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A bitterly cold night starts as the evening wanes late. The wood stove in the kitchen is repeatedly stocked with wood, very diligently, until the bedroom upstairs is uncomfortably warm from the rising heat. (Or warmed just right, if you are my wife.) Once I go to bed I get up throughout the night to restock the stove. Since I am tired, I don’t stock it as religiously as during the evening, so the house grows colder as the night progresses. Sometime after midnight when I come downstairs I think, “Boy, it is getting cold down here” and I check the faucet to make sure the water lines haven’t frozen. This I do every time I get up for the remainder of the night. The water still flows in the faucets, and I keep restocking the stove over the course of the night. Morning comes, and it might be hovering around sixty degrees in the kitchen, but that is country life. I clean out the ash from the stove, stoke the fire back up and know that the battle has been won for another night. And I check the faucets one last time because you never know.

It is coldest right after dawn. I learned this experientially back in the days of my youth when I went out biking on these very mornings. The temperature drop varies, but is most pronounced on still, clear, and bitterly cold mornings. I wonder this morning if my car will start.

The car does start after a few sluggish turns. I give it a little extra gas just to make sure it doesn’t think about giving up. The dashboard comes alive and the outside temperature display reads -12F. I am slightly disappointed. If we must suffer with cold, it feels like we should get something a little more dramatic. My coldest bike ride those years ago was squeaking just past -20F, and in my childhood we had it drop to -30F. A little part of me is disappointed at the lesser showing this morning, but the rest of me is glad it isn’t so cold.

When it is this cold it is hard for the car to defrost the windows. On these coldest mornings the heat is going full blast and the windshield is only half defrosted by the time I reach work. A clump of snow might melt and then refreeze when it has slid a little further from the heat vents. The windshield washing fluid is frozen in the lines, so cleaning away the fine grime from the road is only a dream.

These are the best winter mornings to drive into work, if one must have a winter morning to drive. On the other side of December the daylight is fleeing away, less each day, until I drive into work while it is dark, and drive home while it is dark. In this new year we have reached the point where I drive in to work with the sunrise, and drive home as the sun prepares to set. This experience is inexpressibly more cheerful, and it encourages me to look forward to even better things.

This morning the world is wrapped in snow and stifled in cold. Still, the sun rises as it always does. The slanting rays peek from the east, filtering through the hill breaks, reaching out amber fingers of benediction which rest across the opposite side of the valley. Peace, be still, it says. This sun and the cold make an impossible combination of beauty and savageness. The light calls us on, the chill hunts the unwary. Do not travel unprepared.

I drive to work past farm fields of snow and corn stubble. The farms are waiting, the land sleeping. It is the stillness of day’s birth, the quiet which comes before a shout.

My trek takes me over a one lane bridge and up a winding hill. Here the view looks over a wide windswept valley. I think of coming to this spot in the warmer months when all is green and the breeze is gentle. These are good miles to wander in better seasons. For now my car heater blasts hard against the cold, and the sun chases me to work.

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The January night settles over our little valley with still and quiet sternness. I walk about the yard on evening chores and feel the weight of cold pressing through my coat, thrusting its icicle fingers up my nose. Tomorrow is the last day of the month and its passing is a thought not far from my mind.

Tonight we march into the coldest days of the season; now man and animal alike brace for the assault. The day is fading toward six in the evening but already the air bites with a sharpness that comes from temperatures below zero. The snow crunches beneath my boots with a sharp squeaky dry sound as I move on to my final task: collecting wood for the fire tonight.

The ground is hard and the path winds through the snow to the woodshed past the chicken yard and beyond the clothesline. The wood is running low, but it is dry and ready to crumble in burning heat against the days of cold which remain. I bring it inside, armload after armload.

Winter is not yet over, but it has aged past its prime. The days of bitter cold are numbered, and it is as if this truth has caused winter to muster its strength and batter us with its remaining fury. As daylight lengthens now with every passing week, hope grows. And tonight I think, “It will be over soon.”

