28 “Locked Myself Out”, “I Was a Patsy”, & “The Village Harmonica Rescue Squad”. Song: “Angie”.

While I was a student at Kent State, I got off working my usual night shift washing dishes at the Brown Derby, then began walking back through the snow to my first dormitory during my freshmen winter semester, but was shocked to discover that the doors were chained shut! I had gotten so used to staying out of the loop doing the best that I could with my long history of confusion, not to mention head injuries that I had completely forgotten when the winter semester break would begin, and only discovered it when the dorms were locked, everyone was gone, many of the lights were out, the doors were chained shut, and the whole campus was closed, dark, and empty. I was slapped in the face, again, with the reality that I felt was the reality which my father wanted me in, preferred me being in, and had continued placing me in, UNLESS he was totally convinced that I was doing EVERYTHING exactly the way he wanted. I know I can’t blame my father. However, my father had become a total prima donna, and his demands for me included not permitting me at Brandywine, except on the Kent Ski Bus, period. After finding it impossible to get through on any of the Brandywine phones, I knew that I would have to find somewhere warm to sleep. Again, I had no choice but walk through the snow looking for a place, any place, to go. I found myself crying just like I had unintentionally, and secretly, witnessed my father crying decades later (after Brandywine Dover Lake was sold), and I now realize that we were similar, at least in the way we cry. I innocently witnessed him cry in our Naples home decades later after he had received a phone call from my angry brother screaming at him. My father cried when my brother screamed, and hung up on him during that Naples phone call. He accused our father of trying to control even my brother’s children by giving them both presents, and money after my brother’s demands not to, then my brother screamed that he was stopping all future visitation rights with his two children. And, as far as I knew, they never came to visit Naples, again.

I wandered through the closed Kent State campus with no place to sleep, stay, or go. and with no car. First, my father took away my driving privileges, then stole my motorcycle. And, when I earned the money to buy my own car, took away MY visitation rights after I had visited Brandywine in my own car, and began skiing with my mother’s permission, but NOT with my father’s permission. Now, all I had was my VW with a bad starter, so if stopped on level ground, I needed help starting the car. I had waited until convincing some guy walking by to push me while I popped the clutch, but he only haphazardly pushed. So, I let HIM get in while I pushed, and when I gave it a good enough push, he popped the clutch, and just kept going stealing my car…

I felt awfully stupid when I found myself locked out of my dorm, and was faced, again, with wandering through the freezing night looking for a warm place to go. It made me think right back to when my father first kicked me out in mid-November when I was a 15 year old. As soon as I was 18, my father regarded me as an adult, and he was finally free from me being around. Again, my father’s ski area was opened for skiing, and both of my parents were unavailable to talk to over the phone. I was wearing a blue denim shirt jacket which was what I wore everywhere throughout all of my college years because my first warm winter jackets were each stolen from out of my high school from hell’s locker during both my junior, and my senior years in rural Ohio. My father let me replace my first jacket stolen during my JUNIOR year, but still angrily held me responsible, and refused to allow me to buy a second jacket after it was stolen from my school locker during my SENIOR year in rural Ohio. I remember having a sleeveless rabbit fur jacket which a groupie kind of girl who I met in Kent gave to me telling me to wear it when I had given her a ride on my Honda custom “chopper” motorcycle I worked all summer to purchase. She was a die hard Led Zeppelin fan (wasn’t everyone?) who knew Zed Zeppelin drummer John Bonham. I sensibly, only wore that sleeveless fur coat when I gave her the ride on my motorcycle, but I could imagine what my father would have thought if anyone had taken a photo of me, and shown my father that I had worn that rabbit jacket on my bike. I remember how embarrassing it was when my father wore one of his ridiculous looking necklaces when he took us out to dinner wearing one.(See his tiger-tooth necklace in the photo below)

I remember seeing Joe Walsh walking around downtown Kent in his thigh high black buccaneer boots, but I never learned about marketing, or wearing a gimmick like a hat or something. I’ve just always tried to stay clean, and look good, but clothes in the 70′ s were certainly unique. I loved my motorcycle, and rode it everywhere, except to Brandywine, because I feared how angry my dad would have been if I could get home after him making my mother drop me off in a room in Kent the summer before I finished high school. Though I didn’t know it, as far as my father was concerned, making my mother drop me off in that room was the official cut off time for any communication between my mother and me. My father’s obvious need was to be in charge of ALL communication, because “Communication” was his life’s work, and he aimed to be in control of everyone around him. Soon, I would have no home to come back home to. Now, I realize when my mother dropped me off in that room, and cried, how serious it was, as well as it was part of the reason why she told me that day, she wanted me to have her bank account when she died.

