Steps to a Conservation of Mind

By Bruce W. Holsted

A story of a disgustingly mediocre man who attempts to live a life completely free of judgment and condemnation. Discovering that to live a life free of judgment in the future, he must reckon with his past, he begins a cathartic journey that proves more spiritual than he ever imagined. Starting out in pain and culminating in gratitude, it is one mans struggle to make his world, and the world around him, a better place.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 16, 2009
• ISBN: 9781469109480

Bruce W. Holsted

Bruce W. Holsted was born in Little Rock, Arkansas, the 4th son of Frankie and Leon Holsted. He was educated in the North Little Rock Public Schools. After a stints as a stockbroker, salesman, an equipment installer and wholesale electronics supplier, he found his calling as an itinerant day laborer in the maintenance trades. He presently splits his time between working radio and television towers, telling stories and serving as a hospice volunteer. He and his wife Becky are parents to three fine sons, one mongrel beagle and a calico cat. They make their home in North Little Rock, Arkansas

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Awakening

Obviously, my luck had taken a turn for the better.

Being out way too late, as was my custom at 15, I could only cringe at the thought of having to get up early on Saturday and be at the family drug store ready to work at 8:00 am. Immediately upon awakening, however, it was apparent to me that I had been allowed to sleep in. The clock said that it was 8:15, and if I was scheduled to work, and my dad had not awoken me, then either the Judgment Day had come or I was being given the morning off. Being late for work was a mortal sin in my family, being a no-show would obviously have been something worse, except that none of us knew what that would be, inasmuch as we never had the courage to let it happen.

With the good fortune of the added sleep and the realization that I would not be stuck behind the cigarette counter until 3:30pm, I felt a surge of good energy swell up that beckoned me get up and start my day. The excitement grew as I stood at the sink and brushed my teeth. By the time I’d gotten a shower I was already making plans to crank up the Honda 500 four cylinder and hit the road. I could see the sun shining brightly. It would be a perfect day for a ride.

For a moment I contemplated what good thing had brought me this gift. An unscheduled day off was without precedent and I would certainly need to offer to appropriate gratitude to my benefactors when they got home. As of late they had been getting a bit easier on me regarding work at the store and work around the house. After several years of farm labor, house remodel, and duty time at the cigarette counter I was plenty ready for a break.

I had recently taken up nicotine so I perched myself on the couch in the den and lit up a Camel non filter. I did not yet have the habit; however, I sure enjoyed that rush when the nicotine hit my brain. It was a great feeling, completely legal and very cheap. I can’t remember if I’d discovered marijuana at this point, but regardless, I did fine in the morning on a Camel non.

I’d just drawn in one big fat lung full when Jim, my oldest brother, burst through the door with a worried expression on his face. He had a look of fear in his eyes as he headed for the phone in the kitchen. I vaguely remember his words in muffled tones, Are they dead? Are you sure? He hung up.

It was short and sweet at that point. In an anguished voice he flatly said Mamma just shot Daddy and shot herself. I’m headed to the drug store. You won’t take off or anything will you?

No, I responded, I’ll be right here.

He hit the door at a good clip and I was left there, looking around at the walls.

Frankly, after 36 years, I can’t recall exactly what I felt at that point. I don’t remember it being fear, sadness, or anger. I suppose that it was just shock. One does not expect to get news such as that at any point in life. To say I was unprepared would be an understatement. So, I suppose I will just describe my first impression as one of shock and bewilderment.

I got up and put on some clothes (you have to understand that growing up in a house of 4 sons it was considered completely normal to be conducting out business in one’s boxers early in the morning), stumbled outside, and just sort of blankly stared at the sky. I was on the north side of the house, next to the carport, leaning up against an aluminum awning post. The sky was brilliantly clear; completely blue and bright. A memory of standing in that place during a sonic boom in my youth flashed across my mind. I gazed blankly at the sky for a moment then uttered my first words: Why, God, why?