The far horizon across the valley is limned a pale blue, like a final kiss from the passing day. I watch the fading light as I bring in the wood. The sight has an austere beauty against the darkening upper heavens. Tree limbs along the hill ridge reach and grasp against this retreating glimmer, the flight of day unstopped. It is peaceful, remote, and utterly unlike a summer evening.

Above, the stars come out sharp and clear, watching my trek. Each circuit of my journey brings me to the dark shed and then back to the light and warmth of the house. The cheerful kitchen light bursts from the windows across the snow-blanketed yard and each time I step inside the warmth greets me. My wife works on a delicious supper, and my little boy plays on the kitchen floor. We will stay warm together.

The winter night will pass and as sure as dawn comes, so will spring.
For now, there are the days of cold ahead, and this night. This will be a very cold night.

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A few weeks ago I commented to my wife that I needed to be careful at work, if I didn’t want to get in trouble. “I am not used to being nobody,” I said. “If I am not careful I will inadvertently step out of line.” The observation really struck me, and stuck with me.

Class and rank are deeply embedded in certain cultures. It is true–if overstated–that this is less prevalent in US culture. Here in proclaimed ethos we have the egalitarian way. But don’t look too close or you might see money and education gaining many unworthy people special privileges and advantages. Nonetheless, we don’t have the strict class of nobility so that is something.

The clash and tension between egalitarian ideals and the unspoken notion that some people are “a breed apart” manifest in the medical field of this country. This in some ways exists as a microcosm of US society as a whole with its tensions and contradictions, only more clearly drawn. Technically, anyone can enter this lofty ivory tower of the medical field, but those born into money and education have distinct advantages, both in entering and in rising through the ranks of this society. For the privileged this is their territory, their class. In essence, their home. Here they feel comfortable with the conventions and perspective which look out on the rest of the world. Any may enter, but you must prove yourself worthy of entering this class unto itself.

Somehow, I stumbled into the lowest ranks of this society, and as one not born into the guild I am not always sensitive to its conventions. This insensitivity is exacerbated by the fact that I was raised and educated as a homeschooler where typical authority structures of approved knowledge didn’t hold sway. Thinking critically for yourself was expected in ways and to degrees not seen in the average education. Questioning everything was expected, as well as valuing opinions and ideas for their own worth, not for who voiced them.

When I stepped out into the world of professional nursing it was within long term care, and this placed me fairly high in the localized authority of the organization. In the larger structure of the multi-state company I was a very small fish, but in the day to day I was in essence the boss of the floor. If someone had questions, I (or one of my peers) was the first place they came for answers. It was my underlings who had to be careful to not speak out of line. The smart bosses knew which underlings should be heeded, but they were officially the ignorant underlings.

Since I have moved to work within primary care my role has switched ends of the power structure. As a licensed practical nurse I am the lowest of all licensed health care professionals. I do the lesser work for those above me. Woe to me if I step outside my approved role or speak above my rank.

The atmosphere is not so severe as that. I have congenial coworkers. I am liked at my workplace, and I am respected for the work I do. The health care providers I serve are generally down to earth, and not the embodiment of aloof superiority sometimes imagined. Today one of them joked they were going to race me to the bathroom.

But that is the danger. For a naive man like myself, the good-natured surface masks the reality that there is a strata and we each have our own place. Don’t forget it, and don’t step outside your role. My personality and my background means I don’t naturally think about these things, and since I have no interest in writing medication scripts or referring patients for specialized testing I did not initially notice these bonds which constrain me.

That is, until I had an opinion.

In theory, the opinion and input of everyone on the health care team is supposed to be valued. They teach you that in school. In practice, your opinion is valued generally commensurate with your education and rank. In other words, within the class structures at work it is unthinkable for a doctor to consider my opinion. Such an act would violate all unspoken tenets of the social order. I do not have education sufficient to offer any worthwhile insight into any problem a doctor might face.

When facing a situation in which I feel I may have some worthwhile contribution, I have a hard time remembering that according to the structures in which I am operating I don’t have any valuable insight. I am to provide raw data for the insightful ones to process. I am not qualified to have insight. Mind you, I work with nice people so they would be discomfited if they were required to rebuke me in this manner. But I would be grossly out of line and due a rebuke if I started opining about a problem.

