Now I See

Now I See

Larry Jones (photographed December 6, 2018)

I have a close friend named Larry Jones whom I met in 1982. We did not hit it off at first, not for any real reason, but just because we have different personalities. Larry is quiet and I tend to talk, even to be boisterous at times. Also, Larry and I have a fundamental difference. He is quite a bit less tall than I am and I am five foot seven inches tall.

Larry and I worked together some as he was located in Elk City, Oklahoma and I was temporarily in Oklahoma working out of Bartlesville but on my way to North Dakota for my permanent location. He was an experienced mud engineer and when I could, I learned from him and his experiences. Over the next year I saw him only at our company meetings and we greeted each other like gentlemen and talked about business but we still had not yet grown into a deep friendship.

One day, about two years later, we were to have a sales meeting at Lake Conroe, Texas. We spent our first day at the airport Double Tree Hotel and the next day departed for the conference and as luck would have it, Larry wound up riding with me, just the two of us in my company car. Larry was in the market for a new car and interested in a Volvo so he asked me to stop at the dealer. Larry said, “Stephen, when he comes out, he will walk over to you, shake your hand, offer his card, ask how you are and all, and he won’t even see me.” I felt bad that Larry saw the world this way but I could think of nothing to say. The young man, good looking, well dressed, smiling, and warm rushed out to meet us. We both got out of the car and the young man bypassed Larry, rushed to my side, shook my hand warmly, asked how I was and offered me his business card. He did not say hello to Larry nor even see him. I said, “Sir, my friend here is the one interested in your cars.” The young man blushed, embarrassed at his blunder, and then he turned to shake hands with Larry, finally realizing his error.  It was not Larry's first experience with this behavior.

For the first time, I had a glimpse of life through a black man’s eyes, a sobering glimpse. I had known black kids, boys and girls, and I had had some acquaintanceship with black people. We called them colored then. I did not have the same depth of friendship with any black kids as I did with my white and even Indian friends and Indian friends included my cousins. I had never had a black friend close enough that I stayed the night with them; I have never asked a black kid to stay the night with me. I did not think I was racist or biased in any way. From the day I saw that happen to Larry, I began to watch my own behavior and that of my friends. I am not nor will I be perfect in this life because, try as I might, I still see color between people. I wish I did not because I want a better world for everyone and I know it won’t arrive until the election of a black woman or man, or just about anyone who is different, is seen as just another election, not an historical one as was John F. Kennedy (The first Catholic), and all the others that have been different.

One day, in a fast food restaurant, I saw a family that had two half-sisters, one a white child, the other a child who was half black and half white. She looked more black than white because her skin was dark and her features were more towards some of the black children I have seen. It was obvious they were sisters and that they loved each other. The grandfather with them loved them both too and that was just as obvious. Since the day of the Volvo, I began to watch what I say. I have told few jokes that involved black people since then, because if I did, my little small voice asked, “Stephen, would you tell that story in front of Larry, in front of Deborah (his wife), in front of Cody (his son)?” The answer was always “no,” and I began to see how I had contributed to the way life was, and is, for black people. I try to make my small contributions now, and they are small, but when someone tells one of these stories, I try to find the courage to speak up in my own gentle way and tell them that what they did was not right and I ask them, “How would you feel if you had a half black child?” I think of the things my grandmother went through when she was called a squaw in a derogatory fashion and when she told me that there were places she was not allowed to go and that some people would not speak with her or sit with her because of her dark skin. Sometimes, in front of my grandmother, I said something stupid about an Indian and I would see her reproachful gaze and I learned to respect my Indian relatives, who were more Indian than I and who got the bulk of any statements from other kids. Jess Tomey, a Pottawatomie Indian, was one of my best friends and we kidded about things such as our differences and he used to joke with me and David Meriable, an Osage Indian, saying, “Payne passed for white when we went into the restaurant.” There was big laughter from Jess and David but I cringed inside because there was a sobering truth that I was both Indian and white and I did, not only pass for white, but get mistaken for white when I wanted to be close to my Indian cousins and friends. My whiteness kept me out of the Indian culture that was my grandmother’s and that I wanted to be a part of. These things work both ways. I learned, that if I have to preface what I am going to tell Larry with, “I hope this doesn’t offend you,” I should not say it because that in itself is offensive and it is beneath me as the person I want to be, that I try to be and sometimes I fail to be. I try to be a better person than I was growing up because I was ignorant of feelings of many others. I met a woman from the civil rights movement, she being then a Black Panther, and she said she hated white people. I was stunned and then she said, “Can you imagine how I felt when I had my first half white grandchild?” She told us she loved that child and all that came later. Again, I saw through a black person’s eyes, this time a woman and one who had been vocal in her disgust for white Americans. How we live is a choice. How we are born is not. I was born with my racial mix, slight as it is. And I can’t change it. It also makes me who I am, just as my friend Larry’s does. Larry told me once that every morning he saw a black face in his mirror. All he meant was that he knows he is a black man and no one needs to tell him or remind him. Sometimes he has spoken against bad behavior of another black man and our managers would respond to him in wide agreement, seeming to say, “You’re one of us Larry. Yeah, right on!” He told me, “I’m not.” He gets treated differently, even in the positive sense because of his color. He is a fine man, filled with character and I’ve seen him help others in so many ways. When my friend Dennis lost his daughter to a horrible car accident, I called Larry and asked if I could stay with him so I could attend the service and help Dennis. “Come on,” he said, “We've got room for you.” I spent three days in their Houston home as a guest. I shared my ship and quarters with black sailors but never in their home. I had the courage to ask and he had the graciousness to offer.  Maybe I don't see, not as much as I believe I do, but at least I begin to see.

