Beyond the Castle Gates

Every few months I awaited his arrival. The plane would land at six o'clock, another fifteen minute drive to our house, and then the front door would open as he came bearing gifts for my younger brother and me. Sometimes it was a model space shuttle from a trip out to Houston. Others times a child-sized cowboy hat picked up from the airport gift shop in Dallas. But without fail, every time he came back home after a week away on business he would always arrive with all sorts of wonderfully strange souvenirs along with (to my eight year old ears) equally exotic stories.

This man was my father. When I was a boy my father would travel to Dallas and other cities across the country for business on a fairly regular basis. To a little boy, it seemed like such a grown up thing to do and became part of the routine that all adults simply did from time to time. I remember thinking that my dad must be incredibly brave to travel so far away from home, almost like a knight venturing past the castle walls without anything other than his courage and determination to protect him. Part of this belief was attributable to the magnanimity that all boys bestow upon their fathers, but another part was due to the realization that one day I would also venture past the safety of my hometown and follow in the footsteps of my father. Looking back, it seems like such a trivial thing. After all, as an adult I now realize that the world beyond the boundaries I grew accustomed to as a child are not really so scary. But the moments that we remember from childhood about the curious world of adults and who we will be when we grow up are as indeterminable as they are magical. For me, that world always involved leaving my familiar surroundings behind and routinely exploring new and exciting destinations. Since I work in a field that requires me to travel fairly extensively, I almost feel as if I am experiencing those moments from my childhood all over again, just from a different perspective. Now I am the grown up. I am the one venturing beyond the castle gates. And it's exciting and wonderful for reasons beyond what my boyhood curiosity could have imagined. From Washington DC to Tucson and from Dallas to Seattle, these are the distant kingdoms that my imagination traveled to in my youth, but my eyes now gaze upon today.

In Dallas I visited Dealey Plaza. It is one of the more somber historical sites in our nation's history but one that I felt was worth seeing. When I took this picture I was standing on the actual spot where the fatal shot struck Kennedy.

If you look closely you can see the open window that the fatal shot was fired from. Although some conspiracy theorists claim all sorts of bizarre ideas ranging from CIA involvement to Castro's secret plottings, I simply think that this tragic event was the result of one very disturbed man whose life was in a tailspin. Oswald's fascination with grandeur convinced him that infamy was better than obscurity.

For Americans in my parents' generation, this shallow outcropping known colloquially as "The Grassy Knoll" holds the secret of where the actual fatal shot was fired. Numerous documentaries claiming to go beyond the official version of events while espousing myriad conspiracy theories all seem to tie back to this place. Strangely, these ideas seem to be more widely accepted by those who lived through the events versus younger generations. In much the same way, our generation's 9/11 conspiracy theorists will probably find their arguments falling out of favor as time goes by.

This is the actual spot (the X) where a bullet struck the back of Kennedy's head and he died. To say that it is eerie to stand in the place where such an important person died so tragically would be an understatement. My entire experience in Dealey Plaza was surreal and in many ways it feels like stepping back in time to be there. While I am glad to have seen this area once in my life firsthand, its inherent solemnity will likely prevent me from ever returning.

After my trip to Dallas I was on my way further north into the cold expanses of the American northwest. Flying to Seattle feels like crossing the Sahara in that you travel over what appears to be vast wastelands down below before finally reaching civilization. For some reason this part of the country has always seemed depressing to me. Whether it is the permanent overcast skies or bitter coldness I cannot say, but I suspect that it probably has more to do with its perceived isolation than anything else. Anyway, I took this picture of the Space Needle as I crossed over a bridge heading into downtown. Curiously enough, there's not a cloud in the sky.

One of Seattle's most unique attractions is a semi-outdoor food market that reminded me of a middle eastern bazaar. It is situated right on the edge of the water and seemed to be a good place to stop for lunch.

  

Inside of the market people rushed by in an apparent fervor to find the best deals. Several longshoremen had just arrived with the day's catch at one booth and were hauling fresh fish from the packaging area out to the market. Rarely have I seen so much fresh food scattered before me and had I not been in this area on business I may have stopped to sample some.

Just down the street from the market an open air park offers spectacular views of both the bay and overlooking city. Skyscrapers tower over the bustle down below and bear witness to the eclectic nature of this unique part of town. If you look closely you can see that a skeptical ginger seems to be giving me the evil eye in this picture. I don't think my picture taking was that suspicious but clearly he suspects otherwise. No matter, that seagull perched atop a light post seems ready to drop a surprise his way if things get testy.