I almost got myself in trouble because there was a patient who was dealing with dementia issues. The patient and a family member had come in for the visit. My role was to see them first, ask the initial questions, and prepare them for the doctor. I have seen many different patients facing many different issues, but this struck very close to home. Having spent years as a caregiver for someone with dementia, having written a book about my experience, and having spoken around the country about the journey of those facing dementia, I felt I had some understanding about what these people faced.

When I left the patient and met the doctor to pass on report I began to offer my perspective on the issues they faced, and the doctor’s demeanor immediately became curt. I was told, “This person has been my patient for years. I know what is going on.”

It was then I realized I was nobody.

The doctor didn’t mean to be high-handed. It simply was that the operating class structures made plain it was not possible I had the qualifications for a useful opinion. If the situation was different–if I was standing at the podium of an Alzheimer’s Association event speaking–then what I said would have value. But here it did not. This is a quick lesson on class structure and caste.

It is good for me to be a nobody. I had my turn in the sun, to stand at the podium and tell everyone how things were, and to give advice. Sure, it felt good but that is only part of the world. And I had my turn to be in charge, and the person everyone on the floor came to for answers. That was stressful, and I don’t want to go back to those days. Now being small, and being nobody, is a new kind of learning. It isn’t always easy, and isn’t always comfortable, but from here I can look out at the world and consider .

There is much that can be learned from becoming small, and becoming nobody. But at the end of the day the roles and the strictures of this place also remind me that it isn’t my home. I am, and always will be, an interloper. Someday, I will be moving along.

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Becoming a parent is a life changing experience. At least, in some sense it should be. Yes, a truism, a cliche. But the meat and marvel of it is how this life changing by new life appearing is different for everyone. Personality, past life experience, and age are just three basic elements which have a huge impact on the experience of becoming a parent. And there are many more.

Many Americans come from a shared cultural background and so as new parents they can come together and converse on the basis of this shared experience about the change in their lives. There is the diaper changing, feeding, lack of sleep, and all those new struggles. People share their shock at the life change.

As the second oldest in a very large family, I come to parenthood from a very different place. Before I ever had the name father, I have changed many a child’s diaper, fed, chased, and heard the night troubles. I suppose I have been present and a part of the whole messy experience for at least a half dozen younger siblings. There is no new introduction to those aspects of child rearing.

The coming of my own child has felt in many ways more like the return of the old familiar rather than something shocking and new. The house has felt empty, absent the sounds of small children. Yes, I remember all these things, the familiar rhythms, the cadence, the sounds. I haven’t had the “I didn’t expect things to be like this” experience than many people today share in common when they come together and talk about their new experience of parenthood. The familiarity has made the transition calmer for me, not as stressed nor filled with shock and uncertainty. That has been a blessing, though all the past experience doesn’t mean I have answers. All experience means is that I know a parent never has the answers, and that confounding problems and unanswerable questions are just part of being a parent. And I know nobody else has all the secret answers. You never get it all figured out, and experience teaches the listening to accept this truth a little more comfortably.

But being a parent is different than being an older sibling, and my deep familiarity with the basic rudiments of child care can almost obscure that important truth. As an older brother I was called upon to change diapers, feed hungry bellies, and make sure little hands and feet didn’t come to harm. And those little siblings looked up to me and found me fascinating and a person to be emulated–as they found all their older siblings. As special as that relationship is, it is not the same as being a father.

As an older brother I wasn’t particularly attentive to my siblings. That was a shortcoming on my part. I didn’t go out of my way to avoid my younger siblings, but neither did I go out of my way to bring them into my activities. They were welcome to be around or tag along, but I was busy with my own things. I helped with feeding and diaper changing as needed, but it was duty I did without complaint–or much thought.

It is a danger to think I can be a father as I was an older brother–able to do what is needed with those diapers and feeding–and admired by the little person–but not so much present in my own thoughts and intentions. The damage from such casual preoccupation can be so much greater when it is a father.

As an older brother it was not my responsibility to chart a course of discipline and instruction. It was not my job to teach–and by that I mean shining light on the reality of life and truth more importantly than math and language arts. Being a father has opened that world. I need to be fathering, not brothering. “What are we doing?” as a question on the deep existential level of teaching a child about life was not my responsibility in all my previous interaction with little people. That was not my job because I was not a father. But now I am.

