A touch of Christmas from Ch 2 "The Eye of Thor"

In 1973 my father purchased an old three story Victorian on 7321Takoma Avenue. A house with a history a story that started in 1878 when it was built for one of the two major land owners of Takoma Park M.D. and then transported in 1931 on logs with horse teams three blocks to it’s present location. This house would be the place where my childhood would be played out. When I first saw the house we were to live in it shot into the sky above the strange willow tree that reached to the sky in with strange arms and green tuffs like something from a Dr. Suess book. The front of the house had four great windows stacked on top of each other with a porch to our right with a white icing trim. In the middle behind a small round azalea that turned pink in the spring like I swear on of those marshmallow things with the coconut, hostess I think, lay a big red door as the center piece of a two small pillared cement porch. We entered the house into a small foyer straight ahead where the stairs to the second floor on the left hand the dinning room on the right lay the living room a room with a warning; for the 13 foot ceiling was falling in. We were not allowed to enter the room until it was finished my father decree, but you can look in he added. My father pulled back the plastic and we looked into the gloomy room. It ran the length of the house making the room now large to me now, at five years old, it was a cavern, a colossal cavern that my father, year after year, would fill with the largest Christmas tree possible. The ceiling was twelve feet eight inches which in my father’s eyes could hold a fourteen foot tree once we cut off the bottom and trimmed the top. I remember the age old battle my father a piece of twine, two nails, a Christmas tree with an average base of eight feet which could swallow a small child easily, and the ever present gravity which never seemed to change tactics during it’s run in with my father. My father did, every year he would have a new plan. My mother and I were his accomplishes, following his direction, until at least once the tree would crash into the wall, or topple on top of me or my mother completely engulfing one or the other of us. My father once brought a hammer and step stool into the mix. This was bad and my mother and I new it. My little sister Alicia was there that year so my mother was ridding herd on her at a safe distance. My father’s first foray up the step stool twine attached to the tree hammer in hand leaning in a precarious fashion and then zeroed in on his nail hook was successful. Well he picked the easy side first. The other lay in the corner behind the tree. What happened next was one of those things that I remember in slow motion. I believe it has to do with the fact that I move into an arena of heightened awareness when in danger which allows me to get away to safety before doom descends. I was tired of getting caught under the tree, and without mom’s voice and the natural maternal need to keep her child safe from harm; I might be in trouble. I’m not really sure how my father’s gyros work but some how he can manipulate hand tools or machinery with some unseen ability which I still haven’t figured out. None the less Dad began his assent up the step stool, hammer in one hand and the nail in the side of his mouth while the other side of his mouth was telling me which branches I should hold and where to stand. All this I considered dubious, yet I trusted my Dad, and the tree though large couldn’t kill me, just hold me to the ground like some great pine claw with needles for hair. I forgot to tell you in his other hand he had the twine which of course was looped around the tree I was holding, and looped around his hand. Now you are starting to see the picture. In short there where a lot of variables, making my contribution negligible at best, Dad began by pulling the nail from his mouth and while holding the tree’s weight with the hand holding the twine which worked well. He raised the hammer zeroed in on his nail, while his tongue did flips and turns in his mouth, swung, and missed catching his thumb instead. Everything happened at once, the hand holding the twine decided to take it personal that it had been hit in the thumb and quite its job post haste which included letting go of the twine and for good measure slipping off the wall towards the corner with my dad right behind it. Crash went Dad behind the tree where there wasn’t enough room for him which set into motion the law of equal and opposite action; meanwhile I am on the other side of the tree about to receive the opposite action. Everything went dark green, I herd my Mom give a little gasp and yell, “Jerry”. I was trapped, yet I had not let go of the branches I was holding like a good son. I wanted the tree up other wise no Santa and no Santa means no gifts or maybe I was just holding fast like a sailor on the stormy seas. My parents quickly pulled the tree up into the air, and my Mom grabbed my legs and pulled me out. I still had not let go and found myself with two hands full of pine needles. We got the tree up finally without any more miss haps. The next year my mom wanted a blue spruce which is an expensive tree and only comes in smaller sizes. Dad had to deal with a tree that was only ten feet tall which was a literal reprieve from the governor. The twine was there as usual for it housed all the Christmas cards we would receive; some things were not meant to change.

Letter to Oprah...THOR

****Erin, my "Niece" said so... *****

Oprah,                                                                                                 Oct 22, 2012

 

“Be Encouraged!”

 

I remember just one of your shows well and it had this statement within the context of you speaking to your “Grandma?” about the troubles that you were having at one time in your personal life and she told you “To be encouraged” and she spoke about the spirit and how during time of great difficulties we must be encouraged in our life with our spirit guiding the way. Yesterday those words came to me in thought when my “Niece”, Erin said I should write you a letter for help. It was a good though and needed, remembering that I am blessed. I am also very ill, but let me get to that in a moment: for I would like to tell you a little about my family, and who I am to set the template for where I am today.

I grew up in Takoma Park Maryland, adopted son of Jerome Ernst. (A man who walked with King in Selma Alabama, won a journalism award for his story “The Significance of Selma” in the “The Extension” a Catholic magazine, and has spent his whole life helping others, even now.) My little sister is Amy Ernst. (She has spent the last year and a half in the Congo working with the suffering women, hearing the words of rebels, and writing a book about life in a third world nation. I have to give her props for she is quite amazing young lady, to recognize suffering is a noble thing. Her Blog “The King Effect, (blogspot), and her few New York Times blog publications show a journey of heart and courage for such a young lady.)She’s 18 years younger than I. (She is working on her Graduate degree and writing a book in Chicago.)

