#got a small influx of new followers from one of my old masks going around. hi I still do that

[chipper-smol]

Hollow Knight Telephone Round Two: Relic Coffee Shop

Prompt

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Prompts:

1: Lemm finds an odd fellow at the Blue Lake. Normally he wouldn’t bother to approach a stranger out of nowhere, but something in his gut urges him to take action. Quirrel, feeling the effects of age on his body, stares incredulously at the bearded face of a stranger who apparently wants to have him over for coffee. 2: Lemm sets up shop in an abandoned cafe. It’s roomy and pleasant at first, but there are _stacks_ of these disgusting old bitter coffee beans clogging up the rooms. It doesn’t help that bugs keep coming in to order a drink even though he’s posted signs to _KEEP OUT!!_ However, once they start offering Geo be begrudgingly takes it as an opportunity to achieve funds to pay for relics. 3: At first, the coffee was just an excuse to get Geo to pay for relics, but Lemm’s begun to notice that bugs who wandered into his shop with the telltale early symptoms of infection no longer have them on their return visits. He tells himself he’s not an altruist. He’s _not._It’s just a waste to throw out old coffee when someone just needs a pick-me-up.

By @bluwails​

------------------------------- By @hydrochlorinate​

“Just don’t. Tell. Anyone. Else.”

Those were the words that came out of the grumpy barista’s mouth that fateful day. One’s that you completely ignored, as you had already been drinking what could only be the drink of HIgher Beings, with just how heavenly it tasted.

Grinning like a lunatic, you give him 45 geo, not a small sum. If anything though, it was hilariously cheap for a drink that was this good. The bug doesn’t complain about the amount though, so he’s probably fine with it. Wings fluttering in excitement, you leave the shop, ready to tell any remaining survivors about the amazing drink shop you just found.

===============>(Coffee Shop AU)

The next time you come in, the store is absolutely packed. Denizens from all across the ruins of Hallownest are here, ranging from some uninfected moss knights to that one ladybug that you had a dance off with a while back. There's even a noble here, and- is that a mantis?

Anyway, it looks like your very subtle method of giving publicity to this cafe by talking about literally nothing else to whomever you talked to over the following week paid off. Good, this place deserves all the atte-

“You.”

Oh? You snap out of your thoughts, and look towards the counter, where the barista is levelling a glare at you that could instantly wither those delicate flowers that have been spreading around recently.

You stroll on up to the counter, a grin stretching across your face. The barista narrows his eyes.

“Didn’t I tell you to keep this a secret? Why is my establishment filled to the brim with bugs? Who are these people?!”

...huh. Did he tell you to keep it on the down low? It seems in character from your limited interactions, but you don’t remember exactly. Oh well, time to play it off. You tell him that, well, what can you say except you’re welcome.

You’ve never seen a bug go from “Irritated” to “Ballistic” as fast as this barista. Usually they make a stop at “Angry” or “Absolutely Livid”.

“YOU’RE WELCOME?!?!”

No, see, he’s supposed to say thank you.

“THANK YOU???”

You tell him he’s welcome, before laughing. No, really, you tell him, look around, the place is packed! Business is booming! The barista (you should really ask for his name) manages to bring his volume under control, taking in a deep breath.

“That’s part of the problem. I’m a relic seeker, not a-” He gestures around the cafe, as if looking for the right words to use. Barista, you suggest.

“Exactly. I’m not made to brew coffee-” Oh, that’s what it was called. “-or to be dealing with customers all day long.”

Sure. That’s why he decided to allow people to keep purchasing coffee, or why he decided to put on a cute green and white visor.

You didn’t just come to check in on your new favorite bug though, you have coffee to order! Taking out a sheet of paper from your bag, you begin to read out both your order, and those of your companions. Even with the end of the infection, the leftover damage to hallownest’s caves and architecture makes it dangerous to travel alone.

As you begin to read out your order, the barista shifts from crotchety old bug to attentive worker. You really wish you had come back earlier, instead of letting some of your other traveling buddies pick up the coffee for you. Something about the atmosphere here is… relaxing, despite the amount of people.

After your order is finished, you leave the cafe. Back to the real world bucko, as an old friend of yours would always say.

...Wait a minute you never got the barista’s name.

===============>(Coffee Shop AU)

It’s been 3 weeks. You think. Time gets a little funky down here, what with the sudden influx of void. Sure, most of it has cleared out by now, but every so often your exploration party comes across a tunnel that hasn’t quite been fully illuminated, the shadows just a bit too thick to be natural.

You enter the coffee shop again. It’s gotten a lot quieter as time went on and bugs started coming in on a schedule. There’s still plenty of other customers here, but it’s nowhere near as packed as the first couple of days. Lemm (yeah, you finally got his name) stands at the counter, still slightly disgruntled, but a lot less so than he was at the beginning. In fact, he’s actually talking to someone right now! An actual conversation too, not just an exchange of witty remarks. You can’t see their face, but they appear to be a pillbug wearing a blue hood. 
As you step up to the counter, you can hear their conversation a bit better.

“...of course, I couldn’t just leave it sitting there right? So I move to pick it up, only to find out that the desk I dropped it on was magnetized! So here I am, trying and failing to pick up this one plant hanger for a solid 10 minutes.”

They both laugh at this, before noticing you. The unknown bug turns to face you, allowing you to see his mask.

“Oh, hello, I don’t believe we’ve met before!”

You greet him back, introducing yourself.

“It’s nice to meet you. My name’s Quirrell. I’m… well, I can’t really call myself an explorer, because I’ve already been everywhere! I’m more of a wanderer, really.”

Ahh, a free spirit, you see. You point out that just because he’s been everywhere doesn’t mean he’s seen everything. After all, who knows what could’ve gone down during Hallownest’s peak. Both Quirrell and Lemm get amused by this, for some reason. Seeing your confused look, Lemm decides to speak up.

"He probably knows more about Hallownest than everyone here, having lived here since before the infection and all."

Your eyes widen, and your wings begin to flutter. Truly? An original denizen, and not someone else trying to piece together its history? Quirrell waves off the words, though.

"I wouldn't go that far…" He begins, but Lemm cuts him off before he can go any further.

"Hah! Next you'll be telling me that you weren't the head assistant of the kingdom's best scientist!"

Giving off the equivalent of a blush, Quirrell rubs the back of his head. Lemm turns back to you.

"I'm sure you didn't come in just to chat, though. What can I get for you?"

It's nice to see him making friends.

------------------------------- By @schyrsivochter​

Lemm wasn’t a sociable person. That was a fact. He wasn’t good at talking, or at being friendly. (It wasn’t like he needed it, anyway. It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed conversing with another bug.)

No, Lemm was much more of a person for reading. Deciphering the journals of the long dead, the writing and languages, was something he thoroughly enjoyed. Other artefacts spoke differently: the materials from which they were made, the way they were worked, the artistic style. It was a different kind of reading; some might say a more figurative one. But it was just as interesting.

Of course, architecture was part of that. It had not been a coincidence that Lemm had set up camp in Hallownest’s abandoned capital. When he’d arrived, he hadn’t dared to think that he’d ever finish exploring and finding new things. And it was true; he’d only explored a little bit before he’d realised that collecting and gathering relics was no use if he never took a proper look at them, instead letting them gather dust on the shelves, the tables, and the floor of the long-abandoned shop he’d moved into. So he’d decided to stay there, poring over his collection. His picture of the world of Hallownest in times past grew ever more detailed, more complete.

He’d opened the shop because people did not seem to stop wanting to sell him relics, and it never hurt to appear a little professional. And it had been a reliable source of new artefacts; new knowledge. He’d never sold anything, of course. His collection was his, and his alone.

And then came the dark. The cleansing void. It had taken him by surprise; he’d been working, and only noticed that anything was amiss when the light dimmed and he was finally bathed in darkness. He must’ve fallen unconscious at that point, and there’d been no telling how long it had been until he’d awoken. It hadn’t been until later that he’d learned that this was what had obliterated the plague, leaving in its wake hundreds of confused survivors and thousands of dead. No, the next thing to happen that told him things were not as usual was that a bug had come in, asked if he was open, and, upon his affirmative answer, asked for a hot drink, holding out a piece of ten.

Taken by surprise, he’d offered to make tea. He’d immediately regretted it, since it meant the bug would be staying for a while, probably without selling him relics, but it was easy enough to do and would get him geo, his supply of which had been running low. So he put a kettle on and took the money. The bug had thanked him profusely, while he had elected to remain quiet.

Not long afterwards, the same bug and four others stood in the doorway. Whether they had relics for him, he’d asked. They’d looked amongst themselves, and one had asked, ‘Is this not a coffee shop?’

‘I suppose it might’ve once been,’ he’d said. ‘Now it’s mine.’

More confused looks and standing around, and then the bug he’d seen before asked if he’d make more tea. He’d said no, not unless they paid him twice as much as the last time and stayed quiet and didn’t disturb him in his work. To his horror, the five bugs had agreed, and so he’d dug out cups from the coffee shop’s former stock and afterwards found himself a little richer in geo but with a significantly worse mood.

He had his peace afterwards, though. At least for a while. Now a bug had arrived, taller than the others, wearing a headscarf. Lemm had mentally prepared for the bug to ask for coffee, but the bug had halted in front of one of the tables that Lemm had repurposed for his collection of relics.

‘Admiring my collection?’ Lemm asked.

’Yes, quite!’ the bug answered, chipper and friendly. ‘I’m curious how you managed to get a hold of so many texts in such diverse languages! These are journals, are they not?’

‘They are,’ Lemm acknowledged. ‘From all over Hallownest.’

‘But most of them aren’t any Hallownest language.’ The bug put a hand on his mask. ‘I suppose they’re from travellers that came to the ruins and perished?’

‘Quite right,’ Lemm said. He had to admit, begrudgingly, that the bug standing before him was sharp and knew his history. A trait not many others shared.

‘Can you read all of them?’ The mask turned towards Lemm, inclined in question.

‘No,’ he answered truthfully, making his way around the counter to stand next to the bug. ‘I haven’t had the time to decipher all of them yet. But I’ll get around to it eventually.’

