The Son with the Dragon Tattoo

Father's Day, 2024

When I was a little boy, my father would tell me bedtime stories. Some of the stories were of his adventures in Korea, during that war.

One story in particular was my favorite. 

There was a village in Korea that was terrorized by an enormous dragon. Every night, the dragon would come out of its cave on the hillside above the village breathing fire and looking for some villagers to eat. The dragon was always successful. My father, Sergeant First Class, Ted Wodoslawsky of the U.S Army, 25th Infantry, wanted to do something to stop the terror of the dragon.

He devised a plan. 

One night, he climbed up on top of the hill, above the dragon's lair. He made a spear out of a large piece of wood, carving the end into a point.  He positioned himself above the cave entrance and waited. 

He heard the dragon roar and begin to move toward the cave entrance.  Flames rolled out of the cave, as the roar grew louder. My dad waited...

When the dragon began to move out of the cave, my dad made his move. He jumped onto the dragon's neck and thrust the spear into it. The dragon roared and shrieked in pain as he tried to shake my father from his neck. Sergeant Ted just drove the spear deeper in as they both tumbled through the air, crashing onto the ground of the village below.  The dragon lay there, bleeding out from the wound and took it's last breath.

The dragon that had terrorized the villagers for years, was no more.

The villagers streamed out of their homes, cheering and made their way to dead dragon and my dad, lifting him up in joy and gratitude. He was the hero of the village!

He was my hero too. 

I remember being in the first or second grade and during a show and tell, or something like that, I told the class about my dad, The Dragon Slayer of Korea. Some listened in awe, while some laughed at my story. Over the years of my schooling, I would sometimes hear, "Hey Ted, has your dad killed any more dragons lately?!" ROTFLMAO!!

The story of this story became an ongoing thing between me and my dad, and my family. I would find pictures of heroes fighting dragons and monsters and give them to my dad as gifts. The best one was a statue of Saint George slaying the dragon that I modified with G.I. Joe clothes and weapons.

It was a big hit and was placed in a prominent place for display in our family home in Portage, Pennsylvania. Anytime I visited "back home," there was Sergeant Wodoslawsky, slaying the dragon.

My dad passed away on December 14, 2018. He was 87. 

"And I miss my father every day

The kind of pain I pray don't fade away."

- Steven Wilson, Jr. - Grief is Only Love

Shortly after he died, I had the idea that I would get a tattoo to memorialize him. I checked into a few places and even paid a place in Pittsburgh to design one. I never saw that $50 deposit again or a tattoo concept.

More than five years passed. One day this past spring, I was scrolling through Instagram, (I spend too much time doing that) and saw an ad for Studio Hōju. The owner, Joseph Perez specialized in Asian style tattoos. After looking at some of his work, I made an appointment to discuss my tattoo idea.

I told Joseph the story of the story. He was excited to do the tattoo for me. We scheduled an appointment about a month later. Over the following few weeks I collected images of Korean dragons (each culture has it's own style), photos, and the proper US Army insignias. I wanted the image to be representative of my father, not try to be a photo-realistic. (When a tattoo blooms as it ages, facial details become blurred.) I found some old comic books of Sgt. Rock. I sent scans of those to use as inspiration.

Joseph emailed me two concepts, I picked one and we were ready.

After two sessions about one month apart, taking a total of about eight hours, this is the result.

 

I love it.

My dad was not a perfect man, but he was a good man. I never doubted he loved me, and he never doubted I loved him. We would argue about politics, watch Pittsburgh Steelers games together, go for long rides through the PA mountains and sit on the big front porch swing talking into the night. He took me camping and fishing. There were many many "take your child to work days," which were really "put your child to work" days. I am grateful for him being on me to do better and to work harder. He taught me about life, love, and the importance of family. He taught me to always be kind to people, no matter their station or circumstances in life.

My dad was my hero. He lived a great life, slaying many of life's dragons along the way.

It's Father's Day and I miss him. I always will. Maybe I will see him in the afterlife and he will give me hell for getting the dragon tattoo.  Then we could argue about it and have a beer on the big front porch swing, again.

