The Editor Known as Mr. Deathrealm. Author of The House at Black Tooth Pond, Blue Devil Island, Dark Shadows: Dreams of the Dark (with Elizabeth Massie), and many others. Feed at your own risk. Note: Stephen Mark Rainey is a participant in the Amazon Services LLC Associates Program, an affiliate advertising program designed to provide a means for the author to earn fees by linking to Amazon.com.
The roses are already starting to wither, only days after they bloomed; life
is short. I am no gardener, though I do like flowers just fine. It's that
these roses are kind of special to me, in that they date back well over a
century. They originally belonged to my great-grandmother in Gainesville, GA,
going back to the late 19th century (whether they actually predated her, I do
not know). When my great-grandmother died in 1967, my grandmother—my mom's
mom—transplanted them to her place, also in Gainesville, where they thrived
for the duration of my grandparents' lifetimes. After my grandmother died in
1988, my mom transplanted them to our house here in Virginia, where they have
lived ever since. And after Mom left us in 2020, these roses have bloomed
every year. I rather hope they will thrive even after I am gone.
Today is Brugger’sbirthday — which we celebrated at
Fleming’s Steakhouse & Wine Bar
this past week with friends Stephen and Samaire — and it kind of
snuck up on me that it’s also Mother’s Day. Above, you see
Mum holding Phred, guarded by a weird little cowpoke, circa 1964.
Hard to believe that, of the family I grew up with, I am the last survivor.
Never would I have believed such a thing. This week, I’ve reflected a lot on a
sometimes tumultuous but essentially rich life. I miss my mom, my dad, and my
brother more than words can ever express.
Although, overall, this week hardly seemed much out of the ordinary, it
offered a number of unprecedented and/or unusual moments. We began the week
with my birthday. Sixty-two great big ’uns, that’s how many of these
particular days I have weathered. For my birthday, I bought myself a
Godzilla figure — something I’ve done only once in the past four
decades. It seemed the thing to do at the time. So, in the same spirit, for
Brugger’s birthday, I bought myself a MechaGodzilla (Kiryu)
figure. Lord knows, I can’t afford for this kind of thing to become a habit,
but at least the MechaGodzilla was pretty much free, due to having all kinds
of bonus points to spend at
Amazon.com.
Early in the week, a young gray fox came around to visit. I have, on occasion,
encountered foxes in the wild, but never one around these parts. It was a
lovely critter to see, yet I fear it came over to my yard because the fuckers
down the way are cutting down all the woods to make way for yet another
goddamn superfluous subdivision. I’m so sick of these shitheads cutting down
every inch of green space in this town I could fucking spit. It’s ugly,
harmful, disgraceful. You might be forgiven for believing I hold strong
opinions on this subject.
On a far more intriguing note, last night, Brugger and I spent a most
enjoyable evening at the home of our friends (and geocaching buddies)
Tom (a.k.a. Skyhawk63) and Linda (a.k.a.
Punkins19). We did, believe it or not, partake of some wine, and our
hosts provided a superb kabob dinner, followed by (fresh) strawberry shortcake
and an intriguing dessert wine. We had kicked back to relax around their newly
built firepit when Linda noticed an unknown phenomenon in the sky: a seemingly
endless train of lights in the sky, moving at high speed directly above our
heads. At first, we though perhaps it was the wreckage of the Chinese rocket
that had been predicted to crash to earth last night; these objects, however,
appeared far too uniform and perfectly spaced to be wreckage. And soon, we
noticed a perpendicular stream of lights farther south. Brugger immediately
took to
Google, and we discovered this was almost certainly SpaceX’s
StarLink
satellite train. Now, I tend to keep up with most such technological
developments, but I confess that this one had completely eluded my attention.
None of us had any inkling about the existence of such a thing. I found it a
bit disappointing that this was not the long-awaited Martian
invasion, but then, the odds against anything coming from Mars are a million
to one, as the quote goes. Unfortunately, the video I took provided only a
black sky and a lot of slightly alcohol-slurred exclamations from the group of
eyewitnesses. Similarly, my photos (example above) convey the spectacle only
slightly. Regardless, it was an unexpected and, at the time, exciting
experience for the lot of us.
