Tag: family

On Water, and Letting Your Art with a Capital A Flow

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

I have a couple of couches in my living room. One is positioned lengthwise across the front of the space, directly beneath my large, bay window. The other is on the wall opposite it, lengthwise so that if I lay on it, my feet are pointing directly at the window and the other couch. Said second couch is, actually a loveseat so please, enjoy the mental picture of me, a 6′ 2″ beast of a man lying in a V, with my pale, white legs hanging over the side of my loveseat.

Actually? Here you go. For posterity:

My apologies for the ankle socks. Old feet are cold feet, and I am proverbially wearing socks at the ripe, old age of 49.

I had to take that with my Night Sight setting on my camera because presently, I’m watching a thunderstorm, and it’s prematurely dark out at two minutes until 8 on a Wednesday night in July. For some reason, I’ve grown accustomed to this view over the last, few years. Even when my minions are here, and I make them unplug their always charging phones and turn off all the electricity that we can in the house to avoid electrocution, I assume this position and they… Begrudgingly engage in “conversation” with their dear old, almost 50-year-old, overly paranoid Dad, much of which centers on their complaint that they cannot plug their phones in for the duration of the storm.

I should note herein that I know the possibility of electrocution while on computers, phones and electrical devices in a thunderstorm is very minimal. Surge protectors help. But my own mother, God love her, conditioned the fear of horrific, flaming electrocution while watching TV in a thunderstorm into me at a very young age. And we couldn’t afford surge protectors. So, I’m simply keeping tradition alive with my own kiddos. Thank you, Mom, and your granddaughters thank you too…

Begrudgingly.

Believe it or not, it wasn’t the storm, raging outside that drove me to unplug my own, charging phone, stop watching “William Shakespeare’s Romeo + Juliet (1996)” and start blogging. It was this view… The view beyond my pale, white legs and ankle socks that did. You see friends and family, I love my home in Swarthmore, Pennsylvania. I love it despite the constant headache and oft times money pit it has grown into. This is the place where I started over, after my separation and eventual divorce. This was the first home that I, not my now ex-wife and I but me… That I created for the two most important people in my life: My Biggish Bear, and her not-so-smallish, little sister. This place is my ride or die as a single dad. Despite the leaks, the occasional carpenter ants etc., I cannot see myself nor my kiddos anyplace else.

For now.

And that leads me to the point of this piece… This freestyle, First Person composition, drafted in premature darkness to the sound of the rain hitting my bay window and the thunder rumbling nearby. As much as I love this place… This home, there’s one thing missing, and over the last few years, as I’ve inched closer and closer to the half century mark, I’ve felt a longing that I’ve not felt in a long time.

The ocean. A lake. A bay. An inlet. Water, and I’m not talking about the rain running down my street currently like a mini river. I miss water. Whether near a city, in the mountains or down the shore, I want to be able to look out my big, bay window and see water. Flowing, crashing… Or just sitting stoically, unmoving. I want to open my window and hear waves, lapping or crashing against a shoreline/lakeside/riverside.

When I drew up my dream existence, many moons ago in a piece of Mental Flatulence that referenced a little town in Florida called Weeki Wachee, there were kids… Two of them, and a thunderstorm raging outside. I’d just stopped working on my latest WIP: A book long prologue to the trilogy of books I’d penned and published… Something about Halcyon Days and eternal youth. I’d turned off my computer to avoid electrocution as my mother had taught me and was watching the storm from my front, bay window as its shelf cloud rolled in over the ocean/lake/river, a bit worried that my kids–who had been outside playing–had gotten caught in it. But my fear was quickly allayed as they ran soaking, screaming and laughing down the shoreline in my direction. I opened the door for them, and they ran inside, dripping water and carrying something in their hands. They showed it to me: A freshly formed piece of glass where lightning had struck the sand. They’d gathered it quickly so as to avoid electrocution and ran all the way home to me, enamored with their new treasure. I celebrated with them before cautioning them too never do it again. Satisfied at not being reprimanded or rebuked (for who would reprimand or rebuke two children for being children in the summertime?), they ran off into the house to dry off and grab a snack, leaving me to silently marvel at Nature’s Fury outside. Awe-inspiring. Beautiful. Serendipitous.

