On Writing

    So, I was reading On Writing by Stephen King and finding out what I already know, “I don’t know much.”

   So, I’m thinking about what happened to Stephen in some later years of his writing career and how it compared to a life event of my own.

   I was standing in a vacant lot, also known as a cow pasture, just south of the Silverton High school Gym, wearing my 1955 model single face guard helmet, way to large shoulder pads, and mud filled cleats wondering what this 85-pound sophomore was doing here?

  Coach O.C. had placed me at defensive right corner and I was to keep all comers from going around my end. Shit here comes 220 pounds of T.D. West with the ball, but ahead of him was John the Schott leading interference for T.D. like he needed some help. While they was a coming, I was thinking, this is gona hurt but it’s my job. Glad it has been raining so the ground will be soft when I go down. I heard the crack as I went down and realized I was totally in-capacitated in the right leg. Pain wasn’t too bad, but I had this strange sensation adrenaline pours on you when you’ve flat out had it.

   Well, I had it, but the coaches kept trying to stand me up, and I kept going down, and I needed to stay down. I always wondered if O.C. was smart as I thought he was, and come to find out he was, he figured out I needed more help than anyone there could give so he brought his car out onto the lot and a bunch of teammates slid me in the back seat. Oh boy, this is gona be fun as the car jumped the muddy ditch just as the adrenalin was wearing off. Oh no, he is stopping at my house, O.C. says to me, “I’m taking you to Tulia to the Hospital figure Jackie would want to know.”  “Oh, hell here I am being a problem and I don’t want to be a problem I just want to play football; I think.” Twenty-six miles of trying to keep my right leg straight and not enough room to stretch out left me partly paralyzed by the time we reached the ER at Tulia Texas.

   Half a dozen good guys and a wheeled stretcher delivers me to the X-ray lab. Some scissors and my cleats and pants disappear. Damn, cold hard table and I think I have been on it for hours before bad news arrives. Thigh bone uh, femur, not cracked but broken and luckily has not punctured an artery or broken thru the skin layer though I could see the dark spot just north of the knee. Tear leaked from the corner of one eye. Looks like I’m tied down for a while.

    Wasn’t long before I got ambulance ride to Amarillo to see about fixing me up. Morphine and its kinfolk kick in, and the evening gets better fast. Vaguely remember the transfer to hospital bed Northwest Texas Hospital. Daylight I find my broken leg being stretched by rope, pulleys, and weights that hang off the end of the bed. Seems doc believe it or not, “Hyde,” tells me we must pull the bone back in alignment before surgery. Dr. Hyde shows me some stainless-steel screws he will use to re-connect the splintered bone. I order more morphine as I eye the five- and six-year old’s circling the weights stretching my leg at the end of the bed. I didn’t bother to ask how long before surgery, just close my eyes and dread the next time the nurses come to pull me back up in the bed, so my weighted leg does not touch the foot rail.

   Surgery day comes and thankful I will get rid of the weights. What I did not know is I woke up with a cast from my ribcage to the tip of my toe on the right leg and down to the knee on the left leg. I could not be more trapped to the bed than if it were a bear trap. One more tear slipped from the corner of my eye. Two days later I find myself in my room with urinal and bedpan for company. No way to turnover, sit up, or even tend to myself. Dear old dad built a rail above the bed with a pulley high enough so he could tie a rope to my cast right leg and give me the end of the rope so I could lift me up and swing sideways just enough to let me flip face down on the bed. I could flip or flop but that was the extent of my movement. Trapped in my mummy case for what may be forever. Don’t like football so much these days.

   Five days later my football buddy classmates show up. “Hi guys good to see you sorry I can’t get up to visit.” Dewey, Joe, Dave, Eldon, Charles, and maybe more have a grin on and it worries me. Uh Oh they are loading me on a wheeled gurney and out the front door. Oh shit, they have a small school bus and slam me inside. Dewey says, “just relax we’ll be to school in a minute.” Worse case Charles is driving and I’m in fear I’ve seen his driving before. Every dip in the street and chug throws the steel gurney up against all the walls and the back of the driver’s seat causing Charles to slam on the brakes. With urinal between legs banging on the cast I hang on the rails as best I can. They all laugh when they unload me on the sidewalk leading to front door of Silverton High School. Evidently, they want to see how fast this gurney would roll and if they could stop it before the two steps going into the school. My lightweight blanket weren’t near enough to keep me covered but I guess I’m just glad to be alive because I’m laughing too.

