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About Peter Sanford Kahrmann

Writer, disability rights advocate, civil rights advocate.

A Sober August

For me, August is a month of right-sizing, clarity-producing memories, some glorious, some not.

My daughter, Jennifer, was born this day in 1977. The day she was born, the moment I saw her for the first time, well, life doesn’t give us any moments more glorious. 

Tomorrow, August 11, marks three years to the day that Charley came into my life. Non-animal lovers, the poor sods, won’t get this, but animals are family too and Charley is wonderful, and often wide awake given his inexplicable love for eating coffee beans.

And then there are the other memories: my mother’s suicide on August 12, 1992, my father’s death on August 16, 1969, and the day I was shot on August 24, 1984.

Before I got sober the latter three dates drove me into the ground every August. They don’t do that any more. There is no doubt that August 12 and August 16 mark perhaps the worst days of my life. I’d go through the shooting a dozen times if doing so would turn back the clock and spare my parents their end.

In sobriety the days that mark their death and the one that marks the shooting bring me to a place of quiet, gentle, pensiveness. I know they are near me, I can feel them. I am proud to be their son, and I am unflinchingly grateful for the time we had together. And, I know, that while death takes the person from the world, it never takes them from our hearts.

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And So It Goes

Having to move to a new home is no joke, no laughing matter, not easy. There are all kinds of reasons for this, not the least of which is having to say goodbye to your home, this being all the more difficult when it is a home you’d much rather not leave.

There are times too, at least for me, when I find myself in a kind of on-fire fury at the circumstances. The old street blood simmers than boils and I find myself in admittedly juvenile fashion wishing someone would start a fight with me so I might be allowed to demolish, if not the reality of current circumstances, something, or someone. Obviously I would not actually do this, though if someone were to start with me they’d be brought to heel so quickly there would be ample time for me to explain,  while we were waiting for law enforcement to arrive and lock the shit up, the depth of gratitude they should be feeling by offering a detailed explanation of the family of bones in their body that remain unbroken because I trade my sobriety in for no one.

Anyway, the beat and the days roll on. And so it goes.

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For the Love of Pencils

No doubt I am one of the many adults who forgot how wonderful it is to write with a pencil. How could I have  forgotten this?  Writing with a pencil connects the writer to the earth. The freshly sharpened wood releases the scent of Cedar which rises chanting to the nose.  The ability to erase and rebuild, then erase and rebuild again, the words and sentences so alive I swear they have a pulse; they breathe!

Like many writers I am quite particular about what I write with, especially when it comes to my journal and my work. My friend Michael has used the same Lamy Safari fountain pen for more than 20 years now. Some years back a Parker fountain pen wedded itself to my writing hand until the nib was damaged, no replacement nib was quite right. Since then I have been on an on-gain off-gain search for a replacement. I’ve skipped from pen to pen hoping to find the magic one that seamlessly connects my body and soul to the words and page.

And then, just recently, I read that John Updike wrote in pencil and this reminded me that John Steinbeck, the writer closest to my soul, wrote in pencil. Eager to learn more about the pencils Steinbeck used I did a bit of research and learned he wrote with  the Mongol 480 Blackwing pencil. There is no doubt the Blackwing was a remarkable pencil and the story of its demise, it was no longer manufactured after 1998, is, at least for this writer, rather heartbreaking. What Blackwings are left in the world are expensive.  I recently saw a set of 11 Blackwing pencils selling on eBay for $195!

Further research revealed some remarkable facts about pencils.  The pencil owes its very existence to an ancient writing instrument used by the Romans called a stylus. The stylus was a thin metal rod that left a legible mark on parchment.  Some styluses were later made with lead and despite the fact common parlance today refers to pencils as lead pencils, pencils use graphite, not lead. In fact, lead has rarely seen the light of day in a pencil since 1564 when a large graphite deposit was discovered in England. In 1662, pencils were mass produced for the first time  in Nuremburg, Germany.

