Author: Fred Blahnik

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

By Dylan Thomas

 Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

 

 Brave Men (A Salute to Dylan Thomas)

By Frederick J. Blahnik

 

Brave men fear nothing

Not even the end, as it unsecretively approaches

For they have fought epic battles and vanquished countless indomitable foes

Death is just another gladiator, just another spear bearer to confront in that ring of no return

Though, they implicitly understand, an enemy that cannot be bested irrespective of one’s past valor…..

 

So they face this grim adversary with a bounce in their step and a smile on their face

Fully knowing this battle will be their last

Doesn’t matter; their attitude remains the same throughout

Fight like the devil, and offer no quarter or compassion to your foe

And, at the end of the day, may the best man win…..

 

Dylan Thomas ranted on about raging against the dying of the light

But exactly what purpose does this serve?

The dying of the light will happen regardless of one’s rage or passive acceptance of said

To rage uncontrollably is to needlessly sacrifice those delicate servants that attend rationality

Brave men do not rage; they carefully consider their options and respond accordingly…..

 

Rage, rage against the dying light

Sounds good, but what of substance does this accomplish?

Brave men choose their battles wisely, drawing sabers only when they sense a chance for victory

The dying of the light is no such creature; it is as inevitable as tomorrow’s sunrise

Brave men recognize this truth and submit gracefully, albeit grudgingly, to cryptic forces greater than flesh and mortality.

 

Rage, rage against the dying light

Rage, rage against the dying light

Rage, rage against the dying light

But since when has rage added anything other than rancor to a frothing situation?

Brave men know this; ignorant men do not.

• “pride, principle, and purpose” When all is said and done and your final life script has been written and submitted for review, these are the only human character entities that truly matter.  Nothing else.  Nothing more nuanced or multi-layered or esoteric. Nothing hiding in the attic or in a secret crawl-space or somewhere unobvious—lost between the cracks.  Pride, principle, and purpose.  If you live your life constantly tethered to these three foundational paragons—using them and them alone as the buoys to guide your one-time odyssey across a vast, pitch black, uncharted body of water—you will never have anything to be ashamed of.  In the big, BIG scheme of things—the only scheme which ultimately matters, in other words—pride, principle, and purpose rule the day and define you as a person; nothing else even comes close.

Certitude

By Frederick J. Blahnik

 

The two good friends were enjoying drinks after work at a local watering hole.

“So……how did your big date go last night?!”  Miriam’s eyes opened wide while she spoke and her lips curled up at the corners.  “Didya like the guy??”

Janelle was quick to reply.

“Yeah, I liked him…..”

“But then we both know the real question that matters here:  Did he like you?”

Miriam smirked slightly and rolled her eyes knowingly as she spoke.

“He’ll call me back…..”

Janelle’s response was as surprising for its certitude as it was for its instanteity.

“He will, huh?”

Miriam was surprised by the rapid reply, startled even, as only two lifelong friends who could swap horrific war stories on dating back and forth for hours on end might jadedly have come to expect.

“How can you be so certain, Janelle?  What is it about this guy that makes him different from all the other egotistical, asshole men we’ve dated in the past?”

Miriam—in her early thirties and no ingénue any more–well knew the vast majority of men out on the social circuit are looking for just one thing, and if they don’t get that thing on a first date—or at least a trail of bread crumbs indicating that such would soon be forthcoming—a second date was not a strong likelihood.  She also knew that her best friend Janelle was not the type of woman, for reasons of principle, to flippantly offer those types of benefits to someone she scarcely knew.

Janelle was unwavering in her response, though.

 “He’ll call me back soon, Miriam.  I know he will.”

Miriam became even more perplexed now, and her demeanor began to approach frustration—almost agitation.

“How can you be so sure of that, Janelle?  You know our sorry track record when it comes to men in the past!  It’s one thing for your first date to have gone smoothly—and I’m very happy to hear that it must have—but it’s quite another to sit there smugly and profess without doubt that this dream guy of yours will automatically call you back for a second date.”

Miriam stopped talking then to consider for a moment.

“Unless there’s something you’re not telling me…..”

Her eyes next exploded and her face dissolved into an unapologetic frown.

“Janelle, Janelle, Janelle…..don’t tell me that you gave everything away to this guy on your very first date!!!”  Miriam stared wide-eyed and accusatory with her mouth agape at her longtime friend.

Janelle was noncommittal.

“No, Miriam, I didn’t give ‘everything’ away to this guy last night.  In fact, I gave him next to nothing.  The only carnal thing he received from me was a few smooches as we sat on his sofa and a brief kiss on the lips as we said our farewells for the evening.  But he’ll be calling me back within the next week.  I can personally guarantee you that!”

Janelle’s cocksure smugness was annoying to her lifetime buddy.  This was a characteristic Miriam had never witnessed before in her best friend and co-worker.

