Readers and listeners: Welcome back to Golden Mean. I hope you are finding the weekly tales interesting, even meaningful. All my subscribers receive the weekly posts. Twice a month I add two additional posts for Paid subscribers. These posts focus on my spiritual pilgrimage. At this time I am writing about the spiritual disciplines I learned and practiced while living at Reba Place Fellowship in the 1970s. Jump on board! This is an invitation to build a community of folks sharing out past and present spiritual journeys.
The tale for today follows my promise to share about Roger, the hunted. The hunted series ends here! I hope that is true.
My first experience with manipulation occurred when I was twelve years old. Yes, I have been manipulated by passive aggression, the silent treatment, guilt-tripped, blame-shifted, gaslighted, denied, and lied to so many times. Wait. That last sentence is for another post. In this one I really want to tell about the skilled techniques used by osteopaths and chiropractors to correct structural, skeletal issues.
My back issues came about when I set up a high jumping bar in the backyard without a sand pit or soft landing. Just flopping unto solid earth. This repeated pounding of my body caused great pain. My mother drove me 30-40 miles to a well-known osteopathic physician, Dr. Shay, who had a great following. He was a short man but well built. On his office wall was a photo of Dr. Shay in a 1919 Chicago Cubs uniform. I was a little league baseball player, so this photo was really impressive. I can still see it.
Dr. Shay served me for a number of years. Since those days I have hired numerous osteopaths and chiropractors to tend to my lower back issues. Truthfully, osteopaths, in my opinion, sold out to the AMA many years ago and let the art of manipulation go by the way. Chiropractic has been extremely important to my wellbeing.
Another truth may be that my back issues resulted from the difficult labor my mother experienced. I was born on Christmas day after a 36 hour labor. Forceps were needed to complete the birth. My birthday was probably set for December 23 or 24. I know that one leg is short and has smaller muscular structure. To this day I exercise six days a week to keep my lower back issues at bay.
Reader, if you are wondering where this tale is heading, I understand. It is sort of like looking through back issues of a magazine for that great article you vaguely remember. You may or may not find it. Stick with me. I promised last week that I would tell you the tale of the idea of being hunted. Here goes.
With my back issues I have had to be careful about movement. While playing tennis I once served and moved forward for a low volley and nosed dived onto the court. I’ve always had to be careful lifting objects.
In 1964, while living in Costa Mesa, California, I took a job delivering furniture. The customer base for the furniture store was the Southern California coast with homes often supported on stilts overlooking the Pacific. The mudslide-prone houses seemed to be the main destinations for the most popular piece of furniture — hide-a-beds! Stay with me. To get the hide-a-bed to its final location always required taking it up several levels on winding staircases. A lovely view of the ocean made each breath catching rest stop a momentary treat.
My partner was a hulking ex-marine with muscles like pipes. This work was nothing to him. With my back issues and my moderate Hoosier build it was a real challenge to do this work. What a team we made!
Hulk, not my partner’s real name, was a congenial, talkative guy. He had a large scar on his chin. Picture this: we are on the Pacific Coast Highway with the ocean to our right and Camp Pendleton Marine Base on our left, heading south for a delivery. Hulk is telling me about how he got the scar on his chin. It happened while in basic training at Pendleton in a rifle inspection formation. A very short drill sergeant, so short that he carried a box to step up on to be able to eyeball the trainees, works his way down the formation of marine recruits. Step up, step down, pick up box, move the box, step up, step down. This is like a scene in Catch 22, Joseph Heller’s great novel.
Hulk is waiting. The drill sergeant is working his way down the line, placing his box in front each trainee to the left of Hulk, stepping up, inspecting the M-16 rifle for cleanliness and action, stepping down, moving the box, getting closer to Hulk. Finally the box is placed in front of Hulk. The little drill sergeant steps up, eyeballs Hulk, takes his rifle and looks it over. For some reason the M-16 doesn’t pass inspection. The short drill sergeant thrusts the rifle up into Hulk’s chin, lifting him into the air on impact. I do not know if Hulk was taken to a Military Treatment Facility. I do not know if the drill sergeant was charged with abuse, but I could see a large scar on Hulk’s chin, a life long reminder of training at Camp Pendleton.
On one of our delivery trips down Highway 1, Hulk asked me, “Hey, Rog, you know what would be fun?”
“What you thinkin’ buddy?” We were passing through the Camp Pendleton area.
“It’d be great sport to get M-16s and full ammo belts and go up in them hills and hunt the other guy. We’d get out of sight of each other and I’d give a whistle and we’d start hunting. What do you think?”
“Are you shittin’ me?” I responded in my strongest Hoosier dialect. “You talkin’ huntin’ each other?’
“Sure, why not?”
“Well, for one thing it is a crazy idea. I thought we were co-workers and friends, not enemies to be hunted and killed.”
“It just struck me as fun, playing soldier.”
We went on down to Encinitas and delivered a hide-a-bed. Once back in Costa Mesa I told the manager that I was quitting the delivery job. My back was hurting and I needed to find a chiropractor.