Chapter Thirty-Eight: Stranger than Paradise

The Urge for Goin'

As the days went by in our little house in Ventura, I couldn't help but feel that Lani wasn't happy. Not that she sat in her room crying or snapped at me, but there seemed to be a wistfulness about her. With another child on the way I felt it was my duty to jump-start things and get us into a higher income bracket. The photo lab had moved from a little backwater business park into a brand-new shopping center, and we were now an official One Hour Photo Lab. I was learning more about photochemistry and machine repair from my boss, Paul Blumenfeld. He had been very accommodating in giving me my job back after running away to Santa Maria. He was a graduate of the Rochester Institute of Technology, one of only two schools that specialized in photofinishing. I learned a lot from him, and it got me to thinking that maybe I knew just enough to move up the ladder into.....dum dum dum.....management.

I didn't want to work in the area for a competitor, and then it hit me: Lani sometimes spoke about going back to Hawaii. Well, why not? A plan formed itself in my head and I started getting pretty excited about the possibilities. I was also relieved that I would have something else to think about other than the cute girl at the bakery next to the lab. The one who liked to flirt with me and got the hound dog in me all riled up. Yeah, better leave that pup behind.

I went to the library and got a copy of the Oahu phone book. I looked in the yellow pages and got the names of every photo lab on the island. Then I composed my first-ever resume. A thing of beauty, no doubt, showing my many years of "lab rat" experience and my desire for better things. I sent out about a dozen letters, not telling Lani of my plan. A couple of weeks later, just as I started to lose hope, a letter came from a company called Phototron. I know, sounds like some futuristic weapon. "Eliminate the Earth scum! Fire the Phototron!"

The letter was from the personnel director, and he wanted me to come down to Rialto, a suburb of Los Angeles, for an interview. Well, all right. I told Lani what I had been doing and she was really happy. We were both jazzed about the prospect of living in Hawaii.

Two days later I drove down to Rialto and apparently I said all the right things to the right people because they decided to send me to Hawaii to interview with the plant manager and production manager. Before I left the building a secretary set up my flight and hotel arrangements for the following weekend. I walked back out to my car with my head spinning. Now things were getting real.

Get a Job, Part Duh

Lani and I were both excited about the prospect of living in Hawaii. I saw it as a way to revitalize our marriage and get away from the rut I felt I was getting into in my life. Travel Day came and I was dropped on at LAX wearing my best brown polyester suit, (vest included). I met the plant manager at the gate and we had lunch, gabbing about this and that. He didn't seem to care much about my experience, focusing more on my attitudes toward different disciplinary scenarios. How would I handle catching somebody stealing from the company? How would I react if somebody called me some derogatory name? I also got this weird vibe off him that perhaps he was coming on to me. Hmmm. Nothing overt but I was happy when he dropped me off at the Ala Moana Hotel after lunch.

I had a few hours to kill before the meeting that night so I changed my duds and went for a walk. I walked through the local shopping mall, down to the beach and out to Kapiolani Park, where the famous Kodak Hula Show happened daily. This was good. This was cool. Walkin' around Honolulu, staying at a fancy hotel. I went back and ordered room service just because I could.

That night I met the plant manager for dinner and we hit it off. His name was John Lee and he had moved to Hawaii from South Korea to run the plant. We dined at the famous revolving restaurant Top of Waikiki. Seeing Honolulu go from sunset to sparkling city night hypnotized me. I was as in love with this city now as I was with Lani. I could feel the ancient nature of the land and the slow, easy pace of its people through every pore. So John had no trouble getting me to sign an employment contract after my tour of the plant. The place was a typical mass film processing plant. smelling of photographic bleach and dust. Just the place for a lab rat like me. I was to be paid the princely sum of $12,000 per year and my title was Production Supervisor. I would start May 3, 1983, just six weeks from that interview. The company would help with travel and moving expenses. This was real. We movin' to da Islands!

The Big Kahuna

I spent the next day hanging out around town, since I wasn't going home until Sunday. That evening I was to meet some of Lani's friends from high school at the Royal Hawaiian Hotel. Up in my room I dressed in a nice, new aloha shirt I had just picked up and a pair of white slacks Lani had bought for the trip. Add a pair of slick, new "slippers" (Hawaiian word for flip-flops) and I looked the part of White Missionary Out on the Town. There was a soft knock at the door and I opened it to a beautiful Hawaiian girl in a clingy dress who said "Hi, I'm Rachel" (I think) and gave me a big kiss. We exchanged pleasantries and I escorted her to the Royal Hawaiian.