Stephen

Progress on My Project Goal, September 2009

One of the young marines who has passed through the Bartlesville recruiting system, completed basic training, and was briefly on leave before moving on to his next duty station.  I photographed him in several poses, most better than this one, and I gave him five or six 8 1/2 by 11 inch color glossy photographs, suitable for framing.  In my project of giving one hundred marine bibles to the marines, I have so far delivered twenty bibles and need eighty more to complete my first goal.   This particular marine, unaware of my project, had purchased his own marine bible.  

What do I mean by first goal?  I mean that my goal is to give the marines one hundred of the marine bibles; once that goal is accomplished, I'll continue to buy and give them to marines whenever I can.  I just may not have a number of them in mind; or I may set a second goal.  That is something I will see after I reach the first goal.

Staff Sergeant Ocasio told me that he had given one of the bibles to a retired marine, then as he talked more, he defined the marine as a former marine and a friend of his, from his church in Collinsville, Oklahoma.   I asked him if the marine friend had seen the marine bible before and he said no, that he had not.  He said a woman overheard them and told Staff Sergeant Ocasio that her son is a marine, so he gave her a bible to send to her son, stationed in Twenty-Nine Palms Marine Corps Base, California.  It doesn't matter because my goal is to get the marine bibles into the hands of marines, and I know that one marine will tell another, show his bible to others, and some of them will want a bible for themselves, or for a son or daughter, relative or friend.  My goal is just to get marine bibles into the hands of marines; it doesn't matter if they are serving now or have served.  They are still marines.

A Purpose Under the Sun

Truth does not wait on us. It comes in its own time, when it is ready, not when we are ready for it. Sometimes it comes with a hard chill. We have just had a season of truths for which we were not ready, as we have lost a number of alumni from Pawhuska High School. This has been difficult for all of us.

In my case, I have been absolutely stunned by some of the deaths that we, as a connected group, have experienced in such a brief time. Long ago, when we were in our classes and divided by years apart, we might have thought of a classmate as only someone in the class of our year and limited it to that. We made the transition from being a single class of sixth graders at Union, Franklin, Lynn, other schools and even Booker T. Washington school to being a larger and mixed class of seventh graders at Pawhuska High School. Still, we were divided by 7-1, 7-2, and 7-3 with our specialties of band, choir, and trades. For the first time, the division was not created by the geographic boundaries of Ninth Street and other boundaries; it was our choice, based upon what we wanted. Still, we thought of a classmate as simply someone in our class.

With the passage of years, the modification of memories, the creation of new memories, and the connections and reconnections that are forged by reunions and chance encounters, our definition of a classmate expands. One day, a classmate is no longer only someone who shared our class year of 1962 but anyone who went to Pawhuska High and with whom we can find a bond.

Each death diminishes me in some way, but some more than others.