That summer, I worked sandblasting the insides of railway cars in order to buy some wheels. I admit that I was driven solely by wanting to be able to see my mother again. But, even if I had I learned, then, that my dad’s right hand man Wally James had a Harley, I still wouldn’t dared to visit Brandywine on my motorcycle. In fact, I only got to ride my motorcycle for a couple of weeks after working all summer to purchase it, because after my father found out about me visiting our rental house on it, my father ordered his employees to steal it! I know, now, who was the one who got it, because I remember seeing it parked outside of the window at the Cleveland Dojo, when my ski instructor friend arrived at the same time that I did. Unfortunately, I believe that he quickly arraigned a spar between me, and a highly advanced tae kwon do expert who immediately gutted me in the stomach so severely injuring me that my friend insisted that I had to be be taken to the hospital immediately. I believe he did so, however, because he feared that I had seen my bike parked outside, thus figured that I would know that my bike was still around. (The story I heard from Brandywine employees, was that my bike had been dumped it in the Brandywine ditch). But, I remember seeing my motorcycle parked right outside of the Cleveland Dojo windows, followed by my friend(?) convincing me to spar with the tae kwon do expert who was his friend. Then, my ski instructor friend was insisting on me being taken immediately to the hospital (thus taking any/all of the attention away from the fact that I had seen my stolen motorcycle parked right outside the window). That was a perfect example of how people take advantage of me because of my head injuries (like the head injuries which both my two year older brother, and ten year younger sister have caused). It wasn’t until decades later that I remembered seeing my motorcycle parked right outside the windows of that dojo. Who wants to think that a best friend would do that? I repressed for decades thinking that my good friend would do that, but still feel the stomach pain from that injury. I repressed what my father did to me, too, until after he died. That was when, out of the blue, my ski instructor friend showed up in Naples, and during his visit, started commenting that I was both talking, and acting paranoid! I wonder if my brother offered to pay my friend to be a witness for my brother in my brother’s efforts toward having me adjudicated incompetent? Does my ski instructor friend think that after decades, and me moving all over the country that I wouldn’t forgive him for being the one who ended up with my motorcycle? After taking over ownership of my motorcycle 40 years ago, would he think that I’d still want it back? Will my life long friend ever admit to being the one getting my motorcycle, even after I sold my Harley because I was already too old to consider riding after my wife and I both decided that it is simply too unsafe to ride with so many brain dead people on their phones while on the road? My wife wouldn’t ride after some numbskull who didn’t see us, pulled out in front of us, and she nearly fell off from having to stop so fast. Now, I think of my friend as SAVING my first chopper motorcycle from being thrown into the same ditch where my father ordered the lodge piano to be dumped in at Brandywine. I also think that my bike was actually in my friend’s house when we visited him one winter, and parked in his side lot with my wife, in our RV, right outside of his house in Cleveland. I think it was probably right there in his house, because he was so adamant about us seeing anything except the living room, period. But, he did have a newborn baby. I believe that my bike was there, and he could have shown it off at that time, too! In any case, now, several decades later, both he, and both of my siblings, should all know that I am still the same forgiving guy that I have always been,

