Like the man says.........

One of the many things that have been thrown my way since the beginnings of this walk across the United States was this: “Oh, someone came through here last month doing the same thing as you.”
Well, I beg to differ, but I dare say that while someone may well have been walking across the US for a charity or a cause, or just for a lark, it wasn’t the same as what I am doing, nor is what I am doing the same as anyone else. We all did what we do for our own reasons. There was a guy I heard about from a few people. He toted a cross on his back, with a wheel on the bottom to make it a bit easier to roll along. It was said that as he went across the bible belt, he almost literally had people throwing money at him. Was that his intention? I have no idea. Earlier there was the brave and talented Rachel Milano and her almost half ton wagon that she pushed all the way from Savannah, Georgia to Atlanta, getting sideswiped by a truck in the process. She was making folks aware of the awful stigma that child abuse carries with it for the victims of that heinous act, and was and is herself a survivor.
My favorite was told to me by Bob George, a retired teacher in Dodge City, Kansas, who related a story of a man who walked across the states wearing a shirt that said ”Live Life.” The man had had a son, but his son’s demons caused him to take his own life one day, suddenly and violently. As a way of grieving, his father decided to make that trip with that slogan printed on his shirt. It was how he dealt with his grief. It was a way for him to figure out his son’s death, and his life, and to come to terms with both.
Life. A short word, but all encompassing. We are born with no guarantees save one: that we will die. What we do in the scant time between the two biggest events of our existence is up to us, and it behooves us to make the best use of that time that we can, and enjoy every sandwich, as the late Warren Zevon said, upon finding out he was in stage 4 of a cancer that took him shortly thereafter. Don’t wait til you have cancer. Enjoy every sandwich, and cookie, and breath of air, NOW. Do something small, then do something huge, but do something. Sitting idly is your choice, of course, but then, as the darkness is closing in, you have no right to regret anything . Don ’t wait for someone tell you to get out there. Just do it. Do it for yourself. Do it to honor someone like the great Harry Chapin, as I did. Do it to honor your dead son, as the man with the shirt did.
I was thinking of that man today as I walked up the path to the Golden Gate Bridge. I think a lot about the bridge anyway, and a documentary that was made about it several years ago. The movie was not about the physical location or structure , but about how it becomes the location for a couple of dozen suicides a year. The downtrodden simply come out, walk on the pedestrian footpath, climb up and over the railing and step off…
The film is about those jumpers. The cameras that the filmmakers set up preserved the last moments of life for two dozen people that year, including a man named Gene Sprague. Gene was a misfit of society-- thirty plus years old, looking not unlike Joey Ramone, long black hair, black leather jacket and shades and that general look of one of society’s disenfranchised souls. He had no job and had left applications all over town, to no avail. He would visit the bridge frequently. He would lean on the railing, starng out into the bay. Sometimes he would pace back and forth, deep in thought, and then leave after a while.
On May 11, 2004, he left for good, climbing the railing with his back to the water, standing straight up for a second, and then, with arms tucked close, fell backward, allowing gravity to take him to oblivion. It was spellbinding and sad and pointless.
His family told the filmmakers that the next day they got a call from a prospective employer offering Gene a job. Too little, too late.
I was fascinated with Gene Sprague, and his decision. I wanted to go the place where he chose to make his last act in such a public way. So I went.
Ironically, there was a Relay for Life marathon going on, on the bridge. Sunday, July 31, 2011. The coincidence, like so many others on this walk, was almost too much to believe, again.
I’ve never been suicidal, except for one time a long time ago. I never got close to committing the act, because thoughts of my recently born daughter came into my head and the realization that I might not get to know her and watch her grow up very quickly pushed any such notions out of my head. The fact that I still do not know her very well at age 28 doesn’t matter. There is still time.
So Gene Sprague chose May 11, 2004 for the day he would take himself out. Ironically that same date is someone’s birthday. In fact, it is the birthday of many people. They choose to celebrate life, not end it. My friend Brian recently ushered himself out of this world as well, so thoughts of the selfishness of suicide have been on my mind a lot as well, in recent times. A permanent solution to a temporary problem, as Alex Bennett, ironically a longtime San Francisco radio personality, calls it.
So I walked onto the bridge with all of the dark thoughts of Gene Sprague in mind. I found the spot where he took his final bow. I even had my picture taken there. I did not see Gene’s ghost anywhere, did not hear the anguished final cries of others who took that way out, and did not shed a tear for anyone. Not Gene, not Brian. No one. I actually smiled because of what I saw and heard.
What I did hear and see were thousands of beautiful people running a relay for life. Celebrating life and encouraging people to do the same. Life. Live. Living.
As the great Liverpool philosopher John Lennon wrote, “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.” How right he was.
As the man in the t-shirt said.
“Live life.”
How right they both were.
I’ve stepped out on a very long limb, inspired by the spirit of a man who adored life and worked to make others lives better, Mr. Harry Chapin. At the same time I was chasing the ghost of a man who didn’t treasure that which he had. I’ve learned that life is what you make it. Life is too short to even consider an early exit. So, Gene Sprague and his ghost? I don’t need ‘em in my life.
Nope.
Not anymore.
Live life.
Peace.

