“I don’t understand why you’re freaking out about this - you’ve been at the helm since you were five. You’re clearly capable of weathering this. I don’t understand why you’re in doubt of yourself.” And, of course, he’s right: I have been at the helm since I was five, and I am quite capable of captaining this ship through this storm.
I want to tell him why, that it’s never too late to sink the ship - never too late - but instead I just smile and say nothing, choosing to let him live his way into the answer on his own.
Friday, April 10, 2009
La Fin du Monde
“La Fin du Monde?” he asks, examining the label on the bottle of beer he’s just opened. Upon reading the alcohol content he teases “Nine percent? Are you trying to get me naked?” “We split a 750 milliliter bottle of La Fin du Monde on a date, and I did get you naked,” I reply confidently. “Oh,” he says, looking back at the bottle, “It works then. Good,” and takes a long swig.
Under the Category of: I Knew That
Tuesday morning I woke to find the house cold. I wandered up to the living room to check the thermostat and read 57 °F, well enough below the set point for the heat to have come on. It shouldn’t have gotten that cold. I could hear the circulation pump running, but when I put my hands on the radiators, they were cool, not warm or hot. I wandered downstairs, grabbing the long lighter as I went. We’d lost power the night before, and since it’s hot water heat with its own tank, the pilot can go out and yet continue circulating hot water - for a while, anyway.
I opened the boiler panel, then the pilot/burner door and propped the little door open with its hook. Moving the ignitor lever over to the ‘pilot’ set point, I re-lit the pilot and watched that it stayed lit. Satisfied, I then moved the ignitor lever over to ‘furnace’, wanting to make sure that the pilot stayed lit once there, too. A half second later, I hear the jets on the burner, a one foot by one foot plate, just inches beyond the pilot light, open. Just as I think “Oh, shit, the burner’s gonna -” a small fireball erupts from the door as the burner ignites. I hold perfectly still - something I learned in my first fireball incident: Never pull away from an imminent fireball - it just comes with you. More on that lesson another time.
Anyway, a half second more and the fireball is gone, and I think calmly “I was supposed to turn the heat down at the thermostat before I did this... I knew that.”
I appear to have singed a few of the hairs on my right thumb, but absolutely no other sign of fire damage on me.
Some of you may argue otherwise. That’s what the comments section is for.
I opened the boiler panel, then the pilot/burner door and propped the little door open with its hook. Moving the ignitor lever over to the ‘pilot’ set point, I re-lit the pilot and watched that it stayed lit. Satisfied, I then moved the ignitor lever over to ‘furnace’, wanting to make sure that the pilot stayed lit once there, too. A half second later, I hear the jets on the burner, a one foot by one foot plate, just inches beyond the pilot light, open. Just as I think “Oh, shit, the burner’s gonna -” a small fireball erupts from the door as the burner ignites. I hold perfectly still - something I learned in my first fireball incident: Never pull away from an imminent fireball - it just comes with you. More on that lesson another time.
Anyway, a half second more and the fireball is gone, and I think calmly “I was supposed to turn the heat down at the thermostat before I did this... I knew that.”
I appear to have singed a few of the hairs on my right thumb, but absolutely no other sign of fire damage on me.
Some of you may argue otherwise. That’s what the comments section is for.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
The Taoist Farmer, or "Maybe"
There was once a Taoist farmer. One day, the Taoist farmer’s only horse broke out of the corral and ran away. The farmer’s neighbors, all hearing of the horse running away, came to the Taoist farmer’s house to view the corral. As they stood there, the neighbors all said, “Oh, what bad luck!” The Taoist farmer replied, “Maybe.”
About a week later, the horse returned, bringing with it a whole herd of wild horses, which the Taoist farmer and his son quickly corralled. The neighbors, hearing of the corralling of the horses, came to see for themselves. As they stood there looking at the corral filled with horses, the neighbors said, “Oh, what good luck!” The Taoist farmer replied, “Maybe.”
Soon after, the Taoist farmer’s son broke his leg taming one of the wild horses. The farmer’s neighbors, all hearing of the son breaking his leg, came to the Taoist farmer’s house to see him. As they stood there, the neighbors all said, “Oh, what bad luck!” The Taoist farmer replied, “Maybe.”
