#can u tell that i reached the destination of my childhood home & am having lots of thoughts and feelings about body image LOL

[unbridgeabledistances]

hi 💜💜 i got a prompt about ian x body image a while ago (my inbox is a hot mess and i may have deleted the prompt lol, but i did paste it into my phone notes)- and i was feeling some feelings today & had some spare time amidst my travels & ended up writing this!!

prompt: can you write about ian and his relationship with his body image, esp post-canon when they move to the westside

(tw for body image/eating disorder/food mentions)

--

He didn’t really even think about it the first times that he did it— skipping a few meals that went unnoticed in the morning clamor of the Gallagher kitchen. He noticed his skin growing tauter and tighter around his abdomen with every passing day, a hollow absence sitting like a rock in the pit of his stomach.

He did it for a reason—he’d been getting more lingering looks under the flashing lights at the club, more unwelcome fingers pressed against the now-present ridges on his stomach, tracing his toned upper arms. The less there was of him, the more they wanted him.

The thing about Ian is that he was always disciplined; the middle child, the one who was overlooked and ignored and blended in until he decided that he had to make a name for himself. He and Lip and gotten into hair-tugging, jaw-smashing fights about this very reality; Ian was completely, totally, absolutely ordinary. Until he made himself extraordinary—until he burst through the storefront labeled “ARMY” at a strip mall with smudged windows and said with a tall chest: I want to enlist.

Everything had led up to this— every push-up on the creaking slanted floor of their childhood bedroom, every jog at the crack of dawn. He was going to make something of himself, he was going to be a hero.

He was going to get the fuck away from Mickey, and his wife, and whatever else kept pushing him down and holding him back.

When Ian came back from the army, when he was sleeping on exposed floorboards and working at the club all night—that was when it all actually started. When he decided that less of him meant more—when he decided that he should give people the best show he could, because everything else was fucked up anyways. This was all he was good for.

But then Mickey came through the door, pale skin flashing in the strobe lights, wearing that fucking dark button-up with sleeves folded to his forearms and smelling like nice cologne that he’d almost definitely stolen from one of his brothers’ bathroom shelves; and for a brief moment after the initial shock set in, Ian was proud— proud of how much negative space surrounded him, proud of how he could press his thighs into stretched golden spandex better than any of the other men thrumming to the beat beside him on the podium. Proud of how much other people wanted him, when Mickey didn't.

It was only later, after Mickey carried him home (easily, too easily) after he’d passed out in a snowbank, and Ian had woken and waited for Mickey to burst into his bedroom door at the Gallagher house while he leaned against the wall and scribbled on a notepad— later, when Mickey was about to curl on the floor and sleep using one of Liam’s balled-up t-shirts as a pillow— that Ian noticed Mickey’s eyes lingering on his uncovered torso, a second longer than the quick glances of admiration from the well-dressed men with greased-back hair and grubby fingers at the club. It hit Ian, then, when he saw Mickey’s gaze that was soft around the edges, the same fuzziness and confusion of Fiona’s stares when he would chatter on for too long in the mornings:

He’s worried about me.

But Mickey played along— Ian was back, and Mickey stayed beside him this time, and chuckled when he walked down the stairs to the sight of Ian cutting off the bottom half of his old ROTC pants, now multiple sizes too big and hanging baggy even at the hips. Mickey curled beside him on the twin bed, silently stroking hair back from his forehead and cradling his cheeks with a feather-light touch as Lip and Liam’s even, sleeping breaths swirled around them. And Ian kept doing pull-ups, and told Carl that he liked the way that Mickey smelled. Mickey came out for him. And for a while things were really, really fucking good, and Ian didn’t even think about the gnawing hollow feeling in his stomach at all any more.

Until a grey morning came, quick and silent, and kept him frozen under the sheets for days.

In the months afterwards, Ian trained harder, faster—he met up with Fiona as she pushed Liam in the stroller and jogged beside them, ran before and after shifts at the club, did push-ups on Mickey’s grimy floor while he was out handling Rub N’ Tug shit.

I’m not Monica. This wasn’t going to happen again. His body could do this. His body could fix his brain.

It couldn’t.

Most of what happened on the “road trip” with Yevgeny (that was the only phrasing that Ian could really mentally use to name the incident, the only semiotic filler for “kidnapping” that didn’t want to make him burrow even deeper under his tattered blankets) was a blur—Mickey feeding him fistfuls of pills and room-temperature Gatorade, luring Mickey to the dugouts where he tried to do a pull-up and felt a quivering in his limbs, a weakness rather than a familiar and fulfilling burn. Slamming Mickey in the face with a fist that was too flimsy, too weak—a fist that still left the blooming of a bruise on Mickey’s jawline, a splatter of blood caking into his eyebrow. But still weak, still not enough. Definitely not strong enough to fight off two MPs with loaded guns, tangling his hands behind his back and forcing him into the backseat of a car.

More blurry days— on the road with Monica. Breaking up with Mickey. Getting a job at Patsy’s. Withering away, purple bags sagging under his eyes. Becoming less, always less.

Then, a glimmer of light— he met Caleb. He studied to be an EMT. He got a call from Mandy, got to wrap her in his arms in less-than-ideal circumstances.

“I got tired of starving myself to fit in that golden thong.”

It was the first time he’d said it out loud.

He started to run again—and he started to not miss it, the hollow feeling gnawing at his insides, the twisting lack. He met Trevor, he went to brunches, he ordered mimosas and muffins and kept himself in shape, but didn’t push himself too far.

So it surprised him, really, when once again his body and mind weren’t in sync.

That was the biggest thing he’d think about, in the idle hours of he and Mickey’s prison cell, months later—that for once in his life, years after the nights at the club or the hazy early mornings at Patsy’s or in a baggy janitor uniform, he was actually doing really, really fucking good. He had a following. He was strong. Or at least he thought he was.

But something about being near Mickey pulled him out of his head and into his body, centered him— it always did. Mickey had always liked his body; Ian remembered how Mickey’s eyed at lingered that night at the dugouts, when they were two kids doing pull-ups and Mickey watched his muscles clench in the moonlight, two sets of shining eyes and bodies warm with beer leaning closer to each other in the muggy air. But Ian never felt a need to flaunt his body, or change his body, for Mickey— and in so many ways, those first days in prison were like his body was coming home. Sometimes it was hard, and fast, and filthy words whispered into each other’s skin—and sometimes it left them grasping for breath in an entirely different way, in fingertips lazily skimming over collarbones and fisted into roots of hair, of breathed “Fuck, you’re so fucking beautiful”s escaping Mickey’s parted mouth that Ian mentally stored but never brought up again, because he knew in the best case scenario Mickey would just roll his eyes and call him a “soft bitch,” and in the worst he would just flat-out deny it. But Ian felt balanced in a way he hadn't in months, with all the "Gay Jesus" bullshit pressing in. He took his meds, he did his nightly sit-ups, he counted down the days—until the hourglass was slipped out from under his fingertips and he was teleported back to the Gallagher house, back to the place where so much of this began and so much was about to end.

The hollowness, the hunger, didn’t really need to be there anymore once he was out— it was only a dull murmur. A ghost, a memory trapped in dreams of strobe lights and prying hands.

Mickey got out, and they got married—and in the moments before Ian called Mickey an “ugly motherfucker” as he let a smile crack onto his face—and he knew Mickey felt it, knew Mickey heard: I have never known anyone as beautiful as you.

And Ian’s fullness just kept blooming and compounding and radiating after the wedding; they fought, and then they didn’t, and it didn’t matter anyways because they were fucking married. Ian kept doing sit-ups before they went to bed, even though he felt like he didn’t really have to anymore. Something big had shifted; something had settled and given way, had filled in all the cracks.

So he’s surprised, when they move to the West Side, and that feeling starts to stir again; faint, fuzzy, like some sort of invasive and shapeless amoeba in the dark corners of his brain, whispering and hissing that there should be less of him. On their first morning in the new place he heads to the gym, wearing a camo t-shit that covered his torso and shoulders—and of course he ends up making a fool of himself next to some guy, some guy that he could have been, with sweaty toned abs and bronzed skin and rippling muscles. He doesn’t know why it gets to him, that small interaction—he’s so much happier now, so fucking happy he’s buzzing with it, but there’s also something churning in the faultlines of transition; that aching for hollow absence and stretched skin and interested eyes, that feeling that made him woozy and lightheaded as a kid but also sickeningly proud, like every moment of standing tall, of dancing, of staying alive was a statement, a challenge, a test of how much he could push his ability to be desired.

He immediately pushes the thought down. He doesn’t fucking need that anymore to keep his head above water; he’s stable, he’s loved, he’s fed. He’s growing organic tomatoes, and definitely developing a farmer’s tan from his days hunched over their way-too-tiny community garden plot tenderly watering and pruning the vines and brambles. He is desired. So it doesn’t make fucking sense that the hunger, the clawing in his stomach for the absence, doesn’t really stop.

**

“Okay Gallagher, spill.”

Ian felt his eyebrow raise instinctively at Mickey’s tone. “Huh?”

“You’ve been staring at this fancy fucking chicken thing you made for, like, twenty minutes. Stop staring at it and eat your goddamn dinner.”

He felt a twist in his gut. I don’t want to.

“M’actually not really that hungry.”

Mickey’s eyes narrowed. “The fuck’s up? You stressed about work shit?”

Ian huffed out a breath of relief. “Nah. It’s not that.” He fiddled with his fork on the plate, drawing lines into the sauce pooled under the tomato-basil chicken he’d made. It was healthy, it was good, he’d worked out today; he could stomach a couple bites of dinner if he fucking had to. He just had to work up to it. Even the smell was making his stomach twist— it had smelled good while he was cooking it, placing fresh-scented basil leaves into the simmering sauce, but now it just was too much.

Mickey’s boot nudged against his calf from under the kitchen island. “Ey. Is it a tired thing? Or a… sick thing?” His eyes darted to their kitchen cupboard, where Ian kept his meds on the bottom shelf by the water glasses. “Or, like, a food thing?”

Ian felt his fingers go slack around his fork. “A food thing?”

“Yeah, man, y’know. When you get all weird about food.”

A tightness in his chest. “What the fuck? I don’t get weird about food.”

