People have tendency to broad brush because it strengthens their arguments. In reality, issues are seldom black and white, and people exhibit ranges of behavior, rather than single facets. It doesn’t make for good copy, and besides that, who really has time to learn about an entire person, much less a group?

Society is evolving. We don’t have time for block parties, we twitter. We don’t write letters, we send e-mail, sans punctuation. We are busier than our parents generations and yet we seem to accomplish less, and have fewer meaningful relationships. Life changes, but not always for the better. Advancing technology is not the same as progress.

I’m hardheaded, and a little stubborn. I have my own ideas about things, but who doesn’t? I’m not so stubborn that I won’t listen to an opposing view. I don’t feel the need to sell you my view and convert you. I agree to disagree, and it doesn’t keep me awake at night.

I’ve noticed a trend with some of the “stubborn” people in my life that I find amusing. They (four of them to precise) consider their own stubbornness to be an asset, and a testament to their character. In their defense, being obstinate can be a good thing, especially when paired with tenaciousness and perseverance. These people get things done. Ironically, when they find themselves facing off against other stubborn people, they tend to be contemptuous about it as if the other person’s stubborn streak is NOT an asset. Which makes me consider that stubbornness is not the issue at all, and being perceived as right and controlling a situation is.

Uh yeah, I slipped away on vacation, sometime between checking on my sister and cleaning the small fish pond. Six and a half euphoric days which were uninterrupted by news of broken hips or impromptu visits to the emergency room. So, there was one visit to the emergency room, but my mother thought it best not to disturb the sanctity of vacation, and send the announcement in the form of a letter instead. Thoughtful, isn’t she? Grandma is recovering from her tumble, albeit with a black eye, and she is using her walker for the moment. Growing older is a real bitch.

So about the vacation? Great Smokey Mountains National Park. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Yearly visit. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Of course, there was hiking. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Local color. Yadda, yadda, yadda. No wireless. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Decent food. Yadda, yadda, yadda. And good weather.

In brief:

200, Number of deer spotted at Cade’s Cove.

41, Number of wild Turkeys spotted.

30 Miles hiked.

8 Games of Miniature Golf played.

7 Bears spotted.

7 Mullets viewed when we chose the incorrect restaurant.

5 Number of stones gathered.

2, Number of felines that will not allow me ten seconds of privacy to myself since having returned.

1 Number of bites my better half received while illegally feeding wild life.

1 Number of books I finished reading on holiday.

0 patches of moss transplanted

*To see photos from the trip, click here

Oh and Bob, I snapped a photo of a little something for you. It has a relatively new paint job. I’ve seen it parked out side the pancake restaurant for a few years, on our continual jaunts to the Smokies. She’s had little body work since I first saw her, but it looks as though the effort paid off.

Well, I guess you picked a fine time to move.

I’m just doing my part to make sure gas prices inflate.

No, you’re stimulating the economy.

Sage wisdom, cloaked in sarcasm from my older brother. The irony is evident, this being the fifth or sixth unplanned trip south since the new year. But it’s also true, we chose an excellent time to relocate. Our former neighborhood had flooding issues this month. Our old place didn’t flood, but two others in the neighborhood did. I’ll take happenstance when it works in my favor.

My brother-in-law came through surgery fine. Three bypasses. He has a strong heart, liver and lungs. The calcium build-up in his arteries was probably a product of heredity rather than a side effect of massive meat consumption and an aversion to vegetables. Estimated recovery is three to four weeks.

My sister handled the stress like a champion. There were only a few weepy moments. She had a respectable posse waiting with her while he was in surgery, but nothing like the family reunions that take place when something happens in my husband. It’s a difference in the way families operate, not a harsh passing of judgement on my heart. Beneath all the familial traditions, we are all pretty fucked up on one level or another.

I saw my BIL after surgery. His coloring was good. His sense of humor was in tact, though groggy. The day after surgery, he continued to improve and they moved him out of ICU, so we returned home. Our cats think I suck, but my sister thinks she refrain from sawing my branch off the family tree.

