Welcome to the Lessons Taught

 …but didn’t sink in.

Have y’all ever wondered how much media is out there about World War 2. I have - mostly because while cleaning out my one parent’s apartment, I came across so many books and movies about World War 2. Books about ships and weaponry, books about major battles, mysteries that took place during the war, thrillers and spy novels mostly set in Europe, multiple copies of the same movie (why were there three versions of Tora! Tora! Tora!?), and documentaries galore. 

I ended up getting rid of a lot of it, but I still wanted to take my time and appreciate some of the books and DVDs. I am also still finding multiple copies of the some movies that I didn’t catch earlier. 

This is an old photo of the Mighty Mo where World War 2 officially ended.

World War 2 was a major event - there is no denying that. It shaped a lot of media in the mid- to late- 20th century. From the early propaganda films to turn of the century miniseries like “Band of Brothers” and “The Pacific”, there isn’t a lack of shortages in documentaries, TV shows, books (fiction and non), art, and video games.

Tons of which are still coming out today.

I’ve even won a few books seeped in World War 2 influence from GoodReads giveaways. Three to be precise. One is a post war mystery thriller featuring Julia Child as a side character - the first in a series I’d like to keep reading - called Mastering the Art of French Murder. Another is the non-fiction account of the writer’s grandfather’s tank unit called Task Force Hogan: The World War II Tank Battalion That Spearheaded The Liberation of Europe. That one is worth the read if you enjoyed stories like “Band of Brothers” or if you had a family member who served in a similar setting. The third was a strange thriller called Her Father’s Daughter which focused on recovering stolen art and finding Nazis who escaped justice. Sadly, it was not as good as the summary might suggest. I don’t recommend that one.

Because of its cultural significance, World War 2 was a major part of my education. History classes would focus on how appeasement didn’t work to keep the Nazis from their expansionist goals and how Japan wanted to join in on colonialism since it worked so well for western countries (though much less so for all colonized people). Pearl Harbor, D-Day, and Hiroshima were studied inside and out. We watched parts of movies and miniseries like “Saving Private Ryan”, “Barefoot Gen”, and (of course) “Band of Brothers”. Our English teachers had us read A Thousand Paper Cranes, Night, and The Dairy of a Young Girl (i.e. Anne Frank’s Diary). We visited the Holocaust museum in 12th grade for a field trip and discussed the results of the Nuremberg Trials.

Yet with all this history and media, the current state of the world has me questioning if anything was actually learned. I grew up knowing the Nazis were bad guys, not only because Indiana Jones fought them, but because we learned about the Holocaust and how their actions compounded into one of the greatest mass murders in world history. Yet now, an Indiana Jones game comes out and there are people mad that Nazis are the bad guys. We also have people denying the Holocaust happened.

I could argue that there’s a similar over saturation of media about the American Civil War. Again, it was a major event that killed hundreds of thousands and ended the horrific practice of slavery. Except it took another century for the Civil Rights Act to take effect - that was during my parents’ childhood.

About two years ago, I was fortunate enough to see a stage performance of “Cabaret” at my local theater. I loved it and wrote a post about it. In the post, I noted that we lived in interesting times and that if you didn’t think they were interesting, then you weren’t paying attention. Well, I hope you are paying attention now.

I continue to hope for better times, but the lessons I was taught in my history and English classes indicate that things are likely to get a lot worse. What will be the new “normal” is up in the air.

But if we can’t learn the lessons from World War 2 (like how appeasement never works), why should more and more media about that time period keep coming out? There have been other wars, other world conflicts, and genocides that could and likely should be studied. Is it because many Americans view themselves as the ultimate “good guys” during that time (at least in the European theater - the Pacific is a lot more complicated)? 

On another hand, World War 2 media often tops the lists of banned books. Two books I’ve read, Night and The Diary of a Young Girl. Others include Maus and Number the Stars - both of which I’ve been recommended. All of these books were either written by people who experienced the Holocaust first hand, had family who survived the Holocaust, or conducted on site research.

Everyone wants to be a hero in some capacity. I often wondered what I might have done during some of history’s biggest events. Where I’d have been or how I might have contributed. You, dear reader, likely have as well.

