A Soldier to Another

(The summer of ’61)

Hank, me and the Cayuga Street Gang

Part I

Then one day, Hank Gardiner, whom really had very little to say, I had met him the summer before, a relative of one of the gang members (The Cayuga Street Gang, also called ‘Donkeyland,’ by the local police who combed the neighborhood daily), who lived near our neighborhood, knew most of the guys, six-years older than I, said something in an almost whisper, after we had walked from the small neighborhood ‘Pitman,’ grocery store, near Granite Street, heading down towards the church steps, off Jackson and Sycamore Streets. He had parked his 1956 green Oldsmobile across the street from the church steps, by my friend, Bill Kapaun’s house (by twilight the whole gang would be there.)
He said, “I’ll be going soon!”
“Going where?” I asked.
“To Vietnam, the war, I’ll be a soldier, I volunteered.”
“Oh,” I said with a surprised tone to my voice, adding, “that war over, by China? Maybe you’ll not end up there?”
“No, the recruiter said I would,” replied Hank, “yup, tomorrow I go, can’t wait around here, nothing going on but drinking, fights, Chick, nothing for a man my age to do but drink, and I can get some college in the Army also, I think I’ll take advantage of it. Just think, before school starts, in September, I’ll be fighting in Vietnam.”
“School, hick with school, I’d like to go with you now, tomorrow, I just as soon be gone, then sit around here.” I said as if wanting to follow him.
Then I hesitated, looked at his face, he was there already, so it appeared, daydreaming of his Army career.


Me and Hank would go down to his green Oldsmobile, occasionally—prior to this day—and he’d turn on the radio, and we’d sit, usually with a few other guys, he, usually being more inclined to talk to them, than me, except for today (perhaps because of my age, at fourteen), and we’d be listening to Elvis Presley songs, Rick Nelson, Johnny Cash, singers like that, tapping our feet on the asphalt street, leaning lightly against his car.
Just prior to dusk—just like today—we’d head on down to those church stops, that faced Jackson Street, the church being of red brick, and its tall steeple on the other side of us, the steps actually led into an addition to the church, perhaps the chapel, or hall of some kind, I never saw anyone go through those doors, they usually went to the back side of the building to get in it.
Anyhow, most of us guys in the neighborhood heard about he war in Vietnam, but up to now, now one went, and the war was not called a war, it was called a ‘Conflict’ perhaps to lessen the stigma. In consequence, Hank would be the first one to go, if indeed he went.

And we sat there, listing to a small battery radio, on the steps this pre-evening—it was a warm late afternoon, Oakland Cemetery across the street, they were locking the gates, and I could see Roger’s girlfriend, Shelly, she was walking about the Caretaker’s premises, she lived there with her mother and father, the old child to my understanding; she was the first girl I ever kissed, at the age of thirteen years old, Roger made a bit with her to do so, and after she did, I wanted a second round, and she and the guys laughed. But I was serious.
Well, there we were, Hank and I on the church steps, and a man walks by, “You know where Cayuga Street is?” he asked, and I said, “Down three blacks,” he was a stranger and we knew everyone on the block, everyone by Smiley’s friends, a guy who moved in a year prior, and Doug was going to get into a fight with him, but it never took place, maybe he was his friend, so I got thinking. Then down the block, I noticed several bodies coming, Jackie, the girl I was kind of dating was with them, she was Chippewa, dark hair, about five-foot one, cute, with dark eyes, she and her family lived up the block, on Sycamore Street. I noticed Doug and Larry, and Karin, with John were among the group, and behind them, Big Ace, Jerry, was trying to catch up, he was all of six-foot five inches tall, two-hundred and fifty-pounds, and a tinge slow, he was about ten-years older than I, and bought the booze for everyone, that is, he never had much money, and drank free off us, but we got the booze.
Jackie was the same age of me and she hung around near what was called the turn-around, next to my grandfather’s house, where me and my brother lived with our mother and grandpa. Next to that was an empty lot, and a hill called ‘Indian’s Hill,’ Jackie and I would go up there and kiss, oh not much more, just necking.


“Yes,” I said, “tomorrow I guess you got to go then!”
He, Hank, heard me, he put his hand on my shoulder, and it was a different kind of stillness.
“You?” he questioned “cannot go in the military for another four-years, if the war lasts that long, maybe I’ll be a sergeant then, and we’ll meet one another, it’s not all that long.”
“You’ll be killing all those…” I didn’t know what to call the enemy, so I left it at that…

The he explained in depth to do something, anything, but get out of this neighborhood he implied, when I was capable of doing so, that here there was only a dead end, a road that lead to no other roads. It made me think, planted a seed to be harvested later on. Oh I didn’t quite understand all the rudimentary that went along with that statement, we seldom do when your so close to the forest, it is hard to see it is a forest, likewise, it was hard for me to see, the dead end (but one person did say it correctly, some twenty-years after this day, when I was clean and sober, and becoming a counselor, he said at a meeting at the hospital to a group of recovering alcoholics, while I was taking an internship at Ramsey Hospital, “There are two corner bars in this neighborhood I went to, and I discovered the folks that live there, started drinking there since they were teenagers, and they are now older men, and still there, dying slowly of the alcohol…” he was talking of my neighborhood, and he didn’t of course realize it, and I never told him to my knowledge, but I did mentioned after the lecture I was aware of where, and whom he was talking).
Nonetheless, Hank went on to say, the Army was offering him opportunities to go to college (something that was foreign to me, I would hardly make it to High School, I felt, thus college was the forest thing from my mind, yet the goal of going to college, coming out of my neighborhood—as Greek, and as far fetched as it sounded, it would be an afterthought that would come back a throughout my teens, and even into my early twenties, perhaps Hank planted another muster seed in my subconscious, because it would grow, and someday I’d get my Ph.D.)