I ended my first college semester stuck outside my own campus dormitory in the dead of winter late at night. All I could do was walk aimlessly trying to find a phone to talk to my own parents, but couldn’t get through, or even find somewhere still open to get warm. All the phone lines were just recordings with snow conditions, etc. So, after crying out loud, I walked through the frozen campus, and empty streets of town, then walked toward Ravenna wondering if, or where, I would ever find a place to sleep. I remembered a girl who I had met, and I was very lucky to find her home, but I didn’t want to impose on her. The next day, I walked back to my dorm, and luckily got in through the kitchen entrance only to retrieve a handful of clothes, and my guitar, and I took them to work where I could also get a meal, but I still couldn’t talk to either parent, or get though to anybody on any of the ski area phone lines. After walking with my guitar to continue working at the Kent Brown Derby, out of the blue, this Kent State student who only told me his first name came in to eat right before closing time. It would become obvious to me that my father had to have been behind why this guy suddenly appeared at the diner where I was stranded with my guitar. He finished his meal as I ended my shift, and he gave me a ride to where he had told me that he would show me where I could stay! It was the first trailer right off of the main road where Kent turns into Ravenna, and he showed me where this key was, and opened the trailer. He helped me figure out where to turn on the heat, but still wouldn’t let me know what the circumstances were behind how he got the key to that trailer. I would have told him about me not being able to get through on the Brandywine phone lines to inform either parent that the college dorms were closed for winter break, and about my father making it abundantly clear that I wasn’t allowed to be at Brandywine, except on Friday nights (both arriving, and leaving, only on the Kent State Ski Bus). But, after finally finding the ski bus, I was informed that I needed to be signed up for it, first, and the bus was 100% full. I know that I only have myself to blame for that, for being locked out of my dorm, for not having known, beforehand, when the dorms would be closed for the campus semester break, and when they would be closed.

I felt that I was a screwed up teenager in a screwed up world, and in a screwed up situation, while trying to live my screwed up life, with my screwed up father trying to control everyone, and everything, including anyone I knew. However, NOW, I also realize that my father did a lot of what he did because he loved me, and that I, (and most likely, both of my siblings), never took into consideration, then, that our father was likely even more screwed up than his own children! In any case, that new gay friend of mine showed up at the trailer again, and he was acting as if he was even more confused than me, which only made me realize how screwed up I could feel, too. He said he still wanted to be my friend, but I barely even knew him, and again, when I asked him as politely as possible about how he got the key, and got no answer, I added, “How can you expect us to become friends when you can’t tell me how you got the trailer key?” He simply wasn’t being honest with me. I also remember telling him that I was brought up to believe that honesty was/is above everything else in terms of importance in this world. I was very lucky to suddenly have my own trailer key while my dormitory doors remained chained shut for two more weeks. What I didn’t realize, then, because of my life long naivety, and confusion as a result of head injuries, was that my friend John was really just another one of my father’s puppets. Since I really wasn’t looking forward toward going back to live in my dorm, I took it upon myself to get transferred to Tri-Towers dorm, and got a double room temporarily, until I was assigned to a single in one of the regular Tri-Towers dorm rooms located in the upstairs floors. I began staying on a cot in a ground floor double where I was surprised to meet my new roommate only when he slid the window up after dark, and stepped into the room! And, stepping in with him, was a cute girl who appeared to be his friend, but proved to obviously like ME. I kept a very low profile about being connected to Brandywine, so she either knew who I was through him, or for some other reason, she wanted to continue sleeping in that room. But, there wasn’t enough room in there, and I only had a cot to sleep on. Whatever the case, in the seconds that my new roommate sensed that I had expressed with her that I was definitely okay with her staying there, he instantaneously punched me right in the face! It wasn’t until recently that I even remembered the reason why I took the photo below! After looking at my pic, I realized that both the guy who hit me, and the female Brandywine bartender (who I have described in my story of discovering a naked lady asleep in the apartment which my father ordered me go to sleep in, on the freezing winter night before I finished high school, when I had nowhere to sleep, because the lease ran out where my mother and I were staying, and my dad didn’t want me to stay all night ever again at Brandywine, under ANY circumstances) were BOTH in the photo, below, which I took at the Brandywine Kitzbuhel bar! The guy who assaulted me in my new dorm room, is in the right side of the photo below.

After my father permanently banned me from Brandywine, whenever I would finally get through on any of the Brandywine phone lines, I was usually only allowed to talk with my father. But, he would only remind me that as long as I was working a full 40 hour work week at any job which he approved of, he would still consider helping me out financially with first week, weeks’, or months’ rent. But, even my own father wouldn’t discuss anything about me even visiting, or skiing. And, he would never discuss anything about that trailer, or the key, or that guy named John, who gave me that key. He would only repeat the same words he had often spoken. It was as if he was proving how much smarter he was than me, and everyone. One of my father’s often repeated sententious, and pompous remarks was, “Do what I say, don’t ask questions, and admit that I’m always right.”

