Tag: family

Tuesday’s Theme Music

Mood: Sunzestic

Hello my fellow beings. Following the general trends of reality of which we are aware, we’ve shifted to the next elements in the sequence we’ve been following for centuries. If you’re using a solar calendar, of course. And Gregorian. If so, today is Tuesday, April 2, 2024.

Each morning when I rise, I put it out to the universe, can you slow down time for me? I’m not asking for much, just enough to finish some things on my lists while still being able to chill a little. Instead, I’m often looking at the time and wonder if someone’s pranking me by messing with the clocks and calendars. Maybe I’m being hypnotized for an hour and then awakened and forced to rush. I suspect the cats. They always appear to be sharing a secret that amuses them.

It’s warming up here today. Already at 60 F, we’re expecting the sun and air to take us to 78 F before the day is shuttered. Don’t get overly excited. As we’ve learned, it’s gonna change again. Tomorrow — Wednesday — is promising to be rainy, with a high of 55 F.

These sort of weather patterns always present me with a conundrum. The rain is good for us but I like the sunshine. I suppose, if I’m not going to be selfish, I should cheer the rain and accept it.

My floof boys are appreciating the sunshine, though. They’re airing their fur and soaking up rays, and looking sweet and charming, out there in the green grass and sun.

With Easter, I was thinking about family. Back when I was growing up (I’m now growing down, I think, becoming a little shorter each year), Mom made Easter a big deal. We dyed eggs. They were hidden. We hunted them. She presented us with elaborate baskets. Managing to prepare them in secret, they arrived on Easter morning like magic.

Those baskets were loaded. Sugar and chocolate dominated. She always ensured we each had a huge solid milk chocolate rabbit. We also had a large, lavishly decorated coconut eggs. Marshmallow rabbits and chicks, chocolates shaped like bunnies or eggs wrapped in colorful foil, and jellybeans and colorful marshmallow eggs set in plastic green grass lining the basket’s bottom finished the scene.

Then there were our clothes. My sisters bought new pastel dresses. I was presented with a new little three-piece suit and shoes, and taken for a haircut, so I was freshly groomed. I wore a crew cut then, held in place with Brylcreem. Didn’t need to shave in those days, so that saved time and effort. Dressed like that, we crowded into the packed local Protestant church to hear about Jesus and the Resurrection and sing hymns that I didn’t know.

Next, off to the Grands for a big family Easter dinner. Grandpa was in charge of making a huge Easter ham. That sucker tasted awesome.

Quite a turnout, it was. Dad wasn’t usually there. He and Mom were divorced and he was serving overseas in the military. But his family took Mom and her brood in. Beside us four and the two grandparents were four siblings and their significant others and children, anyway from twenty to twenty-five people.

Later that night, as children gradually retired on our overdoses of food, sugar, and socializing, the adults gathered to drink, smoke, and gamble with cards. Ah, Easter!

I don’t think it was the religion that made it such an awesome day. It was Mom and family, and the effort they put into it. Also, I was a child and had no responsibilities.

My sisters and Mom informed me of their Easter events via social media this year. It’s the new norm. It’s a smaller gathering. One little sister, Grandma Gina, hosted. Her daughters and her grandchildren and their spouses came over, along with another sister and her sons, and Mom and her beau. Not quite the extravaganza it used to be. I don’t think they even bought new clothes. They had plenty of food, though, especially desserts.

With these thoughts of family in my head, The Neurons delivered “Fly, Robin, Fly” into the morning mental music stream (Trademark imploding). Back when I was visiting for Easter one year, that song played on the car radio as I drove her somewhere in my Camaro. I was nineteen and in the military. She was nine, and so cute, with her straight bangs and shoulder-length shiny brown hair. As the song played, she turned to me and said, “This is my favorite song.”

Surprised me. The 1975 Silver Convention song was a disco classic, all about rhythm and dancing. Three words are repeated a few times during the song, and then there’s, “Up up to the sky.” I wasn’t into disco so much. But with my sister’s proclamation about the song, I heard it in a different way.

