Sometimes you think you know them so well -- their dislikes, their... other dislikes, which things you should never tell them under any circumstance, and exactly what to say to get them to kick in a few extra bucks for groceries (vacation, shoes, etc.) without having to directly ask.
And then sometimes, it's as if they aren't your real parents at all, but rather part of some top-secret experiment. Aliens, planted by the government and made to look like your real parents. And you are just a pawn in their game, kept alive only to make it appear as if they are an average American family. You know, so the Soviets won't catch on.
Here's a for-instance: My sister called a few months ago to tell me Dad was posting pro-gun propaganda on his Facebook page. OK, fine. Dad and I have never been completely in agreement on politics, and a lot of people post crap like that. So not all that odd, right?
We never had anything more than a BB gun in the house, ever, for my entire life! I wanted to comment and say exactly that, but you know how parents get if you post all the time on their Facebook wall. They think you're hovering.
Then a couple weeks ago, I was conversing with a lady whose husband played music with my father in the seventies. As in, the nineteen-seventies. I knew Dad had played music most of his life, so again, not a big shock.
She started telling me that Dad's band had a manager who booked them gigs around the area. In her opinion, the reason they never got any bigger was they refused to play places which served alcohol. AND, they wore matching "uniforms." According to her, they were leisure suits -- silver jackets and green-and-white striped pants! It sounds like they were basically the white Temptations!
How did I get to be this age and never know this about he who reared me???
Now for the latest adventure in the My Dad Is From Mars saga. I was talking with my alleged father the other day, and he informed me he and his wife are thinking of taking another trip.
Let it be noted here that my dad, who used to complain about going anywhere farther than out to eat, has in his recent years become a veritable Kerouac. Except without the drinking. Or the writing.
Last year, they visited North Carolina. The year before that, it was the Grand Canyon. And this year?
"We're thinking of going to South Dakota."
What I thought was, "To get ready for some sort of doomsday scenario? Is the end upon us???"
What I said was, "Oh, that'll be nice. I've heard there's lots to do there. Mount Rushmore and the Black Hills...."
He replied, "Yeah, and there's that mountain with the Presidents' heads." Dad doesn't hear so well anymore.
"And there's Sturgis, where they have the big motorcycle rallies."
I think my feeling at that point could best be described as one of bewildered confusion. Suffice it to say, at that moment, I was confildered. I'm fairly certain I gave him that you-just-sprouted-a-second-head look. And not just any second head, but one that looked like my Dad and spoke alternately with the voices of Dog the Bounty Hunter and Wink Martindale. You know the type.
How does my dad even know about Sturgis? And why on Earth would he think of going? Maybe he watches Full Throttle Saloon. Or maybe this was some sort of joke, like how he used to drive across the river pretending he was going to Huntsville (then the nearest place) to buy alcohol until I would cry and beg him to turn around.
Or maybe, just maybe, my father has a Harley I don't know about. And chaps. And quite possibly an "NRA" do-rag.
Oh well. I can only hope and assume his pro-gun rhetoric will serve him well there.
Godspeed, my enigmatic longtime legal custodian. May Charlton Heston be with you.
Oh, and you're probably gonna need a new name. Something tough like Tex, or Maverick, or Sea Bass.
God, I hope he knows it's motorcycles, and not bicycles. A son worries.
"You can just turn in your ringand your tie tack 'cause Coy, you are out of the Shrine!You're gonna be blackballed, Coy! That's right. You may have to pack your bags and leave town.What do you mean, you might join the Hells Angels?"
It's not the town where I was born. Nor is it the town where I live now. But it's where I've spent the most of my days.
None of my family live there anymore. But it's still the one place I'm more likely to recognized than anywhere else.
I still think of it as home.
There, I'll always be my parents' son, or my sister's older brother. The kid in the brown smock and pink knit, square-end tie who bagged groceries at the Piggly Wiggly. The underachiever who frustrated more than one teacher because he cruised through high school finishing sixth in his class rather than daring to stand out by, oh I don't know, actually trying.
There's something reassuring in the knowledge that whether you go off and make
it big or whether you never amount to much of anything, in your hometown
you're still just you.
I had occasion to visit my hometown a few weeks ago. The only accountant I've ever used has her office there.
A lot sure has changed in that little town.
To someone only passing through that would probably seem strange to hear. For it's nothing you would notice at first glance. Just a lot of little things that only someone who spent a number of years there -- who grew up there -- would see.