I was back then, too young for the Army, and Hank knew it, and as impressionable as I was with Hank, and the adventures the Army were starting to offer—travel and education—I didn’t fully understand it all, I was too young, and then one day, the next day he was gone, disappeared.


“I’ll write you,” I said to Hank.
“No,” he commented, “just finish school, I’ll be back on leave to see you and the gang, now and then!”
Anyhow, he was listening to me attentively for the first time it appeared, until the gang got to the church steps.
He punched me in my left arm, he was on that side of me, sitting on the stops, leaning back against the cement back of the upper step, my chin in my arms, my elbows on my knees, and I almost fell over,
“Yup,” he said, “You only got to stay here a while longer then join the Army and see the world.”
“See what?” I asked, then I noticed my brother Mike coming down Jackson Street, he was two years older than I, with Gary, whom was called Mouse, they had been working on his go-cart.
It was now a matter of minutes before the gang members were climbing up the steps “Shut up now,” said Hank, “you’re the only one that knows this…that I’m going tomorrow.”
“All right,” I answered back, as if to confirm my hearing him.
He then put his hands behind his back, leaned back more onto the upper step,
“Well, Chick,” said Jackie, with a smile, “anything goin’ on?”
“Nope,” I said, and she sat down beside me.
(I didn’t want hank to go, I didn’t hear Jackie, what she was saying, she was talking lightly, I seemed to have been in a fog, something like in a state of disassociation, in her world, but outside of it, like in a fish boil looking at everyone around you, she nudged me, slightly—the Vietnam war was running through my head—“are you alright?” she asked, perhaps thinking she did something wrong, and she hadn’t, and I moved my head right to left, and she sat quietly, talking to Karin below her whom was sitting with John, who would marry her in a number of years; after he and I would take off to Long Beach California, although that was years ahead, and when we’d come back she and he would marry.)

Jackie’s sister showed up, Jennie, her and Larry were going steady, and Larry was the tough guy of the neighborhood, whom I lived with a number of times, upon my return from several long trips. I lived for a summer in his attic, another summer in his garage, and had party after party, booze and girls, and I lived in a duplex he rented the upper apartment.
Well, Larry and Jennie were there, and my brother was dating Carol, and she showed up, and Ace was not dating anyone and dancing about as he often did.
“Jackie,” I said.
“Of course I’m all right, I’m just thinking.” she chuckled as if it was a delayed reaction, she had already forgotten she had asked how I was doing, and onto other things with the gang, talking about getting some cases of beer and either going to ‘Indian’s Hill’ to get drunk, or jumping the Cemetery fence and drinking among the ghosts and gravestones there.

I now looked at Hank, perhaps one of my last looks, and he said in a spirited voice, jumping up, pulling out the keys to his green 1956 Oldsmobile, in my ear, “Hush,” and I did not disclose his secret.
He stood up talking to a few of the guys, as then; Jackie asked if I would later go for a walk with her, down to Indians Hill. I could hear Mike talking to Carol, and Larry and Doug talking, and then Rick came up and sat with the guys.
Jerry, otherwise known as Ace, was singing a song called ‘Twenty-four Black Birds…” and everyone started laughing.

“Everyone pitch in two dollars, Ace is going to buy us two cases of beer, and a bottle of wine,” said one of he guys.
Ace looked at Doug, said, “I didn’t say I was going to!”
Roger and Ronnie, his brother had shown up, said, “Come on Ace get with it, you one of us or not!”
And so Ace, Doug, and Roger went to get the liquor up on Rice Street, on the other side of the Cemetery, “We’ll meet you guys down on Indian’s Hill,” said Roger, and he drove Ace and Doug up to the store to pick it up.
Hank was still standing, looked at me, “See…!” he said to me, nothing more, he figured it was a neighborhood affair, he seldom drank with us anyway, and so him not showing up at Indian’s Hill would not be any surprise.

I sat back down, watched Hank go to his Oldsmobile, not realizing this would be his last time I’d see him…
I saw Jackie pull out two dollars, gave it to me to give to Roger, to give to Ace to get the booze, and I did likewise, as everyone did, and they went to get as much booze the money would buy, Ace didn’t have a dime, as often he didn’t but when he did, he was generous with his money.
“I forgot my false teeth,” said Ace to Roger, and Roger replied, “you don’t really need them, but we can stop by and pick them up,” he lived on Sims, street, his father a Captain of the Fire Department of St. Paul, Minnesota. In a year or so, I would take a liking for his sister, she and I, like Jackie attended the same High School, Washington High on Rice Street, Kathy was her name, and she’d show up in the neighborhood and we’d hang out, we kissed only a few times, and it seemed it kind of fizzled away, although we were friends for the next twenty-years, until she got hit by a car. She had gotten married, and lived close to the two bars on the corner of Jackson and Acker.
And so Ace, Roger and Doug jumped into their cars, and Hank, into his, as Jackie and I headed with the rest of the gang to Indian’s Hill.

Now Hank was gone, and the first thing I knew was Jackie and I were on Indians’ Hill drinking with the gang, then it started to rain, and everyone ran for cover with a beer bottle in their hands, and four cases of beer up on the hill, by a large thick tree, Jackie and I with a blanket over our heads, down by my Grandfather’s garage—not sure where we got the blanket, I think I slipped it out of my house, and we kissed a bit, not much, and we held each other, lightly, and we could see the guys walked to and fro crisscross across the empty lot, everyone getting drunk, and the police driving by, shinning lights up into the thick of the bushes onto of the hill.

