No song today.

After giving much thought, and if not a fictional story, I promised to be honest. Much thought.

Backstory: There is a baby girl, well now young woman, who may be mine. My first marriage was to a southern woman who was likely probably not a good fit. I could place blame on her, or she on me. Lord knows there was likely plenty of blame to toss around, probably even enough for third or fourth helpings. Reality, we sucked as husband and wife. No blame, just facts.

I will not badmouth anyone, but I can share truth about myself. I was not a good husband. Nothing like abuse or drugs, but I knew my parents had a marriage that was great at times, terrible at times, and way too much fighting about stupid shit. I tried to avoid that ‘part’ of a marriage. I’m shy. I don’t like to fight. I’m mean and nasty and want to win when I fight. Words can be swords. My swords are ofttimes over sharpened. I try to keep my swords in a sheath buried beneath the foundation of the house, unable to emerge.

I am almost totally successful now. My view isn’t always either the same view perceived by others, and lo and behold. Sometimes my view can be a far cry from correct. True story.

My first wife and I fought worse than any couple I’ve seen. I don’t know nor care if she or I were smarter or right. I hated fighting. I began putting some savings from my job aside to leave. I had deliberately distanced myself from my family, because when my parents were in the divorce process, things got ugly on both sides. I wasn’t directly asked to choose a side, but I certainly was strongly judged.

I chose to remain Swiss. They were both my parents. I loved them dearly even while hating what I felt were shortcomings. My perception, not necessarily reality. Some may have overlapped both.

I tended, and still tend to avoid family. The choosing of sides and manipulation began. Both mom and dad were guilty, as were likely all of us kids. It wasn’t the particular pool I wished to dip my toes, so I dipped out.

The war never truly ended, not when dad died. Mom still loved him. She cried often. She went on like 2 dates total after the split. I don’t believe any were second dates.

I stayed away until after my wife and I split, I’d had enough. I called dad and at 30 something, shamefacedly moved ‘home’, only it wasn’t. It was the house I’d grown up in awhile ago. The memories and laughter had been smashed deep into the carpet and painted over, stuck endlessly behind gawdy yellows or soothing cranberry. Except for the bedrooms and the family room, the house had always been eggshell white. You can’t go home no more.

The yard was a wreck. Burned trash littered the backyard. The grass was unkempt. Rot had crept up on the outer garage door. Symbolic? I suppose. The family had deteriorated as well.

So there I was in an all day every day fencing match of rapier wit. Talk about stress. Why all the backstory? It’ll perhaps become apparent soon. This story is for two people, one related by blood. The other?

I took a q tip with a cheek swab when I left. I didn’t have much money when I moved. I scrimped up enough extra for a DNA test. I had doubts. The results were negative. I found out I was (my paraphrasing) medically incapable of fathering a child. I didn’t take it too seriously, as the marriage was a goner anyway.

I WANTED children, or at least have the option of having one at hopefully the timing and woman of our mutual choosing. Two more tests saying no required that particular hope and wish to apparently be destined to remain naught but wishful thinking.

Meanwhile I was contacted by the woman in question. I had tickled her feet, changed a majority of the diapers, fixed bottles at 3 am, and gotten not nearly enough smiles and off key giggles. It all ended after the DNA test.

Anyway, I don’t remember if I told her about the DNA thing. I did share that due to the fertility tests, the odds were like (being hopeful) 1 in a million, but I’d happily do a current DNA test. Honestly, the swab wasn’t fresh when it was used. I don’t know if that makes a difference in the results or not.

The offer was left open. There was never a yes answer, nor was there a decline.

I can’t say for sure, but I think the contact was not with love in all sides’ heart. I don’t fight anymore on silly things. I have learned to be much more open about how screwed up life can be. How often it turns out that having something be impossible is impossible. To make it more confusing, it is impossible to say something thought impossible actually is impossible.

Gah, I sound like a logician, or even worse, an English professor preparing to decimate some of his pupils for having opinions perhaps not entirely mainstream or what the critics claim a long-dead author meant by particular wording. I’d like to think the writer did it not necessarily for the symbolism which accidentally may have come along for the ride, but instead did it for one (or an overlap of both) or two possible reasons.

