Essays by Thomas Martin

by Thomas Martin In the mid-1980s I was working at Lockheed Aerospace in Burbank, California.   I was on an exciting project that was rapidly growing, requiring many new employees.   Most, like myself, were young and had recently graduated from college.   It was during this time that Joe was hired.   He had graduated from an out-of-state university and moved to the “beach country” of California.   He was young, naïve, and often quite gullible.    Joe was also rather paranoid about having a perfectly clean “record,” especially now that he held a security clearance for this job.   As an example, he got a parking ticket while at the beach one day and wanted to “fight it” to get it off his record.   We told him the only way you can get in trouble from a parking ticket was by ignoring it. But Joe was upset by this stain on his “record.”    So, that’s Joe. Our building at Lockheed sat along the runway of Burbank Airport.   The back of the building was an aircraft hanger

by Thomas Martin It was a great day.   I felt wonderful and I was extremely productive.   On top of that, all of the elements of my latest book were coming together.   I received the cover art from the graphic artist and it was far beyond my expectations.   I was thrilled.   Now I just needed to get the art, the manuscript and the payment to the publisher. About 10:00pm I decided I needed to go to bed.   I was not particularly sleepy and something inside of my chest told me something was very wrong.   I lay down but was unable to sleep.   I tossed and turned for about one hour.   At 11:00pm, it felt as if my heart was taking one last desperate beat.   That beat was so hard that it caused me to sit up quickly and yelp.   I tried to lie back down, but I knew something was very wrong.   My dog, Jasmine, became very agitated, started whimpering, and was restless.    I have been battling heart failure for over 10 years now.   Emergency trips to the hospital are not new to me, b

by Thomas Martin My Mother’s family believed in two things: getting along with each other and drinking coffee. When company came over, the first thing we did was put on a pot of coffee. Some families believe in cocktails – my Mom’s family believed in coffee. I’m sure that my Norwegian Grandmother’s house had some smell besides freshly brewed coffee, but I never knew what it was.   Coffee was the glue of the Sorenson clan, I guess it was our comfort food. Breakfast was another important part of our family. Both my Mother’s and my Father’s families were farmers and breakfast meant eggs, bacon, toast, juice and of course, coffee. This was everyday, not just weekends or holidays. “Big” was not an adjective associated with breakfast, it was just breakfast – family breakfast. We all sat at the table and ate together. I can’t imagine anyone refusing. I remember one weekend my brother and I happened to be home. I was 23 and my brother 26. It was before my Mother and Father sold

 by Thomas Martin And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.  Matthew 25:40 There wasn’t much to Betty.   She stood only about 5’5” and probably weighed less than 130 pounds.   Her skin was tanned and wrinkled from far too many hours of sun exposure.   Yet, when I think back to her, I cannot help but be reminded of the photos of US Marines storming the beach of Iwo Jima.   Grit, determination, and fearlessness are just three words to describe this mighty mite.    Betty was in charge of the public pool near my work in 1985.   From noon to 1pm there was adult lap swimming and many of my co-workers and I would spend our lunch hour swimming laps and getting a little sun.   Betty ran this pool with an iron fist.   You followed her rules or you did not come back.    One day we arrived a bit early and found the group ahead of us was specially challenged youn

by Thomas Martin It wasn’t actually a hug.  My grandfather’s strong, sinewy arms supported his sister Marie by her upper arms as they stood gazing into each other’s eyes. Marie was slightly older than my eighty-year-old grandfather. She stood there looking so frail, so vulnerable. Even from the next room I could see the sorrow in her eyes. Aunt Marie came from the old school where a woman wore her hair long throughout her life. She normally kept it neatly in a bun, but right now, her gray hair hung loosely down her back. She traveled from Wisconsin to see my grandfather one last time. My grandfather was dying of cancer, treatable cancer had he brought it to his doctor’s attention in time. Instead, he waited and the wait would prove to be fatal. When I looked at him that day I felt he must be alright. His hair was still pitch black, he was strong and trim and a man of few words – this couldn’t be a man who was close to death. I watched my grandfather and Aunt Marie almost as t