                

   

 

 

 

Homeless, Hungry, Cold and Alone on Thanksgiving

 

It’s Thanksgiving Day, 2021.

My morning ritual is to drive to Dunkin Donuts for an iced coffee, then drive around a bit. Today, I was stopped at the traffic light at the intersection of Brookpark and State Roads, someone limped through the cross walk. They were small built, dirty and disheveled. I guess them to be a girl, by the size of their boots.  I watched them enter the parking and fueling area of the 7-Eleven, they were unsteady, possibly high on something, or maybe they were just tired.

The light turned green, and I started east on Brookpark, again.  After another block or two, I turned around and drove back from the way I had come.  I glanced at the 7-Eleven and saw the small person now sitting on the concrete walkway in front of it.  I drove on. A short time later, I turned around again, drove to the 7-Eleven, and parked.  Walking up to the little bundle of dirty clothing, I said, “Hi. Are you okay?”

She looked up through her decaying teeth and stringy hair and told me she was trying to get back to 73^rd and Clark, in Cleveland. Someone had dropped her off in Parma, and she needed a ride back. I asked if there was someone I could call to come and get her? She said no, no one. She had been homeless for five years. She was picking at her skin, I said, “Meth?” She said, “Yeah, Meth and Heroin.”

I thought about calling an Uber or Lyft for her, but then decided that they would likely not pick her up.

I went into the store and talked to the girl working the register, explaining there was a homeless person, pretty sure it’s a girl, sitting outside in the rain.  Is there anyone locally we can call? A church group? A homeless shelter? She said she did not know of any.  I said I did not want to have her arrested, just someone to help her - sitting outside on a cold rainy Thanksgiving Day.

I went back to my truck, and sat it in. What was the right thing to do? Not seeing any other options, other than me taking her “home,” which I believed could be dangerous, as I was unarmed, among other reasons. I decided to call the Parma Police. I called that number, which gave me another number, and spoke to the dispatcher, explaining that I was trying to find some way to help this girl. The dispatcher was not unsympathetic, but not sympathetic either. It was just another call about another homeless person. They would send a car.

I walked back to the girl on the sidewalk, and she was eating a breakfast sandwich. I said, “You have food, great!” She said someone gave it to her. I said, “There are good people in the world.” She shook her head and took another bite. I told her that I was still trying to find someone to help her.

Walking back to my truck, I saw the girl working the cash register walked back our with more food and some orange juice for her.  I walked back to her and told her that was a nice thing to do, and handed her some money to buy her more food, or pay for what she just gave her. She said I didn’t have to do that, I said, please, take it. She said thank you.

I got in my truck and drove back to my warm, safe home.

If you are reading this, you have much to be thankful for.

Today, the God was a homeless girl, addicted to meth and heroin, sitting outside a 7-Eleven on Thanksgiving.

³⁵ for I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in: ³⁶ naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me. ³⁷ Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink? ³⁸ When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee? ³⁹ Or when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee? ⁴⁰ 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 25:35-40

God Needed a Ride to Church

 

I was driving south on Pearl Road, in Parma Heights, Ohio Sunday morning.  I go out for a morning drive, nearly every day, to get an iced coffee.  I started doing it when this crazy covid world began, just to see what was going on out there, if the non-stop fear campaign on TV lined up with the reality in the real world. It did not, but that’s another story, or blog post.

 

There is construction on Pearl Road, with traffic down to one lane in either direction. As the saying goes, “There are two seasons in Ohio, winter and construction.”  They probably say that anywhere where that has weather.  The road construction brought the speed down to about 15-20 MPH.  Pearl is a slow drive when there is no construction and I wondered what I was thinking when I decided to drive down it from Bookpark.  As I approached the intersection of Pearl and York/Stumph, I noticed a woman standing on the sidewalk, on my left, near the entrance to the drive through for Dunkin Donuts. 

