Introduction
The first person I ever killed was my own mother. I did it on the day I was born. You could say I came out a mean son of a bitch, but I never knew my mother so I have no idea if she was a bitch or not. The way Daddy carried on though, you could tell she must have been something special.
I guess it's fair to say that he hated me from day one. And I guess it's fair to say I didn't much like him either. He raised me anyhow. Though he wasn't very nice about it. Though, back then, most fathers weren't very nice. It just wasn't how they did things. I was born in 1933, which was about the worst year a person could have been born. Everybody was poor including Daddy and everybody was pissed, also including Daddy.
Daddy was a cotton farmer. That pissed him off too. In '37, the bank took his farm. That really pissed him off. By '41 the only place he could find work was the United States Army. So, at the age of 31, he enlisted and left me live to with his sister in Liberty, Missouri, ninety or so miles north of the family farm.
He died in 1943. Unlike a lot of proud sons, I never looked up the battle that took my soldier Daddy and I never told stories of how brave he was. He never wrote me one letter and I guess I never forgave him for that.
But boo hoo and cry your damn eyes out, right? Who gives a good damn about my dead father? I sure don't and the rest of his kin are all dead or never knew him. So no one's left to care.
In prison, where I spent 23 years of my life, they'd let you talk to a shrink sometimes. It was nice to have someone new to talk to but the shrinks would always ask me about my daddy.
I always wanted to talk about stock car racing though. I missed Junior Johnson. Shrinks don't care much for stock car racing and I, in turn, never cared much for shrinks. Though I can't say for sure that it was because of the car racing. But I am sure it played a part in me hating them head shrinkers.
Anyway, I ain't writing this book to complain a whole bunch about jail or about my daddy but the shrinks said that people in jail always got something in common and that the same can be said for people with dead mommies and daddies.
So maybe that's why I was so mean so much of my life.
I don't want you to feel sorry for me because that ain't why I'm writing this either. I imagine my reasons for writing this here will become plain in a few pages but as for right now, I'm just gonna say that life is hard with no mommy and a mean daddy but it's even harder with no mommy and no daddy.
Not that I'm making excuses.
"Never make excuses for anything you do in this world. If you screw up, you fix it; if you can't fix it, you ask for forgiveness; if there ain't no forgiveness then I'll see you in hell."
My daddy told me that. I sure look forward to seeing him when my time comes.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Professionally Weird
"I never met a good writer who wouldn't drink and tell stories and most of the ones I met didn't seem to care in what order that happened."
--Rufus Oglethorpe
Rufus and I drank that bottle to the last drop in his beat up tub. We swapped stories until well past midnight. By the time we were finished with the Jameson, I was too drunk to drive. I must have also been too drunk to apply any common sense and so I spent the night in that bathtub. Like I said, weirdness is one of my things.
I awoke to an old man handing me a plastic plate of bacon and eggs?
"How... How did you make this without electricity?" I asked.
"They've been making bacon and eggs long before they ever had electricity."
I nodded.
"Here," he said, handing me a quart of water.
"Don't you got a job to get to?"
I nodded again.
I looked at the sky and saw that the sun was barely breaking the horizon.
"I got time," I said.
While I ate in an admittedly comfortable old bathtub, Rufus said to me: "I been thinking about something and when I get that electricity I definitely want to get one of those computers and read your writing on that website thing. I'll bet you're a real good writer."
"Makes you think that?" I asked, mouth full of scrambled eggs.
"I reckon the kind of person who would swap old stories with a drunk ex-con in his front yard bathtub probably got enough perspective to unroll a good yarn. Used to drink with some writers back in the day and they were all that type: professionally weird."
I shook his hand and thanked him for his company. I said I'd be back over the weekend and he laughed.
True to my word, I went back the following weekend but he wasn't there. In fact, the entire house wasn't there. A wrecking crew was though and the foreman was kind enough to tell me that the place had been sold. This was in the middle of the housing boom so I wasn't all that surprised.
I always wondered where Rufus got on to.
A few months later I got an email from one RufusoglethorpeIII@hotmail.com. The email offered one sentence and no subject: "Keep it up."
I emailed him back and thanked him but never got a return email.
