Archive for the Family Category

Pictures at the Exhibition

Posted in Family, story with tags , , , , , , on September 30, 2011 by Tim R Wilson


http://browse.deviantart.com/?qh=&section=&q=Pictures+at+the+Exhibition#/d3h4s2q

Pictures at the Exhibition

     The cracking yellowed linoleum floor has not been graced by a mop for more weeks than is entirely sanitary. Cupboard doors have been left open just a touch revealing the dismal amount of food, and the rather dreary menu that seems to consist of cereal, crackers, and tinned tuna. There is a half full bottle of Chardonnay in the ancient refrigerator, which was opened about an hour ago. The desolation and despair of the room is as tangible as if it were another person, pressing down upon its sole inhabitant, who sits at the kitchen table, fingers tracing the rim of the glass perched before her.

     Cane in hand, crow white hair and thick glasses, and looks so frail in the sun filtering through the window. I close my eyes and change her face. The trick is to slow down erasing each line, strictly one by one, until the weathered reappears, and stays forever, and pleads for my eyes to stay closed. The old woman weaves all emotions together, braids all thoughts and memories with her hair, and uses her eyes to smile and care, rather than to see. She hides her mysteries unimaginable, but— endless of possibilities. In this chamber, where the doors creaked, and its windows sealed shut, was this precious soul who lived here still.

     Staring from behind the glass, with three pigeons perched on the outside ledge; she brushes the freckled colors of yarn on her frayed quilt, as she takes a seat. Still and silent, with the wine sparkle and shimmering in the sunlight, she begins to watch the world drifting by. Gazing at the dancing ribbons of people and wonders who they are, and what thoughts pass through their minds, as they tramp along those asphalt streets. An alabaster jaw tightens into a thoughtful frown as she observes the crowd and lets her imagination, the one part not yet defeated by the city smoke and time, take to the sky and soar as it willed, and create for these guests a story of their thoughts. It is like pondering pictures at the exhibition, each brush stroke a part of the whole, each melding together, acting as one.

     The elderly gentleman seemed out of place amongst the hurried youth of the crowd, walking stiffly with his back slightly stooped, clutching a careworn and disagreeable cane. The yellow-glazed eyes spoke nothing concerning submission or defeat, but rather a cool and coldness that were unnerving, something jagged, and something bitter. They are the eyes of a warrior. He had been younger then, with ginger hair cropped tightly to his head, smooth unwrinkled skin and with green eyes that saw the entire world clearly. Intense, sharp eyes that saw friends and comrades fall at the bite of a bullet or tearing shrapnel, eyes which saw the dying moments of countless human beings and eyes which saw the red, red streams that poured down to drench the soil; the smell of which left a coppery taste in his mouth which will not go away. Xuan Loc, An Loc, Dong Ap Bia, names long forgotten at home, but names etched to his spirit and names which colors his person. The burdens of that grief, of that horror, weighed down upon jaded shoulders and made him into the man he is now, shuffling along the sidewalk, his life dependent on a cracked, crooked piece of wood.

     The hectic city street surely was not the easiest place for a single mother to be tugging along two young children, both of whom eager to escape the clutches of her grasp, struggling like wildcats as those steel hands held vise tight. She only hoped that they would be a bit more subdued when they entered the oppressive grey walls of the prison that held their elder brother captive. Praying mightily that they would not tear about that cold, emotionless room where convicts and their families shared to brief, awkward, uneasy moments of being together, and not stir up aggravation inside an atmosphere already choked with the menacing threat of violence. She could only dream that they would not badger their brother with probes about his short lived career as a ‘drug dealer’. And silently, desperately, she hoped that her eldest child, as independent and occasionally wayward as he had been, was surviving in his cage. That the spark was not gone from his eyes, that his shoulders had not been bowed with defeat, that he was the same good young man she had known him to be, and not merely a ghost with her son’s face daubed on it. God knows that his brothers needed him too. Pulling along a sobbing seven year old, and being dragged by a most petulant eleven years old, she made her way through the human deluge to her melancholic destination.