‘Interesting,’ the bug said. ‘I can—huh?’

He turned towards the entrance, and Lemm followed his gaze. Lemm was about to ask what the problem was, when a bug appeared in the entrance. The one that he’d made tea twice for. Ah yes, he thought. A customer. Two of them, in fact; one of the others from before had joined the one who’d taken a fancy to paying Lemm to make tea.

‘I don’t suppose,’ Lemm said, ‘there is any way to convince you to find tea somewhere else?’

The bugs shook their head.

Lemm sighed, and muttered an apology to the tall visitor. Time to get it over with.

He went to the back room to prepare the tea, and overheard the two visitors conversing in the front.

‘What’s this, anyway?’

‘Historical documents. Journals of travellers.’

‘What’s it doing here?’

‘I think the shopkeep collects them.’

‘That’s correct!’ Lemm called. ‘I’m always buying, if you have anything of historical value.’

He grabbed the cups and walked back to the front. ‘That’s fifty geo. Unless you have relics.’

The bugs complained under their breath, but paid up, and Lemm could direct his attention back to the visitor.

‘So is this what you do?’ they asked. ‘Opened the coffee shop again and collecting relics in your free time?’

Lemm was dumbstruck for a moment. Then he remembered to be outraged. ‘No! I am not opening this place as a coffee shop! People just keep coming and demanding tea and I cannot let an opportunity to earn easy money go to waste!’

‘Relic business not exactly booming, then, I assume?’

‘I’m—’ he spluttered, ‘It’s not a business! I don’t sell my relics, they’re mine!’

‘So you wouldn’t have any income if you weren’t selling tea?’

Lemm had the distinct impression that the bug was making fun of him. He didn’t answer, but simply walked up to the table, grabbed a random journal, and took it to his desk to try and get some work done.

He had not yet prepared his quill and ink when he was interrupted yet again.

‘You know,’ the visitor called, ‘that one is from a traveller from Greynest. Came here looking for his brother, never found him. No doubt said brother also perished in the ruins.’

Lemm turned around to see the bug standing in the doorway, having followed him halfway. ‘And how do you know this?’ he asked.

The bug shrugged. ‘I read it.’

Lemm regarded the bug. They didn’t seem to be joking.

‘You mean to tell me,’ Lemm began, slowly, ‘you know this language?’

‘Yes,’ they said nonchalantly. ‘I think I’ve been to Greynest? Must have been a while ago.’

‘Are you a traveller, then?’ Lemm asked. ‘You don’t seem the type.’

As soon as he’d spoken the words, Lemm became aware how utterly ridiculous it was of him to make observations about people. He didn’t like people, he wasn’t interested in people—

The bug laughed. ‘I am, in fact. I have travelled far and wide.’

‘Hmph,’ said Lemm, unsure what else to say. He turned back to his work, looked at the angular shapes carved into the stone, but now it seemed senseless to try and make sense of it when he knew that it was no mystery to the bug standing behind him.

At some point, he looked up and found that he was hungry and the visitor was gone. Oh, well. Time for a meal, then, and afterwards he might be able to find something else to do.

* * *

The next time the tea-drinker returned, they asked for tea and then asked Lemm about the relics, and he was in a favourable enough mood to talk about them. They asked some fairly stupid questions, but it seemed to come out of a genuine interest in the topic, so he indulged them. Plus, he had to admit that he enjoyed having a reliable source of geo. Not that he needed it much for buying relics, these days, but he supposed that his supplies of food – and of tea – would not last indefinitely, and he didn’t particularly fancy having to go back to scavenging, now that there were actual people living in the vicinity again. No, he’d rather find some place where he could buy what he needed fair and square.

The traveller with the headscarf returned, and it was an odd sort of feeling Lemm had about them. Like he actually liked having them in his shop and talking to them. And the perplexing thing was that the bug also seemed to enjoy conversing with Lemm. Which one one hand was absolutely preposterous, on the other … it was a refreshing change.

The bug introduced himself as Quirrel, apprentice to Monomon the Teacher, and Lemm could hardly believe it. Monomon the Teacher, one of the most brilliant minds of Hallownest? It couldn’t be! And yet it was not all too difficult to imagine. He’d seen stranger things in these lands.

Quirrel also was the one who later suggested Lemm officially open the shop as a coffee shop again. Lemm had thrown him out at that and gone back to work.

Now, a short while later, he looked up and Quirrel was back, standing at the counter, watching Lemm silently.

Lemm rose and went to the front, choosing to stare back equally silently. Lemm was good at that. Probably.

‘So,’ Quirrel said at length, his voice still as annoyingly friendly as ever, ‘have you thought about it?’

Lemm kept staring.

Quirrel held up his hands. ‘You need money, you don’t have much else to do, and besides’ – Quirrel shrugged. – ‘people like your tea.’

‘I certainly have enough to do,’ Lemm started. ‘These texts don’t decipher themselves. What’s so funny?’

Quirrel stopped his giggling and said, ‘They sort of do. Have you forgotten who stands before you?’

‘You don’t read all of these languages.’ Really, Quirrel’s ego was getting on Lemm’s nerves.

‘But most of them,’ Quirrel said, shrugging, ‘and most of the Archive’s records are intact. And we do have a nice section on language and writing.’

Lemm was silent for a moment, mostly because he could not think of a good comeback. Quirrel had a point, and Lemm did not like that in the slightest.

‘Let’s make a deal,’ Quirrel said. ‘I help you translate your texts and catalogue your artefacts, and you’ – Quirrel jabbed a finger in Lemm’s direction – ‘you sell your tea officially.’

‘Out of the question.’

‘You’re already doing it.’

‘I am not!’

‘Yes, you are.’ Quirrel said this with absolute certainty and no anger, and there was a voice at the back of Lemm’s mind that said: You really sort of are. And you could use the help. You don’t like the busywork anyway.

‘All right,’ Lemm grumbled. ‘Deal.’

‘Thank you,’ said Quirrel, audibly grinning.

‘I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?’ Lemm asked under his breath.

‘I don’t think so,’ Quirrel said. ‘I’m curious – what else can you make? Tea alone is a bit boring, don’t you think?’

‘Shut up,’ Lemm said, ‘or I change my mind.’

* * *

Lemm did not change his mind, even though Quirrel didn’t shut up. It had been a while, and Lemm hated to admit it, but he enjoyed doing something different for a change. Customers were now plenty, and Lemm had a menu with more than one item, and his relic collection was no bigger, but more orderly and better understood than it had ever been, thanks to Quirrel’s – and the Archive’s – help.

Another thing that Lemm was not quite ready to admit was that people could be nice. The more he talked to customers, interacted with them, observed them, the more he began to appreciate them. He used to be content in reading historical texts and artefacts, preferring to learn about people that were dead and gone. Living bugs had never really interested him.

Nowadays, however, it seemed that people could be just as interesting to read as anything else. And, as Quirrel entered, greeting him, and he could not help his mood being lifted just by the prospect of learning something new and interesting that Quirrel learnt on his last trip to the Archive, Lemm supposed that sometimes, very rarely … people were something he could enjoy.

------------------------------- By @gardening-clown​

------------------------------- By @buglife​

Lemm was five seconds away from throwing someone through the window.

His shop was now occupied by five bugs of various species, talking, laughing, and sitting around when he could be in the back doing literally anything else. It took weeks of bugs thinking that his relic shop was a coffee one before he simply gave up and made peace with it. At least he got some geo from it to pay adventurers that did come by to sell legit relics. How they mistook his shop for a coffee one, he would have never guess.

All he had was a little brewer that was barely put back together that he scavenged from some random shop, but other bugs seemed to like it, for some strange reason. It wasn’t even good coffee he was making, but they seemed to accept it. After all, who else in this dead kingdom was even selling coffee? He had looted plenty of shops and took as many sacks of beans as he would when he first arrived, and there was no way he could drink them all, so he might as well do something with them.

But he was steadily losing his patience with the amount of bugs around him. They were talking and loitering. Loitering was probably the worst of it all as it made the loner bug feel his shell crawl with the forced social interaction. He just wanted them to leave. He couldn’t stand the feeling of a crowded space, which is why he went to a dead kingdom in the first place.

Hell, he had to take his beloved odds and ends down from the shelves to keep some curious bug from touching them all up with their dirty fingers and breaking something.

He found himself dreading the sound of the bell above his door, and when it rang he wondered if someone else was coming to ask him for some random drink or be an annoying thorn in his side.

To his hidden delight however, it was the little wanderer. They looked like a grub, to be honest, with a black body and a stark white horned shell for a head. The nail on their back seemed to be a little put together the last time he saw them, perhaps they visited the Nailsmith? He never asked for their name, he didn’t want to learn it to avoid attachments, but he found them oddly endearing. They liked to listen to him ramble about his theories on various relics they bring him, so they can’t be too bad. Plus they were quiet and polite, something he was immensely grateful for.

They bounced inside the door and came to a stop, looking at the five other bugs sitting around and chatting. They tilted their head to the side, watching the bugs for a moment before looking at Lemm. They stretched out a stubby arm from under their cloak and pointed at him.

Lemm sighed. Of course, the little Wanderer had been gone for a while, and obviously didn’t know what had become of his beloved shop. He gestured for them to come over, which they did and looked up at him expectantly.

“Bugs keep thinking that this is a coffee shop.” He explained. “So here they are, drinking coffee that I make on a terrible little brewer. I gave up trying to kick them all out all the time, it stopped being worth the effort.”

The little wanderer blinked a few times, looking somewhat confused. They pointed to the cup being held by the beetle on one of Lemm’s chairs and mimed the action of drinking it.

“Yes, that’s coffee they are drinking.” He raised a brow as he looked down at the grub. “Haven’t you ever seen coffee before?”

They shook their head.

“Really now? Hrm…” He wasn’t sure where the little wanderer had come from if they never saw coffee before. It was a fairly common drink besides tea. They must have grew up in a rather isolated place If they never saw it. He decided he might as well explain it, it would be better to do it now than later.