“Okay, okay, I’ll admit that you’ve got me on this one, Janelle.  I am now firmly convinced that this new guy friend of yours will be calling you back soon, simply because I know you better than anyone else in the world and consequently know that you would never tell a lie or make something up purely to be dramatic.  But, dear girl, can you solve this riddle for me now once and for all by explaining how you can be so absolutely certain the new guy you went out on a date with last night and obviously like a lot will definitely call you back for a second date?  I’m just dying to hear the details, best friend!!!”  Miriam leaned over at the bar at this point and gawked straight into the face of her tavern mate.

Janelle drew a long sip on the Moscow Mule she was drinking, brushed some rogue strands of hair back from her face, and grinned mischievously before replying.

“How can I be so certain, Miriam?  Easy.  At the end of our date last night Jim invited me up to his apartment for a nightcap and, given the fact I liked this guy and trusted him implicitly, I of course accepted his offer with no plans to do anything other than a bit of kissing. “

Janelle stopped talking at this juncture to take another sip from her Moscow Mule while Miriam stared at her raptly, albeit impatiently.

“So anyway, the two of us were sitting on the sofa in Jim’s apartment—having a good time and making out a little bit—when I couldn’t help but notice that Jim had this humongous, fiendishly difficult 3000-piece jigsaw puzzle that was nearing completion laid out on a sheet of cardboard on his living room floor.  I already knew that I liked this guy quite a lot and wanted desperately to see him again so—Bingo!—a light flashed on in my brain right then and I hatched a devilish, can’t-miss plan.  When Jim got up to go use the bathroom a few minutes later, I casually stole one of the unfinished pieces from his jigsaw puzzle and hid it in my purse.”

Janelle paused one last time to draw the final remaining drops of alcohol from her vodka drink.  The look on her face was the bastard child of cleverness and certitude.

“Jim is gonna call me again within the next week, Miriam.  I have never been so certain of anything in my life…..”

When the Lilacs Bloomed

By Frederick J. Blahnik

 

Oh, so where were you when the lilacs bloomed?

 

Were you pushing your children to study hard……study hard……STUDY HARD AND THEN EVEN HARDER!!!—for the final exams that were soon to ensue?

Did they bitch and groan and complain vociferously, pointing out the many consecutive months they had already been forced to attend school?

But it would soon be over–just a matter of weeks, perhaps even days.

While fragrant lilacs bloomed luxuriously on the periphery of your back yard.

 

Were you busily preparing your son or daughter for confirmation, culminating the many hours of preparation they had already poured into this worthy endeavor?

So proud of them, yet sadly heedful too of their ascendance one step closer to adulthood and total independence.

Snapping a surplus of pictures of her as she posed confidently in the chilly early morning mist.

While resplendent lilacs flourished in the near background, creating the perfect backdrop for a pluperfect occasion.

 

Were you busy constructing flower bouquets to deposit on significant others’ graves for an early Memorial Day?

Visiting the hallowed sites of deceased relatives, and then solemnly reciting a litany of prayers for their long-departed souls.

Giving thanks for the loved ones who you felt so incredibly blessed for having graced your life, while silently gushing appreciation also for not having been asked to prematurely join them.

While lilacs blossomed majestically on the lonely fringes of the graveyard.

 

Were you still a pubescent boy growing up on the farm?

Frantically searching verdant pastures and sporadic woodlots for that young heifer that had gone off to calve for the first time.

A healthy length of baling twine protruding from your back pocket, just in case the young bovine needed assistance in delivering her divine cargo.

Heaving a monstrous sigh of relief when you ultimately found this exhausted heifer, a strapping newborn calf energetically sucking from her engorged udder, while hideous pinkish/purplish afterbirth dangled forlornly from her swollen vulvae.

While lilacs blazed a radiant lavender from the tranquil farmstead in the far-off distance.

 

Or were you on the other side of life–tottering off with your cane to attend a granddaughter’s wedding, your ever present pill-pack safely in tow?

Two youngsters so madly in love they couldn’t even wait the few extra weeks until the traditional month of June to formalize their union.

Struggling mightily to enjoy the ceremony, even as your bladder–unfairly compressed by an insanely enlarged prostate–screamed for relief, your hearing aids whined and malfunctioned, and your heart fibrillated wildly like a hummingbird’s wings.

While those omnipresent lilacs flowered in symphony from the straight-as-an-arrow treelines flanking the quaint country church.

 

Oh, so where were you when the lilacs bloomed?

 

During that special, magical time of year……the very heart of May.

When school is winding down and glorious summer is prepping for her grand entrance in a mere matter of weeks.

When last winter has faded into a distant, hazy, repugnant memory, while onrushing summertime seems to stretch forever in the distance.

When love is so prominent in the air as to be nearly palpable, and every park is brimming with youthful doe-eyed couples clutching hands, exchanging amorous glances, and feeling the primal urge to procreate.

When the sun is rising earlier each morning and setting later each evening, and the possibilities immediately before us seem as expansive as those rapidly lengthening days.

When the weather dramatically morphs from the cool, dreary raininess of April into the seductive, intoxicating heat of June, affording a momentary bridge that graciously unifies the two feuding seasons.

When the world stops to catch its breath before plunging headlong into summer, together with the profusion of wretched excesses that accompany it….…and the horizons in every direction a person looks distend on forever and anything and everything seems possible.