     The young man turning the corner was certainly looking a little worse for wear. Although the business suit was impeccably pressed, it only served to show how abysmal the man looked. His eyes were bloodshot in spite of the Murine, squinting in the bright morning sun, his faced scored with pain, on his haggard cheeks a river of sorrow and miserable bitterness. His jaw was stained with stubble, and a tiny trail of blood led from his mouth, flaking off in chips of the darkest of scarlet. Dirty blonde hair was in disarray, as though he had just suddenly woke up from an alcohol fueled slumber, sticking out at incompatible angles, and falling in such a way as to obscure the vision in one of his eyes. Yet another fight with his wife had left him sleeping on his sister’s sofa for what seemed like the thousandth time, listening with a shattered heart to the sounds of an ecstatic couple sharing low whispers in their bedroom, and the giggles of children who were supposed to have been asleep many hours ago. The thoughts are scrambling around in his brain, like a jigsaw puzzle missing a piece or two. The fragile fabric of his marriage had been ripped apart by jealous accusations, punctuated by tear choked screaming, which pierced the night, the wounds of a love destroyed. Looking for love in a Looking Glass world is pretty hard to do, keeping it has proved impossible. His head tells him to surrender and give up, that his heart has been shredded to many times, and it was kinder and wiser to let it go. But his heart has foolishly held on to what they had had, and back they had returned to the relationship of shared abuse that had broken them both so many times. Stumbling forward, with tears beginning to form again, glazing his eyes, he continued on his way trying to remember how it had been, and how it was supposed to be.

     The two women were as parrots among pigeons, brightly covered with smiles in their eyes, and laughter beautifying their lips. Sisters. They had the same extended, outsized beaks, the same awkward, rangy physiques; there could be no mistaking that familiarity between them that could only signal kin. The head’s resting on each other’s shoulders, the flicking of another’s stray strands of hair, the easy brush of fingers as the Styrofoam Starbuck’s was passed between enthusiastic hands. Mouth’s working feverishly; they held a conversation at a speed a man can never seem to comprehend, managing to stuff so many thoughts and comments in such a brief period of time, which was miraculous in and of itself. They had always been close. When the younger had been but a child, the elder had sat by her bed and sang away the dread, rather off key, but still delightful in its sentiment, the voice a gentle peace in a darkened room, and the key to the realm of dreams. Years later, when the elder had entered the field of parties and late night revelry, the younger had always been there  in the morning, equipped with the special hangover recipe of scrambled eggs, Tabasco, a large glass of Ginger Ale, and two Anacin III’s.  Of course there had been fights; screams and wails which would echo throughout the small house, sneakers and high heeled shoes rocketed with surprising force at heads, complete with the slamming of doors which sent many a framed photo and keepsake falling to the floor. But they loved each other sincerely this pair; apparent in the easygoing manner between them and the silent interaction between them that nobody but themselves could hope to fathom. Making their way through the multitudes, they could be easily tracked with their outrageously bright clothing and bangles, and her eyes followed them as they vanished into the colossal mouth of the shopping mall, where the sparkle of irresistible packaging and the lure of shopping for deals are supreme.

     The faces on the street were her gallery, a thousand paintings in her own personal Louvre, with a thousand tales that glided by like ripples in the water. All she had to do was extend her fingers and grasp the narrative from their faces, and what was reflected in the eyes of the passerby’s was grand in their inconsequence, yet beautiful in its sensitivity, and splendor in simplicity. She looked straight through the old, warped glass of the window that ran along the wall before her, and straight through the spreading, gnarled branches of the overgrown oak tree on the other side. She was gazing sadly at something which could not be seen, at least not to the eye of an onlooker. Regrettably, there appeared to be no onlooker. The lady was all alone, destined to be another picture at the exhibition.

     The painter was finished, but certainly not satisfied, the painter will never be done. The painter tipped the brush into the paint and continued …

The End

Advertisements

The Value of Myth

Posted in Family, Philosophy, quote(s), thoughts with tags , , , , , , , , on February 17, 2011 by Tim R Wilson

Oh how true this is …

“The Value of myth is that it takes all the things you know and restores to them the rich significance which has been hidden by the veil of familiarity.”

~C.S. Lewis

A lot of times we get so caught up in life that things get so mundane and we forget about the truly wonderful and beautiful. An example would be the first time you met your lover, how enchanting she was … four kids ago. We need to find the time to weigh the value of truth and myth. It doesn’t take long to find the truth wanting. You know its probably really true! Maybe she is really that special!

 

Picture:

http://browse.deviantart.com/?qh=&section=&global=1&q=myth#/d31o4wd

Which era are you from???

Posted in Family, humor, odds and ends, quizzes with tags , , , on June 11, 2010 by Tim R Wilson

You know …. When you are 54 and have kids, even grandkids … The kiddles just love to needle a man on how old they are. Just must be part of the territory! My daughter has been motivated to send me this quiz to “prove” that I’m not nearly as up to date as I think I am. Well lets see ….

http://quizilla.teennick.com/quizzes/16707302/which-era-are-you-from

My result:

70’s

You are very hip, and you love peace signs and are carefree!!

