Title quote by Thomas Wolfe

…………………………………………………..MERV ESH, R.I.P……………………………………………………..

Merv and Ruth Anne Esh

I open my blog today with a heavy heart of deep and painful sadness. Merv Esh, one of our main guys at the office at Graber, succumbed last night (Thurs., 4/19 at 7 PM Eastern time) after a valiant 2-1/2 year battle with cancer. A mainstay at Graber since the early 90s, Merv was always positive and upbeat during his long and arduous “cancer journey,” fighting to the last, exploring every option, striving for the life most of us take for granted every day. But the vile and deadly disease would not be denied and finally overwhelmed him. He died in Mexico, where they had gone for last-resort, non-conventional treatment.

Our hearts and prayers are with his wife, Ruth Anne, and his family. To us, his life was tragically cut short way too early, a month before his 31st birthday, and almost exactly two years after his wedding day. But we see as through a glass, darkly, although we shall one day know even as Merv now fully knows as he enters the glory of God’s kingdom. We will greatly miss him, first as a colleague, but more importantly, as a dear friend. Our office will never be quite the same without him.

As for Ruth Anne, after her admirable and unflagging strength in the long, bitter struggle against unfathomable odds, may the silent depths of God’s immeasurable grace receive and envelop her especially now, and may she ever walk quietly, with her memories of Merv, in His fields of peace……

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At around 1 PM, on Sunday, Feb. 11, 2007, on a clear sunny day, in the parking lot of a Carrabba’s Italian Grill in Sarasota, Florida, a powerful thunderclap exploded around me. It was the kind that detonates abruptly, with a great crack and roar from seemingly above, but all around, threatening to implode the house. The windows shake and rattle, the whole structure, be it made of wood, brick or concrete, shudders to the core of its foundation. The kind that scares the wits out of you, your hair stands on end, and your heart, when it resumes beating, fights to jump right out of your chest. Only I was not inside a house and the thunderclap was not real. It erupted inside my head. With varying degrees of intensity, it has reverberated there since that awful day.

Noise. Black noise, harsh noise, loud noise, soft noise. Incessant, unending noise, from so many sources, from all directions. Sometimes it recedes a bit, then returns from some other point, more ferociously then before, threatening my bearings and causing me to question the very framework of my sanity. Noise from questions, noise from doubt, noise from pain and fear, noise from work, noise from bad news about Merv’s battle with cancer, noise from launching this site, noise from others second-guessing my decisions, noise from old friends, noise from busybodies and gossips, noise from people I haven’t heard from in ten years who suddenly and strangely are deeply interested in every detail of the tragedy in my life, noisy clamor from jangling phones and garbled messages (call me back! I care!) – (I bet you do.), noise in the morning, commotion at noon, clamor in the evening, and disquiet at night when I sleep. A special roar of noise that rose to a crescendo until the day that Ellen left, then abruptly faded, the dreaded imminence of the moment confronted and conquered. And now, of course, the vacant noise of an empty house, the result of a life in shambles.

What I need is silence. Not noisy silence, just deep, calm stillness. Such genuine silence, even for a moment, in any life is rare, and in mine is a nebulous dream. I have read of Monasteries that offer week-long retreats where guests reside in complete silence. I would go to such a place if I could locate one in the eastern U.S. If any of you readers out there have had such an experience or know of anyone who has, please post the information or email me. I am serious about this and would like to embark on such a pilgrimage this summer or early fall. In such a setting, the incessant noise would have to cease, and one could recover from the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” and commune with God at leisure and in peace. And one could write.

