Your prompt for JusJoJan 2019, January 22nd is brought to you by Pamela! Click here to find her last post and say hi while you’re there! Pamela’s word for our prompt today is “curiosity.” Use it anywhere in your post or make it the theme of your post. Have fun!
To all of those who took risks that led us to a greater understanding of our world, I applaud you. For if you hadn’t had the courage to convert your curiosity into action we would dwell in the uneventful, safe realm of the known, and not charging headlong into the unknown.
I had a dream with the world I shared it that we’d embrace diversity not run scared of it please explain it to me I have nothing but time how ending the lives of each other honors the memory of mine I fought without fists without anger or spite I called for equality and love not to spill into the streets and fight I reached out in peace extended my hand hoping to set an example that would echo throughout the land yet still we fight we hate and we label to see beyond the color of skin we seem hopelessly unable I left this earth many years ago but I still watch from above as my dream remains just that in the absence of brotherly love we must come together as one recognize hatred as cowardice that labeling a man by his skin is a terrible injustice it’s never too late to right this wrong when we walk and live hand in hand that will be my victory song
Your prompt for JusJoJan 2019, January 20th is brought to you by Jill! Click here to find her last post and say hi while you’re there! Jill’s word for our prompt today is “serendipity.” Use it anywhere in your post or make it the theme of your post. Have fun!
Serendipity is a happy accident. It’s also a pretty good John Cusack movie.
When I think of Serendipity I think of an event that occurs over a short period of time that isn’t ironic yet it’s profound.
I like to think I have an example of Serendipity that occurred over a longer period of time.
I dreaded dialysis for most of my adult life and I did almost everything I could to avoid it. How surprised am I at the overall impact on my general well-being; the wonderful nurses that I get to see everyday doing God’s work for the love of the job and not the money; and the effect it’s had on my ability to empathize and relate to those worse off than I. I was already pretty good in the last category but now I’m even better.
It’s a happy accident that I am benefitting from something I once thought was the Ninth gate of Hell.
Your prompt for JusJoJan 2019, January 18th is brought to you by Di! Click here to find her last post and say hi while you’re there! Di’s word for our prompt today is “companionship.” Use it anywhere in your post or make it the theme of your post. Have fun!
My best friend is getting old the spring is gone from his step he sleeps too much stairs are getting harder the snow isn’t fun anymore he hates the cold he’s indifferent to people I’m helpless to fix him resigned to just love him I let him eat what he wants I let him sleep where he wants I smile at him often behind sad eyes he has been a loyal friend always glad to see me and sad to see me go I dread the day for it won’t be long now before I say goodbye to the kind soul that has blessed my life for too short a time a lifetime of joy in just a few short years I will mourn him for longer than he blessed me he will take a piece of my heart when he crosses that rainbow bridge he is a senior dog forever etched in my heart I will say my goodbyes now instead of when he’s gone just my way of saying thanks for the unconditional companionship.
The sleeping man woke to the conductor’s voice. “Excuse me, did you say Willoughby? That stop isn’t on this route.”
“It most certainly is, sir.” The conductor replied.” Just look out the window.” As the train screeched to a stop, the man looked through the faded window to see men and women, dressed in fancy clothes from the last century, carrying umbrellas and carefully wading through a crowd of excited children scurrying around the gazebo in the center of town. He watched as the scene began to move as the train slowly left the station. He sat back in his seat and closed his eyes, taking a mental picture of what he had just seen.
“Stanton. Next stop Stanton.” The
conductor again woke him as he walked down the aisle. The man
captured the attention of the conductor. As he approached the man
asked him about Willoughby. The conductor gave him a puzzled look.
“Sir, I have never heard of
Willoughby.”
Confused, the man gathered his coat and
satchel and exited the train.
He enters his beautiful home and greets
his attractive wife. Her looks couldn’t detract from the contempt in
her eyes for him.
He begins to tell her of his terrible
day. How his boss had demeaned him in front of the entire office. He
told her he wished that life were simple, how he was tired of the
cutthroat business world and the way in which he needed to behave in
order to survive in it. He explained to her that he was really just a
nice guy, too nice to be a part of it.
His tale of woe was not met with
sympathy. Instead he was told how he must compete, must continue on
course and to stop thinking in such a way. She needed him to keep
providing so that they could maintain the lifestyle that was killing
him.
