He is Not a Hero – He is My Brother

Posted on April 1, 2016 by Bob Martin

mitchIn the past few weeks, I have introduced you to two of my brothers. I feel as if I have done an injustice to my second oldest brother. So tonight, you get to meet a person who I look up to each and every day. However, it is very easy to overlook this gentle giant. He is caring, compassionate, kind, and full of joy and love. He is optimistic and looks for the good in each and every person that he meets. I have yet to meet a single person who thinks ill of him. So tonight, I will introduce him to the world.

My brother was born pre-mature. At his birth, my parents were told that he probably wouldn’t make it. He proved them wrong. Then it was suggested that my parents put him into an institution since he would never have a very good life, and he probably wouldn’t make it that far into life. My parents proved them wrong. They brought him home and attempted to treat him no differently than the rest of us. He is now 53 and leads a productive life. He continues to prove those who doubted him that the experts are not always correct.

While my brother cares for each person he ever gets the chance to talk with, I have heard people, who have never met him a retard, a dummy, an idiot, and so many other names. They called him this before ever getting a chance to know him. They call him this because of his looks and speech. They call him this because of their own ignorance. So, yes, my brother is mentally challenged. He has the mentality of an eight, possibly nine year old. But, more importantly, he is a person.

I would love to say that I treated my brother no differently than the others. I will not lie. When I was very young, it was not easy for me to understand why he was different and how to deal with him. I knew that every morning he had to take medicine. As a little kid, I thought that it kept him alive. I found out later that it was to help keep him from having seizures. When I found out about his issues, I then had a fear that when we did things, he would end up on the floor and I would not know what to do.

I do remember that he like to play cars and such. Sundays we would sit in the living room playing. Even though he was older than me, he didn’t care – he just wanted to be with people and to play. He didn’t care who played with him as long as somebody gave him some time. This worked out well in our first neighborhood since everybody played together. It didn’t always go smoothly. Sometime he didn’t understand the instructions. Other times, he had to sit out the game due to my parents worrying about him getting hurt. Skating and playing hockey was a definite no. I didn’t play either, but that is because I didn’t want to do. He wanted to. He would have given anything to be part of it.

It was that not being able to play that has always made me look back with sadness for my brother. While my brothers and I got to ride my bikes, he had to ride a large three wheeled bike. This was fine until the ramps came out. We marched in parades and played music. My brother had to walk along the side with my parents due to fear of the heat and his seizures. He wanted to be part of life.

Now I am happy to report that things changed as we got older. I hate myself to say that there were times in school when I turned corners when I saw him. I was a horrible brother because he would get excited to see me in the hall. He would often want to hug, and I allowed my fear of the cliques to make me turn away from my brother. But we did get better.

Once we moved to my Nana’s, my brother’s dream came true. In the basement, my dad installed a pool table. My brother became the pool shark of the neighborhood. He would play a game with any person who came into the house. I often that it was a good thing that a burglar never came in – my brother would have challenged him to a game. He spent hours in the basement playing. It was a nice place to hang-out since we had a stereo down there as well. The other thing that helped out a lot as he grew was that we found out he could, sort of, keep a secret. He never went home and blabbed about what we did. Now if somebody asked him direct questions, we were dead because he cannot lie. It helped that he could keep a secret because we started allowing him to do things that for years my parents wouldn’t let him do.

I can remember taking him across the street to our neighbors to use their swimming pool. We had to keep him in the shallow end, but we got him in and having fun. When we were younger, he was only allowed in if our parents were around and then just to stand. Marco Polo became second only to pool. I believe that his ability to stay quiet even prompted us to get him to take his bike over the ramps.

As we became older, we found that he was a lot of fun. He didn’t age mentally, so it soon was like having a bigger, little brother around all the time. Like big brothers, we introduced him to more and more.

After years of his watching us march, we finally convinced my mom to allow him to take the field and march with us. At first, not knowing if he could learn movements, we placed him the American guard. He took the place next to the flag with a rifle. He guarded with as much pride as a soldier in the same position. He even took up the cymbals and started in the drum line.

I think the best day was when I snuck him on a roller coaster. My heart was in my throat as we stood in line. The look on his face after the ride made all of that worry fade away. He had made it to the big rides after so many years of watching.

Now I want it known that my parents loved each of us the same. During the 60s and 70s, people were just learning how to deal with mentally challenged people. There were many unknowns and a lot of false information floating around. They did the best they could. I often wonder what it would have been like to grow up today with him.

I never knew how my brother felt about me. I had seen him show emotions. When our Nana passed away, it was everything he could do just to walk through the steps of the funeral. A big part of his world had been torn away from him. I cannot remember how he dealt with my dad’s passing. Even though I had witnessed his pain, I didn’t know how he dealt with those still here. That is until the day I was leaving for the Air Force. This may have been one of the hardest days of my life. I said good-bye to my mom and turned to just shake hands. He was crying so hard that I didn’t want to leave. I finally knew his feelings.

Today my brother still lives with my mom. He goes to work every single day, and he loves his job. He has a better work ethic than many adults that I know. It is a fight to keep him home when he is sick. He is a productive part of society and he does so with pride. He bowls every week on a league and competes like it is for an Olympic gold. He also performs with a local skating group – something he wasn’t allowed to do when he was younger.

I love going home to see my brother. I will admit that it is not always easy to have lengthy conversations, but if you find the right topic – bowling, Sabres, Buffalo Bills, and sports – he is in until the end.

The title of this post is that he is my brother, not a hero. I look up to my brother every day. He has beat the odds and continues to do so. He turns the other cheek time and time again – sometimes to the same person. He teaches me to look for the good in people. He teaches me that people are not evil. He teaches me to have fun. To some, he is a hero, but I still call him brother.

So at the end of the day, I would love to see people stop throwing around the word retard. I would like to see people who are challenged dealt with more respect. I would like to see these wonderful people put on a pedestal as to how mankind should treat each other. My brother and his friends would hug a person who just hit them. They would put their arm around the shoulder of a person who called them a name. They would forgive everyone.

I can only hope to someday be as good as my brother.

Thank you for meandering with me tonight.

