A Valid Question

How will I choose...

What Are You Doing Here?

What?

I said, what are you doing here?

I don't understand the question.

It's very simple.  I'm not sure I can make it simpler.  What.  Are.  You.  Doing.  Here.

Here?  Like, here on this blog?

Exactly.  What are you doing?

I'm... 

You're?

I'm?

You're...

I'm... None of your beeswax, you disembodied voice.  I started a blog.  I write stuff.  I post it.  Then, a dozen people turn up to read it (maybe two dozen, on a really good day).  Anyway - it's mine.  And what I do here is my concern, not yours.

Okay, look.  Maybe we got off on the wrong foot...

Yeah, the wrong-- wait.  You have feet?

Don't change the subject!

What subject?  You just showed up and started picking at me about... I don't know what... my *intentions* with my blog?  Is that it?

That's it.  What do you think it is that you are actually doing here?

Ah - you're thrown off by all the hobo stuff.  No worries.  I've got a page that EXPLAINS THE HOBOES...

No.  We understand the hoboes.  John Hodgman.  Back stories for his list of hobo names.  We get it.  And no, we don't even care to ask whether you plan on doing all 700 of them.  Make 'em a separate blog.  Don't make 'em a separate blog.  Do 'em all.  Stop now.  We don't give a rat's red rump.  That's neither here nor there.

Okay - that's kind of a relief, because if I'm being honest, I really don't know where I'm going with the whole hobo thing.  But, if that's not it, then just what are you asking, you who seem to have become plural?

What are you doing here?  How hard is that?

It's harder than it sounds, if you're asking existential questions of a blog and/or its blogger...

You need a minute?  We're totally okay with you taking a minute...


2,640 minutes later...

Okay.  Done.  I don't need any more minutes.

You have an answer?

Yes.

To "What are you doing here?"

Yes.

Alright, then.  Let's hear it.

You aren't going to like it.

We never said there's a wrong answer, did we?  Come on - out with it.

Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you about how very much you should be prepared to not like it...

It's fine.  GO.

I don't know, and I don't care.

What.

See?

No, no.  It's cool.  You don't know what you're doing here, and you don't care.

Correct.

You don't care what about what you're doing, or you don't care that you don't know?

Both?

We find you annoying.  Go back to your hoboes.  Wait - are you going to move the hoboes to their own blog, or what?  We noticed the new layout, here.  Kudos on your decision to stop making your readers' eyes bleed with that green-on-black text!

I find YOU annoying.  And I think that for now, the hoboes can stay here.  I may not know what I'm doing here, but I generally enjoy it, and the thought of doing whatever it is that I am doing on two separate blogs is just wholly unappealing.

Can we ask again in a month or two?

Oh, would you please?  That would be great.


An attempt at matching the not-the-same-old-writing-prompt from my buddies at STUDIO 30 PLUS with a not-the-same-old-post.  And yes, I really don't know what I'm doing, here (I might care a little bit, though).

Ten Things Without Which...

Hello, Reader(s)!

It's been a while since I did a real bloggy blog post, so tonight, good people, let's get bloggy.  If you know me, you know that I like to complain.  It's one of the things I do best.  I guess you could say I'm a natural.  But it's not ALL I do.  I don't want it to define me.  So here's a list, in no particular order, of

TEN THINGS, WITHOUT WHICH I WOULD LOATHE THIS PLANET

One:  Steve Martin.  Not so much Steve Martin the actor, although even in that regard, he's more skilled than you might think - despite the veritable plethora of sub-par roles he has played, over the years.  Not even so much Steve Martin the stand-up comedian.  Don't get me wrong - he was a genius on stage, and he revolutionized the business.  

When I say the world is a better place because of him, I'm talking first about the writer - a gifted, surprisingly-thoughtful voice who can turn comedy into tragedy and vice-versa.  Second, I speak of the person - at least what we in the public get to see of him.  He's generally the smartest person in any room, but will only admit it when it's funny to do so.  He's a study in restraint, and especially over the past couple of decades, his public persona reminds me of my father.  But above all else, he improves the planet with his banjo-playing.  He's self-taught, I believe, and masterful. 

Two:  Common Sense.  The fact that it is so breathtakingly close to extinction only serves to make it that much more precious and inspiring, when encountered.  