  Classes on a gurney and a 40-yard race down the sidewalk to lunch at the cafeteria. If I survive five weeks of this, I’ll be in line for the Congressional Medal of Honor or some sort of. That weren’t all of it, I got a ride to all six of the remaining football games in a Ford Ranch Wagon. Mostly endzone view but much appreciated.

  The day they cut me out of the cast was very much like Stephen King felt after his run in with a car that almost took his life. Dr, Hyde used a high-speed circle saw to cut me out of the cast. Felt like I was being cut and bleeding while he was running the saw, then there was a thin, crusty, scaley, ugly, body and me not sure I wanted it to belong to me. Doc says, “we are going to clean you up a bit then let us stand you up for just a moment. Well, I never got to the moment, when my head came up above my body I went out like a light. Sure, glad there were some around to catch me. Next day I sat on the edge of the bed, then the next day I stood up with crutches. Oh man, wheels up except when a crutch slipped. Pain like none other for four weeks limbering up both hips and one knee.

  As Stephen said without all the folks pulling for us and caring for the mess we were, we would not be healed. And yet we were! And allowed us to be creative in our own way.

                                                     

  Time is Rolling Along

  As time is rolling along, the countryside is passing my windshield. Two hundred fifty-six miles and I stand looking as far into the past as I go.  A mother left me 72 years ago and a father that left thirty-two years. Memory is as fresh as dew on the grass. We talk a while; I beg forgiveness of my shortcomings and remind them I will be joining them soon. I tell them I’m on my way to see their Amarillo grandson and take in a country music concert. They remind me I know very little more of this grandson than they do. I promise to engage him, look him in the eye and talk about you.

   On down the road I run across some apostles, we talk from wisdom past, and chuckle at our age. Aches, pains, and mirrors tell us we are older than we think as we speak of younger days. They bid me good day and tear as we may not see each other again on this side. I leave as my iron horse is telling me a story of A Time for Mercy from her speakers.

  Long afternoon bar hopping, reacquainting our kinship as I figure out, we live in different worlds and his is good, and different from mine. Music is loud and entertains the 5000+ crowd of young tanned beautiful people. It is good to see so many smiles, hugs, kisses, and handshakes and not the violence or disharmony portrayed on the flat screen. My 78 years watches, and tires quicker than I would like, so a hard walk to distant motel and sleep.

   If you know what a big breakfast is, it was awesome. A goodbye to son who is much older than I thought he might be. The unknown time factor plays tricks on my mind as I head south to home and revisit the past as familiar countryside drifts by my windshield. Down off the caprock just south of Quitaque, as I cross the Los Lingos Creek, I see Jesus. Not really surprised as I have seen him before. One time in Mexico he was riding a horse on a rock road to Morelia. His name was pronounced a little different, but he is the same guy, standing on the bridge. I pull off the road and walk back to the bridge.

  As I approach Jesus says, “Good to see you it’s been a long time.” as he leans on his walking stick.

  “Oh yes it has been a while. Do you need a ride?”

  “No, I have just left the falls and pond back up the creek. I knew you would be along and figured you would recognize me and pull over.”

   “So, you remember, and I must ask. Have you seen me in your travels?”

   “Oh yes I see you making dust” Jesus replied and added, “you are doing a pitiful job of it.”

   “I know,” I reply, look down, and add, “I have a problem with my missteps.”

    Jesus reminds me,” It is my job the handle your missteps, and your job not to make them, you must remember I am here for you.”

   “So, you’re going to show up no matter what, on my journey?”

   “As long as you look out the windshield, or lift your eye to a stranger, I will see you makin’ dust.”

   “Thank you for the visit, keep a watch on my dust, help me to make worthy dust.”

   “Once again as back in Mexico Jesus says, “Come back this way one more time.”

    I ask about his caballo and he responds, “He has gone to the beyond, but I visit him often.”

    “Thank you for the visit and watch for my dust, I will do better.” I say as I pullback on the road and remember the time he rode on my shoulder in my old Jimmy truck.

     Down the road past the Fairmont Baptist Church, Flomot, Matador, on to Jacksboro to pick up fried chicken. I approach home and feel blessed for my safe trip. The wife is patient and glad I brought chicken and gravy as we enjoy what is left of this fine Easter Sunday. I will tell her of my day later, she will not be surprised.

                                                              Artifacts

            Generally, it takes five hours or hard walking to find one good point to put in my pocket. Today I was lucky, I found a bone necklace piece, a bird point, and half of a medicine grind stone.

            It has always intrigued me to hold in my hand something made hundreds of years ago by a hunter or even a homemaker. I look up to the hills or at the nearby playa and try to visualize how it was in some time long passed. I have a definite feeling about each piece I find as to the individual and his personality. How the weapon or tool was used and the craftsmanship in making the piece tells a lot about the person that owned each artifact I find.

