S&I and a BLT
Strange and Interesting what life does to us, isn’t it, “S&I” more telling than “funny.” Sitting in this chair in a different room a few blocks east a year ago, I had no idea of resettling into the perfect place. And it’d not have come to pass but for exchanging emails with a dear and trusted friend and the friend’s advice, wisdom and kindness. We have settled and are settling into the rest of life.
It had never occurred to me, I’d never realized how helpful moving, relocating can be. If we still lived in the rectory in Apalachicola where Tass grew up, I’d still be immersed in memories of those years with her, and singing the songs, and grieving her growing up and into her own life. If we still lived down the street in Alfred’s house I’d still be reliving every moment of Kristen growing up there as Papa’s girl. In that old family house, I raised her as my very own in every room upstairs and down, and it would never go away, every moment still present and ever heavier. After 58 years as parent and grandparent, here in new environs I can, and deliberately am forcing myself to, become my own person. Mind, I’d rather be another age in another place and time and with a tiny child stretching out arms to me and saying “picka-me-up,” but that is not an option in life, and here I am after all that; and the new home is a starting place, like coming round the game board, passing Go and collecting $200.
Now if only I can stop murmuring the songs, maybe I can at last have a life of my own …
Her name is khaki-marie, she’s daddy’s girla, can’t you see, …
Walk this morning. Before the walk, waiting for Robert.
Mid-walk sit-down confronting an angry Bay, seeing what was heading our way, so rushing before the wind.
BLT at Big Mama’s on the Bayou.
T+
Add -- loved last night's 120 minute comedy. Watching D made even Ted look good to me.
It had never occurred to me, I’d never realized how helpful moving, relocating can be. If we still lived in the rectory in Apalachicola where Tass grew up, I’d still be immersed in memories of those years with her, and singing the songs, and grieving her growing up and into her own life. If we still lived down the street in Alfred’s house I’d still be reliving every moment of Kristen growing up there as Papa’s girl. In that old family house, I raised her as my very own in every room upstairs and down, and it would never go away, every moment still present and ever heavier. After 58 years as parent and grandparent, here in new environs I can, and deliberately am forcing myself to, become my own person. Mind, I’d rather be another age in another place and time and with a tiny child stretching out arms to me and saying “picka-me-up,” but that is not an option in life, and here I am after all that; and the new home is a starting place, like coming round the game board, passing Go and collecting $200.
Now if only I can stop murmuring the songs, maybe I can at last have a life of my own …
Her name is khaki-marie, she’s daddy’s girla, can’t you see, …
Walk this morning. Before the walk, waiting for Robert.
Mid-walk sit-down confronting an angry Bay, seeing what was heading our way, so rushing before the wind.
BLT at Big Mama’s on the Bayou.
T+
Add -- loved last night's 120 minute comedy. Watching D made even Ted look good to me.