 

Oh, so where were you during those few quixotic weeks in the heart of May—when the lilacs bloomed in all their wonderful, iridescent glory?

 

Now it is early June–a trifling few weeks later–and the lilacs no longer bloom.

Their beautiful purple, pink, and white petals have settled into the soil, no longer enriching the surrounding air with their wildly aromatic redolence.

Now the lilac bushes have retreated back into their pedestrian role of drab, utterly forgettable green shrubs—begrudgingly relinquishing their temporary leading man status for the boring character actor they embrace the other fifty weeks of the year.

They are no longer beautiful, they are no longer noteworthy, and they do not elicit affection or emotions of any kind.

They are ordinary—Yes, that’s right–totally ordinary!–and thus do not warrant further remark in this poem.

 

But then again…….so is life now, in this bucolic first week of June.

Summer vacation has begun, so that means Labor Day and the start of another monotonous school year for the young lads and lasses lurks ominously over the not-so-distant horizon.

Confirmation has been over for weeks, and that large cash windfall you fell into as a serendipitous benefit has long since been spent on middling-quality CDs, boring uninspiring movies, and I-tunes cards with ever-shrinking balances.

Memorial Day is only ten days in the rear-view mirror, yet the visceral closeness you felt to your deceased loved ones on that special day has evaporated into the hot summer air, and the cemeteries are now as lonely and desolate as would logically befit a subterranean refuge for rotting human cadavers.

That energetic calf was quickly stripped away from his mother and crammed into a small pen in the back of the barn, then given bland milk replacer from a bucket as a feeble substitute for the succulent colostrum which resided in his mother’s udder immediately after birth.  The uncomprehending cow wailed mournfully outside the barn door for two subsequent days, but her broken heart has since come to pass and she has moved on in life.

 

And the old fella? 

Yeah, yeah, you know…….that old fella who was attending his granddaughter’s wedding against his better judgment?

Well, fate dramatically intervened in his life shortly thereafter too–his superannuated ticker finally succumbed to exhaustion one afternoon and stopped working altogether–and the poor bastard now resides as a new guest in that aforementioned cemetery.  But you’ll be happy to hear the young newlywed couple is jubilant and starry-eyed and thriving, and still fully immersed in that euphoric embryonic stage of matrimony where they’re consummating their marriage vows every night of the week on whatever flat surface might be available to accommodate their hormone-fueled whims.

 

Oh, so where were you when the lilacs bloomed?

 

That transcendent two-week period in the midst of May when all things seem possible.

When the world stops to catch its breath, and the splendiferous beauty and mesmerizing aroma of the humble lilac bush rules the Universe.

It is a wonderful, elegant, and enchanting occasion then—that special time of the year.

 

When the lilacs bloom……..

 

But then one hot, gusty afternoon, the lilac bushes reluctantly dropped their fragrant petals in the face of a strong southerly wind.

June came to us brazenly and suddenly and rudely that day….…and the world packed up and moved on.

• …..and the long-awaited day finally arrived like a prophet bearing gifts, yet she found the anticipated elegance and pulchritude of that lonely, beleaguered day fell far short of her lofty expectations. Her admittedly excessive enthusiasm was dashed.   Disappointment reigned supreme.  The day felt rather ordinary, vapid…..not that much dissimilar from any of the others which had preceded it.  And right then and there she was struck by an epiphany, one that would stick with her as her constant companion for the remainder of her days on Earth:  Every day IS exactly the same in character as the one which comes before it–twenty four hours in length and bounded by the sun’s appearance and subsequent disappearance on each of its ends–and thus it was entirely up to her to shape the thing in the manner in which she would like to see it unfold.  It was the substrate, the putty, the globby paper mache; she was the sculptor assigned to oversee this construction project on a regular, ongoing basis.  And with this life-changing realization came some overdue peace of mind–a natural tranquilizer which would help define her disposition and outlook on life from that pivotal point forward…..

