Jim Baumer's Blog, page 28

A Machine Called Love

My body is a machine/

Built to force so much compassion and love and kindness into the world/that human life has no choice but to thrive and flourish.

[Poem by Mark Baumer-Day 28/Second Crossing of America]

Mark wrote this and recited it on his video from Day 28, the day following the Trump victory. He was in Shartlesville, Pennsylvania. On both sides of the road were farms and fields where peas had been harvested earlier in the fall. Mark is shrouded in his green rain poncho, as the day was rainy and probably cold.

On a rainy day in November, 63 days before he was to be killed, Mark speaks about human-induced climate change, how it’s causing typhoons and droughts. He indicts the American way of life, talks about ways that we can mitigate our personal contribution to global warming and climate change. He mentions that “one of the easiest things you can do to help the environment is stop eating animal products…you can do that today…you could have a huge impact if you just stopped eating meat.”

There are some unbelievably hateful people online cheering Mark’s death—like the guy in this video. The things that Mark is waxing on about in his video are the kinds of things that make reactionaries on the right hate him.

One reason I went plant-based is because I wanted to diminish my impact on the planet. Mark won me over by his walk (much more than his talk, which is convincing) and the kind compassionate way he lived his life and loved us, his parents.

People in my life who were once prominent, originally lashed out at me during the fall when they found out I’d become a vegan. During this fiery trial, they’re nowhere to be found. Who knew that carrots and broccoli were ideological wedges?

Wielding my carrots like a sword.

But I’m going to try to remember your message about love, Mark. It’s hard. I don’t usually roll as compassionately as you did. I’m trying, though. I hope I can keep drawing on that deep reservoir of strength that propelled you during your walk, and the model you offered all of us on how to treat others. You’ve left it behind as a gift.

As you were walking in the dark and probably weary from a long day walking in the rain and cold, you told me to have fun and to hang out with good people. Being kind and compassionate to them. You then said that if you can’t love humans, then get a dog and learn to love that dog. I’m sure you could learn to love a cat, too.

Go ahead and mock him, you haters. You offer nothing to any of us that’s transformational. We are drowning in a glut of hate, but many just keep on hating. Hate is a fucking cottage industry for some—they profit from teaching others to pull away from their fellow humans (even justifying killing in their name), fanning the flames of division through hate-mongering.

Mark found a way to be alive every single day (see Day 29), and to love, rather than hate. That’s truly one of many qualities that made him amazing and one-of-a-kind.

*****

Many have been touched by reading Mark’s story. Some didn’t know of his walk and his cause until after his death.

If Mark’s life still resonates with you, consider making a contribution to the Mark Baumer Sustainability Fund as a way of keeping Mark’s spirit alive. Your gift will help cultivate the traits that informed Mark’s philosophy of life—love, kindness, and working towards building a better world. We are currently in conversation with a group in Providence and hope to be supporting some of their spring and summer efforts in the community.

Mark finished a book just prior to leaving on what would be his final walk across America. I am a Road chronicles Mark’s “First Crossing” of America, back in 2010, narrated by him in his imitable style.

Distancing from Darkness

Over the past few weeks, I’ve received several hand-written notes. These were all personalized acknowledgements of what Mary and I have been going through since Mark was killed on January 21. Often, they touched on the difficult time that this person had in reaching out and the struggle for words that adequately addressed what they thought we are going through.

When people that know you don’t respond, it only compounds the grief and loss that you are feeling. That’s been my experience anyways in not hearing from people that I assume know that we lost our only son—and that we are walking through a valley and have been for more than two months.

As Linda Andrews writes in her lovely and pertinent book about grief and loss, Please Bring Soup To Comfort Me While I Grieve,

When it comes to the topic of grief, many people are uncomfortable and unprepared to know what to say or do. Some people try to say the right thing and others just avoid the whole situation. The effect on the person who is grieving is devastating; feelings of pain, hurt, anger and disappointment prevail. People who are grieving are not in a position to understand this flaw in the human spirit.

 It feels like a sense of betrayal. How can anyone who at one time indicated that they were a friend, or were a co-worker, or worse—family members—not step up and act human during the darkest days, weeks, and months in anyone’s life? And losing an adult child is one of the most devastating events anyone will ever experience in their lifetime.

I went back to my part-time job six weeks ago. I’ve been working three and four days each week. I knew that co-workers were avoiding me, or tip-toeing around me in the lunch room, afraid to say anything real. I’m sorry, but grief isn’t contagious! Finally, I began to talk to them honestly, about how I feel and that it was okay to mention Mark to me and talk about it—his death really happened—and not talking about it wasn’t going to make the loss and pain go away.

Tuesday, I came in and found an envelope on my desk. Inside was a beautiful card with some of the most honest and heartfelt sentiments about our loss that anyone’s shared with me thus far. There were several apologies for not mentioning Mark’s death and recognizing that it was hurtful. I was fine with these and in fact, embraced it and appreciated their willingness to admit that they should have spoken to me sooner and expressed what they were feeling and thinking. Even better, I was able to thank them for their notes and as a result, we’ve had some of the best exchanges and they’ve been asking questions and we’ve been having real, honest conversations.

That very same day, a card arrived at our home in the mail. I saw the name on the envelope and I started to cry. Someone I’d been connected to back in my workforce development days—someone that was a wonderful partner and who we shared many details of our lives (including stories about Mark) had reached out to me. The person wrote that they had been “troubled over what to say for weeks since I heard.” What was the most important thing, however, is that they did write and again, it’s okay to say that you don’t know what to say. Saying you are sorry for a delayed response is also fine. There are no magic scripts in the realm that Mary and I currently occupy.

We live in a culture that runs from pain. Avoiding being uncomfortable could qualify as a national pastime. Certainly, steering a course as far from dissonance as possible is something that we have been socialized to do from a very early age. But at what cost?

What if our positive thinking and optimism is really detrimental to our overall well-being? Apparently, researchers found that maintaining a sunny disposition at all costs doesn’t benefit anyone. And of course, not facing reality and acknowledging that things might not always be “ducky” for everyone circumvents honesty and being real.

If you’ve read Mark’s last book, I am a Road, it becomes clear that walking across the U.S. requires physical discipline and perseverance. Equally as important is a mental toughness and a willingness to face pain and even embrace it. Mark had those qualities in spades.

Losing Mark is akin to Mary and me losing a piece of us. That’s how our grief counselor put it, explaining the changes we’re experiencing. Our bodies, brains, and perhaps spirits, are trying to adapt to what’s missing and that’s why we feel fatigue, confused, and forget things. It’s also normal to feel anger and deep emotional pain.