The answer is, whatever you are doing right now. History is happening. The ordinary and nameless are who make the biggest impact. What stories are you leaving behind? In 20 or 30 or 50 years from now, someone might ask you what you were doing today. Will you be proud of your answer?

Until next week.

If you enjoyed this post or it really pissed you off, please like, share, and/or leave a comment. I love hearing from my readers and I hope you all like hearing from me.

Welcome to Wayward Girls

Happy first day of fall! I’m looking forward to crisp weather, apple cider, and pumpkin spice everything! It’s also the oficial start to spooky season - August is too early corporate America!

Now that all my excitement and exclamation points are out of the way. I want to tell you about my first spooky book of the season. Well, I guess I really read it in August (it takes place in the summer so it’s fine), but it is a good creepy read for anytime of year. That book is Witchcraft for Wayward Girls by Grady Hendrix. 

Let’s be real, I picked up this book because of the cool cover art.

Hendrix is primarily known for being a comedy horror writer. His first book (and the first one I read earlier this year), Horrorstör, is about a group of coworkers spending the night in a knock-off IKEA with ghosts and it volleys between horrifying and hilarious. I enjoyed it, though I felt the ending didn’t hit it out of the park (plus a case of too many characters).

An interesting fact about Hendrix’s books, many of them are written with the main point of view character being women. Hendrix is a guy. So when I saw he had written a horror story about pregnant girls in the South, pre Rowe v. Wade, practicing witchcraft, I was a little skeptical.

But Hendrix knocks it out of the park. He doesn’t shy away from the horrible ways these girls are mentally and physically mistreated. He graphically describes giving birth in the 1970s. And this is the none supernatural parts of the book.

In fact, witchcraft doesn't show up for the first 100 pages of the book. It’s a slow burn of real life historical horror that then gets ramped up by creepy witches.

Part of why I think Hendrix was able to pull off this story was because at least two of his relatives were put into these homes to have babies because they were “unwed” mothers. These babies were then spirited away to (most likely) never have contact with their birth mother ever again - regardless of what the mother wanted.

Sometimes, young children were just straight up kidnapped from their mothers under false promises of government help. Georgia Tann was a famous social worker who kidnapped over 5,000 children in Tennessee and sold them to adoption agencies for a fee. This practice still goes on, especially in poor communities around the world. Mothers will think that they are sending their child to a “school” or “government program” only to have their child disappear and end up with an adopted family. This is why it can be difficult and expensive to adopt children period. 

Side note: the American foster system is overflowing with kids who need loving families to look after them. Though many may not be up for adoption, they still need a safe place to call home. 

Hendrix makes sure to include some of his research at the end of the book. He includes stats (where they can be found) and notes that these places the girls were disappeared to largely disappeared after Rowe v. Wade was decided.

I do have to wonder if these homes will start to pop up again in the wake of the Dobbs decision. 

Hendrix captured the horror, heartache, and trauma that these girls were put through. All of the blame was put on these girls. They are stripped of their names, hometowns, and autonomy. Their stories include the fathers of their children, but the home won’t let them speak of their “real” lives, so only the girls are at fault. And as soon as they were no longer pregnant, things could “go back to normal.” 

Except for one girl, a 14 year old who became pregnant by an authority figure in her life. In the book, the 14 year old’s baby is going to be adopted by that authority figure and neither will ever escape him.

That’s why they turn to witchcraft.

The supernatural gives them power that they’d never had even before they were stripped of their identities. But this power comes at a cost. The cost is painful and must equal in proportion of the power being summoned. Once a spell is started, it must be finished or there will be dire consequences.

Earlier this year, I read Stepford Wives and The Movement. Like Witchcraft for Wayward Girls, Stepford Wives was written by a man and told from the perspective of a woman/girl. The Movement is a nonfiction “oral” history (transcripts of interviews) of ten years of the Women’s Liberation Movement in the 1960s and 1970s and provided cultural context for the other two fiction books. It is interesting how well the two men were able to portray horror that primarily affects women through research and empathy.

