On Pills and Needles

by Rick Van Warner

  “But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about what has taken place in this country,” he said. “Think about the Native Americans who used to live where we’re driving right now. They only hunted what they needed and then ate or used every part of the animals they killed. Even in the times of the settlers, while there were bad guys, most people would use what they needed and share what they didn’t with others in need.”

  “I kind of see what you mean,” I said. “When I grew up in the country, people dropped everything to help a neighbor or stranger in need. It’s why we had volunteer fire departments. The horn would sound, and farmers would leave tractors in the field to rush to the firehouse and suit up.”

  “Exactly,” he replied. “Today most people are only out for themselves and don’t give a damn about anyone else. They will drive right by a car accident or old lady with a flat tire. They will steal from even their closest friends if they can get away with it. They eat and overeat from factory farms killing the planet, yet there are people going hungry. It’s become messed up. That’s what I’m saying.”

  “Well, how can you fix it?” I asked.

  “One plastic bottle at a time,” he smiled.

  From the time we’d left Florida, the pile of plastic bottles on the floor behind his seat had been growing. In the overpacked Subaru, we barely had room for our belongings, yet the bottle mountain kept pushing higher. Tommy was incapable of walking by a discarded bottle or piece of litter on the ground without picking it up, something I admired about him. It was a huge shift from watching the adults of my youth tossing empty soda cans or beer bottles out the windows of their cars without a second thought. The famous ad with the tear rolling down the Native American’s face came to mind. Tommy had determined that Mt. Plastic would continue to grow until we found a proper recycling can, which is still tough to find in economically depressed rural areas of the nation.

  This was hardly the first time he’d pushed my thinking on environmental issues. “Time to get on the green path, Mom and Dad,” was a popular refrain during his brief periods living at home.

  By now Tommy had also become primarily vegetarian, except for occasionally eating chicken, which was not surprising given the circles of friends he’d made and the organic and natural life he aspired to. I knew it was only a matter of time before we’d be debating what he sees as ethical issues surrounding animal consumption.

  “Hey, Dad, did you know that chickens are all shot up with hormones and unnatural chemicals so that the corporate chicken companies can make more profits?” he asked at another point. “And that they raise them in tiny cages so that they can’t exercise, which might lower profits?”

  “Yes, son, I’ve seen how chickens, cows, and other animals are harvested,” I said, trying not to be goaded into a debate.

  “Well, aren’t you worried you are eating a bunch of chemicals and who knows what else?” he asked.

  “I know you’re right, but a lot of it comes down to price and how expensive organic proteins and veggies are,” I said. “Even your generation throws all this concern out the window when it comes to getting a better price.”

  “Not me,” he said, smiling, as if he could see he was starting to get under my skin.

  “But you eat chicken; that must mean you’re a hypocrite.”

  “Only chicken that is hormone free and naturally raised,” he responded. “We had a neighboring farm in North Carolina where the chickens were raised the natural way, and taken one at a time only when needed for food. I saw how they were raised and harvested.”

  “Congratulations,” I said.

  “What?”

  “You finally got to see where the term ‘running around like a chicken with his head cut off’ came from!”

  We both laughed.

  Conventional wisdom about the concepts of risk and education were other subjects we tackled during our trip to Oregon.

  “Why is Mom so afraid of me camping or traveling alone?” he asked one day.

  “Hello! Did you or did you not read Into the Wild?” I asked. “She is afraid you might die out there, that you might get hurt and not be found.”

  Both my wife and I had read the haunting bestseller about the affluent college kid who sold all his belongings, changed his name, and drifted for more than two years throughout the United States before hitchhiking to Alaska, walking into the wilderness, then dying alone. As our conversation continued, I recalled that Tommy now was exactly the same age as the subject of the book—twenty-four. He was also the same age as Neil Young in his presumably autobiographical song, “Old Man.” As the song goes, “Old man, look at my life, I’m a lot like you were. . . . Twenty-four and there’s so much more.”1

  Little did I know at the time, but Tommy’s drifting phase was about to begin.

