Once A Marine, Never A Marine

I sat there in her Dad’s closet, staring at his rifle and wondered if putting it in my mouth was the only solution.

I was AWOL. Absent without leave from the United States Marine Corps and I was tired of hiding.

Months earlier I walked into the recruiting station and told the Marines that I was ready to sign up and ship out!

I hadn’t been out of High School for very long and I had nothing going for me. I wasn’t in college, I had a dead end job (a couple actually), and I was dating my best friend’s ex-girlfriend. Life was splendid.

I don’t think the Marines in that recruiting station took me very seriously. I hadn’t started my final growth spurt yet, so I was about 4’11” tall and weighed 90 pounds.

They told me I’d need to join the Delayed Entry Program so that I could get prepared for the most challenging boot camp of all the Armed Forces. They also told me they’d have to talk to my parents before I could sign up.

Instantly angered by their condescension, I explained that I was 18 and they had no business speaking to my parents. I was there to join the Marine Corp and my parents didn’t factor in to my decision, nor would I let their opinion influence me.

I also asked them to put me through the paces on the spot. I was little, but I was wiry strong and in shape. I told them to test me.

They had a pull-up bar right there at the facility and they told me I’d have to do THREE pull-ups to graduate from boot camp…as if it were some sort of mystical feat.

So, I jumped up started knocking them out. I don’t know how many I did, but it was at least 10, maybe 15, or 20. The advantage of not weighing much is the that body weight exercises are a breeze.

After the pull-ups they told me I’d have to do 50 push-ups before completing Marine Corp training. So…I got down and began doing push-ups. Again, I don’t remember how many I did but it was well more than 50.

Their final attempt to dissuade me was the 3 mile run. They said that to graduate with honors from boot, I’d have to run 3 miles in 18 minutes or less. I chuckled and explained that I had been running since we moved out to the country and 3 miles in 18 minutes was the least of my worries.

I don’t know that I convinced them that I was capable of surviving Marine basic training, but they let me sign up on the spot.

Looking back I think that I was driven by the desire to prove myself. I had been small since I was 10 or 11 years old. I wasn’t able to keep up with the other boys as they grew and I didn’t want anyone to think I wasn’t capable of doing what any of them could do.

I also wanted to be in the Secret Service. An imagined destiny I suppose. I always had a feeling that someday I would die after taking a bullet for the President of the United States. In my forehead.

I know longer feel it, but as a young man there was a tingle in my forehead; a feeling that an assassins perfectly placed kill shot would take my life instead of the leader of the free world’s.

Working in a movie theater wasn’t going to get me there. And the Marine Corp had a group of individuals called the Marine Corp Security Forces who, among other things, stood guard for the President.

I couldn’t think of a better way to achieve my goal.

After declaring my intent to join the Marines the recruiters told me I would have to take the ASVAB test to determine my eligibility for my occupation in the military.

I was a pretty awful student. Mostly due to lack of interest, but a test worried me. I had a goal in mind and I didn’t want a test to ruin my chances.

It was several weeks before they offered the test and I spent the days worrying about whether or not I’d do well.

I never considered that I’d do too well. Upon receiving the results the Marine recruiters told me I had scored too high to be a Marine.

They strongly suggested that I join the Navy and become a nuclear engineer on a submarine. They even arranged a meeting with the Navy to discuss my future as a sailor who’d be trapped underwater in a tin can for months on end.

This was highly unacceptable! I wanted no part of joining the Navy and I especially did not want to be stuck in a tube deep under the sea with a bunch of other boys who probably didn’t want to be there either.

I really don’t think the Marines wanted me and I probably should have listened when they told me that the minimum height requirement for the Marine Corp Security Forces was 6 feet tall.

I hate being told what to do and ironically I dislike authority, so these guys trying to tell me I couldn’t be a Marine made me that much more determined to become one.

After some cajoling, I convinced them that I was a Marine through and through and if I couldn’t join the Security Forces, then I’d be an Infantry man and try out for Force Recon, the Marine equivalent of a Navy Seal.

A few weeks later I took a never ending Greyhound bus ride through central Indiana to MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station)  in Indianapolis for medical processing.

The recruiters had asked me every imaginable questionable about my background, interests, and medical history…except one.

The doctors at MEPS were thorough. They ran you through the wringer and asked question after question, once you’d turned your head and coughed and bent over and “spread’em”.

The doctor at MEPS, named Twersky, asked a question of me that the recruiters hadn’t asked. He inquired “Have you ever seen a specialist?”

The word “specialist” triggered a memory that I hadn’t thought of in many years, so I answered “Yes”.

Twersky asked what the specialist was for and I explained to him that at a young age, maybe 10, maybe 11, my mother took me to a growth specialist due to my small stature.

He had a lot of questions and I explained that I had taken HGH (Human Growth Hormone) shots twice a day in each arm for about six months.

These shots were a lot for a young guy and it also cost my Mom a lot of money. But, at the end of the six month trial period I had only grown 1/4 inch.

Twersky told me he needed all of the  medical records for the specialist and sent me packing back home on that Greyhound bus.

It wasn’t difficult to track down the doctor and several weeks later I had my paperwork and was on my way back to MEPS.

At the time, recruits attending MEPS were paired up and spent the nights in a motel that even the least discerning crackhead wouldn’t consider staying within.

During my stay I met two kids; one was a completely fit, hard charging, ideal Marine candidate, and the other was what the Marine Corp would call a “fat body”.

This kid couldn’t do a single push-up, pull-up, or sit up, and was about to ship out for Marine Corp boot camp.

The fit young man was on his fifth trip to MEPS. He could run circles around me and was exactly what the Marines wanted, except he had acne. Bad acne. And they kept turning him down due to his condition.

I ended up back in front of Twersky and he reviewed the records from my growth specialist. While reading them he saw the words “Bronchial spasms”.

Twersky immediately stamped my papers as “PSQ” (Permanently Disqualifited for Military Service) and handed them back to me.

I was confused and asked what was happening. Twersky explained that the medical records showed I had Asthma and that I could not be a Marine.

As I’ve said before, I played soccer and ran distance most of my life. I had never, ever, had an Asthma condition, but Twersky would not listen no matter how adamantly I objected.

He had stamped my paper work and that was the end of the discussion. I was back on that Greyhound bus heading home. Again.

Ironically, neither I nor the very fit young man with acne, passed onto boot camp during that visit to MEPS, but the fat bodied kid that couldn’t do a single push-up did.

I returned home on that endless bus ride and called my Uncle, a retired United States Marine and Vietnam Veteran. I told him that I had been “PDQ’d” for asthma and that I could not be a Marine.

My Uncle told me I didn’t have asthma, a fact I was already aware of. We talked about the process and then he said “Hang on for minute. Let me make a call”

It had been a few months since I walked into that recruiting station and during that time I was learning all there was to know about the Marine Corp.

From its history, to its tactics, and its command structure, I had been spending my time teaching myself all there was to know before basic training.

Sometime later my Uncle called me back and told me to “stand by for a phone call”. He didn’t give me any other information, but told me it was important.

Not long after my Uncle’s phone call I received another call. This time a woman asked if I was Frederick Ray and when I confirmed she stated “Stand by for the Sergeant Major of the Marine Corp”.

I knew from my studies that the Sgt Major of the Marine Corp was the highest ranking enlisted man in the Marine Corp and his name was Overstreet.

A moment later I was speaking to Sgt Major Overstreet himself! He told me that he served with my Uncle in Vietnam and that my Uncle told him that I would make an ideal Marine.

He asked me several questions, including how much I wanted to be a Marine and whether or not I suffered from asthma.

I told the Sgt Major that all I wanted was  to be was a Marine and there was zero chance I had asthma.

Sgt Major Overstreet arranged for me to take a breathing test and if I passed, he assured me I would be in “HIS” Marine Corp.

More weeks passed and eventually I arrived at a medical facility in Indianapolis. I took their breathing test and passed it with so much ease that I damaged the machine used to test my lung capacity.

Another call from Overstreet after the lung capacity test and I had a date set to ship out for boot camp.

It was several more weeks before the day arrived and a recruiter made arrangements for me to meet him at 5am to make the trip to MEPS one last time.

I spent that night with my buddies causing more trouble than I probably should have the night before leaving for training, but I didn’t know how long it would be before I saw them again.

They dropped me off at the recruiting station at 430am and I waited for that recruiter. And waited. And waited some more.

He never showed. I stayed outside that station until about 8am and lucked out when my buddies, who had continued to stir up trouble, drove passed and saw me sitting there.

They scooped me up and took me home, and I called my uncle. I explained to him that I was there early and waited for hours, but no one showed up to meet me.

Shortly there after I received another call from Sgt Major Overstreet who told me he’d find out what happened and get the situation resolved.

The next day Overstreet called again. The recruiter who was supposed to meet me had over slept and caused me to miss my flight to basic training in San Diego.

The Sgt Major apologized profusely and asked me what MOS (Military Occupational Specialty), or job, I most wanted.

I told him I wanted Marine Corp Security Forces, but due to my height I didn’t qualify for the job. Without hesitation he told me the height requirement would be waived and upon completing basic Marine training I would go to Security Forces schooling.

He then asked me if I’d be willing to go to Paris Island, South Carolina for boot camp instead of San Diego.

This was out of the ordinary for my section of the country, but my uncle lived in Hilton Head, South Carolina, just up the coast from Paris Island, and he wanted to see me graduate from boot camp.

I told the Sgt Major I didn’t care where he sent me as long as I became a Marine, so it was settled.

A new ship date was set and a few weeks later it was time to go. After months and months of trying I realized that I could only depend upon myself, so I decided to drive to MEPS myself and asked my parents to pick up my car after I shipped out.

I got to MEPS early and checked in for my final phase, the interview with the FBI.

My flight time to Paris Island was at 10am and I got there at 6am, just to make sure nothing went wrong.

I waited in that lobby for hours for the FBI to escort me to my interview, but they never showed. I checked in multiple times and finally around 9am inquired again.

I tried to tell the Staff Sergeant at the desk that I was supposed to have an FBI Exit Interview and that my flight was leaving for Paris Island in an hour.

The Staff Sgt told me that no one from Indiana went to Paris Island for training and that I should sit down, shut up and wait.

I waited another 30 or 45 minutes as my flight time approached and then went back to that Staff Sgt’s desk. I mentioned that Sgt Major Overstreet had made arrangements for me to go to basic in South Carolina.

The Staff Sergeant replied, “We know who you are and you’re not going anywhere today”. He then told me to take a seat, again.

I tried to patient, but I had been run through the gauntlet for so many months that I was losing my patience. So, I walked right into the Master Sergeants office…skipping right over that Staff Sergeant, and tried to explain the situation.