Mickey’s eyes flickered to meet his—and Ian would have gotten more pissed off if he didn’t see the soft concern bleeding into Mickey’s gaze, how cautiously Mickey was trying to broach the topic. Ian blew out a breath. Of fucking course Mickey noticed this shit— he always did.

“Weird how?”

“I don’t know, man. You’re usually good, especially compared to when you were fucking starving yourself when we were kids. But, uh… I don’t know.” Now it was Mickey’s turn to play with his food, scraping his fork along the remnants of sauce on his plate that was nearly clean. “You got kind of weird about working out and shit in prison. And then at the house, with all the quarantine bullshit the first few weeks. Eating fuckin’ cereal all the time, then not eating at all. You’ve been normal since then, or whatever. Lookin’ healthy.” Ian felt Mickey’s gaze drag over him. “Just don’t want you getting stressed out and not eating again or whatever.”

Ian felt a muted warmth blooming in the hollow of his stomach, filling in the cracks of where the jagged feeling continued to claw. If it was anyone else laying out this fucking analysis of his habits Ian would’ve gotten defensive—or at the very least annoyed, that someone was pinning down yet another one of his behaviors, putting them under a fucking clinical microscope.

But of course, this was Mickey— and the difference with Mickey was that he cared, he cared so much that it made Ian’s body ache every time he realized it. Those words wouldn’t have come tumbling out of Mickey’s mouth if they hadn’t been building for a while, hadn’t been gnawing away at some corner of his mind over time.

Ian raised a hand over the table to clasp into Mickey’s warm palm—reaching over the empty plate, the plate of uneaten food.

“It’s, uh. A food thing.”

Mickey’s eyes met his—open, listening.

“You’re right about all the starving myself shit from forever ago. And the not eating. And the… quarantine stuff. I guess I just thought that now that things were good, it’d go away? And I feel so fucking good right now. But sometimes I just have weird days.”

Mickey huffed out a breath. “I fucking know you do, dumbass. M’just saying that I notice that shit. And we can figure it out.”

Ian felt the corner of his mouth tick upwards. “I really thought it was gonna go away. I’m a fucking adult.”

Mickey shrugged. “Sometimes shit doesn’t work like that, Gallagher.” He chugged a sip of water from his glass, apparently glad that this heavier part of the conversation was over now that he knew what was up. “It’s like what you tell me about my shit with Terry. Trauma doesn’t just magically fucking disappear.”

Trauma. He’d never really thought about it like that before—he had plenty of childhood shit to work through, between abandonment and raging mental illness; and he’d never really thought that his body image issues made the list.

But maybe they did— maybe this was another wound, one that he could learn to heal.

Mickey kicked his shin under the table. “There’s cereal and stuff in the cabinet, I got the Fruit Loops shit you like. Want me to wrap up the chicken and shove it in the fridge?”

All he could do was nod— and once again feel that warmth on his insides that Mickey was this good, that he knew how to make shit like this easier.

And he snuggled into the couch beside his husband, a bowl of soggy cereal in his hands.

#idrk what this is but i wrote it at LIGHTNING speed #can u tell that i reached the destination of my childhood home & am having lots of thoughts and feelings about body image LOL #i was like !!! i have a prompt about this #love u all xoxo #gallavich #shameless #shameless fic #gallavich fic #gallavich fanfiction #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #ian x mickey #ixm #tw eating disorder #tw food mention #tw ed #tw body image

[all-things-skam]

prompt: ele and edo making cute travel plans in bed after THAT scene. also could there be something where ele makes some joke about how many girls edo has been with and edo is like lol no i haven't been with a girl since u called me out at school and ele is all OH OKAY

Incantava first time they say I love you. 

Edoardo being all soft and cuddly with Ele after they had sex

I would love to read an incantava fic! Something fluffly

-

Title: Our summer together

Ship: Skam Italia | Eleonora Sava and Edoardo Incanti (Incantava)

_______________

She pushed a curl away from his face, a gleeful grin on her lips as she looked up at him, completely enamored. Edoardo’s whole face was smiling as he caressed her bare back, having reached nirvana.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice gentle and caring.

Eleonora nodded, tilting her head to kiss his collarbone, lips brushing the white gold of his chain. The delicate jewelry had always awoken her attention. He was never not wearing it which made Eleonora suspect that it wasn’t just a piece of jewelry.

“Do you want to go back to your friends?”

She didn’t want him to leave their love-nest but, it was his party. He’d have to go back at some point, he couldn’t leave his guests to themselves downstairs for the rest of the night.

“No.” Edoardo shifted, leaning to pull her against him and kiss her jaw tenderly. “I rather stay here with you.” He trailed his kisses up to her lips, hand sliding to her back when she hooked her leg on his hip, pulling her closer.

Breaking the kiss, he brushed their noses together, laying flat on his stomach, head on his grey pillow as he staregaze at the beautiful girl in front of him, still awestruck that she was [his] now. “I’ve waited for you for a whole year and, when I finally got you, we’re being forced apart.”

Eleonora bit her lip, sitting up on the bed, the sheets covering her breasts.

Since Edoardo announced her that he was accepted at an Ivy League college in America, she had shown nothing but proudness and joy but, deep down, his coming departure was worrying her. New York wasn’t next door; it was 4279 miles away from Rome. She was willing to give long distance a try but, you know what they say: far from the eyes, far from the heart.

“About that… I’m happy that you got accepted, but a part of me can’t help but be scared that you’ll find another girl in America.”

“Why would I want another girl when I already have the most beautiful one waiting for me at home?” he replied with a smug smile.

Eleonora rolled her eyes. “Stop it. I’m being serious.”

“So am I.” Edo propped himself on his elbow, dark irises smiling at her. “I’m crazy about you, Eleonora Francesca Sava. You’re all I see since the first time we met at Chicco’s barbecue…all I want.”

A scoff slipped past Ele’s lips and she spoke before she realized it. “Yet, you managed to bring five girls in your bed according to the trophy wall.”

Immediately, the mood shifted and Edoardo’s face blanched. He gulped thickly. “You’re right. I understand your doubts concerning my faithfulness. If I were you, I would have difficulty trusting myself too. But, I’ll tell you something: I haven’t had sex with anyone since you called me out last spring. It was tough but, I was determined to gain your heart. I was persistent but patient. Hell, I even messaged you every single day while you were in England without getting any answers. So, why would I destroy something I worked so hard to get?”

A silence installed itself, making Edoardo sigh as he waited for something he knew he wasn’t going to get. What could she say to this? He already knew her opinion about his past; he wasn’t proud of everything he had done but, no matter what he’d say, he still couldn’t change his past. What is done is done. The only choice is to move forward.

Surprisingly, his words got a small smile to form on Eleonora’s lips. It wasn’t fully there so he took her hand in his and brought it to his lips, kissing it. He watched her smile widen, knowing that the small gestures and touches meant a lot to her. Feeling like he was on a good lead, he continued his trail of kisses and waited until she was distracted enough to pull her down, making her laugh.

“Edo, no…” she said between laughs.

Edoardo grinned, knowing that making a girl laugh is the way to her heart.

.

The party had died down and Fede had kicked out everyone by now, leaving only Eleonora and Edoardo in the Incanti’s villa. While she put on a shirt to cover herself, Edoardo had gone downstairs to get them a late night snack, aka ice cream, and the brunette couldn’t be more satisfied when she saw the pistachio pot.

“So, have you decided yet?”

She furrowed her eyebrows, scooping a spoonful of the frozen dessert. “Decided what?”

“Our summer vacations,” Edo explained, extending his hand to play with Eleonora’s hair, thumb brushing her cheek. “Spain, Turkey, Paris, Croatia…we can go wherever you want.”

Gulping, Eleonora lowered her gaze, afraid to break his happy bubble. She wasn’t bathing in money like him. She couldn’t splurge on luxury trips across Europe, on a whim, whenever she wanted. Everything she had, she worked for it.

“I’m not sure I can afford any of that, I have to work this summer and-”

Edoardo shook his head, smoothing the creased on her forehead. “Don’t worry about money. Just tell me where you want to go.”

A blush coated her cheeks, suddenly feeling uneasy. Beside Filippo, no one had ever been there for her - not even her parents. All this was new and foreign to her. Someone who cared deeply for her, someone who would unhook the stars for her, someone who wanted give her the world. She didn’t know how to handle this.

“I-I can’t accept that, Edo. You spending so much money on me makes me uncomfortable.”

“A couple hundreds euros more won’t change anything to my dad’s bank account, Ele. I want to spend my summer with you; just the two of us.” He paused. “Don’t you want that too?”

“Yes, but-”

He shushed her, pressing his index to her lips. “What will our first destination be, Miss Sava?”

Ele sighed, giving in, and picked a country. “I guess we can go to Spain. I’ve always wanted to see the architecture. Everything so beautiful there.”

“It is. I’ve been once. You have to see Barcelona, you’re gonna love it. We can go see La Sagrada Família, Park Güell or even the Gothic quarters. There’s old gargoyles on the buildings and a magnificent cathedral.”

She had heard about every touristic attractions Edoardo talked about, but the way he talked about Barcelona so dreamily made Eleonora more excited to go and travel. She had seen those beautiful churches in thousands of pictures and was looking forward to visit them. She was also looking forward to walk hand in hand with Edoardo in Park Güell.

“And after Spain?” He stole a scoop of her ice cream and she narrowed her eyes, bringing the tub to herself, making Edo chuckle.

Eleonora pinched her chin. “Erm…maybe Croatia? It’s such an underrated country.”

“I heard the beaches there are breathtaking. The turquoise water, Plitvice Lakes national park…we could go zip lining or swim with stingrays.”

“Stingrays?” the brunette repeated, a bit surprised. “I would’ve took you for a shark person.”

Edoardo shook his head. “No. Sharks are overrated. Stingrays are much cooler,” he explained with a childish grin.

You could perceive Edo’s child heart through his words which made the brunette smile. Maybe he was one of those nerdy kids that loved to go to the aquarium and knew a bunch of facts about fishes and marine life? Or, maybe he never went to the aquarium. Maybe his parents were too busy to take him…just like hers.

Feeling a lump form in her throat at the thought of her childhood, Eleonora changed subject.

“Where do you wanna go?” she returned.

