Honea Express

Archive for the ‘Tricia’ Category

People often ask me what it is I like to do in my free time. To which I say, mind your own freaking business. If I wanted you to know about it I would put it on the blog. Or Twitter. Or Facebook. But probably not Google Plus.

But then it dawned on me that I do not have a moment of free time, hence my inability to answer. Sure, some might say that writing a blog post is “free time” and I get that, but I’m just taking a break from writing something for money. That’s a job, people. Some smoke on their breaks, I blog. Also, pornography.

Basically, I wanted to touch base with you, the reader(s), and let each and every single one one of you know that I truly appreciate your kindness in what was (and continues to be) a very tough time for us. But we’re making due and getting by, and the good (deity of your choice) willing, maybe we’ll win a few games.

I’ve been keeping busy. Limey Yank Productions is a full-time job without all the hassle of benefits or paychecks, and I’ve been posting random bits of parenting woes and whoas all over the designated play area of the Internet. I’m also trying something new: humor. It’s like funny.

My wife is enjoying her new job, the boys like their new school (the youngest started kindergarten last week!) and the dogs seem happy to be happy. I don’t know what the hell the cats are up to.

And in the meantime life is bits of love and leisure wrapped tightly between inboxes and deadlines. We spend our days working and our nights trying to catch up. The boys bounce barefoot from beach to branch, leaving a trail of sand-covered Magnolias in their wake.  The days fly by us like we’re standing still, but we are moving fast in all directions.

The wind is a chorus of whispers and promise. Free time is but a kite in the distance.

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Thank you for reading.

And here are the links I couldn’t fit into the paragraphs above. You’re welcome:

Atticus and the Lion King 3D Premiere (video)

Public schools outlawing peanuts

Disney’s D23 Expo recaps, Day 1 and Day 2

Where were you 10 years ago today? I’ll throw you a bone, it was a Friday and the world, according to some country singer, was still turning. America was unattacked and the majority of its citizens were far smarter than the president. My children were still years away from being born and loved ones were still years away from dying. Things were different then, but the times, according to some folk singer, were a-changin’.

I woke up that Friday morning and set straight to pacing. At some point friends showed up and we set straight to drinking. Then we dressed like penguins and stood in the Arizona heat hoping that the ice didn’t melt. Finally, the sun went down and the music went up. My life would never be the same.

And then there is a montage of moving trucks and pitchers of margaritas. There are new jobs and blurred faces and babies crying and moments frozen in my mind forever. Ten years is a short time spread over something that stretches out further. It bends and tangles. It mends and loves and never once breaks. In the spring it drives along the coast with something great on the radio and the windows open.

Ten years ago we wed. Since then we’ve made mistakes and excuses. And we’ve done wonderful things. Ten years is something strong to build upon.

Happy Anniversary, Tricia. I hope you’re enjoying the ride.

Please note, that last line is about the roller coaster of life — not sex. Of course she’s enjoying that.

And this is what we danced to.

“Aren’t candles bad for the ozone?” he asked.

“What do you know about the ozone?”

“I saw it on a cartoon,” he replied.

“Of course you did. Yeah, I suppose someone is making the case that candles are bad. Still, we’re saving electricity. It’s a wash.”

“You can’t fucking win,” he said. Except that he didn’t because I would have scrubbed his mouth out with soap until he was blind.

“Wash what?” he asked.

“Your hands,” I told him. “And take your brother.”

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The thing about drinking heavily on surprisingly little food and even less sleep is that something has to give and it is usually the wallet. It gave a lot. Now there are memories where dollars used to be, and they were worth every one.

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“Don’t go avenge’anin my name,” sang the youngest between bites of warm biscuits and fresh blueberry jam.

“I would,” I told him.

“What does that mean?” asked the older.

“It means that I love you,” I said.

“Is this the Avett Brothers?”

“Yes. They’re a band of brothers, just like the two of you.”

The jam nearly melted into the bread, and the taste was like pie in the shadow of the oven.

“It’s good to have a brother,” said the youngest.

