Disclaimer: The Oregonian and Encyclical Letters‏

As a matter of clarification:
I am not an Oregonian.

True Oregonians, those born in Oregon, are a proud group and very exclusive and they could hardly suffer having a Smokey Mountain hillbilly from California like myself calling himself an Oregonian.
My mother (born in Pennsylvania and raised on my Grandfathers homesteaded property in Southern Oregon) was not an Oregonian to the Oregonians, she was a newcomer. I'm worse; I'm a Californian. The son of a Pennsylvanian, who was the daughter of a Smokey Mountain Hillbilly who came from a long line of North Carolinians raised in the Smokey Mountains. You can't divorce that kind of heritage in one generation, and I only try to make all this clear in effort to say that I only speak for myself, and that my blog, titled 'The Oregonian', is a misnomer in regard to myself.
It should not be confused for someone actually born in the state of Oregon, or a rural, backwoods thinking, unemployed lumberjack clinging to his guns and his religion in bitterness. Oregon is the most atheist state in the union. Halleleujah.

As a matter of further clarification:
I did not assume the title of 'The Oregonian'.

It was a gift from a man in Italy. The son of an American, he was raised in California to be a Smokey Mountain Hillbilly, who instead fled to Europe to live a life of culture and became a British citizen. Who am I to question a well rounded man of the world with heritage like that?
If he wants to call me 'The Oregonian' simply because my property borders on Oregon on all sides, so be it; I've been called worse by him.
However, I don't fancy myself to be an Oregonian because I own property in Oregon. Every landowner on the Oregon side of Happy Camp Road is a former Californian. Owning property in Oregon has nothing to do with being an Oregonian, really. The distinguishable qualification in determining a true Oregonian is that of having been born in Oregon. Otherwise, most of the Oregon residents I know are, well, like people in London, from somewhere else.
As a final clarification, should I need a 'true Oregonian's' opinion, I need go no further than to call my older brother and sister, both of whom were born here in The Beaver State. However, since they were both raised in California, disqualifying them in the eyes of people who were not only born here, but had to grow up here too, I could use one of a hundred other relatives that qualify for both prerequisites, should I be pressed to refine my research.
That said, I think it should now be perfectly clear that these letters carry no authority in regards to what other people in the state of Oregon might be thinking, and further from that still, what may or may not be the opinions of real Oregonians.
Quite honestly these letters do not even originate from Oregon state, but rather from 'the Shack'.

Days of Rain

Cabin fever season. I haven't left the house for two days. The dog and I had dinner about 13:45 today and I'll probably be in bed about 16:00. The dog only gets up to eat or 'go'. After days of rain, the creek behind the house is a bubbling torrent, polishing the rocks at it's bottom where it has eaten the soft topsoil away and now races downhill. Opening the door to the shack one is greeted with the sound of water gurgling by, and it is both pleasant and reassuring. I like the sound of the rain on the roof too! Cozy! Until the water torture affect comes into play.
The shack is completely closed up inside now, meaning the inside walls are built too, and the insulation is no longer showing. Where the rough edges of the boards meet I've used expanding foam insulation for the chinking. Not only is it attractive, but everyday the place has gotten one step closer to being as 'tight as an egg'. I have to be careful not to overfill the wood burning stove or the house gets too hot.
The rain continues to fall steadily. The creek widens and narrows with the fluctuations in the rainfall, and today the waterfalls have been at their full 12 inches. I need a life. I tried to have one, but the Kings are the worst team in the NBA.
It's a shame we can't know that when we agree to buy "NBA Pass". The hated Lakers are winners again. Life is so unfair. Of course, after the referee went to jail and (beforehand) admitted the 2001 playoffs were rigged (you know the hated Lakers were 'supposed' to win), thus robbing the Kings of their championship, I can't believe in the NBA anymore. It might as well be big time wrestling. Commissioner Stern should be tarred and feathered. Really!
The rain has stopped for a moment. The storm, or this storm, must need to take a breath. The Weather Channel says rain for another five days. I am afraid that life in the mountains is too slow for this urbanite. Is the redwood tree, stationary with nothing to worry about save sun and rain and nutrients in the soil, content to observe the world from its platform for thousands of years? It would be a thousand year torture to me. Thus, not having a thousand years, I no longer feel I have time to hermit in the mountains.
I looked at a large trimaran for the second time last week. I'm not getting any younger, it may be time to see the world. I'm not kidding. Every day I wake up and think, "life is so wonderful ...and so finite." There could never be enough time to share with my sons. There isn't now, and it decreases everyday. I need more freedom to be able to spend more time with you both.