The next few snowy winter days and nights dragged on through Kent’s winter semester break with me terribly missing skiing, but very thankful for having a warm trailer to go to after work to sleep in. It got very slow at work while no students remained over the winter semester break, and students were allowed to remain staying in their dorms over the following summer (prior to the May 4th 1970 Kent tragedy). One of those nights after work washing dishes, as I walked out, a couple who had just finished paying for their meal walked out at the same time that I did. I asked if they were headed in my same direction, and if I could get a ride to that trailer. The driver said yes, and on the way, he explained that they were heading to New York City, and told me that if I wanted to go with them to NYC, that he could use some help with the driving! He explained that the girl with him didn’t drive. My dad had the same exact car when we lived in Grosse Pointe, MI. So, because I loved to drive, and I loved their(?) car, a Chrysler New Yorker, I said, “Sure! I’ll go with you to New York… in your New Yorker!”

I grabbed my 12 string from out of my(?) empty trailer, and off we went! They explained that they would be stopping to pick up a friend, and then they would be going straight into the city. About six hours later we arrived at their friend’s house right off the highway with a big barn. It was in the outskirts of somewhere. A guy walked out immediately to greet us, but when we all got out of the car, he jumped in the car and drove it up the snowy driveway to a big barn where he quickly stopped, jumped out, opened the large sliding barn door, jumped back in the car, drove it inside, and shut the sliding door behind him. The girl and I sat inside the house in front of a large glass picture window in the kitchen, as the guy she was with went straight back outside. The big sliding barn door opened again, and the car backed down to where it was when we had first arrived. Then, the two guys stood outside the car talking. It looked like they began to argue, and it seemed odd to me that his friend looked as if he had become very angry. As we watched through the kitchen window, the girl told me it was because they brought me with them, and I could see that she looked seriously concerned about what was happening out there. This was when I, too, started thinking more seriously about everything that was happening. Before the girl and I left the house, the two guys were still, obviously, arguing outside, and that was when she very emphatically warned me saying, “It could get dangerous”. I thought to myself, “Oh great, that was NOT something I wanted to hear”.

When she was telling me that it could get dangerous, I saw the two outside taking my 12 string guitar from out of the back seat, and putting it into the trunk of their(?) car, and immediately, they both stood behind their(?) New Yorker, and stared at me standing inside looking through the kitchen window looking at them staring back at me. That was when I started figuring out that this was very possibly a stolen car, which suddenly made me also realize why this girl said that she didn’t drive, and would have been why he let ME drive for much of the way. And, I didn’t even have more than seconds to think about why they pulled that car into that barn, or what they had taken out of it. Drugs? A dead body to feed to the hogs? Based on this girls comments, I feared that their next move might be killing me, and putting me in the trunk along with my guitar. I actually sensed that anything might happen now in the middle of nowhere and, while I really had no proof that it was a stolen car, I didn’t have much of a choice, then, but to cautiously ride on into the city with the three of them, while my Martin 12 String guitar remained in the trunk.

While the girl and I walked out and got into the car, she explained that I couldn’t stay with them in Greenwich Village because there wasn’t enough room for me to even physically fit to sleep on the floor in their tiny apartment. She also mentioned that I shouldn’t even be walking around where they were going, after dark, but that part went right over my head, because I was way more excited about being in NY, than about staying in Kent and washing dishes. I remember telling this girl, “I grew up in NY”, and remember answering her comment by saying, “Don’t worry, danger is my middle name”.

