“There ain’t no better time of year.”
That’s what I wrote to my college roommate who has been going through his mother’s death, a divorce, a job loss, long-term unemployment and then, whoosh, finally a new job.
We’ve been there for each other over the years. He for me during my insane sicknesses and now me for him. I tell ya, it’s great to give back.
With the 100th anniversary of the Armenian Genocide happening this month,
I’m re-sharing my personal experience at the memorial to its the slain citizens.
This story appeared in my first book, Spiritual Wanderer, from which this blog gets its name.
The trip was exhausting. We were behind the Iron Curtain and at the mercy of the official Soviet travel agency, Intourist. It was 1984. The Cold War was showing no real signs of flaring up or calming down, and my intestines were wracked with what I liked to refer as the commie crud. I sat in a hotel in downtown Moscow, across the street from an enormous statue depicting Russian space flight and all I wanted to do was bend over the toilet. I felt worse than the embalmed body of Lenin who laid in state just down the street.
My grandmother turns 99 and Earth Day turns 35.
I snapped these daffodils (or “jonquils” as my mother calls them) growing in our garden to honor them both.
I just want to say at the outset, that I’m not always as smart as I like to think I am. This surely comes as a shock to virtually no one, not the least of whom me. Heck, I don’t even know if I constructed that previous sentence smartly.
But what I do know is that up until today — the beginning of March, 2015 — I confused Charles Bukowski with The Big Lebowski.
Can you guess which of the eggs in my fridge are more of the “hard boiled” sort?