Ghostwood Farm


Boys don’t cry.
July 4, 2019, 8:17 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

A thing happened to me during hapkido class last night that has never happened to me before. It’s not much of a story, really, but I’m telling it as an excuse to tell a different story, one that I’ve struggled with whether and how to tell for a couple of months.

I.

Hapkido is, as you probably know, a Korean martial art that focuses on self-defense methods (how to hurt someone who is trying to hurt you). This is in contrast to the more famous Korean art of tae kwon do, which tends to be more sport-oriented (think sparring rather than true fighting, though there are certainly powerful techniques taught in tae kwon do!). In hapkido, we practice joint locks, punch and kick defenses, throws, defense against various weapons, and chokes. I have been attending 2-3 hapkido classes a week for about two years, and hold a blue belt. Our belt progression is

white – yellow – orange – green – purple – blue – brown – red – red/black – black,

so I guess I consider myself in the middle of the intermediate range, at least for a colored belt. It is often said that one doesn’t truly begin to learn a martial art until one reaches black belt, so there are differing perspectives. As a blue belt, I think I’m starting to feel the flow of hapkido (finally!), which means that transitions between techniques are coming a little easier. Overall, it is a much more difficult, more…subjective…art than tae kwon do, and therefore, more frustrating. But I think I’m getting it.

Hapkido classes are generally small. One reason is that our school does not teach hapkido to students younger than 18. This is to prevent growing joints from being damaged, and from putting potentially lethal self-defense techniques into the hands of children. Another reason that classes are small is that it hurts to learn hapkido. In order to practice joint locks and throws, one takes turns applying techniques to others, then having them applied. Joint locks hurt. Being thrown sucks. But being thrown and locked is how we learn the techniques, as well as how to fall safely (not to mention how to counter these techniques). At any rate, the pain and discomfort of the techniques tends to limit practitioners to those who really want to learn, and our dropout rate is quite high. Since I have been at this school (almost three years), I have seen many tae kwon do black belt tests, but not a single hapkido black belt test.

Currently, we have two 2nd dan black belts, 2 brown belts, a blue belt, two orange belts, and a white belt who regularly attend hapkido classes. Frequently there are only two of us in any given class. The biggest class I’ve ever been in was 6.

II.

Not long after earning my blue belt in April, on a Monday night, I was working with the 2nd dan black belt who usually attends on Mondays. He was beating my ass as usual. He is a big guy, a little older than me, I guess, and his knowledge of hapkido can only be described as encyclopedic: various interesting and painful joint lock variations, new ways to toss someone around, and especially how to use pressure points. I learn a tremendous amount from him every single time we work out together. He is a big part of the reason I have the small amount of proficiency I have.

On the night in question, I took him to the ground to get out of a lock. To say that ground work is not my forte’ is a gross understatement. I am uncomfortable on the ground because I lack proficiency and it tends to be very claustrophobic. I can hold my own against some opponents, but I am just totally outclassed against our black belts. We had gone to the ground several times that evening. In this instance we went to the ground, and after a minute or so I tapped out (as always). I got up, put my hands behind my head, and walked away. The Master was asking if I was all right: Was I injured, gassed, or what? I was not facing them, and couldn’t answer him because I didn’t trust my voice not to break. I was…not crying, exactly, but in tears.

After 30 seconds I realized I couldn’t get it under control and I just turned around to face them and said, “I’m fine. I’m pissed. I’m sorry,” I added to my partner, who said, “That’s all right.” The Master asked, “Frustrated?” and I said yeah.

But I didn’t feel frustrated. I felt pissed. I was pissed because I was on the ground, getting my ass beat. I was pissed because I had just been there a few minutes ago, with the same results. And yes, some of that is frustration: Being angry with myself because I couldn’t do anything to better my situation. But I think that part of me in the moment was just thinking, “Goddamn it, man, you’re way better than me, you’re on top of me, maybe hitting my facial pressure points isn’t really necessary.”

