Author Archives: Peter Sanford Kahrmann

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About Peter Sanford Kahrmann

Writer, disability rights advocate, civil rights advocate.

STOKES FOREST JOURNAL: EXCERPT #1

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Note to the reader: I celebrated my 55th birthday this October 2 in a cabin in New Jersey’s Stokes State Forest. My father and I went there when I was a boy. I arrived on September 29. His 55th birthday was his last birthday, so it seemed fitting that I spend mine in a place where he and I shared precious time. I will put some excerpts of my journal writing here in the blog. Before I end this note to you, let me say one more thing. If you love someone, don’t forget to tell them. And, if you love someone and find yourself afraid, don’t let the fear scare you. Love them anyway.

Sept. 29 – 5:24 p.m.

In cabin 6 at Stokes.

I am arrived. The cabin is small and beautiful….As I unpacked the car I had several bursts of handclapping. I was overwhelmed with joy – and proud. As I settled in, I realized that coming to a place like this is something my mother never would have done. This tells me very clearly that there was a part of my father she was unable to know. Very likely several parts.

As any reasonable reader might guess, you can’t come on a trip like this without forgetting something. I forgot a pillow and I could care less. It is the quiet I want to encounter, the quiet I want to learn from. It’s interesting how my instinct is to run from it, drown it out if you will. But if I do that, I am, in a very real way, running from the relationship the real me has with the world as it was intended. If there is a God, I doubt very much he intended us to develop television and video games so that we might more thoroughly fulfill his hopes for us, that’s for sure.

7:27 p.m.

I am getting glimpses of what I hope for here. Moments ago, I thought of ghosts and if they were real and I hoped beyond measure that my Dad’s ghost would appear. Then, as I entered the main room from the kitchen after having these thoughts, it hit me. I am trying to bring him back. I come here to bring him back. I do not think me silly for this; I think me a son.

There are moments beyond words, beyond the reach of thought. Moments where what to do is to be. I am blessed to have made it to 55. Given the shooting, homelessness and probably more close calls than I realize and remember, I am blessed to be here in Stokes Forest with my father.
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A WORD (OF CAUTION) TO THE WISE

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Over the next day or two I will publish a piece here in the blog about my stay in Stokes State Forest in New Jersey. But before I sit down to work that out, I wanted to make a bit of an announcement. Over the past year or so I have tolerated people making some slanderous, and I mean slanderous statements about me. The toll it has taken on me personally and professionally and on my health for that matter has been huge. I have withheld my fire on the legal front for several reasons. I will mention some but not all. First, there is a friend of mine that would get caught in the crossfire and I would rather absorb the blows than do a single solitary thing to wound him. Second, I am trying to find peace and serenity in my life and so I would prefer to avoid firing legal rounds or bringing things to the media. I do not want to wound or hurt anyone.

But here’s the thing. Over the past week I was told that an individual told a blatant and dangerous lie; one that at first glance looks like it was intended to wound my friend referenced above, yet, on further inspection poses far greater risk of damaging me. Let it be known that I have had enough. My sobriety is the most precious thing in my life. I know that anything I put before my sobriety I will lose. But I am no fool when it comes to the legal front and underestimating my capacity to pull that trigger if the lying continues would be foolish.

All I want in life is to write, help as many people as I can discover that they are valuable and wonderful even if they are having a hard time seeing these truths. I have had enough of being pushed…it would be unwise for anyone to push my me and more. A word to the wise, as they say.
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THE WORLD IS OURS

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(Note: The following is an excerpt from the memoir)

In the early mornings I go downstairs and crawl into bed with my father. I nestle close to him and sleep. His smell is of the earth: strong, filling, comforting, safe.

At night sometimes, I sit next to him on his bed and watch him brush and polish his wingtip shoes. I marvel at how he chooses tasks that match his energy level, brushing and polishing his shoes and organizing things on and in his bureau when he is tired. Reading, playing chess with me, working on college papers or moseying about in the yard when he is rested. He loves to water the lawn. We like to stand together and talk while he does. We have to talk louder than usual so we can hear each other over the sound of the water. He guides the long feather of water back and forth across the lawn. He hands me the hose so I get to guide the long feather of water back and forth across the lawn too. Whenever my motion gets a little shaky, he doesn’t seem to notice. We just keep talking and pass the long feather of water back and forth between us. The world is ours.