The four-way stop has been replaced
by a traffic light. The shopping center once home to the Winn Dixie, a
Bargain Town, and the Elmore's five-and-dime now houses a different
grocery store, a gym, and an H&R Block.
They've built a new courthouse out on the four-lane. The old courthouse is just a building now. It's three stories serving as an unintentional monument of the town square which has changed so much around it. Thirty years ago, it was still the center of commerce. And every Friday and Saturday night, there would be a solid line of cars -- teenagers in Trans-Ams and old pickup trucks and Novas -- cruising the square.
I remember when the "new" four-lane was first coming through.
Before it opened, you could go around the orange roadblock signs and
drive on the fresh, jet-black pavement. It's where Dad would take me to
practice driving, since you didn't have to worry about traffic. And I
realized he was younger then than I am now...
They finally tore down the old Star Theatre. It was an old-style art deco theatre with half-moon doors. And even though it was never open as long as I can remember, seeing its ticket window and big marquee, I always liked to imagine how alive it must have been on some long ago day. Every so often, there would be talk that somebody was going to open it back up again, but nobody ever did.
I drove past the spot where the old lumber company used to be. A few years ago, it burned to the ground. I knew a fireman who died there. The obvious void in the landscape seemed fitting for the gaping hole I know he left in the lives of his wife, and children, and grandchildren.
Somewhere around this time, it began to dawn on me how virtually every street in this town held a memory for me. Almost every building, some significance.
The old Texaco, which is now a used car lot, is where I used to stop every evening on my way to work (under the guise of buying a snack) to see a girl who worked the counter. She even stopped in to see me at work a couple of times, but I was too naive or unskilled to ever go any further.
That's just a few blocks from the intersection where I killed my Jeep umpteen times one night when I was learning to drive a stick. We must have sat through at least 5 green lights, me panicking while my baby sister sat in the passenger seat telling me it was going to be OK. She loves recounting that story at family gatherings for some reason.
Just off the square, there's the Western Auto where I once bought a 10-speed. It was all covered with dust and the tires were flat and I remember thinking they must not sell too many bikes.
Out on the four-lane, now next to the new Walmart, is the church of Christ where I had my sins washed away. I can still remember the feeling of freedom and purity I felt that day, and the guilt I've felt so many times since.
If you head south, on the outskirts of town, there's the Baptist church which none of us attended, but we sure made good use of their outdoor basketball court. The goals are no longer there, the church having installed an indoor gym
many years ago. The old court now serves as a parking lot for the
church buses. As I'm writing this, I just now remembered there would sometimes be an older gentleman, probably in his 70's, who would occasionally come and bring a lawn chair and watch our pickup games. I hadn't thought of that memory in probably twenty years!
A part of me will always be bound to that little town, held fast
by so many memories, people and places, a lot of them no longer there
anymore. But I can still see them, in my mind, frozen in time exactly as they were ten, fifteen, twenty-five years ago..
I smiled when I thought about the barber shop where old Mister Albert used to cut my hair. I never saw him when he wasn't wearing dress pants and a button-down shirt. Dad and I would both get our haircuts the same day. I'll always remember the story about Mister Albert having a mild heart attack while cutting someone's hair. He sat down in a chair for a couple of minutes to rest, then got up and finished the haircut before he would go to the hospital.
It feels like I could go on forever.
Not surprisingly, the accountant asked about my mom. There, I'll always be my parents' son... I just had to sign some papers. We exchanged a bit of small talk and I was on my way.
A lot of times I would have taken a couple minutes to drive by our old house: an unassuming three-bedroom brick on a sleepy little street with a carport, gravel driveway, and a maple tree in the front yard. It's the last place my parents lived together.
But on this day, I did not.
Maybe I was afraid it had changed and wouldn't be as I remembered it. Maybe I'd seen enough change for one day.
Besides, I can go back there most anytime.
All I have to do is close my eyes.
"Southbound breezes blowin' / This town ain't my home / You can slow me down / But I'm goin' / If I can turn this road I'm on / Southbound..."
It's been tough again for me to write. First, Boston, and then West, Texas, just took my heart. And yet, the days keep coming. The world keeps spinning. Somehow.
The human spirit again proves irrepressible. Still I wonder how much more we can take.
Some have said the thing to do is to live your life. Go out. Run another marathon. Hop on a plane. Blog. And so, here am I.
The spring has found me busier than usual, which let's face it, wasn't very busy at all. I've taken on some freelance work on the side, and have also started a lawn care business. At present I have precisely two clients. That may not sound like much to you, but it's about fourteen steps further than most of my ideas ever get, which in case you're wondering, is usually about the point where I think, "Hmm, that's a good idea, I should really look into that. Woo, I'm sleepy. Nappy time."