My story… Well I said my “Niece” in quotes for she adopted me many years ago with several other kids on the street, the troubled and many homeless kids, she said to write this letter, and she’s got the right to mother me (on rare occasions). They all call me “Uncle Thor” and now 8 years later their kids call me “Uncle Thor”. The way you become a street uncle is being that one adult who looks after them, doesn’t judge them and they are able to talk to about trouble. That’s when my story really starts. I was a homeless addict living on the streets of Eugene Oregon six years ago. I got accepted into the Culinary Program at Lane Community College in 2006 and began going to school while homeless, waking mornings to dust the frost off my sleeping bag, wake up the cat that waited for me every night and crawled into the bag to keep my feet warm, put on my Culinary Uniform, stash my “Roll’ and go to school. I would study at nights at the library or the park if it was a nice day. I soon got a home but I had other battles still to over come. I entered and graduated the Drug Court Program in 2007. It was during my time in Drug Court an idea came to me. (I had already got the bug for volunteering at the “Whiteaker Dinner” 2,000 turkey dinners every Thanksgiving with most of the help done by students at Lane, I had to help, give back, and then the telling of my story to “KEZI 9” news as did an interview about how I had been homeless just a few weeks before, and now was a student.) My idea was this, to create a memorial for deaths, due to homelessness, alcohol, and addiction in our local area. I contacted the Mayor Kitty Piercy (She’s an amazing lady got inspired and wrote her a theme song little while ago.) and she passed me to Johnny Medlin head of Parks and Recreation. I met with him and got the guidelines down for my next steps, after doing research on deaths in Lane County for above said reasons, I created memorial with my own money got friends from Drug Court involved, and paid for all materials, getting the memorial in the ground on January 7^th about 5 pm on a Friday. I made the front page of the “City Region” the first line reads, “If only one person shows for the launching of your memorial—for those lives lost due homelessness, alcoholism, and drug addiction you could do worse than that one person be the Mayor. I created it again a year later. I told real stories about some of the 63 names on the 1st memorial, turning them into lovers, mothers’ missed, and young lives taken too soon. I knew many of them. I guess in this spirit I humbly write this letter. I called my dad before the interview and asked him advice, for Dad had been giving speeches as long I can remember. He said, “Don’t talk about yourself. Talk about the memorial.” which became very tricky as the reporter asked me questions then Kitty tugs on my arm and says, “Tell him what your ideas are.” (She calls me Thor.)

I asked my Chef Instructor later, why did they keep asking me questions? He replied, “Your story inspires people.”

I was in my 4^th year completing one A.A. in General studies, a class away from my A.A in Culinary Arts, and well into the first steps to open my own Restaurant when my spine and neck began moving, and I was hit by a car. I began getting help, but I just got worse. I am a natural athlete even at 44, and ironically my last class needed for my AA in General was PE in the winter of 2010, so I took track n field. I was running on my own 3-5 miles a few times a week by the time term ended in mid December. All the while I had begun having “Seizure/Spasm’s” down my left side. I went from wearing a coat and tie, or other business dress and being in the front of the class, the leader, to hiding myself and “them’ under my hoddie. The Dr. Lin looked for a bleed in my brain no results. Everything changes fast. December 18, 2010’ my spine shifts, and I began to lose mobility. December 21, 2010 I was struggling down the road close to home when my leg gave out and so did my whole body. I had my first full body “Spasm/Seizure”. I was transported to the Hospital.  Erin and her man Devin came and took me home, carrying me up the stairs. 3 weeks later while trying to get to school my neck let go in a gravel drive. As the electric shock hit after the loud snap hit me; I hit the ground. I lay there for a couple minuets and called Dad. School was done. I pulled out of all my classes.

I learned to walk again in my parking lot limping, chasing a small ball and had a PT that could me back together. I finally jogged my first block after a several weeks of working up to it. The money had long run out and the PT. I was on my own fighting a broken medical system. I am poor.

I got inspired by one doctor, Dr. Macha of the Slocum Center who provided me with free medical treament. So I ran, every day, and by August I could run 5-6 miles. I got this idea March 13^th 2012 to enter the ½ 13.2 mile Marathon, then to run in the Butte to Butte 10K July 4th, and the all comes track meet winning the 100 and 200 yard dash in August. I wrote to KVAL 13 news thanking them for hosting the event and how the staff treated me during my episodes. I didn’t feel like a spectacle but an athlete. They wanted to do an interview, and we met at my house august 13^th of this year, and I talked a little about my self, showed then my ribbons, and said  how maybe my story could inspire others who were struggling or suffering. I went for a run right after this, and got hit by a car in crosswalk. They never ran that interview, producer wanted confirmation by my PCP, and he was not willing to be interviewed. They did cover my next endeavor which all things considered is a better reason to be interviewed, and a better cause with the same message, just this one lay in action. I was contacted on FB by a mother who son Chris of “Team Chris Simmons”. This little boy needed brain surgery and the family needed funds to help with travel expenses, a yard/bake sale was the idea. I offered my help. I used my contacts to get other local businesses, Lane C.C. Events and Culinary Center, the Hilton Eugene, and other local business to give donations, and then arranged an interview with KVAL 13 news. Other Chef’s stepped forward after seeing me on T.V. and lend their expertise, and baked goods. The benefit was a success earning 1300$ in the first 2 days with five more to go. I told the father to expect 2,000-3,000 if his story aired on Sunday a week before the yard/bake sale. The producer at KVAL and his team did a great job on reporting and following up on this community event.