  We pondered how a person is conditioned to avoid taking risks. It seems to be rooted in many of our earliest experiences. Kids fortunate enough to be loved and nurtured as youngsters are quickly taught to avoid taking risks because something bad might happen. The pressure from a persistent chorus of “don’ts” slowly wears down the carefree nature of most young children, replacing natural curiosity and daring with a fear of taking chances. “Don’t climb so high on the monkey bars. Don’t go outside without an adult. Don’t get too close to that dog. Don’t run.” There’s a fine line between protecting and smothering a child, I thought. The line between parental acceptance and indifference may be even thinner.

  Suddenly, I saw two pairs of eyes in the pitch-black road ahead coming directly at us, jolting me from my silent musings. “Animals in the road,” I shouted. Tommy immediately hit the brakes. The eyes, which seemed as high as the top of the Subaru’s windshield, were actually higher than its roof. We were high up in the Colorado mountains, winding our way toward the exit of the national park from its remote southwestern corner, and had not seen another car in thirty minutes. Two massive bull elks were walking in our lane directly toward the front grill as if they were seeking a head-on collision. We’d been warned earlier in our travels that blowing the horn sometimes ticks an elk off. There have been cases where the animals have lowered their horns and done extensive damage to the offending car, particularly during mating season. Since Tommy’s horn didn’t work, this wasn’t an option. Instead, we got an incredibly clear view of the impressive animals as they stepped nonchalantly into the beams of the headlights, looking down at the car, tiny by comparison, and then moved to the opposite lane and walked by.

  “Incredible,” Tommy said.

  “Indeed,” I said. “Glad we saw them because they were not going to move, and we wouldn’t have stood a chance in a collision with those two.”

  We later returned to the topic of education, and I found myself agreeing with Tommy’s logic.

  “Why would I want to study organic farming or ag science in a classroom or trapped behind a computer when I have the opportunity to learn it firsthand?” Tommy asked. “On the farm, Mark showed us how to till, plant, cultivate, and harvest. We learned about growing seasons and the science of good crops versus bad crops. We learned how to make tea and various foods from plants growing wild in the forest. Being stuck in a kitchen or an office all day is not for me.”

  “I hear ya, son,” I said. “But wouldn’t it accelerate your desire to have your own organic farm some day by getting an associate’s in ag science or something like that?”

  “I don’t really think so,” he said. “Many of the people I’m learning from never finished college but have become successful farmers, brewmasters, and craftsmen. It’s a new time, and there are tons of people out there like me that want to use only what we need and share the rest with others. I’m not interested in city living. I want to be close to and connecting with nature. I’ve never felt better than during the past few months.”

  “I get it, Tommy, and I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Pops.” He coul
dn’t resist adding one more comment. “Remember, it’s time to get on the green path before it’s too late!”

  Beyond the side trips to hiking trails, hot springs, waterfalls, and the occasional pilgrimage, such as the early morning visit to B.B. King’s gravesite, the journey gave Tommy and me extensive time to connect more intensely and genuinely than ever before possible. We certainly didn’t agree on everything, but we definitely gained deeper insights into each other’s souls and beliefs. As each day passed, I realized that Mary had been right. He and I were the most alike in our family.

  We had left Florida less than twenty-four hours after word came from a friend of Paul’s that he had a good-paying job for Tommy on an organic vineyard outside of Portland. “But you need to get out here quickly,” he told Tommy.

  Early the next morning we pulled out of our driveway and were on our way to Oregon. I knew that it was my purpose to join Tommy on this journey, just as I know that God’s purpose for me was to write this book, because it was the only week during the previous or following months that my schedule was essentially open. The “meant to be” doctrine that Mary had long believed in and that I had dismissed for years is certainly true. I now know this and only wish I’d opened my stubborn heart and mind sooner to accept it.

