The House on The Hill

It is always exciting when you move to a new house, everything but the packing.  And Sunday it was time to take Dad by the new house.  He looked around and inspected everything with his precision eye…making sure everything was in line and right.

The basement, the most important thing and what he was the most excited about.  And he went down. It is not perfect, but we can make it work.  We can make it work with his workshop, with a few moderation.  Add some light fixtures, get some extension chords. And there is plenty of room not only for his workshop, but for storage as well.

He likes his new room. It is big and has enough space for whatever he wants to put in there.  He can have a little office as well.  The deck is being worked on, and will be ready by the time we move in.

It is not perfect, but it is great.  And it will be a great place for us.The house we are in now has been wonderful – the Rescue House.  It rescued me from me from the House of Mold, it rescued my boyfriend and became a place of love, and now it rescued my Dad and has become his home too.

The new house will be a place of new beginnings.  And it is my privilege to have Dad with us, starting this new life with us.  I am a lucky woman. And I feel Mom smiling.

It’s Already There

When I first read it so many years ago, it made me cry. It makes me cry still. A beautiful writer, a wonderful friend who wrote a beautiful piece. For me. And now I share it with you.  Thank you Rex Holiday.

It’s Already There

I see it this way: from a guy who has pissed away more great chances in a week than most men will see in a year: I’ve been allowed to see incomprehensible scenery connected to a brain that “gets it”.

Without those missed chances I would have: never been able to speak of the pain of an aborted father in the throes of post-regret, nor spoken to others who are bleeding the same way. Never known the kind of fervor and spit and fire it takes to speak my mind into a howling wind and actually made it slice through.

Never known the dubious pleasure of bringing down a pseudo-Napoleon living as king of his particular hill in a school system I pay for.

Never heard the voice of a now-relieved-son thanking me for helping his invalid grandmother out of a winter storm

Never had the ocean-powered wave of gratitude wash over me when I, alone, stood with one, wrongly accused, against a courtroom full of antagonists. (Not-guilty, by the way)

Never known the sheer power of being the one in the fray who is COMMITTED.

Never been able to speak of true, unrequited, ripped-apart love to an adolescent who’s going through the same thing.

Never known the joy of vocally and VERY audibly cheering a teenager when they finally excelled at something and got their due for it.

Never seen the pain in a true friend’s eyes when they buried their youngest. Never been able to hold them and let them cry the way they would only in a true friend’s arms.

Never been blessed to help bear the pain of someone you love on any level.

Never felt so dirty and ashamed as to chase even my closest friends off.

Never felt the heat of a South Georgia summer.

Or the cold of a Kentucky ice storm.

Or the power of an Alabama thunderstorm.

Or the thundering beauty of a Mississippi sunset.

Or the caress of a Tennessee mountain morning.

Or the complete release of a hearty and block-shattering “KISS MY ASS” to authority.

Or of watching the pain

the pleasure

the ecstacy

the victory

of discovery.

Would never had heard the crowd’s approval swell like a big gentle wave in the warm Gulf.

Or my new bride, taking such care to dress in some kind of frilly underpinnings complete with garters and white stockings say, “…do you mind if we don’t”, on my wedding night.

Not a bit. I just drove three hours through nowhere, Mississippi to say to the hotel clerk, “I’ve waited 31 years to say this: I just got married, and I need a room.” I was tired. Be real.

I would have missed words like, “I do”, “You may take your planet home”, “Would you hand me the piano?”, “I want to try everything, tonight.”, and “Honey, wake up. Hannah Newton was killed last night in a car wreck. John was right behind her.”

Not all of these are pleasant or desirable but they are rich. A mosaic of life. If we didn’t like imperfection and character, photographs would far outsell paintings. It’s what we’re here for.

I would have missed the roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd, and the cussing of the GM.

And I would have missed you and your smile.

Most of all.

Stop searching. It’s already there.

– Rex Holiday