“We turn not older in years, but newer every day.”
Tag Archives: years
Still Fighting, Living and Writing!
Today, Saturday November 5, marks my 59th birthday, and I have to gloat on myself! For the first time in a long while, I feel better than I have…in a long while! For one thing I don’t feel a day older than 57! And, even as I rapidly approach the seventh decade of my life, I’m determined never to get “old”.
I’ve had so much going on lately. The COVID-19 pandemic decimated both my burgeoning freelance writing career and what savings I’d amassed over the previous years. I’ve had trouble finding work, which I attribute in part to my age. Other stuff has gone awry. My truck is showing its age; the overhead garage door needs to be repaired; I need a new PC, CD player and DVD player. I’ve had ongoing plumbing problems. A job that was contract-to-hire (and that looked very promising) was pulled unexpectedly from me on Friday.
But my hair is still black; my face and body are in relatively good shape; I still enjoy writing and blogging; and – most importantly – I’m still alive! I woke up this morning…well, more like this afternoon.
I’m also happy to say I’ve achieved that coveted status of “Dirty Old Man”! Now I can emulate my dad and pretty much do and say whatever I want and not give a shit what people say about it! What a glorious state of being!
As someone who has suffered from chronic depression most of my life and alcoholism most of my adult years, I’m glad to know I’ve made it to another year of life. I haven’t given up on myself and neither should any of you! If someone as deranged as me can live this long, just about anything can happen!
Filed under Essays
Appliances, People and Other Crap That Gets Old
Last month I had to buy a new clothes washer. I came home from work one Friday and dropped my casual dress shirts into the washer, as I did at the end of every work week. After a few minutes I realized the washer had stopped. In fact, after it filled with water, it had grown surprisingly silent. The thing banged a lot when in action. But when I checked on it, I was stunned to find it still filled with water. No amount of manipulation – which, for the mechanically-challenged such as myself – meant yanking on the knob (as if I was in the midst of a raucous masturbatory session) and smacking it (again, as if in the midst of a raucous masturbatory session). Aren’t you glad you decided to read something today?!
All of that was to no avail. So I removed the shirts and squeezed out the water and searched online for a repair place. I found one, but they couldn’t fix it. I paid their fee – and never heard from them again. I filed a fraud complaint with my bank, which gave me provisional credit. But they ultimately decided I was hysterical and reversed the credit.
I was forced to get a new washer – and change banks. I realized the obvious: my 10-year-old clothes washer had decided to give up on me (at the financially worst time!) and I had to get a new one. My long-time good friend, Raymond*, came in from out of town shortly after that. He was here when I bought a new washer through Overstock and here at the house when it arrived. It turned out to be much smaller than anticipated – suitable more for a dorm room or efficiency apartment than a hyper-clean single man living alone in a 3-bedroom house – so I was forced to return it.
I then purchased a fuller-size washer and had it delivered. Before Raymond returned home, he helped me disconnect and move the deceased appliance into the garage. I had to empty out the bulk of the water by hand. We both laughed afterwards, as I championed the fact two 50-something fuckers like us could move a massive appliance across several feet and through two doorways. Personally, it was the most exercise I’d had in months!
Not long afterwards, Raymond encountered his own appliance-related fiasco. His aging refrigerator had started causing him problems. He was able to get it repaired, but it was still an unsettling prospect for him. His health problems seriously impact his personal finances, and in the wealthiest country on Earth, people in his condition have to budget tightly.
The image at top is from a series of text messages between Raymond and me as he lamented his refrigerator ordeal. I couldn’t help but laugh loudly and told as many people as possible; people who are roughly our age.
At 15, my truck is showing its age. The engine light keeps illuminating, and a headlight recently went out. But it’s still operating relatively well! Other things in and around my house are also becoming problematic. My father had a fetish for scented candles, until I finally convinced him they were damaging the walls and ceilings with soot. The kitchen sink had been causing trouble years ago – long before either of my parents passed away. The water heater is leaking slowly. My iron (my mother’s iron actually) committed suicide a few months ago in mid-session. The roof has a number of openings, which allow squirrels and other small invasive varmints to enter and hide. Their rumblings in the attic make me recall the mythical rat problem in “The Exorcist”.
