Tagged: family
It Sounds Like My Wife and I
As the family listened to Zelensky and Trump last night at dinner, though I knew my wife (Dark MAGA) could tell Trump(/Vance) won, I also had to chuckle because the argument Trump/Vance made was almost precisely the one I often find myself making.
“Recognize the facts!” we say in unison to the weak.
Unlike all the hypsters and hucksters, I am not worried about the future on the world or family scale. But I do confess that in both situations I am not sure what happens next. In my marriage, all I see is predictable error after predictable error. Will this end in tragedy? Probably not. But maybe.
What will happen on the world stage? I don’t know. But I like the historian (can’t recall his name, Stephen Kotkin?) who said, “War is always a miscalculation.”
Feels Like I’m Just Losing When It Comes To Cars
Financing used cars is the only way to go right now. But when any mechanical issues appear, the monthly payment skyrockets. Add Colorado insurance prices—and the raison d’etre—and driving a car at all becomes obscenely expensive.
I’m just coming off a false alarm “you need a new engine” on one vehicle, and a totaled-out second vehicle. This wreck was fortunate in a way because it was a high-mileage rust bucket. We got more from the kid’s insurance than we ever would have even as a trade. Yet, the plan was to keep it until the step-son needed wheels, at which point he gets the old car and, well you know the story. Now who knows when he’ll start driving.
Now this newer (still a 2017) used car seems to have a leak. Maybe it’s a fluke. I’ll find out soon enough. But it puts me in a foul mood.
I just want to read, you know? The toddlers are in bed. I just want some reading time.
Too tired for Hawking’s “A Brief History of Time.” Not even in the mood for an early X-Men comic. There’s always a Jack London freezing Alaska tale, but not tonight.
Anyhow, I have my stupid rule about reading at least a chapter from the Bible before anything else. Hmm. I’m in Two Chronicles (ha). It’s actually not terrible because of its summarizing. It is kinda nice to breeze through the history so quickly, from such a high-level, AND know that it’s still the Word of God.
I feel better already. Probably gonna hit the next chapter on that and then see about Hawking.
Oh well. Going snowshoeing with the toddlers tomorrow.
One day at a time.
Quit Complaining About the Eggs
Quit complaining about the price of eggs.
How, you ask? Easy. Eat steak.
Now that the prices are comparable, I have been eating 1/2 petite sirloin steaks—perfecting a cast iron pan fry—for breakfast as the rest of the country questions themselves into lunacy.
And I like it! Who wants eggs, when you can eat steak?
Rougher Work Week
In Heat, the cop played by Pacino returns late to the ritzy bar his wife lingered at and she starts in with, “And I bought into sharing. But this isn’t sharing. This is leftovers.” (Or what is the same.)
Pacino responds, “Oh I get it. You want me to come home and tell you that some junkie just put his baby in the microwave because it was crying too much. And somehow this will…” and on and on. (Or similar.)
Later in the movie while desperately trying to keep someone he knows alive, he says, “Not you, baby.”
Suffice it to say, these scenes, not the particulars but the emotions and complications, come straight from real life—which I would say is exactly why I love that movie and have always loved that movie.
In real life, as I have written before, my own reaction is a sudden and unaccounted for need to cry. I didn’t this time. But all the necessary variables were in play.
There is a great desire to ask, “What can fix the scene(s)?” Or “How can we help people?”
But I have come to believe, “This is the scene. You don’t fix it. You don’t help. You just play your role. And you hope that your society has good roles.”
From the earliest age I knew my role was “anonymous, systematized, called-in relief”.
It’s mostly rewarding.
My 4-Yr Old Recognized Beauty
She FT’d me as they were walking into the garage to leave for mega-church. The door opened, and the way she holds the camera it was difficult to not notice the barely cloud-speckled blue sky. Then I saw she did too. And without prompting she said, “It’s a beautiful day,” and faded almost into a hum, “in the neighborhood,” which is of course from Daniel the Tiger or whatever the name of the Mr. Roger’s-based show is called. (Not that she has seen it in several months since I tossed the TV, but I feel like being clear that she isn’t an abstract idea floating around in the aether, but a little girl.)
Anyhow, it’s true.
And that’s the point I want to make to all you anxiety-driven, suicide-prone, depression-claimants. Take a look at the lilies of the field. If my four year old can see them, then surely they are there.
Examples of Good Obituary Lines (Fiction)
He could go weeks without eating a vegetable or piece of fruit, and I don’t believe he ever ate more than two whole apples, bananas, or any other fruit in a single day for his entire life.