• I have scarcely any regrets regarding the things I did or at least attempted in my lifetime–including the myriad ill-advised misadventures and fiascoes, the questionable items I sometimes purchased, the places I went–admittedly at times dubiously inspired and insipid and ordinary, the sundry people I met along life’s serpentine pathway–admittedly all not of sterling character……the many times I failed at ANYTHING I have valorously attempted. What I do regret, however, are the adventures and life experiences I did NOT pursue, the coveted items I did NOT purchase for financial reasons or otherwise, the potentially charming places I did NOT go despite chances to do so, the people I did NOT have the privilege of meeting in spite of multiple opportunities to connect with them.  In short, I…..I do not regret any of the events festooning my life or the direction I have chosen to take it, and my biggest regret at this well-past-halfway point of time is that I did not seek to expand upon my desires and did not vigorously pursue other life opportunities in whatever venue they may have manifested.  Been less cautious, in other words, and more open to risk-taking and adventure.  Attacked life, rather than constantly defended myself against it like it was some sort of ravenous predator.  Embraced life at ALL times, instead of pushing it away when it might have felt constricting or slightly dangerous.  LIVED life to its utmost, rather than to have obsequiously allowed it to unfold in front of me as though I was a disinterested bystander.  Everyone pays homage to “living in the moment” and living life to its absolute fullest, but how many of us actually do that?  Only a tiny percentage, if I were to wager a Las Vegas caliber bet.  So your money runs out prematurely?  At least you spent it joyously and on unforgettable experiences that can never be stripped away from you.  So that new “friend” of yours turned out to be a despicable person and someone who more closely resembles an enemy than a true confidant?  At least you gave the person a chance, you learned from the experience, and they left no indelible harmful mark on either your body or your soul.  The time you wasted fecklessly pursuing that disappointing vacation, vocation, or new avocation that in the end turned out to be something you didn’t really like?  It was inarguably better spent in that fashion than in just lounging around on your living room sofa watching old television reruns while chowing down on Pringle’s potato chips.  Life is meant to be LIVED, in other words, not merely endured, and the richness of your life can best be measured by the number of times you chose action over inaction, aggressiveness over passivity, adventure over the status quo, and intrepidly advancing forward over reflexively retreating like a fear-stricken coward.  We are perpetually lectured by every clergyman and self-help guru and social scientist and so-called “expert” that life is a gift–And who among us can argue otherwise against such obvious, elementary “advice”?—yet referencing now your own personal experiences, aren’t the best gifts those we take out of their boxes right away and use extensively, as opposed to those we tuck away on a high shelf in the bedroom closet for safekeeping and thereafter use infrequently, if at all?  Life definitely IS a gift, yes, but only if we choose to use it.  Because if we don’t–If we choose to regard life as an exceptionally fragile item that must be sheltered and guarded and protected at all times and at all costs–then we are discarding the very principle that makes sentience and being human so utterly special in the first place.  Akin to an old Maytag clothes washer that seems to run on and on and on forever, life is an entity that should be used long and hard and extensively.  Babying life, pampering life, and conserving life in order to theoretically preserve it and extend its warranty…..those are “actions” that do not lead to a happy, satisfying long-term outcome.  Life is best when used rigorously and to its fullest extent, and you don’t accomplish this objective by habitually holding back good-sized chunks of it in the name of caution and frugality.

Note:  The following essay was written by Joseph Blahnik, edited by Frederick J. Blahnik, and is excerpted from the autobiographical tome “A Family United Amongst Itself”.

 

Celebrating Catholic Confession (The old-fashioned way!)

By Joseph R. Blahnik

Okay, Readers, let’s first set the scene before we get going here on this true tale:  Early spring–late March or fresh into April–circa 1965, a Saturday,  middle of the evening, the rural Louis and Mary Blahnik household located near the town of Spring

Valley in extreme southeastern Minnesota, which in turn is the furthest north province in the United States’ agricultural midsection, various members of the Blahnik family are gathered in their unkempt kitchen enjoying a liquor-fueled good time. 

Reeadyyyyy…….okay….…ROLL THE CAMERAS!!!!!

Jim had just taken Dad to Confession down in Spring Valley, which many of you probably already know is an ironclad obligation within the Roman Catholic Church during the Easter season.  So in the face of Mom’s insistent previous “request”, spiritually lackadaisical Dad finally relented to her prodding and listlessly succumbed to this yearly duty.  Oldest brother Jim was ordinarily Dad’s chauffeur for the short trek into Spring Valley, in light of the fact Dad could not drive himself owing to his major and permanent lower extremity weakness resulting from his heroic bout with polio in the autumn of 1950.

“He (Jim) became uber-aggressive and oftentimes hostile after quaffing but a few drinks.”

Anyway, some (Most?) years the contrite and newly sin-free pair would stop at a local bar to do a little “after Confession” celebrating with alcohol.  Such was indeed the case on this particular day and Easter season; after pouring out their litany of accumulated sins to an eavesdropping priest ensconced in his darkened adjoining cubicle, the father-son twosome–now unburdened of  all their indiscretions and thus in a cheerful frame of mind–made their regular tavern stop and hurriedly swilled several beers before heading for home.  But bless their altruistic hearts; those two voluble rascals were still obviously touched by their brief brush with Christian principles and were feeling uncharacteristically charitable and thus bought and brought home with them plenty of strong “refreshments” from the Spring Valley Liquor Store in order that

“…..Jim seemed to be feeding off his(Fran’s) anger…..”

the rest of us in the Blahnik family could join in their pre-Easter bacchanal.

After we all drank a few beers and were starting to feel loose and pleasantly lubricated, I suddenly felt an irresistible urge to dance, and the radio in the kitchen of our house was serendipitously tuned to a good Country and Western music station.  Consequently, I started dancing with younger sister Dorothy in the cramped quarters of our messy kitchen and was having a merry old time with the smiling lassie.

Little brother Fran was also helping himself to some of the beer that night……probably way too much as events later demonstrated!  The reader must remember that he was just a young fellow back then–somewhere in his mid-teens–and not too big for his age either, so his alcohol tolerance level wasn’t very high.  Keeping that thought in mind, Fran likewise had a troubling habit of getting mad and irrational quite easily after consuming only a modicum of liquor.

