When Knievel Was King

Oh yeah, I was totally and completely an Evel Knievel fan.

What? Like you weren’t? Right. Only if you weren’t born yet. And still, even then...

Of course, at first, my mom wasn’t too sure about this . . . fascination. After all, his name was “Evel.” It couldn’t have been more clear. But it wasn’t clear at all. Turns out his name was more of a gimmick. Hyperbole. And it wasn’t actually “Evil,” right? It was “Evel.” Vowels make all the difference. Turns out he was a nice guy. At least as far as Evel’s connection to me as a kid, he was an all American daredevil who jumped motor cycles over rows of cars, trucks or whatever else he could find, in ever increasing numbers while telling us kids to stay clear of drugs.

He set world records, jumping over things with that motor cycle. It was magical, my friend. Magical.

I didn’t know much about what he did with his private life. That was the stuff of legends. All that mattered was the joy of waiting for him to jump, then the joy of watching him approach the ramp, then the joy of seeing the jump and seeing him land. When he crashed, it really upset me. I wanted him to make it. I didn’t want him hurt. It really was all about the jump, the risk, the daring do, and the flash of a smile when he was through.

For Christmas one year, I received a treasured gift. It was an Evel Knievel action figure with stunt bike. The most popular toy in the land of America at the time. It made the toy company over 300 million dollars. Viva Americana! Oh yes. It was a little Evel on a little motorcycle that you wound up with this round lever on a little red plastic platform. Zim zim ZIM, louder and louder. You would launch Evel and he would ride and jump over a ramp, over whatever you might put in his path.

Here’s what happened.

Someone broke my Evel. And when they did, they just shrugged their shoulders and walked away, like it didn’t matter. And no one did anything about it. It was not replaced. It was not fixed. I was left holding the sad and tattered remains with no hope of justice.

Now THAT was evil.

Peace to you.

© LW Publishing 2011

Garbageman

Sure. You’ve heard of Superman and Batman and Aquaman. But my personal hero is Garbageman.

It went down like this:

I was three years old, playing in the upstairs of our house. This house no longer exists – it is now a parking lot – but it still exists in my mind, and I remember this upstairs bedroom where a window overlooked a small store next to our house. I liked to look out this window at the people getting in and out of their cars, unaware of my presence. It was interesting.

Then, one day, I heard a loud noise out that window and I looked to see a garbage truck loading the refuse from the store's dumpster. Now THAT was interesting! But it was a little hard to see from that angle, so I pushed against the screen that had been put in the window. It popped out and fell to the ground, and that screen had been holding up the window, which promptly fell down on my shoulders, completely pinning me in place. I could not get out. And my line of sight made me feel like I was going to fall.

I was terrified.

So I began to scream like a terrified three year old. Makes sense, right? And I remember Garbageman looking up at me, jumping slightly as he realized what was going on. I imagine he thought I was going to fall from the window, so he ran to the front door of our house and ran with my mom up the stairs and rescued me from the hungry mouth of the foul window. He lifted the window so mom could pull me out.

Garbageman had very dark african skin. He was massively tall and bony, his head seemed to hover near the ceiling, and he had a deep voice, like a great blues singer. He brushed me off and my mom gave me a hug. Then he said one of the nicest things that’s ever been said about me. Garbageman said, “That’s the nearest thing to an angel I will ever see.”

Garbageman went to the store and bought me an ice cream. He came back to the house and gave it to me, patting me on the head and smiling at me. He was nothing but kindness. And I remember going out of my way to wave to Garbageman whenever he would show up for the dumpster at the store. He always smiled and waved. We had a connection.

Here’s what I think: I think he was the angel.




Hebrews 1:14
Peace to you.



© LW Publishing 2010

Heroes

David Bowie sang a song I liked a long time ago. He shouted at the top of his lungs, “We can be heroes!”

We can be heroes?

Webster says a hero is a person that shows great courage. Webster also says that courage is having the mental or moral strength to keep forging ahead through danger, fear or difficulty. So, I realize that, according to these definitions, I am surrounded by heroes. You may be one of them.

My dad is one of them. Yes. He’s my hero. But it goes beyond that. He’s just heroic. Moral strength is his forte. When he was young, the younger kids in his family were starting to go hungry. They were poor farmers living in the south. The depression was hitting them hard. He quit school to go to work so they could buy a milk cow. His own father asked him to do this.

His 19 year old daughter died in the late sixties. He survived and moved forward with a kind heart. My parents lost their child, and that often spells divorce for married couples, but neither of them walked away.

Dad was injured at work and was told at one point he’d probably never walk again. After umpteen surgeries and trips to hospitals in other states, he walked in the front door of our house with bizarre electrodes sticking out of his body. One time I had to turn it down because he had accidentally turned the thing too high and was practically frying his spine on the inside of his body. Standing on the tips of his toes, he yelled to me, “Turn it down! Turn it down!” I did and he laughed. He’s in his eighties now, he has to use a cane sometimes, but he’s still walking, which isn’t always easy because Dad now has what’s called “Lewy Body Disorder.” You get two major problems for the price of one. A combination of Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s Disease. But he hasn’t complained about it. He takes his meds and does the best he can.

Growing up with comic books, it was always clear to me that a hero was a person who had some special ability. A hero was strong when others were weak. A hero saved people. But life is not a comic book. And I am amazed by the resiliency and perseverance in people like my dad. Some have made it through childhood horrors that are almost unspeakable. Some have made it through condemnation and abuse of all kinds. Some are moving forward through disease and heartache that they did not earn for themselves. Some have endured tremendous loss and pain and neglect, but they take another step, and another, and the sun rises again. They open the door and head into the world to see what the day has.

People like this have shown me that we really can be heroes.

If I could, I’d make an awesome, flowing, super-hero cape for each and every one of them. I’d write them a theme song. But I guess they’ll just have to make do with my admiration.






Peace to you.


© LW Publishing 2010