Comments on: Walking Distance

By: anniegirl1138

anniegirl1138 — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 16:33:51 +0000

I sold my house just about this time last spring. It was the one my late husband and I bought together, thinking that we would build a life and family within its walls. That never came to be as he was diagnosed with a terminal illness just a month after we moved in. The house become a repository of our unfinished life and I wasn’t all that sorry to part with it. Still, I occasionally run across pictures and wonder if the young couple who bought the place have filled those empty spaces that I left behind.

This was a great piece.

Awww, Annie, that’s a story you should write.
It sounds like a mighty beautiful one.
Thanks so much for the comment.
~m

By: Allison

Allison — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 01:18:32 +0000

I just stumbled upon your blog through the tag surfer, and was glad to find this post. You created a very vivid picture in my mind. Great writing!

Thanks so much Allison and welcome.
Glad you enjoyed the post.
Please stop by again . . .
~m

By: Finding my groove « Trailer Park Refugee

Finding my groove « Trailer Park Refugee — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 22:40:14 +0000

[...] Michael, for drawing this one out of me. i read Walking Distance that night after i returned home… and the resonance was [...]

By: whythulc

whythulc — Mon, 14 Apr 2008 00:38:29 +0000

Posts like these are always bittersweet. I like being reminded that life is short and sweet and that it can slip away so easily if we’re not keeping watch.

Memories are funny things. They come back when we don’t want them, go away when we want to keep them, elude our query system when we need them to be there, and slip out the backdoor at the most inconvenient times.

It’s annoying and difficult, but at times I wonder if our brains were not built that way for our own sanity, as strange as that sounds.

Sanity is a beautiful thing. Perhaps you’re right.
~m

By: Grimm

Grimm — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 01:29:54 +0000

It’s funny, but for me it’s the house of my mothers parents that seems to call to me. They are all gone now, and the house stands in disrepair from lack of use and yet if I had the resources I would do whatever it took to build that house back up again. They once had 160 acres in the hills of West Virginia, and yet it all seems gone – just like the house soon will be.

I hope something magical happens, Grimm, and you can save the house.
It may even “save” a small part of you . . .
~m

By: Ali

Ali — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 03:35:19 +0000

My words to you will probably get lost in the shuffle of well deserved praise and good thoughts coming to you from everyone around you. This is such a positive circle of friends here, isn’t it? I’m sad, M. I still have my parents –both of them — and have been trying to file every memory and moment away in preparation of “that day.” I even joke about buying their home because I will need that so much –that tangible link– when they are gone. Please don’t think I’m morbid, I’ve just been concentrating and telling myself to savor each scent, sound and sight. *tears* It’s really hard to do that and still enjoy the moment! I don’t know how to explain it. Your beautiful description of your experience has moved me to keep trying. To remember how much I will need it when it’s too late to wish for it. Forgive me for sounding selfish! And home…your lovely perspective on home…well…I feel like a wet blanket because home to me is where my heart is, and my heart is not within walking distance. My heart is miles away…so it feels like I will never make it back there. Please don’t throw tomatoes at me guys, I love this post! M, I really admire the way your sentimental nature shines through your writing like gold –more like platinum in its; strength– and evokes this kind of response and emotion in me, them, all of us. Sweet M. Thank you for being real and open. Your parents are smiling upon you.

L,
Ali

If this “moved you to keep trying” I feel I’ve done exactly what I intended to do.
I think about the sad fact that my mother and father never said goodbye.
The disease all but robbed them both of the opportunity.
Thanks so much for this comment, Ali.
It means much . . .
~m

By: lisamm

lisamm — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 23:44:11 +0000

This was lovely. You are a gifted writer. I’ve been thinking a lot about memories lately, how powerful they are and how they can be brought back so swiftly by a word, a look, a smell. Thanks for a beautiful post.

Welcome and thanks so much for reading.
One of the biggest reminders for me is the smell of a cigar.
Reminds me of simpler days. (maybe that’s why I like smoking them so much)
Stop back again.
~m

By: Lynn

Lynn — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 21:52:17 +0000

How touching! I actually said “Awwww” outloud when I read the last line! HOME is always within walking distance…whether it’s literally within walking distance or most importantly in your heart! That is what I wish for my children that they grow to remember ‘Home is within walking distance’ Thanks Michael for sharing!

Thanks Lynn.
Prayers going out for the hubby.
Tell him to stay away from chainsaws for a while, okay? ~m

By: Linda

Linda — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 14:58:56 +0000

For a long time after my Dad died of this disease, my dreams about him were shots from hell … the brain yelling BOO at itself. Then one night, I dreamed of him young. I mean younger than I ever knew him … a Dad I had only seen in pictures taken before I was born. He was laughing. Since then, my dreams of him have been fun, soothing. And that is as close to a miracle as I am ever likely to get. For me, Walking Distance is now invariably a very pleasant stroll.

the brain yelling BOO at itself
God, I know all about that.
Wonderful story about your Dad. Thanks for sharing it.
~m

By: anonymum

anonymum — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 10:25:03 +0000

do you know, i’ve read this post 6 times now, and i’m still stuck…perhaps it has something to do with the fact i get misty eyed every time and i struggle to see?
this is one of “those” posts michael….

I was wondering why you hadn’t commented.
Now I know.
One of “those” posts?
I’m definitely taking that as a great compliment.
Thanks, Moe.
~m