How to make sense of this all? I’m not really sure how. I’d like to think if the tables were turned and one of us—either Mary or perhaps me were the one who had been senselessly killed by an inattentive driver—we’d have wanted Mark to carry on with his life. Deal with the devastating loss and grief, but find a way forward.

Of course, that’s easier said than done.

*****

Print copies of I am a Road are still available. You can order a copy, here.

Pedestrians and Cars

The end-of-week news cycle is focused on the attack in London that occurred on Wednesday. A lone driver plowed his car into pedestrians on the city’s historic Westminster Bridge. The latest reports are that four people are known dead, with another 50 people receiving injuries ranging from minor to very serious.

While the media unravels details, seeking to supply motive and all the other things that have become the norm in reporting news events, real humans have been forever impacted by one man’s act. Mary and I know all-too-well how the actions of a solitary figure have the power to permanently alter one’s personal journey.

How our news is received is now ideological. No longer are most people able to simply process information and come to a conclusion. We have grown accustomed to having others tell us what events and actions mean. It’s important to frame everything in some larger narrative—terms like “terror,” “lone wolf,” and of course, the need to link it to “Islamism.”

Personally—especially since Mark was killed January 21—I no longer care to consume news that plays to the same old binary ways of framing the world and my life.  Actually, my aversion to black and white explanations dates much further back than that.

Historic Westminster Bridge, London

This morning, I’m thinking about the four people who died as a result of a car being used as a lethal weapon. Cars maim and kill pedestrians in our country and obviously other Western countries where the car is king, or at least a primary mode of travel.

From what I’ve been able to gather, 5,376 pedestrians were killed by motorists in the U.S. in 2015 (according to NHTSA Traffic Safety Facts). That’s more than 15 people every day. Additionally, an estimated 70,000 pedestrians were also injured. Since 2006, when 61,000 people were injured, the 2015 number represents a nearly 15 percent increase in these accidents. From research into hospital records compiled, only a fraction of pedestrian crashes causing injury are ever reported.

But numbers don’t move people and rarely do they alter behavior. Sadly, it all-too-often takes being hit directly in the center of your life to change behavior and perception. Since Mark was killed, I no longer talk on my phone in my car, or take phone calls, period. I’d encourage you to start doing the same.

I read the profiles of the four victims of Wednesday’s incident (what some are calling “an attack.”). All of them left behind loved ones who this morning are grieving. As parents who lost their son, our hearts go out to them, knowing how much it hurts, having been experiencing the pain of loss for nine weeks, today.

This morning, as I sit here finishing my post, I’m thinking of Keith Palmer, Kurt Cochran, Aysha Frade, and Leslie Rhodes. They were described as “a wonderful dad and husband,” a “good man,” someone who would “give you the shirt off his back,” “just a lovely person,“ and a person who would “do anything for anybody.” Four caring human beings who had their lives snuffed out by a driver who felt the need to become the arbiter of life and death.

I hope these families find some meaning in the death of their loved ones. I’d also wish for them that law enforcement doesn’t bungle evidence and that they are more forthcoming with details of the deaths related to their son, daughter, neighbor, and friend. Furthermore, I’d wish for them that they don’t have to read about the clinical details of the cause of their deaths like we did on Monday, when we received Mark’s report from the Florida medical examiner’s office.

Loss is hard and grief is forever.

 

Losing Love

When a loved one is stolen from you by death, you immediately get clear about priorities and what’s important. Think of it as a refinement process unlike anything else most people will ever experience.

I haven’t been consuming news of late, no longer obsessing over the minutia of the daily cycle of events like I once did. When your son has been ripped from you by a senseless and careless act, the buffoon in the White House and his boorish antics seem trivial. Of course that also doesn’t mean that what’s taking place doesn’t have consequences.

During Mark’s final video, the day prior to being killed by a woman who happened to be a supporter of the man seeking to dismantle the country that I’ve known for 50+ years, he ticked off a litany of things that concerned him about the man who had just been sworn into office as our 45th president.

“We now officially have a president,” said Mark, “that does not believe in climate change. He wants the world to burn so he can profit. We have a president who hates women, who discriminates against women, who physically abuses women. We have a president who hates minorities, who wants to make minorities suffer. we have a president who hates disabled people, who doesn’t want to help people when they are in need. All he wants to do is profit. If you support this man, you do not support human life on this planet, plain and simple. You do not support the future of earth as a planet…”

Nothing that has happened over the past 57 days indicates that Mark was at all wrong or made any kind of misstatement about President Trump. In fact, in what may have been the closest to a rant that Mark ever recorded or posted, it was clear that he was channeling something akin to what could be called “righteous indignation.” I say this because Mark didn’t get angry often and it was never for show.

I’m a fan of Chris Hedges. He’s one of the last of the true journalists. He never dances around the edges of any topic that he’s writing about. His work also resonates with prophetic urgency.

In a recent article written for Truthdig, where his columns appear weekly, he wrote:

The ruling corporate elites no longer seek to build. They seek to destroy. They are agents of death. They crave the unimpeded power to cannibalize the country and pollute and degrade the ecosystem to feed an insatiable lust for wealth, power and hedonism. Wars and military “virtues” are celebrated. Intelligence, empathy and the common good are banished. Culture is degraded to patriotic kitsch. Education is designed only to instill technical proficiency to serve the poisonous engine of corporate capitalism. Historical amnesia shuts us off from the past, the present and the future. Those branded as unproductive or redundant are discarded and left to struggle in poverty or locked away in cages. State repression is indiscriminate and brutal. And, presiding over the tawdry Grand Guignol is a deranged ringmaster tweeting absurdities from the White House.

Early last year, I was headed down the wrong path. I was in danger of completely turning my back on the progressive and radical beliefs I’ve held for much of my post-Xian walk, dating back to the mid-1980s. I experienced something similar to a psychotic break, a condition I’ve begun calling “my ideological break.” Mark was concerned for me, but in his kind and compassionate way, he told me what he thought, but he never cast me aside. No doubt he was concerned and in fact, when he came home last April and saw a book by a deranged xenophobe on my side table, he asked me, “why do you have that book, Dad?” I lamely tried to defend what I was reading at the time. I’m not proud of that period, upon reflection.

No matter what, Mark and I never had a falling out. There were stretches in his life when we didn’t correspond and communicate as regularly as we had the past few years, but we always knew that the other person was a phone call, text, or a car (or plane) ride away if anything ever went down.

In the months preceding Mark’s walk that would ultimately end tragically, we talked about where I’d been for a brief season. I half-joked with Mark that perhaps I had fallen off my bike while on a training ride and had bumped my head and had been suffering from some kind of amnesia or worse. I say “half-joked” because there wasn’t any good explanation for what I had been thinking for several months. Also, I don’t want to make light of what could have happened to me when I had my own brush with serious injury a few years ago. Still, it’s been hard for me to come to terms with how I had been blinded from seeing the truth right in front of my face.