We waited in the lobby, getting our share of looks. (I was much better looking then) The the other girls started showing up, some in pairs and some alone. Some had flower leis they put around my neck with a kiss, and each one was stunningly gorgeous. Eventually the group was complete: Thirteen of them and one of me. The maitre d took one look at me, winked and showed us to a large, circular table in the center of the showroom. We talked and laughed, and I felt like the friggin' King of Hawaii sitting there with his harem. The musical act that night was the Brothers Cazimero, a long-time traditional Hawaiian music group. At the break they came to our table because many of the girls knew them. That cemented my status with the crowd as Somebody Special. It was a magical evening that I'll probably see as my life flashes before my eyes.

Sunday came and I was just a pumpkin again. Took a cab to the airport, flew back to LAX. Saw Charlton Heston strolling through the halls and walked just behind him out to the street thinking: "What can I say to Charlton Heston that wouldn't sound all gooey and stupid and possibly idiotically insane?" And then he got into his illegally parked car and drove off. Later he became the president of the NRA and a total tool so I felt better about snubbing him.

We had six weeks to wrap up our lives in California and make a new home on Oahu. Time for a big change.

39, like a cup of wine. But oh, don't be left with bitter dregs.

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Pushing the Stone

Day to Day Stuff

With all the angst I was now putting myself through, now I was under the analytical gaze of my in-laws. My father-in-law was a true man's man who loved to go deep sea fishing, watch football and feast like a king. He had been a four-year football player at Wisconsin and was considered draftable. But a knee injury put an end to that. Our relationship was prickly from the time we first moved into his home. I know he saw me as a bleeding-heart liberal and let's face it, not good enough for his daughter. Sure, we watched Boxeo de Mexico and football together but outside of that I was only barely tolerated. While it started as a joke, my nickname became "meathead", like the character Mike Stivic on All in the Family. I was working at a photo lab and going back to college to finish my degree in music. That went over well, too.

But I would not be fair if I didn't mention the best part about living with the in-laws: the food. Oh my God what an amazing assortment of dishes we had there! My mother-in-law was a fantastic cook. My favorites included: Ox-tail soup, seafood chowder, chicken noodle soup and the best sushi and sashimi I ever had. Father-in-law loved barbecuing and had a smoker. We had smoked fish, beef, turkey and chicken regularly. Steak tartar for New Year's Day and loads of incredible appetizers. A great afternoon out with Neal was going to several smorgasbord restaurants in one day, coming back dizzy with the high calorie count. I could do that in my skinny days.

Then came the Silent Treatment from my mother-in-law. When I violated a rule of etiquette or protocol in the home, or just said something stupid, I was treated as if I did not exist. I remember the first time this happened, when I had no clue what was going on. I walked into the kitchen and she was washing dishes.

"Hi, Merle."

Silence, washing.

"Lani out with PJ?"

Silence, moving around the kitchen, not even meeting my eyes. I am a ghost. Worse, I am a non-person. I have to wait until Lani gets home to find out what my transgression was and avoid that behavior in the future. When my probationary period is up I am then spoken to again.

And woven through it all were the fears I could not put to rest. You're a horrible person for all these thoughts. She doesn't trust you around the baby any more. What good is a fucking degree in music, anyway? How will you support a family by working in a photo lab? They would be better off without you.

And so on.

But holding me together, keeping me strong in the face of all this, was the unwavering love and sense of duty to little PJ and Lani. I didn't have any real plan for the future yet outside of keep working harder.
A Dark Day

One Sunday night, December 8, 1980, I was working the night shift at the lab. I was listening to the local rock station, KTYD out of Santa Barbara. The evening DJ, a guy named Zeb Norris, came on and said: "Please stay tuned after this commercial for a very important announcement." Okay, so maybe Led Zeppelin is coming to town, or Joe Walsh dropped in at the studio. (He lived in SB at the time.) But no. Zeb came back on the air, clearly struggling to maintain his composure.