Writing is akin to what someone of religious bent may find their state of mind when having a vision. Oh God, writing might be a cult. Don’t drink the flavor-aid ’cause there wasn’t any kool-aid in Jonestown. It’s all about the passion. Why do you write? Either because to not write isn’t an option or because I suck at charades.

Writing is done as a job. To get paid. It beats the hell outta manual labor. I’m sure you’ve seen the writing. Heck, you may have briefly entertained yourself reading one in a magazine while seeing a man about a horse.

Hopefully some do it for both successfully.

I fall into the first category. Sure it might be nice to get some cheddar, but I’ve written without for decades. I still write. I’d like to think they wrote because they had to, and maybe I saw a joke or insight others did not. Except Dante. I doubt the Divine Comedy will come to sit com Thursday anytime soon. I’ll probably scratch an obscene joke on the inside lid of my coffin. Nah, a dad joke.

I also avoid most fighting. Theresa has made me a better person. Talk about a cheerleader. I even rather enjoy the idea of pom poms. Mind outta the guttah. Not meant in a double entendre way.

Beware: Long convoluted details that may be mostly irrelevant coming to an end. (I might be slightly messing with some bored enough to read this, sorry. Ahem, I didn’t read it all, Dame. Cause it was, you know, long. ROFL)

So I still don’t know if she born of my first wife while we were married is my daughter or not. She has both her mom’s and my grandmother’s eyes. Italian stock both sides. She apparently chose to accept what I had as proof impossible of children. My son showed impossible isn’t.

A shame I was told politely to pound sand. One kid is wonderful and beyond words. That’s wrong. There are 3 other kids who I hope choose as much to think of me as dad as I think of them as my children. And the grandbabies. Four kids and grandbabies is wonderful. I get to be papa monster, a jungle gym AND hear fart jokes. Woohoo!!!

Would be kinda cool if there were five. I’d better start trying to do some pushups or something. Jungle gyms aren’t allowed to grow tired. They can be pretty good at distracting, however.

Peace.

“I’m a pixie, wheee!” – Gemstone IV, play.net

The above quote is one of a myriad of involuntary sentences a drunken character has the potential to say in the longest running fantasy genre text based video game out there, Gemstone IV.

The game itself has evolved throughout the years, much as other fantasy games have. Rules changed, staff changed, and the player base changed. Expansion areas were added. Epic quests and multi-year storylines were created and run. I myself participated in several of the storylines, the longest lasting nearly five years. I even still managed to have a real life.

The first Gemstone was developed or at least conceived by David Whatley back in the early ’80s. Most of my friends had barely begun high school. The game was a virtual unknown at the time.

Eventually it went to a pay by the hour to play platform. The game itself was free, but the GENIE system used to access the game was like 3 dollars an hour. Some geeks went seriously into debt.

AOL and Prodigy picked up rights to access the game somewhere along the line, and when both of those internet providers were free access or a flat monthly fee, the game itself was free. Also around that time, the mid to late 90s, the game had been revamped twice more and become Gemstone III. I’ve never heard any reference to a Gemstone II, so my guess is it was scrapped before being allowed access by the general gameplaying public.

Several articles in gaming magazines as well as a few write-ups in more mainstream media, and popularity soared. It was not uncommon to see six thousand players in the game during prime time evenings, with the player base approaching close to a million.

Play.net was already in existence. The parent company of Gemstone, Simutronics, hosted other games there over the years. Cyberstrike, a mech warrior type game, Modus Operandi, a first person film noir detective type game, Dragonrealms, another fantasy text based game similar to Dungeons & Dragons and Gemstone IV, Hercules & Zena, based upon said television series, as well as more recent additions released after 2010, Tiny Hereos, a tower defense game usable on cellulars or computer, and One Epic Knight, run run run.

A few of the games listed, Modus and Hercules in particular, have gone the way of the dodo bird. Wikipedia says another game is in development, Dragons of Elanthia. Elanthia is the continent home to the Gemstone IV world. Dragons has been in development for well over a decade. I’ve test played the beta. Not one to disparage anyone’s effort, that’s enough said about that particular game.

I began playing Gemstone III on aol, back when it was free to play. It still can be free to play today, but like many free games, monthly regular or premium membership has perks. Microtransactions are also available.