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Lessons Taught by a Little Brother – Watch Your Fingers

Posted on March 31, 2016 by Bob Martin

Injured finger with bandageLast night, I wrote about my oldest brother and the times that he tormented me. Okay, I called them lessons but they were torments, and there were many more that happened. However, in a sense of being fair, I must admit that I paid back the torments to an even score or, possibly, more. In a house of four boys, there was always a bit rough housing going on at almost all times. I do find it interesting that the oldest and youngest got into some of the weirdest predicaments. Since I gave you three of his torments, I will reciprocate three of mine.

My brother always had a habit of using his index finger when making a point. Being a true sibling, the point was always being made directly in my face. The finger would be put no less than an inch from my face. As I have mentioned in the past, our family loved to camp. This incident took place on one of those trips.

I cannot remember what the topic of discussion. All I know is that big brother decided that it was one of those times that he was going to drive home his point. Now mind you, I have been told that when I was a little kid, I would eat almost anything. We were sitting around the fire. Something started between the two of us, I cannot say that it was an argument for my brother also just like to tease me a lot. I believe that is chapter 3 in the big brother handbook. So there we were enjoying the fire when the finger started. It waved in front of my face. He stopped. It waved again. Apparently on the third wave, my hunger pains kicked in. My teeth opened wide, my mouth moved forward, and my teeth chomped. They came down hard and didn’t let go. By the time I reopened my jaw, blood had been drawn.

The next thing I knew I had been sent to the tent. I cannot remember my brother being punished at all. Sure he starts it, but I got punished. What was fair about that?

The next story, funny enough, also deals with his fingers. By the time of this story, we lived in my Nana’s house. This is a beautiful, two story colonial. The living room is connected to the dining room by the front hall. The dining room then goes into the kitchen, and then another hall connects the living room. This made for a huge circle. Of course, we used this to do laps for all sorts of things. We really used it when we got into arguments and one started chasing the other to beat the crap out of him.

On the occasion in mind, my oldest brother was chasing and beating on me. Yep. Mom and Dad had gone out somewhere. The old brotherly love had kicked in, and one thing led to another and the chase was on. I did the laps trying to stay ahead of whatever doom lay ahead. During what would become the last lap, my brain kicked and tried to find a way out this. I caught the stairs out the corner of my eye. I knew that they were my path to freedom.

I flashed out of the kitchen into the living room. My arm reached forward and my fingers curled. My body moved into auto mode, I saw the corner separating the living room from the hall. My hand reached, my arm tightened. I ripped myself around and up three stairs. I took the remaining two at a time. My plan didn’t work quite as well as I had planned. Big bro was directly behind me.

I reached the top of the stairs and decided to duplicate my previous move. My brain plotted knowing that the master bedroom was a total 180 from my current direction. My toes hit the top step and my arm curled around. I felt the door frame and used it to catapult me around the corner and change directions. Once in the bedroom, the word trapped came to mind. I turned believing I could get out before he got in. I looked to the door frame and saw his fingers make the same move that my hand had done milliseconds before. I did the only thing I could do to save myself – I slammed the door shut.

The fight came to an end. Not that he wasn’t pissed at me, but because I, once again, had broken skin and caused blood.

The last story that I will share tonight, wellllllllll, it also deals with a finger and blood. I believe I was 13 or 14 at the time. My brother would have been 17 or 18. The time of year was Christmas. My mom worked at the local nursing home in Lewiston. She was the LPN of the wing. This particular Christmas, my mom decided to treat the aides to homemade cakes. I believe that 10 or more cakes stood on the counter for this scene. Yes, stood. My mom made cakes that looked like Christmas trees. The stood on their own, and she decorated each branch, candle, and ornament. They were beautiful. Mom and Dad were going to deliver them after dinner.

My brother peeled potatoes for dinner and threw them into the pot to boil. I love raw potatoes. Put a little salt on them and crunch away. Once the kitchen was clear, I grabbed the knife from the sink (one my dad kept very sharp) and sunk it deep into a beautiful specimen just begging to be eaten. I held it, still on the knife, in front of me – admiring it. Then it happened. I felt a hand slap onto my wrist. A voice from the side stated, “If you want a potato, peel your own damn potato.” I yanked down knowing that there was no better way to get someone to release your wrist. My entire hand went straight down.

The next thing I know, big bro is screaming – I would say like a girl, but he reads this – and holding his thumb. It didn’t help. Out of his thumb came a stream of red liquid. Fortunately my dad was an EMT and had taught all of us first aid. The first rule of thumb was to keep calm. Yep – nope.

My brother’s hand started flying from side to side. The blood started flying around the kitchen. While the colors of Christmas might be green and red, this red did not look as nice on the green cakes. I could hear my father start down the stairs. I had to get out of there, out the door I flew. Oh yeah, I forgot the second rule – render assistance.

When I got outside, my brain looked for a hiding spot. Since it was Christmas, it was cold outside. I looked and saw that the van was unlocked. I jumped in the back behind the couch. I ducked down waiting for the coast to clear. I did not think that my brother would need to go to the hospital. I was now trapped for the long trip. The rest of the night is a blur. I am sure that there was a punishment in there somewhere, but I have wiped it from my memory.

So there. I have evened the scored and showed that I could turn the tables on my brother. If I can leave you with nothing else, it is this – keep your hands and fingers far from your siblings.

I hope you had a nice walk with me tonight. Thank you for meandering with me.

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Lessons Thanks to a Big Brother

Posted on March 30, 2016 by Bob Martin

bobI promised that I was going to go a little lighter tonight. I love looking back through my memories and reminiscing about the different lessons I learned. Tonight I am looking at the lessons I learned by being the youngest of four boys. My brothers would probably state that, as the youngest, I was spoiled. They swear to this day that I got everything that I wanted and they always had to suffer having to struggle and beg for everything. I, on the other hand, would state that I was the punching bag of the family. Well, that is until I finally allowed my fuse to burn. Then everyone booked it as far from me as possible. So anyways, here are a couple of lessons learned.

The first lesson was while attacking a brother always look in the direction of the head. I do not remember what started the argument that erupted into so much more. However, we were attacking my biggest brother – hey, he was the biggest. I do remember at some point, to be a butthead, he took my box of money and would not return it. Now there are two things you never get take from a little kid – money and food.