That doesn’t mean The Stepford Wives nor Witchcraft for Wayward Girls are perfect books. I may have given both five stars on GoodReads (yes, I use it to track my books and get tons of free ones), doesn’t mean I can’t see some flaws. However, don’t let that stop you from checking them out.

Who is a witchcraft for Wayward Girls for? Everyone.

Who maybe should skip this book? I’d say people who have had trauma around childbirth, pregnancy, and/or sexual assault.

What should you know before reading? It’s a slow burn with much more real world horror over the supernatural. It’s a creepy book with a bitter sweet ending. 

Do I recommend Witchcraft for Wayward Girls? Yes, it’s a good story about a time in history that is often swept under the rug in hopes that no one would notice the lumps.

Have you read Witchcraft for Wayward Girls? Let me know in the comments what you thought about it.

If you enjoyed this post (or it really pissed you off) please like, share, and/or leave a comment. I love hearing from my readers and I hope y’all like hearing from me.

Until next week.

Welcome to Pet Loss

Last week, my beautiful cat, Karma Lynn, crossed the rainbow bridge. She’d been battling kidney disease for roughly a year and took a sharp turn for the worst in July. For five years, Karma had been my constant companion and cuddle bug. She was with me during the worst of COVID, my second layoff, taking care of one of my parents after a stroke, and when that same parent later passed away.

Karma had been my family’s cat for 17 and a half years. She came to stay with us for one weekend and never left. 

Karma’s start to life wasn’t the easiest. She’d been found by a construction worker in the neighborhood I grew up in, alone with a hurt paw. The construction worker took her to a nearby house which happened to belong to friends of ours. The friends called my mom, who helped take Karma to the vet. 

The vet said that Karma was about a month old and that she might lose the paw if she didn’t have constant care. They also said she was a short hair domestic tortoise shell cat (more on this later). Our friends, who were looking for a permanent home for Karma, had a trip coming up, so they left her at our house. 

My family, at the time, had a two year old boarder collie German shepherd mix. We weren’t sure how the dog would react to a cat, so Karma was placed in the first floor bathroom away from Gertrude (the dog). Karma had a nice little set up where her leg could heal and her cone of shame wouldn’t bother her. 

While I was out walking Gertrude - I had the night walks - my family took Karma out of her designated shelter and were cuddling her on the couch. I soon as I got back, I let Gertrude off the leash and closed the garage door. As I opened the door to go inside, Gert shot off like a rocket, jumped on the couch, and excitedly tried to lick Karma.

Badly startled, Karma also took off, racing over my sibling’s shoulder and falling down the back of the couch - only to be caught by her little cone before falling the whole way to the ground. My sibling got a small scar on their chest out of the commotion.

Gertrude loved Karma. They weren’t always buddy-buddy, but they occasionally curled up together. Gert loved mothering Karma while she was still tiny and, when Karma grew older, loved it when Karma would swipe chewable items off high places for her to gnaw on. My dad lost several very nice pens to Karma and Gertrude’s antics.

Sadly, Gertrude passed away in early 2019. She was about 12, nearly 13, years old. Karma was about 10, almost 11 at the time.

What ended up causing my family to keep Karma was one of my parents and my sibling begging to let her stay. My parent had put her on a little red velvet pillow and was carrying her around like the queen she knew she’d be. Every time she was lifted up, kitten Karma would let out an imperial meow as though addressing the rest of us as her loyal subjects. 

My other parent caved and I accepted the fact that we now had a cat.

It was only after deciding to keep her, did we finally decide a name for her. One of our family friend’s suggested we call her Karma since us taking her in would bring “good karma”. Coincidently, while on the way to the vet, the song “Karma Chameleon” came on the radio and quickly became the go to song to sing to Karma. I like to think I was the one to get the name Karma to stick, but we were all likely calling her Karma. 

There isn’t any story about how Lynn came about as a middle name and my one parent always insisted it was actually Kitty. 

