A Letter to My Father

Dear Dad,

I always called you "Father."  Until the later years, then I called you Dad more.  I think we became closer by then, even though we were always close.

The past few months have been hard, but not in a pull-out-my-hair kind of hard.  Thanks for making your estate as easy as possible.  The mortgage company got the house.  I'm fine with that.   It took a huge load off my mind.  It was hard to hand it over.  Total strangers selling it.   Who knows who will buy it -- I know that prayed on your mind.

We had so many great times there.  Robin's mentioned she didn't like it at first when they family moved there, but I think she got used to it and it became home.   For me, it was the home I always knew.   I remember my crib being in yours and Mama's bedroom.  It's only a flash of a memory, but it's there.

So, fall is on its way.   I had a much needed vacation. The holidays are coming.  I'm not sure how I'm going to handle it.  Christmas was always your holiday.   You were the master of ceremonies.  Remember that year the you switched names on Jennifer Kay's and my presents?   You really had us fooled that year.  Of course, I know you like to tell the story about a baby Chris pulling off the tags so you had to play the guessing game.  Or knocking off the red balls so the tree was bare around the bottom.

Aunt Carolyn isn't doing too well.  I'm kind of preparing myself for you to come get her.   I know the day will come.  I haven't actually seen her for a while.  I sometimes think I should visit her, but I'd rather remember as she looked when I was going up.   She still sounds the same on the phone.

Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about something.   Even though you made me really mad at times, I want you to know that I really loved you.   You did so many great things for me.  You encouraged me.  Sometimes, you did drive me nuts when you thought I should do one thing and I wanted to do another.  You helped with the first couple of years of college, lent me a car to get there, tried to always get me what I wanted for Christmas.   You were and still are a great Dad.  You're weren't perfect, but I think you did the best you could with what you knew.  Of course, I was the youngest of three, so you had two others to practice on.

As far as I'm concerned, I couldn't have asked for a better Dad.  You and Mama did a great job.

I miss you.

Christopher the Third

A Letter to My Mother

Dear Mother,

It's funny to think that I called you "Mother."  Never "Mom", sometimes "Mama."  I always thought of "Mother" as an endearing title.  I also thought it provided more respect.

Oh, I wanted to say thank you right off the top of the bat.   I just know it was you that said "Why don't you write a book" that early morning.  After all, I was thinking about you and all of your books when I got the idea.  Book one is out there and now I'm onto book two.  It's almost ready for the world.

I can't believe that five years have past.   It doesn't seem possible.  Of course, now Dad's with you and who knows what you two are doing.   I was right.  Somehow I knew when you went he would follow within five years.   To be honest, I never really stopped morning.  It just transferred from you to him a couple of years after you.  Somehow, I just knew he wouldn't be around much longer.  

Can you believe that it's been a year since Uncle Dick died.  And almost a year for Uncle Ron.  It makes me realize how time flies.  I never fully understood that when I heard people talking about it, but when I turned 40, it really hit.

Well, we've got to go through our first Christmas without either of you.   I started my own Thanksgiving tradition and I'm fine with it.   This Christmas will be so hard.   I think I'm more worried about Robin than anyone else.  And maybe John.   Dad's with you. The house is gone, so no Christmas morning rituals.   Jess is in jail.  I'll have to keep tabs on her.   We're planning a family get together the weekend before Christmas as a new tradition.

Anyway.

Gotta go.

Love ya.  Miss ya.

Christopher the Third

Reviewing My Recent Past

The other day, I sat reviewing my recent past, not long past, but back to the late summer.   As you may recall, I posted about what friends mean to me.   Defining a friend vs. an acquaintance.  Getting rid of a person out of my life.  All that jazz from a few posts back.

Well, here I am, a few weeks later.  A vacation has come and gone.  The completion of my second book.  Parting with my childhood home.  The fear of cancer.  You know, just a few minor things...

I still wonder if I did the right thing.  Pushing someone out of my life.  I hated it.  I still hate it.  I've only done it a couple of times before with the same question -- Am I doing the right thing?

Let me say this...  Who the hell knows!  I might have dodged a bullet.  This year has sucked in many ways!  It actually started last September with the death of Uncle Dick, followed by Uncle Ron in December.  In October, a year ago, I sat in the Doctor's office with my Father who looked like a frail old man.   Now that I think back, he didn't even really look like the man I grew up with.  He looked like an old man.  A skinny, bald, no-teeth frail old man who seemed to age over night.
 
Outside the office door, I asked the Doctor. "What's your thoughts?"
He looked past me.  "Six months.  That's my gut feeling."
A year has come and gone since that day. 

And six months it was.  April 15th at 2:30 in the afternoon.

Since then, I've started making new friends and having new experiences.  And personally, I feel great!   Just today, I was at work, minding my own business, when I heard someone humming.  My co-worker turned to me and said "What are you all cheery about?"  It was me.  I was humming.  A simple happy tune.

