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
#ENDALZ
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