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Today I’m writing from The Boathouse, billed as Kenosha, Wisconsin’s only authentic waterfront pub. Settling in always takes a few minutes, but I notice that once my computer is set up and I’ve ordered my spicy chicken wrap, the sounds and sights begin to recede into the background and I begin to hum (not literally, I realize that might draw unwanted attention). The hum is silent, comfortable. I may not be a local, really, and definitely not a regular here at The Boathouse, but I feel plenty good about being here alone, not bothering anyone and not being bothered either, just a lady writing in a pub all by myself.

I find I’ve been doing this long enough now that I can bring people, music, food, and any combination of those things in and out of my perception to examine or ignore or just to color the environment—whatever I choose—like focusing a lens. The space is roomy and filled with that particular cold bright light that only people in climates such as this can truly appreciate. Sunny does not always equate with warm.

It is currently 3 degrees outside, yet there is a lively crowd celebrating a birthday at the bar, and I, after all, have driven into town from my remote and forever under construction antique railroad cottage out in Salem, undaunted by the temps. I’m in the back of the establishment, in the bar area. The entire back wall is lined with large unshaded multi-paned windows that face a small bay, then a narrow strip of snow-covered, pine-tree dotted parkland, then the blue vastness of the great unfrozen Lake Michigan. It is too big to freeze, so I’m told, though I’ve heard it’s come close to freezing clear across in the past. I remember my dad telling me it happened once, back when American Motors was still cranking out Rambler cars. I could probably Google it…but I’m not here for fact checking. This, my friends, is Pub Fiction.

I went for a short walk with my brave dogs and husband this morning. We would have walked longer, but we started to worry that the pups’ little bootless paws might develop frostbite.

The music is early rock. The television is on too, of course, but for once there are no sports being played. It is late afternoon and the news is on, out of Milwaukee. The last story featured two little Girl Scouts dragging a sled full of cookies across a frozen lake (not sure which lake as there are so many around—only know it isn’t Lake Michigan because Lake Michigan is too big to freeze. I really need to Google that…).

Anyway, the Girl Scouts are dressed in the brightest of orange and pink fuzzy hats and mittens imaginable, with jackets to match– two small smiling bright dots on a pure white glacier. They head out toward the little wood shacks further out on the ice where the ice fishermen are gathered. I would include ice fisherwomen, but there aren’t any in evidence, just a bunch of men. Go figure. The news announcer says, “It’s like shooting fish in a barrel.” Every fisherman buys a box of cookies.

My attention returns to the birthday celebration—just three guys now, two of them, older than the birthday guy, mention Hanoi, then birthday guys says that  just once in his life he’d like to be on a white sand beach for his birthday, “Just once.”

Hanoi waves his arm at the windows. “What about that water?” he says. “Is that not beautiful?”

Yes, I think. It really is.

Should I Tell My Story?

Maybe, the questions are, since I obviously have to, am compelled to, write it all down… maybe the questions are: How honest can I be?  (No use writing it if the answer isn’t 100%)  How much disguised? (There’s the rub!  How about if I keep the heart of it honest, but change up the details so that it can be marketed as fiction?).

     That’s got to be it.

The struggle continues, the writing struggle, but if I can at least be free of the weight of guilt felt at even the idea, the glimmer in the bottom of my mind, of telling the raw truth, the audacity of it, then perhaps I can carry on.

     How about you?  What are your thoughts on writing down the unspeakable truths?  Please respond.  I value reader judgment highly.  Thank you!

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

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A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 850 times in 2014. If it were a cable car, it would take about 14 trips to carry that many people.

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     “To hell with it all!” 

     That’s what my mother-in-law said during her final hours.  It was one of the few loud and clear remarks she made during the last few days of her life.  And she said it with gusto.    

     “My boy. My baby,” she said earlier when Mike moved out of and then back in to her line of vision and took up  her small, small hand into his, so large and callused.   She also said, “I’m so happy, now get me out of here,” and the one no one wanted to hear, the dreaded, “I don’t want to die.”   I cringed at that, wanting to be spared hearing her truth in that moment, but I didn’t argue either.  She meant it, and I respected her enough to hear it, and simply hugged her a little tighter.   

     Those statements, those distilled fragments of speech from a woman who never previously lacked for words, remain alive in the hearts of those of us who heard them, never to be forgotten.  Some might comfort, one may haunt. But “To Hell with It All,” that one resonates for all of us; that one sure has struck a chord with anyone, whether they were able to make it to her bedside to hear it for themselves or not– it seems that near or far, anyone who had ever really known this family finds comfort and even amusement in those words.

     She, I’m told with enthusiasm, got that particular remark from her mom, the original “To Hell with It All” Queen.

      “Grandma said that all the time,” her progeny state, smiling broadly.  “Loved her,” and “She was so cool,” and “She wore Go-Go Boots, and took us everywhere.”  I just heard yesterday, from a trusted family member, that she fully expected my husband to become a priest.  Clearly, she was a woman of great vision and optimism.  Also tough, and, based on the Go-Go Boots, I think sparky, too. 

      You have to divorce yourself from the training wheels you started using back when you were five in order to handle the idea of death, particularly the death of a loved one.  Training wheels will not let you tip over.  Not out of the heavenly clouds.  Certainly not to tumble “down there.”  Yet, as in all things here on planet earth, we learn that once we drop the platitudes and pretense, we humans can pretty much muster up the courage to face anything, which is more than good, because, guess what?  Pretty much anything can and does happen.  And in the end.  Yup. 

     There are lots of similar references, someone somewhere in something famous uttering the ultimate “F-You” to the universe, but I think my favorite has always been from the original Star Wars… Han Solo’s “I’ll see you in Hell!” has never gone stale for me.  Hearing that line for the first time, delivered by a young, crooked smiling, and irreverent Harrison Ford, while still in the thralls of youth and feverish devotion to life, gave me an unexpected thrill.  Han was going to handle things.  What a moment. 

     And that, for me, explains why such a sentiment is so freeing.  If you can keep your chin up when death stares you in the face; when you know, and everyone around you knows there are no training wheels for this ride, and there isn’t a chance of winning this particular race…well then, you truly are free.  Pretty obvious?  Yes, of course.  But not everyone, not even close, is brave enough to say it out loud. At least not this side of silver screen.

      So, Phyllis, I salute you.  And your mother before you.  Just had to let you know.