The best I can come up with is that my own strong dislike and lack of support for the West’s neoliberal drift and a candidate who embodied all of that swung me too far to the other extreme in a reactionary fit of pique. There’s a great deal that could be written here about our failed two-party circus called “democracy,” but others have covered that far better than I ever could come close to doing.

I consider the deep conversations that I had with Mark from August, right up until he died, perhaps some of the best we’ve ever had. They were insightful, always full of love and mutual respect. I was so proud of who Mark had become as a man who lived out his ideals, literally walking his talk.

I miss having him in my corner. People like Mark are nearly impossible to find in this life.

****

Consider making a contribution to the Mark Baumer Sustainability Fund as a way of keeping Mark’s spirit alive. Your gift will help cultivate the traits that informed Mark’s philosophy of life—love, kindness, and working towards building a better world.

Head On

I’m pleased that copies of I am a Road are being snatched up. I want people to read Mark’s writing because it’s worthy of a wider audience. I haven’t been this busy shipping books since my own collection of essays came out in the summer of 2014. Of course, that may as well have been 100 years ago, given the events of the last eight weeks.

Our son, Mark, was a poet. I should add, an “award-winning poet,” as his walk was being partially funded by a poetry fellowship from the Rhode Island State Council on the Arts. The award likely became a factor, helping him again heed the road’s beck and call.

In 2015, Mark also won the Quarterly West Novella Contest, for Holiday Meat. I enjoyed finding this review by Mary-Kim Arnold, from last summer, and reading her obvious appreciation for the work and Mark’s writing.

Mark was just hitting his stride as a writer and poet. I can’t imagine where his commitment to craft might have taken him if he wasn’t tragically killed January 21, walking along a highway in Florida.

This thought is merely one of many that arrive daily, if not more often. Grief is packed full of questions relative to loved ones lost.

Packing books means that at some point, I need to bring them somewhere and ship them. Since we’re now in Brunswick, I’ve been a frequent visitor to the post office on Pleasant Street.

On Monday morning, I ran across the street after doing my book drop, and grabbed a stack of books about grief at Curtis Memorial Library. Out of six books randomly chosen, two might be rated as moderately helpful. I’m finding that most of the books occupying library self-help sections on the subject don’t offer much in terms of assuaging the pain associated with losing someone, especially a son that Mary and I loved more than life itself.

One book that I grabbed was pretty good, though. It was an older book, published by a small press in New York. It’s title, The Death of an Adult Child: A Book For and About Bereaved Parents. Definitely one that will never be considered an entry for “sexiest book title.” The book, published in 1998, isn’t one of the newer books on the topic, either.

The writer, Jeanne Webster Blank, lost a 39-year-old daughter to breast cancer three weeks after being diagnosed. Naturally, Blank and her husband were devastated.

Books about grief.

Blank mentions writing the book as a way of working through her own grief. When she developed it 20 years ago, there were few works devoted specifically to parents and coming to terms with losing an adult child. I don’t believe the field has expanded dramatically since.

Not a clinical study, the book is built around the personal experiences of 60 other grieving parents who answered a questionnaire that Blank developed. She also includes stories from most of those answering the questionnaire.

The stories illustrated that many of the adults had difficulty facing the emotions that accompany grief. Some became withdrawn and closed off from the experience. That’s understandable, because the pain and emotional onslaught of feelings can be jarring. Then there were the cases of one partner honestly facing the sudden death of their child, while the other withdrew, or threw themselves into work, or some self-destructive pattern, rather than collectively sharing in each other’s process of coming to terms with such a devastating and life-changing event. Some of the couples’ marriages fractured after losing a son or a daughter.

Blank’s book becomes yet another artifact in my ongoing meditation and attempt at understanding how my own experience measures up to how others react (or don’t react) to the death of someone they knew (or if they didn’t know Mark, knew one of us, or both). It also speaks to a truth that there are many adults lacking in emotional depth and even emotional intelligence, and/or empathetic qualities.

For every note, card, or other acknowledgment that we haven’t received from people we expected would reach out, there have been many responses from people that have been totally unexpected—and their genuine kindness and empathy has touched us deeply.

Out to eat with Mark in Omaha, at Modern Love. (Mark Baumer photo, August 2016)

Let me also add that I’m very fortunate to have a life partner in Mary, who embodies emotional depth and who I don’t think I could go through this “dark night of the soul” without. Unlike some of Blank’s subjects and people I know who seem stunted in the emotional intelligence department, Mary’s never once shied away from experiencing all the emotions associated with losing her only son.Both of us have been facing everything together—no matter how painful and devastating these experiences have been. At the same time, we’ve been able to laugh after crying, been surprised by joy unexpectedly, facing grief head on each and every day. That also might mean feeling angry, occasionally lashing out, or even feeling hopeless at times. It is truly a crapshoot in that realm.

That’s because there is no magic progression in this newfound landscape of grief that we’ve been asked to inhabit, without being given a choice or opportunity for negotiation.

*****

 

I am a Road is Mark’s final book, released just prior to leaving Providence and hitting the road in October, 2016. The book chronicles Mark’s “First Crossing” of America, back in 2010, narrated by him in his imitable style.

Also, Mary and I established the Mark Baumer Sustainability Fund as a way to keep Mark’s spirit alive. Your contribution will help cultivate the traits that informed Mark’s philosophy of life—love, kindness, and working towards building a better world.

Absurdity Illustrated

Wheaton College holds a special place in our hearts. It’s where Mark spent four formative years between August, 2002, and May, 2006. We made the 180-mile trek (from Durham, at the time) probably close to 100 times to visit him on-campus.

I’ve been reminded often of late that there are many people who don’t know of Mark’s baseball exploits at Wheaton and before that, at Greely High School, in Cumberland, Maine. In high school, Mark was also a defenseman in hockey, and one of the captains of the team as a junior and a senior. The barefoot-walking, vegan superhero, who didn’t seem enamored of “doing sports” while making videos and blogging his way across the country, was once quite an athlete.

Back when I was driving up-and-down (and sideways across) Maine, retraining the state’s workforce in my nonprofit role, I regularly touched on “transferable skills.” Mark’s death and the subsequent focus on his life and our memories of him reminded me on Wednesday that his laser-like focus and discipline he drew upon “doing sports” transferred readily to that next creative chapter in his life, when he walked away from the diamond.