“You are both very lucky,” I said as watched their faces through the reflection of the window. They were looking at the blueberries on their fingers.

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It took two nights for me to accept that I wasn’t going to die in my sleep. Things tend to slow down when the party stops, and shifting into a lower gear doesn’t make the hill any less steep. The last time I flushed something solid was when I dropped my gum in the airport urinal. My head was full of clouds and cocktails.

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“It’s past your bedtime. Again. Hurry up.”

That was me. They were mostly screams and laughter.

“Why is it past our bedtime?” one asked.

“Because it’s late,” said the other.

“Will you read us a story?” they asked.

“No,” I said, “but I will write you one.”

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Once there was a man full of malice and mischief. He was made to wonder and wander, so he did both in spells and pieces. Sometimes he mixed mischief with wonder and malice with wander, and sometimes it was the other way around.

Most of the time he preferred just to wander and while doing so he wondered about things like where dreams came from, why stones break bones and where it was he was going. Now and again he gave way to a tune in his head and he would lose himself in a whistle. He was as happy as he thought he could be.

It wasn’t until he met a woman and fell to courting that he did the things that men of fancy find themselves doing in front of crowds of friends and strangers with caution but the wind upon his back. Then it started to gather a bit in the middle and he said to himself, “that is how you focus.”

Malice gave way to mischief and mischief gave way to just occasional nights of far too rowdy. The wandering went to destinations and the wonder was said aloud instead of swirling thoughts inside his head. He was happier than he was before, so he thought that was the end. But it wasn’t.

Eventually they had a son and there had never been anything like it except for maybe those occasional whistles if they had been shared by a choir of angels and, he thought, if cartoon birds put ribbons upon my wife and in her hair, then that, too, might be half as good as this.

That went on for the space of time that exists between one son and the other. Then there were two boys with the man and his wife and you would not be laughed at if you assumed that their happiness had doubled, but that would be easy and math seldom is. There were algorithms and remainders and factors to consider which is only one of the reasons you should stay in school, but when the dust had settled the number had grown larger than the paper on which it was written — so the man threw it into the sky and told it to return when it had settled on a sum and the paper is still floating out there somewhere like so many stars and expanding equations.  I hope you were listening to the part about staying in school.

So that’s where the story is now. The man healing from a few nights of far too rowdy and his wife ready to wander with ribbons in her hair and her destination fixed. The day was one where two little boys floated and whistled and filled themselves with a bit of malice, the best kind of mischief and mastered, once again, the tendency to grasp happiness while expanding through worlds worn with wonder. They went to bed too late, covered in warm crumbs, small kisses and the freshest coat of blueberries.

The man sat by a candle and did exactly as he had promised.

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.

Like most days it started with a song and sort of wandered off from there. There was a breakfast table surrounded by boys and windows, and the latter was covered both inside and out.  The inside held bats and ghosts and assorted ghouls grouped more by the restrictions of a child’s reach than status or storyline. The outside was layered with a morning fog fresh off the mountains and bullets of rain that ricocheted into the flowerbed below.

The boys sat with their backs to the window and their attention in their cereal bowls. A car drove past and between a grinning skeleton and a winking witch I saw my tired neighbor driving home from her last round of radiation. She drove slow enough that I could just make out the twinkle in her eye beneath a brow that has been too heavy for too long.  She looked exhausted and victorious.  She glowed through the fog and the rain between us.

I dropped my wife and the boys off on the curb in front of the airport. The white zone is for the immediate loading and unloading of passengers only. Our hugs were tight and quick.

I drove home with a little boy’s tears wet on my shoulder. I had no place else to go.

There is a sudden silence in a house without children.  It is haunting and lonely.  It is also clean for extended periods of time.

Still, it is better loud and dirty.  The ghosts and ghouls know it. They are ignored so far below eye level.  Even the smile carved across the pumpkin looks forced. There is a sadness where seeds should be.

The street is quiet and the neighbors are sleeping. The rain will fall for days and it suits me fine.