It's all in the name of not only making ends meet, but perhaps even having them overlap a bit. My apologies to those of you whose image of me was that of a kind of southern Kardashian, independently wealthy and making millions more from this blog.
Today, that image has been shattered.
The freelance job forced me to finally do something about my internet. My AT&T DSL, which for years was decent, had in recent months been doing a dead-eye impersonation of dial-up. Dead being the operative word there. So as of this past Tuesday (martes, for my Hispanic readers), I'm on cable internet.
Oh. Em. Gee!
It's like I hopped in the DeLorean un martes tarde to go for a drive, hit 88 miles per hour, and boom! Instantly I have been transported from 1997 to 2006. And while I do kind of miss Hanson and Mark Morrison -- I mean, I think we all thought they were here to stay -- now my Netflix doesn't freeze five times during a half-hour show! I never said anything before because it was so embarrassing.
I feel like I just got indoor plumbing for the first time.
To celebrate -- the internet, not the plumbing -- I watched two episodes of The Hills on Netflix. Ugh, that Heidi. Even in reruns, she just... ugh! Don't get me started. Oh, oh, OH!
They brought me out a cable box. See, I'd been getting my cable straight from the wall all these years, which evidently was robbing me of HD and limiting my number of channels.
The only thing you really need to get from all this is: I've got SoapNet back! So now I can watch my stories every night!
I haven't been this excited since... have I ever been this excited?
Probably not. Especially when you consider there is a channel that shows WKRP In Cincinnati at night, AND there was an ABBA movie on last night!!! I didn't even know there WAS an ABBA movie!!! (Also, if I ever learn how to make that backwards B, I may just retire from the internets.)
Anyhow. Naturally, I watched General Hospital the past couple of nights, and began to catch up with Luke, Laura, Scott, Dante, Lulu, Patrick, Brenda, Sonny, Nikolas, Michael, and unfortunately, Carly. However, I'm still not sure how Stavros managed to escape the bottomless pit Luke pushed him into all those years ago? That's seems a tad unrealistic, GH.
After that, The Young & The Restless came on. Now I've never watched the show (honest!) but I left it there, just to see if I could catch a glimpse of Jason Morgan. At first there were two old guys on there I didn't recognize. Personally, they didn't look all that young or restless to me.
There he was. The gangster/coffee importer/main-reason-I-own-a-black-leather-jacket formerly known as Jason Morgan. In all his perfect-hair glory.
I'll admit, it was tough. I mean, this is a guy I modeled much of my life after. At least, my stoic facade and my cool manner with the ladies.
It was like seeing an ex-girlfriend you dated for years, but now she's married to someone else, and he's a nice enough guy and she acts happy, but you know they'll never have what you and she had, and sure you made mistakes but who doesn't, your story wasn't over yet and how could she give up on that and settle for him when the two of you had so much left to do! And why? Because it's convenient??? Well love's not always convenient!!!!!!
So... uh, yeah.. it was a lot like that...
Here's a fact you may find amusing. This actually started out to be a Music Monday post. I know, normally I post those on Tuesdays. But anyway, that just goes to show you how much I procrastinate, er, like to plan things out in my head for a few days before actually getting around to doing them.
It's one of my endearing qualities. I like to pretend I have several.
Monday was Glen Campbell's birthday. As I was googling and listening to some of his music, I hadn't realized how many songs he'd done with a positive, upbeat message. Sure some of them were a bit hokey. But after the previous week the world had seen, I was in the mood for some hokey.
This is a song called "I Will Never Pass This Way Again." It definitely has a bit of a gospel feel to it. The time stamp is a little distracting, and the audio and video are a tad out of sync. Hey, it was 1973. I'm sure it was a crazy time for us all.
I also came across Glen's version of "MacArthur Park," a song I've loved from the first time I heard it. I really like Waylon Jennings' version of this, but it wasn't Waylon's birthday, so...
"I will taste the wine while it is warm / And never let you catch me lookin' in the sun..."
The boys of summer -- who actually show up in early spring and somewhat overstay their welcome through mid-fall -- have arrived.
Baseball is here. Which means fantasy baseball is here. Which means it's time for Bone to spend hours, yea, minutes, researching, surveying, and creaticizing, all in an effort to come up with the best, most clever team name in all the fantasy league.
