Major Bashinsky – cause of death

Major Bashinsky
 
In nap dream late yesterday morning, I was driving down Shades Creek Road, on the Mt. Brook side, rather quickly, in traffic, and I tried to whip into The Old Mill parking area, but had to attempt it twice before I pulled it off, nearly causing another vehicle to go off the road, as another vehicle with two men in it, who had asked for directions a ways back up the road came by and turned right down a road just past The Old Mill and said thanks. No such road there in reality. I said to the driver of the car I nearly caused to run off the road, that I used to take my daughters to the old mill, which I never did in my human life, as far as I know. I said I remembered going there with my Little League coach and teammates once, and we threw rocks at snakes in the pool below the dam under the wooden bridge from the parking area to the water wheel and the mill house, which did happen once in my human life. Then, I walked around to the back of my Toyota Highlander, and saw the back hatch was open, and closed it.

How had I left the back hatch open, and what was coming in there causing me to not get to the Old Florida Short Route, US 280, and head back down to the Keys, as I’d been told in a dream the night before it was time for me to do, after putting up the new “Easter proceedings in my mother’s church – St. Luke’s Episcopal” page.

If you go back the other way on Shades Creek Road, and go through the stop light at Overbrook Road, you eventually end up just above St. Luke’s Episcopal Church. If you go the other way on Shades Creed Road, past the Old Florida Short Route turn, you eventually get to Samford University, a Baptist school which received million$ from my father and his father.So, what did I leave unattended in recent Birmingham writings?
I felt maybe the part of the dream was about my Little League baseball coach had to do with the first game I pitched. Whenever I threw a ball, I looked over at my father in the stands. He frowned at me every time I looked at him, and I felt terrible. After the game was lost, my coach asked who that was in the stands? I said my father. My coach said my father could not come to anymore games. I told my father that over dinner that night. It was awful.

 
Before the season started, my father came home every afternoon after work for weeks, and I pitched to him from 44 feet, with him crouched down behind a home plate with a catcher’s mitt, until I was a pretty darn good south paw pitcher. More than anything, I wanted to pitch well for my father, which was my undoing in that first game I pitched, and in life, where I kept repeating the mistake, and I kept getting into lots of trouble.
 
I don’t suppose the gory details are terribly relevant today, other than it took the angels quite a while to break me of seeking my father’s approval, not only directly, but also indirectly, in all sorts of “manly” endeavors. My father had the same problem with his father. Both of them had, in a broad sense, what is known as “little league father syndrome.” They lived through their sons’ accomplishments, and impressed on their sons the importance of living up to their father’s expectations. My cure from that led to a total fracture of my human relationship with my father (by then, his father was years deceased).
 
When I practiced law, I became an avid white-water canoeist, and started taking my two daughters canoeing. Usually one at a time. They became pretty good with the white water strokes and technique, and I thought we were having a good time together, until one day they took me aside and gently and kindly told me they loved me but did not want to be my son, their old brother who had died my senior year in law school. That broke me completely from ever trying to get them to do what I wanted them to do to make me happy.
 
Those thoughts swirled in my head yesterday, as I felt poisoned and tried to understand what I was supposed to write today, without ever getting the picture and getting really upset with the angels because nothing about The Old Mill did I associate with what I recently wrote about Birmingham, although the mill stone reminded me of my life permanently on the grindstone and angels running water permanently through the wheel, and lots of snakes, too.
 
Before dawn today, I dreamt of dusting off a red-headed male doll, who became a red-headed man trying to get to Five Points South in Birmingham. I awoke thinking maybe he was my mother’s father, James Garnet Major, after whose last name my brother Major was named. But I still was clueless what was in play, and went around with the angels again.
 
Then, my thoughts drifted to recent email correspondence with Roger Shuler, who publishes the Legal Schnauzer blog in Birmingham, and I wondered if could have anything to do with The Old Mill dream, or with my Grandfather Major?
 
Subject: Legal Schnauzer post
From:
rshuler3156@gmail.com
To: keysmyhome@hotmail.com

Sloan:
 
Thought you might be interested in a new post that references Major’s death.
 
Roger
 
To which I replied:
 
Thanks for letting me know, looks like old Schnauzer opinions re Major.Looks like the woman, centerpiece of this new Schnauzer article, got a seriously raw deal, based on your report.

To which Roger replied:

 
Yes, I would say she got a pretty raw deal, thanks largely to an incompetent or corrupt medical examiner.
 
I toyed with replying that Roger finally found a medical examiner who had screwed up a case, which ended up, it seemed, with an innocent woman going to prison. Roger then projected that medical examiner’s flub onto several pet Alabama forensic conspiracy theories he has been promoting for years, including his theory that the Jefferson County Coroner screwed up by ruling Major’s death was suicide.
 
