AWW ~ 3/02/11
non-subject: searching
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Searching.
Us humans.
Always searching.
Anything that is alive searches.
It is the nature of the beast.
To search for sustenance,
whether it be physical or emotional or mental.
Even at the end of life,
there may be a longing
for death to come quickly.
Longing is a type of searching.
Sometime in the past few years, I've counted the places I've lived since I was 17 years old. The total came to 23 places. I last moved when I was 44 years old. That comes out to 23 moves in 27 years. No wonder I have a difficult time feeling settled. I've lived in my current house, in this year of 2011, for 7-1/2 years.
Up until I was 17 I only lived in two places, that I know of. Most of that time, from the ages of 2 until I was 17, my residence was at one house. I'd move in and out of that house a couple more times, until finally at age 25 I made the permanent move away from my house of developmental years.
1981. Sometime in the late winter or early spring I think it was, because Kathy and Nancy and I were living in the split-level house over off 16th Avenue in Viewmont, a community that is part of the city of Hickory. The house was brick with green siding. There was a fenced-in backyard where Jessica, a dog someone had given me, ran and played.
Kathy, Nancy, and I were loyal Way believers living in a "Way Home." A Way Home was a home where Way believers lived together, prayed together, ate together, ran Way fellowships and classes together, heard from God together, and moved the Word together. The Way didn't furnish any housing or supplies or monetary supplement for a Way home. All who lived in Way homes and moved the Word were volunteers.
I worked waitressing at a local pub. Kathy washed windows. Nancy must have worked at a bank or in some sort of money management.
Kathy was on her Interim year assignment of the 10th Way Corps. She was originally from North Dakota and was in her early to mid-20s. Nancy, a native North Carolinian, was also in her early to mid-20s and had been with the Ministry since she was around 16 years old.
I was 21 and had been "in the Word" for a little over 3 years.
I had been in the 10th Corps with Kathy. This Ministry year, 1980-81, had been my Interim Corps year; but I had failed, miserably. I had started the year as a W.O.W. Ambassador Team Coordinator in Connecticut; that was my Corps assignment. But I'd quit without notice, leaving my team high and dry. I'd hitch hiked alone to North Carolina, my home state, from Connecticut in early fall of 1980.
There was nothing worse than breaking your word, a deplorable sign of betrayal without integrity.
Now I was in this Way home with Kathy and Nancy, getting back to the "It Is Written" standard - my goal being to reenter The Way Corps in order to serve God and His people, to fulfill my calling.
On that 1981 late winter or early spring night, whichever it was, in the split-level home in Viewmont, I sat in the living room. I'm pretty sure I was sitting in an upholstered chair reading my Bible when the door bell rang. I looked out. There stood two police officers in full uniform.
I opened the door and asked, "May I help you?"
"Yes," they responded. "Is this where Carol Hamby lives?"
"I'm Carol," I answered wondering what they wanted with me.
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March 2, 2011
February 23, 2011
Barrel Toking
AWW ~2/23/11
non-subject ~reinvention
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1974. Late spring or early summer. 2:00 AM.
Myself and Cathy and Bill Bailer were on the playground at Jaycee Park in Hickory, the Jaycee Park over near Highway 321 where the 321 bridge crosses Lake Hickory. After driving over the bridge there was a small marina on the right. Not a fancy one but more like a place for George Dickel fisherman.
Down the dirt road, after passing the dirt driveway that led to the marina, there were small lake cottages. Not the fancy lake houses for the rich, but the musty cottages where some time during my teenage party years I landed at one of those cottages. Seems like a bearded man named Mac in his 30s owned the place.
But this time in the late spring at Jaycee Park was before I ever visited Mac's cottage by the lake.
Cathy and myself and Bill sat in the giant wooden barrel on the playground at the park. I was 15; Cathy was 16; and Bill was 18 or 19. Bill was good friends with Ricky Holster, who was in his 20s and drove a green Porsche. Bill and Ricky were both handsome and known as ladies' men. There were also known to have dope.
I felt privileged to be sitting in the giant playground barrel with Bill Bailer. I was now part of the cool group, the "freaks", as opposed to the "jocks." And now Bill was gonna supply my first experience with marijuana. I felt like I was being initiated into a world where only the brave dare enter, the world of the mind and the expansion of consciousness to discover what is truly real.
Bill's family lived down the street from Cathy's family. I was spending the night with Cathy and we had snuck out to meet Bill at his house. We waited quietly outside his house at the rendezvous time. Cathy and I were a bit early.