In 1812, a Concord Massachusetts cabinet maker named William Monroe is largely credited with making the first wood pencils in America. Not incidentally, author Henry David Thoreau, another Concord native, was reputed to be a fine pencil maker in his own right.  Early American pencils were made from Eastern Red Cedar, a durable wood found in the Southeastern United States, Tennessee in particular. Later, the American pencil industry was launched in full by The Joseph Dixon Crucible Company,  now known as Dixon Ticonderoga.

With my interest in pencils heightened I subsequently learned that the Japanese make the best pencils today and of those, the Palomino Graphite HB pencil sold by a delightful company called California Republic is the pencil given credit for taking the helm from the prestigious Blackwing. The first draft of this essay and all attending notes were written with a Palomino Graphite HB.

You may recall that for a long time, since the 1890s in fact, pencils were painted yellow. There is an intriguing and rather delightful reason for this. Years ago the best graphite came from China and in China yellow is linked to royalty and respect, thus the yellow pencil.

Anyway, I have to go. Time to sharpen some pencils, my writing tools, I assure you, from here on out.

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The Tough Guy Wannabe

Years ago I was watching a guest on the Johnny Carson Show (God, I miss that show) talk about this one member of the tabloid press that grabbed any chance possible to bad mouth him in ways that were, when he cited some examples, about as childishly condescending and tough guy wannabe (a wimp) in tone and content as one can get. Clearly someone with way too much time on their hands.

Anyway, Carson asked his guest who the member of the tabloid press was. The guest, who, like me, had a heft dose of street in his make-up, smiled widely and said, “Ya see, this punk is just looking for attention. He’s nothing more than a lonely little rodent that I bet no one likes not even his Mommy. So…” he went on, turning to look in the camera, “I ain’t ever gonna mention your name or say who you are you are punk ‘cause you’re not getting any attention hanging on to my coattails. But you can meet me outside any time and we can settle things that way.”

And so it is that I have a similar childish, condescending, tough guy wannabe,  who from time to time, usually when the blog is about some tough time I am going through on the personal front, will write in spewing idiotic crap like, you’ve had your brain injury 20 years already, Peter, whatsamatta? Don’t have your act together? Actually, let me bring this person up to speed.  It will be 26 years this August 24 since the injury.  This person’s attacks usually involve a kind of slithering demeaning commentary about the brain damage I live with.

I have some rather instinctive responses to this person. First, I pretty much know who it is. Even though they will never leave their name – another characteristic of cowardice – who it is is rather obvious. Second, were their behavior not, when you really look at it, truly sad, I’d likely find it amusing. Third, were it not for the fact their behavior is truly sad, I am sure a sly smile would emerge on my face  and I, like the Carson guest above, would be inclined to invite him to meet me outside to settle things which would require, at most, 30 seconds of my time.

Having said all this, my overwhelming response to this person is one of compassion. And  I do not mean this in a sarcastic or snide way. The compassion for this person is real. And if it is who I think it is, this is someone who has lived through some brutal things in life, and while the way he is managing it is not healthy, and he is certainly accountable for his choices and his behavior, none of this makes him less deserving of compassion.

While I would gladly sit down over coffee with this person and talk, I will not, ever ever ever, publish their nastiness, or mention the name I know is theirs.

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One Indelible Truth

And so the hunt for a new home continues. I am not at all unique when I say not knowing where you will live next brings a formidable amount of stress that is, quite frankly, exhausting.

The other day I asked Christine to take my house plants to her house so they’d be safe. She was sweetly reluctant, rightly pointing out that the presence of plants was calming and uplifting. True, I said, “But keep in mind that the whole process of going through an experience like this is like a fire fight; you’re not going to get through it without being bloodied, without being damaged, wounded. The thing is you keep going, keep fighting.” In other words, allow the experience, and all that comes with it.

Not easy. And, in a word, terrifying.

It is striking to me, though not at all surprising, that the large majority of those reaching out to me are people who, like me, are in recovery and the loved ones of same. With some exceptions, there has been pretty much silence from all others. Nothing unique there. And it’s okay. People are people with, like me, frailties and limits. So goes the wonderful and perplexing world of humanity.

There is one indelible and glorious truth that is by no means lost on me. I am alive and therefore afforded the privilege of going through this experience – one day at a time.

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