Just wanted to take a moment and thank all of you for responding to my post “the Frozen Man“.
The writing of it took less than 45 minutes while the editing took several hours.
I’m amazed at the response and the numerous personal emails I’ve received because of something I wrote.
Was it from the heart? Absolutely.
Do I totally understand it? Maybe.
Bottom line is that people really liked it.
I am happy.
IMHO, I’m not a poet, but I am a happy writer. (for now)
I love words and I’m glad you seem to like them too.
I’m sending this poem off tomorrow for publication.
Don’t know if it will fly but it’s going anyway.
I figured, what the hell.
Thank you again for all the kind words of affirmation.
We writers like that sort of thing.
Peace, folks . . .
Alright, a guy comes into the store several months ago and asks,
“Hey, can I try some pipe tobacco?”
I say, “Yeah, help yourself.”
He proceeds to eat, yes, eat small handfuls of 4-5 of our blends.
I shit you not. Yeah, I’m dying and no one knows but me because it’s a Sunday and I’m working alone.
“Which blend has more latakia?” He asks, while munching away.
I show him and he asks for 2oz of said blend.
I ask (and I can’t help myself), “You want that for here or to go?”
God, he looks confused.
“To go,” he says.
I’m still laughing about it . . .
I received a letter today from my sister dated January 21st (one day before my last post).
In it was a poem she’d found many years ago when our mother was entering the late stages of Alzheimer’s.
As twins, we’ve always had an uncanny ability to surprise each other in ways unimaginable.
In light of my recent post, the Frozen Man, I could only smile when I read this poem.
My sister’s timing was perfect. Go figure.
If you have a family member suffering from this disease, print out the following poem and read it often.
My sister said reading it always makes her feel better and she hoped the same for me.
Yeah, it works for me, too . . .
by Louise M Eder
I remember you with my heart My mind won’t say your name I can’t recall where I knew you Who you were Or who I was.
Maybe I grew up with you Or maybe we worked together Or did we bowl together yesterday? There’s something wrong with my memory But I do know you I know I knew you And I do love you I know how you make me feel I remember the feelings we had together. My heart remembers It cries out in loneliness for you For the feelings you give me now.
Today I’m happy that you have come. When you leave My mind will not remember that you were here But my heart remembers The feeling of friendship And love returned. Remembers That I am less lonely And happier today Because of the feeling Because you have come.
Please, please don’t forget me And please don’t stay away Because of the way my mind acts. I can still feel you I can remember with my heart And a heart memory is maybe The most important memory of all.
I’m “lighting” a candle on the blog tonight for a dear friend that’s currently traveling through the sometimes bumpy and complex labyrinth of life.
My wife and I are praying for her to get through this nasty thing.
I understand all too well the power of prayer. So . . .
I’m asking for a few words whispered to the stars, maybe a candle lit in your home tonight in her memory.
My hope is that in several days things will look just a bit brighter.
Take a minute and do me that small favor, okay?
She will appreciate the prayers more than you’ll ever know.
I thank you all sincerely, in advance
I realized something unsettling and bit surprising after the last visit with my father.
I’m having some difficulty in loving what’s left of him.
Don’t get me wrong, I hold his worn and trembling hands, maybe rub his back if the situation allows but inside I feel almost nothing. And it bothers me, and hurts the soul.
Everything I loved about my father was on the inside – I understand that, but in some ways, I feel hypocritical and shallow for going through motions that seemingly resemble love. But for now, I love the “memory” of him.
I used to love the way he signed his name: Walter Murphy – clear, precise, orderly; bold black hand-written lines that typified his organizational mind, his once brilliant mind.
Even when my mother would guilt him into making a tossed salad for a camp cook-out, you could tell by the way it was put together that my father had made it.
I love the fact that he was a man that loved his family passionately, though we were only shown glimpses of that paternal love.
He used to laugh so hard sometimes that tears would trickle down his cheeks, affecting my mother in such a way that she would usually pee her pants from watching him laugh. They were made for each other, I think.
Living inside a disease like Alzheimer’s has as many advantages as disadvantages; life goes on and you subconsciously forget about the pain.
But like the snow in the winter and the falling leaves of autumn, time doesn’t forget.
It taps you on the shoulder in subtle ways, maybe to help us remember what once was.
I visited Moonbeam’s blog last night and was incredibly moved by this post.
I understood its content and felt its bittersweet sorrow.
Unlike Moonbeam’s post, this one wasn’t difficult to write because it was written many years ago.
I think I’ve edited the damn thing ad nauseum. On the inside . . .
Sometimes it just takes a tap on the shoulder to put it down on paper.
Thanks for the tap, Moonbeam.
Maybe I’ll see you in my dreams tonight . . .
Looks like tomorrow is destined to be a snow day.
I may not even venture into Boston.
Yeah, we’re talking about an ‘effin Nor’easter.
On the menu: snow blowing, cigars and cooking some risotto.
The little one and I may go see a movie (Sweeney Todd) in the afternoon if I can take care of the expected snowfall.
Lord knows, my snowblower is hungry . . . bow, bow, bow.
As of right now, school has already been canceled.
No need to wear the PJ’s inside-out.
I’m going to bed tonight with the glee of a high-schooler.
No school. No work. (with the exception of snowblowing the stoopid white shit)
How strange is that?
Yeah, I’m gone.
And now for something completely different . . .
from the Associated Press:
A man who mailed a cow’s head to his wife’s lover was sentenced to probation and community service. The man, Jason M. Fife of Hunker, “understands that in a civilized society a person cannot send a severed cow’s head to anybody,” said his lawyer, Henry Hilles.
The police said Mr. Fife, 31, obtained the cow’s head from a butcher’s shop, claiming he wanted the dried skull for decoration. Instead, he mailed it, frozen, so as not to alert parcel carriers to the contents, police said.
Wow, talk about a head “fetish”.
And now for something completely different and equally disturbing.
“I thought I was dreaming,” a Warsaw man told the newspaper Super Express after he visited a brothel and saw his wife among the establishment’s employees.
The paper said she had told her husband that she worked at a store in a nearby town.
The couple, married 14 years, are divorcing.
What a freekin’ surprise.
Off to make snow angels . . .
On Disabilities Awareness Day at Fenway Park, an autistic man was chosen to sing the National Anthem.
Halfway through he gets a case of the giggles.
Watch what happens. I still have goosebumps.
Thanks to Annie for the wonderful link.
Videos like this make me believe there’s still hope for the world.
Red Sox fans are alright . . .