Tag: Memoirish

Love you

Joy

Dad, umprompted, said “Love you” today when I was leaving for work. Of course, I said it back, though it took me a minute or two to register its signifigance. I’ve been sneaking in a “love you” to him, mostly when I am headed to bed, here and there, just to see how he reacts, and today, he initiated it.

That’s a win over toxic masculinity. Dad is getting up there in age, he’s been making comments about not being in the best of shape and not being long for this world. I hate to hear it but of course, he is right. That still does not mean that he should not be careful or that we should not discourage or prevent him from doing dangerous things like, for example, drive.

But it does mean that we should absolutely treat every moment on this dumb planet of dumbness with some care. Savor the nice moments, tell each other that we love each other, and enjoy the sunrises and sunsets we have the privilege to notice and savor.

“Not long for this world” reminds me, always, that this is the only world we have. Yes, we are aware of other worlds out there; there are plenty of observed and named exoplanets, as well as several in our own solar system, like Mars, Venus, or several of the outer moons and asteroids. Those are all hostile to human life and too far away for easy travel.

And, of course, when someone like dad says they’re “not long for this world” they are referring to spiritual or post-death worlds, of which there are almost certainly none. At least they would be even more difficult to reach and return from than the exoplanets. Other dimensions may be mathmatically possible but that doesn’t mean a comic-book style multiverse exists that we can travel to and from. No alternate universe Brians and Dads out there, goatee’ed or not, to take over my life and tell me all my life choices have been agnoized over for no good reason.

We only have this one world, and it, my friends, is in terrible shape these days. Our pollution and reckless capitalism has caused an increase in the kinds of gasses that cause the world to get warmer overall, wreaking havoc on climates we have grown used to to provide us with air and clean water and food to eat and temperatures that don’t cause us to overheat or freeze.

That same capitalism has produced a handful of people (largely white men) who lord their power over us. They use that power to collect more pointless money above and beyond the unimaginable money and power they already have. They do this to the detriment of the large majority of the population. And scammers and con artists are fanning the flames of hate and anger to try to leverage even more power for themselves.

I won’t go on and on about the problems, though. For now, I just want to say that even in in the face of all those troubles, we can still smile a bit when someone who doesn’t usually, tells us they love us.

Love you, too, dad. G’night.

My first year with XOXO

General

Still processing XOXO and the profound effect it has had on me since I first learned about it. Which was way back in 2013, the second year for it. I’d missed the first incarnation entirely despite being, even back then, chronically online. I knew who Andy Baio was: chief technology officer (CTO) for Kickstarter, an amazing crowdfunding platform, and also the blogger behind Waxy.org. To me, he was the guy who creates and finds cool things on the internet. Finding out that he lived in my hometown, and that he was behind an art-tech festival, I knew I needed to see it and maybe be a small part of it.

In August of 2013 I had quit my job out of depression and grief and had no plans to go back to work. I emailed the info email account for this festival, XOXO, and asked if it was too late to volunteer and help. I got no answer, but I resolved to watch for it again next year.

For the year after that, I tried scraping nickels off the internet using Mechanical Turk, a far more exploitative crowd-sourcing app, only falling farther and farther behind on rent and other expenses. But in the summer of 2014, I saw on Twitter that they were again asking for volunteers for this festival, and I immediately emailed. I got a response from Andy McMillan almost immediately, and I was in. I could be with the cool kids. I wasn’t a cool kid, but at least I could help them run their show.

It’s funny to me now that I have almost no blog posts about that. I have one, and it focuses on one single lesson I learned: do the things you love often, make it a habit. That lesson is one I have learned from many different sources, and clearly, as I blog here for the 149th day in a row, a lesson I am still putting to good use. If for nothing else, Jonathan Mann, the Song-A-Day guy, thank you for reinforcing that drive in me.

But holy cats the other speakers that year! Dan Harmon, who I only knew as the creator of Community, inventor of the Story Circle, and Harmontown host, was there, doing a version of his podcast live from the stage at XOXO. Before the show, wandering around, I saw him talking to a woman, and screwed up my courage to go tell him that I loved his work. I politely waited while they exchanged some kind of tense argument, and the woman pointed at me and said something about me being his typical fan.