A Madness to their Meth? Odd...

I spent three days in Lodi, California. It seemed like three weeks. Three awful weeks. I was sick, probably with food poisoning.
I met a lot of people while I was sick, which was an odd experience because I spent most of my time in the room, staring at my eyelids. Not once did I turn the television on. I did cross the street to the gas station a few times, and my presence at the motel was duly noted by a certain group of people who happened to see my comings and goings. My scruffy appearance ( I do look pretty rough at this point, I must say) probably prompted one of them to talk to me.
“You need anything?”
Me: “Like?”
“Crank”
Me: “Hell no.”
Okay.
Me: “Wait, can I ask you a question?”
I proceeded to tell the individual of my walk, my writing project, and asked for permission to sit in while he and his little circle did their thing in another room in the same motel. He said to go to my room and he would let me know. I went to my room and waited. For a while day and half I waited, sick and wondering if the question had been either dismissed or not remembered. Then came a knock on the door. nI opened it and there stood “Eric”, and he just said, “You still wanna hang out with us? It’s okay but no pictures and you cant use our real names.” I agreed and got up, following him all of a hundred feet.
We entered the room that he and his girlfriend/wife Amy lived in a temporary situation . It was set up oddly and there was a second small room where Amy’s little boy, Ryan, slept. That’s right, her 3 year old little adorable boy.
“Do you want some?” he asked me. I politely but firmly declined his offer. He already knew I wasn’t interested in any of what he was offering me—crystal meth, or crank, as it is sometimes called. Theb scourge of the country, and maybe the world eventually.
Crystal methamphetamine is a very strange drug for anyone to even contemplate taking into their body, since, as Eric confirmed my research, it is made in part with hydrochloric acid and other very noxious chemicals, and when it is inhaled, I can’t imagine that it doesn’t eat away at some part of your body. It is a very, very dangerous drug, and has been invading the east coast in recent years, and because it is cheaper and longer lasting, it will eventually overtake crack as the biggest and baddest drug out there. While fairly new to the east coast, as I said, it has been pervasive on the west coast for decades.
So while I sat on a kitchen chair, in a motel room type kitchen area, away from the fumes, Eric and Amy smoked their meth. I still could smell a chemical odor but it wasn’t too disturbing. I wasn’t aware that they had made a phone call for a delivery of more, and when the dealer showed up, Eric told me to turn around and to not look at him. It was a bit nerve-wracking, and I heard the dealer ask who I was, and the response was , “He’s cool.”
As they did their thing, we talked. I was a bit surprised at how normal they were. I asked if they ever tried to quit. Eric said that he did not care to stop, but Amy said that she had stopped for a while but was so hooked on it now that if she went cold turkey she would go into a coma for two days, and she couldn’t let Eric take responsibility for Ryan, who was fathered by someone else. They both said that they did not take the drug for fun, but just to feel normal and to be able to function. They both smoke it every day, not in large quantities but enough to maintain that “normal” feeling. What a life, eh?
I was concerned about something, or someone---Ryan. An absolutely adorable child, he appears to be as normal as can be, but being raised in a motel situation with crank smoking parents isn’t the usual, and when I asked about how they could do that with him present, they actually looked guilty and I thought that maybe I had crossed a line that might get me in a situation.
And then, as if to prove my point, little Ryan came out of his room and said he wanted to watch TV. Amy didn’t even try to hide her activity, and Eric didn’t say anything. I tried to distract the little guy, but I was a stranger to him and he didn’t respond.
As a former teacher, I was a “mandated reporter.” That means that if I see any case of child abuse, I am required by law to report it to the proper authorities. As a writer, though, it is a moral code violation to disclose sources. The child looked to be healthy, though, and that fact caused me to wait a couple of days before making that call this morning. Now that I am safely out of Lodi, I won’t have to look over my shoulder.
I have no idea of this was a typical example of this nonsense. I did hear more people talking about meth publicly than I hear on the east coast. The meth heads I’ve seen in Georgia look pretty bad usually, but not all do. Here, Eric, Amy and the few of their friends that came in and out seemed like normal people. Ironically it was my appearance that prompted Eric to ask me if I was in need. If I ran into either of them on the street, I wouldn’t be able to tell. Eventually, though, that insidious crap eats away at skin and bone and the results are exactly what you would expect.
I am including this piece because, as I said, it is something that I saw on my journey, even if I did seek it out due to being sick and bored in a motel room. Not every story is a pleasant one. This is one of them. I wish all parties well, but I was careful not to give them my blog info or any real location information, to be safe.

