Just Another Entry

Some say that the formula for “Comedy” is Drama plus Time. We all have to laugh or smile eventually when looking back on life’s experiences, although some are much harder then others. I believe we all have that inane ability to show progress through pain. Its the struggle with tunnel vision that I personally suffer from. Always looking at the steps to get where I want to be or what I want to become and getting held up thinking I am not strong, or smart enough. I loose focus and sadly, the prize.

Me? I always wanted to be a writer, among other things. Writing is a win win for me as I can see. It gets the words and phrases out of my head, reduces clutter, and creates progress in front of me. Line by line, word by word, and letter by letter. It may not be very well put together or full of literary prose but it’s mine. No one can take that away from me.



Fresh Whispers (working title)

She places her hand knitted scarf back to its drawer where it has stayed for over two decades. Her children and grandchildren should be arriving any moment now by train. Its been ages since everyone was together. The arrival is nothing but a blessing for Marge. She lost her Henry years ago, and not a day goes by where she doesn’t pour tea for two.

Marge lived in a very large home, but she only frequents the small dining room, and side living room. Her day to day activities consist of making a very quant, empty sided bed. Pouring a cup of tea for two, and the meals that come pre delivered each month. The company that sends them never got the order that there is only one occupant now so she saves the best for him. The others are microwaved up and fed to a neighboring cat found in the area.

The door bell rings its rusty bells of company, Her eyes welled up with pride. “The time is here.” she whispered. Its time!

As fast as her 5’0″ frail frame can carry her, she makes her way down the narrow hallway to the sight of the frosted window decor of the interior door with bright colored imagery thru it. It opens as a gathering of children throwing snowballs and each other, parents shouting to pick up the rest of the things from the car, outreached arms and smiles from ear to ear. It was Christmas already, right now, on her doorstep. Marge was so overcome she started to weep. The snowballs stopped flying, the sound was as if the whole world hadn’t moved in the universe to compete with her. Hugs. More sobbing, even the men were feeling the tightening of their vocal cords to keep the high pitched, “I miss you gramma.” and the “Great to see you Mom,” from entering their lips.

Their mouthes hit cool vapor and it was time to venture into the house.

The remaining items gathered, Car doors shut, the crunch of boot versus snow, presents flown over shoulders and stuffed in coats and carried carefully, the frosted glass doors shut and lock behind them. Now the unpacking can begin.

Marge makes a few head counts and made sure to grab the same amount of blankets complete with pillows. Such a blessed day, she thought. She adjourns from the hall closet doors and starts dividing them up amongst the weathered travelers.

“How was the trip?” She asked quizzically. Everyone shook their heads at the same time. “Long, much too long. I think we all just wanted it to be over and done and just be here, you know? Maryann, the eldest of her children explained. “This whole being so far away from you thing is really getting to us. I wish you would take up my and Paul’s offer to come stay with us. You would have your own space, they have an excellent farmers market, and we have radishes and cucumbers growing our in our very own garden out back past the gazebo.” Marge takes her daughters hand and simply replies, “Maybe someday dear. just just not right now.”

Morning breaks the scattered light from beyond the frosted glass and makes slow dances of silhouettes on the wall behind. With blankets and pillows strewn in every direction, the sleepy wears away from their eyes and movement is present. Marge stands in the doorway, a cup of coffee in one hand. She gazes out at the faces of the family and with a look of content, turns and makes her way to the kitchen. A fresh cup of coffee for Henry sits on the table across from hers as was his reading glasses and todays paper.

The stirring from the living room was growing a little at a time. The fresh smell of coffee, waffles, and sirup might have had a little to do with it. The delightful smell filled each room as little drops of magic set to wake a sleeping princess. Soon the house was a buzz with the sound of plates, and forks, complete with a backdrop of Christmas music playing from a slightly buzzing radio from the 1950’s. People dancing around each other. Frances, her older boy asked for her hand which she so graciously gave. They started play dancing like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers at a elementary play. There was still some moves in Marge’s body as frail as it might be. When the song was over everyone just started humming in unison to Ole Lang Sign whilst eating the remaining portion of their musical breakfast.

