Pilgrim in the Trailer Park

I got to the hospital at two in the afternoon on a Saturday. My dad had been taken to the hospital the previous night by the rescue squad. I gave persmissom for them to intubate, even though that was against his wishes — I really regret that. Plus he was on hospice, so it didn’t make sense to them. I should have followed the squad car to the hospital that night. I figured this would be another one of his short intubations followed quickly by consciousness and breathing. It would be round no. 5. No, this was different.  Once again I found him laid in a bed with his mouth agape because of a tube down his trachea. The only thing was he wasn’t  sedated. The staff told me this. I thought he was just so exhausted from obvious sleep deprivation, because of the nights he stayed up (I think he was scared to sleep), that he was just catching up. It’s almost impossible to be intubated without sedation. Something was wrong. The doctor asked, since he was on hospice, would I agree to en...

 What does two years of sobriety mean to me? It means don’t f*** up! Seriously, this is something you don’t mess with. It’s not fifty years, but it is golden, and it’s not physical,  but it is palpable. It’s the next best thing since sliced bread. It’s a gift I gave myself. And it could last forever. My two year birthday ( I like to say birthday instead of anniversary. It’s more fun) was on Good Friday of this year 2026, and I realized I never wrote about it, even though I occasionally do write about my sobriety (which is so boring, I know). This was a big deal for me. The first serious sobriety I maintained lasted only five months. I have to give myself credit for that because I did try really hard. I was obsessed with other people’s drinking, my roommate in particular; it seemed like the whole trailer park drank except for me; well, because they did. It was everywhere. They say people white knuckle it— I totally understand that phrase. I broke my sobriety on Valentine’s Day ...

 You probably knew that when I got to 100 posts I was going to write about it. I just can’t help myself. Like my dad’s old cell mate Hammer told him, “Ron, when I drink, I just got to get on my motorcycle and ride. It’s an irresistible impulse!” (that would famously be his defense when he represented himself in court). I may be a compulsive writer (is that a thing?) instead of a rider… yet I’m riding this creative buzz: a lot of things can happen when you replace alcohol with caffeine.  “Something unresolved lingers through routine activity”…that’s a quote I just ripped off YouTube, from a video about creepy Florida towns (of course). And it just resonated with me, like the perfect sentence to describe what I do, or rather the atmosphere a writer is surrounded by. So much of life is potential material, and the urge to write about it is a constant hum (I’ll admit that sometimes I’m so uninspired. Unless I’m writing pieces like this). It’s a dormant volcano: it’s bound to blow. ...

  They are cutting down trees in the park. Several Norfolk pines have disappeared. This is alarming to me.   I know the bad frost we had has damaged the limbs. The needles became brown and brittle. I know this because we have a Norfolk pine in our front yard. John gently trimmed the dead branches off it, giving it a chance of survival as it is likely not really dead. He treasures that tree; I know this because he intentionally bought it and planted it eight years ago.  They are living creatures, ya know. I’m just bummed that these trees, which lent such beauty to the park, were not given a chance and written off as dead. Three large trees have been sacrificed. Which means it’s starting to look like a trailer park with no redeemable qualities. Atleast we had some trees. We had some real nature to offset the bane of human nature.  I guess we’re screwed. But at least we’ve got the palms, the bread and butter of a concrete jungle ( I am using jungle in the literal se...

  I thought I would get some work done on the dock (yeah, this is my job). There’s a nice picnic table in the center, the wood sun faded and slightly chipping. There’s an empty clay citronella candle pot to use as an ashtray: I am not fond of throwing butts into the wild (it’s the least I can do for society). And I can’t fathom writing without indulging. There’s a nice breeze, and it’s causing the ashes to swirl.   The mangroves have gotten tall; I only know this because the neighbors said you used to be able to see all the way to beachside. I haven’t lived here as long as them, obviously. Our trailer park borders the Halifax River, which is producing healthy mangroves yet loads of bacteria. So I’ve heard. But many people boat and fish in these waters; it’s quite alright as long you don’t submerge or drink it.  I got in the water once, but I was under the influence — yet I live to tell the tale (Alcohol must be a good disinfectant). I was trying to cool off on a hot day...

 My dad’s death certificate said that smoking was a definite contributor to his death. My dad had been smoking since he was a teenager. He loved Newports; he was smoking two packs of kings up until his death. This would bring up two questions, 1) why didn’t you encourage your dad to quit smoking when you knew it was killing him? And 2) why are you still smoking?! Dad had COPd and heart failure. He had a bypass in January of 2019 (which he described as feeling like he just got run over by a truck). I didn’t know that these heart surgeries saved your life in the short term (in his case he had an aneurysm due to burst) but also gave you a limited lifespan, because the bypass is a bandaid, it cannot reverse heart damage (and nothing can be done if you keep abusing your body). His heart was just bad, because of high blood pressure due to stress and smoking, probably life long alcoholism, and the other illicit pleasures he partook of, which he wouldn’t tell me and I certainly cannot tell...