I have never been drunk, but I’ve often been over-served.   —George Gobel

My style of dancing could get pretty wild and uncontrolled back in those halcyon days of Elvis and Andy, and I recollect a semi-drunken Dad made a sarcastic comment with regard to my unconventional form.  For some peculiar reason, this made Fran inordinately angry.

Now you have to understand that Jim fell victim to the same malady as Fran when it came to drinking:  He became uber-aggressive and oftentimes hostile after quaffing but a few beers.

Hence the situation rapidly developing right then was an undeniably volatile one; Fran was already wild-eyed and pugnacious, and Jim seemed to be feeding off the little shit’s anger with each ensuing second as well.  I could see Jim was on the verge of losing his temper and guessed that next he would probably do something outrageously stupid, therefore I started to get nervous.

REAL REAL NERVOUS!!!!! 

In fact, I could tell my older brother was teetering on the brink of fisticuffs, so I decided to walk into the bathroom to allow the two ornery inebriates some time to settle down a bit and collect their bearings.

Did I say walk?

As soon as I headed off in the direction of the bathroom, Jim tore off after me with a furious, crazed look in his eyes.

Walk—–HELL!!!!!

“I took off running like a scared rabbit then…..”

I took off running like a scared rabbit then, with Jim hot on my heels bellowing unrepeatable obscenities in my general direction.  I barely beat him into the bathroom and scarcely got its door locked

“…..Jim had hauled off and in frustration punched the thick wooden door!!”

behind me when I heard a thunderous BANGGGGGGGGGG on the other side of the door.  Unable to get at me personally, Jim had hauled off and punched the thick wooden door in abject frustration!

I turned behind me to look and, incredibly–a big vertical split had materialized all the way across the panel embedded in the door’s upper half.  Mom and the girls started screaming incoherently at Jim and Fran at this juncture, and the two embarrassed miscreants slunk off outside and sat in a car until things cooled down sufficiently inside the house and they sobered up a little. Given the fact it was early spring and the outdoor temperature was still fairly cold and the ruddy-faced partners in mischief hadn’t bothered to take jackets along with them, that process only took a New York minute.

Ultimately, a chagrined and contrite Jim did work diligently to fix the door he had disfigured in a drunken fit of rage, but that aforementioned ugly split remained in the door for as long as I can remember as stark testimony to Jim’s mercurial temper after imbibing too much alcohol.

And his hand?

Yeah, you know…..the one Jim clubbed the door with??

Well, he never broke any bones in it so far as I know, but I imagine it was awfully sore for many days afterward as a glorious, painful reminder to the bombastic buffoon of the unpublicized pugilistic skills which had enabled him to TKO that thick, wooden barrier with a single looping right hook …..[1]

[1] Original, unpublished composition by Joseph R. Blahnik from 2011

Give Them Back…..

By Frederick J. Blahnik

 

Melancholy……

I received my two oldest daughters back for a day and a half

To joke with and talk to and spoil and stuff full of food

And pretend like things are just the same as they always were……

When they were little and helpless and all mine

But then today I had to give them back to college and society.

Of course they are not the same anymore…..

Not by a long shot!

Melancholy.

 

Melancholy……

I received my two oldest daughters back for a day and a half

Gathered together our entire family to celebrate Easter

And pretend like things are just the same as they always were……..

When the crowns of their heads struggled to reach my waist and the munificent Easter bunny was as real as the stars above

But then this afternoon I had to give them back to college and society.

Of course they’re no longer little girls anymore……

No, they’re young women now–beautiful, confident young women!

Melancholy.

 

Melancholy……

I received my two oldest daughters back for a day and a half

To reconnect my immediate family and to go visit their aging grandparents

And time-travel back ten years to an era when their world was immeasurably smaller, yet their aspirations still wonderfully intact

To a time when their basketball skills would allow them to be the next Jordan, their intellects the next Einstein, their ambitions the next Bill Gates

But today I had to give them back to college and society.

And then be left to deal with the fact our formerly tight-knit family grouping is slowly unraveling………

And knowing there isn’t a damned thing I can personally do to stop this relentless erosion!

Melancholy.

 

Melancholy……

I received my two oldest daughters back for a day and a half

And, oh, what a glorious day and a half those turned out to be!

To reunite as a family and celebrate the majesty of life as one pulsing, homogenous, FAMILY unit

Just as in years past……

…….but it isn’t years past anymore……

I realize this the second I drop my oldest daughter off at college, with our second distaff offspring following suit two hours and a hundred and twenty miles later

And as I turn south and head down lonely Highway 52 with my silent wife and last remaining daughter

I feel a vague aching down in the deepest reaches of my heart……

Like someone or something close to me has died.

And then suddenly, jarringly, unexpectedly……I realize that something has indeed expired………

An age of innocence has passed away, never to return in my lifetime

When my three girls were tiny and sweet and eternally cheerful, and nothing would or could ever interrupt that youthful Nirvana…….

Melancholy.