Stay positive and remain strong. Election day is growing closer. Lean forward and Vote Blue. I’m on my second cup of coffee now, so the day is going well for me. After writing, there’s shopping, and yardwork. Hope your day goes well. Here’s the music. It’s a fun video and will stir disco memories, if you were there. If you weren’t there, you can watch and learn.

Cheers

0

A White House Dream

I’ve always dreamed of houses, though I think those sort of dreams have tapered off in the last ten years. I had one again last night, though.

And it was confusing. A wealthy family was staying in this large and luxurious white house. My wife was with me, and we were young, and also staying there.

The house was for sale. It featured many layers set up in a cubist manner with steps connecting the square or rectangular rooms and halls. Exhibiting something of a mobious to the design (yes, kind of like M.C. Escher art), I found I could be in one end in a bedroom (there were many en suite bedrooms) and step one way and be on another level, in another room, on the building’s other end. Resolving to understand how it worked, I went about the house until I thought I’d gone through every room and knew my way around, and then started taking my wife around to show her.

Although the house was huge and way too large for us, I liked several of the rooms and rhetorically discussed with her which I liked. I speculated, too, on which room I would use as an office to write. Two really attracted me. I felt that both were too large. One had a bathroom and I thought that would be good to have. But because of the house’s design, people would sometimes need to walk through that room to reach other parts. Thinking that a disadvantage, I returned to the other room.

While this was happening, it was announced that the house had been sold. We wondered who bought it. The family staying there were’t the owners. We rarely encountered the parents, usually spying them walking through the house from a distance, but we frequently ran into the children. Early teenagers, they were rambunctious, mindless, wasteful, and destructive.

Going back to the other room that could be my office, my wife and I got in bed. The bed was just a mattress on legs, without head or foot boards, and there was no other furniture. I spooned her, pulled thick blankets up to our necks, and napped.

Some hubbub in another room woke us, pulling our attention. I went to see what was going on. Things had been damaged in another room. To be blunt, it was wrecked. I felt certain it was one of the male teenagers, because I’d seen him in that area with some of the damaged furniture, glassware, etc. So I told them what I’d seen before. He denied it but under questioning from his parents, with me pointing out some things, he confessed to what he did. As I walked away from this, I took more notice of that room. Its floor was white. I discovered one end had a raised circular dias, also white, and decided the room was set up as a party room, and that was a place where a small band could play. The room had a cutout running the length of a long wall and I speculated that the band could be playing on that platform or dias and be heard and seen from other rooms.

The dream ended with someone presenting me with a new car, a white Ferarri. Brand new, I admired the car but I dislike white cars. Thinking it would be rude to turn it down, I accepted the car. The last of the dream showed me getting into the car.

What intrigued me most about the dream when I awoke and thought about it was it similarity to a house I often dreamed of decades again. A recurring dream, I had a white house in a small town. When I explored that white dream house, I would discover doors to rooms and sections which I didn’t know I had. Sometimes other families would be living in those sections, leaving me confused about whether I owned it. But I also found myself in that house going to the house’s lowest realm, turning a corner, stepping through the door, and finding me back on the top, on the other end, just as in last night’s dream.

The other thing about both dreams is that these white houses were on the coast, looking out over blue ocean.

5

Just Remembered

I’m often visited by earworms. It’s a chronic thing. Songs from across my lifetime drop by in the part of my head where music memories reside, the mental music stream. This often happens in the morning, giving that realm the name, morning mental music stream.

These songs don’t just drop in and depart. They’re normally on a tour that lasts several days. Well, I recently shared a song as my day’s theme music, “Personal Jesus” by Depeche Mode. After dressing, heading out the door for the coffee shop this morning, I was singing it aloud as it played in the MMMS when I suddenly remembered Mom singing it to me once during a visit home, Mom, with her Doris Day voice.

Oh, that made me laugh. The song came out in 1989. I lived in Germany then, so I think it was when I came back to America in 1991 and visited her that the singing took place. I don’t know how she knew the song, but suspected it was through her daughters or grandchildren.

What a memory.

6

Mom’s House – A Dream

First, this isn’t anything like Mom’s real life house.