The trip to NY in their New Yorker was actually enjoyable. We sang, I got to drive, and I played my guitar. And, we played some typical car-games to pass the time. We even enjoyed noting the changing license plates from state to state, except now, this additional guy was driving us on our way into the city, and no one was saying a word. The day went from sunny and clear, to grey and pale with thick flaked snow which made it became dark well before it even began approaching dusk. The silence in the car became deafening, and I started having the annoying thought that I might never even make it to the city alive. I broke the silence leaning toward the two guys in the front, and said with a forced smile, “Seriously guys, you can drop me off right here in the snowstorm if you want, or wherever, or I’ll just go all the way to wherever you’re going in the city, and then I’ll go my own way from there,”. To my dismay, the scary looking guy driving, quickly slowed down from going fast on the two lane highway, to nearly skidding out of control to a stop just off the side of the road. It was quite obviously in order to let me out one way or another in the middle of nowhere. It was 5 degrees, snowing very hard, and I thought that would be where I would part with my Martin 12 string, because it was in the trunk. I quickly added, “OR, I’ll just ride with you into the city like we talked about, right?” Luckily, he jerked the car back onto the highway, sped up again, and headed toward the city. I still had no idea whatsoever where we were going (I just hoped that he wasn’t going to drop me out there, or kill me). I had no idea what would happen next…

We arrived in the city, and as I saw that their tiny apartment was on the third floor, and it didn’t have enough room for anyone to even sleep on the floor. Their friend disappeared, and the guy and girl I rode with to NY stepped inside their tiny Greenwich Village apartment. Then, suddenly her roommate, too, bolted, possibly to catch up with that other guy who was more of a dangerous character. The girl immediately suggested that I should take my guitar, and go. But, I was still trying to figure out where I actually was, before I could possibly figure out where I was possibly going. So, I asked her to please watch my guitar for just a few minutes, and I bolted, too! I went running down their three flights of stairs lightning fast to do the following… (Since I had no idea what I was planning on doing once I had actually arrived in NYC), I suddenly realized in that moment that I would definitely have to immediately 1. find something really nice to eat for all of them… 2. find a place to sleep before it got dark (which it was already doing), and 3. quickly land a job somewhere for a source of food and money just like I had successfully accomplished at least three times, and learned was what my father had always drilled into me that I could do anywhere. I walked right next door into a narrow little deli where I bought two huge NY “Rye bread Reuben sandwiches”, (the famous ones). I raced back upstairs with all of the food and drinks that I could carry, and offered them that food in order to say thanks, with the intention of leaving with my guitar. But, both guys were still gone, and the girl was still there with my guitar. I gave her the food and drinks, and said how excited I was about being there. She repeated more emphatically this time that I couldn’t stay there. I said that I totally understood, and like an idiot with the sense of a duck, left my guitar there bolting one last time while saying that I’d be right back to get my guitar, and then leave. I bolted back downstairs again to figure out where to extremely quickly get a job, a gig, or trade my musical services for a place to stay. Or, I had to figure out how to get back to Ohio after dark with my Martin 12 String guitar, alive. Since my dad had completely drilled it into me that I should be able to easily get a minimum waged job anywhere I go, and survive JUST LIKE HE SAID HE HAD TO DO, and I entirely believed him. In fact, I had already discovered how I had to do so in order to feed myself again, again, and again. I was a normal teenager who just happened to have head injuries, a severe case of ADDHD, deja-vu, and amnesia all at the same time, or intermittently, while hurriedly walking around somewhere in Greenwich Village, NYC after dark looking for a job (preferably one that came with a place to stay), and/or a place to sleep.

I took the chance of leaving my 12 string Martin guitar one last time in their third floor apt/room, and starting walking nervously down the street in the other direction of the deli, and around the corner, but I had absolutely no idea of where I was walking to (other than it was on the street below where their apartment was). Before I had gotten past the length of their long apt. complex, someone actually dropped a steel-spring bed frame which crashed into the concrete sidewalk nearly crushing my skull, and only barely missing my toes. It was actually a miricle that at the precise instant, I happened to decide to pivot, and cross over to the other side of the street! Soon, there was no light whatsoever, and I was walking in near pitch blackness.

I now understood how serious that girl was when she told me that it would be dangerous. I walked even faster for a couple of more blocks at full-speed on the other side of the street, and made a couple of turns in the darkness, then stopped to gather my thoughts. I firmly decided that I‘d go right back to their apartment as quickly as possible, grab my guitar, and leave just as quickly, with no plans to EVER return to that area (wherever that area was). I started walking back just as fast, and even more determined, almost angry, feeling that the timing would be crucial if I expected to still be able to get back without another bed frame dropping on my head, to still be able to get my guitar, and leave alive. I was recalculating my route in reverse, but in the near pitch blackness, I only realized that I was definitely LOST! Then I had the very very annoying thought, “How could I find my way back to where I just was, if had no clue where I was now?” I stopped in the blackness, and felt that I had made a huge mistake coming to NYC at all.

