Honea Express

Archive for the ‘Sickies’ Category

I was fairly stationary as a child. I lived in the same house until college. Then I lived in the same area for another ten years. I was never more than 40 minutes away from anyone, friend, family or foe. Not that I had any foes, but I did have a love for alliteration.

I met my wife, and on a whim we hit the road. Once the moving started we couldn’t stop — kind of like dancing, except with less alcohol. My wife and I dropped pins all over the left side of the map. We were up, down and then up again. We had U-Haul on speed dial. Our last stop found us just outside of Seattle.

There are things here that we love. There are friendly people, incredible neighbors, wonderful summers, scenic beauty in every direction, fantastic schools and a sense of community that I haven’t known since my childhood. We live in a quaint town where roots are deep and well-watered. It is a perfect setting in which to raise a family.

But there are things that are dark and press against us, and the silver lining has become harder and harder to find within them. The clouds stretch from the sea to the summer, and their constant soaking leaves a layer of cold tucked tight between skin and bone. There will never be enough logs upon the fire.

Seasonal affective disorder comes and goes, literally with the seasons, but with each ebb it grows slower, and every flow seems more fond of shadows than sunlight.  Sadness grows like mold in the corners of our happy household.

The children do not go through bouts of depression, but rather sit beside them and grow restless and frustrated. They do not want to go outside into the cold and the rain, but they would enjoy it if we took them there.  The trips are few and far between. The children suffer secondhand, which is full of shame and lacking in justice.

We have tried to compensate with manufactured light, an overextended calendar and daily supplements, but all it has done is make us face the truth. It is time to pay heed to Harry Nilsson and go where the weather suits our clothes. It is time for sailing on a summer breeze.

Come June, when we are done with school and leases, we will follow our footsteps back to the sands of California. There is where opportunity awaits, and with it a warmth to bask in. Our running is equal parts to and from.

The leaving is bittersweet, and it packs a heavy heart, but the journey should find us nearly healed and the arrival somewhat lighter.

The ocean stretches from July to forever. We are the stones that skip across it.

Cheese and wine are fairly good company.  We all improve with age and someday we will all be consumed.  Two of us by the other.  One by worms or hellfire.  It depends on who you ask.

This birthday started like most do, with somebody puking.  However, it was the wrong midnight and things were only technically so and not yet recognized by the committees and panels that decide such things. No gifts had been exchanged. That didn’t stop him from appearing in the hallway with a day’s worth of gruel caked to his hair, an ear full of corn and a body coated in shades of dinner.  His trail read like Hansel on a bender. We followed it carefully.

He was the second son in a matter of days to spend his night reliving that which was once glorious. Neither found the sequel to be nearly as appealing.

The first one woke in the wee hours with the cutting cries — the cries that cut through the stereo, TV, what passes for conversation and what’s left of the night, only to make your heart stop even as your feet start and you run through walls (not around them) getting to your child at the exact same moment that the scream began. He woke like that and he was covered with five pies worth of used blueberries.

The women in the audience screamed. Bossman Bob Cormier take one look at Bill Travis and barfed on Principal Wiggins. Principal Wiggins barfed on the lumberjack that was sitting next to him. Mayor Grundy barfed on his wife’s tits. But when the smell hit the crowd, that’s when Lardass’ plan really started to work. Girlfriends barfed on boyfriends. Kids barfed on their parents. A fat lady barfed in her purse. The Donnelly-twins barfed on each other. And the women’s auxiliary barfed all over the Benevolent Order of Antelopes. And Lardass just sat back and enjoyed what he created. A complete and total Barf-A-Rama.

That’s pretty much how it happened.

And then he was better and life went on and we healed and we lived and we fell down a rabbit hole, and then the other one was standing in the corner covered in tears and culinary memories. Everything is circular.

It’s been sunny since January.  Today it is snowing lightly.  The clouds are grey and slightly heavy and they catch on trees as they roll down the mountain.  It is a temporary melancholy.  A remembrance of what has passed.  It does not cut with cries or stand silently in the corner, but it too has come back from places we’ve long forgotten.  It too will be consumed.

Birthdays are like that — reminders of what once was glorious, a tease of what may be; a temporary slice of melancholy with candles lit upon it.  In between we heal and we live and we pour the wine more freely.  We hope it will all stay down.

The snow is a nice touch.