Enough history. I played a Dark Elven wizard, ancient, decrepit, degenerate, wrinkled and scarred to no end. Disfiguring scar on his right cheek, sporting a purple robe complete with a diamond-studded motif of a dragon leaping from a sapphire blue sea, said sapphire also consisting of small gems. He came replete with a pointed dark purple wizard’s hat, bare feet, gnarled runestaff, and enough containers, pockets and hidey holes that whenever anyone asked for something, enough searching in one container or another would typically end in him asking how many were needed at the time. Packrat of packrats. Who cares if it weighed a ton, he had enchanted strength from one of his spells. It wasn’t uncommon to see him pulling out fifteen or sixteen treasure chests after a long day of monster slaying, occasionally even one from the secret compartment in his starred wizard’s hat.

Dark Elves were similarly despised and feared in Elanthia as they often are depicted in D&D. Kylinarr didn’t care. Part comedian, totally a cad and degenerate, slow to anger and fear his wrath, he had, um personality, and at any one time, fourteen or sixteen lasses who thought he was their one and only. Sometimes that was even true. I didn’t intentionally develop his persona that way. Like most of the characters I play, they develop on their own in directions I hadn’t really planned in any way. In short, the character develops a life of its own. It is definitely part of the thrill of the game.

I also had Ubadiah Ubiquit, Half Elven rogue. Country bumpkin and their who refused to steal unless it was from other thieves. He’d empty their pockets an melt into the shadows. His life of his own eventually became a country bumpkin with very astute grains of wisdom embedded in the stories he loved to tell. Said stories were usually communicated breathlessly while some monster hoarde was invading home turf. The guy wouldn’t ever shut up. He’s the character in which I met Mylenna, a fellow rogue played by a middle aged woman from Ohio, aka Theresa. We were wed on New Year’s Eve, exactly a year after we stopped in game long enough to talk to one another. We’d seen each other in passing several times before.

Mu favorite character was a Giantman. A cleric. Unlike D&D, clerics in Gemstone do not heal. They only resurrect the dead. My cleric worshipped a god of the sea, and his garb creeped out some.

He had a shield carved from driftwood depicting a ship floundering in a storm, sailors being flung from the decks into the roiling sea, while attempting to swim to shore amidst the violent waves. My cleric, Arnylon, stood stop a clifftop on shore, watching dispassionately while one by one the sailors succumbed to the depths. He also would do anything he could to avoid ressurecting the dead. That was for clerics whose patron actually cared about people surviving. Mine was an angry god, and Arnylon was a war priest who would rush into battle singing while praying that his warmace sent hoardes to their final rest. He was and is my most fun, intricate, and convoluted character. In game, he married Mylenna. His sense of humor is my only character that mimics me. Dry jokes, razor with (sometimes), and insanely bizarre connections. He is the only character I have that I’d say is sort of me. The others just wandered in one day.

I played for nearly 30 years, but have since taken a break. Plus sometimes it is difficult for me to process what I read. The characters are saved on a hard drive in St. Louis, awaiting deletion or one day to be dusted off and dragged out into the light of a virtual day once more.

Kylinarr is nearly 1600 years old. He’s patient and likely looking to sneak over a partition or two to the cute Aelotian gal’s data. Ubadiah would philosophize that if life gives you lemons, sometimes it is good to steal them from thy neighbor, or some such thing. Arnylon would be there resolutely oiling his shield, pacing and composing a new war chant or song while walloping tree stumps and searching out a dozen or two dozen cheesecakes for his evening snack.

It is entirely possible Theresa married a geek. There is also a slight chance I did as well. Arny is more me because he is the nature and outdoor freak.

Peace.

PS – If I can find it, with above said background, I will publish a story I wrote about Arnylon. It’s one of my few writings, grammatical errors and all, where after I was finished I KNEW it was damned good.

“I work hard (He works hard.) every day of my life. I work ’til I ache in my bones.” – Queen, Somebody to Love

The weather is changing. The gentle cool of a mother’s lips in the morning has been replaced by the jarring chill of the first lass I ever asked on a date.

Frost is the watchword, and yesterday it remained almost the entire day. That’s not today’s tale.

I’ve been thinking about relationships and their origin. Many are blood relations, but in looking back on my own life as well as umpteen conversations with others, almost all relationships are by choice.

