For as long as I can remember I’ve always wanted a Jeep. Whether you believe it or not, I even had photos of Jeeps up in my room when I was growing up. Yeah, I had a photo of a Jeep Wagoneer side by side with my poster of Farrah Fawcett. “You can’t have one,” I was told over and over. “They flip over too easy,” was another statement I heard a lot. Not one to back down, I kept up my Jeep vigil. I was patient, willing to wait until the time was right. My first car was actually a truck. An early model Toyota truck, my first truck was truly unique. Unlike other cars and trucks, the fog lights on this truck were mounted on top of the front fenders, like stalks sticking up. This truck lasted for a couple years but was replaced by a newer Toyota truck when I left to go to college. This truck was flashy, bright yellow with a roll bar in the back. This truck was my constant companion through four years of Forestry at NC State. There was always a load of tools in the back and a rather large black dog in the front. But my itch for a Jeep was too strong. I traded my truck for a Suzuki Samurai, a smaller, less powerful clone of the Jeep Wrangler. The teal Samurai with a white top was my first ever four-wheel drive vehicle. It was also my first convertible. I thought that it would satisfy my desire, my longing for a Wrangler. It had the opposite effect on me. This miniature knock-off of the Wrangler just reminded me every day just how much I really wanted a Jeep. Jump ahead several years to my mid-thirties – still no Jeep, still a burning desire to own one. It was time I told myself, time to make the move. A little bit of research and a lot of looking around resulted in my next vehicle purchase – a red Jeep Wrangler with a black top. This was a real Jeep – a Jeep Wrangler. I think it’s important to point out there’s only one Jeep – the Wrangler! I finally had the car of my dreams (and I still have her). That’s not a typo by the way in the parentheses. My Jeep is female and very protective of me. She takes me safely wherever I need to go. Owning a real Jeep does carry with it a responsibility, however, the responsibility of acknowledging other Jeep owners. Most Jeep people call this “the wave.” Regardless of how you wave, it’s part of Jeep ownership to wave at passing Wranglers. No exceptions. Apparently there’s a new generation of owners that are unaware of this tradition. I’ve noticed this lack of courtesy primarily in owners of the four door Wranglers. To these poor misguided individuals, their vehicle is simply a four door SUV instead of the legendary Jeep Wrangler. These misfortunate souls are content to stay on the road traveling from home to the grocery store and back. A real Jeep owner sees a road everywhere they look, no obstacle too large to overcome. A real Jeep owner tires of the blacktop and looks for opportunities to go off-road. A real Jeep owner respects the vehicle and the traditions. A real Jeep Wrangler owner waves.
I’m fast discovering that playing basketball is detrimental to my health. My favorite sport is killing me slowly. Well, killing may be an exaggeration. It’s more like it’s chipping away at me piece by piece. For the past three Sundays, I’ve gone out with my youngest son, Noah, and played basketball for a couple of hours. The first time was great – the weather was perfect and we had a great time. I couldn’t wait until the next time we got to play. Fast forward to the next Sunday and we’re hard at it. Shooting threes and driving in for lay-ups, we’re tearing up the court. And then it happens – I step back slightly to get better position to rebound and I strain my calf muscle, first time ever. Imagine getting the worst Charley Horse ever and it won’t go away. You can’t walk it off, can’t massage it away. It’s there to stay. I tried to keep playing as I hobbled for rebounds but it was useless. I was done for the day. Noah took mercy on me and said he really wanted to see the Lakers game that was getting ready to start. Thankfully my calf was noticeably better the next day and barely a memory by the end of the week. I was ready for Sunday again! Colder than I expected and windier than I wanted, we played for about an hour with no accidents. I felt good and my shot was on. So when Noah suggested that we catch up with a couple of his buddies to play two on two I was all for it. As we played I’d like to