The (Almost) Smartest Man I Know.

James O is one of the smartest people I have ever met. He can rattle off to you every aspect of electrical engineering, and dozens of other topics wide and varied. Simply an amazing guy. He has come up with several inventions in the field, can engage in a conversation on almost any subject and sound like he knows what he is talking about.
He has been homeless. For a time he lived in a pallet house, a ramshackle structure made with wooden shipping pallets. No place for someone of James’s advanced years. He is all of 23 years old.
Part of James’s problem is that, although he is brilliant, and a good looking guy, responsible, polite, helpful and generous, he is lacking good sense in one very critical area: his wife is a bitch. On WHEELS.
I know. I saw her in action.
His troubles all began a couple of years ago, after they got married. She lost her job and had a baby boy. James had the good fortune to get a walk on job working for the city of Lodi, California. It is a temporary job until they can determine how well you are doing and then they make it permanent. It is a good job, with good pay and benefits. The kind of job that people wish they had and can ride to retirement on the back of.
James was doing, by his own account, very well. And then came his undoing: a girl with Daisy Duke shorts and a desire to show off her legs to the group of workers who were on a break sitting outside. James, along with every other worker who was not blind or dead, looked at the girl with admiring glances. While James and the others were watching her, who should be watching James but his wife. She had pulled into the parking lot of the Public Works building and saw James looking at the girl in the short shorts, and she short-circuited. Now James’s life is hell. Because of the girl in the shorts, and the fact that James dared LOOK at her, his wife began coming to his job almost every day. This did not please the supervisors, who took James aside and told him that they were very pleased his work but that his wife needed to stay home. Well, you know what happened…she kept coming, he lost the job and now he works at a gas station in Wallace, California.
That was where I met him. He was very kind to me and inpressed that I was walking across the country. We got to talk for a few minutes before IT started.
His wife. Started calling. And calling. He even sheepishly asked me if he could put me on the phone with her to tell her who I was. I agreed, spoke to her for 30 seconds, and gave the phone back to a grateful James.
He closed at 9 pm. He has to stay later to do paperwork. While he did his paperwork, we sat and talked. And she kept calling. At least 40 calls by my estimation . Most of them he didn’t answer, but on the ones he did he took on a conciliatory tone and tried to make nice with her. Folks, I am here to tell you that it didnt work. Shortly after the calls stopped, she wheeled into the parking lot. She barreled out of the car, and at 5’3, 240 pounds, barreled is the correct phrase. He got up and walked around to the front to talk to her. For 10 minutes , all I heard was her voice, yelling at him.
Then she left, spinning her tires and generally giving me the impression that she is a total ass and not worthy of a fine young man like James.
When James finally leaves her, he will then be the smartest man I know. But he is young, and the young make mistakes. And they learn from them. Time for James to learn.