"Listeners, we've just gotten word over the news wire that John Lennon was shot in New York City and is dead. A gunman approached him at his hotel as Lennon and his wife Yoko Ono were returning from dinner with friends and killed the former Beatle with several shots at point blank range. The gunman has been apprehended and details will follow." This was followed by John's recording of Imagine.

I sat there in shock, not knowing what to think. John Lennon murdered? What the fuck?! I called cousin Joe and asked if he had heard. He said they just got the news in the middle of a documentary about the Doors. We talked about how bizarre the whole thing was. I hung up and did my best to finish my work for the night, listening to the updates as they came in. On the way home that night I was driving up Harbor Boulevard back to the house when something caught my eye. It was a brilliant glow, slowly making its way out into the Pacific. I stood outside my car, watching it fade over the horizon. "John?", I asked. Turned out it was a misfired rocket from Nevada that got destroyed over the ocean. Strange stuff.

I was sitting in an easy chair in the living room when my father-in-law got home from his job. He could tell I was down. Lani told him it was because John had been killed.

"Good", he said, "Now go get the other ones." Can't top that.

The next day the news was full of the reactions around the world. In my vocal techniques class at college we talked about our memories of John and what the boys from Liverpool had meant to each of us. I had an emotional moment that night at work when it all overwhelmed me. I really felt I had lost something, not just a man but a part of my past. A given that I just assumed would always be there. It could happen just that fast, to anyone.

Travellin'

In December Lani, PJ and I went out East to visit my folks. This was an intense time for me, as I was returning to the family household as a Dad in my own right, carrying baggage I had never anticipated. While things at times got prickly with the parents, I enjoyed seeing all my old friends and my two sisters. Leslie was pregnant with her first child and I told her about the difficulties I was having. She sympathized with me but as it turned out that legacy never came to bother her. Looking back it doesn't surprise me. Any oldest child will tell you that the parents usually refine their methods from the first go-round. Mom really got a kick out of seeing the first grandchild.


Movin' On from Town to Town

After we got back I started thinking that we had to get a place of our own. It was obvious that the in-laws were telling Lani that I was a bum going nowhere and she was torn between her feelings for me and the need for their approval. Lani was offered a job in Santa Maria, up in the Central Valley of California, managing a travel agency owned by the people who had trained her in Santa Barbara. We moved there in July and stayed until just before Christmas. The job was a disaster and both of us were feeling lonely and out of place.

We ended up getting an apartment across town from the in-laws back in Ventura, which relieved the pressure somewhat. Lani got a job at a local grocery store and I got my job back at the lab and started really learning how to cook and keep a neat house. While it wasn't domestic bliss, it was secure enough that we actually started talking about having another baby. What remained unsaid, unanswered, was "Why?"

We had some nice neighbors but the place was too busy, too noisy. We moved into a small duplex in a quiet neighborhood, anticipating the arrival of our newest child. While Lani and I had had some conflicts over money and other petty stuff, I saw us as being OK together, a view shared by our friends. I still felt like I wasn't doing enough to help us progress, though. I wanted to take the next step up in my career. But how?

38: Careful whatcha wish fer....

Chapter 36: The Beast

"Enough, then, that I not only recognised my natural body for the mere aura and effulgence of certain of the powers that made up my spirit, but managed to compound a drug by which these powers would be dethroned from their supremacy, and a second form and countenance substituted, none the less natural to me because they were the expression, and bore the stamp, of lower elements in my soul." - Doctor Jekyll


Readers may find the following narrative upsetting or disturbing. I write this to remain true to the title and spirit of the story. It is a journey through the "lower elements of my soul" as I have seen them manifest over the years. If you would take my hand and come with me into this valley then journey with me to the end, and do not let loose too soon. You will be as lost as I was then.


Origins

I have alluded to the rather strict upbringing I had without going into a lot of detail. That was purposeful in order to save the reader any undue angst. The earlier parts of this story now come forward and are featured in the problem(s) that plagued me after PJ came home.

My introduction to "corporal punishment" came when I was about 7 or 8 years old. We were living in Rhode Island and I had come home late one night for supper. Not "late" as in calling-the-cops or going-out-to-look-for-you, but in terms of the military precision of our home. I was due home by 6PM and I was not there at 6PM. When I walked in the door I was called down to the family room in the basement where Dad had a very angry lecture ready for me. When that was over I was instructed to pull down my pants, kneel facing the couch and prepare for punishment. I was not to scream or attempt to block any action with my hand. Then Dad began striking my butt with a dowel rod, about a dozen whacks. I did try to put my hand out and it was struck as well. I then went to my room without supper, restricted there until morning.