Comparatively, it may be far more prosaic, but the house renovation continues
to progress slowly but surely. Early in the week, we had the downstairs rooms
measured for new flooring and the deck stained, the latter courtesy of
Carlos’ Paint Company (the same folks who did a bang-up job on our living room). I’ve put in
several evenings on various interior projects, and Brugger and I worked most
of the day yesterday, she prepping the downstairs bathroom for painting, I
painting doors and trim and putting up new blinds.
Now, I can only hope my houseful of giant monsters don’t get loose and undo
the labor and expense Brugger and I have put into all this.
I barely managed to touch
Georgia: The Haunting of Tate’s Mill, my
Ameri-Scares novel-in-progress, but I hope to get more time in on
it this week. There’s still a mess of estate business to deal with too, so we
shall see what we shall see. And that, I reckon, is that.
Freshly painted doors in the living room
Downstairs bathroom, walls stripped of wallpaper, ceiling blessedly
bereft of popcorn, mirror removed (so now it looks really tiny in
there)
“For the Birds” geocart in Alamance County, NC. Found ’em all.
It’s all about personal circumstances: the ever-deepening sense that life is a vastly different animal now than it was only a few days, weeks, or months ago. Maybe it’s because that, now that Mom is gone, the door to one chapter of life has closed and another has opened. I don’t really know what it is; my sensibilities seem to shift day by day. It’s weird. It’s disconcerting. It’s awful. It’s beautiful.
Somehow, that fact hit me hard today — while geocaching. Now, let me tell you. I’ve been caching since early 2008; I’ve had a bazillion transcendent experiences out there in the wild. I have gone out solo, with big groups, with little groups, with the best of friends, with relative strangers. I have discovered some the most beautiful settings that exist on Earth. I have shared laughs, sorrow, frustration, and excitement with folks damn near as goofy as I. I have discovered spiders bigger than Montana. I have seen the world from heights that would have terrified me even as a child, when I was absolutely fearless. I have found serenity deep in pitch dark storm drains. I have driven utterly ludicrous distances to be the first to find a new cache. Call it weird, but venturing out into the world to seek hidden containers and sign my geocaching handle — Damned Rodan — on little slips of paper brings me a unique joy. Geocaching moves me. It’s passion.
I got off work early today, and since there was a new geoart (a series of caches whose icons on the geocaching map create a specific design) a half-hour or so away in Snow Camp, I decided to give it a go on my own. The caches that comprise the geoart (“For the Birds,” it’s called) are all park & grabs — meaning they are hidden so you can just drive up, hop out, quickly find the cache, and sign the log. Generally, such hides are far more fun with a group of folks, more for the social experience than the challenge of actually hunting the caches. Going solo after park & grabs usually falls into the “eh, it’s okay” category. But with all those Death Cooties roaming free out there, I am still not keen on piling into a vehicle with other folks to claim smileys. Yet, today, all by my lonesome... I had a fookin blast. An oddly euphoric experience. Inexplicable, on the surface. Revealing, I guess, if I were to become ridiculously introspective. I’d say I won’t, but I think I already have. Fuggit. Circumstances today were such that I could hardly have enjoyed myself more. The caches in this series lurk along the rural back roads of southern Alamance County. Today, there was virtually no traffic (something I had forgotten was even possible), and going from cache to cache, making the find, and signing the log turned out to be as zen an experience as any I can remember. No stress. No anxiety. No anger. No grief. Just unmitigated satisfaction.
I will take it. Tomorrow is another day. As I deal with the aftermath of Mom’s passing, I keep finding increasingly complicated tangles of red tape to untangle. It is a long, slow, frustrating process; if you have lost loved ones for whom you have assumed responsibility, you may understand what I’m talking about. The issues will get ironed out. Too often, my problem is convincing myself that I don’t have to take care of every detail right now. But that is my nature. It has its benefits and its drawbacks.
Anyway, I welcome this little oasis of joy. May there be plenty more for me and for you.
Yesterday after work, I headed up to Martinsville to deal with some pressing affairs following Mom’s passing. Nothing too taxing at this point, at least. And afterward, friends Stephen & Samaire Provost came over to have a few drinks and some stimulating discussion — everything from writing, publishing, memorable days from the past, and current events. We were very conscientious about social distancing — we sat outside on the front porch, about ten feet apart, each with our personal supplies of hand sanitizer. Stephen even wrote an excellent blog that grew out of the event — “What If We All Drove Drunk?” No, none of us drove drunk. And we didn’t behave carelessly, even after a few drinks.