“Coffee is a drink that bugs like to drink to give them energy.” He saw them perk up a bit at the ‘energy’ part. “It’s rather bitter, so some like it with sugar. I like it plain. It keeps me awake when I am working.”

They somehow made a face when he said it was bitter, tilting their head and angling their eye holes to look affronted. Lemm squashed down a laugh at the expression and decided to get to business.

“Anyway, they trade me geo for it, which lets me compensate bugs that get me relics. Do you have any for me today?” He hoped they did, he needed something to brighten up his day.

The wanderer nodded, reaching under their cloak to pull out a black orb. Lemm recognized it immediately to be an arcane egg. He loved working with those. Peeling back each layer revealed new information and new discoveries. He was in fact, still working on the one he got weeks before. He needed to be careful with them, and he reveled in the intense focus and work it needed to discover it’s secrets. His day instantly got better.

“Very nice, I’ll be glad to take that off your hands for the usual price.” The old beetle held out his hand and the wanderer gently placed the egg it in. They held up a hand once it was free and shook their head, pointed to a cup sitting on the counter.

“Ah, you want to trade this for a cup of coffee?” He wasn’t going to say no to that. If the wanderer was okay with it, it was a perfectly reasonable business transaction. His suspicions were confirmed when they nodded and bounced in place, looking as excited as they were able to. “Well I can certainly do that.”

Thankfully, the two bugs occupying the chairs in front of the counter left, leaving behind their dirty cups and a few geo for the mess. They thanked him and he grumped out a ‘have a good day’ as they left, seemingly indifferent to his mood. Oh well, at least it brought down the occupancy to a more manageable level for his social batteries. He pushed the dirty cups out of the way and gestured to an open seat. “Here, sit down and I’ll get you a cup.”

They bounced upwards to take a seat, swinging their legs back and forth as they waited. It didn’t take Lemm long to throw some ground up beans and water into the grinder, watching the brewed coffee pour into a clean cup. He carefully carried the hot cup down and set it in front of the wanderer. “Be careful, it’s very hot. I’ll bring you some sugar, you didn’t seem to like the ‘bitter’ description.”

They nodded and watched as he pushed over a bowl of honey sugar and a spoon. It was the least he could do after they got him another arcane egg.  “There you are, help yourself.”

They bowed their head in thanks and took up the spoon, poking it into the bowl.

“Excuse me,” One of the bugs by the window got up, the one with a bent antenna and holding their empty cup. “Could I get a refill, please?”

Lemm held back a sigh and nodded, taking the cup and heading back to his brewer. He had to smack it a couple times for it to start working again, but in the end he got a passable cup of coffee out of it. He returned just in timed to hear said bug exclaim, “Woah there buddy, you must really like sugar!”

He looked to the wanderer, who had added so much sugar to their cup of coffee, that he could hear the sugar that couldn’t dissolve scrape against the ceramic as it was stirred. It looked like fresh cement, there was only a bit of brown to denote that once, it was indeed a cup of coffee.

He wordlessly handed the other bug their coffee, who took it and retreated back to sit by the window. He was about to say something to the wanderer, when to his horror, their head tilted backwards. A maw of sharp black teeth opened wide, and he watched, astonished, as the mix of sugar and coffee oozed into their mouth and to who knows where. A long black tongue lashed out to get every last bit of sugar out of the cup, before the mouth closed with a quiet click. They must have felt him staring, because they turned to look at him with their fathomless, dark eyes. He stared back, wondering what the hell was actually sitting in front of him.

They then bounced in place and gave him a thumbs up. They made a shape of a heart with their hands, a way that they say ‘thank you’. They seemed rather happy.

“Um…you’re welcome?” He managed, after he gathered his composure again.

They sat still for a moment, seeming to ponder on what they had just consumed. He figured that they were probably trying to figure out if they liked it or not. He doubt they even managed to taste the coffee from the sheer amount of sugar in that cup.

Then, to his horror, they began to vibrate. At first it was a few twitches, and then it steadily became more and more severe, until they were a literal blur. The chair rattled under the stress and the bugs that remained in the shop turned to look at the commotion.

It was then, Lemm realized he fucked up.

They suddenly dashed away, slamming into the shop door with such force that it caved outwards. There was only the short sound of shattering glass and the scream of metal before it flew off it’s hinges and rattled down the hallway. He could hear the hurried pitter-patter of the wanderer’s tiny feet, now fast enough to blur into one continuous sound, race down the hall and out of sight and hearing.

He just stood there, looking at the wreckage of his shop door, wondering where the hell is he going to get a replacement, if there even was a replacement. He looked at the three shocked bugs, standing and looking at the wreckage, and then he got himself an idea.

“Hey fellas,” He said, as he turned and looked at the bugs next to the window. “How would you all like some free coffee if you find me a door?”

------------------------------- By @radical-mudkips​

------------------------------- By @unregisteredcookie​

Lemm's 'shop' was empty.

Actually, no, that… that wasn't right. Lemm's shop wasn't a shop in the first place--it was a haven for relics and ancient knick-knacks, and the shelves were filled to overflowing with stone tablets and peculiar eggs that held unimaginable information. Not that Lemm was ever able to crack into the eggs' shells, but he knew--he knew there was more treasured information sleeping beneath. If only he were able to open it up without risking that information being damaged.

And that wasn't right, either. The shop being empty, that was. Right now, the shelves were empty, but that was less because of the absence of relics and more because they were all stowed away in the back room to be sorted. He had a notebook he was combing over, quill in hand as he scribbled out little bits of information that might relate to one another.

'Might', because Lemm wasn't really from Hallownest. So he didn't know for sure whether this smooth L-shaped contraption was a door handle or a piece to a lost work of art.

It was while Lemm was scribbling about in this journal bound in parchment (hand-made and flimsy, using the paper he found around the area that was clean and allowed to dry) that he heard it: The distant clattering of the elevator. There were about seven options he could think of off of the top of his head, each more dreaded than the last. It could be that scarcely-seen Nailsmith who seemed to know more about the history of this ruin than he let on. It could be the peculiar little silent bug that stared up at him now and again, the one that sometimes passed by with a relic to sell. It could be that talkative windbag, droning on and on in his droning voice, so grating and persistent that Lemm struggled to ignore him. He was probably the worst.

Lemm stopped writing, tilted his head, and listened for the telltale sound. The rattling stopped, and all that he heard for a while was silence. And then.

Ding.

He sighed, getting to his feet. A customer it was, then. How delightful. Here's hoping that the customer wasn't 'Zote the Mighty'.

He had a small moment of dread when he saw the horn, a critical blow of dismay that tempted him to retreat back into the back room and pretend to be out for a walk, but then he saw the second horn and breathed a sigh of relief. Oh, it wasn't the Zote person after all. It was… them. The other little one.

They looked up at him as he approached the register and looked down at them. Their eyes were vacant as ever, face impossibly unreadable. Lemm doubted that he'd ever get used to it.

Lemm liked this little bug, if for no other reason than they were quiet, kept their hands to themself, and brought him relics to purchase. They were the only one willing to sell these relics, and they were the only reason Lemm often said what he said next.

"Cup of coffee, or looking to sell?"

He never had much company in this place until the Nailsmith (Lemm never caught his name, never bothered asking, really) first came in looking for materials for his smithing. Almost took one of Lemm's Pale Idols from under his beard while he was noting in his journal. After the initial yelling that followed and a cup of coffee, the Nailsmith apologized by paying for the cup. And he did it again. And again. Until the mapmaker came in, saw, and bought a cup himself. Until the hooded pillbug came in, hummed, and bought one for himself. And then--

Well. And then he had a coffee shop.

Lemm wished he could say that he hated it, and he did, at first. But over time, he found the company rather pleasant. Besides, the geo paid for this little bug's relic collection well enough, so he wasn't complaining.

So. Did they want a cup of coffee, or did they want to sell their relics? Lemm didn't get an answer. Instead, they looked around at the empty shelves for a moment before turning their empty eyes back onto him, tilting their head to the side slightly.

It took Lemm a moment.

"Oh, I moved the relics into the back room," he said. "I've been needing to work on sorting them out and writing notes about them. Never would I have thought that I would have so many to study."

Satisfied, they reached into the confines of their cloak. Lemm leaned forward a little, watching as they rummaged about for a moment, heart skipping a beat as he pondered what sort of relic they were going to sell this time.

And then they withdrew their small hand, reached up, and dropped a fist full of geo onto the counter.

Lemm blinked and stared at the geo for a moment. Something wispy and thin clung to them, and when he picked it up and opened the register, it was sticky. Was this webbing? Lemm wasn't aware of there being any spiders in Hallownest, aside from maybe that red-cloaked bug he saw very rarely flitting about outside his window.

So. No relics today. Fine, at least he'd have more money to buy another one later.

"One coffee coming up," he murmured, rummaging around behind the counter. Underneath the register was where he kept the coffee pot, which he refrained from moving just so he could be prepared if a 'customer' came by. He busied himself with it for a few moments, filling the filter and checking the water, before clicking the button and letting it steep. Granted, he didn't know what kind of coffee they'd drink, but they didn't make it clear anyway, so he doubted that it mattered.

Besides. They seemed a little preoccupied by something else at the moment. After a few minutes, the coffee was finished, and Lemm poured them a cup. He chose a caramel-like flavor, because they seemed about the size of a child and a little bit of sweetness never hurt anyone. Lemm reached over the counter and held it out to them, which they took in their hands and stared down at for a moment. Lemm was about ready to head back into the back when it happened. A crack. It almost sounded like something breaking, but when he turned to look behind himself at the small knight, they still stood there. Another crack, one that made his fur stand on end and his body stiffen, and Lemm caught the glimpse of something sharp and white shifting beneath the bottom of their mask.

A mouth?

They tilted their head back. A jaw opened. Many layers of teeth glimmered in the dim light, cracking as they did so, the noise chilling him through his chitin and making his hemolymph freeze. Lemm stood there, stock still, as they lifted the cup up to their face, jaw extending outwards to drink it, and then-- --they set the scalding hot coffee in their mouth, cup and all, closed it, and crunched.