Three:  Animals - particularly wild ones - and the people who fight for them.  Pretty self-explanatory, that one.  Every time we allow another species to become relegated to a captive-only population - or to the history books - the planet becomes a little less good.  And yes, I know that some species, without any human impacts whatsoever, would still disappear on their own, but we've reached the point where that's well-nigh impossible.

Four:  Trains.  I like trains.  In most of the world, they are vitally important, but even in the U.S., they're pretty cool.  To look at a railroad track is to look at a continuum of the history of the industrial age.  Also, hoboes!

Five:  Intoxicants.  From alcohol to Xanax, and everything in-between, when used properly, intoxicants make the world a better place.  Hydrocodone, rum, beer, wine - all great tools, in the right hands.  Sexually-produced pheromones and endorphins - hell, don't forget runner's high!  Tell me the planet wouldn't suck without them.  Granted, we as a species are working overtime to prove that we're about as capable of responsibly handling these chemicals as we are our guns, money, and cars, but still.  Planet-enhancing stuff!

Six:  White Noise.  For those who can't do the intoxicants, or for the times when the intoxicants just aren't a viable option, white noise can be almost as good.  It's like a sonic coffee filter; on one side - gunk, and on the other, heaven/magic/nirvana.  I know some people can't stand white noise, so for them, number six is Silence.  Ahhh....

Seven:  [Maris].  She had to be on this list.  A planet without [Maris]?  Yeah - I would loathe that place, for it would be beyond shitty.  'Nuff said.

Eight:  Sarcasm.  (see number seven)

Nine:  Justin Timberlake.  I don't want to hear it.  Number nine is Justin Timberlake.  Deal with it.  Okay, then - Jennifer Lawrence.  Young, funny, smart, gifted people who manage to at least come off as relatively genuine.  Come on - what's not to like?

Ten:  People Who Are Nicer Than They Ought To Be.  You know the ones.  They comfort others when their own loved ones die.  They smile through the broken teeth of poverty.  They suffer mind-boggling injury, injustice, heartbreak, and just plain bad luck, and still forgive and help and encourage others.  I had Nelson Mandela in mind when I started this one, because he forgave a world of stuff I could never have forgiven - we all know the story.  But I kind of think that people that great aren't the ones I'm talking about, here.  

Oh super - now I can't think of any.  Well, hopefully the point is made.  There are people - lots of them - whose circumstances would turn most of us into bitter husks, but who somehow continue to be forces for good in the world.  The absence of those individuals would ruin this planet, and make me loathe it.

This list is far from complete.  There are whole bunches of things about which I cannot complain.  I figure, if I need to be reminded of that fact, maybe someone out there reading this might, too.  If not, that's cool.  (see number eight)

This here post was prompted by my friends at Studio Thirty Plus, whose prompts for this week are "LOATHE" and/or "PLANET."



 

Foreign Tomas, the Strangetalker Said...

[The following was translated and assembled from hieroglyphic scribble found along the Pennsylvania, New York Central, and Western Maryland railroads in 1942 - by rail and hobo historian Tommy Dummychuck (later "All-But-Dissertation Tommy Dummychuck").  Enjoy.]

"I haven't the time to waste on the pursuits of the common hobo, nor have I the slightest inclination to find it.  I should sooner die of starvation, my body digesting itself out of sheer mechanical desperation, than eat a bean of any hue other than green.  I find thievery and beggars' banquets equally abhorrant, and I pity the grown man who barters with lint and bits of burlap.  What, you may ask, does strike my fancy?  Solitary, somnolent circumambulation of the earth strikes my fancy.  And pies.  I so adore pies."

"It would behoove you to stand clear of that switch, lest you find yourself here and there, a victim of the Midnight Special, so named because of the unique quiet it maintains as it descends into Altoona from on high like a ghost train.  They say it hisses down the tracks, hovering in fact just above the steel.  They also say-- well now, where did he go?"

"My parents were removed from my life by force when I was but small boy, and it is my profoundest duty to honor their memory with every waking breath I draw until the day I am called Home by my Maker.  My father worked on the Johnstown Inclined Plane Railway - built by his own father, among others - but that dangerous occupation was not the cause of his demise.  My mother was the only female fireman on the floor at the steel mill, and although it was dirty and dangerous work, it did not kill her.  No, the two of them were accidentally shot dead while walking me to church on the third day of doe season.  The single shot that did them in had been fired from at least a half-mile away, and the shooter was never found.  I've been asked just how it is that my miserable vagabond life in any way honors their memory, and to anyone with the gall to loft such a query in my direction, I say only this - how dare you?"

