Living Hazzardously

Little pieces of our journey with Jesus

Pages

The day I stopped

by

How does a man go from being the “everything” to just a “once in a while”?

I was reflecting during my solo trip to meet my newest grand, Sadie Mae.  14.5 hours of high speed driving, food stops, bathroom breaks and naps in the car to make a total trip of around 24 hours. I had just spent most of the previous two weeks alone, Jess was out west helping, so I had a lot of thinking time… Becoming a grandparent is an interesting procedure.

When the boys were born, I had one job, one task, one goal. I gave my life to my family, not perfectly and for sure I made some wrong turns and bad choices but this job of family man took over every angle, every perspective and certainly every choice in life. It is hard to die to self and give 100% of my life to the care and concern of these three boys (and one day it became 5) plus a wife. As a child I never had a positive role model or a consistent guide of how or what to do, or so I thought! The LORD tried to guide me but like any rebellious child, I rejected the one who cares the most  for me and I did what I thought was best for me…. What a fool I was! 

Today I see these boys enter the freeway called “family man”… wait, aren’t they these little babies that I held and protected? Did they not make my entire identity? Did they not depend on me for everything? I gave everything I had, my will, my money, my time… my life was sacrificed for them, I gave them all I had… was it enough? Did I give them enough? Are they ready? Can I give more? They are my legacy.  All I have left to give is space, freedom and an occasional hug, surrendering to the hope they have learned what I taught them and picked up along the way, those things I failed to teach them.  Now I stand watching from afar off land to see the sons I raised lead their own families, without me holding their hand, picking them up or turning them away from bad choices. YES, I’m in that “last chapter” the “last stage” of fatherhood. The boys are finally entering the path that I entered in 1992… 20 years, no wait 32 years ago…. Goodness the years fly by so fast and all we have left are the long hours.  

It’s not easy, but it’s worth it! I think of God these days, how HE must feel watching us all reject his wisdom and guidance, how he must think “I know the plans I have for you”. When I was younger as a daddy, I remember how my boys looked at me and how the dependance on the father wanes from one chapter to the next and eventually, like my father, our days stop being numbered and we long to hear the words of our father say “ Well done, good and faithful servant…”

Sophia called me grandpa, my heart melted and I thought… “Baby girl, you can have anything you want…” how much more does God long to hear the words “DADDY? I love you!” 

God bless you on this FOGGY morning.

Charlie

The reward of a Feral child 

by

Is it possible to give rewards too often? I was often told by may father “YOU F%^&$#@ KIDS ARE THE WORST THING THAT’S EVER HAPPENED TO ME!!!!!!” My father had a way with words. It was always so uplifting, rewarding and positive whenever he opened up and shared how he felt about us… 

 I was never allowed to have friends and the friends I had, I kept a secret from my father. My friends never met his approval, some because they were “indians” some because they were “N#*&^%#” and others because, well I guess I never really knew why, but they all had to be gone before he got home or all hell would break loose.  What I did know is nothing should distract me from my work. 

I was raised on the streets of Minneapolis, My father wanted very little to do with me unless he had work for me to do. I remember the day like yesterday, I dropped a granite block on my foot in order to attempt to break my foot just so I could have time off of working for my father…. 

  • Building and staining a fence with a toxic mixture of boiled linseed oil, creosote and a brush. 
  • A hammer and bent nails, bent so badly that they would take forever to actually straighten enough to reuse.
  • A disk sander and old painted scrap lumber, sanding it down so I could recoat with the toxic concoction. 
  • Hundreds of granite paving blocks, harvested from the streets of Minneapolis by hand, hauled home from miles away cleaned of concrete and then dissolving the asphalt with gasoline, finally cleaning with muriatic acid to achieve a perfect completion.
  • Limestone as big as my little arms could span, set and adjusted, backfilled and leveled.
  • Digging and turning the sod by hand for a vegetable garden. 

These are merely a few outdoor chores that I was required to complete before he got home, before he started screaming and beating us for never meeting his stringent requirements. He was always gracious, he often reminded us how benevolent he was for tolerating us children, because after all we ruined his life. This may seem “made up” to many folks and it is certainly unbelievable to the “participation trophy” generation… but to me, this was life, life on the north side.

