Dressed in a blood-stained, pale green nightgown, her head turned away from us; she appeared to be sleeping,  but it was an illusion. An obvious gunshot entry wound to the back of her head told a different story.

Immediately, my instincts and training took control.

“Shut off all our lights, give me the radio and get your ass out of this rig now!” I yelled to my partner. “Hide in the woods beyond the tree line!” Next thing I knew he was running fast and low towards a large pine tree.

I radioed the dispatcher, “We have a D.O.A with G.S.W.!  We need help fast!”  *

Now, what do I do?  Sitting in a darkened ambulance, on a small rise next to an illuminated earth home, I was a sitting duck. If the shooter was still there, one well-aimed bullet could have hit me or the large oxygen tank and I am history.

What if there are more victims inside? What if they are still alive? Call it brave or insane; I had to know. It was my job to save lives.

Flashlight in hand, I made my way through the shadows to the stairwell. Standing to one side, I held it high above my head to disguise my position and exact size as I peered through the door. Looking down inside, I saw a single, bare bulb ceiling light, a child’s bicycle in a corner and a second body at the foot of the stairs. As the woman’s, it was face down in a pool of dark, clotted blood. It was a man with a gunshot exit wound in the back of his head.

The bicycle – is there a child here?

Against all policy, I descended the stairs, stepped over the man’s body and entered the living room to a scene of rage and anger. Furniture overturned, appliances were broken, dishes shattered and personal items everywhere but no child.

Cautiously I searched the remaining rooms. I saw a lifestyle of modest income and means but no child or other bodies. I was relieved.

Retracing my path, I exited the house to call in what I’d seen. As I reached the radio to give the dispatcher update, the dark car returned. As if in slow motion, it appeared on the gravel road and turned onto the grassy area in front of the dwelling.

Cutting my report short, I waited and watched. The car stopped, and the headlights went dark. The only light was from the house and beautiful, setting full moon.

I could hear the radio in the ambulance as the dispatcher is telling me the closest police unit it still fifteen minutes from our location.

Estimating the distance from my position to the car at forty yards, I realized I did not have many options.

I saw one person, the driver sitting behind the wheel staring at the house seemingly ignoring me.

Was this a neighbor, friend, relative, curiosity seeker or…?

I had to know! I could not be out here in the middle of the wilderness trapped by my fears.

Heart in throat, I walked to the car while keeping my flashlight trained directly on his face.  I got within ten feet when he suddenly turned on the interior dome light and looked at me. He was young, late teens, early twenties, long black hair, average size and scruffy appearing. He had a strange, peaceful look on his face, a calm as though his burdens were gone.

As I attempted to talk to him, I visually searched the interior of the car with my flashlight. He had no less than eight guns and what appeared to be hundreds of rounds of ammunition scattered over the seats.

He asked me, “Are they dead?”

I believe so.” I replied.

“Good!” he yelled as he slammed his foot onto the gas pedal and sped through the grass to disappear down the gravel road.

There was a return to silence as a soft glow in the east announce\d the rising of the sun.

It was going to be a beautiful Mother’s Day – for most.

G.S.W. = Gunshot Wound

D.O.A. = Dead on arrival




My Quarter Million Dollar Arm


    One morning, in spring 2008, I agreed to take a friend to the Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV), Driver’s License Examination office so he could take the behind-the-wheel exam. As he had a permit, I allowed him to drive my car, “Priscilla”, a Chevrolet Prizm, four- door in good mechanical shape but dinged some to use for the exam. I rode shotgun with my window down and arm resting on the door.

    We picked a good day – weather was clear, warm and dry. As we were headed out south bound Hanley Boulevard, traffic was steady but moving at a pretty good clip. We were in the outside lane going with the flow of traffic, doing about 38 mph in the 35 mph speed zone when all of a sudden a north bound car attempted to make a left turn directly in front of us. My friend barely had time to say “Oh shit” before we T-boned the car in the front passenger’s door, and column. Obviously things came to a crashing halt (pun intended).    

    We were both shaken up, and when I looked at him, I saw a minor laceration above his right eyebrow. As I asked if he was ok, I attempted to reach over with my right arm, but noticed only my shoulder seemed to want to cooperate. I looked at my arm, and noticed that from the hand to the shoulder is looked about the size of an adult elephant’s leg, and almost the same color. Now I’m a good size man with substantial biceps but this was ridiculous.

When I attempted to open my door to check the other driver, I discovered that despite my best efforts, my arm decided it had a mind of its own. Needless to say, I conceded that match, and waited for help to arrive. While waiting, the other driver got out of her mother’s brand new Volvo station wagon, sat down on the curb and started shaking like a leaf in a gale. Luckily some people had stopped to help – they cared for her until the police, and rescue squad arrived, which didn’t take long as the cop shop and fire department garages were less than four blocks away.

When the rescue squad crew got to me, they took one look at my arm, and decided to have a conference on how to get me out of the car. I’ll throw in the technical complications here to make understanding the situation a lot easier.