A perfect moment.

That was my dream then and apparently, it is still my dream now. I can picture that beach/shoreline/lakeside in all its many variations. I could draw it if I wanted to and have many times before this. I don’t consider myself good at drawing–I’m more of a pencil sketch guy–but I still do it. Because part of being an Artist with a capital A is being able to express yourself and your emotions in something palatable. Concrete. I chose writing, guys and gals, but I could have gone in a number of other directions. And in dreams? Emotion. Not palatable or concrete but can it be? Can I at this juncture of my life, on the cusp of 50 make my dream a reality? Is there enough power in my pen or pencil to write/draw it into existence. Survey says?

Probably not. But that’s not really tenable for anyone, is it? No one save for God or whatever deity or deities you believe in–I still dig the Roman Catholic one myself–has that power. Wishing something into existence is impossible. But willing it into existence? Working towards it… Grinding a 9-5, routine existence for it… That, I believe is attainable. And that’s what I need to be focusing on.

If everything goes well, I’ll retire in about 15-16 years. That is, of course wishful thinking because inevitably in my life on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence something or many things will not go well. But hypothetically, let’s say that 15-16 years until retirement is feasible. Come that day, when I turn in my 9-5 polos for a Bermuda hat and a pair of Birkenstocks, I want… No, I need to be near my dream. At least in the vicinity of it. I need to keep the plot and not lose it because those kids on the beach/shoreline/lakeside may not be my Biggish Bear and Smallish Bear anymore, but their kids… My one-day grand minions could easily assume that role.

I like that plan.

One thing remains however. There’s one part of my aforementioned dream existence that I haven’t addressed yet. Shortly after the kids have left and the storm has slackened (as summer storms generally do within minutes), I hear the front door open. I turn from the rainbow that is materializing over the water and there see her. She is the last piece of my vision. Once upon a time, I could see her face. Her faces. Because in lock step with my ever-changing and ever-evolving life, her face has changed and evolved. These days? I don’t recognize it. It’s a new face… A stranger one, and somehow unlike any other incarnation of her former faces. Her hair is white or maybe gray and not as easily distinguishable as brown, blonde, black or red hair is. She has crow’s feet at the corners of her colorless eyes, colorless because I, the Artist with a capital A haven’t written or drawn them yet and remain open to the possibility that they could be any color. Blue, brown, green or hazel… Any color that you like. Yet her smile folks… Her smile is distinguishable, not because I recognize it, but because it beams happiness. Peace. Contentment. I see it in her smile, and I smile the same smile back. How can I not?

The moment is perfect.

That is my past, present and future dream my oft times casual readers. Rebooted a bit for 2025 but in essence the same. Disclaimer: I’ve written this entire post in a bit of a fugue state. Somewhere between Stream of Consciousness and the state I used to lapse into when I smoked too much weed. I’m not stoned right now and have no plans to get stoned anytime soon. But for once I didn’t think. I just let my chosen art form do its thing. I let my words flow like water without thought or purpose and that is something I have not done for a very, very long time. It feels good. It feels freeing. It feels like Truth with a capital T. My Truth.

What’s yours?

Winky emoticon. Smiley Face.

FM.

On Six Years and Appeals to the Universe

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

Six years. It doesn’t seem like a long time, does it? Given an average, human lifespan of 70 years in 2024 (SOURCE), and a universe that is billions of years old, six years seems like nothing. Less than a drop of water in the world’s biggest bucket. Less than a grain of sand on the largest beach on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. Six years is miniscule when compared to other, time-reliant concepts. Yet for me, your old buddy The Madchronicler, who was formerly known as El Autoro and before that, Frank Marsh, six years feels like an eternity.

I was shocked upon opening what my good friend Ed likes to call “The Book of Faces” this morning, going to my memories (one of the rare things I check daily on it; on that point, I apologize for not wishing all of my 350 or so followers a Happy Birthday consistently for the last, few years–I simply don’t spend a lot of time on social media these days) and realizing that today, September 30, 2024 is the six year anniversary of when I moved into my current home in Swarthmore, PA.

