When Mrs. Abrams answered the door, she was obviously shocked by the ringworm covering my right cheek, and of course she asked if I were okay. I assured her I was, and told her what happened, and that I was tired and out of money and had no where to go.
Read moreI woke up and felt the back of my head. The ringworm was still there, so I got up and walked to the mop closet and rubbed fungicide on the raised bump without taking time to look at it. I was feeling impatient and was too hungry to think clearly, so I dodged traffic and crossed Government Boulevard and entered a conveneince store that sold cigarettes, lottery tickets, cheap booze, and sugary snacks.
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I awoke on the wrestling mat that morning, and yawned and stretched and tried to come to life. Dolly Parton’s voice was singing “9 to 5” in my head.”
Read moreI’ve always found it difficult to write a memoir of my Partin family. Most of what I’ve written is publicly available, but few people outside of the FBI have put together pieces of the puzzle about my grandfather, Edward Grady Partin. You may already know about him, even if you don’t recall his name.
Read moreI arrived at my grandfather’s funeral early, but no one recognized me, so the police didn’t allow me in. I stood on my tip-toes and tried to look over the shoulders of reporters as they took photos of the mayor and LSU football players who had just arrived, but I didn’t see anyone who could let me inside.
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Nature is my church, and I felt like I was in heaven within a half hour of walking uphill from the trailhead in Besi Sahar. I had left the smog and car horns of 2 million people in Kathmandu, and had arrived in a secluded, rural area with neither a person in sight nor an automobile within hearing distance.
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I arrived in Kathmandu without a computer, phone, or hotel reservation. My goal was to spend three months offline, immersed in new experiences. I’d complete my journey by returning to my home in San Diego, and deciding whether or not to have surgery.
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My grandfather was Edward Grady Partin Senior. In the 1950’s and 60’s, he ran the Baton Rouge Teamsters Union. He and the national teamster leader, Jimmy Hoffa, plotted to assassinate Kennedy, and his testimony sent Hoffa to prison. I need to share his story, in order to tell another story.
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I began writing a memoir, and I wrote the first true sentence I remembered as a child: Stevie Nicks was fine. (work in progress)
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