Pilgrim in the Trailer Park

This may be hard to write. Maybe not. It might be (peacefully) easy. There’s been a recurring theme, or at least two  songs , i mean, throughout this awful ordeal of watching my parents die. Peaceful Easy Feeling and  Take It Easy  by the awesome band the Eagles. Beautiful songs, lovely melodies. I can say no more (but I will).  Minutes after dad passed at Advent in Ormond, I asked the nurse (and what a great nurse she was) to put some music on the tv. I know he was technically dead, but the thought of playing music for him comforted me. Call it shock, whatever, I don’t know. She gave me the remote to browse through the channels and I stopped at the song Take it Easy. It was random. “That’s for you dad,” I said, “cause you’re taking it easy now.” Aw. I did somehow love the appropriateness of the song and how soothing it was. You can play music for deceased people. The nurse said he could still hear me, and if so he could still hear the music. Really I think the music...

  We went to the beach today, cause I needed some good old Florida therapy after being trailer bound for a week since being home. Okay, I have not really been trailer bound  (no it’s not a prison sentence ( tho I think I have been trailer bound my whole life)), but I’ve been home more than I like to be, and I think it was high time we hit the beach, and it was just what I needed. Not all Floridians are beach bums, but if you’re going to be one, this is the best place. A bum, I mean. Guess who else decided to hit the beach? Two of our old neighbors from the park. What are the odds? We ran into them at practically the same time. Okay, they ran into us  really, as we were parked on our beach towels, and they were walking. John and I were just smoking cigarettes and doing a crossword (like usual). Not one, but two  old neighbors. As my friend Ray would say, “that’s nice, real nice.”  Really it was, cause I really like the woman who lived behind us. She’s a recove...

  I have officially smoked all of my Montego menthol gold 100s. They were sweet going down, but this is a bitter end. I loved those smokes, and I can only get them in Virginia (road trip, anyone?). Is it okay to be sad about this, and remorseful that I didn’t savor them longer? I went through a carton in seven days, and that is pretty good for me. I know all of you want me to stop smoking, and especially to stop writing about the smoking. Well, life’s not fair. What is a menthol gold cigarette? John thinks I’m silly for smoking a brand with such a stupid misnomer. Gold? Really? As if a cancer stick could have any inherent value, any redeeming quality. Well, you know they give all this marijuana these fancy names, juicy, delicious names, for some nasty fucking plant that never did nobody no good. Hey, you like weed? I like cigarettes. We all pick our own poison. Let’s call it even. A menthol gold cigarette is just a milder menthol cigarette (I looked it up). That’s it. It’s not en...

 I’m back, back in the Florida juice. So I had to get a pumpkin hottie lottie (translation: pumpkin spice latte. Duh). Yeah, I got some of the post traveling blues, when really I am ecstatic to have survived that plane ride, blessed to be able to meet the five gray kittens living in our trailer, yet  let down to realize that home is the same way I left it: a humid trailer stained by years of nicotine abuse (waiting on one big beautiful hurricane to take it out. I’m kidding, I love my trailer). Florida is what it is. What did I expect? Some miracle to transform this place into the home of my dreams…maybe there is a place where Virginia and Florida collide, with mountains and beautiful weather. If you find out, let me know. That’s why I have to look for the magic. Yesterday was Halloween, so we went to the Turn to see the costumes (an alcoholic dressed as a dinosaur is still an alcoholic). The place was filled with childlike charisma. No one is too old for Halloween, evidenced b...

 I guess I’ve had enough of Virginia, or it’s had enough of me (Virginia is for lovers, anyways). So I’ve booked a flight back to Florida. Yes, I am going to put myself through that torture again. I considered taking the Amtrak, a trip that requires seventeen hours cigarette free  (now, that , is torture). I’d like to get the trip over with as quick and painless as possible (yes I know what I’m risking: my sanity). But I’ve enjoyed being here, despite the circumstances, despite that home is just a trailer (here and there). Really I have two homes, and that is a comforting thought; I guess they can both have custody of my heart. This is going to be a short post. I think. I’m sitting on the back steps, in the shade, because believe it or not it’s a hot day, believe it or not the sun is not partial to Florida, and there are some warm days left in fall. I’m smoking my Senecas. I don’t like them anymore. I thought about bringing a carton of Montegos back with me, but why delay the ...

 We put mama in the ground yesterday. We had her buried at Cool Spring Natural Cemetery of the Holy Cross Abbey in Berryville, Virginia. It’s called a green burial. She was interred in a pink cotton dress in a sea grass wicker casket in the woods. Everything will decompose (ugh, why am I using that word ?) naturally. I laid several colorful flowers on the casket and the rest of the bouquet by the mound of dirt. It really is a beautiful place, and her family was happy with what we chose, which to our credit we discovered by accident. I was worried over whether they were going to put a blanket on her. It can be quite cold in the ground, you know. But, yes, in fact, they do supply a blanket, the funeral director told me this.   I haven’t done many of these “things” — funerals, I mean. I put on a lot of makeup and wore a dark pea coat and large vintage sunglasses. It was a cool day at Cool Spring. It is surrounded by the mountains. I took advantage of the outdoors to smoke a coupl...