"In the air between your words, I taste your hate, and to me it smacks of spun sugar at the fun fair - blue, I think."

"On a clear night, when all the stars in the heavens gleam and glimmer freely, the enormity of the time between here and there weighs on me as would a boot on a cricket, pressing me into oblivion until even Betty Boop makes sense."

"The Charleston is insipid."

"I have known love that would make you foul your trousers, speak in tongues, and vote for Alf Landon.  Her name was... um... Well, what's in a name, anyway?  She was most comely."

"Do not trifle with the crows when the frost lingers beyond sunrise, for they will be cross, and hungry."

"I eat time and convert it into this squiggly line I call life.  It is the blessing and the curse.  Seconds become inklings.  Minutes beget thoughts.  Hours are the ample bosom of ideas.  From days, we become.  A week is a book - a month, a library.  Years become tears and joys and everything in between.  I am never filled.  The capacity for turning time into being is as limitless as the sky.  I do not know why I am here, but I step ever closer to that understanding with every instant of time I consume."

"So long..."

 The preceding drivel is mostly harmless, and was prompted by a STUDIO 30 PLUS writing prompt, TIME.
 




 

See, What Happened Was...

I used to work with salesmen.  I processed the orders that they would extract, sometimes by magic, conjuring, and fraud, from often shady customers in a strange suburb of the high-tech/telecom marketplace.  We did 85% of our business in the final 48 hours of each quarter, and in their desperate drive to make quota, these boys would often attempt to make ludicrous deals.  I would bring them to my once-beloved Boss Lady for approval.  Aware of (and sharing, to some extent) my disdain for salesman shenanigans, she would ask me what was wrong with the orders, and I would tell her.  She would roll her eyes and call the salesman and ask him what in the hell he was thinking.

His answer would invariably begin with, "See, what happened was..."

This hasn't much to do with what follows, other than to give you some idea of where my fondness for this post's title originated.  How I loved the VORTEX OF DOOM, for a while, there.

Anyway, in 2013, what happened was...

January

I went on and on about TURNING 40, despite the fact that this happened in 2007.  Look - here's a picture...

Joe, 10-Cane, Atlantic Ocean

February

Turned another year older, and despite the fact that we in the DC area were enjoying our third straight mild winter (after 2009-10, we were due for a break), I pined about things like THE FOUR MOST AWESOMEST WORDS FOR WINTER HATERS, and THE MYSTERIOUS AIR OF THE FLORIDA KEYS.  It can't really be described, that air, but I gave it a shot.  Also, I have a picture of it...

See?  Magic.

March

There was, of course, Madness.  In the midst of it, I did manage to post a few things, one of which was an EXCERPT from a long-neglected first draft of my second little novel.

April
 
The first week of April is usually one of the happiest of my year, with Spring and Opening Day and the end of March Madness, but this year...

Kidney Stone.  'Nuff said.

That much pain (and Oxycodone) made me think of weird stuff, like my COMPLETION BACKWARDS PRINCIPLE.  Objects in mirror, and all that noise...

Contrary to popular opinion, the past is NOT gaining on us.

May

"The writing was on the wall, and she recognized the hand."  I jotted this down on a post-it, but couldn't find a place to use it.  Also, baseball!

June

My story ideas come from odd places.  I'm sure that's true for most writers, but it still amazes me.  My friends at STUDIO 30 PLUS posted the prompt "enormity," and I took that, added an old Kate Bush song, and out popped HEADS WE'RE DANCING.  There's not much more to it than some snappy dialogue, but from that strange beginning...

...my July Camp NaNoWriMo novel would grow.  And grow.  And grow.  All I remember about July is writing, staycationing, drinking, and weighing less than I had in many years.  Oh - plus, "Sharknado!"  Okay, July is in the lead for Best Month, now.

August

Just in case my hobo stories were beginning to wear thin, I did an exercise in efficiency, in the form of  88 LINES ABOUT 44 HOBOES.  It's also a nod to the songwriting of The Nails.