think we were fairly evenly matched, regardless of the age difference. I figured that anything I gave up like quickness I more than made up for with experience. After all, I have been playing basketball longer than these guys have been alive. I’ve always played with a mental and physical toughness that kept me going long after exhaustion would set in. So when one of the guys dropped his shoulder and tried to drive past me for a shot at the basket, I bounced him almost out of bounds. No hands, just a strong body check from me. I’m pretty sure that’s when I cracked a rib (actually I know that’s when it happened). I kept playing, too stubborn to let anyone see me hurt. Thankfully, I had to leave shortly after, sparing me the continued beating and banging. If you’ve ever cracked a rib, then you know there’s not a lot that you can do for them. It hurts when you get up, it hurts when you lie down and God help you if you have to sneeze or cough. The good news is I’ve cracked ribs before so I know what to do, how to prepare for a sneeze or to cough. I should be all better . . . in about 4 weeks. Maybe I’ll get lucky and it’ll snow this Sunday. Standing at the crossroads, no end for me in sight. I’ve walked a thousand miles just to see the light. But I never seem to get there, can’t seem to get it right, No matter how hard I try, I just can’t win this fight. For now I’ll keep on going and hope to catch a break, Trudging along this highway with every step I take. Lost and lonely out here, this feeling I can’t shake, On this road forever, this can’t be my last mistake. Standing at the crossroads, from here I’ve got no clue, Left or right or straight ahead, who knows what will ensue, Cause it’s the journey that’s important, and I’m long overdue, And so I’ll keep on walking, I’ve got to see it through. Two shots – the championship game had been reduced to two shots with no time on the clock. The score had bounced back and forth, first one team in the lead and then the other. At one time, the other team had jumped ahead by 15 points but his team had methodically chipped away at the lead until they were only down by two. Fouled while he was taking a last second shot, the game was now in his hands. Walking to the foul line, he had paused for a few seconds to look at the crowd. Half of the crowd wanted him to make the shots, the other half wanted him to miss. He knew that regardless of what happened, nothing would ever be the same again. In a few seconds, he would either make his shots and send the game into overtime or he would miss and be the reason his team lost the championship. Standing at the line, he faced the basket like he had for hours during practice. He practiced free throws more than most players. In fact, he probably spent more time shooting free throws than most guys practiced period. As he practiced, one thought would go through his head. The game is on the line he thought. I have to make this shot to win he would tell himself. Over and over he would shoot, hundreds of free throws every day. And now the game was in his hands, two shots away from overtime. He bounced the ball the same way he always bounced it – three times. He spun the ball in his hand until his middle finger found one of the grooves on the ball. Flexing his knees slightly, he raised the ball in one smooth motion and pushed the ball toward the hoop. His follow-through was perfect as the ball swished through the net. The crowd exploded as the score changed. Only one point separated the two teams now. The ref bounced him the ball as the crowd settled down. Bounce, bounce, bounce. Three times – just like his hours of practice. Spinning the ball in his hand, he found his grip. He knew this was it, his big moment. Nothing would ever be the same after this shot. Rocking slightly on his toes, the ball seemed to float off his fingertips towards the goal. Even before the ball got to the hoop, the crowd exploded. It seemed to him that each side thought they could influence the outcome through the sheer force of their outburst. Regardless of the outcome, he knew that he had given this game everything he had. As the ball bounced on the rim, he smiled and turned away as the gym erupted. Harry Lee was in trouble . . . again. It’s not that Harry Lee was a bad kid. In fact it was just the opposite – Harry Lee was a good guy, just way to strong for his own good.
