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.
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?
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.
This is a test of my new web host. If this post appears on the new site, I’m in business!
(Nothing to see here … move along.)
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.