Six years. Six years since I left my once-home in Broomall, PA for the last time as a resident, my then-truck (my trusty Honda Pilot, which finally fell apart at a shade under 160K miles, last Fall) loaded down with the last of my sparse possessions–the others were already here in the place I am writing these words now, from my now-combination office/bedroom on the second floor, overlooking a dreary, humid and chilly early-autumn day which hangs over the street below. Blackrock Road. What a cool name for a street. I should really look up, after six years, why they call this street “Blackrock.” Be right back. Or, in teen-speak, BRB.

Not unsurprisingly, there was nothing on Google (or Bing; I use both on this computer) to explain why my street is called “Blackrock.” The most I could find was a Wikipedia article on SwarthmoreWOOD, which is the sub-sect of Swarthmore, PA that I reside in. Given the lack of online information about Blackrock Road, I am going to simply assume (even though doing so generally makes an ASS out of U and ME), that when this area was developed in the 1950s, they found a bunch of black rocks lying around or in the soil. My apologies for how anti-climactic that probably is to a few, if not all of you reading this. Even storytellers, sometimes are forced to simply say “ah, f*ck it.” Acknowledge and move on.

I digress. Back to six years. I remember that day vividly. It was a surprisingly beautiful Saturday given what was happening–I guess Mother Nature didn’t think my situation was dire enough to warrant a gray and gloomy day like today. The temperature was about the same as it is currently–hovering in the high 60s/low 70s–and it was a bit humid, as the last vestiges of summer seem to hang on the longest in the Mid-Atlantic, every year. I remember watching my soon-to-be ex-wife drive away from our home in Broomall with the girls in tow, heading to dance class. I remember my friends and some family arriving to help me pack the last of my belongings into my U-Haul and Pilot. I drove the U-Haul down Route 320 (known colloquially as “Springfield Road”), 20 minutes away first, left it here, and then went back to get my Pilot courtesy of someone driving me back (apologies that I cannot remember who). Thereafter I was back here and have been here almost every night since I arrived save for those few nights, over the last six years where I was away for the weekend, or on vacation, or on a business trip. I never slept another night in Broomall, and that house is no longer owned by either a Marsh or a Gentile, my ex having moved out many years ago. As best I can tell–because I still spend a lot of time in Broomall and Newtown Square between school, and dance–it is now owned by someone who doesn’t like trees–they cut them all down–and hates decorating for the holidays. Every time I drive past it, I say a prayer for them. I hope they made/are making as many, wonderful memories as we did for many of the years we lived there.

Six years folks. Over the last, six years I’ve watched my two daughters grow into teenagers. I’ve been in a few relationships, but all ended for one reason or another–usually me. I retired the Pilot in favor of a gently loved 2020 Equinox which I hope to pass onto my oldest when she starts driving. I’ve maintained my abode in SwarthmoreWOOD as best I can, though admittedly, some repairs are starting to evade my expertise. I’m on my third job, but I’ve been in my current one for almost five years. I’m a lot greyer than I was in 2018 and a bit skinnier, and I can no longer deny the fact that my once-beloved head of hair is beginning to recede. I’m less than 365 days away from the Big 5-0 and I’m having difficulty coming to grips with the idea that the average human life expectancy in 2024 is 70 and I’m less than 21 years away from that. Maybe my keen awareness of such things is a product of the comfort level I have achieved in my life after the six most turbulent years of my existence. I’m not averse to the changes. Time can be a cruel companion, but only if you let it be one. I tend to look at time these days as a welcome partner on my journey deeper into the latter third of my life.

Six years. Gone in a blink. 21 more until I hit (and hopefully exceed) our corporeal terminal velocity as human beings. Six years to get to a point in my life where things have grown relatively quiet again. The past remains–the pain I felt, the hurt I endured and what I regrettably dished out at times–but only because, to quote Matthew McConaughey, “sometimes you gotta go back to go forward. And I don’t mean going back to reminisce or chase ghosts. I mean go back to see where you came from, where you’ve been, how you got HERE.” There are lessons to be learned from the past, but you cannot let all of the above factors affect your present, or your future.

