Mom's Story

I've started the story that is a dedication to my mom. It's a hard piece to write, for a number of reasons: A) The theme is cliche (alien falls in love with lovely old woman) B) The alien is supposed to be a form of vampire C) She had myriad visions ofr the story, but she only expressed a limited few D) It's all based on a vague memory from a decade ago.

After a long period of wondering how-the-hell-am-I-going-to-do-this, I determined that the heart of the story lay in the dynamic between the old lady and her faithful friend. The friend was more of a live-in-nurse type in the original tale. I beat my head against the wall trying to find a way to fit all the elements that I could remember into something cohesive (and wasn't a copy of Starman). Eventually, I came to the decision that I would have to add my spin on things; I promisd to write the story, not write it true to her vision.

So, I took her outline as a trigger. I determined that they dynamic would be best shown in racial differences and in a specific milieu: Civil War era. Research on a couple of battles of the Civil War led me to another story, one that some southerners have not entirely recovered from. I just hope I can do it justice. My main goal is to get this story published. Yeah, I know that should be most writers' goals in everything they commit to words, but most of what I've written has been with the purpose of learning. I have a few ideas about the alien element, but nothing set in stone, yet.

A few friends friends have opined against my withdrawal from the writers workshops I frequent. Duly noted. I'll give it a bit longer. That's just to show I can take advice too. It's still a hard time, but I'm forging through it. This story is my way of getting some closure and remember my mother for who she was.

A New Year

My birthday was Saturday.

Normally, this is the harbinger for a completely miserable day. I'm never depressed because of my age; the day is just a magnet for calamity. It's like Murphy's Law was invented on my birthday.

This year began typically: I woke up; made my breakfast; did my hour-long aerobic workout; then fed the dog and fish (which are supposed to be my oldest two children's chores). During my workout, as usual, my youngest threw a fit (which we lovingly refer to as "Nutties"). He's developementally challenged, and throws a temper tantrum that shifts a bright day into a postapocalyptic negative in the snap of a finger -- like the beginning of the old T.V. show: Tales from the Darkside. He smashed the dog-gate down and freed the Abominable Doofus from his confines. Now, our dog is a German-Blockhead Rottweiller mixed with a Chow and Black Labrador; he's got the size of a Big Rottweiller, the playfulness of a Labrador, and the recalcitrance of a Chow : he's a giant, slobbering, barking, nipping, jackass of a dog that is sometimes outsmarted by our (black) Goldfish, named Life. Yeah, I know. The kids named him. As it turned out, it was an appropriate name. Of our three original fish, Life is the only survivor -- that's how my wife learned that air filter have screens to prevent the fish from being sucked up. I digress. So the Abominable Doofus is drooling in random cirlces, Eli's throwing a nutty, Cait (my seven-year-old daughter) is thumping downstairs one step at a time, wrapped in a comforter, looking like something that was born of the unholy coupling of a lion and a slug, and my wife is waiting for the sun to set before rousing from her coffin. It's a good thing Logan, our oldest son, was spending the night at a friend's, or he'd have been screaming like a girl in a film-noir horror flick. ( The dog's playfulness scares him; along with insects, cobwebs, the water bubbles that form in the tub drain -- which he thinks look like fish eyes, although, I still don't know why that's scary -- and certain kinds of cooked meat.) No stress or anything...

Then, quite shockingly, things got better. While I was struggling to get the Abominable Doofus back into his gated community, my wife proved Bram Stoker right: Although they are considerably weaker, vampires can walk around in the daylight. The nutty gave way to a litany of "eat-eat" and the North American Giant Wild-Haired Slug gradually shed her thick, segmented coating and proved that she had metamorphosized into a cute, hyperspastic girl. However, the transformation did nothing for the hair that even rats would find to messy to nest in.

We traded the oldest child for the youngest, dropped the oldest two off with "Grampy" -- like they wanted -- and did the cake thing. My wife made a scrumptious cake. Then, we went to Topsham (the most peaceful trip we've had in quite a spell) to shop for clothes. Next we went to Borders (bookstores are high on my list of favorites), where I picked up a couple of Bernard Cornwell's Sharpe novels, a Mario Puzo, a Patrick O'Brian, and found Patrick Rothfuss's The Name of the Wind -- a book which I have been wanting to get my hands on a copy of. Rothfuss's debut novel comes very highly recommended by some of my favorite authors, one that I had to finish before delving into The Name of the Wind today...

I took my wife to dinner at a restaurant that she hadn't been to. The meal was splendid and we both had our fill. (It was at dusk, so her powers were full capacity.) By the time we returned home, we had traipsed curcuitously about the state. The kids had been excellent for their grandfather, which is always nice (though rare), and were ready for bed, when I was ready to read to them. They went to sleep relatively easy.

It hadn't been the equivalent of the Windsor Fair for the kids, but it was a milestone in calamity-free birthdays, and one of the most enjoyable days that I've spent with wy wife in a long time.

Brain Belches

This is one of those days that nothing seems to go right. Business has been dead -- the perfect time for a photographer to show up to shoot me (not with a gun) at work.