Five years later, after his death, I received the book from which I have been quoting at the beginning of each post. With my next post, and every one thereafter until this blog is done, I will merely be transcribing the writings of one Rufus Oglethorpe, who I admit is much weirder than I. Why he chose me for this was never disclosed to me. Why I'm doing it doesn't make any sense to me. But I feel it needs to be done.
So much of what we do in life we do for that very reason: because it needs to be done. And some of the most interesting things that need to be done just don't make any sense.
And that's a gift.
--Rufus Oglethorpe
Rufus and I drank that bottle to the last drop in his beat up tub. We swapped stories until well past midnight. By the time we were finished with the Jameson, I was too drunk to drive. I must have also been too drunk to apply any common sense and so I spent the night in that bathtub. Like I said, weirdness is one of my things.
I awoke to an old man handing me a plastic plate of bacon and eggs?
"How... How did you make this without electricity?" I asked.
"They've been making bacon and eggs long before they ever had electricity."
I nodded.
"Here," he said, handing me a quart of water.
"Don't you got a job to get to?"
I nodded again.
I looked at the sky and saw that the sun was barely breaking the horizon.
"I got time," I said.
While I ate in an admittedly comfortable old bathtub, Rufus said to me: "I been thinking about something and when I get that electricity I definitely want to get one of those computers and read your writing on that website thing. I'll bet you're a real good writer."
"Makes you think that?" I asked, mouth full of scrambled eggs.
"I reckon the kind of person who would swap old stories with a drunk ex-con in his front yard bathtub probably got enough perspective to unroll a good yarn. Used to drink with some writers back in the day and they were all that type: professionally weird."
I shook his hand and thanked him for his company. I said I'd be back over the weekend and he laughed.
True to my word, I went back the following weekend but he wasn't there. In fact, the entire house wasn't there. A wrecking crew was though and the foreman was kind enough to tell me that the place had been sold. This was in the middle of the housing boom so I wasn't all that surprised.
I always wondered where Rufus got on to.
A few months later I got an email from one RufusoglethorpeIII@hotmail.com. The email offered one sentence and no subject: "Keep it up."
I emailed him back and thanked him but never got a return email.
Five years later, after his death, I received the book from which I have been quoting at the beginning of each post. With my next post, and every one thereafter until this blog is done, I will merely be transcribing the writings of one Rufus Oglethorpe, who I admit is much weirder than I. Why he chose me for this was never disclosed to me. Why I'm doing it doesn't make any sense to me. But I feel it needs to be done.
So much of what we do in life we do for that very reason: because it needs to be done. And some of the most interesting things that need to be done just don't make any sense.
And that's a gift.
A Bathtub and a Bottle
"Hiding is easy. Being found is a real son of a bitch."
--Rufus Oglethorpe
Tracking Rufus down was easier than I thought. I called the credit card company, whose representative politely refused to furnish any information regarding Mr. Oglethorpe's whereabouts. She did, however, ask me a bunch of questions about my relationship with their cardholder.
I lied and told the young lady at the bank that I was his scorned lover. She didn't laugh, which means she's probably a veteran of the customer service career.
My next step involved looking up the last name Oglethorpe on the Pinellas County property appraiser website. Oddly enough, such action is much more legal than calling a credit card company on a stranger's behalf.
The law is weird.
Anyway, only one Oglethorpe was listed in the county. Her name was Maya, but I figured, "how many Oglethorpes can there be in this world?" and I drove to his house.
So I didn't look like a total stalker, I dressed in a collared shirt, brought a briefcase, my business cards and a basket of muffins. People are much more likely to open the door to a stranger if he has a basket of muffins. Or so I've surmised.
When I arrived at the little '60s era block-constructed two bedroom shack owned by one Maya Oglethorpe, I found Rufus in a beaten bathtub in his front yard. He was reading a book and fully clothed and he waved at me.
"Hey Nathan," he said. "What do you think of the old bathtub? Just can't bring myself to throw it out, ya know?"
I nodded as if I did indeed know but that's only because mastering random weirdness is a gift of mine. Hell, it may have been the reason I tracked the old codger down in the first place.
"I brought you some muffins and your maxed-out credit card."
"Oh good," he said. "In my experience, you can never have too many maxed-out credit cards."
I nodded again.
He then stood up from his crappy old bathtub which sat in his barren front yard in front of his paint-flaked coated home and said, "Come on in, and let's have a drink."
