The New Residencia

published in 1922

Editor - ice

Just another day, and driving to work this morning proves it - by being no different than yesterday.  Even the frigging weather is the same; cloudy with a real threat of rain, as humidity laden fog hugs the low-lying areas.  I think of  “Gound-Hog Day,” the Bill Murray movie, back in the day - when it came out, and I remember at the time, wondering what it would be like to wake up to the same day, everyday; never realizing until years later, that I was already ‘living that life.’ Where my ‘head’ is this morning is also familiar to me; for, of late, I’ve been battling a ‘kinda sorta’ mild form of depression which my Doc informed me just yesterday - was probably a result of me giving up the cigs - exactly 100 days ago.  Could be, could be, - I guess we’ll just have to wait and see, eh? 

 

My ‘to work’ - routine-route - takes me thru a semi-isolated part of North Texas where Pine Trees line both sides of the road, and the gaps between are filled with green - jungle-like foliage – which causes an eerie version of ‘The Enchanted Forest’ to peek silently  from the fog. Many a morn I’d wondered what it would be like; ‘cutting my way through such a jungle’ – in search of Dr. Livingstone I presume?

 

Ahead - the road winds as always round this curve and that one, a group of cows are ‘playing house’ in a field – and pay me no heed, while a mongrel dog yaps at my back tires as I slow, going around the only curve in its world.  Rolling my window down a little I smell the advent of rain at about the same time I see the white SUV sideways in the ditch to my right, about a hundred yards in front of me.  Sitting, motionless, in the drivers seat, appears to be a lady with blond hair.

 

Rolling to a stop, I get out of my truck and walk to her side of the vehicle.  As I approach - she rolls the window down and I can see - she is both young, and good looking, probably about 25 or so I guess.   I immediately ask – “are you ok, do you need me to call anyone for you?” 

 

“He’s going to kill us.”

 

It jolted me - to hear her say those words, and I notice for the first time – that her eyes are red as from crying, her hands on the steering wheel are ‘white-knuckled,’ and fear is being absorbed into her body by the second - like dirty sweat.  I hear the un-nerving sound of a bird singing in the far off distance, and the rumble of a truck – even before I see it – heralding it’s arrival from around the curve in the road some 40 or 50 yards in front of us.  As it comes into view, I feel time 'grindingly' slowing down, and notice the hair on my wrist for some strange reason, realizing at the same time that in an irrational way I’m wondering about the bird too.  Has it found refuge somewhere?  Then the truck is pulling to a stop within 10 feet of us, and as I take in the burly man behind the wheel, I sense rather than see… evil.

 

He is clutching a small child of about 4 or 5, to his side, in a not so loving manner.

 

Behind me, I hear the woman say; “Johnny…… oh Johnny, and I remember her earlier utterance – He’s going to kill us.”

 

And... that is when "time" - stopped.

 

Sweet Inspiration

Leaving the city, ‘melancholy’ cloaks me so heavily I feel my real self ‘disappearing,’ as my CD player spins ‘Classic Movie Songs,’ from a CD by the same name.  Weaving my way through the mid-morning traffic, listening to Streisand’s - “The Way We Were,” I catch the city doing it’s own disappearing act - in my rear view mirror - as if it didn’t think I was paying attention. 

 

But I was.

 

First things first though.

 

I’m extremely pissed as I write this because once again, the ‘melancholy’ thing has me in its icy grip, and I’m seemingly unable to do anything about it; something that I would never of believed before.

 

“Before” … I came to experience this “crap” - upclose and personal, I would have laughed at the thought of being under the influence/control of something so seemingly easy to counteract.  After all, “all you have to do is to tell yourself not to be depressed, be happy, smile, and all that jazz, right?”

 

Thirty minutes into my trip (home) I notice that the city has sure enough evaporated - because - behind me is nothing but rolling hills with a few trees slung around the countryside.  My melancholy has eased a little, thanks to turning off the CD player and putting on a mind numbing ‘talk radio show’ about “Car Problems with Rick.” At least I “now” know why my 87 Buick Electra used to be ‘hard to start’ on cold mornings. If you really want to know why (it was hard to start) – send me a PM and I will respond within 24 hours.

