My old man was born on this beautiful day, September 4th, 1921. I’ve made some peace from some stale, old bitterness that I carried around about his legacy over the past few years.

He got the recognition I needed.

My thoughts are always filled with my father on this day. I write about him often on here and always post in memory. He’s earned it, he deserves it. I don’t feel the need to spill my guts for this anniversary of celebration this time. Peace has its way of ironing out the old memory wrinkles.

Happy birthday Roland Gangwer.

Signed

Roland Gangwer Jr.

Yes my first name is actually Roland. I’ve never carried that name as mine. My mother didn’t like it, it’s a family name obviously the other one being Marshall.

My mother liked the actor Chad Everett. That’s where Chad came from. Peggy was a bit of a hardhead I imagine there was a brief conversation of “I’m not calling my son Roland” fists clenched matching her jaw.

Don’t mess with Peggy, my dad was a wise man.

In homeroom every year I’d get called Roland and most of the class would mock me. It wasn’t a big bully moment but every single school year from 4th- 11th grade in each class I was introduced as Roland to the class and I always autocorrect with “that’s my father’s name. I’m Chad” and then go back to sketching on my notebooks.

Roland, would my life been different had I kept that name? A name can change your life’s trajectory I believe. I’d probably be a better fighter.. I thought of changing my name back to that at one time just to shake shit up but I’m a chad now. Axe body spray and all.

Jk

My brother Charles David Pope also died on this day in 2004. Half brother same mother. He was named after his father too. An abusive alcoholic that my mother would pack her shit and move away from him. My brother, unfortunately followed his father in a lot of his footsteps. Which is ironic since he didn’t remember him. David chased a lot of demons and never found his peace. He had chronic body pain from years of abuse and took one too many oxies.

Watching my mother bury her son is one of the most painful memories of my life.

Doesn’t feel like 22 years ago. I was driving back from the beach on a sunny Saturday afternoon when my mother called me with the news. She cried the next day when she realized she had forgotten my birthday.

That just hurt a little again

I mourn these moments differently every time they reappear. Distant memories that regain their color, blossoming for a few days and go back into their regularly scheduled program. I have about a half dozen of these moments that are an emotional asterisk on specific calendar days.

Some are wonderful

Some I deal with grit and sorrow

I’ll carry these days around like the patches in my camper for life. And they’ll continue to grow until I become someone’s patch

My mood isn’t of sorrow although this journal seems to reflect it. I have to get all of this out so it can bloom.

Because it has to.

It’s a part of what built me. Birth and death.

I’m serene.

It’s a part of life. I usually have a dream about my brother around this time. Not always but sometimes.

The mourning never passes. It just conforms over time. You wash a stiff shirt enough over time it becomes bearable to wear.

I’m fine, really I am. Letting this out is a healthy deflation.

*hissssss

I usually counter with a sarcastic comment here..

Johnny Blue Skies is singing Stay on that D baby till you hit that G.

Sometimes the music doesn’t sync with the moment.

Mood lightens

I’ve got a decent load of work to deal with today. I’ve got dinner with two of my favorite people tomorrow for my birthday.

Peace out. ✌🏼