So there I was, lost in the dark, and there were no street lights where I headed walking in Greenwich Village NYC. I finally saw someone, and impulsively started asking him for some directions because I really was lost. Then I realized, AFTER opening my mouth to ask this stranger for directions, that I didn’t even know where it was that I needed to ask directions for! I should have known not to accept a free ride from strangers to anywhere, and I shouldn’t have walked in a “drop zone” without at least a hard hat for protection. Now, I was about to learn even more…

I tried to describe the deli that I had been to, and he said, “Oh, yeah, sure, I know exactly where ya needs ta go, I even got a map I’ll give ya, no prob’, right around here, c’mon we’ll take good care of you. I will give you MY map. C’mon, I’ll get it for ya.” Like the trusting and gullible person I’ve always been (and still remain, in theory), I followed him up a set of concrete stairs just like the apartments I had just come from blocks away. When we reached the first level of a walled staircase, he turned back around, pulled out a knife, and told me to give him all of my money, rings, and anything of value, including my socks and shoes! I remembered that I had taken my cash out of my shoe to pay for all the food at the deli, and had put it back securely. Now, I was thinking like a detective INSTEAD of fearing for my life, and/or dying from multiple stab wounds. I thought, “Was there someone in that deli who saw me paying for the food and drinks, who ratted me out to him about my hiding place where I stashed my cash?” I told him that I had no cash, (and knew that I had no brains being there in the first place). But, I was sharp enough (or stupid enough) to start negotiating with this guy. After handing him my first ring (my gold Grosse Pointe high school ring), I explained that it was really hard for me to get my other ring off, and as I kept explaining, I pulled my harmonica out of my pocket. This actually startled him when he saw it, and he asked “What the (blank) is that?” His reaction convinced me that he actually didn’t really know what it was, and I sensed that I was the one who sort of had a possible slight advantage to somehow use the distraction in order to negotiate with him possibly a little more. He only had a pocket knife, not a huge Bowie knife like the one which my neighbor used on me in my childhood NY neighborhood. And, he wasn’t nearly as big, or intimidating. So, I started playing on that harmonica, and the first song that came into my head was “Shortnin’ Bread”. He actually was relieved to know that it wasn’t my own weapon, although it really was. And, he appeared to like it enough that he actually start tapping, and even clapping along. We were there making music! In fact, we made a fairly good improvised creation by combining the rhythmic high registered squealing pitches of the harmonica with the audible beats he made with his hand-claps, and/or our feet stomps.

He even started singing perfect harmony when I went straight into “Down On The Corner” (which was one of many other songs I sang every weekend at a bar named JB’s off of Water Street in Kent, Ohio, (along with a black friend named Paul who always wore dark sunglasses, even at night, and sang with Joe Walsh‘s band The James Gang).

Anyway, I think that the reason that the guy who started to rob me at knifepoint in that afro-mentioned stairwell, made the decision to give up continuing his armed robbery, initially, because he suddenly got paranoid when he saw my harmonica. Then, I think that he got even more paranoid when I turned, and blew on my harmonica very loudly. He may have been thinking that I was alerting someone nearby, and because it was REALLY loud coming from out of that stairwell, it could have easily been heard from the streets even blocks away. In any case, HE suddenly started negotiating with ME. Maybe he was thinking that I was an undercover cop working the neighborhood?