I mean, sure, I was (and am) a chubby, bald, cis, white dude. Fair, I suppose. I considered myself a feminist and socialist at the time, although many miles of travel down those roads still stretched before me (and still do) so it stung a little. But then Dan Harmon defended me. “What is that supposed to mean?” he challenged her. “This guy is just some random guy, he’s here at this festival the same as you. What is it you’re trying to say?”

I didn’t stick around and I don’t remember how the conversation went. It is entirely possible my memory is incomplete or a fuzzy confabulation. But I remember Dan being argumentative, I recall the woman being dismissive, and I remember feeling awkward. I was glad I got to tell Dan I loved his work though. I still do. He taught me to acknowledge my failings, because that’s the only way to overcome them.

That year I told many creators and writers and artists that I loved their work. What’s funny is, I never saw myself as a creator, writer, or artist. Not then, even with 10 years of blog posts and two first drafts of novels under my belt. I didn’t think what I was doing was on the same level as the folk at XOXO 2013, because my blog traffic was tiny, and I never published those drafts, and the only drawing I did was for myself.

But I am a writer, creator, and artist. I do it because I can’t not do it. I blog here. I make amazing maps for my D&D game and craft stories and lore that my players tell me is deep, rich, and engaging. I do it because I love doing it, and have fun doing it. I’ve been living the XOXO dream, whether I allowed myself to admit it or not. Thank you, Andy B. and Andy M. Your inspriation and energy are a positive force in the world.

Mom’s Eulogy

Joy

While I’m attending XOXO Fest, I’m running older writings that have not yet been published. Here is the eulogy I wrote for my mom’s funeral, back in July of 2001. Probably this would be more symbolic if I posted it on an even anniversary, but regardless here it is. Enjoy. I’ll be back soon, recharged and ready to create again soon.

On Christmas of 1993, I gave my mom a blank book. I intended for her to use it as a journal, to record her thoughts, her poems or whatever she wanted to write down.

She kept the journal, off and on, until 1999. The book spans five years of her life. There is a gap coinciding with her first bout with cancer. I think that she was embarrassed by it, even in so private a place as her journal.

In going through her belongings, I found and kept her journal. I completed the circle; I gave it to her, and I’d like to think that she would have wanted me to have it now.

I sat down with it a couple of days ago, and read it straight through in one sitting. I had never, during her life, thought to read her journal. My mother was a private person; there are still parts of her life that I will never know. I had a question, however: what did my mother feel was important enough to write down?

First, it’s interesting to me to make a comment on what she didn’t write about. Herself.

In five years of keeping a journal, my mother commented on her health exactly three times. On December 29, 1993, she wrote: “Max is not up to play today. He has a slight fever and cough. I have one too. I hope we all stay well this year.”

Then, five years later, on December 30, 1998, she wrote of a Christmas trip to Cancun: “I was not feeling well and it took us four hours to leave Mex.”

Finally, on February 10, 1999, she wrote: “I went to the Dr. and have to take Blood pressure pills.” That was the final entry.

Three times in five years, she wrote about herself. And what fills the rest of the pages of her journal? What was important to her, important enough to write down, off and on, for that length of time? What did she want to record, presumably in a place that only she would see?

Family.

Entry after entry, she talks about her family. Everyone appears in there. She talks about dad coming home from work and taking her out to dinner. She talks about Lisa, stopping by to visit her, or going over to Lisa and Bill’s house. She talks about me, moving to Texas to follow a silly dream of working for a silly computer company. She talks about hearing from Donna on Mother’s Day, and Kevin, and Daniel. She talks about her sisters and brothers; Carol coming over to stay the night, or taking a road trip to the beach with Mary and Carol to visit Marge and Bill. She talks about dinner with Don and Helen. Aunt Lois appears in there.

And Max. She wrote about Max a lot. December 30 1993: “Max and I spent the day together. He is joy.” I can’t believe that that was a typo.

She felt that way about all of her family. Her family was joy. This was a woman who knew what was important in life. She rarely mentioned things, and money doesn’t make a single appearance in her journal. Her family, however, is front and center.

