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There's a line from a very old TV show, "Laugh, and the world laughs with you, cry, and your mascara runs." While I don't wear mascara, I appreciate the positive attitude of that statement, and find it's a good way to strive to live. Not that everything's perfect, and I definitely don't walk on water! But striving to keep a positive attitude, and share that attitude with others, sure makes life a lot easier to deal with!
I started writing in elementary school, carried over to high school, including some journalism work. Later discovered my best strengths were technical and legal writing. But writing stories? Essays? Something that wouldn't put the reader to sleep? I was very nervous. I started out by writing fan fiction, and still do on occasion, and it has taken me about 9 years to write a "full-body" story that shows the reader instead of tells the reader. I still have a long way to go.
My essays tend to come either from strong inspiration, or strong consternation. For example: one night I was cleaning my dining table, when inspiration hit, and I wrote an essay about how tables were not only integral to my life, but almost everybody's on the planet. Conversely, I was upset with how the city where I live was foisting a "green" program on us, so I dashed off an essay that asked them to lead and guide us into this program, rather than push or force us. (They weren't happy with that essay.)
I'm almost 65, and have been disabled since 1990. Even before 1990, I was involved in activism for causes: LGBTQ was the dominant cause, but there were others like getting teenage prostitutes (both genders) off the streets without putting them in jail. Since becoming disabled (and being homeless for a while as part of it), I've gotten very active in advocating for low-income, disabled, and homeless people.
Oh, yeah. I also advocate for using Linux operating system instead of windows, it's just so much easier! (big grin)
The Grave
Oct 06, 2019 5 years agoHe was finally going to get to visit. This had been a long time coming, years in fact. Through a fortunate circumstance, here he was, almost two thousand miles from where he lived. Arriving late in the afternoon, the office was getting ready to close, though the grounds would stay open. The secretary found the information, pulled out a map and marked the spot. When he found the right area, he admired the scenery around him. To the West, the thick stand of trees blocked the view of the Missouri River. The North, East and South were grassy knolls dotted with headstones. He headed up the East hill. One, two, three, four rows up. Count six headstones over. Here was a man who had been proud, talented, and had a volatile temper, much like himself. Here was a man who had fought in a World War, practiced a valuable trade as an electrician, and had been cut down in the prime of his life. Here was his grandfather. He introduced himself, told a little about his life. The more he talked, the easier it became. He told his grandfather about the man's only child, the son who was also a father. He talked about siblings. As the evening gently rolled through the trees that blocked the river view, he talked and talked. There was so much to tell: stories that had been passed down, events where he had participated or at least been present. He stretched out on the grass. He told his grandfather how he regretted not having the chance to meet him in life. He told him how they'd been compared, how the similarities had been seen, both good and bad. Then he listened. He lay quietly as wave after wave of emotion washed over him. There was happiness at meeting one of his grandchildren. There was pride that swelled and almost shimmered with light at how well his boy had done. There was amazement at hearing about some of the places lived, trips taken, events in life. There was sadness, and a touch of bitterness, too: the regret at not having lived to be a part of it. Too soon, it was dark and time to go. He was only mildly surprised that he had to wipe his eyes. He thanked his grandfather, and told him that if there was any way possible, he'd visit again. Driving away, he felt both lighter and exhausted. He didn't wonder about what had been real, what had been imagined. What mattered was the connection, a connection he hoped would last.