  25

  The Flow

  As I sat in my chair at the beach, looking out over the water where Tommy was surfing, I reflected on the terrible journey he’d been through. Our family had been on a roller-coaster ride for nearly eight years now. Yet here I was, on a natural section of the seashore inside a national park, where there are no condominiums to cast shadows during the late afternoon sun. I rarely had been here, but Tommy insisted on it. It turned out to be well worth the five-dollar park fee and extra ten miles of driving.

  Just like the little boy rolling in the sand many years earlier, Tommy seemed completely at peace when near the ocean. Perhaps this is the higher power that had always seemed to elude him, I thought, his connection with the ocean. The salty smell of the mist, the sound of waves breaking and seabirds calling, and the warmth of the sun made the beach a place like no other.

  “Surfing is my high now,” he said after emerging from the water, board under an arm displaying colorful images of his own design. “If I go surfing in the morning, I feel in a great mood all day and don’t feel any need to get high. It’s a natural high.”

  I later found out that it wasn’t just the ocean that brought Tommy spiritual peace; all types of natural spaces lifted his soul, such as the cypress groves and state parks throughout central and northern Florida that most tourists never discover. He has been changed through experiences within the lush forests of North Carolina, Arkansas, and many other states. After we crossed the great Mississippi River, his eyes grew wide with wonder when he first set them on the Rocky Mountains. From waterfalls to mountain lakes to the spectacular desert vistas of Utah to the rain forests along the Washington/Oregon border where he worked in the vineyard, Tommy’s psyche seems to have been rejuvenated. During our frequent phone calls, he’s never seemed happier.

  It is not as if he hasn’t had bad days. On one such day I worried that the wheels might be coming off yet again—the worry coming from experience. But we find ourselves trying to break the habit of asking questions to gauge whether he is on the brink of another emotional breakdown that might lead to relapse. Such probes only serve to remind him of past failures or add more pressure about what might lie ahead. They do absolutely nothing to encourage where he is today and where many people wish they had the courage to be—living in the present.

  When the organic vineyard in Oregon completed its seasonal harvest, Tommy decided it was time to move on. Mary and I were both distressed initially that again he had stayed in one place for only a short period. But after a poor first reaction, I righted myself quickly.

  “Hey, just wanted to say I’m sorry about all the questions I was asking you yesterday. It had been a long day, and you caught me at a time when I was already tired and frustrated. I get it now.”

  “It’s okay,” he replied, the relief in his voice evident. “I just need a change.”

  He had been working long hours in a local coffee shop in addition to the outdoor job at the vineyard. As with previous restaurant jobs, I sensed he just wasn’t cut out to work indoors for many hours at a time. Both employers said they’d welcome him back, he said, apparently at least having learned how not to burn his bridges by disappearing without notice.

  “I’m starting to pick up some bad vibes in this area, and I’m not sure it’s the right place for me,” he continued.

  “Help me understand.”

  “I don’t know. I was talking for hours with my friend in California, and she told me I need to trust my senses. If I’m putting good vibes out there and not getting good feelings in return, I’m probably right and should try somewhere else.”

  This wasn’t the first time we had discussed his hypersensitivity to other people and particular places. I now truly understood what he was saying. Since revitalizing our relationship, Tommy has taught me a lot about recognizing the positive and negative energy fields surrounding various people, places, and activities. When I thought hard about what he was saying, I recalled that I’d come across several books over the years basically saying the same thing and had even heard speakers talk about this. But unlike the rah-rah speech from a motivational speaker seeking to sell videos, books, or a program, Tommy’s take was much more practical and sincere.

  “It’s all about surrounding yourself with positive people and environments,” he explained, “and getting away from negative ones as quickly as possible.”

  “There are times, though, when it might just be in our heads,” I said. “And there are other times when it is important to overcome negative people or experiences by either ignoring them or putting so much positivity out there that it turns things the other way.”