My personal favorite memory of Karma was a year or so into my university years. Karma liked going into the basement and hunt for mice. Normally, we’d find the successful hunts lined up in the living room - nose to tail - waiting to be discovered. This particular night, Karma had had a successful hunts lined up and as she was bringing her catch up, I spotted her. I told her to drop the mouse; I thought it was dead. I wanted to get rid of said dead mouse now instead of waiting to find it later.

Karma ducked her cute little head as though to drop her prize, but didn’t. Instead, she gave me a look like: “are you sure you want me to drop it?” I said drop it a second time. And she dropped the mouse.

The mouse was not in fact dead.

It scampered through the kitchen, passing my sibling who jumped on the kitchen island screaming her head off, and found a hiding spot near the shoe box in the front hall. Needless to say, Karma gave me a “what did you except?” look, then shot off after the very much alive mouse. I grabbed the broom and dustpan and followed my miniature tiger to where she had cornered her quarry.

It took the better part of an hour, but eventually, I did get the still very much alive mouse away from Karma. I trapped it on the dustpan and released it outside. It was not a cute mouse. It was ugly, with a face like a snarling opossum mixed with a particularly feral wolverine. 

Karma was not happy with this development.

The vet said that Karma was a domestic short hair cat - which in the cat world means she was a mutt. However, she was not in fact short haired. Her hair grew long and fluffy. It got everywhere. I often brushed it for her in her later years. And when I did have to give her an infrequent bath, she looked like a sad Victorian child once the process was said and done. Her tortoise shell coat with black and orange meant that she looked like a Halloween decoration year round. She did have a white chest and socks (her paws were white), but that didn’t lessen the infamous tortitude tortoise shell cats are famous for. 

Karma was a spicy kitty and she left everyone know it.

The reason Karma came to live with me isn’t the happiest, but she became my cat because of it. Her later years were spent at my apartment playing with her toys (the ghost was her favorite) and enjoying time on the balcony and in front of the fireplace (weather dependent). 

This past year was especially tough. I knew logically that she wouldn’t live forever and that at 12 (when I got her), her years were numbered. Her diagnosis last year was devastating. I used to say that Karma would live to 20 out of sheer spite - which was more of a prayer for her to actually do so. There were a lot of ups and downs, but my biggest goal was seeing her in my new house. Thankfully, she made it and lived in the house for four months.

Karma loved the big guest room and claimed it as hers. She especially loved the deck and would spend time out there even when it was 100F out - much to my concern. She would howl outside the basement door because I wouldn’t let her go downstairs without me. She was excited to greet every guest that stopped by and enjoyed her view from the front door of me working in the yard.

Over the last few weeks of her decline, every morning I’d wake up, tell her how much I loved her, and say how blessed I was to get an extra day with her. I had hoped she’d be here for the first holidays in the house, but it was her time.

She didn’t get to live in the house long, but she got to be here and her presence is very much missed.

Karma is not my first pet death, but it is the first time I’ve lost a pet that I was primarily responsible for. I cried ugly tears and had to have my friends come get me. I cried for two days straight and even now am getting a little teary eyed. I miss her and nothing can replace her. I’m glad I was able to give her a good home in her last years. She was my baby and it’s hard being without her.

My family has sent me some wonderful memories of her. I have a friend who is going to paint her portrait for me. Her ashes are going to my parent who has Gertrude’s ashes so Karma can be with her mama dog. 

It hurts a lot and I don’t know if I ever want to go through this kind fo pain again. I’m not sure how people are able to have multiple pets after losing one. 

But I have to keep living and hoping I’ll meet her again in the afterlife.

Until next week.

If you enjoyed this post (or it really pissed you off) please like, share, and/or leave a comment. I love hearing from my readers and I hope y’all like hearing from me.

Welcome to 50 Years of Jaws

 How many times this week did you hear that it was the 50th anniversary of Jaws?

Well, I’m here to mention it again. 

I’m a fan of the first Jaws movie. I haven’t seen any of the sequels except for Jaws 3D (though not in 3D) - and I actually kind of like that one. I have ridden “Jaws the Ride” at Universal Studios Osaka - this was a really cool experience ride that I only partially understood  since the “guide” only spoke Japanese. I think we rode it about three times. I also got a hat, which I still wear.

