You can never go home again, but the truth is
you can never leave home, so it’s all right.

—Maya Angelou
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It seems a little strange, to call a place home. When you’ve never lived there. Guess it stems from societal norms. Home is where your parents live. Regardless of their age, or yours. My parents moved to the remote little community of Mays Lick, Kentucky about a year ago. A distant unfamiliar place.

We headed out for “home” with Big Blue Friday morning. My brother Nate and me. I had never taken my truck on any kind of road trip before. Planned on it, last summer. But the $4 per gallon gasoline put a stop to that.

Not this time. Gas is cheap. So Big Blue it was. We loaded up and hit the road by 6 AM. After hitting Rt. 283 in Lancaster, it was four lane all the way to Kentucky. Traffic was generally light. Not much going on the day after Christmas. Only a few big trucks, not enough to clog the roads. I sipped my coffee and set Big Blue’s cruise control for almost the first time ever.

The truck rocketed along smoothly. Nate sat reclined in the passenger’s seat and slept. 81 South to Hagerstown. 68 West through Cumberland. On to 79 South in Morgantown. I stopped for gas. Checked Big Blue’s mileage. Right at 17 mpg. Not bad, considering all the hills and mountains we’d crossed.

Nate took the wheel for a spell. It was good to spend some time “catching up” with him. My youngest brother. We had not seen each other since some quite unfortunate events unfolded in Florida, back in early 2007. Almost two years. We’d talked and texted. But not seen each other. That’s a long time.

After a leisurely late lunch at the Cracker Barrel, Nate’s favorite, in Charleston, we arrived in Maysville, ten miles north of Mays Lick, around late afternoon. Checked in at the very nice Hampton Inn and settled in for a few days. Since my parents and brother Josephs had company that day from another settlement, we decided to wait until the next morning to head out.

The next morning around 9, we drove in to my brother Joseph’s farm. Dads live in a nice double wide, attached by deck to Joseph’s new house. Nice little setup. One thing about the Amish, they know how to take care of the elderly. Without stuffing them into nursing homes. Joseph’s wife Iva has lupus, so their new house was designed with her in mind. Mostly one level, hardwood floors, very nicely laid out. After looking around, Nate and I headed over to my parents’ house, across the deck.

Dad sat at his desk, Mom on her recliner, reading a Pathway magazine. They welcomed us in. Dad of course recognized us. I wasn’t sure Mom would, but she did, immediately saying our names. To date, she has always recognized all her children.

We sat on the couch and visited. Yes, our trip was fine. Yes, we were staying at a motel in town. Somehow, Mom couldn’t grasp that fact and kept telling us we could stay in the spare bedroom.

They both looked well physically. The ravages of Alzheimer’s have taken their toll on Mom, though. In the course of a single day, she resides in many places, mostly from her childhood.

I asked her if she remembers the “Juniata” song from her childhood, and hummed the tune for her. She remembered a line or two, but couldn’t get a full verse. Dad then told us that Mom had started singing an old childhood song about the sinking of the Titanic. It just came back to her. She hadn’t sung it in decades, and never when we were children. At first, she could remember only one verse and the chorus. Then one morning the second verse emerged. Dad hastily wrote it down and made copies. Now they sang it together sometimes.

Nate and I immediately requested that they sing it for us. Dad shuffled around at his desk and extracted some blue papers, on which he had printed the song. He limped over and sat down on the rocker recliner beside her chair and gave her a copy and told her to lead. Nate and I sat there quietly, ready to go where we’d never been.

And without any fuss, Mom began to sing. Dad joined her. Her clear soprano shook just a little, and his rich baritone cracked and trembled. But it was beautiful to hear, and a breathtaking sight. Silhouetted in the glint of the mid morning light, they sang:

It was a Monday morning, just one o’clock
When the great Titanic began to reel and rock
And the people began to cry
Saying, Lord we are going to die.

Chorus:
It was sad when the great ship went down
It was sad when the great ship went down
There were husbands and wives, little children lost their lives
It was sad when the great ship went down.

When they built the great Titanic they said, what can we do?
They said they’d build a ship the water can’t go through
But God with His mighty hand
Showed the world it cannot stand.

And then it was over. The last echoes of their cracked, quivering voices faded. Nate and I sat mesmerized. It was a rare sight, a golden moment. For both of us. We had never seen our parents sitting together, just the two of them, singing a song. Ever.

Spontaneously, we clapped and cheered. Mom beamed.

Mom no longer cooks, so at lunch time Nate and I left and returned with broasted chicken and biscuits. Dad, Mom and Nate sat at their small table. I ate on the kitchen island.

We left so Mom could take her nap, returning later in the afternoon. That night, we provided pizza for everyone, including Joseph’s family, eating at their new house. Later I walked my parents across the deck to their home and sat and visited with Dad awhile. He asked about my writing and commented positively on some of the blogs he had read. He doesn’t read them all. He usually gets hard copies of certain blogs a few weeks after post dates.

He allowed that “Levi and Noah” was among the best he had read and I had written. Probably because it was pretty bland and noncontroversial. But I appreciated it. He’s my Dad and his opinion counts.

