Soul Thumping

A Short Story About a Man and a Train

Our good friend--and best man at our wedding--said, "John is a fascinating guy.  He just told me the story about being hit by a train once."   My eyebrows raised 3 inches off my face because I did not know this story.  Turns out to be true.  The man was hit by a train, pulled out of the crumpled bits of metal that would never again resemble a vehicle.  He didn't remember what happened until the next afternoon, he walked into a bar, and a man bought him a beer.  He asked why, and the man told him he was the one who pulled him out of the car after the train hit him.

John was my stepfather for 22 years.  He and my mother were married nearly as long as she and my father were married.  I was in my 20s when they married, so he was more like a friend at first, but became a second father to me over the years.  He could be opinionated, but if he valued one's opinion, he listened and was able to concede he might be wrong.  That's how I know he respected me.  He listened to me, even if we didn't always see eye-to-eye on an issue.

He passed away three months ago, on January 29th.  We honored his final wishes over the weekend by spreading his ashes in the Gulf of Mexico, off the coast of Cedar Key, FL where he and mother have lived for many years.  Mother Nature must have taken a liking to John because the skies were an amazing blue and the water eerily calm on Saturday.  We took turns spreading his ashes over the side of the boat, and I whispered my goodbyes as I let a handful slip into the water.

On the flight home, I grabbed Joan Didion's The White Album from my backpack.  She wrote an essay in 1975 about an incident that happened on one of her flights to Honolulu in which a man began screaming at a woman.  Didion was bothered by this "because it had the aspect of a short story."  She didn't want to see life broken down into small pieces or vignettes.  She "was going to Honolulu because I wanted to see life expanded to a novel, and I still do."  Reading this made me think of John's "train" story.  Alone, it makes for an intriguing short story in which we see just a snippet of his life, but fortunately, John had many such stories, and his life is more than a novel.

Swim forever, John Parker.  Just stay away from the old Cedar Key railroad trestle.

 

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Swimming Upstream Doesn't Have to be so Dramatic

Life has been crazy, beautiful this year, and I realized just this morning how close we are to nearing the end of it.  Contrary to what my title suggests, this year has seen little of what I would call drama, but has had its share of challenges, mixed with new experiences, and I am heading out of it with a a greater appreciation of self and life than I had when I came into 2015.

Death sucks.  If you have time to prepare yourself for the death of a loved-one, then please take advantage of the opportunity.  Poseidon and his mother lost a dear family friend early this year without much warning.  She went to the hospital for a toe that wouldn't heal and died a few short weeks later, never having left the hospital.  The sore toe led to a below-the-knee amputation, and after the amputation, blood work revealed terminal ovarian cancer, and she left us less than 2 weeks later.

We then had to say goodbye to our fur girl, Kat.  One of the hardest things I've had to go through.  Poseidon and I traveled to Austin, TX in May for a music festival, expecting to kick-off a super summer, and a week after our return, we had to let her go.  Quickly.  Without warning.  Without time to prepare.

Last month, my sweet, kind Aunt Judy left suddenly, and far too young, stunning us all.  We are still grieving the loss.  She just turned 60 in March.  She was my dad's baby sister.  October 20 will be what would have been my dad's 70th birthday.

So, we've experienced huge losses in such a short time, but we are stronger for it and have also experienced beauty, and have managed to stay above water (salmon pun intended here, for sure).

My inspiration for this post came from a picture I took earlier this month in Iceland at Faxi waterfall on the Tungufljót river.  This salmon ladder was near the falls.  I was looking through some of my pictures from that trip and this one inspired me.

Many salmon species migrate during the autumn months, September through November, and most of us know about the epic journey salmon take upstream, only to die after spawning.

This is my cheesy ending, but something I've learned this year after experiencing a great deal of death in my circle, but a great deal of beauty in my travels:  though the end is dramatic, the journey need not be because it is a true account of the circle of life.

 

The Christmas Pangolin

Poseidon has become an advocate for pangolins.  For 2 years, I've searched the interwebz for pangolin "stuff."  This year, I found something.  A pangolin Christmas tree ornament.  Doesn't everyone have a Christmas pangolin?  This little dude makes us smile!

