One Step Closer

I went and picked up my running jersey from the post office today.  It looks so sharp... the picture doesn't do it justice.  Key features are 3 larger pockets across the back, they look like they will do fine to throw a few packs of sport beans in.  Additionally, the zipper on the front sips down to about my belly button so if I start to overheat, I can run the race J. Lo style!

Maria is going to help me modify it a little bit. We are going to figure out where to embroidier the names of the people I am running in memory & in honor of.  Any ideas?

Pictures

Just a quick note to let you all know that I uploaded a few pictures of my father, John Solomon, who is one of the people I am running in memory of.  Thanks to my Aunt Willie, I now have 2 pictures of my father that I, nor my brother, had ever seen before, inicluding one of his Purple Heart Ceremony!  The red hued one we had seen, but I have no idea where my tattered copy of it is at... surely in a box of pictures still packed up downstairs!

If you'd like to see the pictures, it's the post titled "In Memory Part 1".  It's also tagged "Memory".  Or, you can just click HERE!

In Memory... Part 1

I never knew my father. I knew very little about him. I knew he was a Marine during Vietnam. He was a tripod machine gunner, and was shot across the knees, causing him to have to wear tremendous leg braces. I remember my mother telling me a story that most of the neighborhood kids would call him names, like Frankenstein, due to the way the braces made him walk. But he was walking, and that’s what mattered.

My brother & I both wanted to know our father, but we only really got a couple chances to see him growing up, usually at supervised Christmas visitation, when he would come down to Mississippi from Indiana to see his family. I got to see him one time, outside of these early childhood Christmas visits. I was pretty young, and to be honest, I don’t even remember how old I was. To avoid confusion, when I say “my granny” I am referring to my mother’s mother. When I say “my grandmother” I am referring to my father’s mother.

My granny was running the café at an auction house, just on the outskirts of Lumberton, Mississippi. My father’s family was from Baxterville, Mississippi, about 10 minutes on the other side of Lumberton. My mother helped my granny in the auction house café, as did several of my aunts & uncles on rotating basis… pretty much whenever someone either didn’t have anything to do, or need some extra money. It was summer and we were out of school. Mississippi in the summer is pretty killer. During the day, you sweat to death if you don’t have any way to get to the creek to go swimming, and at night, you are eaten alive by the mosquitoes. It was usually pretty miserable, but as a kid, you didn’t care. All you wanted to do was find the next thing to get in to.

We were all at the café one night, when my mom & granny kind of started arguing. I just remember my granny telling her to calm down and for her to let them talk to him… referring to me & my brother. We didn’t realize what was going on, but about an hour later, my father was sitting in a car in the dirt parking lot of the auction house. I kind of feel bad because I don’t even recall what was said, but that was the last time I would see my father coherent.

Many years passed by, and I had graduated high school and joined the Air Force. I was stationed at Mountain Home AFB, in southern Idaho, working on F-15E Strike Eagles. I was proud of what I did, and after much internal struggling, I decided that maybe my military service could be the link to get to know my father. I found a number for him and worked up the nerve to call him. The conversation was general in nature, and really unremarkable other than the fact that his wife, Bonnie, was on another phone in the house while I was talking to him.

I had a few more conversations with him, every time; his wife was on the line with him though, which really struck me as odd. I finally left the ball in his court one afternoon. Here I was as a young Airman, barely making ends meet on my meager salary, yet I am footing all the long distance bills to try to reconnect with my father. I told him to call me next time. I didn’t hear from him again until 2001.

I met my wife, Maria, in 2000, after a military move to Keesler AFB in Biloxi, Mississippi. We were getting married and I decided to call my father to invite him to my wedding. It was the lowest point in my life when he told me that he wouldn’t be attending because he was afraid of what people would say. It shouldn’t have hurt as bad as it did, but it destroyed me. Why? I had no connection with this man over all the years, I mean, other than him being my biological father. I didn’t hear from him again until 2004.

I was working at Travis AFB in Fairfield, California when I got the news that my father was losing a battle with cancer. He was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma and the treatments were not working. As it turned out, his cancer was caused by Agent Orange exposure during his time in Vietnam. He underwent some type of procedure where they harvested his stem cells & even that was ineffective. I was compelled, even after everything this man put me through, to make sure I got to see him & he got to see me before he passed. I got a ticket & headed toward Indiana.

It was the first time I had been back to Indiana since we boarded an Amtrack heading to Mississippi when I was still a very young child. I was hoping that something I would see would jog some memories… no, not really. By the time I got to the hospital in Bristol from Indianapolis, John had already lost the ability to speak. I spent several days by his bedside, meeting old military buddies, and his new family. I’m not sure if he knew I was there or not, but I did get to see him before he lost his battle and say my piece. It was healing for me in a way. I am glad I went, even if we didn’t really know each other. I pray one day I will get to see him again and speak to him. Even though he made no real effort to get to know me, I would still like to get to know him.

In memory of John R. Solomon, I am running 26.2.