I thought about writing Hank, but I never got his Military Address, and so I stopped one day at his house, his brother, older brother came to the door, and I introduced myself to him, “Oh, yes!” he said, “Hank had mentioned your name a few times…!”
“I’d like to write him,” I said, it had been about nine months since I had seen him, I was all of fifteen-years old, plus a few months, date freely, no one in particular, although Jackie was still around, and Kathy, and I had met a girl called Sheila, I was in the second year of High School, she one year below me, and we danced at a lot of the park and school dances, and she always wanted me to make love to her, but I wouldn’t and she told me so, that I was missing something, and I suppose I was, but I was getting into drinking and quicker affairs, but she was popular in High School, and we dated that fall.
Anyhow, this visit accrued during the time I was seeing Sheila, and his brother took a second to say what he needed to say right, “He was killed in action in Vietnam, a few months ago.”
You really do not know what to say at a time like that, you just stand still numb, absorbing the substance of those words, as if you would like him to reconfirm what he said, although you know what he said. I was not prepared for that, a tear came to my eyes, I had no control over it, an automatic tear. My inners became disrupted, and I had to catch my breath.
“Oh…ooo!” I said, looking down at my feet to find words and all I found was zigzagging emotions.
And so I left it at that, what more can a person say, the brother tried to put a smile on his face, but couldn’t. And I couldn’t and I left as strangely as I had appeared.

I told myself, ‘…go get drunk,’ perhaps that is where I picked up some of my avoidance of stress: drink it away. I knew I was growing up fast, and the world around me would change, and I’d soon be making choices, like Hank did.

((In 1969, on my way back from San Francisco, and after visiting Mexico for a day, I’d head on up to Grand Forks, North Dakota, and thereafter, be joining the Army, more like drafted into it, and head onto Augsburg, Germany, and then onto Vietnam. Then it would be, a solider to a soldier as I had imagined it to be in the beginning, but it would have to be in a secret kind of world of our own, my own, because of course he was gone: but not forgotten. I would be heading on down to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, for Basic Training, and then over to Redstone Arsenal, Alabama, for more training, and to Fort Lewis for Jungle training. This was just the beginning of my world, my adventures to be, the ones he sadly did not get a chance to, but then, perhaps I did it for him, as they said in the neighborhood when I’d return, and I did return several times, they lived through my adventures) (or by proxy.))


(The fall of ’69)

From Minneapolis to Chicago to…

Part II

“Where does one go to take his physical?” I said to a military man, who was called ‘Sergeant,’ I had a paper I showed him, confirming I was the person who was to take it, along with my Minnesota Drivers License, confirming the paper, it had a picture on it (I had just come back from San Francisco, it was October, of 1969).
I was a bit afraid when we got to Chicago, from Minneapolis, that we might catch the wrong bus, in a town as big as Chicago, I figured it would be easy, for the Sergeant had left once he dropped us off from the first bus—the one that drove us out of Minneapolis to Chicago, not sure where he went, perhaps to go get drunk.
But we caught it all right—the first bus, I never had to ask the bus driver if it was the right one, he knew who we were—because the Sergeant was there, and in a way I was darn glad he did know, because here we all were, cars and busses rushing by us like birds in the air— Minneapolis was twice the size of St. Paul, and Chicago was three times the size of Minneapolis, thus, movement was everywhichway, and a few shoving folks here and there to boot, and it was early afternoon, and by the time we would get to Chicago, it would be pre-dusk, and the spell of night would be falling over the city, me and my companions, were hopeful another sergeant would be there to guide us onto the next bus, but this was just hopeful think, not reality.

I thought about Hank, had he not been killed in Vietnam, he would have most likely wanted to see me before I seen him, at some location, perhaps even at the distant Military Base I was headed for, and given me so pointers, but those were just thoughts as I waited for the second bus. He wasn’t there, or never would be, I was on my own, and doing what he and I talked about me doing so long ago.

My family, Aunt Ann, her husband George, and Betty, and Grandpa Anton, Colleen and Sally, all relatives, along with my brother, and the rest of my relations had thrown a party for me before I went on this voyage, I am not convinced why they did, perhaps for my mother’s sake, perhaps because I was the only one in the family drafted, but I had told myself, ‘If I’m not drafted, I’d join, although I was now 22-years old, and most of the young-men with me, and those I’d meet in Boot Camp in a day or so, were between seventeen and twenty. I would be the second oldest in the platoon of some 44-men.

Standing there in the mist of twilight—in Chicago, I seen all the tall building surrounding me, it was like being in the Rocky Mountains, or the Andes, crushed inside of them, I wanted to get out of Chicago, and fast.

At the Gates of Fort Bragg, North Carolina

Then a bus stopped, near the corner, one I never saw before (hired just for this purpose to take us down to North Carolina, so I’d find out), a heap bigger than the one I was put on in Minneapolis, Minnesota, I thought, and me and several others would be soldiers thought I’m sure, as we stood together, looking at the Greyhound Bus already holding our tickets in our hands (the Sergeant on the previous bus had said this one would take us to Fort Bragg, and we’d be met at the gates, and another bus would pick us up, bringing us to our Company area.) we, all thought, and saw the driver signal with his arm to move onto the bus, for us to get on the bus, I was wore out for sleep, but I couldn’t risk getting on the wrong bus, so I stepped out and up onto the first of three steps—blocking the door entrance, ready to find a seat noticing the bus was half full of young fellows like me already, “Is this the…” I started to say, and the driver seemed as if he knew me, and simply said, “Yes…! You’re on the right bus, take a seat!”
And so I walked the isle to find one.
I saw all the towns from Chicago, to Fayetteville, as more young would-be soldiers, come onto the bus, at small stations, and brought tickets, like me with them, and then we were gone again.
I seen a number of trains go by along side of us, some more towns, and I just fell to sleep somewhere along the way.

