Some people find it hard to write, but for some of us, not writing is harder. Throughout my entire life, I’ve found writing to be a way to set my mind at rest, put things in perspective, and to, more importantly, move on.
Some of my friends and family, who had missed the hyperbole and drama, were floored when the social media queen left Facebook. I assure you, physically, I’m healthy.
Emotionally, I’m a mess. My heart is black with hurt and anger, my mind is spinning out of control for the things left unsaid. It is not my story to tell, and I respect that.
Getting off social media has its downside, I’m not seeing the photos my brother is posting during his trip, I’m not interacting with my Facebook friends, and I have nowhere to post the beautiful sunset photo I took a few nights ago. The upside is I’m avoiding the aggravation of the political uproar. I have more time to read.
I’m catching up on all the chores set aside prior to our local Walk to End Alzheimer’s. We tackled the grass yesterday. The rain had made the yard too soggy to use the tractor and we’d mowed what we could with the regular mower. It finally dried up enough to mow with the tractor so Harold fired it up, drove out of the machine shed, and went to work.
I had trouble engaging my brain to figure out the sequence necessary to start the Bad Boy. The most I could get was a click. I thought that maybe the battery was dead. I went outside to see if I could get Harold’s attention, but he was already far away, and headed in the other direction. I tried several different moves, and finally realized the blade was down. Well, duh.
Mowing is a time to think, and my spinning thoughts made my eyes water, the words I wanted to shout made my throat hurt.
I had finished my part of the mowing and made a final swath down a bank through some too-tall grass. As I turned to climb up the bank, I noticed the grass moving. Curious, I stopped the mower and looked at the ground expecting to see a mouse or mole. Instead, it was a baby rabbit bleeding out on the grass. I cried for destroying the small, living animal who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
This morning, I reminded myself of a person in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. I mixed up some biscuits to go with our leftover sausage gravy. Harold set the timer, but instead of putting the biscuits in the oven, I set the pan on the countertop. I bustled around taking care of other things, and about the time I poured an extra glass of milk, I realized the biscuits weren’t exactly baking. After resetting the timer, I put the biscuits in the oven and poured the extra glass of milk back in the jug.
The timer went off, I checked the biscuits, and closed the oven door. I proceeded to set out the dishes, get the silverware, and totally forgot the biscuits. When it crossed my mind again, I grabbed a mitt, opened the oven, and breathed a sigh of relief that they weren’t charred.
After a few bites, Harold said, “These are the best biscuits you’ve ever made. I love the little crunch on the bottom.”
“I like them too,” I said. “They remind me of Virginia’s biscuits. They always had that crunch.”
Well, the biscuit story had a happier ending than the mowing story. That’s how life goes. Life isn’t fair and the good guys don’t always win. Sometimes, you feel like a perfectly baked golden brown biscuit, but other times you feel like you’ve been run over by a lawnmower.
Copyright © September 2018 by L.S. Fisher