First, a long overdue thanks to those brave people who have been following and, sometimes, enjoying these lame thoughts. I'm quite sure that you all have your own trials and tribulations; after all, who doesn't? It's called life. Yet you have generously taken an interest in me and my musings; you have offered me encouragement and clever commentary; you have made me feel welcome in your hearts. This is a very nice thing for you to have done and I appreciate it so much.
OK, that's enough about you. Let's get back to me.
I'm not crying as much as I used to. During the darkest depths of winter I could count on probably 4 or 5 crying "episodes" a day. They would happen randomly and would last a minute or so. They were almost never tied to a specific stimulus but rather seemed to happen of their own accord. For some reason, the car was a particularly fertile area for tears. Again, these tearful moments in the car were not memory-specific; they weren't tied to a favorite song on the radio or a favorite place or destination. They just happened, quickly and beautifully, and I was grateful for every one of them. Like many members of my peculiar species (male), I've never been very good at showing my emotions publicly; maybe that's where the car comes in. It's a private, safe enclosure where my emotions can have free reign and nobody has to know about it.
Except the couple in that Mazda staring at me.
At any rate, now it seems the tearful episodes are fewer but more specific in nature. They happen maybe once or twice a day, and they are usually tied to the idea that there is some nice or important event that Ada will not witness: like some of the twins' achievements, (Sara performing in her school's version of "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" or Sam demonstrating his reading prowess) or one of Matt's gigs, or some big piece of news from Josh or Cindy. There is a lot of pain that comes with this line of thinking; i don't know if I should "allow" myself to think this way, but I doubt there is much I can do about it.
Time is probably the only "cure," and a very imperfect one at that...
A particularly disturbing scenario played itself out in the post office line the other day. It was one of those times when I wish I had said something, but didn't. I was waiting in line when a gentleman even older than me struck up a conversation. I welcomed the chance to chat. He was from Michigan (quite a few folks from the Upper Midwest turn up in these parts) and without knowing a thing about me, he started railing against Obama and the Democrats. I politely told him I didn't feel the same way but, of course, he was entitled to his opinion. He smiled and then told me about his son, an Iraq combat veteran who was still stationed over there. I told him I hoped his son got home safely, but I had the feeling that he was of the opinion that Democrats or Liberals didn't have sons or daughters fighting over there.
But that really wasn't the disturbing part. After all, this is a very conservative area and there are many aspects of politics on which reasonable people can differ. Here is the part that bothered me. With no prodding or urging from me, he began filling me in on the high crime rate in the area. And he did it gleefully, it seemed to me. He took great pleasure in telling me about the looting episodes during one of the hurricanes that plagued this area a few years ago. My only lame response was to shake my head and say, "That's a shame."
This is what I should have said: Why are you taking so much pleasure in telling me this? What are you really trying to say here? Why aren't you telling me about the thousands of citizens who didn't loot and would never steal? Have you personally ever had anything stolen? If it's that bad here, why are you still vacationing in the area?
Maybe I'm being overly sensitive and a little naive, but I don't need or want that kind of negativity around me. If you're going to tell me sad stuff, at least do it sadly, please, or don't do it at all.
I went to the Navarre Water and Sewer Department today to sign up for water service in my upcoming rental at Navarre Beach. Connie, the woman behind the desk, was very good at her job and filled out all the requisite forms in a pleasant and efficient manner. Toward the end of the process, Connie asked me for my driver's license. I handed it over to her, wondering why she'd need that. She made a copy of it and then took it over to a laminating machine and created a makeshift ID card for me. I asked her why I would need that. She told me that in the event of an evacuation, the only people who are allowed back onto the island after the "all clear" are people who have that particular type of ID card.
Like I said a few episodes ago, we're not in Kansas anymore.
Much love to people of both parties,
J
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