  What is so grand is that there are cultures from thousands of years ago up to the present to study all in the same location. I once thought these people must have had a hard life. But now I think of their isolation, abundance of food, and natural protection, and it gives me the feeling their lives were more serene that ours. Only when invaders like the white man came was there real upheaval.

  If you have not slept in a deer hide tent or under a buffalo blanket you have missed knowing how warm and cozy it was without all our modern conveniences. The buffalo left manure chips for fire and the water was pure and clean to drink. Yes, it was cold in the winter and hot in the summer, but there were many valleys with caves, rocks to get under, and some trees for shade. When the flies got bad they just moved their camp to a fresh location.

  The necklace piece I found was probably a bone from a first kill of young hunter and worn thereafter for luck. The hole in the necklace was worn oblong and the bone polished a though it had been worn for a long period of time. 

  The medicine grindstone must have been used for more than a hundred years and passed from generation to generation. It is cupped on each side from grinding and is still stained with the berry juice much like some of the Matas I have that show war paint from centuries ago.        

  One Mata I found sticking out of the side of a wash still had the grind rock under it.  The grinder must have been hidden for the summer just before the camp headed off to follow the buffalo.  Some woman probably returned to used the grinder another winter, but something happened and her hidden treasure was never used again.

  The bird point I found today is very small and were used to kill buffalo as well as birds. The small point would penetrate deep into the bison's hide.  This point belonged to someone who was a perfectionist. The chipping is flawless. Some of the larger points I have found have rifling, much like the principal modern rifles use to spin the bullet on a true course.  These points are thick on one side and thin on the other making the arrow spin true. It is hard to believe they knew how to make the arrow spin and hold a course.  Others points I have found in this area tell of a time before the bow. They are long and convex on the surface and were used as a spear point.

  There are evidences of as many camps on the plains as in the valleys. Generally on the plains I find clues on the Southwest side of a Playa Lake. Bloodstones as I call them (or boiling rocks) are prevalent on he Southwest side of many Playa's in the Texas panhandle. I think the prevailing Southwest wind led the people to camp so the buffalo gnats and mosquitoes would be blown away from the camp. May be that the sand-blows have covered the evidence of camps on the North side of the lakes. The rainwater in the lakes was fine for bathing or drinking as the grass and reeds purified the water.

  These people of the plains must have been a hardy peace loving bunch because I can feel them around me and they cry out for me to understand that they were tied to the land and game. They had to fit into the a certain pattern to live and survive. They are telling me it has not changed for us even with our concrete buildings and gas heat. By the number of flint chips and fireplaces I find, there must have been more people in Briscoe County's past than in all recent history combined. I wonder and listen to the hills for a message from the past. Sometimes I can feel the people watching me. I can hear the wail of the women in the heat of battle. Some of the grounds I walk show signs of war and tribulation, and some of a definite winter peace.

Forever Alone - we are responsible for our own happiness.

Even how small it may be share it in kindness.

Best of me and even when I am not, I wish it to be.

It is not about heroes but life and the headlock some experience.

Welcome to the wall. It has been a long war. It may be the only home you have, it has no end, till you join those on the wall. Welcome home my friend.

On Amazon

 

                                                                         Amazon

So, if you’re a Vietnam Veteran not so welcomed home, and have lost contact with those you served with those many years ago, and still wonder about them, just maybe, Forever Alone is a book for you. Closed off from a distant war you may never have completely returned home from. Read how some deal with the memory. It is not about heroes but the headlock some experienced.

August 29, 2018 I write--

John McCain left North Vietnam prison camp in May of 1973.

I found but did not write the story below about Quan Loi in the same time frame. He was still in North Vietnam when this piece below recounts. I was in 1967 at Quan Loi, or An Loc, or Loc Ninh when John McCain was shot down in North Vietnam.

Nothing I can say will change what happened but I remember and hold John McCain at my highest esteem and honor.

Saturday he will be with 50 some odd thousand on the Wall. I remember seeing my reflection in the Wall in 1991 and still wonder why I am on the reflection side of the wall.

I suspect Saturday will be a hard day for Vietnam veterans. People say we came home changed and I reluctantly agree.

By Rick Harris

The rest of Quan Loi was quite desolate in this timeframe. The Helicopter Assault company had left (summer of 1971, I think); I believe there were a few advisors with the ARVN units on the south side of the runway. Other than that, we felt very alone. We were mortared and rocketed occasionally, and were attacked by sappers.

