{"id":5891,"date":"2012-06-15T18:39:06","date_gmt":"2012-06-15T22:39:06","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/?p=5891"},"modified":"2013-02-28T15:43:26","modified_gmt":"2013-02-28T20:43:26","slug":"reactions","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/?p=5891","title":{"rendered":"Reactions…"},"content":{"rendered":"

photo-2-small.JPG<\/a><\/p>\n

Where shall the weary rest? When shall the lonely
\nof heart come home? What doors are open for the
\nwanderer?….And in what land? Where?<\/p>\n

Where the weary of heart can abide forever, where
\nthe weary of wandering can find peace, where the
\ntumult, the fever, and the fret shall be forever stilled.<\/p>\n

—Thomas Wolfe
\n______________<\/p>\n

You never know what any given day will bring, in even such a mundane place as the office. In the last month or so, several odd things happened at Graber. And no, I’m not making this stuff up, my coworkers can attest to that. The first incident interrupted our lives for a few brief moments, completely unexpected, as is usually the case with such things. And it wasn\u2019t that big a deal, really. But still, I\u2019ve mulled over it a lot since that day. Relived it over and over in my mind. <\/p>\n

I can\u2019t remember the exact date, but it was around mid-morning about a month ago. Customers came and went; the phones rang right along. And then the little Christmas bell tied to our front door announced another customer. I turned from my computer and got up to serve the man. <\/p>\n

A black guy, probably in his mid forties, I\u2019d guess. Looking a bit confused, smiling shyly. I didn\u2019t think about the fear in his eyes until later. He just seemed like an ordinary customer. Can I help you? I asked. He looked around, still smiling hesitantly, confused. Then mumbled. \u201cI think I\u2019m in the wrong place.\u201d <\/p>\n

Sure. I smiled at him. He walked across the room toward me. \u201cCould I have a drink of water?\u201d He asked. Almost apologetic. Sure, again. Right here\u2019s the cooler. Help yourself. He took a paper cup and filled it, and gulped the water down. Then filled and drank another. He smiled shyly again and thanked me, then turned and walked out. Strange, I thought. A moment later the little door bell clinked again. He walked in, three steps or so, then turned and walked out again without a word. Now I was curious. I watched through the window. He didn\u2019t return to his battered little pickup, parked across the lot. Instead, he turned right and walked up the hill behind our warehouse. Just strolled up the lane into the fields and disappeared. <\/p>\n

Very curious. And very strange. That\u2019s what we all said, as we returned to our desks. About ten minutes passed. And the little bell on the door announced another arrival. This time it was a cop. Did you see the guy who owns that little black pickup out there? He gave me the slip. There\u2019s a bench warrant out for him. <\/p>\n

So that\u2019s what was up. The guy was running from the cops. Yeah, he was here, I said. He just walked off. I don’t know where he went. What else could I say? His pickup was parked on my lot. The cop turned and rushed out. <\/p>\n

And in my heart, I immediately felt sorry for the fugitive. I didn\u2019t know what he\u2019d done, and still don\u2019t. A bench warrant is for the small stuff, usually. Like not paying fines, maybe falling behind on child support. Or writing bad checks, or getting caught with contraband. Who knew what he\u2019d done? Whatever it was, the local cops were swarming. And all I could think of was his desperate hopeless flight on foot. To get away, to not get caught. To remain free. And I hoped he would succeed. <\/p>\n

He didn\u2019t, of course. They got him, walking down Old Rt. 41, trying to act nonchalant, like he was just out on a stroll. He was arrested and hauled in. A second cop stopped by to tell us they had nabbed him. They had contacted his relatives in Lancaster. And they, the relatives, would come out and fetch the little old black pickup, if that was OK with me. If I didn\u2019t want it around, they\u2019d get it towed. <\/p>\n

I have no problem if that truck doesn\u2019t get picked up for a week, I said. It\u2019s not bothering me. No, don\u2019t get it towed. I feel kind of bad for the guy. I don\u2019t want to add to his problems. The cop looked at me a little strangely, then left. <\/p>\n

I\u2019m not writing this to bash those cops. I\u2019m writing this to try to imagine how it would feel, to be that man who walked in that morning. You know that bench warrant’s out there. But you\u2019re out cruising along the highway one fine sunny day. You meet a cop, who recognizes you and your truck. I don’t know how. Maybe he was tipped off. As the cop does a quick U turn on the road, you take off in panic before he can get his flashers on. And turn into the parking lot of a nearby business. Park the pickup behind some other vehicles, so it\u2019s not visible from the road. Then you walk into the office, and ask for a drink of water. You hesitate. Who are these people, in this office? Would they help you? Nah. A quick decision. Then you flee over the hills on foot, leaving your truck behind. There\u2019s no way that\u2019s ever going to work. No way. But you do it anyhow, because you don\u2019t want to get caught. And, of course, you get nailed. And arrested. You go to jail. <\/p>\n

