This is the view my brother wanted me to have from my house. Except he would have cut down the lone pine blocking the view of the summit of the mountain (Silver Lake Mtn.) This is the end of my driveway, complete with my car. The neighborhood bully (named for my fish) has sort of clear cut the huge lot across from my land. Rumors run rampant about his plans--a trailer park, one acre lots, etc.
Anyway, I'm parking at the end of the driveway because it's mud season. Early mud season. And I need an early mud season this year. I even saw a flock of geese flying over my house yesterday.
I've had a bad morning. While Patty was helping me get my coffee I said, "You take such good care of me," then I cried because Ken would answer that with "If I don't, who will?" I cried all the way to work, knowing that of course I take care of myself, but Ken helped me in so many ways. He taught me things about life, about how to fix things, about work ethic, about how to behave (like, tact), about how to enjoy what you have ("There's people who'd pay a lot of money to have what we have here"), about caring for your tools (and belongings), about NOT procrastinating, about my neighborhood, about poverty, about how things work--it's a long list. I miss him more than I could have imagined.
I think it's a fine thing that we can miss our old people who have died so very much, even though we know their lives could not go on the way they were at the end. It's a tribute and homage to the bond of love that ties us to them forever. It is natural to have a hard time accepting a loss that is so inevitable, and yet so very painful. I love you. Hang in there. Cherish your memories, that is the right thing to do. The pain is part of the caring, which is the most human thing we do.
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