Rain on the Window, Fire in the Soul

My foundations in life and the written word - essay #2

Dear friends,

This is the second in a series of essays I am sharing about myself. These essays were originally published in the early days of Beyond the Bookshelf when I had less readers and less practice as a writer. I have spent months reworking and editing to make these more personal and relevant. My hope is that through these essays you will come to know me a little better and in doing so, gain insight into my passion for exploring life through the written word.

Photo by Peter Robbins

My love of reading took root early, nurtured by my parents, teachers, and the quiet magic of discovering a book for the first time. Stories and adventures, histories and biographies, science, culture, poetry, and plays. Each stretched my mind and imagination.

My earliest memories unfold against the backdrop of Colorado. We moved there when I was four, leaving Missouri behind as Dad steered a lumbering U-Haul straight across the endless flatlands of Kansas. My younger brother Luke and I were squished together in the middle seat, our legs sticky with summer sweat, while Mom sat by the passenger door, cradling three-month-old Marcus in the crook of her arm. Her voice was soft and steady, humming lullabies over the rumble of the engine. There were just the five of us then—cramped, restless, and road-weary—watching the horizon stretch out in an unbroken ribbon of asphalt.

Sagebrush and tumbleweeds mark the high desert of Southeast Colorado, far from the picturesque mountains for which the state is known. Our rental house was a quirky, green stucco two-bedroom, one-bath home with a kitchen, living room, small office, and a closet-sized room for the baby, rounding out the space. What passed for a yard was 80% dirt, with a few stubborn patches of grass and sharp weeds that stung like hell. A large tree stood in the front yard, casting shade over a unique rock wall that served as the front fence. In the backyard, several plum trees grew.

Dad taught us to play baseball and basketball back there. We rode bikes on the gravel street in front of the house. We were poor as dirt, but us kids never knew it. Mom and Dad ensured we always had food, even if it wasn’t fancy. Our clothes were usually second-hand, but they were clean. More importantly, Mom and Dad were loving and attentive. They weren’t perfect, but they gave a damn. Years later, I realized they didn’t have much money, but they gave us something infinitely more valuable: love, hard work, and the skills to succeed on our own.

I remember sitting on Dad’s lap on a couch straight out of the 1970s—wild floral patterns and all. A small wooden magazine rack end table held a lamp and a big crystal ashtray, even though no one in our house smoked. The TV hummed quietly in the background, nestled inside a massive entertainment center that was a staple in every home. Dad read to me from Charlotte’s Web, his voice powerful yet soothing. Those words opened a doorway in my mind to imagination and wonder. I heard the animals and felt the dust of the farmyard.

It’s a core memory, one that shaped me.

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Our home was filled with books. Dad devoured Louis L’Amour novels and Western Horseman magazine. Mom read childrens’ books to us and took us to the library often. When my sisters were born, we converted the garage into extra bedrooms, and Dad built enormous bookshelves into one wall. It was filled to the brim with all sorts of books, including an old encyclopedia set my parents bought from a door-to-door salesman.

One night in third grade, Mom discovered me reading Roots by Alex Haley under the covers by the glow of my bed lamp. She told me it was late and time for sleep, but she never told me the book was too advanced. My parents cherished the power of words. For that, I am forever grateful.

In the summer of 1989, Mom and Dad decided that one cross-country move wasn’t enough. Let’s do it again—in reverse. Now there were seven of us: Mom, Dad, three boys, and two girls. We packed our lives into a horse trailer and headed east. We crossed Kansas and returned to my parents’ hometown in rural northeast Missouri.

Our new-to-us home was an old farmhouse in the country. Mom took a teaching job, and Dad worked on a friend’s farm. Missouri could not have been more different from Colorado. Verdant meadows of wildflowers replaced sagebrush—old-growth forests teemed with squirrels, rabbits, and deer. The cacophony of birdsong filled the mornings, and butterflies drifted through the stillness. We swam in a pond full of fish and frogs during the humid summers. My siblings and I made the woods and fields our playground.

Like many young boys, my brothers and I were sports-crazy. Our backyard became a baseball diamond, football gridiron, and basketball court. On an old cracked foundation, we learned how to dribble on uneven surfaces. We idolized Ozzie Smith, Michael Jordan, and Bo Jackson. We mowed yards for extra money to buy sports cards. It was an idyllic childhood, though I didn’t recognize it at the time. Only later did I realize how fortunate I was.

During those years, I grew close to all four of my grandparents. They were distinct in personality, each leaving a unique mark on me. My grandmother, Juanita, a journalist and author, played a significant role in shaping me as a reader and writer. Granny’s home was a haven devoted to literature, poetry, music, and art. She spoke to me as an adult, encouraging thoughtful conversation. Her shelves introduced me to Hemingway, Melville, and St. John of the Cross. I sat in her living room for hours, reading alongside her as music drifted from a massive cabinet-style record player. Her favorite book, Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, brought back memories of her childhood. She made me believe that stories could change the world—and change us in the process.