We chased my brother around the house. (I am now sitting here wondering where my parents where. Funny, I think that every time they left the house something happened.)Anyways, we finally got my brother down on the ground, and we attacked. Of course, being the smallest, the best place for my attack was to jump on his back. It is funny, but little guys know to jump up and down to get the best results. Unfortunately for me, I was not facing the head. I should have been for I could have grabbed his head and smacked him. Instead, I was facing the feet.

I don’t recall exactly how long it took before it happened, but happen it did. I was bouncing on my brother, yelling to give back my box, and …….WHAM! His foot came up as he bent his knee and the heel made contact with my teeth. Out popped a front tooth. The good thing was that the fight ended, and we started plotting the story to keep us all out of trouble.

The next lesson comes from the same brother. I was so young when it happened that I do not remember it. I know the story so well because it has been told at almost every family get together. The first house that I remember living in was in the middle of this project. All together there may have been 29 homes. It was a great place to live because, like so many Facebook posts, the kids came out in the morning and only returned home to eat and use the bathroom (well to eat). Everyone knew everyone. It was the perfect place to live. That is unless your oldest brother had gotten in trouble and decided to run away.

The other nice thing about where we lived was that our Nana lived only 1-1/2 miles away. Never mind that it did involve a very busy road, kids don’t think about that. I am not sure what occurred between my brother and parent(s). All I know is that he decided that he could no longer live there, and he was moving to Nana’s. The cool thing about my brother is that he decided he would not leave a single soldier behind.

My dad worked the midnight shift. My brother decided that the best time to run away was at dawn before he returned home. He packed up belongings and put things in a red wagon. He got all of our bikes out and made sure that everything was good to go. I was on a tricycle. My brother was getting out of dodge with his posse.

From what I understand, we had started to make a break for it when my second oldest brother decided he could not go without his bowling pins. My oldest brother agreed and went back for the pins. Unfortunately, this delay caused us to be in the driveway when my father pulled in from work. Since I was so young, I do not remember if anyone was punished and if so what the punishment would have been. I do know this, if it hadn’t been for bowling pins, we may have been going down the busy road before Dad came home. I have no idea if we would have made the trip in one piece.

The last lesson also comes from the eldest of the family. Wow. He was a pretty good teacher. He was three years ahead of me in school. I cannot remember what grade he was in at the time, but it must have been high school since he was taking a trip to Florida with the band.

Being a procrastinator with his studies, he reached the point of his trip with a book report looming over his head. The report was due upon his return. He was to read The Jungle and write a report on the book. Not wanting to give up time with his friends while in the sunshine state, we made a deal. I would read the book and write the report, but he had to take me to see a movie when I was done. I believe the movie was Star Trek, so that makes it 1979 and I was in 7th or 8th grade. The first part of the lesson was to make sure you bargain well. While a fan of Star Trek, I should have held out for more.

I remember that people were surprised that such a young person was reading that book. It turned out to be and still is my favorite book. I was taken into a world that I would never see or lived, but Upton Sinclair made me understand. I loved the book and had no problem writing the report. When my brother returned, his work was complete. I believe he earned a B on it. What I didn’t know was that my brother shared the report with his friend. His friend received a C. However, I learned that specifics must be placed in each contract as to how your work would be used.

The final lesson I received from that project was to keep a paper trail. As it turned out, when I reached high school, I ended up with the same teacher who gave out the same book. I still had that report. I kept all work just like I keep every e-mail today. I rewrote the paper so that it was now in my current handwriting, and turned in my work. The best part of it was when I informed my brother that I had received an A on the report.  I believe that the teacher in questioned retired the next year. I loved having her.

The funny thing is that while I shared a lot of stories with my students, this was not one of them.

So these are just a few stories that my oldest brother taught me. All of my brothers taught me lessons, and I will share them with you at different times. I hope that if nothing else, they brought you a smile.

Thank you for meandering with me tonight.

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Self-pity toss it out

Posted on March 29, 2016 by Bob Martin

ApathyHave you ever had those days when you would like to just smack yourself as hard as possible and tell yourself to cut the sh*t and snap out of it? I have been in one of those funks over the last couple of days. I have, and maybe this is an introverted thing, sunk deep into myself and have been struggling to come back out. Now as I am starting to come back to the real world, I find that I am somewhat disgusted with myself for allowing things to go as far as they have. Some of the causes were outside of my control, but when all is said and done – all of it the emotional part is controlled by me. I gave myself permission to dive and I dove.

For those who do not know me personally, I work in education. I used to be in a classroom, but now I work in the district office with the title of Instructional Coordinator. This week we started SBAC. For those not familiar with this world of education, the SBAC is the big state test only now it is taken by a number of states. If you are as old as me think of the old Iowa tests that took days to complete and all classes stopped. This is that but on computers.

Part of my job is to coordinate this testing throughout our district. This is year four, and so far we have a great track record for being able to pull this off. While many of the teachers and administrators will tell you how they would rather have class time and not worry about this test, the entire staff ends up pulling together and getting it done. This year has been no exception. Regardless of peoples’ feelings, they worked with the students, prepared, scheduled, and now we are in the midst of it. So far (tapping the side of my head), it is going well.

Life in general is great for me. I have not hidden the fact that I have a beautiful wife and a loving relationship. We have a great daughter who will give us trouble at times, but nothing close to what my brothers and I used to pull (who am I kidding – still do). I love my volunteer time with the kids in confirmation and lecturing. Finally, I have my writing which I love only second to my family. As a matter of fact, since I have started a blog, my eczema has gone away. So why the funk?

I will be quite honest – I do not know. I could blame it on some issues at work. I could say the cause is a lack of sleep with the new workout program. I could say…..insert issue here, but none of them would be the answer. All I know is that over the last couple of days, I decided to have a solo pity party. Nobody else was invited. It was a Mary Tyler Moore party where only the host shows up.

Okay. So why am I writing about it?

I have to say I am writing about it because like most things, I write what I am thinking. Right now, I am totally ticked off with myself for allowing me to go there. I am embarrassed that I could think that anything going on with me should stop me worrying about others – should make me think my problems were bigger than they should have been.

I took a look at the news over the last few days. I know that people have written about how people like me have first world problems. I don’t think that that makes them any less important for the people dealing with them. However, I started really thinking about what is going on globally. I found that I had to open the little box I had placed myself in and look around. Then I put on my best Marine Corps Drill Sergeant and had a little talk with myself.

