Turn or Burn

Not that my overexperienced, pissed-off, and jaded monkey mind had gotten me much of anywhere, but at least I wasn’t diving in the dirt anymore. The vineyard I’d planted and was currently meandering through had certainly been part of the healing, too.

I still had a lot to get done before the sun fell much further. The temperature had already dropped fifteen degrees, though that was nothing out of the ordinary for the desert in the Columbia Valley of Eastern Washington. And that’s what it was: full-on desert. A lot of people don’t know that about Washington State. They think, Seattle and rain. Well, once you drive east over the Cascades about two hours from Seattle and get close to Yakima, you’re
lucky
if it rains. You’re in the desert. And I’m talking the coyotes, rattlesnakes, tumbleweeds, and dust devils-kind of desert.

It had been an especially hot May, and I welcomed the cool evening breeze and a dip into the low sixties. I could hear Roman coming up from behind, weaving his way through the rows of grapevines, as he loved to do. He caught up with me and nudged my leg with a dried-up cane left on the ground from when we pruned the vines in February.

“Hey, buddy. You can go all day, can’t you?” I rubbed his neck and pulled the cane out of his mouth and tossed it south. “Go get it, Roman!” He shot after it. Nothing could make me smile like he could. If I had to put my finger on one reason why I hadn’t put a gun to my head and painted my bedroom wall with blood and brain, it would be him.

I went back to work. I used drip irrigation to water my vines—the only way any of us did it up on Red Mountain. Heck, most of the Columbia Valley, I imagine. There’s good and bad to having a meager five inches of rain every year and being forced to irrigate. There was an upside to being able to control the amount of water our grapes drank, which allowed us to fine-tune some. Play God with the water. Have consistent vintages. But I wouldn’t have complained if I didn’t have to dig another hole to fix a leak for a while. I’ve sawed enough PVC pipe for a lifetime.

Every couple of days, I walk down each row and make sure all the vines are getting water and that everything’s working properly. That’s what I was doing today, just having a good stroll down the rows, taking it all in, breathing and trying to find peace. It’s in those walks that I’d found a path leading me to some kind of normalcy. Soldier normalcy—not quite civilian-style.

A soft thunder began coming in from the west, rolling over the treeless hills. My senses became very acute; my skin tingled. I dropped the shears in my hand and looked off in that direction. I couldn’t see anything but the sound became clearer. It was a helicopter coming toward me. It didn’t feel right, what my body was going through. Beads of sweat. Increased heart rate. Tensed fists. A sensation close to tunnel vision but not yet totally out of control. I analyzed the scene around me with precision and speed. No other cars or people in sight. The closest building was my tractor shed one hundred yards up the gravel drive. I had no weapon; I had left it back at the house.

“Roman!” I yelled. “C’mere, boy!”

He was by my feet in seconds. He must have known there was something wrong. The helicopter came into view, climbing over Rattlesnake Mountain. Roman started growling—a very defensive, guard-dog growl. The helicopter drew closer, crossing over the Yakima River. It looked like a four-rotor, single-engine Bell. Probably a 407. Police issue.

Roman began to bark.

“Shhh,” I whispered. “Don’t do that.” I bent down and rubbed his neck. He quieted. It was me that was anxious, though. I was the reason he was barking. He was protecting me. We humans release smells when we’re experiencing emotions. Millions of pheromones. Dogs pick them up. I’m sure my body was spraying scents of fear and anxiety like a busted fire hydrant. He had picked it up quickly, like he always does.

The helicopter flew directly over our heads. I stood tall and watched it move past us and told myself to be calm. My instincts attempted to override the message, told me to run, but I wouldn’t let that happen. I kept myself from moving. I told my mind first—then my body—that it was okay. That I was safe. I wasn’t in a war zone anymore. My body understood. My heart rate slowed; the tension loosened.