I was a master at sneaking out of the house at night. I'd started when I was in 6th grade some three years previously. Mostly I'd meet up with boyfriends in the woods or climb into their houses and sleep in their beds. Then I'd leave in the wee morning hours to walk or ride my bike back home. Oh the many stories. Running from the cops and hiding in the field, almost wrecking my mother's car before I ever had a license, drinking Boone's Farm wine over behind Viewmont School in the playground, being destructive by throwing dirt clods at cars, stealing milk from porches and raiding corn from gardens. Antics that gave me an adrenalin high.
Now I was going for a different kind of high, on a different playground.
Cathy, Bill, and I loaded into Bill's VW bug and Bill drove the short trek to Jaycee Park. I recall hearing the song "Keep on Truckin'" by Eddie Kendricks. It must have been playing on Bill's radio in the VW; we would have all kept quiet at the park.
Jaycee park was equipped with big swings and little swings, various kinds of monkey bars, sturdy plastic animals big enough for adults to ride that were mounted on staitonary heavy-duty springs so one could sway side to side and back and forth, plastic-type pony swings which hung from heavy chains from swing set bars, a big spiral slide, a few other regular slides, a playground merry-go-round where one could make themselves dizzily sick, a gigantic slide that went all the way down one of the hillsides and was scary, a couple sand boxes, and the giant slat-wood barrel that was mounted so that a person, if she was short enough, could stand in it and walk making it spin.
The Jaycee Park playground was a regular visitng place day and night throughout my party years.
So, I smoked dope for the first time that night, or rather morning. But I didn't feel the effect. I pretended I did to a point, but I was more high from the danger of sneaking out and doing something illegal. Maybe my adrenalin high cancelled out any effect from the Mary Jane.
Mary Jane. That was the name of the mare I was riding when I fell off, or got thrown off, five years prior to my first toke.
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non-subject ~reinvention
**********************
1974. Late spring or early summer. 2:00 AM.
Myself and Cathy and Bill Bailer were on the playground at Jaycee Park in Hickory, the Jaycee Park over near Highway 321 where the 321 bridge crosses Lake Hickory. After driving over the bridge there was a small marina on the right. Not a fancy one but more like a place for George Dickel fisherman.
Down the dirt road, after passing the dirt driveway that led to the marina, there were small lake cottages. Not the fancy lake houses for the rich, but the musty cottages where some time during my teenage party years I landed at one of those cottages. Seems like a bearded man named Mac in his 30s owned the place.
But this time in the late spring at Jaycee Park was before I ever visited Mac's cottage by the lake.
Cathy and myself and Bill sat in the giant wooden barrel on the playground at the park. I was 15; Cathy was 16; and Bill was 18 or 19. Bill was good friends with Ricky Holster, who was in his 20s and drove a green Porsche. Bill and Ricky were both handsome and known as ladies' men. There were also known to have dope.
I felt privileged to be sitting in the giant playground barrel with Bill Bailer. I was now part of the cool group, the "freaks", as opposed to the "jocks." And now Bill was gonna supply my first experience with marijuana. I felt like I was being initiated into a world where only the brave dare enter, the world of the mind and the expansion of consciousness to discover what is truly real.
Bill's family lived down the street from Cathy's family. I was spending the night with Cathy and we had snuck out to meet Bill at his house. We waited quietly outside his house at the rendezvous time. Cathy and I were a bit early.
I was a master at sneaking out of the house at night. I'd started when I was in 6th grade some three years previously. Mostly I'd meet up with boyfriends in the woods or climb into their houses and sleep in their beds. Then I'd leave in the wee morning hours to walk or ride my bike back home. Oh the many stories. Running from the cops and hiding in the field, almost wrecking my mother's car before I ever had a license, drinking Boone's Farm wine over behind Viewmont School in the playground, being destructive by throwing dirt clods at cars, stealing milk from porches and raiding corn from gardens. Antics that gave me an adrenalin high.
Now I was going for a different kind of high, on a different playground.
Cathy, Bill, and I loaded into Bill's VW bug and Bill drove the short trek to Jaycee Park. I recall hearing the song "Keep on Truckin'" by Eddie Kendricks. It must have been playing on Bill's radio in the VW; we would have all kept quiet at the park.
Jaycee park was equipped with big swings and little swings, various kinds of monkey bars, sturdy plastic animals big enough for adults to ride that were mounted on staitonary heavy-duty springs so one could sway side to side and back and forth, plastic-type pony swings which hung from heavy chains from swing set bars, a big spiral slide, a few other regular slides, a playground merry-go-round where one could make themselves dizzily sick, a gigantic slide that went all the way down one of the hillsides and was scary, a couple sand boxes, and the giant slat-wood barrel that was mounted so that a person, if she was short enough, could stand in it and walk making it spin.
