The Picture

The meshing of insight, reception, and perception amaze me. I guess they should not, after all we are one of 6 Billion people on the planet. We are unique is as many ways as one can imagine. No one is like us.

It's kind of like the wife who hears the words from her husband , "What time is dinner?" One may hear "What the hell have you been doing all day?" And other may hear "I am hungry." It's all in the way of insight, reception, and perception. It's all in the hat.

Thirty years ago I was presenting a paper to the American Association of Hypno-operant Therapists, in New Orleans. While in the French Quarter, Jackson Square specifically, I sat for a charcoal on gray portrait of myself.

Over the years I have pondered this picture, this artists rendering of my present demeanor. For some reason, when I look at this picture I am reminded of the many miles I have been since it was put to paper. If I ponder, I am reminded of so many missed opportunities, to have done better. It examines me of that time and me of now. I take the opportunity to go inside and remember the many times I could have been a better person, of the many emotional highs and lows I have experienced. Am I a better person?

The artist was able to catch emotion and thought. It is not a flat piece of paper without dimension. It speaks to me, gives me insight to who that guy was. It is a many faceted portal of which I may walk, and hopefully have the insight for positive behavioral change.

My point is this: "Geez, why does this guy have a picture of himself on the wall."

Well, that's all you see.

Rocky

Thanksgiving day 2010

Today is Thanksgiving. It is a beautiful 27 degree day with little or no wind, and not a cloud in the sky. It is a day like this that calls to my connection to the earth.

I took the dogs out into the National Forest, 4 wheeling in for about two miles, parked the truck and we went on a walk about through the surrounding woods. They were crazy with the glee that only a puppy can show. They love the woods, and get to go there at least 3 days a week, sometimes 4. Karen stayed home to cook, but tomorrow and the weekend are supposed to be in the forties. At 9000 ft, that's a warm day. So, we will be in the woods probably every day for the next few days.



I can't figure out this North Korean offensive action with the shelling of that island two or three days ago. Are they provoking, thinking it might in some way help their economy? I don't get it. With the treaties that have been established with South Korea and the United States, it would surely put us at war again. Quite the mess huh? Onward and upward!



Haley, Hannah and Tink (two goldens and a poodle) are healthy and happy they're all sleeping after their little run.



Betty is doing well. I think this oxygen is helping her. She loves her little dog Tink and takes good care of her.



Since this is kind of a "diary" type entry maybe I should bring you up to speed. I have a 1993 F-150 pickup that I haven't washed but twice in the past 3 years or so. We rely upon a well up here, no city water or sewerage so we maintain a septic tank. Up until this year this was a dead area to cell phones due to our steep canyons and high mountain valleys. This, is NIRVANA.



I know that those who live in the great population centers like New York or Los Angeles where your neighbor is less than 8 feet from your window may not be able to relate. Maybe your view is just bricks. Does a baby from 4 floors up keep you awake? Do you sleep through the sound of a siren?



Almost like different planets, isn't it?



Robin is doing so good with MoJo (Robin is the young girl next door, and MoJo is a beautiful 26 yr old Bay gelding. For the past three months she has been feeding him, cleaning his pen, treating his hooves and giveing all kinds of special care to him. It is a beautiful relationship. MoJo is so very gentle and forgiving. He is a great riding horse and bonds with humans nicely. Hooking up Robin with the horses owner (at the owners request), was a life changing experience for her. She continues to grow exponencially. She is learning patience, difficult for a 14 yr old.



My life is rich with experiences that may seem small. My compassion is great, at times to the point of sadness. Happy Thanksgiving to all, and may the Universe bring you happiness.

A History for my Children

I was born on the 18th of February 1949, in Wentworth Douglas Hospital, Dover, Strafford County, New Hampshire. Laurice Gilbert Clark, (later to be discovered as Laurice G. Edgerly) and Eloise Mae Smith were to be my father and mother. Life is just a blip until my first memory and thoughts. It happened in a flash, my eyes were seeing now.

I was sitting in a walker. One of those springy things, a seat of canvass with four spidery legs and clear, hard plastic wheels. I could see the wall of a house, the studs and framing. Three people were nailing, what I now know to be tarpaper, to the outside of the house.