I'm feeling pretty beat up.

The writers forums I frequent seem to profess that they would be better off without me -- which is a shame, because that's one of the few things I derive joy from. I'm not one to stick around where I am not needed or wanted, so that may lead to my leaving.

The thing that sucks about depression (temporary, not clinical) is that it flavors everything. Even when it's a bright, sunny day, everything looks like rain.

Solitude

A week before my birthday, and I'm miserable. Except for Mom's passing, I shouldn't be. Business is good. I'm making good money. My wife's attracted to me at present, which fades in and out (at times, admittedly, I giver her "just cause" to be repulsed). I find the kids are behaving -- for me, at least -- better than normal. Holli (my best -- and only -- salesperson and biggest fan) is back to work, after almost a month out, so my crew is full again.

What more could a man ask for, right?

It's strange. I feel utterly alone. Every good thing that I have listed comes with a price: Business being good takes me away from my family, and it keeps me away for long hours. My kids loose out their nightly story and I loose that bonding time that is so precious to me. (Not to mention, my wife looses her much-needed break from the human-zoo.) Long hours mean I'm tired or exhausted by the time I tread through the door, and (by the time I put the kids down) I can't match my wife's enthusiasm. Holli is distracted by personal drama, and letting that tint her work-world.

Ironically, I can usually find a bright side to things. But, right now, I only see shadows. I can't seem to taste any flavors, everything goes plain so fast. The work I'm willing to volunteer (the time consuming work of an experienced craftsman) is unwanted. My prose is dull; it's just as well that no one really reads this. All arguments seem petty and trivial.

It's not that I want attention. Attention (so long as you're not picky about whether it's good or bad) is easy to achieve. I don't want somebody to dote on me -- I have a few fans. But, I long for the simplest of companions. What I really want is someone to hang-out with. Someone who I share interests in common with. These days, that's a rare commodity. I hardly see either of my two best friends, anymore: Dan has M.S. and doesn't come out much; Eugene lives 1300 miles away.

Well, back to the grind...before I gnaw my own ear off.

In the Wake of Her Passing...

It's been rough since my last entry, as most people can imagine. The trip down, the cleaning out of her things, and settling her affairs has been unimpressive. When I accepted her remains... Oh. I didn't accept her remains? That's right. The funeral home was too incompetent to fill out the death certificate and prepare her ashes (which are now apparently called "cremains") for travel, in the week that I had allotted . From the look on the woman's face, it amused them to delay. The day before we left, they told us -- via telephone -- that everything was arranged. My wife made a point of asking if there was anything else they needed from us. "No. No," they said. "Everything is in order." Then, Friday morning, they informed us that "...everything will be ready Monday..."; until Monday arrived, then it was, "We didn't know where she was born, so we couldn't fill the certificate out".

She would probably have had a better sense of humor about the situation. (You reading this. Mom?) She could find humor in anything, given enough time.

It was grueling sifting through the pictures. It wasn't bad enough to have her history pieced together in snapshot, but there had to be enormous gaps, too. Her possessions were few enough -- damn little to represent an entire life -- but momentos were everywhere. Sentiment always outweighed monetary value in her eyes. Her heart shone through in many things.

It's the busy season for work, so my time in Florida was short. I had to be back in Maine by the 3rd of August. We got back 1:00am on August 2nd. My wife garnered her first speeding ticket in South Carolina, which she earned by doing 90mph in a 70mph zone. That's my Amanda! She once jumped a road (launching from the stop sign that she'd blown past and landing four driveways down the block, in front of a police cruiser) with my mom in the back of the car. Mom's reaction was priceless. In my mind, I can still see the death-grip she had on our headrests. Later on, we all had a laugh. I still rib Amanda that the cattle aren't saying, "Moo."; they're saying, "Mooove!" She has a good sense of humor about it, too. (Obviously. She married me, didn't she?) So I got back to a backup of clientele, and had to bust @$$ ever since. Yesterday slacked off a bit, but there was drama of another kind to fill the gap.

When we walked through the door, there was a manila envelope waiting for me. It was from my Uncle Jimmy. His visits, throughout my childhood, helped inspire the creative juices that were beneath my flesh. I hadn't spoken to him in -- at the very least -- twelve years. It was sad that it took this to break the silence (sort of). There wasn't a single word in that envelope. It was filled, instead, with pictures. Some of those pictures were of her and I (as a child, shudder), and some were of her. Most of them were black-and-whites of her youth. It was very touching. There was a specific photo -- one that was completely new to me -- of her as (I would guess) a teen. It was that picture that stopped me. I'd seen her as a toddler and little girl, but never as an adolescent. Maybe it was the emotion-of-the-moment, but I could see hopes and dreams in her young eyes. I spent a miserable moment realizing the enormity of what she sacrificed for me. It was the first picture that I could see the woman I knew peeking out of (though it was just a shade of what was to be), and is very precious to me. If you read this, Uncle Jimmy, thanks. Thank you very much.

I want to say thanks to my friends at LH for their reassurances, thoughts, and prayers. They reminded me that we're only "alone" if we choose to be.

'Til next time...