I knew I was right to be on that bus, or so it seemed like to me, it went on forever that ride, but would be a new beginning for me. I had already crisscrossed the country, living in Omaha, Nebraska, Seattle, Washington, Long Beach California, and San Francisco, “That’s right!” I said to myself, “I’ve got to get out of this country to see the rest of the world now, today…” then my drifting subconscious spoke back to me saying , “Of course you must, you can find friends anywhere in the world,” and I told my subconscious, “I guess I can, I guess I’m not missing a thing, I haven’t got but one life to live, I mean the person you meet might have lived anywhere in the world, people in the Army were folks scattered all over the place, and overnight you got to meet them, from California to Main, from Europe to China (places I would visit in the future).
“Yes,” my subconscious confirmed to my conscious, on that bus ride, “That’s what I already told you, you don’t need a case history to see the world, this is a good start…and you’re lucky, at that.”
The bus driver said, “Youall goin’ to be met by another bus once we git to the Fort Bragg gates, I mean, jump off fast enough to suit the sergeants, they like that.”
“I ask you,” another man said on the bus to the driver, “are we officially soldiers now?”
“Yup,” he said, “since you got on that bus back there in Minneapolis son, so good luck to yaw-all.”

Written 11-25-2008

The Blight of Judas!

Don’t look for proofs or conclusions, only a few
Metaphysical acquittals, in:

The Blight of Judas!
(A Speculation, in Poetic Theological Prose)


Judas’s account, or call it legend, has been over simplified in that his act of treason, by those who have written his story, have disrupted it to look as if it was sabotage (preordained): although consensus would prove me more wrong than right, yet, I feel he wasn’t that cleaver to have outwitted all the apostles, and Jesus Christ himself, he is given too much credit for his treachery… Oh well, it did occurred, did it not?

This tragedy one has adapted in history was not accidental, yet, mysterious, nonetheless, in that, how it developed. Is he not like all men, born of sin, and an evil heart? Was Christ’s divinity, a secret among the few and many? What did he inform? Christ’s whereabouts? And so we are led to believe (like sheep to be sheered) he lowered himself into the abyss, the fires of hell, with the corruptible, for thirty pieces of silver…! I doubt that! (If indeed that was the case, Peter denied him tree times, hence, he has saintly company!)

There is more to this reprehensible psychological drama than meets the eye: even though some have said it was in the plan of the Lord, that Judas was his instrument planned long ago…! And as a result, he gave the kiss of domination to Judas’ soul, for what? I doubt so! Did he not have choice of will? If indeed he did, the theological game that the Lord had planted—likened to a mustered seed, far-off in ages yet to be—is miraculous, because the grace of God was not with him, and he placed indifference upon this man’s soul, to hang him for humankind…oh but, should we call this the propagated glory of God, if so, would not history proclaim Him the Infamous Slayer, not the Saviour (?)

Oh no, I do not think Judas, played this game to be a legendary infamous hero, not at all, nor would the Trinity allow this, abominate crime. If so, Judas must have thought Christ less than the word itself—then, and again, this could not be, and far from proven? …yet theologians, the world over, and centuries on… rebuked him, for his hypocritical, contradicting, sharp-edged heresy… (but it was quite the opposite) likened to Paul, the once quarrelsome, argumentive, slanted pious Jew; in the beginning he was no less a betrayer to the truth of the Messiah and maybe God saw this before time, long before the Paul’s birth…who accepted his calling.

Where is the doctrine of theology where Judas claims Jesus Christ needed to redeem man? Did he not know Jesus was Omnipotent? Perchance what he didn’t understated, was that Jesus, did not come to chose between right and wrong, only to announce, the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand, and in so doing cured the ill, the sick, the leprous, and showed by resurrection, man was invalidated, but he would bring them back—that he was the bridge to cross over from blasphemy, and tyranny, and rebellion—and in the end he was the one the Baptist called the Messiah, the Christ, the Lamb. And in the process he cast out demons—and who else could do such deeds?

Perhaps, just perhaps, Judas was mad, that his king of kings would not take command, by moving the force of the world, with the switch of his hand, as he did with the Red Sea, for Moses; perchance it had to do with extravagance. Therefore, for the greater glory of God, would he not be heroically, and historically, invested in the world kingdom?

Oh yes, he tried to glorify himself, and thus, as theologians have indicated, found Hell…! But not by intent, rather by increasing extortion (for God could read his mind, conceivably before time, I don't know that he did (thus comes pre-destiny, and a man of infamy); but possibly he did not, for He said, “It would have been better had you not been born…” and so there was no curse, that God, in his divine—upon his throne, cast down like lightening upon this man; in essence, Judas’ simply, did not change his formal reasoning, nor his attitude, remaining as he wished, as it always had been; nor was it planned, for Satan was at hand, and like a poisonous viper—like unto like—he was like him, wanting the glory no man nor angelic being could ever have; likened to sitting at the right hand of God Mighty…Himself (or thinking a grasshopper, and rule the earth)!

Judas knew, Jesus could if need be, change things with a switch of his hand, and this was his plan. Perchance, he felt God would not read his mind, like so many of us do, day to day, in front of him, sinning and wearing his cross, and sinning again as if he was blind and lost. Even with a horde of Christian Churches surrounding, we spit on His word, thinking he so far off, he’ll never notice.

