Purple Pinecones
There I stood a mere Private in the
United States Army, being yelled at about a new tattoo that had mysteriously appeared
on my leg, sometime during a period of summer leave. The person yelling at me
went by the name of Staff Sergeant Russo. And Staff Sergeant Russo was the same
individual, who was responsible to ensure that I maintained and exercised the
upmost professionalism and military discipline at all times. So, you can
probably imagine his dismay as his soldier showed up to a morning PT formation
with a brand new, quite unusual, and most certainly permanent tattoo on his leg
for everyone to see. He was unhappy to say the least, and he voiced his
thoughts to me in an adequate fashion. I mean, honestly there was a lot to be
upset about. First off, I got the tattoo about 1,500 miles away from where I
was supposed to be on leave, it was (and still is) a matching tattoo with
another person, and most importantly it is a tattoo of a purple pinecone. Yes,
you read that correctly, I have a tattoo of a purple pinecone. So, I stood
there and took my ear full (as privates do), and upon being asked by Russo “What in the hell does that stupid tattoo mean?” I responded by saying, “It’s
just a purple pinecone, Sergeant.”
Inside of a tattoo shop in
Oceanside, California, my best friend Jace and I were drunkenly explaining to
the confused tattoo artist as to why two grown men were in his place of
business asking him to permanently mark their bodies with a pair of matching purple pinecones. As we rambled on and on about how long we had been friends and how
much we wanted these tattoos, it turns out that the only explanation that that
gentleman was looking for was cash. Because two hours and several hundred
dollars later, Jace and I walked out of that shop with bright purple homages to
the pine tree on our left thighs. As we both realized the unusual nature of
these tattoos, we understood the meanings and motives would be heavily analyzed
by all of our other friends and our families. So, I looked over at Jace and asked,
“What are we going to say about these?”
“It’s just a purple pinecone? What
does that even mean? Is that the supposed to suffice as some kind of an answer?
What kind of reputable tattoo shop would do such a stupid thing?” These are the
types of questions that Staff Sergeant Russo was looking for the answers to but because of a promise made to my best friend years prior, I just kept
responding with “It’s just a purple pinecone, Sergeant.” Eventually, Russo
stopped with the third degree, made peace with the fact the pinecone wasn’t
going anywhere, and let me go on my merry little way. What he didn’t
understand, was I had told him the truth every time he asked me what the tattoo
meant.
Jace and I were eighteen years old,
sitting on the side of the road waiting for our friend to give us a ride home.
As we sat there waiting, both of us engaged in the kind of nonsensical
conversation one can only have with their best friend, it happened. From the
mighty tree above, a purple pinecone fell between the two of us. We remarked at
how neither of us had ever seen a purple pinecone before, and how interesting
of an occurrence this was. So, naturally we kept talking about it, long after
our friend Tyler had already picked us up. So, when he finally (and rightfully)
asked his friends why they were talking about a purple pinecone; for reasons I
cannot explain to you, Jace and I decided to keep the purple pinecone and the wonderment
of it’s unveiling, a secret from Tyler. This was nothing but a trivial effort
to slightly frustrate a friend of ours. But as he grew more and more frustrated
at the lack of an explanation he was receiving for the two of us, he kept digging
deeper and deeper to discover what significance a purple pinecone could
possibly hold for Jace and I. And even though we kept true to our vow of
secrecy, we never lied when we told him repeatedly, “It’s just a purple
pinecone, Tyler.”
“I am not asking you. I’m telling
you. I need you to slap me in the goddamn face before we go up there or I will
not be able to do this.” Jace said this to me as we were being ushered up to
the front of the church, where in a few moments he would be delivering a eulogy
for his older brother, Zachary. Zachary was taken away swiftly and without
notice, and the grief I witnessed his younger brother go through while trying
to cope with this insurmountable loss, was like nothing else I had ever seen
before. So, when Jace asked me to stand by his side as he did one of the
hardest things he’s ever done, I obliged. And if he needed a slap to the face
to be able to stand in front of what seemed like a crowd of thousands, and read
the words he had written for his brother, then who in the hell was I to deny
him such a wholehearted request? His father introduced Jace and I to
the congregation of people and told them all that Jace had prepared a statement
for his brother. We both stood to our feet and took a deep breath. I grabbed his right
shoulder, and with my right hand I struck his left cheek just about as hard as
I could. The crack of the slap echoed through that church until we reached the
podium and Jace began to speak.
While the tattoo was absolutely a
derivative of our alcohol consumption that day, it was however not the brainchild
of our drunken spontaneity or the result in a lapse of judgement. It was
absolutely a planned event. It just so happens that Henry Mckenna helped us
pull the trigger and just do the damn thing. There was and continues to be a
level of mystery and frustration that exists around the purple pinecone
tattoos. People seem to have an incredibly difficult time grasping that the
tattoo is not nearly as meaningful as they try to make it out to be. On the
other hand, it does require some form ideological or sentimental motivation to
go through the purely unique experience of having a cluster of needles tear
your skin apart at a rate of 3,000 punctures per minute.
When shit hits the fan and your life
is utterly torn to shreds, people seem to comfort you with words. And even as
some of the words are received and their sentiment of love and positivity are
understood, sometimes they do little to ease the gaping wound that is in your
soul. Sometimes, it is just the simple act of someone being with you and
nothing more. They don’t try to rebuild you, as the pieces of what you once
were, are now scattered across the floor. Instead, they just make sure you
don’t lose track of the good pieces while you reconstruct yourself. They
provide solidarity in the form of just being present. That is what Jace did for
me when we were young. Long before the passing of his brother, long before the
slap heard ‘round the church, long before the tattoos had meaning, Jace was
there for me as my pieces were scattered.
“Blood is thicker than water.”
Everyone has heard that expression, and most have mutilated the meaning over
time. The real saying is “the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water
of the womb.” What that means is that the relationships you make in this life and
the ones you choose to keep in your inner circle are the ones of the upmost
importance. If you’re looking for a tattoo with meaning, look no further than
the inside of my left forearm.
“Bair, I just simply don’t
understand you.” My commander said that to me, one morning as he saw the
buttstock of my rifle, which was labeled as “the property of: Purple Pinecone
Bair”. Our unit armorer, who was also my next-door neighbor in the barracks,
thought that my tattoo was something extraordinary and he had decided that it
would become part of my title. And he was not the only one. At this point, the
tattoo had gained a good amount of notoriety, infamy, and popularity amongst
the ranks of us lower enlisted soldiers. Some saw it is as downright hilarious,
some saw it as a way of “sticking it to the establishment”, and others shared
the sentiment as my commander. Regardless, the purple pinecone had become more
than just a physical part of who I was.
There is no ambiguity, yet there is
still confusion. There is no grey area, yet the meaning seems lost in the fog
of bewilderment. The pinecones exist, endure, and reciprocate exactly as they were
intended, and that is beautiful. Do not become so immersed in the search for
meaning that you ignore the blatant proof in front of your eyes. The meaning
may not exist within the tangible ink stains of this paper or even between the
lines of this text. But I can assure you, that I have never lied to you as I
have said time and time again “It’s just a purple pinecone.”