Sutterwriters

JOHN GRANDALL John Crandall was born in Clovis, New Mexico, and is the oldest of six children. He lived all over the world as an Air Force brat. He has worked in a variety of positions, including as a surgical nurse, dynamite man, engineer, electronics tech, and anger management expert. Now in semi-retirement because of health issues, he spends his time in new areas of exploration- writing and metal sculpting. He is author of Poet Healed, released by LAMP in December 2005.

Cold

-naked and cold
Waiting for the anesthetic to take

One shot, two
When will they begin working?

Everyone is ready but me
And they are beginning

Stop, I say-not yet
Another shot

Then the scalpel cold and sharp and Crunch
- the artery is pierced and blood flows down my leg as
- a tear runs down my face

First Memory of My Father

Dad was given a license to be angry by the Army Air Corps. He got this license because he was a good sergeant. Somehow, though, he got confused; he thought he had to be a good sergeant at home, too.

He was very good at knowing when he had gotten to me. First, he would point it out, saying, "Looks like someone has tight jaws." Then, he would begin goading me, "Front and center, Mr. Tight Jaws. Yes, you, sissy." Having no choice, I hopped to it. Then, he would say, "Tench Hutt! Pick up your left foot and stand perfectly still." I always dreaded this game. "Now, pick up the other foot." It hadn't taken me long to figure out that the best thing I could do was to submit, appear to try, and fall down-but never, never cry. He was like this to everyone in the family, but since I was the eldest, it seemed like I was always in his crosshairs.

My first memory of my father was when I was about 3 or 4 years old. I don't know what I had done, but my mother was very cross and sent me to bed early. With nothing better to do, I went to sleep. I was awakened by the metal buckle of his military belt hitting my testicles. And that was just the beginning of the beating. I can remember hearing him snarl through clenched teeth, "Don't cry, you little bastard-just take what you deserve, and don't you dare cry." Each word was accompanied by another slash of the belt. Unfortunately, my childhood got no better, especially with the added stress of an additional five children to be raised on the salary of an E-4 (sergeant).

So what did I learn? First, never cry. Next, I learned to abhor anger and violence. I also learned how not to safely express strong emotions and ended up stuffing them. These lessons stood me in bad stead for most of my adult life. It was a long time before I could learn how to relieve the constipation of anger. It was a longer time before I learned that anger and violence are not always synonymous, and that nonviolence was a choice I could make. I am still unlearning the lessons of my father.

Ghosts

3 a.m., Gwinn, Michigan, 1961. I am 8 years old. I hear the ignition of fuel as the oil space heater comes on; it keeps the house warm and smelling of kerosene. The crystals that are my homework sit on the heater growing.

Why am I awake? The TV is off as are the lights in the living room. The toilet flushes, and I begin falling back asleep when a barely visible white form appears in the doorway to my room. I can't make out what it is, but I know I should be afraid-it feels dangerous. To be safe, I clench my eyes shut and hold my breath, praying that it is not my turn this time. I slowly open my eyes just a little to see the white form fading away. My heart is racing, and my lungs cry out for air. It is safe for me, for now, so I slowly and quietly begin to breathe again.

I try to go back asleep but cannot. I know that the white form is on the prowl, and until it has satisfied itself, no one is truly safe. I hear the heater turn off and the tink, tink, tink, that it makes as it cools. There is a creak from the front of the house-is that the house creaking, or is it the white form sneaking around?

Then I hear, from the girls' room, a muffled noise, then gentle sobs. There is a creaking sound, signifying that a heavy form has shifted on a bedspring. "Thank God," I think. "It is not my turn tonight. Now I can sleep."

The Arrowhead

As a child in Burns, Oregon, I spent most of my time wandering the mountainous desert just outside of town. Across the valley from our house was a shantytown where the Paiute Indians lived. Since it was off limits, I spent a lot of time there, not with the children my age, but with the elder men. When not sitting with the men, I would wander the hills looking for relics. Two items became collectible for me and were the "reason" I spent so much time away from the house. First were the old license plates; there was no rhyme or reason to where they were to be found, they were just there. The second were obsidian artifacts, like scrapers, arrowheads, and other edged tools. Somehow I was able to gather these objects with no negative outcome.

Twenty years later, before I understood about the sacredness of objects, I was rock-hounding for quartz crystals and found an arrowhead. I was not sure what it was made of, but it was unlike the obsidian pieces I had found as a child. Since I found it, it was mine, and I took it. Carried around in my pocket, it served as a worry stone, which was just as well because, from that point on, I had plenty to worry about. I was a partner in a business that failed, my father died, and I was having marital issues. The list of the troubles did not end there: My business partner became embroiled in shady dealings, the IRS was becoming worrisome, and I was at my wit's end.

I am not sure why or how I knew it, but the trouble lay in my possession of the arrowhead. It seemed as if I needed to do something with it, but I was not sure what. I could have returned it to where I found it, or I could have just thrown it away, but these and many other solutions just did not feel right.

One day while at the house of my scurrilous partner, I noticed that his wife seemed upset. She had the bruises and marks on her arms that signify domestic violence. Her husband was in the kind of depressive state that begets violence, and she needed help. With a flash of insight I knew that a token of "power" might give her the strength to escape her situation and that the arrowhead could serve that purpose. Eventually, with my wife Denise's and my help, she was able to leave her husband. As soon as I gave her the arrowhead, all of our luck changed-for the better. We were all able to extricate ourselves from our relationships with this man.

These events helped me remember the forgotten words of the oldest of the Paiute men who knew of my penchant for collecting things. He told me to "never pick up an object without first asking its permission" and "a gift given is a boon to the giver, as well as the receiver."

I may have forgotten that lesson for a while, but it stuck this time, and I don't just collect things anymore. Now I ask its permission and understand that it is not mine, I am just its carrier and will be giving it away soon.

He Was a Master of the Occult

…not because he set out to be. It just turned out that way. Always healthy looking, he appears vigorous. You only recognize the heart failure when you examine his legs or x-ray his chest-then you know it is more than "just a cold." He ate right and exercised, but he gained weight. Without blood tests, you wouldn't know of his diabetes. The medications he took kept his thyroid levels up, so you might miss the fact that Hashimoto's Thyroiditis has done in his thyroid. Without careful scrutiny of his blood levels, you might mistake high lipid levels for over-consumptions, when the real problem boiled down to genetics. The cardiologist trusted him to know himself, but the insurance company required a cardiolite stress test. Only with x-rays would you see the numerous stents holding his cardiac arteries open-"patent," they call it. He appeared to tolerate the EECP treatments, until staff found him helplessly crying due to the discomfort it caused. Most people see a young retiree who is thriving, so they don't know that he thinks of himself as a "dead man walking" and is finally comfortable with it.