Six years. When I started writing this piece, I was fixated on that. But the more I compose, the more I think that this little blog entry, piece of Mental Flatulence or Dissertation is more of a reflection on where I’ve been, and where I’m going. Inevitably, we humans reflect on where we’ve been and consider what we could have done differently. I’ve done plenty of that in my 49 plus years, here on my side of the proverbial wormhole of existence. When I was in college, I considered going into IT like many of my friends at that time. Frank Marsh, Computer Programmer. There was and remains a ton of money in that field, though the landscape has changed a lot–I see it every day in my current job. IT folks are opting for the life of a digital nomad versus a steady, in-office, 9-5 mundane, routine existence. Many of them become independent contractors and work multiple gigs for multiple companies at a time. They’re not tied to one place… One location. They can do the same job from East Jipip that they do from Bumf*ck (or, if you prefer a less vulgar comparison, SwarthmoreWOOD and Dominica). IT folks in 2024 are part of a world in which there are no borders save for the ones that their forefathers and mothers drew, hundreds of years ago. It’s about as close to the digital world of Neuromancer as we’ll ever get as a species (sorry William Gibson, but AI is going to take the digital highways and byways of this world over long before people start “jacking in”). That could have been me. But sometime in mid-high school I fell in love with English and there was, from that moment forth no line of code that could or would ever replace it.

Speaking of English, my plan had always been to teach. I had it all figured out, and I came closer to it than I did a career in tech: A few content credits and a stint as a student teacher away from an MA in Education. Yet those of you that know me know that didn’t play out the way I drew it up either. Life, and Probability and Statistics intervened, and I settled for a career in the staffing industry which… If we’re being honest, has absolutely nothing to do with English unless you count drafting emails as a similarity. That decades old vision of me, bearded and standing in front of a group of high school or college students as Frank Marsh, MA or PhD in a pair of faded jeans, a button-down Oxford shirt and a corduroy suit jacket with patches on the elbows teaching Shakespeare is only a memory now. It too could have been me.

I could continue to cite examples–Frank Marsh, Actor/Director. Frank Marsh, Published Author (I guess this one kind of happened, though if you ask some folks, self-publishing does not count, even if said self-publisher made a profit, and maintains a relatively high rating/review standard for his two, SELF-published novels), Frank Marsh, Outside Salesperson for a hydraulic and pneumatic distribution company, Frank Marsh, Training Store, or even Regional Manager for CVS/Pharmacy–but to do so at this point is fruitless. All could have been me. But this is not about reminiscing or chasing ghosts. This is about NOW. I am a 49 plus year old Business Development Manager. I know how I got here. The answer is simple: I made a choice. I made choices that led me to this point. And let’s be fair friends: I wouldn’t trade it for anything. My success as a BDM is one of the main reasons why things have grown quiet in my world for the first time in… Honestly longer than six years (because none of what led me to that beautiful but fateful, late September Saturday morning six years ago today happened overnight). I still deal with stressors, but for the first time in a very long time, career-wise they’re not primarily employment-related. I have and will continue to embrace my NOW, here, on the cusp of 50. I intend to make the best of whatever life I have left beyond this moment in time, up to and God willing past my corporeal, terminal velocity. But there are still questions that beg to be answered because despite the general silence, there remains a desire for more. Six years. I know where I was six years ago today. The question: Where will I be, six years from NOW?

It’s later now. I’m at dance, waiting for the girls to finish their nightly slate of practice–four hours for the oldest, and only one for the youngest. The above asked question has haunted me since I posed it to myself (and you, readers) a few hours ago. I don’t know that I can say, for sure where I WILL be. But I know where I want to be, and that may be the closest a non-divination human of 49 plus can get (yes, that was a veiled D&D reference).

Leg one is simple: I want to be even more secure and at peace than I am now. No more lingering home repairs or financial concerns. Fewer stressors. A better sleep pattern and about 25 additional pounds lighter than I am presently. But legs two, three et cetera are trickier (or “tricksier” to quote everyone’s favorite Gollum). Here’s where I grow tentative because I know what I want to answer. I’ve answered this same query, the same way multiple times pre-tonight. But I’ve never had the ability or, to be honest (TBH in teen-speak) the energy/desire to follow through. I’m okay with being a co-parent, homeowner and BDM. I’m okay with being a Dance Dad, Theater Papa, Basketball Father (and occasional private coach for my youngest daughter) and whatever else the universe on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence desires me to be. I ask only one thing in return of said universe, and if he/she/it can grant me this, okay. Let’s f*cking go (LFG in teen-speak).