 

That’s all I do these days (when it comes to electronic entertainment besides the computer) – I listen to music unless it starts to bother me or I don’t feel like (listening to it) in the first place – switching to ‘talk radio’ on those occasions.  As for ‘The News,’ I stay far away from it most of time, only to be driven further away – when I do get a dose - of its ‘gross stupidity,’ on those rare times I do pay attention to it.

 

 This morning for example; Pup is listening to Fox News, while I sit here at my computer desk, and suddenly (without warning) – “A Breaking News Report” is upon us, (before I could run from the room)  – we’re hearing all about a Moms problem with a “Sippy Cup,” you know the little plastic cups that kids drink from.  Don’t feel bad if you didn’t know what a ‘Sippy Cup’ was – neither did I, (I had to ask Pup).  Don’t ask (about the details to this story), Pup mercifully ‘muted’ – “The Late Breaking News Report,” before it could spread its gross stupidity through the airwaves and into our simple abode.  Thank you Pup!

 

The rest of my 4-hour drive (home) was not bad - as my ‘unexplained melancholy,’ continued to ease a little with each passing mile.  When arriving home and kissing Pup ‘hello,’ I – of course – felt somewhat better than when I had started my journey.  Still, the evening was slightly out of kilter, and it was only this morning (when arising) that I could say I had returned to a somewhat ‘normal attitude’ about things in general, and life in particular.

 

This morning, after breakfast, as I was sitting here (at my computer desk) musing about ‘things,’ it suddenly occurred to me that something ‘strange’ had happened to me yesterday during my journey home.  At about the ‘half-way’ point, my mind drifting along merrily in my self-assigned ‘melancholy,’ I’d suddenly found myself walking down the street of the town I was born nearly 59 years ago.  I was with my Grandma, (my Dad’s Mom) and we were on our way to the Laundromat; she was pulling her little red wagon, full of dirty clothes, while me and my little brother walked beside her.

 

I was looking at a sky, so blue I swear it’d been painted, and without a cloud in sight; my brother was kicking a can over the road, made bumpy because it was "inlaid" with red bricks.

 

....Grandma was talking – “and the next thing I know you’re back here again, what is so wrong with ‘your present’ that you keep bouncing back here?”  

 

When I didn’t say anything, she said, “Come on Dew, are you listening to me, or in your own world again?”

 

Laughing out loud, I looked at Grandma, her gray hair tied up in a bun and covered with the white bonnet she always wore on ‘wash days,’ wearing the familiar ‘faded blue dress’, and the same old ‘high top’ black shoes that all the ‘old women’ of the day wore. “Grandma, I said, can we have a Coke when we get to the laundry?”

 

“Oh I don’t know if Pa left any change in his pants or not, we’ll just have to look when we get there.” 

 

I wasn’t worried; cause there was always ‘change’ in Grandpa’s pants, especially on those summer days that we (me and my brother) went to the Laundromat with Grandma.

 

Grandma was humming a tune, kinda under her breath, and it reminded me of a song, though I couldn’t quite remember the name.  “What’s that song, Grandma,” I said, and as she looked at me - she said, “Red Sails in the Sunset,” and after a mere second of a pause she continued by singing the words; “Red Sails in the Sunset, oh carry my love one home safely to me.”

 

“I’ve heard that song before, I said, to myself more than to her, but I can’t remember exactly where?” 

 

Grandma quit singing, stopped walking, and turned toward me, all in one smooth motion; “Dew … what are you scared of?”

 

Another woman – a half-century into the future - would asked that same question, and in neither instance would I have a good answer, so, knowing this, I just stood there looking at my Grandma - with nothing to say.

 

 “You know, she said, softly, there’s nothing wrong with having nostalgia about the past, but to dwell on it constantly can’t be good for a body.”

 

“You’re scared of, she continued, all the bad things that might happen, and rightly so, but what you must accept - is that what will be, will be, and you and I have little, if any, control over what will be.”