When she was four, she developed a habit of interrupting every member of her family—and most strangers—whenever she felt like it.
He could read the comments on YouTube for hours without ever finding motivation to give more than a thumbs up.
After graduating college and getting a job, he found it impossible to order from Subway without getting cookies.
Sometimes, when reading a book by himself, he would laugh out loud at an irrelevant idea that came to mind.
He never wore a hat in the sanctuary.
She often got irrationally angry the moment someone started talking—and sometimes just at the sight of certain people.
He could not leave a campground without uttering, “How can you tell the Boy Scouts have been here? You can’t!”
She hated being reminded of anything she ever said.
Nobody who had received a gift from her would have guessed it, but she was never taught how to wrap presents.
Not long after hearing a good idea, he routinely could be found sharing it, along with an original—and untrue—story behind how he thought of it, with others.
He started his habit of daily exercise the same week that he ended it—and was happier for it.
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Do you see? The obituaries or eulogies need to be filled with love. When you say something that is A. Untrue and B. General (like, “He loved life” or “He was loved by all”) you merely show that you didn’t even know the deceased, that you didn’t ever notice them even.
Do better. We all deserve it.
Reading Log and a Note on the Most Important Part of an Immigrant’s Education
I’ve completed these since the last group, but also have been reading math essays and have begun Milton’s Paradise Lost (which so far is much more palatable than Dante’s Divine Comedy).
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As to the education of immigrants, I can’t help but think as I read American history (mostly pre-20th century), “I have literally no connection to these events that stir my feelings so.”
And that’s when it hits me. As I, like you, am constantly bombarded with all this “immigrant immigrant immigrant” news, as I, very different from you, have married an immigrant and have an immigrant step-son, I cannot but conclude that the most important part of their training must be American history. Stop filling someone’s life with the nonsense about “you’re not from here” or “you should be proud of whichever country you left”. Instead, fill it with American History in a, “This is who you are,” mindset. America is unique. They need to know what that means—and it isn’t obvious or intuitive.
Naturally, a marketable skill should be taught as well, but even then, I cannot place this skill above learning who you are—an American.
We Must Do Better at Describing the Dead
Anyone else absolutely annoyed at the statements about the recently deceased pilots?
I have posted on this topic many times and my dander is up again, naturally.
There is a paradox. We seem afraid of telling a lie about a dead person, presumably because it would be unfair, and at precisely the same time, we have no sense of fairness.
“He was young.” Wow!
“He was an amazing person.” By golly!
“She was a bright star.” No shit!
“No one dreamed bigger or worked harder.” Truly!
Here’s my ask: please talk with people who may feel like describing you after you die. Give them some boundaries. I am not kidding. I have written out something and given it to my mom.
I refuse to believe this paradox and other difficulties are based on the whiny, “It’s uncomfortable to talk about.” No, it’s not. You’re just out of touch in the main and think you are somehow exempt from the only sure thing—another paradox.
In short, we mortals, all of us, live in a world where Michael Jackson and a lesbo DEI nut that crashed into an enormous and well-lit plane (located where every swinging dick on the earth would be right to always expect a plane to be ((final approach to a runway))) are both described as celestial matter. How ‘bout, no.
The Pathetic Way To Go
They were all in his bedroom.
His brother was the family’s steady anchor, permanently tarred to the deep floor of the ocean of unknown outcomes. He had flown in four years ago, without stopping—without even thinking—to even pack a carry-on. He had stayed bedside throughout the recent wars, throughout the fires, throughout the droughts, throughout the pestilence, throughout the famine. Nothing had moved him; nothing could move him. Nothing would move him. In the four years that had passed, he aged ten. He was worn threadbare. He was balding. He was broke. His wife had left him after the first year. His children hardly knew him. But he was there. And there he seemed destined to remain.
But it was his sister, whose lightest smile always seemed to be returned as though seen through the closed eyes, that wove the siblings together. It was his sister who fed both brothers, his sister who changed the sheets, his sister who replenished the water and flowers of well-wishers, his sister who put on a happy face—indeed never once betrayed an awareness that today wasn’t the best day.
And today, this day of days, was about to be the best day.
His mother and father had arrived last night, cutting short their long-delayed vacation to some distant paradise without hesitation. He was their son. They had only ever left his side, for the first time in years, after finding in his Bible a single page of scripture with a note indicating that “their happiness” was his “heaven”.
