Slightly Off the Mark

 Let's say some guy--not me, you understand, but just some hypothetical person--started to get a little ache in his knee. Maybe it started, for example, from lifting a sick 75 pound dog into a car, or maybe his job moved to a new place and he was climbing a lot of stairs he wasn't used to, something like that.

This is strictly hypothetical.

Now, let's say it got to hurting him, but after a couple of weeks it started getting better. So he--it could be a she--put on a knee brace and decided to mow his lawn, in the theory that it would test how serious this particular medical malfunction could be.

It would be like running your lawn mower until a wheel fell off. Which this hypothetical person also did. Allegedly.

And let's say the next day this person couldn't walk.

Would you call this person an idiot?

You would? Oh. Well, it's hypothetical. Still, you'll be happy to know that you'd be in agreement with his wife, his dog, the doctor, and himself. But if this whole thing had actually happened, you can be sure he would have learned his lesson, especially when the pain got so bad he couldn't even sit propped in a chair, working on his writing, because it hurt to much to concentrate.

Hypothetically.

Brace yourself!

So that guy would probably suck it up, get the x-ray, take the pain med, and stay home in a chair with his foot propped up even if the weekend weather was great. There comes an age where you can't just push through this kind of thing, even if there are yards to mow and bushes to trim, and chores from last year he never got around to. It's hard for some people to not feel productive, in one way or another, but hey--there are always books to read.

Still, it makes a person think. That's more than this person was doing when he wore himself down to begin with.

Hypothetically.

Let's face it: It's not the dumbest thing this hypothetical personal ever did.

 Introducing:  Willa Quinn Repine!

A little over two weeks old in the video and first photo and four months in the other pictures, Willa joins big sis Lilli as my second granddaughter. That means the ratio of grandsons to granddaughters is now even.

I tested her grip; she's got a strong one.

Grandpa is boring.

"So ... what does the little human DO? Other than put out strange smells?"

Everybody smile for Emily! Lilli dotes on her new little sis.

Everyone's doing well. I mean, I've had a few twinges here and there, but everybody else is.

 It's our tenth wedding anniversary!

And I'm working. Twelve hour shifts. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.

It's a massive case of epic fail, and I can only say I was going to take the weekend off, but things happened (to other people, this time). Our actual celebration is going to be in a couple of weeks, when I did manage to get the weekend off. I have big plans!

I have no plans. Who am I kidding?

Oh, I did a little thinking ahead. I looked up what the traditional gift was for a tenth anniversary, and I found the traditional gift was, traditionally, tin or aluminum.

Huh?

Well, I could buy her an aluminum mobile home, but it would just get sucked up by a tornado sometime in May. But thinking of tornadoes reminded me of someone I know who might have advice on the subject:

That's him. His name is Nick Chopper, but ever since a series of rather horrendous accidents, during which his body was replaced, bit by bit, by metal, he goes by The Tin Woodman. He's had a lot of adventures since then, but now he lives in the Winkie Country of Oz, where he built a castle made completely out of tin.

What I'm saying is, he knows a lot about tin. Aluminum, maybe not.

"Hey, Nick", I said. "Can I ax you a question?"

Nick smiled, kind of, which made his face squeak a little. "I'm afraid my friend the Scarecrow beat you to that joke. Several times."

Just my luck. I outlined my problem: upcoming tenth anniversary, stereotypical helpless male, so on. "Can you give me any advice on gifts?"

"Well, you could have her nickel plated."

"I what?"

We were speaking by Magic Picture (long story), so I could only see his upper half, but I had the feeling he was crossed his legs. Can tin do that? "I had myself nickle plated some time ago. It helps preserve my body, especially the joints. They're made of steel, you know."

"Oh. That explains--"

"The rusting, exactly." Nick leaned forward. "Between you and me, I'm only tin coated. Don't tell."

"Oh, of course. But Emily wouldn't want to be nickel plated, being, as you might say, a meat person."

Beowulf takes exception to the term "meat person". He prefers "mom".

