Nobody likes a whiner, and men are not supposed to whine under any circumstances. Often the line between introspection and whining is lost in one’s personal miasma.
This will be my last blog entry for a while, probably until the first full week of April or so. I have some matters to attend to and don’t feel much like writing. In my youth, I would call on my best supportive associates for such occasions, those adorable twin demons, tobacco and alcohol. They will be of no help in my present world; some hills you just need to learn how to ski alone.
Everyone knows the ache of losing loved ones; it is as much a part of life as is happiness. There are dates that unavoidably punctuate those losses. The month of March still has the remains of hibernal depression for many of us, along with our minds whispering the memories of soft kisses from forever-lost loves of long ago.
Both of my parent’s birthdays are in the month of March, so aside from the normal cyclic black silhouettes of melancholy, this month is giving me a charitable bit more of the blues. Dad passed away in November of 2006 and Mom passed away in September of 2007, leaving the essence of their lives still very tangible for my four brothers and me. Thursday of this week is the first day of spring, Mom’s birthday. I chose that to be the day for me to arrange for her grave marker, Georgia E. (Blair) Zachary, 3/20/1932 – 9/30/2007 Wife, Mother, Author.
When I made the arrangements for Dad’s grave marker, it was all worked out in my head that I would swagger into the sales office, select the marker, write the check, and coolly stroll back out the door; all strictly business. The macho delusions failed me. The sales woman was kind enough to put up with me breaking down, and provided tissues to wipe the tears away. I’ll bring a large box of my own tissues this time, there are no macho delusions; it will not be an easy afternoon.
Everyone in town knew Mom as The Rose Lady; she created a yard full of rose bushes that seemed to be forever in bloom. Dad was an old country-boy who would suffer through the monotony of winter, hankering for the days he could again plant the flowers and vegetables for his patio garden. March was their month of optimism, their month to prepare for the flowering of spring. Spring was the best time of the year for both of them. I will see that their graves have fresh spring flowers for their birthdays.
Time heals all for all. Soon the flowers will again look as bright and smell as sweet as they once did, hopefully for everyone on earth that needs their cheer; if not, there is always beer.
See you again soon,
James A. Zachary Jr.
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