 My PCP doctor is in this broken system and bound by its decrees. Last thing my PCP said to me was, “You’re just going to have to live with it, and get some mental health help for the transition.” I felt like looking around the room like “I know your not talking to this man.”

I am a very humble man. I am not one to ask for help, but as in the way I said in “Divine Address Requested” TheEyeofThor.blogspot, (and my book’ name) if you were to be my “Angel” sent by my prayers, who would I, be to argue. Suffering and recognizing suffering, realizing how precious every moment is, and not fighting just plain being thankful day to day, happy, and to be encouraged is where I am. Giving what I can, full in-depth, and debt paid the way I traveled to make it here, now, resting gently on this cliff of life in broken body but triumphant spirit, heart, and faith transformed into better man for the road finished or ahead. One more thing and the most important, for if one person reads this and is inspired by it will have done it’s job.

Thor

Chef John Arthur Ernst

541-653-5332

 

    

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1BpLIRAI9zc&feature=plcp

 

 

"Team Chris SXXXXXX" Sept 8th 2012

 

It is by moral navigation and planted message in our hearts that finds something far beyond that of the everyday, be it by love of a little boy by his mother and father, beyond our own little “Gee that’s terrible!”, or the real fact of people who recognize suffering and want to do something about it. This place and idea could be seen and felt in the homemade purple shirts sporting “Team Chris” some with sporty logos on the back as a whole family and community came out to raise much needed funds for Chris’s much needed brain surgery in Oct. The eldest boy at 14 Jamie who was being my helper looked over his shoulder and asked, “What does mine say?” as he carried donated tins for the baked product into the kitchen. I laughed and said “Momma’s little helper”, and he his face showed the OMG an adolescent shows when his mom has stuck him in clothes he would never wear. It could be seen in the faces of people who herd Chris’s story for the first time, others who were still dropping off donations and buying something which was like a double whammy of smile power with a “Look Chrissy!” followed by the ever present “WOW”. I watched though the window as Chissy gave her interview in the now quiet backyard as I baked. I knew the questions and fear that lay within them as I could not hear what was said but could see the conversation in nonverbal cues of Chrissy’s gravid courageous face and gentle questioner. I to was quiet as I worked. The interview hard part done it was time to try to get Chris to unroll himself from his blanket. Which we were told, “It is very hard for him at times and he has even had to have been rescued do to his antics in it.” his mother piped up in the front room where they young boys had gathered with mom and the reporter valiantly attempting to catch Chris’s smile. Overall the air was just a little festive today and a well so, for in this gathering and out-pouring of empathy, a goal was in mind, for this one little boy name Chris.

Peace-Up VII Generations

Peace-UP

VII

“Generations”

           

It is evident it now time to put into motion the “Who we be” to our communities an up holding the honor of our brotherhoods an even more so the community that we lay “In Trust” in. The first response and the first deterrent to underworld crisis; hate that word, but America is making us into a drama crisis and we allow the weak even our own to go buy the way side, cannon fodder, it’s fashionable to ruin lives through weakness. It is time put the games to an end. It is time to be the shepherds of our communities. It is time we return to the core of our brotherhood and put proper business back into action. It is time we became responsible for our part of poisoning our communities. Yeah I said that. Brothers what happened to the party that used to build communities, not the game that twists them? What happened to good business tactics, and cliental, not “The Game”? We return as brothers in honor to the core of our beliefs, and build again; for the cops, politicians, and our poor neighbors who are too scared to say anything or let their kids play in the streets aren’t going to change the issue. We could change all that. We the XIII could stand side by side like 1966 and finish what we started. We are bound by our decrees to lift our own communities, together as the greatest force the world has ever seen. The honor of brotherhood and for all those brothers up state or buried in this 30 year war demands justice, it is upon us to make sure this senseless lives lost are not in vain. Let not one more generation of our children be cannon fodder, let them live their lives. We own them that.

Peace-UP is

Sonny Barger standing on his motorcycle one day and saying “I’m not stopping anymore for these cops in every state” and saying “Who wants to ride with me?” The first mass biker movement occurs with several clubs returning to California. The cops were powerless right became might. Sonny Barger became the first leader to truly define the ‘Hells Angels” clubs, with the final “Deaths Head” as it is today.

Peace-UP is

 Origins told to me by inner club historian of Hells Angels. “The Booze Fighters were the first. Then they split into two groups the “Pissed off Bastards” being the second. This club changed its name to the “Hell Angels. They were the first, “1%rs”.

Peace-UP is

Huey Newton told his people to educate themselves and forming the Black Panther Party to take care of his own people, and a will and vision that insured in attaining this goal, but knowing it would be oppressed, fighting for the oppressed is noble and deadly.  Black Panthers were the first to provide school lunch program for inner city children. Black Panthers walked the streets at night armed to keep their own community safe, and creating a ten point program to give their community power a constant voice during the 60’s and still remain till today.