Years ago my mother would tell me that life begins at 40; a rather common saying at the time. She had just turned 40 when we moved into this suburban house in December of 1972. Shortly after I turned 40 in 2003, I came down with the flu for the first time in my entire life. The following April, I severely sprained my left ankle while walking my dog. It had rotated as far as it could go without breaking. I ended up on crutches and taking time off from work. About 5 months before I turned 50 in 2013, I had a freak accident here at the house that severely damaged my right arm and landed me in the hospital for a few days. If I had been alone, I probably would have bled to death.
It seems the start of every decade of my life coincides with something bad. In the two months before I turned 30 in 1993, one of my closest friends died, and I contracted Hepatitis A that culminated in a hospital stay and nearly two months off from work. Therefore, I’m not eager to see what awaits me come my 60th birthday – if I’m fortunate enough to make it that far.
A couple of months ago I was looking into one of my eyes in the mirror when I noticed a bruise on the outside of my left forearm, close to the elbow. It immediately drew my attention for one simple reason – I have no idea how the damn thing got there! And I grew alarmed. Occasionally my parents would end up with miscellaneous bruises; marks with an unknown cause. It made me recall an even more unsettling incident from more than two decades ago.
I worked for a bank in Dallas, dealing with high-dollar clientele. Many of my customers were elderly. I was on the phone with a gentleman one afternoon when he halted the conversation and began mumbling. I asked if he was alright. He then noted rather casually – almost too casually – that he was bleeding and didn’t know from where. A colleague passing by my desk at that moment noticed my eyebrows pop upward in shock. I asked the man if I needed to call someone for him, as in 911. He said no, that he’d be alright.
Of course, a bruise is nowhere as serious as blood. But I’m still wondering if I’m now at that point in time – the age where my body is subtly telling me it wants to lead a life of its own. I’m not ready to let the bastard go yet! Yes, I’m a writer, but I don’t want to melt down into a fat, grouchy curmudgeon surrounded by books and bottles of wine and vodka! If you knew my present lifestyle, it may seem that way, but no one asked you!
Raymond turned 59 last month, and I told him I’m actually looking forward to turning 60 in two years. I also told him something even more significant – we will age and mature, indeed, but we will never get “old”. I certainly don’t intend to let myself reach that point. Raymond has been through a lot in his life. Just half the crap he’s endured would send most people into therapy or a talk show. And I’m still here for a reason, too.
Broken clothes washers or not, I’ll go on until my power system decides it’s had enough. In the meantime, I’m still on the lookout for anymore rogue bruises.
*Name changed
Filed under Essays
About the Last Decade…
“I saw the decade in,
When it seemed the world could change,
At the blink of an eye.”
Jesus Jones – “Right Here, Right Now”
I have to wonder what is it about this last decade that makes it unique. How do we define the 2010s? It seems to be a modern quandary. Since the 1920s, the United States – and perhaps, much of the world – has viewed itself in terms of decades. Every ten-year period for the past century has been defined by certain cultural and political events and movements.
The 1920s were known as the “Roaring 20s” and the “Jazz Age”. It was a decade of extraordinary prosperity, the maturity of the film industry, jazz bands, raccoon coats, flappers, bootleggers and marathon dancers. The 1930s were dominated by the “Great Depression”; a calamitous effect of those “Roaring 20s”. It also became renowned for the equally disastrous “Dust Bowl”, bank robbers, the rise of fascism in Europe and many precursors to World War II.
The 1930s started as the previous decade came to an end and spilled into the 1940s, which then became known as the “War Years”; its connection to the Second World War sealed in blood and stone. Sorrow and patriotism marked that period, but hope also rose up from the sands of despair. American dominance across the globe began to take shape in that decade.
The 1950s saw the greatest economic expansion in modern world history, as a new “Middle Class” took control of the American experience. The Second World War metastasized into the Cold War, as Communism began rampaging across Europe. The Korean War was a brutal stain on this time of prosperity, which also became known for a dual sense of conformity and fear. The various civil rights movements that would dominate the latter half of the 20th century began fomenting in the 1950s.
The 1960s were a cataclysm of generational clashes, which started with the election of John F. Kennedy. The decade commenced as a mirror of the previous decade. But all of the chaos that defined the 60s had begun rumbling in the 50s, like a volcanic caldera. People who had done everything possible to secure their right to freedom and happiness exploded with anger that they had achieved little in many respects. Their hostility shocked the staid American populace, as the decade also saw the space race take shape; political assassinations; the Vietnam War; drug and sex revolutions; and finally, a man on the moon.
The 1970s began as an extension of the 60s, but it saw an explosion of artistry in music, television, cinema and literature. It also experienced cultural and technological innovations. On the down side, it was scarred by the first resignation of president in U.S. history; a humiliating end to the Vietnam conflict; energy crises; and finally, an even more humiliating hostage situation with Iran.