…but what Judas didn’t fully understand, was this: that Jesus Christ (like John’s mother who wanted her son to sit at his right had side, Christ said ‘You don’t understand…’ and she didn’t…) Christ could not offend the Trinity (God the Father and the Holy Spirit), nor could they denounce the blood of Christ, and so it was, that the son of God, became the son of man, and humankind’s sacrifice; it was the only thing that could and would cleanse—with out question and reproach (thereafter)—the sins of man, and the Glory of God was taken out of the Judas’ hands, as he would have had it. with the blood of Christ (God in flesh); now there would be no second thoughts, within the house of heaven, and his glory in tack, his name was at stake, where as the switch of his hand, could have reversed such a plight.

Judas, he lay prone, with half-opened eyes; saw the invisible instrument he was for Satan, and the evil labyrinth his mind was in; an unendless unwinding wind. He gazed into a sorrowful pit, at his ends wit, and committed suicide then, while stretching his arms to the heavens, and died.

Note: written 11-26-2008 (No. 2526)

Poet Dennis L. Siluk in Villa Rica, Peru

Article


Poet Dennis L. Siluk in
Villa Rica’s 64th Anniversary—Reads Poetry


Writer and Poet, Dennis L. Siluk, was a special guest at the 64th Anniversary of Villa Rica’s becoming a district (where he did a reading of his poetry, from his book “The Poetry of Stone Forest…”): the gathering consisted of over 100-persons in this little busy mountain town, carved out of a valley most beautiful, they welcomed Dennis with open arm; his welcoming Committee, consisted of the well known writer Gilbert Ortega Lago, whose books include “El Perro y el Jaguar,” and Lagrimas tiene el camino” and Rolando Mandujano Antonio, who wrote, “El Mundo Amazonico en su Cultura Ancestral” & “La Puerta De Walla.”

During the event and reading, Dennis was most impressed with the young dramatic poetry readers and actresses (female children) from eleven years old to fifteen or older, especially Bridget, a young poetess, who is taking after her uncle Rolando M. Antonio: in which she dedicated her performance to Dennis.

During his 24-four hour visit, the committee paid for everything, except the transportation, and Julio, the brother to Gilbert O. Lago (part of the committee), provide much of that during the visit, and some of the way back to Huancayo: all three of these writers (Julio working on his book), took the Poet and his wife out to eat, to a coffee plantation, to the “Wetland”(lake) where he visited an Australian who owned a resort, by the name of Anderson, and to Mt. Divine, where he walked across the moving (or wobbling) bridge, and scared his wife almost to death by pretending he fell.

“All in all, the trip was fantastic,” says the poet, and he has now a new story he tells us of suspense for his next book, the story is called, “The Loro Machaco of Villa Rica” (meaning in English: 'The Green Snake Attacker’: Sara, Gilbert O. Lago’s wife, provided inspiration for the name). It will be put into the appendix part of the book to be out in July, of 2009, called “The Selected and Translated Poetry of Juan Parra del Riego (and Poetry of the Miners, of Cerro de Pasco).

by Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk

—The Ragged Sparrow

((Winters in Minnesota) (a story of compassion))


In winter in Minnesota the days are short, the season long, and everything turns to a light and sometimes dark gray; snow hides everything, like a giant white umbrella. The Countryside, even the city produces profound feelings of disenchantment, haunted by the ragged looking sparrows (and some squirrels); occasionally, the sun flutters through the desolate sky and its clouds, and inside the winds resides gloom, you squint your eyes after a while in the endless white on white—snow.
If you have braved the season and youth is on your side, it will thereafter be kind to you, in that, something majestic will come out of it all; on the other hand if you are old, the thoughts of another oncoming winter can be hand clinching, it not leg trembling and mouth stuttering, but you know you have accomplished something great, and with harsh gestures, a fist at mother nature, you show it. Yet by and by you know it will reappear, and through those three following new seasons, imagery of the old produces stress.
Even Mother Nature knows for the old man, a new life will demand a new triumph, once winter starts, to make it to April, a spark will do, a muster seed perhaps, a little miracle, to refresh the spirit: something, anything.


The old man, Mr. Beck, watches the sparrows, and occasionally the squirrels (if indeed he can fined a white squirrel, it will be to his fancy, and he will have to look closer to believe it is not just his imagination), he watches also, dogs and cats, but mostly he is intrigued with the ragged sparrows. Thus, he gazes at them from his bedroom window, in bed often, the ragged haunting looking gray bodied sparrows, so little and dainty, but enduring, gazes at them as they go to and fro.
To him, Mr. Beck, they are the champions of non-defeat. He watches each detail of the birds, and is really their only noticeable audience, all other neighbors, especially the older ones are somewhere huddled around their furnaces in their homes, impressionless, unaware of the sparrows untiringly almost magical endurance of the frigidly cold and long-term winter at hand.
But there is one neighbor, to the left of him (or west), when possible watches him open-mouth, watching the sparrows; wondering at Mr. Beck’s sanity, because of his so called regularity in this sport like atmosphere, his devotion throughout the winter, his key importance he puts on the ragged looking sparrows, it is Mrs. Stanly (widow), she’s sixty-three years old (it is 1960, Mr. beck, he is seventy-eight.)


