On the Cusp of the Equinox

There was no plan, I just happened to connect the time in my head while I was waiting for my dog to finish his morning business in the snow.

Commemoration of the second milestone since mom left my world. It impacts the holidays to be sure, but I’ve been told by those who lost their parents in earlier seasons the absences is just as keen.

Here would be the place to mention those attributes I found endearing; but to be honest the memory is beginning to blur as I can’t hang my hat on anything that wouldn’t read silly. 

   “What’s for dinner mom? Wind pudding and air sauce”.  Was my mom a smart-aleck, or just tired of having to answer the same question over time?

Now I am a mature adult, shaped into the person I most likely will remain with small incremental changes internally, with major accelerated external differences coming.  The values taught; the skills to dream; continue to influence; even those that cause discord with my own child.  “No son, respect is not something earned, but always demonstrated”

Yikes, did I say that?

When my sisters and I talk of mom we mostly agree she was an enigma; a powerful unpredictable force. One who could charm and prohibit at a whim.

How can a child comprehend the calculus only parents learn at the altar of error? I know of a forgiving phrase I read by Marian Williamson, spokes person for A Course in Miracles; “They’d have done better if they knew how”

That’s a keeper to be sure. Not just when reviewing parental relationships but for all relationships.

But back to the mourning loss of an influence I had grow accustomed to. What was the most important, if not to reflect on tenderness? My middle sister would not agree, but  hers is a different point of view; that’s alright by me, we have our own personal experiences to be sure.  Whether mom, or dad for that matter, measured up to my expectations has little to do with how I keep reverent values I was taught before I could object or reason for myself.

I learned to strive to be kind; without a stern negative mark against my name  if I didn’t meet the mark.  Was that etched in stone? Spoken solemnly at the hearth fire?  No, my witness to her life was one giving me opportunity to filter out my judgment, then endear a soul who took on the burden of me without promise of reward.

That’s plenty enough to gain and keep my reverence: She didn’t have to. Loss of that kind of dedication is the fount of heartbreak. She met love’s demand….give like it’s nobody’s business How can that not result in gratitude?

Two years ago, to the day, on the eve of the longest night of the year, she relaxed her struggle with a physical exhaustion to remain.  She earned her rest from the quiet beauty of selfless sacrifice mom’s are. 

Real

As fun as the idea of being around Alpaca's is. Ah, just thinking about those limpid seductive brown eyes, Drinking me in. Those subtle butterflies of delight at being so near Nature's perfect beauty; then I am startled awake.
Reality strikes...They stink.
I'm not saying they have unwarranted surly dispositions, well actually they do have attitude, but in the effort to be magnanimous this ain't the high country of Peru so give them a break, they're captives.
Barring that, there's the issue where they are incredibly persnickety about their living conditions; which again that may be a product of subtle designed obstinacy due to being captive.
The fact remains their poop smells bad; that and they wantonly kneel in it. I had not realized how conditional their allure was. Let's face it; we don't smell photos. The aroma in personal space can make a world of difference.
Short summation: I am seriously reconsidering working around them before my affection for their existence sours to contempt.
Similar to the effect of visiting your friend's facebook page too often only to discover they are quite lame; far beyond what you had ever experienced in person....or better still Barney the Dinosaur. Only through excessive exposure could you develop a visceral dislike for a purple singing reptile.
So let me adore them from afar.....preferably upwind afar would be best.

Sniper

The Joke goes: In Heaven the cooks are French, the policemen are English, the mechanics are German, the lovers are Italian, and the bankers are Swiss. In Hell, the cooks are English, the policemen are German, the mechanics are French, the lovers are Swiss, and the bankers are Italian.

Makes for a good chuckle, because many people see the irony when stereotyping these nationalities; their strengths, and where they are, um, not as outstanding.  Yes, I realize I am on the cusp of being pointed out as a racist or some other type of bigoted mean spirited fault finder, but bear with me because it sets up my tale.

During our recent visit to Barcelona a thought teased me as to those natural characteristics of the Catalan’s, like other nationalities, where they would really shine.  Since I plan to move there I wasn’t looking for what they didn’t do well, but what they really outshone others at.  Over their history, and it’s a long one to be sure, they’ve shown a resiliency that matches none other I know of. Not only are they resilient, but they are innovative as well as hardworking; but those qualities are shared by many other nationalities, and those qualities didn’t necessarily make them stand out so much as to be admired for their stubbornness to not surrender to authorities who considered them inferior. I myself am part Irish and I was coached since childhood that stubborness was a virtue for my ancestors. Just as I embraced that along with a healthy appreciation for alcohol, but that's another story. On this occasion the topic arose unexpectedly. It was during our walk to find a flower shop my wife’s cousin suggested we use for their St. Jordi celebration.  It’s similar to Valentine’s Day with a slight twist. The women get a rose, but men get a book from their beloved. It’s lot’s for fun, and of course if you miss the nudge to participate, you get looked at as if you’d a stick in the mud.

So we go looking for this great place.  Like any other time, looking for a location you are unfamilar with requires first off to get your bearings; meaning spot a street sign, then move out from that known location.

That was when it dawned on me the Catalonian expertise.

They were natural born snipers

They had to be.

Because the meager size of the street signs were impossible to see. Even walking on the opposite side of the street they were nearly impossible to make out, never mind if one were driving in traffic. Seeking an address while navigating by street signs was virtually impossible.  These signs are less than eighteen inched boxes framing scripted letters and numbers.  Oh, and it also appears they have not been replaced or repainted since the time before Franco, and he died in 1975. No kidding, look at these examples.

 

 

 One would have to have a hawk’s vision to spot these signs, yet alone fathom what they said in the mere seconds driving past in thick traffic.  I mean, only someone with near super-hero vision would be able to spot those little suckers and then make out what they said.

Oh sure, reason might suggest, people who live there already know where the streets are, but I’ve lived in towns for decades and couldn’t tell you where every small street was; sure the major boulevards but not the side streets.  ALL of the streets have the same size signs hooked on the corners, that happen, more often than not, obscuring vendor namesake signs in close proximity.  Now take those natural vision talents and apply them to real world work: Snipers.

 Every military in the world should employ Catalonian’s as there special unit snipers.  That’s it, that’s the end of the debate. I cannot fathom anyone with more accurate visional acuity than those people who live in the bustle of Barcelona and are able to find shops and addresses they’ve never been.  That’d be my wager anyway.