This morning, I awoke to notification of a brand-new cache having been published — just up the road from Martinsville at Fairy Stone Park. The timing was propitious. Fairy Stone is one of my favorite places to hike and hunt caches, and the morning turned out to be just right for it. Well, except for the extraordinarily high humidity, which made me feel like I was breathing mayonnaise on the hike. It wasn’t too far (just under two miles round trip) or too rugged, but it made for some good morning exercise. And I got to see a section of trail I’d never been on before: the dam on Goblintown Creek, which is one of the tributaries of Philpott Lake, where Fairy Stone is located. There is a huge, carved granite Fairy Stone on the lake bank there, which can be seen from some distance. It makes for an unusual and striking landmark.
At ground zero, I struck gold quickly — a little too quickly, as the cache container was sitting out exposed and very close to the water’s edge. I think all our recent rain helped the cache migrate somewhat from its hiding place. I put it back so it will hopefully remain both in place and out of sight. I did, in fact, dirty up the pristine logbook with a most gratifying FTF (first-to-find) signature. First-to-finds don’t really mean much, as it’s not like you earn anything extra for the effort, but they’re fun enough to snag when I can get ’em.
A while back, writer/editor Holly Kozelski at The Martinsville Bulletin had reached out to me because she was putting together some stories about the personal impacts of COVID-19. She asked if I might contribute an editorial since Mom passed away due to complications from the virus. So, I performed some serious surgery on my blog entry titled “Wildfire” from some weeks ago and submitted it to her. The piece just came out in the Bulletin. (You can generally snag a freebie or two before they ask you to subscribe.) ’Tis here: “My Mother Is Gone...”
Together with Stephen’s blog linked above, the two form a pair of interesting companion pieces. Makes me think we might be onto something.
A lovely morning on the trail — except for trying to breathe in that freaking monstrous humidity.
Dark clouds over Goblintown. They didn’t hang around long.
Sure enough, 2020 has been pretty much a clusterfuck since it began, and it’s most assuredly not going to miraculously turn around anytime soon. Now that Mom has passed away, I am engaged in the long, uphill battle to get estate affairs squared away, which promises to be grueling. As yet, I haven’t even gotten the death certificate(s), as I understand things are running way behind due to so many people dying of COVID-19 in NC, plus the ongoing issues with the postal service. Sometimes, I reckon it’s enough to make the Pope say “goddamn.”
A rushing little waterfall near
“Old Men Can Be Devious”
Still, through it all, there have been a good many shining moments, mostly involving geocaching, which—more than any other personal activity—pulls me out of the shitter, at least during the time I’m hard at it. Early during the pandemic, a wealth of new caches came out locally, which offered numerous opportunities for getting out in the woods and hiking. There haven’t been quite as many of those in recent days, but at least there are still some around to get me out of the house and active. A couple of times recently, including yesterday, I headed down to Randolph County, where a bunch of mostly park & grab caches have come out. Car caches aren’t as invigorating as hiking caches, but, regardless, they offer their share of fun, and a fair number of them have taken me to unique and memorable settings.
Today, I joined up with the Socially Distanced No-Dead-Weight Irregulars—friend Natalie (a.k.a. Fishdownthestair) and friend Scott (a.k.a. Diefenbaker) to hunt up a new one placed by our devious friend and frequent geocaching partner Old Rob (a.k.a. Old Rob). In fact, Old Devious his own self came out to watch us stumble about on the hunt. This cache—called “Old Men Can Be Devious” (GC8W9F1)—lurks in one of Old Rob’s favorite geocache hiding spots, namely a brier patch. And what a brier patch it is. A regular laughing place, in fact. As Rob says, “No blood, no fun.” Finding the cache took no little effort, but based on the amount of blood I shed, it was a helluva lot of fun.
No blood, no fun. Geocaching, Old Rob style.
There was, of all things, an earthquake this morning. 5.1 on the Richter scale, if I’m not mistaken, the epicenter out near Sparta, in the mountains of western NC. Everyone in Greensboro seemed to feel it except me, even though I was awake at 8:07 AM, when it occurred. Now, a lot of folks indicated that their houses shook and their animals paid the event special mind. Me, I was apparently so involved in a discussion with Frazier and Droolie about why there is/is not a Great Starvation that it passed unnoticed. Kind of a bummer.