“Paris. I’ve never been to Paris…and this is the perfect time to go.”

“Why do you insist on going to Paris? So you can tell me the most cliché thing on top of the Eiffel tower?” She shook her head. “I refuse to go.”

He chuckled shaking his head. “I don’t need to go to Paris to tell you that.”

“Wha-” Eleonora whispered quietly, eyebrows furrowed as she looked up at him with confused eyes.

“I love you. I love you, Eleonora…you’re a part of my little family.”

The sincerity in his eyes almost made hers water. His little family. She was brought back to the radio episode: family has nothing to do with blood or time; sometimes just one person, even though you’ve known them for so little time, might become so special and important to be like family to you. She had always had a doubt that the last paragraph of the episode - the one Edoardo wrote - was his way of telling her he loved her, but this just confirmed it.

Before the emotions would take over her, she leaned for a kiss, tasting the pistachio ice cream on his lips.

“You’re a part of mine too.”

#incantava #edoardo incanti #elenora sava #edoardo x eleonora #incantava prompt #incantava fic #skam italia #skamit #skam italia fic

[reve-avaritia94]

Chapter 1: The Unfortunate Girl and Prince Charming...

When I went to the airport, my friends and family came to see my mom, Ghita and I. My friends, Amore and Valentina came to see me off. Valentina told me "You know I have a feeling living in Paris is a good thing". Why would it be a good thing? I asked. "Well since you aren't used to guys, you might find an attractive one". Amore replied. Whatever I won't fall in love. I don't want to get hurt and left alone. I replied. It's a feeling. When you fall in love. Give juicy us details. Amore replied. Shut up. I replied. Soon as I walked to the door my Nonna whispered in my ear something Italian. She said, "You will fall in love. You will meet a young man who will ruff around the edges but you will change him" What are you talking about Nonna? I asked. Have a nice flight. Nonna replied. When the intercom called for Paris flight.

When we were walking down the hallway onto the airplane. We sat in at our assigned seats on the plane. As soon as we sat down, I thought about what my Nonna said. Well we are going back to Paris, are you happy? Ghita asked. Mom, you know I have a bad history in Paris. I replied. I know you were ridiculed because of your father. Ghita replied. Yeah, my dad is a dog in my eyes for the way you treated you. I replied. You know you can't change a person. Ghita replied. Your grandmother once told me, "Your father was a dog and he was no good for me". Well, you can't change history either. Ghita replied. Well, I wouldn't be here if you never met my dad. I replied. Well, Gaby let's relax until we get to reach Charles de Gaulle Airport. When I looked out the plane window, I saw the beautiful scenery of Italy from way up high. As I turned to the other side my mom was sleeping. I might fall in love and it could the right guy. I thought.

It's been one hour and fifteen minutes since we have been on our flight. Passengers we are selling snacks. Flight attendants said. I asked for water. Twenty-five minutes later the captain told us we are at the airport. Mom, we are at the airport. I said. We are, let's get off? Ghita replied. Don't startle me like that Gaby. Ghita replied. Hey, mom are we calling a cab or something? I asked. No, an old friend of mine is going to pick us up. Ghita replied. When went to the airport, we got our luggage. A young man who looked a lot like a girl came and hugged my mom. Hey Jaimie, how have you been? Ghita asked. Been awhile, I see Gaby has grown up a lot. Jaimie replied. Mom, who is this guy? He is actually the guy who delivered you. Ghita replied. Are you a doctor? You don't look that old. I replied. You see I am actually three years older than my mom. Jaimie replied. You look like you are a high school student. I replied. No, you see, I made an excuse so I could pick you two up today. Jaime replied. I have never looked my age by the way. Jaimie replied. Come on and head to the car. Jaimie replied.

When our luggage was put in the car, my mom and I got in the car. Your stuff and your car at your house. Jaimie replied. Thank you for checking. Ghita replied. Wait does that guy Jaimie does he have feelings for my mom? I thought. Hey Gaby, you know you were born and raised in Paris. Jaimie replied. Please don't remind of that. I replied. You know coming back here is the best ever. Ghita replied. No more of your Nonna getting in my damn business. Ghita replied. To be honest, I don't even want to be bothered with your dad to be honest. Ghita replied. As my mom and Jaimie were talking, Valentina texted me "Hey r u n France yet?" "Yes, and I met the guy who delivered me." I texted back. Is he hot as hell? Valentina texted. "He looks like a high school student." I texted. "Seriously? How old is he?" Valentina asked. "He is three years older than my mom" I texted. Are you texting your friends? Ghita asked. Valentina was wondering if I got here safely. I replied. That is so much like her, she is really protective of you, Gaby. Ghita replied. It is kind of like Jaimie here. Ghita replied. You two are old friends? I asked. We are actually childhood friends. Jaimie replied. Well, Jaimie lived in the same house as your Aunt Belle, Caroline, and Inez. Ghita replied. Yeah, my parents gave me up as a child. Jaimie replied. Nonna adopted you, Jaimie? I asked. Yes, she did. Even though I am French, Italian and Venezuelan. Jaimie replied. Didn't you meet your mom once? Ghita asked. Yeah, he's Venezuelan. Jaimie replied. I heard she is gorgeous. Ghita replied. Here's a picture of my mom. Wow, she is gorgeous. You have her eyes and hair color too. Ghita replied. She lives in France because she loves the city. Jaimie replied. Do you always go to see her? Ghita asked. I always come to see her when I get off or the days I have off. Jaimie replied. I think that is really sweet you see your mom as often as you can. I replied. A few hours later, we were in the city. I saw the Eiffel Tower from the distance. How do you like seeing the Eiffel Tower from the distance? Jaimie asked. It's been years since I have seen the Eiffel Tower. Ghita replied. In at least thirty minutes from now, we will be at your new house. Jaimie replied. We are living in Paris, France "City of Love". Ghita replied. Isn't it ironic mom, you fell in love here and got your heart broken here. I replied. You might fall in love here who knows. Ghita replied. Yeah, "might" will be the key term. I replied. You are right "might" is the keyword. Ghita replied.

Thirty minutes later, we were at our new house. This house is bigger and roomier than our house in Venice. Ghita replied. You might be right mom but I need to take a walk. I replied. When I went back outside, I took a walked. When I took a turn around I bumped into someone. Little did I know something bad was going to become of this encounter. I am so sorry are you ok? I ask. You little. Destin replied. That girl knocked Prince Destin down. A random girl said. What I told you I was sorry. I replied. You are a cursed girl. A girl is full of calamity. You are an "Unfortunate Girl". My mom walked over to see what the commotion was all about. Who are they calling "Unfortunate Girl"? Oh, I see you met Prince Destin. Ghita replied. Do you know that guy? I asked. Maybe. Ghita replied. Who is this "Unfortunate Girl" they are speaking of? I feel so sorry for them. Ghita replied. The "Unfortunate Girl" is my mom. I replied. Come on let's get back to the house. Ghita replied. Prince Destin got into the car. Nicole, who is that girl? Destin asked. I have no clue, young master. Nicole replied. Maybe she might know. Destin replied. Mom, I came back and now I have a horrible nickname at that. I replied. Can I go and crawl up in a corner and die now? I asked. Sweetheart isn't that bad now. Think positively, maybe that nickname might go away. Ghita replied. I don't believe that. I replied. While Destin went home to the study, he was feeling awful about what he said to me. He started asking people who are I? Charlotte is in the corner of his desk. I see you lashed out on another person again. Charlotte replied. What do you want Charlotte? Destin asked. Well Prince Charming, your little fan club lashed out on that poor girl. She is now labeled as the "Unfortunate Girl". Charlotte replied. Seriously, I didn't even know that she was ridiculed because of that bump into her. Destin replied. You could apologize to her or ignore the situation as usual. Charlotte replied. Lady Charlotte, may I ask you a question? Nicole asked. What do you want to ask me, Nicole? Charlotte asked. Can you tell me that girl's name if you see her again? Nicole asked. Sure, she looks like she is a high school student like me. Charlotte replied. She might attend my school if her grades are high enough. Charlotte replied. What are you thinking, Nicole? Charlotte asked. I'll persuade him to write a letter to that girl soon as you girl her the name. Nicole replied. What a sneaky woman you are. Charlotte replied.

When I got back home, the neighbors were calling me "Unfortunate Girl" too. Gaby ignores what those people say about you. Ghita replied. Mom, that is kind of hard to do if the nickname is really hurtful. I replied. Well, at least you are not an ugly "Unfortunate Girl". Ghita replied. Mom if that was supposed to comfort me? I asked. I'm trying in some little way to make you feel better. Ghita replied. I am going to sleep, mom. I replied. We will eat dinner I started earlier. Ghita replied. What did you make mom? I asked. Well, I am making Beef Bourguignon. Ghita replied. Mom, you are making that? I asked. Yes, I am. Ghita replied. Are you making this because you like that dish? I asked. Maybe I do. Ghita replied. You know mom it is ok if you make it. I replied. I know to make that reminds of when your dad was around. Ghita replied. Mom, I really don't care about him. I replied. I know but what will happen if you run into somewhere? Ghita asked. You are right mom. I replied. What would I say to that bastard? I asked myself. Mom, does my dad still live here in France? I asked. Yes, he does. Ghita replied. I have no intention of dealing with that man, either. Ghita replied. Well, the food is done. Ghita said. Mom, it smells wonderful. I replied. That is why you are going to be a taste tester. Ghita said with a smile. Mom, did the movers put everything in our rooms? I asked. Yes but for some reason, the mover guy would keep hitting on me. Ghita replied. Mom, you always attract guys but you never realized it. I replied. I know I am a single mom but I have no intentions of dating guys anytime soon. Ghita replied. Hey, wait why am I your guinea pig? I asked. I only have you around to try the food. Ghita replied. As soon as I ate that food. I tried to keep the fact that my life was ruined by that snobby guy.

[davidaolson]

The past is a place of reference, not a place of residence. ~Roy T. Bennett

With the sale of the family Summer Estate in Central Wisconsin in March of 2018, the second to last vestige of my childhood goes the way of the final Dodo bird clubbed over the head by a sailor for food. Death. Extinction. The last vestige is my childhood home, a red brick bungalow still housing my Mother. It is the saving grace connecting me to my personal history. A place I can visit and feel connected to a youth characterized by reckless stupidity, a youth experiencing more joy than any one person deserves.