Now, understand: I bear him no ill will. I respect and admire him and I count him as a friend. But in that moment, yes, I was angry. And I don’t have an easy time controlling my emotions at the best of times.

(I was driving in my truck once, and I had to pull over because I started crying, like CRYING, because I was struck by the power and majesty of music. The music in question was the introductory chords played by Ed Crawford on fIREHOSE’s cover of Superchunk’s “Slack Motherfucker.” That Telecaster through a Marshall hit me so hard that I had to pull over. It’s worse when I’m tired, but it can happen to me anytime. I guess I’m lucky I was 2 and a half years into my martial arts training before it happened to me there.)

I cooled down, and we got back to it. But I was so embarrassed. Mortified. A 46 year old grown-ass man, losing his shit for little reason. I don’t know exactly what happened or why, and I can’t be sure it won’t happen again. I never addressed it with either of them further; I considered an e-mail after the fact but never sent one, and that’s probably for the best. I had some concerns about my relationship with them moving forward, but I shouldn’t have, of course. They have been doing this for a long time, and have probably seen worse displays.

I’m still embarrassed by it. I don’t think that will ever change.

coach

III.

Last night, there were two of us in class. My partner was one of the brown belts. He has been doing this a long time and has excellent technique. The Master asked if there was anything we wanted to work on, and he answered immediately: “Chokes.”

So we worked on a couple of different styles, maybe the three main ones: Guillotine, head-and-arm, and rear naked chokes.

Guillotine went well. It’s a good defense against attempted two-leg takedowns. We practiced getting the choke on one another, then taking it to the ground, trying to get in guard while holding the choke. We moved on to head-and-arm, which is the first choke and throw I ever learned, for my green belt test. It’s a good defense against a punch, but it’s easy to overextend on the choke, which makes it more painful, as your forearm tends to cut into the muscles on the back of the attacker’s neck. That’s bad for a few reasons.

In general, I suspect most people think of “chokes” as cutting off the air supply. That’s not what we are trying to do. The chokes we are after are blood chokes. This sounds awful, but what it means is that the chokes we are pursuing cut off blood to the brain, rather than air to the lungs. It’s far less painful, and causes a loss of consciousness very quickly (within seconds) when done correctly. This loss of consciousness doesn’t cause any long-term damage, as long as it is released immediately after the loss of consciousness occurs.

I get the head-and-arm pretty well, at least partially because of instruction from my black belt partner mentioned above. It’s a choke I’ve done many times and it lends itself to a nice takedown/throw, which I prefer to choking anyway.

We then moved on to the rear naked choke, which is maybe the most technical and the most famous. This involves getting behind your opponent, putting their neck in the V of your arm, taking hold of your opposite bicep, cupping the back of the head with the opposite hand, and squeezing. The bicep and the forearm squeeze the arteries on the side of the opponent’s neck, cutting off the blood supply and putting them to sleep.

I’ve had this done to me dozens of times. The choke is applied, my vision starts to go gray, I tap, s/he releases, and we do it again. As I said above, it’s how one practices these sorts of martial arts.

Only, last night, after the first choke, when I tapped, I was woozy. I took a minute, then he applied the choke again. My vision tunneled immediately. I remember tapping.

Then, I’m on the ground. Both my hands are…not shaking really. Twitching. I can’t see very well, but I can see the Master’s legs in front of me. Why am I on the ground? Shit. WHY AM I ON THE GROUND? What happened this time? How long have I been here? Am…am I crying again?

In seconds, I was on my feet as if nothing had happened. The Master looked…I’m not sure, but I think a little concerned. My partner looked at me and said, “Did…did I just choke you out?”

“Is that what happened?” I replied. Relieved, honestly. A physiological response, not an emotional one. I felt fine. My partner was freaked out. He kept ensuring I was okay, wringing his hands.

The thing is, I was fine. Totally fine.