My mother was a human being, like all of us. She had strengths and weaknesses, like all of us. I really hesitate to try to force a single lesson out of a life as rich as hers was. But if I had to do it, if I had to point to one lesson that we could all take away from having had her in our lives, it would be this: family should be the one thing worth remembering.

Driving home from work

General

Hey dad, want me to pick anything up for you on the way home?

Yes a pack of cigs

Just one?

Yeah I've got to go to savmor for meds tomorrow and I'll stock up

KK
Can do

I pulled out onto NE Fremont to make my way home. I knew the route. I’ve driven it daily, Monday through Friday, for several months now. My tiny piece of shit Accord wasn’t tall enough to see over the SUVs parked on the side of the road so I tried my best to see through their greenhouses, and took my best guess at an opening. Fremont is narrow here, lined with bars, shops, and coffee shops, and pedestrian traffic on the sidewalks. It was a cool, cloudy, warm summer day, the kind native Portlanders think of as normal warm weather.

Not for us, blue skies and hot temperatures. And I mean that we don’t like those days. Too hot. It needs to be a bit cooler so we can be active. Portlanders, by and large, are active. We run, we bike, we walk, and the rule of thumb I’ve learned is to dress for about 20 degrees warmer than it is, if you’re going to be active. 70-ish degrees is good. 50-ish degrees is better.

My car’s air conditioning has been broken all summer so I rolled the two front windows down, and cracked the back two, to get some air flowing past me. My phone played podcasts for me as I zoned out and drove automagically. David Chen, Jessie Earl, and Kim Renfro were discussing the House of the Dragons show, largely positively.

My senses perked up at the possible smell of burning oil. I should check the oil level soon, top it up if I need to. I wondered if my car would pass the DEQ test this year; I’d never had trouble before but the car is getting older and slowly falling apart slightly faster.

The drive home was mindless. I don’t remember any details specific to the drive, just the random images from every time I’ve ever driven this route. There’s the bar that looks like a great place for happy hour; laughing people with beers sitting on picnic tables outside. There’s the cheap gas station that always seemed busy. I passed the old empty sheriff’s building, surrounded by temporary chain-link fencing as it has been for months. What do they plan to do with that place, I wondered?

The organic produce market advertised Oregon strawberries but not marionberries. Marionberrys are, to me, the royalty of berries. Dark, tart, sweet, all in equal measure. They were developed at University of Oregon, and named for Marion County, a rural place far from the big small town of Portland. When I try to type “marionberries” on my phone, the autocorrect tries to make it Marion Berry, the former mayor of Washington D.C. who was caught in an FBI sting, I think. I should look that up at some point. Hey, I’m rambling here, don’t take this for fact.

I’m reasonably sure about the marionberries, though. I’m, like, 83% sure.

I pull into the Plaid Pantry parking lot, and wander the convenient aisles. OK, I’ll get some chocolate. Dad likes chocolate with almonds so I get a giant bar so I can split it with him. I wonder what the cashier thinks of an old white guy buying a pack of Marlboro Gold 100s and a giant chocolate bar. He seems friendly enough, though.

It’s another few blocks up the avenue until I can turn onto my street, then turn again into the parking lot. I slow down and take the transition into the lot at an angle to avoid scraping the bottom of my car on the hump. I back into my parking spot as I always do, for no particular reason, collect my things (laptop bag, cigs, candy bar), apply the Club to the steering wheel, take the faceplate off my head unit, unplug my phone and pull it out of the holder, and heave myself out of the car. My short legs, heavy weight, and armload of stuff make it a chore.

Front screen door was locked. I’d locked it this morning. Had dad not left the apartment all day? He does go outside to smoke but normally on the back porch so he could chat with Glasses, my next door neighbor, if she’s out there.

Home again, home again. Higgedy jig.

Unvaccinated, caffeinated

General

Dad was standing by the Starbucks counter. A tan Venti iced soy chai stood there; dad had the impatient look of someone waiting for their dose of caffeine. I walked up and picked up my soy chai.

“So… they don’t have any vaccines for us.” I nodded over my right shoulder toward the CVS counter. We were inside a Target store and in late early 21st Century America, brands exist inside other brands. It’s a nesting doll of brands, or layers of an onion. This Target is supporting a symbiotic CVS and a symbiotic Starbucks. I’m unsure if there were other brands dotted around the floor.