It was a little selfish, my being there. I wanted to protect her (from one of her SILs of all things), as if I could. She needed me too, so maybe it isn’t important for her to know I needed to be there for me as well.

And so it frequently goes, life is balanced with equal parts sadness and joy. Mysteriously, I seldom notice the balance, and tend to struggle beneath the weight of powerlessness. I suspect we tend to be mentally programmed strongly towards either happiness or sadness, not in terms of optimism or pessimism but regard to memory and the vividness with which recall the passing of our lives.I don’t view myself as an optimist or a pessimist, but a pragmatist, and perhaps an observer.

Today I received two shocking, unrelated pieces of news.

My sister’s husband, will undergo quadruple bypass surgery Thursday. He’s not even fifty. He has been under a great deal of stress the past three years. He has a potentially explosive temper (though I feel compelled to mention he is NOT a violent man). He has high blood pressure. And though I love her, he IS married to my sister (She is lovable, and exceedingly adept at button pushing. We shared a bathroom for eleven years, I know her. I am not judging her.)

The other shocking news; my husbands youngest brother taught my niece to ride a bicycle. It sounds tame, but this is big. My niece is twenty, and there were a few months of non-communication last year. No judgement on my part. It’s hard to be in between adulthood, and it has never been easy to be a parent. Period. So she wanted to learn to ride now because of a boy. No surprise. It isn’t pretty, but she can stay upright.

Tonight. I can appreciate the sadness and the joy for what they are, not some happenstance passive aggressive wormhole karmic fuck job. Clarity maybe? No that’s too much credit.

I’ve been hashing over the information about my Sister and her family and trying to guess who they need me to be and where I need to be for their benefit. I hate the hospital clusterfuck, but my decision will not be based on personal phobias. I know bypass surgery isn’t the same beast it was when my father endured it, but I also know its scary when your partner is lying in a surgical bed with bland sheets.

I won’t know who I need to be, until I talk to her tomorrow. Here’s hoping I read her correctly…. I’m also hoping my husband’s brother will read the bicycle lesson correctly as well, or at least recognize it as an opportunity to re-enter his daughter’s life.

‘TIs the season in which major cable networks re-invent the image of Jesus Christ the protestant lord and savior, in hopes of improving their ratings amidst the masses. I admit to finding the historical applications interesting, but it tends to feel contrived and cheapened by the underlying subjugation of christian devotion. In other word, the presentations prey on insecurity or sensitivity of believers rather than stand upon the merits of their ability to document and reinforce historical accuracy.

Yeah, I think someone has spent too much time evaluating cable offerings too.

When I was shopping in one of those deep discount stores, we all love to hate, but secretly solicit because, deep down we know it has replaced the manufacturing sector as one of the U.S’s most valuable employers, in spite of the fact they intentionally short worker’s hours so they won’t have to cover the cost of health insurance benefits, I noticed aisle after aisle of prefabricated Easter baskets, and it made me a little sad.

The Easter Bunny My mother, used to assemble a hodgepodge of chocolate bunnies, candy, little plastic holiday crap, balsa wood airplanes, punching balloons, stuffed animals and/or collectable beer steins (yes, really) into our baskets for Easter morning. They were personal, and I looked forward to them each year.

The prefabricated baskets at grocery and department stores came to represent what I believed to be baskets for kid whose parents didn’t share the same bed, or kids from broken homes, or kids whose parents worked really hard, but didn’t have enough of themselves remaining after five thirty on a Friday afternoon to say, “I love you”.

And yet plastic baskets covered in cellophane laced with action figures don’t really mean any of those things at all. They mean some marketing genius was trying to take advantage of working parents from all walks of life. But at the age of eight, I couldn’t visualize it for what it really was, capitalized convenience; I could only view it as some form of loss. I’m older and I understand things are not always as they seem, but it’s difficult to convince the inner eight year old.