It wasn’t a big deal, once I understood what happened. Once I understood I didn’t fail again.

IV.

I tell the kids all the time, when one of them gets hurt, especially when we’re fighting/sparring:

“You just got (kicked in the head/punched in the mouth/kicked in the nads). That sucked, right? But you didn’t die. If that happens to you for real now, in a real fight where you have to protect yourself, now you know that getting (kicked in the head/punched in the mouth/kicked in the nads) won’t kill you and you can continue fighting, if you need to. It’s tremendously important to have that experience when you’re safe so you know you can handle it when you’re not.”

So what does this mean for me? It drives home the fact that no one takes my back. I tuck my chin. I grab for fingers, for eyeballs. Because my partner did not like that he choked me out, but the next guy might not care so much. It wasn’t a big deal at the time: It was safe and I’m fine. But I learned a valuable lesson that I’ll keep with me.

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Beyond belief.
August 24, 2018, 10:39 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

20180823_164353.jpg

Jump, and I’ll catch you, said the person who wrote it on the dock, and I believed them or, at least, I think I did. But now, I’m not sure, because the water is quite cold, and my legs are growing heavy, and I never felt any hands reach out for me. And I’m stuck with the thought, as I drift down the river, do I blame the writer for lying, or myself for believing? We both know whose fault it is, and we both know who I blame.



…and the drummer is a Methodist.
August 19, 2018, 1:21 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

I was involved in a conversation earlier this week with two new friends, one who is very young and one who is about my age. The conversation revolved around music, specifically the song “Hurt” by Nine Inch Nails. That took us to Johnny Cash which took us to the inimitable Nick Cave. I have thought quite a bit about that arc today and wanted to capture it in terms of how it affected my life.

I start with this: Memory is a funny thing. (As an aside, Malcolm Gladwell has a brilliant series on the nature of memory on his Revisionist History podcast that everyone should listen to.) In researching this timeline a little bit, one of the Immutable Facts of My Memory was shown to be dead wrong (I’ll get to that later), so I will only say that I will record these events as I remember them. These memories may not be True, but they will be Accurate insofar as they are what my faulty mind tells me happened.

I. In which Adam meets Trent Reznor (figuratively).

I first heard Nine Inch Nails in Nancy Murray’s car, a cassette of Pretty Hate Machine. At first, I blew it off as “techno”. I was a metal guy then; this was before Chris Baran and Scott Pazera blew my mind with records like Nothing’s Shocking, records that fundamentally changed how I looked at music forever. I saw the first Lollapalooza that year, at which NIN was the first band to perform. Also included was just a ridiculous lineup: Rollins Band, Ice-T and Body Count, Butthole Surfers(!), and of course, the Last Hurrah of Jane’s Addiction (though we didn’t know it was their last hurrah at the time). Nine Inch Nails still didn’t really resonate with me until I got to college that fall.

By the time I was doing my first solo radio shows (fall of 1991), Pretty Hate Machine was in pretty heavy rotation for me. By now I had recognized the importance and appeal of “industrial lite,” music that wasn’t quite as imposing as some of the stuff coming out of Chicago’s Wax Trax! label (Ministry, Revolting Cocks, KMFDM, My Life With the Thrill Kill Kult) but still angry and primarily electronic: Music that pissed you off while you danced to it. It took three years for NIN’s followup EP, broken, which is one of the finest EPs ever recorded. The hate and vitriol on that record, inspired by an ugly breakup with TVT Records, as I understand it, are palpable, and set the stage for The Downward Spiral, where our story really begins.

II. In which Adam cuts his hair and dislocates his shoulder.

The conversation last night brought to light the fact that my new friend and martial arts instructor was at the same NIN concert that I attended on 12 November 1994, in Louisville. The night before, I had been listening to what is still one of my favorite records: Cop Shoot Cop’s Interference. “Any Day Now” came on, and Tod A. sang “One of these days / I’m gonna shave off all my hair…” and at 2am, I said, yeah, and I went in the bathroom and shaved off my very long ponytail.