"I see your point. Maybe you could make her a tin suit of armor? It wouldn't stand up in a real battle, but it would move people out of her path when she's shopping."

"She wouldn't like the noise."

"How about giving her an extra heart? You probably have all sorts of hearts just laying around, in the outside world."

"Well, there are plenty that don't get used out here. Let me think it over. Meanwhile, remind Dorothy she still owes me ten bucks for that book I sent her ... and $923.50 for shipping."

I'm not too worried about the present, because ten years ago today Emily signed a document promising not to make fun of me and/or cause any permanent harm. In public.

Later I talked to some other people from Oz, and the prevailing opinion was that I should get her an emerald studded ball gown. See, they don't use money in Oz, plus they have a lot of emeralds. And they throw a lot of dances. But I think that might be as bit out of my price range.

I did finally find her a gift, something I think she'll appreciate, something that--I'm not going to identify. I'm no dummy.

Well, not usually.

 I don't get to see all three and a half of my grandchildren all together that often, because of schedules, and pandemics, and the like. But we were able to have a small gathering the morning of Christmas Eve (After that it was my weekend to work). Shockingly, we took pictures. I didn't get a picture of the third and a half grandkid, because she's still baking, and should come out of the oven in the spring.

These are the kids: Charis on the left, Jill on the right with her second daughter in hiding, and the big kid in the middle, otherwise known as Father Sithmas.

These are the grandkids, although the fact that I positioned us wrong for the picture is glaringly obvious. Hunter on the left, his twin Brayden on the right (they are TOO twins!) Between me and the Christmas tree is Lilli.

Getting Lilli and Beowulf together and unmoving long enough to take a photo is like capturing a fart in a skillet, although--who would want to do that? He was pretty much glued to her most of the morning, though.

Happy birthday to my youngest daughter, Jill! I tortured her a couple of years ago with these photos, so why not again?

She's getting a late but welcome present, which won't arrive until next year: a new daughter, otherwise known as a sister for little Lilli! Very expensive present.

Four years ago a similar present came a bit early for Christmas or her birthday, but what he heck.

Say it with me: Awwwww!!!

Well, I may be a grandfather times four soon, but I'll always be Dad. Many happy returns!

Happy birthday to Emily, who was born on what’s usually the first day of winter—which I prefer to think of as the time when the days start getting longer. So--she's the harbinger of better days ahead. See what I did, there?

I still sometimes wonder why Emily said yes when I proposed. I was all the bad things: Old(er), poor, and lived in the north, where we could actually get snow tornadoes. I had the weird hours of a third shifter who’s also a struggling writer, and my hours have only gotten weirder since then.

Unknown to either of us, she signed on to become my editor, book designer, nurse, dog wrangler, traveling partner, photographer, best friend, and the love of my life, not at all in that order. She's the one who explained to me what Dad Jokes are, and that I tell them. What do I do in return? The dishes. That's not a fair trade, but she still loves me.

She pushes me in my writing career, and often out of my occasional (and mostly winter) funks. She's my inspiration. I could never have done our self-published books alone, which is why they're "our", and I'm not convinced I'd be published at all if she hadn't been there.

She's quite definitely my rock, my inspiration, the person who can best thump me on the back of the head when I'm acting up, and all that other mushy stuff.

 Oh, and she's great with the grandkids ... but of course, she would be.

Now that I've finished the final draft of my new novel and handed it over to Emily to edit, I had to go back and figure out why I started working on it in the first place.

Ordinarily, when I finish writing a novel I like to have it finished--as good and polished as I can get it, before I move on to a new project. I also want to have it in circulation: submitted to literary agents and/or publishers, depending on the way I'm going.

That's where I have Fire On Mist Creek, Beowulf: In Harm's Way, and We Love Trouble, searching for attention in the cold, cruel world.  Smoke Showing is our upcoming non-fiction book, and it doesn't count because it was waiting for Emily's contribution when her work schedule lightened up in the fall. (Then I put her to work editing something else, so never mind.)