This particular punishment was meted out countless times from then until I was 13. I was whipped for lying, stealing, smoking cigarettes and violating other taboos. The preferred weapon was the belt, pulled off Dad's waist and wielded like a cat-o-nine tails on my slender body, sometimes drawing blood. Other objects included willow switches and a ping pong paddle. I never knew how long the session would go, but I determined that I would not let the old man see or hear me express any pain no matter how bad it got. Only once did he hit me with his bare hand. I had been juggling excuses with my 3rd grade teacher over why I hadn't delivered some note to my parents. She finally called the house and spoke to Dad. I overheard him talking to her and when he was done I came into the kitchen to see if I could nonchalantly calm him down. Before one word had escaped my lips he backhanded me so hard I flew across the room, strking my head on an armchair in the living room. That bought me a fat lip, black eye and a bump on the noggin, all at once.

I also turned into a kleptomaniac. I would routinely steal small, almost insignificant items from the store just for the thrill of it. One day an older gentleman in a white shirt and tie followed me around the store while I tried to sneak out with some cheap plastic toy. I eventually put it back, and he stood by the door glaring at me as I walked past. "Stay the hell out of my store, little boy", he growled as I hit the door and ran home. To this day I still have that small urge now and again to nick some tiny thing, but the potential for embarrassment and some good old fashioned self-control always wins out.

One day I determined I'd had enough of the physical punishment. Dad was pissed at me for another screwup and had that familiar look in his eye. I stood up to him and said: "Dad, are you going to hit me now?" He looked at me levelly for a moment and the fire went out of his eyes. "Not this time", he said. And that was the end of that.

But the psychological war games continued unabated. Every mistake seemed amplified to a criminal act, every small success discounted. Shouting at me and referring to me as "You dummy" got to be routine. I had friends in the neighborhood but even that was little comfort. With my meek ways and gangly build I was frequently picked on and occasionally beaten by other boys who seemed to sense just how easy it was to do. Things like that are what led me to days where I'd sit in the window with the Marlin .30-.30, picking them off in my head. Or just climbing the huge maple tree in our front yard to read books and escape from it all.

I started drinking at age 11. My buddy Billy from across the street was home alone a lot and his Dad had lots of liquor. We drank the stuff straight, from Old Grandad to Wild Turkey to good old Beefeater and Seagram's 7 or vodka. I guess my folks never realized how often I got plastered because they never busted me, even though I'm sure I smelled a bit ripe sometimes. Then at 15 I discovered dope. A kid in my neighborhood had some and I smoked a bit one Saturday morning. Went back home and watched the funniest damn cartoons I'd ever seen! This stuff was great!

Billy had a party at his place one day and I drank way too much beer. Puked all night and the folks thought I had the flu. But I think I've told you about that one.

So that was the me who got shipped off to SMA in my 16th year. And that story has been told.

The Rising

"It's like in the great stories Mr. Frodo, the ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were, and sometimes you didn't want to know the end because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end it's only a passing thing this shadow, even darkness must pass. A new day will come, and when the sun shines it'll shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you, that meant something even if you were too small to understand why. But I think Mr. Frodo, I do understand, I know now folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going because they were holding on to something." -Samwise Gamgee

One night, not long after PJ came home from the hospital, he began crying. And he wouldn't stop. We fed him, burped him, changed him, rocked him. No good. His piercing cry continued, growing in intensity in my head. And some dark thing awakened there and told me to make it stop. Make it stop now. I could feel a pull at me to pick the boy up and shake him until the noise ended. My vision was blurred, I felt dizzy and out of control. Adrenaline was pumping through me, making my limbs shiver like it was freezing inside. I fought myself for many minutes, Lani completely unaware of the enormous effort I was making to stay calm. I couldn't believe what was happening to me. I had literally wanted to kill that baby just to stop the crying. What the hell was the matter with me?