Dad gave me the grumpy side-eye that means he’s annoyed; not with me, with living in a world of corporate brands. “What?”

“Apparently there’s a newer Covid vaccine coming in September, so they don’t have any of the current vaccine.”

“Then why the fuck did they let us make an appointment?” The barista had placed dad’s dark iced mocha with whipped cream in front of him. He picked it up and fished a straw down the straw-hole.

“Yeah. That’s my question, too.” Next weekend I’m playing D&D with my friends in-person after two years of playing online through Discord, and the weekend after that I’m a volunteer at an art-tech festival called XOXO. I intended to get vaccinated because I don’t want to give, or get, the incredibly contagious disease that we’ve all decided is as normal as the weather.

Dad wandered over to a table. “Let’s grab a table for these.”

This was actually the second appointment I’d made, for me and dad, today. The earlier one, at a different CVS invasively inside a different Target, had been canceled almost as soon as I’d made it because, and I swear I am not making this up, the pharmacist said they had contracted Covid so were barred from giving vaccinations for Covid, or, really, anything, probably.

“He said it was a ‘bug in the system,” I said, laughing. “Except it’s not a bug in the system, it’s a human error. The computers don’t consult with the people.”

“They have to know if they have the shots in stock,” dad grumbled.

“Right!? They clearly have the ability to cancel an appointment. The other pharmacist did it.” I sipped my chai. “So annoying.”

Dad smiled. “I’d asked for an extra shot, and I overheard them mention an extra shot of chocolate syrup…”

His right hand twitched slightly on the table.

“Oh did you get the wrong order?”

“No, that’s what I’m saying. I got more chocolate.” His hand pointed at my drink. “Is that what you wanted?”

“Yup!” I sipped again.

Dad’s hand moved toward my drink. “You mind if I have a taste?”

I pushed it across the table at him. “Nope!”

His hand twitched again. I gently reached out and put my hand on top of his. His skin was papery, dry, warm. Dad looked puzzled at my hand, then at me.

“Do you notice that? I see your hand twitch sometimes.”

“Oh, no, sometimes.”

I felt empathy bloom inside me. I kept my face as neutral as I could but my heart ached to see his body, once strong, now failing, slowly, with age.

In the background, one of the baristas, short with blonde and black hair, was going on break. The other one, tall with black and blonde hair, was telling the first one to get something to eat.

Dad smiled after the sip, nodded. “That’s good!”

“It’s kind of sweet. Sometimes I add a shot of espresso, cuts the sweetness a bit. But it’s a good drink.”

I slurpped up the bottom of the cup with the straw. “Mom always hated that sound, but…”

“But how else are you going to get every last drop!” dad, laughing, finished my thought.

98 years since

General

Today was my mom’s birthday, although she isn’t around anymore to celebrate. She passed away in June of 2001 from lung cancer. Today marks the 98th year since her birth, an immeasurably long time. The years since she passed are also long but in a different way. My memories of her are fragmented. I see her in flashes, from many different situations.

The first memory that flashes up are of the most recent time I spoke to her. She was in her bed, and we were watching TV. I don’t remember what was playing. I just sat there on the bed next to her, holding her hand. I’d come over straight after work. The urge to spend as much time as possible with her was so strong, I felt guilty for going home that evening, and going to work.

Mom was still lucid. This was a few days before the hospice nurse had started upping her dose of morphine. Understandably mom was coughing, a lot. She was always thin and frail; we would tease her about her bird legs (it seems mean now but that’s how our family talked; just stating facts.) But with the cancerous cells choking off her ability to breath, replacing her good cells, she had shrunken even more.

We still had conversations, though. I did not, and do not, believe that any part of us survives death, so when death is on the line I know I need to be present. And, reader, death is nearly always on the line. I would ask mom about her favorite movies, or favorite songs. I’d ask her where she learned to cook. I’d ask about her dreams, and her regrets.

With hindsight it is easy to see that mom was almost certainly neurotypical, since my dad, my sister, and I am. At the time, however, I just knew that her personality had a mixture of crankyness and silliness in almost a two-to-one mixture. The crankiness never bothered me much; I tuned it out. It was just mom. It was never biting, not when she turned it toward me. But the silliness was special. She’d make an odd joke. Suddenly break into a huge grin. It was like being dazzled by an oncoming headlight after driving on a dark highway.