Lots of water in the woods after tons of recent rain
The old post office in Cedar Falls, Randolph County, site of one of the new caches
This one is very personal to me. Several years ago, when Mom was just starting to lose her memory, I decided to write for her, on Mother’s Day, some reflections about our times together. Ms. Brugger helped me make a special crafty card of this for her. As simple as it was, I believe Mom valued this gift more than any I had ever given to her. This is my love letter to her.
Dear Mum,
My earliest memory of you was being abandoned in the Kroger parking lot on Spruce Street. On shopping day, you’d go inside the store — I suspect for no more than five minutes — while I stayed in the car. I remember pressing my face against the window and crying for you to come back because I didn’t know what went on inside that building. I figured it must be some awful place where mothers went in and never came out again. Then, when you did come out, I wanted to sing for joy — but of course I couldn’t sing because I was too young to even talk.
As a kindergartner, I loved riding in Dad’s old black and white Ford because it belched exhaust like a rocket. You used to laugh when I’d say “Daddy’s car go vroom!” Also from about that time, I remember a birthday when you decorated the dining room with squiggly balloons and got me a white frosted birthday cake with Roman Numerals that resembled a clock face. Julie Beth Jones’s dad gave me a plastic fishing pole, but I already had one just like it, and I made a point of saying so. You fussed at me because you said I was old enough to know better. I was, but even then, little was more gratifying than airing a good grievance.
In the summertime, we’d often go to the swimming pool at Lynwood, down by Dupont. That’s where I learned to swim. I remember you leading me by the hand across the hot gravel parking lot to the pool, you wearing a big, floppy pink hat. You sure did look funny.
Sometimes, you’d take me down to the Park-Mor restaurant on Memorial Blvd, where we’d get pizza, which we ate in Dad’s old black and white Ford. To me, that car was a rocket ship. I’d wear my raincoat and the space helmet I had inherited from my cousins because it was kind of like being an astronaut. And many a Friday, Dad would take you, Alan, and me to the Broad Street Hotel restaurant. Alan and I thought the stairs leading up from the front desk were scary because it was so dark up there. The place seemed truly mysterious, but I don’t imagine any kid could have loved a good mystery more than I.
Throughout the 1960s, the Fireman’s Bazaar was held at Brown Street Field, across from the old high school. Going there was always exciting. I remember riding the ferris wheel for the first time and being pretty scared, but Dad went with me and was very reassuring—except when he warned me the ferris wheel was old and rickety and that I ought not breathe too hard because a big wind might blow it down. Yeah, there was no way in heaven or hell you were going to get on that thing. But once, when we went to Six Flags Over Georgia, you ended up boarding the Dahlonega Mine Train ride with me, not realizing it was a roller coaster. It wasn’t all that big, but it was fast, and you kept telling me to “hold on tight!” I ended up loving it. I think you did not, although the worst that actually happened was that it messed up your hair.
I’m sure you know how much I loved visiting the grandparents in Gainesville and Atlanta. In Gainesville, whenever our Papa came home from work at the dry cleaning plant, I’d hide behind one of the living room chairs. He’d hear me breathing and exclaim there must be a puff adder in the house. I recall your mom, Neenie, playing organ at the Old Hickory BBQ restaurant. I found this pleasant enough, but it wasn’t rock and roll. Summertime visits were great, but Christmas was the most special time of all, the most memorable being the year the alarm clock didn’t work right. Excited beyond words about Santa Claus’s visit, I woke up sometime before dawn. Well, hours and hours would pass, but our apparently defective clock showed that only ten minutes had gone by. You always taught me to be helpful and responsible, so I ran the clock forward a few times. To this day, I have never understood why that one clock read seven a.m. when all the others in the house said it was only five. Making me go back to bed for the next two hours was cruel and unusual punishment, I have to say.
We’d always end our visits with you and Dad offering to give Neenie and Papa some money for all their trouble, but they would never hear of it. This always worried me a bit because I was afraid that if you didn’t hush, they would invite us to leave and not come back.
In my young adulthood, I sometimes went looking through the photos in your wedding album and feeling warm and wonderful about how happy you and Dad appeared. All through my childhood and even beyond, you both inspired me, comforted me, and provided for me. Only as an adult could I see how profoundly you are responsible for every good thing there is about me. And I’m sure the bad stuff is not your fault; for that, we can blame the Wickliffes, for they were decadent.