At that same time, in China, there was a war going on between two rival warlords. The warlord of the Taoist farmer’s village was involved in this war. In need of more soldiers, he sent one of his captains to the village to conscript young men to fight in the war. When the captain came to take the Taoist farmer’s son, he found a young man with a broken leg who was delirious with fever. A few days later, the son’s fever broke. The neighbors, hearing of the son’s not being taken to fight in the war and of the return to good health, all cam to see him. As they stood there, each one said, “Oh, what good luck!” The Taoist farmer replied, “Maybe.”
About a week later, the horse returned, bringing with it a whole herd of wild horses, which the Taoist farmer and his son quickly corralled. The neighbors, hearing of the corralling of the horses, came to see for themselves. As they stood there looking at the corral filled with horses, the neighbors said, “Oh, what good luck!” The Taoist farmer replied, “Maybe.”
Soon after, the Taoist farmer’s son broke his leg taming one of the wild horses. The farmer’s neighbors, all hearing of the son breaking his leg, came to the Taoist farmer’s house to see him. As they stood there, the neighbors all said, “Oh, what bad luck!” The Taoist farmer replied, “Maybe.”
At that same time, in China, there was a war going on between two rival warlords. The warlord of the Taoist farmer’s village was involved in this war. In need of more soldiers, he sent one of his captains to the village to conscript young men to fight in the war. When the captain came to take the Taoist farmer’s son, he found a young man with a broken leg who was delirious with fever. A few days later, the son’s fever broke. The neighbors, hearing of the son’s not being taken to fight in the war and of the return to good health, all cam to see him. As they stood there, each one said, “Oh, what good luck!” The Taoist farmer replied, “Maybe.”
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
A Gift from Stripe
I’ve been away a few weekends lately, and haven’t been around to scoop the litterbox daily. Stripe is rather particular about the litter box, preferring it be scooped twice daily, but she’ll tolerate the weekends, and respectfully use the box.
On a recent weekend, however, I neglected to scoop the boxes when I returned home, and let the chore go an extra day, perhaps even two. Stripe rebelled. She pooped next to the box, just to let me know what she thought of the situation. Then, she grabbed anything in the vicinity to try and cover it up, which is funny, because that’s something she’s really inept at when she actually poops in the box.
Their litter boxes are under the stairs in the basement, and apparently the previous occupants of my home used that area for their gift wrap storage.
When I finally went to scoop, I found a small pile of poop with a large gold bow on it.
Thank you, Stripe.
On a recent weekend, however, I neglected to scoop the boxes when I returned home, and let the chore go an extra day, perhaps even two. Stripe rebelled. She pooped next to the box, just to let me know what she thought of the situation. Then, she grabbed anything in the vicinity to try and cover it up, which is funny, because that’s something she’s really inept at when she actually poops in the box.
Their litter boxes are under the stairs in the basement, and apparently the previous occupants of my home used that area for their gift wrap storage.
When I finally went to scoop, I found a small pile of poop with a large gold bow on it.
Thank you, Stripe.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Absenteeism
I have not been blogging. There are perhaps three of you who read this, and so the fact I've not been blogging may have gone largely unnoticed in the world. Regardless, I feel the need to explain.
I have been distracted. The distraction is male, caucasian, six foot one, dark haired, blue/hazel eyes, handsome, has a heart of gold (which he'll modestly deny) and is everything I would have wanted had I ordered him from Amazon. Yeah - it's been pretty good stuff, and we all know that's normally what I'd be all about in my writing.
If you know me, you already know I'm extroverted. Even if you don't know me, most folks with a blog fall into the extrovert category on some level. But only some of you know my introverted side - which is as strong and dominant as the extroversion. Just take a look at my Meyers-Briggs scores, and you'll see I've no middle ground on this one. I'm either an open book, or I'm not.
We are apparently in 'Not' mode.
Despite the fact that I have been filled with thoughts, have been writing, have even started a few blogs posts, I have nothing to say here. Really, I don't. Maybe it's that there's still so much to process, so much unnamed yet. Maybe it's that I want to protect him from my extroversion. Maybe I just don't kiss and tell. Maybe I'm still struggling with the idea that this is a bit fairy-tale for me. I'm used to the Grimm brothers, or at least Aesop's fables. I'm not used to stories that hint at happy endings. I may even be mildly intimidated by such a concept.
Not that intimidation has ever stopped me. Intimidating situations attract me, actually. If I'm intimidated, there must be something to learn, and that is how I start most of my adventures in life. I like adventure.
And, this is an adventure, and a damn good one at that. No idea how it will turn out. Isn't that exciting? I find it exciting.
