Yard Work

I like to think I learned a lot from my Dad: how to be a gentleman, how to get a broken-down car home, MacGyver-style, how to appreciate simple things made from the heart, and, of course, Lyle Johnson Specials.  But one thing that didn’t transfer to me was a love of yard work.

I despise mowing the lawn, whacking the weeds, watering the grass, or working on landscaping.  I suppose I could think of it metaphorically, nurturing my soul or body to health, and it might seem less abhorrent.

On second thought, no.  I don’t want to start hating metaphors.

This Creeping Malaise

Depression and headache pin me, naked and sweating, to the bed.  Another day of missed work; a day further behind tomorrow.  Food holds no interest.

In the words of Roger Waters, “Gotta stay awake, gotta try and shake off this creeping malaise.”  It’s not justified; my life is improving daily.  Perhaps apnea is the root of the problem.  Perhaps CPAP is the answer.  I’ll find out soon.

Maybe I need to stop trying to figure out the “why” and just power through.  But if I ignore the Lilliputian vines holding me down, will I not just carry them with me?

S is for Space Station

When I was a child, I used to read Ray Bradbury books like R is for Rocket and S is for Space, and I wondered what it would be like to look up and see spaceships streaking across the night sky.

Tonight, I stood with my family and watched the International Space Station move smoothly, purposefully across the early evening sky at over 17,500 miles per hour.  I pictured the Expedition 20 crew members as they went through their routines, putting another sunset behind them and preparing to welcome another sunrise in ninety minutes.

I love living in the future.

The Bombs Bursting in Air

She loved the fireworks at the big, open ball park.  We talked about them as we walked to the bus station, and while we waited for a non-crowded bus in the downtown concrete canyons, someone threw a large firecracker from a building a block away.  I saw the flash from the corner of my eye, and the retort echoed between the buildings, a unique sound.

She was instantly back in Oklahoma City, April 19, 1995.

The body-shaking concussions of the professional fireworks had not fazed her, but the smaller explosion between the tall buildings did.

God damn you, Timothy McVeigh.