Over the last week I have been able to count at least 4 attacks. People lost loved ones, people were seriously injured, and people lost their lives. Yet here I am worrying about how some people react to me or treat me.

I look on Facebook and see posts from those have friended me, and I see real pain and hurt. I see people who are brave enough to put their sufferings out there in hopes that they can get support, prayers, and help others. I see people doing good things for others. I see so much more going on than what is happening in my life.

I took some time today to question what the hell was I so bummed out about? I could not come up with a mediocre answer, let alone a good one.

So today, I told myself to knock it off. I started looking at the good things that are going on. Not only in my life but the world. I watched the people of Brussels as they start to rebuild. I watch the families of those attacked in other places and pray for them. I told myself to stop thinking that you are as important as you think you are.

If in the past few days, you have had to deal with me, and I have not been myself – my apologies. I will try to do better. I am going to continue to work on improving myself each day and save the pity party for when I have something to feel sorry about.

I apologize that tonight was not light and funny. I will work on something better for tomorrow.

Thank you for meandering with me today.

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Single Child Syndrome (Part 2)

Posted on March 27, 2016 by Bob Martin

20160327_110849 (2)I have sat and read and reread the following post. These are the thoughts I dealt with today. I hesitate posting them because it may appear that I am uncaring about how so many are suffering. I guess some people might read this and think that it would be nice if these were the only problems that they had to worry about. But I also know a number of people with single children, and we have shared our thoughts about this subject. Plus, I write about what I know, so I am still going to post this because this is where my mind wandered today.

A while ago, I wrote about something I called the Single Child Syndrome. It dealt with our daughter having to learn to share friends and her parents. It is not that we have a brat or mean child. We have only one child. Due to this there are times where it becomes difficult for her to deal with more than one friend at a time. She does quiet well one-on-one, but when there is more than one, it can become difficult. I understand her since this is similar to what I go through as an introvert. I just have years of experience to help me get through it without having to walk off and sit on a stump – well sometimes.

Today though I am writing about a different issue with having an only child, and the fact that I was so wrong with my wishes as a child. This afternoon I felt, like I have had on a number of occasions, sad for our daughter. This feeling came as I once again realized that Mom and Dad cannot be her friends. Don’t get me wrong. I am normally okay with her understanding that there is a difference between friends and parents. I also get that I am writing about what people would call first world problems. However, as a parent there is a sense of longing when you realize that your child will be alone, as far as siblings go, forever.

There are times when being an only child can be a good thing. This morning, being Easter, we did our normal tradition. We attended the 7 a.m. Mass, and then went for breakfast. Since we don’t have multiple kids, we will sometimes break the rules and splurge. An ice cream sundae was ordered once the entire breakfast had disappeared. I thought about our parents trying to do that with my three brothers and me.  I already know that they would not have wanted to add four desserts to the bill.

By being an only child, she also gets to have our attention when she is talking. We don’t have to worry about what the child that is not in the room is doing (again speaking from experience from my house). We are able to do a little more when we go on vacation because we are only paying for one. We try very hard not to spoil her, but I am sure that we are slipping in some areas. So with these advantages, why would I feel sorry for her? She has everything.

I feel sorry for her because she is a solo child. There are many times when we are home that she wants to play, but we are working on school items. We try to convince her to read, play piano, or find a game to play on her own. This can happen only so often. Add to this the fact that we are older parents and sometimes, we just don’t have the energy that an 8 year-old possesses. We wear out quicker than her.

I also think of this when she gets in trouble. Being the youngest of four boys, it was easy to push off the blame on someone else. When something happens in our house, it is not that difficult to figure out who did it. She attempts to tell us that she didn’t do it, but when asked who did, you get a stare as she tries to answer that question. She has attempted to put the blame on the cat, but it is hard when we are talking about things like the fridge being left open.

This past week was difficult since we were on spring break. We went away so she was sans friend for the entire week. She did a great job hiking, helping out, and playing games, but I could tell that she was lonely at times. Again, we are her parents not her best friend. She wanted someone to talk with, giggle with, and play with.

Today was the hardest. After we came home, we did an Easter egg hunt in the backyard. She was cute as she roamed the yard looking for her eggs. It felt like something was missing. I looked later at my friends photos and could see their children racing to find the eggs before the others. For our daughter, that fun of doing with siblings was missing. Later, she waited out at the end of our drive for her friend across the street to come outside. She really wanted to play, and I watched her stand out there alone, waiting.

Again, I get it. Some people are going to ask what the real problem is here. So she has to learn to cope with being an only child and not having someone with whom to play. However, I watched this little person stand out there and I envisioned a young lady, and then a middle-aged adult. I don’t know how long my wife and I will last on this earth. Like every other child, there will come a time when she will lose us. Unlike many, she will not have a sibling to cling to, to hold, and to support. She will have to handle this on her own.

I know that our daughter is more fortunate than many. She is not wondering from where her next meal is coming. She is not about where she will sleep tonight. She is not having to hope that people are kind enough to give hand-outs in order for her to have clothes. She has the basic necessities of life covered and more. She doesn’t even complain. But I am her dad. I see this and it is a father’s prerogative to worry about his children, and I do.

I also stated at the start that I was sorry for my wishes as a child. As the youngest of four, I cannot tell you how many times that I wished that I could be an only child. We all fought for attention. There were times that my brothers pushed the blame of one incident or another on to me. I can remember thinking that the house was too full. Now, I, as I look back, realize that my wishes could not have been further from what I really wanted. I look back and realize how great it was to have those three brothers with whom to experience those years. We had each other’s back. There were times it was us against the parents. We supported each other when our dad passed, and now, I look forward to each and every time we get a chance to talk.

So now with this knowledge, I hope and pray that our daughter finds that one friend (or two) who will become a non-blood sister. I wish that as she enters her 20s that she finds that person who will be to her the same as my brothers are to me today and every day.

Oh well. Those are the things crossing my brain today.

Thank you for meandering with me today.

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A Scouting Spirit

Posted on March 26, 2016 by Bob Martin

In my last post, I spoke of what happens when you mess with a ghost. At the end of that writing, I promised that I would share a story that happened with both a ghost and my scout troop while stationed in the United Kingdom. One might have thought after my first story that I would have learned my lesson that pranks and spirits don’t always mix. I am happy to report that this one has a different ending.