When their meal was over everyone took part in the cleaning and drying and then it was off to the living room for hot spiced apple cider, complete with one for Henry that sat next to his chair by his pipe. Oh marge would give him a stern talking to about that pipe. She had the nose of a bloodhound and could smell that aroma from miles. As odd as it sounds, she missed that smell, wafting through the air. It felt like home then. Now its as though she is just going through the motions. Should she go live with Maryanne and Paul? Could she leave the memories of Henry in this setting? Part of her thinks that she could because the memories will follow wherever she would go, and she is also more then capable of making fresh ones. The more she thought about staying… the more she thought about leaving.

The morning and afternoon came and went, filled with stories from a simpler time. They were all sitting around the armoire in the corner sipping egg nog. With one simple breath, Marge turns to Maryanne and says, “Ok, I’ll stay with you.” Her heart was beating in her chest so hard, but with the sigh of relief after seemed to solidify the life altering sentence she just spoke. Without a new breath, Marge simply got up and asked, “Anyone need any more to drink?” As she turned to return to the kitchen, she heard sobbing coming from the living room. The sobbing sounded like it wasn’t just getting louder, it was getting closer. Marge turns around and sees her beautiful angel, Maryanne. Arms outstretched, they embrace. Marge whispers in her ear… “Merry Christmas, dear.”


The moving vans were getting packed. The sound of clinking glass and newspaper wrapping were heard coming from various rooms except for one. Marge sat in her bedroom. She looked around and pondered how her life would have been if Henry had lived thru his Chemo. An almost abrasive nock at the door jumbled her thoughts, “Yes?” She replied. The door opened and in came three moving men. She will remember it vividly as the men reminded her of a old black and white movie of gangsters but their faces were far from intense. “Ma’am, mind if we start on this room next?” “Yes dear, let me -she stands to her feet- get out of your way. Please though, if you could, be very carful with this drawer.” She rubs the marble inlay inset to the mahogany wood. “Will do ma’am.”

Paul assisted with all the paperwork, a few signatures here and there and all was done. Soon Marge would see her entire life behind the roof of a car. All the doilies are packed away. Henry had his own box which sat neatly on Marge’s lap with a side of the box that absorbed the ink with his name. It is done, and on to a different life.

The rolling hills, the winding road. Marge remained strong despite the constant, are you ok’s, and the are you cold/hot from her children driving up front. The closer they get to their destination, the tighter Marge holds on to her box, her cardboard salvation.

When the vehicle finally stoped from which it came, Marge’s stomach sank. This is it. The moment where she would come to deal with a new life on a daily basis. The front doors opened and shut a few seconds from each other… and then the back door opens, Marge’s stomach sank again. “Let Paul help you down mom,” Maryanne said in a almost nervous tone. She steps her foot on what seemed to be foreign ground, “You are home mom,” Paul exclaimed, in a tone that provided certainty in the situation. Marge slowly turned her step slightly and turned back. Maryann, seeing this, reaches her hands to her mothers, “You always taught me mom, to jump with both legs to really experience what you are afraid of. If you don’t, you will grow to always wonder.” With a zeal that would put a period on a powerful sentence, Marge reached back into the car with both hands and gently pulled out the box she had held for so many miles and whispered in a trembling voice, “We’re home now, Henry. We’re home.”

Marge took in her surroundings. Everything was almost like a page from a fairy tale. Lush grass, the trees exploding in vibrant reds, yellows and greens. Everything was alive with color. Down to every detail. Even the little gazebo with planks of extra wood strewed about as if recently constructed for four people complete with a table for those nights of dinner or a cup of tea for two. Behind the gazebo sat a small stream and adjacent to that stream lay a garden filled with radish, tomato, and cucumber ready for the picking. It was at this setting that she would find a new life. Everything was here. Maryanne clearly made her mark. It was almost too much coming from Marge’s existence of three rooms where she frequented day to day. “Oh my,” replied Marge. “Everything is so… beautiful!” “We were hoping that you would enjoy it mom. Wait till you see your home.”

They make their way to the front of the cottage. Something seems very familiar to Marge. “The door!?” She said outloud. Paul said that it wouldn’t be right to not have the same door that welcomed company and also to watch them leave. The door was taken from the old house and prebuilt into the new home. “Oh my word, my door!” Marge traced its glassy inlay to its half circles and beautiful specs. She hears a jingle from behind her as sleigh bells. Maryann held the same keys she used for decades. “Here, I think these belong to you.”