It was a hot summer’s day. I remember that my little brother broke his leg at some point and got a free pass from work. I never got a free pass. Somehow I remember it was a saturday, probably because that was the day we went to the salvation army store in downtown to buy more broken bikes, stereo turntables that would be stacked with the thousands of others, or maybe the hundreds of picture frames that my father planned to use to frame his collection of mass produced “one of a kind” renditions. But the hoarding and abuse can be for a day in the future, today I want to write about that RED GRANITE BLOCK, and how it met my foot.

It was hot, I was shirtless and I had been shuffling granite blocks back and forth for dad for hours already, he had to find just the right shape, color and size, it was a never ending task. I’m not sure when my little brother had his broken leg, in the past or present, I just remember he got to sit, and I had to work… always working… never enough, never good enough, never an end! And I was tired, as a preteen boy, I wanted to play trucks in the dirt, build tunnels and cities and hang out with the only friend I really had, my younger brother. But that would not be my fate on this hot summer day, and I devised a plan to have a break, a break in my foot that would afford me a break from work. I didn’t want to hurt myself, I just wanted a break. I saw what happened to fingers that were caught between blocks, as I personally had many injuries and they all healed as I continued to haul these blocks… 

Here is the set up, I knew my foot would need to be on the concrete driveway, for a viable break, and I knew it would hurt. I decided to grab the biggest blocks, show how I was struggling to haul these massive loads back and forth. Just a few blocks ahead to really set the scene, make sure it was around the corner so dad wouldn’t actually see but would be close enough to hear and react… ONE… TWO… DROP!!!!

My foot absorbed the impact with excellent resilience and I knew instantly, I SCREWED UP… no break, not really as much pain as I was expecting and no blood… And in full predictability, after all this careful planning, I still finished the day working. My dad couldn’t bring my day to a soft close and give me play time. This was year after miserable year, I dreaded summers because it was just work, my friends in the neighborhood would bike past and the first few years I could see them out on the streets, in the alley and on the sidewalks, but soon this massive fence project had enclosed the yard, encapsulating his hoarding of junk to keep the city inspector at bay. The inspector can’t write tickets for violations unless it can be seen without stepping foot on the property… Dad had this figured out… every ticket he paid for his junk was taken out of the backs of his children, either in hard labor or a good old fashioned beating for not keeping his junk hidden behind the barricades, unseen from the alley during the drive by. 

So, no broken foot… I know now the foot is a difficult part to break because there are so many small bones, I should have crushed a toe I guess. And so my summers continued, year after year, rewards for nothing, left alone to raise ourselves, beaten and survived, feral child… by age ten, I had started forming my own protective avatar… 

When I was a bit younger I smiled constantly, I was called “Cheary Charlie” because I had a great outlook on life and I was always a happy child, bringing joy to every set of eyes that landed on my face or gave me the time of day. My grandmother, grandfather, mom, uncles, aunts, neighbors… Everyone confirmed this joy in my heart, everyone but my father. 

My avatar was angry and took away my smiling, my avatar stole my outward appearance and replaced it with a cold, unchangeable, calloused facade. Showing everyone what they wanted to see. I was now invisible and safe. I no longer needed to be honest with my true self, I just let my avatar run my face and I got to hide and be safe. By age 12,  I had gone feral…on the northside, in Minneapolis. A feral boy, beaten and whipped. I no longer had joy, smiles or concern, even for my little brother… 

I talked to my brother the other day. He shared some from his perspective, it helped me remember I was not the only person suffocated by the hell of living in that house. This hell was lurking around every doorway, in the stairs and every sacred inch of hoarder madness.   

There it is, a man with no good father figure to raise him, raising three men, doing the best he can as a feral child turned father… Rewards? What is that? I simply did the best I could to teach them how to be Godly,  loving, kind, honest and motivated. I never rewarded them for “trying”. I rewarded them for putting others first and doing their best, I rewarded them for good attitudes and honesty, I rewarded them for caring and not quitting… I was never a “friend”, I was only a father. Although my methods are perhaps highly frowned upon now by all the experts, I will let the court of public opinion declare my success. My boys turned out exceptionally well and are fully prepared for whatever the world has coming their way. Never given a participation trophy, only reward for meritorious attempts that lead to success. 

If I were writing to my younger self, I guess I would say: “life will be hard, are you kidding me? Your life is going to be pretty horrible! You will lose your joy, for a time. You will suffer long and hard. Your days will be difficult but in time, the years will be easy. Do not give into despair. You will survive to face even more later on. Remember, your reward is the joy, the joy that comes in the morning!”