The Jaycee Park playground was a regular visitng place day and night throughout my party years.
So, I smoked dope for the first time that night, or rather morning. But I didn't feel the effect. I pretended I did to a point, but I was more high from the danger of sneaking out and doing something illegal. Maybe my adrenalin high cancelled out any effect from the Mary Jane.
Mary Jane. That was the name of the mare I was riding when I fell off, or got thrown off, five years prior to my first toke.
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February 21, 2011
Uncle Fred Took Pictures
How can I go back in time to recall what I seem unable to remember?
I asked myself last week, "Carol, what is your first memory?" Well, more accurately it would be..."What is your youngest memory?"
I must answer that I am not sure.
It seems I have no recollection from my first four years. Even if I do, I would wonder how much is my recollection and how much has been planted there by photographs.
My favorite uncle was Uncle Fred. Uncle Russell was right up there with Fred, but Uncle Russell died when I was around six years old, I think.
Uncle Fred was a photographer and was one of Daddy's brothers. He was easy-going. When I was around Uncle Fred, I felt calm. He had a gentle laugh and his gait when he walked was poised without being snobbish. It's like he had soft shoes.
I liked Uncle Fred's Jaguar. I think it was white on the outside with tan leather interior. The dash board had all sorts of gauges and lights. I felt like a secret agent when I got to ride in it, which wasn't often because Uncle Fred lived at Daytona Beach and we lived in North Carolina.
Almost every summer our family would visit Daytona, until I was 18 years old.
Fred always had white hair. Perhaps it was silver at one time, but I remember it always being white.
Fred was married to Lucille. I liked Aunt Lucille but she seemed rather spacey and too girlie for me. I was a tomboy and wasn't the girlie type.
Aunt Lucille helped in the photography studio. She would help prepare people before a photo shoot and, up until color film was up to standard, she'd add color by hand to the photographs, enhancing the various hues.
Lucille had a parrot that could sing "Dixie."
Uncle Fred took me to Cape Canaveral when I was around 10 years old. I'll always remember riding the tour bus through the facility and seeing the eight-foot long windshield wipers on one of the gigantic trucks that hauled part of the rocket to the launch pad.
Fred always enjoyed watching the night launches from a restaurant on the mainland.
I last saw Uncle Fred in 2007. He was 92, I think, and still living at home. Same mannerisms, though a bit more cynical. He had only recently given up golf - said his eyes were bad.
He died within a year of that visit.
I hope I've inherited his longevity. So far, I'd say his genes are on my side. That I'm still alive is pretty amazing.
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I asked myself last week, "Carol, what is your first memory?" Well, more accurately it would be..."What is your youngest memory?"
I must answer that I am not sure.
It seems I have no recollection from my first four years. Even if I do, I would wonder how much is my recollection and how much has been planted there by photographs.
My favorite uncle was Uncle Fred. Uncle Russell was right up there with Fred, but Uncle Russell died when I was around six years old, I think.
Uncle Fred was a photographer and was one of Daddy's brothers. He was easy-going. When I was around Uncle Fred, I felt calm. He had a gentle laugh and his gait when he walked was poised without being snobbish. It's like he had soft shoes.
I liked Uncle Fred's Jaguar. I think it was white on the outside with tan leather interior. The dash board had all sorts of gauges and lights. I felt like a secret agent when I got to ride in it, which wasn't often because Uncle Fred lived at Daytona Beach and we lived in North Carolina.
Almost every summer our family would visit Daytona, until I was 18 years old.
Fred always had white hair. Perhaps it was silver at one time, but I remember it always being white.
Fred was married to Lucille. I liked Aunt Lucille but she seemed rather spacey and too girlie for me. I was a tomboy and wasn't the girlie type.
Aunt Lucille helped in the photography studio. She would help prepare people before a photo shoot and, up until color film was up to standard, she'd add color by hand to the photographs, enhancing the various hues.
Lucille had a parrot that could sing "Dixie."
Uncle Fred took me to Cape Canaveral when I was around 10 years old. I'll always remember riding the tour bus through the facility and seeing the eight-foot long windshield wipers on one of the gigantic trucks that hauled part of the rocket to the launch pad.
Fred always enjoyed watching the night launches from a restaurant on the mainland.
I last saw Uncle Fred in 2007. He was 92, I think, and still living at home. Same mannerisms, though a bit more cynical. He had only recently given up golf - said his eyes were bad.
He died within a year of that visit.
I hope I've inherited his longevity. So far, I'd say his genes are on my side. That I'm still alive is pretty amazing.
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