Ten years ago, I wrote a much shorter version of this story in a column for the Star-Herald. I was limited to 800 words. Today, on our 30th wedding anniversary, I’ve written a much more detailed version.
From left, me, Beardog Bob, and National Park Ranger Anne Wilson at the 60th anniversary celebration of Agate Fossil Beds National Monument on June 7, 2025.
The drive north on Highway 29, was a somber one. My mind was elsewhere and I didn’t take note of the weather. A good storyteller would have remembered to do that, but I didn’t today.
My supervisors.
EMDR and therapy have been rough lately. It’s okay. That’s how it works. However, I hadn’t anticipated the current deluge of events, which have rained down more drops than I feel I can handle all at once.
The blanket Mom made for Paul and me.
It’s been a year since I said goodbye for the final time. Mom was sent to the hospital in horrific shape. The disgusting and filthy place she had been sent to by the State made her worse.
A honey bee approaches a flower as it searches for nectar in the flowerbed outside Riverside Discovery Center.
“When are we leaving?” Paul said.
“For what?” I said.
“I’m so tired of this clown show,” he said.
Aeryn and Londo, probably plotting against me or judging me. Maybe both.
This post isn’t going to be my usual musings or a list of things to watch or any of the other usual stuff I write. It’s about consolidation. I have been thinking about a lot of things lately and it’s preventing me from getting done the deeper things I want to do. I figured I’d fire off some of the things bouncing around in my brain which I’m not sure I want to flesh out into full posts of their own.
Nothing like hitting the end of the month and realizing you forgot to make this post. Also, I’m going to use the lame excuse that February only has 28 days, so it’s February’s fault for this being late. Or something. I mean if the orange guy can use lame-ass excuses, I can, too. Right?
Page one of a writing assignment in 1988.
This was how my 17-year old brain thought when given a writing assignment in English class. The assignment was to describe a room using as many adjectives as possible, but without making it sound like shit. I chose my bedroom, though the bits about the drum set were in my mind. It was turned in on March 4, 1988. I thought I was edgy and cool then because no one seemed to understand what I was writing. I got an A. That’s all that mattered at the time.
Here’s a roundup of the books I’ve read over the past two months. Two good. One meh. One crap.