In the days to come I found it very difficult to be near PJ when he was crying. I would make excuses to leave the house or do something else to avoid the awful realization that I might be some kind of monster from the newspapers. The Mom who smothers her kids or the father that beats some toddler to death. Me? Better I would drive off a cliff than hurt my own flesh and blood. The horror I felt at these base emotions is beyond description. Nobody who ever knew me would have believed me capable of such thoughts. Yet there they were, torturing me every day. Guilt upon guilt along with a great self-loathing set in, turning my days into a struggle to maintain my sanity. I needed help before I did anything to harm myself or PJ.

I looked through the phone book under "Child Services" and found a place called Child Abuse and Neglect Counseling Services. I made an appointment and tried to hang on to that as a sign that things would get better. When I got to the offices I was met by a kind, middle-aged woman who listened carefully to me as I poured out my heart to her and wept with guilt. She tried to console me: "These are not unusual feelings, Ed. All new parents have problems at first."

"They all want to choke their children?"

"Well, not always. But it's not easy to find the patience to listen to your baby cry and not be able to stop it. What you need to do is talk about this with your wife and work it out with her. She may be feeling these things, too."

So that was it. I would have to admit to Lani that I was having these terrible thoughts. Yeah, good one. Perfect reason for her to finally see just what a total loser you really are and realize her mistake. Got that right, Little Voice.

To help us save money on rent we had moved into her parents' house. There in the dark of one night near Thanksgiving I told Lani about the Beast. She was shocked, though she said the right things to make me feel a little better. She cried, I cried, PJ cried later and she went to him, spending the rest of the night in the living room. Safe from you, pal. Indeed.

I didn't want my in-laws to know about my "little problem" so I had asked the CAAN lady not to send any literature to me. So of course a few days later a large manila envelope bearing the return address for Child Abuse And Neglect Counseling Center showed up in the mail addressed to me. Neal took one look at it and asked "What's this all about?" Lani, bless her heart, was quick on the draw, telling him that I had gotten on the mailing list through the hospital. "All new Dads get this kind of stuff", she told him. He gave me a sidelong look but didn't mention it again.

From those darkest days to just a few short years ago this Beast has lain within me, afflicting my life in myriad ways. I got counseling from several sources and hung in there, determined to beat the thing into the ground. It stems from a deep-seated feeling of worthlessness and lack of control. In naming it I have seen it and in the seeing I have known how to fight it. But it is there always, as much a part of me as Hyde to Jekyll.

In 2001 I had the good fortune to meet and work with a man by the name of Kevin Duggan, who by example showed me a way to calm this inner battle and bring a great deal of order and understanding to my life. I have seen through the wisdom of the Buddha that "I" am a collection of perceptions, driven too often by ego to protect some sacred sense of self against attack. While I am far from perfect (amen!) I don't feel like I'm struggling against myself any more. I don't beat myself up if I slip. I'm not the "dummy" I once was.

I am no proselytizer, but I have used the Four Noble Truths and the Eightfold Path to get me over a lot of heavy shit. I am responsible for all I do and all I feel. And I didn't even have to shave my head or give away all my cool stuff to do it! I just don't worry so much about losing the stuff, though it would be a drag...

My wife and my kids know this about me: I am a Seeker. A flawed, stumbling acolyte who is lurching in the right direction most of the time. And I love them for it.

No harm ever came to my kids by my hands. No trips to the hospital, no "tell Grandma you fell off the swing". But the Beast fed my fear for many years to come, bringing self-fulfilling prophesies to fruition one after another and leading to even darker days. And so the story continues.

Chapter 37 - Comes in like a Lion and goes Out like a Salt Marsh Harvest Mouse.

Chapter 35: And then there were 3...

"People smile and tell me I'm the lucky one
We've just begun...think I'm gonna have a son..."

Waiting Game

Our wedding behind us, Lani and I settled into a weekly routine: We both had our jobs Monday through Friday. Hers at a travel agency in Santa Barbara and me at the photo lab. The weekend would roll around and we would visit friends or go to her parents' house. My "friends" weren't really all that close to me. I had met these folks through cousin Joe, and thought they were fun to hang out with I never felt I had much in common with them. That became really apparent when I found out that a few of them were heavily into cocaine abuse. Not just snorting it, which we all did from time to time, but shooting up as well.

I loved to party. Straight out of military school I was always looking for a good time. Drinking, smoking dope and doing uppers and coke was a great ride for dysfunctional me. I had held a handful of menial jobs without much enthusiasm for any of them except the record store. (And we remember how that turned out!) Now I was a "family man" with a kid on the way. I never really gave thought to cutting back on the partying until later on. It eased the pressure the little guy in my head was putting me under. "This is all going to come to shit, Ed. Not worthy, not worthy." I still had no answer except "Shut up and drink."