September

Speaking of writing, after being canceled and resurrected three times, one of the best-written shows on TV finally reached its bittersweet finale, when Futurama's final episode aired.  Also, THIS happened.  

October

More work on that July novel happened, and so did [Maris]'s and my annual visit to our Happy Place, the OBX of NC.  See...

Pelicans!

Also - and I know I'm showing my age, here - I could not pass up the opportunity to see my 80's heroes Simple Minds at DC's legendary 9:30 Club.  I hope it wasn't the last time, but if it was, they certainly went out on a high note...

Don't You...

November

My final National Novel Writing Month.  A typical boy-meets-ghost story, blah blah blah.  Besides that, Thanksgiving, and a bunch of terrible "football," I remember nothing of November.  [Maris] assures me that she had a great time, and got a ton of reading done.

December

I remember most of this month!  I started getting caught up, with THINGS FOR WHICH I'M THANKFUL, and a LETTER TO A CONCEPT, and a few NEW HOBOES.  Plus - and please believe me when I tell you this iPhone video clip does not begin to do justice to this night - there was the Trans-Siberian Orchestra...

There.  2013.  Thank you for reading my stuff.

What lies ahead?  2014 lies ahead.  And change, hopefully.  More hoboes, I suppose, to keep the three people who enjoy those stories happy.  Beyond that, I have a manuscript to prepare for countless rejections and hopefully one acceptance, and a lot of adjustments to make to my existence in this drivel-y place and elsewhere.

Come with me...

Candle-Eyed Sally Goes Home

Since I started telling the tales of John Hodgman's 700 Hoboes, I've been asked repeatedly by no one whether any of these tramps ever managed to return home from life on the road.  There were seven hundred of them; of course some went home.  Remember  Santa Fe Jingle Bell, The World's Most Christmassy Tramp?

Candle-Eyed Sally - given name Sara Elizabeth Fitzpatrick - ran away with her boyfriend in 1931, when she was thirteen years old, and he was three years her senior.  She left her family's humble but comfortable home in Washington Crossing, Pennsylvania primarily to escape her father, with whom she had developed a bitter and private rift, but also because she was in love with Ralph Bourne.  They were going to be hoboes and get married by the railroad tracks at Horseshoe Curve on Sally's next birthday.

Part of that plan came to fruition, as they both quickly learned the ways of the road, but her dream of marrying Ralph died when he did, not ten months after they left home.  He was cooking a pot of hobo chili in the shelter of a small rail-side shed.  Taking a test sniff of his concoction, he inhaled a noseful of chili powder.  He sneezed so hard that in the recoil, he hit his head on the low roof of the shed, broke his neck, and died instantly.  Sally cried for a month, nearly starving and dehydrating herself to death in the process.

She almost went home, that month, but by then she knew that only one of her two loves had perished.  She loved the road.  She loved being in control of her destiny, fending for herself, being free.  She vowed to make it work.

Her moniker came from her late hobo boyfriend.  Even before they had run away together, he had taken to calling her Candle-Eyed Sally.  It was the easiest of nicknames.  Her blue eyes did indeed glow with a light that seemed to come from within, but more importantly, they flickered as only the solitary flames of candles can.  Her hair was the kind of fiery red that would have made her Irish ancestors proud.  She was sturdy and broad-shouldered, and had always been a bit of a tomboy.  

She did what hoboes did to survive, and she grew up fast and hard.  Life on the road was ten times more difficult for a girl than it was for the boys and men who dominated the hobo world every bit as much as they dominated everything else.  She learned quickly, became a tough and respected filthy homeless drifter, saw the United States from end to end and top to bottom, and made many friends.  Men twice her size were powerless when faced with her candlelit eyes and, when push came to shove, with her fearsome right hook.

She couldn't - or wouldn't - explain to her hobo brethren just what it was that compelled her to go home for Christmas in 1935, some four and a half years after leaving.  She rode B & O and Pennsy trains from western Kentucky, through Cumberland and Baltimore and Philadelphia, and walked the last miles to her parents' home.  She arrived just before dark on Christmas Eve. 

"Saints preserve us!" her mother gasped at the sight of her firstborn, standing on the porch.  "It's Sara!  She's come home!  George!  Fay!  Come quick!  Sara's home!"

