Silence Excerpt

<body topmargin=0 leftmargin=0 marginheight=0 marginwidth=0> <table cellpadding=0 cellspacing=0 border=0 height="100%"><tr> <td valign="top" width=168 BGCOLOR="#000000" TEXT="#F7F7FF" background="002a11c3.png"> <div> <IMG SRC="09a857a0.jpg" border=0 width="133" height="122" ALIGN="BOTTOM" HSPACE="0" VSPACE="0"></div> <div> <A HREF="index.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Home Page"><U>HOME</U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id4.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Book Page"><U>BOOKS   </U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id6.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Articles"><U>ARTICLES</U></A></div> <bR> <div>  <A HREF="id7.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Tapes"><U>TAPES</U></A>   </div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id8.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Spiritual Warfare/Occult "><U>SPIRITUAL WARFARE, OCCULT   </U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id77.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Sexual Abuse Issues"><U>SEXUAL ABUSE ISSUES</U></A></div> <bR> <div> <A HREF="id11.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Exposing the Darkness Seminar"><U>***EXPOSING THE DARKNESS SEMINAR***</U></A></div> <div> <A HREF="mailto:greid@elp.rr.com" TARGET="_top" TITLE="mailto:greid@elp.rr.com"><U> <img src="HTMLobj-741/aniGif.gif" border="0" align="bottom" width="67" height="50">  </U></A></div> </td> <td valign="top" BGCOLOR="#000000" TEXT="#F7F7FF"> <bR> <div>                                         <FONT SIZE="5" COLOR="#FF3380" FACE="Arial" ><B>Silver Bells</B></FONT></div> <div>             <FONT SIZE="4" COLOR="#FF3380" FACE="Arial" >(Excerpt from Silence and the Distance Between Us)</FONT></div> <bR> <div>    It was Mom's favorite song. At least, her favorite Christmas</div> <div> song.</div> <bR> <div>    She had a few other favorites, I remember. She always laughed</div> <div> at the old fifties’ chestnut, “My momma said not to put beans in</div> <div> my ears, beans in my ears, beans in my ears...my momma said</div> <div> not to put beans in my ears, beans, beans in my ears. (She said</div> <div> what?) I can't hear you, I have beans in my ears.” I remember that</div> <div> became part of Mom's repertoire of rebuffs when we were teens</div> <div> who never listened. “Do you have beans in your ears?”, she'd say</div> <div> sternly, tongue firmly in cheek.</div> <bR> <div>    Mom always loved the odd song, the quirky poem. How many</div> <div> kids do you know who had a mom who recited,</div> <bR> <div>    There was a man upon a stair</div> <div>    And when I looked, he wasn't there.</div> <div>    He wasn't there again today</div> <div>    I really wish he'd go away!</div> <bR> <div>    Or this one:</div> <bR> <div>    Maresy doats and oasy doats, and little lambs edivey!</div> <div>    Kiddly divey too, wouldn’t you?</div> <bR> <div>    Mom was a very talented writer, though she never had the</div> <div> confidence to pursue it, and the world's loss, too. </div> <div>    </div> <div>    She loved music, though she never thought she could sing or</div> <div> play.</div> <bR> <div>    She loved Kenny Rogers' “Lucille” and always laughed</div> <div> reciting/half-singing the lyrics.</div> <bR> <div>    And Gogi Grant's “Wayward Wind”, well, that was Randy’s</div> <div> song. Rand, the kid with rabbits in his heels, who left home so</div> <div> young.</div> <bR> <div>    “And the wayward wind is a westward wind</div> <div>    A westward wind, that yearns to wander</div> <div>    And he was born the next of kin</div> <div>    The next of kin, to the wayward wind.”</div> <bR> <div>    She told me herself when I was barely a boy: It was Randy’s</div> <div> song.</div> <bR> <div>    I don't know if she had one that reminded her of Michael or</div> <div> myself.</div> <bR> <div>    But I do know she and Miss Helen would sing “Silver Bells”</div> <div> together, near or on Christmas day, in person or over the phone.