The Stew of Life


The stew has lasted at least three weeks.  The stew began with having a couple helpings each day, but for the last four days and continuing on through the weekend one dose an hour may increase solidifying that a complete withdrawal from reality will set in on me.  I will not speak nor have anything to do with our house mess.  M. just told me he was singularly going to demand immediate  contractual  release by making a timeline to prove the sellers have never planned to let us move into the house and that I will be excluded from decisions.  

Ok, fine, why argue–one day I will enjoy a time of revenge.  I will simply continue the hard labor I do, since that is what farm boys do.  I will be back to throwing out the garbage from the storeroom; tons of stuff still remain after two days of packing the items we will take.  Fortunately, the downstairs is all ready with boxes stacked and ready for a mover to take them somewhere.  I could never have gotten this far if it wasn’t for my dear, sweet and friend  who cleans my house.  When I need her she comes.

After I take care of  the garbage I must make sure the Auction House gets here Monday or Wednesday to pick up all the rest of the furniture.  Once they do S. and I can start cleaning up the house for the new owner and wait for a moving day and  know exactly where we will go temporarily.  I tease S. that we will camp on her front lawn and ring the door bell when I have to run to the john in the middle of the night.

The next days will set a path that we will take to do whatever, or wherever a future is.  I have vowed I will never move again.  I will strike out very bitterly if I am ever told I need to move again!!  I will never take a another bite of the awful Stew of Life!


An Addendum to "Moving From Twilight to Darkness"

In order to understand the Addendum, please read my post “Moving from Twilight to Darkness”.

Ever since I posted “Moving from Twilight to Darkness”, I worry if I painted an incorrect picture of my father. I question if I am too sharp with my words or a bit quick painting the picture you see. Sometimes I think that I time and judged him too quickly because there were isolated times my father tried to be a part of my life, but I was resistant.

Unfortunately, I only remember my father since I was three years old. These memories are following his accident when he lost a hand in a corn picker. My mother always told me that he changed a great deal in the first days after the accident and maybe that is why when he returned home I began carrying an anger towards him, but I don’t think I will ever know why I, a three year old could be angry enough to stab his leg with a lead pencil.

I can only remember that my father asked me if I wanted a piece of cake and my mother was sick in bed. My memory of him that night is vivid as he stood by the counter with a blue work shirt on with the tails on the outside and a white bandage wrapping his left arm at the stub. In addition, I sat tightly curled up at the end of the sofa and I can see and feel the impact of the pencil. To this day, no one else has a memory of what I did, because my determination to be quiet; but I feel the anger and the decision to strike myself and I feel the pain. I also know it was an immediate reaction of mine to hide what I did! The lead from the pencil stayed with me until I was in my mid thirties; no one ever knew.

Other memories of my relationship come to mind, many warranted and I think a few that were not. By the time, in my late twenties, that I wanted revisit those events my memory of them could not let me know the why, only the action.

I think the reason I think badly of the picture I paint in my post is that I didn’t share how he functioned at particular times when I was older. If he had served in Vietnam, rather than in the Navy in WWII, eventually after diagnose his return he would have with the post traumatic stress disorder. In front of people, at the dinner, or when ever he could he spoke of his time in service; the stories never extended into his feelings or reactions to war. When alone, my father recanted aloud the bloodiest of details, his reactions and his fears. As a teenage I remember so many times looking for him and finding him in a cornfield, or a remote corner of some farm building talking to and answering himself. I never bothered him, but returned to my mother to let her know where he was.

As I look back on what I wrote I know it is true; I think, though, there are details about my father that I didn’t consider during my time with him and it is something that I can do now as I remember him. I feel that because he and I were in such a different relationship when he died, that by just presenting him as I did was only incorrect because I didn’t include the other details about him and allowed you to decide for yourself and let me go forward without regret.