The Mall

We were at 'The Mall' last week. The Mall is a good place to observe Holiday Bliss. It's full of Bliss; decorations everywhere, party dresses on hangers, stacks of sweaters on sale, and people everywhere buying things for others... things others don't need. It was business as usual. The Holidays.
As my son and I walked through Macy's I noticed the strapless party dresses; short, with frill around the bust. They reminded me of the dresses from the roaring twenties. Do women really wear those 'party' dresses? Are there really parties where people dress like that? I decide it's time to buy new teeth and try to meet the Jeffersons. The excess. The bliss. Don't people in the city watch the news? Is the story different?
The orgy is over. America is now broke. We don't have the money to finance our desires anymore. People are losing homes. Banks are failing. Automakers need a bailout. Real estate lost 2 trillion dollars in 2008. China owns us. Am I the only one worried about the future? Am I needlessly worried about nothing?

Looking around I realize I'm the oldest person in the mall . Or at least it seems so. Now I am depressed; not only do I feel like a killjoy, but an old humbug of a Grinch too.

Thirty years past my prime mall carousing days, I can only wish I was young and handsome and attractive to the numerous young women that 'eye' my son and ignore me. I'm happy and proud for my son. I tell him enjoy every minute of being young. I think that life is too short and youth (the shortest segment of life) is way too short. The hell with growing old gracefully. Nobody at the Mall is living in reality except the minimum wage store employees waiting to get off work and join the consumer orgy of Bliss themselves.

So I decide I'll join the fantasy... I give a wink to a young women looking in my son's direction, and Boom Baby, Like a Bomb reality slaps me almost as quick as that girl could twist her neck and look in the other direction.
Worse yet my son sees what happens and chastises me for not knowing how to act. So much for Holiday Cheer and Good Will. She could have humored me a little. I didn't want to marry her. I didn't even care if I knew her name. I just wanted to be thirty years younger, dumber, cooler, and irresistible. And she could have done all of that with an air kiss or a wink.

Instead it was whiplash.

Not that I would have believed she was sincere, but later when I was alone, the male ego could make anything reality. Oh Well.

I start to think about how if I'd only known how Austin men don't age gracefully, I would have tried harder to be a good husband. Shocked back to the ugly truth, I try smiling at an older women looking at the party dresses; she looks me up and down and walks away, obviously not impressed with my dress and lack of obvious wealth. Damn, I was only trying to make her feel good about being old, too. I could never be interested in anybody whom would actually buy and wear one of those silly dresses.

I tell myself, "You've known love, romance, passion. You had your day. Aren't you a little old for such shallow measures of worth?" But the Annie L song 'Stay Young and Beautiful' keeps popping into my head.

Now, too old and poor and ugly for the Mall, I feel like a spaghetti western without Clint Eastwood. I tell myself it's not too late. I'm not all washed up. I realize I can still have all the love and desire that money can buy, and the male ego can make it real.

All right, now we're getting in the Holiday Spirit. The Bliss.

Later, lamenting to my son about the emphasis put on attractiveness, and how it's making me feel old....