Six years. Six years from now, I want to be, nay I need to be a writer too. I have too many stories kissing my subconscious, some more forcibly than others to not keep doing what I’m doing right now. Here in this silence, I’ve never felt more imaginative. I feel like I have a new idea, or the return of an old idea every day. My words are beginning to flow, more freely than they have in some time and there’s something new in them. Good or bad–I leave that up to you, friends; I can see it in this blog entry–I have… I am changing. Evolving once again, both as a writer and a person. I want to harness this. 21 years is still a lot of time, and assuming my trusty Marsh/Hamilton genes keep me upright like my trusty Pilot kept me mobile, 70 may just be the start. After all, my mother and father are both well into their 70s and my grandparents, for the most part lived well into their 80s and 90s. There IS time. And if you, oh universe grant me this, I swear to you, this night–as the rain that has been threatening all day begins to slowly, methodically pitter-patter on the fuselage of my new, so far trusty Equinox–I will be everything that you require me to be and more.

Back home now and sleep is calling. Or some semblance thereof. I know I need to be up early in the morning to run the girls to school before returning, back here to Blackrock Road in SwarthmoreWOOD to work. I’ve no scheduled meetings tomorrow–which is not always a bad thing. Tomorrow is October 1, 2024: Day One of Q4 and marks the start of my yearly “sprint to the finish.” Can I hit my numbers this year? Can I exceed my output from last year? Thus far, each year has improved on the one before it. Hopefully this year–which has, at times been very good, and at times less so–follows suit. Good, bad… The continued duality of my existence on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence, no matter whether I’m living in Broomall or SwarthmoreWOOD, PA, or somewhere between the two. Much of my life, these days is spent in that gray area between the two locations, and some is spent between the two poles of morality. Maybe that’s just me, going too hard on myself. I do believe I am inherently a good person. Even good people do bad things sometimes. I guess I’ll leave the final ruling on that up to the universe that I am appealing to but one thing I know for certain is that every decision I have ever made, not just in the last six years, but over the course of a good portion of my 49 plus year life has been a measured one. I trust in that. I trust in myself. I trust in the universe to hear me this night and maybe, just maybe, the next six years WILL prove to be less chaotic, and more peaceful than the previous six.

Six years. An appeal to the universe. And hopefully a good night’s sleep. I wish you all the same, friends.

Booyakasha. RESPECT. Winky emoticon. Smiley face.

F.

Why I Hate February – An Anti-Appreciation

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

It’s no secret that I always get a little morose around this time of year, guys. To be fair to February, a month that I have panned for many, many years and am planning to pan in this blog entry (try saying that five times fast) my mentality starts to shift in mid-January, reaches its antapex around Valentine’s Day and begins to gradually improve thereafter. Generally by mid-March, I’m back to my oft times holly and jolly self. Cue Easter, baseball season, the hockey playoffs, playing outside, et cetera et cetera. To be fair to January and March, though? Generally only 50% of each month sucks. The other 50%? Not bad at all. 100% of February completely blows.

I’ve always been this way. I guess its just something about the Dead of Winter that gets me down. Granted, it wasn’t always this bad. Pre-the mid-1990’s, I would get slightly bummed out but not overly so. In truth? I’ve had my fair share of good experiences in January, February and March throughout my life. Even a few of the overwhelmingly bad experiences have been tinged with a silver lining or two, i.e. happy memories nestled amidst the sh*tty ones. But for the most part? The aptly named Dead of Winter has been a time of pain and disappointment for me on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence.

Why do I hate February? I guess I should start with a definition of the Dead of Winter. In actuality? The Dead of Winter refers to the coldest part, or the middle of winter which, chronologically, is more the end of January/the beginning of February than just February. Alright. I’ll concede it: Point, February. That said, it has seemed that over the course of my life, January has actually been pretty nice. Normal. Temperate. Higher then average temperatures; little or no snow save for the Blizzard of 1996 which buried the tri-state area (Pennsylvania, New Jersey and Delaware for those of you not from around here) under three feet of snow for a couple of weeks.