From this…Mewithhair

To this. Funny how I look happier with hair…and younger…and skinnier…note the Nothing’s Schocking t-shirt.

The Bird.jog

So we drive from Terre Haute to Louisville. Waiting for the first act to start (The Jim Rose Circus Sideshow), sitting on the floor, the music on the PA was David Bowie’s Diamond Dogs. A cute girl hit on me. After Jim Rose, Marilyn Manson hit the stage. Honestly, of the whole night, I remember snippets: the Bowie record on the PA, the cute girl, and…dislocating my shoulder.

I couldn’t tell you what song NIN was playing, and it wasn’t really a pit–there were too many people for that–but the crowd was swaying in a way that prevented independent motion. The crowd swayed right, everyone went right. At one point, someone tried to sway left as everyone else went right, slammed into my right shoulder just wrong, and popped it out. Excruciating pain. More importantly, the crowd was heading right, hard, and I started to fall. I was thinking, I can’t catch myself, I can’t move my arm: If I fall, I’m going to get trampled to death. Just then, the crowd to my right surged left, and someone slammed into me again. Excruciating pain. But it re-seated my shoulder! I was saved!

III. In which Adam is personally introduced to the fallibility of memory.

I have always told this story in this way: We attended the Louisville show, and the following night, we attended the Indianapolis show. But that is not the Truth. The Truth is, we attended the Indy show two full months later, on 22 January 1995. We were late and got there as Marilyn Manson was leaving the stage. I remember essentially nothing else about the show, and I recall my roommate and I roundly agreed that the Louisville show was far better.

After The Downward Spiral, I never bought another NIN record. More important music was on my radar by then: Morphine. Fugazi. Soul Coughing. fIREHOSE. Archers of Loaf. I was past the Angst and looking for the Noise.

IV. In which Adam finally gets to the damn point.

So my young friend was talking about the song “Hurt” last night. I think she said her marching band is performing it, but I didn’t actually catch that part of the conversation. She indicated that it was a NIN song that Johnny Cash made famous, at which point I had to disabuse her of that notion: After all, “Hurt” was a pretty big hit for ol’ Trent, back in the mid-90s. I never liked it, myself.

Nine Inch Nails has a couple of different approaches to songwriting. There’s the brilliant, angry writing (“Sin,” “Wish,” “Burn“), and then there’s the Smiths-channeling whimpering (“Something I Can Never Have,” “Hurt”). I skip the latter. I’ll go straight to The Smiths for self-loathing whinery: At least they had Johnny Marr.

However, that got us talking about the series of covers that Johnny Cash did late in his career, under the prodding of Rick Rubin. “Hurt” is probably the most famous but it’s nothing like the best. He also covered other songs I don’t particularly like: Depeche Mode’s “Personal Jesus” is the one that jumps out immediately. BUT, but, he did some absolutely brilliant covers.

My two favorite covers of his are two of my favorite songs by the original artists. It’s hard to pick a more quintessential Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds song than “The Mercy Seat,” and Cash’s cover is amazing. (For an even better version, check out Nick Cave’s version from the live album Live Seeds.)

However, Cash’s best cover of this period is his version of Soundgarden’s “Rusty Cage.” It’s pure magic, especially when you know the original. It’s the best action one can take when covering a song: He has changed it so that it is still recognizable, but he put his own unique stamp on it.

That’s all I have. Give them a listen if you’re not familiar.



Iron head.
July 12, 2018, 10:26 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

I had I have been learning tae kwon do for almost two years now, and hapkido for several months. Most people are familiar with tae kwon do–if you took martial arts as a kid, it was probably tae kwon do. Hapkido is a very different kind of martial art. It is, as is tae kwon do, Korean in origin. However, where tae kwon do is fairly formal and structured, hapkido is more about flow: Less about striking (though there is certainly a large component of striking) and more about redirection, joint locks, throws. I think of hapkido as a more practical defensive martial art, and tae kwon do as more of a sport. Many of the techniques translate, of course, and tae kwon do can be formidable. But everything in hapkido is designed to protect the practitioner and neutralize the attacker.

