Once Upon a Time...

No, no... scratch that...

It was a dark and stormy night...?

No... Definitely not that...

Remember back in the day, before a buffoon was in charge of the United States?

It's hard to remember sometimes, I know.. and it's only been ten insanely ludicrous months...

Feels like forever... And writing? Well... it's a lot like exercise. You don't do it a lot, you get kind of rusty and creaky and before you know it, you sound like Rice Krispie cereal waking up in the morning...

Okay, I sound like Rice Krispies anyway when I wake up in the morning.

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Jason 3.0: Now With Sound Affects!

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So getting back in to this isn't quite like riding a bicycle, but also not quite like how a three year old knows instinctively how to reprogram and update your latest smart phone. Life has changed so drastically from the minute details all the way up through the grand picture of the forest, sometimes it's hard to know where to begin. Change the look and feel of the blog? Find a new blog platform? Just write long statuses on facebook so people can "TL/DR" it?

But I missed this. Quiet evenings, breeze from the west, traffic moving in the background, cats lounging, dogs (if Chihuahuas still count as dogs, that is) on either side pressing against my hips, sipping an iced coffee, and writing whatever pops into my head, whether a story, something religious or political, a short "Dear Diary" type entry...

I did this for me. Only for me. This was mine... And is again mine. I have the quiet moments again. Have reclaimed my time, as it were, from the chaos and imminent and spontaneous problems and issues that seemed to happen weekly, if not daily...

To be able to just sit and be...

I used to think it was silence that I valued above all else. Having grown up in a quite (not chaotic but) loud home, silence was always hard to come by... four other siblings all close in age, most (if not all) of my mother's immediate family on the same country road (in spitting distance, as they say), there was never a shortage of family and loudness...

I find it's actually a lack of chaos I crave most. I can block out noise pretty good, ignore sounds, other people, music, video games... (Thanks, family!) One thing we never had to worry about growing up was imminent danger or unexpected chaos. Our home may have been loud and with spontaneous moments large families always create, but there was never a worry about disasters and emergencies, not that I was aware of anyway. Most drama surrounded who was arguing with who in the family, or what sibling had taken another siblings toy or item without asking. There was a steady rhythm of stability. Not calm, not silent, but stable.

I like stable. I crave stable. I need stable.

And coffee. Obviously.

And while I cannot create a stable, normal, calm government for my fellow Americans (or the rest of the world), I can, and am, creating a stable environment for myself, in so much as I am able. I can't tell what the future holds. I know Mississippi now thinks people can willy-nilly discriminate against The Gays because "Jesus" (see here), and given the current political climate, who am I to say whether my world here in Florida will remain calm and stable? The oh-so-poor-and-persecuted "Christians" may target my lovely state next for a fascist rebellion against fellow Americans...

But until then?

I shall be calm. Stable. Serene when I can... and blog...

Once upon a time...

In a Neighborhood Near You...

I can't sleep. Not because clowns will eat me or anything. That's one thing I can certainly say has never made me shake in the metaphorical boots people keep going on about.

What has me shaking (in boots that I can only imagine are made out of snakeskin and look great on cowboys that I don't sleep with, though not by choice but most probably because of region) is the fact that my life now occupies a ten foot by 5 foot by 6 foot square in one corner of what will no longer be my living room. I'm sitting on a chair that will no longer be mine, typing on a keyboard that will no longer be mine, on a blog that hasn't been mine lately but is now being reclaimed, among other things.

Now let me be clear-- Hmm, now I'm channeling Obama...

Let me say this, then: I know I will be fine. "Fine," of course, being one of those words used to answer the questions of life that no one really cares to ponder too deeply, lest they learn something about themselves or others that may make them uncomfortable. So perhaps "fine" isn't what I'm trying to convey.

I will land on my cowboy-bootless feet. I will find love and happiness again. I will make it through these next few weeks and months, mourning the relationship and husband I'm leaving behind in my own way (which I'm also sure I'll learn how to mourn a 12.5 year relationship), learning once again how to be alone and enjoy my own company.

Some of this I'm greatly looking forward too. But there are definite things I will miss, not only about having a companion, but having had this specific companion. There will always be things I love about him, always memories I will cherish to my dying day, and always a place in my heart that he will reside in.

This is probably a given, and shouldn't need said, but I said it anyway, because I know, now that I am leaving, he will be reading.

So be it.

Hundreds, perhaps millions, of other people have gone through this and been "fine," cowboy boots notwithstanding. And even though some may disagree, I'm nothing if not rational and logical, with a dash of dreamer and romantic, with leanings toward optimism--ergo, I will be fine.

But at 1:30 a.m., when your brother and father are to arrive in 7.5 short hours to figure out how to fit your life into their respective vehicles...?

I don't feel fine at the moment. Which, of course, is to be expected in this kind of situation. I think. Maybe.

It's almost a shame Oprah's off the air. Almost. She'd be eating this stuff up, and probably trying to get me onto see Dr. Phil. Wouldn't that be fun?

But I digress.

I've never liked seeing my life in boxes. I'm a nester. I like to see knick-knacks of places I've been, or photos of people I love, or items that were once owned by those I loved. I love rows upon rows of books, separated by subject, alphabetical by author, from earliest to latest work published. Same for my music.

And my closet? I look forward to not sharing a closet! To have my clothing once again in color order, from darkest to lightest, on all wooden hangars, and further separated by season?

I know no one believes that I am a highly-organized person. Well, except those I work with which see me in action, attacking and reorganizing the supply closet, neat stacks of folders on my desk, stapler, scotch tape dispenser, and hole punch neatly lined up to one side of my monitor, little plastic bins for rubber bands, paperclips, and pens.

But most, if not all of my friends, have never known me without the other half, so I can't say I blame them for thinking we're just two big pack rats who can't file a piece of paper to save our lives! It's hard to have a system of organization when someone doesn't use your system of organization. Of course, having been raised by my mother, where I get this need to have everything hyper-organized, I also know that in and of itself can be an unhealthy life, and thus for the last 12.5 years, I haven't once made a stink about it.

Now I don't need to.

Of course, you, dear reader, are reading all this and thinking, "Wait--you're leaving him because he's disorganized and can't hang your clothing in color order?"

Of course not. There's more issues between us than Carter has liver pills. And perhaps, when wounds have healed, when hearts have begun to mend, and people won't see things as an attack but instead as the therapy and venting one needs in life in order to stay sane--then perhaps we can get into those things.

By then Armageddon may have happened, or the Mayans may have annihilated us, or a tsunami may take down the entire East Coast of the United States! But we'll just see how it goes, shall we?

I'm starting up and stepping out into my life. I'll be shedding some tears, perhaps getting too drunk on a few nights in the near future, and maybe even second-guessing decisions that have been made, not just recently, but long past.