Losing Judy Carlile was surprising and very hard. I knew her well considering the spread in class years between us, 1960 and 1962, and I don’t really know why I knew her well, but I did. Once she discovered who I am by something on Classmates.com, and sent me a note to confirm my identity, we were in frequent contact. Often we exchanged fairly long notes, and at times it could be just as though we were in the same room talking, except that we did not have the problem of stepping on each others’ words and cutting each other off as we so often do in real conversation. She wanted to reminisce about her mother’s white 1956 Ford and I was just as eager, so we did. We talked about the Dairy Queen and many small things that were common to us. The small and long ago common things we shared built a connection between us today.

I received news of the death of Eddy Mansholt and I was caught so off guard that I found myself in sudden tears. I did not expect it. Eddy and I had sent enough messages back and forth, and yet he had never said anything of his illness. Stunned is the only word I found for my response as I read the note from Marcy Loy Williams.

Eddy Mansholt was in my class of 1962 and I liked Eddy a lot. I played a clarinet; he played a trombone. That meant that we sat on opposite sides of the band. We never did many of the things that other students and I did, but still, we had a nice friendship at our class level. Eddy was in my driver’s education class with teacher Jim Minor, and Eddy and I were in the car pool when four of us rode together in the practical sessions. Most of us had driven some, and some of us thought we were pretty good. We had learned to drive in cow pastures, empty parking lots, country roads, and an odd assortment of places, but few of us had any real skills on the streets or highways.

At least we knew which direction to go. Jim Minor tended to relax during our practice sessions, and seemed to think that the emergency brake on the passenger side was there as a decoration, rather than a true security device. I think that the car we drove was a green Pontiac, and my vague memory is of a station wagon, but perhaps not. I can’t imagine the system turning us lose in a station wagon.

The car was parked at the swimming pool, and Eddy was chosen to lead out. He eased into the driver’s side, while Mr. Minor read something that he had brought with him. “Take us out, Eddy,” he said, barely looking up, and Eddy looked back over his shoulder, put the car in gear, and roared straight towards the fence surrounding the old pool. He panicked, and Mr. Minor got the brakes on in time, so that all the damage was only to the small hedge guarding the pool.

I had not seen Eddy in forty-one years, when I saw him at the 2002 forty year reunion of the class. The night before that, Charlotte and I had gone to the Tulsa State Fair, and I had a severe episode of the arthritis I have, a form of rheumatoid arthritis. When I experience that, it literally takes me several hours to dress, and sometimes I can not dress without help. Johnny Lawless telephoned and asked if I could rush over for the class photograph, which I could not do. Charlotte did not want to go, so I drove my pick-up truck over, and I stayed only about an hour. I could not bend my legs enough to sit down, especially with the table and chair arrangements that had been made, so I stood the entire time that I was there. I stood at the back together with Roger Dixon who perhaps just had not found a place he wanted to sit.

I had read the letter that Roger sent in along with his fee, and I knew that he was gravely ill, but he smiled and seemed to be enjoying himself greatly. I remembered him, and I am pretty sure that he remembered me. He did not seem to have changed much since the last time I had seen him in 1960.

I was able to walk by a few of the tables and have brief conversations with some of my class, and Eddy was one of them. We shook hands, and I mentioned our wild ride in the driver’s education car. Eddy said that it was the first time he had ever driven a car, and he did not want the other boys to know that he had not driven; so he bluffed his way through, until the truth became impossible to hide. We laughed about it a bit and had a brief conversation. Through our e-mails, we shared much more information over the few years since then.

Charlotte did not want me to go to Pawhuska that day, since I was in so much pain and she was right; I shouldn’t have. After I got outside of the building and to my truck, I opened the door and eased myself in, and got stuck with a stiff leg and cramps. I considered having Charlotte drive over and rescue me, rather than trying to drive home and doing it unsafely. But I struggled and got in, and into a position where I could drive the truck. I could not have driven a car, and I might have had to lie down in the back seat had I been a passenger in one. I wish I could have stayed longer and enjoyed more of it, but I was not able to. I told Charlotte that I really wanted to go, if even for just a little while because, that it might be the last chance I had to see some of the people from my class.

Since then, we have lost Roger Dixon, Eddy Mansholt and Florien McKee. I mention those three, because they were there, and it was, after all, the last time that I saw them.

It seems to me that we have never lost so many in such a short span of time, and all around the holidays of Thanksgiving and Christmas, which still remain the great holidays for us. We do not like them marked with such sad events.

I am comforted by scripture, and mostly by Ecclesiastes, when we are told that “To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under the sun. A time to be born and a time to die.”