A series of traumatic events cast a shadow over my teenage years. My father lost his leg in a farming accident. Several family members experienced debilitating clinical depression. I accidentally shot myself while deer hunting. I was sexually abused while attending a boarding school. I was not equipped to handle such intense pain in such a short period. I was drowning, so I disappeared into books. Robert Ludlum’s spy novels immersed me in thrilling adventures. Ken Follett’s historical fiction carried me across different eras. David Eddings’ fantasy stories brought me into entirely new worlds, places where I felt secure—if only briefly.

As the years passed, the weight of grief lingered, but life began pushing me toward new beginnings. In 1997, when my maternal grandfather, George, passed away, I felt an urgent need to escape, to find something new. That year, I left Missouri for the Pacific Northwest, unsure of what I was searching for but certain I needed change. My search eventually led me to the Navy in 2000, where I sought stability—and what began as a temporary solution became a 24-year career.

Jannett and I were married in 2003 while I was stationed in Groton, Connecticut. Our son David was born there the following year. I spent those early years of my career on a submarine, traveling around the world far beneath the ocean’s surface. Once I completed that initial sea tour, the Navy moved us to a base in Washington state, where our daughter Anamaria was born not long after settling in. My focus during that time was my career and my education. I saw it as a means of providing for my growing family. Unfortunately, this left most of the difficult work at home to Jannett.

When David was eight and Anamaria was four, I was commissioned as a naval officer and assigned to an aircraft carrier in Everett, Washington. This was a sea-intensive assignment and I was away from home for much of the next two years. In 2014, the day after my 36th birthday, my paternal grandfather, Les, died. I was fortunate to have a close connection with each of my grandparents, and so his passing, like that of my grandfather George, left a gaping wound in my heart.

We moved to San Diego for my next duty station. It was an opportunity to be close to my brother Marcus, who was also in the Navy. I spent those years supporting the Navy SEAL community, including a deployment to Iraq. Jannett’s mother, Juana, passed away from cancer during that time, a loss we feel to this day. Georgia was next on our list of duty stations, where, along with the rest of the world, we experienced COVID-19 and the ensuing isolation. Amid the chaos of the pandemic, we moved to Tennessee for our final duty station. Through deployments and separations, we endured loss and found joy.

Through it all, books remained my constant. As life grew busier, my reading habits evolved. I turned to fast fiction for quick escape: Clive Cussler’s Dirk Pitt series or the thrillers of Robert Ludlum. But I also delved into literary fiction. Cormac McCarthy, Haruki Murakami, and John Steinbeck reshaped how I saw the world. I found solace in non-fiction: Man’s Search for Meaning helped me endure hardship, while Travels with Charley reminded me that the road itself is the destination.

The summer before my son started college, we sat together and conversed. Our discussion focused on how fast time passes, especially since my career often took me away from home. We both wished for more time together. We talked about careers, priorities, and life. This time together was quality time, his love language.

In June 2024, I hung up my uniform for the last time. It was bittersweet—an inflection point, as one friend called it. I approached the future with excitement, wonder, and a little trepidation. Starting something new can be scary. The rhythms and nuances of military life had come naturally to me. Would I find a new rhythm?

At home in rural Tennessee, I sat at my desk, gazing out the window. Raindrops cascaded down the glass, transforming the world into a vibrant green. The downpour awakened life from its winter slumber. Everything was being reborn, including me. I felt myself emerging from a long, dark night of the soul. My inner self was thawing, and new life was beginning within me, just like spring. The traumatic experiences of my youth lost their power over me as I learned how to share my story.

Stories provide a refuge and shape my life in ways that extend far beyond the simple act of reading. Reading empowers. It fills me with confidence and knowledge. Words are powerful. They cause me to grow exponentially. When I venture into new and unfamiliar territories, I broaden my understanding. When sharing my story, I join the lasting legacy of writers and readers bound together by the written word.

The fine arts, above all the written word, reveal to me the soul of humanity. They offer a unique form of communication between creator and consumer. Through them, I glimpse another person’s experience—but also my own. Art is a mirror, reflecting both the best and worst aspects of myself. And what do I find there? What do I do with what I see? Do I continue as I was, or do I allow myself to be changed by the experience?

In closing, I turn to Tolkien, who speaks to the heart of why I read: to reflect, to remember, and to hold close the beauty of both past and possibility.

I Sit Beside the Fire and Think
From The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien

“I sit beside the fire and think
Of all that I have seen
Of meadow flowers and butterflies
In summers that have been

Of yellow leaves and gossamer
In autumns that there were
With morning mist and silver sun
And wind upon my hair

I sit beside the fire and think
Of how the world will be
When winter comes without a spring
That I shall ever see

For still there are so many things
That I have never seen
In every wood in every spring
There is a different green

I sit beside the fire and think
Of people long ago
And people that will see a world
That I shall never know

But all the while I sit and think
Of times there were before
I listen for returning feet
And voices at the door”

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Until next time,