 

-Amphitrite

 

 

I Learned a New Word, Just in Time for Thanksgiving

Tablescape.  I'm sure the word has been around for a while, but it's new to me.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day, and Poseidon and I are hosting dinner this year.  I'm not crafty, but I do want to spruce up the dining room table.  We haven't eaten at the dining room table in 3 years.  Now that we've removed 27 pounds of clutter from the table (that took an entire Saturday),  I'll go through 3 cans of Pledge tonight, just so the plates actually sit on the table, not floating on 3 inches of dust.

The cats are enjoying the clear table.  It's a new cool place for depositing fur and those clumps of cat litter stuck to their paws.  Dinner at 4!

Here's a tablescape to get you in the Thanksgiving mood...

 

Happy Thanksgiving,
Amphitrite

 

ETA:  My lazy version of tablescaping.  I just didn't have it in me!

 

 

 

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Because of the hustle around here, they know something is up, and I can tell by Kwinn's demeanor that he is preparing for the Apocalypse.  I mean, damn, he has abandonment issues, and separation is painful, yet there is nothing I can ever do to alleviate those fears, except be with him 24/7.  I truly cannot take a piss (sorry Mom, I hope piss is ok to say) without him following me to the bathroom.  I do nothing to discourage the behavior, so whining about it is ridiculous.

So, after a cleaning frenzy, I'm settling down with my laptop, and I snapped a couple of pictures.  My heart is breaking, but they will be well looked after (thanks Tyler), and I'll think of them everyday, from the lovely coast, and I'll bring them each a shot glass.

Kwinn with Daddy's cap, and Kat on Mommy's mouse pad : (

 

 

Amphitrite

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I realize that Sunday (May 13th) is Mutha'a Day, so I have added buying a card for my mummy to my list of things to do tonight.  Mom, if I forget to mail the above mentioned card, "Happy Mother's Day,"  and I thank you in advance for not pummeling us with pelts from animal carcasses, or tying us to guardrails on the interstate because you needed some peace and quiet, forcing us to spar with one another for your amusement, etc.

Thanks to an article I found on FindLaw.com today, I have a post that will make you want to send your mom flowers every day of the year (unless of course, you happen to be one of the children of these featured mom o' the years).  So everyone out there, go hug your mom if she didn't save money by performing your appendectomy herself!

Here they are:  The 5 Worst Moms of the Year

 

Photo source:  geograph.org.uk

--Fortuitous Observer

 

Ooh-la-la. A Generation Xer's Trip Down Holiday Decoration Memory Lane

As a child (I am a Gen Xer), my grandparents and my mother would bundle us up in December, throw us in the car, and drive around to look at neighborhood Christmas lights.  Each time we saw a house we particularly thought special, we all repeated the phrase "ooh-la-la!"  I don't know why, but it was a tradition.  I catch myself still doing this; however, I usually say it in my head, not out loud.

There was rarely anything spectacular about these displays of my youth, usually consisting of blue, and sometimes multi-colored lights adorning the gutter of a home, or a sparsely draped tree in a front yard.  Nothing that would warrant an enthusiastic "ooh-la-la" from the peanut gallery.  I mean, we saw nothing elaborate like gigantic 9 feet tall snow men or a Santa Claus hydraulically popping up and down from an inflatable chimney belting out, "Ho, Ho, Ho!"  that one sees (and unfortunately hears) proudly displayed on lawns today.

No, the childhood holidays of Generation Xers were much different.  Simple, serene lights twinkling in the distance (and I grew up in rural West Virginia, so when I say distance, I mean it) against a dark night sky was enough for us.  Chilly evenings driving around in a car oohing and ahhing at the subtlety.  No garish, obnoxious snow globe balloons taking up three blocks...oh my God, I have now become my mother.

 

Found these "vintage" Christmas lights on ebay

 

--Fortuitous Observer

 

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Your Child, Sir, is a Serial Killer in the Making - Children and Their Parents at the Park

Poseidon and I have our house on the market, and sometimes we have to make scarce at the drop of a hat when the realtor wants to show our property to prospective buyers.  A few months ago, a last minute call from the realtor had me scurrying out of the house with a book, in route to the park just a few minutes from our house.

This park is next to an elementary school, and it was well after school hours, but there were many children running around playing and making new friends while the parents formed little cliques of their own discussing gymnastic instructors, dance classes, and swim meets and how well his/her tot is excelling in each of these sports/hobbies.