I did not like the Jurassic Park ride.

Jaws is not my favorite movie, but it is one that I can stream on a hot summer day and pretend I’m at the beach. Not that I want sharks to show up at my favorite beach, but one of the incidents Jaws is based on happened near my favorite beach town in New Jersey.

Side note: my favorite movie is a different Steven Spielberg movie that also features practical effect monsters.

Jaws changed the way people went to the movies. The term “blockbuster” (may the store rest in corporate afterlife) was coined because people liked up around the block to purchase tickets. Soon after, any “big” movie with a large audience was branded a blockbuster and advertised as such (gotta maximize those profits).

It also changed the way people viewed sharks.

Prior to the 1900s (the century not the decade), most people didn’t interact with sharks unless they were fishermen or caught in a shipwreck. 

However, in the late 1800s and early 1900s, seaside vacations became popular with the upper classes. Cape May became one of the first beach resort towns that New Yorkers flocked to. It was in 1916 when a series of shark attacks took place off the coast of Ocean City, New Jersey (this is explicitly referenced in the film). It caused a panic, like in the movie, but the casualties were spread out all along the south New Jersey coast.

More than half century later and there were far more people frolicking in the water. Peter Benchley came to regret his 1974 novel of the same name as the movie because of the increased fear of sharks. This fear may have led to more people killing sharks and causing their populations to decrease. Yes, shark attacks continue to increase, but that’s because humans are encroaching more and more into their territory, not because they like the taste of human. 

Consequently, Benchley became a shark conservationist and dedicated much of his later life to educating people about sharks. Apparently, there’s now even a shark named after him colloquially known as the ninja lanternshark (Etmopterus benchleyi), which was confirmed in 2015.

I consider Jaws to be an adventure horror movie - a very rare mashup in my opinion. Like many films by Spielberg, there’s a sense of wonderment and exploration that blankets the film through the horror of the shark attacks. Even John Williams score volleys between suspenseful and creepy (the shark’s theme) to whimsical and thrilling (Chief Brody’s ending theme while shooting at the shark). 

It’s also rated PG instead of PG13 (mostly because PG13 wouldn’t come around until Spielberg’s Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom in 1984). 

Jurassic Park (also directed by Spielberg) has a similar adventure horror mix as Jaws, as does The Mummy (1999) and The Mummy Returns (though those two aren’t Spielberg’s). The scary parts are still there, but I feel like I’m on an adventure when I watch them.

And 50 years later, Jaws still holds up. The practical effects are great, the characters believable and relatable, and the shark is still scary. 

Fun fact: the shark’s name became Bruce on set after Spielberg’s lawyer. 

There were multiple versions of the shark, none of which worked quite right nor looked very good, which is why you don’t see much of the shark. This caused creative use of the camera and shots taken, adding to the film aging well. I saw a version of Bruce at Universal Japan as a kid (that same trip mentioned above). 

I’m also not afraid of sharks and never really was. My biggest fear in the ocean as a kid was seaweed. My grandfather told me seaweed was mermaid hair and that really freaked me out. I didn’t go in the water for three years. Drove my parents nuts.

I recently won a copy of “Robert Shaw: An Actor’s Life on the Set of Jaws and Beyond” from GoodReads. I haven’t read it yet, but I’m looking forward to cracking it open on a sunny day at the Jersey Shore. Maybe I’ll even pick up a copy of the original “Jaws” book too.

Happy 50th birthday Jaws. May Jurassic Park age as well as you. 

Until next week.

If you enjoyed this post (or it really pissed you off), please like, share, and/or leave a comment. I love hearing from my readers and I hope y’all like hearing from me.

Welcome to Women in the 1970s

What does it mean to be a “traditional” woman?

I have no idea because the definition for “traditional” women that certain people keep espousing has never existed. Women have always worked (out of the home), women have always had opinions, and women have wanted to be in the driver’s seat of their own lives. 