Mum and Martha Wickliffe
Speaking of the Wickliffes, there was a time in my 30s when Martha revealed a startling fact. Now, although you rarely drank alcohol, I know you enjoyed a wee spot of red wine now and again. Apparently, at some gathering y’all had attended, you drank a glass or two too many. Stunned, I asked Martha what you were like when a little bit oiled. She said, “Same as always, only louder.”
I wrote these reflections hoping they might give you some sense of how truly I appreciate you as my mom. I’ve always known that I was loved, and that I am loved. I loved you deeply when I was a youngster, and now, as an adult, I love you all the more. You are the dearest and most precious person in my life now and forever.
My mom passed away today. It’s been a rough one, so for the moment, I will simply post her obituary, which I wrote at her request.
Barbara Rainey, of Martinsville, VA, passed away on July 21, 2020, following a prolonged struggle with dementia and complications from COVID-19. She is survived by two sons — Stephen Mark Rainey of Greensboro, NC, and Alan Rainey, of Winston-Salem, NC — and one granddaughter, Allison Rainey, of New York City, NY. For 45 years, Barbara was married to Carl Rainey, who passed away in 2001.
Barbara was born on October 16, 1935, to Dan and Christine Bell in Gainesville, GA. Through her childhood and college years, she called Gainesville home. She attended Brenau College in Gainesville, and, shortly after her graduation, met Carl Rainey, son of Gordon Rainey, the pastor of St. Paul Methodist Church, where she was a member. In August 1956, Barbara and Carl were married in that church, with the groom's father, Rev. Rainey, officiating.
Carl secured employment with E. I. du Pont de Nemours and Company, which led him and Barbara to settle in Chattanooga, TN. For four years, they dwelled happily in a house Carl had built on Signal Mountain. In May of 1959, their first son, Stephen Mark Rainey, was born. Shortly afterward, Carl was transferred to the Dupont plant in Martinsville, VA, where he remained as an executive for the next three decades. In May 1964, Barbara gave birth to their second son, Alan Rainey.
For her full adult life, Barbara loved Martinsville and her family's home near Lake Lanier. After Mark and Alan left for college and then moved to their own homes, Barbara and Carl remained in their treasured home, which Barbara dubbed "Pleasant Hill." She continued to live at Pleasant Hill until her mid-80s, when increasingly severe health issues forced her to move to an assisted living facility.
Barbara was an active member of First United Methodist Church in Martinsville. She especially loved singing in the Chancel Choir, of which she was a member for over 50 years. She served the church and the community diligently, frequently involving herself in vital charity work, both locally and nationally. On her own time, she enjoyed playing bridge and, for many years, belonged to a group that met regularly at the members' homes. She had a passion for crossword puzzles and, on occasion, jigsaw puzzles, needlepoint, and decoupage. Her home was a source of great pride for her. She loved turning it from a mere house to a perfectly personalized home for her family.
Well-known for her strong faith, generosity, and subtle humor, Barbara lived her life prioritizing others' needs above her own. During Carl's long battle with complications from diabetes, to which he ultimately succumbed, she spent countless days and nights tending to him when he was unable to care for himself. Despite the unrelieved stress of being a full-time caregiver, never once did she exhibit despair or bitterness; if anything, her struggles honed her deeply held faith. After Carl's passing, she continued to honor his memory in every aspect of her life. Even as the ruinous effects of dementia inexorably destroyed memory after precious memory, she never forgot Carl or her children.
Barbara's life was a testament to faith, hope, charity, and love. Her love will never be forgotten.
I figured I ought to check in here on ye olde blog this evening, as it's been way too long since I've had the opportunity to post any updates. It's no exaggeration to say that the past two weeks have been the most uncertain, discombobulating, and stressful that I have ever lived through, topped off by an uncomfortable and infuriating sinus/respiratory bug. My mom's personal circumstances, which have been nominally stable for the past few years, nose-dived recently, when she succumbed to pneumonia and took a couple of falls. This has required an unprecedented level of intervention on my part (and my brother's, to some extent), and a major life-change for her is now inevitable. Beyond that, there's no need to elaborate, so I'll merely ask that those of you who consider me a friend please keep me, my brother, and my mom in your hearts. It's a tough, tough time, and every little bit of support means the world to me.
At this point, things have settled enough that we can take a breather before the next round. At least, I hope so. The next round is coming, but I feel that we are as prepared as prepared can be under the circumstances.