He says, "I know, I started going to city college and met lots of new girlfriends. When I started at Berkeley, I met 'the bomb' and dropped the others. I lost the bomb in pursuit of the BA, but got the degree. And with every degree the quality of my women goes up. I can't wait to pursue my Law degree, or Masters." ...All for the desire of an education.

And then I was happy. None of us get forever on this earth, but it is fulfilling to see the evolution and immortality of ourselves in our descendants.

I hope When you are at the mall this year you'll think of this letter and remember : The orgy is over. America is now broke. We don't have the money to finance our desires anymore. People are losing homes. Banks are failing. Automakers need a bailout. Real estate lost 2 trillion dollars in 2008. China owns us.

And then find the money and pretend. Join the Bliss. It's Christmas and life. Especially youth, is way too short. Happy Holidays.

By the way, YOU look marvelous... Wink, Wink!

2 out of 5

The beginning of November will be the start of my third year here in Oregon. If the progression of the improvements on the property continue at the rate they have the previous two years, by this time next year the shack should be complete. In three more years the place should be paid off, or paid down to less than what you paid for your last car.
Life is good. I'm adapting to the new world and the lifestyle changes. I need a few goats and some chickens, a 'Sea-Land container' filled with MRE's and a ton of rice and beans. A little more ammo and fishing lessons and I'll be ready for the Apocalypse.
The last thirty days I've had caretakers at the house to feed the dog and watch the property: Randy and Jacob. The three of us Insulated underneath the shack, water-sealed the exterior, dug trenches and helped the Plumber plumb the place. It's a whole house now, or at least a whole shack. When we weren't working, or they weren't fishing, I was riding the motorcycle back and forth to California. It was good to have someone watch the dog and guard the property while I rolled a little. But alas, all good things come to an end; last week Randy went to his mother's in Portland. Today Jacob returned to Sacramento. It's back to me and the dog.
It'll be nice to have the shack to myself again for a while, but it will be lonely far too quick.
I look at pictures of my sons and kick myself in the ass for not video recording our every moment together. I try to talk them into coming and living my life with me, but they want their own lives. They are exactly whom I thought they should be in many ways...what the hell did I know? They're Worldly, Educated, the Beneficiaries of learning from my mistakes, I feel like the ultimate loser on Jeopardy around them.
It was a good year. Three more to go, this base will be paid for, and I'll be able to start the next Five year plan: buy a 36 foot sail boat and become a Asia coastal trader for five years while I pay for the Boat. But I won't think about that for the moment...
Don't live for the future, Live for the NOW, you get more done that way. Yours must be a busy, enjoyable world.

Black in America

I've been watching ‘Black in America’ and now I know... that being a misplaced Smokey mountain Hillbilly, raised in California without a father in the home, almost makes me Black. I like to grab my crotch and tell people I'm part black, but that's a joke of course… I'm part Donkey.
Of course I'm really watching ‘Black in America’ because, ‘How ya' going to know?’
Nobody looks at me like I'm black. They look at me like I'm ugly. All you handsome, pretty people might not know what I'm talking about, but ya' know… when you pull up next to that hot girl with her hair washed and her shiny lipstick on and even if she ain't good looking, she got her hair washed and her shiny lipstick on, so she thinks she is.... and anyway, inevitably I'll pull up and I'll be looking to see who is in the car next to me.... and whoosh, that girl will damn near break her neck twisting it around to look the other way. I want to jump out and yell, ‘Hey! I wasn't even looking' for a girl with her hair washed’.
But anyway, they always turn their head. Which is like looking at you like you’re ugly. If they don't turn their head, they ain't pretty enough for me. Good thing too. Ya' know, the male ego can make anything reality.

Reminds me of the joke:
I go out. I try to meet women. The first line is always different ‘Hi, how are you. You look nice.” Ya' know, something like that. But the second line is always the same, “Hey Bitch! I’m talking to you!”

