The Road From Here To Where You Stay
by
Book Cover & Preview Text
January 1996
To me writing had always been litigious. It was something that other people did. No more do I feel that way; now I want to
write. At times the words and my
thoughts are lingual, at times even liquid, looking for a way out of my
mind. At times the words are but blocks
of ice. Some words I have discovered
are books in themselves, vast and wonderful; some words are limp and hurtful;
some are wasted on people who won't listen to what is being said or written. If beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
then surely words are the reflection of a person and a soul.
Writing, to me, has now become a task of
discipline. Trying to stay still when
you want to scratch, holding your breath and tongue when you want to talk and
explain, keeping your mind closed down when it knows so much and wants to open
up, knowing the truth and pretending to know nothing. The reward is looking for just the right word and finding a crown
of jewels.
If I'm ever asked who I've become, I trust I'll be
able to know the difference between who I was and who I am, the difference
between who I was before writing words and after. I trust I'll know the difference between James Ewell Brown (Jeb)
Stuart and William Shakespeare. I am
who I have become because of words. The
words used to lie to me. The words used
to express love to me. Now the words
come from beneath the covers of my mind and the dictionaries my old,
weather-beaten fingers have worn out turning the pages.
So, thank you, words, for teaching me to love
you. Thank you for being there when I
only thought I could fumble, gush, and make a fool of myself. Thank you for your silence when only you
knew I would tell this story later. Maybe
now some of your fellow, honored countrymen will come back at another time to
help me finish. You can tell a little
about people because of their laughter and their tears, but you only really
know them when you listen to their words.
Epilogue
"Hi! Thank you for coming over here
today."
She came up the three steps from the outside door
onto the main floor of the kitchen with a small half-smile on her face. It was January 4th, 1994, and if I hadn't
known better, I would have thought it was the first day of spring. The morning sun played tag with the clouds
and then filtered into the skylights and settled on her features. I remember I held my finger to her dry
mouth; her lips were a winter pale and pink.
We sat there across from one another at the polished
red oak table in my dinning room for maybe two or three minutes. From the middle of the table I moved my
original Paul Revere silver creamer, the one that was a gift from General
Johnson to me years ago. The creamer
was full of fresh cut flowers I had purchased early that morning after my
ritualistic pre-dawn walk. I could see
her profile in the brass-framed mirror as well as her long, lovely face looking
head on at me. She was as tall and as
beautiful as I had remembered. She was
older, but so was I.
"Don't say anything, please, until I am
finished with what I want to tell you."
She had been an English major in college; she would listen if the story
were good. "I started to learn
about words in Vietnam when I was eighteen, real words that is."
I had scattered a hundred or so different pieces of
paper, a notebook and assorted other types of paper from napkins to coasters,
things I had saved for years, on the tabletop.
Spelled out on them were poems I had written over the years and wanted
to finally show to someone. I hoped
they would speak to her womanly heart as they always had to other women, one on
one.
"I have a story I want to write, but I don't
know how to go about it. Over the years
you have been the only American woman I have known who could take feelings I
seemed only to begin to express and give them life."
There was a single tear forming in my right eye as I
went on with my words. "The pictures
in my mind's eye always became so real as you captured those images with the
words I wanted to write. You knew how
to do it, and I did not. That is why I
called you again after all these years; that is why you are the only one who
can do this project with me, who can help me write this story." My voice was barely audible; sudden warmth
enclosed me as the sun came out from behind the last cloud of the morning. Maybe it was going to be the first day of
spring.
"If you think that much of my ability, you know my answer is yes. It won't be easy to
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About the Book
Thirty-three years are up! Government files have begun to be declassified on the era, but the real story remains untold. A young Marine recruit at the time of the Vietnam Conflict has grown into a middle-aged man who harbors the scars of war both physically and emotionally. For personal reasons, Thomas Kemp feels he must tell the story. Everyone is dead, but himself and two others he was an eyewitness to the death of the President of South Vietnam, Ngo Diem, and to that of his brother who were executed in November of 1963. Vietnam is a conflict that will not go away. The history of that country has become very much intertwined with America’s history during the sixties. Thomas Kemp had been handpicked to share confidences that would determine the course of American history for years to come. His special status gave him special responsibilities and a special danger. Thomas is both prey and predator. Through it all, Thomas Kemp had pledged his word to remain silent for thirty years or until all parties were dead. Well, time is up.
About the Author
Thomas T. Kemp was born in 1944 the youngest of three children and lives in Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio. Kemp enlisted in the United States Marines just six days after he turned seventeen years old. Six months later in 1962, he arrived in the Far East to execute the rest of his Marine enlistment. Serving in Japan, Okinawa, Nationalist China, Thailand, and Vietnam. Kemp was the youngest manager in the history of Goodyear Tire and Rubber Company. He left Goodyear for defense work at Lockheed Martin. At fifty-two years of age, Kemp was forced to retire from defense work after all the “old guard” had left. He is divorced and is the father of three grown children.