This travel blog will be different than most I have written. It is an amalgamation of experiences occurring in chunks as small as one day up through a maximum of two weeks occurring over 45 years compressed into a single offering. It is the story of yesteryear, a memory filled yesteryear with my last memory painted a few yesterdays ago. I am trekking deep down memory lane living mostly in the time before mobile phone, the land before internet, the world before nearly every human was connected by six degrees of separation.

This blog is longer than most and possibly too long to keep the average person’s attention. I am ok with that. I wrote it for myself as both a celebration of 45 years and a cathartic experience to release my pain into the collective consciousness so to begin the healing process.

I had a rudimentary plan for the farewell blog one that saw me deep dive into a sea of memories, study all the offerings, then surface with those carrying the weight of ages for sharing. It did not work out that way. I fell into labyrinthian memory corridors without Ariadne to guide me back stumbling my way through a memory fog bumping into remembrances I had completely forgotten existed, people whose faces I hadn’t thought about in decades who may no longer be breathing.

The vignettes contained herein are those that allowed me to see them giving me comfort during a challenging time. They chose me. Each is both an anchor grounding me in my youth and a springboard into my unknown future. The two may appear to be conflicting, anchoring and springing, but they are harmonious dualities, complementary. This duality is not good balanced with evil as in the Western tradition but the harmony of Mother and Father, yin and yang. To maintain the harmony of my subconscious, I laid them out in the same sequence they spoke to my soul.

Many remembrances echoed from the depths of forgotten time during the drive from my home in Chicago the Friday before my last ever visit. I foresee no reason to ever return. Long solo drives are enjoyable. I set the cruise control a nickel over the posted speed, slide into the right lane, settle into a mantra of sunflower seed, preferably David & Sons brand, eating…pop a handful into my mouth, crack individual shells and eat the seed, spit the saliva drenched shells into an empty soda bottle. Repeat.

It is a meditative process where my mind wanders only interrupted when a thought I want to explore further is spoken into Siri for a note. Most of the time, the notes are garbled, sometimes too much to be of later use. Or a song reaches through the speaker and grabs my attention but I always fall back into my sunflower seed rhythm where my mind, uncluttered, senses the echoes before they become full-fledged remembrances.

The drive is 250 miles and takes four hours, three and a half if you push it, four and a half when taken leisurely. My dad had the ability to stretch it into a solid eight hours. Granted, the speed limit was 55 in those days, a number he held tightly. Eight hours inside a van full of camping gear, six restless kids, a dog or two, and not a lick of air conditioning to abate the August heat.

We always left just before dawn. The first stop was a mile away for coffee and donuts. The next stop 90 miles later for a restaurant breakfast at the Clock Tower in Rockford followed by another 120 miles and lunch in the horror show known as the Wisconsin Dells. Then 25 miles up highway 13 to friendship for yet another cup of coffee, at which time the passengers were ready to stage a violent revolution, before the final 19 miles to the land.

Some events echoed clear as the day they happened and I was able to write with assuredness as if I was taking notes from a film reel playing in real-time. Others were apparitions, shadows steeped in thick fog allowing near blind glimpses leaving a trail of unresolved emotion I tripped over skinning my soul.

I am not sure if any vignette is my singular experience, a fusion of various experiences, or recitations of other’s experiences that sublimated into my mind taking up residence as my own first-person stories. My understanding of reality rises and falls with the color of the sun, waxes and wanes with the phases of the dark moon, fluctuates with the intonation of the voices carried in the wind. Their essence remains if not the exact facts. Facts don’t speak whole truths anyway. Statistics are facts and most of them are used to support damn lies. There are still other incidents so hidden by the mists of time, if I don’t receive the help of others to clear the clouds, they may never again illuminate my personal history. I weep for those losses.

And so it goes…

The End is Nigh

At 4:41 pm CST on Sunday, 04 March 2018, the siblings, siblings-in-law, and the grandchildren received a group text telling us the sale closing on the cottage was imminent and our help was needed to ready the house for the buyer. My first tear fell the next day during a flurry of texts planning a final visit to clear out the home, gut the fish and leave it for dead, slip a thin, sharp knife in the soft underbelly of my youth ripping forty-five years from stem to stern scraping the vitality of youth to be tossed in a pile of decomposing offal. I am officially old.

When Mom informed us last Fall it was being sold, I was indifferent. I had not been there for five years and that last time was only for one night on the way back from a mountain biking trip a couple hours further North. I did not want to drive the remaining four hours home to Chicago and I was with a hot lass. Drive home in the dark or spend the night in a wooded forest cabin with the hot babe? It was an easy decision. It was a decision that made itself. As for future trips, well, none were anywhere on my horizon. I have come to enjoy international travel and prefer to spend my leisure time immersed in unfamiliar cultures that bombarded the senses and obliterate my understanding of reality.

The Summer Estate had become the dying limb on a tree, a drain on the financial health of my mother. Better to sever the limb than allow it to siphon off resources needed elsewhere. Since my dad passed, it had become too much for her to maintain. She valiantly held on to it for 10 years thanks in large part to my brother-in-law who helped her open and close it year after year. Looking back, I have to say he is somewhat a hero.

We dubbed the upcoming event a reunion, a euphemism keeping the pain at bay for as long as possible. The first stage of grief is denial. The euphemism helped me deny the coming loss for a couple of weeks. The actual reunion/cleaning day was filled with stories, multiple trips to the dump, laughter, photographs, and a tribute. It is amazing how pain can be dissipated when it is countered with love.

What can we throw away?

Lunch

Cleaning the Main Quarters

Paul Bunyan

Boat is Frozen

Cleaning the Shed

Worky, worky

The Fire Pit

The Fire Pit & Home Made Benches

HUH???

Dousing the Flames

The Address

Herstory/History/Gender Fluidstory/Gender Neutralstory

The land, a small heavily wooded pine and oak copse within scent range of the freshwater lake, was purchased in the Winter of 1973. It was young and vibrant then but, like us, it aged not so gracefully. Today, there are fewer trees in the area. A blight took many of the oaks. Pine trees were removed to build the house and by others purchasing lots on either side of ours. What felt like a forest now feels closer to a suburban subdivision.

It was bought at the behest of my dad’s best friend, Bob, who had his own plot a short traipse through the tick-infested woods. I didn’t know it at the time but Bob, the consummate outdoorsman and storyteller, was destined to become a second father figure to me. After my father died, Bob’s stories unwound from the reel of his mind while we fished the Canadian wilderness brought my dad back to life. He repeated the same stories endlessly yet I never grew tired of hearing the tales.

I grew to love Bob, was distraught when his children didn’t tell us he passed in 2017 until months after he was laid to rest and then it felt like an afterthought. I would surely have made the 500-mile round trip to pay my last respects and immerse in communal grief which disperses the pain so no one person has to carry the entire burden. Instead, I cried alone, bore the loss alone. One only gets so many fathers in life, for some the count is none. I was lucky to have had two.

I was 12 when the land was purchased, immersed in little league baseball as were my brothers. The Vietnam conflict was still littering bodies of both sides over the lush jungle landscape pockmarked by unrelenting bombs dropped from heaven. I can’t recall if my father and I had already had the disagreement we never resolved about the moral corruptness characterizing America’s role in the fiasco. We existed at opposite ends of the political spectrum. Even in my 50s, when most people seem to have long ago navigated toward conservatism, I have not budged an inch toward the center. To be so would make me feel complicit with the evil perpetrated by our lying government. The war never directly influenced our lives. We kids were simply excited to know we would vacation in Wisconsin where we could fish and swim.

In the beginning, we tented. We built a compound, the Olson compound. Three tents set up in u-shape, a sleeping tent on the left with eight double bunked cots and thick cotton, brown sleeping bags. The storage tent lived in the center with the portapotty. The final tent, the screen tent for eating insect free to the right. A canopy connected all three tents ensuring we could walk between them and keep dry during the rains. One just had to avoid the rivulets falling between the gaps. Every night before bedtime, the tent was sprayed with Raid to kill off the creepy crawlies.

One late night, we heard scraping at the cooler in the food tent. We peeked out with a flashlight and saw a skunk trying but failing to pry open the cooler. We immediately turned off our light and quieted into to bed for fear of startling the skunk and suffering uplifted tail umbrage. Another time, a brother who will remain nameless…for now, jumped up on a cooler and screamed when a tiny mouse ran through the screen tent.

The worst tent vacation ever occurred the year it rained every day for the entirety of our two-week vacation only clearing up after we broke camp and started driving home. During sunny weather, the sleeping bags were hung to dry every day on lines stretched between the trees. Sleeping bags absorb body moisture. Two weeks of rain meant the bags never dried. We were forced to sleep in increasing dampness the entire vacation. The lodge, too far for us city folk to walk, had 25¢ showers along with ice cream, soda pop, a pool table where quarters near the slot reserved the next game, and pinball machines on the lower level. It was a nice place to hang out during the rains.

I love tenting. In the old days, they were massive canvas beasts. Heavy. They required many aluminum poles fitted together, anchor ropes without which the structure would collapse, were cumbersome and required multiple people to erect. Consequently, we only enjoyed ‘The Land’ for a couple of weeks each year with those two weeks squeezed between the end of baseball season and the beginning of football season. Then came the luxury of the camper. The camper rolled in during the Spring, was taken away to storage, per the property owners association rules, in the Fall. The relative ease of a camper increased our time spent at the land.

The ultimate abode was a small, prefab house was brought in two halves on flatbed trucks and slapped together. The back half was two bedrooms and a bathroom, the front half a combination kitchen and living room. Ever the builder, my dad soon added a deck. Years later he removed the deck and built a new one with a large screened in porch. I loved the porch. It allowed me to sit outside on those nights too rainy for the campfire. The patter of rain while reading is comforting. Also with the house came TV. It always felt blasphemous to have the contraption spoiling the wilderness.

Having a house meant visits increased significantly for all of us. Being older with our own vehicles to travel as did the allure of the lower than Illinois drinking age. Wisconsin allowed 18-year-olds to purchase alcohol, the same age as military service. I always thought it hypocritical that one is believed adult enough at 18 to die for the country in a war but too immature to consume alcohol. I should not be too surprised. 18-year-olds drinking can’t put nearly as much money into the silk-lined jock straps of politicians as does the kickbacks they get from the war machine.