Amy and Glen.....

Two entertainers made the news these past two weeks. Bad news on both fronts...
When I heard of the death of Amy Winehouse, I was not surprised. Her chosen lifestyle almost always has a bad ending of some sort, and hers was a “worst possible situation” thing.
A talented singer is gone, another in a long line. Someone’s daughter, lover, friend, pop idol, and a drug addict. And a human being. She was a terrible role model, didn’t seem to care, and didn’t try hard enough to kick her addictions. In the end it does not matter. She is gone—another wasted life.
But it was the news of a different musician this week that upset me more.
For those people of a certain age—mine---Glen Campbell was a big part of the soundtrack of your lives especially in the late sixties and seventies. He wrote and /or performed such classic songs as Wichita Lineman, By the Time I Get to Phoenix, Rhinestone Cowboy, and, arguably the greatest of all songs, John Hartford’s Gentle on My Mind. Early in his career he was a member of the Beach Boys, playing bass on the road gigs. Ironically, it was not the bass he excelled at, but the guitar. He was an incredible plaer, about as good as anyone I’ve ever heard. I even saw him do a duet with Roy Clark once---on the same guitar, at the same time. Showoff-ish. Of course. Difficult to do? Absolutely.
After the hits dried up, Glen got into the drug scene himself for a little while, almost ruining his reputation. Booze remained a problem for years, including a DUI arrest several years ago that produced a classic mug shot that caused Glen to become a household name for different reasons. But that eventually faded away as well. And so did Glen Campbell. Last year he released his first album in too many years, featuring his clear and still pretty voice on songs by Greenday and Velvet Underground, among others. It was a fine album and I thought that the future was looking pretty good for old Glen. Then last week the news came out that he has Alzheimers. Talk about fading away… I guess we can only hope that Glen Campbell can get through that awful affliction with a minimal amount of hardship for both him, and for his family. He was a giant for a while, and though his mind is going to leave him soon, his music is timeless, and we were lucky to have had him. He is still planning to continue his career, and will be releasing what he calls his final studio album later this year, and a farewell tour to go with it.
It's knowing that your door is always open and your path is free to walk, says the
song. I wanna see Glen Campbell AND Amy Winehouse waving from the backroads by the rivers of all our memories.
Goodbye, Amy, and hang tough, Mr. Campbell.