I was sleeping in the dream when something awoke me. I stayed in bed listening. Shades were pulled but daylight was growing visible through the slates. I knew I was in Mom’s and I thought I was alone but I was hearing noises downstairs. As I listened, I realized it was one of my younger sisters, so I dressed and went downstairs.

Down there, I found an open door that led to a patio. A man in half-removed black leather clothing was prostrate on the patio. My sister was further out on the patio, busy doing things. We said hello, and then I asked about the man. She said it was my cousin, Rick. (Due to the marriages and divorces, Rick isn’t her cousin.) Rick, half sleep or drunk, said with a grin and eyes barely open, “Yes, it’s me, Rick. I came to see you.” He then went to sleep.

I moved on out onto the patio. I’d need seen this house of Mom’s before, and was amazed. It was a white cement modern design on the ocean’s shore. Sunshine brightly lit the day. The tide was coming in, entertaining me with smells and thunderous cracking sounds. I was pleased and astonished and talked to my sister about this.

But — the house was right on the shore, although there was an elevation down to the sea. The incoming tide was coming closer and closer to the house, slashing the rocks and earth with heavy rolling waves. I worried about the house flooding, and watched until the waves were right at the house’s foundations.

Then something moved on my vision’s edge, flagging my attention: a black and white kitten was cavorting about on a cement piece. It disappeared.

I hustled over to look for it. It was down under white cement bridge trusses, along with another kitten. The second one was playing in the sea water. Horrified, afraid they needed rescued, I leaned further over.

A man and boy were down with the kittens. With me watching, the boy retreated, calling the kittens, who ran after him.

I headed back for Mom’s house. Now I could see more of its exterior broaded slabs of glass and white cement at arty angles, a very modern and interesting design, with several patios, porches, and balconies. I also saw then that the water had completed retreated already. I asked myself, “How did that happen so fast?”

Going over, I spoke with my sister, pointing out the tide threat to the house, because climate change was raising water levels. I showed her where I can see how high the water used to go, and compared it to this latest. My sister was dismissive, answering, “I know, but this is Mom’s house. It’s not my problem.”

I chastised her for that thinking but left. Mom and her partner arrived. We talked about the house but then she mentioned her other house and wanted her partner to go check on it because there’d be a storm early in the week. I volunteered to go with him and we headed for the door. Mom stopped me and said, “Do you need money? I can give you some if you need it.” I graciously turned her down, thanking her as I did.

Her partner and I arrived at another place. Isolated and not nearly as grand as the place which I’d just left, surrounded by mud and puddles, it was also white and modern, although it all looked shabby and dirty. I asked him, “Whose house is this?” When he replied that it belong to him and my mother, I followed up, “You two bought it together?”

“Yes,” he answered.

He and I made our way into the house. There was no furniture. In the kitchen, I discovered warped, damaged cupboards. I pointed these out to him, and he agreed, these needed to be replaced. I found an open window. Showing him, I asked, “Is this always left open?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Well, that’s what’s damaging the inside. That needs to be closed.”

Dream end.

0

Three Wolves Dream

I was at a family gathering. Big family, large spread of food, all set up on a large piece of empty land. The celebration was taking place under a sprawling wooded pavilion. Painted brown, it was loaded with grills and picnic tables, and all were in use. Music was playing, and people were talking, laughing, and dancing.

This wasn’t my family, though, at least not my real-life family, or a family I know from this time and place. But they were my dream family.

Anyway, food had been consumed. Having eaten and feeling full, I was just out strolling on my own on a field adjacent to the pavilion. Mostly level, covered with gold tinged green grasses, the field rose in a lengthy and leisurely uneven slope to a sun bathed crest. I was out several hundred yards from the pavilion when I saw three critters come over the crest and pause, looking around. In those seconds, I realized they were wolves.

I thought about heading back to the pavilion but saw I was now closer to the wolves than the pavilion. The wolves headed down the slope, pausing to sniff and look around on their journey. I began a slow and careful walk back toward the pavilion. The wolves hadn’t noticed me and I wanted to keep it that way.

