The setting this evening is as follows: Feet propped in the sunroom, listening to the raindrops on the roof--which really doesn't happen too often in Colorado--with an underlay of Devil Makes Three and The Black Keys. My newly-poured Aberlour hasn't yet been sipped, rather incubating properly next to my left side, with a large rectangled ice cube bobbing in the middle of its caramel-brown translucent hue. I'll sip when the time is right.
If you've read my last post, you probably understand that it's been a trying week for my family. Don't feel like going into details right now--maybe later in this post if the Aberlour wants me to. But stress is prominent. Sidenote: The time is right. It only took a paragraph. Victor is my brother-in-law. Victor is my brother. We're different, but the same. And right now, I'm at home with my feet kicked up with a glass of Scotch...while he's in a hospital bed with a hole in his head from a brain biopsy. A week ago we were planning a fishing trip to a lake close by...taking the boat out, maybe catch a walleye or two, fry em up. Then talks transitioned to a fly fishing trip, maybe late fall. I like fishing with that dude. He's not an asshole fishing-snob like I am, but the guy catches fish. And he loves it. I love it. Not many people have gone out of their way to make my children happy like Vic has. Dressing up as the Easter Bunny, Santa, Thor for Hank's birthday, Captain America for Hank at preschool...I'm sure I'm missing some. Heart of goddamn gold. We all have our faults, and alcoholism can emphasize those faults, but it doesn't take away your heart. Clean and sober, immersed in good politics for his community, providing every day for his family, fighting the scars of PTSD from military combat....fuck man, this guy is good shit. Really good shit. Dirty jokes, line-crossing flirting, open-book conversations, putting family first...It's Vic, man. It's Vic. And I know you'll probably read this, man. And yeah, I know you ain't dead. But I love you and I'm going to help you fight this bullshit. I'm not a talker. I like to do this instead. It helps me figure out what I'm trying to say, which may take a little time. Plus, there's no eye contact or any weirdness like that. The raindrops are still pittering on my roof. Sturgill is playing now...goddamn, he's amazing. My Aberlour is gone, onto its new home in my belly...a small bit of cube left struggling to stay frozen. It probably needs more whiskey to be happy again. I might do that little ice cube a favor. My heart is heavy. My hopes aren't low or high, they're just laser-focused and fucking serious. Which is somewhere in the middle, I suppose. I don't know If many people read this shit. Hell, I've been writing blog posts for 20some years now and still don't know if anyone reads this shit. Don't really care. But if you do, please keep my brother in your thoughts. It might not mean anything...but it might. Good thoughts, good vibes, prayers, whatever we can send spiritually, mentally, and heartfelt might work. I don't know, you don't know, but we may as well try. I'd like to think that those things work...things out of our weak-minded grasp. I need everyone who reads this to please go out of your way to love. Please appreciate what you have in front of you. Good chance you were born somewhat healthy, in America, maybe have a bit of a swell family, maybe get the chance to enjoy the outdoors or a ballgame, or you have kids that you can be involved with, or maybe a dog or cat that enjoys cuddling, and you eat tasty food... Or maybe you're able to kick your feet up and enjoy a glass of Scotch this evening. Don't take that shit for granted, friends. Not the Scotch, not the raindrops, not the Sturgill, not the kids, not the good food, not the warm bed. Be aware, and be thankful, and don't fucking piss away anything. I'm serious. One more Aberlour, then I'm off. Please have a good evening. And Vic, I love you brother.
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For my buddy, Bryan's 50th, him and his wife flipped the bill for a suite at Busch Stadium. It was going to be just like the old days.
