CHAPTER 62 Scratch The Surface

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copyright 2015 Chris Smith All rights reserved.

We walked in the door at the Main House. Dad sat down on the bed and the phone rang on the nightstand.

"Hey, it's Giles," Dad said.

"You've been trying to talk to him for like three weeks right?" I asked.

"Yep!"

Giles, a representative of The Foundation, was referred to us through one of the letters we had sent out in our mailings to the Forbes 400. The original person, who had received our letter had forwarded it to The Foundation. The head of The Foundation had forwarded it to one of their associates, Giles.

Dad explained to Giles what we were doing with military veterans. He thought there might be a way for The Foundation to help us raise money to fund our U.S. Special Operations History Video Project from the Foundation's contacts.

This was all good news to us! It opened a door where there was none before. The collection of veteran's histories was a worthwhile projects and it deserved to get funded. Since Dad had been working on the project for over twenty years he had interviewed over a hundred U.S. Special Operations soldiers, and several hundred veterans.

Then Dad was invited to co-host a local radio show on Saturday for Memorial Day Weekend. It was another opportunity share the passion for our projects and let people know what we were doing. We all sat for lunch together in their makeshift bedroom.

I told my Dad pointing to Parcel A, "It's been quiet over there."

"Normally when you have a new listing, everyone's scrambling over it with excitement. Then they start to really think about the price, and the problems. And usually things start to die down a little," he said.

Dad would know as he used to be a real estate agent a lifetime ago.

"Larry said he had several offers. I'd be surprised. But he may. Though they probably aren't for the asking price. The chances of someone coming up here and going 'Yes, I'll take it right now' is pretty slim."

We couldn't do anything to stop the Farm being sold unless we could pay off the debt. We couldn't pay the debt off until we had money. And we couldn't get money until we sold some our projects or obtained some sort of funding. It was a vicious cycle, an endless loop to nowhere by the looks of things.

Stopping the Farm from being sold would be like us trying to keep a dam from breaking using only our finger. Our once solid dam, or at least the previous illusion we had had that it was solid, was now filled with holes. There was water leaking everywhere around us. It was too much pressure for the three of us to hold by ourselves.

We had to stand aside and let it break. We had to stand aside and watch it all fall. And we had the best seats in the house for it, right up front. Words like frustrating, overwhelming, and depressing didn't even begin to cover it. They didn't even scratch the surface of the wave of emotions that greeted us on a daily basis.

It felt hopeless and it surely was. The feeling never abated. It was the ever-constant reminder of what failures we were. We had to be failures. We certainly couldn't seem to save ourselves and turn it all around. Or we hadn't been able to, yet.

We set up the network cable for our server and ran it from the router to my new upstairs bedroom. I plugged it in and the server came up. It was another victory! Now I could get access to all my files, especially this book. I hadn't written in the book's main computer file in ten days. I had been working off another version that just held the last few days of work.

I had to write the book. I had to keep it moving. I had to get it out of me and onto the blank page. I had decided at some point, to commit to the book, and now I had to write it. I couldn't stop. Something inside forced me to write, and forced me to remember all the never-ending pain and discomfort. I felt as if I was being held down on the ground. Experiences were being shoved down my throat and I was forced to regurgitate them onto the pages that stared back at me from the abyss.

I sat down to copy all the work from the last ten days back into the book's main computer file in the afternoon. The book was growing. I had been writing as we went, on the fly. Or as much as I could with everything that was happening. I'd write on the current stuff, and then I go back periodically to fill things in I had remembered. My memory was pretty good. But it wasn't enjoyable.

I tried to get my DVDs playing on my computer to no avail. Then I tried "The Secret" DVD and it totally bombed. I wanted to restart my routine of watching it every morning when I got up. I guess the idea was a "no go".

After dinner, as was the normal routine of dinner with my Parents in their makeshift bedroom, I stayed to talk with them. We sat there in the dim lit room and talked about where we were, where we were going, and how we thought to the best of our guesses we could get there. It was all we could do to deal with the present, and not be so submerged by it that we stopped from moving ourselves forward toward our Dreams. There were times when at least one of us, wanted to just stop, give up, and resign ourselves to be mediocre, to become what people had told us we were, utter failures.


"No one can make you feel inferior without your consent."

Eleanor Roosevelt

Former First Lady of the United States

(1884-1962)


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