This is the story of two men named Martin.
Other than the name, the two have nothing in common -- except that they are acquaintances, friends, neighbors of Tom and Laura.
Billy Martin
We've known Billy Martin for almost 20 years. He is the son of Kent Martin who for some years lived at the Ponderosa Mobile Court adjoining our property here in Greeley.
You may recall Kent Martin as the subject of a story called "long-term followup," earlier in these musings. Kent was a client at a sheltered workshop in Denver where my brother Dick worked many years ago.
Billy Martin is now some 30 years old. He is rather painfully inflicted with multiple sclerosis and many other physical and mental disabilities.
Once upon a time, Billy was quite good at riding a bicycle and actually had his own apartment and held a job. Laura and I got to know him when he bought a leather jacket from us and made payments on it over several months.
Billy, like his father, has a debilitating speech impediment. He can hardly speak without stuttering. He has trouble walking. His skin is constantly broken out with acne. Those are only the visible evidences of damage.
Some time ago, Kent moved from the mobile court to an apartment downtown -- "coincidentally" right across the street from St. Peter Roman Catholic Church, the church we attend.
We often see Kent when we're outside church, coming or going, or working in the flower garden. By way of making conversation, we would ask the usual: how's your mom, are you feeling better, how's Billy.
Alarmingly, a couple of years ago, Kent said, "Billy's in the big house."
We didn't press it. But we were surprised -- Billy just ain't the criminal type. We guessed Billy might have fallen in among a bad crowd. Nope. No such luck.
Last week, Billy was released on parole. The Greeley Tribune dutifully reported this event. Apparently having no alternative, Billy moved in with his dad. The Tribune, of course, heaped as much dung as possible on the little guy, calling him a "sexually violent predator," and gleefully and precisely reporting his street address and apartment number.
Billy had been convicted of ''attempted sexual assault of a child.'' Sent to the big house. Two years. Released with an ankle bracelet. This last seemed particularly ludicrous: Billy's ankles are five inches in diameter at most. Tiny skinny little ankles with a big ol' sheriff's cuff. Just ludicrous.
Billy Martin. What in the world could be going on with the poor guy? We may never know.
Martin Salinas
We've known Martin Salinas for about ten years. Martin and his wife Barbara rented our cute little No. 2 mobile home for several years.
They are extremely challenged in a multitude of ways. Martin has been in jail more than once, usually following a combination of alcohol and driving. Martin lost driving privileges permanently over this issue.
Barbara is emotionally disturbed. Once, she almost lost her eyesight because she insisted on a thick layer of mascara even though there was deep, painful infection in her eyelids. She cries. She and Martin fight. She calls the cops. They split up. They reunite. Repeatedly.
Martin is a nice guy. I've gotten to know him as a tenant, as a neighbor. His home is not in our little mobile court now; he and Barbara moved into their own trailer just a block away on Third Avenue. Martin and I have been snow-shoveling buddies.
Martin had poor vision, and he isn't the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. Some of the time he has regular work; some of the time he makes do with part-time stuff like chopping weeds or shoveling snow. He's cute and has a giggly sense of humor.
Lately, the division between Martin and Barbara had become more permanent. Barbara moved downtown to an apartment about a block from St. Peter Church. Martin stayed at the trailer. Martin's eighty-year-old mom visited daily - sometimes several times a day. Months went by.
Martin found a new girlfriend. He continued his friendly ways with us, waving cheerily as he rode by in his Mom's car.
One day a couple of weeks ago, Martin woke up in a coma, hospitalized. The family reports that four men and a woman entered Martin's home about midnight. They beat and stabbed Martin and dragged him outside.
Barbara saw me in the grocery and asked me to drive her to see her Ex. I did, and she took him a dozen red roses. I visited Martin at North Colorado Medical Center a week ago.
His eyesight is gone, lost to stab wounds. His memory may return -- he did recognize me by name during my visit. He was left for dead in the dirt outside his trailer. His sister ''sensed'' something wrong and found him there about 1 a.m.
Martin Salinas. What in the world could be going on with the poor guy? We may never know.
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There you have it. The tale of the two Martins. Cheerful holiday fare, eh?
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Last week, writing by our friend David Ralston appeared in this space. It's what we had hoped others would do. Write something.
This was intended to be an exchange, not a monologue. Too busy? We've been through that: ''Too busy'' don't cut no ice. I'm too busy, but I do it anyway. Twenty-five weeks in a row now.
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Word of the week: Penitentiary. It's from the Latin (shock and surprise) "Paenitentia,'' see penance. It means "prison" but guess what. There's a Roman Catholic meaning too -- "An officer empowered to give absolution in cases normally reserved to a bishop."
Next week's word: Ordinary.
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Gripes? Complaints? Whines? or Comments? Adoration? Puppy love? Feel free to express yourself in the comments!
Sounds to me as if both Martins had the nasty end of the life stick. Any of us could have ended up the same as them or worse. The question is why are we so lucky and they are not? We all have bad shit come into our lives from time to time but seem to pull through. Then others never do. It could be we are just lucky or have a stronger sense of survival or sense when to do the right thing when the shit hits the fan. My guess is all of the above. I've thought for a long time we are here for a purpose but we don't have a clue as to what that is. Then again maybe I'm just believing that to keep the tiny bit of sanity I have left.
ReplyDelete. . . RFJ Mike
Now you've gone and done it ...
ReplyDeleteYou opened yourself up for "dialog" from the peanut gallery.
I'll share a story or two along the way - after 60 years there are a few stories.
In this crazy, breakneck world, we have all heard the sad commentary on lack of neighborliness among - neighbors. It is with great joy and pride that I can personally attest to just the opposite in our cul de sac. After being "furloughed" by Kodak.
I had the misfortune of getting hooked up with three other large corporations and suffering the right-sizing, down-sizing, re-engineering, out-sourcing, off-shoring, at each one. In short, things weren't too bright in the Griess household.
In the middle of one of the longer rest periods between jobs, our computer, Dell, decided it was tired also. A neighbor, Jeff, prides himself as somewhat of a computer geek and he offered to check things out. He was able to resurrect it to somewhere between barely breathing to "we have a pulse." At least I would be able to do some job searching, albeit at a very relaxed pace.
This catatonic state lasted about a week before there was a Code Blue. Jeff came over and took Dell away for another operation. After a couple of days, my curiosity about this took me to Jeff's house.
His wife said he was next door at Ron's.
Entering Ron's house, I was told to come to the basement. Upon entering Ron's basement workshop, I was shocked to see Dell in numerous pieces on the floor, bench and table. Not wanting to appear alarmed, I inquired as to the prognosis and if that was in fact Dell strewn about the room. Jeff and Ron informed me that was no longer our computer: Ours was the new one being assembled on the table. Needless to say, I was somewhat taken aback, shocked, stunned or whatever other adjective you want to insert.
My first thought was panic: How was I going to pay for this thing? Ron, the financier for the "project," must have seen the concern in my face, for he calmly said I shouldn't worry about the cost. "Your kids need this for school."
A year later, I was able to give forward. My neighbor's water heater failed. She's a single mom, and this happened on Mother's Day.
Dan, another neighbor, and I went to Home Depot, got a new one, and installed it for her.
That's my neighborhood how's yours?
-- Dick Griess