Lani was showing her pregnancy more and more each day, and she was having morning sickness. By her 20th birthday in June she told me she couldn't work any more, especially with the long drive from Ventura. That made me the Man. That began the series of changes in me that brought my psyche into the realm of Parenthood, Responsibility, and Duty. I was going to work my balls off to support my wife and child, damn the torpedoes and all that crap. We couldn't afford medical insurance so we applied for Medi-Cal. That gave us the funds we needed to cover Lani's prenatal care and hospital costs. It also meant that every three months I had to go to the Medi-Cal offices and prove I was still too broke to pay for this stuff myself. I considered it humiliating to have to answer questions about my job, my motivation, my family. But it also meant that the baby would be born healthy and that made the difference.

We took Lamaze Method classes to get an idea of what to expect when the baby came. The whole thing came down to this: She manages pain by focusing on the breath (Good old Buddha!) and he takes his mind off how disgusting (I mean beautiful!) the whole thing is by....taking notes! And giving ice chips, gentle massage, and thanks to his Maker he wasn't born a woman. Lani and I sat through the classes, talked about baby names and tried not to imagine what our fellow classmates looked like while conceiving their bundles o' joy. Not pretty.

The Summer came and went and then Indian Summer came and stayed. The fires flared up in the hills near Ojai, scattering ash over downtown Ventura like Christmas in September. The baby kicked and squirmed, sometimes poking me as I lay close to Lani, both she and I nervous and excited about the impending arrival. One morning in mid October we woke up to a beautiful sunrise, the sound and smell of the surf so clear it filled us with joy. A joy that translated into some very amorous entwining. Oh yes, sex with your pregnant wife is a unique and unforgettable experience. Fade to black.....

Later that day we decided to go for a hike in the nearby hills. The baby was almost two weeks overdue and Lani wanted it out now. So we picked up and headed out on the trail. The sun shone down and we walked for hours, enjoying the day we'd been given. On the way back to the house we stopped at a shoreline park and strolled out toward the marshlands. Less than a mile from the car Lani said: "I think we should be getting back."

"Yeah, my legs are pretty tired, too."

"No. Not just that. I'm starting to feel something like contractions."

You know that scene in the cartoons where the cat gets hit in the head with a hammer and he gets that stupid look on his face? Yeah, that was my brain right then. So, she really is pregnant and we're gonna have a baby right now!? I helped her back to the car and tried to stay on the road and not speed getting back to the house. When we got there I told Joe what the deal was and that we had to pack up and go. Our buddy Danner was there and asked if I wanted a sandwich. I stood thinking for a second: "Am I hungry? It has been a while since I ate. Maybe it would be a good idea to...."

"ED!"

Lani called up the stairs to me and all thoughts of food flew right away. What a doofus, man. Your wife needs to get to the hospital!

The Grand Entrance

We were timing the contractions. They were coming at about 8 minutes apart and getting stronger, so we knew we had a little time. We got to Community Memorial Hospital about 7PM and checked right in. I was diligently taking notes, timing contractions, asking questions of the staff, talking to Lani. Thought I had things pretty much under control until the whole process went into overdrive. No time between contractions. "Stop asking me how strong they are!" Nurses pushing me aside to monitor the fetal heartbeat and tend to Lani. Now I was just a spectator. But at least they let me stay in the room. To my credit I didn't flag at all, even at that most precious moment when my brand new son entered the world at 2:45 AM on October 19. It was all slow motion, fine detail, sharpened senses. This pink, crying child that resembled a slimy Edward G. Robinson in miniature was my boy, my first child.

They lifted him onto Lani's chest and we shared a few moments sharing the incredible residual energy that remained after all her effort. Then they took Peter Joseph Hokule'a Newbegin away to clean him up and get all the proper measurements before we could see him again. I Walked out into the waiting area to tell Neal that he had a grandson and we shared a hug. A rare thing for us, but a bonding moment nonetheless. I called my folks and sisters, sharing tears and happiness. The very next day we brought little "PJ" home to Silver Strand to begin our new lives as Mom and Dad.






Chapter 36: Parental Discretion Advised