Lemm had never seen a bug eat a cup of coffee before. He could still hear the crunch, crunch, crunching, muffled and quiet and growing quieter, noise sounding like a particularly crunchy tiktik being eaten.

Lemm shuddered. When the knight looked back at him, he turned around quickly and went into the back room.

Okay. Suddenly they weren't the second most welcome sight for sore eyes. Suddenly Lemm wished that it was that talking, yapping Zote fellow who came in instead.

------------------------------- By @doodle-chris​

------------------------------- By @payasita​

There was no shortage of open real estate as far as the City of Tears was concerned. But that certainly didn't make every option an equally viable living space.

First, Lemm wanted something enclosed away from the rain, and insulated enough to stave off the humidity. That discounted anything open to the outside, as he wouldn't risk his relics to even the threat of exposure. A leaking roof dripping down onto crumbling tablets or fragile spider silk could devastate hundreds of years worth of history, so that also discounted any room without a few protective floors above it.

Next, it had to be out of the way of any and all shambling husks and infected critters. They weren't the brightest of creatures, so a room only accessible by elevator was ideal. He'd never seen anything plague-cursed have enough wherewithal to operate one, and the noise of it would give him plenty warning of visitors otherwise.

Lastly, he wanted someplace with plenty of shelf space. He needed little in the way of actual living space, so long as he had ample storage room set up in such a way that things could easily be organized.

All of these qualities described, in his opinion, the ideal relic storage and research dwelling. And in the end, he was lucky enough to find it.

Unearthing the previous tenant's belongings informed him that it also, apparently, described the ideal setup for a small café. On his first day in his new residence, he'd uncovered an antique coffee machine and a few other ancient tools, kept miraculously free of rust and wear. The room's conditions must be far better than he thought.

He'd dusted his findings off and set them back up on the counter, having quickly deduced where they'd once been put to use through old nicks and rings left on the shellwood by years of service. Lemm had felt a small swell of pride at finding this small bit of the city's history, and began a set of notes on his theories about this tower complex and its surrounding culture from everything he found around. Perhaps the whole place had been a shopping centre.

On the second day, he pried open the crates in the back room, and they had spilled forth bags upon bags of beans and teas. There were so many of them that he was able to rationalize cutting one open and examining its contents without much guilt. The beans were coffee, that much was obvious at a glance.

Biological samples weren't exactly his area of expertise, but smell and texture alone all but convinced him that they'd been perfectly preserved in their airtight prisons, well dried and perfectly edible.

Most likely.

For the sake of research, and because the bag was already open, he put them through the machine. He committed some time to studying the machine beforehand, as he was afraid mishandling it may destroy it. But an hour of trying to figure the damn thing out was frustrating enough that he finally reasoned that if he did break it, he could at least take it apart and examine its insides for anything interesting. Lemm was a relic keeper, not a tinker. So he winged it with a bit of rainwater and the beans, and got wet beans and hot murky water all over the counter to show for it. He figured out the grinder and filter after his second attempt, and by the third, he had a mug of fresh coffee to show for his efforts. The scent that filled his shop and the outside corridor must have been nothing Hallownest had experienced in centuries. Lemm had little taste for the stuff himself, but in his experimentation he'd gone and made a whole pot. So he supposed he needed to acquire a taste for it rather quickly.

Luckily for his health, that turned out to be unnecessary. The smell, perhaps amplified in the ever-present petrichor, quickly attracted guests of the still-living variety. There turned out to be far more travelers and treasure hunters bumping around this old city than he'd initially expected, prone to tucking himself away in solitude as he was. Introverted or no, he happily gave the coffee away rather than waste it or risk giving himself a coronary. There were even a great deal of disposable mugs stacked away that just made it all the more convenient.

Just over the course of an hour, Lemm was graced with a fair amount of odd characters intruding on his doorstep. There was a surly fellow wielding a metal shield of some foreign make, who announced his intentions towards finding and conquering Hallownest's old colosseum. He was convinced it was still in operation somewhere. Lemm decided that if it was, the place was more than likely not populated with the sorts of honorable warriors this poor bastard was looking to prove himself against, but he kept his thoughts to himself and sent the boy off with a steaming cup of acrid bean water. Next came another traveller who gave off a more scholarly air than the first had, and who carried a more conventional weapon at his hip. The pill bug certainly acted more like a student than a warrior, all bright-eyed and curious and talkative. But no doubt he must know how to use that nail of his to have survived this far down and still be so cheerful. His stay wasn't entirely unpleasant; the two actually talked a short while about Hallownest's history and their shared learnings. The bug even tried to insist on paying, but Lemm was adamant that his reliquary wasn't a damn breakfast nook, thank you, keep your geo. But if he really wanted to pay, Lemm would certainly take any interesting artifact or trinket the bug happened to pick up on his travels. They eventually came to an agreement: A journal pilfered from a shrine somewhere in Greenpath for an extra cup for the road. Lemm's next visitor was, of all things, a cartographer. This one was far too involved in his work for much conversation, which was fine by Lemm. But he did manage to barter a cup for a map of the city. It was incomplete and bare of any landmarks, much to Lemm's disappointment. Finally, an odd little wanderer walked in almost soundlessly. They did not speak to Lemm, nor did they give any indication that they were here for any specific reason. But they had acquired an old city crest and a King's idol on their path, and Lemm had a more typical exchange of geo for relics with them. And then because it was the last of the coffee in the still warm pot, and because the little wanderer did not refuse, he sent them off with a cup on their way out. Thankful to be rid of all the blasted coffee and done with the uptick in social interaction, he then washed the pot and continued with his normal studies. It was nice and quiet, now.

But then the next morning, the pill bug returned. And he was surprised (and clearly disappointed) to see the coffee pot empty. It was a shame, he'd said. For he'd gone and found himself another journal, and considered a relic he couldn't use for a hot morning's drink to be a fine deal indeed. Lemm was inclined to agree, for how it saved him his geo in case of a more potentially significant find down the line. He turned the machine back on at once at the prospect. Unfortunately, he didn't know how to brew just one cup, and was still rightfully intimidated by the old, fussy contraption, and not inclined to mess with what worked. So he made another full pot, and talked shop.

The pill bug wasn't the only one to return that day. The would-be gladiator came back, still not having found his destination, and had the gall to just expect another drink. After the deal he'd just made, Lemm was feeling markedly less generous than he had been the day before, and informed his nasally guest that he'd have to barter something old and interesting for it.

The ant grumbled and left, but returned a few minutes later with a guardsman's crest. He'd apparently seen old treasures all over the place, but had found it beneath him to go and pick them up." A warrior has no need to weigh himself down with baubles," he'd sneered over his cup. Lemm privately thought that the plague-crazed beasts who were doubtlessly running the colosseum now would soon show this haughty kid what they cared for his warrior’s creed in due time, so he said nothing.

The silent wanderer came later. This time when they held up an ancient journal, they made no move to take the geo held out to them. They only stared at Lemm, with their little mask so perfectly unmoving he could easily think them a sudden corpse. Then his hand drifted towards the pot, and the creature set the journal down on the counter.

"...News of a relic keeper bartering goods for coffee has already spread among your lot, then? I suppose even wanderers must have a rumor mill," Lemm talked to himself while pouring their cup. Predictably, they padded away without an answer, drink in hand. Lemm would soon learn how right he was.

- The coming days were more lucrative than his business had ever been. All the travellers he'd met before all came back with various oddities found around Hallownest, as did anyone new. Though not everyone quite understood what constituted a relic, and Lemm had to turn down more than a few shiny rocks and petrified lake detritus. But they all got the routine down soon enough. And, well, Lemm did have an extraordinary amount of coffee that'd just go to waste for another thousand years otherwise, so, may as well.

The pill bug, Quirrel, came to be his best "customer", though Lemm would be twice damned before he ever said the word aloud. Either way, Quirrel often stayed long enough just chatting to warrant a second cup.

"I ought to have you bring double the treasure," Lemm griped once while handing that second cup over. Quirrel's response was a good natured laugh.

"Perhaps elsewhere, that'd be fair. Coffee was a luxury in some lands, and remains so to this day, but by my understanding it was quite in abundance here. Though I couldn't tell you where in the world they must have been growing it," he mused. Lemm raised a brow, wondering once again where in gods' names this bug was educated. But as asking would be an invitation to hear his life story, Lemm deferred.

"Is that right?" he asked instead, "I don't care for the stuff myself, luxury or no." "Really? Not an uncommon opinion, I suppose. I picked it up as a habit at one point... Though, I couldn't tell you when, now that I think of it," Quirrel trailed off, adjusting the oversized mask over his head. Lemm found it an odd choice of protection from the rain, though he supposed it was better than nothing. He only shrugged, "I hear many students do make a habit of caffeine. Your sorts can never get enough hours out of the day."

Quirrel stared at him for a brief moment, and then huffed a laugh again. "Student? You mistake me, sir. I've only ever been a traveller for as long as I can remember."

Lemm didn't bother to mask his surprise, and Quirrel's eyes crinkled. "You're right on that second part, though. So much to see, and never enough time." He took a sip.

-

The mapmaker came back one day with an order for two drinks. He had no relics, but offered an extra inkwell and quill instead. Lemm found equipment for keeping good notes was lucky to come by, and reluctantly made the trade, much to the old bug's gratitude.

"Thank you, the second is for my wife running our shop surface-side. It was her suggestion you might want materials for your research."

Lemm cleared his throat, blustering slightly under his beard.

"Ahh. Hm. I can appreciate that, then."

"Oh, on that note, have you any sugar you can add in for her?" The bug peered over Lemm’s shoulder, which rankled him for some reason.

"...I did find a jar back here somewhere, I think." Though he couldn't promise it was good. Could sugar go bad? It still just looked like white sand.

"Thank you. ...Err, actually, is that a box of tea on the shelf, there?"

Lemm paused in his rummaging, and looked back at the open storeroom door. The room now made a good home for his relics, though he never bothered unpacking the open crates.

"...It is," he eyed the bug neutrally.

