Nothing to do About Rain

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It’s a rainy cold morning here on my hilltop. I took this picture off my deck just moments ago. The wide eaves of the house don’t allow for the traditional rainy day view. There are no raindrop laced windows to sell the mood. As you can see, the trees and fence are wet and a light mist rises from the distant lowland.

What is absent is the traditional wet pavement, umbrella’d pedestrians and sense of hurry and caution. There is no tranquil park for lovers to stroll in rain-soaked clothes, warmed by their hearts and lost in the moment.

The only signs of my being is the fence that keeps the dog in and the coyotes out. The hay field in it’s early spring awakening and the quarter mile long driveway that has nowhere to go today.

I suppose if I was a city folk, I would possibly find refuge in a type of brownstone, homogeneously tucked away among a dozen more. I would have a large rain-laced window to sit and ponder the lovers and umbrella’d pedestrians as they cautiously navigate the rain-soaked streets. I would wonder where they find refuge and what busyness drew them away from it on this rainy day.

Until recent, I lived in town far longer than I was ever meant to. And I have to admit, I spent little if any time in front of raindrop laced windows pondering anything. I did not take time to observe the silliness of lovers nor did I care about where all the umbrella’d pedestrians might seek refuge.

All that I knew was refuge was temporary and fleeting. I found it whenever I could, tucked between 12 hour shifts in ICU. Pedestrians were replaced with bodies, many many bodies. Raindrops were replaced with the blood and tears of lovers now faced with lose.

It will take some time on this hilltop and a lot of rain to wash away the blood and tears, to silence the weeping of lovers and to allow me to ponder where all those umbrella’d pedestrians might find refuge.

These are the truths as I know them; The rain will always come. The coyotes will always want inside of your fences. There will always be more bodies. Refuge is in the heart, whether on a hilltop or tucked away in a Brownstone.

As for those lovers, well that would be me and my wife. And I can’t wait to stroll in the rain, warmed by our hearts, lost in the moment. I love you Sateash

“I recently retired after 25 years in healthcare/critical care. ┬áMy truth; I am a carpenter, I am a writer, I am no longer a warrior…my war is over.”

 

 

Getting Published Over 50

I suppose that title should specify, getting published over 50 for the first-time author. Some time back I read an article, possibly in Writer’s Digest, that suggested that it was difficult for a first-time author to have work accepted after 50 years of age. The concern being that you might not have more than one or two books in you.

As a writer with a plethora of material in different states of development and a fertile mind that borders on being distracting, I would like to know if there is any ground in this notion.

I will plainly admit that I have not one finished manuscript to test this idea with. Having recently retired from healthcare, I plan on changing that.

Then there’s traditional versus self-publishing. I have done a great deal of prior research on the traditional method. I’m not opposed to self-publishing. I guess my first ignorant response to the idea was “great, lets just flood the market with a lot of useless material and give haven to all the idiots that don’t get it, they suck”.

Not to be mean spirited but most writer’s clubs has one or two. And during shared reading it feels more like an AA meeting and you’re listening to that one guy. You know, the one everyone knows is still drinking and everyone knows he’s still lying about it.

So I throw this out there; if anyone knows what the truth to this notion is, could you share it here on this blog. And no, the truth either way, will not dissuade me from my passion. I’m here to stay and with plenty of time to test this new ground.

 

 

“Much About Nothing” by C.W. Hime

Before I’ve written a word, I’m already sidetrack by the obsessive nature of my tendencies. I think I would like to eliminate the periods following the “C” and the “W’ in my name. It’s my father’s name actually, Charles William.

I use his name because I’m proud he was mine and I think a man like him should not go unnoticed. My father lived his life largely isolated, even from the few friends he had and most certainly, family save his mother and me.

Ironically, he went by Bill. He hated Charles and any of it’s synonyms like Charlie or Chuck. And if irony had a brother it would be this notion, my name is Bill, William Edward to be exact. I hate Edward and go by C.W. to honor my father!

Now none of this has anything to do with me wanting to write “CW” in lieu of “C.W.”. One could argue that “C.W.” is grammatically correct and I suppose it does look a bit more polished. But “CW” is easier to type, takes up less space and confuses the analytical fool that spends too much time staring at and pondering absurdly what kind of name is “CW”?!

Now if ironies brother had a sister it would be this, Grandma Hime was called “Mammy”, but her name was Ethel. I do not think she disliked being called Ethel or grandma or grandmother.

So here comes ironies sister’s illegitimate baby, my dad never addressed her with any of those, he just called her mom. Go figure…

And now you know too much about nothing. C.W. Hime

“Unlike Mr. Hemingway Continues” by C.W. Hime

Wow, how time steals from the things we love. Nonetheless, I am here. I see my last comments were June 12 of last year. So much life has happened since. So much time stolen…and perhaps wasted. After all, there is always some personal accountability is there not?
I turned 55 this year. I turned 54 last year and 53 the year before that. I see a trend here with no end in site. One might be tempted to point to the obvious, “death”.
But I would argue that if one is a spiritual person then death is only a step towards eternity. Or, if one is successful enough to have their life celebrated by the masses, it could be said that Mr. Hemingway will be 117 years old on his birthday, July 21st. Now that’s a life well lived! …I will deliberately forego mentioning he took his own life 19 days short of his 62nd birthday.
Hmm, I wonder what about 62 troubled him so?

Personally, I’m looking forward to 117. I hope I’ve actually done something more than write another paragraph or 2 once a year. That would be 70 or so paragraphs collectively over the course of the next 62 years. That’s not prolific, and very unlike Mr. Hemingway.