(I came up with all these titles; can you tell?)

So, four books I should be either self-publishing or submitting for traditionally publication. Then there's The Source Emerald, which Emily sent me notes on, and as a result now waits for another look. (The book, not Emily.) Add to that our already-published books, which are begging for some promotion and publicity time.

So when I finished the rough draft of "Found Dog Antique Fire Truck Romance Story" (still blocked on a title), it suddenly occurred to me: Why did I start a new book in the first place?

There's an antique fire truck in it. Specifically, one of these.

When I realized I started it in early spring, I remembered why.

My brother passed away at the end of January, and I started the new story about two months later, when the weather was still wintry-crappy. That was why I did it: depression. I don't mind editing or polishing a story, and I don't hate submitting, and I pretend I don't hate promotion ... but it's the writing, the actually telling of the story, that I love. So, to battle feeling down, I started work on a new book in April.

Yes, there is a Jeffrey in the new book ... kind of. There is not a Mark.

As long as I was doing that, I told my wife, I would also use the new story to work through my grief over Jeff's death. My wife asked me if that was a good idea and I told her something along the lines of, "I know what I'm doing.".

Notice how people who say that so often don't?

Now that the "final" draft is done, it's a pretty good story, although it needed more editing than usual. However, it's not the story I had in mind.

You see, I write in several genres, and one of them is romance. Now, there's nothing wrong with a guy writing romance, although it isn't common. However, all mine so far have been romantic comedies. That's what I like to read (and watch), so that's what I like to write. This was going to be one, too.

 Should have known better.

Hey, sometimes even dogs get depressed.

Oh, it still has humorous parts, but let's take a look at some of the subjects covered in the novel: cancer; family loss; puppy mills; animal cruelty; winter depression (seasonal affected disorder); and the stages of grief.

This was supposed to cheer me up?

The final story isn't as dark as that makes it sound, but it certainly couldn't be described with the word "comedy". So, here goes a dive into another sub-genre. How many am I up to, now? In addition to those there's humor, young adult, science fiction, mystery, history, and ... well, I guess The Source Emerald is urban fantasy, given that it has magic being used in modern society. If I had a publicist, they'd be horrified.

But what the heck ... writing's still my thing, and I still love it--even when it's therapeutic.

Genres? Yeah, we got genres.

 Hi, who wants to talk about something serious?

Fine, you people move on--but just so you know, the rest of us will be having chocolate.

I don't often get serious here, because the world's serious enough--and there are plenty of others out there talking seriously in my stead. I like to get serious with humor, which may offend some people ... but that's okay, because I don't want to hang around people who don't appreciate the principle of "lighten up". Besides, when I extract humor from a situation, it usually cheers up at least me, and sometimes others with me.

Usually.

Now, I've never hidden the fact that during winter I take a little "happy pill" (that's not what the doctor calls it) to get through my Seasonal Affective Disorder. SAD is what normal people get when the days get short and the nights get cold. Abnormal people have a mental condition that allows them to be okay with winter, something experts are still puzzling out.

I wean myself off my happy pill, otherwise known as Sertraline, around early spring, as I did this spring. It has some un-fun side effects, while for some reason I never get the one good side effect: loss of appetite.

You'll remember that this year, 2021, is the year everyone going through 2020 was hoping and praying for.

Well, the joke's on you.

So far this year my brother died--and really, I can just stop right there, can't I? My wife says I still haven't dealt with it, and I'd appreciate if none of you told her she's absolutely right.
 

Where were we? Oh, yeah. Well, as of this writing Spring never showed up for more than a day. Emily fixed the usual leaky plumbing problems and replaced burned-out kitchen appliances, times two--each. One of Emily's favorite horses at her work had to be put down, and she had to be there for it. My job has been interesting, and not in a good way. And my occasional chronic back pain seems to have become un-occasional, to such an extent that the pain kept me from making any calls with my volunteer fire department this year. My book sales, like those of most authors, have tanked.