"Ah. Iselda enjoys her coffee, though I quite prefer a good cup of tea myself. ...Erm, if it isn't too much trouble, of course," the bug grinned politely over folded hands.

Lemm, to his credit, did not sigh. There was indeed a kettle back there, too. And at least he knew how to brew tea without making an entire day's worth of it.

He brought up the jar of sugar, and leveled the bug with a grumpy look.

"Fine. But next time, you bring relics."

The cartographer acquiesced immediately, and that was the point where Lemm realized he'd invited them both to expect a "next time".

-

The silent wanderer came back again, on the tail of a group of treasure hunters who came in and left up the elevator. Shortly after, there was the sound of struggle above them.

This had become commonplace. Anyone who showed up had to contend with the violent husks above and beyond the shop, and some were more prepared to deal with the dangers of Hallownest than others. Lemm only poured the wanderer's cup in bored silence, tuning out the thumping and shouts above. "You know this stuff stunts your growth, right?" Lemm asked flatly. The wanderer only ever stared.

"Dehydrates you, too. You active types probably ought to stick to water. Imagine having to deal with the horrors of rotting sentries and whatnot with a diuretic sloshing about in you." Unbothered, they leaned forward and took their cup in both hands, still staring up while he spoke. Lemm honestly had no idea if they even understood him, and considered the possibility that their muteness was compounded by a language barrier. But they at least always made the effort to appear attentive.

There was a thundering crash above them that made Lemm flinch, and then a silence that kept him tense. The voices started up once again after a few seconds, and the sound of footsteps hurrying away as fast as they could. By his guess, his last customers had just had a very close encounter with a belfly. He'd likely not be seeing them again.

He turned his attention back down to the wanderer with a sigh.

"...Let me see what you have, then."

The tiny thing set their cup carefully down by their feet, and fished a genuine void egg from the depths of their grubby cloak. Lemm was struck with the brief impulse to give them the entire coffee machine for it.

-

There was a new visitor one morning, just as Lemm brewed the pot for his regulars. He rarely got anyone so very early, and was guiltily nursing his own cup of acrid sugary heart disease before anyone would be around to see. Alright, so he'd acquired the taste for it. It was hardly unreasonable with how much time he spent around the smell, and it helped him make up for lost time studying his relics later in the night. Perfectly understandable, and so he definitely did not freeze mid sip like he was caught in a crime when the door opened unexpectedly. The red-clad stranger who walked in wore a wicked-sharp needle slung across her back, and fixed him with an even sharper gaze.

"...I hear you sell tea." Her voice was quiet enough, but cut clear without the normal hesitant lilt of a question.

Lemm slowly put down his mug, and the soft thunk it made against the countertop sounded awfully loud in the morning lull.

"...I don't sell anything. I buy," he insisted.

The altogether frightening lass glanced between him, the full coffee pot, and the kettle sat next to a stack of assorted loose leaf teas. Then back at him.

He grunted, hiding an inane flush of indignation behind another swig of his drink.

"...I seek artifacts. Relics of this place's past, and anything that may help me understand it, for geo. ...Or for a cuppa, for those who'd rather." He shifted behind the counter, nearly trailing off into a mumble. But at this point, there wasn’t much use in fighting his reputation.

The girl just scrutinized him until she seemed to come to a decision. She then turned and left without saying anything else, opting to hop down the elevator shaft rather than waste a moment calling the lift.

Lemm rolled his eyes and gulped down the dregs of his coffee, vaguely annoyed. By this point, he was used to the rude and half feral sorts of vagabonds that only came by out of curiosity. At least she was quick about leaving.

All the better for him, as far as he was concerned. He doubted such a young thing would have anything of note to share with Hallownest's foremost historian.

[raendown]

Another follower milestone gift fic! @uintuva asked for the prompt word somnolent!

Pairing: TobiramaKakashi Word count: 1919 Rated: T+ Summary: Kakashi hurries home, excited for something he honestly never expected to be excited for.

Follow the link or read it under the cut!

KO-FI and commission info in the header!

To Bed, Perchance To Sleep

In the privacy of his own mind where no one would ever hear him being this ridiculous Kakashi wondered, if he were excited enough, whether he could vibrate out of his own skin. With every step and push he could practically feel nervous energy gathering in unexpected places inside of him until he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop moving when he finally did make it home. 

He was going to babysit. 

What he wouldn’t give to reach back in time and see how his younger self reacted to the news that he was actually excited about this. For years he’d held firm to the belief that he didn’t like kids and kids didn’t like him. If anything he tended to scare them. How time had changed him that he should be pushing chakra in to his legs to run faster just to get there in time to be a part of this. 

Okay so maybe it wasn’t really him that was babysitting, more that Tobirama was the one being trusted with properly caring for such tiny lives, but Kakashi lived in the house too so he got to be babysitter number two by default. If he could get home in time. Somehow even getting himself thrown back in time several generations still did nothing to staunch the habit of taking too many missions and running himself in to the ground without thought. Tobirama was working on that. Which was laughable. 

Hashirama was working on both of them, in truth, and his efforts were at least slightly more successful.

Thin clouds of dust puffed up around his feet as Kakashi dropped through the trees to land in the middle of a road very few would ever find unless they knew where to look, a road that twisted through trees grown of Hashirama’s mokuton so that none could ever pass through here unnoticed. He was so close to the Senju compound he could practically smell the ever present pall of smoke that came from living without electricity. Now the smell of home in his mind; how strange the things that had changed since he found himself in another time.

Several pairs of eyes tracked his progress in to the hidden compound, though none made any move to reveal themselves or stop him. Kakashi bounded past the gate with the sort of energy that would usually exhaust him just to watch from afar. He made his way through the lazy throngs of off duty Senju with light feet, rebounding off of walls and spinning around one granny with particularly bad knees, blithely ignoring the indulgent smiles that followed him all the way to the Senju main house he still had trouble believing he was allowed to live in. Even before he and Tobirama had somehow fumbled their way in to an emotionally constipated relationship he’d been given the honor of calling this his own home. 

Being a time traveller came with some really cool perks and catching the interest of a genius was one of the better ones. 

The front door very nearly banged open when he crashed through it; Kakashi only managed to stop it with a very undignified lunge at the last second, not wanting to scare the children deeper inside. One of the lower clan members who came in to clean the home watched him with an amused smile. Ignoring them, he toed off his sandals and scurried away down the hall until he was pausing outside of a door cracked just enough for Tobirama’s familiar rumble to whisper through. 

When Kakashi pushed the door ever so slightly he was treated to the sight of his partner cradling a small body between his arms and speaking down to the babe with the same serious expression he used when laying out battle plans. A tiny influx of chakra to his ears and suddenly Kakashi wasn’t sure if he wanted to break down crying or burst out laughing. 

“That’s when you add the sulphur,” Tobirama was saying, “but it’s important you do so very slowly or else the solution will spill and it’s very corrosive on human skin.”

“Maa, trying to start teaching them young?” 

His partner looked up at him with a blink and then pouted defensively. “She hasn’t fussed once since I started talking, doesn’t that mean it’s interesting?” 

“I think it means she’s six months old and enjoys the sound of your voice.” 

“Hmph. It could be the science.” 

“Yes, I suppose it could be.” 

Kakashi stepped further in to the room and very carefully did not melt in to a little puddle on the floor when a second figure waved at him from underneath several blankets against the opposite wall. “Kaka-ojisan!” 

How on earth Hashirama and Mito could have two children who looked so much like their father yet still possessed the grace of their mother could be nothing short of miraculous. Although no one had ever worked up the courage to say so to their clan head, most of the Senju had been part of the betting pool when Mito first got pregnant, passing theories back and forth about just how goofy any child of poor Hashirama would turn out. No one had really suspected these adorable little mites. 

“Is it bedtime already?” Kakashi asked, aware his voice carried just a hint of whining protest. 

“After the story is finished, yes.” When Tobirama nodded it was with just a hint of sympathy like he’d tried to put this off for as long as possible. 

“But I didn’t get to play!”

Little Takuma immediately began trying to extricate himself from the many blankets tucked in around him. “I’ll play with you Kaka-ojisan!” 

“Mmn, you will tomorrow,” Tobirama cut the boy off. Before either of them could protest he shook his head. “I promised that we would try to wait for Kakashi’s return but I did not promise we would do away with bedtime entirely. You need sleep, little one, or you will never grow.” 

“You don’t sleep!”

“I am already grown,” he pointed out in a bland tone. 

Kakashi watched Takuma pouting and honestly wanted to do so himself. He’d been so looking forward to this. For the first time in his life he’d been excited to spend time in the company of children. Now it felt like someone had dangled a toy in front of his eyes only to snatch it away as soon as he reached for it and he was uncomfortably aware of how similar to the children he was acting. Such awareness was all that kept the protests behind his teeth as Tobirama instructed their nephew to lay back down. 

Since he had apparently missed playtime Kakashi figured he might as well soak up what he could. Despite the fact that he was already buried under several layers Takuma seemed to enjoy having his Uncle Kakashi come over to tuck the blankets up under his chin, showing his appreciation with a massive yawn that almost cracked his jaw in half. Tobirama murmured a few more lines of whatever experiment he’d been describing as he transferred the babe in his arms to the crib Hashirama had grown for her and then there was little to do but to say goodnight.

“But I’m not sleepy,” Takuma insisted even as his eyes drooped. 

“Of course not,” Tobirama said. 

“I’m really not! I wanna play with Kaka-ojisan!”

He opened his mouth to say more but yawned instead and Kakashi’s heart clenched in his chest. 

“We can play tomorrow, how does that sound?” he bartered. Takuma thought that over. 

“Not now?” 

Tobirama was shaking his head as he herded himself and Kakashi towards the door. “Now is bedtime.” 

A very small part of him hoped that when he looked back he would be met with bright and eager eyes ready to leap out of bed. The rest of him very reluctantly acknowledged that his partner was right, small children that age really did need as much sleep as they could get to grow healthy and strong. Already Takuma’s drooping eyes were sliding shut only to snap back open to half mast in the hopes he could convince either adult that he was okay to stay up. A wasted effort. By the time they closed the door Kakashi was sure the boy would be fast asleep. 