While the 60s were often called the “We Decade” and the 70s the “Me Decade”, the 1980s became the “Gimme Decade”; a time when greed became good, hair and women’s shoulder pads grew large and overpriced meals grew small. It spawned the “MTV Generation” and saw the VCR become ubiquitous in American households. It also experienced the rise of one of the greatest health crises in world history, as AIDS exploded.
The 1990s remains my personal favorite. Although it began with the “Savings & Loan” crisis and the Persian Gulf War, we underwent economic growth that eclipsed the 1950s and an explosion of technology unmatched in modern history. The 90s saw multiculturalism and the fruits of affirmative action; DNA science; the collapse of the Soviet Union; right-wing paranoia; and Y2K.
The first two decades of the 21st century, however, seem almost indistinguishable. The horror of 9/11; a resurgence of patriotism; U.S.-led Middle East conflicts; and the “Great Recession” defined the first ten years. But, if we had to classify the 2010s, how would we so it? What would we say?
I feel it’s been almost a complete reversal of two centuries of civil rights progress. The birth of the “Tea Party” in 2010 wasn’t so much a vitriolic dissatisfaction with the tax system in the U.S. (Taxed Enough Already), but rather, the election of the nation’s first biracial president. That seemed to upend all that was considered normal in this country; an obliteration of long-held norms. The “Tea Party” boasted a few Asian, Black and Hispanic members; all tokens working on behalf of the Old White Male, who went from just ‘angry’ to downright ‘enraged’. So-called “birtherism” mixed with the complete and total disrespect Republican politicians had for Barack Obama. In response, Republican-dominated state legislatures (including my beloved Texas) became determined to dismantle decades of voting rights by limiting early voting periods and enhancing voter identification methods; all in an attempt to undermine a mythical rash of voter fraud. In reality, they were just appalled that a Negro (a half-blooded one, but a Negro nonetheless) could make it into the highest political office in the land. Fortunately, they’ve been stalled by various judges at almost every step. In retaliation for the Obama years, many voters became determined to get just about any old White man into the White House. Thus, we ended up with the cantankerously disoriented Donald Trump. I told myself repeatedly during the disastrous George W. Bush years that I’m not ashamed to be an American. But Trump’s tenure has made that sentiment exceptionally difficult.
As with any serious economic downturn, the “Great Recession” made America turn inwards during the last decade; with non-Whites and immigrants suffering the usual brunt of antagonism and fear. What should have been a time of extraordinary prosperity – coming off the 1990s – mutated into lackluster economic growth in the 2000s and ardent despair in the 2010s. Literally millions of people lost their jobs, homes and savings, as the large corporations (particularly the monstrous financial institutions) that fueled the near-total collapse got bailed out. And – with a few high-profile exceptions – no one went to jail. Where was my tax relief?
The trickle-down economics bullshit that forms the basis of conservative financial ideology got a steroid-type boost with the Afghanistan and Iraq wars and intense deregulation of those dreaded banks. That furthered the expansion of wealth inequality that makes the “Gilded Age” look juvenile. The “Gilded Age” – to anyone wary enough – created an anarchist movement that took root in the slums of Europe and Latin America before seeping into the U.S. It came close to a rebirth with “Occupy Wall Street”, but I still believe a full-fledged revolt is possible.
I guess how we define any period in our lives is how we define ourselves. If we like where we are in life, then times are good. It’s always purely subjective. As introverted as I am and as pessimistic as I may seem to some, I still hope the 2020s experience an eruption of more progressive national ideologies; such as advances in science and medicine and greater funding for education and health care, instead of war and tax breaks for a select privileged few. Where we go from here is often dependent more on our own aspirations than on fate and acts of God. The sun hasn’t set on hope, if we look at hope as concept ahead and not behind.
Filed under Essays
10 After 20
“Nothing in life is to be feared. It is only to be understood.” – Marie Curie
Here we are! It’s 2020 – the start of a new year and a new decade. Forty years ago I was excited about the prospect of witnessing and understanding the birth of a new decade. I had just turned 16 and couldn’t remember 1970. But this was different. A whole new decade! As my parents and I often did, we staged a New Year’s party in 1979; inviting family, friends and neighbors. I had taken the time to cut up strips of multi-colored paper into literally thousands of squares, which I then tossed into the air from a large brown paper bag at the stroke of midnight.
