Down the rabbit hole, having jumped off with a prompt, writing to see what happens… gathering with peers at Free Fall Fridays.
Perhaps on that Friday, seven years ago, I was thinking of old research that showed that during wartime the rate of suicides goes down: No one knew why. Besides being glad to be alive, I suspect the reason has to do with taking an interest in something larger than one’s own wretched life. Hence the character’s interest in “Guam,” where perhaps someone he knew was stationed. Maybe I was thinking of the hell of Guadalcanal, with no time to properly spell out the island before the call of “times up!”
prompt-glad to be alive
He had the gout in his big toe again. What a way to wake up. The radio was crackling and popping. Blast! He must have left it on after Roosevelt’s fireside chat—too bad he was abruptly crashing asleep these days. Not old age, no, chopping wood to help heat the cabin will do that to you. At least, that was what he normally told himself. He shifted his legs under the old blankets, in rushed the fingers of old man winter, and swung his legs over, stocking feet to the rude cabin floor. And bent over. And his hips creaked and his back creaked and he stood up. Yep, he was old.
His cabin needed more window space. Nobody in his generation ever had the cash to put in decent window space, or the cash to heat the place either. And now the pesky gov’mint wanted him to go to a home in town. He looked out his bigger window. Snowing.
It had snowed yesterday, would snow today, and no doubt the next day too. And if he ever ran out of coal it would take four hours a day just to chop enough wood. Blast! And with the roads out, the coal man would have trouble. At least he wouldn’t quit. Too many fellows were enlisting.
Start the stove for the pot, and the coffee pot with the grounds. No eggshells today. Plug in the kettle for pouring over the coffee. Heat the pot, force yourself to shave before anything else. Before the coffee, before the oatmeal: The road to despair is paved with small indulgences.
And stand before the shallow tin washbasin, hesitate as you always do, then shirt off—argg!— and enjoy the fluff swish fluff of a genuine badger brush.
Then time to open the door a crack and enjoy the same old oats and coffee. Forget the Old Folks Home. Forget the snow—glad to be alive
“I wonder how our boys are doing on Guam? I want to know.”
…
…
Sean Crawford,
Landing with a thump, and a peer saying, “How did you know that little self indulgences lead to despair?”
on the open prairie,
North of Suffield where thundering, squealing British armour trains,
North of Lethbridge where a certain prince, drinking in the bar with his buddies, was noticed by a waitress.
2014 and 2021