Professor Charlotte Meehan played an integral role in Mark’s literary and creative development when he showed up at Wheaton. She organized a wonderful reading in his honor on Wednesday at the college. More than 50 people filled the May Room in the Mary Lyon building to hear selections chosen by Meehan of Mark’s work. These were read skillfully by former professors, his college baseball coach, the sports information director, friends and classmates, and other faculty. I closed the reading with a selection from my 2014 book of essays, specifically, “A Northerner’s Journey Crossing the South.”

With the reading set for late afternoon, this afforded Mary and me a chance to show up beforehand and spend a little time walking around. Actually, we headed straight for Siddell Stadium, the place where we spent so many weekends each fall, and then again in the spring, whenever the Lyons were playing at home.

Our last visit to campus was May, 2006. We were attending the special graduation ceremony for Mark and his Wheaton senior baseball teammates. They’d missed walking with the Class of 2006 because they were in Appleton, Wisconsin, playing for the Division III national college baseball title. They lost to Marietta College, 7-2. This was also the last time Mark would spend any meaningful time on a baseball diamond, save for a handful of appearances in future alumni games.

Wheaton baseball graduation (May 2006)

Wednesday was picture perfect early March weather day in New England. Brilliant sunshine, and temperatures hovering in the mid-50s. It would have been an ideal afternoon for a baseball practice if the field was just a bit drier.

Both of us struggled to hold onto our emotions that had been welling up as we parked Mary’s Rav4. The short walk to the home bleachers on the first base side unleashed tears and flooded us both with memories from previous times spent in that very same spot.

Gazing at the fence in right-center, with the prominent white 355-marker basking in sunlight, I closed my eyes and visualized yet another one of Mark’s howitzers to that very spot, landing just short of the warning track and rattling up against the fence. I could “see” Mark with his trademark long stride, loping into second and banging his palms together in celebration. I remembered a cold April day in the middle of the week in April, 2005. I drove down and saw Mark hit a homer into the trees beyond that fence against Suffolk University. We celebrated with dinner at Jimmy’s in Mansfield, and then I drove home in the dark, savoring what I’d just experienced with my son.

Mark Baumer’s power alley.

An hour later, we were across the street, hearing people talk about Mark’s “genius,” and his recognizable talent as a developing writer when he showed up in Norton, as a freshman. It was also amazing to hear three separate professors talk about that talent, while highlighting very different examples of both his material from more than 10 years ago, and passages from I am a Road and poetry he was writing and posting (on Instagram) just this fall and winter. Again, the idea of taking an ability and honing it, much like he did with his hitting, was very apparent to me sitting and observing.

What I also think would have been quite obvious—even to someone that had walked in on this late day gathering by mistake and figured out what was going on—was that while we’re all grieving the loss of Mark’s physical presence, his ability to make us smile, chuckle, or even laugh uncontrollably, is still very much with us. This happened numerous times over the 120 minutes we were gathered to celebrate Mark and his writing.

A case in point was Mark’s Wheaton buddy, Aaron Fix, reading another sports-related selection from Mark’s website, about Ricky Henderson. He had the entire room in stitches. Fix, who on Saturday night, at March Forth, a benefit held in Portland, at SPACE Gallery, touched down on Mark’s regular contributions to the Golden State of Mind (GSoM), a fan forum for the NBA’s Golden State Warriors, and a similar reaction and appreciation for Mark’s unique to use of absurdity in his work, making us laugh.

I recall Mark coming home in 2006 and telling me that I needed to “watch the NBA.”However, I’d forgotten his ardor for some of the western teams in the league, especially the Warriors, NBA champions in 2015, and runners-up last season. They’ll likely be one of the four finalists again this year. But back when Mark was contributing his unique takes on the team and “the Association,” they were struggling to win half of their 82 regular season contests.

Our Wheaton trip, following on the heels of Saturday’s benefit for the Mark Baumer Sustainability Fund, was again an emotionally taxing adventure. Waking up Thursday morning at a crappy hotel in Norton that smelled like stale cigarette smoke didn’t help matters. Emotionally raw and feeling the loss of Mark, I was also kicking myself for thinking that staying at this workers-on-the-road place would allow us to save a few bucks. Mary found the silver lining though, when she said that “this is the kind of place Mark would have stayed at,” while on the road, especially early in the final trip. He told us numerous times later that not staying in hotels (especially when he hit warmer weather in the South) helped him not to feel all stuffed up in the morning. I’m sure he was also happy that he wasn’t watching his credit card balance inflate quite so rapidly, as he financed his walk-with-a-purpose.

Rather than linger in this less-than-ideal setting, we drove into town, got some coffee and a bagel. Just after dawn, we walked the grounds of the Wheaton campus, retracing some of the same steps that Mark took more than a decade ago. We walked by the pond and were followed by one lone duck. We stood on the quad—one of those classic New England college settings, basking in the shadows from the majestic mid-19thcentury structures ringing the perimeter. There was the chapel, the library (where Mark loved spending time), Balfour-Hood, his old dorm, and the Dimple.

Back to the hotel to check out and then, off to Providence, anticipating that we would be shuttling a few more of Mark’s remaining personal effects back to our home in Maine. Just one more reminder that our lives have been forever altered. Part of the challenge for me has been trying to put Mark’s death into some kind of context that imbues it with meaning. It’s been impossible to do.

The best I’ve been able to come up with was what I closed with on Wednesday, from my essay:

I think time spent on the road changes you. Looking down a strip of uninterrupted blacktop, stretching for as far as the eye can see, or seeing a mountain peak in the distance make you want to find out what is at the end, or located on the other side. When you get there, another destination looms ahead, beckoning you forward towards it. Experiences like Mark’s had made sitting in a cubicle, or focusing on an image on the screen disappointing, and lacking in adventure.

The road certainly had beckoned to Mark, coaxing him back, challenging him to conquer another 3,000 miles of mainly blacktop and concrete. This time, Mark’s goodness and love intersected with the less-than-noble elements of America that Mark was so adept in cataloging (and critiquing) in I am a Road, as well as 100 days of videos and blog posts from our nation’s highways and byways. Nearly seven weeks out from his death, it’s clear to those who loved him, and/or were eagerly following his daily updates, that we all came up empty.

I’m guessing that this is one reason why it’s been so difficult for us as parents to locate any acceptable meaning (and peace) from what happened to Mark. That, and realizing that there’s likely not going to be any real justice meted out to the woman who killed him, someone who had little regard for the laws of the road. What makes it just a little more galling is that she had a Trump bumper sticker affixed to the back of the SUV that she drove into Mark, ending his beautiful life. I guess there’s absurdity at play here, when someone who has skirted the law and never suffered the consequences that others (like people of color and immigrants) might have for a similar n’er-do-well lifestyle, would support and autocratic, law-and-order candidate for president. Pretty absurd, but not in a funny, Mark kind of way.