I’m 6’1″ tall, and at that time weight around 250 lbs. As I said previously, my arm had swelled to the size of an adult elephant’s leg from shoulder thru hand, and I had no control over it. Subsequent MRI at the hospital disclosed that I had sustained a comminuted fracture of the humerus (upper arm). What was once a solid bone had become nine separate pieces amidst muscle and sundry tissue, and I didn’t feel a thing.

When the rescue crew got back to me, the first thing they wanted to know was if I wanted morphine – “We’re qualified and approved to give you morphine.” My response was, what for? I have no pain, and even if I did have pain morphine would only deaden it – pain is a symptom!

    So, no morphine, but now getting me out of the car becomes an issue. They want to put an air splint on my arm before they help me out of the car. There’s just one problem, air splints are designed to stabilize a fracture between two similar joints, no can do with a shoulder joint.

    Second conference needed to discuss what to do about the arm. I stopped them by asking if they had an “IV board.” OK, I’m old, get over it.

    For those not in the know, and IV board is a small board, usually made of simple plywood and cover with gauze that was historically used to immobilize an arm while the patient was receiving intravenous fluids, etc. Nothing fancy, but functional for the times.

    At first, the younger medic didn’t know what I was referring to but one of the older guys did. Lo and behold, the only piece of equipment needed to treat me on this huge, and very expensive ambulance are the gurney and a simple IV board. I cringe when I think of my taxes.

    “Do you want morphine before we move you?”

    NO! I’ll move myself. So I did, I held the IV board below my lower arm to stabilize it against my body, then got out of the car, and laid down on the gurney, which three strong men then lifted up, and put into the ambulance.

    “Do you need morphine?”

    NO, but they might.

    Now for my favorite part. The young paramedic radios into the emergency room to give details about me, my injuries and my refusal for morphine. As he’s doing so, I hear him say, “Patient has a fracture of the right femur.”

    “Femur?” Umm, no, I don’t think I was born with a femur attached to my shoulder.

    “Excuse me doc (facetious), but I think my humerus is injured, not my femur.”

    “Huh?” he says.

    You told the ER it was my femur, and while I’m not orthopedic specialist I’m pretty sure it’s my humerus.

    “Umm, excuse me,” He called back and tried to correct himself. It didn’t work, he said femur again.

    I let it go this time. Thought the ER nurse could deal with it without my help.

    Halfway to the hospital, the ride in the huge, very expensive ambulance is feeling like I’m riding in a coal cart on a very rough road.

    “If you’re having a lot of pain, I can give you morphine for it.”

    I’m beginning to think this kid is a pusher for a Mexican cartel.

    No, thank you!

    We get to the hospital where an ER nurse climbs into the back of the ambulance ready to give me a shot of – wait for it – Morphine!!

    About now I’m feeling I’m still unconscious in my car, and having a sick dream.

    No morphine thanks.

    “That’s a humerus!” I hear whispered.

    Well doh, I think.

    Into the ER, cut my shirt off, one of my best of course, and off to Radiology where another nurse asks me if I want Morphine.

    No thank you.

    Throughout all of this, I have no pain, even in Radiology where they bend, twist and turn me, and my arm into exotic positions for the MRI. That done, and I’m back in the ER where the nurse asked me. “Do you need any pain medications?” At least she didn’t say Morphine.

    So I’m lying on the gurney in the ER for an hour before the Doctor finally arrives.

    “Hi, I’m Dr. So n So, your arm has a bad fracture, and I’m giving you this morphine while I splint it.” Zap, I get dosed without another word, and he walks out.

    After about fifteen minutes a “Orthopedic Technician” comes in to set up the materials for a plaster splint. When the doctor returns they begin to create a splint. It’s an artistic endeavor, but alas, not a functional one. (Please refer back to the air splint idea – two joints)

I had to return in two days to have it changed. Second one didn’t work either so I switched doctors. Second doctor decided some new device would work – it didn’t. What it did do was allowed by arm to swing 180 degrees to the back. I could shake hands with people following me, and not have to turn around, but forget trying to use a can opener – no luck there.

    The principle here is that in order for a splint to work, it must immobile, and realign the bone, fracture and all so that it can knit. The way they were splinting my arm was only protecting it. Thankfully, after weeks of no improvement, the second doctor realized his mistake, and referred me to a specialist at Barnes-Jewish-Children’s hospital.

    Went to the clinic to see the specialist, where x-ray orders were waiting for me. Across the hall to x-ray, two films taken and back to the specialist’s office, where I only had to wait 15 minutes to be examined. Doctor looked at x-rays, and said the bone will never knit without support, I’m putting in a titanium rod from shoulder to elbow – is tomorrow morning too soon?

    I loved this guy.

    So here I am, repaired with new parts, and having a blast when I go to the airport or courthouse, but have uncertainty about some rescue squad personnel.