A Little Sparrow

The old man had handed in his railroad badge, took off his watch they gave him for over twenty years of service, put it into the top drawer—near his bed, forgot it was there, he had put it there, and left it there going on thirteen-years now, since his retirement. He, like his neighbor, Mrs. Stanley, is a widower, on pension, collecting money due him, pay his utilities on time, and keeps mostly to himself, never missed a day of work, unless he was really sick. He was willing! Intelligent! Quiet and honest! And most of all, grateful he had reached the ripe old age of seventy-eight.

A little sparrow—somewhat ugly, ragged looking that is, inexpressibly, was laying in the snow by a large oak tree, outside his bedroom window (his house being on an embankment with the tree, Cayuga Street below the embankment).
Looking at it, ‘Lovely and sad,’ he thought, but to no end it looked in misery, if not potentially dead. Then he looked closer—it had evidently fallen from the tree onto the soft cold white snow—he saw a spark of life in it, there was a general death twist to its wing, a movement, more by automatic impulse, the nerves reacting like an electric light blinking, ready to go out.

The old man stared at it, it was numbing, and the morning was getting onto forenoon. There was a passionate quality about his peering, and every time the old man saw the wing move, he smiled, kind of a stress reaction, a smile you do, not because you are happy, but because you need to endure the moment without panic.
“Heaven help it,” he murmured, talking to himself, then adding, “Vitality is born early in such creatures and also taken away quickly under such circumstances, such a little body, how can it endure the elements, —I bet it has not more than a few sparks left…!”
All he murmured would have been utterly evident to any onlooker, thus the old man eagerly—with his thin frame and glaring eyes—pulled off his white linens, and tossed to the side his two thick blankets, and with a startling and revenant grimace, kept his eye on the sparrow as he put on his robe, and slippers, “Well, it’s certainly a nice day,” he muttered (the suns ultraviolet rays were piercing through the clouds, yet it was below zero).

His eyes now in transit, falling downward for a moment, in a posture of emotional thought, then his smile again became radiant, as if he had said a prayer, and his face showed no artificial pretence, he had a mission, his heart pumped new blood through its veins, and his face got rosy, the dim paleness of winter’s dread left.
He looked dearly and closely at the ragged sparrow, its wings flapped once more, he said, tying his robe, with a rope of sorts, “I’m not sure what were suppose to do now (talking to the sparrow through the window, across the porch, all the way to the big tree, knowing if he did nothing, the little ragged sparrow would die, that was for certain, if indeed it was not dead yet, it seemed to him the bird was aware of his activity, his willingness to do something to help it).


From the Porch

Again he noticed a single movement from a sole wing, on the little ragged sparrow, an indication for him, there was still time (a shot, spurt of energy still left in it), but perhaps little hope.
Now he went out to his cold screened-in porch, and could see the little bird closer, the window had not blocked the sparrow from his sight, the porch being to its side, yet it was a closer distance by several feet to the tree, now, he could and was peering right over the sparrow, perhaps three feet.
“Oh, that’s all right,” he told the sparrow—if indeed the sparrow could read lips, it would have gotten a little more hope I’m sure—“Just stay perfectly still, I’ll fix everything up,” he added to his monologue.
The sparrow now moved its wing one more time, and then it dropped it, as if it was too heavy to hold, for even that millisecond it had before. At that point the old man knew it was curtains, the show was over, he was to slow, too late, too old, for that was the death signal, and he knew death had no favorites, and it did not wait, and that it had a continuing digesting stomach, it was always hungry, and wanted to be feed.

Suddenly, involuntary, almost in a state of disassociation, he opened the screen-door, made a short abrupt leap into the cold, cold snow, quickly and gently he grabbed the sparrow and away he went back into the house, with a growing preposterous smile— (as if he had eaten a chocolate covered cherry).
He took the sparrow and laid it down in front of a large space heater in the living room inside of one of his soft slippers, so the heat would not scorch it, and just starred at the ragged bird, as he sat in a nearby sofa chair, giving it an ominous silent look, said, “There isn’t anybody here except me,” he was talking to the sparrow, his hands in the prayer mode…


The Wing

He looked at the sparrow one last time, as if he was worn out himself, and ready to fall to sleep from the stress, and enduring ordeal—a mental strain, anxiety, then he thought he saw a wing move, said to himself out loud, “It must be a winter dream, they vary…,” then looked closer. He took off his glasses, he rubbed his eyes, put them back on, leaned over to touch the sparrow, its body no loner stiff, “A precarious adventure we are having little one,” he said, “time to wake up!” A tear came from his right eye, as the bird wobbled about inside the slipper, its feet stretched out, and its wings helped it get back onto them somewhat steadily, and it fell over the slipper, onto the floor. Now the wings were both operational, and it stumbled over to the old man, and with a last spurt of energy, it lay down on his bare foot, to rest, and it and the old man, took a nap, after their triumph.



Note: written 11-18-2008, after lunch at the café, La Mia Mamma, Huancayo, Peru. Inspired by actual events, although in a different realm, during the author’s twenties … (which was with a fish brought back to life after frozen from the Minnesota cold, a small fish for an aquarium brought home frozen, after being left in a car.)

—The Ragged Sparrow

((Winters in Minnesota) (a story of compassion))


In winter in Minnesota the days are short, the season long, and everything turns to a light and sometimes dark gray; snow hides everything, like a giant white umbrella. The Countryside, even the city produces profound feelings of disenchantment, haunted by the ragged looking sparrows (and some squirrels); occasionally, the sun flutters through the desolate sky and its clouds, and inside the winds resides gloom, you squint your eyes after a while in the endless white on white—snow.
If you have braved the season and youth is on your side, it will thereafter be kind to you, in that, something majestic will come out of it all; on the other hand if you are old, the thoughts of another oncoming winter can be hand clinching, it not leg trembling and mouth stuttering, but you know you have accomplished something great, and with harsh gestures, a fist at mother nature, you show it. Yet by and by you know it will reappear, and through those three following new seasons, imagery of the old produces stress.
Even Mother Nature knows for the old man, a new life will demand a new triumph, once winter starts, to make it to April, a spark will do, a muster seed perhaps, a little miracle, to refresh the spirit: something, anything.


