I thought maybe I'd stop and putt at the golf course on the way to the grocery store, but it was too wet. There were puddles on the practice greens and rain clouds in my head.
You’re my kinda guy. This really spoke to me as a “day in the life” of someone very like myself. Aging as gracefully as possible here in Western Oregon, grappling with regrets, grateful for the random human connections that light up the day, if only a bit.
I’m not a golfer but often wish I were, since I live in easy walking distance to a beautiful course. I’d want to play alone, though, since my approach would be more meditative than competitive.
Where we really meet in a narrow slice of the Venn Diagram is in our appreciation of our respective desks. Mine is a teacher’s desk from the early ‘30s. Oak, massive, heavy as hell, and sporting a black slate top you could land a jet on. I found it some years ago in a great secondhand emporium on Grand Avenue here in PDX. It took a couple of burly guys to manhandle it into my old house - a 100-year old arts & crafty place with narrow doorways and stairs everywhere. We moved two years ago to a newer (1983) house that’s devoid of charm but all on one level, the impetus to relocate being my wife’s advanced Parkinson’s. It took two new burly dudes to extract the desk and tote it to my new home office, which is a spacious room with a wide entry. I work at it every day. I may choose to be buried in it. It’s my refuge. A perfect place to write. Since I’m a 24/7 caregiver now, my writing times are sporadic and subject to interruption, but I’m trying to find a more regular schedule.
Winter storm warnings here tonight. Ice and snow. I’m near the mouth of the gorge so it’ll be windy. I’m guessing tomorrow won’t be good for golf. I hope you get your desk ship-shape and write more. I’m digging your voice.
This post was good, and somewhat surreal. I like many parts of it, especially the idea that our feelings can ride in the car with us, and we might have conversations with them. Freud would enjoy analyzing that idea. Jolly good, mate! And the tug on the arm by an unseen child. Since your kids were fine, perhaps you need an exorcist. What do you know about who lived in your old house? And, blimey, where was the misses when this Steven King episode was going on?
You’re my kinda guy. This really spoke to me as a “day in the life” of someone very like myself. Aging as gracefully as possible here in Western Oregon, grappling with regrets, grateful for the random human connections that light up the day, if only a bit.
I’m not a golfer but often wish I were, since I live in easy walking distance to a beautiful course. I’d want to play alone, though, since my approach would be more meditative than competitive.
Where we really meet in a narrow slice of the Venn Diagram is in our appreciation of our respective desks. Mine is a teacher’s desk from the early ‘30s. Oak, massive, heavy as hell, and sporting a black slate top you could land a jet on. I found it some years ago in a great secondhand emporium on Grand Avenue here in PDX. It took a couple of burly guys to manhandle it into my old house - a 100-year old arts & crafty place with narrow doorways and stairs everywhere. We moved two years ago to a newer (1983) house that’s devoid of charm but all on one level, the impetus to relocate being my wife’s advanced Parkinson’s. It took two new burly dudes to extract the desk and tote it to my new home office, which is a spacious room with a wide entry. I work at it every day. I may choose to be buried in it. It’s my refuge. A perfect place to write. Since I’m a 24/7 caregiver now, my writing times are sporadic and subject to interruption, but I’m trying to find a more regular schedule.
Winter storm warnings here tonight. Ice and snow. I’m near the mouth of the gorge so it’ll be windy. I’m guessing tomorrow won’t be good for golf. I hope you get your desk ship-shape and write more. I’m digging your voice.
Thanks very much, Jack - and the desk story is classic, very cool.
Jesus.
Sorry Lord, but I have to start that way.
I am in tears
from the power and beauty
of your writing, Eric.
Yours is prose poetry.
Yours is a deep and generous gift.
Your intuitive connection
with the souls of others
shines through your work.
You KNEW I would love
and understand
this treasure.
Thank you for knowing
and for sending
Long may you shine
Thank you so much.
Nicely done, old friend. Don’t know much about golf, but you have Winco nailed.
Thank you, Kevin - I do love Winco.
This post was good, and somewhat surreal. I like many parts of it, especially the idea that our feelings can ride in the car with us, and we might have conversations with them. Freud would enjoy analyzing that idea. Jolly good, mate! And the tug on the arm by an unseen child. Since your kids were fine, perhaps you need an exorcist. What do you know about who lived in your old house? And, blimey, where was the misses when this Steven King episode was going on?
Thanks, Denis. (She was asleep)
Made my day, Irons. Mahalo.
My pleasure, L Ford.
There are days, and then there are days. Nice writing on a cold day.
Thank you, April.