I said good-bye and took my leave. Nate and I headed back to the motel, where we talked late into the night. The next day, around mid-morning, I left for home in Big Blue by myself. Nate stayed for a few more days, then traveled back to Canada from there.

It was a good trip. I mused over events as I drove. We had been genuinely welcomed home. Our parents were glad to see us. We talked and visited without rancor. They ate the food we provided. They sang for us.

And I reflected on those moments. And the pitifully few similar moments I have ever experienced. How hard I’d tried, years ago, to break the barriers to my father’s heart. How I’d craved his recognition and blessing. And Nate too, had tried so hard, for so long. In anguish. All to no avail.

Until we just gave up. Told ourselves it didn’t matter.

But it did. And always will.

So much was wasted, so much lost.

The moments we had just shared could have been the norm for all those years, not the exception. But only now were they possible, in the final years, after the ravages of age had quietly removed the impenetrable barriers imposed by centuries of mindless traditions of harsh cold shunning.

It’s sad. And tragic, really. But it is what it is. And even at this late stage, those mom-ents are something. Something tangible. That we can take and turn in our minds and examine. And treasure for what they were. Things that will likely not survive for long in their memories. Especially Mom’s. But they will live on in ours. Because in the end, they happened. Against seemingly insurmountable odds only a few short years ago.

In the final analysis, that’s all that matters. And it’s enough. It has to be.

Because all else is vanity, a chasing after the wind, a deep hopeless yearning to change the past that is set in stone and can never be undone.
__________________________________________________

In football, things shook out last weekend. The post season is set. Slurp, slurp. Three of the most dangerous teams to watch: San Diego, Indy, and yes, the thug Eagles. All are peaking, two are coming off very mediocre seasons. They have nothing to lose, no expectations. Which makes them all the more dangerous. Minnesota and Arizona are insipid sacrificial lambs, and will be promptly slaughtered this weekend.

My buddy Favre pulled his usual stunts for the Jets last Sunday. Three interceptions. So the very next day the Jets fired not Favre as they should have, but his coach. I’m scratching my head in disbelief. Idiots. Eric Mangini is a genius, a prodigy of the evil Bellichek. Whose vile Patriots were denied the playoffs, thankfully. The only good thing that resulted from the Jets’ loss.

Well, it’s 2009. Seems strange, to write it. 2009. Next year the double digit rolls in. On New Years Eve, I stopped by Paul and Anne Marie’s for supper and hung out for awhile. Anne Marie met with her doctor earlier this week. Not surprisingly, the tumor diagnosis is the same as last time. Malignant. They are discussing treatment options and will make some decisions in the coming weeks.

I returned home early and spent the evening watching football. Midnight came, and the ball drop. Dick Clark has got to go. Since his stroke a few years back, the man’s face is frozen and he slurs his words. You can’t understand him. Yes, I know he’s been doing the countdown since prehistoric times. And it’s tragic, his stroke. But they need an anchor who can talk.

Happy New Years texting was fast and furious for awhile before I went to bed.

New Years Day, I slept in. Went to Sheetz for my free coffee, then to the Leola Fire Hall to pick up the traditional New Years meal of pork and sauerkraut. For eleven bucks. Fundraiser, and all. I’m not a big fan of sauerkraut, but it’s edible at least once a year.

New Years Day is college football. All the bowl games. The Big Ten has not been doing well, but Iowa crushed South Carolina 31-10. Some Midwestern pride there. Penn State was soundly thrashed by USC in the Rose Bowl, 38-24.

Drop the last year into the silent limbo of the past. Let it go,
for it was imperfect, and thank God that it can go.

—Brooks Atkinson
________________________________________________

The day snuck up on us, and just like that, it’s over. Christmas was good this year, cold and wintery like days of old. I spent the day at my brother Steve’s house. Along with my guest, my youngest brother Nate, who traveled down from Ontario, Canada. We had a large time. And plenty of delicious food. With the family scattered so far, among so many places, you gather with those who are close.

Brothers at table: Ira, Nate, Steve

Steve, Ira Lee, Nate and Clifford (not pictured) play monopoly.

Scrunched in: Nate and Steve take a ride.

Does the Amish mafia exist? Nate at the firing range Christmas afternoon.

And now one more year has come. And one more year has gone. It will be 2009 before my next post.

Last year, 2007, was a time of facing and absorbing a lot of bad stuff. Of tremendous loss. Of rebuilding my life from shattered foundations. I now look back on those not so long ago days and wonder sometimes how I made it through. Somehow I did. Like we all do, or most of us anyway, when adversity comes. Slog through it.

And the days of 2007 crept by, and a new year came. I welcomed it. Looked for better things. For joy. For the sun to shine again.

I found those things. At least some of them. And the sun did shine again, although the year had its share of dark days as well. 2008 was much better, a year of acceptance, a time of letting go, of clearing my head and moving on. I have. Pretty solidly, I think. Other than a few flashbacks on the dates of certain events. Things I wrote out. Things that snuck up and stirred deeply in the core of the memory and the heart. To be faced down and dealt with again. And perhaps repeatedly in the future, but with a bit less emotional upheaval each time. I hope. As the events of 2007 recede into the distance, further and further into the past. Covered by the layered days and weeks and months. And eventually years.

