It's Just Chuck

By Charles Edens

It's Just Chuck should let readers know that I am just an everyday, ordinary, common person. I have no real status and I'm not famous in any way. I'm just your average Joe. I'm just Chuck!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 29, 2019
• ISBN: 9781642580143

Book preview

Preface

My wife tells me that I beat around the bush in telling something. I admit, I do try to explain myself somewhat prematurely. That is because I know that people are fast to judge, and I want to make sure up front that I am understood. But I can see where this could be an annoying habit. What can I say, habits are hard to break.

Life in general is controversial; likewise, so am I. In fact, I wear that name tag quite well. I rarely reveal my true self to anyone, yet here I am with a book that is autobiographical, hoping it will be read. I have written about some of the most important events in my life and included some very personal thoughts and opinions. In presenting them to you, I am sure certain revelations about me will come out. Please do not be quick to judge because to reveal my true self is not my intent. My wish is to show that no matter who I am or who you may think I am, I am very much somebody. I am as much a person as anyone. In living my life, things have happened that I find, let’s say, intriguing. Perhaps you will find these chapters interesting also. So let me be myself and beat around a bush or two by way of introduction.

First Step down the Pathway

I almost wasn’t. It was not my fault that I was a large baby arriving at ten and a half pounds, nor was it my mom’s fault that she was a small woman. So it is understandable why at some point during the home delivery, she clamped down instead of pushing. Just how my mother survived throughout the ordeal, I don’t know, but I’m sure she had a rough time of it. As for me . . . well, the regular spanking on the rear didn’t do the job, nor did the second and the third. I can imagine the panic in the room as the doctor ordered a pan of cold water. My aunt Nell, acting as midwife, ran for the water. I was literally shocked to life as the doctor submerged me repeatedly into that pan of cold water, but I made it. Both my mother and I were alive. I am telling this as if I were there—well, I was—but what I mean is as if I actually remember it. I have heard this story so many times and told it so much that now it does seem as if I do remember it. That memory has its place alongside all my other memories. It’s a good and bad memory. Good because I made it, and bad because of the hard delivery. Although it may seem like just a few days ago, it was well over sixty years ago.

Now after sixty some years later, I am able to look back and see that the good-bad beginning was a foreshadowing of my life. I have lots of memories that I hold on to—some good, some bad, and some somewhere in between. I would like to share some of them with you because I believe and want to show that each of us has a place in life, we each have a story to tell, and that we each cut a trail and leave a pathway. A shocking dunk into a pan of cold water was the first step down my pathway. There have been many, many more steps taken. Now in the next pages, I will tell you of some of them. You will see that I am just an ordinary everyday type of person. Hopefully, you will also see that as an ordinary person, my life has been full of life.

JC

The initials J. C. have, over a long period of time, become highly important to me. How they relate to me is very dear and very personal. They reach into the very core of my life. I ask that you reach into your personal depths in understanding their significance to me.

In 1967, some strong events took place in my life. A divorce, and all the ramifications that go with it, struck me hard. The fact that I was then in the air force made for extra hardships in that my responsibilities to the government overloaded my own needs. The divorce caused me to take a very long and hard look at myself. This evaluation eventually led to me accepting Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior. Thus, this was the first way the initials JC became important to me. JC stands for Jesus Christ. It is my belief that through Jesus, my soul was saved. In case you may have some problems with religion, let me paraphrase my statement for you. If my soul was not saved, then at the very least, a great peace came into my life. It was then—and still is today—the most comforting and satisfying emotional experience of my life. While I hope and trust that my soul was saved, I cannot be more certain about that peace.

The second way the initials JC is important to me is, you might say, a far cry from religion but nonetheless important to me. The initials here stand for Johnny Carson. Johnny Carson had his personal problems as I did. But unlike me, he was able to talk about his, even to the general public who watched his show. Not only could he talk about his private life openly, but more importantly, he found ways to laugh about it. Over the years I watched his show, I slowly but surely learned to do the same. One cannot easily overcome and certainly not forget such dramatic events as divorce, self-evaluation, and a conversion, but one must go on with one’s life. Johnny Carson greatly helped to make this possible for me. His fortitude and attitude toward moving forward in life regardless of human frailties gave my life back to me. So in a way, Johnny Carson saved my life. He was my therapist, my comrade, and my companion, if only vicariously.

