At the start, it’s vivid with all the best defenses you ever learned intact rushing to your aid, erected like a wall built for what’s to come. But dreamtime elapses quickly and you sense the erosions begin. First your will, then your reasoning, then the character you’ve worked too hard to lose, and you notice a tiny peep hole the wall offers and you’re curious so you peek in for a glance and a taste of what’s on the other side once again as if you don’t even know after all these sober years. Then something in your sleepy little head yells for you to wake up and grow up before you bite the bait that will surely pull you back into the hell that condemns and torments those who remain asleep.So I woke up. Mine was just an intrusively bad dream I have occasionally even after 9 years clean. For those actively addicted to Meth it’s the restless living war story every second of every day from which they can’t awaken and have stopped trying.

When it’s sunny, it’s too bright. Cloudy, too gloomy. Breezy, too windy. Rainy, too humid. And if it’s perfect, it won’t last, because some people can still find hell in a spoonful of heaven.

A three time cancer survivor at 78 with no remaining family, she fears the odds won’t be in her favor this trip.Lab work was completed two weeks ago and she’s so afraid, she’s gone without renewing her prescriptions for the fleeting feeling of having saved $38.She says it’s actually not so much the news but of not having someone there with her when she gets it. Just for an hour to help her through it and get her home safely afterward back to an empty apartment to ponder her options. Thisis.loneliness and a true story with dozens more just like it all over town every day.Especially this season, be a new friend to an old one if you can spare the time because someday you may be there yourself.I know sad stories aren’t popular this time of year, but then sad stories aren’t popular any time of year. And because friendship always is, we got in the car.

Wrinkles, wrinkles, little scars

Below the waist I’ve handlebars

Years of lines from toes to eyes

Drooping boobs and flapping thighs

Wrinkles wrinkles, skin like Mars

You’re why I use avatars.

You know what really scares me?
Christmas.
Not the holiday itself, but that each consecutive year, despite its ever earlier encroachment, it seems to take a lot more Autumnal effort to summon that holiday spirit or conjure up a seasonal emotion which for decades had been an effortless thrill.
Does the excitement just naturally fade with age or is it jaded and faded by the retail traps and mazes that now try much too hard to catch us up in their interpretations and dictations of mass joy?
Pre-Halloween has always been unreasonably out of the question, but pre-Thanksgiving is now increasingly expected if you’re to fully enjoy the magic even though 58% of the country is still well over 73 degrees.

It’s just a little scary when it takes this much work to get happy.
And 2020 adds ten-fold insult to that injury.
So I went to WalMart.

If anything says Christmas in September, it’s WalMart, No cigar.
Then I turned on the radio station already ripe with carols. No cigar.
Almost 60, shopping and sing-alongs no longer do it for me.

Weeks after, there were several near misses, disappointing myself at every turn. Baking, decorating, bad sweaters, none seemed capable of the transitional trick. So I stayed home where I’ve been for the past 9 months and cleaned the garage this weekend. High atop one stack, I reached for a dusty small plastic crate of photos which, as it turned out, held memories of Christmases past I’d long forgotten.

Photos included a selfie with Mom from that day a couple years ago we spent reminiscing that I vowed never to forget. Others included Santa Claus moments of 30 years past with my kids. And though my tree’s been up for weeks already out of sheer October convenience, I got out the last of the decorations and put on the finishing touches with occasional tears from ornaments of Christmases gone by.

I felt things inside me changing, much like a Grinch moment, and it was then I encountered the obvious truth.
Christmas isn’t created by things and stuff and trappings. It’s inside people.
It’s our special stories, our humored histories and the little searches we Google in chats with one another as the weather begins to change and we grow just a little bit closer.
And then waking one morning, something tips the scales just enough to conjure the Spirit we’d been seeking all along. And for the first time of the year, and certainly not the last, we utter our first “Merry Christmas” to a stranger, and the joy we’ve waited for an entire year finally arrives.

Ain’t seen nor spoke in 40 years and here we meet again, Reunion weekend’s at our door, it’s good to see you, friend.

So many things of which to chat and follow up with you, Like kids and family, where you’ve been and how life’s treated you.

Let’s talk of old and reminisce and laugh out loud at stuff, Swapping stories, jokes and pics we’ll never get enough.

The hundred bucks we paid for this is worth it all for sure No talk of pains and politics for which we have no cure.

We’ve a history that unites us and memories to upend, Our weekend here together so glad we all can spend.

And when we part, say our goodbyes and vow to keep in touch, Our takeaways of high school days again will mean so much.

A transcendental generation.

That’s what they’re called. The 80 and 90 year olds of today whose entire lives have been grounded in a spiritual belief that their existence will matter beyond the grave.

The last of a staple subculture whose coming of age helped to create a proud, stable nation bridled by unwavering faith, truth, and unlimited vision.

Today, too many murmuring others quietly hope this is their last hurrah as first-hand witnesses to decades of cultural decline and technological incline which, together, leaves us on the doorstep to the decade of their last goodbye.

They’ve been a generation who viewed hardship as a life expectation and survival as God-ordained.

Will we miss them?

Future generations will never fully understand their contributions which are certainly destined to be categorically erased, canceled by generations that follow. The now 60 and 70 year old children like me are all that remain fighting against hope to keep their memories alive and the convictions of their generation transcendent, because indeed, that’s what they are.

And to us, they will always be.

I returned bottles, mowed yards, cleaned windows and babysat possessed young children all night for a pittance to save for the better things in life. My parents taught me that doing things for others WERE the better things in life and that most of all, a little hard work in youth creates a decent adult, which is often its own reward.

No matter how far you’ve traveled, or the distance you’ve placed between your now and your past, with all the amends and erasures and changes you’ve made which are now habits, and the important difference you’ve since made in this world…You may again stumble around some unsuspecting corner in which you’re forced again to see the depravity you once called home, where you once believed you were living but indeed, were dying, in a coffin of your own making, silently begging for another nail.But that very moment,around the next corner,you’ll make its approach better armedwith greater humility, irrefutable dignity and unquestionable sobriety you momentarily forgot you had since earned from that same, shameful corner where you once lived.Addicts survive by the painful remembrances from where they came and the marvelous paths they are now traveling to earn one more day.