But that is how I will grow, and learn, and live again.

I've missed you, blog. I've missed you, my audience (if, indeed, there still be one here waiting patiently for me to get my life back in order).

But mainly? I've been missing me.

And I'm coming back.

Just as soon as I find that apartment and unpack. And get my clothing hung in color order. And my books separated. Alphabetized. Color folder filing system...

Did I mention the new car that goes with my new life? Fucking Bambi. My new life also includes a call for the extermination of all deer. But that will be a short-lived campaign, I'm sure. I'm a sucker for those big doe eyes, like the rest of you.

Hello, world. I'm Jason. Welcome to My Life & Otherwise... Complete without cowboy boots in a neighborhood near you.

Coffee: Hot, Black, & Strong (Unless You're a Little Bit Crazy...)

It's writing challenge time, brought to you by Indie Ink. New contestants: Virgins; New feedback and comments: Vivacious; Not meeting deadlines: Vile. For everything else, there's me.

Welcome to Week 17.

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Week 17.
My Challenger: Kelly Garriott Waite
My Challenge: The bitterness of black coffee and the subtlety of...

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Who I am Challenging: Katri
What I Challenged Them With: Write a story--I don't care what it's actually about, but every sentence--EVERY SENTENCE--must begin with a vowel: A, E, I, O, or U. It cannot be poetry, and it must be at least 500 words long. (I hope she doesn't hate me too much for that... I guess we'll see!)

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Title

Some things to note about coffee in our family.

• It must be black
• It must be strong
• It must be hot

Sometimes we get a little wild and crazy, mind you: a little Irish creamer here, a cube of brown sugar there, and on the really crazy days, a shot of Hazelnut rum, just to make sure the heat reaches your bones.

It started with this woman here--at least, as far as I know. My great-grandmother, Ella Mae (Dawson) Zartman. She was never without a cup of coffee in her hand. You could say it was her only vice, but had I known her better, I probably could list more. She, her one brother, and her three younger sisters came over from Ireland only to end up in an orphanage when their parents died. Nanny told stories of sneaking into the kitchen at night to steal bread with ketchup spread over it, and, when caught, of the severe punishments. The bread was always for her younger siblings; she wouldn't dare let them get into trouble getting caught doing it themselves. As soon as she turned eighteen, she legally adopted all of her siblings and moved them out of the orphanage.

One story I fondly remember is when my mother's two brothers were young, they wanted to play fire fighter. My great-grandmother said, "Okay," and presently started a fire in her kitchen sink so they would have a fire to put out. That's just how my great-grandmother rolled. I never remember her kitchen wanting for company, and, on those long, hot summer days when we great-grandkids tired of running though the woods or splashing in the creek, there were only two places to go: Grandmom's house, and Nanny's house. Grandmom's house had cable, but a lot--a lot--of rules. Nanny's house, on the other hand? Had coffee.

She had started her three children out young--they had a farm to run, after all, and breakfast wasn't breakfast unless there was a hot pot of coffee. She continued with my mother and uncles, as they lived just a stone's throw away--up the driveway in the renovated barn--and as they came to and from the bus, there Nanny was, hand around a hot mug of coffee and a big smile (noted, ironically, that in this picture she is definitely not smiling, but then again, I can only imagine there wasn't anything particularly happy about that particular day with her hubby and three kids all posing for this picture... Perhaps they had run out of coffee?)

Then when her five great grandkids came along? Well, that deserved some coffee, too. And being as how we were also only a stone's throw away--just across the creek from the renovated barn my mother had grown up in--it just seemed the natural progression of things. I can't exactly remember when it started--I do remember my younger brother was the first one to take her up on the offer of a cup of coffee. (It should be noted here that Michael was also fond of kissing worms on a dare--but hey, that's what younger brother's are for, right? Right?) And from there, the coffee just flowed.

Granted, of the five of us, there are only three of us--the three that, perhaps somewhat ironically, take the most after our mother and happen to be the three middle children--that drink coffee regularly. The oldest, never, and the youngest, as her whimsy carries her. And though others may have frowned upon children drinking coffee at such a young age, I know the one thing that the bitter taste of that coffee conveyed every time it was poured into a mug and handed to someone: love.

You see, even now, when I get together with my mother, the first thing we do is order a cup of coffee. Caffeinated. Black. (Unless we're feeling a little crazy...) When I visit either one of my sisters' houses, I know I can count on that coffee. When I see my younger brother? Coffee. (Sans worms, thank you...)

And then, once our mugs are full with the strong, bitter flavor wafting up to our nostrils, then we can talk. Laugh. Chit-chat. Whatever.


By 1986, at my Nanny and Pop-pops 50th wedding anniversary, the love and coffee of two people had exploded into their three children (and their spouses), seven grandchildren (and their spouses), and (at the time) ten great-grandchildren. Before they both passed away, that total of great-grandchildren had surpassed fifteen, with one great-great-grandchild. (Yours truly can be seen, third from the right, bottom row...)

Perhaps it's not as subtle as my challenger intended (though I honestly wasn't sure what my challenger intended--all I could think of for days was an angry little Sicilian wagering the life of a princess--don't ask why... It's inconceivable...), but the more I thought about my coffee, more and more my thoughts turned to that of my Nanny, and the subtle ways she showed us her love through the one thing in life she knew she could always count on, through the good times and the bad, through the lean years and the fat years, and always in her kitchen crowded with family and friends: coffee.

Hot.

Black.

And strong.

(Unless she was feeling a little crazy...)

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Previous Challenges I have answered:

• [Week 1: All of Me]
• [Week 2: Child's End]
• [Week 3: Seeking Bonds]
• [Week 4: Just So You Know]
• [Week 5: Justice & Mercy]
• [Week 6: Tale of a Fateful Flick]
• [Week 7: Hell or High Water]
• [Week 8: Streaming Summer]
• [Week 9: Piss & Vinegar]
• [Week 10: Set It Free]
• [Week 11: Four Horsemen, Three Gods, a Transgendered Devil, and Lazarus Under a Pear Tree...]
• [Week 12: Worth a Thousand Words...]
• [Week 13: On the Down...]
• [Week 14: Hey Mister, Can You Spare Some Love?]
• [Week 15: Forever Is...]
• [Week 16: Death of a Betsy...]
• [Week 17: Big Bad]

Hey, Mister, Can You Spare Some Love?

It's writing challenge time, brought to you by Indie Ink. New contestants: Funderbar; New feedback and comments: Fantabulistic; Not meeting deadlines: Priceless. For everything else, there's me.

Welcome to Week 14.