The decor of the house was ancient drab; it looked as if he may have been squatting there. The television was busted, the lights were all off as if the electricity wasn't working and the couches seemed torn.
He lit a candle and pulled a dusty bottle of bourbon from behind an old bookshelf.
"Get them cups from the cupboard," he said. "They're in the closed one."
The kitchen was more of a mess than the living room and I noticed that of the nine or so cupboards in there, only one possessed a door. I opened the cupboard to find that, unlike the roach and dirty-dish infested rest of the kitchen, this cupboard was clean and cared for. Its shelves were lined and the door was sealed. Also, three crystal bourbon glasses glinted candlelight back at me.
"Huh?" I said to no one.
"Sorry about the electricity. I'd get it turned on but the bastards want a thousand dollars back pay or so I've been told."
I didn't ask any questions but he kept going anyway.
"Wife died while I was in the joint. She kept to herself I guess and no one claimed the place. It was left to me but it's hard to negotiate stuff from prison without a lawyer and even harder to get a lawyer to work for free. You like Jameson?"
I nodded, and for the first time since my arrival at his property, I meant it.
He poured one for me and one for him, sat down on his ripped up couch (I chose the loveseat adjacent to the couch) held up his crystal glass and said, "To Maya, God rest her silly soul."
"To Maya," I said.
"So young man," he said after the glasses were drained. "Sun's coming down. What say we finish this bottle off in the tub out front? Plenty of room."
"Why the hell not," I said.
And I meant it.
--Rufus Oglethorpe
Tracking Rufus down was easier than I thought. I called the credit card company, whose representative politely refused to furnish any information regarding Mr. Oglethorpe's whereabouts. She did, however, ask me a bunch of questions about my relationship with their cardholder.
I lied and told the young lady at the bank that I was his scorned lover. She didn't laugh, which means she's probably a veteran of the customer service career.
My next step involved looking up the last name Oglethorpe on the Pinellas County property appraiser website. Oddly enough, such action is much more legal than calling a credit card company on a stranger's behalf.
The law is weird.
Anyway, only one Oglethorpe was listed in the county. Her name was Maya, but I figured, "how many Oglethorpes can there be in this world?" and I drove to his house.
So I didn't look like a total stalker, I dressed in a collared shirt, brought a briefcase, my business cards and a basket of muffins. People are much more likely to open the door to a stranger if he has a basket of muffins. Or so I've surmised.
When I arrived at the little '60s era block-constructed two bedroom shack owned by one Maya Oglethorpe, I found Rufus in a beaten bathtub in his front yard. He was reading a book and fully clothed and he waved at me.
"Hey Nathan," he said. "What do you think of the old bathtub? Just can't bring myself to throw it out, ya know?"
I nodded as if I did indeed know but that's only because mastering random weirdness is a gift of mine. Hell, it may have been the reason I tracked the old codger down in the first place.
"I brought you some muffins and your maxed-out credit card."
"Oh good," he said. "In my experience, you can never have too many maxed-out credit cards."
I nodded again.
He then stood up from his crappy old bathtub which sat in his barren front yard in front of his paint-flaked coated home and said, "Come on in, and let's have a drink."
The decor of the house was ancient drab; it looked as if he may have been squatting there. The television was busted, the lights were all off as if the electricity wasn't working and the couches seemed torn.
He lit a candle and pulled a dusty bottle of bourbon from behind an old bookshelf.
"Get them cups from the cupboard," he said. "They're in the closed one."
The kitchen was more of a mess than the living room and I noticed that of the nine or so cupboards in there, only one possessed a door. I opened the cupboard to find that, unlike the roach and dirty-dish infested rest of the kitchen, this cupboard was clean and cared for. Its shelves were lined and the door was sealed. Also, three crystal bourbon glasses glinted candlelight back at me.
"Huh?" I said to no one.
"Sorry about the electricity. I'd get it turned on but the bastards want a thousand dollars back pay or so I've been told."
I didn't ask any questions but he kept going anyway.
"Wife died while I was in the joint. She kept to herself I guess and no one claimed the place. It was left to me but it's hard to negotiate stuff from prison without a lawyer and even harder to get a lawyer to work for free. You like Jameson?"
I nodded, and for the first time since my arrival at his property, I meant it.
He poured one for me and one for him, sat down on his ripped up couch (I chose the loveseat adjacent to the couch) held up his crystal glass and said, "To Maya, God rest her silly soul."