 

And yet–now something has……

 

Melancholy……

I welcomed my two oldest daughters back for a day and a half

To laugh and to tease and to pretend that things are just the same as they always were

But of course they aren’t anymore…….

That world—that cruel charade, that prevailing epoch of innocence, that ephemeral minute on life’s grand carousel–is gone forever

And it now exists only in a tiny, far-off sulcus of my memory

Bearing poignant witness to a time long past……

Melancholy.

 

Melancholy……

I collected my two oldest daughters for a day and a half to celebrate Easter

And celebrate we did, I tell you!!

We celebrated and manufactured merriment like there was no tomorrow!

But that time flew by like the wings of an eternally forlorn hummingbird

And now my girls are back at college where they belong, and I am back at home without them…..

Melancholy.

 

Oh, the awful, gut-wrenching melancholy this whole deal engenders deep down in my guts!!!!!

Where Art Thou???

By Frederick J. Blahnik

 

And the hounds were released from Hell, and for four straight days they sought their vengeance against us three Blahniks clustered on our non-extravagant acreage located in Pleasant Valley Township, Minnesota.  The satanic wind never stopped blowing out of the east with its signature bestial fury over that period of time—only changing direction occasionally, albeit mildly, and then only on some seeming mischievous whim–and the temperature hovered right around the Mendoza Line of freezing throughout its full and miserable duration.  Those days sans power were the very best of times for my Blahnik family…….

No, no……what the hell am I saying here?!  No, of course they weren’t!!  So much for the Dickensian bullshit and all that other clichéd crap!!!  They were in fact the very WORST of times and that is the way they shall forever be remembered in my aging memory, irrespective of the fact each of those vivid recollections will be required to pass through the cleansing, overly generous filter of elapsed time before being stored permanently, just as all past remembrances were asked (ordered) to do.  Let’s be absolutely clear about one thing right out of the chute though:  There is nothing remotely quaint and romantic about being stranded without electricity, illumination, and running water for any period of time exceeding five minutes, and never let any demented, hopelessly-in-love-with-the-past, twentieth century graybeard attempt to convince you otherwise!

And so he slipped outside his freezing house at 4:00 in the morning to take a much-needed piss, after which he walked down to the end of his driveway to survey the surrounding countryside while standing fully exposed to that demonic wind currently blasting with jet engine fury straight out of the west.  And, lo and behold, there were now two farmsteads with lights on not far off to the west—farms that might have already had their electricity restored at dusk, but this of course could not have been reliably ascertained from a distance during the light of day.  It was an encouraging sign, certainly, though one that couldn’t afford him too much satisfaction inasmuch as those house-dwellers were presently sleeping in warm beds that were situated in rooms that could be brightly illuminated with a casual flip of a switch—a couple of which were even invested with.…Gasp—hold onto your seats here and try not to exclaim too loudly, Readers!!!…running water!–while he was standing outside in the unforgiving wind seeking relief for his tortured bladder and shamelessly envying their cushy fate, even as a noisy, bantam-sized, overmatched generator with two extension cords snaking from its front side into the house huffed and puffed in the background just outside the back door to his patio and a stinky kerosene heater struggled gallantly against the harsh elements to infuse his house with a minimal measure of life-sustaining warmth.

And all the while she continues struggling to pack her few things for a life-changing odyssey out west—without the benefit of artificial light and artificial heat and artificial providence—this while recognizing the shameful artifice of Mother Nature in full concert with the overlords who command same for playing such an evil joke on her during a time of intense need.  Her days remaining in Minnesota are numbered down to fewer than two hands of extended digits now, she has a promising job interview scheduled for next Friday just after the noon bewitching hour in the far western state of Oregon, there may be a major snowstorm lurking sinisterly in the towering Rocky Mountains which she must pass through enroute to her ultimate destination, and still this freak pseudo-blizzard assailing us in the middle of April prevents her from adequately preparing for her imminent departure.  Curse this hellish weather already, and curse whoever or whatever came up with the sadistic idea of springing (Pun intended!) it on her at such an unorthodox time of year even as she desperately toils with last minute moving preparations.

And so I beseech of you, my dedicated readers:  Why do we remain huddled inside this absurdly chilly house now shorn of electricity, not unlike those shivering sparrows seeking scraps of food from barren birdfeeders out on the back deck, praying for warmer weather and an immediate cessation of the heinous winds assaulting us Minnesotans from seemingly every direction that latitude and longitude tangents are plotted.  This is, after all, mid-April that we have advanced into now, and the thought that we should be trapped inside a cold residence bereft of electricity for three days running is ludicrous even by Minnesota’s cruelly skewed standards.  Yet we are—Yes, you bet we are, you pantywaist sissies likely clothed in cargo shorts and tank-tops who are reading this sob story from warm weather utopias where your only climatological concern might be a Category 3 hurricane every ten years!!!–and as I eye the putrid shit bucket resting on the floor in the corner of the room closest to the door, I reflect on the fact that we are not so much prisoners of time as we are prisoners of unseemly time—those minutes and hours and days spent wastefully surviving the elements that undyingly seem to be on the attack here in the upper midwestern United States, as opposed to collaborating with them in a joint symphony honoring the beauty and primacy of life on Earth.