His dad, John, knew there was something special about Harry Lee at age 3 when Harry Lee pulled the cabin door off its hinges. That was no small feat considering that hinges were made out of the metal straps that go around barrels. As it turns out, Harry Lee had decided to go outside to play and simply forgot to let go of the door. He had carried the 300 pound door across the porch and down the steps before setting it down. It took John and his brother both to be able to pick the door up and put it back in place. That was Harry Lee at 3. When Harry Lee was 10 years old, he was already 6 feet tall and weighed 190 pounds. It was around that time that Harry Lee killed the pack of wolves that had been eating everyone’s livestock. Harry Lee had been making the two day trip to town to pick up supplies when he ran into the wolves. It had happened at night when Harry Lee had just finished cooking supper. The wolves burst into the campsite, running straight at Harry Lee. With the campsite behind them, the three wolves looked like one huge wolf with three heads. Harry Lee swears that he reacted out of instinct, but John knows that his son had no fear of any living creature. Harry Lee grabbed all three wolves at the same time and squeezed the life out of them. No one believed him at first until Harry Lee showed them the wolf skins. Yes, John knew there was something special about his son and he often wondered what kind of man Harry Lee’s father had been. John had adopted Harry Lee before he was 6 months old. Adopted may be too strong of a word for what actually happened. The truth is that someone had left Harry Lee on John’s porch with a note attached. The note had said, “Please take care of my boy. He’s very special but he can’t go where I’m headed. Zed” John had loved the baby from the first moment he laid eyes on him. His wife, Helen, wasn’t as affectionate. She didn’t really like anyone or anything. A sour woman, Helen harped about everything making John’s life considerably rougher than normal, which was saying something given the fact they lived in a little mountain hollow in the Appalachian Mountains. John tried his best to scratch out a living cutting timber and sawing it into lumber but life had been hard ever since his first wife had died and he married Helen. John’s father had called her a succubus, warning John that she would suck the life right out of him. But John desperately needed help with raising his kids from his first wife. At first, Helen all smiles and even pleasant, but that slowly changed. By the time John found Harry Lee on his porch, Helen was constantly complaining about her life with John. Adding Harry Lee to the family just made things worse, but John couldn’t turn the baby away. There was something special about him. Now, at age 15, Harry Lee had grown to six feet eight inches tall and weighed 245 pounds, was all muscle and a great help for John. Incredibly, Harry Lee could pick up an eight foot log by himself and put it on the wagon. Harry Lee also made extra money for the family pulling stumps out of the ground and clearing large rocks from people’s land. In fact, John had just made a deal with the blacksmith in the next hollow to clear his land of stumps in exchange for new saws and axes. Harry Lee was to pull the stumps and put them on wagons that were driven by the blacksmith’s sons. Harry Lee had started early in the morning before the sun had gotten too hot, pulling stump after stump. It was almost noon before the blacksmith’s sons showed up. There were three of them, as well as 4 more they claimed as cousins. Dirty looking and foul smelling, these boys had spent too much time in the stables and not enough time cleaning up. The three sons were the real bad ones in the lot. Short on brains and long on mean, they looked like devils to Harry Lee. It was clear to Harry Lee that the three had soot caked on their skin from standing to close to the blacksmith’s fire and too far from soap and water. Bad teeth and wicked smiles didn’t help their looks either. True to their nature, the three decided after lunch to make Harry Lee’s job as hard as they could make it. Their favorite trick was to keep the wagons a few steps ahead of Harry Lee as he tried to load the stumps. Realizing what was going on, Harry Lee quit chasing the wagons and began tossing the stumps into them. Harry Lee had just tossed a stump into the oldest son’s wagon when a root on the stump whipped across the buggy and struck the son in the back of his head. Furious, the son jumped off the wagon and jumped onto Harry Lee. Following his lead, the rest of the guys piled onto Harry Lee, hitting and kicking. Tossing the cousins left and right, Harry Lee grabbed the three brothers and squeezed them hard. Yelling for mercy, the three brothers cried out to Harry Lee to let them go. Over practically as soon as it started, Harry Lee walked away from the scuffle without a scratch. The blacksmith boys weren’t so lucky. There were cracked ribs, broken noses and even a broken arm. Harry Lee picked up the boys and put them on their wagons, sending the teams of horses home with a slap on their rears. By the time Harry Lee got home, the blacksmith had already ridden to see John. He