People look at me like I'm poor too, sometimes. That just means I'm fooling the one's not paying attention the other part of the time. And of course, in the dice game of what really counts, and blessings you can't sell, I am as rich as my ignorance allows me to be. Which takes me back to being looked at like you're poor...ya' know, if you wear blue plaid shorts and the blue doesn't match the blue in the flowered Hawaiian shirt you're wearing, and your green safarii hat doesn't match your grey cross training shoes, people look at you like your poor. Like you ain't got a clue. Like you’re too poor to know about white teeth and vaginal odor, and wouldn't know how to appreciate a girl with her hair washed and her shiny lipstick on. Too poor my ass, I'd pay to appreciate it.
I get other looks sometimes. The ‘whoa, you’re too loud’ look is common. I'd be exhausted if I concentrated on whispering all the time.
I get the ‘oh, he’s bald’ look a lot too. Ya' know when you're meeting that hot girl for the first time, and she's got her hair washed and her shiny lipstick on and you smile at her, and she's watching your every move. You can feel her radar on you, and then... you take your hat off.... it’s like the power went off. Your blip disappeared. It's like your face became twice as long and everything else became half its appropriate size.
Sometimes, I get that perplexed look, too. Ya’ know, like, I was talking to this attractive woman at this party that my friend was invited to and, I knew she was looking for a man because she was there… and her hair was washed and she had that shiny lipstick on. And I hadn't had a shower for three days so I was manly. Also I hadn't taken my hat off... all that said I figured that I was in the running. So I just told her, “I'll give ya' a try-out.” She said, “huh?” I said, “Well honey, I can't guarantee you'll make the team, but I'll give ya' a try-out.” She looked confused walking away.
Then you meet a woman who, for whatever dysfunctional reasons of her own, likes you, falls in love with you. And you don't know how to act.... back to being ‘Black in America.’ Lack of a good ‘male role model’ in any young man's life is a serious problem, regardless of his race.
It is an inherited problem too. My sons inherited a father who didn't know how to act sometimes. I just knew how I wanted them to act. What I knew from experience, Tom Sawyer and the Hobbit. Make sense?
And I misspelled safari above because Hawaii has two eyes and so do fish. I didn't say this was going to be easy. You figure it out because I'm working on a new campaign to bring bald, ugly, crude, old men back into mainstream American life where we can be treated handsomely. See, I'm going to call it ‘Bald in America’ and I want Soledad O'Brien to do the interview because I think I could be comfortable with her.... she seems so understanding, and I'm always getting a look...

Bring Money

The last six months I was in the Military, the Army allowed me to wear civilian clothes and attend Methodist College in Fayetteville, North Carolina. The military was pushing College degrees, and if you (the individual soldier) were within one semester of obtaining one, Fort Bragg would release you from all duties to attend school at Methodist to obtain it. The College was all for the program; Uncle Sugar was paying all the fees and the College was growing like the troops were feeding it Miracle-grow.
While attending this fine institute of learning, I was assigned to read a story about a poor women living with three lazy sons, a slovenly husband, and a pack of dogs the men kept, which, along with the men, the woman was responsible for feeding. The woman had married the man, bore him sons, and then spent her life laboring for them. The men were demanding, ungrateful, and thoughtless. Even the dogs would howl and whine if they weren't fed on time. One cold evening, tired, old, and worn out, the old women began to trudge the mile and a half through the soft snow home from the grocer. The wind had picked up a little, and she was having trouble keeping her top coat button buttoned, a bag of groceries in each arm. Halfway home the dogs, hungry and impatient for dinner, came searching to hurry her. At home the men grumbled about a late dinner. And there in the snow, as the old women stopped to rest for a moment, she closed her eyes, and never opened them again. The dogs, sniffing the food, tore the bags open and feasted, afterward returning home. The old women spent her life, and last moments, for dogs.
I tell this story because BooBoo, my nephew's dog (Dogs 03Apr08), is soon to arrive from the city and I'm feeling a lot like the old lady in the story (my oldest son dropped a dog on me himself and then skipped off to Europe for life, seemingly).
Bring money nephew. Lots of it because I'm eight days from payday, and I got twelve dollars, four days worth of food, no gas, no grass, no ass, and I ain't looking forward to another dog I can't afford to feed.