At our school, belt progression is as follows:

White
Yellow
Orange
Green
Purple
Blue
Brown
Red
Red/Black
Black

The time spent at each rank increases past green, as techniques and forms become more difficult. I earned my brown belt in tae kwon do on 9 June, and I anticipate, if all goes well, earning my red belt in October. In hapkido, I earned my orange belt in June.

II.

I have had a recurring nightmare for as long as I have been an adult. In it, a “bad guy” or guys are chasing me and/or my family. Best I can remember, in this dream I am always armed with my S&W 4006 pistol–never a shotgun, never a rifle, never a revolver, and never, best as I can remember, unarmed. The location frequently changes, though it is often the house where I grew up. I shoot the bad guys, I hit the bad guys, but they don’t stop coming. In the most recent iteration (before Tuesday night), the single chaser would go down, dead, and then come back to life.

I have recently come to believe that this dream reflects a general lack of confidence on my part. No matter what I do, no matter how proficient I am, I can’t do the thing I most need to do. I came to this realization because in the past few months, the dream has changed.

III.

The hapkido classes are much smaller than the tae kwon do classes. The school only allows adults to participate, since it can be so dangerous in the hands of those with less self-control (as well as being dangerous to developing joints). In the classes I typically attend, there are usually only 2-4 students, and sometimes it is just the instructor and me. My most common training partner is a 2nd dan black belt who is a bit larger than me. He is…intimidating. He is also extremely knowledgeable and generous with his knowledge and kind and genuinely, I think, wants to see me succeed. But it hurts training with him!

Keep in mind that, in hapkido, virtually everything is trained with a partner. Frequently we form a circle. The instructor illustrates a technique on the student to his left, who then practices it on the student to his/her left, and so on. Techniques hurt. Many of them are joint locks that can cause severe pain and damage, if pushed too far, so the student getting “locked” taps when it hurts so his partner lets up. One can tap on one’s self, the partner, the floor, or yell, “TAAAAAP!”. Joints are sore afterward, we get taken to the ground or are thrown, so rolling and falling techniques are important. But still, it’s a rare class when I don’t come home sore, and rarer still if I’m not sore the following day.

The other aspect of hapkido that I love and that I also find incredibly frustrating is that it is far more subjective, far less rigorous in terms of technique than tae kwon do. The flow is important: Try a technique, and if you miss or it doesn’t work, move into another. This is very different from the precise methods used in tae kwon do. It’s more practical, but I find it much more difficult to learn. How do I flow into another technique when I barely know the first one I tried? And I find myself being tentative in class because I am not confident. I told my wife that, “After a tae kwon do class, I feel like one of the best students in the class. After a hapkido class, I feel like the remedial kid that can’t get anything right.”

IV.

A few months ago, after earning my blue belt in tae kwon do, I started regularly attending hapkido class. I soon noticed that my conflict dreams were changing. Now, instead of getting into a position where my actions were useless, I found my dream-self addressing conflict with confidence and newly-learned (mostly hapkido) techniques. It was an abrupt change and definitely noticeable: rather than shooting bad guys that won’t die, I found myself manipulating bad guys who were rendered impotent themselves.

My dreams stayed that way for a while, but lately I notice that the seem to go back and forth. I had a particularly nasty one Tuesday night.

V.

For the first month or so, I was only able to attend one hapkido class a week. It’s just not enough to get a grasp of techniques, particularly since I don’t have anyone to practice with at home. So I have been trying to go twice a week now. I just got home from the Thursday evening class, and I went on Tuesday. Tuesday’s class focused on the flow of hapkido, and we primarily worked on defenses against getting punched.

