Dad had a history, an interesting history, some of it violent.

Back in Texas, Dad and his friends, before I was born, as young guys, so there has to be a statute of limitations on this, stole a church bell, a big-ass church bell out of the bell tower. I forget what came of it.

Dad was a fighter, a DIRTY fighter.

There was a dude that my Dad had a history with, Dad had beat his ass in the past. My mother marries and divorces this guy, not once, but twice, married twice, divorced twice—a lazy, layabout drunk. My Dad goes to court and gets two hours of visitation every Wednesday between 6 and 8 in the evening. Mom is not home—she’s working. Drunk, deadbeat husband is home. Dad calls up and says he’s coming over to get me and the guy is like, “No you’re not!”

Dad shows up to get me, the door is open, and this dude is holding me hostage and pointing a gun at Dad, who had previously beat him up, so the guy is double dangerous with the gun. Dad leaves, and that, brandishing loaded guns around children while drunk, gets Dad custody.

I was seven. But by the time I’m eight, I go back to Mom so that I can look after my little sister who is stuck in that house. This is a couple years before the people come kicking in the door with guns looking for this guy and I ran up to the neighbor’s house.

One time, while my parents are separated, this is in family lore, well attested by all parties, my mom is out dancing. My Dad is at the bar in the other room and looks towards the dance floor and sees mom looking over the shoulder of some dude, right at him. This guy is looking towards the street, his back to Dad. Mom is looking towards the bar.

[In the dance partner’s defense, Mom, a head’s up would have been nice, something like, “Run, don’t turn around, just run.”]

Dad comes up behind him, bites a piece of his ear off! Like Tyson, “Arr,” punches the dude, knocks him down and beats him on the floor.

Mom is like, “Oh my God, no!”

I stand proud of such redneck Texas lore in my family.

There was another time we can discuss when I see you in Indiana. Suffice it to say, Dad is and was a tough customer.

Dad has always been super supportive of me in my work, to this day advises me on workplace and personal situations, and always encouraged my reading.

The Vanilla Gorilla did introduce me to his FMA instructor, or Pangolo, a northern style weapon instructor from Luzon and TaeKwonDo 10th Dan, whose father founded their system. The man’s first name is Jesse from Jesuse, is 66, has survived cancer for some time, and is very spry and whip strong. His weapon system stresses slashing from stick to sword, and placing a single stab with the knife in a vital area. Both of these doctrines I find pleasing. Jesse’s school is in Desert Hot Springs, CA, in his garage. His weapon collection is awesome, and favors the walking stick as the primary weapon. His sword work he demonstrates as feud-based with a quick draw from a squat when insulted around a fire in rural settings, with no concern for any of the niceties common to Japanese swordsmanship. The walking stick stroke he most likes is to the ankle while squat-ducking a high line attack.

I was asked to give a session, and chose boxing, knowing that Master Jesse would have his own weapon demo to present, which he did very sharply. His students, he refers to as his “children,” with a deep feeling, an affection these young people return. They include:

Slim, a tall lean black man well suited for kickboxing and very coachable.

Leo is a fine looking, tall, Latino, heavyweight, looks a bit Lakota to me, with good boxing instincts.

The red belt assistant is a short, muscular, stud with thick beard who picked up on my touch and go drills in one shot and started coaching them on the round as I did 1 to 1 in the center.

The Vanilla Gorilla, who trained with me one day and on this day was feeling sick but demonstrated very good movement in our 2 on 1 attack drill.

A Wing Chun instructor was part of the class. He demonstrated that style’s dedication to staying in the foe’s wheel house and holding the pocket with dogged determination, even against the knife. He had dangerous low kicks and hurt two of us slightly, and apologized. There is one of these in every school and the big studs graciously permit this small, older man to persist in his style without being injured.

A lady of middle years, who had great checking hand and hip control.

What a super experience and an honor this was. Jesse took a photo with me, thanked me, invited me back with my gear and uniform. He then lead the class in a line prayer and farewell before sparring, which we were not able to stay for as the Gorilla was absconding with himself and dropping me off at the apartment of Dennis Steed. On the way out, Jesse showed me the extensive bag array in his yard, “I only use this in winter—it is so hot here in the summer. The bags are very important. Thank you, James, you have my gratitude.”

Slim was very keen on making a double ended bag as I had described, from a paper towel roll, shirt, bungie cords and tape.

Jesse, whose last name I do not recall, but began with a D, [Dancel] has a primal light in his eyes when he picks up a training knife, a stick, a sword or a walking stick. He also has a wife in her thirties upon whom he has sired some very polite children who let his students in the front door. When they call him on the phone during class, he calls them, “Baby.”

Thank you Pangolo Jesse Dencel, it was a rare honor for this blue corner coach.