E-gads she’s right!!!! lol

One Year Later: Life is a Sandwich

Posted in Family, God, thoughts with tags , , , , on May 1, 2010 by Tim R Wilson

As the new month begins I’ve become more aware of the passing of time and the passing of years.

It’s been a good time to think about the blessings of the past year since my heart attack a year ago yesterday and identify hopes and goals for the future. School … Kids growing and becoming …. I would recommend you do that.

But that’s not all that happens, is it?

(By the way, those of you who have had no pain or disappointment in your life can skip to the end now. Thanks.)

We also realize that it’s one more year since that loss, or one more year of dealing with some pain or hurt. We say to ourselves, “Wow, it’s been 3 years, (or 5, or 20) and it still hurts! How can that be? I didn’t know it would last this long.”

What if it still hurts? Is that okay? What about the hurt that is going on and growing now?

I used to believe that life was a series of events and experiences and each one has its own time and emotions, then you move on to the next, kind of like flipping through a picture book. But I believe now that life happens in interwoven experiences and emotions, layers stacked on top of one another. It’s more like a sandwich you bite into. All of those experiences add to the taste and texture. Yes, sometimes I do wish that we could just have one at a time, preferably just the sweet ones. Never cared all that much for the dill pickles …. But hey, I’m blessed by saving anything in this life at all …

We grieve over someone dying at the same time we learn of a new birth. A friend lands their dream job while our neighbor’s company closes. A friend tells you that she just met the man of her dreams while you are aching inside from the message you just got from your wife saying that your marriage is over. (Today is seperation day.) Your child says you are the best parent in the world while your other child is in total rebellion.

All of these layers happen. They are all there. They are all real. They all move us. We remember them. We become them.

This coming year will come with all of its own texture. Allow your life to have the texture it needs this year. Know that the layers are all there. You get to have all of them. You have to have all of them. That’s the deal. The only life you get is the real one.

It’s okay if the hurt is still there somewhere. But, it’s not the only layer, is it? God made life very thick. He must know what he was doing …

Post Mortem: Balloon Boy

Posted in Family, odds and ends, thoughts with tags , , on October 20, 2009 by Tim R Wilson

red_balloon

I have to admit I was all taken in on the balloon boy thing. What a story …. With the happy ending we all love to see!  I believed in Balloon Boy. Or, rather, I believed that his parents believed that he was in the balloon. And I hoped that they were wrong, that he was hiding under the bed, or in a box. And I was happy – genuinely happy – when I learned that, in fact, he was.  Alas ….

IT WAS A HOAX!!!!!!

How naive could I have been? Undoubtedly, my own fond childhood memories coupled with a pretty good set of parents has mislead my thinking on the aims of other families. Did I actually think that lil Falcon Heene was throwing up for no reason on the morning show?  (Just nervous I suppose …) However … The lies and scam that his parents perpetrated would make anyone vomit.  It makes me sick thinking about it. So much for the piety of parenthood.  Fame, money and the lure of reality television trumps holding a regular job any day of the week.

Heaven help us.  But most of all, help Falcon Heene and his brothers.

 

Road Trip: Newberry Volcanic National Monument

Posted in Family, odds and ends, Photography with tags , , , , on September 29, 2009 by Tim R Wilson

It was hot and smokey here in Chiloquin, so my son Shay and I loaded up the car and headed out on another road trip! In Central Oregon, a little southeast of Bend, is a little known treasure called Newberry Crater. At some point in prehistory, the top of the mountain collapsed in on itself, leaving a large depression. Within this depression two lakes have formed, East Lake and Paulina Lake. And here is where we ended up …

P9260027

P9260015

Paulina Creek Falls is located just west of Paulina Lake outside Newberry Crater. This double falls drops 60 feet onto the jumble of rocks below. The jumble of rocks is the result of the falls slowly eroding their way upstream. ( I imagine that eventually it’ll work its way upstream to Paulina Lake, then its bye bye lake. lol) The upper viewpoint overlooks the falls from the south side of the creek. The lower viewpoint is accessed via a quarter mile trail down to the creek below the falls.

P9270064

This early morning picture was taken at Big Obsidian Flow which was nearby.

P9270083

Here is Paulina Peak being reflected in Paulina Lake.

P9270088

Good ole Charlie Dog insisted on being in this shot!

It was an excellent adventure to get away from the smoke and there is still a lot more to explore here for sure!

Now where to go for our next road trip …

Some Grandpa Braggin’ …

Posted in Family, odds and ends with tags on September 28, 2009 by Tim R Wilson

Time for a touch of Grandpa braggin’ … The latest picture of my Grandson Francis and my son Ben.

 

P9230006