I pass Lady Liberty every night on my evening commute. A few people portray her, but it’s not a torch they hold high, instead it’s a sign advertising tax service. The tax business around the corner employs people to don a Statue of Liberty costume and wave to passing motorists at a busy intersection.
My favorite statue is no lady at all, but rather she is a gentleman. With his dark beard and sunglasses, he reminds me of the Kevin Smith character Silent Bob. Bob is a jovial guy dressed in his robe and crown, waving at all the cars that pass, sometimes doing a little dance. He looks to be making the best of his seasonal employment. I always return Bob’s wave, honking my horn because I love liberty, as Bob’s sign sometimes implores. I have to acknowledge people who have jobs such as this, from Silent Bob to the people who dance in costume for the Halloween store. I’m sure it’s not exactly their career path, and in this economy I may need a job like this to supplement my income. So, thank you Silent Bob for your enthusiasm and ability to make this tired and poor person smile after a long workday.
The animal I most identify with at this point in life is the bird, more specifically, a caged bird. Like the bird, I too feel trapped, humans my wardens. We both rely on people for survival and tire of doing their bidding. We can be so much more than our oppressors allow. The bird desires more from life than merely sitting on a perch, gazing through the bars of its cell. It longs to soar among the clouds free from its shackles. The bird can grow and feel a sense of accomplishment, as its wings stretch to maximum capacity, ascending higher into the blue sky. Only then can the bird be truly happy.
I long to be free from the daily grind. I feel stunted, trapped in a holding pattern. I have a creative side too long suppressed, ideas yearning for release. The time is now. I must break free of my cage to find happiness and fulfillment, so that I may soar with the bird, reaching for the stars.
Every home has something eerie about it, whether it be a door that refuses to stay shut or a floorboard that creaks. Unexplained sounds and shadows can wreak havoc on the imagination. Sometimes it takes only a feeling of unease to have the owner contact a local paranormal group.
That feeling of unease washes over me whenever I enter the last bedroom on the second floor of my home. My Cape Cod style house looks innocuous from the outside, and feels as such in all areas with this one exception. The second floor had been configured multiple ways, at one time being an apartment. It now contained a tiny library and two spare bedrooms. The last room down the hall on the right has caused me discomfort since we moved in over ten years ago.
During the day, this room isn’t as scary, but I still have a feeling of dread when I’m in there. It might have something to do with the crawl space in the wall. We have only removed the painted wooden panel once, just to be sure it was empty and contained no secrets. Satisfied it harbored no bodies, squatters or fugitives, we replaced the panel, never to remove it again. The crawl space still troubled me, so a wall of storage boxes soon blocked the entrance. Surely that would be enough to keep anything malevolent at bay. Maybe. Hopefully.
This particular bedroom turns into a much more sinister place when darkness falls. The feeling of unease is magnified and I linger as little as possible when the need arises to go into that room. Sometimes I will avoid computer work in the library in the evenings because of its proximity to the room with the crawl space.
While I should have the ghost hunters on speed dial, I can accept the unease for now. At this point, I’m not sure if I want to know for certain if there is a paranormal issue. If the unease and dread progress into something I can actually see or hear, then I will call the paranormal group, quickly followed by a realtor.
“A room without books is like a body without a soul.” – Marcus Tullius Cicero
Before the drawing of a lottery with a substantial jackpot, people often ponder if they would continue to work if they won such a fortune. I personally would not. If I had the means to never worry again about finances, my resignation would be tendered almost immediately. Life is far too short to spend it on pursuits of which you are not truly passionate. I would still work, only in a volunteer capacity, spending even more time with animal organizations. Perhaps I would establish my own rescue operation. The plight of homeless animals is important to me, and it is very rewarding to care for them until they find their forever home.
In addition to working with animal causes, I would devote even more time to another passion–writing. Maybe I would at long last become a published author. It would be fun to be on the other side of the table at book signings. At the very least, I would have plenty of time to create and sharpen my writing skills.
My resignation letter may be written, but it will remain in electronic limbo, never to be printed, until such glorious day arrives. Of course, that day will never arrive, if I don’t play the lottery. Perhaps I really should consider it.
I know very little about my family tree. My grandparents and only aunt passed away before I graduated from high school. My father died when I was 27. I know I am a typical American mutt, comprised of many nationalities. I am German, English, and French on my father’s side, and Irish and Dutch on my mother’s side. I’ve been told my nearest purebred relative was my great grandather on my father’s side. He was a Native American from the Comanche tribe. My father was born in Marshalltown, Iowa, and the Comanches are a plains indian. When my father was 3 days old, my grandfather the lumberjack informed my grandmother that he wasn’t cut out to be a family man, and left. Being a single mom in the 1930’s must have been quite challenging. As my father grew older, my grandmother could not handle him and sent him to live with her mother and father. My father adored this man, he was very strict but very loving. Unfortunately, I never had the opportunity to meet him. When I was very young, I can remember watching cowboy and Indian programs with my grandmother, always rooting for the Indians. We would watch these black and white shows while she braided my long hair. A bumper sticker I saw sums it up–my heroes have always killed cowboys. Of all that I am, I have the most pride in my Comanche background.