Good Blood, Bad Blood

“Writing is a form of activism.”

Brooke Warner

I am a mediocre typist. Hunt and peck is my style. Furthermore, my fine motor skills deteriorate with age. The pinky of my left hand wanders. When I attempt to strike the letter A, the letter S often appears instead. Or, that little finger double taps a key, showing off a predilection for tremor. The errors interrupt the flow of writing. I am slow at composing and getting slower.

There’s no hurry. The artificial construct of deadlines may motivate other writers. But, not me. I’m happy with my modest essays, many of which take weeks to escape from the prison of my brain.

My desire to write began when I was a teenager. Our typewriter was something of a relic. So, when I started journaling in high school, I wrote in longhand on loose leaf binder paper. Then, when I lived on my own in the mountains, I kept my “diaries” in a succession of blank books. I carried one wherever I went. They soothed my itch to write. Life got in the way of any desire I had to turn writing into a vocation. Adventures and procrastination stalled self discipline. But, I faithfully continued to fill my journals with entries. I’ve no regrets.

These days my journaling has evolved into a blog. My love for composing finds harmony with the wonders of a word processor. The action is light to the touch. I can add photographs, links, and music. There are tools for emphasis. And, the cut and paste function adds the craft of collage to my word-smithing.

For the most part, I write something about nothing. I don’t need a prompt. Cues always pop up: a word, a phrase, a memory. I enjoy wrestling with sentences. I crush on words. I marvel at the elasticity of language.

My last blog post detailed our 50 years of marriage. Upon our return from Anza Borrego, our sons surprised us with a party at a nearby resort. In secret, they arranged for numerous friends from our past to join us. We shared drinks and dinner, memories and forgotten events. Or, I should say, the others did.

I’d felt bad since our return from the desert getaway. I managed to interact briefly with the group. I ate a cup of soup but had to excuse myself from dinner. My wife walked me to our room. She returned to the party. Later, at 1:30 am, we headed to the ER in Hood River. Pneumonia.

This was not the way the day was planned. Nor, the day I wanted. But, it was the one I had. I spent five miserable nights in the hospital. I’ve been home for two weeks. I feel puny but my strength is on the rebound.

It’s a good story. When we are gone, the family can recall the night Dad bailed on his party. That’s how life goes. One surprise leads to another. We don’t exist, then we are here for a short interval creating our saga of being, and finally we disappear into the ether of memory. What do we leave behind? Me? Testimony to what I’ve witnessed, written in a near illegible longhand or poorly typed with a shaky little finger.