This is what is different. Dirty diapers I know, and spit up, and all the confounding things of non-answers about sleepless nights, bad digestion, and teething. But spending my life toward a child as a father–this is new. For a few short years, I will be the world to my little son. I will mean the world to him. In those littlest of years I will seem the embodiment of power, wisdom, intelligence, and perhaps goodness. I will be all that he wants to be. With time he will come to know how I come so far short of those things, but in the beginning there is profound opportunity to be the vessel of incalculable impact on a little soul. And I do not want to be inattentive to this sober reality, or to the small one whom I could so easily overlook in a busy life full of doing.

Yes, I hope to do and be with my son in the big special things; the going on adventures and playing grand games, the building and making projects, the sharing which is special in big ways. I look forward to that because there is so much I want to share. But equally important–perhaps even more important–I want to see him every day, and remember him in the small things, hear him in the small conversations, to truly remember him and be present in the small and easily forgotten moments of every day.

So I hope I grow into being a father, into being awake in the every day, and being loving in the deep ways that truly matter.

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Have you ever thought about what it means to lose yourself? Or, the opposite, to find yourself? What do those things even mean?

These past two years, I have been losing myself. That statement sounds terrifying to the modern sensibility. The culture of today is built upon the parlance of “finding oneself.” Perhaps that means traveling to some distant place in India, moving to another state in the country, or simply pursuing a different path in life. Wherever you go, finding yourself means coming to a place of finding self-fulfillment. Finding yourself is the goal, and those mired down in daily living unable to attain the place of self-actualization are less for it. So the narrative goes. In this place the pronouncement of “losing oneself” sounds like a death knell. It sounds like what middle aged people do before they whimper off into the sunset of old age.

Is it true?

I admit losing oneself is not all sunshine and picnics. The metaphysical reality comes with many earthy sensations, some more easily named than others. Altogether it is discomforting. But I hold it is a far better path than the vision of bliss championed in the quest of finding oneself.

This is not the first time I have lost myself. When I left home to care for my grandparents–that was another occasion which comes to mind. I lost myself then, and again when my grandpa died. And I suppose I lost myself when I had to leave childhood behind and figure out what it meant for me to be an adult. They were all painful times, each in different ways, each a different dying, a different birth. Perhaps there are others which don’t come so easily to mind.

Losing myself happens in those places and times where who I am comes unmoored. Who I was before can’t exist unchanged in the future I find myself. I no longer can be who I was, but who I am becoming (or ought to be) is not clear. I’ve lost my past self, and it feels a bit like dying, a bit like loneliness (for the old self was the closest friend), and much like being lost. The old home of body and mind is gone. I am cast out, and new realities don’t immediately become a new skin and familiar home.

When I left home and became caregiver for my grandparents it was a new role and a new place in life. It required different priorities from me, a different outlook on life, different expectations. Disorienting is a word which fits the experience, a word that almost feels too small. That life change left me staggered, but I met the occasion and grew into it until Caregiver was a name which fit me like a glove. Then that ended, and I lost myself again. Ironic how what I struggled to accept became a disaster to lose. Time to learn what it meant to be a once-but-no-longer-caregiver. So it goes, time and again.

I don’t like losing myself. I like comfortable familiarity, old houses with those worn paths of habitual use. But time pushes onward and brings its change. I feel like I have already done far more losing of myself in life than I would ever want. However, I am coming to understand that losing myself is one of the most important (if most uncomfortable) things to happen in life. It is in the dying of the old self, the losing of the past shell, that the living is found. When I have lost myself, there I have grown.

As a culture there is a lot of shiny talk about “finding oneself,” the activity with self at the center, and one’s own sense of fullness–whatever is required to reach that place. For certain finding oneself feels like a grand thing–at least, if it lives up to the hype. By contrast, losing oneself feels emptying, frightening, and exhausting. Losing oneself is not an enjoyable activity. No wonder the narrative of our age is about finding oneself.