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Week 14.
My Challenger: The Supremely Talented Lazidaisical
My Challenge: homeless

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Who I am Challenging: The Gracious and Lovely Supermaren
What I Challenged Them With: Love is more than good intentions.

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Hey, Mister, Can You Spare Some Love?

The thing is, it's not only ever just "their fault." Shit happens. Sometimes a lot of shit happens. I get that.

But I also don't get it, if that makes sense. It scares me--scares the holy bejesus shit out of me, honestly--to think that I could end up that way. Homeless.

But then again, I truly don't believe it ever could happen to me, which part of my mind just whispered, That's what you think...

I hate that voice.

I can't even begin to imagine it. I don't believe for a second that they are all wino's, or addicts, or lazy, although some of them probably are. I can't guarantee that whenever I hand a homeless person some change or a bill that they aren't going to turn around and spend it on alcohol, or drugs, or sex...

But then again, I don't care if they do--but allow me to clarify that statement, if you please. "I don't care," as in, if they, as a homeless, wandering human soul who hasn't a roof over his/her head and no guarantee of food or a place to sleep safely at night, finds even five minutes of comfort in a drink, or a high? I cannot begrudge them that. I'm not an idiot. I know $5 isn't going to really, truly help them, in the sense that they certainly couldn't rent a room for the night--hell, if it weren't for the so-called "dollar" menu at fast-food chains, I doubt anywhere else it would even buy a proper meal (and that's assuming the dollar menu falls into the "proper meal" category, which we all know it doesn't...). What I'm saying is, I'm not one of those people who make someone who is begging--BEGGING, mind you, for change, pennies--promise me they aren't going to spend it on this or that.

And I would hope that, were I ever to find myself in such a situation, someone else would be kind enough not only to hand me some type of money, but would allow me the dignity, that tiniest part of dignity, to spend this treasured gift in whichever way I choose. After all, if I were homeless, what dignity have I left? What kind of choice could I possibly make? No job, no money, no home, no food--but for a brief moment, when that money hit my hand from your heart, I know I'd feel like a king, albeit briefly. And I personally can thing of nothing more degrading, nothing more humiliating, than, having accepted your generous gift, to then listen to a list of demands and rules about how to spend it. It breaks my heart when I see others treat the homeless like children who are being punished, children who just need a good talking-to, children who are ultimately someone else's responsibility...

I'm not sure we could ever fully "solve" the so-called "homeless problem" in our country. I'm not sure we could even begin to fathom a way to make sure every person gets that chance, at that moment, to turn their lives in a direction which would restore their dignity and pride at being a human being once again. After all, some of it would have to be a conscious decision on their part--but it will also take a hell of a lot of heart on our part.

And honestly, I don't see us ever getting around to having that much heart, as a country at least. Sure, on a case-by-case, person-by-person basis, sure, we can save a few--and by "save," I certainly don't mean "Every single one a home owner and making thousands each year at a job." And, of course, each year there is a success story in one way or another of a formerly homeless person reaching for and getting the life back that they want, the life back that they lost, due to their own hard work and other's giving them a break, giving them a job, giving them a place to lay their head safely each night.

But thousands more never get that shot.

The homeless. Each individual is someone's child, someone's son or daughter, someone's brother or sister, someone's father or mother.

They aren't the homeless--they are human beings. They are who each and every one of us could end up becoming.

But for each other.

But for me. And you.

And the thousands of those whom we have failed in one way or another.

Do me a favor, will you? Next time you pass by a homeless person, don't think of handing them money because it will make you feel better--do it because it might make them feel better, feel human again, just for a moment.

Because it will only take one fateful moment in your own life, and that could be you.

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Previous Challenges I have answered:
[Week 1: All of Me] [Week 2: Child's End] [Week 3: Seeking Bonds]
[Week 4: Just So You Know] [Week 5: Justice & Mercy]
[Week 6: Tale of a Fateful Flick] [Week 7: Hell or High Water]
[Week 8: Streaming Summer] [Week 9: Piss & Vinegar]
[Week 10: Set It Free]
[Week 11: Four Horsemen, Three Gods, a Transgendered Devil, and Lazarus Under a Pear Tree...]
[Week 12: Worth a Thousand Words...] [Week 13: On the Down...]

They Promised Us Hover Cars...No, Seriously! They Did!

It's me. Jason. It's approximately the year 2011 (I say approximately because we've realized we can't trust our government about anything--least of all those hover cars that were promised, let alone the year...). I was gonna take the easy route and write to future me--after all, if I'm this awesome now, how totally, insanely, fan-freakin-tastically awesome will future me be?

Yeah, I drew the same conclusion: Unstoppably Rockin.

So instead, I decided to write to those of you who have perfected faster-than-light travel; who think skipping off to the rings of Saturn for a weekend jaunt is old hat; where a beach-vaca in the Andromeda galaxy is "too local" for you mere Earthlings. Yeah, you know who you are. (You've also perfected time-travel, obviously, and are laughing your asses off as you read this thinking we haven't caught on to you--well, we have, we'd just hate to blow your cover... Duh!)

You see, I have no idea when all that nifty stuff--like space travel for the lay person, or trans-warptation from your bed to your job, or when you can genetically alter your mutt just enough to learn to mow the lawn--is going to happen. After all, I'm back here in the supposed year 2011. Will ancient blogs like mine still be available to read in the year 3030? Will these typed, digitized words be archived somewhere on an administrative planet to be shielded from those pesky, data-wiping gamma bursts when stars thoughtlessly die without regard for how much consumer debt they wipe out? Will Pauly Shore be just as dorky? Will an Alf-like creature have been discovered that actually use felines in their General Tsao's?

You see, it sucks being back here--not as much as it sucked for cavemen, granted (or worse yet, BETAMAX VCRs)--but it sucks nonetheless. We have no idea what you future dudes and dudettes are up to! (Yes, an homage to the supposed decade known as "1980s"...) Have you kept that human drive of curiosity burning? Have you actually reached the limits of your species' imagination? What wonderous toys and gizmo's and what-not you must take for granted, like your super-deluxe Ninja-Cacti-Gremlins that slice and dice while waxing your Kia Centauri Cruiser! Or your green Flibbidijibbits that serve exactly what you were hungry for before you even knew what you were hungry for! (Hmm... Pizza... With Asteroid cubes and Jupiter Crust!!)

Perhaps you'll be sunning on the event horizon of a black hole three galaxies to the left (because of course you have by now mastered which end of space is UP, so obviously there is, indeed, a left...), wishing for a simpler time when all the hooligans left black holes well enough alone...

But enough about that--after all, we have it pretty good too. I bet you aren't even going to realize what it was like to gaze at the stars and wonder... To imagine what it would be like to stand on a planet with orange skies and magenta clouds... To contemplate if the jump into hyper-light would give you butterflies much like today's roller coasters...