The Master Sergeant was having none of it. He began to yell and curse at me about the “special treatment” I was receiving and about the recruiters who ended up getting discharged or re-stationed because of me.

I didn’t believe any of what had happened during the last several months was my fault. A lot of bad circumstances and mistakes, but I certainly didn’t feel that I was to blame.

So in that moment I decided that I didn’t want the next 4 years in the Marine Corp to go the same way. I told that Master Sergeant “Nevermind, I’m going home.”

He yelled louder, cursed more, and told me I couldn’t go any where; that I was stuck there until they told me where to go.

Little did he know, I had driven myself. So, I turned and walked out of his office, left the building, and got into my car with the Master Sergeant cursing and screaming at me the entire way.

I returned home and thought all was finished, but then the recruiters started calling. They told me I was AWOL and if I didn’t report I’d be arrested and sent to prison.

I started staying with friends, sleeping in their basements or spare rooms. Moving every couple of nights so the Marine Corp couldn’t track me down.

Some of my friends shaved the word AWOL into the back of my head beneath my long skater hair cut and it was all pretty funny at first.

But, the more time passed and the more the recruiters tried I became more withdrawn and anxious.

And so there I sat, in the closet of a girl I was dating, staring at her father’s rifle, wondering if it was the only solution to my problems.

I don’t remember her name, but a young lady who was friends with the girl was dating found me there and helped me realize that wouldn’t solve anything.

I ended up expressing my state of mind to another friend, who was dating a Senators daughter at the time. He spoke to the Senator, who made some inquiries, and then contacted me to tell me that I was not, in fact, AWOL.

Apparently the Marine Corp basic training program is considered to be so strenuous that you can drop out of it at any point before graduation and you are not obligated to the Marine Corp…at least that’s how it was then.

I called those recruiters immediately and told them where they could stick it! And then I continued on with my life.

I don’t regret not joining the Marine Corp, but I often wonder what it would had been like and who I would have become if I had followed through with it.

The Marine Corp was nice enough to send me a letter, addressed to Freddy Ray (a name a refused to go by at that point in my life) stating that I was not obligated to then in any way and that should I choose to join the military at a later date, they would appreciate it if I did not a consider the United States Marine Corp.

Thanks to my Uncle Roger, Sergeant Major Overstreet, Joel, Tom, and that girl whose name I can’t remember for helping me survive one of the worst times of my life.

That One Time I Thought I’d Run For Mayor...

From the moment I began telling people that I intend to run for Mayor of Fort Wayne during the next election, I have been repeatedly asked two questions. “What is your platform?” And “Why would you want to do that?”

I hope this post answers both.

Abraham Lincoln once referred to our government as “...of the people, by the people, for the people”, but it would seem our elected leaders more closely follow “Of the party, by the party, for the party.”

I have grown tired of the hardline stances taken by the Left and Right and their unwillingness to find common ground,  both locally and nationally.

I could grumble, complain, and make posts on social media about how much I disapprove of elected officials listening to party leadership over the people, but instead I have decided to get involved.

For most of my life I served this community and although I do not miss that job, I do miss being of service. I feel that I have more to give our City and I feel that the time is right to step forward.

You may say to yourself that one person cannot possibly change such a daunting system that is mired in political heavy handedness, but I won’t be alone. I have you.

My goal, or vision, or just generalized hope, is that over the next couple of years we can have discussions about what you want to see happen with your City. I want to hear what you have to say and I want “my platform” to be yours.

This idea I have is not about me obtaining power or creating a legacy, it is about you having a voice outside of whether or not you voted for a Republican or a Democrat.

Your involvement is my platform and it is the reason why I would venture into a political quagmire that we would all just rather avoid.

There will be plenty of time over the next three years to talk about specifics, but I wanted you to know that I am asking for your input and support so that we can shape this City in a way that benefits everyone who calls it home.

Can we make everyone happy, no we cannot. But we can be reasonable and use good judgment to make decisions that benefit more than one party or the other.

Please join me in creating something we have forgotten. Something of us, by us, and for us. I love you Fort Wayne,

Freddy

That One Time When I Thought I’d Run For Mayor...continued...

When it’s quiet and I’ve found myself alone, which is more often than not these days, I ask myself “Have you done enough?”

It’s a very difficult question for me to answer because it has more than one meaning for me. And really, how can you measure your own life as you’re living it?

One reason I ask myself that question is to determine if I have squeezed all of the value from each moment of my life. Have I done all of the things I dream of doing and have I enjoyed them to the fullest?

I also ask myself that question to establish whether or not I have sufficiently been there for those that I care about. Have I given more of myself to them than I have taken from them?

And finally, I ask myself that question because I feel a debt is owed. Have I balanced the ledger of my life? Have I been charitable and compassionate enough to make up for the life I have lived?

It comes to mind because a very dear friend recently asked me why I would run for Mayor if there is almost no chance of winning. He wanted to know why I would waste so much time and energy on a campaign when there are so many other things I could be doing.

My answer was incredibly simple. I told him, “It’s something I feel I need to do.”

My friend knows me well enough, as do many of you, to know that I am not a conventional political candidate. As a matter of fact, I’m probably the antithesis of the ideal political candidate.

I’ve been divorced, twice. I don’t practice religion. I didn’t go to college. I haven’t voted since I was 18 and have purposefully distanced myself from politics. I’m not involved with any community Boards or organizations. I don’t come from a wealthy family with the right connections. And I’ve definitely done things I am ashamed of having done.

So, maybe my friend has a point. Why would I venture into this knowing that when all of the above things are called into question I will likely be left standing still while the more ideal candidates race ahead.

It’s just something I feel I need to do. And I think that everything I just mentioned makes me far more like most of you than any ideal candidate could ever hope to be.

Will I be successful? I don’t know. But the success of the endeavor doesn’t matter to me. What matters to me is that I try. And if I try, and really give this my best effort, then maybe I can say I have done enough;  no matter which way I’m asking myself that question.

Thanks Covid

Honorable Governor Holcomb,

Let me begin by thanking you for your diligent and measured approach to the crisis we have faced. You and your team have coordinated a very thoughtful and calculated response to solving a problem that I am sure none of you imagined would occur on your watch.

When we first learned of this virus and its imminent arrival in the United States, the projections were frightening and nearly apocalyptic. 151 million Americans would contract this virus with an expected mortality rate of 3 to 5 percent. We were facing a loss of over 4 million Americans, including 100,000 Hoosiers.

Before the Government intervened many took it upon themselves to begin staying home and taking precautions against a devastating adversary. Businesses changed they way they operated and people became conscious of the way in which our interactions, no matter how slight, could have such unexpected consequences.

Five weeks ago you gave the order to further these actions by closing all “non-essential businesses” and restricting the operation of businesses deemed to be “essential”.

Since that time we have seen a dramatic decrease in the projections of the havoc wreaking potential of this virus. It was last determined by Dr. Fauci and his team that we could expect 60,000 casualties nationwide.

Your goal for our beloved State was to “flatten the curve” and prevent the mass casualties seen in New York and elsewhere.

As I write this letter, Indiana has seen just over 700 deaths. A tragic loss for our community; yet a massive win in the fight against the virus. Of our nearly 7 million residents, we have lost few.

I believe this number is directly related to our residents and business owners compliance with your order as well as the tireless efforts of those on the front lines who are fighting to save the lives of those infected.

On February 23rd, I closed my business and went home at your request. It is a very small business (a tattoo shop) that I opened just before completing a career in Law Enforcement that spanned more than 20 years and served not only the State of Indiana, but our great Nation as well.

I put everything I had into my business and it became a very successful operation for a one man show. It is a private, boutique style business in which I tattoo my clients one-on-one, by appointment only, with no walk-in traffic.

I pride myself on operating one of the cleanest, and most respected tattoo shops in our State. My clients come from all walks of life, from around the State, across the country, and often from around the world to be tattooed by me.

Leaving the Fort Wayne Police Department and the security of a career in Law Enforcement was a difficult decision. I was often uncertain of whether my business alone could sustain my basic needs.

Over the years my hard work and dedication to detail, as well as a focus on customer service, have alleviated those fears. I have cultivated a massive clientele, a solid reputation, and a sustainable business.

As a former Police Officer I believe in our leadership, in you, and have unquestionably complied with your orders. But, as we continue to stay at home I find myself growing increasingly concerned that I will begin to lose that which I have achieved if I do not return to work soon.

What I would ask of you is this; as you begin to plan the reopening of our economy please take into consideration businesses such as mine. Businesses owned by individuals who would take every precaution to ensure that this virus is not spread.

I would argue that my establishment is cleaner and safer than any grocery store, gas station, or other “essential” business seeing high levels of traffic and most likely more sterile than most walk-in clinics, Emergency Rooms, and general practitioners offices.

Please trust people like myself to reopen our economy on May 1st. You have a dedicated and talented staff (many of whom are my friends and clients) at the Alcohol and Tobacco Commission. I would welcome them, or the Allen County Board of Health, to vet my business as a safe place for reopening.

The blanket closure of “non-essential” businesses must be reconsidered as we approach May 1st. Our efforts to slow the spread of COVID-19 and alleviate the strain on our healthcare system have been have been a success. We have undoubtedly “flattened the curve”.

What we cannot do is eradicate this virus by staying home indefinitely. If we attempt that, I, and so many others, will no longer have a place to call home.

I understand the burden upon your shoulders as your decisions directly affect the lives of all 6.7 million Hoosiers. You have done well as many thousands of lives have been saved by your decisions thus far.

I firmly believe there are ways to reopen businesses through the implementation of precautions that will mitigate the spread of this virus and allow us to maintain our dignity, as well as our responsibilities, by returning to work. Please apply your thoughtful approach toward saving lives to saving our way of life.

Thank you for your time, consideration, and hard work.

Respectfully,

FreddyRay

A Message To The Last Woman I’ll Ever Love

I’m so very excited to meet you! I am suffering from a broken heart, but it is healing and ready to try again.

Thanks to my grandparents I am a little bit old fashioned. They taught me to be a gentleman so I’d like to ask you on a date and pick you up for it if you agree.

I’ll open doors for you, pull out your chair, and pay the tab at the end of the night. Not because you can’t do these things for yourself, but because I want to treat like the star that you are.

As we fall for each other I want to communicate that openly with you. I’m not afraid to share my feelings and speak honestly from the heart. Hopefully you won’t be either.

I will invite you to share adventures with me, from the ordinary to the extraordinary.

I will respect your strength and power; I will stand in awe before your beauty and grace. I will support your dreams as I share mine with you.

I’m going to hold your hand and kiss you so you know that I mean it. We’ll have passionate nights and lazy mornings. We’ll have walks and talks; and laughter and love.

I just hope that you’re out there somewhere, as excited to meet me as I am you. Who knows...perhaps we have already met?