Whatever the reason I've not been able to write about this, I think I'm done trying to publish anything about it here. In time, I may find things suitable to post. For now, I intend to enjoy my distraction and, apparently, keep it all to myself. Sue me.
It may happen, then, that I'm still absent from this a while yet, but it's my goal to get back to blogging daily or near daily. I hope you'll stick around to read what comes in the next week or so. There is really a lot to mention, even if I'm taking the man off the table as a subject. There's Mr. Bi-polar and my 911 call last week, there's the car, there's MARVIN who refuses my calls on Tuesdays because he is busy, amazingly high heating bills, and thoughts on the 83rd problem in life, known to buddhists as the problem of not wanting any problems.
So. See you later this week.
I have been distracted. The distraction is male, caucasian, six foot one, dark haired, blue/hazel eyes, handsome, has a heart of gold (which he'll modestly deny) and is everything I would have wanted had I ordered him from Amazon. Yeah - it's been pretty good stuff, and we all know that's normally what I'd be all about in my writing.
If you know me, you already know I'm extroverted. Even if you don't know me, most folks with a blog fall into the extrovert category on some level. But only some of you know my introverted side - which is as strong and dominant as the extroversion. Just take a look at my Meyers-Briggs scores, and you'll see I've no middle ground on this one. I'm either an open book, or I'm not.
We are apparently in 'Not' mode.
Despite the fact that I have been filled with thoughts, have been writing, have even started a few blogs posts, I have nothing to say here. Really, I don't. Maybe it's that there's still so much to process, so much unnamed yet. Maybe it's that I want to protect him from my extroversion. Maybe I just don't kiss and tell. Maybe I'm still struggling with the idea that this is a bit fairy-tale for me. I'm used to the Grimm brothers, or at least Aesop's fables. I'm not used to stories that hint at happy endings. I may even be mildly intimidated by such a concept.
Not that intimidation has ever stopped me. Intimidating situations attract me, actually. If I'm intimidated, there must be something to learn, and that is how I start most of my adventures in life. I like adventure.
And, this is an adventure, and a damn good one at that. No idea how it will turn out. Isn't that exciting? I find it exciting.
Whatever the reason I've not been able to write about this, I think I'm done trying to publish anything about it here. In time, I may find things suitable to post. For now, I intend to enjoy my distraction and, apparently, keep it all to myself. Sue me.
It may happen, then, that I'm still absent from this a while yet, but it's my goal to get back to blogging daily or near daily. I hope you'll stick around to read what comes in the next week or so. There is really a lot to mention, even if I'm taking the man off the table as a subject. There's Mr. Bi-polar and my 911 call last week, there's the car, there's MARVIN who refuses my calls on Tuesdays because he is busy, amazingly high heating bills, and thoughts on the 83rd problem in life, known to buddhists as the problem of not wanting any problems.
So. See you later this week.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Stephen Craig
I have tried to write about you and your death so many times in the year since you passed, and have been unable to. The words come out wrong. They don’t mean anything, they don’t say anything.
Stephen, it is so hard to miss you as badly as I do. It is so hard. There are so many things that I wish could be different. I wish you’d never been born with a bad heart, that you’d never had diabetes, that you’d never faced amputation of your legs versus death, that you’d have never chosen to die without letting us know.
It took me six months to stop saying that I’d give anything for you to still be alive. Once I realized what you’d have had to give up for that to have been possible, I found it easier to accept. For you to be alive today, now, you would have had to have your legs amputated, at the hip, and you never wanted to live like that, having seen grandad suffer that way. But it’s still hard. It was so unexpected for all of us Stephen. Dave, me, Melanie, your kids. None of knew what you were facing medically, and none of us knew you’d made the choice to die until you were gone.
And, on some levels, I have to thank you for hiding the truth, for flat out lying to Dave and I. You weren’t taking your insulin. You left everything here in Michigan when you left for the kids in Texas. Everything. Your testing equipment, your needles, your insulin. You had none of it in your truck, in your bags. But you told David you were testing and taking your insulin. You flat out lied. And I thank you for that. Because you were right - neither Dave nor I could have kept from asking you to have the amputation. We would have been selfish. And you would have yielded to us, out of your love for us. I could not live with the guilt of that today, and so I thank you for sparing me, for sparing David, and yourself, from what you had said so many times you could never live with. How many times did I hear you say that you’d die before you let that happen to you? So, I understand. You’d have done it for us, and that would have been wrong. For our little family of stubborn, willful, obstinate, independent SOB’s, that would have been wrong.