February, though? Without fail, the temperature generally plummets an extra 10 degrees on the outskirts of Philadelphia and the sky almost immediately starts chronically crapping hard or loose–depending on the track of the storm–white stuff. This year has been no exception. While we here in the tri-state area have been spared a major storm thus far and are dodging another bullet tomorrow and tomorrow night whilst points north of us get a “historic blizzard,” we’ve been subjected to multiple… what we call “Nuisance Storms.” We’ve seen the sun for about an hour total since February first and the temperature has barely been above 32 degrees Fahrenheit (it’s 34 degrees Fahrenheit now per my Weatherbug phone app; conceded, then: Another point for February). The fact that that overrated groundhog Phil predicted that Spring was right around the corner this passed weekend is lost on me. Really? What the hell does an over sized rodent know? He doesn’t have to shovel his walkway, dig his car out or occupy a three and a half year year old and an eight month old because he can’t go outside. He gets to hang out, warm and cozy in his Hilton of a tree stump whilst the good people of Punxsutawny, Pennsylvania cater to his every whim. Freeloader. He reminds me of my Biological.

All together now: Ouch. 

No sooner had I written the above paragraph then the National Weather Service revised their forecast for this area and issued a Winter Storm Warning. Christ, I hate Karma. I probably shouldn’t have talked trash about my Biological. When will I learn? One to three inches of snow tomorrow night just became three to six inches tomorrow afternoon in to tomorrow night with one to two inches per hour possible at the height of the storm which, incidentally, will be during my drive home tomorrow night and which which, if history is any indication, will be further revised by the time I go to sleep tonight in to a Blizzard Warning. Jesus, February. Thank you again, sarcasm fully intended. And Phil? Thanks for nothing. I’m sure you were right and Spring likely is right around the corner if you live south of Virginia. But the rest of us? We’re likely screwed for another six weeks regardless of whether you saw your damn shadow or not.

It’s not just the environment on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence in February that gets my goad, though. There are other aspects of it. Take sports, something which you may or may not know per what you’ve read on this blog I am an avid fan of. Guess what? I am. Anything and everything Philadelphia sports-related save for the 76’ers who for the most part have been a non-entity in this town since 2001. February marks the end of the football season with the Super Bowl, something that the Philadelphia Eagles have only participated in twice–in 1980 and in 2004. Both times they were favored to win. Both times they lost. Furthermore, the one team that has managed to bring home a championship since the mid-1980’s, the Phillies, are still in off-season mode and while Spring Training does start up in mid-February, it’s not enough to satiate the need for something. Anything. The Flyers? I love them. I always have and I always will. But I’ve got to be honest, here: They’re a disappointment. Yes, they’re competitive every year and yes, they rarely miss the playoffs but really? They haven’t won a championship since 1976. Even the 76’ers have won one more recently. Bernie Parent got old, Pelle Lindberg unfortunately got dead and Bobby Clarke got fired by the organization a few years ago (though I believe he’s back now in some capacity). The glory days of Flyers hockey are, I’m sorry to say, far behind us. Remember how many Stanley Cups we were supposed to win with Eric Lindros? We were supposed to be a dynasty. How many did we win? Nada. Zilcho. Zip. Meanwhile, the Sh*tsburg Penguins have won a couple.

One more time with feeling: Ouch. 

My point is that February is, for the most part, a dead time for sports here in Philadelphia and always has been. The Wing Bowl? It’s not a real sport. The Big Five? March Madness, guys, not February. When you’re down… when you’re bummed out, sports has a way of filling the hole that exists within your heart, mind and soul. Unless your teams stink. Then, you just feel worse. Hopefully you see my point. Yet another kick in the nads from February. Thank you, sir. Can I have another?

Sure. Why not? I should note before I continue that yes, my approach to this blog entry is different than it normally is. That’s because I’m a different me at this time of year. I’m not always the living and breathing facsimile of a smiley face that I hope you know and maybe even love a little. In truth? I’m actually pretty damned depressive, as if this composition up until this point hasn’t proven that. Amazingly enough, though? Most people crawl up in to a ball and wait for the moroseness to pass. Me? I’m actually more prolific when I’m like this. If you enjoy reading this little pseudo-psychotic musing then that’s a good thing. There may be more. But if you like your your blogs light and fluffy, maybe you should redirect your browsers elsewhere. I honestly don’t know how bad it’s going to get.