(As it turned out, I had already met her when I wrote this, but I wasn’t paying attention at the time. She found me later and I stand by what is written above)

For Dennis and Alicia

It was unbearably hot on the second floor of that old, historic building. Which, as it turns out, was the historical museum of the city and formerly the jail.

I probably wouldn’t have stayed if I weren’t at a charitable event and I didn’t hear that sound coming from the corner of the room.

I was about to open my first tattoo shop and was planning a pretty grand celebration to christen it. The space had been a speakeasy during prohibition so my business partner and I wanted to have a 1920’s themed bash to kick it off.

We had a lot of ideas for the event, but the sound I was hearing was undoubtedly something we needed to have for the party.

It was coming from a jazz trio (maybe a quartet, but I can’t remember for sure) and it was fronted by a pianist with the perfect flapper girl look for our shindig.

Her voice was smooth and vibrant and she played the piano exquisitely. Her bright blonde, ringed curls hung just above her ears and although I don’t recall what she was wearing that night, I know she was dressed to the nines and had amazing shoes.

During a break in her set I approached her and asked if she would be interested in playing for the grand opening of a tattoo shop. I figured it was a long shot because she was so classy and the stereo type of a tattoo shop probably didn’t fit her demographic. But, I asked anyway!

Surprisingly, she agreed and we made arrangements for the gig. It went off without a hitch and turned out to be a fantastic evening.

Alicia and I would become close friends after that event and we spent many late nights texting about relationships, work, and family stress. I’ve never asked her why, but she always came to me for advice when life got rough, and I was always happy to listen and help when I could.

Some years after that night at the museum she invited me to one of her shows. It was a small gig at a tiny venue and in lieu of going alone, I asked my friend Dennis to join me.

I met Dennis years early while working undercover. He was the friend of one of my colleagues and we needed an extra person to help with our cover at a local strip club. He was amazed by the situation and it led to all sorts of crazy conversations that evening.

Dennis and I would become long time friends after that night at the strip club. We had a lot in common and shared some overlapping circles of friends, so it was a natural fit.

He would be there for me when I was at my worst, and put me in my place when I didn’t realize it.

We would sometimes run together, we often drank together, and we definitely supported each other. He was my go to friend when I needed someone to join me for drinks and conversation.

I arrived at Alicia’s gig before Dennis, which is often the case when we meet up, and found us a table. I really just wanted some company because, Alicia would be busy playing and I didn’t want to sit alone watching her sing.

Dennis and I chatted for a bit after his arrival and then Alicia finished her set. She and her mom (the spunkiest, hippest, lady you could ever meet) joined us at our table to watch the other acts that would round off the night.

Alicia’s mom and I began talking (we knew each well at this point and she was enjoying a Margarita, so she was very talkative) and I lost track of Dennis altogether.

Eventually, the night came to an end so Dennis and I helped Alicia carry her equipment to her car (something Dennis would become very familiar with in the years that followed).

I didn’t think much of it at the time, and didn’t notice how well they had hit it off, but the next day I received messages from each of them as they inquired about the other.

As I tend to do sometimes, I gave it to them straight. She was a conservative, Christian, homeschooled, fashionista and he was a liberal, atheist, perpetual student and aspiring writer, with one change of clothes.

They couldn’t have been more opposite, but after fair warning I helped them exchange numbers and let them take it from there. That was about 4 years ago, I think.

This Saturday, Dennis and Alicia are getting married. Whatever differences separate them, their love for each other and genuine friendship bridges the gaps.

Wishing you two joy and peace on your wedding day and a lifetime of love, friendship, and shared experiences.

I love you both!

Freddy

Vows For The One I Love

There are no words to properly describe what you mean to me, but I will try…

Something was missing from my life

And when you found me, I found it.

It was you.

You are the partner I have been searching for, the perfect one for me.

You reciprocate all that I give and never take more than you receive.

You calm and comfort me as much as you excite and inspire me.

You are entirely beautiful. From your sparkling smile, to your twinkling eyes, and from your cute little giggle to your generous spirit. You are spectacular

You except me for all that I am and you are, quite simply, the happiness that I have been seeking.

And in a few moments you will be the hottest grandma I have ever seen

Therefore, I make to you this promise…I will love you and only you for all of the days that I have left.

I will share my life with you and support all of your dreams.

I will guard your heart from harm and lift you up when you are down.

I will always spoil you and will do all I can to make you feel as special and as wonderful as you make me feel.

I will be…now and forever, your effective teammate.

Oh…and I will try not to complain about the pet hair…too much.

A Fern And A Diamond

We had been climbing for what seemed like hours, although it was probably only two.

You couldn’t call it a trail as there was no trail to follow. We were following a guide. A local man dressed in shorts that hung below his knees, a solid green polo shirt, and a pair of Crocs.

The Crocs wouldn’t have seemed so out of place had we not been following a river up the side of a mountain. This man, deftly walking along as if he were simply strolling down a sidewalk, was guiding us through conditions the creators of Crocs had never dreamt their shoes (if you can call them shoes) could tackle.

Because this was no sidewalk. This was a river bed full of boulders; huge, callous, rocks the size of cars and we were required to climb over, around, and between them as we ascended this mountain.

On either side of the river was a lush, thick rainforest that was impassable and full of countless unknown creatures.

I had come well enough prepared for the river with a pair of trail shoes that had tacky soles and purposefully shed water. They were shoes designed specifically for this type of terrain and I was enjoying every minute of it.

But she had not. She was wearing a pair of running shoes with socks and every time we crossed the river from one side to the other (which we had to do no less than one hundred times) the journey became increasingly more difficult for her.

She tried going without the shoes, but the rough stones and debris made it impossible. So she carried on and kept a smile on her face the entire time, which was why I loved her.

Aside from the water logged shoes, she was wearing a tight fitting tank top and the same shorts she was wearing the first time I laid eyes on her...

It was mid-summer one year earlier and also the opening day of a new, outdoor tiki-bar in my hometown. Many of my friends were working there and I wasn’t about to miss the first day.

When I arrived the bar was full, so I seated myself at a table and was shortly thereafter approached by her.

Her shorts weren’t too short, but they were just short enough to make her legs look like they reached the sky. Her hair was pulled back in a pony tail and she walked with a lightness and flow that I have never gotten over. It’s mesmerizing, as if the world is hers and we’re just here to observe what she’ll do next.

She was friendly, and courteous, and had a glistening smile that could not be overlooked. It was the kind of smile that produced a twinkle in her as eyes and made your stomach do a flip. If it’s not too cliche, I’d say I fell in love with her at that moment. But, I was married at the time and our story ended there.

Time would pass, situations would change and we would eventually find ourselves single at the same time. And then 6 months later we were climbing a mountain.

We continued to follow our guide up that treacherous trail known only to him until we reached a series of waterfalls and archways. It was our destination and it was most certainly worth the climb.

Our guide let us explore on our own, so we made our way up the steep cliff to the top of the highest waterfall. The guide told us about a lagoon at the top and we knew we had to see it.

This lagoon; at the top of a waterfall, in the middle of a rain forest, on the side of a mountain, was one of the most remote places in the Dominican Republic...so we stripped off our clothes and swam free in that cold mountain water without a care in the world.

As she swam in the crystal clear lagoon I could see the delicate fern leaf I had tattooed on her delicate shoulder. It was a reminder to her of her grandmother and it was a reminder to me of the first full day we spent together.

It was an unplanned day of getting to know one another, but one day turned into two, which turned into a week, and then all of a sudden it had been well over a year.

Those days and weeks contained so many adventures. We travelled to Madrid and Dublin; New York City and Mackinac Island. We saw countless concerts, musicals, and plays. I taught her to skateboard and snowboard and she took me to my first prom. We shared moments with our families and friends and brought the most wonderful dog imaginable into our lives. But most importantly, we became friends.

At some point during those adventures I allowed her to tattoo me. It was a small and simple tattoo, a line-work diamond, and she had absolutely no idea what she was doing.

It was actually a dare. I dared her that she wouldn’t do it, and she dared me that I wouldn’t let her. She won that bet (I had to sing karaoke for her) despite the fact that she was scared to death. But, as it is with everything she does, she did it with a smile and knocked it out of the park.

I’ve had several meaningful relationships in my life so far, but none of them have been so full of living as was mine with her.

She had a different life to live though and relocated to a new city. But, the time we shared created an unbreakable bond between us. As forgiving as a fern, but as solid as a diamond, our friendship will outlast our tattoos.

Narcos

I had never driven as fast on snow and ice as I was at that moment, but hundreds of pounds of marijuana were about to disappear and I wasn’t going to let that happen.

State Troopers in the Ozark’s had intercepted a vehicle loaded with weed that was destined for my home town.

The driver of the vehicle, a “mule” who had no larger part to play than driving drugs across America for a fee, agreed to cooperate with the Troopers and continue the journey to deliver the marijuana to its destination.

From that point on everything was highly controlled as the mule was under arrest, but was still needed to facilitate the handover of the drugs to the recipient. Why would the mule do this you ask? For reduced sentencing and leniency.

In cases such as these the mule usually has nothing more than a contact phone number for the buyer and therefore has very little information about who will be receiving the package.

Due to the vast distance between the Ozark’s and the Great Lakes, the Troopers contacted the local police department for assistance with their case. You can’t deliver nearly 1/4 ton of marijuana to someone else’s jurisdiction without their knowledge and assistance.

At this point in my career I was working as a Task Force Officer for the Drug Enforcement Agency and the local police asked for my help with the delivery.

I was still employed by the local department, but I was assigned to the DEA and followed all of their rules and regulations. I also had all of the DEA’s resources and reach available to me.

So here I was, driving 90 to 100mph in an Infiniti SUV that had been seized from a madame who had operated a “massage parlor”, over snow and ice covered roads in the middle of nowhere.

The exchange between the mule and the target had taken place at a truck stop and my supervisor had “the eye” on the suspect’s vehicle.

Typically, when you have illegal drugs in your car you obey all the traffic laws in order to avoid the attention of the police, especially when you have hundreds of pounds of illegal drugs in your car.

However, the suspect in this case took off like he had just robbed a bank and my supervisor, a southern gentleman who spent most of his career with the DEA in Columbia and wasn’t familiar with snow and ice, was letting him get away.

I flew passed my supervisor at what felt like the speed of sound and was able to keep the suspect in sight on the straight stretch of country road.

Having grown up in the Midwest I learned to drive in harsh conditions and had no fear of loosing control, although the State Trooper who was in my passenger seat felt somewhat differently about the situation.

Eventually the target arrived at his destination and we were able to watch him pull into his garage and close the door.

Not long after arriving at his house the suspect abruptly left. Again, driving like a madman. He found the surveillance devices we had hidden in the marijuana and he knew he was in trouble.