When I was a child, a majestic pine tree in a neighbor’s field, half a mile to the west, came to symbolize a deep, forceful yearning for another world, spiritual perhaps, beyond my own. Dubbed the “freedom tree,” a secret shared, I think, only by my little sister, who seemed to understand, this pine was often the focus of my rapt attention. Especially at sunset, it stood silhouetted against the fiery hues of the western sky, an emblem of longing undefined, intangible strains of mysterious, haunting music wafting in and out of consciousness, now clear, now distant, describing a future, also misty and obscure, of inconceivable delights; broad lush meadows rippling in the wind, sparkling brooks and clear, shaded streams winding through hills and woods, mountains and valleys, and the infinite world beyond. I would return to the hunger and the yearning of that child. Silence receive me…….
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On Tuesday, Apr. 17, I awoke dizzy and unbalanced. I went to work, but each time I got up from my chair, I had to hold onto something for a second until the dizziness abated. At 9, I called my doctor’s office and said I was exhausted and stressed and needed to see someone. By 11:45, kindly Dr. Sammitt was listening sympathetically to my story. He checked me out and had me fill out a couple of questionnaires. After reviewing them, he solemnly informed me that I was mildly depressed and had moderate anxiety. Well, duuuhhh. He strongly recommended anti-depressants, but I declined. All I need, I said, is the ability to get a good night’s sleep. All else would fall in line if that could happen. The world belongs to those who sleep soundly. So, after a bit of grumbling about how some people come to him for help, then refuse his expertise, he gave me a prescription for Ambien, a sleeping potion. I went to bed early that night and knocked myself out and slept like a log for the first time in weeks. Although I have strong reservations about all pharmaceuticals, there are times you just have to take what gets you through the short term and run with it.

I am rejuvenated by the opening of baseball season, despite very un-Spring-like weather. Of an evening, while sitting at the computer, I always keep my eye on whatever game is on. I’m delighted, as always, that the Phillies are starting out the year in their normal disastrous fashion, trying in vain to emerge out of their abysmal basement spot from day one. Take that, Phillies fans. My Braves, on the other hand, are doing quite well, thank you. Now, if the hated Yankees go down the same primrose path as the Phillies, my baseball cup of joy will be full.

LEFTOVERS UPDATE: As of the time of this post, my much-anticipated harvest of leftovers from the groaning, well stocked larders of Lancaster County has been less than spectacular (Let the gasps of horror from the balcony subside, please. I’m as shocked as you are. Perhaps the economy is worse than we realized.). Dave and Ruth Hurst did give me a very delicious chicken-and-rice casserole (definitely NOT a leftover, and very much appreciated). And there has been no dearth of comments, but, alas, one cannot dine on comments. One friend emailed me the astute observation that I could not hope to retain my new, hard-won 199-lb. figure if I stuffed myself with leftovers. Though appreciative of such concern and insight, I replied that such a problem would be welcomed as a challenge. She then suggested a drop box, a very astute suggestion indeed. So here goes. First, you are welcome to drop off at my office at Graber Supply. At home, I have a garage with a large overhead door facing Voganville Road. To the immediate right of the overhead door, directly around the inset corner, is a wooden entry door. Go through that door; on the table in the garage will be a blue cooler. Place your leftovers in it, along with a note stating who it’s from. If no food shows up after this appeal, I shall revert to grim looks and sulking. I may even starve (THEN they’ll be sorry.). I know there’s Superfood, but, although it has almost unlimited positive qualities, until now, at least, man has not been able to live on Superfood alone. I don’t want to be the first to try.

Special thanks to Alvin and Naomi (my sister) Yutzy for their thoughtful package.

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Well, it’s been an extremely interesting and difficult week since this site was launched. If the little tab counter is right, I now (as of Saturday, April 14th) have a total in excess of 1400 hits. I am humbled and awed. I am very excited about this site; I had often dreamed of some such thing in distant and nebulous terms. But here it is, a reality; the only negative is the circumstances that finally birthed it. And about that I have a few words as well.

From where I am, the blood still runs freely in the streets. The consequences of my posts, especially the “Nightmare” essay, as with any controversial action, are still in the process of being forged. I may soon be estranged from at least one sibling who was greatly offended by the essay, unless calmer heads prevail and peace is salvaged. Then there was pain and anguish for those who were in the peripheral areas, those related or close to the main or even the minor characters. For that, for what it’s worth, I apologize. There is no pleasure in extracting my pound of flesh, but there is a lot of satisfaction in the knowledge that my story has now been told, that this destructive episode can never be spun again by anyone, anywhere, without taking my perspective into account as a counterweight to such spin.

