Ten-four at five-oh-five
When you popped out at precisely the time, the Stones song began resonating through my fevered brain, "Get me on Flight Number 505." And with no idea of my destination, I hauled you to the North Woods of Washington State away from the distant dad who continued to burrow into his loneliness and isolation, so much so that he gives the word 'hermit' new meaning.
What are the highlights of our journey? The time when I decided I had to get a handle on your willfulness, and in a session of holding, grappling, and patience, we came away with a new understanding. It was when we lived in the house with the steep drive, next to the landlord whose horse died one afternoon when I was DOMA*. Did it eat rhododendron like the goat we got and lost in the same day? That was at the commune in the woods, clothing optional until cars and gawkers crowded the road.
Before we left the house on Atlantic, you strayed onto the busy street one too many times. I was in a perpetual state of apoplexy, fearing you would be hit by a car. I either found you or someone brought you back. Three times. Heart in my throat.
There were the years with stepdad Mike, "Josie, get me a beer." And the time in the apartment until we moved in with Paul the Greek, where you couldn't touch anything, and the friend built the bunk bed too high; you fell out and broke your arm. Guy and his kids, then Jim and his quiet ways. Right after we married, you invited a ton of kids from school and most were drunk.
Happy 15th B-day (RALPH). By then you had started signing your art JoE and making your mark. BTW, I still have the ceiling tile from the art class. Shall we see if the teacher has retired yet?
You moved out at 18 and I grieved. Empty next syndrome let me know that two more would follow, and they did, sooner than I expected, but with less pain than I felt with your departure. You went backpacking with a BF and kept reminding me that you were alive after losing backpack, sleeping bag, and other replaceable things. When I got stuck last week in the Sierras, I was well watered, otherwise safe, and kept thinking of your ordeal in the Saline Valley. Hysteria ensued. Until just now, I didn't realize what had prompted my reaction. In my case, chinquapin bushes were growing rather densely as I tried to make a trail from a lovely campsite to the trail. There was an easy way, but I tried to blaze my own trail. Next time, I bring a machete.
Last year was your "Life, the Universe, and Everything" birthday, but you didn't have time to celebrate the enormity of the event, and someone else stole the theme for his party, BAH! Now, we have an absence at the table, your progeny, who is navigating the maze of adolescence and mental illness. Remember what June Seber said, "She's fine! You are the one who suffers through her changes." (I paraphrase).
*DOMA: drunk on my ass
What are the highlights of our journey? The time when I decided I had to get a handle on your willfulness, and in a session of holding, grappling, and patience, we came away with a new understanding. It was when we lived in the house with the steep drive, next to the landlord whose horse died one afternoon when I was DOMA*. Did it eat rhododendron like the goat we got and lost in the same day? That was at the commune in the woods, clothing optional until cars and gawkers crowded the road.
Before we left the house on Atlantic, you strayed onto the busy street one too many times. I was in a perpetual state of apoplexy, fearing you would be hit by a car. I either found you or someone brought you back. Three times. Heart in my throat.
There were the years with stepdad Mike, "Josie, get me a beer." And the time in the apartment until we moved in with Paul the Greek, where you couldn't touch anything, and the friend built the bunk bed too high; you fell out and broke your arm. Guy and his kids, then Jim and his quiet ways. Right after we married, you invited a ton of kids from school and most were drunk.
Happy 15th B-day (RALPH). By then you had started signing your art JoE and making your mark. BTW, I still have the ceiling tile from the art class. Shall we see if the teacher has retired yet?
You moved out at 18 and I grieved. Empty next syndrome let me know that two more would follow, and they did, sooner than I expected, but with less pain than I felt with your departure. You went backpacking with a BF and kept reminding me that you were alive after losing backpack, sleeping bag, and other replaceable things. When I got stuck last week in the Sierras, I was well watered, otherwise safe, and kept thinking of your ordeal in the Saline Valley. Hysteria ensued. Until just now, I didn't realize what had prompted my reaction. In my case, chinquapin bushes were growing rather densely as I tried to make a trail from a lovely campsite to the trail. There was an easy way, but I tried to blaze my own trail. Next time, I bring a machete.
Last year was your "Life, the Universe, and Everything" birthday, but you didn't have time to celebrate the enormity of the event, and someone else stole the theme for his party, BAH! Now, we have an absence at the table, your progeny, who is navigating the maze of adolescence and mental illness. Remember what June Seber said, "She's fine! You are the one who suffers through her changes." (I paraphrase).
*DOMA: drunk on my ass