The Result of Being Lazy

That's what these literary outburst of ignorance are; the result of my being too lazy to work around the property laboriously, and maybe also no money for materials. That means no money to eat out, drink in bars, ride my motorcycle, cruise aimlessly around being bored or travel… none of the good shit. So I write to occupy my time. But even that isn't easy.
Another result of being lazy is I lack the vocabulary it takes to fully express my deep, complicated, often emotional perspectives on the world around me. As I said before (I Can Write Too 12Nov07), although my vocabulary is not in the league of a senior classman at Berkeley. It dooooonnn't matter, I should practice ‘PLEASE’ and ‘THANK YOU’ more (and place less emphasis on ‘aahhhh fuuuuuuuck it’ and ‘it don't matter’).
But it does matter. You could put my vocabulary inside my sons two or three times now. They taught themselves everything they know, academically speaking, over the last twenty years while I was lazy. Now, grown, intellectual, educated, possessing reflections on the world capable to those with great minds, I can only hope to understand them and converse on their level.

What is the African Proverb?
When the sun rises in Africa the fastest lion knows that he has to be faster than the slowest gazelle otherwise he ain’t going to eat.
When the sun rises in Africa the slowest gazelle knows that he has to be faster than the fastest Lion otherwise he ain’t going to live.
In other words, it doesn't matter, Lion or Gazelle, when that sun comes up, your ass better be running.

In the human world though, with enough food and without the fear of being eaten, one's conscious becomes the a slow old lion. And that sun still comes up every day and, academically and intellectually, I've been lazy for twenty years. I don’t rest easy to my sons eating me alive, now. But its the consequence of being lazy.
Another result of being lazy is not being well read enough to expertly and authoritatively expound on my ideas. Like this morning I was drinking coffee and thinking about St. Peter at the Golden Gate, then I realized is all I could remember is he stands guard at the Golden Gate (not in the Bay Area (don't be silly)).
So... I googled ‘St. Peter at the Golden Gate’, and sure enough there it was; every website mentioned guarding the Golden Gate. And that's the part that got me to thinking...
It would seem to me that if there wasn't any way to sneak into Heaven, they wouldn't need a guard. Therefore, since there is a guard, you must be able to sneak into heaven. And that opens up all kinds of avenues of thought.
Remember the saying, ‘May you be in heaven a half hour before the devil knows you're dead’? Well, maybe the Irishman that made it up knew something we don't. Like there's a little lag time between this world and that gate where a guy could get ‘lost’. Or, maybe if you can beat your files there, you can slip past ol' St Peter before he finds out you don't have a clean slate.
It sounds good to me, but logistically there is still that initial problem of how to get to the Gate. It reminds me of a few years back when those people rented that house on the Oceanside so they could have a party with Wine and Sleeping pills, then they suffocated themselves in order to catch Haley's comet and go to Heaven. I could never figure out why, if they could jump to Haley’s comet, couldn't they leap all the way to Heaven? Why screw around with a layover? If I want to beat the Devil by a half hour, I better leap direct!
Anyway, all of this bullshit is a result of being lazy. Not forcing myself to do anything other then look out the window and wave to the people stopping to look. When I'm not waving, the keyboard is right in front of my hands and so I write.
I should appreciate the last of this time in the shack. If the number of cars slow rolling by, and those that stop to take flyers from the container are any indicator, I will be moving soon. Even writing it saddens me. I could be lazy here forever, if only it wasn't Hell Explained.
Work, work, work; makes you feel good, good, good (Grandpa Bud).