Krazy in Kalifornia

I knew it was bound to happen at some point but for it to take as long as it did is a bit surprising. What am I referring to? (To what am I referring?) I’m talkin’ about me running into the nut factor, as I have in the past three days in California.
It started in Jamestown, a small village, not without its charm, in the foothills of the Sierra mountains. The place resembles an early twentieth century town, a row of shops and hotels lining the main drag, and a lovely little park in the middle of one side, with a large gazebo, some benches and tables, and enough privacy to make it a good enough place to sleep for the night. I was almost set up to do this. Enter Sherry.
At least, I think that was her name. She walked past several times, in shorts and a tank top, twitching and talking to herself. She carried a few shopping bags and other packages. She stopped in front of where I was sitting and asked me for five dollars for cigarettes. I told her I was broke and she got a bit confrontational. I ignored her and began to wonder if there was another place to go to. Now enter Brina, an older woman who knew Sherry. She distracted her for a few minutes and then after Sherry left told me not to let her sleep near where I was because she would try to steal from me. Great. I decided to spend money I didn’t want to spend and got a room, overpriced, at a motel down the street. Second floor, which meant that I had to lug my cart up the stairs, which I did. Room 20.
Wifi didn’t work. Phone calls were a hassle due to some bimbo at the front desk. Lousy night already.
Three AM—knocking on the door. I staggered out of bed and opened it. It was Sherry. She must have seen which room I went into. She basically barged in and demanded to use my bathroom. She was very loud, and I didn’t want to have a fight with a crazy woman, but I had to refuse. She left without a word. I went back to what sleep I could muster.
Part two, two nights later. San Andreas, California. Another small town, less charming than Jamestown, and basically a stopping point on the way to other places.
I was at the gas station talking on the phone booth phone via phone card, since my cell service stopped working due to cell tower issues. A man and woman walked by as I was talking and the woman asked me if I was okay. I nodded that I was and they left. I finished my call and headed for the library, a mile and a half away, where I left my cart after ascertaining it was a good place to sleep for the night, which was a Friday. I got on the library’s wifi and spent some time there, and then headed back to town for some drinks and snacks. As I left the store with my purchases, who should be walking along my path but the man and woman. Her name was Ann and the man was her brother Carl. Picture Farrah Fawcett’s body with Mickey Rourke’s head and you have Ann. Picture Danny Devito with a few extra inches in height and you have Carl. She was poured into her clothes and you could tell she had been a looker in her time. This was not her time, though, and her teeth were gone except for a few bottom remainders. The oddest thing though was the bandaids. Her cheeks were covered with big brown ones, and I asked her what had happened. She said that someone had thrown acid on her face. It got silent. Carl didn’t say a word, just walked along with a little innocent grin on his face.
They asked me if I was sleeping at the government center. I had no idea what that was, so they told me how it was just a place that they slept outside, behind the main building. I followed them to where it was and it turned out to be just a building that housed administrative offices of some sort. Ann said that at night workers went up on the roof and threw chemicals down on the people sleeping below. Oh, boy, I thought. Time to get a move on. I headed away to the library, which was almost literally next door. I spent a worried night wondering if I was going to be hassled by weird homeless people with band-aids on their faces. I wasn’t.
But, the next morning, as I left the library and headed back to the main road to continue my trek, who should I encounter but Ann and Carl. They asked me if I saw a strange woman with long hair walking to the library. I allowed as how I had not. They told me she had come intotown on the bus from Sonora and was very odd and they wouldn’t let her sleep with them.
I bade them good bye and left. Around the corner, at another building, there was a bench area like a bus stop. A tall woman sat there. I approached and asked her if she had run into the other two, and she told me her name was Cherish, and that she was there to visit her “husband”, a woman, since she was gay. The “husband” was in jail for some infraction and it was unclear when she/he would be getting out.
Cherish was a piece of work herself, very odd acting and with some strange ideas. She was missing the pinky finger on one hand and had some burn scars. I asked her what had happened and she told me that several years ago, while cooking chicken in a frying pan, she had a small stroke, and during that time she had grabbed hold of one of the pieces of chicken—still in the pan frying, and had just held her hand in the boiling oil for almost 20 minutes. It cost her the finger and surrounding tissue, and as a result can now only count to nine.
I was wondering when I was going to run across a crazy person, Ill bet those folks were wondering the same thing.