I believe that this happened in the summer of ’94 possibly ’95. I had become involved with the Boy Scouts since the Air Force actually used your community involvement as part of your annual evaluation. My first summer, I and other leaders took a den of Webelos up to camp. Once my scouts promoted, I moved with them to the troop. My second trip to camp was as an Assistant Scout Master. I decided on this trip to have some fun.

Up until recently, the American Scouts used to camp at a British Scout Center near Sheffield. If you have never heard of this city, think of the movie Full Monty. It takes place in the same area. The cool thing about the UK is that every part of it has history. I decided to add a little bit of history for our camp.

At the end of our first day, the boys were zipped up into their tents. The travel, setting up camp, and go through the first day’s activities has pretty much worn them out. For leaders, this was great. It gave us some time to unwind and sort out all of the schedules for the coming week. Once we had completed as much as we could, I headed down the hill to the shower area.

I came back from the showers refreshed and ready for some fun. I noticed the Scout Master and other assistant had headed for their tents. The timing was perfect for what popped into my head. I positioned myself between the tents and called out to the kitchen area. “Can I help you?” That is all I needed to get the two other leaders to pop their heads out. They looked in the direction that I faced.

“Who are you talking to?”

“Um,” I paused.

“What?” The Scout Master asked.

“There was a person standing there a second ago. I looked down when I heard the zipper on your tent. When I looked up……he….vanished.” Both men exited their tents and were now standing next to me – staring.

“There’s nobody there,” the assistant spoke.

“I swear that there was somebody there a minute ago. I thought it was Ian. He was wearing an old British Scout uniform.” I let that sink in. “It was as if he was checking over things to make sure it was all good. Then…just…disappeared.”

Both of them walked over to the kitchen area looking. I had them.

The next morning when the boys were lingering over breakfast especially those with KP, I thought I would see if I could get them going. I quietly, or made it look like I was doing as such, I asked the assistant if he thought I should share about our “visitor.” That was enough to get the boys asking what I meant. I hesitated. I stated that I probably shouldn’t share. This ramped it up. The boys begged to know who had come to our camp the night before.

I explained to them what I had seen. Just as I had expected, the boys scoffed at the story. The laughed and told me that I was just trying to scare them. “Really?” I asked. “What time is it?”

The boys told me that it was 7, but they now seemed puzzled.

“If I was trying to scare you would I be telling you about this in the morning, or would I wait until it was dark?” I knew that this question would get them. I stopped at this point and let it sink in. The boys wanted to know more, but I told them I didn’t want them afraid. The visitor appeared to be friendly. We sent them off on their day and into their classes. I didn’t think anymore of the prank until lunch.

The first year boys came running back to camp. The young scouts did a program called ACE. Part of the program included an extensive tour of the entire center. The boys were excited to tell me that while on their tour, they had found a single grave. For some reason the name, Benjamin comes to mind. They did not know this person’s history, but they decided since he was buried at a scout center – he must be an old scout. I let them tell the rest of the troop. Our spirit had a name. He now took on a life of his own.

Later that second day, one of the boys came to report that he had lost his scout knife the night before. He told us that he had been sharpening it at the fire the night before, but now the knife was nowhere to be found. We asked where he put it after sharpening, his reply was “On the stones surrounding the fire.” We raked the ash but found nothing.

Benjamin was quiet the rest of the day, but he popped up again the next day. The boys came asking if we had picked up their football. We told them we hadn’t – we really hadn’t. They informed us that they had left the ball out between the tents when they left that morning – right in a walk way. We suggested everyone look in their tents. The owner of the ball produced it within a few minutes. He had an odd look on his face. When questioned by the boys, he told them that the ball had been placed back in his bag where it belonged. They decided that Benjamin must have put it away for them.

News started to spread to the other troops that we had a spirit watching over our camp. A couple of other scouts and leaders actually stopped by to hear the stories. The boys seemed to take pride in having their own ghost. They even started having their own sightings.

The next evening our older boys asked if they could stay up a bit past curfew. You see not only did we have a ghost, we had pets – a number of them. The camp had hedgehogs. Each evening after the boys quieted down, they would come up over a hill that formed the border of the scout center. The little critters would come through our camp down to the road where troops would place their bags of trash for pickup. They would feast and then head back through our camp on the way back home. The older scouts wanted to see the march.

We sat there at the fence waiting for them. We could hear them rustling through the weeds. Shortly, we saw a group of them come under the fence on their way to dinner. One of the boys, grinning from ear to ear, turned to say something about the hedgehogs. His words stopped before exiting his mouth. His eyes widened and his color drained. Everyone stopped and looked at him. We inquired what happened.

“I saw him.” He stated.

“Who,” I asked.

“Benjamin. He was standing there when I turned and then disappeared.” The scout’s face showed no sign of this being a joke. You could tell he meant it. I glanced around and saw one of our leaders moving to a tent. As best I could tell, it was his shadow being thrown over the kitchen from a lantern. I could never prove this.

We had parents come up for the final night’s campfire. They heard all about our friend. We went down to the campfire and had a great time. As we were marching back up the tiny hill to camp, the scouts were laughing, singing, joking, and just having fun. The next thing I knew, I was walking by myself. The scouts had gone quiet. I turned around to see them all standing still. The first told me they had seen a set of eyes glowing in the camp. I looked up at camp and saw what I believe they saw. One of the patrol flags had reflecting tape on it. The boys disagreed. The one thing they all agreed on was that they had all had the privilege to see Benjamin. Not one was afraid since he had been kind the entire week. I thought about telling them the truth on the ride home the next day.

The final morning came. I loved to get up before the rest of the campers, make a cup of coffee and sit in silence. It was the only time of the day when I could hear my thoughts. I rose as usual and started the coffee. I sat down to ponder the week that had just passed. That is when I saw a sign that maybe Benjamin wasn’t really my imagination.

Not only was I the first to rise, but I was also the last to bed. I believe that as a leader it was my job to ensure that everything was secure for the night. I loved to sit under the stars. Part of my nightly ritual was to check that the scouts hadn’t left anything lying about. Everything had been put away the night before. All was clean.

Yet, on this final morning, I sat down at the table to find it was not empty. There in the center of the table say a scout knife. It was clean, shiny, and sharp. It also bore the name of the scout who had reported a missing knife at the beginning of the week. It now sat on a table that had been empty when I went to bed the night before – the last person to go to bed.

