The time was 5:34 AM. Sunshine trickled over the hills and through whatever gaps the world offered, heralding the commencement of another day in Ashland, Oregon. Heat began its trickle a few hours later. Temperatures trickled into the seventies by the mid-morning and whispered about going into the mid-nineties.
It is Father’s Day in the U.S., June 20, 2021, a holiday officially recognized in 1972, a news moment that passed by my teenage head with little notice. I have no FD plans other than the standard Sunday through Saturday routines. Coffee, writing, some work around the house, maybe a short drive somewhere, perhaps more house painting before sunset is called at 8:50 PM. Dad is alive in Texas. I see him every few years. He calls me on my birthday and whenever he goes back into the hospital. He’s gone numerous times this year. Despite a young enthusiasm for Lucky Strikes and Camels, he didn’t see much of a hospital until he struck into his eighties. Now he’s a regular. I’ll call him later today. Did send a card. We’ll talk about cars and military service. It’s our common ground. He’s on his third marriage. This one has stuck, as they’ve gone past twenty years.
Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers are in my mind with their 1981 song, “The Waiting”. “The waiting is the hardest part.” Yes, waiting to write is the hardest part for me, getting torn away from it by other requirements. No how life was planned. Didn’t have a plan, TBH. I was just winging that mutha.
Stay positive, test negative, wear a mask as needed, and get a vax. We’re almost at sixty-nine percent in Oregon, edging toward seventy jab by jab. The waiting until then…well, you get it. Here’s the music. Cheers