There were many party weekends in Wisconsin where the music played from early morning until well into the night. Somewhere there is a music video we created with dancing. People were on the porch and on the roof. I would love to see it again. The music continued for years…until some people wheeled in their own camper next door and complained that we were too loud for their younguns. It did not matter to them that their kids were running around screaming while many of us tried to sleep in the morning.

Ironically, as the years wore on, I slept in the house less and less often. It was too crowded, too noisy. And I enjoyed sleeping outdoors. Instead of the house, I popped up a tent with the opening directly looking toward the fire pit. My tents were the much lighter nylon versions, stand-alone with a screen roof for ventilation that could be set up by a single person in less than ten minutes and in the dark. My preferred bed was a comfortable Thermarest mattress and a down-filled sleeping bag. I slept well in the cool of those nights.

The Memory Vignettes

I wish I had chronicled the decades bounded by ownership of ‘The Land’ become ‘Summer Estate’ allowing me to read back and relive the many life-enhancing, some life-defining moments experienced on that 1/2 acre. Alas, my drive to write had not yet kindled into the raging fire it is today which sees me scribbling every morning. There are some moments that emoted into my mind leading up to the weekend and while we, as a family, emptied the house. They surfaced like bubbles when my mind was fixated on the road heading home forcing me to stop before the memory dissipated or call out to Siri to capture fragments. A few times tears rolled down my cheek. Still, I catch myself tearing up for memories lost.

He knew that forgetfulness was the most painful death. ~Jaume Cabré

The Sacred Bonfire

The indigenous peoples (is it right to call them Native Americans being they thrived on these lands long before they were dubbed America by European invaders?) made/make use a sweat lodge in purification ceremonies to prepare for divine intervention and God’s blessings. It is one of the seven sacred rituals of the Lakota people, a spiritual experience reconnecting participants with their oneness, with the universe, with nature.

Similarly, we had nightly bonfires…weather permitting. The quest to build a raging pyre with a single match was a skill a few of us mastered. It meant spending significant time with the hatchet splitting pine logs into slender, tender splinters. These are set in the middle on top of a loosely crumbled wad of dry newspaper. Next, a slightly larger, mini-teepee of thicker pine slices is built around the flimsy strips forming a chimney which, when the fire starts, pulls in oxygen from below to feed the flame. When the fire is strong enough larger, quartered pine logs are added and finally, the dense oak logs which burn hotter and longer ensuring an outstanding fire for many hours requiring minimal care and feeding.  The other methods, a blow torch, a cup of white gas, were easier but much less satisfying.

We shared hours upon hours, hours galore in a lodge made of smoke, smoke keeping the raging mosquitoes at bay, buzzing vampires, seeking to hold a rave with our blood as the centerpiece of the revelry. Our blood, their sacred communion. We shared hours drinking under legal age, shooting the shit frequently until sunrise. The faces changed repeatedly over the years. Some visiting once, others regularly featured. A few now flash before my eyes, most are obscured by the mists of time. My soul weeps for those I have forgotten.

Bonfires were a time, a rare time in my life where I felt an intimate connection with people. I never wanted the nights to end and would hold on tightly to those moments fending off sleep as long as possible. I think I feared the isolation I would inevitably return to with the dousing of the flames. Dark of night, shadow descending upon my soul. I would stay awake with the anyone not ready for bed. Stayed awake until the sun rose and the birds burst into a conflagration of song, a chorus of mostly sopranos with some altos, the occasional tenor, the rare croaking baritone of a heron seeking an early breakfast, a cacophonous symphony lasting less than an hour then finally to bed once the sun shot its orange wad over the horizon.

I realize, now, the bonfire time evolved into a sacred ritual, a spiritual experience connecting me with the universe, with nature, with people. If I could reside in any one moment of my Wisconsin history, it would be fire time. Better yet, string them all together into one long film reel where I could jump in and live them over and over again.

Oh, what have they done to my song, ma?

The end of night ritual was for the boys to drain the weasel one final time directly into the fire. The logic was we were dousing it so it would not spread while we slept and start a forest fire. As Yogi says, “Only you can prevent forest fires.” The reality. We enjoyed the sound made when our streaming piss hit the white-hot embers.

On this trip, my son and my brother stayed at the house the Friday before the cleaning, braved the cold and slept in the cottage. Had I not already paid for a non-refundable hotel, I would have joined them. They built a fire which burned deep into the night and through our reunion time the following day. Our final act before climbing into our vehicles and driving away was to douse the flame…with snow. It made the same sound as pissing the flame into submission.

The Pissing Tree

When you are male, the world is not only your oyster, it is also your bathroom. Every tree, every nook, every cranny, every dying fire is a potential place to discreetly, if possible, obvious if necessary, let the dachshund out for a walk. We have the anatomy to take advantage of zipper fly clothing allowing the one-eyed snake to stick it’s head out and spit anywhere and everywhere without exposing the rest of the anatomy to prying eyes or, worse, biting insects. The more talented are able to write their name in the snow. My willy was once attacked by a mosquito. Shaft sting, not head probing. It was painful, mainly itchy requiring lots of hand time in the pants to relieve the irritation. There is an unwritten rule with men. Shaking it more than three times means you’re playing with it. There was a party in my pants. It’s not an experience I want to repeat.

When you live in tents and there are eight of you and half are little girls there tends to be a line for the portapotty. Worse, the portapotty is not tied to plumbing so must be manually emptied when full. It is a stinky job so it is advantageous to drain the vein in places other than the portapotty. What better place than the outdoors?

Outside the tents, a few yards into the woods, there was a natural clearing and a small tree, perhaps it was a deer bed during the fifty weeks we were not at the land. There was enough bramble ensuring we could not be seen from the road during the brightest part of the day nor from the screen windows in the tents. It was not too far that it was scary to walk into the woods at night for that final piss before crawling into the sleeping bag.

We all, the three boys and our dad, migrated to the exact same spot multiple times each day. It wasn’t planned more evolution along a common path. At the end of two weeks, The piss smell became daunting. The grasses had yellowed and the tree was wilting. It, the oak, never recovered and we returned to a standing cadaver the following year. On the plus side, it was fuel to feed our nightly bonfires.

Skinny Dipping

Before the house years, showers were only available at the lodge. If you were male a shower came in at $0.25. For the womenfolk, it was upwards of $5. The showers operated on a timer with incremental time added per quarter. Us dudes could get two showers in for that twenty-five cents while the girls carried in a bucket full of quarters.

But the lodge closed around 5 pm necessitating a shower before dinner or going to bed nasty sweaty. And as we aged and our bodies physically matured, a day of playing hard in the heat, we worked up enough sweat to fill that quarter bucket to overflowing. We boys were as rank as a half-eaten deer on the side of the road a week after it had been run over by a vehicle. The insect riddled, decaying deer smelled like perfume compared to teenagers.

What to do?

Take advantage of the freshwater lake, obviously. After dark, we would run down to the lake, out onto the small pier, disrobe and skinny dip in the pitch of night, skinny dip with a bar of biodegradable Ivory soap to clean ourselves without upsetting the fishies we would be catching the next days. An added benefit to Ivory soap is it floats so we could throw it to the next body and without fear of losing it in the depths.

In the early years, the only light was thirty yards away, a back porch light attached to the lucky sods who owned the house butting right up to the water. The light was just bright enough to see what we were doing but not so bright that our birthrights were readily visible. Then the house was sold, the new owner put a streetlamp style light right at the water’s edge. It was bright, a sun on a giant corn stalk. Glaringly white. Intrusive. Still, we swam at night so as not to stink and for potential viewing pleasure.

Our skinny dipping, sometimes, was co-ed, so the new light promised advantages for a boy with raging hormones. This was pre-internet so porn was not ubiquitously available on the yet to be invented mobile phones. The only time we saw hooters was when one of our friends happened upon an old Playboy or Penthouse and were kind enough to share.

My sisters had some hot teenage girlfriends. Even the not so hot friends had shapely girl parts. So, I was hoping, we boys were hoping while swimming sans clothing our eyes would enjoy a flesh feast.  This was in the pre-pube shaving days so it was unlikely we would have seen much more than a black beaver patch glistening in the moonlight. Still, we played tricks like throwing the soap just out of reach and a little high so a girl might get caught up in the moment and reach exposing some forbidden skin. Perhaps, one would climb out of the lake ‘Birth of Venus’ like and their long hair would slip exposing boobage. Nothing. Not a once. The girls were much to smart for the boys. Girls are much smarter than boys.

To my teenage frustration, I never did see side boob or a perky nipple or, the holy grail, the furry little kitty. God knows I tried. The only clams I fondled were of the non-bearded variety laying just beneath the sand filtering small organisms and algae from the water. Those I threw along the surface of the water watching them skip with the aplomb of a smooth rock.

Losing The V-Card

The romantic in me would love to say I lost my virginity on a Wisconsin beach by the light of a full moon with an incredibly hot babe as we lay legs immersed in the gently rolling waves, that I busted-a-nut in a wild country girl with the leg strength to crush a mechanical bull in one of those honky-tonk saloons and emerged from my boyhood chrysalis into a fully fledged man. But it would not stand up in a court of truth. Fantasy? Yes. Reality? Not even close. Well, I did come close once and only once. Sigh. Double sigh.

She was either a year-round local or a Summer girl spending the months between the end and start of school at her parent’s lake home. I forget which. Their multi-story home was built on a lot with direct access to water. We had to walk a couple of blocks from our place to see the lake. My mom had a dread fear of people drowning so wanted ample distance to ensure safety. Little did she know we frequented the lake unsupervised many a time.

Her family had motorcycles that we rode, illegally, in a large depression across highway 13. She and I were on the same bike. Me pretending to be in control despite rarely being on a motorcycle while she sat behind with arms around my waist, a setup causing me to tingle in the loins. These were the days I was still immortal. Helmets were not mandatory riding attire as they became when I eventually purchased my own street bike decades later. We went down once. The rear time slid sideways in the loose sand on a decline and we eased down our legs still wrapped around the bike.