This was to be my home. A tar paper house with over-lapping roof shingles covering the whole house. They called them "tar paper shacks" back then. It was a way of describing one's station in life. "Laurice lives in a tarpaper shack out on Mast Road ya know?" is how it would have been conveyed. All the hidden messages were passed so cunningly in the New England vernacular.

The house was probably 20'X20' square, with a chimney in the center. On one side was a wood stove for cooking. Those big black ones with the Iron Spring lifters, and heavy plates over the holes. My father later converted it to fuel oil, burning wicks. On the other side of the Chimney was a "Ben Franklin", pot bellied stove. It would get to roaring so hard that the cracks in the metal would glow bright orange. I remember having all of three beds, one dresser, one sofa, one chair, a 3'X3' kitchen table with three squeaking, broken wood chairs, repaired with baling wire, around it, and one stool. That was the extent of our furniture and belongings.

There was a hand pump at the wooden sink, and beside it a mason jar filled with water from the last user to "prime" the water pump that went to our well. In the beginning there were oil lamps in every room with high glass chimneys. Winter days in New England are dark when there is no electricity.

A "thunder jug", or porcelain potty sat in one of the corners of the little house. It was white, and used as an indoor bathroom in the middle of cold winter nights. It became my job to empty it in the morning. I would drag it to the outhouse and hopefully do it without spilling any. Our outhouse was a hole in the ground at the end of the barn. What is now overgrown deciduous trees, was once large fields growing corn and other vegetables, along with an apple orchard. "The Woods" sat back about a football field's length from the back of the house. Our visitors were the vegetable truck that came by about twice a week and the ice truck that delivered large blocks to go into the top of our ice box. We had our own chickens and traded eggs for milk from the farmer next door. Life was simple, we had simple things.

My first school was Woodman Park, and my first teacher, Mrs. Garrish. . and Mrs. Hatch, an elderly mean woman who always scowled at us kids was my second grade teacher. Everyone was afraid of her. She yelled, alot. I remember that we sat at attention, and our desks had to be right on the lines of the floor boards. If it was off an inch, we were in trouble. In the third grade, at Pierce Street School, Mrs. Hoar looked just like George Washington's picture on the wall. She was very nice. Next came Sawyer Elementary, Horne Street Middle School and then, Dover High School. I wish I could say I was a good student but I can't. With little food in my stomach and an emotionally cold home, school was just something I had to do.

Nine days after graduation from high school I was at Ft Dix, New Jersey in Basic training. I was in the Army at the height of the Viet Nam war. I remember my mindset. I was not afraid, but excited and volunteered for Viet Nam. So, after basic training and advanced individual training I was off and running to Southeast Asia.

This, unfinished post was left by my wonderful husband. I, Karen DeEtte Clark, take the opportunity to publish one of his final works for his children and the world to see, enjoy, and through its words further understand him and his many idiosyncrasies. He will always be loved by those who knew him and missed by his family.

Where have I been? Geez!

I have been wanting to sit and write, and there is always something else going on, like me procrastinating. I think I may be back. So much time, so many miles. Some rough road. And it's all "my bad". Time to get ready for the gym, look for my next post. I need to finish "Saigon".

Rocky

The Greatest of Love and Loyalty Buck 1995-2009

I'm not sure where to begin. Life was over for me. Karen had left and now had her own apartment. She needed time to think. All I could think about was how I was responsible for it all. (We would happily re-unite) So I went to the local humane society to see the animals. I needed to connect, I needed to feel their sorrow and somehow stabilize mine. As I walked through the penned areas this young giant Golden Retreiver came to the fence and placed his nose through it to be touched. When I touched him I could feel his comfort at being connected. His eyes were almost on fire with his need. I continued on my way but two days later his touch haunted me. I went back and looked into his pen, a red tag said that this would be his last day if not adopted. As soon as he saw me he cried out and ran to the chain link rubbing the length of his body against the fence. His lips pulled back in an obvious smile. He had me. Into my Jaguar this long legged dude took over the whole front seat. Every once in a while, on the way home, his huge tongue would find my neck and face. I guess he liked the car. Our paths crossed, and our journey was about to begin.