*****

I am a Road is Mark’s final book, released just prior to leaving Providence and hitting the road in October, 2016. The book chronicles Mark’s “First Crossing” of America, back in 2010, narrated by him in his imitable style.

Marching forth for Mark

Grief does funny things to you. It’s not linear, and no, there aren’t five stages. Perhaps if you need to stage grief, know that passage doesn’t proceed neatly.

Mark was killed on January 21. We weren’t the first people who found out. Word passed slowly from where Mark was mangled by the side of the road by a woman, who at the very least couldn’t maintain her lane and left it—hitting Mark walking legally, in the ribbon of pavement reserved for pedestrians (he was walking against traffic, in the middle of the day, while wearing his fluorescent vest)—to possibly being distracted by something other than simply maintaining control of her 5,000-pound lethal weapon.

It was nearly 10:30 on Saturday night when the Maine State Trooper knocked on our front door. That was more than eight hours after Mark was pronounced dead.

I now know more about the timeline and who found out before we did. Some of those people botched the handling of that information. I’m not surprised, really. It’s pretty obvious to see from their actions since Mark was killed that they don’t care at all about how Mary and I feel about losing our only son. Obviously, they know little or nothing about grief and at the very least, they come up woefully short in the empathy department. Lacking basic humanness, could they not at the very least, send a corporate-produced card with a perfunctory message that says, “we’re sorry for your loss”? I know Hallmark carries some decent ones. Apparently not. But, it’s also not my fucking job to help you improve your skills in the area of compassion and grief.

I’ve mentioned it before, but my friend Linda Andrews, has written an amazing book about grief and how people respond (or don’t) to it. Please Bring Soup To Comfort Me While I Grieve, is Linda’s own personal story of responding to losing her husband and how grief devastates you and alters your life forever. In terms of how others fail to act towards the grieving, she writes:

When it comes to the topic of grief, many people are uncomfortable and unprepared to know what to say or do. Some people try to say the right thing and others just avoid the whole situation. The effect on the person who is grieving is devastating; feelings of pain, hurt, anger, and disappointment prevail. People who are grieving are not in a position to understand this flaw in the human spirit.

Linda walks her talk. She’s stayed in touch with me (and Mary) since she found out that Mark was dead. She sends beautiful meditations and snippets from work that she’s reading each week, and mentions books that have been helpful to her. We’ve spoken several times on the phone. She’s been there for us.

As she aptly captured it, when people that we know avoid the topic or don’t reach out to us at all, it simply compounds the immensity of what we’re already attempting to cope with. And if you’ve ever lost someone that you loved more than life itself, grief is deeper than the ocean—and darker than the night. Again, Linda includes this quote in her book that comes from the movie, Meet Joe Black, in offering a descriptor for grief.

Multiply it by infinity and take it to the depth of forever and you will still just have a glimpse of how it feels.

 Then there are those that we’d never met until six weeks ago; total strangers one day, and supportive comrades the next (and since).

A woman that has an office next to mine at my part-time job lost her mom in 2001. She’s acknowledged my own grief and has spoken openly about how difficult her own journey’s been. This woman hasn’t gotten over losing someone she loved deeply. We won’t either. Her humanness has touched both Mary and me, both as a co-worker, and also in helping us create a credit union account.

We continue soldiering on because that’s who we are. Saturday night marks six weeks since we were robbed of the joy of our lives. I know there are idiots that even think, “okay, you’ve grieved, now get on with your life.” I don’t even want to write down my message to you.

Rather than being swallowed up by sadness, anger, feeling sorry for ourselves, and a host of other emotions that we ride around like passengers in the world’s most unpredictable roller coaster, we’re working to maintain positivity in the face of what can seem pretty damn senseless some days. Our goal from the beginning has been to create something lasting for Mark, in his memory. That’s why we launched the Mark Baumer Sustainability Fund. Our initial target was $50,000. We’re on our way to that magic number, but there’s plenty of work left to be done.

Saturday, Mary and I won’t be “celebrating” Mark’s loss, but we will be standing with others in Portland, at SPACE Gallery, located at 538 Congress Street, for March Forth: A Benefit for the Mark Baumer Sustainability Fund.

Mark in Times Square on his last walk.

Two of the primary movers in pulling this together have been people that loved and cared about Mark, Portland musician/writer, Nat Baldwin, and Brooklyn-based writer/poet, Claire Donato. Can I mention that both Nat and Claire know how to exhibit genuine warmth and caring to people slogging through grief? Yes, I can, and I will! Six weeks ago, I’d never met either of these beautiful human beings. Once they learned that Mark had been killed, they’ve been there for us, Claire taking a direct role in helping us plan and coordinate the initial celebration of Mark’s life at Brown University, and Nat agreeing to perform a beautiful tribute to Mark in son. Then, in the midst of very busy lives, tackling the tasks necessary to make this event a reality. Mary and I are eternally grateful to them for the kindness and grace they’ve extended to us.

And btw, Aimsel Ponti has been covering the local music scene with passion and verve for awhile now. When I reached out to her, she was so awesome, working at her deadline to include a mention of tomorrow’s benefit. Thank you! There are good people everywhere. Sometimes you just have to ask them for some help and they deliver.

I’d be remiss for not mentioning that there are others coming up from Providence, and Massachusetts, and places south of here, to be part of this night, celebrating an amazing young man who died far too young. Friends, family, and other Mainers will show up, too. Thanks to all of you for loving and honoring Mark.

If you can’t make it out on Saturday night for some great music and readings by a group of talented writers and poets, think about making a donation to the Mark Baumer Sustainability Fund. We’re already planning something in Providence and working to connect with partners. In fact, we were in Providence a week ago, meeting with planning staff and others, working towards figuring out how we can get something rolling with funds that have been donated thus far.

We Showed Up

There’s a huge advantage to living nearly halfway across the country from the rest of your clan when you are 21 and you are a brand new dad. This formative experience fosters deep bonds between you and the other two members of your unit.

Being so young and suddenly thrust into the role of parents forced the two of us to become really clear about our lives and our love for one another. Yes, I suppose we could have gone in the opposite direction, but what we lacked in money and resources—we more than made up for in devotion to one another and our newborn baby boy, Mark.

When I look at photos of the two of us from the early 1980s, I’m struck by a couple of things. First, I’m amazed at how young we both looked. This was the stage in life when many people our age were getting started on a career, and contemplating what grad school to apply at. For the two of us, it was cobbling together enough cash to pay our rent, keep one of our two clunkers running and on the road, and later, how best to sync our dual work schedules so that Mark could have a parent home, spending time with him and nurturing his spirit.