Peace-UP is

The Mafia and its driving to make a better community in the Italian ghettos of New York, and then forming the five families to maintain a peaceful working co-existence. The infinite knowledge to reach the American dream creating a ‘Oasis in the Desert”, a legal way to do what they already did. You can believe their children, their families, the community gained strength in the American social system.

Peace-Up is

A tag I put in Red nail polish, followed by a Maltese (Iron) Cross I placed on the front sign of Lane County Courts the very night I wrote the first letter to all the families in 2001. The tag lasted for five years. (It more or less said Peace-up Lane County Courts)

Peace-Up is

 It is my niece’s boy friend who tells me times of his youth when his Mom got into trouble and he was alone. A biker was his savior, he was five, showed up and said; “I’m taking care of this kid now.” My friend tells me how much his presence and help meant as a child during the only memory he has of a troubled youth. (HuuuRaa!!!) It is all the brothers gathering to sell their personal gear in a fund raiser for Elder who needed a heart operation. It is the idea behind the biker toy run. (You should do it a second time in secret, underground, personal. Mob rules.)

Peace-UP is

The two rings; I carry on my hands ring fingers. The other my left passed to me by my girl during the summer of 2004’ when I was given option to prospect for the “Hells Angels”. (It has sun flowers wrapped around it. Sonny was in town, not alone. (Seven shots rang out late one night on Lexington Street in Glenwood. I wonder how far it was heard.) I wear them in respect for the two elders they came from Bergie Senior and in honor of the old ideals, brotherhood, honor, and above all loyalty.

Peace-Up is

The African lions tooth that hangs from my neck from Johannesburg South Africa. (There is a legend of the one voice that brings all the tribes together. It is called the “Power of One”. During the creation of a new country in South Africa the “Gangsters” and rebels put down their guns to feed their people using their network and special skills during the long countries rebirth. They were helped by the musicians to fill the long nights with gatherings and mirth.

 [Mandela was a major instigator, and a rebel before he changed tactics; yeah it got him put in jail for 27 years. Through his voice a people were brought together the needed items sustain a community during South African Apartheid occupation. Until in time the people prevailed and he was set free to become the father of a new country.]

Peace-Up is

The Stellar Sea lions tooth that was given to me by my neighbor and friend (RIP) Hazel Caldwell at the age of 93. The mountain lions tooth given to me, the medicine bag given to me by Klamath Tribe Elders with a message, “Let no harm come to you”, and a request to write Peace-Up V Family (This is what they wanted, but as I said in “Letter from the Grave” attached to Peace-Up Dragon VI movement requires 4 stages. Dragon was the 3^rd stage a necessary purification of those who will take step 4, action.) It is my leather with, every pin on it, gifts from brothers and sisters the last were Calvary, civil war pins.

Peace-Up is

It is one man who I met in Florence 10/31/03 who asked me three questions, and told me his name. A kinsman, for I was kin not a kinsmen, no tat, no patch, a historian, helicopter gunner Vietnam, 13^th.

Q: 1. “Have you ever shot a man?”

A: “No” 

 Q: 2. “Do you vote.”

 A “No” (I have ever since, when I could, and have kept myself educated.)

Q: 3. “If you are the trigger man for Osama Bin Laden, and collect the 25 million bounty who do you give the money to?”

(I thought about this question for a while, the man it came from, and most of all why was this man asking me such a question. There was something deeper in his reasoning, something I did not know, but I knew this was a moral test.)  

A: “To the children.” I replied.

“Whose children” he asked.

“Here at home and the children of America.” I stated.  (I knew as the brother I am, blood money should be used to grow communities.) 

He said “Wrong. You give it to the women and children of Afghanistan.”

Peace-Up is

Me being told all the children of Florence were saying “Peace-up” by a “HA” Mom wearing a 13 on her finger in 2003’, and later to be told by a friend who still lived there after I left, the night the brothers rolled. He said, “After you left man. It became cool to be good and not twisted in the under ground business. You did something to this whole town and changed it.” I was there 13 months.

Peace-UP is

Red for the Blood

White for the ideals

Gold for the money

Black for the mourning

Peace-UP is

The chopper culture, the lower riders, the hip hopers, gangster rappers, the rockers, the skins, the Rainbow family, Better Dayz, Metal heads, heads, helping any kid who has fell through the cracks, it is standing for something, it is a revolution made by a 1% resetting all that has gone wrong, and really who will stop us. They will do the opposite we shall regain the respect of our communities. If we do this, now.

“We can do something good they will never forget.”

Peace-Up is

Starts in America, but is now global. It is the voice of every freedom fighter on every soil fighting and dying to have a better life for his children, so they don’t have to fight when they grow up.

Peace-Up is

The accumulation of  a life time' years of study of social movements, a people, sacrifice and enduring while standing between two great armies with hands rose saying your wrong; a lone voice telling the real truth.

Peace-Up is

The memorial I erected twice to honor the lives lost through, homelessness, and the game. It is the Mayor of Eugene, Kitty Piercy, standing by my side, with just a few friends on a January evening, and listening to the stories. I told stories about names on the memorial turning them into real people, with lives, kids, friends, some respected highly respected and missed on the street Papa’s and Mama’s who taught the old school values to the youth of the street while being interviewed by a reporter from Register Guard. The Memorial and I made the front page City Region in a conservative paper.