It is the fact that life has some finite length that most makes it worth living. It is this that makes not only my life of value, but the lives of all the people I have known and loved.

It is sad and heartbreaking to lose someone we love, no matter the depth of our love, or how we expressed it. What if we had never had that person in our life at all? We would have never known the joys, the laughter, the secret things we shared, the fun we had.

We would have never known the frustration, the tears, the secret things they told others, and the pain we had. It is the valleys that make the hills seem so high, and it is from the hills that we can see the beauty that surrounds us.

If I had to choose between having had my son Stephen in my life and losing him, or not ever having him there at all, I would always make the choice of having him.

The pain of losing a child goes right along with the joy of having one. But it isn’t mine to choose; it is simply a gift, and one unearned. As long as I live and can remember, the gift of his life continues to fuel my life. I would rather have had, loved, and lost my son, than to never have had him at all.

If I think of the others in the same way, most of them brought me more joy than anything else and though I do now and will later miss them, my life has been fuller and richer for the gift of their lives into mine.

I wish that they weren’t gone, some more than others, for I cared for each in a different way and I can’t help that. I can not deny the truth that they were here with us for a while and then gone, the season fully complete with a time to be born, a time to die.

When I think of them, I will think of the gift, not of the loss. But I will remember that they have gone.

Stephen Joe Payne
A Purpose under the Sun
Date: 05/10/07


It is the fact that life has some finite length that most makes it worth living.

"To a Marine"

When I purchase the bibles, they are enclosed in a nice cardboard box and a cellophane wrapper. The store has a policy of imprinting the cover with someone's name or other. When the young sales lady offered this, I declined, not because I did not think it was good, but because I did not know the name of the marine to whom the bible was going to be given. On second thought, I accepted and had it imprinted with "To a Marine." All of them have been so imprinted, with the exception of my own Sailor's Bible, which I bought several years ago, but I asked them to place my name on it and since I bought it from them, they willingly did so. And, I bought a Sailor's Bible for my friend Jim Mosley and his name is imprinted. Staff Sergeant Ocasio told me that he had given one of the bibles we have stocked to a new marine recruit who did not have much of a family support system and the young man held it in his hand, looking at it, thankful for someone having given it to him. I was rewarded for I felt my small effort was worth while. There are many things to be done in the world and none of us can do all of them; each one of us can do something. It is a choice we make, what we do; it is a gift, what we can do. I am just fortunate that I can do this small thing. It is what I choose to do.

Point Defiance Cap

I would see men with ball caps that represented the ship they or a son had served on; perhaps just a ship that they wanted to represent, such as the great USS Missouri (BB-63), and I wanted one. Of course, I wanted one for the USS Point Defiance, my ship. But I did not know how to find a resource. I saw a man in Albuquerque, at the airport, one day, with a blue cap bearing a ship's name, so I stopped him and asked me. My mother instilled that in me; just ask people, most of the time, they will tell you something. He did; he told me that someone had got it for him and given it to him. Lucky him. I kept my eye out though and just over two years later, I searched via the Internet and found a source for a cap like the one he had, blue, with gold, so I ordered it. The trouble was, I just didn't like the way it fit, the way it sat on my head. Maybe I have a funny shaped head, but some things work out okay, so I kept my eye out for other options. I found a few but they just didn't seem right. Last month, one of my searches provided me with several options and a cap that I liked. Also, I could get it in other colors and I love red. The resource site also let me preview the selection so I experimented with blue, green, tan, khaki, gray; and red. I settled on red and ordered my cap, which arrived in about a week. I'm pleased with it and I wear it most of the time now. I like how it feels, how it sits on my head and I love the color. And, I'm proud of my ship, my time in the navy, and I like to share it with people, especially other sailors who always stop and ask me about my navy life. I appreciate their asking and we always talk. It turned out once that one of them had been on the USS Thomason (LSD-28), our sister ship. It really is a small world, isn't it?

USS Point Defiance (LSD-31), My Ship

I enlisted in the United States Navy in March of 1961, with my mother's permission, as I was only seventeen years old. I went through basic training, which we called Boot Camp, in San Diego, and then I was sent to Radar "A" school at Treasure Island in San Francisco. After six months of radar school, I was assigned to the USS Point Defiance (LSD-31), named after Point Defiance, Oregon. Once in 1963 we steamed past Point Defiance, Oregon and that was the closest I came to it.