When our uniformed back-up officers pulled him over he had a lot of cash and several guns in the car. Guns and drugs are a huge problem for suspects when it comes to being sentenced by the Federal government. There are minimum, mandatory sentences that apply and the only way to avoid them is by becoming a snitch.

There was no way I could have known at the time, but the road this newly created informant would lead me down would take us to Mexico and generate Indiana’s first ever CPOT linked case.

A CPOT, or Consolidated Priority Organization Target, is a designation saved for the United States most wanted drug traffickers and money launderers. These are the people in the sights of every Federal agency and whose arrest would lead to the dismantling of the most massive networks.

It just so happened that the people my informant was purchasing marijuana from worked directly for Joaquin “El Chapo” Guzman, the most notorious and powerful drug dealer since Pablor Escobar.

For various reasons I can’t describe the case any further, but I can tell you about the fallout.

When a case becomes labeled CPOT, the flood gates of funding and resources open up and all the dreams of an investigator begin to come true. This is because a CPOT designation isn’t easy to obtain. It must be vetted by all of the agencies you hear about on tv and in the movies. And it must be confirmed that your target is unquestionably one of the names on the CPOT list.

Unfortunately, my case touched multiple DEA Field Divisions and everyone wanted to stake their claim. Funding is very important to each Field Division and whoever had control of the case would get the funding.

Eventually, it became almost impossible to get work done. Doors were closed in my face and the informant became a lame duck due to restrictions that kept getting cast upon us.

I suppose I am an idealist and didn’t care who was in charge or who was getting funded. I wanted to work my case and catch the bad guys, even if they were located in Mexico.

The DEA saw it differently though and ordered me to hand my case over to agents in the Chicago Field Division.

I’m not actually certain what happened with the case. I quit the DEA a short time later out of sheer frustration. My informant ended up getting charged for the guns and marijuana we caught him with and was sent to prison for several years.

My target in Mexico was gunned down by the Federales at some point and El Chapo was captured, twice, and is now spending his days in a Super Max prison here in the US.

Nothing really went the way I hoped it would, but the Special Agent In Charge of the Chicago Field Division did pay me a visit and took me, and the rest of the team, out for Oley’s Pizza.

After his release from prison the informant looked me up and became a client of mine. Every now and then we’ll grab a drink and talk about how the case changed his life. After his release from prison he started a business and is now very successful and completely out of the drug game.

The Day The Light Went Out

I stepped out of the shower as if it were any other morning. I was dripping wet and drying myself with a towel when I noticed the message on my phone.

It must have just come through because the screen was illuminated and I had been in the shower for longer than I needed to be.

The screen on my phone said “New Voicemail” and I assumed it was my client calling to tell me they couldn’t make it.

I touched the screen and listened as my mom said “Freddy, Grandma’s house is on fire”...I don’t remember what else was said and although I never deleted the message, it is long since gone.

It was early in the morning, maybe 7am or 8am, and I have no idea what clothes I put on, but I was immediately dressed and in my car. I’m assuming I put on the clothes from the previous day that were lying on the floor of my closet.

At the time I drove a Police issued, unmarked, Chevy Impala, that previously belonged to a Deputy Chief of Police.

I left my driveway and initiated my lights and siren and drove entirely too fast for the weather conditions.

It was 3 days after Christmas and the roads were covered in that typical Indiana winter slush and ice.

It’s hard to say exactly how fast I was driving, but it was definitely more than 100mph. I wasn’t excited though. I was calm and collected and knew exactly what I would do when I arrived.

My grandma lived in a small trailer, that resembled a log cabin, right next to my mom and step dad’s house.

She had Polio when she was a child and as she aged into her 80’s it had come back with a vengeance. She had terrible joint pain and was nearly unable to walk.

Grandma lived in a chair that assisted her with standing. She was in it during her waking hours and in it as she slept because she was no longer able to stand from a prone position in her bed.

As I raced to her house, which was less that 5 miles from my own, I formulated a plan to rescue her from her tiny, burning trailer.

I knew that her chair was in the right hand side of the sliding glass window of her little log cabin. I had a specialized tool that would shatter the window and I knew I could pull her from her chair and out of the burning trailer.

As I drove far too fast on the ice and slush, I thought about this women who meant as much to me as my own mother.

She was the mother I needed when my teenage mom was busy going to college and starting her life over after I had come into the world and changed all of her plans.

My grandmother had grown up during the Dustbowl and the Great Depression. She didn’t see electric lights or motorized vehicles until she was in her late teens and she only loved one man for her entire life.

This woman taught me what it meant to be a man and what it took to be a gentleman.

She showed me how to bake, cook, sew, care for animals, other people, how to drive, and how to be the man a woman would love for her entire life.

She watched black and white musicals with me that displayed Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers gliding across the dance floor.

She sang songs with me that inspired my grandfather to keep fighting as he crossed the Rhine River during World War 2, even though he wouldn’t  meet his first born son until he was 4 years old.

She protected me when I made mistakes, she lifted me up when I fell down, and much later in life she would teach my daughter the same things she taught me about life, and love,  giving and caring, and being a person all people could respect.

When I close my eyes I can still see her sitting in that chair in her tiny living room. She would always offer me a ridiculously small bottle of Coca-Cola and want my thoughts on whatever Jerry Springer or Regis and Kathy Lee were up to that day.

Sometimes she would look at the miniature device in my hand and marvel at the fact that we could watch, read, or listen to anything that ever happened from the palm of my hand.

This woman had grown up on a farm in southern Indiana where there was no electricity or indoor plumbing. She witnessed the industrial revolution and later the technical revolution and had no more to say about it that than she did of the frequent changing of the birds outside the window of her humble home.

She was the light of my life and her house was on fire. Presumably with her in it.

As I drove those few miles to her home I wasn’t afraid. I knew that I had a plan and that my mom had called so early I’d be there in plenty of time to save the day. After all, I had been so heroic thus far in my career, how could I possibly fail.

As I blew passed the other vehicles on the road that morning that were moving at a snail’s pace on the slush and ice, I kept thinking about everything I would do to rescue the woman who had raised me as my mother raised herself.

Never for a single moment did I think I would fail.

My parents lived at the end of a 1/4 mile long driveway that could not be seen from the main road.

As I made my approach I saw a County Sheriff’s car parked at the end of the driveway. The Sheriff was blocking the drive and I gave zero regard to his presence.

Lights and sirens blaring, I drove around that Sheriff and onto my parents driveway, which was 6 or 8 inches deep with snow.

At the speed I was moving my momentum carried me through that snow as if it wasn’t there, but as I rounded the first corner of that  long driveway I could see that I was far too late.

My grandmother’s house was nothing more than a frame. Multiple fire trucks were on scene and working to snuff the flames that were rising from the base of what used to be her home.

I made my way down that endless lane and came to rest feet from the house where my grandma lived.

As I exited my car a friend approached and told me that she hadn’t made it out of the home and that the Firemen had been unable to rescue her.

I stood and watched as the flames engulfed whatever was left of my heart.

Years and years of seeing tragedies unfold before my eyes left me without the ability to express emotion. I knew she was in that burning husk of a home, but I didn’t shed a tear or utter a sob.

Moments later my mom came tearing through the field in her SUV. The Sheriff wouldn’t allow her in the driveway so she simply drove around him and through the fields until she reached my position.

As she scrambled from her car she shrieked, “Did they get her out?” I matter of factly told her that they did not and my mother collapsed into my arms.

I remember all of this quite vividly because I was entirely emotionless. I took my mom into her home and then began making phone calls to my brothers.

My daughter was less than a mile away at a friends house so I called her too to make sure she didn’t drive by and see the remnants of her great-grandmother’s home.

The rest of that day is a blur to me. I know that I picked my daughter up from her friend’s house and brought her home.

I know that my brothers arrived at some point and that eventually the fire was extinguished. The Firemen left at some point and later on my brother and I ended up at a bar.

We nearly got into a fight with another man at the bar that night and at some point my brother drove his car into the scene that was the remains of my grandma’s house.

I wouldn’t fully process that day until more than a year later when I completely broke down in a bar while reminiscing over her with my brother.

I learned more from her than anyone else in my life. She was my protector, my teacher, my inspiration, and my blood.

Today is the anniversary of her death and I write this to her honor.

Wanda June Ray you are loved and missed. No one will ever mark my soul the way that you did.

I love you with all that I am. Freddy.

Devil’s Night

Sally was home alone, although she wasn’t completely alone.

It was the day before Halloween (revelers of the season would call it Devil’s Night) as the sun began to drop below the trees.

She looked like any young woman in the mid nineteen-seventies; with her long straight hair, fashionably oversized glasses, and tight bell-bottomed jeans. But, there was something unsettlingly different about her.

Black and white photos of her youth, neatly displayed in countless albums, detailed a lovely girl with a joyful smile and bright eyes. The little, beating heart of her family one would assume.

Sally had been wildly popular in her school days and attracted the attention of many young men. She had talent, charm,  and that smile that told you she was destined for a whirlwind career in Hollywood, the fashion magazines, or sold out theaters.

But it was Devil’s Night and destiny had other plans.

One of her suitors really caught her attention. He was handsome for the time, with his unkempt, floppy hair and scraggly beard. He wore a denim vest over a plaid shirt and his jeans were just a little too tight, although that’s probably what attracted her to him.

Sally may have thought he was “the one”, his name was King after all, but after this night of nights she’d never see him again. And neither would that presence that had been with her for the last several months.

The past month in particular had been very difficult for her. She couldn’t shake the presence that was with her day in and day out. It didn’t speak to her, yet, but it let her know it was always with her.

She sat alone in the old, Victorian style home that her parents inherited from the landlord when he passed away at 101. It was a very large house, painted stark white, and although the town talked of it being haunted, she had never seen any proof that spirits lived within its walls.

It’s hard to say what Sally was thinking about when the banging began, but one would imagine she was contemplating that handsome young man and how he’d selfishly changed the course of her life before disappearing for good.

The banging was so intense. It startled her and she couldn’t quite tell where it was coming from. Was someone knocking on the front door? She wasn’t expecting anyone and her mother had instructed her not to open the door for anyone.

Devil’s Night in the 1970’s was not a night to open doors to strangers, especially in the southern parts of Michigan where the hooligans were routinely starting fires and breaking out windows.

But, the pounding upon the door was desperate, as if someone needed her help. Sally made her way to the door and despite the warnings from her mother and the hair creeping up on the back of her neck, she opened the door.

The man, barely able to stand upright at the threshold to the home, was covered in thick, coagulating blood. He looked like he’d stepped directly out of a Hitchcock movie and with what little breath he could muster he begged her to call for help.

Sally didn’t know it at that moment, but when she called for help it would be for both her and that man at the door.

