Muse, where are you now? I couldn’t sleep last night when we
were in bed together because you refused to be still. Now you want to play hard
to get.
Quickly like the dawn of a new day my tardy Muse returns
upon our decision to go to the basement storage locker in search of some long
forgotten item that has suddenly become indispensable.
Muse distracted me from my mission by a strange change in
the atmosphere of the room. No, lights didn’t dim, floors and walls didn’t
creak, and there certainly were no vibrations. Nothing so spooky and corny,
just a compulsion to look into some old boxes filled with three generations of
family memorabilia, treasures and trash. Some best left to rest in dusty peace,
but the decision to dispatch some of it, as always it is, is more convenient to
ignore the stuff—out of sight out of mind.
A high school diploma, class of 1943—the prize from
surviving four traumatic years at four different high schools.
A 100-year-old, or so it seems, photo album with many faded
sepia photos labeled by my mother identifying people I never knew.
A picture of my father with some of his army buddies at
camp, pre-World War One. Looking closely, I could hardly recognize this pretty
young boy, but it was reassuring to have met this man in his early days.
Then a letter addressed to my mother from a dear friend
expressing her condolences when learning of my parents’ divorce. It was an
intrusion on my part to have read the letter to its conclusion, especially when
the friend indicated that the woman my father later married had been a mutual
acquaintance of all of the parties. Sometimes you learn more than you needed
to, but it did answer some questions and left more to remain unanswered—which
is just as well.
Reminiscent of this bit of drama, up from the depths of
another musty file of memories came the vibrations of the summer two weeks that
conveniently located me at YMCA camp, circa 1939. Oblivious of nothing more
important than trying to avoid getting knocked down with a mouth full of Lake
Michigan sand while playing King of the Hill, my parents took the opportunity
to drive up to camp for an unannounced visit whereupon they broke the news of
their decision to divorce. And this was the beginning of my new life as a kid
raised only by his mother and without the presence of a father to show him how
to be a man or something other than the pansy they were blessed with.
Hindsight being the disaster that it is, the vibrations of
all these many years have had their good vibes too. After Uncle Sam’s
contribution to my higher education, the ensuing attempt at a good middle class
married life with a wonderful wife and family, followed by my very own debutante
coming out part and joining the real GLBTQ world, the boxes can continue to
mustier or be more musty until little old Muse and I make another trip to the
strange and scary land of TMI [Too Much Information – ed.].
So much for the strange vibrations that result in too much
navel gazing and self-indulgence; it wasn’t fun while it lasted.
Fini.
© 23 May 2016
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