Father's Day

My sister called while we were out in the boat this morning-- leave it to my mom to bring her cell phone out on the water.
"I hate those damn things," dad said, shaking his head and hanging up after his brief chat. He's got one, but never has it on, and certainly would never have it out with him in his most holy of holies: the lake. Mom would never have her phone on in church (well, not intentionally), but she's got it along today, cracking the silence with it's "brringingbringging" shrillness.
I feel bad for Merna, knowing that she wanted to spend today with dad, or tomorrow, his birthday, but didn't have the option. She probably would have taken work off even, a rare thing for her, but dad wasn't having it. He wanted to spend the day on the lake, not eating dinner in some restaurant or sitting around at home. And why shouldn't he? Father's Day, his birthday.. it's like me and Christmas, my birthday. I'm gonna do what I damn well please. Gee, I wonder who set that example...

Father's day is something I look forward to each year, and each year I tell myself I'll have something special to write about dad, something that can be published in Walleye Insider or some other angler magazine he reads. I envision it being some sort of warm fuzzy article about my first fishing pole, or my first fishing memory, something like that. But it never happens, mostly because the words never seem right. I don't know how to honor my dad for all of the things he's done for me, or the way he's led by example, and words seem to fall short.
So I just come home. From where ever I might be. I come home, and we fish. There's no need for words or explanations or warm, fuzzy feelings out on the water. We just... are. Together. And that's all that there needs to be.
This year, this fishing trip we're on now though, it's our last one with the boat we've had for almost 20 years, and with any luck, there'll be a story in it for next year. There's a story in everything we do, I guess, I just want it to be the right one, a fitting tribute to him and my respect for our relationship. If I don't write it, he won't read it, but he won't read this either, and I'm writing it anyway. I'm not sure where the disconnect between my goals in writing the other thing and actually producing it exists, but somehow, it does.
For now though, as the sun sets and we pack our stuff for our 5 am boat launch, all that matters is the conversation we've shared, the laughter, the warmth of the sun a glowing afterthought to a day well-spent.Thanks dad, for everything. Here's to another sunrise, another trip... another year.

It's all in the name

I think that my biggest remaining quarterlife crisis is sticking to a look and a name for this blog.
I wanted to get away from MySpace when I first created this blog, but the hardest part about that is getting my friends to visit this site instead of MySpace. I'd like to think I want to write for me, and not them, but without an audience, it's harder to stick with this on a daily or at least weekly basis (see, even if blogging is self-serving, I'm still looking out for the reader!). I was taught to think about my audience and what tone my writing should take to engage them, and that lesson stuck, evidently.
I wanted to call my blog the "Quarterlife Crisis" at first, because I figured all of the stuff I posted would be unique to my place as a twenty-five year old. But I didn't quite feel like I was in the midst of a "crisis," because the age and expectations I had for myself at 25 felt like more of a chaotic upheaval with all sorts of wonder and possibility. So I went with "Commentary" and not "Crisis."

"The View from Mars" was the name of my column in college, so I thought,
"oh, it worked great back then." But I'm certainly not standing in the same place, or viewing the world with the same eyes as I did from 18-21. So "The View from Mars" doesn't quite feel right either.
I thought about just writing "Oh, Whatever" in the blog name category, but that doesn't seem fair to my blog. I had ambitions that this space would be more serious, more lyrical, more literary, than my MySpace place, and I guess it is. It's more serious, at any rate, if no better in terms of quality than MySpace. I thought 25 would be about growing up a little, and I think I've figured out how to balance that with my own reality instead of societal expectations, but I'd like to stick to a title for this damn thing.

1-800-ANGST

I flip through the rolodex, looking at old business cards with mostly fond memories. The honey farmer, the tattoo artist, the writer for ESPN, these were good interviews and fun stories to write. But the individuals I'm looking for now- the speech therapists, the OT specialist, the neurologist- the thought of talking to these people makes my stomach hurt, and my left shoulder is weird and shaky as I type interview notes into my June calendar. I'm going home Wednesday, back to the "scene of the crime," as they say, to spend time at the lake where my vision first fuzzed out as my brain started bleeding. I want to describe the scenes in my story in as much detail as possible, so as part of my research, I'm going back to all the places I've introduced in the book.
I'll be in Alliance, talking to the nurses I told to " fuck off" while in so much pain. I'll be talking to the speech therapist I worked with once released. I'm going to Wyoming some time in the next two weeks as well, to interview the medical staff there, the people who told me I might never live on my own again or balance a check book, or work, or drive a car. I'm going back in time, and looking up these individuals has left my stomach in knots already. I have no idea what the future will bring, but if I've learned anything from these people, it's that all we have is the moment we're in, and getting through that is all that counts.So with a voice as shaky as my shoulder, I talk to Missy, my old Occupational Therapist, update her on my life, find out about hers. It's good to talk with her first; young and hopeful for me, we got along great, and she's willing to track down my uber busy neurologist to get an interview with him set up. I'm nervous about this process, more nervous than I was to start rehab. Then, I was operating on a slow, foggy breain and unsure of what was to come. I'm still unsure of what's coming, but I am aware of the amount of hard work that lays ahead.