In what was to be the first moments of a long period of bewilderment and confusion, I tried to process what had happened. I felt a hole within. This huge vacancy began to develop. The first twinges of pain began to play out within me. I thought of them and began to try and understand why she would do such a thing. I was completely clueless, and for good reason, I had no idea that she was unhappy. I tossed over and over the moments of the last days looking for some kind of clue, some possible key that might help me unlock the mystery.

After about 15 or 20 minutes I drifted inside to just sit on the couch and wonder what was going to happen next. After a short while, Sadie Dunn, the wife of the pharmacist who worked with my dad, arrived and began to straighten the house. She was just as shocked as I was and her countenance was one of fear and pain. My mom was one of her best friends. I can not imagine the pain she must have been in at the moment. Her husband, Ralph, was present at the store when the event took place. It must have been awful for him to have to call Sadie and give her the news. After Sadie came John Butler Hays, our pastor at Lakewood Methodist, and my dad’s good friend Bill Burgin. They began to answer calls and greet other visitors.

As the house began to fill, I became uncomfortable and decided to exit for a while. How any adult or family member could at that moment let me do such a thing is now beyond me. In trying to put myself in their shoes, by doing a comparison with one of my nephews or a younger sibling, I am just flabbergasted. Here is a 15 year old boy, just advised of this train wreck, and he is going to be allowed to hop atop a motorcycle and just take off to whatever point strikes his fancy. In retrospect it just all seems so abnormal. In our family situation, however, this was completely normal. We were all pretty much independent. Our boundaries were pretty well defined and everyone knew where the lines were. I still wonder, as I look at my current family and other families around me if this was just normal for the times, or if we were different. In retrospect, I just have to admit that there was nothing normal about that day at all for us. It wasn’t that they did not care. It was just that they were as bewildered as I was, and they just could not think of what to do any more than I could at that time. My actions seemed completely normal to them, just as theirs did to me.

Upon my trusty Honda 500 four cylinder I did mount. This bike was my pride and joy. I had worked very hard for many years to put the funds together to buy it. My oldest brother Jimmy and I had driven to the Honda dealer in Paragould and purchased two of them. They were the latest thing; smooth, quiet and beautiful. Many a grown man would have given anything to own one, and here I was, a 15 year old boy, and I was perched upon this fine machine.

I departed the house and instinctively I set about my normal route. This was a daily path for me when I had time. It involved the local hangout (Lakewood Lake No. 3), the Exxon Station, the drive-in, the school and several significant points in between. As I began the ride I could immediately feel the difference inside. On any other day this would have been my finest moment. I was just starting the day on my impeccably maintained and well kept multi cylinder machine, the sky was clear and beautiful, and I had the day off. To give the throttle its first good crank under such conditions would usually put a smile on my face. Not this time.

It felt like a dream, a bad dream. I had knots in my stomach, fear clenched my heart and I could feel what I now know was general anxiety welling up within me. The colors looked flat, the wind had a particular bite, everything seemed out of place. As I cruised through the lake I had an immense feeling of being alone. Not just alone, more alone than usual. As I made the left turn onto fairway I headed east for North Hills and Lakewood Exxon. Still feeling somewhat numb, I took a left on McCain and cruised down the hill to Hansen’s Drive in. I hung out there often, liked the owner, and knew it would be a safe place to be as it was early and not yet open for business.

I sat on a Coca-Cola case and just sort of stared at the street. At that time JFK Blvd. was two lanes and I don’t think the intersection even had a traffic signal. It was early yet, and there was not too much traffic. I sat and pondered for a long time. I was once again alone. It was the first of many more lonely times to come. Of course, I could have chosen to not be alone, but alone was what felt comfortable, it felt right, it still does.