I decided not to tell the boys that I had started the prank. I was no longer sure that it was a prank.

So once again, I learned not to mess with spirits. How about you?

Thank you for meandering with me tonight.

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Don’t Mess With Ghosts

Posted on March 25, 2016 by Bob Martin

ghosts handWe have gone deep in the last few postings, so tonight, tonight we will go a little light-hearted. I am going to share some memories with you which might help to explain why I like good horror movies and scary books. Stephen King was my favorite author growing up. I cannot remember how many times I fell asleep to his words. I became so enticed with the stories that I had a stockpile of them in my head. While in the UK, my scouts would beg for story after story well after the last flames of the fire would die out. I even shared the stories when my scouts, along with British scouts, went to the Czech Republic. It is amazing to know that stories can be translated and still work.

I looked for every opportunity to find ghosts. I looked within my own home (those stories will be shared later), and I looked for it in my home town. As I have mentioned in the past, I grew up in a small town in WNY. Youngstown has a rich history, and along with a rich history comes ghosts. The town was destroyed in the War of 1812 and rebuilt. The fort that protected the town has its own stories. Add to this the fact the area also was a big player in the Underground Railroad, and the mind can really start to go places.

The Ontario House, better known as the Jug, belonged to members of my family since pre-WWII until recent. My cousin will often tell me about the ghost hunts that happened in the upper floors of the place in the family areas. I know from my summer of cleaning the bar that voices could often be heard as I walked the halls. Nothing bad ever happened to me there, but I never felt as if I was alone in the place – especially the basement.

But tonight’s memories do not take place in the Jug, they take place next door. I do not know what business is currently in this little building, but when I worked there it was called RR/DD Pizza – more commonly referred to as Double R, Double D. The owner claimed to have invented Pizza Fingers. We had a great crew that worked there and the weekends were hopping in the kitchen. We partied a lot and worked hard. It was a great job to have as a first real job. I did everything from delivering pizzas, to cooking, waiting tables, cleaning dishes, and eventually quasi-assistant manager. But I also loved to mess with the others that worked there. Sometimes, it can backfire.

One night the restaurant was quiet. We stayed open late on Fridays and Saturdays so that patrons from the Jug and other establishments could come get food and coffee. We were in that lull between when the family customers had finished with us and the bar customers had yet to come. We were busy in the back getting as much cleaning done as possible so that we could leave right at close. We had the radio playing, for some reason the song, “We’re Not Gonna Take It” comes to my mind. As the song finished, we could hear somebody in the front calling out to us, “Hello?”

Todd and I looked at each other. Without speaking we were asking who was going to go take care of the customer. He was closer so I won. He went out front. I continued cleaning. He came back a few seconds later with a puzzled look on his face. “You did hear someone, right?” I nodded. “No one is out there.” We decided someone was playing games on us. It could have been the owner’s son – they lived upstairs. We went back to cleaning. The voice called out again. We both went to the front. Again, the restaurant was empty and the door stood still. We searched every corner to find the prankster. Nothing.

The next day, when I went back to work, Todd had shared the experience. I took it upon myself to add some “history”. I told them that I had done some research and found out that there was an escape tunnel between this building and the Jug. It had caved in at one point killing a number of people. I gave them their ghost.

A week later, our friend had reappeared. Perhaps a little upset that I had tried to invent him. It was a busy Friday afternoon. The restaurant was busy. We were cranking out pizzas, burgers, chicken wings, and such. The waitress had just filled an order of soft drinks and was leaving the soda fountain. On top of the dispenser sat a big box of straws opened at the top for easy dispensing. We also had trays filled with clean glasses next to it. The waitress was a good ten feet away from the dispenser when the box of straws went flying off the machine and into the seating area. A few trays of glasses followed suit. Most people in the restaurant just applauded thinking that an employee had knocked everything over. We knew better. Nobody was near the machine.

The next event dealt with the cellar. We didn’t use it for much. However, a few things were stored down there. One of the team went down, you had to go through the lady’s room to get there. The person went down into the cellar as she had done many times before. She came up white as a ghost. She swore that while down there, she heard someone talking to her. The door had also become stuck at some point. The guys all went down, but found nothing.

Finally, after sharing the stories with a friend, she gave me the solution. She told me how a spirit use to pull the food out of her fridge every time she left the house. She found that by telling the spirit to knock it off or she would get rid of him did the trick. They lived in harmony after that.

I can still remember that February afternoon. It was cold and I was waiting tables, so I wore a thick sweater. I went into the kitchen were my friend Todd was cooking. I told him I had the solution. He begged me to leave it alone. I smiled. He cringed. I looked to the ceiling and yelled, “Okay you! Whoever you are! You need to knock it off. You can live here but if you can’t knock off this crap, we will get rid of you one way or another.” Todd looked at me with a look of what have you done on his face. I looked over to my brother who happened to be the pizza cook that day. I don’t think anyone else saw the humor.

I walked around the cooler to the wine window. Yes, wine window. We had the reds in a window between the kitchen and the dining area. I counted the bottles and turned to walk back to the end of the glass cooler. As I hit the end, it happened. A gallon, I never said we had good wine, bottle of wine exploded. Everyone hit the deck. I could feel the shards of glass fill the back of my sweater.

It took a few seconds, but the staff in the kitchen finally stood up. The diners were still ducked down. At first we thought someone had thrown something through the front window. Everything out there was intact. I looked behind me to see the red wine dripping down from the window – no gallon bottle could be seen. I carefully took off the sweater where we found a good portion of the glass. The rest was on the floor.

I quietly swept up the glass. My buddy, Todd, just told me that it hadn’t been cool to threaten a spirit.

We never heard from him/her again. We all decided that the exploding bottle was the last prank for the ghost. It left us to be after that.

So that is when I learned, well not really, not to mess with ghosts. Tomorrow, I will tell you how we had a ghost take over a scout camp one summer. Baden Powell had its own spirit.

Thank you for meandering with me tonight.

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The Man in the Window

Posted on March 23, 2016 by Bob Martin

Collage 2016-03-23 21_54_07Tonight as I went to put our daughter to bed, I ended up looking at my reflection in the window as I closed her curtains. This is not a normal step for getting her ready, but since we rearranged her room, I stood there looking at myself. After making a few scary faces and even turning the light off to make sure nobody was standing in the back yard, yes – I can scare myself, I stopped and took a good look at the man who stared back. It made me wonder. Am I the best person I can be? Or on an even simpler level, am I the best dad I can be?