I felt like a complete failure throughout class. I’m a low belt, no doubt, and I shouldn’t know this stuff that well, but I feel like I should be getting it more thoroughly than I am and I am frustrated. One thing in particular stuck with me, was that my partner came in super close to throw punches, like a real fighting distance. It was nearly overwhelming, and in hindsight, I would never let someone actually get that close to me. But it drove home the point that I am nowhere near capable of using any of the techniques that I’m learning in hapkido in a real conflict situation yet, and I think it affected me that night.

VI.

So, Tuesday night’s dream? The house I grew up in was here at the farm, instead of our house. Four trucks full of people pulled up at night, and the leader barged into the house. I had my S&W as usual, but he just kept telling me he wanted me to shoot him. So I didn’t. And he kept getting really, really close to me, and I kept pushing back, keeping a little more range between us. See how that ties in with class?

They drove their trucks through the farm, tearing everything up, and dumping a bunch of abused animals here. That aspect was really weird. I finally shot at their tires while they were driving over my vegetables–go ahead and guess if it did any good.

VII.

What I have put together from this is, on evenings where classes go well, I feel good about myself and have dreams where the bastards can’t get me. On nights when I feel that I trained badly, I lack confidence and have really unfortunate dreams.

Let’s see how tonight goes. Class went all right, though my frequent partner is really excellent at picking apart my techniques. That is emphatically NOT a complaint. It’s incredibly valuable to have someone give that sort of feedback. I hope it will reduce the frustration in the long run by driving my development as a martial artist more quickly.

My goal is to learn both tae kwon do and hapkido. I’m 46. My goal is to reach at least second dan in both, and teach them to others. I am afraid that hapkido is going to take me a very long time, but if I keep learning throughout, I don’t mind. I hope my wrists forgive me. In the meantime, I just got a book on staff fighting, so stay tuned for that…

EDIT:

This is one of those endings that is too perfect, but I swear it’s true: In last night’s dream, I went to a party and got into two different fights with the same guy (who was somehow related to me?). In both cases, I barely won. The first time, I used facial pressure points taught to me by my 2nd dan training partner, and in the second fight, I had an open elbow strike to the groin that I pointed out, so he relented (I guess I didn’t take the strike because he was related to me). Interestingly, in both conflicts I had my holstered sidearm that I never drew but was very aware of protecting from my opponent.

So that’s it. As of right now, I’m confident enough to take a beating but scrape out a victory. Ha!



Musicology.
July 11, 2018, 9:53 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

I like music.

“Like” is such a terrible word.

I WANT music. I REQUIRE music.

I find myself thinking about the idiosyncratic preferences I have in music, the details I hone in on. What do I want in music?

I want a ride cymbal that’s huge, a cymbal that sounds less like hitting a cymbal than hitting a shovel. The ride at 2:40 here is perfect.

I want aggression. Even in quiet songs. But yeah, in loud songs, too.

I want passion. I would much rather hear a vocalist that can’t sing well but means it than someone who sings well but sounds unconnected to the music. I once burst into tears while driving when I was hit with the beauty and majesty of…fIREHOSE’s cover of “Slack Motherfucker.” Really. That guitar, Ed’s voice…at that moment, the power was overwhelming.

I prefer unique voices to good voices. I prefer Guy to Ian. I prefer Billie to Ella.

If it’s loud, I want overdrive, but not usually fuzz or distortion as one might think of it. Overdrive is shouting to make sure you’re heard; distortion is a loud drunk belaboring the point. Distortion is typing in ALL CAPS. Distortion is riding the crash.

I hear the bass guitar first. I think it’s from listening to fIREHOSE. Even when it’s boring and subdued, I hear it first. I want the bass defined, a good balance of treble and bass. Watt’s bass sound is perfect (imagine that).