There has been a long-held conception that if I spent as much time and mental energy on drafting and managing my team (say, for the entire season rather than losing interest sometime in mid-June) as I do naming my team, then maybe their results would be better.
And I must admit, even I was starting to question whether that might be the case.
And then last year happened. Dusty's Spring Field happened. Possibly the most dominating season in the history of history happened.
I won my league by 29 points! While I'm sure most of you are familiar with fantasy baseball rules and scoring, there may be a couple of you (*cough* Renee *cough*) who have no idea what I'm talking about and who are, in fact, only "skimming" this post as we speak. So to put that in some perspective, I finished 29 points ahead of the second place team. Meanwhile, the difference between the second place team and the last place team was only 28 points. A legend began to grow about my fantasy baseball adroitness. I considered retiring. I mean, from such great heights where else could I go but down? Besides, if you recall, we were all pretty sure the world was going to end last year anyway.
But then, I remembered a lesson learned from those athletic conquistadors of my youth -- Brett Favre, Michael Jordan, Brett Favre again. And that is: never go out on top. And so, I'm back, for one more run. Or two. Until no one wants me in their league anymore or they carry me away from the keyboard with a career-ending carpal tunnel injury. That's how I wanna go out. Now, without further adieu (because really, that was quite a bit of adieu, doncha think?), I present this year's finalists: Dusty's Spring Field ~ Yes, I briefly considered keeping Dusty's Spring Field for a second year. Why mess with a good thing, right? Plus, as Michael Scott once said, I'm not superstitious, but I am a little stitious. In the end, I decided Dusty's Spring Field would have to be retired into the Bone Hall Of Names, just like all the fantasy team names before it. That's the rule. And if I can't abide by these rules I've made up, well then I have no idea what any of this is for.
Son Of A Bleacher Fan ~ Meet Dusty's Spring Field's offspring: Son Of A Bleacher Fan. This would probably be my new team name in 2013, if not for that little Yahoo! Sports rule that limits team names to 20 characters. SOABF has 21. Though I suppose I could eliminate spaces. But then that'd just bug me the whole season, like someone sending me an email saying, "Your so funny." I just. Can't. Let. It. Go. Cafe Latos ~ Not horrible. This is the contestant in the Final 12 on American Idol that isn't a bad singer, but that everybody knows isn't going to win. Just doesn't have "it." Cozart's Concerto ~ I liked this one a lot. Actually I wanted Cozart's Cowhide Concerto, but again the 20-character limit. However, after consulting with my IMAEIC (instant messaging & email inner circle), none of them seemed very thrilled. Cozart's Concerto is the American Idol contestant who finishes 4th but has a much longer career than Kris Allen... I mean, the winner... ever will. The Fountain Squares ~ Getting away from the players names' theme, I decided to go in a city-of-Cincinnati direction. Again, none of the IMAEIC seemed all that impressed, but don't be surprised if this one pops up again somewhere down the road. It could be a possible name for my future band, should I ever learn to play an instrument.
And now, the moment you've all been skimming for. Two of the three members of my IMAEIC immediately picked this name as soon as they heard it. It must have been a lot like how Elvis's mom reacted when Vernon was calling out possible baby names... "Howard? Vernon Jr.? Elvis?" There was no need to hear the other names. Either that, or they were just trying to pacify me so I'd stop bugging them about it... Hmm, I may have to rethink my inner circle. Anyway, your 2013 Bone Fantasy Baseball team name:
Queen City, Bitches!
(pause for confusion/consternation)
Well, except apparently Yahoo! doesn't allow commas in their team names. So instead of calling my fellow competitors the b-word, it's like I'm calling my own team the b-word.
Of course, I didn't really intend it in a derogatory manner. More in a fun way, like "What up beyotches? We gonna hang at the hizzouse and get crazy up in here tonight? What what?" (Imagine me saying this as I'm throwin' gang signs. But like a nice gang, one that helps old people and does good deeds. Actually, I guess that's the Cub Scouts, isn't it? Do they have a sign?)
But assuming for a moment that it were a derogatory term, I've just gone from insulting the rest of the league to insulting myself.
"The only one who could ever reach me / Was the son of a preacher man..."
With the Bible ended and our brackets busted, our thoughts turn to the swelling spring -- flowers, showers, and the new season of Mad Men. A nation takes solace in the fact that evil Duke has been defeated for another year.
For some reason, hearing the phrase, "Last week, on the Bible..." never failed to crack me up. At the same time, the promo for the final installment that said, "The Bible ends tonight," kind of freaked me out a little. Let's just say I was more thankful than usual to see the sun rise that next morning.