</div> <bR> <div>    Not all of it. Just, “Silver Bells, Silver Bells, soon it will be</div> <div> Christmas day.” And later in life, just, “Silver Bells”, she'd sing, </div> <bR> <div>    just to us,</div> <bR> <div>    just to herself,</div> <bR> <div>    The only time, maybe</div> <bR> <div>    I remember a twinkle in her eye</div> <bR> <div>    Or a real smile on her face.</div> <bR> <div>    The first Christmas without her was a sickening, emotionally</div> <div> shredding, monstrous nightmare.</div> <bR> <div>    Nobody wanted to go home, or be home, especially our Pop. So</div> <div> we went to Laughlin, Nevada. It was, as Randy so succinctly put it,</div> <div> “The Great Bloodletting of 1995.”</div> <bR> <div>    It was simply the saddest, most awful Christmas we'd ever</div> <div> known. Who knows why we went to casino-town Laughlin. Maybe</div> <div> it was a knee-jerk pain response to when we lost our house to a</div> <div> fire in October of 1967 and were living in a sterile apartment that</div> <div> Christmas and we ended up in Las Vegas so we didn't have to face</div> <div> the first Christmas in thirteen years without the familiar</div> <div> surroundings of our beloved House on the Hill. In any event, here</div> <div> it was, Laughlin, and we made the best of it. Pop gave us albums</div> <div> of Mom's pictures and other family photos for our Christmas</div> <div> presents.</div> <bR> <div>    I remember the gray rain falling out over the river from my hotel</div> <div> window, constant, sad rain, and the two or three meals we'd try to</div> <div> share every day in the casino restaurant...the way we wanted to be</div> <div> together, the way we hated the pain of being together without her.</div> <bR> <div>    How brave, how very brave Pop was. I cannot fathom his agony</div> <div> that Christmas. I can only recall my own and realize it was a</div> <div> fragment of a tiny rock off the mountainous boulder of bleeding</div> <div> grief that was his own, my father, this great mountain of a man,</div> <div> whose children gathered at his feet looking for comfort, and he</div> <div> had none himself. Still he stayed strong for us. Still he wept alone.</div> <bR> <div>    The second Christmas was still tough, but so much better.</div> <bR> <div>    Still, we could not meet at Home. And Pop didn't want us to.</div> <div> “Christmas will never be the same without your mother,” he would</div> <div> say. Of course, with Pop, he was always kind of a grinch. Every</div> <div> year for as long back as I can remember, he'd mention several</div> <div> times how much he hated Christmas, how depressing it was, how</div> <div> glad he'd be when it was over. Of course, he'd say that before - or</div> <div> after - he'd decorate the tree like a little kid (after we'd grown up</div> <div> and moved away and wouldn't hog the fun to ourselves.) I still</div> <div> remember Mom saying, “I thought you said you hated</div> <div> Christmas,”, and Pop would reply, “Oh, shut-tup,” in his mock</div> <div> anger. Yeah, he claimed to hate Christmas - but it didn't keep him</div> <div> from putting bells on his slippers Christmas morning and</div> <div> wakening every sleepy head with his jingle bells. </div> <bR> <div>    I know it was a mixed day for him, and only later did he confide</div> <div> the two reasons he got so depressed at Christmas. One - he only</div> <div> remembered Christmas as a time his father and mother got drunk,</div> <div> the beatings, the lack of food, the cold and the fear and loneliness</div> <div> of a child without a family.</div> <bR> <div>    Two - it just hurt too much. All he could do was think about all</div> <div> the cold, hungry children going to bed without food, with no</div> <div> presents, and no love. It just tore him up inside. It was a side of</div> <div> him few knew - the man who once gave away all the cash in his</div> <div> pocket on Christmas Eve while on the Police Department to a poor</div> <div> woman with a small child living in a dirty, roach-infested</div> <div> apartment, abandoned by their drug dealing husband and father.