Don’t believe me? I’ll share.

I am the penultimate introvert. The entirety of my life consists of finding ways to be alone. Ironically, the best alone time happens around loads of people.

We were waiting our turn to be seated at a chain Italian restaurant. I won’t share the name, but I’ll give a hint. I have never seen an olive tree nor garden within 500 feet of one. Plus the landscaping leaves a bit to be desired. It’s cheap and fast when I’m being lazy.

There were throngs of people eagerly or with various degrees of angst awaiting the vibration of their coaster that has never seen a drink set upon it from its creation. We were no different.

People talk to me. Mostly I do not encourage it. I’m perfectly happy to snuggle up to Theresa, one of the few people who can touch me without heebie-jeebies making my skin break out in goose bumps. I tend to sit quietly and think more often than not. People still feel the urge to talk to me. I haven’t a clue why. I’m normal looking, do not make eye contact, and usually am dressed in an outfit that says ‘potential lunatic.’. Doesn’t matter. Apparently flip flops and gawdy t-shirts and terrible looking pajama bottoms or cargo shorts indicate to the world I must be a mighty keeper of secrets. Our dinner date was no different.

I knew what was coming. Often I’ll deliberately turn away, but this elder gentleman, gray grizzled hair, suit and tie, mahogany skin, and fidgety had something major on his mind. I smiled.

He took his cue.

“Lemme tell ya. I hates family unions. Hate ’em worse than a summer cold.”

I leaned in. This was going to be good.

He spouted for a long time. I learned that it was his family’s 60th reunion. He was 78 and had just lost his wife to the big C the prior year. We cried together as I shared my own bout with the big C with him. That wasn’t why he chose me.

We were alone in a sea of humanity. His coaster had long since been collected and dinner was well on its way toward becoming an integral part of his lanky form. He had more to share.

He could have screamed his secret without anyone caring. He chose to whisper.

He hated the family reunions. He utterly loved and adored his family. He hated the dress up, the pomp, the fakeness the family reunions had become. Plus he’d rather have had a good home cooked meal, preferably barbecue without the eyes of strangers wondering the event.

I shared with him my secret for avoiding such affairs. Bluntness. Directness. Honesty.

His family had paid the bill and were coming to collect him on their way to the cars. He stopped his daughter or granddaughter and pulled her aside. From his description, I knew she’d been responsible for planning the reunion.

A hushed but intense conversation ensued. It was followed by tears and a hug. I managed to catch enough snippets to know that she hated the dress up as much as him and that next year the reunion would be held privately.

He gave me a secret wink and mouthed a thank you as he walked arm in arm with his daughter toward their car.

Yes, I love being an introvert. Sometimes I love even more when I choose not to be.

Peace.

“But my life, my lover, my lady, is the sea.” – Looking Glass, Brandy

The origination of gifts. I’ve always wondered how it came to be. I even watched a documentary on the topic. Since the documentary only covered known history, I vehemently disagreed with their conclusion on the origin of giving gifts.

The documentary stated the origins were in ancient times. I was with them so far. Digression began when the narrator stated that the original gifts were designed to keep the peace between warring factions or cities or villages, etc.

Heck no! That theory does not hold water. I already shared that I make weird connections. Let’s go back further to cave painting days.

Grungh, a hunter, provides an incredible amount of meat and sustenance for his clan or tribe. He’s so ugly, even water won’t show his reflection. Darned good hunter, though.

As is the wont of most species, Grungh wants to procreate. No war between his clan and the next nearest clan three mountain ridges over. (Insert bad snuff film background music here). He just wants his chance with Byngh, who he’s known and harbored a secret attraction for most of his life.

He knows he’s not handsome. He knows Byngh is sought after by virtually every other guy in the clan. He doesn’t stand a chance. Or does he?

Take what you know and own it. Grungh begins leaving offerings just inside the entrance to Byngh’s cave.

A mammoth haunch here, the choicest liver and organs from deer there. On and on until Byngh has been fattened up enough that no other guys in the clan will give her the time of day, let alone pursue her with romantic intentions in mind.

Grungh sees his chance and takes it. He begins hanging around the local berry patch he knows is Byngh’s favorite place to gather, finding ways to accidentally run into her.