Marge holds her shaky hand under her daughter’s. They fall as a skimming stone into her hand. With a smile from ear to ear, she places the old key into its resting place and with a small turn, the pin pushes back, and the door opens.

Her jaw drops. It was already furnished with her items from her previous address. The moving men made a solid b line straight to the job location while they were stoping off and various locations getting trinkets and such.The living room came complete with his chair and pipe. It was like walking into her old home but from a different angle. Same rugs, tapestries, quilts. It’s as if she hadn’t moved at all, except the scenery was quite different, no, breathtaking. The trees, the creek that ran along side of colorful grass. The garden of vibrant, ready to be plucked veggies and fruits. The weather was a mild 77 degrees with a gentle breeze enough to cool you down if you were to get heated.

Marge wept. It was a drastic move for her but she overcame it to find more then she ever had before. Not personal items but a connection. She gets to live how she is accustomed to as well as to see her family by walking out her back yard. Ever so gracious, and she still wept clung to her daughter and her husband. “Mom, you have always been my rock, now we can be each others.

Please, For Our Kids…

Being a parent is amazing and amazingly hard at the same time. Things that I have never had to experience, I have to walk thru a pool of water and fight the current and slowly move to try and explain to my children. Reaffirming to them that there are good in people. Still, when you watch the news and it almost unravels what you are trying to instill in your kids… its hard. But you keep going. You have to. There is no alternative. Part of teaching your kids are values. Of course the little things like how to shave, and how to use a hammer to strike a nail the correct way. Those are the easy things… the real issues are universal hate that some exercise. You find yourself saying that there are a lot of people who are just angry at how the world is being run. They are acting out because they want to be heard. They aren’t wrong. But some of their actions are. All I ask is that if those of you who decide to behave like this… do it peacefully. Still get your point that you are trying to make across but do in so that my kids don’t have to turn on tv and see the battery, the brutality. I know this post won’t reach you because I am just one father on a simple blog but please get along. Please don’t let the media fuel your hate.

You know I read something on a Facebook post a while ago and it really made sense to me.

Even if the outcome isn’t what you want it to be, Wishing that the president will fail is like people wishing that the pilot would crash, on a plane we are all passengers on.

Please take care of each other. Thank you.

I Don’t feel the same…

In the wake of a recent family member’s passing, the only really close connection I ever had to someone, I find my mind plays tricks on me. It tells me I need to stand up, yell and run when all I really want to do is sit and shut my mouth. It tells me to feel the earth under me when I am still numb, It tells me stories as if my heart didn’t know the real truth. It tries to climb in me when I want to be left alone.

I don’t know answers to questions like these, all I know is how my mind and body are not as connected as I had thought. I hate when I want to hug. I snarl when I want to laugh. It is a beast under your bed. Coming out at the innocent of times. I feel vulnerable. Broken. Sometimes the only thing holding me together is fear.

I so want to laugh again, and I will, but when IT’S time. The clock isn’t on MY wrist. I hate not being in control. I asked my wife to take me to a park that has a track so that I can walk it, Think things though when… all I needed were some tissues and the alphabet on a metal frame to take me somewhere I have never been before. This is it. This is the decay that death brings. I get it I just don’t want it. People tell me it is a way of life, the cycle. A way to cope is to reach out but sometimes death robs us of that muscle to… reach, and instills in us the motors of abandon. But I don’t want to run. I want to talk, walk, and function. I will in time but I just don’t know who is holding that watch.

I don’t feel the same. I don’t act the same, I, don’t… know the same person. I look in the mirror and feel even more lost though I found myself looking directly back. I only hope that these words will help me find my way back from where I was. I liked that me. He was funny. He smiled. He laughed. he was genuine. Granted death, so I have read, changes us forever. This I understand, but it shouldn’t stop us from the possibility for new growth either.

Debates Of The Cold

They stand before us waxing metaphors and mixing it with packaged hatred. We listen not to understand, but as a derailed train that we can’t look away. The stage shows no humility but instead displays fueled up hostility. The line between right and wrong has been erased, and in its place sits the line beside itself. There once stood respectful patriots that held banquets of ideas and thought processes. In their places stand these silk tongue charlatans who’s rhetoric holds no bounds of decency.

Its a sad time in our nation’s history. A sad day indeed.