Peace-Up is

In every American every community, in every global community that has enough of being suppressed on by its own Corporate Government, and those 1% who have all while others suffer and die here at home or on a distant battle field “fighting some mad buggers war”. The action needs to be to be in our own communities, neighborhoods, and directly impact the betterment of each citizen. My mentor an “Iron Horseman” Michael Stucky (RIP 2005) once said to me, “Lions for lambs, but soon Lion will lay down with Lamb.”  It is that time, Lions.

Peace-Up is

 Rebuilding the pillars makes the whole house strong.

Peace-Up is

 Thor

 I am the voice of the children.  

Jacquie Park Neighborhood Softball Games

An Afro-American man showed up in the park one day his name was Cecil. He wore a Red Sox uniform and cap covering his silvering hair. He brought a bag full of baseballs, gloves bats, and softballs. He got all us kids attention by his amazing ability to throw behind his back really high and far. He would take a baseball, point at a tall tree, and would toss into the air with his left catching it with his right and throw that ball right over the tree behind his back. He would then turn to all of us for he had our attention, and say, “I’m in the Guinness Book of World Records for throwing a baseball the highest behind my back.” This book was a popular book and sold at all the school book fairs. All us kids would respond with “Oooo’s” and “Ahhhh’s”. He got us into batting some days and others he just played some catch with so many kids who wanted to throw like him. I was one of them. Kids were all over the field throwing his baseballs behind there backs. Then he would call us all in and we would put all the gear back. It was him and his appearance in the park that started the community softball games. How? The kids and him and the parents who came to the park on Sundays, at first it was just a Sunday afternoon where the families of the neighborhoods came and BBQ and picnicked. Cecil would show and the kids and parents would be amazed by not just his skills but his ability to communicate with the children. Cecil got together the first game just by saying “Shall we have a game of softball?” and dumped the game gear out of his big canvases bag. Everybody who was there that day including myself grabbed some gear. There weren’t many of us playing at first but soon more and more people came till there wasn’t enough equipment. I remember an older gentleman who had large brown knuckled hands and a brown hat with suspenders who played the whole game in the outfield with no glove. We used what we had that first day.

 The next week we brought our own equipment. Fathers all week long prompted by their sons and the feeling of some of their lost youth dug through attics, garages, and closets looking for old beaten leather gloves, and a few bats of every size to bring to the park. Something began to happen, something big as week after week the neighborhood gathered in the park. Not just the softball game but what it fostered was a community gathering fun and with fun comes familiarity. The parents began talking about all sorts of issues our little park became a place of social awakening, and most important anyone could play. You had to know the rules to play. No throwing bats, no sliding in the field on base, (people were getting knocked down we weren’t pros), and anything down the hill that lined the back field in the air was a double because: 1. It took forever to get the ball back, 2. Sometimes it went into the street. 3. A balls few went into the storm drain. 4. And just way too many home runs.

 I was still little when this started and the kids were the main attraction with the adults joining in. Andre who wound up being the pitcher for our team, he liked to pitch. He would stand not in the pitcher box, but half way up to the batter over home plate. The game was for the kids and he made sure everybody could get a good shot at getting a hit. He had been chosen among all the children to be pitcher and the fact that he was one of the few Afro-American kids in the neighborhood made it special. He was able to connect with all the kids and keep a feeling of being competitive. Not like a parent who would always lob a throw in, but more a fellow player looking for the out. Andre was 12, a gangly youth who had a big smile in contrast to his dark skin and was well liked by all the parents. He was a social ice breaker in the making. I still remember the man who came to bat on this particular Sunday. He was burly man, lots of reddish hair, everywhere, and he stepped to the plate like he meant business. I had seen him on the plate before and he played like he was out to prove something of his athletic ability. Today was no different and he stepped to the plate. The pitch was up and powerful line drive aimed low to be a grounder that would have headed down the hill. It didn’t make it far. It hit Andre, in the balls. He went down and was up in just a second running all around the park, screaming holding himself. The kind of scream that sends chills down your spine. The adults were in full swing after him and finally got him down on the ground by the small swing set. Somebody called an ambulance and another went down to his house to get his mom. What I saw besides the biggest groin shot in my life was a whole neighborhood leap forward together in time of crisis, not their crisis but one of their own in their neighborhood, a black youth. We would continue to meet in the park every Sunday to play softball, but a new rule had been added. ALL pitches had to be done from the pitching box. The murmurs of what had occurred prompted more parents to come to the park to watch their kids play and just in case. It was about three weeks before Andre came back to the park on Sunday. I had seen him a few days before and he was walking okay, and seemed in good cheer. As he entered the softball field a great applause erupted mixed with cheers and everybody stopped playing and ran forth to greet him. A crowd of at least thirty people surrounded him with back pats all around and “Hello’s” mixed with “How are you feeling?” He went to take his position as pitcher again, and tried to stand in the same spot. Everybody was like “No!” We backed him up to the pitcher mound and the game resumed. Andre became a household name. The park elevated to the next level. Crisis brings people together and that’s what happened in our park. Over the years the Sunday softball games would become a true affair with the grill going and all the women getting together to provide snacks and food for all who came. The true power of this social gathering was the neighborhood becoming solidified and lead them to become a force to make a better community in Takoma Park Maryland.