But their progress was faster. Breaking into an easy lope, they’d put themselves between me and the pavilion. No one in the pavilion seemed aware of them. I didn’t think the wolves would come after me but deciding to be ready, I found a pile of black rocks. I picked up one to throw and discovered that I could break the rock up into smaller pieces. I did that until I had a pile of hand-sized missiles by my foot.

The wolves were about seventy feet away. They still weren’t looking at me. I had a rock in each hand, ready to throw with my right arm and then reload.

Then – presto – the wolves are large German Shepherds. I keep the rocks because German Shepherds can also attack but watching the dogs gambol, tails wagging, I’m less worried. On some signal invisible to me the three dogs turn and head back up the hill. I was never noticed or threatened. Dropping the rocks, I watch them go. As they’re halfway up the hill, they seem to change again, and were wolves. That left me wondering, were they wolves or dogs?

Dream end.

There are so many elements of my life in there about isolation, separation, and fears that seem to be there, but never materialize into threats. Yet, I always prepare for them.

That’s life.

2

Sixteen Days

Note: Blame Afterwards for this. He posted Afterwards Writing Prompt #1 – Monday 8th of January – “Darla” – Sci Fi – Something a little sci fi to start the year off.

As I’m occupied with revising and editing a novel, my muses got excited and pushed out a small piece just to alleviate some creative juices. Cheers

Sixteen Days

Her first words were, “My name is Darla,” spoken a few seconds after she opened her luminous gray eyes, about a minute after they’d cut her umbilical cord.

As expected, a speaking infant galvanized reactions in the delivery room. They were just recovering from her eyes opening and the way she’d looked around. “I have never seen anything like that,” the nurse, Dee, avowed, her own eyes big and glowing with shock, “and I’ve been doing deliveries for twenty-six years and gave birth to five children of my own.”

The mother, Amy asked, “What’s going on?” A clamoring of explanations followed until her husband, Andi, said loudly, “Our daughter just told us her name is Darla.”

Amy said, “That’s not what I want to name her.”

“I know, I know,” Andi said. “The, the, the baby said it. The baby is the one who said her name is Darla.”

With Amy repeating with arching eyebrows, “The baby said that,” Darla said as the nurse handed her to Amy, “I’m sorry, Mom. I know you wanted to name me after Heather Cox Richardson because you admire her, but I was named before I was born. I’m Darla. It can’t be changed now. The history is already written.”

While others verbally speculated over what Darla said and hunted for clarification, Amy didn’t. Exhausted from giving birth, worn out from being pregnant, pleased to have this phase of her life completed and the fear of it gone, Amy just said, “Oh, okay.” Looking down into Darla’s intelligent eyes looking up into her own, she was thinking that she’d make sense of it later, after she’d slept about a year, after her body healed. She was just too exhausted to make sense of it now.

###

Three days old, Darla clambered out of her white bassinet – which was already too small – and walked over to the kitchen table where her mother was surfing the net on her phone. “Mom,” the little one said. “I’m sorry to disturb you but I want to talk to you while we have a chance.” Darla glanced back in a listening pose. “Before Grandma comes back.”

Amy, to be honest, wasn’t recovering well. Not post-partum depression, no, it was just shock over what her daughter was already doing. That dynamic made Amy avoid her daughter. “Seriously,” she told her mother, Gina, “I don’t like how my daughter looks at me. Is that crazy, Mom? Is that normal?”

“I don’t know.” Gina didn’t want to tell her daughter, hell yes, that’s crazy. Your daughter’s eyes aren’t supposed to be open yet. She’s not supposed to be talking and walking around and opening the refrigerator. Having given birth twice, she knew these things and had talked to her own mother about it. A walking, talking baby like Darla was creepy.

“How did you learn to talk like that?” Amy asked Darla.

“I learned while I was in your womb.” Darla had to constrain her impatience. She fully expected questions like this. “Remember, Mom, you carried me for nine months. You and Daddy read to me and played me classical music, along with some pop. FYI, I am so sick of Taylor Swift now, you played so much of her. Anyway, that’s how I learned to talk.”