Of all the Dock Landing Ships, I liked the name Point Defiance best, so I was pleased that she became my ship, and my home for the next three years. The Point Defiance was a Thomaston class ship because the USS Thomaston (LSD-28)was the first ship of the class to be commissioned. My first time aboard was in late December, 1961, and I had not seen an LSD so I expected it to be like an LST. The LSD was much larger than an LST, had a normal bow in front rather than that of an LST, and had a large well deck. When I went aboard, I saluted the ensign (United States flag), flying aft, saluted the officer of the deck and requested, "Permission to come aboard, sir." "Granted," he said, and I offered him my orders. As he read them I looked at the gray monster around me and I thought there were two ships together for the deck I was standing on was duplicated on the opposite side of where we stood. I would learn, when daylight came, that the well deck was bordered by port and starboard hulls which held a large crane each and equipment lockers, tools and boats.

The image of the Point Defiance is from http://www.navsource.org/archives/10/12/1231.htm and is credited to Hyperwar US Navy in World War II.

The Marine Bible

The image is of a marine bible. This is the Holman Christian Standard Bible (HCSB) which I photographed before giving that copy to a marine. As I have written in another post, I am a sailor myself, formerly in the navy back in 1961-1965. I served aboard the USS Point Defiance (LSD-31) from late 1961 until early 1965, so I was aboard just over three years. Our duty was amphibious and marines and their equipment were often aboard. I met many, made friends with a few and I developed respect for all marines. One day I found a marine bible in a bible store and I bought it and used it for awhile, until I also discovered that there was a sailor's bible, so I bought my sailor's bible and gave the marine bible to a marine. I had an opportunity to meet another marine and he said that he wished he had an HCSB Marine Bible, so I bought and gave him one. I discovered that many marines knew about this bible and wanted to have one. I try to keep one on hand but they have a way of finding a new home. When my friend, Jerry Malone, a former marine lance corporal who served in Vietnam died, I placed one in his casket.

I wanted to start a project to provide marine bibles to marines in Iraq (2007) and I arbitrarily decided on one thousand as the number of bibles I would try to get my community to provide. I learned that there were security problems in shipping that many bibles, or even a few, to Iraq; I worked with the Marine Chaplains Corps in Washington, D. C. to find a way to deliver them but we have not yet been successful. I have not surrendered on that goal but I have postponed it until I can learn what is required. In the meantime, my personal goal has become to provide one hundred marine bibles from my personal funds. When I have money, I buy one or two bibles and I take them to our local marine recruiting office, where there are two staff sergeants, and leave them in their hands to give to new recruits, or any marine that happens by and provides an opportunity. Since I have begun this project, I have delivered seven bibles. I need only ninety-three more bibles delivered to reach my goal. Ninety-three marine bibles on the wall.

Salute to a Pawhuska Marine

Copyright (C) 2009 Stevie Joe Payne

Salute to a Marine

Many know that I keep a special place in my heart for Marines. I was in the navy myself, but that does not change my feeling for Marines. I acquired those feelings when I was a kid, and they have never left me or been altered much. I am proud of the Marines I have known, especially those from Pawhuska. There were two Marines at the top of my list and those were Gary and Jerry Malone, twin brothers from Pawhuska.

When I left Pawhuska, at seventeen, I did not leave with good feelings, and I felt down and unwanted, and I will use the word unloved, because that is how I felt. It is a long story and I won’t go into it but it is germane for one incident. The home port for my ship was Long Beach, California. One Saturday evening, I had been to a movie, eaten in a restaurant and my ship mates had gone off to a bar to have some drinks. I was too young and I could not go with them, so I was just walking the streets, spending some time at The Pike, the giant permanent amusement park in Long Beach, and killing time before I returned to my ship. I was feeling a little lonely when I decided to go across the street, into the doughnut shop and have a cup of coffee and a doughnut. It was very crowded and as I walked in, I heard someone call my name, my first name, which was not used in the navy. I was called either just Payne or Huck. When I looked around, I saw two young men in the uniform of the United States Marine Corps, young men from Pawhuska. All of the feelings I had had when I left Pawhuska suddenly surfaced, and I moved towards the door and ran outside, away from them. I had believed that no one from Pawhuska wanted to see me, and I was afraid that something was going to happen, so I ducked them. As I got outside and moved to a safe distance, I stopped and lit a cigarette as I looked down Ocean Boulevard. I was extremely nervous and uncertain what to do. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder and I turned to find both Gary and Jerry standing before me, asking me why I had run from them. One of them said that they were afraid that I didn’t want to see them; nothing could have been further from the truth. They shook my hand, patted my back, spoke warmly and we had a great time as we talked about, well, everything. I felt so good after they had come out of the shop, sought me, and worried that I did not want to see them.
Every now and then I would see them in Long Beach and we always stopped and spoke. I was so proud of them and I admired them so much. They looked so good in the Marine uniform, yet it was hard to believe that they were two boys that I had known in high school, and two that I never expected to see in Marine uniforms.