One day a man from the fire department comes to my school, Lincoln Avenue Elementary School, and tells us we must always be prepared for a fire. How the most important thing is to make sure everyone is safe. People before property, he tells us. He tells us how the firemen make sure to have their fire fighting clothes on the ready at all times so if there is a fire they can dress quickly and get to the fire as fast as possible to save homes and families and children like us.

I want to be just like the firemen in case there is a fire. When I get home, I put my work boots right next to my bed. I tuck a clean sock into each boot. I put pants and shirt on top of them, neatly folded.

Just days later, to my delight and my father’s dismay, there is a fire. My father was outside burning brush in a big wire basket when a gust of wind hit. Burning embers flew from the basket and set fire to our lawn. I was in my pants, socks, shirt, boots and out the door in no time. Half our lawn is on fire now. My father spraying water onto the fire, the feather moving back and forth somewhat faster than usual. He looks sad and when I see he is sad, my excitement vanishes, and my heart breaks. I love him so much I can’t bear to see him sad. The fire department arrives and the fire is out in short order. I never tell my father I had been hoping for a fire. He was proud of our lawn and nothing crushes me more than seeing my father sad or upset.

LOOKING AT 55

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I will celebrate my 55th birthday on October 2 in Stokes State Forest in New Jersey. While turning 55 may not be a tectonic event for some, it is for me because it is the age my father was when he died. A beautiful childhood friend of mine, Patty Costello, lost her mother when her mother was only in her forties. Patty wrote me once that when she reached the same age, she held her breath the whole year. As I write these words, by the way, I realize I need to reach out to Patty. She was here on this coast not long ago, we got our signals crossed on a day we were to meet and then when she called, the depression I still grapple with had wrestled me to the ground and answering a phone or making a call was, and in some ways, still is, tantamount to climbing Everest without oxygen.

I have chosen Stokes Forest for this birthday because my father and I went there twice when I was a boy. He had gone there when he was a boy. Both times we went we were in heaven. In fact, once, when our rented time in the cabin was up, we were having so much fun we wanted to extend our stay. My father looked into the matter. He was told our cabin was booked but the folks at Stokes were nice enough to let us move into a larger cabin, at the same price, so we could have another couple of days together. The people who work at Stokes were very nice to my father and me then and, I can tell you, in the conversations I have had with them around my upcoming visit, the people who work there are still wonderfully kind and pleasant and attentive.

They are patient with, well, the likes of me, say. I was talking with one woman and asked if when I arrived I should just go straight to my cabin. They send you lots of information along with your cabin number before your visit. She was very nice and said yes, I could do this if I want, but I might be want to drop by the office for the moment.

I said I’d be delighted to say hello to everyone. She said they would be equally delighted to give me the key to the cabin. A key – go figure.

I will be there four nights. I will arrive on September 29 and leave on October 3. The question for me was what could I build into the time that would honor my father and bring him closer to me than he already is on a daily basis. I assure you I am repeating myself when I say that my father was and is the greatest gift life has ever given me. Other than the bathroom, his picture is in every room in my home, and his twigs are here as well.

Perhaps I should explain the twigs. My father died on August 16, 1969. He is buried in Kennilworth, New Jersey, not far from Elizabeth, New Jersey where he was born on February 20, 1914 and where he was raised. I visit his grave on a regular basis. One day, nearly 30 years after he died, I was standing by his grave. I found myself thinking that after so many years his body had begun to decompose which meant his body was feeding the soil which also meant, I realized, that the soil that was feeding the beautiful Oak Tree that offered his resting place shade and shelter had my father in it. Looking at the tree, I realized that in a very real way my father was part of the tree. I then noticed all the little branches and twigs that the tree scattered on the ground, like most trees do as the seasons move along. I gathered up a handful of twigs and took them home. Now, whenever I visit him, I gather up more twigs. By having a twig with me, I have part of my father with me. As you may have already guessed by now, I will be bringing some of the twigs to Stokes Forest with me. I will leave one in the earth by the cabin when my visit there is done.