Once I had her all tucked in and rearrange the big pile on her floor. I sat down in the chair in her room and listened as I could hear her falling off to sleep. The sounds of her breath started taking that slow, rhythmic sound of someone going between wake and sleep. Every once in a while a question would pop out, or I could hear her reach for her cat. The whole time, the question kept popping in to my head. Before people think I am writing this just to get compliments, don’t you, who are parents, ask yourselves the same question? Am I the best parent I can be?

The wondering and thinking made me go back to the only parent I can really use as a comparison, my dad. Yes, I could have said my mom, but there is definitely a difference between the two parents so I will stick with the same gender. Am I as good as my dad? Would he look at me and think, I raised this one right?

I am going to be very honest with you, my dad set the bar high. I know that many people will say that about their parents. But my father knew what it meant to be a dad and he did it well. I am not sure that I can ever live up to the standards he set. If I can make it at least half-way, then I know he will be smiling when we meet again. Now mind you, part of the reason the bar was so high is partially due to the place and time in which we were living. However, nature only had a small part in making this man the dad he was.

I also want it known that my dad was not a saint – nope. I think I could see the horns tipping the halo at times. He like to have fun, joke, encourage, teach, and most importantly he like to live. Just to prove his halo wasn’t always on straight, I can remember one evening when he pulled a fast one on my mom.

Our youth group, the Niagara Frontiersmen, had just finished our annual banquet. My dad called in to work, he worked midnights, and I believe – my brother can correct me – said he had car problems or something. Another adult even got on the phone and claimed to be the police office helping him. He then invited the instructors over to our house for a night cap. He walked into the house, looked at everyone and asked if they had a great night. When they replied in the affirmative, he said, “Great. Goodnight.” He then left my mom with a house full of people. I still hear about that night.

It is not just his pranks that I remember. I know how much he cared for my mom, my brothers, and me. My dad worked for the railroad. The first one I remember him being with was Lehigh Valley and then Conrail. He was a yardmaster. I used to love that dad would take me to work with him. I would sit high in the tower looking over the entire yard. My toy trains were big, loud, and ran on diesel. The fact that he took me to work was not the part that I remember. He was good at his job and had been offered a promotion. The promotion meant us moving to Pennsylvania. This would have been great for him and us. However, one of my older brothers is mentally handicapped. My dad and mom discussed the promotion. They turned it down. They knew that the services provided for my brother in WNY would not be the same in Pennsylvania. My parents put my brother before them. My dad turned down the promotion.

My dad did not only give up a promotion, he also gave up his time. When my brothers and I were young, he looked for some type of group or organization for us. After all, having four boys home all summer was enough to drive a mom up the wall. He looked for something but couldn’t find anything that he felt would work. So he decided to start his own youth group and not only have something for us but for so many more kids.

Dad was a member of the local volunteer fire company. Since he had had a heart attack, he was not an active member at the time of his search for a youth group. He was able to convince the firemen that they needed a Drum and Bugle Corp to march in front of them in all the local parades. They gave in and the Red Raiders were formed. Our town had its version of the band at the end of “A Music Man.” While he did not actually teach any of the instruments or marching, he taught the kids through his willingness to work hard for the group, his spend time with us, and his ability to just listen.

The group grew and we merged with two other corps to form the Frontiersmen. At certain times the group had more than 150 kids. We no longer were limited to parades. We now toured the North Eastern part of the country in the summer. We performed all over that area. During all the travels my mom and dad were right there. My dad ran the group and mom supported him.

I think the thing I remember most was my quiet times with him. I could sit and share my writing with my dad. I never felt as if he was just patronizing me. He listened to the stories. He asked questions. He made me want to get better with the writing. I remember working in the garage with him; the first time I had heard him call me his little Socrates. I remember being with him on the last night he was in our house. The night we called for an ambulance.

I look back and see a man who was a Dad. He worked hard for his family. He gave of himself to not only make his sons better people, but as many other young people as possible. So this takes me back to the beginning of this writing. I stood there staring at this man in the window. Was this man as good of a dad as the one who raised him?

I don’t have an answer for that question for the person is still a work in progress. I live in a different place and time than the man on the pedestal. I will not be able to answer the given question for a long time. I will work each and every day to live up to the expectations that were given to me. I may not make the same level, but I will be a Dad. I am thankful each and every day for the time I had with him. I hope that my daughter will feel the same.

Thank you for meandering with me tonight.

 

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O dierbaar België, ons hart zijn u gewijd

Posted on March 22, 2016 by Bob Martin

Belgium flagThe title of this post translates to, “O dear Belgium, our hearts are dedicated to you.” These words come from the Belgium national anthem, but today the words seem to express the sentiment of the world to this small country. Today this country, without want, took the spotlight as they were the latest in a number of countries to suffer attacks by those wanting to spread fear and terror throughout the globe.

This country sits between France and Germany and has many times been a highway for one country to attack another. Today, though, there was no army marching through on its way to a bigger prize. This morning a few extremists attacked the country. Innocent people just trying to get to work felt the wrath of a group that has declared war on, well most of the world. Like so many I sat watching the news coverage and wondered how much longer must man act this way.

If there can be a bright spot to all of this, it is how the world can come together, at least for now, to unite after these tragedies. Leaders of different countries stood by Belgium today as they spoke their support and pledged their allegiance. The world seemed to be one people as we stood against evil. We saw a similar reaction back in November. The people of the world all stood with the French citizens as they tried to understand what had happened in the City of Love. It seems that when these dark days happen, we find a brightness in how people want to help each other out.

Today, the Prime Minister of Belgium called it a “black day” for the country. There is no denying this. However, one does not have to look far to see that it was also a day in which the world could see the Belgians for who they are, people who care about others. Search Twitter for #opendoors and you will see how, almost immediately, people near the attacks started taking care of each other. Belgians were opening up their homes to others who were stranded and could not leave due to all of the lock downs. News story after news story popped up about how the people of the country were reaching out to help each other. Yes, it was a dark day for the country, but the people of that country started to raise a light and show who they were.