I was considerably more excited ten years later, as we welcomed the 1990s, which – even now – remains the best decade of my life. I was a young adult by then, working for a major bank in Dallas; a small personal accomplishment that made me feel I was finally a part of society and not some frustrated observer on the outside looking into a seemingly untouchable world. During that time I began making concerted attempts to become a published writer and even contemplated returning to college. These latter two dreams each wouldn’t materialize for more than another decade later.
The turn of the century – and the millennium – was one of the most exciting moments I’ve ever experienced. Like the dawn of the 1990s, it remains a high point of my life. Twenty years ago the world looked more hopeful and inviting. I wasn’t nearly as excited about the 2010s. Things had grown kind of awkward for me by then. But it’s come and gone.
So alas, we are at the threshold of the third decade of the 21st century. Every New Year’s bears the excitement of a renewal; a chance to alter our priorities and improve our stations in life. Yet, it’s different with the start of a new decade. Since the early 1900s, societal changes have occurred rapidly. For millennia, time periods were designated by century; now they’re often designated by decade. Each ten-year interval boasts its own cultural shifts; fashion and music trends; and political dynamics. As our life expectancy increases, so does our concept of time.
I’m approaching this decade with more caution, however. As I tend to do, I maintain a safe distance and analyze the universe around me and wonder what more can be done to improve not just my life, but everyone’s lives.
These last two decades have seen an explosion of technological and cultural advances, both here in the United States and across the globe. But, in many ways, things haven’t changed much. I’ve focused my concern on how dismal our political and economic well-being have become. The pathetic presidency of George W. Bush and the ever-increasing disorientation of the Donald Trump administration have set us back on many levels. Unlike 20 years ago we now have the greatest wealth gap in over a century. The first decade of the present century should have been an extraordinary time of progressive social and technological advancement. Yes, everyone seemingly has a cell phone and a personal computer. But so many promising visions of the future were lost to Middle East conflicts and an extreme level of corporate deregulation. The “Great Recession” squashed hope for many people across the nation. While many of my fellow Americans wonder if Bitcoin will make a resounding return to the financial sphere or what latest cell phone apps will be available in the coming months, I’m contemplating the grander picture.
In the 19th century, the U.S. built the world’s first transcontinental railroad system and helped create telephones and electric lighting. At the start of the 20th century, we sent men into the air and then constructed the world’s largest highway system. In 1962, President John F. Kennedy issued a challenge to the nation; wanting us “to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things; not because they are easy, but because they are hard.” And, we did just that! Just seven years later, Neil Armstrong became the first human to set foot on the lunar surface.
The 1960s and 70s saw the birth of various civil rights movements: women, non-Whites, and gays and lesbians. That forced America to live up to its promise to be a land of equality and prosperity. We finally began seeing the fruits of those movements in the 1990s.
Yet here stands the U.S. – still mired in Middle East conflicts and dealing with an economy that, on the surface, looks extraordinary. But those of us struggling with medical bills and increasingly high costs of basic living aren’t exactly thrilled that the U.S. stock market is functioning wonderfully for large corporations that don’t often pay their taxes and feel they have the unquestionable right to contaminate the environment in the name of profit.
Although I’m an introvert, I remain optimistic and would like to see society achieve some grand accomplishment over the next 10 years.
Infrastructure – As of 2017, the American Society of Civil Engineers (ASCE) gave the U.S. a grade of D+ for infrastructure. That’s an overall assessment of everything from bridges to railroads. To say they’re falling apart is dismissively juvenile. A grade is just a letter, but the implications are dire. In 2007, a section of Interstate 35 through Minneapolis collapsed, killing 13 people and injuring 145. But, nearly 13 years later, the U.S. is still spending more on military intervention in the perpetually-chaotic Middle East than making serious efforts to rebuild, or even refurbish, highways like I35. The ASCE estimates the nation will need up to 4.5 trillion USD to repair or rebuild much of our infrastructure by 2025. It’s one critical issue on which elected officials of all political stripes might agree. Instead, we have a president who wants to spend even more money to build a wall along the nation’s southern border with México. I can’t even contemplate how much that would cost. Knowing the U.S. federal government, though, it would be much more than initial estimates. Still, as I move around my own local area, I notice roads that have been under construction since the start of the last decade!