I doubt they’d talk about weather or other small talk. Life was shorter back then. Who knew when a wild animal might spring from the forest to claim its own meat? What germs might quickly consume the essence and leave behind a lifeless, shrivelled husk?

Byngh and Grungh get together in the ways of man and woman. Their descendants flourish. Eventually their genetic code can be found in nearly ten percent of the people of France, Spain, and Switzerland, as well as to a smaller extent in other European countries and on other continents.

It’s a shame that part of that genetic coding, most especially for their descendants who remained in what was to eventually become France, included an incredible disdain and dislike embedded in the genes, for America and all things American.

Now there would be a documentary I likely wouldn’t switch off 25 or so minutes into watching it.

Peace.

“I was working in the lab late one night. When my eyes beheld and eerie sight. For my monster from his slab, began to rise. And suddenly to my surprise.” – Bobby “Boris” Pickett & The Crypt Kickers, Monster Mash

It’s Halloween. That’s an observation, and in a very confuzzled and obtuse way related to what will be talked about here today.

You already know I love to write. I also have hope that this will help Jason know some of half his history. My stories are either way better when spoken aloud or way worse.

My first girlfriend was raised in Brooksville. I met her at a DeMolay dance in Floral City, Florida. It was close to a tie on which one of us was more shy. Blonde ringlets, stormy green eyes, freckles, braces, and a cute way of scuffing her left foot on the ground, eyes downcast, when she was nervous. her name was Erin, and she lived in a barn.

It was literally a barn and attached silo that had been renovated. The hay loft became the second floor. The silo was a perfect fit for the wrought iron spiral staircase. Hunks of outer wall had been knocked out and replaced with bay and plate glass windows. It is by far one of the top ten coolest houses I’ve ever seen. Her dad liked his toys to be as close to accurate and stereotypical as possible, right down to the red paint with white trim.

Girlfriend may be too strong a word. We dated for three or four months before we decided relying on one set of parents or the other to drive us 45 minutes for a date might not at 14 be an ideal situation. We parted amicably, but not before a first kiss, and all I will admit, coach did not hold the runner up at first base. Put me in coach, put me in. We were so awkward and bad at matters of romance.

My dad knew I had a thing for blondes. Plus mom always suspected due to my shyness around girls that I might be gay. One of my uncles was, why not her son? I wasn’t, as the stash of magazines objectifying the female form in all its glory that she never successfully discovered but if she had might have gone to great lengths to assauge her fears.

Dad would have embraced me regardless of who I found to ring my bell. He encouraged my first relationship. He also loved to get to know anyone who held a place in my heart. He wanted to get to know them. If they potentially could be part of the family, he’d want to know them as much as he could. Plus he harbored a secret love of blondes himself. He’d told me one day when we were alone in the car headed to watch one of my brother’s football games.

“She won’t be who you marry. She’s nice but you don’t quite fit. Invite her to come with us Saturday.”

Saturday was a trip to Busch Gardens in Tampa. Whether it was his own or other kids, dad loved the joy of kids having a blast. Heck, when he used to chaperone the occasional camping trip while I was in the Boy Scouts, he’d find ways of helping pass the time while we were out of our skull having a blast.

Smitty owned a thousand or so acres near the county line. Illegally dredged ponds for the horses and cattle to drink had been dug before the inception of the EPA. Small creeks that eventually wended their way to the mighty Withlacoochie dotted the property. Ancient live oaks, hickory, palms, lots of native trees bushes and palmettos kept visitors on their proverbial toes. Wild hogs or worse could be hidden quite easily in their depths.

One of the Smitty trips we’d built a rope bridge across one of the wider watering holes. It had rained, a steady drizzle, for two days. Initially taut, the main rope of the bridge had stretched and sagged as it got soaked. It had stretched to the point that anyone crossing the bridge no longer got a bird’s eye view of the pond below, but more of a fish-eyed one. As anyone approached the unsupported center, the rope would approach, then descend beneath the surface. The pond wasn’t very deep. Soon the fearless adventurer would find himself touching bottom, chest high in the tepid, brown water.

