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The Land o the Leal

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Jack makes it on time again – – –

2020 has been a year of surprises. Some were terrifying and others were poignant, as was one earlier this week.

I went out to check our mailbox and there was a large thin stiff envelope there. I immediately recognized it as containing a calendar and had a very eerie feeling. The only person who sends us calendars is my old friend Colin Stuart in Scotland. But Colin died suddenly and unexpectedly in January of sepsis – –

Sure enough, when I opened the package it did contain a calendar with Scottish scenes. Turning it over, I noticed the sender name on the back of the envelope. Colin’s sister had mailed it but I’ve no idea how she found our address – maybe in some of Colin’s things at his house I suppose. I thought it was a lovely thoughtful way to keep his memory alive in a way that will continue throughout the year.

Something very similar happened when my older sister Margaret passed away a few years ago. I made contact with her old school chum Christine not long before Margaret passed. Christine, who lives in England, re-connected with one of her old friends who lives here in SW Virginia simply because they are both Facebook friends with Wendy and me. All part of the great kaleidoscope of life.

Margaret had always sent electronic greetings cards to us for our birthdays, Thanksgiving and Christmas. Somehow Christine got wind of this and she has carried on the tradition. We get lovely online greetings from her for each occasion and it reminds us not only of our friendship with her but of Margaret.

As I get older (and older) it’s inevitable that many contemporaries pass away and it reminds me of a much shared observation. You die three times – 1) When your body dies 2) When you the last person who remembers you dies 3) When the last thing you impacted is gone.

I’m pleased to have known so many friends and relations whose third death is yet a long way off.

Of course the calendar can’t go on the wall until Friday; any earlier would be bad luck, and we’ve had enough in 2020 – another Scots tradition.

Too Many Words

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I’m supposed to be keeping up with the blog in the following ways: a Monday book on, well, you can guess; Jack writes on Wednesdays, and on Fridays or Saturdays I come up with something pithy, insightful, bittersweet, funny, etc. to say.

too many words, not enough listening?

Even though I love to write, it has become a chore I will do anything to avoid, writing the weekend blog. I even color coded my t-shirt collection.

You know what? I’m so weary of words, and I bet many of you are too. Ecclesiastes 12:12 and all that. It’s been a year when people fling words at each other like mud more than decorate our souls with them. Reading for ammo, not relaxation.

I just don’t want to contribute to it more than I have. Three books this year: one on substance use disorder whose manuscript was turned in last December but disrupted by the pandemic; one on Conspiracy Theories, done entirely during the stay-home months; and one turned in for 2021 publication, an anthology of healthcare workers describing their COVID experiences. All of them are intense. All of them had things that needed to be said.

I’m tired, but not from the books. It’s fairly energizing to publish, in all honesty. I’m tired of trying to find the right thing to say. What else is there to say?

Maybe, peace out?

Can we lay down the crossed sword words, stop trying to find ways to jab and one-up one another, on line, on air, on your mark, get set, go because some pastor, some politician said we were supposed to or God wouldn’t love us and we might not get stimulus checks? Writers are supposed to observe, describe, and persuade in turn. To everything there is a season. Maybe this can be our season of peace, a time to stop throwing phrases and soundbites and nasty words at each other, and listen for a bit. Take the other person off mute these Zoomed-in twelve or so days of Christmas, and hear what they have to say. For love, for affection, kindness. Let them talk.

Isn’t this why God invented cocktails (just kidding, sorta): to keep family edges soft when the seams threaten to unravel from all those sharp jabs? Take a sip, count to ten, listen, keep your mic on mute, and enjoy. I have nothing to add to the collection of words that have accumulated this year, except maybe, God Bless Us, Every One. EVERY SINGLE ONE.

Peace out, and see you in the New Year.