The helicopter moved on and its sound started to fade. I took a deep breath and slowly knelt in the sandy loam soil. Roman wedged himself between my legs. I closed my eyes and began to meditate, something I’d taught myself after reading a few PTSD-related books I’d discovered over the years. I’m not hardheaded about whatever the hell is going on with me. I want to get better. I want to change.

And I was changing. It had been six months since I had reacted to a trigger. Sure, I could still feel them, but I was proving that I could control the urge to physically react. For a while there, the triggers had the best of me. They were deeply ingrained. At a Fourth of July get-together the year before, I was in the backyard with a group of old high school friends standing around the grill when the neighbors started shooting fireworks. This was earlier in the day, long before sunset. Before I had prepared myself. As soon as the first firework exploded, I hit the ground and yelled, “Incoming!”

There were embarrassing moments like that. I hoped I’d be able to laugh at them one day, but not yet. My illness was deadly serious, and it hurt more than someone who has never been in combat could fathom. I’m glad my parents didn’t have to see what I’d been going through. It would have been too much. In a way, dealing with my PTSD alone made me feel more comfortable.

The helicopter was gone. My mind was calm. As is the objective with meditation, I wasn’t stuck on my thoughts. I simply let them pass by. An inner smile started to rear itself. I was getting somewhere with this shit. I wasn’t Buddha yet, but I had tasted a bit of Nirvana. Just enough to have hope. I was starting to feel my confidence coming back, like I had this thing licked.

There I was thinking again. I pushed away those thoughts, even though they were positive. I needed to get back to the stillness. Stroking my Buddhist ego wasn’t exactly leading me to an orange robe and slippers. Things began to calm.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

A breeze. The sound of leaves blowing. Warmth of sunshine. The first taste of this year’s lavender in the air.

My cell phone, left in my truck, began to ring. The sound pulled me back to reality and thoughts flooded in. I pushed them away and tried to ignore the noise. I let the call go to voice mail.

Back to the silence. Back to purity and form and emptiness.

The phone sounded again, and what a bad chirp of a ring it was. I gave up. Enough spirituality for one day. I stood and dusted the dirt off my jeans. Roman followed me down the row and right along the drive to my old Ford diesel. The phone had stopped ringing. I reached for it and looked at the screen; I didn’t recognize the number. Just as I began to check the message, it started ringing again. Three calls in a row.
Give me a break.
I opened it up and answered.

“This better be the president,” I said.

“Harper Knox,” said a familiar voice. It was Ted Simpson. I’d known him since Fort Bragg, which felt like hundreds of years ago. We were like brothers, though we hadn’t spoken in a while. Ted hadn’t stopped fighting. Not once in his career. While I was out there crushing grapes, he was over in the desert crushing Al Qaeda. “How are you, bud?” he asked.

“Was doing okay until my damn phone started yapping.”

“Wow. I thought this vineyard mumbo jumbo was supposed to mellow you out. Where’s the love?”

I leaned against the driver side door of the truck. “It doesn’t happen overnight.”

“Well, while we all eagerly await your transformation, I have a job for you.”

“That right?”

“Yep. And I need you tomorrow.”

“Can’t do it,” I said. “I’m up in Canada for a couple weeks.”

“You serious? Where?”

“Banff.”

“What for?”

“A vacation.”

“I don’t buy it.”

“I’m not selling it. It’s the way it is. Got a cup of coffee in my hand overlooking the Rockies. Let me ring you when I get back south. Talk to you later, Ted.”

“Wait a damn minute. I’ll fly you back. This is a good gig. Good cash.”

“This up here is what I need right now. I am done with battle.”

“I don’t believe a word you’re saying. You’re never done with battle. And besides, you haven’t left Red Mountain in months. Banff…come on. Can’t you do better than that?”

“Whatever.”

An SUV started coming down the gravel road that lines the southern side of my vines. The rocks crunched underneath the tires and dust rose up in a whirl behind it. I hadn’t had a visitor in a while. I don’t have that many friends anymore. “I have to go,” I said. “Call you when I get back in the country.”