"Moment in the Sunshine"

            I live in a very special complex in Springfield, and many of us have been here a while. A small back yard for barbeques and the kids and we all pretty much know each other and engage in pleasantries from day to day be it “How was your day?” to the children playing or calling “Can you come out to play?” I always engage with the kids for playing is fun, they are my friends. It is so in this day, today that I do what I usually do. I hear children playing and go out to watch. I had seen my neighbor’s grandmother unloading the two boys earlier and a new face, a cousin. I had met her on an occasion and treated her with high regard for my neighbor converse on many occasions and references to her place her in matriarch standing. She was sitting in the sun in the back yard today and the three boys were playing games all separate or together. The youngest with the long pony tail was batting a ball the grandma keep tossing to him. The oldest was over by the “V” of the tree were I stash Sasha our resident tame squirrel nuts, attempting in a boyish game to lodge a basket ball in the “V’’ over and over for display for his great grandma for which he was rather successful even though his misses left him running wildly after the ball, and his younger brother was determined to pull a spin around 360 in the grass  on a skateboard (which is almost impossible and the mere fact heat he could keep both feet on and maintain his balance was a agreement with gravity that young children have, not adults). Grandma as I and the children refer to her was doing an admiral job to each action of heroics to cheer the children on individually while being pitcher with a little red whiffle ball. Grandmas are the ultimate multi-taskers. I had given both the brothers batting coaching until they both could whack the tennis ball pretty good and yelled over to the oldest how come was after a few tries my self I realized the bat was just heavier than the kid if he got a full swing. Grandma was still the pitcher. Well after a bit he got it, except his feet, so he had to sort of run after the bat when he swung. I told the younger brother “look out” as his younger still cousin was thrashing the air wildly with his knew found skill. Then he was ready. He ran right up to grandma, I mean right up to grandma like 3 feet away made his stance with the bat over his shoulder and said “Throw it!” We both said, “No!” “Back up!” He did whacked a few more and than ran off in some other direction tossing the bat. Grandma snaps at him real quick for second a snap with a smile (Grandma power) “you hold on to that bat stop letting it fly! I backed away and watched the kids were playing their hearts out, a special moment in the sunshine with grandma watching on a very calm happy smile on her face. A smile that’s hard to place a smile that come from a life time of love, and to witness it for a fleeting moment as she watched the kids it forever will be in my mind. I left them playing laughing, and doing all the things boys do that are part of fun or being with grandma

            My neighbor stopped by a few minuets ago and that’s what prompted this story. He said, “I’m going to the hospital it’s my Grandma.” I had heard talk of someone having a stroke and losing “her” left side, but… “The lady in the yard today?” the question with a shocked look leapt from my mouth.

 “Yes. She has had three strokes in the last couple days they don’t think she will last the night. I’m going to say goodbye.”

“My prayers go with you” We looked at each other a moment he nodded to said thanks.

THOR    May 8, 2012

My Mountain, My Hope "13 weeks of Training" 13.2 Eugene Marathon 2012

I am 43 years old and this is my first marathon. I have never run over ten miles, even though having been a natural athlete my whole life. December 18th of 2010 an injury to my back and spine took my mobility away. I could not walk.  I spent 5 Ambulance rides to River Bend hospital because my dysfunction caused me to begin having full body muscle spasms that looked like seizures. The doctors are baffled, therapy doesn’t fix the problem and, I’m eventually left on my own. In March 2011 begin teaching my broken body to walk again. I start by limping around my parking lot for three weeks often chasing a small ball, three more weeks walking around the block, and then running a few hundred yards by fall I was cresting at 5 miles. Winter was hard all my fears and stresses dealing with seeking treatment and my progressing illness caught up to me. I needed a proverbial “Mountain” to climb to beat back the desperation, and I began running again; for, it was the only thing that helped. I began again at 2 miles with many stops. I ran through the storms, hail, and snow bundled in my powder blue Titans track uniform, cap and gloves. It was March 13 while watching a news cast I got this idea of running the ½ marathon. I ran, up my hill everyday and then into the flats of Springfield ever increasing my distance and time. I ran everyday through the pain finding joy among the moments of hope in the run and I danced in the road puddle jumping. I entered the ½ marathon 4/19 when I completed three 10+ mile runs in a row. I’m still handicapped, but what I found was the impossible mountain isn’t so bad if you, chip away at it every day, growl back at it, or eventually run over the top of it. I picked up my bib today and had built my self up for the event, and felt let down. It was later on my walk that I realized that I had made a goal which I had not been able to do for some time since my injury. I felt good sort of like “Hope’ renewed. In my case that means everything.

Chef John Ernst aka “Thor”

The Hard Way

            This year we changed things around, instead of going to Minnesota during the summer we went at Christmas; it was cold, there was snow, there was a lot of SNOW, and there was snow shoveling. This occupation was carried out by the men, and boys.  This is where I come in, with my bright ideas of saving time and doing half the work. I stood in the long curving drive bundled against the weather with boots lost in the fresh foot of snow that had fallen. I believe god in his infinite humor made sure the snow storm culmination measurement in Minnesota was always done in feet.  So here I am; a southern boy mind you, giving advice to his father and Grandfather on the subject of snow shoveling. I suggested with confident words, for I was known to often come up with time saving ideas. My advice was this. I lifted my arm in a gesture that was used for direction giving and said, “Why don’t we just dig two paths for the tires?”