He didn’t need the amused lift of his partner’s left eyebrow to know that his mask was formed around the shape of a pouting bottom lip. Kakashi stuck his nose in the air and turned to march down the hall as if he weren’t feeling a very childish temper tantrum building up in his chest. Unfortunately he only made it as far as a few steps in to the room they shared before Tobirama caught up to him, strong arms sliding around his middle even as one foot reached back to kick the door shut. 

“You got home much later than I expected you to.”

“I tried to be fast,” Kakashi murmured. “Just took a lot longer than I wanted it to.” 

“Mmn, isn’t that always the way.” 

Eyeing the bed wistfully, Kakashi sighed. “You know, I’ve never liked kids all that much but I really was looking forward to playing house with you and all that. Just for a day. Just once.”

“Knowing my brother, I’m certain there will be many other opportunities for him to foist his responsibilities on to us. Mostly paperwork, no doubt, but a man does need some alone time with his wife every so often.” 

“Wanting alone time is something I can understand.”

Tobirama nuzzled in to the back of his neck with an agreeable hum. “Now what do you say we get you cleaned up and in to bed as well?”

“I’m not sleepy,” Kakashi declared with a smile. Pale fingers reached around to tug at the edge of his mask until it fell down around his neck, face exposed to the world. Then those same fingers pulled at his chin to bring him around so he could see the unimpressed look on his partner’s face. 

“Did I ask if you were?”

“But why would I go to bed if I’m not sleepy?”

“Sage preserve me, I don’t know why I put up with you.”

Even as he spoke the words Tobirama’s voice was so tender it would have been impossible to miss the blatant affection in them. He made a big deal out of rolling his eyes and puffing with annoyance but in the end he leaned in to capture Kakashi’s lips with his own, drawing out the kiss until they were fumbling their feet and twisting their bodies to face each other properly. 

“Are you feeling sleepy now?” he mumbled eventually. “Or do I need to convince you a little more?”

“Oh no, I am simply beyond exhausted all of a sudden. Bed time. Yes. Shower and bed. Woe is me but I just don’t know if I have the strength to do it on my own!” In pretending to swoon Kakashi very nearly missed the tender affection worn so openly on his partner’s face.

“I’ll help you,” Tobirama told him. 

Kakashi didn’t bother to hide his interest. He may have started his day out excited for something entirely different but maybe a change in plans wasn’t entirely terrible. As his partner had said, there would be other opportunities on other days. For now he was content to follow wherever the man in his arms wanted to lead him. 

Especially to bed.

[wkemeup]

The Witness (2)

series summary: After witnessing a Hydra hit and the handsome, flirtatious  cop who had become a regular at your bar takes it upon himself to ensure your safety off the books, you learn to rely on someone else for a change and find you don’t mind it at all. Not when it’s him.

pairing: detective!bucky x reader

word count: 5.8k

warnings: flirty bucky AF 

author’s note: idk about you guys but I’m ready to really get this series to get into the good stuff!  lots of sweet/flirty bucky in this chapter before some angst hits ya soon 😉

series masterlist // previous chapter 

You had only ridden in the back of a police car twice in your life. The first had been when you were seven years old. Legs too short to reach the floor, swinging nervously and tapping against the passenger seat, eliciting a sharp glare from the officer staring at you in the sideview mirror. You had your arms wrapped tightly around a small brown bear. It was old and tattered but it was one you’d had since you were a baby.

There were blood stains in its fur.  

Your father was sitting on your left, staring at the window as he pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes brimming with tears. He’d never been one to let his emotion hang on his sleeve and it was the last time he’d allowed you to witness it.

Sirens wailed as the car zipped through the busy streets of New York at an hour you’d never seen before. Not quite understanding what was happening, you were caught up in the lights of the city, mesmerized as they blurred into colorful streaks the faster the car sped through the traffic. It wasn’t until you arrived at the station and your father had been hulled off for questioning until you told the nice woman in blue about the man who had hurt your mommy.

Your second time was admittedly much worse. The sharp awareness of the events that had transpired rendering on an endless loop in the back of your mind. You couldn’t shake the image from your mind no matter how hard you tried. Charlie’s eyes boring into yours. The deafening sound of the gun shot. The way his body fell so limply to the ground. The blood – so much blood. Cold, distant brown eyes.

“You alright back there?”

You blinked a few times, trying to pull back your focus. You looked up at the review mirror to see Detective Barnes’ glance flickering back to you as he drove; a few seconds on the road, one back at you, repeat. You licked your lips and turned to look out the window – anything to avoid those blue eyes that seemed to see right through you.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, folding your arms protectively over your chest.

He had started to say something else when his partner, Wilson, hit him in the arm. The rest of the ride was silent save for the wailing of the siren.

By the time you reached the station, you were lost in your own thoughts. The door clicked open and you sat there, unmoving, for an additional minute before Detective Wilson carefully led you out of the car. It was quiet by the station, you noticed. Flashes of bright lights of photographers had lined your walkway to this very station when you were a child. Charlie’s murder wasn’t as newsworthy as your mother’s it seemed.

“I’ll get you some coffee,” Wilson said as he opened the door for you to step inside. A wave of cool air hit your skin and you shivered. “Barnes’ll take you to the interview room.”

Your eyes were squinting, attempting to shield yourself from the influx of florescent lighting. You flinched as the copier kicked into gear. It was too busy in this building for this hour of the night. A blinding headache pulsed at the nape of your neck. Twisting in your fingers, you realized you had been fidgeting with your necklace.

“How do you like it?”

You blinked. “W-what?”

Wilson smiled softly, nodding towards the coffee machine. “It ain’t good, but sometimes we can mask how shitty it is if you take something in it. I tend to go for the mocha creamer.”

“Which you steal from me, thief," a red-haired woman called from her desk without missing a beat as she typed away. She didn’t even lift her eyes to look as him.

He feigned offense and then leaned in closer before he spoke again, like he was telling a secret. “I can still get it for you, if you like.”

The red-head rolled her eyes, though she had started to laugh to herself. You found the very edge of your lip tugging, trying to pull a smile out of you, though it fell just as quick as it appeared. You were impressed he was able to get that much from you, anyway.

“Sure,” you said, your voice more broken than you realized. “One sugar, too?”

This got him smiling. He gave you a thumbs up before jogging over to the coffee table.

“Come on,” Detective Barnes gestured, “this way.”

You nodded, following him in a bit of a daze down the long corridor. He glanced back over his shoulder every few paces, almost as if he was checking to make sure you were still behind him. You were busy watching one of the officers dressed in official uniform lean against the wall, his forearm resting above the head of a young woman as she looked up at him over the top of her coffee. They were smiling at one another, laughing quietly as if sharing a secret. You didn’t know the last time you’d ever been on the end of a look like that unless it was surface level teasing. It reminded you a little bit of – oof.

You bumped right into Barnes’ back as he paused unexpectedly, face hitting square between his shoulder blades and he spun around to steady you. Snapped back into reality, your eyes fell down to his hands gripping your arms and he quickly pulled away as if he had burned you. He was being suspiciously quiet for the man who couldn’t stop running his mouth when he sat at your bar.  

“Hey, Barnes, you ready?” A man stepped out from behind the closed door to your left. With a black suit jacket, carefully groomed goatee, and thick rimmed glasses, he didn’t exactly fit the part of the other cops roaming around. He pressed out a smile when he looked in your direction before his eye caught the officer and woman huddled in the breakroom through the window and he shouted, “Flirt with the analysts on your own time, Ward!”

The two quickly ducked away from one another.

“Stark,” Barnes grumbled. He didn’t seem pleased to see him. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought you could use some backup,” he quipped, shoving a file of papers into Barnes’ chest as he gestured for you to follow him into the room. You didn’t know why you did, but you looked to Barnes first, sending him a cautious look and waited until he nodded slightly before you took another step.

Dark grey drywall lined the open space and a long, horizontal mirror was imbedded in the wall to your left. In the center of the room, a metal table. Two single chairs facing one another and a silver bar fastened to the top of the table where a pair of hand cuffs could be woven through to bind the suspect in place. You weren’t a fool. You knew what this was.

“An interrogation room?” You paused at the entry way, nails digging into your skin.

Barnes clenched his jaw and cursed under his breath, though it seemed more directed at himself than anything else. Slowly, he nodded. “It’s just to talk.”

“You think I’m a suspect,” you gawked, more of a statement than a question. There was a reason you weren’t quick to trust cops. First on scene was always the prime suspect; your father had taught you that as a kid. Don’t go to the cops, they won’t believe you. They’ll take one look at your last name and think the worst. You sent an accusatory glare at Barnes and he shook his head, holding his hands up defensively.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re not not saying that.”

Barnes sighed, now running his hands through his short, dark hair; couldn’t keep the damn things still. He was looking at you like you were a child, lost and scared, like you were something to be pitied. It was starting to make your skin boil.

“We can’t officially rule it out until we go through the evidence and you give a statement,” he started, “I’m sure you’re familiar with how this goes -”

“What makes you say that?” you snapped, unable to hold your tongue any longer. “You think because of the people I serve in my bar that I’m dirty? Is that it? You don’t know shit about me, Barnes. You come into my bar a few times a week for a month and you think you have some kind of profile on me but-”

“We know your mom was killed by a hitman when you were a kid,” Stark's voice cut you off, carrying the kind of austerity that set you off guard. He said it so simply, so matter of fact, that it made you freeze in your tracks. You swallowed, pressing your lips together tightly as your heart started to pick up in pace. He leaned against the table.

“Tony,” Barnes warned, his voice low. “Watch yourself.”

Stark didn’t pay him any mind as he turned and sat on the edge of the table, folding his arms over his chest. “We know that your father was involved with trafficking drugs for Hydra. The same organization who hired the hitman that killed your mom, by the way.”

Barnes shouted for Stark to ‘back the hell off’, but he didn’t listen.