Phrog Jockeys

Derogatory term: camel jockey. Used as a put down of Arabs. Bench jockey: a second rate ball player content to sit in the dugout and harass the opposition. Frog jockey: well….
Okay, as crazy as it sounds, there are frog jockeys. Joe Kitchell is one of them.
In 2005, Joe ended a jumping drought for Angel’s Camp, “riding” Roy W. to a winning leap of 19 feet, 4 inches. That’s pretty damned far for a creature the size of a grapefruit to jump.
So what is the big deal about these here amphibians? The story goes like this: Mark Twain, early on, made his mark in the literary world with a story called The Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, based on some stories he had heard from local tale tellers. He adapted their tales into his now-classic short piece, in a cabin located on Jackass Hill, a few miles south of Angels Camp, California. (Jackass Hill is named for the 200 or so pack mules that used to bring supplies through the area, on the road named for them.)
So, with Twain’s career under way, and the frogs now associated with Angels Camp, and Calaveras County, it was only a matter of time before frog jumping became a big deal. A contest is held every year at the local fairgrounds, and the winners (frog AND “jockey”) get a nice plaque, Hollywood style, on the sidewalk in the historic dowbtown section of Angel’s Camp. In 1954, Roy Weimer from Angel’s Camp prodded Lucky to a then world record jump of 16 feet, 10 inches. And he was the last local winner until 2005, when Joe Kitchell took the crop to Roy W (named after Weimer) and got to enjoy the benefits of the winner’s circle. Rumors about frog steroid use in the intervening years cannot be substantiated because all of the alleged participants were tragically served up at a local Chinese Buffet one evening due to a paperwork snafu.
Still, Roy W., clean and healthy, made his 19 foot jump, and Joe Kitchell saw fame and fortune in his eyes. Briefly.
He got to appear on the TV show, “I’ve Got a Secret”, for which he was paid 1000 dollars. “That’s more than I made for winning the contest,” he says.
And that was about it. Now, Joe works for the public works department, in part cleaning the sidewalks, including the very one where the bronze plaque commemorating his glory days. He doesn’t mind though, because it affords him the opportunity to wax philosophical about “phrogs”. (sorry)
“Frogs live for only three reasons: To eat, to not get eaten, and to make baby frogs.”
I asked Joe where the contestants come from. “Lakes and ponds,” he said. “About a week before the contest my team, the Calaveras County Frog Jockeys, goes out and rounds up as many as we can find. One night we got forty five. Some are too fat, or too thin. We try to get their body temperature up because the higher it is the more active they are.”
After the contest the winners, and losers are released back into the wild.
So where is Roy W these days?, I ask.
“He is out making baby frogs somewhere,” says Joe Kitchell, with a laugh.
Does life get any better? I mean it. Does it?

Yosemite, shared

After I visited Joplin, Missouri in May, it was three days after the tornado. It was almost too much to take in. That night I sat down and wrote the longest piece for my blog yet, about what I saw, preferring to just “spew” before my thoughts got jumbled.
A few days ago, I spent the day in Yosemite National Park. Again, it was almost too much to take in, but for completely different reasons. I decided to sit on my thoughts for a while to let the events of the past week sort themselves out as much as possible.
All of the superlatives about the place are deserved, to be sure. Half Dome, Yosemite Falls, Bridal Veil, the sequoia groves, El Capitan, and so much more that I didn’t get to see this time. If there is a more beautiful and breathtaking place on earth…
What made this so special though, wasn’t a bunch of trees, or waterfalls, or wild animals. It was a beautiful combination of factors, including the most important one: I was seeing that amazing place courtesy of, and in the company of friends.
Walking across the country is a very lonely and solitary endeavor, unless you do it as part of a group. I am not. The benefits of doing it solo are many: you get to go where you want, with no argument. You get to eat where and when you want to. You can sleep in small places that only have room for one person. And much more.
The downside of the deal is this: when you see a beautiful waterfall, or lake, or even just a deer standing and staring peacefully, there is no one to nudge and say, “Wow, check that out!”
When Christopher McCandless (Into the Wild’s tragic protagonist) was dying of starvation in an abandoned old bus in the Alaskan wilderness, after having spent several years seeking that state of grace that he thought would come from living off the land by himself, he kept a journal. Running out of paper, he began writing short entries in his bible, I think it was. As his days dwindled, he finally had an epiphany. Too late, but still the realization came to him before the curtain went down on his life, and in his bible he wrote, the following: “Happiness is best when shared.”
And so it was that I was so able to see and appreciate the miracle of Yosemite with friends. Rolf and Tessa, a unique couple if ever there was one. I met Tessa on Facebook, due to a shared love of music, and we had talked a few times over the past year, , on the phone and have swapped music many more times. Her husband Rolf I did not know at all. Yet when the time for my walk came, I was invited to stay with them for a few days if my route took me through their town of Mammoth Lakes, California. Tessa and I had a bond already but Rolf did not know me at all, and it created a bit of an uncomfortable scenario early on, especially since Rolf was working most of the first three days I was there, alone with Tessa. By the last day of my visit though, we had established a good rapport and it made the Yosemite experience all the better.
Once again the words of the late Christopher McCandless reverberate: “Happiness is best when shared.”
Especially when what is being shared is Yosemite, and its glory.