I mourn the freakish April weather, but more than that—Yes, so much more than that!—I mourn the missed opportunities, the missed pleasures, and the useless time which such vile weather fully and enthusiastically endorses.  That time shall never be given back to us to use as our hearts desire, and those opportunities for happiness have been vindictively aborted and tossed onto the past’s rapidly expanding trash heap before ever seeing the light of day.  Shame!!!!!  Shame on you for being so selfish and duplicitous, Mother Nature!!!!!  We did nothing to “deserve” this bullying treatment that you so dispassionately dish out to unwary Earthlings who through no fault of their own happen to reside in the northern hemisphere!!!!!

The migratory songbirds freshly (actually not so freshly) up from the South?  Gone—long gone—either through starvation or having sensibly fled these tundraesque environs once the scelerous wind began howling out of the east or just disappeared somewhere into the stygian firmament, never to be seen or heard from again this year.  How do I know this?  Because we southeastern Minnesotans sadly experienced another freak winter tempest (Yes, I know the calendar which is flipped open to the month of April does not jell with this unconventional yet obvious assertion, but it’s nonetheless undeniably true) just last year.  And the robins, which had returned happy and cheerful a good month earlier and some of which had already hatched and were joyously raising broods of fledglings, were nearly completely wiped out for the year in the aftermath of that maleficent storm.  Only one, or at most two, pairs of robins survived the bird holocaust to remain on our prime piece of bird paradise in the countryside equidistantly outlying the sister communities of Stewartville and Racine, which are perched on the busy north-south Highway 63 in the southeastern toe of Minnesota, for the remainder of last spring and summer.  But now we are facing the exact same scenario this “spring” under freakishly similar conditions:  An uber-punishing winter storm swoops down on Pleasant Valley Township out of a gorgeous mid-April milieu and ravages everything in its path, including the migratory songbird population.  My God, only two days ago the ambient temperature around here was seventy degrees Fahrenheit, the sun was shining radiantly, and the birds were singing lustily from the treetops, and now…..and now…..…THIS?!?!?!  Unbelievable, I know, yet I have been blessed (Cursed?) with two perfectly good eyes to incontrovertibly indicate otherwise.  Only the noxious blackbirds seem capable of surviving a vicious, wind-driven onslaught such as the one at hand, and a landowner’s prayers are blatantly rebuffed in this instance inasmuch as those are the only birds in our natural aviary that I would love to see destroyed wholesale.

The two pet dogs, one old and grizzled and the other naturally foolish one ostensibly in his prime?  They are as confused about the present situation as much as anyone or anything, especially the ancient, wizened pooch who has experienced fifteen previous winters and springs.  He doesn’t know for sure what is going on precisely, but then how could he possibly?  Virtually every other year winter ends and spring begins and there is no turning back this natural cycle and starting over from scratch.  But this year—again not unlike last year—winter has returned with a vengeance in the middle of April, and neither of the dissimilar dogs knows what to make of it.  Some instinctive mechanism deep inside them tells them something is not right about this weird dynamic, but reality trumps instinct every time and the outlandishly cold temperatures and the gusty, nefarious winds which never cease and the slushy snow beneath their feet feel as foreign to them in April as it would in July.  The grayish-white curs don’t know what to make of this peculiar aberration in our southeastern Minnesota weather patterns, and if they—much more closely attuned to the natural world and all its idiosyncrasies than technically advanced humans—cannot make good sense of the sorry situation, then how can we two-legged naturephobes possibly succeed in doing so?

The wife?  Mercurial.  At times patient and arrantly understanding, at other times cranky and ranting irrationally and hysterically.  She, like myself, doesn’t always appreciate the pulchritude and serenity of life in the country, and winter (Although April is most decidedly NOT a winter month, understand?!) is the season when she most frequently and vituperatively vents about the inequities of life spent on a remote gravel township road, residing on a homestead that serves as an elephantine magnet for every snowdrift that harbors even the scantest desire to colonize our tri-county area.  And this most recent freak storm only eggs her on more and strengthens her resolve to someday move to a locale where the prevailing weather systems seem more like a friend and less like an enemy.