  “I understand and agree,” he said. “What I’m saying is that I have to trust my instincts, and I’m picking up a lot of negativity around me lately. I feel I need to try somewhere else. It’s all about the flow, Pops. I have to recognize the flow and go with it.”

  When I received the call, it made me worry he was near the brink again; he had sounded despondent. We talked at length, and by the end of the call he sounded much better. He was planning to camp for the night in the Mt. Hood area and had informed his bosses at both jobs that he needed a day off. By the following day, he was a different person; he was cheerful and mentally back on track. It was remarkable how much better twenty-four hours of connecting with nature had made him feel.

  Though still disappointed he was leaving Oregon so quickly, a place where he had the support of two solid friends, one of whom we had known well for years, I understood. Working only indoors was crushing his spirit. The beginning of the gray, rainy Oregon winter certainly didn’t help matters. He set out to explore areas he’d never before visited, traveling north to see volcanoes, more rain forests, and spectacular Pacific Ocean peninsulas. He also donated a bunch of clothes he rarely wore to a local Goodwill before leaving.

  As I fielded his calls along the way, he raved about the spectacular hikes he was enjoying and adventures he was having. Now sleeping in his car when not in a state park or public campground, he was living his own version of Jack Kerouac’s great On the Road, just as I had done over thirty years earlier. When I had hit the road after a college writing teacher encouraged this fantasy, I was twenty. Despite jeopardizing my ability to continue paying for my education at a private university, I felt that it was something I had to do. Whether this feeling was due to the adventurous, seemingly invincible nature typical of young men or to the need to overcome my childhood challenges, I didn’t know. I just knew it was something no one could talk me out of. My late friend Dave, prone to crazy stunts that made my intended voyage look tame by comparison, was all in. I hitchhiked alone to Hartford, Connecticut, to get him, and after a night there the two of us set out with
our sights on California. With both of us bearded, rough looking, and wearing black leather jackets, it’s a wonder that anyone ever gave us a ride. But we made it to California and Mexico and eventually returned by way of the southern route across the country, experiencing many adventures along the way.

  As Tommy’s calls began coming in—from Washington, the beaches of Oregon, Lake Tahoe, Yosemite, Death Valley, Joshua Tree, and the beaches near San Diego—I realized he was on the same type of journey I’d taken so long ago. So what if he was four years older than I was? He had lost years to his drug abuse, and he was now seeking to reclaim them. California was as alluring to him now as it was to me then. Through my business travels we were able to connect in San Francisco, Monterey, and Las Vegas, leading to nearby hikes and adventures. He hiked the Grand Canyon, going to the bottom and back to the top in a day. He enjoyed the wonders of Bryce Canyon, Zion National Park, Arches National Park, and virtually any spectacular natural place he could find on his journey back east to North Carolina.

  There are no such things as straight lines in the journey of life, and there certainly will be more hairpin curves and potholes in the years ahead. As each of us grows older, the best we can hope for is that our experience steering through prior accidents prevents us from running off the road too often. Nor is there any definitive handbook on parenting or managing family relationships, despite the shelves full of books on these subjects. As difficult as our middle son’s challenges have been, the most remarkable and unexpected gift has come through a change in thinking that began with acceptance. The love was always there. Unconditional acceptance is something different and equally as powerful.

  Obviously, our perspectives are our own, and each of us can hear only our own innermost thoughts. Our eyes see what we choose to see, and how we perceive things determines our choices along the way. These perceptions ultimately play a huge role in determining how happy and fulfilled we feel. However, when it comes to the most important relationships in our lives, those with our significant others and our children, it’s not about us. The only thing we really have control over is how we choose to act or respond, whether we accept or reject their differences, and whether our words are kind or critical. Are we daily building them up or tearing them down, piece by piece, moment by moment? Are we willing to forgive mistakes and accept them no matter what? Are we committed to being present, not just physically but truly listening and with genuine love? When they have problems of inconceivable magnitude, do we wave the white flag or are we ready to get down in the trenches and fight for them?