But the better path is often the disguised one, hidden behind the thorns. I am convinced “finding oneself” is a mirage–a delight at first, perhaps, but ultimately a more empty and lonely place where you are the aim and desire of your own existence. What has true worth has great cost, and one must become lost to find. Every time I have lost myself it has been hard, but in the long journey through lostness I have come out wiser, more mature. A bit less, just a bit less, someone living just for himself. When I lose myself I come out not quite who I was before, and better for it.

Marriage, and becoming a father, have been the occasions of this most recent losing of myself. These life changing events have reoriented my life in ways easy to conceptualize in words, but far harder to discover in all the warp and woof of reality. I can’t live as a married man and father as I did as a single man. An observation so simple it seems almost trite, but the reality of losing who I was as a single person leaves me trying to find what it means to be a new man–in priorities, life rhythm, hopes, ambitions, and breath. Life simply isn’t the same in this new place–obvious in the declaration, and yet in the details wholly without a map. How we can talk and think about what it means to be married doesn’t account for how one must breathe differently.

I know what my role is and means from the outside, for I have seen my father and watched him as a husband. But we each must make it our own in the living of it, and I find the place full of contradictions–easy and hard, natural and alien. But most of all this is a way of living which is different from who or what I was. On an existential level it can feel hard and strange to orient myself.

I can accept the idea that life is different easily enough. It is the whole point of marriage, that difference. Harder for me is accepting how long it takes to discover and grow into the new reality. I can be thoughtful of my other half on occasion, only to realize that doesn’t begin to grasp the nuance of wedded reality. It is a different breathing.

I am not surprised that life is different–who doesn’t assent to this truth in their thoughts–but I wanted to find the comfortable place of knowing my new self in six months. Instead, I’m still finding my way to feeling natural in the rhythm of not being my own person. And, I suppose, I will be finding my way for some time to come. The best things take the longest to grow into, and the more you lose yourself, the greater the thing you find.

There is comfort in having lost myself before, and learned what was on the other side of those painful journeys. In the uncertain sea of no longer having my old skin to wear–one worn some thirty and more years of my life–I remember in all the losing of myself I have known in my life, it has come with the discovery of something better, richer. It is a good thing to remember while on the journey. I can look with that same expectation as I go today.

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Photo by Firdaus Roslan on Unsplash

It was his turn at the front of the line. He was a fit man, by appearances in his late seventies or early eighties. With his baseball cap and neatly belted pants he embodied the country working man of a past generation, now faded and starting to fray in his twilight years. His face was different, but the way he carried himself reminded me of Grandpa, dead now these nearly nine years.

He set his copy of my book on the table, and spoke with a quiet simplicity. “Thank you for making it not scary,” he said, and looked at me as if he meant every last bit of those words with all of his heart.

◊ ◊ ◊

The path to many places is long and winding, and such it was to reach the Big Flats Community Center this crisp Saturday morning in late April. Not physically winding–it is nearly a straight shot up the highway, a little over an hour drive. But the metaphorical path to bringing this occasion into being was long.

This morning of April 21st started last year when a friend of mine who sells gutters for a living made a sale to a lady who–he learned in the course of conversation–was in the business of helping elderly people adapt their homes for aging in place. Sue was her name, and besides her consulting work she also held speaking events on this topic. Noting how her work and speaking overlapped with mine, my friend mentioned to her (and later to me) that the two of us ought to discuss possibly working together.

It was an odd connection, but I decided it wouldn’t hurt to follow-up, so I emailed Sue. After a few exchanges it was agreed that attending one of her events was a good way for me to figure out if I thought we could work together–and she would view the video of one of my events, and read my book. So it was I ended up traveling to Chemung County and listening to one of her presentations. In the process I met agency facilitators for the Chemung County Office for the Aging, introduced myself and let them know what I was doing. Afterward, I followed up by email.

Sue and I agreed that there was opportunity to work together, but neither of us had anything planned at that time and we left it that if either of us had something that seemed to fit, we would let the other know. So far that has been the end of it. But months later one of the ladies from the Chemung Office for the Aging who I had met at Sue’s event contacted me by email and said they were interested in having me speak for them. They said sometime in November, but later it was pushed into the new year.