On the steps of our duplex in Chesterton, IN (circa 1986)

After I fell out with the God people in Hammond and Crown Point, Indiana, I landed a job working in a prison. While Westville Correctional Center sure as hell wasn’t glamorous, it offered decent wages and even more important for our young family at the time—access to health insurance and our first HMO.

This was long before Mark Zuckerberg broke the internet with Facebook, and Twitter was something that birds were best at. If you wanted to communicate with the ‘rents and the rest of the extended family back in Maine, you wrote a letter, dropped it in the mail, and waited a week or longer to get a reply back. If you wanted instant communication, you rrang up a family member on your rotary dial phone,

Our first apartment was in a complex near Hyles-Anderson College. If anyone ever wanted to produce a sitcom about the wacky ways of American fundamentalist Christianity, they couldn’t have found a better group of weirdos to model their series on. Actually, life at H-A was really kind of boring for people like Mary and me. The real fun was being had by our preacher at the time, Jack Hyles. While he was railing against sin of all sorts and the evils of rock music, he was supposedly bringing his secretary into his office for regular trysts (or perhaps, they were simply discussions about his “counseling” schedule). And his beautiful wife, Beverly, kept beaming her beatific smile. Looking back, I realize it was probably chemically-induced.

Hyles, a megolomaniac who never missed an opportunity to lift himself up as being the epitome of a “man of God,” spent years enabling his “serial adulterer” son. Aren’t God’s people the best?

For a young couple barely into their 20s, some of this shit was nearly too much to fathom. But, we weren’t hallucinating, either. No, we were being introduced to a theme we’d encounter time and time again—that Xianity is masterful at producing fraudulent behavior. I’d wager that the biggest frauds I’ve ever known loved to run to church every Sunday.

But enough about hypocrites. Sinclair Lewis has that story covered, although this one is a nice update, and a common theme, post-Hammond.

When Mark was three, we started missing Maine. Back in my Indiana days, I was a regular reader of USA Today. While a “McPaper,” the daily news blurbs about Maine indicated that things back home were heating up, economically. Both of us figured that we could find jobs equal, if not better than, being a med tech in a prison, or a breakfast hostess at Wendy’s. Mark didn’t care either way. All he knew were that his two parents loved him and had his best interests at heart. We took him to the beach, made treks all across Northwest Indiana and along the Lake Michigan shoreline into Chicago, always in search of fun things that didn’t cost much money. Whether we stayed in the Hoosier State, or high-tailed it back to the Northeast, he had a deep and abiding trust in his mom and dad.

Looking back on that time from our current vantage point, I think we made the right decision to load up the U-Haul and head back across the country. I still remember it like it was yesterday, with us pulling the old Ford, coughing smoke, up the long driveway at Mary’s parent’s house in the big woods in Durham, in August of 1987. We were greeted by family members from both sides, eager to help us unload four years worth of married bliss into the half-finished second floor of “the house that Joe built.” We’d live there for 14 months before crossing the Androscoggin and renting a place in Lisbon Falls.

Our lives in Maine connected us to T-ball and then, Little League. When Mark was eight, he began playing hockey for Casco Bay Youth Hockey. Mary and I learned what it meant to become “hockey parents.” One always remembers those 4:30 a.m. drives to North Yarmouth Academy and a frozen ice arena.

Back in Maine, Mark got to spend time sitting on the bench with other men, watching his older-than-the-rest of the guys pitcher-father try to rekindle his old mound magic, competing against college kids. Mark’s future high school baseball coach, then a 19-year-old part-time outfielder for Coastal Athletics in the Twilight League, taught Mark to juggle.

High school became a blur, between hockey and baseball, and Mark heading off to hardcore shows, and yet, we managed lots of meals together around our old kitchen table. What I wouldn’t give to have Mark bust through the door after practice just one more time, go to the kitchen stove, lift the cover of a simmering pot and ask, “what’s for dinner?,” as he did countless times between 1998 and 2002 (and even after).

Children grow up, and eventually they leave home and fly away. Mark went to Wheaton College, a three-hour drive away. We made every effort to visit him on weekends, especially during the compressed spring college baseball season. We rarely missed a home game in Norton, and even took to the road, following the Lyons to Worcester and Springfield, Massachusetts. Extended family always made it over to Gorham when Wheaton and the University of Southern Maine hooked up in one of their battles on the diamond.

When baseball was over and Mark went out to California, both Mary and I took separate trips and got to spend a magical week with Mark (and Gabi) in Los Angeles. Having a dog nearing the end of his life necessitated this. And perhaps, we both got to have Mark to ourselves in a way that we wouldn’t if we’d visited California together.

One of the things that I thought Mary captured so well during the celebration of Mark’s life at Brown, was how she felt about being “Mark’s mother.” He made you feel special being his parent. Like you were the best parent in the whole world.

Not only did we show up for Mark, he later reciprocated. Countless trips home to Maine, when he was living in Boston. During his time in California, he missed one Christmas. But then, the news that he’d been accepted into Brown’s MFA program in creative writing. Baby boy was only three hours away, once again!

Providence became Mark’s home. We made trips down to see him, as he moved around the city. One day, he announced he was buying a house. Mary and I couldn’t believe it. The kid we feared might become homeless at one time, was now a homeowner.

There are so many things that I could list that nail what it means to live without Mark. His hug that squeezed the air out of you, or reaching around his huge shoulders. His wacky sense of humor and his always trying to get his over-serious dad to smile and laugh. Or later, his trips to Bryant Pond for the Tarazewich Christmas gathering and nighttime hijinks. I could go on for several more paragraphs.

Or, I could simply say that what hurts the most is not having Mark showing up anymore, and not being able to show up for him.

Note:

Speaking of showing up, Mark’s last book, “I am a Road” has been reprinted. I hope fans of Mark’s writing, or those who’ve never read one of Mark’s books will grab a copy of this one. I consider it Mark’s best writing, and this one captures his first walk across America, back in 2010, in Mark’s inimitable style. Rest in power, Mark!!

Being Present

Losing someone you love, as Mary and I loved Mark, creates a hole—one that beckons to be filled. We were a close knit unit of three, now reduced by a third. Percentage-wise, the number is 33, Mark’s age at his death. This is merely another random detail aggressively forced upon us by the universe, without solicitation, or any offer of negotiation, let alone any thought for our welfare or benefit.

Our experiences as brand new members of the Grieving Parents Club have helped us to learn firsthand to understand why parents that have lost a child unexpectedly would look for ways to assuage their pain and the waves of grief that threaten to swamp them. We also live in an age where there are a host of pharmaceutical remedies and of course, there’s always the option of legal self-medication, too.