Hugs.  Shrieks of joy.  More hugs.  She scarcely recognized her baby sister Phaedra "Fay" Anne, now all of nine years old.  She acknowledged her father with a nod and a quick smile.  Her mother showed her to her room, which they had kept ready for her for nearly the last half-decade.  Sally enjoyed a bath, sang Christmas hymns, gave her family gifts of hobo incense and figurines crafted from anthracite coal, then joined them for dinner.

"We've set a place for you, every night, all this time, Sara," her mother announced.  "Haven't we, George?"

Mr. Fitzpatrick grunted and took his seat at the head of the table.

"I go by Sally now, Mother," she said quietly.

"Not in my house, Sara Elizabeth," her father said flatly.  "Sally is a floozy name."

Undeterred, she added, "all my friends call me Candle-Eyed Sally."

"Leave her be, George," her mother said.  "You do still have the most luminescent eyes, sweetie."

"I can't wait to tell you about the things I've seen - the places I've been and oh, the people I've met..."

"We don't need to know about the dirty, sinful cities or the rotten, heathen drunks and criminals you've been associating with, Sara," her father growled at his plate.  "We're just happy you're home, where you belong."

"But they're not all bad, Daddy.  In fact, some of the folks I know from the road are the salt of the earth..."

"I'm sure they are," her mother nodded, "but the important thing is, there's still time to repent for all your sins."

"My what?"

"Your sins, and your sinful, fornicating ways," her mother said with a disturbing degree of cheerfulness.

"My what??"

"You heard your mother," Mr. Fitzpatrick said.  "But, tell me - why did you come home?  Were just hungry, or are you planning on robbing us while we sleep?"


The candles in Sally's eyes dimmed.  "Firstly - I live a pretty clean life, Mother.  As to your query, Daddy - I am here to tell you that I forgive you."

Silence.  

"Don't change the subject, young lady.  There's nothing for you to forgive your father for.  He was strict because you needed him to be strict.  But don't deny your sinful ways of the road.  We're not ignorant.  We know what goes on among those dirty hoboes.  You were an innocent little girl when you left here, and now... well, a woman can tell certain things about her daughter..."

"You must be joking!" Sally snapped.  "I was not exactly a virgin when I left here.  Isn't that right, Daddy?"

"You come back into my house and start insulting everyone and spouting your vile lies?  Get out!"  Her father thundered.

"Oh, she's just delirious from malnutrition, George. Let her be.  After a good night of sleep and some prayer, we'll all be right as rain in the morning."

"Well, I was here because Christmas is the best time for forgiveness, but I was mistaken..."

It took several minutes, but Mrs. Fitzpatrick managed to restore order and steward her reassembled family through dinner.  Sally retired to her little girl bed in her little girl room, and slept fitfully, unaccustomed as she now was to the softness and warmth.  

At nearly two in the morning, she became dimly aware of sounds coming from Fay's room, next door.  After a minute or so, her dim awareness became a keen awareness.  She recognized the breathing; she had stifled those same cries, fearing for her life.  She couldn't hear her father's words, but she knew the tones of his voice, the sinister and confusing blend of comfort and threat.

She stomped resolutely to Fay's bedroom door, and kicked it in.  "I knew it!"

"This is none of your concern," her father roared.  

"Sure it isn't, Daddy," Sally said through gnashed teeth, "but if you touch her again - ever - I will kill you myself."

"You don't understand..." Mrs. Fitzpatrick sobbed, racing from the master bedroom and wedging herself between Sally and George.

"No.  I do, Mother.  That was the whole point behind my forgiving Daddy.  I understand that someone hurt him, too.  I truly want to forgive him, but we have to get out of here."

"I'm the man of this house, and no one's going anywhere!" he declared.

"I am, Daddy.  Don't try to stop me.  If Mama and Phaedra have any sense, they'll come with me."  She ran to her room, snatched her bindle bag from the floor, and raced past her parents, who were still frozen in ghastly denial in the hallway.  "Thank you for the bath, and for dinner.  I still love you all, and Daddy..." her voice cracked, betraying her heartbreak at the realization that it was forever, this time - she would never come home again.  "...I forgive you."

A half-mile down the old Philadelphia road, her mother caught up with her.

"Sara!  Sara, stop!  Here.  Take this."  She held out a stack of cash.