Something about the sight of the injured man, perhaps the horrific nature of his wounds or the massive amounts of blood leaving his body, set off a chain reaction of events inside her. All of the pain and uncertainty of the past months was about to come to an end.

When Sally woke she was in the hospital. Her parents were there, along with her sister and brothers (and even some of their children).

She had been through a lot that evening and was surprised to see the look of joy on their faces. They were excited that she was awake and they had someone to introduce to her.

The nurses at the hospital referred to him as “Freddy the Freeloader”, perhaps a reference a Mile Davis tune, but more likely due to the fact that this 10 pound little boy had stayed balled up inside of her for a month longer than he should have. It wasn’t a terrible month though, for either of them, as she had survived solely upon hot fudge Sundays.

It’s been almost 50 years since that Devil’s Night when a bloody neighbor showed up asking for help after his wife shoved him through a plate glass window and most of the people who called him “Freddy the Freeloader” are long since gone, but that 10 pound little baby is still here and he’s lived a life beyond her wildest imagination, I’m sure of that!

Sally got sidetracked for a few years after Freddy showed up. Being a single mother at 19 isn’t easy. She had loving parents though who never lived more than a football field away from her. They stood beside her as she struggled and although it took awhile, she’s a boss now!

I love you Mom, thanks for bringing me into this world, no matter how scary it was for you.

Music Is The Weapon Of The Future

The pilot pointed thorough the window of the single engine aircraft and stated in his heavy Australian accent “There’s the airstrip mate”.

I looked ahead and what I could see was an island bursting a thousand feet above the South Pacific Ocean, but there was nothing at all that resembled an airport.

We had been flying for more than an hour above the bluest, clearest waters your mind can imagine. They were so clear in fact, that you could see reefs and large fish below the surface of the water.

We arrived in Suva, on the island of Veti Levu, after a 15 hour flight from Los Angeles. It wasn’t a comfortable flight and it felt like it had taken forever, but we were headed to our wedding destination and I knew it was going to be well worth it!

There had been travel advisories due to a coup that occurred just weeks before we arrived. The leader of the Fijian military had walked into the elected Prime Minister’s Office, pointed a gun at him, and had simply taken over control of the government. I wasn’t worried though because we were traveling far from the politics and unrest to a very private island.

When the massive jet we were flying on landed in Suva the doors opened and we disembarked directly onto the tarmac. There was no traditional airport to greet us, just a carport like building with no walls and several kiosks inside.

We were ushered through this tiny airport, presented with lei’s and then given a bottle of Fiji water...although, because we were actually in Fiji, I wondered if it should just be called water?

After we received the instructions for obtaining a marriage license in this foreign land, we were pointed to the aircraft upon which we were now flying.

It wasn’t large. A single engine propellor plane that was as brightly colored as you’d expect it to be for an island nation. You probably could’ve found the same aircraft, painted with the same sunset logo, on any Caribbean Island. It looked like it had seen better days, but we had a wedding to get to so it was our only option.

The pilot pointed again as we drew nearer the island and stated very matter of factly, “That’s the airstrip, straight ahead.”

What I saw was blue water meeting a beach, and the beach met a beautiful green field that seemed to rise up into a steep mountain side. Strangely, as the rest of the island looked like a jungle, there were no trees at all as the green field climbed the side of the volcanic mountain.

We had been flying about a thousand feet or so over the South Pacific and now the pilot began to descend. We weren’t flying on a Seaplane either. This was just a normal plane with wheels and no pontoons.

The pilot was headed directly toward that beach, field, and mountainside and I was growing incredibly concerned. My fiancé was on board and there was no way I was letting this guy ditch into the ocean.

He must’ve sensed my concern as he gave me a quick pat on the shoulder (I was seated in the co-pilots seat) and said “No worries mate” just before we touched down on the beach.

Before I could grasp what was happening the plane began rolling up that treeless mountain side after it narrowly missed the beach and touched down on the technicolor green field.

We almost reached the highest point of the mountain side before the pilot turned the aircraft around and began to roll back toward the beach from whence we came.

He chucked a bit and then explained that the treeless path was the “airstrip” and that without the mountain we would’ve skipped straight over the island and into the ocean on the other side. He add that he found it was best not to explain that to foreigners until after the adventure had ended.

When the plane came to rest back near the beach I realized there was nothing around us...just a plain white pickup truck, a small sign with the name of the resort I had chosen, and jungle. There was jungle everywhere!

We exited our island adventure flight and were immediately swarmed by more mosquitos than I have ever seen in my life. They were covering every visible inch of skin and no amount of swatting, smacking, or movement made them go away.

I really couldn’t think at that moment. I spent a ridiculous amount of money to escape overbearing parents (not mine of course) who wanted to dictate every aspect of a wedding, to come to this amazing place and now I thought maybe I had made the biggest mistake of my life.

Images of those horror movie vacation films flashed through my head as the pilot walked us to the waiting truck. There were several men around the truck and another couple who appeared to be leaving the island. They were all smiles and greeted us warmly, but the unease in my stomach was looming larger and I didn’t take notice of them at all. (I would later learn that it was one of the Madden brothers from the band Good Charlotte)

The truck they placed us in began crawling down a dirt path that was more mud than dirt. At one point we drove into what appeared to be a pond and the mud nearly reached the windows. The driver just adjusted into the low setting for the four wheel drive and kept moving as if it were no big deal.

She didn’t speak to me at all as we followed this make-shift road through the jungle and over a mountain. I knew she was thinking exactly what I was thinking...that we were trapped in this nightmare for the next 16 days.

Eventually the dirt path turned into a hand laid, cobble stone driveway as we entered the resorts property. It was, with the exception of the 3 native villages, the only thing on the island. There were no restaurants, stores, cars, casinos, tv’s, radio’s, cell phones, computers, or anything else resembling modern life. It was remote, and desolate. I believed at that moment that I would forever regret this decision.

Upon exiting the truck we found that there were no more mosquitoes. It was very comfortably quiet as we walked toward the reception area. You could hear the waves lapping against the beach that was mere feet away and the colors of the property were unlike anything I had ever seen before.

Every shade of green imaginable surrounded the reception hall and bright splashes of red and blue adorned the staffs clothing. It looked exactly like a Gauguin painting and although I had never understood his color choices and loose strokes, I completely understood him at that moment.

We settled into our beach front, thatched roof, bungalow and prepared ourselves for the two weeks that would follow. Despite the initial reaction, it was two weeks of our lives that could never be repeated.

To describe it as paradise wouldn’t do the experience justice. It was perfect. We were disconnected from the world. The other guests...and there were very few...seemed to have the same reaction to this unimaginable place as we did.

Everyone came together and we created friendships that last to this day, with people from all corners of the globe. We shared our lives with each other and it became immediately apparent that we were very insignificant people from an insignificant place.

One couple owned a vineyard in Napa Valley. They were friends of Hugh Hefner and helped create the fund that preserves the Hollywood sign for eternity after if collapsed during an earthquake.

Another couple had tutored Prince William and Harry and knew Diana personally, as well as the Queen’s seamstress.

A bride and groom arrived, one of which was a renowned professional water skier and the other an accomplished Broadway actress, were there to celebrate their honeymoon.

It didn’t stop. Everyone we met had lived fairy tale lives and here we were, two kids from the Midwest (and none of these people even knew where the Midwest was) attempting to find our place amongst them.

Whatever self conscious thoughts we might have had about ourselves, none of the people we met thought any less of us.

They attended our wedding ceremony and brought gifts they had purchased at the local villages. We dined together, swam together, danced together, and exchanged information so that we could continue to communicate together.

Everyone was in sync in this place and it was the smallness of the resort that made it possible. 18 guests was their maximum occupancy...on an entire island that was about 6 miles long and 2 miles wide...but during our stay maximum occupancy was never reached. Actually, for two days of our stay my new wife and I were the only guests on the entire island.

One afternoon something changed though. A very...very large yacht docked just off the beach in front of the island. The staff grew nervous and there was tension in the air. Every one was running here and there. Cleaning crews seemed to be working over time and decorations were enhanced around the property.

There were only a handful of guests on the island that day and we were eventually told that the yacht belonged to the Prime Minister of Fiji. Yes, that Prime Minister who had taken power by force.

He arrived on the island to establish a trade route for goods and services so that the residents of the villages (most of whom would never step foot off of that island) didn’t have to buy necessities from the resort.

Anything that couldn’t be grown, crafted, or constructed from the islands natural resources had to be flown in by the resort and resold to the villagers. Shampoo, clothing, cereal, canned goods, and even non-goat milk, cost many times more than any of us would be willing to pay for it and the villagers certainly couldn’t afford what we are accustomed to. So, the Prime Minister, Josaia Voreqe “Frank” Bainimarama, had come there to find a way to make those things more affordable for his people.

That evening we were invited to a reception hosted by the Prime Minister. We were told it was causal and that whatever beachwear we had would be appropriate. I was wearing a t-shirt and shorts...as was my wife.

I also happened to have a half-kilo of Kava, a ceremonial drug that caused a light feeling of euphoria and tingling of the lips and tongue. I had been given an entire kilo of it by our travel agent when we arrived in Suva and had given half of that to the resort staff as a gesture of goodwill.

At this point in time I was working as an undercover narcotics agent in the U.S. and although Kava isn’t illegal there was still something that didn’t feel quite right about having or using it.

I asked the staff if it would be appropriate to present it to the Prime Minister at dinner and they explained to me that it would be an incredible honor for him to receive it. So, we went to dinner and I took the Kava with me.

As the handful of other guests met with the Prime Minister and his wife we patiently awaited our turn. I was holding the Kava in hand and it wasn’t until that moment that I realized what t-shirt I was wearing.

I wanted to run from the reception hall and change, but it was too late. It was our turn to meet the Prime Minister. The four of us greeted each other and chatted for several moments. I told him how amazed I was with his country, it’s unbelievably friendly people, and his willingness to care for those people. I handed him the Kava, which he was very grateful for, and then we took a photograph.

In said photograph we are all smiles...the Prime Minister, who hostilely overthrew his government, our wives, and me...a narc who had given him drugs and was wearing a t-shirt with several pink, semi-automatic assault rifles surrounding one pink guitar printed on the front; and the words “Music is the weapon of the future” printed on the back.

Total Recall

A couple of days ago I took a long drive out through the country. Just me in my car; listening to music and thinking about all that is happening in our world.

As I was traveling down a particular road I saw a house that brought back a flood of memories. It wasn’t someplace I had lived, it was a house that was difficult to surveil.

It sat in the midst of a country mile and at the time there was no place to set up surveillance upon the home without being noticed.

The problem was, we were sending an undercover officer into the house to buy drugs and we couldn’t be more than a mile away from him if something went wrong.

