Category Archives: Uncategorized

STRIKE ONE, YOU’RE OUT

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At age 55 I have led a life with its fair share of hard knocks. It would be reasonable for you to think that the cumulative impact of those knocks would have knocked all the naivete or foolishness out of my system. However, you’d be wrong.

The old adage of you find out who your friends are when the going gets tough still holds true. Yet, even now, when I am in a very real way at risk of losing my home and more because of an unexpected stop in income coupled with an in-process application for disability, some I expected to at least hear from have been stone cold silent, and one or two make it clear when we have communicated that doing so is a real burden for them. I could easily aim blood-letting razor-blade sentences at a few, but why waste the ink?

Others have been remarkable in their kindness and support. Some have sent some money to help me with food and household supplies. A friend I used to work with who has a newborn baby and is moving to a new home still reaches out to me to make sure I am okay. My brother-in-my heart, Michael, the closest person to me in the world is always there for me. He and his sons and his wife, Frieda, are people that really are family for me.

Do not think I am whining. Not in the least. I guess part of what I am saying, or suggesting, is don’t go around telling someone you are their friend or that you love them and care about them if you have the kind of spineless selfish self-absorption that leads you to vanish when they are in danger of losing their home, or in real dire straits of any kind.

There is a reason they say home is where the heart is. I am done with people who say they are my friend or say they love me looking to wound my heart. Strike one, you’re out.
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WRITING MY WHOLE WIDE WORLD

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“You can go ahead and write now,” he said, smiling at me. “Now’s the time.”

“But I feel like when I do I’m non-existent, as if nothing matters, like it’s all a waste.”

“You’re wrong, Pete. Think about what you teach others, that our feelings may not be exactly what is, other than they are our true feelings.”

The younger man stood and walked over to a window that looked out over an expanse of rolling verdant hills that seemed to stretch on forever. “It feels like I’m leaving you behind.”

“If you write?”

“If I go ahead and write, maybe do an open mic night, but especially if I write.”

“I’m the one who left you, Peter.”

“You died. You never left me.”

“Well then? What makes you think you’ll be leaving me if you go ahead and write to your heart’s content? You’re almost done with the memoir; you’ve got two novels started and the third book about working with brain injury.”

The younger man turns away from the window and looks at the soft-warm image of the older man, his father. “I don’t know, Daddy. That’s one I can’t figure out.”

“Maybe that’s why I’m here… Remember the time you ran away to Tarrytown when we lived in Nyack. You and Bobby wanted to see those girls, Jody and Noel?”

The younger man laughs. “You remember their names.”

“We have the all of our memories here. Do you remember?”

“Yes, Dad. I remember.”

“You and Bobby took the battery from Poppop’s Mercedes so you could start Pascal’s boat.”

“God. That was a shitty thing to do.”

“True. Funny as hell though. Even Poppop thought so.”

“Really?”

“Sure. He got up that morning; his car wouldn’t start, so he called the Mercedes dealer in Englewood. The dealer sends a mechanic to the house. Imagine their surprise when before Poppop could even turn the key, the mechanic had the hood up saying, “I think I know the problem, Mr. Beach.””

“You and Poppop caught us.”

“Well for God sakes, Peter, it’s kind of hard not noticing you and Bobby lugging the battery across the lawn moaning and groaning about how heavy it was.”

Father and son laugh, hug, and sit down on the couch.

“Do you remember what we talked about when you came back that time?”

“We were sitting on the couch like now. That I needed to be careful not to base all my decisions just on my emotions.”

“And what stops you from writing?”

“I’m afraid I’m leaving you behind, leaving you alone.”

“That’s emotion, don’t let that by itself be what stops you. And you’re not leaving me alone at all if you write, Peter. I am never without you. I think you fear something else even more though.”

The younger man places the palms of his hands on the back of his knees, leans forward and for a moment presses down hard on both. He then leans back into the couch and lets out a sigh, as if something in him has surrendered, or opened.

“I think you are afraid you will lose me. That if you go ahead and write, when you’re done, you’ll look up and I’ll be gone.” He reaches out and takes his son’s hand. “Peter, I would no more leave you than you would leave me. How many speeches have you given where you said you’d give up the rest of your life in a heartbeat just to hug meone more time?”

“I don’t know.”

“A lot. Don’t you think I hear you? Of course I do. I am so proud of you. I love you and I’m proud of you no matter what you do. I am especially happy for you and for myself frankly when I see you do things I know you want to do.”

“Like write.”

“Like write.”

“I love you my whole wide world, Daddy.”

“I love you my whole wide world too, Peter.”
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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.

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.