I wonder if the History Channel has considered the limitless possibilities for Biblical reality-show spinoffs. Real Concubines Of Gomorrah. Joshua & Caleb Take Canaan. Pimp My Chariot. So You Think You Can Prophesy? Cash Camel. Survivor: The Flood. Lamech Is 147 & Single. Mesopotamia's Got Talent.
Sticking with our odd Jewish/Christian religious theme, I went to see Jerry Seinfeld... on Good Friday. I received the tickets as a birthday gift, and was pretty excited to see "An Evening With Jerry Seinfeld" printed on them. However, that was a little misleading. Turns out it's an evening with Jerry Seinfeld and like three thousand other people.
Our seats were in row Y of the balcony, which meant there was only one row in the entire arena farther from the stage than us. So it was more like An Evening With Nosebleeds... and this mysterious Jerry Seinfeld voice booming from somewhere in the vast darkness below.
Nonetheless, it was good to relax for a solid ninety minutes and watch someone else trying to be funny for a change. The opening act, Tom Papa, provided non-stop laughs. I actually thought he upstaged Seinfeld a little. Also disappointed that there was no "If anyone has any can't miss ideas for new sitcoms, please meet Jerry backstage at this time" announcement. So I didn't get to pitch my brilliant show idea, which I cannot share with you at this time for nebulous reasons.
After the show, we ate at Chic-fil-A. They were piping some religious-sounding music through the speakers. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Continuing with our new "joke" theme, I did have one April Fools' Joke (Is it fools, fools', or fool's?) played on me -- by Nephew Bone. He called me Monday.
"Hey Uncle Bone, it's snowing!"
"It's snowing at your house?"
"It's snowing at everybody's house, Uncle Bone!"
"Oh no! Are we gonna build a snowman?"
"Ha ha, April Fools!"
Can't believe I fell for that one. (He says, knowing he'd fall for it a thousand times more.) Plus, Nephew Bone has verbal apraxia, so the words are a struggle and a lot of them aren't clear, which increases the heart-melt a hundredfold.
I got him a toy golf set for Easter. I figure it's never too early to gauge his interest/try to nudge him forcefully down the path I have chosen for him. Work with me people, I'm trying to groom a future golf partner here.
He was way more interested in hiding the eggs this year than hunting them. Of course, then he runs around the yard directing you and pointing to where he hid the next egg. Which actually wouldn't be a bad quality to have in a golf partner. "Hey, Uncle Bone. Your ball's over here. In this briar patch. Behind this hundred-year-old oak tree. Again."
Once in awhile you have an epiphanic moment where you realize life is not at all how and what you thought it might be. It's not necessarily worse or better, just different. Far different.
I had such a moment when I found myself squatting and pretending to "lay" a turquoise-colored Easter egg in an attempt to make a 4-year-old laugh. In all my forethought, scheming and dreaming, I somehow never saw that coming.
Life: The biggest April Fools' Joke of all.
"I'm April's fool / I play by her rules / She treats me any old way she wants to..."
(I posted this earlier today at Poetry Wrecks. Then after a bit, I decided I kinda liked it, which is rare. So I'm cross-posting it here. I haven't been finding time to write as much as I would like. Perhaps I need to look harder. Here's wishing you all a Happy Easter.)
Could I still call you friend
It's been so long now
Into a blur
Of weeks and half-years
Ofttimes I have thought of you
We are bonded
By our humanness
And divided by the same
There are reasons I know
And others I never
Why this must be the way
Would you still call me friend
On fitful days I go
To the one place
I know I can find you
And when I see you there
A smile breaks
Across my tired face
Silent and still
In virtual shadows
I remain unseen
To know you are well
Soothes the scar
And tempers the void
A lonesome raindrop
On dry, forsaken ground
Sweet, but short-lived
And never enough
But it is all I have
Could I still call you friend
"And if you think that I could be forgiven, wish you would..."
My weekend could best be summed up by that wise old proverb. Lemme see if I can get this right... Give a man a fish, and he'll eat for a day. Make a man put together a push mower, and he'll never buy anything that reads "some assembly required" again.
But alas, all's well that ends with only two or three pieces left over. I would tell you more about my productive weekend, except that I've just been reading a provocative news blurb about how the thing people find most annoying about social media is those who brag about their fitness routine or latest diet.
They were followed by those who post pictures of every single meal they're about to eat, people who "check-in" at every place they go to, online game players (Farmville. Holla!), smug couples (dislike!), and excessively proud parents.
