By: EarlB, 11:53 PM GMT on September 27, 2009
One hundred thirteen words summed up a life of 82 years. A color
photograph as one final visual reminder, a last day's itinerary
for scheduling a farewell in among the other chores.
Her last biography didn't tell that she was two when her mother died or
that she was raised by a sister, eleven other siblings and by a hard-
working, hard drinking father, that she then raised that sister's children,
that she cared for the sick in the family: her mother-in-law and grandmother-
in-law, my father in his last years. Nothing was said of her fear of birds
after an encounter with a confused and frightened chicken, nothing was said
of her dislike of taxidermy-ed groundhogs. I suppose not many knew of her
love of good ice cream over the last few years, but everyone knew of her love
of beer all through her life (but that wasn't mentioned, either). There was
so much unsaid.
My realization that there were missing details came too late to relate to
those who met to remember her. That's typical, the really good ideas come five
minutes after it is too late.
It's too late now. But, I write to set some of the record straight, because
it doesn't matter if everyone knows, just so that someone does.
She became my family mentor as we grew closer, telling me stories about
her brother, that he never told me as a father, things about half of my
heritage that no one else thought important enough to share. Sometimes
my eyes would go wide in wonder, but all times we would end up laughing at some
revelation of the oddest of social systems: the family.
So many stories that I heard, secrets that I learned, but I feel that there
was more to tell, and now, no more.
By: EarlB, 1:09 AM GMT on September 13, 2009
Rain has been falling
for two days now,
The dry soil finally quenched
after the long, hot dry.
Ditches, ponds and guts
are running full,
Our cup runneth over and over.
Three deer just swam by,
neck deep in a river
Of green: the soybeans have
swollen to full, too.
By: EarlB, 10:16 PM GMT on September 08, 2009
When I think of everything that I have on a list to do,
even though that list is only a quite temporary assemblage
of axon paths, I wonder about the importance of trying
to meet my 14-day schedule to post my little insights in
I wonder if anyone will be changed even a bit by my ideas.
It is the insecurity of anyone who composes, I suppose. It
is an insecurity of anyone who lives, really, expressed in
a desire to be remembered.
There is a hit-and-run nature to "the blog", both in the
discovery, and the discard. It is more permanent than "the
tweet", but both are quickly forgotten in the electronic neural
jumble. Not too many years ago, there was only "the memoir"
to supply the inquisitive with insight into another's thoughts.
There was a unnatural sorting and a process of reflection
in the procedure. Memoirs typically arose through notoriety
and were polished by time's forgiving memory.
So, I try to blog on. I probably won't ever be so self-centered
or so interested in someone else's self-centeredness to tweet, and
I won't be so well known to warrant a memoir. The blog sits
comfortably between working at writing and idly thinking: my kind
of place (up until the 14th day!).