Relationships. I’ve actually been in many relationships at this time of year. I am, in fact, in one currently. It’s called a marriage. Roll snare drum. Oft times in the past, even before my wonderful wife entered my life, I had a warm body to cuddle up to in February. Most February’s I had a Valentine. But most times the relationships in question were anything but warm and fuzzy like my teddy bear, Ixo Facto. Yes, guys, I have a teddy bear. I don’t sleep next to him and never really have. He occupies an almost permanent place in my Man Cave/Cara and Natalie’s supplemental playroom/office next to stuffed Yoda and stuffed Pikachu. He rarely emerges from the depths of the Marsh Household save for on the rare occasions that Sultana Cara carries him to bed with her and he joins, for a night, the stuffed harem that occupies her toddler bed. Ixo? He’s been a fixture in my life since the mid-1990’s and he is the last, remaining product of, surprise surprise, a February relationship.

Said relationship was intense, but short lived. I generally don’t think or write about it but at this time of year? When the cold impinges upon me from all sides and “Nuisance Storms” become Winter Storm Warnings before they become Blizzard Warnings? I’ll admit: I do. I’m helpless not to. I spent a handful of years ruminating upon its failure. Mine. In the end, though? I realized that ruminating upon it was destructive and counterproductive. I purged it from my mind as best I could and moved on with my life. And boy oh man, am I glad I did. Had I not… had I instead decided to dwell upon it I never would have met Nicole. Scratch that: I likely would have met her but I never would have embraced her as a partner and companion the way I did. We never would have married; we never would have bought a house; we never would have produced two beautiful, though at times troublesome daughters, one of whom–Cara–is a Sultana in training and the other–Natalie–is currently on a hunger strike and is perfecting her projectile vomiting skills (ah, parenthood). My life would not be what it is today and while I cannot be 100% sure, I’m pretty sure that I would be miserable. I once believed, as Bob Dylan said, that “chaos [was] a friend of mine.” Now? I believe that it is my own, worst enemy, especially with my well-documented idiosyncrasies. Normalcy, though? It is my closest compadre. My bro’. That said…

Death. The big finale. The ultimate journey. Call it whatever you want to call it. Death has not necessarily been a constant companion of mine in February’s passed but it has been an ever-present concern. Ever since 1997. Back then, I and my brethren all lived in State Pen, Pennsylvania and even the ones that didn’t were frequent weekend visitors. Back home, the only father figure that I had known since my Biological skipped town was fading fast, a victim of the Big C (that’s Cancer for those of you that have never heard the term or seen the Showtime series). There was nothing I could do. Said father figure actually didn’t pass until the end of March, 1997 but those days? February? Those days were the toughest. In the waning days of his life he was little more than an unresponsive figure in a hospital bed but in February of that year? He was still cognoscente of what was happening to him. And he was suffering.

I guess in a way it was good that I was a hundred plus miles west of him but deep down inside, I wanted to be there. I wanted to be beside him at the end but he, always strong-willed, wouldn’t have it. “Stay where you are,” he said to me in one of the last real conversations we had in, you guessed it, February, “finish school. It’s what you’ve been working toward. Whatever happens, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” I knew that it was lip service but I agreed to do as he asked. I guess it was the last request he made of me for I cannot remember any others. A few weeks later, he was gone.

I wasn’t there when he passed. I was working on my senior thesis–“Job, Melville, and the Abandonment of the Human by the Almighty”–when my sister called me to give me the news. I remember being equal parts saddened and relieved: Sad that he was gone but relieved that his pain had ended. And I was speechless. I couldn’t write; couldn’t vocalize what I was feeling, not even to my State Pen brethren. But I remember thinking backwards in disgust. Another sh*tty February, I thought over and over again as I drowned my sorrows with Red Deaths and Long Island Iced Teas. And that thought? It has stuck with me since despite the fact that his big finale… his ultimate journey didn’t commence until almost a month later.

