The Snow Was 17 Feet

The snow was tall, just tall as enough tall it needed to be against the front door to keep it from opening as I remember now, though 17 feet at least it seemed in my head then, though bear in mind that my tall was small (but with hope of a big someday). I was only seven or eight or so and I was mad. My parents had just bought their first house, a something numbered address on Archer road in Mahopac NY with me in tow. But I was mad, not the mad that some might attribute to me and my now of cats, a crazy cat lady guy and a need for solitude, that kind of mad, but with a just being mad … why the fuck can’t I open the front door to the glories of snow?

I hate snow, or at least I hate it now, the cold that it is and the down of that cold, the darkness of a light’s short days that come with it. But, again, I was seven or eight or so. Snow was a wonder then, something just waiting for the play.

It certainly, the snow, wasn’t 17 feet tall but it feeling taller than me it could have be 30 feet, or a hundred feet, or a however many feet that were necessary to dwarf me. It was as far away as just a glass door, that extra door that you doored on top of a perfectly good door, one that could become a screen in the summer months for a bit of air and I pushed, pushed against not 17 feet of snow, but enough, against the door, a silly angry kid pushing against a door. And I even had my galoshes on. Ready. Snow.

Man, that shit could bleed, knuckles after the mad and it’s push to open a door that didn’t want to be opened, a door that just said “leave me be son,” “I’ve been holding this off all night” “have ya seen the snow? It’s almost 17 feet.” That was my first scar, a one right atop my right hand. A fist knuckle and a hard punch. The only thing missing was the “motherfucker” exclamations that would come years later for all of the times snow would be 17 feet tall.

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Jonna and Keryl give me a pass, I think, as to our guests. It’s a show, Happy Hour, that we’ve been doing since dinosaurs searched out self helpers and what to do for their inadequacies. “I’m too big with short arms” “Mom wasn’t around for the long names that would come based on my bones” “I was a vegetarian though three stories tall and a bit ungainly”. They know I’ll never read the books, I can’t, I don’t read anything that isn’t filled with the wonder of places imagined, some of swords and kings, some of spaceships and distant planets, all of a simply not here, instead of just “self help” vaguereries that tell you of who you could be if only you could be. But surprisingly, some things, even in my cynicism seep through, our guests, all, have their moments for me. I Just patch them together, grab bits and pieces that may mean something and move forward. A lot of them are the same, just a more well known “same” than others, a some who just wish to be that same. But I grab that patchwork, a good patchwork mind you, and roll. No need more.

Recently in one of our shows Jonna talked of finally wanting to write her book. A something she has in her, like Keryl who has two now, Jonna’s Facebook posts evidence of the writer.

Jonna if you’re going to write a book please don’t think of it as the topic of a future interview for a podcast with a couple of ladies and some dude interviewing advice within a small world of such. Just write your book and a just a you book. Write too much, even make shit up if you must, but just be a book that books as a Jonna book will book.

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Bella has one PC chair while I sit in the other. I have two. One is the “Shoes” chair the spot he owned from the moment I took it out of the box years ago and layed my thin Steelers blanket on it trying not to have any assembly pieces left over. Then there’s the one slowly becoming the “Bella” chair as I sit on all nights and she sits with me after a dinner shared with Cricket the Blind on her footed paper towel for the recognized bits of food to come feel and an attempt at the same with Mimi the Quirky.

Bella is the most patient of cats, there’s not a of one of us who couldn’t be better off with the kind of patience she shows, not liking Cricket the Blind and only minding Mimi the Quirky, she exhibits her patience just for me, holds back any anger she may have at these “others” who have invaded our space for belly rubs on her dot of a small bit circle of carpet in the living room I never use in this two room place or another rubbed belly on her crunchy paper (my sister sends powdered vitamins once a month worrying of my possible vitamin deficiencies in a box that doesn’t really need any packing but she still does with that hard edged brown paper stuffed to the left or right of that packing box, depending on how you opened it – I think she knows it’s not needed but packs it just the same – she knows cats). It’s Christmas day every month for Bella when I get my vitamins and she gets a new lay on new crunchy paper layed out next to last month’s flattened such.

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I know this is a little disjointed but it’s one of the ways I like to think, in short blurbs of current things or memories that may not be connected or they might. This one is the former but it’s where my thoughts were this weekend, as some of you might be able to relate to disjointed thoughts, the brain being a bit of jumble during the upside down we live in. But it is a weekend where I’ve taken Monday off to give me 3 days, to at least breathe a bit (though apparently not to get my thoughts into any cohesive form here). I get 3 weeks a year of vacation time, or PTO for those technical. 15 days to do with as I will. I do this once a month and this month is a bonus with the holidays giving me a couple of others. I almost feel guilty knowing that the holidays afford me my once a month twice without paperwork and a minus #’s on my paystub but I’m not going to let that deter. A once a month Monday is a once a month Monday. The holidays are just gravy. Could I take a week at some point, call it a vacation, sure. But I’m a single dude always strapped and I have my charges. Plus, where am I going to go, especially now?

Some of you might be alright with believing a normal exists but I’m not a one and it doesn’t.

There’s so much that is 17 feet tall, hell, most of our lives are spent trying to deal with 17 feet tall, a seeming insurmountable task of too tall walls, placed there daring us to scale maybe even bloodied knuckles to come from the attempts.

But I’m in no mood to scale today. This is simply my acknowledgement of such. 17 feet? I gotcha. Tall you are. But I’m just gonna take an extra day and sit and surveil a tall wall for no reason other than no reason, and hunker a bit away, just me and the girls.

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