told John that the deal was off, no new saws or axes because of all the money he was going to lose with his boys unable to help around his place. Harry Lee tried to explain to his father but nothing he said helped. Finally, he told the blacksmith that he would come and do whatever work the boys were supposed to do just as long as his dad still got new saws and axes. What Harry Lee didn’t know was the blacksmith was just a crooked as his sons. He had no intention of honoring his deal with John and saw the incident between Harry Lee and his sons as a good way to back out of the deal. Now he saw a way to get even more work out of Harry Lee. The blacksmith told Harry Lee he had a deal and he could start in the morning. That night Harry Lee had wild dreams. He kept dreaming of rivers and waterfalls, rapids washing away everything before them. He tossed and turned throughout the night, resting uneasily. Walking over the next morning, Harry Lee couldn’t shake the memories of his dreams. They were especially vivid in his memory when he crossed over the creek on the edge of the blacksmith’s land. The creek criss-crossed the blacksmith’s land, actually passing just below the stables. Harry Lee didn’t know it but the blacksmith had built the stables close to the creek to make it easy to bring water to the horses. The blacksmith told Harry Lee that his boys were supposed to clean out his stables and that’s what he expected out of Harry Lee. This was a bold face lie told by the blacksmith. His boys were extremely lazy in addition to being mean-spirited and he had never gotten a lick of work out of them. For years the blacksmith had tried to get his boys to clean up the stables. For years the filth had piled up in the stables, the stench overpowering. As soon as Harry Lee cleaned the stables, the blacksmith said he would let him go with new saws and axes in hand. The filth was so deep; however, that the blacksmith knew Harry Lee could work for weeks and not get finished. Harry Lee realized this as well, but he had given his word. He was stuck. He grabbed a shovel and started working in the nearest stall. An hour later h e could barely tell that he had done anything in the stall. Taking a break, Harry Lee walked to the creek to cool off. Dunking his hands and feet into the water, he watched as the dirt was swept away. Swept away he thought. Of course, now his dreams were making sense. Tracing the creek back up hill, Harry Lee saw the creek curl behind the stable as he climbed uphill. Finding the right bend in the creek, Harry Lee moved half dozen boulders along the creek and changed the flow of the creek. Now instead of flowing around the stables, the creek was rushing straight for the stables. Harry Lee rushed around to the bottom and closed the stable doors on the side downhill from the creek. The water rushed in but couldn’t flow out. Slowly filling the stable, the creek kept pouring water into the stables. At the right time, Harry Lee threw open the stable doors and watched as years of filth washed out of the stables. He ran up to the bend in the creek and put the boulders back into their original positions. It wasn’t even lunch yet and he was finished with this Herculean task. Realizing the blacksmith was looking for any way possible to get out of his deal, Harry Lee knew that he would have to “convince” the blacksmith to honor their deal. Stepping into the room where the blacksmith had his fire pit, Harry Lee walked quickly up to the blacksmith and threw out his hand. Shaking his hand, the blacksmith asked Harry Lee what he wanted. Squeezing hard, Harry Lee asked the blacksmith if the stables were clean could he have the new saws and axes. Of course, said the blacksmith as he tried to reclaim his hand. Harry Lee squeezed harder and pulled the blacksmith out to the stables. Standing in front of the stables, his mouth wide open, the blacksmith couldn’t believe his eyes. The stables were washed clean. He started to speak when Harry Lee somehow squeezed even harder, bringing tears to the blacksmith’s eyes. Where were the saws and axes, Harry Lee asked. Desperate to free his hand, the blacksmith nodded toward a small outbuilding beside the stables. Dragging the blacksmith with him, Harry Lee opened the door to the outbuilding. As soon as he saw the saws and axes, he released his grip but did not let go. So we’re good, done deal, he asked. The blacksmith nodded yes as Harry Lee slightly flexed his grip. Harry Lee gathered up the new saws and axes and began to walk back to his side of the mountain. It wasn’t over with the blacksmith or his boys. Harry Lee knew that battle was coming. But that was in the future. For now, this labor was over and it was time to move to the next one. My father once told me that figures lie and liars figure. I asked him what he meant by that statement and he told me to be extremely selective in choosing what to believe in the reportings of newspapers and television. Statistics can be molded and twisted to make it seem either better or worse than it actually is in real life. Statistics, he explained, can make a strong argument that tornadoes are caused by trailer parks and Wal-Marts. I've noticed that politicians use statistics more than anyone. 