Posted on December 16, 2023 by davidrobinsoncreative
As I’ve written before, we are a scintillating couple riding high on the cutting edge of fashion. Not. Black t-shirts. Black thermals. Jeans. That’s about it. Though (make sure you are seated for this next shocking bit-o-information): I have a few new flannel shirts. Two are green. One is black. Stand back! There’s some green in the house!
In other regions of flannel interest, there are sheets (it’s winter and cotton is an ice-cold-night-time-plunge that I avoid) and, at holiday time, the buffalo-plaid-flannel pjs make an appearance. I’d strut-my-flannel on the way to the coffeemaker in the morning but tis the season to be humble so fa-la-la-la-lah, la-la-la-la!
Truth? I couldn’t strut in the morning no matter what I was wearing. Buffalo-plaid helps hide the shuffle.
Posted on November 3, 2023 by davidrobinsoncreative
“I’m making old guy sounds,” I said. All morning I’ve been extra-moaning-and-groaning. Clearing my throat. “I’m making the sound my dad used to make!” She laughed. We are in cahoots, partners in this aging thing.
The temperatures are dropping and my inner weather station is alerting me to the changes. Achy joints. Sinus headaches. I’m not sure why an inner weather station is necessary. I can see the snow on the ground. The cold wind is hard to miss. The back door is sticking. There are plenty of indicators that the seasons are changing. “I know! I know already!” I say to my buckling knees. They seem to think that I missed the temperature plummet. “As if I didn’t already know.”
She laughs.
Sometimes when I walk across the parking lot toward the grocery store I pretend to be really old. She punches my arm and whispers “Stop it!” And then she looks around to make sure no one is watching my antics. “What! I’m practicing!” I say. “Practice makes perfect.” Another punch. “It’s the only way to Carnegie Hall!” I shout, defending my self. A third punch. And then she laughs.
Mission accomplished.
The view is near. The view is far. The day we met we climbed out a window onto the roof, drank wine, and shared life stories. The wind was cold off the lake so we wrapped blankets around ourselves. When it was too cold we came inside, sat in front of a fire, and shared more life stories. She read a story to me, something she’d written. She wanted me to know. She played the piano for me. I wanted to know.
We don’t have decades of shared memory so we share stories. We want to know. Looking back as we move forward. Comparing newly discovered aches and pains. Dusting off old heartbreaks, roads not taken. We are in cahoots, partners in this life thing.
And, to my great delight, captive witness to my endless antics, mostly, she laughs.
[let me take you back will not only take you back but will also give you a lift]
The Direction of Intention 