You see, God gave me more than I can handle, at least for a time when I was rebellious and walked this earth in my own strength, before I surrendered to God. I was strong, I was talented, I was perhaps even somewhat invincible… but I was incomplete and I, EVEN I, was in need of a savior. I thank God for a second lease on life. I truly hope you find your second chance in life, but if you are still wandering around the world with a lack of joy, you can find rest, you can have that break I was looking for as a young child, you can fall on the one name above all others. You can call out to have Him save you from the hell on earth and the hell to come, that name is JESUS. 

God bless, Charlie

Chickens and pigs and eggs, ohh my.

by

I have spent a considerable amount of time and money learning how to “farm” and still today I am learning just as much each and every day.

I remember watching the Matrix, and today I feel like I am living in that Matrix, as just another copper top battery feeding the immense culture that is willing to drain every once of my very being to stay alive… With no regard to me as an individual. So, I farm! I raise my pigs, pay for things like installing water for winter, paying for bags of feed, fencing, waking up early to care for a sick pig, staying up late to care for that same pig that isn’t able to get up. 

Why do I farm? Why do I go to work? Why do I care about SamsPlace? Well, it’s complicated yet surprisingly simple. I see my pigs grow, I see my chickens grow, I collect the morning breakfast from the laying boxes and crack the eggs into my fry pan and feed my family with the food I have invested in. I know what my pigs eat, I know where my eggs are laid, I know what My family is eating. 

Did you know that when you go to the store and by a pork roast that pig most likely grew up in a small concrete bunker? Next to hundreds of other concrete bunkers? In some far away land, most likely overseas? My pigs are in the woods, playing, eating, sleeping… living a great life… HAPPY!

Did you know that the eggs you buy at the store are likely bleached, sanded and washed? Did you know it’s not normal or natural to have 10 pound chicken breasts? Frozen after a diet of salt water to increase the weight of the chicken just before slaughter? I challenge you to go buy that pterodactyl looking chicken breast and drain the extra water out before you cook it, then cook it and see how much water is still trapped in it.

Please don’t get me wrong, I too was the box store shopper that bought the monster sized bag of “flash frozen for freshness” chicken breasts. I would bring them home and cook them up… then we moved “up-north” and we tried to raise chickens for eggs because it’s what you do on a farm… little did I realize that it would lead me to this new chapter of farming pigs, chickens, eggs and garden produce, with ZERO REGRETS!

Im sitting here writing and listening to the wind howl outside like we seldom ever hear, today I was planning a ride, perhaps my last chance to ride but the wind today is not going to subside, and a cross wind on a two lane county road is not the most favorable conditions, so I will just drive a car, or my truck. 

Jess is out west waiting for the new grand baby to show up, I am staying back to run the farm, the business and hoping to get some time at Sam’s Place as well. I am staying very busy, otherwise I would be going crazy with this solitude… My three big pups are very helpful in distracting me from this hollow shell of a life being separated from my dearest and best friend, Jess, we really are a perfect fit for each other and we work well together. 

Anyway, it’s windy and not too cold.  I covered the squash a couple days ago for the freeze warning but I pretty much know what to expect I will find with this crazy fall wind. 

Today I leave you with this thought.. Shop smart because “organic” doesn’t mean healthier, “flash frozen” doesn’t mean fresher, “free range” doesn’t mean better… These are simply marketing tools to charge more to the consumer for things the consumer has decided to spend more money on… “free range” doesn’t mean they walk around and “cage free” doesn’t mean they are living better. Egg shells can be colored, sanded, and washed in bleach, yolks can be “darker” colored and more tasty because of the feed, if all your eggs are identical… well you should wonder why first, I have yet to see a perfectly clean egg, much less one with perfect color, no bumps, no marks… farm fresh eggs, like pork chops and meat chickens don’t actually look exactly the same. In closing, after I have lived in both worlds, buying my food and growing my food, I prefer growing.

Remember, I am a CITY BOY turned country… Born on the south side, raised on the north side and never leaving the country side… ask yourself why, ask yourself… what is it that he has found in the sticks to bring true joy, to a city boy. 

God bless you and yours in this crazy election cycle and don’t forget, things really have gotten worse over the last few years.  I have met absolutely not one person that says things are better. We should consider our votes this year as a valuable gift to the future generations. 

Charlie