Subterranean Power and Telecommunication Lines – In September of 2017, Hurricane Maria rolled over Puerto Rico as a borderline category 5 storm. With an estimated cost of 94 billion USD, it stands as one of the most expensive natural disasters in U.S. history. And Maria didn’t even reach the American mainland. As with most such calamities, residents in the impact zones lived without power, which includes clean water. Like Andrew did to Florida in 1992, and Katrina to the Gulf Coast in 2005, Maria destroyed a substantial number of power and telecommunication lines across Puerto Rico. Our government’s response? USD 5 billion in aid and a president tossing paper towels into a raucous crowd.
Tropical storm systems aren’t our only nemesis. Currently, the U.S. is dealing with yet another round of powerful winter weather, with strong winds flipping vehicles and blizzard conditions hampering travel. It’s not uncommon for massive weather phenomena to impact more than 100 million people. Last October the Dallas, Texas area experienced a rash of tornado outbreaks. But that’s just in one city in one state. Other areas across the country have been struck by these meteorological vortexes. And, of course, power and telecommunication lines are among the casualties.
The same happens after floods, tornadoes, wildfires and earthquakes. Humans can never control Earth’s natural elements. Every time we’ve tried, those elements remind us who holds the true power. Still, we can lessen the severity of unruly weather by burying as many of our power and telecommunication lines underground as possible. It’s nothing new. People have been pushing this concept for years. And there are the usual detractors. Although a number of power and telecommunication lines have already been interred, opponents claim they’re not always more reliable than overhead lines. While overhead lines experience more outages, subterranean lines are generally more difficult to access and repair when problems with them do arise. Another obstacle, of course, is funding. There are greater costs associated with the installation of subterranean lines. The costs would have to be passed down to consumers somehow. But, I feel it’s all worth the financial burden. Ultimately, it costs people more to go without power – both in actual money and lives lost. The expenses incurred with the initial installations and ongoing maintenance will more than pay for themselves in the ensuing years.
Space – Since humans first looked up to the sky and began studying the stars, we’ve wondered what it would be like to fly and visit another celestial body. Now, we’ve taken flight and ventured onto the moon. The next logical step would be Mars. Plenty of people – from Elon Musk to Mars One – are making a concerted effort to get there. In the 1970s, the U.S. became the first nation to reach Mars with the Viking I and II voyages. We’ve done it again recently with the Curiosity mission. The U.S. space program was good for the country and the world, as it spurred a number of technological developments; mainly with telecommunications, but also with engineering and robotics.
Sadly, if the U.S. wants to send humans to the moon now, we couldn’t do it. We’ve let that go. Again, it’s the war factor – more money spent on Middle East conflicts than on things that really matter. But I would like to see the U.S. rejuvenate its space program and begin establishing a lunar colony; thus making interplanetary travel materialize from the pages of science fiction into reality. And, of course, we should make a concerted effort to send a craft with humans to Mars by the end of this decade. There’s more technology in a single Smart Phone than there was in all of the Apollo 11 lunar module. We can make this happen.
Thousands of years ago humans thought Earth was the only place in the universe that harbored any semblance of life. We’re starting to realize that’s not true. We exist on this third rock from the sun, but I’m certain we have never been alone. And, even if we are (by some odd fluke of nature), what’s to say we can’t venture outward and make our world more hospitable? If we rise above our own political and social distractions, we’ll understand we can do better than this. We have to do better. I can’t imagine us living in a world of such chaos and uneasiness. Throughout this next decade, we have to move forward. Time will. We have to follow it.
Photo by Josh Sorenson.
Filed under Essays
Go On
My first two personal journals, which covered the dreaded year of 1985.
On December 31, 1985, I gathered with one of my best friends, his then-girlfriend and her older sister at the girls’ house to ring in the New Year. In my 22 years of life at the time, I had never been so glad to see a single year fade away as 1985. Just about everything had gone wrong for me. I was placed on academic probation in college because of my dismal grades for the fall 1984 semester; then got suspended for the fall 1985 term because I still couldn’t get it right. That prevented me from becoming a full member of a fraternity I so desperately wanted to join. In April my parents and I had to put our German shepherd, Joshua, to sleep. That fall I had my first sexual experience, which proved embarrassing and depressing. In October I fell into a police trap and was arrested for drunk driving. (My blood alcohol level ultimately proved I wasn’t legally intoxicated.) By Christmas, I was an emotional and psychological wreck. I’d come as close to committing suicide as I ever had that year. But, as New Year’s rolled around, I’d settled down my troubled mind and realized my life could continue.