Granted, in a few decades time, I'll be finally getting that hover car I was promised, upping my awesomeness to whole new levels of unmentionable and unforseen zeniths that humanity never knew it could reach until I came along...

But until then, I will slightly envy you, future humans...

Because to you, hover cars will be so old, they won't even be considered classics...

Full of Piss and Vinegar...

The writing challenge continues from Indie Ink. You know the drill: we writers swap challenges and write about them--we have until 11 p.m. on Thursday evening to meet these challenges or bad things happen! New contestants are always welcome to join by going to the link and signing up!

Welcome to week 9. As always, feel free to leave comments, suggestions, and other neuronically-fired feedback either in the comments here, or on Twitter or Facebook!

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Week 9.
My Challenger: Jen O.
My Challenge:Write about something that makes you very uncomfortable. Maybe it's a style you're not comfortable with or a subject. Jump out of the box.

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Who I am Challenging: Karla V.
What I Challenged Them With: The life and times of purple...

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Previous Challenges I have answered:
[Week 1: All of Me] [Week 2: Child's End]
[Week 3: Seeking Bonds] [Week 4: Just So You Know]
[Week 5: Justice & Mercy] [Week 6: Tale of a Fateful Flick]
[Week 7: Hell or High Water] [Week 8: Streaming Summer]

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Full of Piss and Vinegar...

(This moment of clarity brought to you by Websters.)


The definitive moment in my life of "discomfort" had to be when I was about eight. My knee hurt. HURT. My mother handed me some Tylenol, and mentioned something about growing pains. After all, I had outgrown my older brother by the time he was two and I was one. And never stopped. I'm assuming I was in a constant state of "growing pains," but then again, there were six other kids running around her house, only four of which were also her children. The Tylenol was handed to me at breakfast.

By noon, my knee was the size of a softball and I was writhing in pain. PAIN. A few phone calls later and the other mothers whose children my mother had been babysitting were there to get their kids so my mother could take care of me.

Oddly, from within the screaming haze of pain, I had an urge to pee.

The three mothers standing there knew I was in no position to walk the twenty feet to the bathroom. So they lifted me up, carried me to the toilet, pulled down my pants and underwear, and said, "Okay, pee."

I no longer had to pee. Something about three old women, one of them your mother, balancing you on the commode, trying to not move your now-larger-than-a-softball knee, scares the piss right back up into your bladder. THAT, my friends, is:


I'm pretty sure that's when I passed out. I woke up once, on a stretcher, in a pure white hallway, next to an extremely old man in a wheelchair, patting my hand.

I woke up again one month later, much to my parents delight.

***

Ninth grade. More pain. Stomach-centered this time. I head to the nurse's office. Crawl, more like. Gripping my stomach.

I had awoken that morning with pain. My mother handed me some tums. That was at breakfast.

Now it was about noon, and the Tums, for some reason, were not working. The nurse glances up at me: "Do you think this could be related to the cold you had last week?"

To this day, I don't remember having a cold the week before. I also don't ever remember having a cold that involved stomach pain. But that could just be me.

Suddenly mom was there, and off we went to the hospital. She mentioned something about me being "green." I was on the floor of the passenger seat, not caring too much one way or the other.

The hospital sent us to a doctor's office. I know I heard mom yelling. But then we were back in the car to an office some miles down the road. An apology left her lips for every pot hole she hit. But remember, these were Pennsylvania roads. They're made of pot holes.

At the doctor's, he sits me up on a table--and yanks my pants down as I lay curled in a fetal position.

"Doctor?" my mother practically screams. "What are you--"

"Now just relax, Jason. I have to check to make sure your appendix hasn't burst. This... well, this may hurt."

There were not any words for that pain. It was also very


My appendix had, indeed, burst. I also pissed myself a bit.

We raced back to the hospital.

They let us stay this time.

***

There isn't much in this world that makes me uncomfortable anymore. (Don't tell the silverfish...) I like to think of myself as a "go-getter." (Not that I always do...) If I have something to say, I usually say it, regardless of who may or may not be listening. (Although I will say it diplomatically when the occasion calls for it...)

One day, back in bible college--yes, you heard that right, bible college--a group of us were walking down one of the roads when I suddenly announced: "I have to pee." One of the newer girls in our group practically fainted. Another friend piped up: "It's okay, Jason. She's just not used to you yet."

Until that moment, I hadn't been aware that I was an acquired taste.

***

There were other near death experiences. Other moments involving pee. Granted, there were also some that did not involve pee, but what's a story without a bit of piss and vinegar? (I heard an old lady say that once...)

But when it comes to being "uncomfortable," it won't stop me. That, of course, makes my husband uncomfortable.

But that's a different story...

"The truth will set you free. But first, it will piss you off."
--Gloria Steinem

Streaming Summer

The writing challenge continues from Indie Ink. You know the drill: we writers swap challenges and write about them--we have until 11 p.m. on Thursday evening to meet these challenges or bad things happen! New contestants are always welcome to join by going to the link and signing up!

Welcome to week 8. As always, feel free to leave comments, suggestions, and other neuronically-fired feedback either in the comments here, or on Twitter or Facebook!

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Week 8.
My Challenger: Tobie
My Challenge:Most memorable summer.

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Who I am Challenging: Katri
What I Challenged Them With: A James Bond quote from Die Another Day: "Sex for dinner, death for breakfast." Tell me a Bond-ish type story incorporating this quote as the theme of your story.

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Previous Challenges I have answered:
[Week 1.] [Week 2.] [Week 3.] [Week 4.] [Week 5.]
[Week 6.] [Week 7.]

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Streaming Summer

Most memorable summer.

Hmm. Most memorable summer? Or, perhaps most memorable summer?

Yeah. Huh.

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"Life is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so. Drink up, the world's about to end." --Ford Prefect

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Oh-oh-oh! Most memorable SUMMER!?

No?

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"If a June night could talk, it would probably boast it invented romance." --Bern Williams

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Heat. Oh, yes. Brilliant rays of heat shining down nonstop. That's summer!

But it's only memorable if it's really hot--like "Wow, I have stepped out of the frying pan and into the fryer!" hot. But how often do you really say to yourself that it's that hot? Most people talk about frying their eggs on sidewalks. I once talked my sister into doing that--through the phone. I wasn't around to see it actually happen, but then again, she, too, seemed disappointed in the results of that experiment.

Probably for the best. That would actually make it too easy to solve world hunger in places like Africa, where they have the heat and the eggs, but not enough money to buy a top-of-the-line teal-colored toaster oven--let alone having an outlet to plug it into. (Yes, I do believe that is a typical American view of Africa...)