All his cousins and aunts and uncles had rushed to be there as soon as word had spread. It had not mattered to any how many planes, trains, boats, or cars it took. No matter the skyways and byways, no matter the cost, they were there.
His wife sobbed and sobbed. Her life was miserable before him and had been perfect with him. She did not know, she could not imagine how she would ever carry on after. So she wept, she cried, she sobbed, she cried, and finally she wept some more. Everyone who knew him and knew of him understood her pain.
The room went silent as his eldest daughter appeared in the doorway. No one could remember the last time he had heard, let alone seen, her. But somehow she knew. Somehow she came. The dim, flickering candlelight revealed the jewelry that had first confused her identity. But when she turned and tossed her backpack aside, the sweet jingle of countless keychains she had affixed, along with the rustle of laminated letters that hung from every zipper confirmed what all were hoping—after so many years away, she came.
His other children were still on their way. The current project that engaged the pair, the world’s two greatest, most creative, most motivated, and most delightful members, had necessitated their delay. In fact, it wasn’t until the world heard and fed the wildfire rumor of the gathering in that room—and for whom and wherefore—that the people pleaded, risking their own detriment by forestalling the work, for the siblings to now travel to where all knew their hearts already lay.
“He’s awake.”
The barely audible whisper was first heard by his sister, as she was handing a fresh coffee to its speaker, her weary, ever so weary, brother—one that never did arrive.
The porcelain mug’s landing on the plush carpet pronounced a soft sound at which his wife, the ever inconsolable and fairest of all to assume that noble title watchman, raised her tear-streaked face. When her fingers rose to wipe all evidence of unhappiness away, the visitors communicated the only news that such action could betray throughout the room as quick as light, yet as soft as feathers.
Right when his brother turned to repeat the announcement, his eyes landed on them. They had just arrived.
“Come! He’s awake!” He repeated as he motioned the children to come and directed the crowd to open a path.
“My dad!” his daughter said, her cheeks uncontrollably wetted with tears of joy.
“Father!” his son declared. Revealing a relationship that transcended time and space—indeed one that could not be rocked by consciousness itself—he added, “We did it! The world is saved.”
Seeing him seeming to make an attempt to raise his head, his brother said, “Rest. It’s no time to exert yourself, good brother.”
“As always, good brother,” our hero began, acknowledging their secret greeting, courageously and with a knowing smirk, one long-since absent and missed, “You’re wrong. It is time; for time is short.” His breathing was burdened with immeasurable truth.
In the history of time, the tides of all oceans had not swelled so much as to fill what all present saw pour forth from this dearest, this loyalist of companion’s eyes. Turning to the room, he cried with exuberance so far only matched by the warming Sun, “He’s right!” he declared. “He’s always right. It’s why I love him.” The very walls joyfully echoed the contagious rapture spread unto all. And then feeling along the bed until his hand touched the familiar, strong, able, and trustworthy hand of childhood, he squeezed with a tenderness not unnoticed by our hero and turned back and said, “You’re right. What would you have us do?”
“Bring her to me.”
At once his oldest now became the focus of the room.
“Help me up, brother. One final time.”
The room gasped as they watched. His mother fainted.
At last he was sitting at the head of the bed. And she was there.
“Da-”
“Shh—” he interrupted, eyes earnestly declaring the sad truth that all were too kind to admit. “Don’t speak. Know that in all these years, wherever your travels took you, I was there too.”
“Oh, daddy,” she cried. “I knew you never abandoned me. I always knew. I just didn’t know how to come home.”
“There, there, my beautiful girl,” he said, bravely keeping his tears at bay.
“I kept everything,” she added suddenly. “It’s all there. Every gift. Every letter. Every book. All the socks. It’s all in the bag. I wanted you to see it.”
As his eyes followed her gesture to the bag she had worn in, the answer to Earth’s oldest question, “Is there anything this man can’t do?” was finally answered. The levy broke. The man couldn’t hide his joy.
(To be continued…)
I, 18CT Colorado Eggs vs. I, Government Commisioner
I am a 18CT Colorado Eggs—the ordinary packaged 18CT Colorado Eggs familiar to all boys and girls and adults who can open their refrigerator door.
I am a Government Commissioner—the ordinary imbecile Government Commissioner familiar to all boys and girls and adults who have come to expect nothing of value from any government official because of their ignominious utterances like the above idea that any economic experience is the result of only one factor.
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No pencils were harmed in the production of this post. But I can confirm with special and satisfactory delight that three chickens died to make this post possible.
Captain’s Log 