"Mother!  No!  I don't need it, and Daddy will beat you to death if he finds that missing," Sally said.

"He doesn't know about it," her mother said.  "I've been saving it, a dollar or two at a time, for years.  Take it, please."

"I'll take five bucks, Mother.  You take the rest, and go get Fay, and promise me that you will run from that man and never stop."

"But, he's my husband.  And, and it's Christmas..."

"I know, and I am not so young that I don't understand - truly.  But your life and Fay's life are worth saving.  Everyone is worth saving, Mother, but we can't save Daddy.  Save yourself.  Save my sister.  Promise me you'll run."

Her mother hugged her, hard.  "I promise, honey.  I will.  I have to get back now.  He'll drink himself to sleep, and once he's passed-out, I'll take Fay and go.  Can we meet you?  Will you help us?"

"I'll wait behind the train station until sunup, but then I'm going.  I hope you'll come.  It will be a Christmas miracle if you come."

Her mother kissed her on the forehead.  "I love you, Candle..."

"Candle-Eyed Sally," she said.  "I love you, too.  Go.  And be careful."

The flames grudgingly returned to Candle-Eyed Sally's eyes, and they flickered faintly in the dim light of the sodium lamp that hung from the eave of the train station roof in Washington Crossing.  Sally prayed, and she waited.

It was Christmas, she reasoned with her god.  Anything could happen.  



 

The Gathering Before Christmas

For thirteen years, December, for at least one homeless wanderer, had been the same.  As 1940 drew to a close, Cranberry Sauce Oppenheimer stopped walking, stopped seeking work, stopped trying to recall his given name.  He knew that he was about twenty-seven years old, having left home at fourteen, and he was pretty sure he had been called Eugene, in the hazy past.  He vaguely remembered a childhood divided between Louisville and Cincinnati, but could no longer recall which had come last, and he wouldn't have been able to find his parents' home on a bet.

His annual Christmas letter to his mother was usually burnt in the hobo jungle fire with the hope that its smoke might somehow reach her, but on occasion, when December found him near the Ohio River, he would fold it into a tiny paper boat and send it floating downstream toward his two hometowns.  Such was the case with this year's note.


Dearest Ma,

     It's me - your son (Eugene, I think).  I hope you and Pa and the twins are well.  This year has been the hardest yet.  I lost my hat in a card game, but I remember how you used to say 'always look on the bright side.'  Do you still say that?  I do.  I try to, anyway.  So the bright side of losing my hat was that I learned never to play poker with a deck of only 45 cards - especially if your opponents know which cards are missing.

I worked the bean fields for most of the summer, and in the autumn I picked pumpkins, if you can believe that.  Otherwise, however, I could find no work, so I must confess that I stole more food than usual, and even took a pair of pants from somebody's clothesline.  I'm not proud of that, Ma.  I tried to go to confession a couple weeks later, but they kicked me out, on account of my stinkiness. 

My fortune went from bad to worse, when all my clothes were stolen while I was in the creek, trying to boil up and get clean for a job interview.  It would have been good work, too - helping to build roads in Indiana.  I got arrested for public indecency, of course, and although it was a relief to have a shower and a bed and a roof for 30 days, it was a jail shower, a jail bed, and a jail roof.  An old-timer in the big house told me it was Karma or some such thing, getting me back for taking that stranger's pants.  I can't say I disagree. 

I also got into a bit of trouble with my sauce-making, this year. I could only find cranberries that had been irradiated, and my sweet side dish made some of my hobo friends ill. When they saw that I never eat the stuff, they accused me of deliberately poisoning them. I tried to explain that I'm allergic, and just wanted to make a nice treat for my brethren, but it was no use. They beat me pretty bad - even knocked out a tooth - and I was on the run for weeks, before I lost them, somewhere in Pennsylvania.

On Thanksgiving, my only friend on the rails, a fellow called Bippity Hankerson, found out that his parents, who owned a little restaurant in Milwaukee, had died.  His Pa dropped a can of lard on the floor, slipped and fell, kicking the legs out from under their deep-fryer.  It spilled boiling oil all over him, and burned him right to death.  Bippity's Ma came running, slipped on all that lard and oil, and fell onto the butcher's knife she was carrying.  Bippity was so distraught when he heard the news, he got crazy-drunk on hobo wine, stumbled into the path of a fast freight, and was obliterated.  I burned what I could find of him.