Away from the parental groupings in the park, I sat reading on a bench by myself, between the swing set and the adjacent tennis court, passing the time until I could go back to my house.  I looked up and directly across the playground from me was a man on bench, texting.  I didn't see children with him, or near him, just an observation I made.

Nearly 15 minutes later, I glanced up and the man was still texting, but this time a little girl, all of 4 years old (I'm guessing), approached him saying, "Daddy, come and see my castle."  She had been building a sandcastle in the large sandbox.  He said something to her I couldn't hear, but I did notice that he hadn't even looked up from his texting while he spoke to her.  The little girl waited for him to view her architectural masterpiece (I'm sure to her it was a masterpiece).  Nope.  Nothing.  Dad still texting.  Little girl walks back to her work.  I think I will name her "Sally."  I feel much empathy toward Sally.

Just minutes later, I glance up at the poor might-as-well-be-an-orphan Sally and another little girl (I'll call her "Mary") was trying to play with Sally.  Sally, who was sitting on her knees playing in the sand with her bucket, purposely turned he body away from Mary without saying a word.  Mary stood around a bit longer, hoping to make a friend to play with.  I suppose she finally took Sally's snub as a hint.  I feel much empathy toward Mary.

I am guessing that Mary desperately wanted to make a new friend because moments later she tried again with the evasive Sally by plopping down in the sand next to her.  This is when the drama/tragedy commenced.  Sally stood up, got in Mary's face and yelled, "LEAVE ME ALONE, AND I'M NOT KIDDING!!!"  I honestly thought my heart would beat out of my chest because the anger in this little tiny person was so intense, it was frightening.

Now I look up at quick-as-lightening-texter Daddy to see his reaction.  His head turned toward her direction, still texting, and I swear he never took his eyes from his iPhone and turned his head right back down.  Sally stomped off (literally) to another area of the park.  Daddy does nothing, oh, wait, I take that back.  He is doing something.  Texting.  Poor little Mary, ran to her parents, who were watching the creepy scene in the park sandbox play out.  They whispered something consoling to her, and she seemed to relax.  You tried little Mary, it isn't your fault.

I'm not a parent, but I am a human being, and was/am someones daughter, and a child myself once (oh, oh, and I've been in therapy of one form or another my entire adult life so I can spot a wow-you-are-going-to-be-once-screwed-up-puppy-if-you-don't-get-help-now tot when I see one) so I'm more than a little concerned about Sally.  The amount of anger in that 4 year old little girl was scary, appalling, and unacceptable.

Why is this my business?  Because I still walk on this planet, and Sally is just one more little creature brought into the fold by selfish mooncalves who are too lazy to parent and set boundaries or pay the poor little troll any attention while she is creating something in the park; so, it is my business because in just a few short years, Sally will be in some newspaper or on TV and/or behind bars because she will have done something "very wrong" because she didn't know it was wrong or have any reliable concept of how to live socially with others, and she is too full of rage at having been ignored during the most important teachable years of her life, and that "something very wrong" could be committed against me, those I cherish, or any other hapless victim in or out of the park.  Ah, yes, but she can text like the dickens.

 

--Fortuitous Observer

 

Please Keep Your Child's Pacifier Out of My Mocha

Before I even begin to get into this, let me start by saying I have nothing against babies, toddlers, children, etc, and to most of my friends who are parents, please do not be offended, because you are great parents.  I love googooing and gahgahing over babies and sweet little folks, if they truly are kind, sweet little folks, which generally means they have been brought up properly, well-behaved and polite, and taught that they are not the only beings on the planet and the world does not revolve around them outside of their parent's home.

As a matter-of-fact, I had a lovely conversation with the most adorable little girl (I'm guessing she is probably 2 years old) this evening at the grocery store.  She was so unselfish and tender, and she babbled preciously with an "inside voice" and I could tell her parents were enlightened and imparted upon her the virtues of being respectful of others (I'm not sure how her parents did this, but I applaud them loudly); that the world does not revolve around her and she is but only one small cog in a huge wheel like the rest of us.  I'm so serious:  I applaud these parents (and they looked very young, early 20s).