I've been able to work in only the barest minimum of geocaching (that which keeps me sane), but today, a couple of new trail hides awaited my attention. After work, I met friend Fishdownthestair (a.k.a. Natalie) out at the Kingfisher Trail, just north of Greensboro, where a couple of new caches required my attention. (Fortuitously, one of them — called "Options" because there's more than one method of reaching the well-hidden cache — belongs to Ms. FDTS herself.) Hers proved to be a wonderfully conceived, physically challenging hide, which required a certain degree of acrobatic prowess to conquer (see photo above). That done, it was on to friend Old Rob's newest. Happily, we made short work of it. I also ended up doing unexpected maintenance on one of my own hides out there, which required acrobatics of the same sort you see in said photo. Someone had replaced it somewhat out of keeping with its original intent (again, see photo), and I wasn't about to let that stand. Thing is, when I retrieved her new cache, Natalie had neglected to take any photos, so on our return trip, I recreated my original venture to ground zero (photo) so she could snap the requisite pictures.
Afterward, we ventured forth to Uptown Charlie's, one of our favorite post-caching dining destinations, where I partook of Pernicious IPA and Suicide Chicken Wings. So, for at least this evening, a sense of normality, or something such, managed to prevail, and thus energized, it is back to the writing of my next Ameri-Scares novel, this one for the state of Ohio, tentatively titled Fear the Grassman! Hey, it's Bigfoot, man.
Coming up, one thing I think I might do here — for my own sake — is occasionally post some recollections of my mom from over the years. I feel it will be therapeutic, and a touch of therapy about now could only be a good thing. You may change the channel or go out for a drink if you prefer; it won't bother me. Some things I do share, but they're really about preserving personal history. I trust you understand.
Ms. B. and I have returned home from a whirlwind weekend in Martinsville, which started Friday evening at The Daily Grind with the Writers' Round Featuring Tokyo Rosenthal and me, turned into a spend-the-night party at Mum's with our good friends Terry & Beth, continued on Saturday with some hiking in the woods (including a bunch of geocache maintenance for me), and more-or-less climaxed at The Hollywood Cinema last night for the fifth anniversary celebration of The Smith Brothers' first movie, Young Blood: Evil Intentions, the novel of which I wrote with Mat & Myron. I had a small small part in the movie as a concerned citizen (see Young Blood: The Movie, March 9, 2012), and you can bet your ass I appeared concerned as hell on the big screen.
Late this past week, I became really concerned that the onset of some fairly severe fall allergy symptoms would do a number on my ability to sing (which many might question at the best of times), but with the benefit of a couple of throat lozenges before the show on Friday, I managed to belt out a dozen songs without completely choking. To say it was fun is a gross understatement—at least for me; I can't speak for anyone else. There's a video down below of my song "Still Believing," which Ms. B. was kind enough to record. Mr. Rosenthal proved himself a consummate professional—one of the most adept acoustic guitar players I've ever met, and a fine singer and lyricist. It was a pleasure to have shared the stage with him.
A couple of my trail caches in Martinsville needed fixing up, so Ms. B. and I undertook a couple of medium-size hikes to repair/replace them, one along the Dick & Willie trail, where I discovered an entire boulder, which housed my cache ("The Boxcar," GC263XX), had somehow gone missing. Odd, the things that can vanish without a trace. The other, on a bike trail out in Chatmoss ("Sticks," GC1WNG9), required the construction of some new Blair Witch–style stick figures, a trail of which will lead an intrepid adventurer to the actual cache container. Yeah, it got kind of hot, muggy, and buggy out there.
The Young Blood anniversary celebration brought many of the movie's actors and fans together again, and the theater lobby was decorated with a couple of tons of memorabilia and merchandise, including posters, DVDs, original artwork, and promos for Myron Smith's Sweded films (not to mention some scary clown props, as the theater was also showing It).
When I was writing the novel, I watched the movie many times over and had it virtually memorized, but it had been long enough that, watching it again, I had a whole different view of it—the humor was funnier, and the more disturbing parts were really disturbing. A neat little movie it is, and I'm quite proud to have had as much a part in it as I have.