I can’t keep one image in mind; I see her as she was throughout my life. She’s young, dressed up in her best, and we’re going over to Aunt Phyllis’ house for the Hayner Family Christmas. All the cousins my age would hang out and find some side room to conspire, gossip, and play; the adults would wander around, or sit in the living room, and talk and laugh. My mom was one of 13 children, giving me plenty of uncles and aunts and cousins, so the house would be full of people, spilling out into the yard, the driveway, the backyard. Mom was the second-oldest and she wore her Oldest Sister role well, praising her siblings’ new jobs, or the food they’d brought to the potluck. I can see her sitting on the couch, cigarette held like a magic wand, wreathed in nicotine smoke.

I swear, these are the good memories. Maybe I’m not explaining myself well?

I wanted this post to be full of stories but this draft appears to just be me reminiscing. I do miss mom. I wonder how she’d react to things today. Happy birthday, mom. The world is lesser without you in it.

What do you think about cats?

Joy

I said goodnight to my friends and logged out of 7 Days to Die. From my computer room, I could hear the faint noise of a TV drama playing downstairs. The wall of the stairwell flickered light and dim. I got up, picked up my empty 20 ounce beer can, and went downstairs.

“Hello!” I dragged out the vowels, trying to sound goofy.

Dad sat on the couch, watching TV. He angled his head to his left. His neck, now pinned with steel rods, didn’t have much articulation left. “Helloooo!” he said, mimicking my goofy tone.

“You’re back from the bar?”

“Yeah. I said it was me when I came in but you didn’t hear me.”

I patted his shoulder as I walked behind him; the couch was placed so the path behind it led to the back door and the kitchen. “I was online playing games with Max and Luke. Had my headphones on.”

“Oh.”

In the kitchen, I turned on the water to rinse the can out. There were a bunch of bottles by the sink, mostly glass Mexican Coke bottles. I kept the water running and started rinsing them out. Some of the bottles had a greenish tint to the glass; others appeared clear, at least in my yellowish kitchen light.

Behind me, through the open window between the living area and the kitchen, dad said “There were a lot of women at the bar tonight.” He said it deliberately but not slowly.

I chuckled. “Is that good, or bad?” Dad is an incorrigible flirt, even at 86ish years old.

“Well, that’s good!” Now his tone was bright, cheerful. “There were a couple of ladies in there I’d never seen before. One was a stone cold fox.” His use of old slang made me smile. I felt sentimental. Nostalgic.

I made a new… pile? Stack? What’s the word for a bunch of bottles standing up next to each other? Pile or stack implies verticality; these were horizontally arranged. I could hear dad grunt a little as he levered himself forward and up off the couch. He pointed the remote and turned off the TV, cutting his show off in mid-plot.

I poured a little dish soap on a sponge, and turned the faucet water warm but not hot. I started scrubbing the dishes and untensils in the sink.

Dad walked past me, tapping a cigarette out of a pack. He paused in the kitchen entryway, watching me wash. “I should have taken out the recycling.”

I tsked. “You don’t have to do that. You’re a guest.”

“Oh, fuck that. I can pull my own weight.” He opened the back door, and through the kitchen window I saw the flare of orange as he lit up in the dark on my patio.

I carried the bottles, three or four at a time, and dumped them in the recycling bin hung above my washer and dryer, in the closet. I was careful not to open the folding door to that closet too far, or it would prevent the back door from opening up, in case dad finished and wanted to get back in. The clear bottles and the green ones all made the same clinking noise. Yes, the bin was full, but I didn’t want to take it out tonight. That’s a tomorrow job.

That done, I saw dad’s bald head and beard softly glowing in the tobacco ember, outlined by the kitchen light through the window. I leaned against the door frame, watching him.

“What do you think about… cats?”

He again angled his shoulders to point his head at me, cigarette held between two fingers. “I like cats.” His tone of voice was exactly the same as his comment before about women being at the bar. “You, uh.. got a supplier?”

