Suddenly awaken from a peaceful nights sleep, Grayson gathers himself and looks at his phone only to see that it’s just 2:15 in the morning. Reaching over to turn off his CPAP machine, he removes the mask to see that his wife Pam sound asleep. So with his chest pounding he waits a moment to make sure it’s just a panic attack and not something worse. But his breathing feels fine, although he’s a little lightheaded. So as with thousands of other panic attacks under his belt, he pushes the chair aside that holds the CPAP machine, and quietly heads towards the bathroom. While standing over the toilet he’s grateful that he’s not having the adrenaline rush which usually occurs when needing to empty one’s bowels. A telltale sign that something bad is about to happen. So he empty’s his bladder, he rubs his eyes. and stumbles back to bed.
Pumped full of fear, it’s damn near impossible for Gray to go back to sleep quickly. So he does what he always does and picks up his phone, hits the Word app on the screen, and starts typing away. It’s his way of processing the fear and the pain that he so often hides. Yet as seen in his website of blog posts, books, and poetry; he often gives out too much information. Or at least that’s what his family and his demons tell him. Tonight’s dream was about watching his grandpa Joe slowly die, with one heart issue after another, 1970’s medicine could only do so much other then confine him to bed.
But deep inside Grayson carried memories of grandfather who would take him fishing at the salt marshes just off US 17, where a family friend from the projects now lived. Riding down Dean Forest Road in grandpa’s shiny new 1967 AMC Ambassador, Grayson would sit tall in the front sent while his grandpa hit the turn at Dead Man’s Curve then turn right on Silk Hope Road to where “Aunt Lillian” lived on Salt Creek.
They’d fish most of the morning, catching blue crab or whatever else they could hook. They’d often have lunch with Aunt Lillian then head back home to Bloomingdale with the days catch for Granny to fix. Those memories are quiet fuzzy now for Gray, but it’s does memories he holds dearest. Especially now that he sees a lot of himself in his grandpa and his physical condition. Holding on tight to the memory of that vibrant old man and not the shell that Grandpa eventually become.
Raised two blocks away from his grandparents, Grayson’s young mother Missy was just 16 years old when she give birth to him. His father Grayson Sr. was 12 years older than his mother but was still in his late 20’s when Gray was born. With the birth of a sister and later a brother, Grayson was never a bully of a big brother. I mean his sister DeeDee could dish out whatever he could give. But his baby brother Martin would follow him around like a surrogate father, considering their dad lived at work more then he lived at home.
But it was the 1970’s and things were a lot different than they were in the idolized 1960’s. Gray remembers all too well the oil embargo of the early 70’s and the struggles with high gas and food prices. He watched firsthand his parents struggle and fuss about bills and spending. He also remember the spot where’d they’d often make up embracing in front of the stove. He remembered the locked bedroom door and how his siblings would cry at the door. While getting hollered at by his father to take them two outside. A smile crosses his face now while thinking about those times knowing all too well what was really going on.
Grayson’s high school years were typical late-70’s early-80’s suburban teen. The two things that made Gray’s teen years atypical were his grandpa’s health issues and his families fanatical embrace of the early Evangelical movement, known as the Pentecostal movement of the 1970’s. Apparently torn between heaven and hell, Gray remembered going to church at the local Southern Baptist Church as a kid. But it was his mother’s restlessness and curiosity with spirituality that took her from the Baptist faith to a more literal interpretation of “God’s Word”. Naturally Gray and his siblings were dragged to every Pentecostal camp meeting and tent revival in the coastal empire.
At first it all seemed like a show, with all the congregation dancing and “speaking in tongues”. But in hindsight the emotional release was quite the aphrodisiac for a lonely hungry people looking for truth. But just as any impressionable young person, Gray got caught up in all the “hoopla” as it were. Spending most his waking moments worried if he was good enough to go to heaven or was simply headed straight to hell. Needless to say, this left an enormous impression on Grayson's psyche. Walking between sainthood and applying for an apprenticeship with the devil. Many years later left a bitter taste in Gray’s mouth. Which were the birth pains to the mental anguish he experiences today.
In his grandpa’s world he to had been on a spiritual journey himself practicing the old folk magic practiced by his mother and his family. After the war and the boom of the 1950’s and 60’s many of the rifts between my grandfather and his family begin to heal. With the passing of Joe’s father and later his mother, the siblings united around the old homestead. Leading to many family reunions and many funerals at the family plot at Red Hill Cemetery outside Lothair, GA. After grandpa’s retirement from the papermill he and Granny spent lots of time at the old place in Lothair, two of Joe’s siblings, a siblings lived on either side of the old home place. At the time of their father’s death the house and the land went to my grandfather since he was the oldest. But without a thought Gray’s grandfather divided the property evenly amongst his siblings with him taking the plot the old house sat on.