He was done. Washed up. Burned out. All
he could think about was the lovely, if not odd town of
Willoughby.
The next day he goes to work only to have another
confrontation with his boss. He goes to his office and calls his
wife. He tells her that he is leaving his job. Quitting and coming
home to her. She tells him not to come home if he quits his job. He
leaves and gets on the train home. He rests his weary eyes.
Again, he is wakened by the conductor’s
announcement of the stop of Willoughby. This time, he jumped out of
his seat, grabbed his coat, left his briefcase and stepped off of the
train to check out the town.
He was found dead.
Shocked men stood over him, wondering why this stranger had thrown himself off of a moving train. They would never know that he was dreaming, dreaming so hard for a new life that he died in pursuit of it.
Some story, wouldn’t you agree? I wish I had written it. It’s actually an episode of The Twilight Zone from 1960 entitled “A Stop at Willoughby”. I watched it in deep fascination on the SyFy New Years Day Marathon. I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. I could have been that man, yet it was written 5 years before I was born.
The correlations to my own life are nothing less than staggering.
At one time I owned a house in a nice town, in a nice neighborhood that we didn’t belong in. It was out of our league. Because we somehow managed to pay the mortgage we kept the water level below our noses. But we were in way over our heads. Our children went to school with a lot of wealthy kids and we clothed them accordingly. All activities were A la Carte and we did our best to find a way to enroll them. What we didn’t have, we charged. My wife wanted a lifestyle that was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain. I tried to protest, to voice my concerns over our mounting debt but it fell on deaf ears. In hindsight I should have protested louder, but it’s too late for overthinking that. I lived by the mantra “happy wife, happy life.” What I didn’t know is that I would never have either.
For a while, the pace of my career kept pace with the increasing burden of my lifestyle. I kicked and scratched my way up the professional ladder and I did what the situation dictated. I worked long hours, competed with some cutthroat players and managed to come out on top enough times. I definitely engaged in tactics that were not my style but stopped short at the unethical. Like the sympathetic character in Willoughby, I was a nice guy. Unlike him, my career benefited from that very reputation. I was known as honest, reliable and good at my word and I am proud of that to this day. But the toll to my health was immeasurable and devastating. Kidney disease causes Hypertension, as did my career in sales. The rush-hour traffic, the constant looking over the shoulder, the high intensity of negotiations, the nights before the big phone call letting you know you got the contract, and the stress of failure took years off of my life.
Like our hero, I was also afraid to voice my concerns over the nature of the work I needed to do to maintain our address. The few times that I did, I was also told to stay the course, that we were committed. And sadly, if I were to come home after a bad month, I wasn’t met with empathy or a “you’ll get ’em next month”, I was chastised for failing to do “my end”. Or worse, I would get the silent treatment accompanied by a disappointed scowl. Many times I tried to tell her that shit like that wasn’t helpful, she didn’t care. I almost became afraid to come home for fear of the reprisal.
At my last job I achieved the most security I ever had. A strong salary, a achievable bonus plan and decent hours were a welcome respite. But alas, there was a catch. I worked for a megalomaniac. 85% of the time he was a very nice man. But his dark side was abysmal. I would learn that he had to be right; I was to be good at what I do but not better than him; I was never to talk to his boss about anything because of his paranoia and love of the “chain of command”; and I was to be his puppet and totally devoid of independent thought. If I violated any of the above tenets I would be subject to a minimum of a one-sided rambling lecture and at the maximum a violent and irrational episode. Once he actually challenged me to a fight. I put up with it. Why? Because I had to. I had a family at home that needed health insurance, a roof over their heads and most importantly, a childhood. A man supposedly never walks away from a fight. This one did, because a man also doesn’t make his family homeless over his temper or pride. But to stand there and be called the names that I was called, spit flying into my face by a irrational, butt-reaming asshole who was wrong on 10,000 levels took every last drop of restraint that I had. Not hitting him may be my best career accomplishment. Still, when I got home it was all about the paycheck. If I had called home and said “Honey, I’m done. I can’t do this anymore” I would have been told not to come home. So I dealt with it. I was forced to dream of the day when life was simpler, more honest and manageable. Where I didn’t have to claw, scratch and claw for every inch.
I wanted my own Willoughby.
