A Trip Through The Minefield
I lost my parents over twenty years ago. I've been alive longer without them than with them, and I'm not an old guy. So yes, from time to time my thoughts wander across the minefield as I wonder things like "how would Mom feel about this?" or "I bet Dad would have figured this out by now."
Unlike a real minefield this is one you can build up a resistance to. What used to blow off a leg now just means I need to brush my pants clean. The metaphor fails in extended application.
Today I'm positively giddy with excitement. A new (but very good) friend and consummate professional is joining me and some of my other consummately professional friends (also very good) for two days of recording sessions. I sprang awake at 5:15am with the sort of enthusiasm I usually reserve for Christmas.
And I wondered, casting my mind back to my early years "when Dad was 43, was he ever giddy with Christmas-morning-esque enthusiasm?"
[CHING-KLICK] goes the pressure plate to the mine I've just stepped on.
"No," I say to myself in irritation. "This isn't 'I miss Dad,' this is a serious question. Do you ever remember him being giddy?"
I ponder the matter, poring through the jumbled mess of poorly indexed memories from twenty-five, thirty, and thirty-five years ago.
"No," I reply. "I don't."
[BOOOM]
Did it explode because I can't remember something I should, or because I wish my Dad had been a happier person? Regardless, I'm going to need to change these pants.
Unlike a real minefield this is one you can build up a resistance to. What used to blow off a leg now just means I need to brush my pants clean. The metaphor fails in extended application.
Today I'm positively giddy with excitement. A new (but very good) friend and consummate professional is joining me and some of my other consummately professional friends (also very good) for two days of recording sessions. I sprang awake at 5:15am with the sort of enthusiasm I usually reserve for Christmas.
And I wondered, casting my mind back to my early years "when Dad was 43, was he ever giddy with Christmas-morning-esque enthusiasm?"
[CHING-KLICK] goes the pressure plate to the mine I've just stepped on.
"No," I say to myself in irritation. "This isn't 'I miss Dad,' this is a serious question. Do you ever remember him being giddy?"
I ponder the matter, poring through the jumbled mess of poorly indexed memories from twenty-five, thirty, and thirty-five years ago.
"No," I reply. "I don't."
[BOOOM]
Did it explode because I can't remember something I should, or because I wish my Dad had been a happier person? Regardless, I'm going to need to change these pants.