Monthly Archives: August 2009

Dear Dad

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Dear Dad,

Today marks 40 years since you left the world far too soon. You were 55 and I was 15. I climbed to the summit of Indian Head Mountain in the Catskills today to honor you and our relationship, a relationship that continues to this day. It is not a given that death ends the relationship between father and son (or daughter).

You died on a Saturday afternoon and I remember the exact moment because I felt it, physically felt it. I thought about it during the climb today.

The hospital called that morning to tell Mommy you would not make it through the day. I remember being upset and angry with her for not being by your side. She said you were in a coma and wouldn’t know the difference anyway. In retrospect, I don’t think she had the ability to handle the moment. All I know is you should not have died alone, coma or no coma. Anyway, it was around 1:40 in the afternoon when me, Pascal and Bobby decided to walk into Nyack and buy some soda pop. It’s about a 20 minute walk. We were well on our way when all of a sudden the air went out of me. I stopped walking and leaned over, hands on my knees. I knew. I said, “He just died.” Bobby and Pascal looked at me and said, “No, Pete, he’ll be okay. Don’t worry.” We went to the store, bought our soda pop and walked home. I went into the kitchen and Mommy was at the counter preparing food. She turned and said, “Peter, it happened.” You had died. You time of death was 1:53.

The climb today was grueling, but I didn’t care. I was glad to be alive to do it. I summited around 12:40 and put one of your twigs on the summit. When I visit your grave I collect the small branches and twigs that fall from the Oak tree next to you. It dawned on me some years ago that by now your body is part of the soil and thus part of the tree so by having these twigs with me I have you with me. I leave one on every summit.

On the descent I thanked God for giving me an ample ass because when my feet slip out from under me on wet rock and I land on my butt it’s like falling into the arms of a loved one.

I miss you terribly, Daddy. I’d give up the rest of my life in a heartbeat to hug you one more time. In the meantime, I’m doing the best I can. I’m far from perfect as I’m sure you know. But one of the many things that was special about you was you never expected me to be perfect or wanted me to be perfect. All I had to do to be loved by you was be me, be Peter.

I hope we meet again. I hope there is something after this life and if there is, if it doesn’t include being with you again, I’m not interested.

I hope you are safe and happy and loved wherever you are.

Always you son love you his whole wide world,

Peter

Always for Dad

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I am 24 hours or so from going into the Catskill Mountains and climbing to the 3,573-foot summit of Indian Head Mountain in honor of my Dad. Tomorrow marks the 40th anniversary of the day he left this world and I hear Indian Head is one of the tougher climbs. I’m scared, but I’m game.

This morning the sun is out, comforting in its presence. I am listening to a gentle duet between piano and cello and I am feeling love for the world I am in, a kind of gentleness aimed at everyone, even those I don’t like. I’m not sure where this comes from and am not inclined to figure it out lest that effort lose me the moment I’m in. My smiling mind drifts from place to place, my writer’s mind not caring what others might think of these pastel, peace-loving sentences. Those that might cringe in their presence are probably most in need of them.

This morning too I find myself thinking of Billy Damrow, my first childhood friend in my heart (we were able to safely confess our love of books to each other) and Sarah S, a woman I once loved and love and hope is well. Like so many of us, her history wounded her so badly she could not, at the time anyway, experience herself for being the truly extraordinary person she was and, I have little doubt, still is.

Why does my mind center on these people today? I don’t have any idea. It just does.

As for tomorrow’s climb, let me say I’ve read up on it. There is another summit near Indian Head and it is said some hikers like to bag both peaks in one day, so, of course, I’m pondering that possibility. I am just getting back into shape and there is a well worn and highly accurate piece of training guidance that says when you are getting back into shape don’t let your head get ahead of your body. I’ll have to watch that.

I am expecting the beginning of tomorrow’s hike to be similar to the recent Kaaterskill climb. The horrors will hit early and hard, but the hell with’m. I’ll keep going anyway – for Dad. Always for Dad.

One Down, Two to Go

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Recorded Journal: I’m out of breath, my heart’s pounding, I’m pouring sweat. I’m only 50 yards into this and I know I’m going to die. I don’t know what it’s going to be, my heart’s going to blow out, or someone’s going to shoot me. I know I’m going to die, what the fuck am I doing this for? I’m 50 yards in at the beginning of my walk, this day, August 12th, the anniversary of my mother’s suicide. And I knew I was going to hit this torment. There’s only one thing I can do in response to it and that can be summed up in two words: keep going.

And so began yesterday’s successful climb of the 3,655-foot Kaaterskill High Peak in the Catskill Mountains. One down, two to go. I’ve decided to climb three Catskill Mountains in specific dates this month. Yesterday marked 17 years since my mother, Virginia, ended her life. The 24th marks 25 years since I was held-up and shot in the head and the 16th marks the 40th anniversary of the biggest hit I’ve ever taken in life, the death of my father at age 55. I was 15.

I knew all hell would break loose in the early going. Fears and anxieties swirling around me and in me like whirling dervishes. You have two choices when they saturate your being like this, wait them out, or disengage from your task and, in yesterday’s case, go home. I would be lying to you if I said there were not moments when my grip on the challenge of summiting was as tenuous as a tightrope walker trying to regain his balance. There were moments when giving in almost won the day. But not yesterday.

Fortunately I had Charley with me. Just over two years old and bursting with life and joy Charley. Sleek black with a hint of chocolate in his coloring, he walked beside me and was great company. Believe me, we did quite a bit of talking. And if you are one of those sadly misguided folks who think dogs don’t dog, think again. They may not use words, but believe me, they can talk up a storm. Charley can.