 

“That, I blurted, is what makes me so mad – Grandma!”

 

“Well you’ll just have to get glad in the same pants you got mad in, cause getting mad don’t change nothing.”

 

With that said, Grandma continued down the road, the little red wagon bouncing along behind her.  As I walked slowly behind, kicking pebbles on the road, my brother was running ahead chasing a bird or something, and as I watched him, I thought of the pain he would endure when his oldest child would die in a cruel accident some 40 odd years into the future, and I wondered for perhaps the millionth time in my life – “if ignorance was indeed bliss?”

 

As I followed along, I thought of what Grandma had said; maybe she’s right I thought to myself; maybe I dwell too much in the past, maybe I should accept the present for what it is, and not worry about the future so much.

 

“So, I said, to Grandma’s back - I’ll be ok if I quit dwelling on the past so much, and just learn to accept what life hands out to me?”  

 

Over her shoulder, the soft words drift back to me, “Dew, nothing I or anyone else can say - will ever make a difference to you – until you decide to accept what you – yourself know to be your destiny.”

 

“It, she adds, is the same with all of us, we all have to do it eventually.”

 

In the silence that follows – we arrive at the Laundromat, and as Grandma starts to unload the little wagon, I think of all the fun I’m going to have today.

 

After the Laundromat and a Coke, we’ll stop by the Greenhouse, and Grandma will talk to  Henrietta, the old lady who runs the place, about flowers and stuff, and then we’ll continue on to Grandma’s house, where she will bake some cookies for us - to have with our lunch.  After lunch, we’'ll play outside and later - sneak across the street to play in the old vacant house that we call - ‘haunted.’

 

To this day, more than a half-century later, I can see myself in the second story window of that old haunted house, looking down at my Grandma, as she putters around in her garden far below. I can easily recall its musty smell, forever captured within, and the ancient wall paper, slowly peeling from the walls. 

 

As I continue to look out that window - I think of all my musings this morning, and about my 'morning walk' around the parking lot at Wal-Mart.

 

Deciding to write about all this when I finished my walk, and returned home - I was lazily, and slowly, making my way to my pickup, when a car turned into the parking lot.

 

It was an unusual color for a car by today’s standards, kind of a light orchid color; it looked to be a 1962 or 1963 Pontiac Bonneville, but I can’t be sure of the exact year.  Behind the wheel was an old gentleman probably in his 80’s; riding next to him in the passenger seat, was a little old gray-headed lady of about the same age I imagine.

 

As they passed by me, she smiled and waved at me.

 

I waved back.

 

 

The New Residencia

***

EST 1901

 

EDITOR - ICE

ASST. EDITOR – PUP

VICE PRES = DAZE

EXEC VP – SIX

SCOOP REP – SCRATCH

ACE REP – JOHNNIE

‘TWIST EDITOR’ = BELLE

Exec Story Consultant – Whit

 

PUP AND THE VAMOOSER

 

“I say we split.”

 

Looking at my husband of 6 years I raised my eyebrows just a dab and smiled.

 

“I don’t mean, he said, also with a smile, but no raised eyebrows, “split as in divorce or anything, I mean like ‘book out of here, vamoose, exit stage right, boogie down the road,’ you know what I mean.”

 

“To where - Mr. Run -away from your troubles”?  I said, as I watched the boob tube; some silly special about Paris Hilton going to jail.

 

“Anywhere, everywhere USA.”

 

His words hung in the air between my chair and his; slowly I took my eyes off the television and looked at him.  My darling husband, he of the ‘faraway dreams/schemes,’ had recently retired from his government job, and as we’d planned – “he was now working our kennel full-time, while I continued to work two more years at my job, so that we could finish paying off our bills and save a little more money before our income would be reduced down to his government retirement check and Social Security.”  The unanswered question was “would 2 more years at my job drive me completely over the edge, or, could I stagger through it?”

 

We’d talked and talked about retirement.  They say you should start planning retirement 5 years before it happens, and though we’d not done that, waiting till it was less than a year off, we’d made up for it by talking almost ’24-7’ about all the different options and such. 

