dusty morning
My poor dad. He lives alone. One side of his body betrays him. His house is coated in dust upstairs and in the basement. My sinuses are numb and I coughed up phlegm balls in the shower. I discussed it with a Twin Cities friend via text. He shamed me a bit about not moving to West Fargo to help my dad more. It brought up all the emotional dust of the past 13 years. All the chaos having such a high needs husband, an autistic child, and the neediness of my broken self came up like a dust storm in 1933. This is a new friend. He didn't know. I am not angry. His family does anything for relatives when they reach a certain age. What I've done in the past year to try and get myself to West Fargo more often, has been a lot. I was not shamed, but I was inspired to brainstorm ways to help my dad live in a cleaner and healthier life.
Not sure how old the cold medications were that I found, but they seem to be helping even dispell the effects of this man's Eternity Cologne he bathed in this morning. I am at the Caribou Coffee on 13th Avenue and the cologne bathed man is sitting with a guy with whom I graduated high school. Their conversation is actually interesting. I wonder if he recognizes me too. I never bothered him 25 years ago, I don't see a reason to bother him now.
On the way from Minneapolis to visit him I listened to NPR and my new favorite is Moth Hour. Beth Nielsen-Chapin, a fairly prolific song writer, did her spiel about losing her husband to cancer. The only song I really knew by her was "This Kiss" because I don't listen to a lot of contemporary country. Or I haven't in the past. My music tastes are evolving. She really takes the simplicity of life and makes it big and significant. I found her on Spotify and she's lovely and simple. I am very fond of lovely and simple these days.
So, yes, I've uncovered the dust bowl, but farmers learned to not repeat their mistakes, I can learn from them to keep my soil rich and my harvests plentifull.