Who knows for what? Who knows for how long? <\/p>\n

I don\u2019t know what the guy did. What the outstanding bench warrant was for. But I do know this. We are programmed to always assume guilt in such a scenario. If the law\u2019s after a guy, he\u2019s guilty. Or they wouldn\u2019t be after him. We hope the cops will catch him. And bring him to justice. Lock him up. Throw away the key. <\/p>\n

But that\u2019s wrong. Because we haven\u2019t heard the other side of the story. We never will, because the accused has no voice. Oh, sure, he has a right to trial. What does that mean? That’s a shell game. Most cases are never tried in court. They plead out, regardless of actual guilt. Because the state has all the power. The individual has none. It\u2019s too risky to take a chance. The law is the accuser. Why should we doubt the law? And all too often, it\u2019s just one big factory to generate revenue or to provide inmates for the prisons. <\/p>\n

This is how I see it, and will always see it. When a man is deprived of his freedom, it should be so shocking to our senses that our hearts are with him until it\u2019s proven that he actually is guilty of some real crime. Not a \u201ccrime\u201d as defined by some arbitrary statute. But the real thing. A crime where there was a real victim. Victimless crimes are myriad; the state creates dozens of new ones every year. And for those \u201ccrimes,\u201d my heart will always be with the so-called perpetrator. Always. <\/p>\n

I\u2019m glad I gave the guy a drink of water that day when he walked in. Sure, he might have been guilty as sin. He might well deserve to sit in jail for months or years. But had I known he was a fugitive fleeing a bench warrant arrest, I would have given him food as well. <\/p>\n

************************************************************<\/p>\n

And then last week one day, shortly after lunch, another odd thing happened. The phone rang. Rosita answered. Graber Supply. A brief conversation with the caller. Then she beeped me. \u201cJack\u201d from Kennebunkport, Maine. Asked for me. \u201cI think it\u2019s one of your fans,\u201d she said brightly. Then she transferred the call. <\/p>\n

Kennebunkport, Maine? Good grief. That\u2019s where president George H.W. Bush keeps a house. Where he often vacationed while president. Who was Jack and what did he want? So I spoke. This is Ira. May I help you?<\/p>\n

And the voice on the other end was thick and broad. Pure New England accent. \u201cIra? Is that you?\u201d Yep. It is. \u201cI can\u2019t believe this is happening.\u201d And Jack introduced himself. He lived in Kennebunkport. Just two days before, he\u2019d picked up my book. Off the bestseller\u2019s shelf, he said. And he\u2019d finished it, in two days. I gathered that this was an aberration in Jack\u2019s world, to finish a book that quickly. <\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll be 81 years old, come October, if I last that long,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019ve never done anything like this before, call an author. I can\u2019t believe I\u2019m talking to you.\u201d Well, you are, I said. I\u2019m just here at work, where I always am. And Jack launched in like he knew my family. Like he was just an old friend, asking about them. <\/p>\n

\u201cHow are your sisters?\u201d he asked. \u201cWhere are they all by now? And Nathan, where is he? And bless you for dedicating the book to your Mother. That woman bore a lot of grief and pain from you boys. It\u2019s the least you could have done, to recognize her like that. When she stood there, calling after Nathan, that…that was…\u201d And his voice trailed off into silence.<\/p>\n

That was the hardest thing in the book to write, I told him. It was pretty brutal to remember and to relive. <\/p>\n

And then he asked the question many readers ask. \u201cHow is Sarah? Where is she today?\u201d <\/p>\n

And I told him, in a few brief minutes. Where my sisters now lived. And Nathan. About Sarah. And my parents. Dad is 90 years old now, and still cranking out his writing. Mom has Alzheimer\u2019s. She\u2019s totally out of it. She\u2019ll never know about the book. That\u2019s why I dedicated it to her in the past tense. She\u2019s here. But she\u2019s not. She\u2019ll never know I wrote the book, or that I dedicated it to her. She always lived in the shadows of Dad’s fame, I said. She had a hard life. <\/p>\n

\u201cYou were a bad, bad boy,\u201d he said, half sternly. \u201cA bad boy.\u201d<\/p>\n