My grandfather, who had already started shoveling, stated without looking up from his labor. “The lazy man’s way is the hard way. If we were to do as you suggested; the snow would build up under the car, melting and refreezing until a block of ice is left which eventually has to be removed before it can damage a cars undercarriage. He looked up and locked eyes with me; for, this lesson he felt was of great importance and, he repeated,   “The lazy man’s way is the hard way.”     

            I have forty-five 1^st cousins and sixteen aunts and uncles, on my father’s side of the family. We, as in my immediate family were the only ones to live outside the state of Minnesota. Every summer I would fly from Washington DC to the land of 10,000 lakes, having arranged my month vacation between Grandma  & Grandpas’, Uncle Georges Farm, or at any one of my other relatives homes. My Grandfather Irving Ernst was the true Patriarch of our family, instilling upon us his values, wisdom, and experience.  I would often spend a few days with Grandma and Grandpa at their small house before assailing my extended kin. Every night under the Coo-Coo clock my Grandparents said the rosary, the whole rosary which consisted of 40+ prayers. I always marveled at their steadfastness and devotion. Now looking back, I see how every part of these peoples lives was scheduled and set before them; furthermore, the effort for over 50+ years had net them the truest fruits of labor; a large, successful, happy, family.

            The “Hard way” let’s examine this idea as I it refers to my life.  I was the classic under-achiever in grade school to the point where it came easy and I did no work. I could pass with “C”s and “D”s  .

“Just get by” my father always said, “You just get by” back then it was said with a disappointing I tell you so tone which would lead me to feel lost, vulnerable, the victim; for, in truth that is the reality I had created as a child. Adolescence was a whole new adventure in this state for I found drugs, depression, and anger leading to residential institutional living for three years in my late teens. High school was done all a bad memory or at least shall we say not my potential. My twenty’s were “Rockin” till twenty-one, I had worked real hard. I found a new way of falling down and that was though women, motorcycles, and weed. Cops and Kids that’s what I wound up with, not at the same time, yet the out come the same. My father placed me into Baltimore International College, and I again fell short of my goals not completing my degrees, yet I had become a competent “Cook”; a cook, who had too move to Oregon in a “barrowed” U-haul truck because he had burnt all his bridges. My kids are here we had a few good years. Prison sucked. Losing a second family sucked more. Jail in and out with a topping of homelessness made up my life until eight years ago. Something in me called, and I stood up. Well.. that’s the first step. The second has been rebuilding.

It has taken most of my life to instill this lesson into my daily life. I say this not to say that I am the picture of productivity, yet all the true accomplishments’ I have attained; I attribute to hard work. It’s funny when I’m working hard time itself becomes my friend in this struggle we call life. Laziness is the soul crusher and back breaker that will if given a chance; bring my life to a standstill taking my dreams with it. I often impart this story of that day and my Grandfathers words to others. My Grandfather passed away in 1989, yet his words, his love still surround my life.

            We finished the drive with all three of us after a half hour of work. Then we moved like clockwork into the next activity after having hot coco at Aunt Kathy’s. I happened to speak to my Aunt Kathy who was visiting my father for the inauguration of our new President Barrack Obama. We laughed and reminisced, yet the pain we all experience was evident just under the surface. We all miss him still.  I look back with longing, for this was the only time that my father, Grandpa, and I ever worked side by side.   If only that driveway was a little longer. If only I could of spend another day shoveling snow with Grandpa and Dad. I digress. Thank you Grandpa for the wonderful lessons that I still carry close to my heart I will remember them always.

Thor.

Truth? High Fructose Corn Syrup

There are two basic enzymes in the mitochondria of cells that burn glucose and fat. High fructose corn syrup causes a mutation of one of these enzymes the one that burns glucose. All sugars and starches are broken down into glucose until the cell can burn them. The two enzymes are basically proteins and act as muscles do. If you exercise them they grow larger and more efficient. The enzyme that burns glucose works during aerobic and anaerobic exercise but during anaerobic exercise the by product is lactic acid (often causing cramps). The fat burning cell only works during aerobic exercise. This basis is the answer to weight loss. Bio-chemist Covert Bailey. What high fructose corn syrup does is creates an anomaly in the enzyme that burns glucose and is so close to glucose that the body begins to learn to run on this foreign sugar creating a new enzyme structure that requires and craves this new sugar. The body basically becomes addicted to this new sugar even though it must expellee all the chemicals that go along with it. The more you ingest the more it grows until it becomes more prevalent then the natural enzymes to burn sugars sucrose (cane and beet) and fructose (fruit and vegetable) thereby defeating and poisoning the natural process. Items like new coke in the 80's the largest selling product in the world and cereals like Captain crunch were the first hallmarks of this change in the American diet. High fructose corn sugar became more efficient in product per acre during the 70s and 80s, and still is today. It can be found in everything from cereal to cookies, from salad dressings to every soda on the market. It is a serious blight on the American diet, and even more detrimental to persons of color any color. I stopped eating high fructose corn syrup last summer. I still eat sugar. I enjoy the flavor of fruit and vegetables with more intensity for I can experience the natural sugars. I think clearer, I sleep less, have more energy, and will never get diabetes or cancer from my diet.