I want a brutal snare. When I was in college, the drummer in the band I was in broke the bottom head on his snare and replaced it with a tom head. It sounded perfect; it sounded like Jimmy Chamberlain’s on Gish. He swapped it out with another one that sounded more traditional, that had more snap, but the guitarist and I would switch it back whenever he wasn’t looking.

I don’t generally like female vocalists but I’ve never been sure why. The two big exceptions, Fiona Apple and Neko Case, have low voices for women, and are very powerful. I could listen to Neko sing a damn phone book.

I want dynamics, but not artificial dynamics, and not dynamics that make a record difficult to listen to. I tend to think Steve Albini ruins records.

I want bands that get better with each release, or at least that don’t peak with their first record. Crooked Fingers. Archers of Loaf. fIREHOSE. Dinosaur Jr. Fugazi. The Beatles (who didn’t even get GOOD till Rubber Soul or so). The Police. Elvis Costello. Tom Waits. Love and Rockets’ next-to-last record was their masterpiece. The Pixies best two records are their first two; each after that is good, but slightly less good than the previous one. That makes me sad.

I want music I can enjoy with my kids that isn’t kid music. My kids love Elvis Costello and Billy Bragg.

I want singers who sing the songs they write, even if they aren’t the best singer. There isn’t a Dylan, Neil Young, or Springsteen cover I prefer to the original.

I want music that sounds like I can play it. Simple but effective.

I want jazz that’s melodic, but in which the melody is a bit fast and loose. Mingus is the best at this. I also love mid to  late-period Coltrane. I used to really get into old bebop, but now, it kind of reminds me of Steve Vai–technically impressive, but not as enjoyable as Blue Train. or Mingus Ah Um. Or even Kind of Blue.

I want noise, but controlled noise. It may not seem controlled at the moment, but then, suddenly, they come out of it and move on together, with precision. Fugazi and Archers are both really good at this. Sonic Youth noise bores me. Noise for noise’s sake isn’t interesting.

Music is life, but it’s subjective, innit? There is a lot of music out there not worth your time, but much more than you’ll ever hear that is. Judge music by your tastes; don’t judge people for theirs.

Happy listening.



January 12, 2018, 12:31 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized



George and Frank. And George again.
July 23, 2017, 10:56 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

One

Not long after we moved to Bloomington, the Monroe County Library put on a program about Iwo Jima. Being extremely interested in military history (especially the Pacific Theater of WWII, where my grandfather served throughout the war), we attended.

The program consisted of two veterans of the battle (Frank and George), talking about their experiences. It was, as you might expect, harrowing and powerful to listen to these two gentlemen discuss their experiences.

At the end of the program, Frank said something I hope I never forget (I have to paraphrase, of course). He was crying as he told the crowd that he was afraid to face God, because the Bible clearly says “Thou shalt not kill,” and he had killed a lot of men.

I was so angry, even as I cried for him. Here was a man who was nearly 90, afraid to die because he thought God would be disappointed in him or angry with him. This is the power of religion, folks. But I digress.

Two

When I was in college (in the early 1990s, so forever ago, now), I knew a guy (Ben) who had been in rabbinical school in Israel. We had a class together (plant taxonomy, I think). He told me once, as he described how he realized he didn’t believe in God, that the commandment “Thou shalt not kill” is a mistranslation. Anyone who has read the Old Testament knows that the Hebrew God wasn’t exactly pro-life. Ben told me that the correct translation is “Thou shalt not murder.”

Murdering is obviously a subset of killing (all murders are killings but not all killings are murders).  But a prohibition against murder is not a prohibition against killing.

As I sat in the library that day, watching Frank talk, I just wanted to tell him what Ben had told me eleven years earlier, abut murder and killing. Because most likely what Frank did on Iwo Jima was not murder. Not that it isn’t possible, I suppose, but killing in battle to save your life and the lives of your comrades? That is not murder.

But I didn’t tell him that. Who was I to do so? Why would he have believed me? I have always regretted not talking to him, just on the off chance that I could have eased his mind.

