Snow

Snow.
Changes people
Haters heat up, tempers flaring, so hot you'd think they could melt the offending freeze with their gaze of rage.
Lovers embrace it, hunker down, soup pots simmering, snowmen and sleds surrounded by laughter, smiles and mismatched woolens.
Middle ground, if it exists, is slim and tenuous.
"We need the cold and snow to appreciate the beauty of spring," I'll chirp, Pollyanna in a parka.

Snow gives the landscape makeover - highlights the contours, brings out the ridges and things normally blended together or hidden in foliage, changes disorienting at turnpike speed, new as it is, trying to reconcile what is NOW with what was last week.
Hillsides of barren trees become pale skin under thinning hair, The World's ugliest dog in landscape form.
Cheekbones teased out of an ordinary face, A drag queen's first layer before the pastels of spring come into play, the palette saved for special occasions. What is Appalachia's drag name?

But lines blur. "Whose lane is this anyway?" is not as funny as a similarly-named TV show. The show I drove down to see was canceled before my departure, the musician notifying me personally, hours before it was made public, wanting to spare me the expense of the trip. The hotels paid for, I forge ahead, with a tease of an alternate idea. Their Plan B was canceled by the next morning, three-fourths of the band not willing to take the risks of doing battle with Mother Nature. The Triangle itself all but shut down, save one show I didn't know about until just hours prior. Do I risk it? I don't know the laws. Does "winter storm warning" in NC translate to "level 3 snow emergency" in OH and all that comes with it? I know what I'm doing out there; does anyone else?

I do, and the risk is worth the reward. I'm greeted as he glides to the stage, a side hug and a kiss on the cheek, rough stubble lingering, mine alone to enjoy. He talked to me mid show, from the stage, shouting out our shared home state, later asking me to confirm the oft-missed Canal Street Tavern. Our little inside joke. Lifelong friends on our second meeting. His post-show glow and sincere thanks that I made the effort. The moderately well-attended show should have been a sell-out. this time it's Mother Nature that is the woman who ruins everything.

Carefully penguin-walking my way back to the parking deck, the pt pt pt of the icy pellets as they hit earth, still warm enough to remain slush on the ground. Echoes of laughter and flashes of light as college kids do battle with snow balls and cell phones, trying to capture the moment for the 'tok, or 'gram, or maybe mom and dad back home. I chuckle with them under my hoodie, hoping they remember to save a copy to their brain, to recall years later. Google Maps directs me through campus, down residential streets and past buildings I've heard of but not yet viewed. Students are out en masse, just another Friday night at UNC Chapel Hill. Rain with teeth can't stop the promise of a good time. A collection of snow-people chill on the ledge of a historic building/tower that I cannot find in the full, lush summer street view of Google Maps.

By Ohio standards, the highway is fine: slushy, sloppy, but lines are mostly clear, and other drivers match my reduced-for-survival speed of 40 MPH. Rover's new Coopers serve us well. The plows aren't out, but there's no point in plowing until it stops. By the next morning, the only signs of the storm are the plow-deposited piles, and the frustrated hotel guests trying to re-book canceled flights. Did I dream it all? my still-damp hoodie confirms my remembered weather, and the two different event posters satisfy my other questions. By the time I venture forth post nap, well past noon, my pink plaid flannel is all I require.

The blue sky of the drive home belies the prior storms, until Greensboro and points northwest show accumulation retained, the power of elevation. The sun spotlights the frozen tears streaming through the rocky borders of my path. Ramrod straight, as gravity demands, their sparkle and spikes adding yet another facet to the face of the path I thought I knew so well. The icicle tears spring forth from hidden places; what else am I not seeing? I shudder, collect myself, and sing louder, drowning out the voices of all that must be faced when i return to what still counts as home.

benefits of frequent flier mileage

Does the word "pal" have a different meaning based on age of the user? Where they were born & raised? Man to woman? He's called me that a couple times now. I'm trying so hard to NOT read more into it, reminding myself he's a Girl Dad, and I'm probably just another young woman for him to fret over, offering me a place to crash when roads are bad, lest he worry for my safety. But I'm not young - there can't be more than 10 years between us. Sure he played CBGB before i could drive, but who says he was old enough to drive either?

He talks of 2016, when his life and marriage fell apart amidst the shared sorrow of losing Bowie (and Rickman, and many more), and he had to keep it together for his daughter, peeling back the first of many layers. I always picture her as a young child. 2016 would make her a teen - 15 or 16, if my math is right. It's one thing to be strong for a toddler, a single-digits aged kid who will believe what you tell them, the Why It Must Be This Way, and the small lies that ease the Big Truth. It's another entirely to stare down an almost-adult and lead with denial because the mere prospect of existing in the truth is just too painful to bear. I don't know the circumstances. He is not one to open up even about easy things. Slowly, though, the layers are loosening. Some photos show him with a left-hand-third-finger adornment. It wasn't that long ago, and yet it was a lifetime ago.

Do i continue to throw myself and my money at him to buy his favor? Will it convince him to let me tell his story? Am i ready for all that entails, or is this just another manic fever dream that will break in the harsh light of my Ohio life? In NC, anything seems possible. Back here, "home," I'm less certain.