He was so beautiful, people would stop me in the park or on the street to touch him. I did not yet know just how special he was. He trained me, would follow command, seemingly without being asked. Golden Retreivers are such a gentle breed, Buck was great with babies. On a beautiful summer day in Breckenridge, Buck and I walked the shops. We came upon a couple pushing a stroller. Buck pulled at the leash and at first I did not understand. As I watched, he gentley walked to the stoller, sat, and extended his beautiful paw to a child of progeria. Although only a year or so old, the child looked like a tiny man in his eighties. The couple froze as the little boy reached out and touched Bucks paw. The little boys mom and dad began to cry. You see, he was afraid of dogs. They laughed through their tears and began stoking Buck and letting the little boy grab Bucks hair and touch his big rubber nose. As they left, the wife turned and said "thank you, thank you so much". Buck watched them walk away, his ears perked, glad to have made a new friend. He was a communicator, an old soul. There would be many instances to come.

In November of 1997 Buck and I set off in a 1972 Cadillac hurse. I had transformed it into a mini motorhome. I pointed the nose south and didn't stop until I was deep in the state of Sinaloa, just west of Esquinapa, on the water, in the little fishing village of Teacapan. We left it all and went to Mexico.

On the way, before El Salto, I was driving late at night. I saw at a distance a fire in the middle of the road. It was a drum with oil, and beside the road were two drunk banditos. A third staggered to my window brandishing a pistol and demanding money. From his sleep, Buck raged from the back of the hurse. His teeth were showing and saliva sprayed from his mouth as he protested in an angry manner. He was a crazy dog, looked violent as hell, and he was big. The bandito dropped his gun (I could see through the ends of the cylinder that it was not loaded). I hit him with the door and my hand, and Buck and I were on the way down the road with all of our things. Buck could be very demanding when a situation called for it. He just seemed to know. For him, Mexico was a place of many wonders. BIG Iguanas, flocks of pelicans to chase, and street dogs to show who was boss. The people of the village called him "Galante' " before knowing his name. On the beautiful cool nights walking the plaza, families would stop and love him, touch and talk to him. He was a healer, a connection to what love must be like.

Returning to a beautiful mountain home with acres and acres of ponderosa pines, little Hebert squirrels to chase, and Canadian geese to piss him off, he was in heaven. In 2009 he began to fail. I didn't know if I could take it. He was my hero, and he was dying. He loved us those last days, lifting his weak head, wobbling onto the deck to go outside to pee. And when he was ready to go he let Karen know. As she comforted him he began to cry softly into her lap. We understood, and with heavy heart we held him and told him we loved him as our wonderful Veterenarian assisted Buck to his peace, all without pain.

Have I known true unconditional love? Oh my yes. He saved my life, he changed my life. He taught me many things, above all, tenderness and unconditional positive regard.

I miss my boy.

Rocky

February 18, 2010

February 18. Today I am 61 years old. Life has been fast and furious, time passing quickly and with it the small memories that brought me great happiness.

My very first memory is sitting in one of those canvass bottom, aluminun legged walkers, apparently I was not capable of walking at the time. I was watching them tarpaper the house that I was to live in. A twenty foot square with a chimney in the middle, one side a woodstove the other a pot belly. Our toilet was a"thunderjug" a porcelin pail with a top on it. It was emptied into the outhouse in the morning. We had a pump that you had to prime with the mason jar that stood beside it. Got to fill it after each use of the pump. Not a TV, not a radio, not a single piece of reading material. Crackers and milk for breakfast., maybe some fried salt pork. I could see the ground through the spaces of the floorboard. The house was on cement blocks, I could crawl beneath it.

Long summer days, playing in the dirt outside. Having bunnies and ducks, and chickens that always seem to go and get lost in the woods sometimes. A cold, hunrgy gray world. I was aware of the differences only when I entered school. My family was poor. Meat from a government can, lard, peanut butter, butter. The church bringing gifts on Christmas eve, and a huge basket of food. This was the world that I would learn.