Someone that I don’t know that well, but who offered me some unexpected kindness and empathy this week, shared a bit of his own story about members of his family and how they chose to deal with the grief of losing a teenage son 20 years ago. The mother drank herself into alcoholism and the father tried to cope by filling their garage and yard with “toys” of all shapes and sizes. Neither of those were solutions capable of bringing their son back to them. Fortunately, they were able to find a more positive approach further along in their own journey along grief’s highway.

I’m thankful for Mary. The two of us have been able to face down adversity at various stages of our life together. She’s unbelievably resilient and strong. I’ve always admired that in her, dating back to when I was first smitten by her during my sophomore year at Lisbon High. She stole my heart during the opening assembly on the first day of classes. I now say it was “love at first sight” for me, although it would take me another year to convince Mary of my worthiness. We’ve been a couple ever since.

When Mark was born, he completed our family. Prior to that, as deep and passionate as our love was, romantic love tends to draw us inward. Christianity talks about their being different types of love—children redirect your gaze outside of yourself and help you to begin to see the world through the eyes of another, and perhaps, teach you what true, unconditional love is all about. At least for me, this was the first time I came face-to-face with that kind of special love that Paul wrote about in his first letter to the Corinthians. I was looking at it when I looked into the eyes of my newborn son, Mark. That was back in 1983 and I got to appreciate it for 33 magical years.

My own love for Mark wasn’t always perfect. He told me one time when he was in college that I had been too tough on him. I guess that’s how my own father and many of the men that I had as mentors instilled in me what it meant to be a male in our culture. This tough-love approach may have been a bit too much for Mark at certain times in his life, as I was now finding out from my 20-year-old son. Yet later, when we circled back around to that previous discussion years later, Mark would tell me that as tough as I’d been at times, he now had a newfound appreciation for the discipline that it had forged in him, as well as an ability to follow-through on tasks and projects.

But back to the hole in our lives. That hole is currently being occupied by grief.

Grief has become our third wheel and constant companion—showing up as indescribable pain, a tsunami threatening to drown us both—delivering daily, an altered reality that will forever be our “new normal.” One could excuse anyone for wanting to tune out the pain and simply numb it by whatever means available. Certainly, attempting to remain present might not be the method others would choose to employ.

Mark celebrating Mary’s Peaks to Portland Swim.

Yet, if there’s one characteristic that I can’t get away from or out of my head about Mark whenever I’m thinking about him (which is almost all of my waking existence) is how he lived his life by being present. As much as anyone I know, Mark had cultivated being in the moment, experiencing life fully, while simultaneously employing the very tools and technology that often leave the rest of of distracted and unavailable to those around us.

Because I had developed a habit of regularly sending Mark notes and even epic narratives via email dating back more than a decade, I have this remarkable archive of correspondence with him. Rather than simply succumbing to memories as a means to block out my emotional pain, I’m attempting to look back—via these older emails, Mark’s own writing, while also receiving stories from others that knew and loved him. This has allowed me to enhance my own understanding of our son.

“Why?”, you ask, is this important. Because both Mary and I believe that Mark has something to offer all of us in how he had come to live his life, or “walk his talk,” as I’m want to say. His approach is a model for all of us to begin taking back control of our lives that we have often handed indiscriminately to others that don’t have our best interests in mind, nor deserve that kind of control over us. I’m thinking of employers, politicians, so-called friends, even other family members.

Reading back through a host of communication that Mark and I exchanged on his most recent walk, we were talking about all sorts of things; economics, the food we eat, how we interact with people that are different than us, and a bunch of other things. I’m also struck by how often father and son—two grown men—regularly told each other that we loved the other one and that we appreciated what the other one was doing and offering back. Validation personified, in a culture that doesn’t put a premium on valuing or validating our fellow human beings.

Mark’s walk, the one he was on when he was killed, has gotten a great deal of attention from all kinds of people, and for good reason. What I’ve been especially grateful to have in my possession are emails that we exchanged during his First Crossing, completed back in 2010. I even used a particular convention in the subject lines of each email, titling them, “Notes for the road #1, 2, 3…,” and later, simply abbreviating them as “NFR #21, 22,” etc. Contained in them are a treasure trove of thoughts, ruminations, and insight that were premonitions of who Mark was moving towards becoming later. Here’s one example of many (this on titled, “NFR #24,” dated June 10, 2010) during the 81 days it took Mark to complete that initial trek across  America on foot.

My longish emails (mainly written upon waking in the morning, around 4:30 or 5:00) covered all manner of topics, including our mutual love of the Boston Celtics and their playoff run that particular year. I took this on as my role during Mark’s walk to simply let him know I was there, thinking of him, and wanting him to know that.

[me] Good morning,

It’s early, and I’m starting this prior to going down to the basement to do my Spartacus routine. I only do it twice per week, but it’s been a great addition to my fitness routine.

When I go through the circuits, I don’t enjoy them, but they make me think of you. I’m reminded of my son, the little boy that used to hold my adult hand, in his tiny fingers, as we walked to Lake George to feed the ducks.

That little boy has come eons from having to hold his Dad’s hand, crossing the street, and needing to be shielded from harm by his parents.

What you wrote last night was truly poetic. Several times on the trip thus far, I’ve read things that you’ve written–philosophical observations, and ways that you were able to use words to capture a snapshot in time–that takes ability as a writer, something that you have. Other times, you used humor to illustrate something, and it made me laugh, or chuckle out loud, early in the morning, or during a long, grinding day of work.

There’s nothing I can give you that can get you through the next two weeks. You are in territory that I don’t have much experience with. This is a defining time on the trip, I think.

We’re going to see you fairly soon and I hope Mom and I being with you for a few days will give you a chance to renew, have some people nearby that love and care for you, and truly respect and are inspired by your journey. I’ll see how many miles my ragged old body can handle on the road.

You no longer need us–however, you choose to let us be a part of your life. For that, I know I am truly grateful, as is your mother.

I’m proud to call you my son.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t share the good news regarding “our” Celtics. Last night, they rallied, 103-94, handing the Lakers their first home loss of the postseason at home. Ray Allen was on fire and I mean, on fire!! He hit 7-8 threes in the first half. He ended up with 8 for the game, an NBA record, beating Scottie Pippen and Kenny Smith’s record of 7. He finished with 32 for the game on 8-11 shooting behind the arc. Rondo had a triple/double; 19 pts, 12 boards, and 10 helpers. Pierce had a tough night, as did KG. Nate Robinson spelled Rondo with some solid minutes in the 4th, when Rondo was on fumes. TA played some tough minutes blanketing Koby who was held to 21.

Gasol with 25 was tough and Bynum finished with 21 and 7 blocked shots.

It heads back to Boston 1-1 on Tuesday night, which is what I had hoped for and I’m sure you’re happy with the split.