Three

Fast forward a few years. When Melissa was pregnant with Iain, we took a birth class at a local organization called Bloomington Area Birth Services (BABS). After the first class, I couldn’t believe what we had gotten ourselves into–buncha damn hippies! But by the end of the series, we learned a tremendous amount, made some friends, and came to see just how important the organization was to the community.

The founder and executive director of BABS came to be a great friend of ours. Georg’ann is passionate about helping families have the healthiest babies possible and giving mothers a voice in their own healthcare–rather, ensuring that they know how powerful their voices are. She is fierce in her advocacy. She is also kind and remarkably generous. Funny. Sarcastic. Tremendous fun to be around. Long story short, she has become one of my favorite people in the world, and I don’t say that lightly.

Four

A few years after our second, Alexandra, was born, Georg’ann and I were chatting. I can’t remember how it came up (probably something historical I posted on Facebook), but she mentioned that her dad was at Iwo Jima. I was dumbfounded.

“Your dad was in the Fifth Marine Division at Iwo Jima.”

“Yep. He lives in North Carolina. He gives talks about his experiences there with his friend Frank. They gave a talk here a few years ago.”

Ever the slow one, I finally put two and two together: My good friend Georg’ann’s dad was one of the Marines I saw talk at the library.

What are the chances?

While I don’t remember the details, George was coming to visit not long afterward. We made arrangements for Georg’ann, her husband David, and George to come to the farm for dinner. I made a venison pot roast. We had a nice dinner, and then George talked about Iwo. I am sure it was his “spiel,” but it was really important to me that the kids hear what he had to say. Alexandra was too young to get anything out of it (probably for the best), and Iain (to my great disappointment) does not remember the conversation. But I remember.

I don’t want to project, but my assumption is that George and Frank gave these presentations to people not simply to contribute to the historical knowledge of what they did. It was to deal with what they did. It was, to use a cliché, to exorcise the demons of Iwo Jima that they had lived with for decades. I hope they were successful.

Five

We had dinner at Georg’ann’s Friday night. George had recently returned home from a  trip to Guam and Iwo Jima. Georg’ann said he was in no shape to make the trip but wouldn’t be deterred. While in Guam, he fell in the bathroom and cracked his head on the tile. He had a rough flight home and was doing quite badly by the time he arrived stateside.

We received word this morning that George was taken to the ICU last night with pneumonia. He died early this morning. He was 93.

George was not my dad. If he was, I don’t know how I would have felt about him taking that trip to the Pacific in his condition. But as someone who admired him, I am grateful he was able to go. And why not? He wasn’t going to ever be in better shape to go. He lived on his own terms to the end, and good for him.

I understand that Frank died a few years ago. There are so few WWII veterans left. One of my great regrets (if one can regret something that one has no control over) is that my maternal grandfather died while Melissa was pregnant with Iain, so they never got to meet.

I don’t really have an overarching thought to wrap this up. George would object to being called a hero, but I don’t really care–he was. They all were. Going through what they went through makes them heroes. But you know what?

He raised a hero, too. As the director of BABS, Georg’ann empowered so many families to speak up for themselves and have their babies on their terms with the most knowledge she could impart to them. What she did as part of BABS was beyond measure to all of us who benefited from that organization. And she continues to be an advocate in our community for justice. She is a strong, fearless voice, and I can’t help but think that George lives on in her spirit.

I am proud to have met your dad, Georg’ann. He was a good man. And I am in your debt for helping me to expose my son to his experiences. But I am in his debt, not just for the ordeal he endured for us, but for giving us you. I love you, I hope your dad is at peace, and I hope your memories of him bring you peace and joy.

EDITS:

Here’s a link to an interview with George at the WWII Memorial:

Here is a brief record of the 13th Marines at Iwo Jima. George was in the 4th Battalion.

http://www.recordsofwar.com/iwo/5thmardiv/13thMar.htm

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