Robert Gary Malone was taken from us many years ago, June, 28, 1966, just short of his twenty-third birthday, as a result of the Viet Nam War. Jerry worked for the post office many years in Bartlesville and I saw him often. Once in a while we talked about meeting in Long Beach, but it was a little hard for Jerry since the twins had been together then. When the moveable Viet Nam memorial wall came through Bartlesville, in 1995, I told Jerry that it was in Memorial Park. Later I learned that he did not go see it and I asked him why. He said it was just too hard for him, to see his brother’s name on the wall. I had photographed the moveable wall, Gary’s name, and it took me a while to do it, but I made an 8 ½ X 11 inch photograph of Gary’s name, and I gave it to Jerry. I gave him several copies, to share with his family, if he wanted. He asked me what he owed me for the photograph and I told him that it had been paid in full years ago. I’m not sure if he fully understood what I meant, but he accepted that, with thanks. But it is I who owe him thanks.

We have now lost Jerry Malone. He had experienced some heart problems over the years and he and I had talked about that some, at the post office. I looked for him Saturday, at the Pawhuska Centennial Celebration, as I wanted to show him something that I had written. I did not see him, and I learned that he was just not feeling good, so he did not go. The last time I saw him, he was wearing a Marine cap from the Viet Nam era, one that a citizen who learned he had been a Marine bought for him, somewhere, and just went in the post office and gave to him. He was really pleased to get it, and he wore it when it was called for. He was a good man, and I miss him, already. I would like to be tougher than I am, sometimes, but I will tell you that I wrote this with tears. This is what I wanted to show him, from my book Pawhuska Kids' Stuff:

“Robert Gary Malone is my hero for being a United States Marine. He didn’t have to make the ultimate sacrifice to be my hero, but he did. His brother Jerry is my hero for being a Marine.”

I had just purchased a new copy of the Marine Bible and I asked his widow, Nada, and his sister, Barbara, if I could place it in the casket. No one will ever see it but I took a moment and wrote a few things in the Bible, his name, his dates of service and his rank. And I probably wrote something very personal, a word of thanks, a word of farewell. He was a good man; he was a good marine.

Marines have always had a special place in my heart; Jerry Malone will always have a special place in my heart. I salute you Marine.

Stephen Joe Payne

A Son's Farewell

Copyright © 2007 Stevie Joe Payne
Reprinted for PayneStakings from the book “Pawhuska Kids’ Stuff” (Outskirts Press) with permission of the author.

Image: Stephen William Payne (1967-2003)

A Son’s Farewell

“Dad, I’m scared!” Stephen said into the phone. I could hear the fear in his voice, sense the anguish that gripped him. My entire intellectual life flashed before me, all the things I had learned from books, movies, the Bible, management seminars, counseling, my college career, the Navy, all the things I should say as a father: “Chin up!” “Keep a stiff upper lip.” “There is nothing to fear but fear itself.” “A good soldier does his duty,” “Never give up!” I opened my mouth for one of those gems and heard my voice saying “Son, I’m scared too.” It was the right thing to say.
Stephen, at thirty-six, prided himself on not breaking any bones—so far—unlike me; I had broken seven before I was twenty-one. Diabetes had blinded him six years earlier and trips and falls were just part of his life but so far he had suffered only skins and bruises. He always counted the thirty steps of the stairs between his apartment and the taxi waiting to take him to his thrice weekly dialysis sessions. That morning, he miscounted.
In spite of the broken bones in his left ankle, he managed the three hour treatment and was even planning to return home and rest before going out that evening. That was his anti-psychotic medicine talking, medicine that helped him get through dialysis. A nurse made him go to the hospital where surgery reconnected the shattered bones.
His mother called me that Friday evening, letting me know that I did not have to rush the three hundred fifty miles to Tyler, Texas. She would keep me informed, and I was grateful. I talked to him over the weekend and then again on Monday, the day the doctors conceded that the device joining the bones was failing.
Years of diabetes had left the bones too soft. He was so upset that he had his mother place the call for him, the one when he told me he was scared—about the amputation. It wasn’t certain, but it was likely and he would not know until he regained consciousness. He would go to sleep with two legs, one badly broken, and he would awaken with either two legs or just one.
Or he would not awaken at all; it was a possibility. I hurt for him then as I had never hurt before, wanting to trade places with him as any father does. I prayed hard. He kept his leg, for which we were all grateful, but it never really healed. He seemed to settle into the hospital routine, and we called each other often, and I traveled to see him as soon as I could. I stayed in a motel and spent what time I could at his side in the hospital. He was drowsy from the medications, so our talks were short and intermittent but just being with him was enough, for both of us.
I couldn't stay for all of his long hospital time, so I drove home and returned later. My younger brother Charles, who was close to Stephen as only five years separated uncle and nephew, drove from Pawhuska to Tyler to be with him. And Stephen had his mother and many friends right there in Tyler. He was not alone, yet he was all alone; alone with the things he had to go through. No one could do it for him. No one could do for me what I was going through either.
His fear was not of the pain, not even of the dreaded amputation; it was of losing his independence. He had seen my mother lose both of her legs and her independence to diabetes and it had left hopeless images for him. That was not how he wanted to end up.
He was considering an option that he had touched upon but not discussed much. He might go off of dialysis. He had talked with his doctor about it and she told him that he would take about two weeks to die, that a hospice would take care of him with analgesics. (We don’t use the word painkiller in a family of Paynes).
The selfish father in me did not want him to do that, yet I understood both his reasoning and his wishes. He had suffered more than he should have. He had suffered more than I could have born to suffer. He had been diabetic since he was thirteen and I could not argue with the logic he had for letting his life end. An earlier heart attack had removed him from transplant candidacy, so living longer just meant more organ and tissue failures. There was no hope of getting better, only worse, only sicker, and then dying. This decision gave him some feeling of control in his life, and there was little left that he could still control.
Diabetes wasn’t Stephen’s only fight. There were also those with drugs, and his need to feel loved. He was loved but I know that there were times when he didn’t feel like it, and sometimes it was my fault. Sometimes I had been too stern, too much a disciplinarian; sometimes I had yelled when I should have spoken softly; sometimes I had said no when I should have said yes and sometimes I had said yes when I should have said no.
Still, I always felt loved by him, even when I was more a father than a friend, even when he was angry with me. When you have a child who has problems, some people consider him less worthy to live, that his life has less value and sometimes, he saw himself that way and sometimes that was my fault.
Sometimes it was his mother’s fault. I tried to counter that as much as I could by telling him that I loved him every time we talked, by giving him the things that he needed and wanted that I could give and, surprisingly, these were often simple. He needed batteries for this guitars and tape recorders. He needed lots of blank tapes and I had learned to skip the Christmas and birthday wrappings as he needed them already opened, one less thing for his blind eyes to struggle with.
When we were together I took him to the movies he loved and listened to the remarks of people who did not understand. “Is that kid blind?” “He’s using a cane so he must be.” “Why would you take a blind person to a movie?” Because he was worth it, because it’s what he wanted to do, and movies were still one of the special bonds that we shared; Movies and music.
On a September day in 2003, Stephen lost the final round in his long fight. “I’m tired” he had said to his Tyler friends Eric and Mike. Between Thursday and Friday Stephen saw his Uncle Charles, his childhood friend Pete, and me. He asked me to talk, to say anything, just to hear the sound of my voice. He loved my voice, he said. I talked for a while and he slipped into a gentle sleep. I was stepping out to let him rest when he stirred for a minute, rose up on his pillow a little and his voice became strong, surprisingly so since he had been speaking so softly. “Dad”, he said, “I’m so proud to have had you for a father.” I stood at the door for what seemed a very long time, feeling his words more than thinking about them. It was the most magnificent thing anyone had ever said to me, and it made it difficult for me to speak; I didn’t know what to say. Against my will tears forced themselves from my eyes and I looked at him, saw him on the verge of tears himself and I struggled to find words equal to his. My voice was weak from talking, weak from the illness in my vocal cords and I felt the shakiness in my overtired voice as the simple words, “Thank you son” croaked out of my throat. A son’s farewell: “I’m so proud to have had you for a father.”
Stephen died about 5:30 Saturday morning.
Stephen J. Payne