The memories came crashing back when I saw the house, not because I was the undercover who went in to make the buy, but because I was the undercover they shoved into the trunk of a car so that someone would be close in the event that things went sideways.

Back then technology wasn’t on the side of law enforcement. It was somewhat antiquated and outdated and the range on listening devices, a.k.a bugs and wires, wasn’t very far.

Someone needed to be close so we could hear what was happening in the house with the undercover, but because of the rural setting no one could get close without being seen.

A plan was hatched to stick me in the truck of the informant’s car with the audio monitoring equipment so that I could relay what was happening inside the home to the backup teams who would be setup more than a mile away.

It wouldn’t have been an altogether bad plan, if it weren’t for the condition of the informant’s car. The informant insisted that his car be used to take himself and the undercover to the house because the dealer wouldn’t appreciate an unfamiliar car in his driveway.

The car in question wasn’t in bad shape, but the trunk was not pristine. It was packed full of random tools, extension cords, jumper cables, and worst of all, a couple of 5 gallon gas cans and several bottles of motor oil.

Those things on their own wouldn’t have been a problem if they weren’t missing their caps and lids.

So...I found myself locked in the truck of a car, lying on top of lug wrenches and skill saws, motor oil soaking into my pants, with the fumes of petroleum wafting through the stale air, as I quietly relayed the conversation from inside the house to the team down the street, while peaking through the crack in the back seat to keep an eye on the front door of the house.

Nothing bad happened during the buy. The undercover bought what he came for and we left without incident. But, the thought of that situation brought forth the memories of all the other crazy things we did when the situation wasn’t ideal.

Once I was buying crack cocaine from a group of guys we couldn’t identify and we needed to confirm which apartment they were in for a search warrant. One of the undercovers dressed up like a pizza delivery guy and went door to door until he found the right apartment. He ended up getting chased out of the building because the bad guys wanted to buy the pizzas from him (he didn’t have any pizza, just an empty pizza delivery bag).

Worth noting, this was also the case in which I had corn-rows. The dealers almost died laughing when they saw me and started calling me “White-Pac”. They never thought to ask me if I was a cop.

While I was working for the D.E.A. we had a case that took us into Ohio and coincided with an F.B.I. case. The F.B.I. was dragging their feet and we wanted to make sure the bad guy didn’t slip through our fingers, but we needed him to do a drug deal in Indiana so that we could charge him here without the F.B.I.’s help.

He was a clever guy and had a very strict routine. To get him across the State Line we flattened the tire on our undercover’s car about two miles from the Ohio State Line and then had the informant call the bad guy for help. They were supposed to meet in Ohio for the drug deal, but the dealer came to pickup the stranded buyers and did the deal in Indiana on the way to a gas station. We ended up charging him, much to the chagrin of the F.B.I.

On one occasion I got a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach before going to do a buy. Something just seemed off, so I took the biggest, craziest looking, weirdest acting undercover officer with me.

When the drug dealers saw him the entire tone I had been picking up from them on the phone calls changed. One of the men ended up asking us to give him a ride to the house where he gets the drugs.

We arrived at the house, gave him the money and he went inside...and then quickly out the back door and began running for his life.

He would have definitely robbed me if I had shown up alone. Instead I got to chase him through the inner city until he got trapped in a backyard under construction equipment where a police K-9 pulled him out.

Over the years there were all manner of disguises, ruses, and fly by the seat of your pants moments. If I hadn’t seen that house on my drive, I’m not sure any of these moments would have come back to me.

The Escape

We sat in a wooden room with high glass windows that resembled any office from television in which a rogue detective slams his badge and gun on his commanders desk, then storms from the building to find the nearest bar. There were a handful of us in that tiny office on that particular day and we had call signs like Voodoo, Magellan, and Dozer.

They had assembled us to investigate a prolific burglary suspect who seemed to be Houdini reincarnate, but that case was long over and we waiting for an assignment.

Data, our team leader and resident nerd, entered the room and announced that a prison escapee was headed our way. I probably forgot the name of that convict shortly after he was captured, but his escape from prison would change my life for the next 17 years.

We did what all good detectives do when a case lands on their desk, we started beating the bushes. Eventually we’d speak with the escapees parents, good people from meager beginnings that weren’t proud of their sons behavior. They provided us with the name of a woman he’d been seeing and we set off to locate her.

A simple computer search pointed us to a secured building that housed small condominiums, but would prove impossible to surveil due to its underground parking and magnetically sealed doors.

Enigma, a wiry Army vet and graduate of The Citadel, piped up and said that his cousin lived in the building and would certainly allow us inside to setup surveillance of our suspects probable location.

At the mention of Enigma’s cousin the team erupted into a frenzy and all began clamoring for the opportunity join him in meeting with her. Evidently stories of her beauty had spread throughout the police department after she attended a graduation party for Enigma’s Police Academy class.

Being the only one in the room who hadn’t heard of her I didn’t react when he mentioned her name and therefore became his obvious choice for a recon partner.

Looking back I’m sure my appearance had something to due with his choice as well. I was the worst looking of the bunch and I’m sure he thought that introducing me to his cousin would be a forgettable moment for her.

We arrived at the building in question and used the call box to contact Enigma’s cousin. She buzzed us into the building and instructed us to meet her at her unit.

We climbed an old set of marble stairs (that I would later come to know intimately) to the second floor and met her at her door.

Upon seeing her I immediately became the stereotypical kid from a rom-com who couldn’t utter a word because his tongue grew too thick to function.

She was petite and stunningly attractive. Dressed from head to toe in denim she looked more like the hip girl you’d see exiting a record store in Brooklyn than anyone you’d expect to find in a mid-sized Midwestern town.

Her face was sculpted with exquisitely applied make-up and her hair looked as if she’d just stepped out of a salon. She was a “dream girl” by anyone’s standards and my scruffy, skinny, tongue-tied ass was standing at her door.

She gave us a tour of the building and pointed out the apartment where our suspects girlfriend lived and then showed us the girlfriends parking space in the underground garage.

A quick look inside the girlfriend’s car told us everything we needed to know...he’d been here.

The passenger seat of the small car was pushed all the way back and the seat back was fully reclined. The interior was littered with empty snack bags and half full soda bottles. We knew then that she’d picked him up after his escape and made the long drive back here with him.

Enigma and I needed to get out of there quickly before we were spotted and alert the team.

As his cousin escorted us out of the building we ran into her boyfriend in the lobby. He definitely looked like her boyfriend. A fitted leather motorcycle jacket, tight jeans, and swept back, jet black hair. He was tall and handsome and looked like the perfect match for her.

I knew Enigma was sensitive about the guys ogling his cousin, but she was too gorgeous to withhold a comment. I said three words to him and never mentioned her again. “She’s bad ass.”

We would eventually catch that escapee and new cases would come and go. Months went by and the unit changed,  from our focus to our team members everything was a little different.

Enigma left the unit to do other things, but we still stayed in contact. One afternoon I received a call from him and he asked if I remembered his cousin.

I definitely remembered her, there was no way to forget her! But, why was he asking me this? As the phone call continued I’d grow more confused as he explained that she wanted to go on a double date with me and him and his wife.

At the time I was introduced to her we had been working heavy surveillance details for months. I had long, shaggy hair, an unkempt beard, and I wore clothes I didn’t wash. This was all in an effort to blend into my surroundings and certainly not what I would have imagined would gain the attention of one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen in real life.

Aside from my purposefully curated, poor appearance, I’m also not an attention grabbing man on my best day. Absolutely average in about every way I simply couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that she wanted to go on a date with me.

What I lack in good looks I make up for in courage, so I agreed and we arranged a double date with Enigma and his wife.

Things were different for me before I met her. I hadn’t yet been introduced to fine dining, wine, or travel, so we went to dinner at O’Charley’s, a very commercial chain restaurant that you’d never catch me in now. It had recently opened in our burgeoning city and it seemed like the best choice at the time.

The double date didn’t go well. It wasn’t awful, but I tend to be rather straight forward and didn’t hide much from anyone unless it was a necessary part of my job.

I blurted out at some point that I had a 5 year old daughter and had been married once before, although for a very short time. This didn’t sit well with her as she had expectations about her future and being a step-mom wasn’t one of them.

Despite the massive hurdle I’d thrown into the evening I must’ve been charming enough to get her attention. We continued to talk after the double date and eventually I invited her on an actual date. Although it wasn’t a normal date.

This girl was so incredible that I couldn’t  do anything ordinary for our first date, so I planned a weekend in Chicago to impress her and whisked her away.

Like most of the well intended things I do, it didn’t go according to plan. I wanted it to be perfect, but it was mostly awkward.

At this point in my life I had very limited experience with women outside of friendships. I was a tiny boy in my youth and didn’t have a growth spurt until after high school. I was used to girls loving me as a friend, but never being interested in me as a boyfriend. So here I was, in Chicago, with the girl of my dreams, and I was trying way too hard.

I knew that she was into wine so we went to a store and purchased what I believed to be an expensive bottle of Merlot. I’m sure it cost less than a hundred dollars, but to me I was really showing off.

We went back to the hotel, opened the wine and prepared to spend the evening drinking and getting to know each other.

Unfortunately, at this time I also had very limited experience with alcohol. And by limited I mean that I had alcohol twice in my life before this moment. I was also wearing a white button down shirt.

We filled our glasses and shared a salute then I took a large and unnecessary drink of this heavy red wine. I’m not sure if I swallowed any of it, but it most definitely came shooting out of my nose...and mouth...and all over the front of my white button down.

I don’t recall entirely, and we’d have to consult her, but I’m pretty sure I ended up on my knees heaving over the toilet. It was a disaster of a date and I’m not sure why she stayed with me for the next 17 years.

We ended up getting married a few years later (she’d say far too many years later) after 4 Fijian warriors carried her upon a thrown down the beach, in Fiji, to meet me at sunset.

As the years passed we traveled the world together, ate at the finest restaurants, sipped on the greatest wines, built enviable homes, and drove luxurious cars. We lived a life that most people only get to dream about.

But there was always something missing. This beautiful, kind, caring woman always wanted a child of her own. It wasn’t something I was ready to do again, but I wanted her to be happy so we sure tried.

After many failed attempts and so many broken hearts the trying became too much. Our lives were filled with sadness and grief and I lost that lovely girl I met in the hallway of a historic building so many years earlier.

Her heart would break once more when I ended our marriage due to all of that sadness and I believe that pain still haunts her to this day. Despite the way it ended, she changed my life for the better and I’m truly thankful that some man took a risk and broke out of a prison.

With Imagination, I’ll Get There

Luke was using his feelings to guide his fighter through the narrow canyon walls. It was critical that no one saw his approach.

Zigging and zagging passed huge rock walls and gigantic tree roots he raced toward the Princesses location and hoped he made it there on time.

