Archive for December, 2019


Nothing just happens.  Is it some kind of cosmic happenstance that caused you and me to be living at this precise time in the construct of universal reality?  How was it that we came to be living beings at this exact juncture of what is?  If we could have chosen the most important century to inhabit, in the most influential political entity on earth, given the most fascinating technological amazements ever to be achieved in the history of history, how could we have chosen better than here and now?

Things keep happening to remind me of this serendipitous truthiness.  Last week my phone went bad like it always does when I venture into West Virginia.  When I returned to Ohio it did its best but couldn’t engage its GPS, so I chose to duck into my son’s house and borrow his WIFI to urge my iPhone back into sentient service.  It worked.  Then I left and stupidly abandoned my purse on his living room couch.  My phone is so much smarter than I.

That senior moment required that I meet Lane and his sweetie the next day and retrieve the purse that contained all my credit cards, cash, and personal ID.  Lane set a time and place to meet: The Starbucks close to Northgate Mall.  When I got close, I asked SIRI to find it for me, but all she would do was search, and search, and search…  The intersection of Colerain and US Route 275 is interesting enough, but how many times can you negotiate it before you begin to feel more than a bit foolish?

Finally I just gave up.  I rolled into an available parking lot and meandered about, turning the steering wheel wherever inspiration dictated.  I kept an eye out for the little green Starbucks Siren, but it was nowhere.  Finally, one set of turns put me into a parking area close to Colerain Avenue.  I hesitated, looked straight ahead, and there at eye level in six foot high green letters was STARBUCKS.  Not only that, but my Highlander was lined up with the premiere parking space right at the front door.  It was empty and beckoning.  “Come hither,” it said.  “Park.”

Was that the serendipity that I love to blather about?  It keeps happening, assuring everything stays on track, toward what I don’t know.  But I’m glad it does.  Like deja vu, whenever it happens I assume I must be on my right path.  I pulled in to the space, locked the car, entered the coffee store, and ordered a decaf tall cappuccino.  No sooner had I sat down to wait than a dearly familiar male voice behind me said, “Mom?”

What I’m daring to suggest is that we, all of us, create our own realities out of where we find ourselves as physical manifestations.  There is considerable physics to support this wild possibility.  String theory talks about multiple universes that overlay and interlace each other.  Maybe they are created by you and me as we swim in special realities, yours and mine and ours.

I continue to marvel at the somewhat agreed-upon stories shared among family members.  Everyone, it seems, has a slightly different remembrance of things past.  Trial lawyers and accident investigators speak of how differently various witnesses attest to what happened.  According to them, that is just an aspect of human nature.  What if it isn’t just faulty memory, but different lived experience?  What if in my universe things play out just a wee bit differently from what they do in yours?

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Literary Society

Last year our Thanksgiving gathering met for gustatory celebration in Richmond with Kurt and Company.  This year it was in West By-God Virginia at Dales five bedroom log cabin in the back of beyond.  Last year was when I finally got the courage to read one of my writings to the gathered assemblage.  They liked ‘Aunt Margaret’ well enough that I was enticed into thinking they might like to try again.  So this year when I crept down the stairs on the big day and found only Dale at the long table swilling coffee, I clutched my folder of reading possibilities even more hopefully. 

Last year Dale wasn’t present for the first ever meeting of the Martin-Taylor Literary Society.  He had to deliver mail to Ritchie County, something to do with ‘sleet, snow, and gloom of night,’  This year I had them all three under one roof, and the house was yet asleep.  The screeching, shrieking, and yowling of as yet uncivilized genetic arrangements had yet to commence.  Peace reigned.

I poured my once-a-year cup of real coffee, mellowed it with authentic Half & Half, and settled down to make the most of it.  Soon Lane slid into the big kitchen/dining area and followed my lead, determined to coffee-up and socialize.  Dale, with his Grizzly Adams physiognomy, owned his end of the great table that had benefited from its inserted leaves.  Lane sought balance claiming his end from where he and Dale could exchange meaningful glances and reminisce about but not reenact childhood altercations.  When Kurt followed suit I knew the gods were smiling.  Kurt, ever sensitive to artistic balance, helped Lane hold down his end of the table.

I had claimed the middle ground, where I could enjoy the progenitous surround to best advantage, and try to mediate sibling ribaldry, as well as rivalry.  Having serendipitously assembled my entire first generation of living children, I was on a roll.  There was only one piece that was sure to please this particular group—’Isetta.’  I pulled it out and announced, “I’m going to read a story about your dad and me that happened back in the day right here in Ritchie County.  Listen up!”

The bright blue picture on the first page grabbed their attention and we were off!  Lane’s and Kurt’s ears were pricked, remembering last year’s ‘Aunt Margaret’ and laughing ‘til they cried, but Dale had already met this tale since he has the morethanenoughtruth.com app on his desktop.  His face said, ‘Been there; done that.’  He picked up a pen and addressed his crossword puzzle.  I stopped mid-sentence and slid ‘Isetta’ back into its glassine folder.  “Wha….?”  They bawled in unison.

“I’m not going to compete with the New York Times,” I growled.  “I read; you listen.”

Dale, in a rare moment of acquiescence, agreed to set aside his puzzle and bend an ear.  I retrieved ‘Isetta’ and proceeded from literary interruptus.  It held their rapt attention all the way from driving the spunky little vehicle through town without benefit of headlights, to nearly  dispatching the town drunk along the byway.  Even the liquored-up words of Obadiah Johnson came to life as never before, to the hoots and merriment of Dale, Lane, and Kurt.  Never have the words tripped so satisfyingly from my tongue as on that Thanksgiving morning, lubricated by the emolument of genuine Half & Half in my coffee, and falling on the fairly negotiated attending ears of my three sons.  By the time the following generations descended and began to incite the standard day-long riot, the second annual meeting of the Martin-Taylor Literary Society was a fait accompli.  It was good.  It was very, very good.

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