Seattle is full of street performers. This gentleman brought a tiny piano down to the market and entertained the crowd with unique renditions of "Hey Jude" by The Beatles and several other songs upon request. Curiously enough, the roads to get down to this part of town are at a forty-five degree angle so I wasn't quite sure how he even moved this wheeled piano down here. I imagine he probably climbed atop it and rode it down the city streets...playing whimsical melodies as his gilded hair whipped in the wind.

After touring Seattle all afternoon, I spent the evening with a friend who I have not seen in years. She lives in the city and took me to an upscale bar where we talked for hours about what has been going on in our lives over the past few years. It was a nice way to end my time in Seattle, but I was surprised at how somber our conversation occasionally turned considering the longevity of our time apart. Usually meetings with old friends will elicit laughter and colorful stories filled with nostalgic memories. While we certainly traded our share of each, she confided in me other moments that tell the story of what is actually going on in her life. It was at times both surprising and heart wrenching considering that she is one of the most joyful people I know. But it was also strangely comforting to know that someone else was going through a similar situation too. Sometimes it's nice just to share our struggles with others, even if a resolution to our problems is ultimately up to us. It's strange that in a city that has always curiously embodied loneliness for me I should find myself confessing things to an old friend who I have not seen in so very long. Travels will do that though. These new kingdoms take you out of your cozy world and force you to look over the horizon to see what lies just beyond the castle gates.

Forget Yourself

Saturday night in Birmingham. The evening comes to an end as I walk out the door from a day's revelry with friends. A day spent watching college football, watching my Auburn Tigers scrap by with another victory and enjoying the excitement a momentary distraction brings. But the game's over now and it is time to leave my friends and drive home.

I drive through Mountain Brook, the wealthiest part of town that serves as a divider between my friend's house and my apartment. It is a short drive and one that I have made countless times on forgotten nights just like this one. The winding streets are familiar to me and could almost be traversed without much conscious effort, a fortunate circumstance considering my mind's wanderings. I don't pay much attention to the stop light up ahead or the turn I am about to make. I'm somewhere else right now, back in a dorm room with her wondering where it all went wrong. I've played it over a thousand times in my head without any resolution and nearly lost myself because of it. So I buried the memories deep and resolved to never visit them again, lest their hold on me became complete and I finally lost myself altogether. And then, just when I believed the memories were forever gone she re-enters my life, not in a purposeful way or one in which she planned. Curiously enough, not even in a manner caused by her own doing. But the memories are dredged up all the same, losing none of their vengeance over the years. I don't need this now. I don't need this ever. I just need the memories to disappear and only know of one method to ensure their departure.

My car veers from its normal path. I take a left when I should have turned right. Mountain Brook becomes a speck in my rear view mirror as I venture to another part of town not accustomed to recognizing my face, but not yet calling me a stranger either.

I park in a dimly lit lot just south of downtown. Its faded lighting casts my clothes in a burnt orange veneer that gives a sinister tone to the Auburn colors still emblazoned on my shirt. Half a minute later and I'm at the bar, deciding what I'll have while checking to make sure my wallet will cover the cost of the evening's indulgence. The bartender brings two shots of No. 7 and another of Patrón, a slight departure from my usual tastes but inconsequential for tonight's purpose. The two shots of whiskey go down quickly while I savor the tequila, its unique texture gliding across my tongue like the sting of a sensual kiss.

One more shot, then another, and finally a sixth to round out the half hour. Anything to erase the memories and the corresponding feelings they never fail to elicit. My left arms rests motionless on the table holding an empty shot glass while my right one lies sprawled out across the back rest of the booth that I'm sitting in. Almost without noticing, a girl takes a seat beside me and conspicuously places my right arm around her shoulder as she edges closer. She mentions something about how she saw me across the bar but her words clang together like the bells of some nearby church that will be ringing in only a few hours. I can't understand anything other than she is a student at UAB and wants to study education. Girls like her always want to be a teacher for some reason.

Thirty minutes later we are back at her dorm. Her roommates are gone and the room is completely dark save for a curious desk lamp with a pink lampshade over it. It casts the world into a starlit, faded crimson as we climb into her bed. She turns off the light while I succumb to an evening awash in alcohol and bad decisions.

The next morning I wake up to sunlight glaring through the window and the sound of quiet breathing coming from the body beside me. She's still asleep as I climb out of bed and get dressed. A moment later and her bedroom door is opening and closing behind me. The last time I was in a dorm room ended roughly the same way.