He knew she would be surrounded by all of his enemies; The Empire, Cobra, and V.E.N.O.M., and the entire rescue plan depended upon the element surprise.

As the cliff walls came to an end he piloted his aircraft up and over the rim of the canyon, doing a barrel roll and adjusting his angle so that he could see her.

She was positioned in a cove beneath the biggest tree he’d ever seen. It was hundreds of feet tall and its ancient roots stretched above the ground in all directions. And the enemy was everywhere!

As Luke made his final approach he hoped his friends stuck to the plan. He was the distraction you see. When the Commanders troops began to chase him, his best friends; Han, Chewie, Trakker, Lady Jane, and Duke, would assault the compound and rescue her.

The maneuver from the canyon put him high above the lair and he was about to nose dive into attack position, setting his lasers to full.....

“Freddy. FREDDY! It’s time for dinner, come inside now” my grandmother yelled from her back porch.

I was in the ravine behind her trailer playing out these dramatic scenes with all of my favorite toys; Star Wars, G.I. Joe, and MASK.

She was high above me on the multi level porch that my grandfather built by hand. When I try to remember it, I see it as being three levels high and rising many feet up the steep hillside, but in reality I’m sure it was only a few feet.

I collected my things from the base of tree that had become the outlet for my imagination and began heading up the stairs to the green and white trailer where dinner would be served.

My grandma kept an immaculate home, filled with interesting trinkets that I recall to this day. There was a lamp, shaped like an owl seated on a limb, with an inexplicable bowl at its base that was always filled with candy. There were little hinged, metal boxes for hiding toys and secrets, handmade blankets that she had crocheted herself, and plants. Lots and lots of plants.

I remember everything being green and white. The shag carpet, the embroidered floral patterned couch, and even the wallpaper, it was all green and white. In my mind it was perfect, but it wouldn’t be on that hillside much longer.

Not long after the massive flood of 1982 we would move from the trailer park that my grandparents managed to the countryside (ironically the trailer park was named CountrySide). Back then it was so far from the city and very remote. Both my grandparents trailer and my mom’s trailer, which sat just a few lots away, would get transported to this little farm that my grandparents bought.

I would leave behind the other kids like myself (I can barely remember their names now); poor kids from a trailer park with hand-me-down clothes and dirt on their faces, and find myself surrounded by kids from wealthy families who wore all of the nicest clothes, shoes, and accessories .

These kids lived in beautiful neighborhoods with large houses designed by architect’s and I had never seen anything like them before. My life up to that point consisted of mobile homes. I thought everyone lived in a mobile home until we moved to the country.

It was also around this time that I stopped growing. It would later become worrisome to my mother and she would seek out the help of specialists who tried to make me grow.

It didn’t work. Hormone shots in my arms everyday for six months didn’t make me grow more than a quarter of an inch, but it did make my upper arms immune to the punches of my friends when they gave me “two for flinching”.

As all of my friends kept getting I taller and more mature, I just remained a little kid. And this lasted well beyond elementary school.

My first driver’s license listed me as 4’11” and 80 pounds and the Bureau of Motor Vehicles suggested that I use a booster seat to drive my mom’s Mercury Sable so that I could see over the rear seats while backing up.

You might be feeling sorry for me at this moment and are probably thinking that I got bullied and knocked around by all the bigger rich kids, but don’t. Because I wasn’t.

As I am now, I was very social back then. I was a cute kid, with long floppy hair, and I had friends in all the stereotypical high school circles. Jocks, nerds, skaters, cheerleaders; whatever the groups were I had friends in all of them.

I don’t think any of them saw me as different, but I sure felt like I was on the outside looking in. Sometimes, I still do.

I think that I was silently embarrassed by many things as a young man. My height, my economic background, the trailers, the menagerie my grandma created on her little farm over the years (if you didn’t see it you wouldn’t believe the quantity and types of animals we had), but I don’t think I ever let anyone know that I was embarrassed.

Maybe embarrassed isn’t the correct word. Inferior might be though. I felt like I was less than everyone else.

I suppose I could’ve retreated into that feeling and let it control my life, but instead I used it as fuel for a fire that I continue to stoke.

The imagination of that little boy in the ravine behind his grandparents house has always kept me wondering, what could I become?

25 Years

His left hand was raised high in the air as he exited the building; a weary smile upon his face. I can still see him in black and white, flanked by men in suits, just before the shots rang out.

Those men surrounding him acted so fast! Within a second of the first shot being fired they had tackled the gunman and the President was whisked away in a black limousine.

I was 7 years old and I knew at that moment what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I wanted to wear one of those suits and step in front of a bullet.

At that age I was fascinated by stories of heroism and valor. I read of the Knights of the Roundtable and the Samurai, and I watched as silver screen cowboys saved the day.

Chivalry, gallantry, sacrifice. These were the aspirations I had as a young boy from a trailer park who had absolutely no idea how to achieve them.

In order to be a Secret Service agent I knew that I’d have to be as clean as a whistle. I told myself that I wouldn’t need good grades or an impressive physique to step in front of bullet, I just needed to be unafraid and they had to trust me. It was the President of the United States that I wanted to sacrifice myself for after all.

As I grew older I stayed away from anything that would betray that trust. No drugs, no alcohol, no major crimes.

While my friends were getting drunk and high, I was concocting stories to dissuade the peer pressure. I most often used the story of a girl I had fallen in love with being killed by a drunk driver to immediately end any and all inquiries into the beer missing from my hand at parties. And there were a lot of parties.

Staying out of trouble for me was the easy part. I was clever and crafty and I’d get away with a lot more than my little brother did.

The hard part was the body I was given. I was a tiny kid. Larger than average at birth, but frail and lean as a young man. My first driver’s license listed me at 4’11” tall and weighing 90 pounds. I remained that size until well after high school.

But, what I lacked in size I made up for in courage...and stupidity. I mean, you have to be pretty dumb to aspire to leap in front of an assassin’s bullet.

And I was really dumb. I’d jump off of rooftops and parking garages. I would climb anything climbable and never think twice about falling. I’d pick fights with people who outweighed me by double, or triple, including my little brother, and I once hopped from the bed of a moving truck (I thought I could run as fast as it was moving....I couldn’t).

None of this was to impress anyone else, as is so often the case with little fellas. Instead I did everything to stop being afraid of that bullet that I was certain would one day take my life.

So I avoided trouble and built up courage, but I was an awful student and my family wasn’t connected to anyone that could grease wheels. It  seemed to me that the tiny kid from the trailer park would be stuck having an average job and an average life, with no hope of ever being in the Secret Service.

It didn’t stop me from talking about it to anyone that would listen though. One man in particular listened to my dreams, encouraged them, and would eventually make a connection that started me on the path to fulfilling them.

He owned a jewelry store next to a video rental shop that I worked at in high school.  I don’t know what prompted me to walk into his store in the first place, but I’d stop by often and talk to him about all the things I wanted to do with my life.

As time passed the video store closed and I went on to other jobs, bouncing from here to there with no real direction. My parents pushed me toward factory jobs and I attempted to join the Marine Corps (another story worth telling sometime), but nothing stuck.

I started working as undercover security at a department store in an attempt to get me one step closer to that date with destiny, but I ended up meeting a girl.

I can still remember what she was wearing the first time I saw her and despite the fact that it ended poorly, I do look upon that first moment fondly.

As is always the case with me and a girl, I wanted to impress her. We’d been on a few dates (really the first dates I had ever been on) and Christmas was approaching. She was obsessed with the color green and I wanted to give her something beautiful, so I ended up back at that man’s jewelry store.

We spent some time catching up and he asked what I was doing with my life. I gave him the less than exciting details and he offered me a job as an apprentice goldsmith.

I accepted his offer and very quickly learned that being a goldsmith was not going to be my calling. What the job did do though was introduce me to the jewelers brother.

He was managing one of the jewelers stores and the jeweler thought I’d be better at selling jewelry than I was at fixing it (or rather melting it) so he sent me to learn from his brother.

His brother, who is often mistaken for my own brother, happened to be the Captain of the Reserve Police Department in a small town next to the city where I lived. As he taught me about gemology and customer service he also told me all about the world of volunteer policing.

I was only 20, and too young to be a police officer, but the jeweler told him of my desire to be in the Secret Service and he insisted that I apply as a learning experience for my future endeavors. So, I did.

I don’t know how many people applied for that volunteer position with the small town police department, but I went through the process and came out on top. They offered me the job! It was contingent upon me turning 21, but they let me start hanging out and going on “ride-alongs” with their full-time officers.

I would remain with them for about 5 years before deciding that policing, not jewelry, was the career for me. I began applying to police departments across the nation (if my memory serves it was 16 in total). Oddly enough the last place I applied to was the first place to offer me a job, and it happened to be the city in which I lived.

In the late summer of that year I started the Police Academy and met some of the best friends a person could ever hope to make. It wasn’t easy, but we helped each other through it and on December 15, 1999, 25 of us graduated as the 52nd recruit class of the Fort Wayne Police Department at a ceremony filled with all of the pomp and circumstance befitting such an occasion.

I spent the next 17 years having a career that could be it’s own novel or movie, and although I left a bit earlier than I probably should have, I’m very proud to have served my community and our nation.

I never did make it to the Secret Service. I got so tied up in my police career that the years flew by and I grew too old to apply. I did spend a couple of years working as Task Force Agent for the DEA though, which may have actually been cooler than being a Secret Service agent anyway...and I didn’t die at the hands of a crazed assassin...yet.

To all of my friends and colleagues from the 52nd who are still serving us today, I salute you on our upcoming 25th anniversary. Congratulations!!!

Sincerely, Your Guardian Angel

As he passed through the doorway into the shop something about him felt familiar. His lean frame, disheveled hair, and slightly weathered face had bells of recognition ringing in my skull. He wasn’t there to see me though, he had come to get tattooed by my mentor.

As he waited for Donny, my mentor, to get prepared we chatted for a bit for he also thought he knew me from somewhere. We went over all of the standard reasons people know each other (high school, jobs, friends) and couldn’t quite place the reason we were feeling this way.

Donny was having difficulty getting the design just right for this clients tattoo and had grown a bit frustrated. He was trying to replicate the angel that was tattooed on the most famous soccer player in the world at that time, David Beckham, but needed it to be unique for this particular client.

The man was explaining to us that he once struggled with various types of substance abuse and this tattoo was going to represent his triumph, but continued battle, with the addiction that had changed his life.

Due to my shaved head and clean shaven face it seemed I was the perfect model for this fallen angel tattoo and Donny asked if he could take a photo of my bowed head to use a reference. I agreed, struck my best forlorn angel pose, and the drawing came together rather quickly after that.

As the man was getting tattooed we continued to chat and finally determined how we knew each other…a mutual friend’s lake house.