So I suppose it makes sense that this December, the fog that annually envelopes me is gathering once more - as thick as ever, and twice as fast.  I'm not sure I can go on like this, Ma.  Oh, don't worry - you know I will go on - but, when this fog comes for me, I honestly can't see to the other side.  It's dark.  Christmas bells toll in my ears like a death knell.  I don't want to die, but I don't much care to be alive, either.  I want nothing.  I have nothing.  I am nothing.  Everything is nothing.  There is naught but this fog of unremitting sadness and despair.

The only thing that gets me through these Decembers is knowing that you and Pa are out there somewhere, praying for me, and knowing that no matter how numb I may be to it, Christmas happens, and is beautiful.  It also helps knowing that it won't be long before our beloved Cincinnati Reds get back onto the field. 

Until then, sure it's bleak.  I hate the fog.  It always ALMOST kills me, but I'm like a bear.  I hibernate as best I can.

Please wake me, Dear Ma, when it's over.

Your loving son,
Cranberry Sauce Oppenheimer, aka Eugene (I think)

Another post in response to a community prompt from my friends at

Dear Stillness

Dear Stillness,

     My name is Joe, and although I very much doubt that you remember me, we have met several times.  To be fair, it's a bit of a stretch to say that we've "met."  Your carriers, I've met.  You, I've only seen.  I've admired you - marveled, actually.  I long for just a sliver of what you have.

The first time I saw you, when I was seventeen, you seemed utterly foreign to me.  You took the form of my best friend's aunt, a retired teacher from the island of St. Thomas.  You were constantly surrounded by activity.  Your husband laughed and joked incessantly, and your brother was - and I presume still is - a whirlwind of noise and adventure.  Yet, somehow, you maintained your serenity.  You had an elegance, a way of gliding through all the chaos with a calm, warm smile.  I'll never know how you did it.

Gossamer Cumulus Fluff Over St. Thomas - 1995

A few years later, I saw you in the person of my sophomore crush in college.  Everyone thought you were an airhead of some sort, so slow to speak up, so blue-eyed and faraway.  I knew you were more than that - smarter than all of us, and full of the same insecurities and nineteen-year old angst that plagued us all.  You were probably just counting to ten before responding or reacting to anything or anyone, but it came across to me as the kind of stillness that usually accompanies one much older than you were.  Even if you were totally faking your serenity, it was a skill that I lacked, and I envied you for possessing it.

[Photo deleted - release not obtained]

Then, you appeared as a fictitious character, portrayed by a young and relatively inexperienced actress.  I must admit that in 1992, I utterly failed to notice that it was you, but a few months ago, when I took a closer look, there was no doubt.  As portrayed by the not-yet-hated-at-the-time Christina Ricci, little Wednesday Addams in the big-screen adaptation of "The Addams Family" showed me a new facet of you.  You weren't just still - you were cool.  It was as if movement of any kind - physical or emotional or otherwise - was simply beneath you.  Ricci was like ten years old when she did that movie - how did you DO that?  I would be thrilled to have just a day of being so committed to motionlessness.

Finally, you might think that I'd been too busy to have noticed, but your presence in my father did not escape me.  Even before his stroke, you had him sitting quietly at the edge of the action.  Not quite a wallflower - he was perfectly willing to participate in a gathering, and when he did so, he was extremely capable.  But, he didn't need to move, to make a sound, to be heard.  He -you- would just as soon observe, note, learn, and be.  He could do small talk, but by that last decade, even I could see that he abhorred speaking in the interest of the avoidance of silence.  This was, to me, one of his greatest gifts and, Dear Stillness, he got it from you.  It made those few words he did venture to say just that much weightier.  

The Man and His Books

I don't regret the fact that I inherited his temper and his sarcasm - but not his stillness.  However, I do both rue and lament it.  Yes, I stole that line. I'm not as clever as he was, either.

Anyway, Stillness.  I like you.  I admire you.  I want what you have.  I don't even have the excuse of a house full of children, or a high-octane career, but for whatever reason I cannot reach you.  I won't stop trying.  

To be still.  To be at peace.  Just for a moment.  Must be nice.

Love, Joe 

Rock Creek Valley Elementary School.  Snow.  Night.  Stillness.