“We know that you now run the bar he used a front to sell heroin to poor kids on the street,” Stark continued. “We also know you have a big mouth and put on a brave little face for those low-lifes who pay your bills, but underneath it all, you're scared as shit. Maybe you can handle a bar filled of misdemeanors and petty thieves, but you don’t stand a chance against the big guns and you know it.”

You were seething as Stark pushed himself off the table and walked around to kick out the chair closest to the wall.

“Now - Sit. Down.”

Despite the rage boiling in your veins, you crossed the room and sat down in the chair, keeping your eyes trained on his with a burning look of disdain upon your features.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Stark?” Barnes grimaced, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You know more than you’re letting on,” Stark sneered at you, slamming a fist against the table enough for it to make you jump. “You’ve had a hand in your father’s business this whole time, haven't you? Haven’t you!”

"Stark!” Barnes barked, enough for his fellow Detective to take a few steps back. You exhaled a heavy breath. “This isn’t how I want you treating my witness.”

“What so she’s your witness?” Stark snapped back, momentum already riling up again. “You think this case is yours because you spend a few nights in her bar and maybe a little something on the si-”

“Enough!”

You sunk further into the chair, heat flooding to your cheeks as you glanced towards the booming voice coming from the doorway. The shadow of a man stood in its frame. As he stepped into the room, you noticed the features of his face were much kinder than his expression suggested. Short blonde hair, toned arms, and dressed in a black tie and white button-up shirt rolled to his elbows, decorated with pins and badges along the left of his chest and a police shield emblem on the sleeves.

“Captain Rogers,” Stark mumbled, shooting Barnes a glare. “What can we do for you?”

“It was getting loud in here,” the captain replied sternly, eyes glancing over to you cautiously before they returned to Barnes. “Is everything alright?”

You clenched your jaw, keeping your arms folded tight over your chest and everted your gaze.

Stark rolled his eyes, tapping his rather expensive looking shoe on the tile. “Look, Cap. This is our first lead on Hydra in months. Permission to treat the witness as hostile?”

“What? Permission denied!” Captain Rogers shook his head, aghast. “You’re not a lawyer, Stark. You’re a detective. Act like it!”

“She’s the daughter of a known Hydra affiant!”

“She’s not a threat, Stark,” Barnes retorted. He stepped out from his position leaning against the wall and into Stark’s direct path to you. His shoulders were so tense you could see the muscle through the thin layer of his shirt. “She’s just here to talk.”

“So you say!”

“Back down, Stark,” the captain warned.

Tony threw his arms in the arm. “Oh, so Barnes can flirt a little with the witness after hours and practically gets the case handed to him but I take this damn thing seriously and you’re punishing me?”

“What Detective Barnes does on his free time does not concern this precinct, Stark, you know that.”

“You’re only defending him because you two used to be partners before Commander Fury promoted you -- which was a serious conflict of interest by the way,” Stark argued.

“I’m still your captain, Stark. Watch it.”

“Am I the only one trying to bring down Hydra here!?” Stark started to pace the length of the room. He took a step to his left and you caught sight of yourself in the reflection of the two-way mirror.

Muffled shouted suggested Stark was still arguing with the captain, but you couldn’t hear much of what they were saying. Drifting out of focus to much of anything besides your reflection, your eyes caught on the red flakes in your hair, sunken skin below your eyes, and a far-off look about you that nearly made you cringe.

You tilted your face to the side, examining the splatter of blood along your cheek and started to rug at it vigorously. Neither Stark or Rogers seemed to notice, but Barnes had narrowed his eyes on you, watching carefully from the other side of the room. He was about to take a step forward towards you when Stark’s voice snapped you out of your trance.

“Have either of you actually read her father’s rap sheet? It’s a mile long and there’s no goddamn way she wasn’t involved!”

Red stained hands slammed sharply against the table, enough to leave a sting in your palms and you were on your feet before you could stop yourself, drawing the immediate attention of the three men in the room.

“I am not my father!”

You were panting, heavy breaths in your lungs as you stared down Stark. Admittedly, he was eyeing you with intrigue, like he was more impressed than suspicious of your claim. Legs crossed as he leaned against the two-way mirror, he started to grin.

“Oh, is this a bad time?” Detective Wilson peaked his head out from behind the captain’s large frame, carrying a cup of steaming coffee in his right hand.

“No, it’s not,” you groaned, waving for him to come in. “Thank you, Detective Wilson.”

He looked towards the captain before he entered, and with a subtle nod from the boss, Wilson quickly skidded into the room, half jogging but careful to keep his hand steady. The sincerity of it got you smiling again.

“Please, it’s Sam,” he smiled, winking at you as he set the coffee down on the table.

“That’s two people flirting with the witness now, Cap,” Tony pointed out, physically snapping and pointing in Sam’s direction. Though, this time, his tone was rather coy.

“Buck, I trust you to take her statement and ensure she gets home safely,” Captain Rogers ordered, nodding for Stark and Sam to exit the room. Sam sent you that flashy smile of his as Tony pushed himself away from the wall dramatically before they both were gone.

A heavy exhale from behind you as Barnes slowly paced around to the other side of the table. He took a seat, clearing his throat before he opened the pad of paper sitting to his left. Just the two of you alone in the room, you could feel yourself start to relax. It felt familiar with the barrier of the table between you, like a rusted metal version of your bar top.

Barnes was clicked the end of the pen, scribbling haphazardly against the paper, growing more and more frustrated when the ink refused to capture on the paper, only the imprint of the ballpoint pen left behind. He grunted and you couldn’t help but giggle under your breath, surprised he was able to turn your mood around so easily without even trying. He tossed the useless pen across the room and pulled a new one from his pocket.

“So, ‘Buck’, huh? Where’s that even come from?”

A smile tugged at his lips, though he kept his attention at the paper as he started to write his credentials at the top. “Middle name’s Buchanan. Friends call me Bucky.”

“Well that’s silly,” you shrugged, trying to suppress the grin on your face as he started to chuckle; the kind of sound that made you forget about the red stains on your skin and the horrors locked inside your mind, horrors he would ask you to relive in just a few minutes. You tried to push the thought away.

“Yeah, well, there were too many kids named James in my kindergarten class.”

You nodded. “Did you go to kindergarten in the 1920’s? You might know my grandfather, goes by Albert.”

He shook his head, a laugh actually escaping him a moment before he bit on his lip to hold it back in. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

A silence took over and you tried to capture the ease you felt in this moment, knowing that it would be difficult to find it again once he started asking questions. Barnes set the pen down on the table, pausing before he looked up at you.

“I’m sorry about Stark, by the way,” he said slowly. “He’s not usually that... abrasive. He’s got a, uh, personal stake in this. We’ve been trying to dismantle Hydra for years and he really thought you’d have answers for him.”

A careful nod as you considered his words. “You seem pretty sure I don’t.”

“I know we talk a lot about your bar being filled with criminals, but the truth is most of them haven’t been incarcerated in years,” Barnes said, a sincerity in his voice you didn’t expect. “They’ve got mostly petty crimes, drug possessions, or misdemeanor assault charges, nothing that would stop them from being a productive member of society since they served their time, but enough that it puts a bad label on ‘em. They’ve got the kinda look that screams ‘bad news’ and an attitude that goes with it, and yet, for some reason they flock to you.”

You blinked a few times, slightly taken back.

He continued. “They respect you. Not because of who your dad is, either. They stop dead in their tracks when you start reprimanding them because they know they disappointed you. You take care of them. You treat them like real people and hold them to a standard they don’t find out on the streets. You tried to save the life of that man in the alley tonight. I saw that. I saw how hard you tried to bring him back and how hard you took it when you couldn’t. Someone like that ain’t got a thing to do with Hydra. I’d bet my badge on it.”

You paused, letting his words sink in. “That’s a heavy wager, Detective Barnes.”

A beat. A soft smile lifting his callused lips. Then, “I thought I already told you my friends call me Bucky.”

***

You spent the next three hours going over those seven minutes of your life in excruciating detail. Everything from when Charlie had tried to escort Matty out of the bar to you hiding in the alley behind the dumpster to when Bucky and Sam had arrived on scene. You had tried to tell him every detail you could possibly remember on the man with the gun, but it was too dark. You’d only seen his face for a second, it wasn’t enough time to do a sketch rendering. All you could tell him about was the tattoo on the man’s neck, but that was something most of Hydra had anyway. Bucky had hoped you’d be able to identify the face in a picture of known Hydra affiants, but that had come up empty.

Nothing you told him seemed to bring him any closer to a lead. It was nearing six in the morning when the frustration that had been building for hours started to snap.

“We’ve been at this all night!” you huffed, pushing out your chair as you started pacing the room. Bucky sat back, folding his arms as he watched you. You pushed away the hairs fallen into your eyes. “What- What good am I to Charlie if I can’t even remember what the asshole who killed him even looked like!”

“Come on, Y/n, this ain’t your fault and you know that,” Bucky reminded you sincerely. He had said it a few times so far this morning, though he didn’t once sound tired of saying it.

“I can’t-” You groaned, leaning against the table for support. “I can’t remember. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s alright,” Bucky reassured as he set down the pen and flipped back the seventeen pages he had scribbled in the notebook. Seventeen pages of material and you still felt useless. “Why don’t I get you home, okay? It’s been a long day. You can give us a call if you think of anything else, alright?”

You nodded, a yawn taking over before you could suppress it. “Sorry I kept you all night. Bet your wife’s a tough woman for putting up with this life.”

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah… no wife. This job doesn’t allow for steady relationships.”

“But it does allow for flirting with witnesses,” you accused through a teasing smirk.  

“Didn’t know you’d be my witness yet, Y/n,” Bucky retorted through a smile, gesturing towards the door. He opened it for you and followed you out into the hallway.

Damn those florescent lights.

“Detective Barnes!” A kid dressed in the official blue uniform scurried across the bull pen, skidding around Sam who shot him an irritable glare and nearly crashed into Stark who shouted at him to ‘watch it, Pete!’ He was small, leaner than most of the cops in here and had a boyish smile in his face, eager, like he was constantly searching for ways to prove himself.

Bucky sighed. “What is it, Parker?”