What a contrast to the ridiculous little spawn, and more importantly, his mal apropos "mother" I encountered in a coffee shop this morning.  I had my follow up appointment with my surgeon to check my healing process (had my gallbladder removed over a week ago), then decided to go to a coffee shop to do some writing for a change of scenery, and fortunately I left before cops had to be called...

While sipping my iced mocha (with the heat index today...it was near 101 degrees at this time, 9:30am, so anything I consumed had to have ice...except my bagel, it was toasted) and typing away on my laptop, I noticed a woman (I'm truly gonna now use that term lightly) and a toddler - he looked to be around 3ish - walk through the door.  I went back to typing, and not 5 minutes later I heard a scream, which caused me to look up in fear because I thought a child was being murdered.  The aforementioned toddler was screaming and kicking the counter because he demanded to be picked up and sat on the counter and the toddler-whipped pansy of a mother complied with his wishes, which made me want to vomit thinking of a poopy-filled diaper touching the counter where I had just picked up my bagel and mocha only minutes before.

I went back to typing, when the enfant terrible began running around the coffee shop, which I could ignore, but he ran up to my table and started pulling at my notebook, laughing and screaming.  I pulled the notebook away, giving him a stern look, and then looking toward his mother for some sort of involvement, and she was totally oblivious (under the age of 30), then he ran away, bothering other patrons.

I again turned to my writing, and within 5 minutes he did it again.  Sorry, not on my watch.  If you can't parent your child, I'm going to step in and help you.  I said loudly, "Excuse me, I'm working," and pulled the notebook from the future delinquent's hand, which got a look from his mother, and a "Jamison, let's go."  No apology.  Nothing.  You rude, ignorant $%^&.

This story is apropos, because yesterday evening I was reading an NPR article about a restaurant in Pennsylvania called McDaine's that has chosen to ban children under the age of 6 from their establishment.  Oddly enough (for an NPR article), the majority of the comments (a great deal many from those who ARE parents) are in favor of this.  I have to quote one of the comments, that in my opinion, sums up the problem with a neat little bow...it's not the children, it's the parents...kids NEED boundaries, just like puppies:

"There was a time in our history where this wouldn't have ever been an issue. Children were expected to meet a certain standard of behavior, and would never be brought to certain venues (restaurants, theaters, etc.) if they couldn't be trusted to behave appropriately. Since many parents don't set this standard anymore, it is a really great idea to have these rules to protect the rights of the majority of patrons who wish to have an enjoyable time. There *are* some well-behaved children out there...but unfortunately there are also far too many who can be downright awful."

 

--Fortuitous Observer

Could the Waltons Exist in the 21st Century?

I had a dream the night before last that I was watching some sort of new crime drama on tv (and we know there are not nearly enough of those), and all of the characters, both good and bad, were from The Waltons.  Please don't ask me why.  It would take my therapist and I a year at least to figure that one out.  I haven't seen The Waltons in some time, though I know it is still shown in syndication on at least one cable channel, so it was quite strange that the Walton Family characters appeared in my subconscious.

Growing up a Gen-Xer, my parents were still in control of the television and what was actually allowed to air in our home, so when it came to good ol' family television shows like The Waltons, we were allowed to watch, even if it was passed our bedtime.

Anyway, the next day, Poseidon and I drove to a small town near Raleigh, one that has a quaint resurrected downtown area, and on the way there, I saw a house that looked exactly the house in The Waltons.  It made me remember my dream.  This house looks like it is straight from the tv show, but it is only a couple of miles from this up-and-coming downtown area, and it made me think:  could a family like the Waltons exist today?

At first of course I thought, "No way in hell."  Then I put my opinion on hold because the Amish community popped into my head.  They truly do live like the Walton family.  They don't even have automobiles, which proves they can live pre-Walton style.  This lifestyle is a choice and they dig their heels in and refuse to step into the 21st century, yet they thrive as a community and a people.

I'm not saying I want to throw away my make-up and hair dryer (or my laptop for God's sake), put a hat and petticoat on and join that Walton Family world, but when I think about past episodes of The Walton's, and as a kid growing up in the 70s and 80s and an adult in 2011, I find myself longing for something easier than now; something slightly more innocent and a great deal quieter and less hectic.

Good night Mama.  Good night John Boy.  Good night Mary Ellen.  Good night Waltons, wherever you are.

 

--Fortuitous Observer