By then, I was feeling even more poisoned and was enraged with the angels over their lousy dream guidance, but somehow I fell back asleep and dreamt of a man hosting some kind of TV news show holding forth, and I knew he had it wrong and told him so, and that I had told him it was wrong the day before, too. I awoke, knowing the TV show host was Roger Shuler, whom I had told several times he was wrong about the cause of Major’s death.
 
I then wrongly figured the whole ordeal, which started with The Old Mill nap dream yesterday, was about my unfinished business with Roger, and wrestled around in that muck for a while, cussing the angels all the more. That muck can be seen in the Major Bashinsky – Legal Schnauzer v. Bash, Jefferson County Coroner and Birmingham Police Department page at goodmorningbirmingam.com.
 
Then, my thoughts returned to the hard fact that it really didn’t matter what human method caused Major’s death; it was his time to go because he was doing the same little league father thing to his son by his second wife, that he had done to his son by his first wife, which had destroyed his first son’s soul.
 
That Major was doing it to his second son was revealed in a page on his law firm website, dedicated to his second son’s sports achievements. A page that was taken down off the website soon after I first published in March 2010 the real cause of Major’s death.
 
There were to other clues for that was why Major left this life.
 
The first was a woman I did not know, whose daughter swam on the Birmingham County Club swim team, wrote to me of dreaming of seeing Major pacing the pool with a worried look on his face, and his second son was in the water nearby. According to the page on Major’s website, the boy was a budding swimming super star.
 
The second clue, which came to light a little later, via Major’s first wife: the morning of the day Major went missing, he learned his oldest son was texting his older sister and other people that he was thinking of killing himself.
 
According to Dothan investigative journalist Lori Moore, a buddy of Roger Shuler, she went to the Five Points Starbucks, where employees said Major was there with his oldest son, the afternoon of the day Major went missing. The employees told Moore that Major was a regular customer.
 
Shortly afterward, Major was seen in the nearby Five Points Hardware buying duct tape and rope. A black and white silhouette from the surveillance camera looked exactly like Major’s physical profile to me, a physical profile he and his father and I shared. According to the coroner’s report, when Major’s body was found in the pond about two weeks later, his wrists were loosely tied by a rope, which was tied to a rope around his waist, and his mouth was taped shut by duct tape wrapped several times around his head.
 
Did the suicide texts from Major’s oldest son that morning drive Major to kill himself? Not a chance, but it did badly disrupt Major’s day and threw off his schedule, so that no planned hit could have worked that day.
 
Major could be incredibly mean. He very much was capable of deciding to do that evening what he already had decided to do, to cause his son to feel responsible and/or look like the prime suspect.
 
The boy had walked away from what could have been a stellar sports career, and then had caused his father considerable trouble and a lot of money bailing him out of misadventures and rehab clinics. Punishing the boy for disappointing his father was completely within Major’s psychological profile.
 
As was it completely within our father and our grandfather’s psychological profiles, which Major and I both learned the very hard way. The sins of the fathers in our side of the Bashinsky family. Sins that ended in my bloodline when my son died and his younger sisters declined to take his place. Sins that perhaps ended in Major’s bloodline when his time came.
 
Early on, I tried to get Major to lay off his first son, but was unsuccessful and it seriously strained our relationship. In the big scheme of things, it mattered not whether it was murder or suicide. Major died because he could not be allowed to repeat with his second son what he did with his first son.
 
Sloan Bashinsky
 

One Response to Major Bashinsky – cause of death

  1. DAVIS BROADWAY says:

    SLOAN
    VERY WELL WRITTEN, ONLY IN A CONTEXT THAT ONLY YOU COULD DO…FAMILY BACKGROUND, LITTLE LEAGUE SYNDROME ETC. I COME OUT OF IT FEELING VERY SAD. I ALMOST CRY SOMETIME LOOKING AT MY SONS, THANKFUL FOR WHO and WHAT THEY ARE and WHAT THEY MEAN TO ME. I COACHED THEIR LITTLE LEAGUE BASEBALL SEVERAL YEARS (ON THE BENCH) AND ALWAYS HUGGED THEM AFTER EACH TIME AT BAT WHETHER A STRIKE OUT OR SOMETHING BETTER. BUT… MAJOR COULD HAVE (SHOULD HAVE) REVERSED THAT “MEAN” PATTERN WITH LOVE and AFFECTION INSTEAD OF PERPETUATING “SIN OF OUR FATHERS”. HE WOULD STILL BE HERE TODAY, A BETTER MAN, IF HE HAD ALLOWED HIMSELF TO BE IN TOUCH WITH THAT EMOTION AND NOT FELT IT A THREAT TO HIS MANHOOD TO BREACH THAT MACHO FACADE ! THERE ARE MANY OTHER DADS OUT THERE WITH THIS SAME PERVERTED APPROACH.
    gUESS IT’S LIKE YOU SAID ” THE LITTLE LEAGUE SYNDROME ! LOVE TO YOU.

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