I know that in my heart of hearts that if I rode a train and I was woken to the vision of a town 100 years in the past where simplicity reigned over technology; courtesy over competition; a handshake over a notarized document; family over clients; ethics over business, love over money and simplicity over chaos…I would jump off of the train as well. If the fall killed me, so be it. I would still escape the lifestyle that I loathed. The risk would be worth the jump.
I wish I had found my Willoughby, and to find that it wasn’t a dream after all.
It was a Sunday morning. The Pastor, tired of the same old services decided to mix things up a bit.
He announced to the small congregation that he was going to pick a topic and get the attendees involved.
“Today, I am going to talk about the wonderful institution of marriage”. He surveyed the room and asked, “Is anyone here approaching a wedding anniversary of more than 25 years?”
A small, elderly man slowly rose in the back row and said, “Me.”
“Tell us”, asked the Pastor, “How many years have you been married?”
“Almost 50 years” the man replied.
“Wow.” The pastor proclaimed. “Care to share any secrets to your longevity?”
“Well,” the man said, I like to take my wife on trips. For example for our 25th anniversary I took her to Paris.”
The prompt for #JusJoJan and Stream of Consciousness Saturday is: “art.” Talk about something that’s hanging on your wall. Add a picture, if you’d like. If you have no art on your walls, talk about something in a museum. Have fun!
Something hanging on my wall
There are many items that adorn the
walls around me as I compose this post. I really can’t single one out
for they share a connection. They all make me think of my father.
I am in my favorite place to write, the
finished basement of my mom’s house. Originally purchased as a summer
home, the small chalet was expanded and remodeled into a full house
by the time they retired up here in 2001. It went from “the summer
home”, to “my parents house”, and now that my dad has passed it
is known as “mom’s house.”
Nothing says more about my father than this house. He dedicated time and money he didn’t have to make it perfect. A house that his wife would be proud of (her opinions mattered on every detail in every room), that his kids could bring his grandchildren, and one that he could grow old in. The finished basement was his last accomplishment. I love the entire house, his touches are everywhere. But none so much as this room, it’s my favorite place to be.
As I look around the room the first thing I notice is the curio cabinet. He built it special for mom to put her amazing collection of curios. It is a one of a kind, like him.
My attention is then drawn to the
painting of his favorite view. It is a path in the woods, near here,
that is entirely covered by a perfectly formed canopy of tree
branches. In the summer, it is a cool respite from the heat. In the
fall, it is a panorama of colors. In the winter the bent,
snow-covered branches form a winter paradise. He took a photo of it
once and a friend painted it for him. What a wonderful gift.
Next there is a professional photo of
he and my mother. In happier times. His arm around her with a big,
genuine smile. He loved her so much he didn’t have to say “cheese”.
Her smile speaks volumes also. She doesn’t smile like that anymore.
Her smile now is forced, a result of loss, grief and a steadfast
resolve to not show how much pain she is hiding.
The next wall is a collage of dog
portraits. All spaniels, his favorite. In my life we had 2 Brittany
Springers and 3 Cockers. Like cars, he went with what works and
Spaniels never let him down.
The last thing I see is on the mantle.
A case containing a folded flag that was handed to me at his funeral,
by a sharply dressed soldier on behalf of a grateful nation. He never
talked about his military service, other than where he was stationed.
I will never know much of what he saw. But I know that he
volunteered, during the age of the Draft, and he wouldn’t imagine not
doing his part for the country he loved so dearly.
The rest of the room contains a lot of
cutesy décor, my mother’s touch. Porcelain and wood carved Mallards,
embroidery portraits of puppies and various stuffed versions of
woodland creatures adorn the room. Mom knows how to cutesy up
anything.
Still, in this room I just see Dad
everywhere. In the actual sense. I often sleep here, and many times I
have awoke to the sensation that he is in the room.
While unlikely, I wish he was. He completed this room soon before he died. He never got to grow old here, which was his goal. He worked so very hard his entire life and never got to enjoy the spoils. It’s really not fair, but he would be the first person to tell me that life never is. He had working man’s wisdom.
What I wouldn’t give to talk to him for just 5 more minutes. If not in this realm then in the next. Until that somehow happens, I have plenty of reminders. They’re hanging on the wall.
The Tao of Bill 