Having crossed the bridge umpteen times, we’d “fall” off the bridge and swim. One of my friends freaked out. He screamed. Later he told everyone he had calmly informed us there was something under the sand. The something turned out to be a fresh water mussel.

A new game commenced. Mussels were edible. Find some. Find lots. We did.

Due to the drizzle, the campfire sputtered and hissed. We all smelled like smoke from the prodigious amount a dampened fire outputs throughout the day and night.

Taking our recently claimed cash of marine life and placing them in a foil covered grill, we let the muscles smoke and open from the fire’s heat. They tasted alright, but something more was needed. But what?

We had brought chicken and barbecue sauce to grill, but the mussels changed our plans, or rather, my dad did.

“Bring me some salt and the sauce.”

We did.

Twenty some odd boys ranging from 11 to 17 and our chaperones traipsed around the woods for the remainder of the weekend slowly dripping rainwater, bellies distended from devouring slightly sweet, slightly smoky, and utterly delicious smoked mussels. Repeated trips into the ponds to scour for more helped keep us somewhat washed, but we were a happy mess.

Another place we camped was a local park, Whispering Pines. You’ve seen one pine tree or patch of poison ivy, you’ve seen them all.

Again, an idea emerged from dad. The timing may not have been perfect as it was dark with us the only current human occupants of the park, but it was a GOOD idea. The road to hell and all that.

“Let’s go swimming in the pool.”

I’m not sure how long before the gates of the park had been closed for the night the pool closed, but it WAS closed and latched, surrounded by a ten foot tall chain link fence. Pshaw.

We hoisted one of the more nimble members of the troop as high as we could. He quickly scampered over the top and lowered himself down the other side. There was no lock on the latch back then (There is now, likely due to nocturnal swimming forays.) and we quickly were inside and swimming.

The underwater lights in the pool remain alight throughout the night. Again, twenty or thirty of us in the pool dunking one another, having chicken fights, carrying on, etc. must have been quite the sight for the two police cruisers and four officers who responded to the alarm triggered by the motion detectors around the pool.

After identities were verified, the officers allowed us another half hour of swimming while they jawed with dad. He’d been president of the city Little League back when two of the officers were young enough to have played. That was dad.

When a boy and girl, JB, and JB were orphaned after their mom, an incredible lady, passed away, he offered to let her kids live with us if they didn’t have a place to stay.

So of course he invited my ‘girlfriend’ along to Busch Gardens. He was always finding things to do or places to go where he knew we’d have nearly as much fun as he would. Usually the trips were not preplanned. He’d corral us into the car and off we’d go.

The week of our trip had begun in disaster. Danny as usual drove us to the bus stop on Monday at breakneck speed. Surprise, we were late.

He was exhausted still from the previous evening’s tomcatting and was in a rush to return to the welcome embrace of sleep. As soon as we tumbled out of the car, he began turning around.

Cars don’t mind, nor do they care, where you are standing while they move. Or whose ankle their tires drive over. In this case, my sister’s ankle.

We did what we always did when one of us did something that in our heads would likely cause parental blood pressure to climb to dangerous levels. We hid it. Kept our mouths shut. Snitches get stitches.

Years later the story became firmly entrenched into the family mythos. At the time, we figured out how to keep any adult from discovering the hit and run. We had total success until midway through the Saturday trip.

It was the log flume that did us in. The day was excruciating, temperature high 90s with no breeze and nary a cloud in sight. Plus, we’d been to Busch Gardens when relatives had visited from up north we knew shortcuts, almost as many as we knew I. Disney. Plus, like Disney, we knew where we could get away with cutting in line. Two hour wait my foot. Pun intended.

We rode five or six times in the space of an hour. All of us were thoroughly soaked and cooled. Only two things helped destroy both our secret and my relationship. My sister’s ankle had started bleeding, and soaked gauze roll and bandages have little to no additional ability to drink in additional liquid.

My mom freaked. She threatened to sue the park for unsafe rides. The gig was up.

No way any of us were telling mom. We’d likely get a few lashes with a belt by dad while he yelled at us for hiding it. Maybe we’d get the much lesser sentence of grounding. Part of the fear was never knowing in advance.

It was neither, which you’d figure we should have already known. Whenever we deliberately did something wrong, the wrath of dad was a certainty. If it was an accident, the same first question always spewed from dad’s mouth, even if objects were permanently destroyed. He looked at my sister. Oh God here comes the wrath. He asked but one question, directed to my sister.