 

…And the best option for us?  To stay where we were - ‘rooted and planted,’ as Dew had put it, which made sense, both financially and emotionally.  Any ideas we’d had of moving some place else - always involved ‘losing money, and being far away from our parents, kids, and grandkids,’ which was an option we’d refused to take.

 

“OK, I said, looking back to the television, when do you want to go?”

 

She was giving me ‘the look’ – out of the corner of her eye – I knew it well too; We’d had the conversation so many times we’d given it – it’s own name,  “The Vamoose Conversation.”

 

It (The Vamoose Conversation) could spring up spontaneously on its own, but as a rule it usually was prompted by one or both of us having a particularly stressful day, which meant – ‘we had it often.’

 

It was somewhat distressing to wistfully talk about ‘running away’ from society and all the ills it brought to the table, only to know we never would, but it was also known to both of us that the ol depression scale always edged upward somewhat when we had our little ‘dream talk.’ 

 

But, today, we both felt something different, at about the same time.  I saw it in the way she moved, and she must have picked up some silent, invisible vibes I was emitting - because she said, “ok, let’s hear it.”

 

“Simple, I said, Lenton has his motor home up for sale, we both like it and the money is right.  Charlie has always wanted this land.”

 

Charlie was our next-door neighbor and it was true that he’d always wanted our little acreage, to the extent that he’d offered far more than it was worth last time Dew had said something to him about it.

 

“Where we’re going?”

 

I just looked at her and smiled as I said, “like I said – wherever and anywhere.”

 

Looking at me, she smiled back. and said, “Let’s do it!”

 

Dew never hesitated, didn’t laugh or nothing, as he got up from his chair saying, “give them 2 weeks or whatever you need to at work, I’ll need about 2 maybe 3 weeks to sell the land and the boat.”

 

..”and then – we’re off, yes, I said, looking at him intently?”

 

Yes, he said.

 

The New Residencia

***

EST 1901

 

EDITOR – ICE

ASST. EDITOR – PUP

VICE PRES = DAZE

EXEC VP – SIX

SCOOP REP – SCRATCH

ACE REP – JOHNNIE

‘TWIST EDITOR’ = BELLE

Exec Story Consultant – Whit

 

It’s early morning, just after 7 a.m., and as I drive down the highway in my new Dodge truck - listening to music, one of my favorite songs is playing – “One on One,” by Hall and Oates.

 

“One on One I want to play that game tonight,” these words have always had a haunting flavor to me, and this morning they are even more poignant as I allow myself to be encapsulated by them, and drifting lazily through my past, I come upon another summer day…. long, long ago.

 

It’s - blazing hot – on this summer day but I don’t really know it, for I’m 11 years old and in the middle of a baseball field; the score is tied as I stand on 3^rd base hoping my best friend, Terry, can ‘hit the ball where they ain’t’ and I can score the winning run.  In the background of my mind I barely hear music, as if in the distance somewhere; I can make out some of the words, it’s a song I’ve never heard before … “precious memories – unseen angels” …

 

...just then the ball is thrown and Terry swings –

 

Back in my truck I know that – “Terry did hit the ball where they weren’t that day,” and I did ‘slide into home plate’ to score the winning run.  And that after the game, we (all 7 of us) walked to the ‘Dairy Mart’ for ‘Suicide Root Beers,’ and then on to our homes to get lunch.  We’d been ‘playing ball’ since early that morning and it was well into the afternoon; time to eat a sandwich, and drink some ‘strawberry kool-aid’.

 

Thinking about all this as I drive, the song “One on One,” finishes playing on my CD player and before the next song starts to play I think to myself - what a great song!  Yeah, it’s a “love song,” I know, but as often happens with music, and words put to music - a different interpretation can oft be applied - to fit ones particular mood.

 

My mood this morning is not much different than any other, just the usual mild melancholy that is so familiar to me as of late, which causes me to wonder if it (melancholy) might be a ‘precursor’ to depression or a form of depression?