It's a two mile walk back to the parking lot and the mid-morning sun is only exacerbating the pounding between my ears. When I eventually find my car I notice a ticket placed just under the windshield but I crumple it and toss it to the ground without reading what it says. The drive back to my apartment is only a short distance away and by the time I make it home I'm having trouble remembering everything that happened last night. Something about a bad memory it seems. Maybe it wasn't that important...I'm sure I'll remember it tomorrow.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Memories are our connections to the past. They show us how far we've come, remind us of who we were, and sometimes even let us relive a particularly important moment in our lives. When a memory is good, it can be a treasure to its holder and remind him of the very best life has to offer. But what of the other memories? What of the painful ones? When a memory is particularly painful it can seize someone by the throat and focus all your attention on reliving an experience that is seemingly inescapable. It can unmercifully bring you back to a place you repeatedly seek to avoid and hold your gaze there indefinitely. But what's more, it can make you forget. It can make you forget that things were not always this way and that tomorrow brings with it the promise of new adventures. It can make you forget that life is not about holding onto bad memories, but about making good ones.

I have one particularly bad memory in my life. It is not about anything unduly tragic or especially unique, yet it burdens my spirit all the same. For several years I have sought to rid myself of it and, for a time, believed I had accomplished my goal. But all it took was one happenstance to bring everything flooding back. One accidental correspondence to make me feel just as I did on that day so long ago.

If the particulars of my situation are vague you should know that it is by design. I choose storytelling as an outlet for my frustrations since narratives are assuredly less problematic than the actual behaviors contained therein. I simply don't know how to let go of a bad memory and even if I did, I'm not sure I possess the courage to bid it farewell.

Dragon Wings

The bell rang precisely at eight o'clock and signaled to both parents and students alike that the first day of school had just begun. All of the parents had come to class that day to give a few last words of encouragement to their children, although most of them didn't need it. Many of the first graders had bounded down the halls from the moment they left their parents' car and came running into the freshly decorated classroom. Their brightly colored backpacks overflowed with pencils and paper and were always decorated with each child's favorite cartoon character or superhero. One little boy tripped as he darted to a desk that he had picked out for himself, spilling the contents of his backpack over the floor but running still faster all the same. Only after he claimed his prize was the recently emptied backpack given any attention as his mother, who had struggled to keep up, finally reached him. Although she would normally have been upset at the mess he caused, the exuberance he showed for starting his first day of school provided a sufficient excuse. All of the school children seemed caught up in a whirlwind of excitement at the indescribable wonder that undoubtedly lay before them.

"Look Mommy...numbers and letters on the wall. I'm going to learn how to read and count!" one girl said, her eyes dashing from one numbered poster to the next.

"I love to draw Daddy," another little boy said. "I see crayons and markers everywhere!" His father simply nodded his head and smiled at the boy's exuberance.

Everywhere around the classroom children talked and laughed as their parents hugged them for the last time before quietly filing out of the classroom. A few of the mothers stopped to talk with the teacher and asked questions about when they could pick up their children that afternoon while the fathers politely shuffled them out with kind words of reassurance. In the parents' absence, the first seedlings of new friendships were just beginning to sprout as several of the boys and girls began talking with each other amidst intermingled claps and giggles. The classroom was alive with the sound of tiny voices and no child hesitated to add their own.

Except for one. In the fourth seat on the fifth row of an otherwise lively classroom, one little boy sat morose, his head looking down as his mother quietly tried to comfort him. Unlike the other children, this little boy looked nervously around and seemed hesitant to accept the unfamiliar surroundings that other children embraced wholeheartedly. He wasn't an unhappy child or even particularly averse to new experiences, but the prospect of being separated from everything familiar and thrust into a world of uncertainty was not something he naturally accepted. His response had not been to protest the situation but to instead simply withdraw from it, and it was this reaction that his mother was now trying desperately to alleviate.

"You'll make new friends," she said in her most convincing tone. "And what's more, you'll even learn the alphabet and how to write your name. Doesn't that sound like fun?" Still the boy sat silently, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes never even offering so much as an acknowledging glance.

As the mother continued to offer what solace she could, the teacher was just seeing the last of the other parents out the door. The bell to begin class had long since rung and many of the children were growing anxious as they waited for the day's lesson to begin. Only the little boy's mother remained, though she knew that she would soon have to leave as well. Just as she was about to say goodbye to her son the teacher walked over to the little boy and his mother.

"I'm sorry for staying so long but I just wanted to make sure he is alright. I know that all the other parents have left and I was just on my way out," the mother said as she reached out to give her son one last hug. Very quietly she then said to the teacher "He's just a little nervous right now. I'm not sure why. He's never shy at home and truthfully I have never seen him so hesitant around new people".

