He died in the bathtub with the water running. They found him, dead after his downstairs neighbor complained of water dripping from the ceiling. The San Francisco police found my name in correspondence and called me far away in Montana. It had been 46 years since my sister and I had seen him.
He was brilliant. But he couldn't stick with anything. Bounced out of the Coast Guard Academy, Ole Miss, where he met my mother. He was passionate about peace and the equitable treatment of all peoples despite their color or economic disposition. He spent 6 weeks in the Mississippi State Prison for arriving by train in Jackson, MS in an integrated black/white group during the Summer of Freedom.
But life became too taxing for him. He became paranoid, delusional. My mother became scared for our safety and divorced him in 1964.
I would receive random letters from him, forwarded by my grandparents, as our location was kept from him due to threats he made toward us when my mother remarried. When I joined the Peace Corps, I started communicating with him directly. I felt safe, a world away, in Africa.
His letters were rambling, filled with tales of street people, odd jobs he would perform for cigarettes. He wrote of bands and clubs of the Indy Music Scene in San Francisco. He would send random post cards, hand bills, stickers.
I maintained correspondence with him. His letters followed me to Montana. I had a child. He called. We would talk...he would ramble. Real conversation unable to take hold in the slippery slope of his mind. During the first Iraq war, his behavior escalated. He would page me numerous times at the hospital where I worked, to say nothing, be agitated. I was contacted by security at Malmstrom Air Force Base. They were on lockdown because he said that he had seen men in ski masks with machine guns in a van headed toward the base. They were convinced he was there in Great Falls. I did not think that was true. The San Francisco Police established he was there, after arresting him for walking naked through his apartment complex.
One Christmas after I became sick, before I received disability, when money was in short supply, we received a huge box from him. It was a cornucopia of thrift store odds and ends. Chinese slippers, robes. Drumsticks and drum pad. Hats, T-shirts. A collection of coins from all over the world. Flag scarves, imported cookies. It was a treasure box in the eyes of my children. I must admit, I opened it with much trepidation as to its contents. But what a gift, with perfect timing.
After being evicted from several apartment complexes, living intermittently on the street, his Social Worker found him a new home, in a beautiful apartment complex located on the bay, just down the street from Giant Stadium. His apartment was chock a block with stuff, porn magazines, a large screen TV, and multiple 2 cup Pyrex Measuring cups, grocery carts. We found out the management was in the process of trying to evict him. Erratic behavior, kitchen fires, grocery carts full of stuff.
The Memorial held at the Apartment Complex was packed. People spoke of his intensity, his intelligence, his friendliness. He spoke of his family as if we were not estranged. He baked brownies and dispersed them in his multitude of pyrex cups.
The funeral was held in an Episcopal church with a thriving soup kitchen and service to the homeless. There were 11 of us until someone from the soup kitchen wandered in and stayed. And then there were 12. "Come to me ye, who are burdened and heavy laden."
He was brilliant. But he couldn't stick with anything. Bounced out of the Coast Guard Academy, Ole Miss, where he met my mother. He was passionate about peace and the equitable treatment of all peoples despite their color or economic disposition. He spent 6 weeks in the Mississippi State Prison for arriving by train in Jackson, MS in an integrated black/white group during the Summer of Freedom.
But life became too taxing for him. He became paranoid, delusional. My mother became scared for our safety and divorced him in 1964.
I would receive random letters from him, forwarded by my grandparents, as our location was kept from him due to threats he made toward us when my mother remarried. When I joined the Peace Corps, I started communicating with him directly. I felt safe, a world away, in Africa.
His letters were rambling, filled with tales of street people, odd jobs he would perform for cigarettes. He wrote of bands and clubs of the Indy Music Scene in San Francisco. He would send random post cards, hand bills, stickers.
I maintained correspondence with him. His letters followed me to Montana. I had a child. He called. We would talk...he would ramble. Real conversation unable to take hold in the slippery slope of his mind. During the first Iraq war, his behavior escalated. He would page me numerous times at the hospital where I worked, to say nothing, be agitated. I was contacted by security at Malmstrom Air Force Base. They were on lockdown because he said that he had seen men in ski masks with machine guns in a van headed toward the base. They were convinced he was there in Great Falls. I did not think that was true. The San Francisco Police established he was there, after arresting him for walking naked through his apartment complex.
One Christmas after I became sick, before I received disability, when money was in short supply, we received a huge box from him. It was a cornucopia of thrift store odds and ends. Chinese slippers, robes. Drumsticks and drum pad. Hats, T-shirts. A collection of coins from all over the world. Flag scarves, imported cookies. It was a treasure box in the eyes of my children. I must admit, I opened it with much trepidation as to its contents. But what a gift, with perfect timing.
After being evicted from several apartment complexes, living intermittently on the street, his Social Worker found him a new home, in a beautiful apartment complex located on the bay, just down the street from Giant Stadium. His apartment was chock a block with stuff, porn magazines, a large screen TV, and multiple 2 cup Pyrex Measuring cups, grocery carts. We found out the management was in the process of trying to evict him. Erratic behavior, kitchen fires, grocery carts full of stuff.
The Memorial held at the Apartment Complex was packed. People spoke of his intensity, his intelligence, his friendliness. He spoke of his family as if we were not estranged. He baked brownies and dispersed them in his multitude of pyrex cups.
The funeral was held in an Episcopal church with a thriving soup kitchen and service to the homeless. There were 11 of us until someone from the soup kitchen wandered in and stayed. And then there were 12. "Come to me ye, who are burdened and heavy laden."
No comments:
Post a Comment
Share your own stories. When commenting on controversial topics, please be respectful. I want this space to be where all feel welcomed,wanted, respected