So, now I sit here wondering "Did I do the right thing by pushing someone out of my life?"

In relation to everything else that has happened, it doesn't matter.  But the real answer is no.  I didn't.  I should never push people away not matter how angry they make me.  In this case, he was there for a reason.   To make me angry.  I haven't been that angry at someone in a long time.  I wasn't just angry over one incident.  I was angry over several incidents over time with the same person.  It had accumulated to the one-last-straw.

I also know that I have moved on to bigger, brighter, and maybe more important adventures.

And so the phoenix life's end and a new one emerges from the ashes.   I feel that way, but every once in a while, I have to review the past to remind myself of where I'm going.

CSM

A Few Words about Destiny

Looking back over my life, I began to realize that early on my destinies were set for me from an early age.  During my whole "growing-up" period...

OK, I have to stop there for a moment.  Do we ever really stop growing up?   I don't remember there being anything about completely growing up.   Growing old isn't an option...  I'm sorry, but "growing up" is an option.  Of course, there's a difference between "being child-like" and "being childish."  It's a fine line that you have to walk.  It's a fact.  Use it as you wish.

Anyway, I digress.

During my younger days (that's sounds better), I had shelves packed with books, neatly and tidily organized.  Especially paperbacks.  I've parted with some. Many of them are still with me.   Some well-read with worn spines and bent corners. Others crisp and clean, not because I didn't like them, but because they had better bindings.

When I revisit them, pulling them from the shelves that hang above my closet doors, gently blowing the dust off, I can see the "signs." Signs of my future life.   Rotting masking tape on the lower spine with a faded hand-written number.  I remember organizing them by putting a number on the outside using that masking tape.  As I open the cover of one of the Disney children's series, inside is a blue number written with a felt-tip marker was the corresponding number.   A young librarian in the making...  And now, many years later, I am surrounded by books and DVDs and Cd's and magazines...  Oh my!  It's truly the book/information lover's orgasm. 

The other sign began with a book on the Loch Ness Monster and an episode of Scooby Doo.  I remember reading a thin paperback on Nessie, then, at the age of eight, deciding to write my own book and start a small publishing company in my Mother's sewing room.  At the time, I was totally unaware of copyright law or plagurism as began to basically rewrite the book by hand on old loose-leaf paper and staple them together.  I also "borrowed" the illustrations.  The other half of this story revolved around an episode of Scooby Doo where they gang meets the Addams Family.   Complete with crayoned illustrations, I wrote myself into the episode.   Both have gone with the wind, but the effect lives on.

Becoming a librarian and a writer seemed to written in my stars.  I just hope that the stars also planned on offers to buy the movie rights to my books.

CSM

 

The End of a 44 Year Old Relationship

The other day, I ended a 44 year old relationship... Not with a person, but a place.  I feel sad, yet free, at the same time.

The day has come to hand over the deed to a unfamiliar stranger. 

I may keep something... The worn key that opened the door to a now quite place that was always there.   A familiar loving place.   A safe and secure place.  The hallowed place where I learned to walk, talk, play, cry, grow, and eventually leave to find my place in the world. 

There was always the option of coming back to feel the familiar security.   Into the safety of the four walls called "home."  Now, no longer, taken from the list.  A vast void that will need to be refilled.

The home were Mom and Dad lived.  Where they welcomed you back home every Christmas.  Every Mother's Day to tend the flower beds.   Every Father's Day for cooking out on the grill.   Every birthday with or without presents.  And even when there was no occasion, just to stop by and visit.

Now, the gas grill is gone.  The once-well tended flower beds are overgrown with weeds.   The Christmas tree laying in parts on the garage floor, soon to be taken away.   The small shed rotting on its foundation no longer serves a purpose.  The clothes lines waiting for new duties of holding up sheets to dry in the warm summer breeze.

And now Mom and Dad have departed.   The once loved-filled home is an empty and silent shell.  The comfy furniture is gone.  The washstand and kitchen cabinet from the family farm now stand in new places in a new home.  The generations of dishes all packed and loaded.  The soft warm beds with woolen blankets and patchwork quilts taken away.   The path-stained carpet has recesses where the round feet of tables one stood.  The rooms sound hollow and lonely when you walk across the bare hard-wood floors.

I can remember the corner of the closet where I would hide.   The attic where I stashed treasures.   The living room floor where I played. 

Although the physical walls are no longer a safety option, my memories live on. I have plenty to keep me warm and comfy when I need them.

Bless this home and all it meant to me.  It was a great 44 years.

CSM

A Year Worth Living

Let's me start by saying this...  I am still full of hope.  Hope for the future, for something better, for that someone to come into my life, and for a better life.  No crazy suicidal thoughts of any kind.