I realized 1985 was the worst single year of my brief existence and hoped I’d never see another one like it. For more than three decades that pretty much held true. For the longest time almost anything related to 1985 made me tremble with anxiety. Nineteen ninety-five turned out to be almost as bad; instilling a phobia in me about years ending in the number 5. Ironically, though, 2005 was a pretty good one for me, and last year was okay.
Then came 2016.
People all around me are waiting for this year to die, like a pack of hyenas loitering near a dying zebra. Aside from a raucous political campaign – with a finale that seems to have set back more than two centuries worth of progress – we’re wondering why this year has taken so many great public figures and left us with clowns like the Kardashians. I could care less. This year has also taken my father and my dog and is slowly taking my mother.
Over these last six months, I’ve experienced emotional pain unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. I’ve never endured this kind of agony. It’s dropped me into an endless abyss of despair. Early in November, strange red spots began appearing all over my body. It brought with it chronic itching sensations. I wondered if small pox had been reintroduced into society and I was one of its unwitting earliest victims. The rashes and the itching would come and go, like million-dollar windfalls to an oil company executive.
It all shoved me back to the spring of 1985 and the odd little sores that sprung up on either side of my midsection. They were painful pustules of fluid that I tried to eliminate with calamine lotion, ice cubes and prayer. They finally vanished, and only afterwards did someone tell me what they were: shingles. I had to look up that one in a medical reference. For us cretins aged 40 and over, WebMD was a fool’s dream. But I knew that’s what I had, and its cause was just as apparent – personal stress. My poor academic performance, Joshua’s death, thinking my failure to join that stupid fraternity was a reflection of my failure as a human being – all of it had piled onto me.
In November of 1995 – about a week after my birthday – I woke up early one Saturday morning, stepped into the front room of my apartment and repeatedly banged my fists against the sliding glass door. I was aware of it, but I felt I was compelled to do it. As I lay back onto my bed, my hands already aching from pounding on the glass, I asked why I had done something so bizarre at that hour of the morning. Then, almost as quickly, I answered myself. I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I was experiencing serious financial problems at the time and I was having even more problems at work. My father had just experienced a major health scare. One of my best friends was sick with HIV and had been hospitalize with a severe case of bronchitis, and I’d just had a heated telephonic argument with another guy I thought was a close friend over…some stupid shit I can’t recall after all these years. So, after weeks of dealing with that soap-opera-esque drama, my mind cracked. Stress of any kind wreaks havoc on one’s mind and body. It’s several steps up from a bad day at the office. This is why U.S. presidents always look light-years older when they leave office.
So, as I smothered my body with cocoa butter lotion and anti-itch cream, I harkened back to 1985 and thought, ‘Goddamn! History repeats itself too conveniently.’ The death of another dog and more subconscious trauma. This time, though, events have been more critical than not being able to join a fucking fraternity or falling into a drunk driving trap.
But something else has changed. While my body reacted in such a volatile manner, my soul has been able to handle it better. I’m older and wiser now, and with that, comes the understanding that life is filled with such awful and unpredictable events. Yes, I’ve fallen into fits of depression. But I’m not suicidal. I don’t want to harm myself in any way. In fact, I want to heal and keep going. I didn’t kill myself in 1985 or in 1995 or in any other stressful period since then. I really just want to keep going.
I keep a list of story ideas; a Word document amidst my electronic collection of cerebral curiosities. When I peruse that list, I realize I may not be able to bring all of those ideas to life. But, if I didn’t try, why should I even bother with it? Why bother even with getting up every morning?
Something has kept me alive all these years. Something has kept me going. Earlier this month I noticed a cluster of irises had bloomed unexpectedly in the back yard. My father had planted them a while back. With Texas weather being so schizophrenic, warmer-than-usual temperatures must have confused the flowers, and they jutted their blossoms upward into the swirling air. I had to gather a few before temperatures cooled, which they did. They languished on the kitchen counter for the next couple of weeks, longer than usual. And I realized their presence is coyly symbolic. My father was telling me that, despite the heartache of this past year, life continues, and things will get better.
I still miss my father and my dog, but I care for my mother as best I can, even as her memory keeps her thoughts muddled from one day to the next. And I continue writing because that’s who I am and what I love to do. I can’t change what happened years ago, but it brought me to where I am now. I couldn’t alter the events of this past year. But it’ll all carry me into the following years.
Happy New Year’s 2017 to all of you, my followers, and to all of my fellow bloggers!
Irises that bloomed in our back yard earlier this month.
Filed under Essays
Chief Writing Wolf 