The End of Days

Sons and People,

Aren't these exciting times we live in? We might possibly get to be around for The End of Days. Not that I'm wishing the world to an early end, but as I've said before (The Problem of Mortality 09MAY08), I don't like the idea of things going on without me. I can't stand the idea of missing anything: if it all ends at once, it'll be easier to determine the point to start backtracking and catch the whole show inversely.

It's all there, these end of time predictions, encoded in the old testament of the bible. Using computer technology they've discovered a matrix that predicted this, and a matrix that predicted that. I don't know why they can't figure these predictions out before they happen. Did you know that within hours after 9/11 they discovered a matrix in the bible that predicted the whole thing?

Of course, some skeptics have run the same computer analysis on the Hebrew edition of Moby Dick and discovered the same matrices. It's the great debate: almighty God or conscious algae from a warm pond? In the end it seems to be the same; dust to dust.

This whole Biblical Code changes things though. Mankind/life would have a purpose. A purpose to the puzzle. To crack the code.

Have you guessed that I'm watching an episode of The History Channel on "The Bible Code - Apocalypse and Beyond"?

It's the 'beyond' part that concerns me. I hope God likes me enough to rapture my ass out of here on the first ship. I was talking to the boys in the city in the valley where the two rivers meet and according to them if you don't get the first ship out, you've missed the boat. I thought if you missed the first chance, you could still make the second string, IF you make the cut. According to them Rapture is the cut.

All the more reason to decipher that 'biblical code' and be at the station on time. This shit is important, you know? As mankind races to The End of Days, I'm thinking I might actually need to read the Bible, and Moby Dick again. Maybe I can come up with a matrix that ties both stories together and become the bridge between the Almighty and the skeptics.

High Aspirations.

And lets face it, these guys coming up with the matrices, they're way out of my league. They've got Doctorates in mathematics, history, theology, etc. A lot of them have that little round skull cap, too. The hat of 'the Chosen'. Hell, is all I've got is a fitted Kings hat from which I removed the bill. But it says, 'KINGS' on it. And as the descendant of a bastard son of King Richard the Lion Heart, it's all good!

Hey, I ain't worried about being blasphemous, this is a popularity contest, and the only way to heaven is if the BIG girl likes you. 'Hell Explained', explains it. And 'make her laugh' is always a top priority for womanizing young men! I don't care what people think. If she likes me, who is going to override her decision because I didn't make Sunday School. And if she doesn't like you... well, changing images is a lot harder then creating them.

Now, is all I've got to do is crack that code and confidently hang around and wait, I hope.

Anyway, should any of the facts, ideas, or research done on this paper be in error, blame the damn History Channel for putting it on the air and making me think about it. Oh, and correct me if I'm wrong. Otherwise, I would have written about the weather or something.

Raining today in southern Oregon. Good for the Jungle.

Happy Memorial Day Weekend

A Note to My Oldest Son

What's up Son,
Have you no opinion on American politics? Perfectly fine really, I know nothing about Britain except everybody in London is from somewhere else, and you can meet women from everywhere in the world and never leave the city limits. Oh, and look right or die, 'cause that's the direction from which traffic approaches! Find a good bakery for coffee and a foreign girl, (since I'm a foreigner in London) and it's a hook.
Woke up to snow flakes this morning. Cold. Winter doesn't want to release the mountains from it's grip. When the sun comes out Spring warmth is in it's light though. Meanwhile I'm forced to cut firewood daily to keep warm. Exercise. Next year I'll stock 10 cord of wood, not 2. I can deal with the solitude as long as there is food and firewood in the house. The basics; food, shelter, warmth. Love, laughter, music.
Perverted perceptions of the basics are wrong; green bud and easy money were not part of the original formula. Sugar babies weren't either. I slept with several last night in the pocket of my pajamas. During the night they slipped out of my pocket and proceeded to glue me to the bed. They were still good eating after being removed with a pocketknife. Like honey. The perfect food.
Your cousin got a 60 day notice to move out of the trailer. His dad agreed, and he's got 30 days left and not a clue. It's bite the bullet and grow up for your cousin. I might bring him to southern Oregon as an indentured laborer.
I figure your cousin, Carlos, you and me and it'll be THE PONDEROSA! BonannnnnnnZaaaaaaa!