And my brother died. With the weather allegedly soon to be better and the pandemic slightly better (oh, and add pandemic to the list), a memorial gathering for my brother Jeff is coming up. Here's the info on that, for those who knew him:

https://www.facebook.com/events/303626244615814

Because info is good, and so is remembering. However, I never considered that three months after he died, just talking about a get-together would stir it all up again.

So ... depression and anxiety became a thing.

I finally accepted it after I put aside my writing business efforts, to start work on a new novel. Promotion, selling, and submitting are all part of being a working writer. But when I'm down, the only thing that really perks me up is the writing, itself.

But it didn't work this time. And I'm 20,000 words in.

So, as of yesterday, I went back on the happy pill. I also started using a multi-spectrum light again, because Mother Nature isn't cooperating, and I'm otherwise dealing as best I can. (No, I'm not suicidal. Homicidal? Well, I did feel an urge recently to run down a woman walking in the middle of the street when there was a sidewalk RIGHT THERE ... but I saw she was walking a dog, and I can't hurt a dog.)

Dogs--the best depression medicine.

Now, other than to apologize for being so antisocial and overall grouchy this year, writing this all down is mostly a public service announcement:

People get depressed. It's a real thing. It's usually not their fault, and there's help available to work through it. It's nothing to be ashamed of, and it's nothing to shun people over. I had high blood pressure and high cholesterol, and I fought that with meds and lifestyle changes. I have chronic back pain, and I treat it with cold, heat, and a wonderful but sadistic chiropractor. I have depression, and I treat it with medication, light therapy, the dog, comedy shows, writing, sleep, and chocolate.

That's what I call a well-rounded treatment regimen.

So to sum it all up: If you have a problem, get help. If you have a friend or family member who seems fine, remember: Some of the funniest and seemingly most lighthearted people might be struggling with darkness underneath.

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

I've got some editing and polishing to do (on my writing), and I'm thinking of having a classic rock day while I'm doing it in honor of my late brother Jeff, who passed away on January 30th. Jeff was a big classic rock fan, or, as he would put it, he was a big rock fan.

After all, when we were teens "classic" meant a bunch of people in formal dress, playing music by dead old guys while another old guy stood in front of them wildly waving a stick.

When I'm writing it's those old dead guys I like to listen to, or movie scores composed and conducted by people who are still alive, but also waving sticks. (These days most people who see an orchestra assume the stick-waving people are casting spells.)

John Williams is my movie score hero, plus he can throw some mad magic.

That's because I find singing to be a distraction while writing, so it's John Williams or Beethoven for me. Or Holst: "The Planets" is great to write science fiction by. But while editing, voices are fine. 

I have an eclectic taste in music; that's a term that means "I can't make up my mind". I like rock, pop, country, jazz, and even have a Charlotte Church opera CD around the house somewhere. I find classical to be relaxing, unless I'm not paying attention and accidentally put on the 1812 Overture, which makes me want to invade Russia. Our Dad used to sing us old novelty songs, like "The Battle of New Orleans", and I also grew to love musicals.

Jeff generally stuck to good ol' rock and roll, but there's plenty of rock and roll out there. We didn't have all those weird band names, like they do these days, either. We had normal names, like Blue Oyster Cult, Thin Lizzy, Bachman-Turner Overdrive, ZZ Top, Styx, Led Zeppelin, and, of course, The Eagles.

Our rock stars looked normal, like this.

Okay, so The Eagles isn't all that strange of a name. We also liked Foreigner, although I never did find out what country they were from. Since those appear to all be guys, I'd add Janis Joplin, Heart, Blondie, and Stevie Nicks.

I've heard The Rolling Stones, Queen, and The Beatles were pretty good, too.

So I'll probably seek out a YouTube or Pandora channel, and see where it takes me. There was a lot of music we both loved, back in the day, with my favorite being the self-titled Boston album. But I haven't even begun to cover all the great rockers, so what would you put on the list?

Beethoven was happy to lose his hearing before rap came along.