a day for remembering

At 10 AM today, it will have been 33 years since my daddy crossed to the Other Side. He went suddenly. The last thing he said to my mother (when she came into the bedroom to wake him for work, where he had meetings starting at noon) was, “Is it that time already?” She said, “Yes.” I’ve always thought he was talking to the angel, not to her. And that her “yes” was somehow taken as permission to go.

We didn’t mean to give that permission, but oh well. Here we are in the year 2009 . . . that alone is mind-boggling to a child of the 1960s/1970s who thought we’d be living like the Jetsons by now. I hope that Daddy looks down now and then to marvel at what our semi-rural neighborhood has become, and at the technological advances that would have fascinated and engaged him, and at what we’re all doing now (just for fun). I think he’d love to visit again just to see what all has changed and how profoundly. He always liked that kind of thing (a professor, after all).

I’m up early and I’m going to take Mama out to the mall or somewhere so she won’t be thinking about this all day. We’ve lost touch with all my relatives on that side of the family (the last one we were in touch with went to assisted living and has apparently moved to another place without telling us . . . and Mama hadn’t been keeping up with the cousins . . . and I had been relying on her to keep up). It’s all rather sobering. Maybe we need to get drunk?

Anyway . . . today’s a day of remembering. And of trying not to remember.


Author: shalanna

Shalanna: rhymes with "Madonna" and "I wanna," and is not a soundalike with "Hosanna" or "Sha-Na-Na." Aging hippie with long hair, husband, elderly mother, and yappy Pomeranian. I've been writing since I could hold a crayon. I started with fiction, which Mama said was "lying." “Don’t tell stories,” she would admonish, in Southern vernacular. “That's all in your imagination!” When grownups said this, they were not approving. So, shamed, I stopped telling stories for a few years--rather, I stopped letting anyone read them. I'm married to a fellow computer nerd who doesn't really like hearing about writing, but who reads sf/fantasy and understands the creative drive. I'm actually a nonconformist/hippie still wearing bluejeans and drop earrings and the Alice-in-Wonderland hair with headbands and sandals. Favorite flavor is chocolate/orange, favorite color is either Dreamsicle orange (cantaloupe) or bubble-gum pink, favorite musical is either Bye Bye Birdie, Rocky Horror, or The Producers . . . wait, I also love The Music Man. Is this getting way too specific and irrelevant yet? Obvious why I don't sell a ton of flash fiction, isn't it? To define oneself, I always say, it is good to make a list. How about a booklist? Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird Frank and Ernestine Gilbreth, Cheaper by the Dozen C.S.Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (all the Narnia books) J.R.R.Tolkien,The Hobbit/LORD OF THE RINGS trilogy Gail Godwin, The Odd Woman F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby J. D. Salinger, Catcher in the Rye (before dismissing it, actually read it) George Orwell, 1984 Kurt Vonnegut, Cat's Cradle Donna Tartt, The Secret History Mark Twain, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn James Allen, As A Man Thinketh Mark Winegardner, Elvis Presley Boulevard James Thurber, My Life and Hard Times The Wizard of Oz, L. Frank Baum Winnie-the-Pooh/House at Pooh Corner, A. A. Milne Peter Pan, J. M. Barrie The KJV and NIV Bible (each translation has its glories)

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