This mutual friend was actually one of my co-workers in the Narcotics Unit, but I didn’t advertise my profession at the shop, especially in this case.

When the tattoo was complete I took a look and saw my face permanently adorning the skin between his shoulder blades at the base of his neck. It was unmistakably me looking back at me.

We parted ways and the next day I returned to my other job. The friend that the man and I shared arrived at work and I began to explain my encounter. My co-worker interjected and exclaimed “You know him!” and I countered with “From the lake house”, but he replied “No, he’s the pharmacist you arrested from the hospital”.

My heart instantly dropped into my stomach and the look on my face must have alerted my coworker to the panic I was feeling.

My mind was spinning out of control as I considered this revelation. I was remembering the case of a pharmacist whose parents had contacted the Narcotics Unit to turn over a duffle bag full of prescription drugs their son had stolen from the hospital. He had become addicted to the pills he was dispensing and his parents were concerned for his safety as he was using massive quantities of them.

At the same time I was trying to reconcile the fact that my case had ruined this man’s life. They were choices he made, but the work I did cost him the job he had worked so hard to obtain and and also cost him his family. And now…this man had an unmistakable likeness of my face tattooed on his body.

At the time I found no humor in this unbelievable coincidence and begged my co-worker to never tell his friend about the connection between us.

As is always the case though, time marched on, beers were shared and eventually the man learned the truth. My co-worker explained to him that the face tattooed on his back was the face of the man who had arrested him.

The outcome of this conversation was not what I anticipated. I expected shock and disbelief. I expected the man to have the tattoo removed or covered up. The man however, having been through so much, accepted the truth with a sense of enlightenment that most people only hope to achieve.

He told my co-worker that nothing could be more appropriate than my face being that of the guardian angel on his body because my case, although it drastically altered his life, had also saved it. He knew that had he not been arrested he would have likely overdosed on the meds he was abusing. As it turns out, he was actually proud of the fact that I would always be with him.

As the years passed he and I became friends and I would get to put tattoos of my own on him. We laughed about the connection we shared and also realized how many other friends we had in common.

He lived a good life for a long time after his arrest, but eventually succumbed to the demons he once escaped. I was there for him once when he needed me and I am saddened that I wasn’t aware he needed me to be there a second time.

I keep that drawing of my face in a small shadow box above my tattoo station to this day. It’s not only there to remind me of my friend, but also to remind me that our actions, no matter how big or small, affect those around us in ways we may never have the opportunity to understand.

Joe, I hope your spirit is free my friend.

Sincerely, your guardian angel.

Old Bill and the Medicine Woman

It’s hard to remember specifics as you grow older. The broad strokes are still easily recalled, but the fine details get lost somewhere in time.

I would guess it was the fall of 1981 or 1982 when I first watched it. A local television station would show “The Saturday Matinee” and although my mind recalls it as a lovely summer day, I know that I would’ve been outside on such a day at that age.

So, it must’ve been fall and it was likely storming. All of my favorite cartoons; Looney Tunes, The Smurfs, M.A.S.K., and The Transformers, would’ve finished their morning runs and I was left at the mercy of that Saturday matinee.

The movie probably wouldn’t have held my attention for it was slow, and romantic, and more or less a period piece, but Superman had the leading role and he was everything to me at the time.

So, I sat glued to the television that Saturday afternoon and watched Christopher Reeve travel back in time, using only the power of his mind, to meet a woman he had only seen in a photograph (but not really though) and fall so deeply and completely in love with her that he defied the rules of space and time to be with her.

The movie didn’t draw much attention when it premiered and it certainly didn’t develop the following it has now until many years later, but on that day when I was maybe 8 years old, it hit me hard.

I suppose all of my ideals about falling in love and romantic relationships were developed while I watched it. Truthfully, it’s probably the real reason I have so much trouble falling in love now. Being the perfect person for someone you don’t know is a concept I still try to achieve every time I fall for a face.

Superman (Richard) sees a photograph of a woman on a wall and is so utterly captivated by her that he wills himself to travel through time to meet her. The photograph of the woman, taken near the turn of the century, is beautiful, but when he sees her in person she is so much more.

Elise, played by Jane Seymour (previously a Bond Girl and later Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman) was not only the most stunning person Richard had ever seen, but also the classiest, most elegant, poised, and gorgeous woman my young eyes had seen.

At that time it was difficult to access movies whenever you wanted to watch them, so I would only see it now and again when it was played on television. But, a few years later I was working at a video store and had it there whenever I wanted to watch it.

At 17 or 18 years old, when my friends weren’t around, I had a Gold Master CD of the soundtrack (I still have it, but I don’t have a CD player) and I’d listen to it over and over again.

The movie became a refuge for my saddened heart. When I was infatuated with someone and it wasn’t reciprocated, I’d watch the movie. When I was feeling lonely and hopeless, I’d watch the movie. As of now, it would be safe to say that I’ve watched it around 100 times. It’s a safe place for me when I need to escape. So much so that I have a tattoo representing it on my leg.

I remember taking a family vacation, perhaps (when my grandmother passed away while I was in High School) to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and one of the many stops my Step-dad insisted upon was Mackinac Island. His family was from the UP and that area was like home to him.

It was there that I learned the movie I admired so much had been filmed on the island. A gorgeous place filled with brightly colored Victorian houses on bluffs, the smell of fudge, horse drawn carriages, and SO many bicycles.

The magic of the island was more magical than the movie itself. The island would also become a center point of my life. I was married there once (in the gardens of the Grand Hotel), I’ve taken every woman I’ve ever truly loved there (and a few friends), and helped my Step-dad make one of the best memories of his life at sunset on a sail boat.

And then, one evening a couple of years ago, I was sitting on a beach…at sunset…on the Colorado River deep within the Grand Canyon, when I over heard a 91 year old man state that he had one thing left on his bucket list. One more thing he wished he could do before it was too late. And that thing was to travel to Mackinac Island.

We immediately bonded over the island and our love of the movie, Somewhere In Time.

He wanted to visit Mackinac because of  the movie a lover had introduced him to and like me (although at a much later age) he became inthralled with it.

We became buddies on the remaining days drifting down that river…well, there were moments we weren’t drifting but more like plunging toward oblivion, and decided we would meet at Mackinac Island to fulfill his dream.

Unfortunately, shortly after the rafting trip he got sick and has been unable to travel at all, so the Mackinac trip we wanted to take never happened.

I think about my life sometimes and the way in which things transpire. Before the rafting trip that movie and the island interconnected so many events for me.

Had a hiking trip in Peru not been cancelled I would’ve missed the opportunity to meet that 91 year old man, Bill. And I would’ve missed yet another connection to that place and that movie.

And then recently another trip was cancelled (a rafting trip as it turns out) and I was able to see Bill again.

I knew upon planning the trip to see him I wanted to do something special for him regarding Mackinac or Somewhere In Time.

Buying fudge from the island, or a painting of one of the houses, or a Grand Hotel Music box (which plays the theme from the movie) just wouldn’t be enough.

So, like Richard (Christopher Reeve…a.k.a., Superman) I reached out into the universe and asked Jane Seymour to join me in visiting Bill at his home.

It seemed as unlikely as Richard traveling back in time to meet a woman from a photograph, but…it happened!!!

Jane Seymour personally called me and we later met Bill at his home. We chatted for hours, sometimes intimately, about her life, her loves, her hopes, and her dreams…not for her, but for humanity.

She was more beautiful, more elegant, and more classy, than my 8 year old self believed her to be, and by far one of the kindest, most thoughtful, and engaging people I’ve ever met. An experience that 8 year old boy sitting in front of a television never would have believed was possible.

As I sit here on my porch, sipping a Chardonnay at sunset, recalling my life and it’s connection to a movie, a place, and the many people they have brought to me and I to them, I can’t help but think how strangely beautiful our connections really are.

I dedicate this memory to my friend William (Bill) Mooz and the undeniably incredible Jane Seymour. Thank you both for enriching my life ❤️

The Legendary Lloyd Ray

He had been sick for awhile. The man I knew to be unstoppable had gotten old, and frail, and stricken with cancer.

He was only 2 years older than I am now when I was born, but my earliest memories of him were of a grandfather. White hair, white mustache, and spots on his hands. I cannot remember him looking to me the way that I must look to my granddaughter.

To a little boy, he was legendary. He had gone to war as a young man, just after falling in love, and returned from war to meet his first born child.

He was a police officer for awhile before I existed and somehow had learned to build or fix just about anything by the time I was a child.

I would learn a lot from him through observation; especially how to deal with pain and injury, which is to say I learned how to ignore them.

I can remember countless times when he would smash his finger with a hammer, or cut his hand wide open, then just patch it up and carry on. He didn’t have much use for physicians, at least not until he had no other option.

I would also learn story telling from him. I can’t be certain how much of the stories he told were true, but they were always captivating and certainly entertaining.

He was often grouchy, especially when you bumped his feet while he was napping, but he was also caring and considerate.

He was often in charge of discipline for my brother and me when we were young and his stern approach got the point across, but it was never mean or hurtful.

I never heard the man utter a hateful word or purposefully tear someone down and I appreciate him for hiding that part of himself from me as I’ve heard tell that he sometimes did.

I knew him to be a fast friend to everyone. A nearly toothless smile (a lifetime of smoking a pipe had worn his teeth to nothing) and a quick story (well, they weren’t really very quick) drew everyone into his circle.

He loved to drive. This wasn’t evident from the amount of trips he took, but more from the long, meandering routes he would call “a shortcut” (there was nothing short about them).

Supposedly he had difficulty hearing (a side effect of war), although I’m convinced he heard everything he needed to hear and just pretended to be partially deaf so he could ignore grandma’s constant chatter.

Of the things I remember most about him, the smell of Sir Walter Raleigh pipe tobacco always brings him back to me. I keep an old tin of that tobacco near my tattooing station for that reason.

That smell reminds me of his worn and toughened hands, flannel shirts, trucker caps, and Indiana University basketball.

It’s been 19 years since he left us and I remember the day he went like it happened yesterday.

He had been sick for awhile. Years and years of smoking that pipe had caught up to him and he was confined to a bed at the VA hospital.

There was no cause for alarm that day, I just hadn’t seen him for awhile. Upon entering his room I knew what I was witnessing. Years of seeing people go made the signs very clear to me.

I told my aunt and my cousin, who were also there to visit, that they should say what they needed to say, and then I kissed his forehead and whispered “I love you” into his ear.

He was unconscious at this point, but I would swear that I saw a brief smile flash across his face, and then he was gone.

Even at his weakest moment, when he could no longer carry on, he still looked like my legendary, unstoppable, grandpa.

If he were still with us he’d be 102 this year and what I will remember is a man who loved with his whole heart and never turned away a new friend.