Yes, sir. I said ruefully. I was a bad boy. <\/p>\n

\u201cThat could have been my story,\u201d he said then, almost wistfully. \u201cThat could have been my story.\u201d Who knows what he saw in his mind when he said that? Who knows what the man went through way back when? I didn\u2019t pursue it. He was connecting with my book. Remembering his own youth. Remembering his journey. I wanted to respect that. <\/p>\n

He caught himself, then. And we closed it down. I was at work. I can\u2019t spend a lot of time talking to people about my book without robbing my employer. \u201cI\u2019m Jack.\u201d He said. \u201cIf you ever make it to Kennebunkport, look me up. I\u2019ll have a place for you to stay.\u201d Yes, sir, I said. I can\u2019t quite imagine that I\u2019ll make it up there. But if I do, I\u2019ll try to look you up. And then we hung up. <\/p>\n

That was a wild experience. <\/p>\n

A couple of housekeeping notes. First, you can now subscribe to this blog. Earlier this week, my webmaster added the link<\/a> to the top of the page, just below the Home link. (A new large Subscribe button was added above the Home link after this blog was posted. Not quite sure what’s going on, there.) It\u2019s kind of strange. It never occurred to me that it might be a good idea to set up something that will alert my readers when a new blog is posted. It wasn\u2019t even on my radar screen until a few emails from readers trickled in recently, asking for the link. OK, I thought. Maybe it\u2019s time. <\/p>\n

I\u2019ve never considered myself a blogger, not in the true sense of the word. I mean, according to the rules, you gotta throw your stuff out there every day if possible. Keep churning, keep writing. That\u2019s how you grow your audience, get your numbers up. Keep your presence before the public, develop your \u201cplatform.\u201d Which is all fine, if that works for you. I\u2019ve never posted daily. I couldn\u2019t do that if I wanted to, which I don\u2019t. For the first few years, I posted weekly, every Friday night. Lately I\u2019ve been posting every two weeks. <\/p>\n

I guess it wasn\u2019t important to me to have a subscriber link because I have never written to see how many readers I could nab. I wrote because I wanted to write. It\u2019s that simple. And I consider every reader a gift, a bonus. An astonishing thing, for which I\u2019m grateful. <\/p>\n

So if you feel like it, subscribe. I\u2019d appreciate it very much. All that will happen is you’ll get an email with the link to this site whenever I post a new blog. And rest assured, your email address will never be shared or sold by me. (I don\u2019t even know how to access the subscriber data.) If you don\u2019t feel like subscribing, that\u2019s cool too. Y’all come back sometime, as they say down south, and check out the site once in a while for new stuff. I\u2019ll keep it coming. Right now, this blog is where I can write my voice. So for now, this is where I will speak. <\/p>\n

And finally, I\u2019m very much looking forward to next Friday evening, June 22. I\u2019m heading out to Holmes County, Ohio, one more time. My good friend John Schmid<\/a> invited me out for Benton Days<\/a>, an old time hoe-down in the village where he lives. There\u2019ll be food, lots of delicious food, including that Holmes County specialty: the best homemade potato salad in the world. There will be volleyball, corn hole, pie baking, all the good stuff small town folks usually come up with. And John will sing. He\u2019s even convinced me to say a few words. My speech will be very brief, as always. So if you\u2019re in the area, come early or you\u2019ll miss it. I will be signing books as well, for those who bring their copies. And I\u2019ll have a few copies to sell to those who don\u2019t. <\/p>\n

Then on Saturday morning, June 23, I\u2019ll be at a book signing at Gospel Book Store<\/a> in Berlin. From 9 AM to noon. If you can\u2019t make it to Benton Days on Friday night, come to Berlin on Saturday. Stop by and chat. You are welcome, with one exception. If you feel compelled to confront and admonish me for writing the book, don\u2019t bother showing up. Because I\u2019ve already heard it all. There\u2019s nothing new you can say. So leave the agenda at home. If you can do that, I\u2019ll be happy to see you. And grateful that you came.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Where shall the weary rest? When shall the lonely of heart come home? What doors are open for the wanderer?….And in what land? Where? Where the weary of heart can abide forever, where the weary of wandering can find peace, where the tumult, the fever, and the fret shall be forever stilled. —Thomas Wolfe ______________ […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-5891","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-news"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5891","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=5891"}],"version-history":[{"count":115,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5891\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8598,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5891\/revisions\/8598"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=5891"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=5891"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.irawagler.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=5891"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}