“But that’s not natural. Are you really my daughter?” Amy refrained from letting the weird idea that her daughter was a demon, alien, or robot, be expressed because she didn’t want to embrace that in any way, but what else could she be?

Darla put her tiny hands on her little hips and stared up at her mother. “You ask me that after carrying me for nine months and six days, and then going through sixteen hours of labor? What do you think that all was, virtual reality? You – our whole family – talks a lot and you almost always had a television or radio on. I heard a lot, and I had a lot of time on my hands, so I was able to practice. I’m surprised you didn’t hear me.”

Judging her mother’s reaction, she said more gently, “Seriously, I know what you mean, Mom. I understand what you’re thinking, but believe me, I am your daughter. I’m not an alien or something like that, but I’m part of a project, which is called Project New Born. I know that it’s kind of cheesy, but I didn’t choose it.”

Darla stopped to listen for Grandma coming back. She’d heard steps and creaking and believed Grandma Gina – she had two grandmothers, but Grandma Belle had refused to visit her walking, talking grandchild, considering her, Darla heard her tell Andi, possessed by the Devil – was around the corner, listening. Spying, really. So what. Grandma Gina needed to learn this stuff sooner or later and she’d be pretty cool about it.

“Project New Born?” Amy listlessly repeated.

“I’ll tell you more about that later. I need to go somewhere tomorrow, so I’ll be gone. Don’t freak out, though, because I am coming back. I’ll be back in sixteen days, so don’t go crazy while I’m gone, Mom. I need you, I need your help, and I need you to be sane and sober, okay? Daddy is going to lose it, but he doesn’t matter nearly as much. I can overcome that. You matter more, Mom, you matter more, okay?”

Eyes half-closing, Amy said, “Wait, what? I didn’t understand any of that. Can you say it again?”

Indulging her mother, Darla began a repetition like she was reciting a poem. Amy broke in to ask, “You’ll be back in sixteen days?”

Her question pleased Darla because it showed everything was on track. “Yes, sixteen days. I know I’ll be back then because that’s how far I can see into the future.”

Fulfilling expectations, Amy repeated, “You can see into the future?”

“Yes, just sixteen days now, but that’ll change. Like, it wasn’t only one day when I was born, but it increases as I get more in tune with it, providing I stay on track, and will be able to see further and further into it. Part of that is because I’m from the far, far future, I’m talking centuries, and I’m genetically engineered to see the future. Yes, I’ve been sent back to save humanity. I’m just the first, though. There will be more of me, and then it’ll all start making more sense, okay? And yes, I am your child, you and Daddy, because your eggs and his sperm were acquired and sent ahead, okay? Listen, we’ll talk more later. First, I am starving, so let me go get Grandma Gina so she can make something to eat. Also, though, I also mention this today because I’ll be much more grown when I come back, so if you want pictures of me when I’m little, you need to get them today.”

She looked at her mother’s chest. “By the way, you’re leaking, Mom. I think you need to pump your breasts again.”

Turning, little Darla strode away on her tiptoes. Darla heard her muttering, “Stupid diapers. I can’t wait to grow more so that I reach things and use the toilet, and get my own food. I’m friggin’ starving.”

Amy watched her tiny dark-haired daughter go around the corner. Then she heard her speaking. She wanted a grilled cheese sandwich. Picking up the breast pump, Amy smiled for the first time since giving birth. It could be worse. At least Darla had ten fingers and toes and two eyes and was otherwise a perfect little girl with pretty eyes and a sweet face.

Pumping her breast, Amy thought, it’s going to be an interesting sixteen days.

2

Tuesday’s Theme Music

Mood: crackly

We’re back onto Tuesday. Seems like it was Tuesday just last week.

Today is December 5, 2023 in Ashlandia, where the sidewalks are becoming above average but the roads are getting below average. It’s a solid flat white sheet of clouds lording the sky. Breezes are blowing and rain is coming but it’s 52 F now and we’ll see 61 before orbital mechanics drops darkness on us again.

It’s my little sister’s birthday. That would be little sister #1, who is a three-time granny. When she has 20 great-great-grandchildren, she’ll remain my little sister. Happy birthday, sistah. She didn’t have the best of times when she was a child and then teenager. It’s a story often told about some things going wrong in modern America. But she pulled out of it and is now the family’s solid center, the responsible one who looks after the rest.