Chef John the Ghetto Gourmet. aka Thor

It has been 2 years or more on a basis diet limiting High Fructose Corn Syrup, no soy, (as In dressings), I eat base foods, and still enjoy homemade sweets or buy a Coke from Mexico in the Mexican market in town. The original recipe of Coca Cola with sucrose is still made in Mexico (YOU CAN'T DRINK THE WATER IN MEXICO!). I have not caught a cold, or the flu. I have battled them but never came down with symptoms. I attribute this to my diet, and high level of exercise. 10K 6 dayz and cross training, with bag, weights, and core.
I am still handicapped fighting back. 

Letter from the Grave, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

“Oppressed people cannot remain oppressed forever. The urge for freedom will eventually come” This is a quote from Martin Luther King Junior’s “Letter from the Birmingham Jail”; his words were like thunder across a stormy sky daring our humanity not to listen. The legacy he left, a reminder to the community, too always do what is just no-matter how off the society and his idea conflicted at the time. The booming references to the solidarity in an oppressed people who are in the action phase of their non-violent issue pushes forth a raw ethos in Dr. King’s letter.  The struggle he is in the midst of is one that has become rife for change, and one of which he has become the chosen leader thereof. Dr. King’s investment and loyalty in his work was reflected in the steadfastness of his spirituality and compassion for his fellow man. Ending in his death; I bet you he was smiling and cursing.  I too have aspired to be a voice for those in our community, my brothers and sisters who have kept silent during their time, a message from beyond the  grave for some, the telling of their suffering in a chaotic world labeled, pursued, attacked, and buried everyday. In this country which would not have them, for they had lived off the grid fending off the inevitable run in with the Authority while keeping enough motivation to find serenity and satisfaction on a day to day basis.   I do not liken or compare my self to Dr. King for his shadow far diminishes any that I have created. I will say the voice of those people being oppressed is still there, that the need for justice is still a noble goal, and that the oppressed will eventually cry out for freedom. I have just been making that cry heard. Let the truth out. The game is full of pain, pleasure, suffering and, cycling or ending with rebirths or deaths. The numbers tell the real story. Remember each one is a life, a life that is going on or passed. I think of all the years I have seen in this war, all the lives that have been forever changed by the infiltration and introduction of crack cocaine and symbiotically the drug war in 1984’. A generation has passed with no end in sight for the epidemic or  the oppression of all who exist, have ventured into, or speak openly about. I shake off these chains of self doubt that betray my fear and embrace a change that inevitably will come about. Once again good men have stood by to long while the wicked have bared the way for a peaceful end to this conflict on our streets so we can begin to heal those who are struggling and suffering with their disease. America communities can rebuild, refocus, and enjoy dinner around the corner and just down the street from the “Promised Land”.

He opens his letter which is addressed to a select audience, an audience whom which he considers his equals of for they are all men of god, and pillars in their community. Firstly, he lets his audience know why he is in jail; furthermore, why he is in Birmingham. The answer he gives is simple, injustice. At one point he gives the four social steps to creating a non-violent movement. 1. The injustice must be present. 2. The need for or attempts at negotiation must be made. 3. The purification of those who will take part in the final step. 4. Action.   He continues to give responses to the allegations of being an extremist by relating his actions to extremists of the past such as Jesus and Paul, who he feels to be in fine company with. A special dissertation which takes several paragraphs’ is then relayed to his readers; it is about the churches doctrine and teachings which call for speaking out against suffering and its removal wherever it exists. He furthermore calls them to action as good men; for, he says it is their duty as men of god. Dr. King speaks of the brutalities suffered by those with him in vivid fashion dispelling any falsities’ portrayed by the media and puts the truth front and center. His call for action was evident in his own stance and of those who suffered and toiled by his side. The letter many pages long says over and over there is need for change and supports this fact with all forms of argument logos,  pathos, and ethos each driving home his intent repeatedly like a great sledge hammer.

Again I am not Dr. King. The story I tell and the voice of those who live in the world I give insight to are real. The oppression of our fellow American in the counter culture or any one associated with the Drug world and as well the squandering of the massive amount of funds used to fight this war is a on going blight on the American people. Peace-UP has graduated from just a message to a movement. Dragon is a call for the purification of self. For ten years I have been an ardent voice and an active player in the message and movement of Peace-UP. My action is my personal evolution, my tribute, my song to the American people.

I give you Peace-UP VI Dragon, may Dr. King’s letter from Birmingham Jail be resurrected to serve as a seed sprouted of his words.

I have waited a year. Results take time to measure. The results are well defined and prominently give heed to new strengths. The aspect of addressing the mind while using…? I will tell you later when I have spent some time in my recovery mind, clean.

Peace-Up “Thor”  

I dedicate this writing to all those who have suffered in their pains, prisons, and disease over the last 25 years. Most of all this is for those who died in this world may we as a community remember their sacrifice, AND

      Do something different

                                    For different results.

                                                          Reconciliation.

I am about four in “Dragon Years” now. The changes I have under gone and the speed that I accomplished them has been amazing to me at times. I have newer and more detrimental fields where my battles are now being fought. I have a grand amount of faith at this point. I wish I could just reach out and share it, yet at least I will give a picture through my eyes of what battles are won for me on this final battle field. I know I am in a fight for my life. In a way I have already won.

Present day THOR