Eventually, it came: the request for my phone number, the follow up to a promise in an earlier message. a file sent, but not usable. iPhone to Android incompatibility, we decided, and I try an app to beat the file into compliance. No dice. Still eager to send me something, but insisting it's no big deal, "may email it sometime" comes across the chat and my inbox pings before i can digest the words. another layer revealed, in mp3 format.

I'm not used to being the one whose approval is sought. The follow-up. Follow-through? lobbing compliments like automatic fire, hoping quantity will blind him to the quality, deeply lacking, his Other of (Un)certain Significance able to out-articulate me in her sleep, razor-sharp wit cutting me down to size.

A firehose full of my sincerest thanks follows as well. For sharing. For trusting. For taking me at my word when I say I won't share with anyone until he gives the OK. The power I hold, but will not wield. I am on unfamiliar ground and sinking fast.

Always wanting to do right, the suggestion of NDAs pop up, but then dies on my tongue (fingertips?), worried I'm taking it all wrong. But if he does concede to me as biographer, NDAs will be inevitable. good thing I know an attorney in NC.

Today, an unanticipated message on a different platform: the upcoming show announcement as posted by the venue. no note, just his sharp visage in high contrast and a link to the post. I can't stop smiling at the thoughtfulness. my giddy reply confirms ticket bought and hotel booked, along with the unasked for details of where I'll be the night before. Rambling. A thousand words, easy, for the one picture. I'm collecting concerts like Pokemon now.

I've got the basic Wikipedia format typed out, and am filling in what little bits I can - band names, albums - and realize how little I truly know. Google won't tell me what I truly desire. Notes from chats with him and others, plus little gems and photos from Facebook clutter the document. I have until Valentine's Day to mold this into something that will make him proud, to encourage the full revelation of what's inside.

extra catch-up, please

Dad had a stroke in early December. "very small" are the adjectives the doctors are using. only minorly affected his left side, but it took two ER visits with overnight stays over two weeks to figure out WTF was wrong. the initial high fever/no infection whatsoever may have been a warning sign missed.

a week-plus in hospital had him discharged to inpatient rehab, or Stroke Boot Camp. discharged from that to home with OT, PT, and home health visits.

through all of this, his attitude is that (1) he will fully recover to quite possibly better than pre-stroke abilities and (2) his eventual death is optional.

please bear with me while I scream into the void.

This week saw him on the phone with the VA, requesting additional OT/PT, mad that he's not fully recovered. oh, denial is deep enough to drown in in that house. At least he's using his rolling walker to get around.

Meanwhile, stepmom has breast cancer. but, at 80, that's hardly a thing to freak out over. it's stage 1, fully contained lumps like marbles that will be easy to evict. the docs are still working out what is where, so no surgery scheduled yet, but she's signed up with all the things for post-op assistance. and yet.

reluctantly spent the night up there on Tuesday, having lost power while single digits outside. while dad took his 8:30pm nap, I mentioned that they might want to consider getting a countertop microwave. Dad cannot lift either arm over his head, and according to her, at least, he can manage to get his coffee mug in/out of the over-stove microwave "OK." if it requires two hands, he can't do it.

post op, even if it's just lop-it-offa-me, not full removal of breast(s), there will be pain, lifting restrictions, and more. Denial came sweeping through the room like hurricane Helene, and the sour look on her face told me that she was NOT having any of this nonsense of having to make accommodations for her own recovery. Far too distasteful. even as a temporary measure. one agency she signed up with does meals. there will be microwaving of food, no doubt. why not suck it up and reduce the risk of harm to her or dad, even if temporarily?

I need to pass this on to The Boys. The Boys being her 3 sons, but also my brother. The Boys are all a distance away, while my brother and I are local. The Middle Child and only girl is going to end up being The Responsible Adult. Again.

Dad's stroke brought up some other unpleasant-to-the-parents stuff, like do they have DNRs or Healthcare POAs or what? They do, recently re-written. "oh, we have copies for you kids, but we just haven't given them to you yet," I am told, while my dad's left side is uncooperative. I get my hands on the copies of dad's DNR and POA stuff, but stepmom declines to provide copies of hers, even to mail to her kids. her kids promptly lose their shit that docs are being withheld. No, asshole, your mother can't be bothered. In all of this, the wills cannot be located (or parted with. copies, that is. copies made specifically so all five of us have them). I have the attorney's name and if push comes to shove, that'll get the ball rolling.

the mere mention of separating dad from his stuff sends him into a toddler panic-tantrum. I not-so-gently remind him that we can do this now, or we trash everything after he dies. Nearly 25 years in and he still can't part with what's essentially trash from mom. Very Expensive Professionals are going to be required to do this while he's alive.

the "regular" calls with middle stepbrothers have happened exactly once. I'll poke him this weekend, and share the microwave incident.

all through this, it's clear that everyone expects me to run this shitshow. Only girl. not and never married. no kids. 1 mile closer than my brother, and clearly no responsibilities. my thoughts on this all get increasingly uncharitable as time passes. I dig my heels in, mentally packing up my car to head southeast and never look back.