She looked troubled. As I rolled by, I saw her make the sign of the cross and stick her thumb out. “That’s weird,” I thought to myself.  “If I was going that direction, maybe I’d give her a ride.” I do that - help strangers. Not every day, I do not go out looking to be a Boy Scout, but every now and then you will have someone cross your path. Sometimes the person crossing your path is just trying to con you out of “a few dollars to buy some gas.” That is an old con, but an older woman hitchhiking in front of a Dunking Donuts at 8:30am on a rainy Sunday morning? (Did I mentioned it had been raining on and off?) Odd. Not likely to be a scam. Maybe a mugging, but not a scam. LOL

She must have seen me through the window of my truck because she walked a few steps down the sidewalk towards me and waved. I hit the button, rolling down my driver’s side window and asked where she was going? “Church! I am trying to get to church.”

I said, “Hang on, I will turn around and pick you up.”  I made a left on York, turned through the construction on York, into the Dunkin Donuts parking lot.

 

She was still facing Pearl Road as I pulled up to the drive-through exit, and said, “Where are trying to get to?”

“Saint Mary’s, in Old Brooklyn. It’s on Pearl.” 

Old Brooklyn is a few towns north up the road. I told her to hop in and I would take her.

She opened the door and stepped on into my truck. It’s a black Ram 1500, Dark Edition. It is stock, but quite high off the ground.

She said “Thank you, I can give you money for gas” as she struggled with the seat belt.

I told her not to worry about gas money and helped her buckle in. “Maybe giving you a ride to church will make up for me not going to church” I said.

We began what I hopped would be a short, uneventful journey up Pearl Road.

She told me she wanted to get to Saint Mary’s because she needed to talk to the priest there. She had started in Strongsville, which was two towns south of the Dunkin Donuts. The said the bus schedules must have changed and she got caught in the rain.

I hoped God appreciated her efforts to get to church.

There are many Catholic Churches between Strongsville and Old Brooklyn, why she had to get to this particular one, I did not ask. She probably grew up there. It is hard to move to a new church.

She told me that she was a recovering alcoholic, and had, a few years back sat in a cemetery contemplating suicide, but after laying among the dead for some time, decided not to join them. I said, “It’s probably your best choice, suicide is forever.”

I told her that being from Eastern European ancestry, I understood alcoholism and how I had uncles who served in World War II and Korea who drank. That was how people delt with PTSD before it was called PTSD.

She told me she hoped that the priest wouldn’t kick her out of the church. “Why would he do that?” I asked.

“Because I am late.”

I laughed and said, “I think with everything the Catholic Church has gone through over the past years, they would be happy to have you show up!"

“Just sit in the back.That’s the best place to be anyway.” I said.

She went onto tell me how she lived with her mom and dad and took care of them. “They are 87 and both use walkers, but they are doing okay.” I told her that my Dad had died at 87, after a short battle with cancer.

It occurred to me that sometimes we just want to tell someone our story.

My dad taught me to be kind to strangers.

We drove on, and in a short time arrived at Mary Queen of Peace Catholic Church. It’s a big, grand old church. Built back in the time when the church was the center of most people’s lives. When the whole family went to church on Sunday’s because that’s what you did. Before stores were open on Sundays. When people were praying for the lives of their sons fighting in wars in faraway lands.

I pulled into the parking lot and let her put near an entrance. She thanked me again for the ride, and I told her I was happy to do it.  I really was.

She got out and walked to the entrance, leaving behind a faint hint of a musty, Salvation Army Store smell in my truck. I pulled back onto Pearl Road and headed south.

Reflecting upon what has just transpired, I thought maybe it was a little crazy to give a stranger a ride, giving the state of the world. But is the world really any crazier than any other time? Are there more dangerous people out there on Sunday mornings, posing as desperate souls? That’s doubtful.

The news over the past 18 months has been a non-stop propaganda campaign to stay away from strangers. They have germs! You could die! You could kill them! They may be a little musty, but there is no real danger in being kind.

Today, the Face of God was a woman caught in the rain, trying to get to church.