Was that a dirty joke? Or was he just being funny? I smiled. I snorted a short laugh. “I was just thinking, now that I’ve got a stable job, I’d like to have a cat. I think I can take care of it now.” Dammit, a surge of emotion threatened my eyes with tears. This moment. I wanted to remember this moment. I resolved the write it down, soon. “Maybe keep you company during the day, at least while you’re here.”

“Yeah. Cats are cool.” Dad took a drag on his cigarette, then leaned down and rubbed it out against the concrete. Standing back up as straight as his broken back would let him, he burst into a sudden arm-out throw, tossing the butt over the fence into the vacant lot behind the townhouses.

He chuckled, recognizably the same sound I make, the family sarcastic laugh. “Someday someone’s gonna do something with that lot, and they’re going to be pissed at all the butts over there.” As he walked past me back into the house, he didn’t, couldn’t, look up at me. For most of my adult life he’s been taller than me. Not anymore. I don’t think he could see the sad affection in my eyes.

Bar Talk

Portland

I had Google Maps up on my phone, swiping around, trying to find the name of the hill in Southeast Portland dad and I had driven by on the way to the bar. “I don’t think Google has it labeled. Was it Mt. Scott?” I showed the phone to dad, sitting next to me, facing the mirror and the rows of bottles, ripe for the drinking.

“Yeah, I guess that’s it,” he conceded. “I didn’t realize that it extended all the way to the freeway.”

“I thought the one you were thinking about was more to the east. I guess that’s it.” I put the phone away.

Dad’s head wiggled, a smile on his face. “I have fond memories of it. Your mother and I used to go up there to neck.”

I just shook my head. “Yeah, yeah. That was a long time ago.” I took a sip of my beer, a slightly-not-so-hoppy IPA, perfect for the summer heat outside. Inside, the bar was cool, and dark, lit in orange and red, punctuated by flourescent (not neon, not anymore) and LCD screens.

The music, some pop song I didn’t recognize, pulsed in the background.

Dad sipped his drink, too, lost in memories. I felt a surge of compassion. I was happy to share these moments with him. I’m grateful he’s still around, still telling stories, still a part of my life. The short-term stay while his place was being remodeled had become months, but it was a good thing.

“There was a place out on Foster your mother and I used to go to, with Ray and Carol,” he said. Ray and Carol were from mom’s side of the family; Carol was one of mom’s younger sisters, Ray her husband. Both of them had passed, Ray a long time ago, Carol more recently. There were fewer and fewer of my aunts and uncles, a tale as old as time.

“What kind of place?”

“Oh, they had music, and dancing. Food, bar food.” He swirled his glass. The ice clinked. “It’s probably long gone now.”

“We should go try to find it sometime.” My car wasn’t much, an old beater, but it would still take dad and me out on the backroads of Clackamas County some summer evening.

“It was all open fields and farmland back then. Now it’s… developed.” Dad’s gravely voice dropped an extra octave in disdain, turning that final word into a curse.

I sang, “Houses made of ticky-tack, and they all look just the same!” I laughed. “You taught me that song.”

“I did! I can’t remember where I learned it. Probably some commercial jingle.”

“Those damned commercials sure get stuck in our brains. What else d’you got in there?” I squinted at him.

His face, rough, lined, skin a bit loose on his skull, eyebrows bushy over pale blue eyes, turned toward me from the shoulders. He had to look left and right like Batman since they put the metal rods in his spine. “I still have my mind. It’s the body that’s kinda falling apart.”

The Joy of Beverage

Joy

When I say, or write, the word beverage, I always smile. The positive associations between that word and my delight were installed a long, long time ago, when I was very very young. Let me explain.

I did a search for the word beverage. Hard to believe I’ve never told this story on the blog before. “It’s a core formative memory, and I link it, at least in my head, to another core memory, one of the earliest behaviors I can remember in my mental chronology of myself.

As I’ve written about before, I learned to read at an incredibly early age. It was pre-Kindergarten, I’m almost sure of it. The family legend is that when we would all go somewhere in the car, I would read out the signs on the side of the road. I associated the primary colors and simple four or five letter words, and through questions of my parents and repetition, cracked the code of the English language.

We’d pull up to a Stop sign and I’d say “Stop!” We’d pull on to a highway and I’d see the yellow sign and shout “Yield!” I loved words and reading, and I wanted to share this mystic secret with everyone around me.