100% of all politicians use statistics to help prove their point. Statistics, in other words, are a numerical way of telling the truth so that it doesn't seem so bad. Curious about current statistics, I did a little research and discovered some interesting facts. Did you know - 35% of people watching television yell at it. 16% actually believe it helps. 57% of women would rather go on a shopping spree than have sex. The other 43% realize they can always do both, although usually not at the same time. 19% of men say they wouldn't mind being stupid as long as they had the perfect body. The other 81% didn't understand the question. 60% of all atheists and agnostics say they own at least one bible although 1005 of all atheists and agnostics eventually die. In 1950, only 7% of Americans dyed their hair, now 75% do, This number would be higher except that 31% of the population is bald. 40% of women have hurled footwear at a man. Half of that footwear still had a foot in it. 80% of people say thy don't understand any statistics. 20% say they understand some. It's only the other 12.2% that actually have a deep knowledge of the subject. 86% of all Americans think they are smarter than half the population. 93% of Americans think they are better than average looking. 47% of all statistics are made up on the spot. 6 out of 7 dwarves aren't happy. There’s a storm a’coming cause I can hear the thunder, Clouds are blowing in as the lightning makes me wonder, The light is slowly fading, the wind begins to whip, I hold on with all my strength as the ship begins to dip. The storm is now a’raging, the waves are piling high, I can no longer see the fury, no longer see the sky. The deafening sound of thunder, I can feel it in my bones, The ship so old it shudders, the wood so old it groans. I can tell the ship is sinking as the lightning streaks the sky, I’m watching as the wind blows, I keep a weather eye. The mounting waves crash over, the deck is pitching too, Night is slowly falling like a stranger passing through. The last thing I remember before the mast fell down, The last thing I remember as I knew that I would drown, To carry on my wayward son, never give up the fight, No matter how the tale ends, no matter how dark the night. I can't believe the first two months of 2013 are gone! But somehow I have been able to post something - story, article or poem - every single day. It's not been easy but I'm proud of what I have accomplished so far. I hope you enjoyed at least some of my postings (if you have been following my jumbled train of thought these past two months). This month I have dabbled in poetry – well, more like feeble attempts at song lyrics. I’ve written so many customer service tips that I’ve started a separate website called Keys to Great Customer Service. I’ve even written a children’s story about Marge the Aardvark. Occasionally I do get ahead – I’ll write two or three days ahead, but the days seem to catch up to me. I also have a couple of pieces that I’m working on that are taking a lot longer than I thought to finish. Sometimes I’ll write the first sentence and stop. I save the file and hope that I’ll get back to it some day. I’ve got several customer service tips started this way. Starting is easy. A monkey with a typewriter can start a story. It’s the ending that’s always tough for me. I keep thinking I need to say more, that I haven’t made my final point. I keep looking over my writing and think I need to add more. That’s one reason why I’m writing one tip at a time. It’s easier to close the curtain on one thought. Hopefully, it’ll get easier with practice. So that’s what I’ll do – keep practicing every day. I’ll keep writing and you keep reading. Waves are rolling always crashing in, I can’t help it I close my eyes again. I look once more and guess at what I see, A brand new day is right in front of me. The sun is high, I feel it shining down, The tide is in, my troubles slowly drown. And I’m so light I know that I can fly, All my problems slowly pass me by. The day is building and I know just what to do, I have to keep pushing just to make it through. All bets are off, the world is spinning round, The game is done, the winner has been crowned. I watch the sun set slowly in the west, The tide goes out against the night’s protest. The sky turns black, you wonder where you’ve been, Waves are rolling always crashing in. I’m standing on an edge, an edge I cannot see, Looking into the depths, I peel back history. I’m going back in time, To a time I used to know, Traveling through the ages, I know where I must go. Eternity surrounds me, The veils of time deceive. Living through the changes, I know I must believe. The end is fast approaching, The pages all unfold. The book is slowly closing, The story has been told. I see the rising miracle, The truth it has to be. It takes me to the edge, The edge inside of me. |
Sam Murray
Award-winning Graphic Designer and Writer Archives
February 2015
All stories, articles and poems appearing on this site are the property of Sam Murray. They are protected by U.S. Copyright Laws, and are not to be reproduced in any way without written permission. Copyright 2013 Sam Murray All Rights Reserved.
|