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"A perfect summer day is when the sun is shining, the breeze is blowing, the birds are singing, and the lawn mower is broken." --James Dent

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And no, this time I have no idea who I am quoting, but I definitely like the sound of that--the lawn mower being broken, I mean. Which, in actuality, wouldn't be making a sound so much as it would be a vacuum of sound, you know, with the whole "not working" thing. So, I suppose what I'm saying is the most memorable summer now includes silence. Which, supposedly, is golden.

But not in the monetary meaning. That would also be too easy. But then again, having silence so rarely in my life, between the dog, the cat, the husband, and the neighbors, perhaps silence is about as rare, but it's still not something I can deposit into my checking account, so...

Where were we?

(How do you like that for alliteration!!)

Summer. Not just any summers, but memorable summers. And not just those either, but the MOST MEMORABLE SUMMERS.

---

"It's not that bad. I'm not saying I'd like to build a summer home here, but the trees are actually quite lovely." --The Dread Pirate Roberts

---

Yes, a tall order indeed. Is it memorable in a bad way? A good way? Or memorable in all it's mediocrity? As I've had a lot of those. Mediocre ones, that is. Well, to the outside observer I should say. Mediocrity should be in the eye of the beholder. But when was the last time you "beheld" something? Either you're holding it, or you're not holding it--it reminds me of learning about "future perfect tense" in grammar class: "You will have been holding an object." Because that rolls right of the tongue, eh?

It's apparently genetic, tongue-rolling. I think we five sib's did a tongue-roll-test once, when one of us actually had the audacity to learn something at that brick building Mom called a school--the same school she had attended as a child. (I should say something here about falling apples,shouldn't I?) There we were, all five of us,tongues hanging out, trying to roll and curl them up. I'm pretty sure we were all able to make that happen, but I'm also pretty sure that's how we all ended up getting chicken pox at the same time as well.

We shared everything. Which is why I no longer do. It's definitely a conscious choice. My friends know this. When we go out to eat, I order what I want to eat. They order what they want to cut up and portion about onto everyone else's plates to share with one another the various choices of delectable's found in the menu. I'm not a food orgy person. I order it, I eat it, and if your fork nears my plate, be prepared to lose it. And perhaps a finger as well.

---

"I read The Civil War Infantryman, which talked about making 20-mile marches in the dead heat of summer in wool uniforms, then sitting down to eat salt pork. I'm sleeping in air-conditioned hotels, with good food every day and, like, a made-to-order omelet station. Who am I kidding about how difficult this is?" --Kyle Brady

---

And yes, I just totally quoted a football player. The American version, not the European version, which just goes to show that, hang out with your father and brother's enough, you pick up a thing or two besides chicken pox. Also makes you glad you weren't a soldier in the civil war, eh?

I'd say we're off-topic at this point, but I'm not sure I ever really was. Summer, however, means warmth. The only time I'm ever warm, truth be told. Even now, my house at 70 degrees? Fingers feel like ice, toes crimped up under my feet as far as they can go...

---

"I'm Mister Heat Miser, I'm Mister Sun. I'm Mister green Christmas, I'm Mister Hundred-and-One!" --Heat Miser

---

I wish. But then again, I get this from my mother--she, too, is Fingers-Cold-as-Ice Woman. I get almost everything from her, from my personality to my body aches and pains. My father contributed to my hair color, but they had to split the difference on my eyes. His were green, mom's were brown, so I have shitty-hazel. Call that a compromise, 'cause I don't.

But then again, he also made me remember that "sports" exist--see above ramblings. Honestly, though, the Europeans have the right idea. At least in their version of football, feet have a lot more contact with the ball then anything else. But, we being American, we had to rename that "Soccer."

Of course, like summer, soccer players are HOT. And that would definitely make for a memorable summer...

Hmm... Soccer players...

Where were we? (Goddamn alliteration again!!)

Ah, yes. Most memorable summers. Yeah. I had some. What's it to you?

To sum up:

1. We can solve world hunger with euphemisms
2. Silence cannot be bought
3. Grammar sucks
4. I can so roll my tongue, which keeps some people in my life quite happy
5. That person is neither a football or a soccer player
6. I don't share my food
7. I have shitty-hazel eyes

And every summer kicks ass. Because it's hot--like you could fry your eggs on the sidewalk kinda hot. And then share your sidewalk omelet with a soccer player from Africa...

Yeah, that would be a kick-ass memorable summer...

A Tale of a Fateful Flick...

The writing challenge continues from Indie Ink. You know the drill: we writers swap challenges and write about them--we have until 11 p.m. on Thursday evening to meet these challenges or bad things happen! New contestants are always welcome to join by going to the link and signing up! Feel free to visit (most of) the blogs of the other writers taking this challenge in the column to the right (yes, I need to update it, but that is most of them)... Welcome to my week 6. As always, feel free to leave comments, suggestions, and other neuronically-fired feedback either in the comments here, or on Twitter or Facebook!

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Week 5.
My Challenger: Zee
My Challenge: You have three objects in your pocket. What are they and why do you carry them around?

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Who I am Challenging: Flaming Nyx
What I Challenged Them With: Tell me a story that involves: a toaster, a Jehovah's witness, nuclear war, Ivana Trump, and the painting "The Lady of Shallot." Oh, and have fun! :)

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Previous Challenges I have answered:
[Week 1.] [Week 2.] [Week 3.] [Week 4.] [Week 5.]

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A Tale of a Fateful Flick

(Muy importante: Read to the tune of Gilligan's Island...)

Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale,
A tale of a Levi's pocket
That rested on these thunder thighs
With more friction than research rocket.

The first object was a bright orange zippo lighter,
It's flame quite bright and sure.
It lit cigarettes for weeks and weeks
For nicotine to ensure (for nicotine to ensure...)

The second object was a pack of cig's,
It's contents getting quite low,
If not for the presence of the credit card
The habit would be lost (the habit would be lost...)

The pocket and content went to the shop of this tiny red-neck town,
With shaky hands,
The lighter too,
The wallet and it's cash,
The order placed,
With a swipe and a pin entered in,
Just to keep the pockets filled!

So this is the tale of the three objects,
They're here for a long, long time,
They'll continue to grace my presence,
(As this gets hard to rhyme.)

The cigarette and the zippo lighter,
Will do their very best,
To make their owner comfortable,
With nicotine that's so blessed.

No patch, no gum, and no withdrawal,
It's a singular luxury,
Like the Marlboro cowboy,
It's succulent as can be.

So don't join us here each day my friends,
If second-hand smoke you do not like,
From my pockets to my lips,
My three objects I do like!

---

---

As a disclaimer, I would just like to add that I do not advocate anyone taking up this filthy habit. However, if we can't have a little fun about our vices and realize it is a silly thing to light a bunch of dead leaves on fire, suck it into your lungs, and thoroughly trick your brain into believing it's something it can't live without? Well, then...