As we got into the first months of 1972 we found our teams getting into more and more contacts. We found increased activity of bad guys, and our compound was being attacked by sappers at night. The 74th was about to stand down and my extra 6 months was about to come to an end. I can honestly say that I was "over" being involved with the exciting part - these guys were trying to kill me!!. I left Quan Loi at the end of February, 1972 just in time to escape the Easter Offensive at An Loc when the area was overrun by the NVA. Quan Loi, itself, was overrun on April 7, 1972.

I got home in March and I will always remember getting my local newspaper one day in April of 1972 and on the cover was a photo of An Loc with the caption: "The Battle of An Loc". I think I got home right in the Nick of time.

One Line Into Two

One line blends into two,

As I drive lookin’ for you.

Down the road my heart,

Travels toward you.

Lines on the road blink by,

Remind me of the scars,

On my heart,

But if my heart had never,

Been broken I wouldn’t be,

Lookin’ for you.

One line blends into two,

As I drive down this road,

Lookin’ for you.

The night is the darkest,

But I see dawn down the road,

She be waitin’ for me,

One line blends into two,

As I drive this road,

One line blends to another,

You warm my windshield,

As I drive to you,

One line blends into two,

As I come lookin’ for you.

I know you are out there,

As I come lookin’ for you.

M. Mercer

                                            I wrote it so I guess I have to own  it.!

        TELL ME YOUR LIES

Tell me any lie you like, then dwell on the truth.

Tell me any lie you like, I will still love you.

Tell me any lie you like, I will respond with truth.

Tell me any little thing your heart desires, my love is true.

Tell me all the lies in your heart, I'll believe them all.

Tell me all your lies, until they are the truth.

And I won't be me anymore.

M. Mercer

                                                  Yes my cat will listen to your lies!

The Journey

                                            The Journey

   In sixty two years of walking to discovery, today I find myself on the ancient rock road running from Morelia to Jocotepec. Endless steps, wandering through space and time occupying my mind with, the what and wherewith of all.

    The shaded road permits a vaquero astride his black caballo to approach as I walk . The vaquero speaks through a smile with no teeth, "I see you wear boots but ride no caballo."

    “Si Senior,” I answer the toothless smile under a sacred soiled sombrero, "all my caballos have perished in my search." Then I offered this question, "Have you seen me in your travels?"

    The rider replied, “many times I see you just as you disappear into the land."

     “Then I am “there” somewhere down the road,” I asked?

     “Si, amigo you are there makin’ dust,” the vaquero replied.

     I asked the vaquero his name, “cómo es usted llamó  mi amigo?”

     The black horse rider spoke, “Yo nombre is Jesus,”then he added, “When you find yourself down the road, come back this way one more time.”

    I bade my new amigo, adios, and turned back to my journey.

   The vaquero made the sign of the blessing and spoke one last time, “I will be alli,” smiled the toothless smile and disappeared down the road toward Morelia.

  I whispered, “goodbye Jesus, my friend, my savior,” and continued my search with a light step and a smile.

M. Mercer 12/05

                                                   We Americans

                                                    By Mike Mercer

Americans a while back woke up early on Sunday morning and ate breakfast.Then we went back to bed to fool around and nap, then got up and went to Church.Now Americans get up early on Sunday morning , take some drugs, have an energy drink,and wish we could fool around. Now days we Americans think about a God, but then figure out a way to screw our neighbor out of something.  Even if we get something we feel ill about our neighbors for being more secure than ourselves.

Every now and then Americans get out our guns and kill something for no reason at all, or someone mistreated us, or we contacted PTSD in some war theater, or abusive relationship. Officials nowadays spend billions trying to figure out what’s happening, blame it on terrorist, take a few more drugs and buy more guns. Even if we figure it out it won’t stop the carnage. Down the road when society has had enough this will stop, but it may be a long time coming. Police and government will not solve the problem. It is a state of mind we human must gather the will to fix. Seems we have evolved to where we can be a bully by “Twitter” and never stand toe to toe. My dog barks and growls at other dogs till I turn him out and he runs up under them and suddenly he hopes they can’t see him, and maybe even expects them to forgive his growling bark. Has he bullied them into his way of thinking or just bullied them? Depends on if the dog crawls away or bites his bluster. Either way doesn’t matter till we Americans learn what we have forgotten which is life is more than conflict and my way may not be better than your way. There will always be those that must have it their way even if it kills all of us in the process.

I’d say selfish, but that is how it has been since before the Crusades.

Why did I write this? Did I really think it would matter?