I thought maybe it wouldn’t happen at all. Things come up, then disappear. But in the new year they did get back to me, and we had a date set for April. This all came to fruitition a year after I first came to the Chemung Office for the Aging. A winding path indeed, from gutter sale to community center speaking event.

◊ ◊ ◊

The Chemung Office for the Aging used grant money to purchase a copy of my book for every attendee of the event. The old man slid his copy across the table toward me.

I nodded in response to his thanks for my presentation. “I try,” I said. “I hope people can see it that way. I don’t think it has to be terrifying,” I said, then add, “who should I sign book this for?”

“You can sign it for Ed. That’s me,” he said.

“Who are you caring for?” I ask. Sometimes this helps me know what other words to add if I know a bit of their story.

“Actually, it’s me,” he looks at me. “I’m the one. I’m in the early stages, but it’s coming.”

My world hiccups, the conversation jumping to an entirely different frame of reference. Often caregivers thank me for helping them see the disease better–more clearly, more in context, more hope filled. But rarely does someone with the disease come to an event, and even less often will one of them speak with me. I had presumed another caregiver stood thanking me, and now the raw confession told me I had spent the last hour and a half telling this man what his future held.

And he had said thank you.

“I’m not scared anymore,” he said again. “Thank you for the things you said. I don’t think it has to be bad.”

“No,” I agreed. “After what I went through with my grandpa, I think it is less scary than it was before for me. I feel–for myself–there are a lot worse ways to die.” The conversation felt at odd angles. We were talking about this man’s impending losses and eventual death, and he was being grateful to me. My emotions stirred, my heart wishing I could give him something–something more than what now felt like the pitiful amount I’ve given.

I hand him back my book.

He picks it up. “I want to read this. I want to learn, to understand what is coming. This book will be good.”

“It’s good you want to learn. It’s great!” My words feel feeble. I’m thinking simultaneously about how it is going to slip out of his mind and yet maybe some bit–somewhere–will stay, I hope. I’m wondering if he will even be able to finish my book. And I marvel at his attitude.

“We’re all given a life,” he says. “Something. Our own burden.”

I notice now how there is a hesitation in his speech, a small halting that a listener might not notice if they weren’t attentive, but I catch it.

“I just think this is mine,” he looks away. “And I’m going to live it. And it will be okay.”

I nod, and try to find words, fumbling things to say.

“Anyhow, thank you,” he finishes. We wish each other well, and he moves away and I must sign the book for the next person. I feel like I’ve been swept along prematurely, and I want to follow after the old man and–and–do something. Say something. Help him, be there for him in the years that are coming. But that’s not the way it works. He must walk on, and so must I. But I do hope I’ve given him something for his road, something he will be able to carry with him.

◊ ◊ ◊

A few more people down the line I have two elderly ladies standing in front of me. I think they might be sisters. They both clutch a copy of my book, standing side by side with a hint of tension in their shoulders, a weariness in their faces. The first hands me her book and says with the quickness of someone trying to force emotions back, “Make it out to Barb and Ed. That’s me and my husband. He has the disease. We’re going through this with him.”

I smile to myself as I sign her book. “I met your husband a few minutes ago,” I say. “I signed his book. We talked about his disease.”

“Oh! What did he say?”

The sisters look a mixture of surprised and curious.

“He said he isn’t afraid anymore. That it’s okay.”

“He said that?” Tears come to Barb’s eyes, a hand to her mouth. “Oh, you don’t know what that means to me. I can’t believe–He never talks about it–and we don’t know what he thinks. To hear that he said that–that alone makes today worth it. Thank you so much.”

We talk a little more, and I try to find encouraging words, but giving them her husbands words is all they wanted. All they needed.

Afterward, the community center empties and I am alone with my wife and our baby boy. My wife tells me how everyone made a fuss about the baby, but one man in particular. This old man came up to her three our four times while she was holding our baby. She thought the man might have had Alzheimer’s, because each time he stopped he said the same exact thing–as if he didn’t realize he had come a previous time. He is a beautiful boy. Cherish the moments, he said. These are precious days, and they are gone so quickly.