"To Maya," I said.
"So young man," he said after the glasses were drained. "Sun's coming down. What say we finish this bottle off in the tub out front? Plenty of room."
"Why the hell not," I said.
And I meant it.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Bad Pennies Always Find Each Other
"Don't ever let another man interrupt your date. Well, unless you're married or just plain sick of her."
--Rufus Oglethorpe
Six years later and a thousand miles removed from the last place I had seen Rufus, while I was eating crab at a restaurant in St. Petersburg, Florida with a lovely Cuban girl, the old man sat down at the table next to us.
I did not immediately recognize him.
His beard was still there but his clothes were St. Pete camouflage: vintage old hippie. He had the funky colorful T-shirt, the sandals, the earring and even the pony tail. When I'd met him, his beard was bushy and stubborn and his hair cropped. When I'd left him, the beard was gone. And that day in St. Petersburg, his beard was trimmed and even a little glossy.
Really he could have been anyone.
But I guess everybody is anyone and anyway, I digress.
"Excuse me sir," he said to me from his seat after my date and I had finished eating. "You got any of those really quick cigarettes. I do believe you owe me one."
I looked at him and the memory clicked easily.
"Sure thing, Rufus," I said.
"You got a good memory, Nathan."
I handed him a smoke, watched as he lit it and waited for him to say something next.
Instead he leered at my date and said, "Darling," and made a motion like one would if one were tipping a cap. Rufus wore no cap.
"Wait," I said. "Sit down. Have a drink with us."
"Boy," he said. "Don't ever let a man interrupt your date like that. Ain't you got no common sense?"
After he left, which he did quickly, my date asked, "Who was that?"
"Oh that..." I trailed off.
I was distracted by some commotion in the barroom.
"Where did that old codger go? This credit card didn't clear."
"Excuse me," I said to my date.
It turned out that Rufus had dined and dashed. It took some fanagling, but eventually I traded my paying cash for his meal for his credit card.
That's how I learned his last name was Oglethorpe. And that's how I tracked him down.
--Rufus Oglethorpe
Six years later and a thousand miles removed from the last place I had seen Rufus, while I was eating crab at a restaurant in St. Petersburg, Florida with a lovely Cuban girl, the old man sat down at the table next to us.
I did not immediately recognize him.
His beard was still there but his clothes were St. Pete camouflage: vintage old hippie. He had the funky colorful T-shirt, the sandals, the earring and even the pony tail. When I'd met him, his beard was bushy and stubborn and his hair cropped. When I'd left him, the beard was gone. And that day in St. Petersburg, his beard was trimmed and even a little glossy.
Really he could have been anyone.
But I guess everybody is anyone and anyway, I digress.
"Excuse me sir," he said to me from his seat after my date and I had finished eating. "You got any of those really quick cigarettes. I do believe you owe me one."
I looked at him and the memory clicked easily.
"Sure thing, Rufus," I said.
"You got a good memory, Nathan."
I handed him a smoke, watched as he lit it and waited for him to say something next.
Instead he leered at my date and said, "Darling," and made a motion like one would if one were tipping a cap. Rufus wore no cap.
"Wait," I said. "Sit down. Have a drink with us."
"Boy," he said. "Don't ever let a man interrupt your date like that. Ain't you got no common sense?"
After he left, which he did quickly, my date asked, "Who was that?"
"Oh that..." I trailed off.
I was distracted by some commotion in the barroom.
"Where did that old codger go? This credit card didn't clear."
"Excuse me," I said to my date.
It turned out that Rufus had dined and dashed. It took some fanagling, but eventually I traded my paying cash for his meal for his credit card.
That's how I learned his last name was Oglethorpe. And that's how I tracked him down.
The Better of Me
"Don't ever wax philosophically with authority figures, especially if there's a chance they may be armed."
--Rufus Oglethorpe
The day I was discharged from the hospital, my father and I walked outside into the parking lot and there I saw the old man who had bummed me a cigarette. He was standing next to a police officer and looking none to happy about it.
"Rufus,"I said.
"Nathan," he said.
I was glad the old man remembered my name.
"What's all this about?" I pointed at the cop.
"Let's just say that my philosophy got the better of me."
When I had met him he had a beard. It was gone now.
The cop put a hand on his weapon and my father grabbed my shoulders to move me away.