Walking in the woods as a little boy, in the early Spring I could smell the sun upon the evergreen newfall beneath my feet. A glorious smell. And the older guys..."bend over Bruce, (as the ram set up in the other corner to bust my ass.), or how about.."Hey we caught an animal in a box and we can't get him out." (It turned out to be a skunk, tail arched, his ass two feet from my nose and like the stupid child inside me held on for dear life, holding on with a steel grip by the tail, and chasing all my friends through the cornfield, laughing until our stomachs hurt.) I stunk for weeks.

School was a train wreck. Being poor in the fifties and sixties had it's set of stigma. Sociality was pretty much limited by the dollar, believe it or not. Learning to fight, getting $5.00 a round to get my ass kicked paid off. I was somebody, but it was hollow.

A nine or ten yr old boy, is in the middle of elephant grass holding a broken stock AK-47, caked in mud. He has been popping shots at helicopters. The down draft of the main rotor (Uh-1C gunship ("Charlie Model") flattened the grass around him. A perfect circle of flatenned grass, like a golf green. He is a peasant child, they probably pay him .25 cents a day to take two or three shots. Harrassment rounds.

Jesus man, I cannot reconcile those years and my reaction to them. I became flat in affect. No emotions anywhere, I save them for the place 7000 miles away. We cannot reach the "here and now" mentality. We drink and laugh at the war. It is much too horrible to digest. So we twist it and elevate it to to the place that I heard about it (Fuck it man,....just fuck it). My brothers know the depth of this level of functioning in a cognitive world. There isn't one of them that didn't hear it at least once.

Escape..Two quick marraiges to "fix me". and take full responsibility for them. Two daughters, in their thirties now, in the divorce shuttle, and the different sides of the stories. Spent years trying to model behavior.

Camping, beaches, boats on the lake, trolling for Bass, roadtripping to Mexico every year. A stable loving marraige, (not withouit bumps), that stands stronger every day that passes. We traveled the world. Flying, scuba diving, yoga... on and on and on. It has been a life of adventure.

My major concerns in life have changed, my heart aches for those without freedom, food, clean water, the homeless that camp along the Creek west of the Springs, and then there's the guy who shows you his new car as he waxes it with a quart of $34.97 the most expensive wax, and his kids got dirty faces and momma is working her ass off and stumbling through the years, she has lost hope. But he's happy, sipping his mini-brew beer.

To the mountains my friends. Backed up to over 400,000 acres of Pike National Forest, sitting well above 8000 ft. My Golden retreivers, no fences, new D-mail every day. Gotta get outside dad NOW! The black tufted squirrel is my claim to fame here. I have managed to plant my fields with food. Deer food, bird feed, butterflys, bluebird houses. But my black boys are a challenge. Shy like you wouldn't believe. After 11 yrs I have seven of them, 22 ferral pigeons, 4 sets of seasonal ring neck doves, Bucks and does that lazily eat wtih their spotted fawn in the early mornings of Spring. The racoons hiss at each other under my bedroom window, 5 or 6 of them posturing. I can hear the pack of coyotes calling to each other, rounding up food, they can be heard for over a mile coming and a mile passing in the late night, and not one siren. There is no one racing up and down the street. People visit on their quads or tractors. The longest line at the post office I have ever seen is 4. We have a small bank, I think I have waited all of 3 minutes at the most to be recognised by name. I forgot my wallet and was in the little country store to buy wine. Holly said "I know where you live, bring it to me tomorrow". It is a magic home, one that embraces you. A place of solace.

From what.......from my life of course. It is time to integrate, I can't change that shit now. It was another me. 30 yr old Rocky was not one of the guys I find to be a real gentleman, nor would I have a relationship with that person at this point in my life.

I have adapted. I did not "settle" in the process.

Sometimes I feel 61. Most times I don't "feel" anything, I just go about my business.

I have a great hunger to serve the world. If only I had the ability to ease some of the suffering. We do what we can, and pray we can do more one day.

The Wanderings of a Winter's Mind


Rocky