Gray didn’t quite understand some of his grandpa’s strange practices like keeping a straw broom hanging over the door. Or using blue paint on the porch but never the rest of the house. The little caskets his grandfather made and kept in his workshop with little dolls underside. Or the strange painting he kept on his study wall that Grey now knows was painting of a human chakra. But all this changed after his grandpa succumb to his heart issues and eventual slow death. The very thing that haunts Grey this very night.
Pumped full of fear, it’s damn near impossible for Gray to go back to sleep quickly. So he does what he always does and picks up his phone, hits the Word app on the screen, and starts typing away. It’s his way of processing the fear and the pain that he so often hides. Yet as seen in his website of blog posts, books, and poetry; he often gives out too much information. Or at least that’s what his family and his demons tell him. Tonight’s dream was about watching his grandpa Joe slowly die, with one heart issue after another, 1970’s medicine could only do so much other then confine him to bed.
But deep inside Grayson carried memories of grandfather who would take him fishing at the salt marshes just off US 17, where a family friend from the projects now lived. Riding down Dean Forest Road in grandpa’s shiny new 1967 AMC Ambassador, Grayson would sit tall in the front sent while his grandpa hit the turn at Dead Man’s Curve then turn right on Silk Hope Road to where “Aunt Lillian” lived on Salt Creek.
They’d fish most of the morning, catching blue crab or whatever else they could hook. They’d often have lunch with Aunt Lillian then head back home to Bloomingdale with the days catch for Granny to fix. Those memories are quiet fuzzy now for Gray, but it’s does memories he holds dearest. Especially now that he sees a lot of himself in his grandpa and his physical condition. Holding on tight to the memory of that vibrant old man and not the shell that Grandpa eventually become.
Raised two blocks away from his grandparents, Grayson’s young mother Missy was just 16 years old when she give birth to him. His father Grayson Sr. was 12 years older than his mother but was still in his late 20’s when Gray was born. With the birth of a sister and later a brother, Grayson was never a bully of a big brother. I mean his sister DeeDee could dish out whatever he could give. But his baby brother Martin would follow him around like a surrogate father, considering their dad lived at work more then he lived at home.
But it was the 1970’s and things were a lot different than they were in the idolized 1960’s. Gray remembers all too well the oil embargo of the early 70’s and the struggles with high gas and food prices. He watched firsthand his parents struggle and fuss about bills and spending. He also remember the spot where’d they’d often make up embracing in front of the stove. He remembered the locked bedroom door and how his siblings would cry at the door. While getting hollered at by his father to take them two outside. A smile crosses his face now while thinking about those times knowing all too well what was really going on.
Grayson’s high school years were typical late-70’s early-80’s suburban teen. The two things that made Gray’s teen years atypical were his grandpa’s health issues and his families fanatical embrace of the early Evangelical movement, known as the Pentecostal movement of the 1970’s. Apparently torn between heaven and hell, Gray remembered going to church at the local Southern Baptist Church as a kid. But it was his mother’s restlessness and curiosity with spirituality that took her from the Baptist faith to a more literal interpretation of “God’s Word”. Naturally Gray and his siblings were dragged to every Pentecostal camp meeting and tent revival in the coastal empire.
At first it all seemed like a show, with all the congregation dancing and “speaking in tongues”. But in hindsight the emotional release was quite the aphrodisiac for a lonely hungry people looking for truth. But just as any impressionable young person, Gray got caught up in all the “hoopla” as it were. Spending most his waking moments worried if he was good enough to go to heaven or was simply headed straight to hell. Needless to say, this left an enormous impression on Grayson's psyche. Walking between sainthood and applying for an apprenticeship with the devil. Many years later left a bitter taste in Gray’s mouth. Which were the birth pains to the mental anguish he experiences today.
In his grandpa’s world he to had been on a spiritual journey himself practicing the old folk magic practiced by his mother and his family. After the war and the boom of the 1950’s and 60’s many of the rifts between my grandfather and his family begin to heal. With the passing of Joe’s father and later his mother, the siblings united around the old homestead. Leading to many family reunions and many funerals at the family plot at Red Hill Cemetery outside Lothair, GA. After grandpa’s retirement from the papermill he and Granny spent lots of time at the old place in Lothair, two of Joe’s siblings, a siblings lived on either side of the old home place. At the time of their father’s death the house and the land went to my grandfather since he was the oldest. But without a thought Gray’s grandfather divided the property evenly amongst his siblings with him taking the plot the old house sat on.
Gray didn’t quite understand some of his grandpa’s strange practices like keeping a straw broom hanging over the door. Or using blue paint on the porch but never the rest of the house. The little caskets his grandfather made and kept in his workshop with little dolls underside. Or the strange painting he kept on his study wall that Grey now knows was painting of a human chakra. But all this changed after his grandpa succumb to his heart issues and eventual slow death. The very thing that haunts Grey this very night.
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