This is a long one, people. No reason, really; I just found myself wasting time every so often this week and writing down random shit.
6:05 AM on Christmas Morning, and I was up as usual.
No, I wasn’t waiting to gleefully rip through a giant pile of presents (although there was one with my name on that I had my eye on); I was up waiting for the freaking sun to start thinking about rising so I could squeeze in a few miles before we did the version of Christmas Morning you do when it’s just a couple and their 19-year-old son who is now thankfully way more into sleep than opening holiday presents.
Sadly, the sun wouldn’t be fully up until after 8, so that meant I had nothing to do but tend to the dogs, drink coffee, and look at the ever-declining interwebs until I had enough light for woodsy lumbering without a headlamp.
I arrived at the trailhead lot just as darkness was fading and did a quick 5-mile lumber that felt great after two days sitting on my ass “resting” from whatever this is I do for the sake of my mental and physical wellbeing.
With 5 miles in my feet, I was feeling great and soon home, showered, and cooking up a holiday breakfast for Wifey and B.
After we exchanged gifts, we went our separate ways to relax in the afternoon: nap and bad TV, video games, and music and a few pints while prepping the evening’s feast and coming to grips with the fact that there is no footy played on Christmas Day. I’ll let you decide who did what.
We reconvened later for dinner, goodies, and watching The Hudsucker Proxy. To cap off the night, B gifted us a candle and a handwritten letter to both of us that conveyed his appreciation for the love and support Wifey and I give him, as well as how, as parents, our different talents, skill sets, and personalities continue to be a positive influence his life.
It was probably the best gift I’ve ever received, and even typing this, it’s hard not to tear up, given that I have often looked at myself as a walking “cautionary tale” and a complete failure, wondering why I am even alive. Some people just know the right things to say at the right times, and I went to bed that night feeling better than I have in years and filled with love for Wifey and B.
Boxing Day, FUCK YEAH!!
Boxing Day for football (soccer) fans is one of the best days of the year as there are always a ton of matches from the Prem and Championship on TV, which starts a week of holiday fixtures and flowing pints to ease and/or promote Holiday Mush Brain.
Boxing Day was also a repeat of Christmas morning, with me driving to the trails in the pitch dark, pulling into the parking area just as the sun rose, and pounding out 5+ miles in the dank woods.
After the hike, I stopped at the store for Boxing Day supplies, got showered, ate, and then plopped my ass in my comfy chair with a remote control.
The Day
The 27th of December. It’s just a day with a number attached, but it will always be “the day” my mom passed away and the day that, even after 24 years, I can remember everything about after I got that frantic call from my dad as I sat down at my cubical desk after a few days off for Christmas.
I no longer dwell on that day with complete sadness. Now I find myself looking at it at the day she was finally freed from all the pain, surgeries, hospitals, falls, tears, and misery that came along with years of battling Multiple Sclerosis. My only hope after her passing would have been that my dad could have found some peace and a way to enjoy life rather than becoming reclusive and more opinionated, except now without the level-headed lovingness of my mother to keep him in check.
With that in mind, on the anniversary of the day she passed, I took to the woods for another wet morning lumber over soggy leaves and slippery roots with thoughts of her in my head, but stopping short of sadness; instead doing my best to celebrate her with what little memories I have of her before she was diagnosed when I was around 10, and the all too fewer ones after.
5+ miles were had, and then it was home to do what I do.
Thursday’s Drip
I woke up Thursday morning to pretty much the exact weather as the previous five: misty rain, dark grey skies, and chilly temps laced with humidity that has you cold one minute, shedding layers the next, and repeating the process a million more times through the day.
After a light breakfast of coffee, egg whites, and homemade hash browns, I evacuated my intestines multiple times, geared up, and headed out for what would be a wonderful 7-mile hike through rain and the peaceful sound of the leafless trees going drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip…
As I look ahead to Friday, I am sure I will once again be in the woods tomorrow, lumbering out some miles in weather that will be not unlike the previous ten days. I only hope I can get some pics [I did] ’cause I’ve been lugging around a camera for four days now and have yet to see anything that I haven’t photographed already.
As predicted, at 6:08 Friday morning, it is STILL misting rain, the fallen leaves look like melting piles of dog shit, and given the current state of my yard, it may very well be, and if we don’t get a reprieve soon, my skin will take on the sheen of wet toilet paper.
Oh well, it’s hash browns and egg white time (not code for sex), then off to the trails for my daily flogging (not code for woodsy masturbation).
Post Hike Glow
The woods continue to be as dark, wet, and muddy as a drunk hobo’s undies, but I embraced the dank, got in another 5+ miles, and can hit my 30-mile weekly goal with a sub-3-mile hike at some point over the weekend.
I hope to post my final stats from The 2023 Soil the Woods Tour, along with some favorite photos from it in the in the coming days, but not sure if I will be motivated over the weekend or not. This mega-post has been a week in the making, and I’ve grown weary of my own words.
Later.
THE SOILED SOUNDS TRACK VIDEO OF THE POST
Not my favorite Cure song, and not even my favorite on Three Imaginary Boys, but knowing this was being made and performed at a time—at least in America—when the charts were being dominated by disco and other crap, makes me pretty happy.
If only eight-year-old me would have sung 10:15 Saturday Night aloud instead of Rod Stewart’s Do You Think I’m Sexy as my mom readied me for school that morning, I just might not have got that slap on the face and a stern, but loving, “JASON!!”
I do wish The Cure wouldn’t have delved quite so far into the goth image and did it for so long (possibly because I knew I could never pull that look off!). Not that it affected the music, but there came a point that I was like, “Really, we’re still doing this?” Obviously I didn’t care too much, ’cause I’m still listening to them.
Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip…