Mark Mace in

The day was Saturday, January 23, 2016.  It was the day after “snowmageddon 2016” (I find it interesting how people hype of a little bit of snowfall, but that’s a different topic all together).  The snow had mostly stopped, so I decided it was time to get out the tractor and clear the driveway, little did I imagine such a simple task would turn into such an adventure.

I went outside to start the tractor, swapped the brush hog for the back blade so I could clear the snow off the driveway. I start working and one of the tires must have been low because it came completely off the rim.

Not to be defeated (and because I was relatively close to the garage) I get the air hose out… only to fine out it will reach to within about 12 inches of the tire.

Bound not to be defeated, I reconfigure things to add a few inches to the hose! And wouldn’t ya know, I couldn’t get the tire to take air. So, out comes the air wrench and off comes the wheel. Thanks to a few things taught to me growing up, I know a few tricks when it comes to getting tires to take air (thanks Dad!). I finally get the tire to take air just in time for the belt to start slipping on the air compressor (guess it’s time to buy a new belt for the air compressor). Luckily, I have enough air left in the air compressor to fully air up the tire.  Tire aired up and ready to go, I start rolling it back out to the tractor to be greeted by the neighbor and his son on their four wheelers clearing my driveway.

Moral of the story? Well, from my perspective, it’s simply this: if you look for defeat and bad times you can find them easily enough, but if you do that, you can miss the good. In this case, having great neighbors that jump in and help without asking and the fact that the tractor is back together. All that other stuff, it’s simply noise.

I tend to lurk more than anything when it comes to social media, when compared to others, it seems as if I don’t even exist.  I don’t take pictures of every meal I eat, I don’t share every time I go to the grocery store, and I certainly don’t share every bit of drama.

Am I that private of an individual?  No, not really, I just don’t feel that everyone needs or wants to know my every movement.  I’m not a superstar, I’m just me.  Which brings me to the point of this post, I see people sharing things and, like the title says, I think “Really? And you shared that?”

For example, someone shared this image.  True, in the most basic of sense.  February 2016 will only come once in a lifetime, February 2, 2016 will only happen once in a lifetime as well, unless of course you happen to be in the movie “Groundhog day”.  What I really take issue with is the “Because” statement.  Let’s just think about this for a minute. February has 28 days three out of four years, 28 days is four weeks, so really every single February has 4 Sundays, 4 Monday, etc.  In fact, one out of four has an extra day of the week, this year it happens to be a Monday.  And it only happens every 823 years?  Uhm.. February 1988 had 2 Mondays!  Yeah, it really bothered me that much that I went in search of the previous occurrence.  And, just in case you’re wondering, the next one is February 2044.  Can you tell I’m annoyed by this?

Furthermore, it’s like the old question, what month has 28 days?  Answer:  All of them. Point being, when you share something like this without any thought, you’re just adding noise, you’re not adding to the conversation.  And it’s jabbering baby talk noises that makes me wonder if you even processed anything before clicking on that shiny little “share” button.  I’m not saying don’t share, that’s how we find interesting things, but I am saying think a little bit before clicking that button, just take a second and process what it is that you’re sharing.  Be socially aware, be responsible, take responsibility for what you’re saying (sharing) because at some point you’ll become that person that everyone ignores because you’re not adding to the conversation.

I stumbled across this in my drafts. In memory of Renee Apple.

Memories from Home

“…Here is a story. The sky hums, some dragonflies

pause over their shadows and dart off.

An awkward moment comes when you say, This is

my life. Earnestly, without regret.”

-Tom Andrews, The Hemophiliac’s Motorcycle.

I can remember the last visit to your house, on that Saturday afternoon.
You didn’t hear me, but I could hear you and Carol talking in the bedroom.
I stood in the living room with the boxes.

We followed the others up the hillside,

flowing like ants across the grass

seeking the cool shade under the tall tree.

Next to some of the boxes were picture frames, stacked neatly next to the walls. Some of the picture frames held paintings that Joan did a long time ago. If you look at it just right, you can feel the brush strokes.

Drums swallow the stillness around us,

as they started entering the circle, glowing with

pride and whooping as they come.

In one of the boxes were some knickknacks from a happier time; a stuffed shark from Cincinnati, and pictures that you took with your camera. You were always careful to chronicle the important times.

Alive with color, the first dancer entered the circle

full of color, as the bells on her dress jingled as she

moved, with her dark hair flowing over her shoulder.

I stand over the place where the couch used to be, remembering how you would laugh with Annika, while her salt and pepper colored dog nuzzled against your feet. If I look real close, I can still see the indention in the carpet where the couch was.

The woman merged with the other dancers,

wearing deerskin, wearing feathers, carrying staffs with

talons and other sacred artifacts.

I can see your green Honda Civic from the living room window. It looked like it was ready to go somewhere, just waiting for you to come out and get inside. It was eager to make the drive to St Louis.

High above the Mohigan, even the birds danced in circles

keeping time with the drum and the dancers below,

as if they were connected.

Before I left the house, I found an old picture of you on the floor. It was a picture from Amelia’s wedding. The photo might be torn, but the memory remains.

-Danny Brookhart