 

Now as the next song begins to play I smile broadly and laugh a little under my breath; for it’s the opening of  “Precious Memories” ,,,,,sung by Jim Reeves.

 

“Precious Memories.”  What is the past if not “precious memories,” I think, as I continue on my way?  People rush around ‘here and there,’ making memories only to never appreciate them till it’s too late.  We talk about the past in reverent tones, we write stories about it and make movies that retell it, but as it scoots by (us) we hardly notice it. 

 

“El Paso City,” is the next song to start playing, and as it begins - I think about the El Paso I’d seen not two weeks ago.  I’d not been there in over 30 years, and had been shocked at what the ‘sleepy little border town,’ had turned into.  A ‘bustling metro,’ not quite as big as Dallas or Houston (yet), but far more ‘electric,’ and ‘wired’ than those two tame (in comparison) Texas cities.   If you’ve ever watched “Deadwood” on HBO, just think of that town in 2007 and you have the modern El Paso.  As the song continues to play I realize that although almost everyone has heard the song “El Paso,” there are some who’ve never heard the ‘sequel’ song about El Paso that Marty Robbins released a few years after his blockbuster hit – El Paso.  This ‘sequel’ was of course “El Paso City,” and to others, and me - it was even better than the original El Paso.  You really have to listen to the whole song to understand, but I assure you it’s worth the time to look up the song and listen to it. 

 

As for me, I’m already into the next song, “Amazing Grace,” sung by Elvis as nobody else can…

 

….this part always gets me …

 

when we’ve been here 10,000 years, bright shining as the sun, we’ve no less days to sing God’s praise than when – than when we first begun.

 

After Elvis finishes with 'Amazing Grace,' the last song on the CD begins to play.....

 

Everybody’s gone away, said they’re moving to LA, there’s not a soul I know around, everybody’s leaving town; some caught a freight, some caught a plane, find the sunshine, leave the rain….

 

Goodtime Charlie Got the Blues…..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The New Residencia *** EST 1901   EDITOR – ICE ASST. EDITOR – PUP VICE PRES = DAZE EXEC VP – SIX SCOOP REP – SCRATCH ACE REP – JOHNNIE ‘TWIST EDITOR’ = BELLE Exec Story Consultant – Whit   Depression; The Question Not Asked   As unbelievable as it might sound, I can hear the question even though there is nobody here but me.    The sound echoes through my office, reverberating from the cushioning carpet -  – which hushes the lingering echo, and sends my mind back in time, to a place where I’ve been and should never return.   But I do, and so willingly, just as you do – along with the rest.  What is it about yesterday that draws us back; through ghostly reminders, burnt out embers, and other assorted wreckage of past lives - only to reminisce like it makes good sense?   Could it be that the past is concrete - done as done can be – while the future looms ominous and fluid on the horizon?    Of course, for we all like to know how the story ends.  It’s only ‘reading fiction as reality’ that excites us - not ‘living a reality stranger than fiction.’   So, in the end, it’s not what the past entails that enthralls – but an ‘absence’ - that makes it attractive, yes?   Why do we allow it to control us?    Mainly because we cannot control it, and enduring it - is our only reasonable choice.    Do you remember the question?

The Times We Live In   Leaving the Wal-Marts of my choice – I feel the heat and humidity of the late evening, even before I exit through the electric doors, their ‘swish opening’ still in my hearing consciousness.    Outside – the ‘boom’ of the music coming from the cars –of the kids – mix with the smoke and sweat of those who came before – and the scream and holler of the ‘little ones’ running and playing in the modern outdoor park.   Through this maze of humanity all so familiar to me  I walk, and during the stroll - my imagination wonders how ‘W.C. the Elder’ would see my scene and how much would it terrify his normal sensibilities?   Would he marvel at the future and all it brings with it, or would he hurry through the parking lot – walking so fast – that the futuristic jazz would drop away, and the past would return him to the Safeway as it closes for the night at 8 p.m.?   “Night” – Raymond. “Good Night” - Roberta