Speaking of storms. I began the climb from a trailhead on Platte Cove Road at 10:30 a.m. on the nose. By 11:30 the experience was beginning to improve.

Recorded journal: The fear has begun to ebb and the sweat is now pouring from the climb and I always feel better when the sweat’s pouring. Somehow it lets me know I’m wedded to the world I’m living in.

By 12 noon all of me is emotionally, spiritually and physically underway. At 12:10 there is thunder, then light rain, then not so light rain, then buckets of rain, and I didn’t give a rat’s ass because at this point it was me, Charley and the mountain all rolled into one and I am loving every minute of my experience and all the world is alive and rich with magic and beauty. The forest in the pouring rain contains ineffable forms of wonder in sights, sounds and scents and if you let yourself go, you indelibly and gloriously connected to the world you are in.

It was nearly 3:30 when I summited. It was still raining, but the sun was shining in my life.

Thoughts On Meeting Bruce Springsteen

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A close friend of mine recently asked me why I want to meet Bruce Springsteen. I can’t do the answer justice.

The short answer is Bruce Springsteen helped me save my life and I’d like to tell him and thank him in person. However, my words can’t reach the complete answer. It lives too deep in my heart and soul.

As regular readers of this blog know, I was held-up on the streets of Brooklyn in 1984 and shot in the head at point blank range. The bullet remains lodged in the brain to this day. The 24th of this month marks the 25th anniversary of the shooting. It is not a depressing day. In a way it’s my second birthday.

Less than a year after being shot I was held-up again at gunpoint. I retreated into seclusion for a year. It was then that Springsteen’s music went from songs I loved to songs that helped keep me alive. I love a wide range of music, but for that entire year, Springsteen was it. There was something in his songs that filled me with life, reminded me life was still there and worth living again – like it used to be.

I did not understand at the time how powerfully and completely his songs connected to life in part by connecting me to chapters in my life. They reminded me I was alive and even had value to boot. Our histories were linked in a way that brought me comfort. My grandparents were from Ocean Grove and Rumson, New Jersey. Every summer meant Asbury Park, the boardwalk, and beaches that seemed to last forever. His songs brought me back to the days I had family, days ended weeks after my father died when I was 15 and I was disowned weeks later. His songs brought me back to the days my father was alive, and the world was safe. In a way, they brought back my father.

Moreover, his songs knew the taste of hard times. The lyrics of “Jungleland” reminded me – and still remind me – of the days I lived in the streets, my head packed with dreams struggling to get out. “Kids flash guitars just like switch-blades hustling for the record machine, the hungry and the hunted explode into rock’n’roll bands” and, my mind adds, writers and poets and painters and sculptors, inventors and teachers and always always dreamers.

As to what would I say to him (and his band) given the chance? I’d say much the same thing I said to the police officers from Brooklyn’s 84th Precinct on the 20th anniversary of the shooting. When the officers of the 84th Precinct found me staggering about and bleeding to death, blood spurting from my head, they threw me in the back of one of their cars and rushed me to the hospital, just in time.

I’d tell him that were it not for people like him I would never have searched for and found my birth-mother. She would have been able to die in 2001 knowing where her son was and knowing her son loved her. Were it not for people like him, I would not have lived to see my two grandsons. Were it not for people like him I would not be alive to help others, other brain injury survivors, crime victims, and more. I would not have been able to ride my bicycle 1,000 miles around the state to bring hope to others. And there’s more to thank him for, like how his songs helped me stay in motion in the days following my adoptive mother’s 1992 suicide.

Springsteen and the East Street Band are playing in Saratoga Springs on August 25, one day past the 25th anniversary of the shooting. That would be perfect timing. The 84th Precinct on the 20th anniversary, Springsteen on the 25th. Sounds like justice to me.

One other point to make. Some close to me say I deserve the chance to thank him in person. Maybe. But I think it is actually the other way around. I think he deserves to be thanked in person. After all, he’s one of the people who helped me stay alive.

peterkahrmann@gmail.com



Sarah Palin’s An Insult to Dogs

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Sarah Palin calls herself an attack dog with lipstick. A number of others refer to her as an attack dog. I don’t see why we need to insult our canine brethren like this. They do not deserve it. In fact, with rare exceptions, our canine brethren are kind, loyal, loving and honest. What more they are rarely picky eaters. Now I’m hard pressed to link the words kind, loyal, loving and honest to Palin, at least not the public Palin. In fairness to Ms. I-Can-See-Russia-Clearly-Now, I have no reason to believe she is a picky eater, publicly or privately.

What I do know is she is a legend in her never mind and has joined the out-of-our-minds chorus that’s running around claiming that a public healthcare option would give our government the ability and right to cause death by denying treatment. Are you shitting me? Do you have any idea how much death and health destruction has been caused by the denial of care inflicted on citizens by private insurance companies? President Obama is simply smart enough and, by the way, kind, loving, loyal and honest enough, to know that if a real public healthcare option was available to the American people, private healthcare insurance companies would find themselves right sized, poor things.

The bottom line here is those fighting against the public healthcare option are fighting for the we-can-deny-any-treatment-we-want-to healthcare companies in an effort to keep the wallets of all those mentioned in this sentence brimming with bucks.

Palin is simply a bizarre and mildly entertaining whack job who should do one of three things: shut up, go on the Jerry Springer show, or, given the fact she can see Russia from where she lives, move there. Wait! There is one other thing she should do. She should leave our canine brethren alone.