The depression in which we were riding was clear-cut in the forest that was in the process of being dredged later to be filled with river water eventually becoming the bottom of Lake Arrowhead where decades later I took my son fishing for the ubiquitous bluegill. The lake homes surrounding Arrowhead tend to be larger than those built around our Lake Camelot, also a manmade lake, with the whole area feeling more upscale. But those homes came much later.

Her name was Karen. My friends, Bob’s kids, year-round residents, referred to her as Karen QF. The QF standing for Quick Fuck which, I was told, meant she was quick to fuck not too fucking quick to catch for a fuck nor having jackhammer hips making the act of fucking literally quick. She may truly have been quick to fuck but I wasn’t quick enough to fuck…her. I waited one day too long to make my move only to be thwarted by nature’s cycles. My little man didn’t take a dip into the pink.

She was a brunette, a long-haired brunette with brown eyes. Perhaps the frustration with not hitting a home run is why I am still attracted to brunettes tending toward raven black above all other hair colors. Though, the blues and purples and pinks are alluring. It may be that I never recovered from the strikeout and am still trying to make up for the one that got away by knocking as many as possible out of the park (hitting for sixes for cricket fans). Or, maybe the adage blonds have more fun is poppycock and it is the ravens that are ‘funner’ to play with. Whatever the case…I struck out….yet again.

One Is The Loneliest Number

As deep as I can see into the sootied waters of my past, I see a person more comfortable being alone or with a one or two others than in a group. A person craving human connection but keeping everyone at arm’s length for reasons I still don’t fully fathom. This was definitely a truth in my twenties. It may reach back further but time has yellowed many of those movies either from the effects of an aging brain or my soul protecting itself from needless pain.

These days, I get great satisfaction from alone time and seek it out with increasing hunger. Back in the day, it seems to be the natural outcome of me not being particularly socially adept or a foundational arrogance preventing me from seeing my own faults digging moats none dare cross. Perhaps, I did not realize I needed to change my ways to make connections or there are some reasons not yet dredged from my psyche. Most likely, a combination of many.

I was in my late twenties, a gorgeous evening. Of course, there was a fire with lots of drinking and talking and drinking. Family friends outnumbered family members which was often the case. I was mostly listening to conversations waiting for an opening to shine my brilliance before retreating back into my head. Or I was mesmerized by the ghosts floating up from the dancing flames becoming lost in my own thoughts, ensconced in a world no one, not even my then wife, was able to penetrate to any meaningful depth. Again the dichotomy…wanting to know and be fully known yet walling off anyone seeking understanding.

Years later I was dating a woman who shone a light on this same predilection. We were having a conversation over dinner and I remarked that I was pretty much an open book for the world to see. She stopped midmovement from putting a fork full of kimchee into her mouth and said, “Seriously? Almost all I know about you is surface. You never let me inside.” I stared back trying to hide my grinding teeth, my tell in times of stress. It wasn’t long after she decided seeing me was not worth her time. This tiger was unable to change its spots. I have since wondered if I subconsciously kept her at bay or there was simply nothing below the surface worth knowing. Was as shallow as the Platte River, a mile wide but only an inch deep?

Some of us went for a late night swim. Afterward, all but one returned to the house and the bonfire. The one being me.

I stretched out on the wooden pier listening to the night voices, insects, the purr of waves against the shore, watching the waning Moon against a blanket of stars. Millions of stars and solitary Moon, a celestial body without the ability to generate light so cursed to reflect the essence of Sun, a satellite revolving around Earth yet never touching her. A being in isolation.

My guard dropped allowing a crack for emotion to enter and implode. I felt the pain of isolation. Loneliness gnawed with the ferocity of the walleye beneath the black water clamping sharp teeth into unwitting prey sucked into a gullet where acids attacked and slowly dissolved the body. I pulled out my pocket knife. I always carried a knife. I carved the letters O-N-E into the pier weeping all the while. It was my code for one is the loneliest number I will ever be. A cry for help? Maybe.

Eventually, I went back to the house. I had been there for at least an hour and I don’t think anyone noticed. Did anyone even care? I can’t say. That is a question requiring vulnerability. I lacked the courage to be vulnerable. So, I grabbed a drink, never being a beer drinker it was probably a whiskey and seven-up, and pulled up a chair by the fire. I watched everyone, talking, laughing. I remember wondering if I was cursed to be Moon forever isolated from the stars and Earth.

Buried Kegs, Panty Hats, & Stinkweeds

The big Summer weekend at the land was Frolic Weekend in August. We usually planned an event spanning the weekend plus a day or so at either end. Driving home to Chicago on a Sunday evening meant heavy traffic especially at the toll booths which were still insatiable mouths feeding on quarters. The lodge hosted a party with music, beer, more beer, brats, beer, grilled corn, volleyball tournaments, ski shows, and beer. They had a penchant for selling alcohol to minors then washing their hands when those same minors were ticketed by the PoPo resulting in a return trip for a court date with parents. I always thought the two were in collusion. Money to the lodge from beer sales. Money to the city in fines.

A few of us guys went up early. The WAGS (wives and girlfriends) followed a couple of days later. My brother and a brother-in-law bought a keg and buried it in the sand to keep it cold. Only the tapper stuck above ground. There was cold beer at the fire, cold beer at lunch, cold beer at breakfast. The beer was cold until the keg was tapped out a day or so later. So, I’m told.  It was likely they purchased a second but I don’t clearly recall. If I was betting man, I would wager on yes.

The second night, the girls came up well after dark. When they arrived, we were seated around the fire drinking, cooked halfway to roasted by the flames and toasted by the alcohol. The brother and BIL were wearing women’s underwear, their women’s underwear on their heads. This was a day or two into their stinkweed contest so what greeted their girls was two stinky dudes wearing panty hats. Funny and repulsive at the same time.

Why stinky? The two of them, for some reason I will never grasp, decided they would have a contest to see who could go the most days without a shower or swimming or washing of any type. Day one, not a big deal. Day two, erm, they were given more than their normal share of personal space. By the third or fourth day, we couldn’t get near either of them and, I imagine, their ripeness offended their own nostrils. My brother caved at the behest of his girlfriend. The BIL won. He was officially the stinkiest of the stinkweeds.

Fishing & Other Animal Stories

Wisconsin stories would not be complete without animal stories. Animals, primarily scaly fish, were a huge (yuge) reason we boys were excited to visit The Land. For me the priority was fishing followed by swimming, I think. If not in the early years then soon thereafter as I grew increasingly fishing obsessed.

Hook, Line, & Sinker

Fishing. Ahh, fishing. We are a fishing family because of my dad’s friend Bob. The same Bob who talked my dad into buying the plot in Wisconsin. The same Bob who felt like a second father. Bob taught my dad to fish when he invited him on annual trips to Boulder Junction for Muskie and the Boundary Waters for monster pike. The love of fishing has moved through the generations. We are all connected by a proverbial stringer.

I remember hot days standing in the shallows casting toward a sunken tree for bass while everyone else splashed around. I remember setting overnight lines and running to the pier in the morning to see if we caught bullhead and, if so, were they still alive since they typically swallowed the hook deep into their stomachs. I remember fighting mosquitoes in the night while we fished for bullhead and were surprised by the rare walleye sometimes big enough to legally eat. I remember the sheer joy of catching tiny bluegill after tiny bluegill for hours on end. I remember fishing in the sticks with my brothers, a place near the start of the lake where the feeding river flooded a woodland drowning the trees leaving them naked carcasses and prime habitat for bass. It felt like we had traveled into pre-history. We became spooked when a few large Blue Heron took to air from dead branches looking like Pterodactyls on the wing hunting meat. I remember standing in the water fishing by the upper spillway later emerging with leeches on my legs that I scraped off with the knife always in my pocket. There are three fishing memories larger than all the others combined. They involve Pumpkinseeds, a Largemouth Bass, and a shit load of crappie.

Nine Inch Pumpkinseeds

My daughters were probably three and four when this memory was created. I had taken the two of them for a long weekend in Wisconsin for some Daddy-Daughter time. I was recently divorced and wanted to make sure they had ample daddy time now that I was not seeing them on a daily basis. The weekend necessarily included fishing time. I bought them each identical Orca reel fishing poles from Sportmart which were very easy for little ones to manage and inexpensive.

The weekend was overcast with intermittent rains meaning most of the time we were stuck in the house. We took advantage of a lull in the weather and walked down to the lake. Each of the girls wanted to carry the tub of worms. Rather than have a battle, I gave each their own worm to carry, a worm they petted as they walk. As was her norm, the younger said her knees hurt and she wanted to be carried.

I was already carrying the fishing poles, the worms, and a Mountain Dew so there was no space for her plus I wanted her to kick the habit of always whining until someone caved and picked her up.  At the time, she was frustrated because her hair was not very long. It was then I dreamed up a solution to both problems. I told her the more she walked the longer and faster her hair would grow. Her eyes lit up. And, by corollary, I told her if she walked backward it would get shorter. The plot worked and anytime she asked to be carried, I reminded her of walking and hair length. Carrying her soon ceased to be an issue.

They each caught a few small bluegills, the first fish of their young lives. Every fish caught inched the smile on their faces wider. Then we hit a slow patch and the girls began to lose interest. Suddenly, Sammy’s bobber was pulled deep, unlike the tittering from the smaller fish nibbled at the bait, and the pole was ripped out of her hands and pulled under water. I saw it flashing in the weeds and thrust my hand in to pull it out. I let her reel it in and she landed a Pumpkinseed. They are an aggressive member of the bluegill family with a shiny orange belly patch showing like a bursting sunrise. It measured nine inches from lips to tail. While dehooking and measuring, Stephanie also had a strong hit. She had a tighter grip on the fishing pole so there wasn’t a repeat of a pole in the water. She, too, landed a nine-inch Pumpkinseed.

The rain started so we packed up and headed back to the house. I carried everything to hurry them along in case the drizzle became a downpour. They walked with their faces up, mouths open catching raindrops while laughing hysterically.

A Not So Lucky Largemouth Bass

A few years later, I was fishing with all three kids. The girls and I were on the same pier they caught the Pumpkinseeds but Brian decided he would fish from the pier on our beachhead. He was highly coordinated so was already able to cast with ease and accuracy. It was difficult trying to manage all of them at once and attend to the inevitable snags, hook baiting, and removal of hooks set deep in the fish internals.