You Reap What You Sow

You reap what you sow. Is there anyone that knows this better than a reformed drug addict? Being one, and seeing the harvest from what began as recreational methamphetamine use, and eventually evolved into a full blown addiction, I can honestly understand why so many addicts sober up and then relapse into their old habits. The damn guilt of failing my sons is enough to make me want to pull the trigger. Being a drug addict at least you're alive, although some addicts, without doubt, would be better off dead. Now as I look back and think how irresponsible I was, how selfish, how unfair I was to be so self-centered, I realize the worst; I can never make the lost love or time up to the ones I love. Never. If I spend the rest of my life trying, never. Time cannot be reused, whatever love I give them now, I give them now. It is not the love I could have given them then.
The remorse is brutal. Brutal is the proper word: The remorse is beating the life out of me, spiritually, mentally, physically. There is no where to hide from yourself. Unless of course it's
in the drug world, but I never "hid" in the drug world. One doesn't realize they're hiding until the game is over and they can't find their life, or what they thought was their life. While I was hiding in my mind, reality changed. After the party, reformed, I look around for the wonderful life I once had. The reality is my life has failed. The wonderful life is gone, I have no love. The love lost leaves me empty, lonely, heartbroken. Losing the love of my sons is especially depressing. Despite the fact I raised them, and shared some part of life with them daily, in the end they felt abandoned and ignored. The brutal part is not the Love they now Don't feel for me, (you reap what you sow) but the guilt I feel for not giving them every ounce of love every moment they were needing it, wanting it and I should have been delivering. That is the brutal part: thinking that my sons looked to me for love and and felt ignored. I love my sons. Always.It brings tears to my eyes writing these words. If time could be reused I would chain them to me to ensure our closeness.

Wisdom

Fifteen years ago I was 36 years old. You boys were 10 and 12. Now you are young men. The last fifteen years in your lives were the beginning. Looking back there are so many benchmarks, so many changes. Time is indexed and in retrospect those will be the years that passed slowest. So hang onto your hats, young men, because the train picks up speed from this point and it doesn't slow down for awhile. When you look back it turns to a blur. If you add any king of substance abuse, it disappears completely. Remember that, and this; Every moment killed in boredom, drunkenness and/or drug abuse... when you're on the 'other side of the mountain' you'll want it back.
That is a pseudo apology for not always being my best, not being compassionate or attentive enough at times, and giving too many of the precious moments away. The precious moments being the ones when you were boys. That I feel so guilty about.
I'm older now. And you boys are men. You both rarely have time for me. I guess you reap what you sow, but it seems to me I gave more then this. I wouldn't have tried at all if I would have known that for all my efforts I'd be shown no gratitude or love. I guess what I'm trying to say is: Although I tried to be young and one of the boys when you were growing up, as you reached manhood, I was forced to grow up too. My investments were paying no dividends. Another failed marriage, no love or respect from my sons, sold the family home, and I limped out of town depressed, heartbroken, and confused. Not to mention fifty years old and a net worth of $34,000. I had to grow up. I was terrified I had over extended my refusal to grow up AND didn't have the resources to make up for my recklessness.
I live a quiet life alone now. I go days in the southern Oregon mountains without speaking to other people. There is no bathroom, or kitchen. No excitement. Nothing artificial. Just reflection, remorse, understanding of the past, looking to the future, and hopefully wisdom applied. I am forced to be serious and responsible. I love you boys despite yourselves, so why can't I be loved, despite myself? I take no credit for your accomplishments but don't I get a cut of love for being there and trying? Don't all of you carry some of me with you every day?
I love you boys.