</div> <div> He never even told mom. That wasn't his way. And Pop was a</div> <div> continuing giver to the Salvation Army and a homeless shelter</div> <div> called the Povarello House in Fresno.</div> <bR> <div>    Despite the depression and sadness he felt so keenly - he still put</div> <div> the bells on for us, and you can't tell me he didn't get a little-boy</div> <div> kick out of the tree and the lights. Every year he'd tell Mom, “I don't</div> <div> wanna mess with the lights and the tree this year.” And every year,</div> <div> he did, and Mom would whisper to me, “See how your father is?”</div> <div> You know the routine...</div> <bR> <div>    But now, Christmas without Mom was too much for any of us to</div> <div> take at Home. So year two was at Michael's. Not the old family</div> <div> Christmases; those were gone forever. But still, we managed to</div> <div> exchange gifts, food, cards, and privately, tears. But all in all, it</div> <div> was a good Christmas. And I could deal with the pain if I just</div> <div> committed Pop to the next visit before I left him.</div> <bR> <div>    All in all, in year three, it looked like we might be okay again,</div> <div> albeit altered, still a family. </div> <bR> <div>    Pop's near-death illness nearly ended it all.</div> <bR> <div>    But he came back from the lip of forever, enough to make the</div> <div> annual Christmas fruitcake, and fudge, which he generously (and</div> <div> one sensed gratefully) gave to neighbors, friends, his bank tellers,</div> <div> golfing friends, nurses, and his dear Doctor's aide, Lynette. That</div> <div> was Pop. Always giving; always caring.</div> <bR> <div>    I don't think I’d ever looked forward to any Christmas as much</div> <div> as this one since I was little. My heart was bursting with gratitude.</div> <div> God had given us our dad back, and not only was he getting</div> <div> strong again, but he'd become a gentle, peaceful and very grateful</div> <div> man.</div> <bR> <div>    He did not remember much of his illness, little of his suicidal</div> <div> moments and none of his angry outbursts. And he was crushed</div> <div> when he learned of some of those. (He wanted me to be totally</div> <div> honest about what happened during that time. And I was.) But</div> <div> those words didn't matter to us. Pop alone mattered to us, that he</div> <div> was ours to cherish for another Christmas.</div> <bR> <div>    Pop drove down the 5 1/2 hour drive from Fresno to Monrovia</div> <div> himself, cane and bandage and all, just one month after his near</div> <div> fatal bout.</div> <div>    We ate, drank, played cards, laughed and shed tears. </div> <bR> <div>    “To the world's best and bravest of dads, loved and appreciated</div> <div> by his three loving sons, in recognition of his extraordinary</div> <div> courage, strength and love for his family. With love and gratitude,</div> <div> from your three loving sons”, the plaque we'd made him said, and</div> <div> he wept without shame.</div> <div>    I wept also - later - when I read his card to me: </div> <bR> <div>    My Dear son,</div> <bR> <div>    Thank you for being such a blessing to me during my down</div> <div> period. Without the love and support of all the three of you, I</div> <div> doubt I would have survived, and I truly believe your presence and</div> <div> your prayers made a difference. </div> <bR> <div>    I've loved all of you since the first time I held you in my arms,</div> <div> but since my ordeal I know now the extent of love between father</div> <div> and son. </div> <bR> <div>    Your loving,</div> <bR> <div>    Pop</div> <bR> <div>    It was a perfect Christmas.</div> <bR> <div>    The only thing missing was the twinkle in Mom's eye, and her</div> <div> smiling face, and her childlike refrain, “Silver bells, soon it will be</div> <div> Christmas day.”</div> <bR> <div>    Mom, we finally had a Christmas you'd have loved.</div> <bR> <div>    If only you had been there.</div> <bR> <div>    <A HREF="id60.htm" TARGET="_top" TITLE="Silence Order"><U>Ordering Information</U></A></div> <bR> <div>    </div> <bR> </td> </tr></table></body>