I'll continue by saying this... Recently, I think I've worn myself into a uncomfortable rut.  I don't think it's too deep yet, so I have hope of getting out of it.  But I worry.  That I may not come out of it and I may stay there.  Languishing.   Not meeting my full potential.  And then die.  Yep... Kick the bucket.  Buy the farm.  Kiss it all goodbye.  Such drama!

After my Mother died, and now after my Father died, I realized that I, too, will die.  When?  Who knows.  How?  Who knows.   Where?  Who knows.  Who the hell does know?  Maybe in some great big library in the sky it's written, but I can't get there and look it up.   It's out of my hands, so no need to fret. I can only hope that I'm having wild passionate sex with some totally hottie when my time comes...  So, what are ya gonna do?

I do know this.  I can tell you that doesn't matter, but it does matter about the rut. 

From out of this rut-emerging desire came a lost/forgotten idea.  Something that I used to do on an annual basis. Create "A Year Worth Living" statement.

My definition of "A Year Worth Living" statement is this:  it's a statement that keeps me going, gives me a reason to get out of bed in the morning.  Maybe a quote that really strikes me like "To be or not to be, that is the question."  Or how about "Life's a banquet and most son-of-a-bitches are starving to death."  Maybe a sentence I wrote that summarizes what I want out of life at that time.  Like "I want marry into a rich family."  Or "I'm going to be a great American novelist." 

Whatever it is, it's my phrase that keeps life interesting for the upcoming year.  I used to write them and use it as my guiding light.   I stopped writing them a couple of years ago...  And yes, I noticed a difference.  I felt like I lacked direction.  And so, it's time to resurrect this idea.

And my statement for the rest of 2013 and through 2014 will be...  Ummm... Well...  Let me think about this... I'm going to write my own.  I can tell you that.   I'm going to take sometime and think about it.  In other words, you'll have to check back.   Sorry.

CSM

Sunny Florida!

My Grandma and Grandpa Marshall visited my Aunt Betty for the first time in the, maybe, later 1960's/early 1970s.  I don't really know that part of the story because I've never heard it, but what I do know is that they loved it.   They purchased a typical mobile home and made Land O'Lakes their winter home.  I fondly remember that black and white mobile home with the little shed in the back, built by my Uncle Dick.   The screened-in porch with the AstroTurf.   The fake-wood paneling.  The smell of moth balls.  I miss it.

In order to save on the telephone bill, my Father purchased a tape recorder or someone gave it to us and we taped hour-long conversations that were sent to Florida.   In a few weeks, we would get a tape back in the mail.  While they got to hear me tell the story about a woman I saw in a movie getting boiled in oil or listening to my Sister play a song on Grandma's electric organ, we heard about Otis and Earlene, Lutz, Padgett Lake, fishing, and someplace called Tarpon Springs and another called Disney World.

Being very young, during the diaper period, I remember only one part of our bus trip to Florida, but nothing else.  One of my earliest memories involved a man in a hat and a balloon.  The man was the bus driver who gave me a balloon. I have looked at the photos of me wading in the water.   Looking at animals in a local zoo.  Playing in the sand.   My Father liked to talk about how my diaper would come off, so they finally let me run nude through the water. I don't think I could get away with that now...  At least not on any beach.  I remember very little of that first trip to Florida. 

However, what I feel is different.

Florida was the place where Grandma and Grandpa lived.  I have deep-rooted feelings, an insatiable yearning, to visit there.  A place to go and rekindle the memories.  A great destination to visit the Grandparents I barely knew, whose only presence there now is a headstone with their names, birth and death dates.   Yes, I knew a lot about them, but never really got to know them.  To me, they seem like distant relatives, unlike my Sister who adored them.  It's that generational gap.

When they sold their home here in Indiana and moved to Florida  permanently, I only saw them once or twice a year after that.  I was young, maybe eight.  As a family, we would visit them at least once a year.  I loved our trips to Florida.  From when I was just a toddler, Florida was a far away place.  Not like home.  They had palm trees, sandy beaches, and salty sea air.   Aw, the smell of Florida.   Stopping at the welcome center just south of the state line.   You would get out of the car and Woof!  That Florida Smell.  I can't really describe it.  I haven't had the opportunity to smell it recently to describe it here.

Some people really hate Florida.  Not me.  There's nothing more exciting then hearing the waves wash against the sandy beach.   My favorite beach was at Fred Howard Park in Tarpon Springs.  I never knew who Howard was, but love his park! This oblong patch of island, connected by a concrete causeway, thrusting out to the gulf.  As I recall, never go without sandals until you hit the water.  The pavement will burn your feet.   The sand will burn your feet.  The water feels great.  Running your toes through the wet sand, feeling the warm gulf waters rush around your ankles as you wade.     Watching sand crabs scurry into the little holes.   Getting a few burrs on your feet.  But you know what... Who cared!   It's Fred Howard Park and I loved it.

CSM