Back in the 1900's, we owned that city. That was the feeling, at least. Drinking everything within a 3-mile radius, taking over our hotel like we were an 80s rock band playing the city, then moving on to the next. Fearless and bulletproof. And last weekend we were. All you can eat and all you can drink...all inclusive. Who is that that keeps yelling at the top of their lungs that the Cardinals players suck?? Sorry, that's me. Someone has to tell them. An afternoon of gluttony and rabble rousing. Only difference is that it's 25 years later. But we're smarter now...instead of spending $500 at the bar, we set up our own bars inside our rooms. Fucking brilliant, right? Most of the gang is there. Amazing that we've lasted 95% of our lifetimes together. This 50th was representative of at least five of us. Don't remember going to bed that night, but I'm sure I had a great time, laughing like pirates, up until then. Then we got the call at 10am...from my 9yr old daughter...who was calling from a neighbor's phone...a neighbor of my sister-in-law and brother-in-law who were watching the kids. Her uncle had a seizure. A bad one. Obviously, this ensued a Sunday of pure chaos. CPR, screaming, crying, emergency vehicles, friends and neighbors leaping into action as April and I tried to fly back asafp. Fast forward to right now. He is alive and stable. But there are so many questions that we are waiting to be answered that will affect the upcoming minutes, hours, days, years. One second you are making pancakes for your niece and nephew on a Sunday...the next second you're on the ground seizing and unable to breathe or function in any way. It very well could've been...maybe should've been one of us playing rock star in St. Louis. But it was the guy watching the littles, who doesn't drink, who is healthy, who was in his jammies. Regardless though, it happened. On a dime. So you don't know. You never know. In a 2 1/2 day whirlwind, I've reached out at some point to everyone I was with in StL, and my Denver tribe. I love them all. I love you all. Because it's just too short and anything can happen at any moment. So love. Now, I don't write things like this unless someone's died. So if he croaks before his shindig, sorry, that's probably on me.
As I sit here, 50 damn years old, with my glass of whiskey and Merle Haggard playing, I can't help but reflect on how Aunt Jerry shaped various aspects of this life I'm living. For starters...About 5 minutes ago I just got done booking a mountain cabin for me and the family for a well deserved retreat. That's all Jerry. Fishing trips, man-trips, outdoor escapes, those were from him. Well, mainly the Hill boys, but that "Okay, fine" had to go through Jerry. I'm sure the conversations between Larry & Randy and Jerry were quick and to the point-- "Can he fish?" "Yeah, he can fish." "Is he annoying?" "Well, yeah. He's a teenage boy and he's related to me." "Okay. As long as he can fish." Can't remember the first trip I joined them on. Had to be Stockton State Park. But apparently I didn't f-up too bad, because I was invited back. Those trips were all fishing. Get on the lake before light. If the weather's bad, put a jacket on. If they aren't biting, you're going to owe someone a dollar. Load up after the sun sets, head to the cabin, get a bowl of food, go to bed. Rinse and repeat. Those guys treated me as an equal. Lots of bullshitting and laughing. Lots of fishing stories, each one funnier the more you told it. The one trip that still kind of shocks me that we took was on the Mississippi. It was me and Jerry, dad and grandpa. We took Jerry's boat over to a muddy shoal on the Illinois side and set up camp. Yeah, camp. I remember we had an old canvas tent with about 87 different pole parts to put together. Really warm and breezy out. I sloshed around in the mud, up to my knees, catching moderately-sized channel catfish off the sandy-muddy shoal that was now our home. Like usual, I'm pretty sure I left all the work of setting up camp for the grownups while I traipsed around in the slimy mud and over piles of driftwood, all over that river bank. Grandpa sat in one place. And I'm sure outfished me. Towards dusk, I remember we dug a pit and started a fire. We placed a grill over the sunken coals and laid some bratwursts on top for our supper. The reasoning for the pit, I'm assuming now, 40yrs later, was because it was windy out and would be easier and safer to have a fire. But that pit didn't stop the wind from blowing a solid blanket of sand all over our dinner. Gritty, nasty, Mississippi River mud-tasting bratwursts for supper it was. We all laughed at how shitty they were. We all put extra mustard on them to drown the grit. They were terrible, and were a bit of a metaphor for how the whole trip had gone and was going to go. I think I had two. |
AuthorI am Earl. Archives
May 2024
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