“Are you ok?”

Mom went off. He hushed her with ‘the look’. Other than figuring out how to get it healed or preventing it from becoming infected, not another word was spoken. Dad was like that.

Erin told me on the tram ride back to the car that the relationship was over due to it being long distance. I hate it when someone lies to me.

I never figured out if what killed the relationship was the fact we’d kept it secret or if she was hurt I hadn’t trusted her enough to share the secret with her. I strongly suspect the latter. The end result would have been the same, but the second bothered me more.

Peace.

“Christ, did a cow (bleep) in here?” – Kentucky Fried Movie

October 29, 2021

Storms are here today, it’s gray, drizzling, and cold. The weather is beginning to try and usher out Fall to welcome Winter. It’s the most depressing and exhilarating time of the year.

I am a December baby. For those that believe in astrological signs, Sagittarius, the wanderer and hunter. Prone to problems in romance and physically prone to liver problems. Hogwash. Or is it?

Winter’s arrival has always been wonderful to me. I travelled north a few times to catch glimpsed of the Aurora Borealis. Better than any laser light show. Dark and cold, not exactly my cup of tea, but also some of my favorite memories come from the year’s waning and rebirth of the next year and spring.

Orion dominates the sky for a few months. Loyal and steadfast according to myth, je represents my ‘sign’.

My favorite part of winter is egg nog in various forms makes a reappearance in the stores. I don’t mix it with alcohol anymore. I don’t drink. But I do so love the stuff, especially when imbibing it with whatever gastronomical experiment I’ve decided to experiment with for the holidays. Some have been raging successes, some dismal failures. Experimentation, it’s what I do. It’s fun. It can be creative. It keeps me (mostly) out of trouble.

I currently am typing this from my living room. The coffee table in front of me is covered from end to end with a small portion of the last of the year’s harvest. Tomatos. Mostly green, some ripe, and one bugger that has to go. When tomatos turn rogue. It’s not a healthy specimen. It’ll infect the others. One bad apple and all that.

It took me five days to finish the harvest which normally would have been done in a few hours. The plants have all been yanked and tossed in the compost pile to prepare the soil anew for next year. The kitchen table is buried under a cornucopia of squash, apples, eggplant, fennel, tomatos, peppers, spices, and seeds drying awaiting their opportunity to flourish in the new year once planted, as always during the final harvest. Haphazardly ripening or overripe vegetables and fruits. Recipe possibilities abound, merely the choice of which delights to guide the raw material a matter of deliberate decision or spur of the moment whim. I love and hate this time of year. The sun has begun fleeing the heavens much too early. Darkness comes way too soon. I am often a creature of the night who ironically enough hates the darkness.

I still have to prepare the garden for winter. We are less than a week from the first light dusting of snow. Each year it always sneaks up in surprise. I’m not up for it physically. Nature doesn’t care.

Thank goodness for online shopping and avoiding the ocean of humanity the stores will soon become. I’m an introvert by nature. Autism, and more importantly, personal preference have set me along this route. Dichotomy my (bleep). Everything is a choice. I choose companioned solitude.

I usually have an idea or concept when I begin writing. If it’s going to be a journal of sorts, usually I have a vague outline in my brain for a makeshift and vaguely linked series of takes that ultimately will wind up blossoming into an anthology, novella, or if my muse is smiling, a novel. Today I just let the writing flow stream of consciousness with no set destination in mind. I’m like the federal government today. It can be a fun exercise, but also incredibly confusing, even to me as the author.

Spike just leapt stop the back of the couch to do one of his daily rituals. He always does it when I first show signs of coming awake, and he randomly ambushes me throughout the day. Ear licking. It’s his favorite thing. My ears only. No idea why. The dog has issues. Who doesn’t?

Honey Bee took offense. She is so my dog. Mu guard dog. She tolerates those I love. She would give up her life unasked for for me. She has backed down rather large and aggressive dogs and wild animals before, all 22 pounds of her. She’s begun having her own physical issues. She’s old. It will utterly and completely destroy me when she dies. I don’t like her much. Stoopid dog.