Oh, and to read the actual lyrics to Gilligan's Island, go here. (Trust me, I had to go back and forth a few times to try to keep the tempo and syllables right--there's no shame in you having to do so as well...) :)

On Beauty...

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."

"You're beautiful on the inside."

"Yes, but you're nice."

As a former ugly, fat, and low-self-confidence person, I can truly say these are THE most hated phrases we like to hear.

Why? Well, we know the sentiments are well-intentioned, but that does not help when billboard after magazine cover after television ad all show what is truly valued in our society--physical beauty.

The perfect abs. The well-formed pecs. The chiseled jaw line. The perky boobs. The all-but-impossible flat stomach.

Lucky for me, I almost have the chiseled jaw line. Everything else is a work in progress.

And I say "former ugly person" for only one very specific reason: I no longer feel ugly, but it isn't because I could now grace the cover of PlayGirl and get a standing ovation. And I also can't say it's because I now value my looks over my personality. If it came right down to it, I'd choose my personality--but it would be a hard choice.

Looks come with entitlement. We, even subconsciously, extrapolate onto beautiful people a beautiful personality. We stare at them longer, want to be standing near them in the hopes that some of that beauty will "spill over" onto us, laugh louder at their jokes in the hopes that getting their attention will make us just that much more attractive to others...

Yes, that was me. The "hoverer." An Ugly Betty, if you will, living in what seemed to be a Mode world.

---

Amanda: You're so lucky, Betty. I never know if men like me because of my personality or because of my looks.

---

Cry me a fucking river, Amanda.

You can add that quote to the list of things we ugo's quite hate to hear: After all, just because the Amanda's of the world can't judge who likes her for her looks and who likes her because of her personality is her failing. Not ours. So don't push it off on us.

I think all of us have these parts of our personality, however. "How do I look?" "Does this outfit highlight all the right parts?" "Does this make me look fat?" "How does my hair look?" We all want to present ourselves the most attractive way possible, and there's nothing wrong with that. In fact, none of us can blame the genetic lottery for being ugly OR for being considered beautiful. That's just a fact. And neither can we blame the beautiful people of the world for taking advantage of their sheer luck at high cheekbones, a propensity for higher metabolic rates, or that bubble butt.

And we ugo's have only ourselves to blame for not hitting the gym.

That being said: We have no way of judging whether you meant that tip on getting rid of that bulge as a well-meaning piece of friendly advice, or as an opportunity to make yourself feel better about your non-bulge at our expense--and just maybe, it was both.

But unless we ask for that advice, keep it to yourself. It only serves to make us self-conscious about one more thing on our growing list of how we feel inadequate to be human in your presence. We don't want to hear about our great personalities--after all, we're the ones that perfected "great personality" since we didn't have bikini-bodies to fall back on. We don't want to hear about the trials of being beautiful--we'll never have that problem despite hours spent trying in our bathrooms and beauty parlors across the globe. (As my cousin Courtney likes to say, "I'm a beautician, not a magician!") And we certainly don't want to hear about how we're beautiful on the inside because it's nothing more than a metaphor for how ugly we are on the outside.

And we certainly don't need reminded of that.

Learning to love myself, especially after a young woman in junior high named Stephanie told me, quite out of the blue, that I was so ugly she was amazed anyone would even consider dating me, was quite an uphill battle. All I was doing was standing by the biology classroom door, waiting for the bell to ring so I could go to my locker and get the books I needed for the next class. Thanks, Steph. I hope your thin, straight hair has started falling out. (But that's not the nice part of my personality, so--forget I even thought it...)

The point of this post? Not sure--maybe I just need to get these things out here onto the blogosphere so I can move on. Maybe I just want to let my fellow ugo's know that we've all been there, are still there, and never quite leave there. After all, even today when someone lets me know they find me attractive, I can ride that high feelings for days, if not weeks. And I hate myself for that. I hate that that part of my past days of low-self-confidence continues to live on.

I've realized I'll never be "Male Model of the Year," or even anything close. But I have learned to work with what I have, and that took some hard work.

But--dear, sweet, well-meaning beautiful people? Go suck my personality.

Just So You Know...

The writing challenge continues from Indie Ink. Each week about 30 of us come up with an "idea" or a "challenge" which then randomly gets submitted to another person on the list. I've obviously missed the last two weeks... Getting a new job will do that to you. Anyway, you can visit the blogs of the other writers taking this challenge in the column to the right... Welcome to my week 4. As always, feel free to leave comments, suggestions, and other neuronically-fired feedback either in the comments here, or on Twitter or Facebook!

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Week 4.
My Challenger: flamingnyx
My Challenge: Write a letter to one and/or both your parents about how the way they raised you allowed you to rebel against them that 'one' time.

Previous Challenges:
[Week 1.] [Week 2.] [Week 3.]

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Just So You Know...

Dear Mom,

Okay, okay, that's too formal. I know it, you know it, we all know it. Yet, when one is writing a letter, the "Dear" just sort of writes itself, you know? Geez, look at that--I get that from you, you know. That repetitive phrase that peppers the language of me and the four sibs gets on all our spouses and partners nerves. Just so you know.

But anyway--down to the nitty-gritty. I could tell more tales than Scheherazade on how your actions caused my reactions, but that's just relationships. Mother/son, husband/husband, brother/sister, brother/brother, friend/friend...

Do you remember that time you chased me around and around the dining room table with the paddle? We were both laughing hysterically at the end, and I for the life of me cannot remember what it was I had done to get into trouble that day. I do know, though, that you promised me Dad would get me when he got home. And, knowing that I could take you at your word, decided to suddenly get a bath as soon as we heard his car pulling up in the driveway. He came in, lifted me out of the tub by one arm, spanked me on my bare, dripping-wet ass, then lowered me back into the tub with a stern, "Next time you listen to your mother."

From that day on, I tried my best to never get into trouble.

But this letter doesn't concern that snapshot--not really, anyway. After all, not wanting to be paddled isn't exactly "rebellion," is it? Especially if the farthest I was going was to the other side of the dining room table...

Then there was the time I ran away--actually ran away--for what, three, four hours? I had written (what I thought at the time) was a convincing argument as to why my little brother, Michael, was a bad, bad kid who had gotten away with too much, who was on my last nerve, who was the bane of my existence. I took my new backpack that had been purchased for the upcoming school year, took some hot dog rolls and hot dogs from the chest freezer, and went walking. Once I was lonely enough, I walked home to see you and Dad frantically speaking on our front sidewalk. As I emerged from the woods on the bike path, you ran over, near tears, asking where I had been. Honestly, I think I was more surprised you had noticed I had been gone. It's rough getting attention when there are five of you only six years apart. When I mentioned that I had left a letter to you on my desk, you asked quizically, "Why didn't you leave it on my desk?" I shrugged.