But you must understand that I hate it. I hate that I never said goodbye to you. I hate that when Ruth insisted on taking you to a hospital, and they’d stabilized you, that you said you were way too sick to die, and I BELIEVED YOU. Like a damn fool. Why didn’t I say goodbye then, just in case? Why didn’t I leave for Texas then to see you? Did I even remember to tell you I loved you? On the one hand, I know that you know that, but on the other hand, did you know that? Did you know how much I loved you? Respected your crotchety, grumpy, smug ass? Did you know? Do you know now?
Overall, your death was as close to having come at your own hands as I care to ever see anyone I love get. Suicide is such a selfish thing to do. But in this case, it was going to be either your selfishness, or ours, and I thank you that I don’t have to carry the weight of my own selfishness when I think of you. I carry instead the loss of one of the most important people, one of the most important men I have ever had in my life, and it hurts like hell. But if losing you and grieving is the cost of having loved you, I’d love you twice as hard in a ‘do-over’ knowing I’d hurt twice as hard now. Gladly.
You are worth every fucking tear I shed, Stephen. Every fucking one. Thank you for having loved me. Thank you for letting me love you. Thank you for the trust that you, I and Dave shared. Thank you for everything you ever taught me. Thank you for being my brother. I will miss you, your wisdom, your smart-ass mouth and mind, for the rest of my life.
Rest in peace, Stephen Craig. I love you. I always have, and I always will.
Stephen, it is so hard to miss you as badly as I do. It is so hard. There are so many things that I wish could be different. I wish you’d never been born with a bad heart, that you’d never had diabetes, that you’d never faced amputation of your legs versus death, that you’d have never chosen to die without letting us know.
It took me six months to stop saying that I’d give anything for you to still be alive. Once I realized what you’d have had to give up for that to have been possible, I found it easier to accept. For you to be alive today, now, you would have had to have your legs amputated, at the hip, and you never wanted to live like that, having seen grandad suffer that way. But it’s still hard. It was so unexpected for all of us Stephen. Dave, me, Melanie, your kids. None of knew what you were facing medically, and none of us knew you’d made the choice to die until you were gone.
And, on some levels, I have to thank you for hiding the truth, for flat out lying to Dave and I. You weren’t taking your insulin. You left everything here in Michigan when you left for the kids in Texas. Everything. Your testing equipment, your needles, your insulin. You had none of it in your truck, in your bags. But you told David you were testing and taking your insulin. You flat out lied. And I thank you for that. Because you were right - neither Dave nor I could have kept from asking you to have the amputation. We would have been selfish. And you would have yielded to us, out of your love for us. I could not live with the guilt of that today, and so I thank you for sparing me, for sparing David, and yourself, from what you had said so many times you could never live with. How many times did I hear you say that you’d die before you let that happen to you? So, I understand. You’d have done it for us, and that would have been wrong. For our little family of stubborn, willful, obstinate, independent SOB’s, that would have been wrong.
But you must understand that I hate it. I hate that I never said goodbye to you. I hate that when Ruth insisted on taking you to a hospital, and they’d stabilized you, that you said you were way too sick to die, and I BELIEVED YOU. Like a damn fool. Why didn’t I say goodbye then, just in case? Why didn’t I leave for Texas then to see you? Did I even remember to tell you I loved you? On the one hand, I know that you know that, but on the other hand, did you know that? Did you know how much I loved you? Respected your crotchety, grumpy, smug ass? Did you know? Do you know now?
Overall, your death was as close to having come at your own hands as I care to ever see anyone I love get. Suicide is such a selfish thing to do. But in this case, it was going to be either your selfishness, or ours, and I thank you that I don’t have to carry the weight of my own selfishness when I think of you. I carry instead the loss of one of the most important people, one of the most important men I have ever had in my life, and it hurts like hell. But if losing you and grieving is the cost of having loved you, I’d love you twice as hard in a ‘do-over’ knowing I’d hurt twice as hard now. Gladly.
You are worth every fucking tear I shed, Stephen. Every fucking one. Thank you for having loved me. Thank you for letting me love you. Thank you for the trust that you, I and Dave shared. Thank you for everything you ever taught me. Thank you for being my brother. I will miss you, your wisdom, your smart-ass mouth and mind, for the rest of my life.
Rest in peace, Stephen Craig. I love you. I always have, and I always will.
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