The celebration resulted in a fashionably late dinner at Yamato Japanese Restaurant, which Kimberly and I enjoyed no end (suffering from the Great Starvation will do that to one—just ask my cats). We had thought we might join Mat, Myron, and other folks in the Young Blood crowd atMtn' Jax in uptown Martinsville, but by the time we got there, they had already left. So Kimberly and I returned to Mum's and sat out on the back porch until the wee hours of the morning sipping a fine Pinot Noir. At midnight, we were treated to the thunderous sounds of fireworks from the Martinsville Speedway, which—as the crow flies—is only a couple of miles or so from our house, where they'd had their first nighttime NASCAR race. Unfortunately, we couldn't actually see the fireworks, but when they first went off, we thought the bomb had dropped. Big noise! But we actually enjoyed the celebratory racket, and I hope the race brought lots of business into town. In all my years, I've never been to a NASCAR race, nor had any real interest in going, but the Speedway is a real draw in Martinsville, and more power to the fans.
This morning, it was back home for the both of us to deal with our respective cats, who all were suffering from The Great Starvation. Poor little guys! (Note: They're not that poor. Nor little.)
See you at the curtain call.
Original Young Blood artwork on display in the Hollywood Cinema lobby
Posters for Myron Smith's Sweded movies. I have a wee part in Alice in Wonderland.
As I'm having to spend more and more time with my mom, going with increasing frequency to my old hometown to care for her, I find myself growing very protective of those old things in her house that still remain from my childhood. There aren't that many, not like there used to be. There's a small corner of the attic with a few toys, books, artwork, and other miscellaneous objets d'arte that belonged to my brother and me, some going back to our pre-kindergarten days. In the back room on the main floor, Mom has graciously saved a bunch of barely intact books that I valued as a kid — I am now mighty glad they didn't get chucked out along with so much junk over the past few decades. That photo you see above is a fair representation of my "literary" appetites at about age twelve. Of course, that's just a tiny sampling, as I became a voracious reader the moment I managed to comprehend two consecutive sentences. Everything from James Bond to Alfred Hitchcock's Three Investigators to Mad magazine to Whitman's Big Little cartoon books to Robert Heinlein and Arthur C. Clarke. A regular borgasmord, to quote a young Mason Reese. (You remember him, right — the ugly little red-headed dude in the Underwood Deviled Ham commercials from the early 1970s?)
It's been a stressful few days for me, what with Mom's condition always preying on my mind, and out there in the world, bedlam reigning perhaps a bit more than usual. You've seen the meme, I'm sure, that reads "My desire to be well-informed is at odds with my desire to remain sane." That's pretty much it. It's depressingly difficult to find even slightly unbiased coverage about events in the world, particularly since every soul alive has an outlet to air his opinion, whether measured and well-informed or vicious and ignorant. I stubbornly remain connected via Facebook since it's the handiest tool for keeping up with the people with whom I most want to keep up. Still, at the best of times, my blood pressure runs a little high, even when on meds. I've come to the conclusion that ordinary bedlam raises it to around 140/90, whereas Bedlam + Facebook = BP 180/100. Bedlam needs to take a breather.
As always, geocaching proves itself the best mitigator of high blood pressure. I've been fortunate in that local cachers have kept new ones coming out between here and Martinsville, so that I can usually hunt a cache or three when I'm coming and going. One that I found today earns a favorite point for its high novelty factor — not an uncommon type of hide, but its placement was a lot of fun, particularly in that it was being watched over by a little tree peeper. I saw him perched atop an open fence post, so while I hunted, we had a friendly conversation. After a while, I saw he had gone, and I hope he didn't actually go down into that fence post, as he might end up stuck. On the other hand, given that he was resting quite comfortably on it, perhaps it's one of his favorite hangouts.
Hey, those two are drinking wine again! That's what you just said, isn't it?
Well, we did, for a bit. Ms. B. and I spent a couple of days in Martinsville
taking care of so much business that had to be taken care of, but we did pause
now and again for some stress relief. On Friday night, a nice dinner with Mum at
The Third Bay, and on Saturday, a fine sushi lunch at
Chopstix, a relatively new Asian place in the Ville. On the way back to Greensboro, we
hit
Autumn Creek Winery, near Mayodan, NC, which made for a pleasant afternoon, despite a constant
chill breeze as we sat outside; and then I went after a fun geocache — "Tower of
Power" (GC69D9J), in Oak
Ridge — where I discovered a particularly wily cache guardian. Enjoyable little
respites during what has been — and will be, as I have previously alluded — a
long and trying time for my family.