My mind has turned to other things I can include in my visit to Stokes Forest to bring my father close. For instance, I have, I think, successfully hunted down a place to buy an Entenmann’s Walnut Danish Ring. My father and I used to love to warm them in the oven and have a piece with a morning cup of coffee. It will be the perfect breakfast for my birthday morning.

I will also bring a recording of violinist Jascha Heifitz paying Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D Major, Op. 61. It was written in 1806 and my father and I loved it. We listened to it many times. I remember one night the two of us sitting side by side on the couch conducting to the music. When the music ended, we looked at each other, smiled, nodded in agreement, and listened to it all over again (and conducted it all over again, thank you very much).

I plan on bringing my father’s copy of Don Marquis’ book “Archy and Mehitabel,” a delightful book about Archy, a cockroach who has the soul of a poet, and Mehitabel, a cat who claims she was Cleopatra in a previous life. There are still pages in this book marked by paper clips placed there by my father. They will never be removed.

I cannot say how this time will go, other than I am sure it will be, for me, deeply memorable. Moreover, it will give me time to be in the quiet of things. I know before my time is up I want to touch as many human hearts as I can in life, help them discover hope, help them discover that in bleakest of times, hope is there, even though it my be out of conscious touch and view. I want to help as many huma hearts know that every moment they are in has value and worth simply because they are in it. As a very dear friend said to me of the moment we are in, “It is the only place you have to be.” Even if those moments are the last in life, they are still yours, and still of marvelous worth and value simply because they are yours and you are present.

I don’t at all mean to sound maudlin or morose. I am feeling anything but about this birthday, this special time. The day of turning 55 and the days of being in Stokes close to my father. I will, for the days I am there, set aside much of what draws my focus now. My just begun journey to get back onto the rolls of disability, the finish strides on the final draft of a memoir, a book on my 15 years experience in the field of brain injury as one who loves with one, and then two other books, novels, that are nestled safe in my heart.

For now, my mind is on preparing for Stokes Forest, celebrating my 55th birthday, and rejoicing in the fact that while my father will not be with me physically, he will be in my heart, warm and close, just like he is every day of my life. Just maybe a little closer at Stokes. After all, as of October 2, we will be the same age.

24 YEARS AGO TODAY

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Note to the reader: This is the first chapter in a memoir that begins with what happened 24 years ago today.

I AM NOT GONE

by

Peter Sanford Kahrmann

“I cannot be awake, for nothing looks to me as it did before, Or else I am awake for the first time, and all before has been a mean sleep.”
– Walt Whitman

I DON’T UNDERSTAND

I am bleeding to death. I am lying on the ground bleeding to death and I do not understand. I was not bothering anybody. I was just going to work, minding my own business. I was not doing anything wrong and now I am on the ground, blood pouring out of my head, dying.

I had a block and a half to go to pick up my cab when I hear the sound of keys behind me and a hand grabs my shoulder and a wild-eyed kid is pointing a gun at my head and saying, “Don’t fucking move.”

I say “I won’t” and look away because I do not want him thinking I will remember his face.

The gun is against my head now and somebody behind me is going through my pockets. I am 30 years old standing on Bergen Street in Brooklyn with a gun against my head and I am waiting for wild floating eyes to hit me on the head so he and the other guy can get a running head start. He does not hit me. He shoots.

I come to on the ground and feel nothing from the neck down. It feels like the top of my head is gone. I open my eyes and I am blind. I cannot see anything. No sight, no feeling from the neck down; I know I am going to die.

I see my daughter Jennifer’s upturned face listening to someone tell her Daddy’s dead and I think maybe if I stand up and die trying to get to the hospital she’ll know I didn’t give up. My seven-year-old angel will know I tried my best. I can leave her on a courage note that way – if I can only get up.

A dark damp blanket tightens around me and I think about how my father died when I was fifteen. I think if he can go from here to there, from life to death, maybe it is okay, maybe dying is not so bad. Now I feel less scared. Now I see smoky shapes and images that make no sense to me. I am bleeding to death on the ground and nothing makes sense.

The smoke clears and I realize I am on the sidewalk on my right side. I see a tree near me.

Now I am standing but I do not remember getting up. I lift my hand to my head and blood hits my hand before it gets there. I pull the sweatshirt from around my waist and press it against my head to stop the bleeding.