We all walk ancientrails. Welcome to the journey.

Who knows?

Written By: Charles - Jun• 14•20

Beltane and the Moon of Sorrow

Sunday gratefuls: The freezer lives. Swapping out the meat. Juicy Lucy’s from Ebony and Vine. Protests. Protesters. Our antebellum plantation owner President. Rain. Problem solving. Sjogren’s. Rigel’s prance. Kep’s nuzzle in the morning. Seoah helping with the meat swap. Covid. Holy land.

The compressor soldiers on, gave us time to switch out the contents of the refrigerator freezer and the garage freezer. Next on my gotta get this done list is a backyard clean up. Those pallets that solved the irregular surface problem for Kate. Fire hazard. Likewise the cedar boards. The extra pallets. Then, there’s all those downed trees that need limbing and bucking. Rigel has dug up and knocked over things that need to get into a different place.

Two steps here. Clean out the yard. Then, have stuff hauled away. The Elk Fire Department will chip the slash. I’ll have to hire somebody to take the rest to the landfill. The wildfire danger has been high since early June and will get worse. Looks like a dry summer. I’ve done a lot of mitigation, but not everything I need to do.

Thought Father’s Day was today. Nope. Next week. Been thinking about my Dad. Maybe that’s why I made the mistake. The day after the Summer Solstice, June 21, that’s the day this year.

Been pulling on a single thread from my Dad’s story. Don’t recall who told me this, Mary? Mark? Dad? After he earned his journalism degree from Oklahoma State University, Dad planned to buy a boat, sail along the Mexican Coast and write about the trip. Instead, WWII. Then, Mom. Then, kids. No boat. No book. No articles.

I long ago forgave him for his part in the troubles we had. I still didn’t like him after that, but at least he saw Joseph, met Kate. Now, so much later, I’ve begun to hold this dream of his as a family trust. Mary and Mark have gone on to their Mexico’s. I’ve been writing the story of my ancientrail in this life.

When a world war comes, when Covid comes, when slavery and racism come, we can’t count the loss of dreams. The slammed chances to rise above life and become extraordinary. Who knows what would have become of Dad if he’d gotten that boat? Made that trip. Maybe our little family wouldn’t exist at all and you’d know his name for his contribution to literature.

Mark Twain said the best playwright who ever lived was an illiterate share-cropper in Tennessee. Who knows, maybe Dad was the Paul Theroux of his generation. Or, its Richard Burton. How many great poets and novelists and painters and singers never realized their true worth due to slavery, Jim Crow, institutionalized racism? Or, what scientific discoveries, inventions, leaders were likewise never made?

In the land of the free.

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