He called saying he was snagged and needed help. I looked over and saw the fishing tip bouncing with ferocity and immediately knew he had a substantially larger fish than the bluebill and perch we were landing. I ran over to the pier by which time he had walked off the pier and was standing on the shore. The monofilament, a 10-pound test, was stretched across the pier and the fish was still dancing. How the wood slats did not cut the line I will never know. I took him back onto the pier and helped him land his first Largemouth Bass.  I would normally throw the fish back into the water for future growth. But, it was the legal length and the kids wanted to eat it so I cleaned it and cooked it for a dinner.

If I was to hazard a guess at the same time he landed the fish, fishing set its hook deep into his soul. He has been an avid angler since that day.

A Shit Load of Crappie

Fast forward a decade. My son and I are fishing at the spillway. The spillway is a concrete structure funneling water from the upper to the lower lake. There is a constant flow of aerated water through the deep channel spilling into the lake. The depth varies from ten feet in the channel and becomes shallows once outside the concrete walls and the direct influence of the water flow. Thus the area has a variety of environments attracting many types of fish. It is a prime fishing spot.

Over a couple of nights, crappie were actively hitting on white plastic tubes. Other colors attracted a few but white was the primary color triggering their attack instinct. Once we mastered the proper technique, waiting until the second hit in a short sequence to set the hook, we would pull in one every few casts.

One evening, we headed out before dusk loaded up with bug dope to keep the skeeters off so we could fish in peace and carried an ample supply of sunflower seeds. We had a small tackle box of plastics with extra whites knowing white was the color of the day but included other colors just in case. Fish can be finicky and it pays to be prepared. I don’t know if there was some magic in the way the stars aligned or we just lucked into an aggressive school of hungry crappie. They hit like psychos for at least two hours. We were catching fish on most every cast. By the time the frenzy quelled, we had caught over 180 between the two of us. It was the most insane fishing experience of my life.

White Tails

There were White-Tailed Deer galore which we loved seeing…mostly. We were fishermen, not hunters, though big game hunting in Africa was a parttime fantasy of my youth along with being Tarzan swinging through the trees. We never participated in the annual Deer Hunt, the religion most common in Central Wisconsin. If you don’t hunt, the high priests will not allow you to be a congregant of the Most Holy Church of the White-Tailed Deer. Although, the will serve you venison communion hoping to make you a convert.

When I was older and driving on my own from the Dells to the house just after sunset, I counted 40 deer over a 40 mile stretch in the ditches along the road. And those were just the ones I saw. I can’t imagine how many were lurking just beyond the reach of the high beams. Each was a potential weapon of mass destruction if it was spooked and took flight across the road at precisely the moment I was cruising by. Wham! Bam! Thank You, Ma’am. Wham…car slams into the animal. Bam…extensive damage and likely totaling the vehicle. Thank You, Ma’am, for crashing through my window and crushing me into the seat so I didn’t fly through the window.

Ant Wars

It was a party weekend. We were in our twenties, upper for me. ‘Back when I was in Nam‘ Steve who was younger than me and never a pincushion for bullets fired by the Viet Cong from Soviet weapons but liked to use the tag was bored as was blonde Andrea, pronounced On Drea who had an unusually high voice and was not afraid of insects. It was a sunny morning, too late to still be snoozing in a tent heated by the sun, too early to be two-fisting beers around the campfire. What to do before the action begins?

Wisconsin is home to a plethora of insect life the worst being the vicious mosquitoes swarming in any bit of shade to butterflies flitting between flowers on the sloping side of the earthen damn separating Lake Camelot from Lake Sherwood. Steve was watching some ants he found and placed in the dished underside of a white frisbee. This intrigued Andrea and they watched together.

One of them thought it would be interesting to add other insects to the mix. The two of them found another ant species and placed them in the same frisbee. The two species each threatened by their other’s pheromones and emboldened by their own fought to the death. It was a microcosm of almost every self-important politician’s wet dream sending youth to die in a senseless war.

Turtling in Lake Sherwood

Lake Sherwood, the lower lake from ours was continually filled by the spillway. Think of a spillway as a drain in a sink where excess water falls into the pipes and those pipes emptied into a lower lake on the other side of an earthen damn. The waters were lower in elevation, protected from the wind by thick stands of pine trees and walls of land descending from the road beyond the trees to the lake level. These waters were shielded from the wind, tended to be placid, conditions conducive to rafts of weeds forming along the shore. A semi-secure haven for small fish, frogs, and turtles.

We saw the turtles while fishing. Sometimes they were sunning on a dead tree branch. If you cast near them, hey would quickly slide into the lake with nary a splash. Mostly, we saw tiny turtle heads, black with yellow lines, poking above the water their shell a shadow hovering just below the surface intimating a chimerical flying saucer. Something you think you see but are never quite sure it’s real or it’s size. They were too far from shore to reach with our short nets.

On a sunny afternoon, some of us boys dragged a boat over the dam and launched it into Lake Sherwood with the idea of catching a few. What to do with them after? Young boys tend not to think that far into the future.

Our tactic was to row toward a head and, if it didn’t dive outside our reach, throw the net over the top. It was a tactic catching naught but weeds, weeds we had to clean out of the net. Mostly, the turtle dove well before we were within reach.

Through trial and error, we learned if you looked straight at the turtle it dove early. If they did not see you staring at them, they lingered until we were closer. We revised our strategy to approach at an angle and to monitor them from the corner of our eyes. The better proximity allowed us to realize when threatened the turtles did not dive forward in the direction they were facing but moved backward, quickly turn around and swam down toward the bottom for safety.

But they were still too far to catch. We fastened the net to a pole. We then thrust the net into the water targeting behind and below the turtles. Using this final stratagem, we pulled a good dozen from the lake. We brought them back to our tent compound where they were kept in a large bin with enough water to cover them but not enough they could escape. A day or two later, we released them back into the lake.

I only ever remember turtling the one time. I don’t know why we never went again. Maybe because dragging a rowboat up the damn was difficult requiring a few of us to push and pull. I guess, the difficulty outweighed the fun.

Tweeties

There was a season in my life, I was into all things feathered including bird watching. I had binoculars, a spotting scope, and a recording of a screech owl. I would take early jaunts around sunrise when every bird ever born seemed to be singing in a grand chorus and sunset when they stopped hunting and went to roost until dawn. Each new bird spotted sent tingles down my spine and a tick mark in my birding book.

I used the screech owl recording a few times. I set up a tape recorder near a tree on the land and hit play. I would describe the sound as a staccato burst or a trill or a tremolo. Each segment lasted a few seconds. Had I not known who was making the call, I would not be able to identify if it was from a bird, insects, or some animal hidden from my view.

When you are prey, it behooves you to know when a predator is lurking. If not, talons are much more likely to pierce your body and your final vision is a hooked beak tearing at your innards. The birds knew the call meant danger. The forest sentinels, Blue Jays and others, flew in to spot the owl and attempt to shoo it into another territory. They ignored me and I was able to add a couple new entries to my growing list.

Being a bird fan, I collected feathers. My preference is to see a plume flutter from the sky and catch it before it touches Earth. But that has yet to happen. I found them occasionally and only rarely could identify the species. I still kept them for their delicate beauty. A couple of times, I found the plucked remains scattered after a predator feasted. This was how I collected the yellow-tipped tail feathers of a cedar waxwing discovered near it’s bloodied skull.

The surest way to find feathers is to monitor the sides of higher speed roads for those losing their lives to cars and trucks. I once found a deceased Turkey Vulture and took the entire wing. Driving North on Highway 13 with my daughter, I found the intact remains of a Grey Catbird. It was on the other side of the road forcing me to make a U-turn. It was freshly dead without stench or oozing liquids, not even blood marred the otherwise splendid grey body. I wanted a few feathers but my daughter wanted to bring it home and keep it as a pet. So, it made the trip back to Chicago with us sometimes in her young hands, other times in a plastic Ziploc bag. A couple of days later, body fluids were oozing into the bag and it received a proper burial behind the garage.

Crawdaddies

Fishing at night near our pier, we carried flashlights so we could bait the hooks and remove the bullhead without having their spiny fins stick us. Those fins were as sharp as needles requiring care when grabbing them or a towel in which to wrap them. The towels grew to stink like hell and were eventually trashed. They were strong fish and wiggling bodies could stick a spine deep.

With the flashlights, we discovered crawdads scouring beneath the pier and near the shore for morsels to fill their bellies. Crawdads also known as crayfish or crawfish, look like miniature freshwater lobsters down to the segmented tail used for explosive backward movement and pincer claws to grab food and feed themselves. They easily fit into the palm of our hands. Of course, we deemed them a must to catch them. Why? The same reason people take arduous hikes in the desert or climb mountains. Because they’re there.

The pincers can cut human skin so catching them requires care. The technique we devised was to slowly move the hand into the water behind the critter, place the index finger onto the carapace and press it into the sand. It seems their eyesight was very poor and they may react more to changes in water pressure than seeing our hands. Thus immobilized, thumb and middle finger picked it up. We were safe from the pincers which, limited by the exoskeleton, could not reach us. It didn’t stop them from trying and their claws flailed in the air. We tossed them into a bucket with their brethren. Once they were cooked and eaten with butter. I wasn’t there that time.

Other Notables & Wish To Have Seen

For a short while, there was a herd of captive Bison near the intersection of Hwy 13 and Hwy 73. I stopped to marvel whenever I drove by. They are massive animals, an anchor to the American past, the sacred beast of the plains Indians. Once almost hunted to extinction, they are making a comeback in pockets across the plains. I have long longed for a Buffalo blanket for cold nights in bed or lying in front of a fireplace. I never did find out if the owner of this small herd sold them.

In recent years, wolves and black bears made their way into Central Wisconsin. The one verified Wolf sighting I know of involved a collision between a Harley rider and a wolf on a country road late at night. Neither survived. Kind of ironic that a one percenter killed another one percenter. Black Bear are spotted North of Wisconsin Rapids usually by garbage dumps. One man’s trash another’s treasure. We never saw any down our way. Just knowing both large predators existed a stone’s throw from our vacation lot excited me.

