Soiled File Foto.
As I type this, I am in the middle of a rain delay, which, given the forecast of ice, rain, snow, wind, and 33˚ all day, will surely lead to the rescheduling of today’s lumber.
Normally, I would bitch, moan, and cry like an orange-hued maniacal wannabe dictator with bad hair, throwing his toys because the rest of the world doesn’t want to fight a war that he stupidly started due to incompetence on every possible level as a human being and as a government official. But I won’t. Not only because I’m better than that, but also because I really don’t care if the world turns to smoldering ashes; it’s been a good run, but I really don’t see any way back for society. It’s fucking bleak out there! Do NOT go outside!!1
I digress, sorry. All in jest, all in jest… sort of.
I won’t bitch because I have 20.49 miles in my feetz in 3 days, it’s dark as night, cold, raining, and gahdamnit some days you just have to chill the fuck out, do some house cleaning, and think of the Chicago White Sox.
What? The White Sox??
Yes.
When I was around 5 or 6 years old, I remember a dark, rainy morning like today. My mom was cleaning, and the whole house smelled like summer rain, lemony furniture polish, window cleaner, and that odd smell that vacuum cleaners give off that falls somewhere between well-sucked dust and old man pants.
The thunder rumbled, and my mom cleaned around me as I looked at a recent copy of Sports Illustrated that came in the mail. I don’t even know if, or how well, I read at the time, but I clearly remember there was a graphics-heavy article dedicated to the oddball and the sheer number of uniforms the Chicago White Sox baseball team had worn over the years, including when they wore shorts.
And for some reason, every dark, rainy morning that I have no real reason to leave the house, I think of that morning almost 50 years ago.
I’m not 100% sure why I think of that morning after so many years, but I think it comes down to a few things.
First, of course, there is the memory of my mom being active and happily doing housework. It’s a wonderful memory because a few years on, she would be diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, and all our lives would change drastically for the worse over the next 20 years. But not then, she was walking, cleaning, and I felt safe and unconditionally loved by her. Something every child should feel from a parent, and my only regret is that it didn’t last too many years longer. Soon, I would find myself feeling alone, desperate for attention, and eating my feelings to unhappiness in a bid to forget real life, but ruining my own young life in the process with little sympathy from those around me.
I also remember, even at that age, being completely enthralled with that article about the White Sox. They were not even “my team,” but I was mesmerized by the article’s layout and graphics. For better or worse, I wouldn’t fully understand that article’s effect on me until I found myself in art school 15 years later, learning how to design magazine layouts.
So, here I am, some 49 years later, still thinking about that article and that rainy summer morning with my mom. The kitchen is clean, the dog’s bedding has been washed and is in the dryer, and the house will soon smell like furniture polish and old man pants. And while my mom is no longer with us, my wife of nearly 30 years is home today working in her office. The rain is falling, it’s dark as night, and I feel safe and unconditionally loved by her. My only regret is that it can’t last forever. But I can try.
Later.