As I recall. We were standing in the back yard of the home he and my Mother purchased when they were first married. At the time, my Dad had gone from having a steady city job driving a bus to a re-invented, self employed business man.
I recall being somewhat angry and showing some aggression towards my Father. Suddenly, perhaps understanding and wanting to quell my anger. My Father took my rather small hand in his, opened my clinched fist and placed a hollow point bullet (the same one you see pictured on the right.) without speaking a single word. While I didn’t quite understand its true meaning at the time and it’s come to mean a lot of things to me over the years. These days, I realize that he was trying to teach me that our anger, if not managed, can lead us down dark and dangerous paths.
While a short time in retrospect.,(maybe five or six years.) my Father may or may not have bent the rules of what some might consider legal. During that time, my experiences and the people I met along the way enabled me to see the world much differently from what I was being taught in Catholic school. It taught me that things are seldom black & white and that most situations contain a lot of grey areas. The things I experiences and exchanges I was given access to, taught me more than I would have ever expected. Til’ this day, more than thirty five years later, I still keep that hollow point on the end table by my side of the bed. It has never since see the chamber of a gun and surely never will. When I do pick it up and let it roll around in my palm, I often think of my Dad and that important part of our lives. The stories, the characters and the many things life taught me.
This Saturday April 18th marked a celebratory return to the beach for my family and me. It also marked one of the first times since I was a child that I walked the shores with my Father. While there were childhood trips to the Vegas Strip and post teen jaunts to Lake George. The beach is something my Dad and I rarely shared. However, on this particular Saturday a visit to my Dad’s new home in Toms River included a trip to the nearby shore os Sunset Heights. In those hours we had our share talked, walked and bonded over things both old and new.
It wasn’t until the ride back to Toms River when my Dad asked “Do you remember when we used to go to the beach with Jack?” “Yeah!” I replied excitedly. As deeply receded as that memory might have been. It came back to me so quickly that I could recreate an image crisper than a new pair of Martha Stewart bed sheets. By now, if you’re actually still reading this. You might be asking yourself who or what was Jack? Jack, for lack of my father’s imagination when naming people, places or animals was our first dog and only pet in our family history with any staying power. A beautiful and independent spirit. Jack was a very rare breed, being a saluki. Saluki’s were know as a Persian Greyhound or Royal dog of Egypt. Jack, much like his greyhound cousin could race at speeds up to around fifty miles an hour. Letting Jack off the leash in a park, lot or beach was like an event. To watch him stretch out as he raced gracefully from point A to point B was something that I wish everyone could experience daily, if not but once in their life. Trying to get him to return or get him back on the leash was something I would only wish on my worst enemy. As we returned to my Father’s place. He revealed the secret of his success in getting Jack back on the leash and back into the car. While I’ve seen many a greyhound and whippet since. The Saluki, just like Jack himself has yet to be spotted since. My guess is he’s still running along the shore somewhere. And while my trips to the shore will certainly become more and more common in the coming weeks and months. A memory as deeply recited as this one is a sure rarity.