After a week of reading in the sun and sand, and of hurling myself against the waves in the Atlantic Ocean in Florida, I am "home" again.
Yes, I put "home" in those quotes that the media uses to show that they disagree with a viewpoint or want the reader to view it with suspicion or sarcasm. Oh, I know, it's not "supposed" to be that way. Sure, they'll argue that it's not like that at all, but we all know the truth.
Redneckville is not my home and it likely never will be. I spent a great deal of time while on my vacation thinking about how much and why I hate it here. I still want to leave. In fact, I just flat out need to leave.
I don't know what all is wrong with me right now, but something clearly is. I enjoyed my vacation, but if I could I would have clung to the beach with all my might and never come back here again. I would leave the house, the Chevelle, the cats, everything here and just abandon it if I could get the hell out of here. This place is not where I belong. But other than my true home, the Rocket City, I don't know where to try to go. We still haven't visited Austin or Raleigh, but we need to. And now, after this trip, we're even talking about Jacksonville, Florida. Anywhere but here.
Since My Father died and several other traumatic events in my life all occurred roughly at the same time I seem to have changed somehow. I'm just not sure yet exactly how. Suddenly I'm struggling to blog, to find humor in the things around me, to simply communicate at all.
Last year I was on a photography kick. I was really into it. I took at least 5 rolls of photos while in Florida for a week, mostly photos of beautiful women and sunsets. This year, to show you how much things have changed, I didn't even finish off 1 roll. I brought 3 cameras with me. I took the 35mm out of the case for a few shots and then put it up and ignored it. I took out the new digital for a few experimental shots, just to see how the photos look once I get them on the computer, and then I put it up, too. I never used the third camera at all. I just didn't feel like it. I didn't care who or what was on the beach. I wasn't very interested for the most part. I went out, sat down, and read my book. And when I got hot I got out of my chair and jumped into the ocean. If anyone was out there with me, other than My Wife, I mostly ignored them.
I don't know how long it will take me to update my photoblog with the few pictures that I did take, but don't hold your breath while waiting. I've got a lot to do and this is the last thing on my mind.
Something disturbing and odd happened while I was down there, battling my demons and contemplating suing a certain person at the Gym I Hate. Late one night My Wife and I had to run to the grocery store. While we were checking out, an old man, probably in his 70s, was bagging our groceries. It bothered me to see a man this age working as a bagger in a grocery store in the midst of a community that is so wealthy. It bothered me even more that he looked a lot like My Dad. And then he spoke.
He had trouble speaking, like a man who had suffered a stroke. He spoke exactly like My Father did while he was in the hospital, back when we thought he was recovering, back just before he died. This man, despite his difficulty, spoke freely and enthusiastically to My Wife. I think he may have spoken to me, too, but I was busy with my credit card and my thoughts and didn't process fully what was happening until a few moments later. As we left I thanked him for his help and walked out.
That night, all night long, I dreamed strange dreams about My Family and My Father. Despite waking up at least 3 times during the night, every time I went back to sleep I had still another dream about him. The next morning I woke up feeling disturbed. And then something that had been rolling around in my brain began to form.
My Father's Brother was always a sort of drifter and not very stable, much like my own brother. He liked to move from place to place and was always hard to catch up with. Some say he may have preferred it that way for legal reasons, but I won't go into that just now. I have never met him and even if I had I wouldn't know him if I saw him these days. I don't believe he ever worked a steady job long enough to attain any sort of pension or retirement. No one in my family ever really knew how he was getting by. My Father used to point to older men doing jobs like the one our grocery bagger was doing and warn me, "Don't let that be you." It was a great fear of his that any of us should wind up that way, old and impoverished.
It really bothered me how much that old man bagging our groceries had reminded me of My Father. And then I remembered, last I had heard My Father's Brother had moved to Florida. Could that man bagging our groceries, who looked and sounded so much like My Father and was so close in age to him, have been My Uncle?
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