After an hour or so I wandered back up to the house. I was shocked at the sight. The place was crawling with friends and neighbors. I bet there were 70 to 100 people in the house with another 20 or 30 outside. There was a group of probably 15 to 20 people my age out in the driveway. I remember my initial bewilderment. For the life of me I could not understand why there were so many people at my house. Then I remembered what had happened. This was my first inkling that from this point forward my life was going to be completely different. As soon as I set foot in the door and saw the looks I realized I was not dreaming. I had a new world to deal with.

All of my friends were there, half of our church was there, the place was full of food, drinks and hushed conversation. Then my dad’s parents arrived. The atmosphere became thick with tension.

My dad’s folks were some very fine people. Firm, smart, disciplined; they had achieved great success by sheer self will and straight dealing. They defined the word capitalism and were well respected in our community. On this cold February morning at 15 years old, as they stood in the kitchen, I had no idea that my mother always felt less than when around my dad’s mom. Mr. and Mrs. Holsted had always given my mother the cold shoulder. I suppose it all started when she got pregnant in high school with my oldest brother. They considered her somewhat of a loose woman, and in the opinion of others in my family, impeded my dad’s ambitions, specifically towards medical school. In retrospect, I too can see how my grandmother treated her coldly, but it was not obvious to me at the time. But here in this moment, the lady which my grandparents had always harbored some resentment against, was now a murderer, and the victim was their own son; their pride and joy, their academic all star, brilliant businessman and great politician. He was now dead, and she was the reason.

Not far from them were the parents of my mother. They were absolutely some of the kindest and most gentle people on the earth as far as I was concerned. Quiet, gracious, always smiling. To me they represented everything grandparents should be. Of course, with 5 grandsons and 1 granddaughter there is a requirement for great patience. They were patient to a fault, so naturally, we could find no fault in them at all. On this day, however, they were just completely distraught. Their daughter was gone, their son-in-law was gone, they had four grandsons with no parents, and their eldest had been the one to squeeze the trigger. It was more than any parent should have to deal with, and here they were in their 70’s having to do exactly that.

I gave a hug to all of them. The pained look on their faces struck me deep within. As I moved out of the kitchen into the playroom area I noticed the deep, rich ceramic tile on the floor. To my left was the flagstone fireplace. It was very beautiful. We always had our family picture made while sitting on the rock hearth. As I looked down I saw the blue spot where one of us had spilled a bottle of model paint when young. Man, my mom cried. So hard had she worked on the design of this beautiful place that when one of us did something stupid and defaced part of it her soul seemed torn. It was the same way with the stunts I pulled. Anything that hurt that beautiful place seemed to hurt her too.

In front of that fireplace sat our black and white hounds tooth couch that dad bought at Arkansas Furniture from Mouse Major. It was only weeks later that one of my friends remarked that on the night before the shooting my mother had sat on that couch staring intensely into the fire. She had come in from being out in the evening and did not even take off her raincoat. She just sat there in that red raincoat and stared at the flames. I guess she had discovered dad with another woman (Yes—Friday would be correct. Our understanding now is that there was a major upheaval on Friday morning, she tried in vain to contact their psychiatrist, and was unsuccessful in getting through to her) and was plotting her next move. It always bothered me that my friend noticed her mood and expression while I did not.

That fireplace was occupied by a gaggle of folks, some of whom I knew and some of whom I knew not. The house was abuzz with folks talking and looking at me and my brothers. Kin started to arrive from out of town, the noise level went up, and I headed out for the house of my former girlfriend, Tara White.

I suppose February 3 was the first night I had met her mother. I was a complete wreck and all I remember is sitting in her living room and watching a little black and white TV. The news came on. They were putting my parent’s bodies in the back of the ambulance. After that they showed my dad’s desk in the House of Representatives chamber. The legislature was in session and on the desk was a red rose above his nameplate. What a strange thing to admit you sat at the house of what then were strangers and watched. It seems terribly abnormal now, but seemed the only option then. They were very kind to me, but I’m sure they wondered who I was, and what turn of events had placed their daughter, and