I have had way too much free time of late to contemplate any and everything. It’s both wonderful and hellish. Thinking of things in different ways goes back to the whole experimentation experience. Great in small doses. Sucks when it is much of your life.

Stream of consciousness never has a real firm starting or end.

Peace.

First post

I hate the background color but have yet to figure out how to change it. This is currently my third attempt to post here, so I’m skipping the song and first few paragraphs and going straight to the main point.

I apologize in advance for keeping the secret from several who I love dearly while at the same time sharing it with others who I love dearly. It was an entirely new and unexpected situation which I had no idea how to deal with when it initially happened.

A month or so before my Maine trip, I was contacted by a young man via Facebook. His name is Jason, and he was just shy of 22 years old. His mom and I had unfortunately had an ill-fated tete-a-tete.

He told me his mom had insisted I was his father. I explained to Jason due to where I lived when I was a young child that I had been exposed to some pretty horrendous things, and also I had had three fertility tests all with the same result. I couldn’t have children despite it being the one thing in life I hadn’t done that I wished beyond measure I could have.

I couldn’t imagine how difficult it must have been for him to have grown up not knowing a dad, so to try and help him find out who his real dad was, I agreed to a DNA test.

I swabbed my cheek and mailed it off to him. Meanwhile, I snooped.

i read everything he’d ever posted on Facebook. I viewed every picture in his photo gallery. We also talked via messenger. Hmmm.

His eyes were mine. His sense of humor my dads, and God help us all, mine. He apparently is a whiz in the kitchen. That comes from my grandmother and dad.

He has two beautiful daughters, they sure as heck don’t look like me at all. Hmm…

I knew. Because of what’s going on with my body right now, I had a lawyer draw up a will. Everything to Theresa if I die first, and visa versa if she does. If we both shuffle off the mortal coil at the same time, everything goes to the kids. We had it drawn up to include two men and two women, all prior to the results of the DNA test.

I had been told three times no children, but I have kids. Theresa’s family is my family, and her biological children are my children. She has three. I included Jason in the will before the result was in my hands. I knew.

The results came in a few days after the will was signed. I read them. I reread them. I’m going to have them bronzed.

Besides the 99.995 percent positive, there were a few tidbits that stood out in particular. It shows genetic markers on multiple chromosomes. Most of them came from both parents. One or two solely from the mother. Here’s what sent incredibly wonderful shivers up my spine. A few of the markers did not include mom. They were solely mine.

I had a son. Oh shit. I had a son and hadn’t been there for him as he was born and growing up. I sucked. I couldn’t change it. But… I could be there now that I knew. I introduced him to Theresa via the phone, and told him about his brother and sister and that he’s an uncle and my house is his house. I practically vibrated my way through the day, every day. I still do.

What if he wanted nothing to do with me because I wasn’t there? Did he brush his teeth after meals? Hell, was he doing ok? He’s 22 how do you be a dad to a 22 year old son you’d never met? So many questions, so many what ifs.

It is completely uncharted territory for me, but I have had some experience in navigating the waters. I already had three children via Theresa. I know I’m not their biological father, but I’m their father.

Now I have four.

I told virtually no one. I was still trying to process it myself. I shared it with a few immediate family members, and one person via Facebook messenger. People I love and trust. I love and trust others, but I didn’t know how to share it. Would I be judged for not being there? Would I get hell for it from my family, in this case family means siblings, like I have for virtually every decision ever?

I invited Jason to come to Ohio. If he could arrange that, he was entirely welcome with open arms to come to Maine. Sadly, he could not miss work, nor could he take, and this sounds so weird coming from my head, my granddaughters out of school to come.

Note: I had already had four grandchildren, three boys, one girl. Now I have six. It’s an equal mix. Three boys, three girls. All of them helluva better looking than me.

I came to the realization, judgement or no judgement, I don’t care. I have four children. I am proud of that more than I can attempt to place into words. I am crying as I type this. Who cares if you know?

I am working on figuring out when and how to meet Jason. It’ll be awkward. There will likely be much unspoken, as the more I get to know him, the more scary it becomes how he is like me. How I am very much like my dad. I’m good with that. Awkward is usually my watchword. It’s home turf. We’ll figure it out in our awkward way. We always do.

Peace.