To this day I have a deep-seated urge to say out loud traffic signs when I’m driving. I warn new friends about it when we go somewhere; my old friends are surely used to the behavior by now.

My family tells another legend about my reading, though I don’t know which came first. My mom told the story of walking in to the living room one Sunday and saw me and my 13-month older sister laying down looking at the colorful Sunday comics from the newspaper. Except as mom watched, we weren’t just looking at the pictures. I was reading them to my sister.

This connects to beverage, I promise you. Where would I have seen the word beverage? Why I would have seen it on menus in diners and restaurants. Picture us now, on those road trips and nights out, the Moon Clan approaching a counter to order, or sitting down with menus, and the little tow-headed round faced boy shouting out “Beverage!” as soon as I spotted it.

My mouth loved the shape and feel of the word. The hard B, the similar but softened V, the buzzy G. A linguist who applies Grimm’s Law could tell you if those sounds are connected; maybe they are, maybe they aren’t. I just love them, in that order, all together.

Dad would chuckle and ask me if I wanted a beverage, which I did (I preferred 7-Up over Sprite, Pepsi over Coke). Mostly though I wanted to find that three sylable word in the sea of words before me, and yell it out like I was playing a game of Bingo and I’d filled out my card. Beverage!

Knowing this, it feels weird to me that I have used the word so little in the decades of runnning this blog. It only appears in eight posts, which seems low. This word is a source of a happy memory for me; I smile when I say or write it. I don’t feel any shame or embarassement. I learned to human by learning a game with words. I won’t deny myself that joy moving foward.

Beverage!

Half-birthdays should be A Thing™

General

Today is my half-birthday. I’ve been trying to make that A Thing™ for a long time. My friends and family haven’t taken to the idea, however. I’m sure they have their reasons, considering they haven’t celebrated my, or anyone’s, half-birthday for 5 decades, so I forgive them. I would still love to make today, the 28th of June, the day I celebrate my birth, for one major reason.

One way to celebrate a half-birthday: cupcake!

If you’ve mentally done the math you can immediately see the problem, right? Six months from today in either direction lands on the 28th of December, and having a birthday on that date just sucks. It’s smack dab in the wasteland between two major winter holidays; the hegemony ensures that everyone is aware of and probably celebrates (or at least observes) Christmas, and the calendar itself enforces New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day, making them impossible to ignore. Those holidays are heavy hitters, imposing their existence on the entire population.

And my birthday just gets overwhelmed by the giants. Few people have the attention or even resources to put together a separate celebration for anyone. Look, I know I’m complaining a bit here, I accept that. It was more difficult when I was younger, much younger. Lots of kids (not all of them, of course) celebrated their birthdays during the school year or in the summer when more kids and their parents were available to put a party together. Not so in the doldrums of December. Y’all were tired.

When I got older, it became less of an issue but still an issue. Starting over 20 years ago, my family began celebrating Christmas by traveling somewhere warm and sunny. And so to be in that place on Christmas Day, but to avoid other heavy travel days, my birthday often became a traveling day. My finances haven’t been great recently, so I often stay home, house-sitting for those on vacation, or I am otherwise unable to travel. That means my recent birthdays have been either in airports, or separated from my family with only my closest friends to help me remain grateful for another year.

I’m not gonna lie, I’ve enjoyed some epic birthdays. One year me and my friends had an amazing dinner and then visited the Acropolis, a famous steak house in Portland (oh, and also it’s a strip club.) I do have pictures from that night but, respectfully, won’t be posting them. Several of my recent birthdays were celebrated in song, with karaoke. I love karaoke, even if I’m not a strong singer. A close friend once said that singing is about volume and enthusiasm, and when I want to, I’ve got plenty of both.

And I am, honestly, grateful for my life, my friends, and my family; it’s just the random circumstances of the day of my birth that I’m focusing on here, I promise. So yes I’m whining a bit but this half-birthday idea was my attempt to do something about it! What if we celebrated my one day a year (everybody gets one!) that’s all about me… in the summer? Wouldn’t that be great? Warm weather, grilled meats, no pesky overwhelming holidays encroaching… It would, it would be great. Let’s do it! If not this year, then next year!