Tonight the news showed photo after photo of how different countries were showing their solidarity with Belgium as one landmark after another was lit in honor of this small country. Even the tallest building in Abu Dhabi showed that this Arab city was saying enough.

This sense of unity after each attack from 9/11 and after is amazing. We do not see anger; we see people helping each other. Race, religion, gender, nothing is asked before aid is offered. It is as if we get a glimpse of how things could be. When we stand together, we show those willing to do evil that they will not win.

But how do we keep that unity going. For it is when we stand as one world in which we are strongest. I am not naïve to think that all countries would be willing to stand together, but I do believe that the number is high. The problem is that it will only take days before today’s news drops from the headlines. People go on with their lives as they must. The unity dies away and we once again become a globe of nations. It is normal – it is life. However, we open ourselves up for the evil to continue.

I also felt a sense of fear rising up from my soul. At what point do we become so accustomed to this that we stop watching, stop worrying, and stop feeling. I watched my Facebook feed since I have friends who live over there. I waited to see news that they were safe. Fortunately, they all appear to have been nowhere near the explosions. Then something else caught my eye, or I should say that a lack of something caught my attention. I did not see Facebook profiles being covered over with the Belgium flag. If you remember in November, after the Paris attacks, within hours FB was decorated with the French colors. Not today. Today, I saw business as usual. Democrats and Republicans were arguing about the upcoming elections. Posts about daily life filled the feed. Please know that I am not criticizing people, but I am wondering if the shock of these attacks are starting to fade to the point that we don’t talk about them. Come next year when March 22 rolls around, will people stop and remember those who didn’t give their lives but had it taken from them? Outside of Belgium will anybody remember?

What worries me even more is the number of terrorist attacks that have been carried out in Africa over the last few months, and yet we are lucky to hear anything on the evening news. We do not hear leaders speaking out about them. Have we already become so accustomed to these events that we do not even stop to watch, worry, and care?

So today some bad events took place because of a small group of people. Today, these people were allowed to spread fear. Today, we got to see the good in the people who were attacked.

The world stood with Belgium today. Let us continue to stand together as one world tomorrow, the next day, and the day after that. I am not asking that we give up our nationalities and become one country. I am wondering how to get our leaders and the leaders throughout the world to finally come to an understanding that the world must work together to bring peace. For we will never have peace as long as the nations of this globe do not learn how to work together to bring an end to this and the rest of the fighting.

We need to find the answers. In the meantime, O Belgium, our hearts are dedicated to you.

Thank you for meandering with me tonight.

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Why are We Afraid to Ask For Help?

Posted on March 21, 2016 by Bob Martin

yardm destek ilgiWhy is it that people find it difficult to ask for help? I work with a large number of people throughout our school district. My job is to help people with programs and other issues. I have found on a number of occasions, people will contact me only after their frustration level has reached an all-time high. When I ask why they didn’t call earlier, I hear that they didn’t want to bother me. I believe, from my own personal experiences that they just wanted to be able to do it on their own.

I used to question why people would not ask for help. That is until I took my walk this morning. I love my morning walks, when I can take them, because I allow my thoughts to be free and go where they want to go. Today, I started walking down the street of help and why people – why I – find it so hard to ask for it.

I wrote a while ago about how I was going to get into shape. I was disgusted with where I had allowed myself to travel in the health arena. I was going to start taking the steps that I had done a year ago, but this time I would not quit. I was going to do it. Not with a group, not with a partner, not with my love, it was all about me. I was not going to ask for help. As a matter of fact, I have had friends and colleagues offer me help through invites to join groups. I turned them down. I would do it the same way I had put the weight on – alone. The more I walked, the more I realized that there are many aspects in my life in which I should ask for help but refuse. Why?

The answer actually came to me in the way I treat our daughter. Often times when I see something in my own personality that causes concern, I wonder how I help our daughter to not have them. I want her to be able and willing to not only ask for but accept help when she needs it. The more I walked the more I thought. She does do this, so life is good – nope.

I have always wanted our daughter to also be independent and confident. Wow. This gets so confusing. I started thinking about my reactions when she asks for help. I always ask her if she has tried and done her best at her attempts. I tell her that she should be able to do these things. Now I don’t turn her away from all requests, but I do ask questions first. Am I actually starting her on the road to now being willing to ask for help down the road? Of course, I always look back to see why I am the parent I am.

I started thinking about my own childhood. I can remember my parents giving me the same questions. My parents cared for us, they wanted us to be strong, and they wanted us to independent. Hmmm. They never once told me that I could not ask for help, but when I did, I was made to look at my attempts or if I even had attempted that for which I needed help. It made me start to think that if I asked for assistance that I hadn’t tried hard enough. I believed that needing to ask for help was a sign of failure.

It didn’t help that I grew up Catholic. I can remember being told that “God helps those who help themselves.” Even though I was told to pray when I needed help, those words would pop into my head. I thought that God wouldn’t help me if I hadn’t figured out how to do it now. Now as a grown Catholic, I try to give a different message to my confirmation students, and from here forward I will change my answers to my daughter.

I think back to different parts of my life and wonder, had I asked for help would things have been different. Would I have been better at the different jobs that I had taken on? Would I have been able to publish more books? Would I not be a person who has to be in so deep before I am able to ask for assistance?

So I am going to try to do things differently. When our daughter asks for help, I will sit with her and ask her to show me what she has done. I will not send her away to try harder. I will watch her as she works and give suggestions where needed. I will walk with her as she progresses. My hopes are that as we work together, she will need less help. She will learn as we work together and remember how to do things. I will help her learn the confidence and independence not by sending her away telling her to try harder, but perhaps by giving her the tools and instruction she needs. I won’t make her feel as if she hasn’t given her best, but help her find her best.

As for me, I am going to take the first step. My wife has offered to work with me to get in shape. She has done it on her own and has the knowledge and strength to do this. I will learn from her. Yes, we are going to be using one of the health products to help us, but we are doing it together. I am not going to do this on my own. I will allow someone else to help me as I work toward my goals.

Now I do want to state that I do believe that there is a big difference between asking and accepting help and just having others do it for you. I will make sure that I show the difference to our daughter as we move through life. In the end, I hope that I can show what accepting the help of others can do, and we raise a child who is strong, confident, independent, and knows how to ask for assistance when needed.

So that is where my brain went during my walk this morning. Thanks for meandering with me.

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