On my final trip to the land, I saw a couple of early migration, sandhill cranes sporting russet caps reminding me that I was and will always be a ginger no matter if my hair blooms white. They were standing on the side of the road, perhaps a mating pair. Quite a few Hawks were perched in trees and on the wing. Seven to ten deer were in various states of decay in the ditches along the road. Wisconsin DNR no longer collects the deer when killed by vehicles. They scrape them from the road and toss them into the ditch where Nature will perform final absolution and let her many children purify the bones. It’s the same process I wish for my bones to be liberated from my body, my soul forgiven for the untold sins of humanity committed against Earth. The dead deer felt apropos to the theme of our final weekend.

Jaws

No history of the land would be complete without the Jaws story. Jaws the movie came out in the summer of 1975. Quite frankly, it was terrifying to all of us but none more so than middle brother. As was our tradition, we were at ‘The Land’ in August so the movie was very fresh in our minds. We were playing in a rubber raft near the pier. Every so often, we would purposely tip the raft causing us to fall into the water then start yelling Jaws, Jaws. The fearful brother swam to shore with the speed, if not the flair, of seven gold medal winner Mark Spitz. We tormented him with ‘Jaws’ for most of the trip.

The Final Curtain – So long, Farewell, Goodbye

Dad’s Closed Face Reel and Cork Pole

When all was said and done, the mementos spared the fire or excused a trip to the dump were stuffed into cars along with a lot of sentimental junk that will either gather dust in attics or be given to charity. I took nothing, wanted nothing. Not even one of my dad’s earliest fishing reels and the poles bearing the scars of fish fins and the hard edges of boats. The only mementos I hold sacred are the memories.

We all gathered around the fire pit for pictures, dad was present in a large photo and in our hearts. We sat on the benches we made from the scraps when the first deck was ripped out for the newer, grander, porch. There was the Dan/Diane love seat and the two larger benches we angled in the middle to ensure proximity to the fire from every seat. The three benches are at least twenty years old and still solid as the day we made them despite never cozying up indoors during the cold and wet seasons. I expect the next owner, not knowing their history, will either burn or consign to the trash heap. Come to think of it, those are the souvenirs I would have liked to bring home. I would like to have replicated the sacred bonfire in my backyard using a cast iron fire pit.

Mom brought some of my father’s ashes in a vial for a closing ceremony. She spread some on the land itself in close proximity to the deck stairs. We then walked en masse to the beach, four generations interconnected by blood or marriage, with the photo of my dad held high. The pier where I carved the word ‘one’ is no longer there having been removed by the bureaucrats from the property owners association for some bullshit, legalistic reason.

The rest of the ashes were scattered in the lake with mom almost falling into the water. We laughed some more. Took a bunch of group photos then headed back to our cars and the drive home. I expected pain during the ashes ceremonies, the resurrected pain of loss but it never came. I don’t handle people leaving my life very well. Being there with family dissipated the pain in a jovial atmosphere.

Mom & Dad

The Originals

All of Us – Color Fading

The Fischers

The Son-In-Laws

The WInstons

Campfire Stylized

Ashes on The Land

Marching to the Lake

Ashes in the Lake

Ashes in the Lake After Almost Falling In

The First Family – Feels Like Sepia

They say catharsis with the rapid release of negative emotions is liberating. Not for me, not this time. I drove back to Chicago feeling bound and ball gagged by my internal dominatrix lashing my soul with a leather strop.

Afterword

If any of you out there in reader-land were among the hundreds that visited the Olson Summer Estate, I would love to hear your reminisces in the comments section…

Don’t You Forget About Me by Simple Minds Hey, hey, hey, hey Ooh woh

Won’t you come see about me? I’ll be alone, dancing you know it baby

Tell me your troubles and doubts Giving me everything inside and out and Love’s strange so real in the dark Think of the tender things that we were working on

Slow change may pull us apart When the light gets into your heart, baby

Don’t you, forget about me Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t Don’t you, forget about me Will you stand above me?

Look my way, never love me Rain keeps falling, rain keeps falling Down, down, down

Will you recognize me? Call my name or walk on by Rain keeps falling, rain keeps falling Down, down, down, down

Hey, hey, hey, hey Ooh woh

Don’t you try and pretend It’s my feeling we’ll win in the end I won’t harm you or touch your defenses Vanity and security

Don’t you forget about me I’ll be alone, dancing you know it baby Going to take you apart I’ll put us back together at heart, baby

Don’t you, forget about me Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t Don’t you, forget about me As you walk on by

Will you call my name? As you walk on by Will you call my name? When you walk away Or will you walk away?

Will you walk on by? Come on, call my name Will you call my name?

I say (Lala la la lala la la) Will you call my name? As you walk on by

My Childhood Was Auctioned off To The Only Bidder The past is a place of reference, not a place of residence. ~Roy T. Bennett With the sale of the family Summer Estate in Central Wisconsin in March of 2018, the second to last vestige of my childhood goes the way of the final Dodo bird clubbed over the head by a sailor for food.

#Animals #Family #Fishing #Memories #Youth

[minditruitt]

Exit Ramps

In dog years I’m 571....no wonder I’m tired.

I haven’t written a blog post for a month now. It wasn’t that I wasn’t writing...I was and have submitted a couple of things, wrote 4 blogs in my head and started another children’s book. My writing journey has been circuitous one...much like my life.

I’ve derailed myself more than once. I’ve stopped, started and thrown papers across the room. I’ve blasted heavy music into my ears and written some dark things. I’ve poured large cups of coffee and forced myself to write. I’ve written things quickly and easily and I’ve struggled some days just to write in my journal. I’ve also tried to relax and enjoy my days off from work which is practically impossible because for each minute I’m sitting I’m cursing myself for doing just that.

I’m a social being.

I like being holed up in my office.

I like talking and laughing.

I like being quiet and sometimes have to force myself to accept invitations.

I’ve always felt more comfortable on the fringes. I’m a misfit in some ways and an enigma in others. I am very comfortable in the fast lane, and unfortunately prefer it, despite the fact that I’ve crashed more than once. But that was part of my journey.

A road that I no longer travel.

I’m sort of in the middle lane now. Not ready to slow down completely but not wanting to hit the wall anymore. I can still move over to the passing lane and go around somebody but I’m now just more of a middle lane hog with a Starbucks in the cup holder and loud, aggressive music playing. Although, I must admit I prefer smooth dinner jazz, sometimes religious hymns, sometimes love songs....but not as much as I used to because I cry too easily now.

Flying on airplanes and driving on interstates has been a staple in my transient military kid life since I was born. I even have a postcard from my childhood that says ‘Greetings from I-85′. I’m not comfortable unless I’m moving around. Maybe it’s nervous energy or maybe it’s something else. In a lot of instances it’s my ‘run away’ mechanism that is still alive and well.

Also known as avoidance behavior.

No matter what lane you drive in during your life you have the ability to go faster in the passing lane, cruise control the middle lane and ‘look buddy, get off my ass’ in the slow lane.

From time to time there are signs that tell us where we are. Welcome to Virginia.....Mile marker 654....Exit 266....or my personal favorite, the sign with the Starbucks logo on it telling you that happiness is less than a mile away.....

Life is kind of like an interstate....Sometimes we know where we are going and sometimes we don’t. Sometimes we need to drive fast, put on some music and think. Sometimes we take an exit ramp for food, drink or to spend the night....Other times there’s a sign that tells you that a rest area is coming up in just a few more miles and you can buy a Dr. Pepper from a vending machine and keep going.

I remember after we moved back to the States when my father’s tour of duty in Greece was over. My mother hadn’t driven a car over 35 mph in over 2 years and so in San Antonio, Texas ( where we were sent for my father’s next assignment ) she was driving as slow as a lorax in the far right lane. Gripping the steering wheel with both white knuckled hands she asked me what the speed limit was.....I told her not to worry, she’d never reach it....

It’s funny to look back on that now but in reality that situation is a lot like life itself. You can be sidelined for a while due to illness, break ups, depression or something else and you’ve been out of the game and so merging back into life and navigating again can be scary. Especially when other people are seemingly driving along with no issues....

Exit ramps are there as escape valves offering food, drink, rest, or happily, amusement parks or malls ( which are amusement parks for adults )....places to take a respite from the racing down the road of life.

In divorce years I’m 8.

I’m no longer the crying, out of control toddler that I was 5 years ago or the infant that moved into her first apartment scared shitless and feeling as alone as an abandoned bag of trash.

I’m 8.

I’m a kid but I’m smarter than I was when I was 7 or 6. I’m not falling for every line thrown at me and not as accepting of other’s behavior as I was. I care more about myself than I did, which frankly isn’t saying much but it’s better. I still treat myself pretty badly at times but that’s my problem not yours. I’m just throwing that out there to let others who just celebrated their first or second birthdays that it does get better but it’s a process. You will learn, you will be happy, you will be sad, you will possibly be misled by people who can sniff out your vulnerabilities but you’ll be driving on your own road taking the journey of a lifetime.

Your journey.

Don’t let the exit ramps derail your journey but learn from them if you get off on the wrong one and need to get back on the highway.

I was always rushing to get to the destination of what I thought would be my new life after the other one collapsed. I felt like I was getting nowhere. It was like I was on 440 (  the inner beltline here in Raleigh ) because I was going around in circles. Seeing different scenery. Sometimes having someone new in my car but nonetheless going in circles.

Every exit I took I thought I was home but I wasn’t and every person who showed me some kindness I thought was my knight. But in reality all that driving was necessary. The speeding, the slowing, the lane changes, the u turns and the stoplights....all of it was and is part of my journey just like they are for yours.

Some people have to stop and change a flat tire and some don’t. Some people run out of gas and some don’t. As you age you learn to avoid some of these pitfalls and I think it’s a personal responsibility to warn younger drivers of the potholes. Some will listen and some will drive through them anyway causing, sometimes, misalignment. Some will see the rain and feel invincible and they will drive through waters that are too deep and find themselves in trouble.

Those of us who can help should. But we can’t drive other people’s cars for them. They need to learn the rules of the road and learn to be considerate of all the other drivers who are out there just trying to get to their destination same as you.

So, slow down, use your blinker, don’t cut people off and be considerate. We are all on this road called life.