I recently read two books about women in the 1970s. The first was The Movement: How Women’s Liberation Transformed America, 1963-1973 by Clara Bingham. The second was The Stepford Wives by Ira Levin. You are likely somewhat familiar with the second book. Not only does The Stepford Wives have two movie adaptations (the 1975 version is way better than 2004 version), it’s also become part of the American lexicon to mean the perfect, if creepily robotic woman whose only interest is keeping house and pleasing her husband. Trad wife is a close synonym (in my not to humble opinion).

Reading The Movement before The Stepford Wives helped me to better understand the references and mindset of the latter. The Movement is “a comprehensive and engaging oral history of thedecade that defined the feminist movement” that incorporates intersectional view points that aren’t just from middle aged white suburban women. Bingham makes sure to include view points from more conservative feminists (well the moderates), radicals, LGBTQIA+ people, Black women, Latinas, and their allies. 

Technically, The Movement covers more of the 1960s than the 1970s. The 1960s is when the ball started rolling for the second wave feminists. The National Organization for Women (NOW) was started in the 1960s, Project Jane (abortion access in Chicago) was being set up, and Shirley Chisholm was the first Black woman elected to the US Congress in 1968.

The 1970s part of the book shows the accomplishes made after a decade of fighting for Women’s Rights and what fell through the cracks. The 1970s feminist movement stemmed out of the 1960s sexual revolution and adapted techniques used by the Civil Rights Movement to promote equality of the sexes. NOW was literally supposed to be the women’s version of the NAACP. It’s in the text of The Movement.

The book is all interviews. There are three parts that divide up the decade. Each part has 19 to 21 chapters. Bingham conducted interviews, reviewed archived interview transcripts, and pulled quotes from primary sources to piece together the many moving parts that defined the Women’s Movement of the 1970s. 

It was fascinating and showed the importance of balancing the moderate and the radical in any movement anxious for change. It warned about the problems that happen when progress isn’t followed through with (think the Equal Rights Amendment) and how one person can ruin everything for political clout (like Universal Childcare that was a bipartisan bill vetoed by Nixon). 

It’s not a map or guide for how to create change. The book shows how the US got to where it is today, how hard people fought for the good things we have now, and how those things are threatened today.

Which brings me to my next book.

I first saw the movie, “The Stepford Wives” (1975) in my late 20s. The scene that always stands out to me is when Joanna goes to confront her “changed” friend Bobbie hysterically asking her if she bleeds. Joanna is desperate, she knows she’s going to “change” next, and she realizes how much her husband and the other men in the community have betrayed her and their wives.

Fun fact, the guy who wrote The Stepford Wives, Ira Levin, also wrote The Boys From Brazil and Rosemary’s Baby. How this man is able to tap in the very real paranoia and anxiety women feel and authentically bring it to the page is amazing. I knew the ending of The Stepford Wives going into it. That didn’t stop me from hoping Joanna would do the selfish, yet self preservation choice of leaving her kids, not confronting her husband, and just driving far away. The kids weren’t even in any danger. She could have gotten them back later.

It’s a slow burn thriller that knows how to use gaslighting to the max. It’s also only 120 pages - a weekend read.

I have some many questions following up on The Stepford Wives. Do the kids, especially the girls worry that their fathers will “change” them, too? How do the “changed” women age? Why don’t the pets react negatively to the “changed” women? Do their families outside the area not question ANY of this?

Though I don’t feel capable of writing it, I would like to a follow up to The Stepford Wives following Joanna’s daughter Kim’s point of view. She would have been in the early years of elementary school and would have had memories of her mom before she “changed”. She could compare notes with her childhood friends and older brother, slowly peeling away the horror that her father put her mother through. 

Someone who is not me, please write this.

If you want to make a better future for the next generation, it’s good to know the history of the foundation you’re building a movement on. It’s important to know how hard the people who came before fought to get we are now, how easy it is to backslide, and why these things are important. I’m an independent person who doesn’t want to answer to anyone (especially after reading The Stepford Wives). I don’t want to take for granted the rights I have.

Until next week.

If you enjoyed this post (or it really pissed you off), please like, share, and/or leave a comment. I love hearing from my readers and I hope y’all like hearing from me.