__________

Quote from Stand By Me

From my office I can watch the leaves fall upon the deck and melt in pools of red and yellow. They do not fight it. They have served their purpose. They have accepted their fate. Theirs is to fall beneath a constant drizzle and breaths of mist and theirs is to mock me in their peacefulness.

From my office I can see a grave sixteen years deep. My gaze tends to wander there. It lingers from time to time.

The boys have been sick and sad and they are making messes and mischief of one kind and another. Theirs is in the now. Pain and joy are deep and fleeting. Mornings are met with smiles and dreams are embraced with hugs and sugars and the seesaw tones of love and a patience lost.

Miles away my wife drifts in a pool of memories. It ebbs and it flows and it ripples from countless teardrops. She is at the bedside of her father. Hers is a distance measured in sadness.

Her father fades slowly. Her hopes come and go. His breath, it ebbs and it flows and it ripples. His is the fountain of their tears. His is the pool of memories in which they wade with pants rolled high and thick, hard skin slowly finding softness. Theirs is old wounds unhealing and new cuts soaked in salt.

Mine is to be alone, tired and slightly unkempt. Mine is to stare far too long at leaves through windows. Mine is to care for my children and give them strength when they need it and to take theirs when it is offered.

Ours is to make the most of making do.

That was a good drum break.

If you’ve ever read this blog, or any blog written by a parent, you would know that some things are understood- things like sleep is a myth and all restrooms are public.

We didn’t sleep last night. Granted, we never sleep. Our bed is too small for the ark that Jacob said to build upon it (see below) and a good rest is seldom had.

Yes, we co-sleep. I don’t care what you think. Unless you’re okay with it, then by all means think away. Our decision to do so is based loosely on the fact that we sold the kids’ beds on Craigslist. It’s a recession, people.

Plus, the move and all that. They’ll have beds soon, put the phone down.

Anyway, last night there was little sleep had by anyone with a pillow (see above). It was a night of cries, screams and whimpering. Yes, whimpering. And whining.

Thing Two (top center) has been sickish for a few days. We assumed it to be allergies. The air here is disgusting and everyone is coughing, itching and feeling like crap. We figured that was the case with Thing Two, or possibly Swine Flu.

About, oh, 4am, he declared that his ears hurt. Not one ear, but ears. Then he continued to cry, scream and whimper, without even missing a beat. The kid has talent. Eat that Susan Boyle.

Six in the morning found me and the boy in Urgent Care. Double ear infections. Antibiotics. A donut. A nap.

Now he’s sitting at my feet eating ice cream and whimpering noticeably softer. And I am more tired for it.

“Oh, blood. Somebody must have died there.”

He is five-years-old and I’m standing outside the bathroom on the campus of his elementary school. The door is propped open and the floor is covered with paper towels and urine. There is blood on the sidewalk between me and the tile.

“I doubt anyone died there,” I tell him. “Today,” I keep to myself.

Maybe it is spit heavy with dye and candy.

He is unfazed by the possibility of death or by its looming presence. He is running in the cloudy haze of springtime, fresh from finding a favorite sweater among the memories of the lost and found. He is jumping cracks and lines drawn from chalk.

I am walking a growing distance behind him. My sweatshirt is pulled tight. The springtime wind is sharp and cold.

My head is full of medicine and mucus. The image is unpleasant and the reality is worse. It is a day after my 38th birthday and I am tired and my Facebook wall is full. It is a good feeling to be thought of, but even the warmth of sentiment is lost in the breeze. I pull my sweatshirt tighter.

We are home and the boys are not listening. My wife is listening to the J. Geils Band and everything is a freeze frame.

There are cards in the mailbox full of checks and signatures. I read every line, even the words written by a company that has never met me. I put the money in my wallet and throw the cards away. They’ve served their purpose and theirs is to be forgotten and recycled. Perhaps they will come back as a love note or parking ticket, a poem or a receipt. Maybe a birthday card is all there is.

I’m behind in my work. I’m behind in my bills. The daylight lasts an hour longer and it is not enough.

There is cold coffee and leftover spaghetti on my desk- a temporary stop before they are a part of me, like the spring and the wind, life and death, my boys, my wife, a wall written on and mailboxes filled. Like work and bills and walks of growing distance, everything is medicine and everything is mucus. It is heavy with dye and candy.

Everything is a freeze frame and for some reason I find comfort there.