For nine years, I worked for a small tour company, first as a tour director and then as a bus driver. Since it was a small company, there was only one person in the front office, the officer manager. On occasion, that person would be out of the office, faxing and copying, or in another office but always keeping an ear toward the front door. When the door was opened, small bells would sound, announcing that someone had entered. Thus, the office manager would go hurrying back to the front. There were times when I came into the office through the front door, and not wanting to cause any undue alertness, I would loudly call out, It’s only me! To which, would come the reply, It’s just Chuck. So, this of course is, okay, you quested it. The third set of the initials JC is me, Just Chuck.

Please don’t go jumping to any conclusions that I associate myself with being on the same level as Christ or Mr. Carson. I certainly do not, other than the use of the initials JC. They have come to be sort of a calling card for me in a great way. Just Chuck signifies the way I have come to see just who I am.

I am just an ordinary, everyday person with little or no status. I am not famous in any way. I have no degrees or hold any office. In fact, I have never held any high-ranking position that would render me as being important or irreplaceable. I am just Chuck. But that is not to say that I am a nobody. On the contrary, I am very much a somebody. I am a human being and a person in my own right. I am among millions just like me who are common everyday people. The world would not continue to spin without us. As such, we all have stories to tell. I choose to tell some of mine.

We have all seen the news media reporting that everybody has a story, such as Steve Hartman on CBS. A city is located, then a phone book in that city is used to randomly point a finger at a name, thus finding a person with a story. So far, they have been successful in finding such a person. Why? Because they are real people and it’s true. Everybody has a story. The following stories, comments and personal thoughts are from the pages of my story. Please accept these stories, comments, and personal thoughts from this common everyday person.

A Runaway’s Hideaway

For young boys, there have always been some means of escape. In my day, some fifty years ago, the in thing to do was to run away. Because of several events in my home (a divorce, being poor, and being the only male among eight females), that was just what I decided to do. There were many things that made my already unhappy life intolerable. Reaching the point where I thought I could take no more, I packed my things and left home. Since I knew where I was going, I knew just what to take—my camping gear, a first aid kit, warm clothes for night, and my Boy Scout Handbook. Oh yes, the most important thing of all—food! I nearly emptied the pantry shelves.

It took me well over two hours to transport all these items to the woods, which was only about four blocks from my home. There, deep in the woods, was my hideaway, my place of seclusion—an isolated location known only to me. As an avid fan of Tarzan, I spent many, many days in the woods. In fact, I was more at home in them than in my own home. They had served as a playground in which to fantasize; as a place of solitude in which to think and grow. Now they would be my place of withdrawal in which to hide.

Normally, I would have gone by way of the railroad tracks that ran along the edge of the woods. This was the way I took when going with my friend Frank. We would bet on who could walk the farthest on the rail or the fastest, making sure we stepped on each and every crosstie. Sometimes we would walk barefooted on the hot, paved road on the other side of the raised tracks to see who could withstand the heat the longest. Sometimes we would stop and cut the wild reeds growing in the thickness between the tracks and the woods. The reeds were used to make peashooters. We would cut the reeds, using the bottom hollow part as the barrel and a piece of the top as the plunger. The peashooter would then be loaded with berries if we could find some; if not, then we used spitballs. We would fill our pockets with ammo for the pea fight that was sure to follow.

The train trestle over Stoney Creek, which flowed through the woods, was the best battleground for our pea fights. For hours, all we heard was Pop! Pop! Yowl! When the fight was over, we could always spend another hour climbing on the trestle or swimming in the cold waters of the creek. Then on into the woods, following the path along the creek’s edge to play Tarzan. But this time was not normal at all. I had a lot to carry so the shorter path straight down the middle of the woods would be best. Although shorter, it was not easier or faster. There was more undergrowth, large prickly patches of thornbushes growing over the less traveled path, and low tree branches to contend with. I was less likely to be seen going this way. Besides, that very special feeling of being in the woods was felt sooner, and that I needed. So with my nose full of the scent of evergreen, pine, and morning glory and my ears full of the sound of chirping birds, I made my way toward that secret hideaway.

Years before, there had been a fire lane cut about halfway between the woods edge and the creek, a good fifteen minute walk without the burden of camping gear. After many trips and several battles with the thornbushes, which they won, I finally