I still owe Michael an apology for that day. The worry and anxiety you and Dad took out on him was probably just a tad too much, and that was my fault. That was the day I promised to try to be a better older brother, to try to keep my three younger siblings from getting into trouble on my account. I failed at this as well, but not for trying.

But this letter isn't about that incident either.

It was in seventh grade that I first heard the words "HIV" and "AIDS." The whole school was having a mandatory assembly to learn about this disease: what it was, where it came from, how it worked. And, I must applaud the Daniel Boone Jr. Sr. High School for this, very progressive of them in the winter of 1988, since not too much was known about it anyway.

Our assembly meeting consisted of the seventh through ninth grades. At one point, they handed everybody a pencil and an index card. "Write down any question you have--there are no stupid questions!"

So I wrote down the only question I could think of: "Is being gay genetic?"

Let's have some insight here: I already knew I liked boys and not girls. The only person I knew who also liked boys and not girls was Uncle Timmy. I also knew that Uncle Timmy was dying of HIV/AIDS.

I was scared out of my mind.

What didn't help matters later during the assembly, was when one of the presenters, in a fit of righteous indignation said, and I quote: "It's obvious some of you kids aren't paying attention to what we're saying up here. HIV/AIDS is not a gay disease! So whoever it was that asked if being gay was inherited? Don't be stupid!"

That was the day I promised myself that I'd try not to be stupid, and therefore try not to be gay. I failed at that as well. Obviously.

The next morning, after the assembly, as Tom and I were getting ready for school and you were getting our breakfast together, Tom started talking about how great the assembly was, and how he had learned a lot. (This was before my older brother hit his silent stage--which he still hasn't grown out of...) You turned to me, Mom, and asked, "And what did you think, Jason? What did you learn?"

This conversation holds new perspective for me now that I've had years to digest it. After all, you also knew your favorite uncle--the uncle who had taken you dress shopping for your prom, who spent time with you, and was your confidant growing up--was dying of HIV/AIDS. You wanted us as children to understand what was happening, that it wasn't because Uncle Timmy was "bad," or that he had done something wrong to be punished by god. That when Grandmom made him eat off paper plates and drink out of plastic cups for fear of catching it that she was being stupid.

But when you turned to me, and asked me what I had learned?

I had learned that I was stupid, truth be told. And the last thing I wanted to tell you was that I, too, would eventually get AIDS because I, too, was like Uncle Timmy.

"It was stupid," I said. "They shouldn't talk about those kinds of things in school!"

I remember the shock on your face. I think Tom punched me in the shoulder, as was, and still is, his wont. I ran from the breakfast table, grabbed my backpack, and started racing down the driveway. I did not want to have this conversation with you, or anyone. After all, where could it lead except for the inevitable conclusion? You would find out how wrong I was. How twisted I was. How sinful.

How gay.

You stood at the end of our sidewalk: "JAY-son! Get back here! What's going on? What's the matter? Get back here NOW!"

"No!" I shouted, tears starting to cloud over my eyes. The gravel crunched under my feet as I speed-walked down the hill and around the curve, trying to get to that part of the driveway covered in trees, blocking me from your sight. Once I was out of sight, then this conversation would end. I would be safe. I could keep my secret.

You ran after me. "Jason, what is wrong? What is going on? Talk to me!"

You easily caught up to me. After all, my body had yet to grasp the concept of "coordination," something that my fast-growing legs and arms wouldn't fully grasp until way beyond high school. You grabbed my arm, yanked me around. "Jason! What's the matter?"

I blinked back the tears while trying to free my arm from your vice-like grasp, unsuccessfully. "Nothing!" I shouted. "I just think they shouldn't be talking about stuff like that in school!"

Confusion was etched into your face. I think some hurt as well. What did I know? A self-absorbed teenager worried about his sexuality and death had little time for worrying about what his actions were doing to his mother.

It was then that I promised myself to be even more inconspicuous, to not do anything to gain your attention if I could help it. Because you were my mother, and you are like a pitbull--once you latch onto something, you do not let go until it's resolved. I'm not sure how long we would have stood like that, pitbull to pitbull, if Tom hadn't casually walked by, oblivious to the tension and said, "The bus will be here soon."

I could tell you wanted nothing more than to drag out of me "The Truth." But your duties as a mother meant you had three more children back in the house to get ready for elementary school that morning. That making me miss the bus would be the beginning of a disastrous day, with everything out of whack. You eyed me warily as you let go of my arm. I turned and started my speed-walking again, toward the top of the next hill on our long, winding driveway, once again the goal to be out of your sight.

It was then that I learned how to embrace passive-aggressiveness as an effective means of getting out of trouble. To say what I thought you--and the other adults in my life--wanted to hear. To act the way I thought you wanted me to act.

I started the silent act, the untraceable, undetectable rebellion. And, luckily for me, I had Tom, Mike, Sylvia and Cynthia to act out in other ways, physical ways, to keep the attention off of me. To let me be silent. To perfect the art of acting.

Was it a typical "rebellion"? By no means. After all, how rebellious is it really to not act out, to not call attention to yourself? This "rebellion" story has nothing on some of the stunts my other siblings pulled--not even close. But that was their lives, their rebellion, their way of trying to figure out who they were and what they wanted out of life--and this was mine.

And it was the only way I knew, in the cacophony that was our household, to stay under the radar.

And in doing so, I did us both a great disservice. It wasn't until years later--after the army, after college, after moving out to my own apartment--that I would learn to trust myself--and you, as parents--again. To start speaking up, saying what I actually thought, acting how I wanted to act. Letting you get to know the real me.

Yes, I was nothing but a stupid teenager, just not stupid in the ways I thought I was. But I still need to ask your forgiveness, Mom. I'm sorry for not trusting you, for not trusting in your love and understanding. If I could go back and change it all, would I? I'm not sure. I'm not sure we'd be as close as we are today if we both hadn't gone through those moments together.

But I should have known, even then, that I could trust you. And I'm sorry I didn't.

But at least I know now. And I thank you for that.

Thank you for being my mother, and now for being my friend. I couldn't ask for a better one of either, you know?

Jason

A Child's End

The writing challenge continues from Indie Ink. Each week about 30 of us come up with an "idea" or a "challenge" which then randomly gets submitted to another person on the list. (You can visit the blogs of the other writers taking this challenge in the column to the right...) For me, this is week 2. As always, feel free to leave comments, suggestions, and other neuronically-fired feedback either in the comments here, or on Twitter or Facebook!

This one was rough...

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Week 2.
My Challenger: JT Whitaker
My Challenge: "in the end...was it worth it?"