Many of you who read this have never met me and do not know who I am. And that’s fine. Only I got an uneasy feeling from all the hits on the site that the vile class of people I most despise, the Gossipers, are and have been busy filling up their great storehouses with poisonous bilge and bile. I can’t control that, but if you are on this site for gossip or to discuss or feel others’ pain for your own perverse pleasure, then get the (bleep) off. I don’t need you. So, because all who had any business reading the “Nightmare” essay have had ample time and opportunity to do so, and because of other sensitivities, I have removed it from the site. Those who salaciously check for more intimate details of what I wrote about will be disappointed.

Pain is no respecter of persons, and every person involved in my story is in pain. R, his wife and family (who I purposely did not mention in my essay), and Ellen and me, all of us have pain as a constant companion every day. I do not say this for sympathy; I state it as fact. And pain from wrong actions is just as deep and real as pain from being wronged, maybe more.

Another class of people, and the Gossipers often overlap into this group, the Enviers, are actually delighted that a wealthy and powerful and successful man like R has stumbled as he has. Envy has quietly consumed them over the years, and when he slipped in spectacular fashion, they swarmed like jackals to the kill. If that is you, then may the Lord rebuke you as well. If you get pleasure from his or any person’s downfall, you need to reexamine your priorities. I will be clear. In every point in my life but the scenario about which I wrote, R has been by far the most generous, caring, and loyal friend I’ve ever had. That’s why my lament plunged to such depths of woe and rage and grief and fury. That close, lifelong friendship is now gone, and regardless of what the future holds, it will never be the same again. And I don’t know how one even begins to pick up the pieces and go on.

But go on I will, and I’m done with my speech. Thanks for all the support to those who posted comments. I treasure each one and especially appreciated Pat Henry’s thoughtful and in-depth mini-essay and Thorne’s Ithaca poem and comments. I am especially grateful to those in my family and extended family who have posted comments or otherwise quietly expressed their support.

WELL. So what did you think of the site otherwise? I think it’s a winner. (Now I will make like a Nascar driver: “I wanna thank my crew and my sponsors and we had a good car today and the track was great and everyone worked real hard to make this come together, and we’re excited about this season, (take a swig of Coke) blah, blah, blah….”) In fact, I do want to thank my crew, namely Matt Yutzy, the 16 year old web master, who designed and set up my site and made it user-friendly to a total tech-klutz like me. Matt’s company, CTMedia Studios, is linked to the bottom of each page on this site, and I highly recommend his services. Quality and affordability are his hallmarks.

The pictures are probably of most interest to family, friends and those who knew me way back when. I dusted off a batch, sorted through them and took them to a professional, who scanned them and touched them up where needed. It cost me $100, but was well worth it, especially now that they are posted and available to anyone who wants them. I hope my old Amish buddies on a Sunday afternoon don’t beat me up when we next meet.

So how many of you have clicked on the Superfood link and gotten healthy? It’s as good as the testimonies claim, even better, in fact. I started taking it sometime after I quit drinking in 2005 to restore my body. It took a month or so to really feel it, but I would not be without it anywhere now.

I also wonder how many of you actually linked to the other sites that are listed. I can’t say enough about the Fred Reed-Outstanding Curmudgeon site. The man writes what he thinks and it’s all politically incorrect and thus extremely sensible, even when he bashes President Bush, which is every once in a while. He is especially scornful of “security” at airports and such.

Other than that, I don’t have much to write, except to say that I hope to continue blogging, most likely on a weekly basis. I welcome your comments and if anyone wants to challenge anything I wrote or to debate issues (any liberals out there?) you are welcome. If your comment is too long, email it to me and I’ll copy it over.

I am doing fine batching, except as a cook. So, for all you locals out there, I absolutely appreciate and adore leftovers. I ALWAYS compliment the cook, even if the food is burnt (not that yours would be, of course). Finally, I am very pumped because this morning after my workout at the gym, I weighed in at 199 pounds, under 200 for the first time in twenty years. All those at the gym, a raggedy crowd of about five people, gave me a clamorous ovation. About that I feel GOOD.

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