Welcome to Missing One Parent's Pride

I first want to thank everyone for the positive thoughts and kind comments on my last post. They were all very appreciated and I'm sure you will hear a lot more about my new home.

A few of you mentioned how proud you are of where I've gotten to in life. My parent that is alive has also expressed how proud she is of me. I feel so grateful for all the help I've had along the way. No one gets anywhere without the help given by their support system - and I have a great support system of family and friends.

But that doesn't mean I'm not missing one person's statement of pride.

Growing up, my parents never forgot to say how proud they were of me. Whether prompted by my accomplishments, an award or two, getting a job, or even just mowing the lawn, my parents always made sure to tell me how proud they were. They weren't referring to my actions with this pride, but to my character. They were proud of who I am rather than what I did.

This has always been made clear to me.

Sadly, one of my parents passed away a year and a half ago. Their passing is how I was even able to have the down payment for a house. It sucks that out of that tragedy, I've been able to accomplish something that a lot of people my age are struggling to do. My surviving parent likes to say that it's the other's final gift to me and my sibling.

Still, I miss hearing that: "Kid, I'm proud of you."

That parent always called me "kid" when conveying their sincerity. 

Last weekend (mother's day to be precise), I took some time away from unpacking to do some yard work. It was the first time in about 15 years that I'd mowed the lawn - it was also my first time using a weed whacker and boy did I cackle like an evil sidekick with that tool. I started mowing the lawn when I was about eight or nine years old. My parent, the one was responsible for the outdoor chores, had me walk with them pushing the gas guzzling lawn mover in the easy to do front yard. By the time I was ten, I was mowing the front and side yard by myself without help. Said parent who taught me was proud of my progress, but exasperated by the fact that I couldn't maintain an aesthetically pleasing straight line.

That skill took roughly another five years to master.

I don't have a power mower. My aunts gifted me a very nice push-mower (along with the all powerful weed whacker) since my lawn isn't very big. The mechanics are mostly the same, except I have nothing propelling the mower forward but my sheer stubborn pride (which I have in spades). It was a bit like a blast from the past. I felt incredibly accomplished after doing the lawn work.

I also might have worried one of my neighbors with the week whacker. They were kind enough to offer me the use of their mower until I assured them I had one.

Unfortunately, the parent who taught me to mow the lawn is the same one who passed away.

I know they'd be proud of me, but I miss hearing them say it.

Recently, I read a spinoff manga that takes place after the canonical ending of Naruto. For those of you unfamiliar with the series (and its sequel series Borutou - which should be pronounced like "bolt"), Naruto is a story about a kid growing up to be a ninja. The main character, Naruto, starts out as a twelve year old and ends when he's about eighteen. Like many series aimed at tweens and teen in the 90s and 2000s, he was an orphan who built a found family around him. There are 74 volumes of the original manga series. 

The spinoff I read is called Naruto: Konoha's Story. Naruto plays a very small role in the two volume story as it primarily centers on three side characters - two of which, Kakashi and Gai, are fan favorites from the original series. The main character is really Mirai Sarutobi (or Sarutobi Mirai in Japanese). Her mother, father, cousin, and grandfather were prominent side characters in the original story. However, her father, Asuma Sarutobi, died before Mirai was even born.

Mirai's mission is to escort Kakashi and Gai - both retired and one disabled from their days as ninja - on a diplomatic survey along her country's boarder. Mirai grew up hearing about how awesome Kakashi and Gai were since they are friends of her mother and were close with her father. Mirai takes the mission very serious and worries about thieves and potential assassins around every corner (Kakashi and Gai have a lot of enemies from their ninja days). However, she can't help noticing how the mission feels more like a vacation for her two companions.

Mirai is a bit annoyed by this, until she's tempted into going somewhere that might allow her to speak to the dead. 

Why is Mirai tempted? Because she desperately wishes to speak with her father. It's been made clear up to this point in the story that Mirai feels disconnected from her dad. She's heard stories about him, but never got to speak to him. She knows her teachers are proud of her, but her confidence has been shaken while on the escort mission. She wants to hear that her father is proud of her accomplishments as a ninja like he was.

(Some spoilers may follow for Naruto: Konoha's Story.)