Wow, that really puts a crimp in my plans for today's post. However, there are a couple of things that crossed my mind Sunday afternoon which I am able to share with you today. After all, a man has a lot of time to think while mowing the lawn with a mower which mysteriously seems to be missing a critical part.
Firstly, it struck me that in all the years we've known each other, I've yet to share with you my extensive mental collection of emoticons. And at my age, I feel that is important to do because, well, at some point it may become socially unacceptable for men of a certain age to still be using winky faces.
Let's start with the least famous, most underrated, underutilized emoticon of them all. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the high-five:
Also known as the Eiffel Tower. And occasionally mistaken for an anteater. Or, a rather stubby phallus.
That's right, I'm bringing the high-five back. Those other emoticons don't know how to act. Why this emoticon is not more widely used is beyond me. Truly one of the great mysteries of our time, right behind D.B. Cooper, and National Treasure.
Let's look at a few others:
:-/ Mister Empathy/Dismayed
:-( Mister Frownie (I use this one a lot. I'm not as happy as you might think I am.)
:'( Shedding a tear
:''''''''''''( Bawling (Notice how the more tears you shed, the longer your face becomes. Thus the expression "Why the long face?")
:'-) Tears of happiness (Never use this. It only confuses people.)
>:( Angry (Or an unhappy king, though I've yet to find a use for an unhappy king.)
(_|_) You've just been mooned.
>< Kiss (Or the slightly less popular, fish with its head cut off.)
:-P Tongue sticking out/joking/flirting
:-P* Tongue sticking out to catch a snowflake
*o) Snowflake in eye (And the other eye... apparently missing? May you never have cause to use this one.)
:*) Snowflake on cheek (Do I have too many snowflake ones?)
* ≠ * No two snowflakes are alike (Obvs.)
@--->--- Rose (Doesn't really get you out of as many virtual jams/doghouses as you might hope.)
(|) Sideways hamburger (Or, flat-head screw. Again, somewhat difficult to find a practical use for this one.)
Well, I think it's pretty clear I could go on forever. Unfortunately, there's not enough internet.
I would only leave you with one thought for the day: If we can't communicate with a cleverly-arranged series of dots and symbols, we're no better than the cavemen...
Hmm, actually didn't they draw pictures on the cave walls? Therefore, we're exactly like the cavemen. So that example really doesn't work.
OK, so let's change that to "Even the cavemen (and cavewomen, although I don't see how they could be expected to draw after being drug around by that bone in their hair all day) realized the easiest and clearest way to communicate was through a series of pictures and symbols."
There. Much better.
Oh, there was one other thing I wanted to share with you. Remember when I did that Music Monday post? No? It was only five months ago, I don't see how you could have forgotten. Well, in my mind it was going to become a semi-regular feature. In reality, suffice it to say, it did not.
Anyhow, here's a band one or two of you might tolerate. You know, kinda like you do me. They're called The Hold Steady. It's hard to believe I've not shared them with you before now. But when you only do a Music Monday post once every five months... well, suddenly it becomes easier to believe. (And yes, I'm vaguely aware this is Tuesday.)
"She was a really good kisser / But she wasn't all that strict of a Christian / She was a damn good dancer / But she wasn't all that great of a girlfriend..."
There was hope in the air, so I breathed some in. It felt good for my soul, so I breathed in some more.
I walked in the park. People were stirring. I guess they wanted some hope, too.
Suddenly, it seemed like this winter had lasted forever.
Wanting to take full advantage of the new weather, I fired up the grill for ribs, mushrooms, peppers, and potatoes. After supper, we roasted marshmallows over the fire pit, then gathered around it for warmth as the night air grew chilly once again.
No matter how many years I file away, that first burst of spring always feels fresh and new all over again. I think it always will. I hope that it always does.
How does one describe that feeling? How do you write a spring day? For it is nothing you can hold in your hand. It's something far better lived than imagined, breathed in than read, experienced than not. But better it be written, than forgotten.
Just as September has that one day every year where fall announces its arrival with the first hint of a chill in the air, March has its own day, and spring, its own news to declare -- tidings of warmth, and yes, hope.
Sunday was that day.
Winter's cold had returned by Monday morn, but it was a different cold. A sunny and bright crispness, rather than the usual gray and drear.
And there was hope. The hope of spring. The hope of something better.
And I knew that winter wouldn't be long.
"You only need the light when it's burning low / Only miss the sun when it starts to snow / Only know you love her when you let her go..."