Previous Challenges:
[Week 1.]

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A Child's End


I

The end. Depending on what you've been watching, this is either a relief or a sadness.

The end. Or perhaps it's more about the finality of the words. "No more road," so to speak. "The trail ends here." "Do not pass go" and what not.

The end.

Hindsight has the added benefit of, not 20/20 vision as so many people are apt to conclude, but blinding clarity: of the mistakes, the consequences, the growing pains...

The growing pains...

The end.

*

"You sure this is what you want to do," my father asked from where he sat in the living room.

I glanced up at him from the lowered foyer, through the banister. Sweat had collected everywhere on my body. "Yes." No! I turned back to peaking out the window beside the front door, waiting for the man to show up.

My mother had left half an hour ago, wanting to avoid the leaving. My leaving. Second oldest, first to leave the nest. She instead opted to go with a friend to get a tattoo. In hindsight, glaringly obvious. At the moment, hurtful. Robbed. Angry.

I sensed my father shaking his head. "My peace-nick son, off to the army."

He wasn't far off. The large, rainbow tie-dyed blanket with the large, black peace symbol in the center hanging from one bedroom wall was a testament to my "Make Love, Not War" philosophy. The matching pillows on the twin-size bed built into the small 8 x 10 bedroom I had demanded two years ago were further witnesses. Peace had been gained between me and my two brothers when that bedroom was finally built, allowing each of us boys the sanctuary our two sisters had never gone without--a space of our own.

But now I was off to war--or so I imagined. What else does a sheltered eighteen-year-old think? That he was really just doing this to pay for college? To see the world? To experience life away from a church-centric world of his home?

I heard the car pull up, and I turned to Dad. "He's here."

The recruiter walked up the charmingly-woodsy sidewalk, and I opened the door before he could ring the bell. My father came down from the living room to see me off, offer a final handshake, one last out. "You're sure?"

I nodded, never so unsure of anything else before this moment. I lifted my suitcase, waved good bye, blinked back the tears.

The end.


II

The end. No, it was an "Exit" sign. Just an exit sign. If I opened that door, used it for the stated purpose, however, it would be an end.

Two a.m. Fort Leonardwood, Missouri. Or, as I had learned from my fellow in-training soldiers, Fort Lost-in-the-Woods, Misery. It was the only time you could cry and not lose face.

Two weeks in, and everything I thought I had ever known in life was gone. I'd never been so far from anyone in my family before, especially my siblings. A week was the longest I had ever gone away from either of my parents; my siblings, however, had been there from my first memory. In school, on the bus, in the halls, at grandma and grandpa's house, at summer camp, on the playground, in the yard... My world had been removed, however voluntarily on my part, and I hadn't been prepared in the least. It felt like the end.

Muscles constantly ached. Sleep was fleeting. Yelling was a constant. The food sucked. And I felt so utterly alone. Next week, week three, we would be allowed, for the first time, to call home.

Home... The word had lost physical meaning. It was now something I only glimpsed in dream-like states, in fits of sleepless nights: when lying exhausted on the ground after my 200th push-up; when gasping for air as I ran that fifth mile in full battle gear; when silence reined but mind raced at night, wondering if I could do this, if I had made a mistake, if my body would fail like I'd seen it fail so many others around me...

The end. There seemed to be no end. Wake up at three, make your bed, shower, get dressed, clean the barracks top to bottom, exercise for three more hours, shower again, eat breakfast--all before 7:30 a.m. Then more exercise, weapons classes, more exercise, firing range, more exercise, army conduct classes... Bed by 10 p.m., unless you had guard duty that night... Over and over...

There was no the end.


III

Ring... ring... ring...

"Hello?"

Tears. "Mom? Mommy?"

"Jason? Oh, Jason..."

There were more tears than actual conversation. And something about a new movie that had just come out, Forrest Gump. OJ was apparently still on trial. She had made a Jewish Apple Cake, only I hadn't been there to enjoy it.

But it had been, albeit briefly, home.

*

Ring... ring... ring...

"Mom?"

"Jason! It's Jason, every body!"

"I graduate in two weeks."

"From boot camp?"

"Can you come?"

"I don't know... We'll try..."

"I miss you so much."

"I love you, too."

*

Ring... ring... ring...

"Mom?"

"Hi, Jason! Are they feeding you? How are you?"

"No, I'm good. How are you guys? How is everyone?"

"We're coming."

"To graduation? Really?"

"Me, and your dad, and Mike, Sylvia, and Cynthia. Tom can't make it, work and all."

"Oh... but you're really coming, right?"

"See you in two weeks, Jace the Ace!"


IV

Starched uniform. Check. Polished boots. Check. Shining medals. Check.

Waiting.

*

The van pulled up into the parking lot below the barracks. Our van. My van. I stayed at the window. I had almost believed they weren't going to make it. They were one of the last families to arrive. The excruciating pain of hope evaporated, leaving a hole of questioning reality.

Ten weeks...

Dad looked a little more salt-and-pepper. Mom's red hair more lustrous. My little brother taller. My two little sisters more excitable.

I couldn't move from the window as I watched them pile out of the van, or, as we had always called it, "The Tan Van With the Plan Driven by the Man, man..." We had fancied ourselves 50s poets, I suppose, me and my siblings. My older brother was missing, and I felt that more, I believe. That absence more tangible than the others' presence.

Ten weeks...

I turned and raced down the stairs, boots clumping, heart racing: I was five again, playing dress up with my uncle Scott's cowboy boots and hat, wanting Mom and Dad to see how grown-up I looked.

Except they almost didn't recognize me. It took eternal seconds for the realization to wash over their faces that this soldier who had come to a racing stop before them was their son; their brother; their family. Painful, forever seconds.

I was no longer five years old. I was not playing dress up. I was not playing grown up. More than that, I had needed them to see that, I believe, to break free, to fly on my own. It was not enough that I had done it, that I had reached an end. I needed them to see it. To see me.

Ten weeks...

A scattered chorus of "Jason?!"s echoed, landing me back in the present.

The end.


V

Three days. I was no longer in the collective. Sharing moments with the three siblings who had come along were one-on-one. No longer as a tribe.

Alone in the hotel room with the baby of the family, Cynthia, as she was reaching the angst-ridden stages of mid-puberty.

Alone on the balcony with my other little sister Sylvia, who had realized she was as beautiful on the outside as she was on the inside, starting to date.

Sipping sodas by the hotel pool with younger-but-finally-bigger-than-me brother Mike, who had dropped out of high school, wondering what he should do with his own life, adrift on the seas of possibility his young eyes saw.

Out to eat with Mom and Dad, conversations which are lost to time, but remembering how different they were. How grown-up those talks were.

The end.