Her birthday was celebrated last week because little sister #2 goes in for her ileostomy reversal surgery today, did in fact go in for it several hours ago — different time zones. She’s in the east and I’m in the west. This is the next stage for her cancer treatment, which has gone well, knock on wood, as Mom always said, something we children all carry forward.

Today’s song is by The Pogues, and The Neurons and I came up with it together. The song came out in Europe in 1988. Stationed there at the time, I first heard it at a friend’s house one Christmas a year later. He loaned me his CD because I wanted to learn the lyrics.

The song is “Fairtale of New York”. I sing along with it as best as I can as it circulates the morning mental music stream (Trademark fried). A duet, it’s a sad, bitter tale about a life between a man and a woman, and how it went from being one thing of love, hope, and dreams, to a weary edition of drinking, drugs, and hanging on. Sung with jaunty sarcasm, it’s also a brief remark on the differences on those who make it and those who don’t. ‘Faggot’ is in the lyrics, which was a verboten term by the time I was in high school in the early 1970s, so its inclusion was conroversial. The songwriter insisted it fit and needed to be there because of who the woman was singing the word; the word’s use shows her desultory character and was part of the times.

The male vocalist, Shane MacGowan, died last month from pneumonia, and was just a few months younger than my wife. With a lifelong problem of alcohol and drugs, he suffered from lingering maladies brought on by falls and was confined to a wheelchair before he was fifty because of a broken pelvis.

His female counterpart, Kristy MacColl, died when she was 41, over twenty years past. She was on vacation with her sons, diving in Cozumel, when she saw a speedboat coming at them. One son was out of the boat’s path and safe, but the other was in danger. She saved him, but was killed in the effort. The boat involved was owned by a millionaire so justice was a facade.

Lean forward, be strong, and stay positive. Keep working on it. I’m working on this cup of coffee, myself. Then I’ll work on the rest. Here’s the video. Cheers

0

A Fine List

Thankfulness A-Z

Jill made a great list of things which she is thankful for. I didn’t change it, but I’d add some personal names under the letters: Keri, Dee, Frank, Lisa, Gina, Pat, Amy, Sharon, Debby, Jonathan, Jessica, Cynthia, David, Andrea, Michael, Barb, Jon, Becky, Brenden, Landon, Colten, Lauren, Audrey, Rhea, Matt, Vince, and many other nieces and nephews. Beer was added under B, and wine is found under W. Knowledge is added to k, and L is amended with learning.

Oh, yeah, you’ll find pizza and pie under P. Can’t forget them, along with writing. You know where it goes.

Happy Thanksgiving.

1

Wednesday’s Wandering Thoughts

A conversation with friends about fire ants reminded me of the places where my family lived.

My oldest sister was born in Des Moines, Iowa. I was born in Arlington, Virginia. My next sister was born in San Antonio, Texas, then my late brother was born (and died) in Fairfax, Virginia.

The family split, courtesy of a divorce. My two little sisters via Mom were born in Wilkinsburg, Pennsylvania, and Penn Hills, Pennsylvania.

My two little brothers from Dad’s side were born in Beckley, West Virginia (where my youngest brother also died).

I guess that it’s little wonder that wanderlust plagued me by the time I was seventeen and joined the military to see the world. It shouldn’t be a surprise that after almost twenty years of living in Ashlandia (the longest I’ve ever lived anywhere), I’m ready to move again.

0

The Writing Moment

I’ve just returned from vacation. We went east, from Oregon to Pittsburgh in Pennsylvania (PIP to my brain’s shorthand) primarily for a wedding (the #3 nephew in terms of age) but also to visit family, like Mom. This took about ten days out of our usual existence. While traveling and there, I planned to write, but it didn’t work out. First, my body and mind weren’t in agreement that I should get up early. Nor was my wife (something about sleeping in while on vacation). I didn’t want to sneak out, didn’t want to abandon her on vacation while she was with me for my side of the family.

