Sidewalk Ghosts

I know it’s July, but something inside me has zoomed my heart back to the week before Christmas 2011. A usual night, on a usual drive home, when without my seeking them, they popped into my view. Like a mob with a cause they crossed the street, their numbers hard to ignore, as following them a press pool of photographers worked to find their shot, their flashes further grabbing my attention, as with every pulse of light, distracting streaks of brightness bounced across my windshield...

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At megaphone volume, they laughed unmentionable concepts into the public air. At levels that anyone within 20 feet could hear, a series of most detailed and pornographic descriptions of things they would do to the woman they were staring at. Now, I’m a father, son, brother and husband, so to hear what looked like two professional-looking gentlemen go down such a perverse pathway of though toward womanhood, well, that struck me as grotesque. I pictured them with their families. Wondered if they would view their mothers and sister the same way. And as I did, I was again schooled in reflecting upon an old and most over-used statement, what you see on the outside is not always what’s on the inside...

I reflect on the good and bad of my father. A good man, yet for all his positives, he was equally flawed.

We all have histories, and as living #humans, experience ranging from great joy to deep pain. No one is exempt, not ourselves, not our parents, nor their parents and on and on. Some had it easy, others, not so much. Why some are dealt unfair cards? I wish I had a reasonable answer. It’s easy to analyze the hows, but to fully explain thy whys is ever daunting. A question I often explore as I work to heal my own garbage as well as witness attacks on others #history, beliefs and perspectives.

I’ll just call her Aunty, and there we were, two people from drastically different backgrounds, sitting together in her living room. Around us walls filled with a mix of photographs, recognitions, tribal masks and musical instruments that symbolically told of African roots and her 81 years of life as a black American...

The echoes of snores and other embarrassing body sounds bounced off the granite walls, as all around me hundreds of families huddled into makeshift homesteads. The clock struck 12:03 am, and with the second announcement of what seemed a boarding school inspired lights out, I wiggled to find any comfortable sleeping position. A sadly impossible proposition as, with perfect comedic timing, my air mattress squeaked away every pound of its firmness...

On a humble little shelf sat family photos, black and white images, some faded. On the front of the stack, an 80-year-old picture of a little boy sitting on a pony. Is that you? I asked...

Rikki was her name,and in reviewing her narration, it seemed she tapped into a most personal and intimidating question: WHAT IS OUR PURPOSE?

And until that night, he was a stranger to me. An unknown shadow under a flickering streetlamp just outside a neighborhood haunt called Casey’s Tavern...

Stir crazy is an understatement, and even though I’ve managed to stay very busy planning the future of my now still-watered business, as well as a being able to spend a bunch of quality time with my family, this third week of home isolation is starting to take a toll on my spirit...

I’ve been chewing on a most audacious topic. One, that at only twelve episodes into my newfound life as a podcaster; has slapped the world in the face. But her I go anyway. A middle-class self-employed guy sharing his feelings on a subject he has no credentials to represent. That being, the full and ultimate impact Covid-19 will have on the now, and even grander, what’s ahead...