The trees?  Ah, yes, those fuckin’, infernal mature soft maple trees that form a three-sided ring around our pastoral, two-acre oasis in the flat farmland of southeastern Minnesota.  Those abominable things never cease to be a monstrous source of consternation for me, not least of which is when the wind blows aggressively from ANY direction and then these inherently wimpy scrub trees succumb almost immediately to the buffeting and shed their wares.  Now multiply your average wind speed by a magnitude of ten and imbue this scenario with a bona fide, 3:00-in-the-morning thunderstorm when the atmospheric temperature was a precarious thirty degrees Fahrenheit, and that lethal combination of gusty winds wed to ice-laden branches rendered our entire yard a veritable slaughterhouse for the aforementioned soft maple trees; the grisly results were glaringly plain to the naked eye the next morning.  Sticks and branches of all sizes littered our yard everywhere, and one’s first impression was that our rural property had been strafed with heavy artillery fire for three consecutive hours in the middle of the night, such was the extent of the tree damage.  Well, the massive amount of natural debris lying on the frozen ground ain’t just gonna melt into the soil someday akin to the thin layer of wet snow which immediately ensued the killer thunderstorm, hence that means when this whole shit-story of a power outage calamity is over someone is gonna have to go out there in our yard and dispose of that ugly mess of sticks and branches.  Within our Blahnik family hierarchy, that assignment usually falls on my broad shoulders.  Awesome, I know!!!  Lemme tell ya, there’s nothing I enjoy more than pacing back and forth endlessly on our now-newly-sized fifty acre lawn like a man-of-arms guarding the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, laboriously stooping over every three feet to pick up sticks of all ilk and sizes for eventual burning and depositing them in a dinky wagon I pull behind me.  Yet this unbelievably tedious job must be done irrespective of my pissing and moaning and complaining, and when our ridiculous mid-April power outage is over that task will be sitting right near the top of my extensive to-do list.  Fun, fun, fun!!!  Damn right, so much fun I can’t even bear to think about it!!!!!

The dullards and retards and Trump ass-kissers who keep vociferously denying climate change and insisting that these radical, ever-more-frequent departures from normal weather patterns are natural and not part of a humanity-created problem?  What stupid, ignorant, guileless, witless, inexcusably dumb bastards those people are!!!!!  Ignorance, like most things indigenous to nature, usually knows boundaries, but not in these people’s cases.  The freakish weather events we continue to experience more and more often speaks to a tremendous, ever-expanding problem, and for unforgivably stupid individuals to stand in the way of those who would like to urgently address the problem is sinful and a transgression which should be punished with banishment sans food and water to the furthest, coldest corner of our Universe, and that is only if another meaner, more hostile Universe cannot be found first.  And from that distant outpost the overly opinionated blowhards can bellow into the pitch-black skies to their heart’s content that global warming is just a devilish scheme manufactured by Washington liberals to subvert the coal industry and stymie oil and natural gas exploration off the pristine coast of Alaska.

And so we three Blahniks embody the tiniest rattle on the frank tail end of the rattlesnake, not the source of the problem this time around as was sometimes the case in the past, yet–based solely on our outlying position in extreme northeastern Pleasant Valley Township–standing last in line to be serviced and to have our power restored.  Fair?  Of course not, but why should fairness invade the world of power restoration when it doesn’t exist in any other venue in life?  We will just have to continue waiting patiently (And admittedly sometimes NOT so patiently!) to have our power restored, hopefully by this evening at the latest, and then proceed onward and gratefully with our lives from there.  Going without electricity is a major inconvenience, to be sure, but it is only that:  A major inconvenience.  There are much greater evils and adversities to be faced in life, and anyone who isn’t able to recognize this simple fact deserves to be without power indefinitely.

And then in the midst of everything else and to add insult to injury, I severely pulled the upper glute muscle on my left side while simultaneously pinching a major nerve in my hip as I lifted that deceptively heavy little generator out on the back deck, and after that I became something of a useless invalid—incapable of lifting anything relatively heavy and wholly unable to bend over at the waist without coming face-to-face with a searing, traumatizing jolt of pain that instantaneously radiated upward but mostly downward from my upper ass.  And let me tell you, what hip-slapping (Cue the pun music at this juncture!) fun and party-worthy merriment that sling of fortune was and continues to be for Yours Truly!!

                Yet my painful injury probably does represent the most appropriate anecdote to conclude this maudlin narrative “highlighting” three preponderantly gloomy days of life—my life, that is, but hopefully not yours; a gloomy truncated segment of my sojourn spent here on Earth–if indeed any stage of life should ever be snobbishly dismissed as “truncated” for fear of divine retribution…..

• ALL time spent with someone you love a lot or even a little is “quality time”; there are no exceptions to this rule. You don’t have to fly to the moon on Elon Musk’s fancy new rocket ship, purchase front row tickets to see the spectacularly talented Beyoncé perform in person at Madison Square Garden, attend the Super Bowl and sit at the fifty yard line right next to Brad Pitt, or go on an extended two-week winter vacation to the Turks and Caicos Islands to justify calling time spent with a loved one “quality” time.  ALL time is created equal (Isn’t each hour sixty minutes long?  Isn’t each day here on Earth twenty four hours in length?  Don’t the fabulously wealthy, in lockstep accordance with the pauperized, utilize identical methodology for tracking time?) and thus qualifies as quality time.  Spending a monstrous amount of money isn’t necessary to match that definition, although unfortunately a plentitude of people evidently believe such is the case and pursuantly subscribe to the theory that more is better and the most is best; anything less is cheap and not worth the effort.  Screw that!!!  Screw that with a pneumatic impact wrench torqued to 1000 ft./lbs. of pressure!!!!  Those phony idiots are just poseurs drowning in insecurity.  Time is time; how you choose to spend it and what you perceive as pleasurable is your own fuckin’ business and no one else’s!