Be strong and I’m looking forward to walking alongside you, sharing some barbecue and southern cooking with you, and hearing your thoughts and about some of your experiences along this amazing walk that you’ve been on. See you in less than two weeks (now). We’re shooting for June 20, somewhere in Tejas!

Love you a lot,

Dad

PS My dreams last night were filled with southern back roads, Spanish moss, and antebellum mansions. The Driveby Truckers, singing about Lynyrd Skynyrd were playing as the soundtrack. I think I’ve been reading too many travel guides of the south; love you.

On that walk, just like the final one, I let him know I didn’t expect anything back. Any response was always a bonus, and as difficult as it was to walk–requiring super-human endurance, physically, not to mention the amazing mental toughness that he had–he’d always send something back, even if it was a short note like this one.

[mark] I feel pretty good today. I think I just need to stay positive.

Glad the celtics won.

What I’ve especially enjoyed being able to do is to juxtapose the back-and-forth we had 6 ½ years ago, with what we were talking about on this trip.

We’d have these amazing discussions via email and by phone, and even sometimes via text. Mark was putting out an amazing daily stream of content, and then adding addenda back to me, like this response on Day 90, from January 12. This was a reply to my own observation that it was impossible for any of us to escape capitalism’s “golden handcuffs.”

I couldn’t agree more with you. Part of me is excited about addressing the problem of capitalism more head on when I return. The plans aren’t concrete yet but basically boil down to making as little as possible and eventually get below the tax threshold where you no longer have to pay taxes meaning you’re not contributing to the war capitalist machine of america. There are a lot of steps including paying off all debts but I’ve felt some freedom at the thought of making the goal less about making more money and about making less.

While in the midst of his Second Crossing, Mark offered us honesty that welled up from his vulnerability. As a friend wrote on Facebook after Mark’s death, “It takes great courage to feel great sadness.” It took immense courage and remaining centered for Mark to do all that he accomplished on the walk he never had the chance to complete. All of us that loved and respected him are grieving that.

If there’s one single thing that Mark has been teaching me each and every day for more than 100 days now, is that it’s essential for me and everyone else to find a way to be present in our lives. It’s also important to figure out exactly what that means for you and me in our various situations and circumstances. That’s probably the best way to honor him, and find a way forward through our own personal grief travels.

Please consider making a contribution to The Mark Baumer Sustainabilty Fund. We have set this up as a way to ensure that Mark’s memory and passions live on in tangible ways. Mary and I will be bringing forth some exciting news in the coming months about local projects currently in the planning stage.

Beyond Words

It was three weeks ago last night when the state trooper drove down our darkened driveway and knocked on our door. Three weeks ago, our lives were forever altered by the actions of a woman who from this report and information available online, shouldn’t have been behind the wheel of her SUV. Mary and I shouldn’t be left to grieve the death of our son. But here we are.

Grief has been written about and described in various ways. Linda Andrews, who wrote a wonderful book on the subject, describes it as “a deep dark hole.” At times, it feels like that.

Linda’s a friend, and I actually served as a consultant when she was developing the idea for Please Bring Soup To Comfort Me While I Grieve. Mark did the layout and design and developed a website for her. She’s stayed in touch with Mary and I since Mark was killed. The other day she sent us this

The death of a loved one shifts the whole foundation of our life. Nothing is as it was. Even what was most familiar seems in a strange way unfamiliar. It is as though we had to learn a new language, a new way of seeing. Even the face in the mirror seems the face of a stranger.

What are we to make of this? Just that we truly have, in a way, entered a new country. Though the terrain looks much the same and many of the people are the same people, there is a different light over everything.

Yes, Mary and I are now residents of a new country—one, by the way that we didn’t actively seek passports for in order to visit. But here we are.

We are both survivors. From the time we were first married, we set our faces like flint towards building a lasting life together with one another. When Mark was born more than a year later, we had the unit of three that would function so well for the next 33 years. Without him, we’re now down to two and really struggle with that number.

It’s been hard to do many things that I used to love to do. As much as I loved to read in the past and have always been a proponent of reading—especially as a catalyst to write and stay broad and wide in my thinking–reading has been almost impossible, at least, sitting down and plowing through books.

Writing is what I do. Since I decided to become a writer just prior to turning 40, I’ve worked diligently at it. I started blogging right around this time and have stayed steady at it. Words right now don’t come easily.

Mark and I shared a passion for writing and talked often about our crafts. Yet, when Mark was at Wheaton College, and first started developing what would be a vast array of content as a writer, I’m not sure I fully understood what he was doing as a writer. It’s taken me a period of time to fully “get it” with his style and voice. But, man oh man, Mark certainly had his own, unique voice!

Father and son in Providence (circa 2009)

Mark did an interview (somewhere that I can’t find my way back to) about two years ago. He talked about finally coming to terms with being a poet (my own paraphrase). “Fascinating,” I thought at the time. I don’t think it was any coincidence that his writing seemed to “take off” after that self-identification.

There are people in my immediate family that have never really understood the Mark that “retired from baseball,” as he tells it, or “stopped doing sports,” a phrase that pops up in some of the 100 videos from his final walk. The Mark of 2016 (and 2005 and 2006, too) wasn’t the same little kid that played in New Auburn Little League.

I know what it’s like when people close to you refuse to acknowledge who you are and refuse to support the things that are significant in your life. I’ve lived with rejection for the past 40+ years and am experiencing firsthand what it feels like to once again have my family fail to support me, this time during the darkest period of my life. Love with conditions attached is not love.

Mark was loved by so many people. It has been so obvious to Mary and I since word got out that Mark had been killed. These were people that bothered to take the time to know and understand and appreciate our son. We have been deeply touched by the outpouring of love and support extended to us, as his parents. It’s been helpful, for sure.

There are people who have wanted to know about Mark, his time as a child and beyond. What was life like in our home and what was the environment that Mark grew up in?

We weren’t perfect parents by any means. However, we always were supportive of Mark’s endeavors. Not only did we openly validate who he was and what he was doing, we showed up. If there was a baseball game, a 4:30 a.m. hockey practice, a science fair at school, or later—when Mark was walking across the country—we showed up!!

Mark shared with an MFA colleague—a woman with two children—what his parents meant to him. He appreciated our acceptance, our unconditional love, and as he put it—we also had fun together.

When you go to the hospital for the birth of a child, there’s no vending machine or kiosk where you can get a manual on parenting. One of the most important things you’ll ever do is learned on-the-job. That was scary as hell to me when we brought Mark home from St. Margaret’s, in Hammond, Indiana, back in 1983. I guess Mary and I did something right and figured some things out along the way.

What they didn’t tell us, and what neither of us figured out back then, however, is just how fucking hard it would be to lose our one and only son. But here we are!