The old man, Mr. Beck, watches the sparrows, and occasionally the squirrels (if indeed he can fined a white squirrel, it will be to his fancy, and he will have to look closer to believe it is not just his imagination), he watches also, dogs and cats, but mostly he is intrigued with the ragged sparrows. Thus, he gazes at them from his bedroom window, in bed often, the ragged haunting looking gray bodied sparrows, so little and dainty, but enduring, gazes at them as they go to and fro.
To him, Mr. Beck, they are the champions of non-defeat. He watches each detail of the birds, and is really their only noticeable audience, all other neighbors, especially the older ones are somewhere huddled around their furnaces in their homes, impressionless, unaware of the sparrows untiringly almost magical endurance of the frigidly cold and long-term winter at hand.
But there is one neighbor, to the left of him (or west), when possible watches him open-mouth, watching the sparrows; wondering at Mr. Beck’s sanity, because of his so called regularity in this sport like atmosphere, his devotion throughout the winter, his key importance he puts on the ragged looking sparrows, it is Mrs. Stanly (widow), she’s sixty-three years old (it is 1960, Mr. beck, he is seventy-eight.)


A Little Sparrow

The old man had handed in his railroad badge, took off his watch they gave him for over twenty years of service, put it into the top drawer—near his bed, forgot it was there, he had put it there, and left it there going on thirteen-years now, since his retirement. He, like his neighbor, Mrs. Stanley, is a widower, on pension, collecting money due him, pay his utilities on time, and keeps mostly to himself, never missed a day of work, unless he was really sick. He was willing! Intelligent! Quiet and honest! And most of all, grateful he had reached the ripe old age of seventy-eight.

A little sparrow—somewhat ugly, ragged looking that is, inexpressibly, was laying in the snow by a large oak tree, outside his bedroom window (his house being on an embankment with the tree, Cayuga Street below the embankment).
Looking at it, ‘Lovely and sad,’ he thought, but to no end it looked in misery, if not potentially dead. Then he looked closer—it had evidently fallen from the tree onto the soft cold white snow—he saw a spark of life in it, there was a general death twist to its wing, a movement, more by automatic impulse, the nerves reacting like an electric light blinking, ready to go out.

The old man stared at it, it was numbing, and the morning was getting onto forenoon. There was a passionate quality about his peering, and every time the old man saw the wing move, he smiled, kind of a stress reaction, a smile you do, not because you are happy, but because you need to endure the moment without panic.
“Heaven help it,” he murmured, talking to himself, then adding, “Vitality is born early in such creatures and also taken away quickly under such circumstances, such a little body, how can it endure the elements, —I bet it has not more than a few sparks left…!”
All he murmured would have been utterly evident to any onlooker, thus the old man eagerly—with his thin frame and glaring eyes—pulled off his white linens, and tossed to the side his two thick blankets, and with a startling and revenant grimace, kept his eye on the sparrow as he put on his robe, and slippers, “Well, it’s certainly a nice day,” he muttered (the suns ultraviolet rays were piercing through the clouds, yet it was below zero).

His eyes now in transit, falling downward for a moment, in a posture of emotional thought, then his smile again became radiant, as if he had said a prayer, and his face showed no artificial pretence, he had a mission, his heart pumped new blood through its veins, and his face got rosy, the dim paleness of winter’s dread left.
He looked dearly and closely at the ragged sparrow, its wings flapped once more, he said, tying his robe, with a rope of sorts, “I’m not sure what were suppose to do now (talking to the sparrow through the window, across the porch, all the way to the big tree, knowing if he did nothing, the little ragged sparrow would die, that was for certain, if indeed it was not dead yet, it seemed to him the bird was aware of his activity, his willingness to do something to help it).


From the Porch

Again he noticed a single movement from a sole wing, on the little ragged sparrow, an indication for him, there was still time (a shot, spurt of energy still left in it), but perhaps little hope.
Now he went out to his cold screened-in porch, and could see the little bird closer, the window had not blocked the sparrow from his sight, the porch being to its side, yet it was a closer distance by several feet to the tree, now, he could and was peering right over the sparrow, perhaps three feet.
“Oh, that’s all right,” he told the sparrow—if indeed the sparrow could read lips, it would have gotten a little more hope I’m sure—“Just stay perfectly still, I’ll fix everything up,” he added to his monologue.
The sparrow now moved its wing one more time, and then it dropped it, as if it was too heavy to hold, for even that millisecond it had before. At that point the old man knew it was curtains, the show was over, he was to slow, too late, too old, for that was the death signal, and he knew death had no favorites, and it did not wait, and that it had a continuing digesting stomach, it was always hungry, and wanted to be feed.