I remain convinced that time does not heal deep wounds. Pain diminishes, but the roots always exist. Buried, way down. Once in awhile, triggered by some thread of memory, or the shock of a nightmare, they stab for the surface again. Like weeds. And like weeds, they must be hacked out again and again.

And so things stand. The old behind. The new ahead.

In the past month, Ellen and I have reestablished some communication because of our mutual friendship with Paul and Anne Marie. She is close to Anne Marie. We share our concerns and our support for them.

We’ve talked some, too. Through a veil of heavy sadness. About who we were and what was lost. The realization that Eden, however imperfect, cannot be regained. Once it’s abandoned. As it was. Engulfed by thorns, its desolate gates now stand, guarded by the fiery twin swords of memory and pain.

We met exactly ten years ago, on Christmas Day.

I will always care for her. And look out for her where I can.

I won’t say much more, other than it’s easier to be cordial than to remain in a state of perpetual rage.

With one exception. The one who used to be my closest friend. For him, I still have only seething venom. At him, the molten rage still smolders. For him, there is no cordiality. No warmth, no desire to reconcile.

Not that any effort to speak of has been made, by either of us. I would recoil if I met him. So I try not to.

Which may be right. Or it may be wrong. But it’s where I am.

He walks the earth alone. Devoid of the long term relationships that defined his life. And the one for which he threw it all away. Devoid of the meaningful human inter-actions that sustain us all. Alone. Pursued by the virulent demons that torment his soul. Alone, cursed, the mark of Cain upon him. Until he chooses to remove it. Which he alone can do.

And that’s all I choose to say about that.

Other than that little brooding spell, I’m doing well. Really.

Emotionally, I’ve got a handle on things. Mostly. See my counselor once a month, the only truly, absolutely safe place in my world. Working to the place where the things written above can rest. I’ve made progress. What I wrote above was about one-tenth of what I would have said six months ago. So that’s progress. And I’ll get there. Over time. To where even that last ten percent can be laid to rest. For good.

Physically, I’ve kept off those 45 pounds now for going on three years. With some mild fluctuations during holidays, such as now. Still hit the gym regularly, as often as I can. “Doc” and I have made our peace and are friends again. I don’t see him often, but when I do, he tells his old tall tales, like he used to. He’s teaching me some new stretching exercises. For my lower back. He’s good. It helps. We respect each others’ use of the sauna. Peace reigns at the gym. For now.

I’m back to Chestnut Street Chapel on a pretty regular basis. Except for the odd Sunday mornings when I feel sinful and sleep in and don’t attend church at all. It’s a cool, diverse little group. Not diverse as in politically correct, but truly diverse. From plain and non-plain backgrounds. Currently the church is in search of a pastor. The lay members fill in occasionally and preach, something I don’t have to worry about, what with my marital status and all.

And so another New Year comes. Another fresh slate. For all those resolutions. To take another crack at it, to do better.

But I’m pretty ambivalent about it all. Don’t have a lot of great plans or anything. And no new resolutions. Just keep plugging away where I am.

It should be an interesting year. Economically. Even as the One enters his office as the most powerful man in the world. To the accolades of the craven press and the fainting masses. With his utopian socialistic dreams. It should be interesting. And perhaps a little scary. Not that fear should paralyze us. Just be aware. And prepared.

The days and weeks and months will roll by like they always do. By this time next year, some few of us won’t be here. Will have passed on. It could be anyone. Me. You. Or friends we cherish.

The living will keep going, like they always do. Absorbed with the details of daily life. The constant grind. And the joys too, the unexpected little things that pop up and surprise us.

In one area, I’m not ambivalent. And that’s the writing. It’s what sustains me, the pressure valve that releases the gathering steam. I would have been lost without it these past ninety weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since my second post, back in April, 2007. For ninety weeks now, I have posted every Friday. A remarkable thing. Exciting too. For me, at least. I’ve never maintained such discipline before. In anything. In all my life. It feels good.

I’ll keep churning out the occasional sketch. And the occasional brooding screed about what’s bothering me. And the stuff that’s happening around me. And, of course, the final Elmo Stoll essay. To ye of little patience, that should be done in early 2009. January or February. But note the word, “should.” It’s not a promise.

I write not to change the world. Or make it better. Or worse. I write because I want to, because deep down, something stirs, something that prompts me to write the things I have lived and seen and felt. The little things that stir the recesses of memory, the things that will be forgotten if left untold.

I say it sometimes, but not often. Don’t want to get tiresome. But it’s fitting in this last post of 2008. And that is “Thank you” to my readers. I appreciate every one. The time you take, weekly or sporadically, to read what I post. I’m honored and touched. Truly.

Last spring during a period when I was feeling down, a friend emailed me. “Keep writing,” he said. “If you write it, they will read.”

He was right. He’ll probably feel wise when he reads this. But that’s OK. He was.

I’ve kept writing. And you’ve kept reading. Thanks for validating his advice.

All the best to all of you in 2009.

And Happy New Year.