Many others have passed from this world to whatever world lies beyond “this mortal coil,” “this insubstantial pageant,” at this time of year since. I’ve heard many explanations why. Some argue that it’s a question of loneliness because of the “Post-Holiday Doldrum.” Others say it’s simply the deep, winter chill claiming it’s rightful victims. Me? I believe that it’s February. F*cking February. There is something inherently base and decrepit about this month that defies explanation and while I honestly don’t have any proof outside of the speculation that has filled this blog entry thus far, I know it in my gut and I feel it deep within my sometimes cramped fingers. Like tonight. There’s a dull throbbing something going on deep beneath my skin that I hope is nothing more than the impending weather making its presence known. No “dry twist,” I hope (thank you, Stephen King) though admittedly, it does run in my family.

Speaking of the weather, it is now 12:21 AM on Friday–the day of the storm, alias “Winter Storm Nemo”–and the National Weather Service just revised their forecast again: 6-10 inches in and around Philadelphia, Pennsylvania which includes mine, Nicole, Sultana Cara and Natalie’s little homestead in Broomall, Pennsylvania. I’d have continued this blog entry sooner but I had to run out and buy some gas for my snow blower which I will at last be able to use. I’ll give it to you, February. Another point, albeit a reluctant one. At least I have a new toy to play with tomorrow night. More good news: The worst of the storm is also not supposed to arrive until after I get home from work. Sh*t. Point, February. I’ve got to hand it to the current bane of my existence: It’s managed to rack up a few positives over the course of this composition.

Still, I will always hate February. This blog entry? It is an Anti-Appreciation of a month that has, over the course of my life, taken on mythical status in my pseudo-mad mind. If you’ve followed “Random Musings” for a while you know about my Appreciations. “The Mix Tape – An Appreciation” and “Contrary – An Appreciation” to name a few. All are linkable via the handy, dandy little “SEARCH” box on the right hand side of your screen. Just type in “appreciation” and watch what happens, Andy Cohen! Or don’t. It’s entirely up to you. If you choose not to please, forget that I mentioned Andy Cohen. In fact, forget that I mentioned him entirely, even if you choose not to look at any of my previous work. Thank you.

If anything deserved an Anti-Appreciation it was this. February. The Dead of Winter. Right now, Phil the Groundhog is rolling over under his hand-knitted covers in his five star, tree stump Hilton Garden whilst the rest of us prep for a “historic blizzard.” It’s not going to snow much in Punxsutawny, Pennsylvania, one of the perks of being a couple of hundred miles west of the tri-state area when a Nor’easter like “Winter Storm Nemo” comes roaring up the Atlantic coastline. Earlier tonight, the Flyers lost to the Florida Panthers in a shootout and the Eagles informally announced the signing of their new Defensive Coordinator. Um. Yeah. Okay. Is it baseball season yet?

I glance out the window beside where I write these words at the red sky overhead. What’s the old adage? “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight?” Wow. That seems pretty counter-intuitive since most nighttime, red skies that I have seen in my life foreshadow a nasty spell of upcoming weather. I briefly wonder what that person that gave me Ixo Facto so many years ago is doing right now. But then I look over at the sleeping figure of my wife and realize how insignificant those thoughts are presently, and have been for well over a decade. I further wonder if my Biological is glancing up at the sky from wherever he is, currently. But then I realize the truth: Whether he is or is not does not matter. He has his own Karma to contend with, independent of mine.

And the lone father figure that I gave a sh*t about? He is long gone, a victim of the Big C almost 16 years ago tonight. God rest his soul. He used to love nights like tonight: The silence outside, like the silence I beheld an hour or so ago when I ran out to the gas station to get fuel for my previously unused snow blower. “The calm before the storm” he and the people on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence called it and will likely continue to call it for many years to come. Admittedly? I see the truth in their assessment then and now and despite the time of year…

Despite the way February is crowding me currently with its frigid embrace…

Despite the way that I cringe at the prospect of another couple of weeks of it…

Well, guys? It could be worse. I could be a 76’ers fan.

Goodnight, all. Winky emoticon. Smiley face. Roll snare drum.