It was Ed.

◊ ◊ ◊

Life is a winding road, and none of us knows what lies ahead. I don’t know if I will ever have another speaking event. Maybe that bright April morning will be the last time I speak to an audience, the last time I stand up and open my heart and my mouth about hardness and brokenness and love and worth and what life means. I don’t know. But what I do know is that I am glad to have heard those words: “Thank you for making it not scary.”

It is what I have wanted to give.

Photo by Lotte Meijer on Unsplash

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A curiosity of mine is this: “How long do chicken memories last?” Actually, I have a lot of curiosities about chickens, wondering how their small minds work and process reality. But memory is one of them.

When we first had chickens they were allowed to roam free. But Debbie got tired of them pooping on the porch (as chickens are wont to do) and their constant scratching in her flower gardens. So we built a chicken fence and locked them away. Before they would come down to the back of the house and star in through the windows of the French doors, led by our rooster Petunia who is the worst food grubber of them all. After the fence went up, the chickens had to develop other routines, and other places to lounge besides the back door.

That change was a year ago, but I’ve since wondered how much our rooster Petunia remember of his old haunts. Well, today it was a warm later winter day and though the snow was on the ground I left the door to the chicken yard open so that our young cat Munchkin could go exploring. Well, it wasn’t too long before the chickens were heading out the gate in the opposite direction. And Petunia hurried on down to the back door and peered in through the window. A year of time and his chicken brain still remembered where he used to go.

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Daylight ebbs dark
windowed outside fading
mirror reflective

Voices murmur awaiting satiation
deep bass drones, propounds
lullabying my weariness,

The meeting is busy
behind me, with social advancement
plans for their dog park

Money and risk
concerns of the night
land leased for a dollar must be policed

Use at your own risk, make the list
security cameras for safety
examined membership cards

The lacking will be asked to leave
important community service; make laws, find dues, escape risk
above all: keep unwanted dogs from the dog park

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Tis the season
of crinkle leaf
windy branch dark
against slate sky.

Here clouds roll
air bites cold
breathing woody smoke
and frosty damp.

Life huddles
squinty-eyed
and misty breath
waiting for spring.

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I needed a better coat, something with a little more class than the country-coarse I wear around the yard. So I reached into the back of the closet and pulled out something respectable, stored and unused for years, waiting for just this time.

Later, I discovered the pockets weren’t empty.

The coat was pale grey, so pale it was almost white. I don’t know if the coat was ever used much, but I wasn’t its first owner. It was an inheritance from Grandpa.

There is an odd little thrill wrapped up in finding things in the pockets of second hand clothing. I remember the sensation from a few lucky finds in second hand clothes brought into the house. It feels a bit like finding treasure, and a bit like finding the remnants of a past civilization. Much like finding scribbled notes in a book, the pocket discoveries are memorials to those who came before. They are fun when you can imagine the things found belong to someone living, someone still carrying on their adventures somewhere else in the world. The finding is more melancholy when you know the person who left the tokens is dead.

Both front pockets were full. In the right I pulled out a small ziplock bag with a few packets of sugar substitute and two match packets from a grocery story no longer in business. There was also one crumpled paper towel. The other pocket held another booklet of matches, more paper towels neatly folded, yellow with age, and a few tissues. In the bottom of the pocket was one piece of peppermint candy.

The matchbooks and folded paper towels brought the surprise and ache of memory. This was grandpa’s treasure, carefully stored away over a decade ago. Back when he still smoked the matches were a regularly necessity. When I was little he would let me blow the match out after he had lit the cigarette. The sugar was in case it was needed for coffee, the candy because a man needed that for in a pinch. And the paper towels folded for use as tissues was the perennial mark of Grandpa.

Memories that I go looking for don’t catch me by surprise, and the act of deliberately digging up the past provides its own form of preparation, which is a bit of a defense. But unexpected memories stumbled upon, the past preserved as if it had only happened yesterday and so bridging nearly two decades as if it were only hours ago can give a strange hurt made poignant with its unexpected freshness.

Ah, hello Grandpa. No, I hadn’t forgotten you. Life moves so quick, but strange how you are still so freshly here.

 

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