There's a great panel where Mirai imagines walking up to her father. Asuma's back is to Mirai in the image. Her hand is stretched out, as if to tap him on the shoulder. Asuma looks like he might be about to turn around to greet her or have a meaningful conversation.

The reader turns the page and Mirai is back in the real world where a cult tries to sacrifice her. During the fight, Mirai uses her father's signature weapons to defeat her enemies. These same enemies being members of the same cult that had a hand in killing her father.

Mirai doesn't get to raise the dead and speak to Asuma like she fantasizes. Instead she gets spiritual closure by channeling her father's spirit while fighting. Kakashi at one point even seems to feel Asuma's presence behind Mirai as she's fighting.

(End of spoilers.)

If you want to know how the story ends, then I suggest picking up the manga for yourselves. However, if you're unfamiliar with Naruto, it's probably going to confuse you.

And what does me mowing the lawn have to do with this somewhat niche story?

Unlike Mirai, I got to spend roughly three decades with my deceased parent, but I understand her desire to have a conversation with that lost parent. I might not be a ninja like Mirai and Asuma, but I do lawn work like my parent. It's a lost connection to a loved one that I miss - even if it is a repetitive chore that I was connecting to them.

Thank you everyone who left me messages and the pride you feel. It won't stop me from missing the phrase: "Kid, I'm proud of you," but it reminds me of a time when I heard it frequently. 

Until next week.

If you enjoyed this post (or it really pissed you off) please like, share, and/or leave a comment. I love hearing from my readers and I hope you guys like hearing from me.

Welcome to a New House

 Just to be that Millennial, but “I did a think!”

To solidify my latest “adult” milestone and movement into early middle life, I bought a house. And again, like any good Millennial, the only reason I could remotely do this is due to personal tragedy.

It’s not quite as cute as this, but close.

About a year and a half ago, I lost one of my parents. It’s been a long journey and a lot of emotions since they passed. It also maybe why I haven’t been writing my blog as much (this should change in the coming week, months, and years).

Buying a house is a lot.

There are so many things to consider: price, age of the house, size, price, neighborhood, HOA fees (they are inescapable in Virginia), distance from friends and favorite hiking spots, price, and when the last time to roof had been replaced. 

And when you find the “perfect” house, you put a bid on it, get into a bidding war, and lose - multiple times.

It was my sibling who picked out the house I eventually won the bidding war on. It didn’t have everything I wanted, but it had enough that I knew I would be happy. And more importantly, my cat loves it.

It also needs some work. For a house built in the 80s, the structure is still good and the roof last replaced within ten years (this is important for insurance reasons), but there are some little things that I need to update. The windows are original to the house and very difficult to open, the washer needs to be cleaned all the time, and I can’t stand the door going from the bathroom into the big room. Who thought it was a good idea to put a door there?

And little things I need to get rid of…like ants. They’re all over my kitchen. I’ve had ant issues before, but this is the first time it’s actually my problem (and money) to solve. Pray for my sanity.

Additionally, I did have an inspection (it was a quick turn around part of the negotiations - probably because it was two days before Christmas) and the things noted were fixed (except for the washer, but that’s a later problem). Yet I still needed to go out and buy a new dishwasher as soon as I tried using the one currently residing in my kitchen. 

So many soap subs.

The deck needs to be looked at, though it’s safe enough to go out on. I want new windows sooner rather than later. At least I think the washing machine can wait a bit.

I had family over this weekend to help me unpack. For the most part the first floor of the house is box free and organized. The second floor at least is in a state of organized chaos. The basement, though, is still meters deep in boxes.

They also kept reminding me to get rid of stuff. It’s a little tough to do. Some of this stuff was inherited from my parent. I got rid of a ton of stuff last year cleaning out their place and now I have to really decide what stays and what goes. It’s emotionally exhausting.

So, that’s where I’ve been. 

I bought a house. It’s not very big, but it’s mine.

Now to get rid of those ants.

Until next week.

If you enjoyed this post (or it really pissed you off) please like, share, and/or leave a comment. I love hearing from my reads and I hope you guys like hearing from me.