Wednesday, 4/28/10 - The Moon Is Full Tonight

The moon is full tonight and, like I do on most full moons, I take the unfinished grass basket down from the mantle, study the strange designs and think of Carlton 'Sonny' Welsh.

The first thing you notice about Carlton Welsh is the sky blue eyes shining like sunny southern days below his puffy white-cloud eyebrows.

That, and his smile.

Carlton is a soft spoken, uncomplicated, southern farm man of 72 years. Where most farmers age in creased leather and rawhide, Carlton is burled walnut: solid, warm and weathered.

I first met Carlton at Evans Park. He was sitting alone on a bench under a large oak tree weaving an intricate design into a grass basket.

I stood apart from him admiring the patience and precision of this powerful man as he coaxed the delicate grasses into the emerging patterns.

"Very nice work."

His response was slow in coming but was not unfriendly, "Thank you, kindly."

I watched for a while longer before he set the basket aside, dusted his hands on his jeans and then extended one to me in greeting.

"Name's Carlton," he said, "but most folks call me Sonny."

Over the next few weeks I watched Sonny's progress as he completed that basket and started another.

We didn't talk much, just exchanged greetings. Mostly, I would just join him under the tree and watch him work.

It was never a question. Whenever I visited Evans Park I knew Sonny would be there. Unlike me, Sonny could not leave. Being a ward of the state assigned to Evans Park Adult Facility, Sonny was not considered capable of taking care of himself.

When I asked if he liked Evans Park he indicated that he liked it, "good enough. Besides, where would I go, anyway? Farm's all gone."

I started volunteering at Evans Park several months ago after meeting one of the residents on the street. As I passed she pleaded with me to help her. She was lost and scared and she wanted to go home.

Through her sobs I was able to determine that she lived near a church. I scanned the horizon and found a steeple. We walked in that direction.

After a few blocks she pointed and with pure delight let me know that was where she lived.

Sitting behind a rusted chain link fence, the building looked more like a warehouse than a residence.

I followed her in and the nurse at the desk started machine gunning questions at this poor woman and yelling that everyone was worried and the police had been called and...

... and then she noticed me - and the demeanor changed.

She asked if she could help me. I indicated that I had just helped this woman, whose name I later found out was Anna, find her way back here.

She thanked me and told me how worried they were and that I should have a nice day, good night.

Except, I wasn't ready to leave. "May I ask the name of this place?"

"Evans Park"

"And Evans Park is an adult residence?"

"Yes."

"And at Evans Park you provide assistance to the adult residents?"

"Yes, sir, we do."

"And might you be looking for volunteers?"

That question brought down her guard. "Sir, do you understand the extent of service that we provide to most of our guests?"

"Yes, I believe I do."

"Then, yes, we would love to have a volunteer."

I am a firm believer that you are always where you are supposed to be. My path crossed with Anna's for a reason. I was about to find out why.

It didn't take long to realize that Evans Park was just a box that they threw unwanted adults into until God finally gave up and took them back.

The residents were fed, clothed and bathed but they were neglected in every other way. As no one ever visited the residents of Evans Park, I took it as my job to just talk to them. I would sit with each resident for five minutes and just let them talk.

Each person shared something different and each had a separate, unfulfilled request. One woman wanted cigarettes. Another woman wanted fresh fruit. "They only give us canned fruit," she complained. Anna told me of her favorite movie, The Sound of Music.

Each time I visited I would fill my pockets with things they would enjoy: cigarettes, candy, fresh fruit. I even brought Anna a copy of The Sound of Music that she could watch in the break room.

They all looked forward to my weekly visits. All, that is, except for Sonny. He seemed not to notice if I came or not. And even though he had no request that I could fulfill, I still spent five minutes with him every time I visited.

One week I had to work late and didn't arrive at Evans Park until dusk. As usual, Sonny was under the tree weaving his basket. It had been a full day and rather than stand, I decided to sit on the bench alongside Sonny.

We sat quietly for a few minutes. His big hands working the supple grasses slowed and finally stopped. He placed the basket aside.

"I don't belong here," he said. "But they can't let me go because I know too much."

I was glad that he had started talking but I was not sure where the conversation was going or how to steer it over to a happy place.

"The moon is full tonight," he continued, "they come from behind the moon when it's full."



For the next several minutes I listened to Sonny tell me about his alien abduction. There wasn't too much to tell, he explained, because the government tried to erase his memory of the event.

Sonny remembers seeing the alien ship come from behind the full moon and land in the field "across the creek". He remembers being brought aboard but almost nothing after that.

He does remember very clearly the visit he received from the "government men" the following day. He remembers being taken to a building and being questioned over and over about what he saw.

Then he told me about the light. A bright light that the government men shined in his eyes to make him forget. "It was some kind of laser and it hurt to look at it. Not your eyes, though, I hurt your brain!"

In the dim light I could see that his shoulders were shaking. This big man was crying and there was nothing I could do.

I was still trying to decide how to respond when he stood up and apologized.

"No, no, that's ok. You can tell me anything," I assured him.

He continued, "They know that you know and they will come and ask you questions. Don't let them use the light on you..." He was almost wailing at this point and I didn't know what to do. He kept repeating "... no light... ... no light..."

I thought of slapping him but if he decided to slap back I was in for a big hurting. So, instead, I slipped my arm around his shoulder and whispered, "It's ok, I won't let them use the light."

With a sudden intake of breath, Sonny deflated. He went silent and all of the tension slowly drained out of him and his shoulders sagged. He looked completely drained.

Without another word he stood and started walking inside.

"Sonny," I called after him, "your basket."

"It's for you. I was making it for you but they won't let me finish now."

And then he said something very softly that sounded like, "Learn to read." Then he turned and left me sitting there holding his unfinished basket.

When I returned the next week Sonny was gone. The only information they would give me was that he was transferred. Since I was not immediate family and not his legal guardian they could offer nothing more.

I tried for several months to find Sonny but no one outside of Evans Park has any record of a Carlton Welsh.

I continued volunteering at Evans Park until I took a job in another city.

My work keeps me moving and in each new city I volunteer at an out-of-the-way adult facility. In each one I seek out that one solitary resident. On nights with a full moon I sit quietly and wait for them to tell their story.



And each time the story is the same.