The Young Marine

Christmas 2005, the Young Marine
Copyright © 2006 Stephen J. Payne

Charlotte is a fan of Janet Evanovich who writes the Stephanie Plum detective series and I had learned that Evanovich was going to be in Tulsa, at the Borders Book Store to sign books (and probably sell more). Charlotte was overjoyed but skeptical that she would actually be able to meet the author; too many people, too busy, too much. But I knew it meant a lot to her so I was insistent that she try. I had learned an important lesson from the years that I was single and I phrased it this way: "The girl you don’t ask out isn't going with you anyway."

It was a sure thing that she would not see Janet Evanovich if she didn’t go so, early enough, we loaded up my cameras, lenses, photo lights and all of our Evanovich books (yes, I have some too), and set off for Tulsa. We arrived at Borders very early and yet found many people already waiting, as though they were expecting a rock star. Borders staff had set up a system and when we brought books in that we already owned, the books were labeled with a colored tape and we were assigned to a group. We had to line up then within that group. This Borders is a two story building and we found ourselves upstairs and far at the back and right next to the section on linguistics which was delightful to me. I love linguistics so I was able to start at the top shelf and work my way slowly down as I pulled out books on the English language, the sounds of the world’s languages, the History of the Spanish Language, morphemes, and the like. I was having a good time. Fortunately I already had a lot of those books which was keeping me from buying more because I was low on money and, of course, I did have to buy several copies of Janet Evanovich’s newest book; that was unavoidable. As I got to the bottom of the section and I moved to the top shelf next to it, I saw one book that caught my attention, not for me but as a gift for a young man. I did not know him. I had not met him. But I knew that he had just graduated from basic training at Camp Pendleton, California, United States Marine Corps, and was now on his way to sniper school. I didn’t know there was a school for snipers. The book that I was looking at was The Marine Bible, Holman Christian Standard Bible. It was in a box, leather bound and it was sealed and I couldn’t afford it. Yet, I had to see more of it, so I broke the seal and opened the book. I looked at the early pages and saw the standard beginning, like most bibles, and then I went to the index to see why it was a Marine Bible, what was different about it.. In the back were things that were just strictly Marine Corps: Poems written by great marines past, prayers from chaplains and many things specific to the Marine Corps. I put it carefully back into its cellophane wrapper, then back into the box and then back on the shelf, all the time thinking of the young marine. He was not only a new marine but a new husband. I wished that I could afford it for him. Our line moved slowly and after a bit, we had Janet Evanovich in sight, sitting at a table surrounded by staff and rule keepers: “No more than four books per person, please stay within your color coded group, have your tag ready with your name and what you want Janet to write, tags sticking out one inch.” We were closer then, just a few more feet and…I went back for the Bible. I couldn’t afford it but I was going to get it, somehow. It didn’t cost much but I had already made my commitment in other books and expenses and just didn’t have much left over and we had yet to have dinner. I took photographs of Charlotte and Janet Evanovich and I gave her a copy of a piece that I had written, A Son’s Farewell. I found some way to buy the Marines Bible and the next day, I took it to his aunt who got it to him just before he finished Sniper School and was sent to Iraq . Now and then I would get reports on him and his progress. He would call into the shop and he always mentioned the Bible and his aunt would tell me about it. Then he was home
from Iraq and Bartlesville had signs up, "Welcome Home Lance Corporal Jacob Fuller," and he was celebrated. Still, I never got to meet him. His aunt told me that he was here for Christmas but that he had to work at the Marine Recruiting Office as part of his price for being here. I went there on Thursday, December 29th and another Marine told me that I had just missed him but, try again tomorrow. Friday, I returned and the other young Marine told me that I had just missed him as he had left for lunch, but he had gone to the Subway and I might catch him there. I walked up to the young man that I knew from a photograph and said, softly “Jacob?” He looked at me, puzzled, his brow furrowed and I asked “Jacob Fuller?” “Yes,” he said, “I am Jacob.”
“I gave you the Marine Bible.” I told him.
He sat his drink and his sandwich down on the counter, turned to me and he put his hand out to shake my hand and then he stepped forward, put his arms around my shoulder and pulled me to him in a Marine hug, a tear forming in his eye. Something was in my eye too. That made my Christmas 2005.

Stephen