Woke this morning to a bit of white stuff falling. Hasn't amounted to much, but
in Greensboro, it only takes someone spitting on the road to knock out the
power. We'll see how things hold out.
Dem bones, dem bones...
A little white stuff. So far, haven't lost power, but knowing
Greensboro, it's almost inevitable.
Actually, the blog title is the name — more or less — of a fun little geocache
(GC695ET) I found this
afternoon in Eden, NC. Quite enjoyable little hide, which I went after on my way
back to Greensboro from Martinsville for the umpteenth time in the past few
weeks. The caching is now more therapeutic than ever, and I've had several nice
ones to claim this week. Their timing couldn't be better.
As I insinuated in my previous blog entry, it's been a surpassing strange and
stressful couple of months, with more of the same yet to come. I'm having to go
back and forth to Martinsville constantly to deal with legal, medical, and other
personal issues, the already difficult situation compounded by a nervous
breakdown on the part of an individual whom my mother has assisted in
uncountable ways over the past 15 years but has, in the past few months, been
forced to rely upon for assistance as her health has become more and more
tenuous. It's a sad situation all around, one that behooves me to forgive but
not forget. This little chapter of life is proving to be not one of but
the most difficult I've ever had to face, with minor and major life
changes coming on like express trains in rapid succession.
I tend to not go into too much detail during the storms because, really, such
blogs are more for me than the casual reader; in their way, they're cathartic,
and I find that as time passes they provide perspectives I might otherwise
forget or fail to recognize. If you're one of my followers, I beg your
indulgence. And for those friends of mine who have offered their support in
various ways, I appreciate it more than you know.
Just a quick entry here for future personal recollections. It's bloody ugly out there — too warm, too muggy, too damned wet. At least it wasn't raining this afternoon when Kimberly came round for us to head to Martinsville. We started Christmas Eve right enough, with a visit to the Grove Winery (after snagging a new-ish cache at High Rock Road), where we enjoyed an excellent tasting and a glass each (Nebbiolo for me and Cabernet Franc for the lady). Then on up to Mum's and dinner at Rania's, which was quite good. Back home with us for a bit more wine (Chateau Morrisette Sangria, which is delicious — spicy and just a little sweet), the wrapping of presents, preparing tomorrow's dinner, and the requisite viewing of A Christmas Story. All in all, a very pleasant time.
What an unbelievably horrible month for the loss of life April has become. My mom's little dog, Taco, had to be put down — on April 16, the eighth anniversary of my cat Charcoal's death — due to complications from Lyme disease. Mom only had him for eight months, but he was sweet, smart, and all around good for Mom's mental and physical health. Apparently, he began having nonstop, uncontrollable seizures, and he was clearly suffering, at which point Mom opted to see that he got relief.
I met Taco numerous times, and I was quite taken with him. A friendlier, more affectionate dog I don't think I've ever seen. He loved to be rubbed, and if you stopped, he'd boop you with his paw to remind you that it was not your job to stop rubbing him.
Taco had previous owner, who had given him his name, but when she passed on, he went to the local animal shelter. Mom adopted him in August of last year, and even though I don't think Taco is the name she would have preferred, she opted to let him keep it. She nicknamed him Taco Bell, and that just stuck.
With April apparently being the month for passing on — my dad, my cat Charcoal, my friend Lew Hartman, and my cat Chester — it sure has been a sad time for me. Fortunately, there have been plenty of positive things going on as well; but every death takes a little something out of me, and that is sad, as well as difficult. It's also just part of our journey toward our light being extinguished.
I received the sad news yesterday that my mom's little dog, Brandy, after rapidly increasing physical decline, had finally been put to sleep. Brandy was already a mature dog when Mom got her back in the early 2000s, but for most of the intervening years, she was active and in fine health, largely due to Mom taking such conscientious care of her. Brandy provided endless hours of good companionship, taking Mom for regular walks and engaging her in good conversation (mostly one-sided). I'm told Brandy fell the other evening and couldn't get back up, and was in considerable pain afterward. At her age — around 18, I believe — there wasn't really hope of recovery, so Mom had to make that terrible choice of having her put down.
I'll miss Brandy too — she was always there to greet me whenever I'd visit, and a critter of better humor one would be hard-pressed to imagine. Rest in peace, little dog. You will be missed.
Brandy in her younger days...a bit spoiled, as usual.
