I recently sent a text message to our family group chat. I asked them if we had any holiday traditions that they look forward to or that makes them feel good. Instead of the sincere answers I was hoping for, they immediately started spamming the thread with things such as our annual front yard book burning or stealing the baby Jesuses from front yard nativity scenes.
Waiting for a hurricane really is like watching a murder-turtle choose which way it will go, then slowly make its way, then suddenly change its mind.
I thought I knew what I stood for–what I believed in. Looking back, though, I realize I was a brainwashed fool. It was definitely not one of my finer moments.
I knew Burt Bacharach’s music–he had written for the Carpenters and his songs for Dione Warwick are legendary. His music was on the regular rotation on the easy listening radio station I would listen to to unwind. However, in full transparency, I did not know who Elvis Costello was, I had heard the name, but was not familiar with his music. I have always liked the mixing of genres and the blending of musical styles to create new music.
We’d been following one of the church’s parishioners: Travis. When we arrived he quickly exited his car, approached us, and embarrassedly apologized for the state of the trailer. As we entered, I had to hold my breath because of the smell of mold. I just stared at the torn shower curtain just hanging.
My stomach was in knots at this point.
For the time being I can pretend that: There isn’t a ranging pandemic sweeping through our lives. We are not breaking records for new Covid cases. Betty White did not just die.
One night, I was watching the Muppet Show. This episode was about Luke Skywalker, R2D2, and C3PO storming through the wall of the theatre looking for Chewbacca. I remember watching and thinking--who are these characters?--this was not normal fare for The Muppet Show. What is this “Star Wars?” I vaguely recall thinking "I am now going to like Star Wars".
It is the movie that if I were channel surfing and saw that it was on, I would stop and watch it.
This essay is very personal. Probably the most personal I have ever written. I did want to put a trigger warning that it deals with being raised by a narcissistic parent.
He was older, he was cool, I enjoyed hanging out with him. At that point, he had already started his piloting lessons and he would show me his log books, his route maps, and talk about different types of planes. This was what he loved--this was his passion.