Suddenly, involuntary, almost in a state of disassociation, he opened the screen-door, made a short abrupt leap into the cold, cold snow, quickly and gently he grabbed the sparrow and away he went back into the house, with a growing preposterous smile— (as if he had eaten a chocolate covered cherry).
He took the sparrow and laid it down in front of a large space heater in the living room inside of one of his soft slippers, so the heat would not scorch it, and just starred at the ragged bird, as he sat in a nearby sofa chair, giving it an ominous silent look, said, “There isn’t anybody here except me,” he was talking to the sparrow, his hands in the prayer mode…


The Wing

He looked at the sparrow one last time, as if he was worn out himself, and ready to fall to sleep from the stress, and enduring ordeal—a mental strain, anxiety, then he thought he saw a wing move, said to himself out loud, “It must be a winter dream, they vary…,” then looked closer. He took off his glasses, he rubbed his eyes, put them back on, leaned over to touch the sparrow, its body no loner stiff, “A precarious adventure we are having little one,” he said, “time to wake up!” A tear came from his right eye, as the bird wobbled about inside the slipper, its feet stretched out, and its wings helped it get back onto them somewhat steadily, and it fell over the slipper, onto the floor. Now the wings were both operational, and it stumbled over to the old man, and with a last spurt of energy, it lay down on his bare foot, to rest, and it and the old man, took a nap, after their triumph.



Note: written 11-18-2008, after lunch at the café, La Mia Mamma, Huancayo, Peru. Inspired by actual events, although in a different realm, during the author’s twenties … (which was with a fish brought back to life after frozen from the Minnesota cold, a small fish for an aquarium brought home frozen, after being left in a car.)

English Version


Two Pigeons Kissing

Two pigeons in the morning—
November sun
sitting on a tree-branch,
kissing outside my window…
(as if no one’s around);
looking here and there!
The blue-headed one, picking
at its wings….

(I’m thinking, staring—:
can life be so simple?)

No: 2516 (11-15-2008), written in:
El Tambo, Huancayo, Peru (a tribute to Juan Parra del Riego)



Spanish Version


Dos Pichones Besándose

¡Dos pichones en la mañana—
en el sol de noviembre
sentados en una rama del árbol,
están besándose afuera de mi ventana…
(como si nadie estuviera alrededor);
mirando aquí y allá!
El de la cabeza azul, picoteándose
sus alas…

(Mirando fijamente, estoy pensando—:
¿Puede la vida ser tan simple?)

Nro. 2516 (15-Noviembre-2008), escrito en:
El Tambo, Huancayo, Perú (un homenaje a Juan Parra del Riego)

Fargo’s Mid-day Sun

(North Dakota-1983)



The mid-day sun beat down upon Shawn and me, looking over the empty fields of Fargo, in the summer of 1983. He was eleven-years old; you’d think he was fourteen, he was tall and thin, and had a bubbly personality. Whoever met him loved him, if indeed he was willing to share his personality.
The empty field, seemed to have given-up the struggle of growing things, it was all weedy (sometimes likened to my life). We were riding bikes down this long blank road; the dizzying heat seemed to be bouncing off our bikes onto us. Shawn was thinly clothed. I was out of the Army now going on two and half years, and going with a girl named Sharon, she had lived in West Fargo, and had relatives, whom we were visiting, she was ten-years younger than me.
We stopped our bikes, and headed back to Sharon’s relative’s home, and there Shawn played some basketball in the driveway, a basketball hoop was fastened onto the garage, he played with me, fainter and smaller my energy went, in comparisons to his, as he squirmed and twisted around with that basketball, as if he was a pro. Then we ate our lunch.
Shawn seemed to have been wrapped in a mist and whirling cloud, a storm of delight, he was always excited to be with me—back then. Somehow, somewhere he seemed always to be clinging, if not climbing, striving, and looking for immortality, where there was no hope.
My long line of thoughts—for it seemed I was always thinking—twisted towards the sky, it was a thrill to be with Shawn, but it always seemed I was trying to put my life back together in those days (if only we could start off in the middle of our lives, and forget the long and enduring path to the summit), it is funny, when I say that ‘…back together,’ because this was my earth, my time, but I needed a shock in the head to get me out of a long gaze.
Plainly, I was working at a bank, not making much money, and needed to go back to school, needed to stop drinking. And I was looking you might say, for that trail, the boys were better off with their mother, for I was divorced at the time, and drinking did not favor a winsome life style had I taken them, and they wanted me to (it would be in 1984, when I’d stop drinking completely, the boys, my twins would be twelve).
That year, 1984, I bought a duplex, and was going to move my two boys in it, and I think they shouted with joy, it would although be embarrassing, the house burnt down, the folks in the lower apartment, the place I was going to live in with the boys, were the culprits, in that they were the issue at hand. Funny I thought at the time, here I stop drinking, and the husband of the lower apartment, was drunk, and fell to sleep, and up with the house, eleven people living in the house and no one got hurt.
It was miserable for both me and the kids, — a home without a roof, dreams shattered. I kind of knew how they were thinking—being brought up for four years on a foster farm—I knew how it felt: deserted, abandoned, and surely they felt similar emotions.
At this point of my life, there was no way to relaunch the boat that is to say, I could not rebuild or replace the house; it was 90% destroyed. Oh, I don’t know, maybe I could have, but it didn’t seem so at the time. Thus, grimly I told the kids what happened, and the glittering candle that once was in their eyes, was put out, now a sputtering candle indeed.

In conclusion to this chapter, Fargo was a hot place back in the summer of 1983, and Shawn was in a most joyful mood, high spirits on that short trip from Minnesota to North Dakota. And that long bicycle ride, down that long empty road, with its blank like fields, was but one moment in life, a time before he could protest life. And by the time he would have seasoned heavily with life, rising to full manhood, balancing his life or trying to, as I had to do mine, he would learn as I did, some of life was salt, other parts black paper, a spicy stream indeed is life, and I’ve enjoyed most every minute, and grabbed most opportunities, as I did with that long bike ride in the countryside, and am most grateful for do so.


11-3-2008