The teacher leaned down to the student, expecting him to look over so that she might talk to him. Instead, the little boy sat with  his eyes transfixed on the desktop, remaining perfectly still except for the short breaths that betrayed his apprehension.

"Aren't you excited about making new friends?" the teacher asked him in her most enthusiastic voice.

He offered no answer as she continued, "You'll learn how to count and I'll even teach you how to add and subtract".

Still no response as the little boy sat stoically, hands now thrust deep into his pockets without the slightest indication of showing any interest.

At this point the teacher tried rather unsuccessfully to repress a smile before saying to the little boy, "You can be a dragon".

The boy's head instantly turned as the confused look in his eyes was only surpassed by their unbridled curiosity.

"A dragon?" the boy said, unsure of what the teacher meant but too inquisitive to remain aloof.

"Or a knight, a prince, or even the king if you'd like," she replied, a clever grin that was requiring more energy to restrain now forming.

"No, I think I want to be a dragon," the boy said, albeit still confused. "But how, how can I be one?"

"I'll teach you. It's actually quite easy. A lot of people don't realize that you can become a dragon anytime you want". The teacher then reached out her hand and took a well-worn book off the shelf. "Take this book for instance," she said. "This book tells you all about how to become a dragon. It tells you how to breathe fire like a dragon, grow claws like a dragon, and even how to fly like a dragon. But no one ever bothers to read it. It's a shame really because it's quite easy to do, and as everyone knows...being a dragon is so much fun!"

The little boy looked at the slightly tattered book that the teacher now held in her hand and reached out for it in eager anticipation. Just as she was about to offer its pages he stopped, closed his hand, and said to her, "But...but I can't be a dragon. I don't know how to read." A look of helplessness quietly flashed across his face as the adventure that had just a moment before been in his reach vanished as quickly as it had arrived. His eyes began to swell with tears as his gaze met his teacher's, a gaze that betrayed his disappointment far more succinctly than the words of frustration other children may have chosen.

Just as his tears threatened to breach their boundaries and flow slowly down his reddened cheeks the teacher took hold of his empty hand and said, "That's what I'm here for. I'm here to teach you how to read. You'll read stories about dragons and knights, about courageous heroes and the beautiful princesses they rescue. You'll read about faraway lands, exotic lands where the risk of danger is never far away and the thirst for adventure is satisfied with the turn of every page. It's all in there. It's all found within the pages that your eyes will dash across as you become the characters that for a moment are the only fascination of your mind's eye. I'll teach you how to become a dragon...I'll teach you how to fly."

The little boy managed a smile while his teacher used a neatly folded handkerchief to begin wiping away his tears.

"And someday," she continued, "after you've read the words of all the great storytellers and have let the poets guide you through their labyrinths of beauty and suffering, you'll pick up your pen and begin to write too. You'll introduce your readers to an entirely new world of wonder where layers of prose merely serve as the stage upon which the timeless play lead. If you'll just trust me now, someday you will write stories that teach others to fly too"

The tears that earlier threatened to come streaming down the little boy's face had long since dried up. For the first time in his short life he realized the importance of words and the power they contained by those who could wield them. They had the power to comfort, to illuminate, and to inspire. Most importantly, they have the power to set people free from their own self-imposed limitations. It was a gift given to him by his teacher on that day, a gift this child would only come to fully understand many years later.

"I think I am going to like the first grade," the little boy said as he once again reached out eagerly for the book's welcoming pages.

The teacher placed the book in his hand, closed his tiny fingers around it and replied, "I think you are too Bobby"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Every Sunday for the past ten years I have called my mother just to talk. It was a routine that started during my freshman year of college and has continued over the years as a way for us to keep in touch while helping me stay close to my family. This Sunday, only a few hours ago, I was speaking with her when she informed me that she had some bad news. Expecting that it would be some minute happenstance pertaining to a family member or friend of the family, I was somewhat surprised when she told me that my first grade teacher (Mrs. Blackmarr) had passed away last week. It was a tragic event that surprised many in my hometown and seemed to have come without warning. After going to the hospital last Saturday for unusual symptoms, she was diagnosed with liver cancer and was given a month to live. She died three days later.

Although I had lost touch with her over the years, I was still deeply saddened to hear of her passing. She was an exceptionally kind woman and always treated me with more patience and understanding than the six year old version of myself probably deserved. Her funeral is tomorrow and, although I will be unable to attend, I can at least offer what tribute to her I can through my words. It was in her class that I first began writing. She encouraged me to always be creative and never rebuked the often times strange and elaborate narratives that my first grade mind would create. If I ever achieve my goal of becoming a professional writer, my success is attributable in no small measure to her support. She was a good woman and will be missed.