"You going to jail, Rufus?"
"One way to say it," he smiled. "Another way to say it is I'm going back."
"I'm gonna get a milkshake," I said.
And he laughed.
I was dead sure I'd never see him again.
--Rufus Oglethorpe
The day I was discharged from the hospital, my father and I walked outside into the parking lot and there I saw the old man who had bummed me a cigarette. He was standing next to a police officer and looking none to happy about it.
"Rufus,"I said.
"Nathan," he said.
I was glad the old man remembered my name.
"What's all this about?" I pointed at the cop.
"Let's just say that my philosophy got the better of me."
When I had met him he had a beard. It was gone now.
The cop put a hand on his weapon and my father grabbed my shoulders to move me away.
"You going to jail, Rufus?"
"One way to say it," he smiled. "Another way to say it is I'm going back."
"I'm gonna get a milkshake," I said.
And he laughed.
I was dead sure I'd never see him again.
Meeting Rufus
"I refuse to believe I am wrong simply because my opinions are not in line with the consensus. I believe I am wrong because I killed that hooker."
--Rufus Oglethorpe
When I met Rufus I was seventeen and he was nearly dead. We were in the same hospital, me for a mental correction and him for being very old. I bummed a cigarette off him in the garden outside the hospital building. I had snuck away from the mental crowd and I knew the nurse staff would get to me eventually.
"Can I get a quick smoke?" I asked him.
"Mine don't burn faster than any other," he told me.
I smoked and we talked for a few minutes, the kind of casual conversations one has when one is unsure with just whom one is talking. It was pretty forgetful.
I saw a nurse approaching our park bench and said to him, "It looks like I got to go."
"Hey kid," he said. "Just 'cause they say you're crazy, that don't make you wrong. I mean, unless you killed someone and the government didn't order it."
I laughed but I could see in his eyes that he was dead serious.
I never even thought about never even thinking I would see him again.
Naturally, or as naturally as it comes to me, I was dead wrong.
--Rufus Oglethorpe
When I met Rufus I was seventeen and he was nearly dead. We were in the same hospital, me for a mental correction and him for being very old. I bummed a cigarette off him in the garden outside the hospital building. I had snuck away from the mental crowd and I knew the nurse staff would get to me eventually.
"Can I get a quick smoke?" I asked him.
"Mine don't burn faster than any other," he told me.
I smoked and we talked for a few minutes, the kind of casual conversations one has when one is unsure with just whom one is talking. It was pretty forgetful.
I saw a nurse approaching our park bench and said to him, "It looks like I got to go."
"Hey kid," he said. "Just 'cause they say you're crazy, that don't make you wrong. I mean, unless you killed someone and the government didn't order it."
I laughed but I could see in his eyes that he was dead serious.
I never even thought about never even thinking I would see him again.
Naturally, or as naturally as it comes to me, I was dead wrong.
Rufus Died
"Even the shortest journey ends. But was it fun?"
--Rufus Oglethorpe
My friend Rufus died years ago in Pennsylvania. I had no idea he had ever lived there. His fifth ex-wife died three weeks ago; I was invited to the reading of her will.
I did not attend.
Rufus wrote a book for me. And when I write that he wrote it for me, I mean that I was the entirety of his audience.
He meant for it to be shared, or so I was informed. Rufus did not utilize the internet.
I do.
My name is Nathan DeGraaf (not that it matters) and for the next few months I will share with you the stories, lessons, axioms and downright uniqueness that was Rufus Oglethorpe.
Or, as he wrote on the first page of his book to me:
"Do this right, Dutchman."
I'll do my best Rufus. I promise.
--Rufus Oglethorpe
My friend Rufus died years ago in Pennsylvania. I had no idea he had ever lived there. His fifth ex-wife died three weeks ago; I was invited to the reading of her will.
I did not attend.
Rufus wrote a book for me. And when I write that he wrote it for me, I mean that I was the entirety of his audience.
He meant for it to be shared, or so I was informed. Rufus did not utilize the internet.
I do.
My name is Nathan DeGraaf (not that it matters) and for the next few months I will share with you the stories, lessons, axioms and downright uniqueness that was Rufus Oglethorpe.
Or, as he wrote on the first page of his book to me:
"Do this right, Dutchman."
I'll do my best Rufus. I promise.
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