grabbed a legal pad and listed ideas and plans that came unloosed with the scotch. Pages and pages of them ended up in paper balls all over the bar, but a lot of good notes made it down, and stayed with me.
We needed to get settledâto find a houseâmaybe one of those little white stucco ranches, one with a barrel-tile roof. Iâd have to figure out how to make a four-bedroom home out of one of them. I listed costs, tallied what I had in the bankâclose to $90,000, with the sale of the Hammond house, the furniture, and china and such. I jotted down my favorite realtors with Sunday open houses and visualized my furniture fitting in these small, bright living rooms; pictured myself in the tiny backyards with crackling palms and scrubby grass, watching lazy neighbors who scratched away with their rakes to clean up the pine needles.
I wrote. I wrote some more. I drew floor plans and wrote descriptions of what I wanted (spare) and what I kept running into (clutter). I drew spheres that encompassed the cottage, the water, and the birds; the houses, the streets, the landscapes. It was good practice for setting off for TheAdventureâand for future stories, for my story. I let the ideas take over whenever they came and took shape on paper. My life was becoming a Venn diagram of intersecting circles of events and memory and plans. It was a mess, and lot to think about, and do. But I would do it.
Such is the goodness of hope. I will water it and keep it alive.
I had another belt of scotch.
It had seemed like such a fun idea to start over in Florida. And now, I had to make it work. Manufacture a balance in this new little family. That was the priority. The suitcases were hardly unpacked, and we were far from settled. Still, today, I would start.
I stopped to listen to the rain drip off the gutter. It was a mellow hour, but I knew Iâd better not get used to scotch for breakfast.
The gulls were cawing at the first hint of sunrise. With a light buzz, I imagined that I saw the tide of water in the living room receding gradually. At least the rug wasnât floating anymore, and the miniature waves had ceased glinting in the overhead light.
I began sweeping out the last of the water, my feet cold and damp, tired all over, but loving the relief from disaster and the plans Iâd written down. By eight oâclock, the kids were off to their dry school in flip-flops (with notes to their teachers). The sun was climbing into a blue sky and smiling cheerily, like the nightmare had never happened and the joke was on me.
Later that morning, I gathered the kidsâ soaked clothing and shoes into garbage bags and a laundry basket. Muchcould be saved with a good run through the washer, but the papers and books on the floor were ruined. Then, at the foot of Tickâs bed, I saw a composition notebook: âTickâs Journal.â
I shouldnât, I told myself, and then I sat down on the end of his bed and opened up the damp pages.
Page One:
Iâm twelve years old and my name is Tick, because my grandfather named me that. He tells me that I have the intellect and personality of a twenty year old. Heâs not far off. I told him I was a grown up inside my body, and he believed me. I guess Iâm different, considering the way I feel, think, act, and look at things.
Sometimes I think Iâm abnormal. I catch myself philosophizing some out-of-whack mathematical problem, or how a machine works, or how it got its name. If you could explore my mind, you would find it a very complex unit. My father and grandfather say Iâm special and gifted. They call me a Renaissance man because I like to work with so many things and express everything that my âadvancedâ mind concocts. That sounds pompous, but I hope not. Thatâs the way it is and if you donât like it you can kiss my ass. Sorry.
I like to write stuff down about my personal experiences and interests, and I like to talk to other
We needed to get settledâto find a houseâmaybe one of those little white stucco ranches, one with a barrel-tile roof. Iâd have to figure out how to make a four-bedroom home out of one of them. I listed costs, tallied what I had in the bankâclose to $90,000, with the sale of the Hammond house, the furniture, and china and such. I jotted down my favorite realtors with Sunday open houses and visualized my furniture fitting in these small, bright living rooms; pictured myself in the tiny backyards with crackling palms and scrubby grass, watching lazy neighbors who scratched away with their rakes to clean up the pine needles.
I wrote. I wrote some more. I drew floor plans and wrote descriptions of what I wanted (spare) and what I kept running into (clutter). I drew spheres that encompassed the cottage, the water, and the birds; the houses, the streets, the landscapes. It was good practice for setting off for TheAdventureâand for future stories, for my story. I let the ideas take over whenever they came and took shape on paper. My life was becoming a Venn diagram of intersecting circles of events and memory and plans. It was a mess, and lot to think about, and do. But I would do it.
Such is the goodness of hope. I will water it and keep it alive.
I had another belt of scotch.
It had seemed like such a fun idea to start over in Florida. And now, I had to make it work. Manufacture a balance in this new little family. That was the priority. The suitcases were hardly unpacked, and we were far from settled. Still, today, I would start.
I stopped to listen to the rain drip off the gutter. It was a mellow hour, but I knew Iâd better not get used to scotch for breakfast.
The gulls were cawing at the first hint of sunrise. With a light buzz, I imagined that I saw the tide of water in the living room receding gradually. At least the rug wasnât floating anymore, and the miniature waves had ceased glinting in the overhead light.
I began sweeping out the last of the water, my feet cold and damp, tired all over, but loving the relief from disaster and the plans Iâd written down. By eight oâclock, the kids were off to their dry school in flip-flops (with notes to their teachers). The sun was climbing into a blue sky and smiling cheerily, like the nightmare had never happened and the joke was on me.
Later that morning, I gathered the kidsâ soaked clothing and shoes into garbage bags and a laundry basket. Muchcould be saved with a good run through the washer, but the papers and books on the floor were ruined. Then, at the foot of Tickâs bed, I saw a composition notebook: âTickâs Journal.â
I shouldnât, I told myself, and then I sat down on the end of his bed and opened up the damp pages.
Page One:
Iâm twelve years old and my name is Tick, because my grandfather named me that. He tells me that I have the intellect and personality of a twenty year old. Heâs not far off. I told him I was a grown up inside my body, and he believed me. I guess Iâm different, considering the way I feel, think, act, and look at things.
Sometimes I think Iâm abnormal. I catch myself philosophizing some out-of-whack mathematical problem, or how a machine works, or how it got its name. If you could explore my mind, you would find it a very complex unit. My father and grandfather say Iâm special and gifted. They call me a Renaissance man because I like to work with so many things and express everything that my âadvancedâ mind concocts. That sounds pompous, but I hope not. Thatâs the way it is and if you donât like it you can kiss my ass. Sorry.
I like to write stuff down about my personal experiences and interests, and I like to talk to other
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