Our schedule in PIP was erratic. Some writing and editing was managed around snatches of escape. Like, on the return flight. Sometimes while at Mom’s home; a few times in the hotels.

But Mom has limited mobility these days. She’s mostly confined to her house with her partner, Frank. And everyone has a lot of that stuff called life happening to them, so my sisters and their offspring can’t visit her often, and Mom gets lonely. My presence with my wife alleviated that. Naturally, once I realized it was so, I had to live up to Mom’s hopes. Definitely opinionated, she slips into conversational ruts, especially when venting about the men of her life, past and present, politics, and the ongoing feud between several sisters.

The gist of the sisters’ feud is one felt omitted in the vacation planning. Years ago, littlest sis — we’ll call her L –and her hubby ventured to the Outer Banks on vacation and included Mom and Frank. I think that was so because they lived in the same house. The four enjoyed it so much, they went the next year, and the next. Second little sister — coded G — heard about it and invited herself, spouse, and her at-home daughter, A. They went again the next year; then G also took her other daughter — J — and J’s family. Like ants finding some good stuff and spreading the word, more family invited themselves and descended on the vacation. Planning, communications, and coordination was done to include everyone who invited themselves. That’s one key to the mess: all the subsequent people outside of the first four invited themselves.

Well, the other sister — S, the oldest of the three youngest — always claimed she and her husband weren’t invited or even told about it. This has been a continuing problem in the three younger sisters’ life: who invented or included who in what party-holiday-vacation planning and participation. Finger pointing and accusations are the standard weapons in this battle. Now it’s reached the point that G and S are not speaking to one another, which goes back to early 2022. What exacerbates the situation is that S has NEVER included anyone else in any of her vacation planning. She doesn’t tell anyone where she is going or when, and will frequently keep it a secret after the event. While L’s Outer Banks vacations began around thirteen or fourteen years ago — Mom can tell you exactly when — S’s secret vacations began in at least 1991. So, boom, G responds to S. J’accuse!

This is what I heard about in 2022 when I went back to help Mom recover from her extended COVID and heart issues. My wife wasn’t with me in 2022, so SHE needed to be brought up to date about the battle this year, at least in Mom’s opinion.

It’s part of my excuse for why I managed little writing and editing. Listening to the feud saga, not just from Mom’s POV because L, G, and S also talked to my wife and I about it, was good insight into family dynamics as well as character arcs. I mean, people arcs. Observing these disagreements and how they escalate and dictate stories and relationships is terrific for my writer side.

I did try. Mom has small house. Built in 1942 by the previous owners — Mom is the house’s second owner — the rooms are small. The kitchen abuts the living room area. The living room is where Mom sets up for the day. I set up on a breakfast bar which Mom installed in the kitchen. From there, I can see and hear what’s going on in the living room.

One of Mom’s habits should be inserted her. She’s sort of a news junkie. When she comes down and sets up her living camp, she turns the television on and tunes it to MSNBC. As her hearing has declined, she keeps it LOUD. Meanwhile, in the kitchen is a radio which is tuned to a local talk radio station. It’s on at the same time. Yes, the television and radio are on at the same time, in different rooms, even when nobody is in them. Just for fun, when Mom goes into the bathroom on that level, she’ll often turn on a radio in there, too.

And while all of these are on, she’s talking with guests and getting on her phone. It’s madness, and disruptive as a quake to me. So I’ll slip into the kitchen to get a little writing in, only to be hailed from the living room to clarify some point. Is the scene developing? It’s another point in the frustrating challenge to write while in PIP.

Now I’m back in my coffee shop, returned to my place behind my walls of routines. I think part of the issues with writing when away this time was that I’ve created this writing structure as part of my temporal order of memory and episodic memories. Going for a walk alone or being in a coffee shop has long been my methodology for inviting the muses in and triggering the writing process. I think now, minus that standard structure, the muses and writing neurons just take time off.

I missed writing while I was away from it. I had to tell myself, just breathe. This will pass. And it has. Now, I resume writing, picking up right where I detoured, entertaining myself in the world of my creation. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time. Ah, it feels so good, like a coffee addict getting their first swallow.

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