He actually started pleading with me saying, “Please, please, don’t turn me in”. I’m guessing he was thinking that I was an undercover cop in plain clothing policing the neighborhood. Why else would HE be suddenly negotiating with ME? He either believed that the cops would be arriving pronto, and that he’d be going (again?) to jail or something, or that someone, or some people I knew, would quickly be running to my aid. Did he think that it would be the “Harmonica-Rescue-Squad”? Or, perhaps “The Harmonica-Hero-Brigade” better known as the “H.H.B”? I really think that he simply had a change of heart because he liked the cool beat music I was playing on the harp, and perhaps because he realized that I had just as much soul as he had. Whatever he was thinking, he never made me show my socks, or remove my shoes, and we sort of had a truce. I even negotiated my ring back, and we made friendly conversation as we walked down the stairs, then sang even more harmonies together, as they echoed harmoniously together as we walked down the street in the dark. When we reached the main street, he pointed me in the right direction to get to where I could catch a bus to the main bus terminal, and from there take a bus back to Ohio. So, it turned out that the one who pulled out a knife to rob me was actually the one who showed me where I could get on a bus to get back to Ohio.

I raced back to that third floor apt., picked up my guitar from the girl who warned me that it could be dangerous, and found the bus stop only because the guy who robbed me at knifepoint told me where the bus stop was. I caught the first bus to the main bus terminal, forgot about trying for a gig, or job, or even trying to get to see Broadway. When I arrived back to Ohio all in one piece, and alive with my guitar, I was glad to be back happily washing dishes at my full time job in Kent. When I got back, I remember asking someone, “What did you do during the break”?

I never had any doubt about my belief that miracles happen, after 1. As a four year old, bleeding out while stuck on a telephone pole climbing spike, not able to touch the ground, or get off, and after I had a vivid vision of a nun praying, was taken off the that spike by an emergency room nurse who had just gotten off work, who took me to her house, stitched me up with needle and thread, and saved my life. 2. After years of singing in church choirs, I felt the presence of the Holy Spirit during a choir practice in a church sanctuary. Whatever the case was, I have never lost faith. 3. I lost my book page marker given to all choir members after five years of services. Then, it showed up positioned exactly in the middle of the passenger seat in the seconds after a horrible car accident which totaled the car I was driving, and I still have no idea how I survived intact, and unscathed. The page holder said, “Doug Lo, I Am Always With You”.

I probably should have kept a record of my mini-miracles, as a testament to my faith, for others to hear about, but besides the fact that they’ve been so numerous that I’ve lost count, they’re personal. I will share the time I purchased a possible 24 million dollar winning lottery ticket in 2008 which I purposely tossed into the trash after holding that ticket in my kitchen, and imaging hearing between evil, and good. I imagined someone on one shoulder, and hearing in one ear, the devil saying how “cool”suddenly having 24 million dollars would be, followed by imaging Jesus on my other shoulder saying in my other ear, “It’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, than for a rich person to enter the Kingdom of God”(Matthew 19:24). That was all it took for me to toss that lottery ticket into in my kitchen garbage can. I soon learned on the local news that it had been purchased at the same Race Track gas station where I indeed purchased it (which no one ever claimed!). I hoped that my mother wasn’t rolling in her grave about me throwing that lottery ticket away. I credit my mother for, somehow, making it so I received that winning lottery ticket. Although I don’t know for sure if I had the winning ticket, I believe, for sure, that tossing it pleased the lord, and doing so without a doubt, made me a better person.

I remember that I prayed a lot while staying in that trailer on the Kent/Ravenna town line, and after college started again, I continued getting rides going to praise Jesus meeting which met in different rural Ohio barns.After one of those meeting (and after I had visited my new girlfriend who I had met at one of those Jesus meetings), I was hitchhiking back to Kent from her parents’ home in Newton Falls. There had just been another heavy snowstorm-blizzard, it was well below zero, and everyone, everywhere around, was staying inside their homes because of how cold it was. I had walked for hours throughout what was left of the day on a road that looked like it had always been covered with hard packed snow, and there were close to zero cars for hours. I knew it would soon be getting dark, and more desperately cold, when finally, I heard what I thought was a vehicle approaching. But, of all things, it was an Amish horse drawn carriage, and it was barely big enough for the Amish couple to sit in that small black varnished box on wheels. I remember thinking that the only way for me to get a ride would be to jump up, sit on their horse, and ride it bareback. The horse must have been reading my mind as he trotted by, because his ears poked back threateningly, and he noticeably sped up even turning sideways away from me a bit. The horse looked as frozen as me, and the Amish couple looked frozen, too. I walked all of the way to Route 631, and amazingly, got picked up right away hitchhiking, and dropped off right in front of my(?) warm trailer.