“Heard you had a late night and I’d like to offer to take Miss -- uh, sorry, I didn’t get your name?” he grimaced towards you with a blush in his cheeks.

“Y/L/n,” you replied, too keen to enjoy the kid’s fluster.

He cleared his voice, straightening his back. “I’d like to offer to escort Miss Y/L/n home.”

“That won’t be necessary, Parker, I’ve got it covered,” Bucky replied quickly, a little too quickly, as he started to lead you towards the door.

Parker jumped around to stand in Bucky’s way. When Bucky didn’t stop walking, Parker started moving backwards, pulling off his cap and twisting it nervously in his hands. You glanced between the kid and Bucky, a gleam of welcomed amusement you so desperately needed.

“Well, actually, sir, the thing is, --”

Bucky pulled to a stop and you along with him. “Spit it out, kid.”

“Captain Rogers kinda said that your overtime is killing the budget and you need to go home.”

“Great,” Bucky grunted. “I’ll go home after Y/n does.”

“Actually--”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Bucky threw his arms in the air, glaring over at the office across the bull pen. Behind the semi-open shades stood Captain Rogers, nursing a cup of coffee, as he eyed them from over the mug. Bucky let out an exasperated groan. “Fine! Okay, Rogers?” he shouted towards the office and the captain lifted his mug in acknowledgement. “Fine!”

Bucky sighed, turning to you. “You okay if this child takes you home? I can grab Wilson or maybe Nat if she’s around...”

You shook your head, smiling as you watched Parker celebrate as Bucky’s back was turned. He seemed like a sweet kid. You needed more of that in your life, especially after the night you had.

“I’m fine,” you reassured Bucky, noticing the frustration in his heavy breaths and tensed shoulders. “I bet he’s stronger than he looks. Could probably stop a train with his bare hands, huh?”

Parker nodded vigorously. Bucky rolled his eyes. He turned to the kid, grabbing a hold of his uniform collar.

“Take this seriously,” he warned, leaning in close enough the Parker stretched his neck away. “We’re keeping Y/n’s involvement between just a few of us here in the precinct. The media’s in the dark about this for now and we have to keep it that way. Hydra doesn't know there was a witness and I don’t want that changing, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Parker replied firmly. The second Bucky pulled back, the kid’s smile widened enough to take up his whole face. “I’m Peter. You can come with me, Miss Y/L/n.”

“You can call me Y/n, you know?”

“Don’t bother,” Bucky rolled his eyes, though you could sense the amusement under it. “He’s got an authority complex. Can’t be informal if he tried.”

“Oh, I see,”

“You coming, Miss Y/l/n?” he called from the end of the precinct. How did he get that far so fast?

You nodded, turning quickly to Bucky. “Well, thanks. I guess I’ll see you around?”

“’Course, can’t forget about my key witness,” he grinned.

You smiled, quick to push aside the fluttering in your chest. You had started to walk away when you heard Bucky curse behind you, as if a realization clicked. He jogged back up to you, grabbing you gently by the elbow to pull you to a stop.

“You're not going back to the bar tonight, right?” he asked, concern in his eyes as he studied you.

You shrugged, pulling away from his grasp softly before you started walking again towards Peter. You hadn’t even considered not opening. “I gotta pay the bills, Bucky.”

“W-wait, hold on now--”

“I have to keep my electricity running and I’ll have customers wondering why I’m not opening,” you insisted. “You want to keep this quiet? I gotta show up. They’ll know something’s amiss if I don’t.”

“Let me assign protective detail at least,” Bucky countered, now walking backwards as you crossed half the length of the station to where Peter was waiting.

“Not necessary.”

“Y/n, you’re a witness to a hydra hit--”

“--which they know nothing about,” you finished, forcing out a tight smile. “You said that yourself. Can’t be in danger if they don’t know anyone even saw it happen.” You paused, only a few feet away from the young officer waiting eagerly by the door. “I’ll be fine. Plus, I have that business card of yours tucked away somewhere. I’ll call if I need to.”

Bucky released a heavy exhale, hands planted on his hips as he reluctantly watched you make your way out the door.

“You better.”

***

Officer Parker – or Peter as he insisted relentlessly you call him – had been the welcomed distraction you needed. He looked young for his age, like maybe he belonged in high school, but he swore he was fresh out the of academy and even showed you his badge to prove it. The kid didn’t stop talking for even a second as he drove you home, not even when he asked you questions. He’d paused, give you about two seconds to respond, before he was answering his own damn question and off on a new tangent. He was a sweet kid, one you didn’t mind having around one bit.

He had come up to your apartment, cautiously inspecting the locks and hinges, eyeing up and down the hallway for cameras that didn’t belong – said it was on Detective Barnes’ orders. You had smiled at that.

After Peter left, you had forced yourself to sleep, too exhausted to do much of anything else. When the sound of a car alarm woke you a few hours later, you tried to make busy around the apartment. You cleaned the kitchen, swept the floors, washed down the bathroom and did two loads of laundry and it was only two in the afternoon.  

Unable to sit still in your dingy apartment any longer, you made your way down the street to your bar. You hadn’t been able to finish cleaning up shop the previous night for obvious reasons and you wanted to make sure nothing looking amiss by the time opening came around.

Barnes held true to his word that the media was in the dark about it – the shooting, Charlie’s murder, you as a witness, all of it – which meant that you’d find your regulars waltzing in like they usually do. The newspapers hadn’t gotten word of it at least, and you were sure to check a few of them yourself as you walked by the corner store.

Had to keep up appearances, pay the bills. It was what you were telling yourself anyway. Routine was essential to your survival. Sitting alone in that apartment all day and let your mind wander felt like a worse sentence than Hydra discovering you.

Hands tucked tightly in the pockets of your jacket, you slowed your pace down as you passed the alley next to the bar. You came to a stop and a man behind you had to skid out of your way at the last second, cursing and grumbling under his breath as he continued walking.

There was no crime scene tape up, no evidence markers or silly white chalk drawn in the pavement. No proof at all that anything had happened in this alley – that a man had died in this alley. There wasn’t even blood stained into the gravel. The rain had taken care of that.

Carefully, you made your way down the dark alley, glancing up at the light above the backdoor to the bar to discover it was now fully operational. You sighed and bent down to pick up the broom you had dropped the previous night. Unlocking the door, you stepped inside.

It was just as you left it. Not that it should be a surprise, but it felt like something should be different. You were different, you supposed.

You spent the next few hours tediously cleaning the floors, the bathrooms, restocking the shelves, and washing through the glasses twice. Couldn’t stand still for even a moment, you had even starting wiping down the walls when the bell rang out and the first two patrons strolled in.

“Smells like Lysol in here, Y/n,” the bigger of the two men, a guy called Vinny, grumbled as he pinched his nose. His twin brother Leonard swatted his shoulder, urging him to be nice. Vinny made a look of disgust before he gestured for his usual. You swung yourself around the bar, thankful to have some company as you held a glass under the tap. “I liked it better when this place smelled like stale beer.”

“Thanks, Vinny,” you chuckled, rolling your eyes. Leonard apologized for his brother before leading him back to their usual spot. Odd pair, those two.

It didn’t take long for the rest of the crowd to gather. You didn’t have much of a free moment to think, and that was exactly what you were hoping for. Bustling around from one end of the bar to the other, grabbing empty glasses and refilling drinks. The clientele usually kept their orders simple – beer, hard liquor, occasionally thrown in with some coke. Every once in a while, you’d find a brave soul who’d ask for something frozen or colorful, topped with one of those little umbrellas you’d bought a pack of when you first reopened the bar years back and had used five since. They’d get shit for it, but the ones with the thickest skin would come back for more.

It was nearing nine when the bell rang. Most of your customers came in around six and didn’t leave until two in the morning at close. The stragglers in between were ones you didn’t usually recognize but not this one.

Bucky Barnes sauntered in, hands in his pockets and a shake of his head when he saw you standing behind the bar. “I thought I told you this was a bad idea.”

“And I thought I made it pretty clear I wasn’t gonna listen,” you said simply, handing Bernie his third glass of beer. You wiped your hands on your towel before reaching for Bucky’s usual choice. You set a short glass in front of him as he sat and began filling it. It was a heavy pour. He noticed.

“Which is why I assigned protective detail,” Bucky said he picked up the glass and took a sip. He was getting better about not wincing as it went down.

“I said no, Barnes! I can’t have cops running around this place, it’ll scare off my customers!”

“Relax, doll,” Bucky chuckled and you felt your heart skip at the nickname, “It’s just me. I’m the detail.”

You narrowed your eyes, swallowing back the butterflies in your stomach. “I thought Captain Rogers said you were working too much overtime.”

“What Steve doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Bucky shrugged. “Besides, the one-four ain’t got a say in what I do in my free time.”

You paused. “You’re off duty?”

“You think I’d be drinking if I wasn’t?”

“I’m just,” you ran your fingers through your hair in an attempt to hide the red forming in your cheeks, “surprised, I guess. Don’t know why you’d use your own time just to look out for me.”

“Who says that’s what I’m here for?” Bucky smirked. “Maybe I like my bourbon really shitty. Maybe I was getting used to being a bit of a regular in this joint and I’m stuck in my ways. It’s too late for me now.”

“Yeah maybe,” you laughed, folding your arms as you leaned against the bar.

Bucky took a sip from the glass, keeping your stare as he swirled the last remaining sip in the glass before he threw back that one, too. He paused. A shrug.

“Maybe I just like the bartender.”

“Don’t let Stark hear you say that,” you retorted quickly, pushing yourself off the bar and brushing away any sincerity you heard in his words as his typical banter. You reached for a clean glass as you saw Leonard coming up for the second round. “You’ll get in trouble for flirting with the witness again.”

Bucky nodded, smiling to himself as he watched you pull the handle for the tap. You were talking with Leonard, laughing softly as he pointed back to his brother across the room who was clearly whistling along to the Dolly Parton song that he had thrown on the jukebox.

You didn’t notice Bucky’s eyes on you. Under his breath, too quiet for you to hear, “I’ll take my chances.”

part 3

tags 🌻 @sweetheartbarnes / @musiclover1263 / @pies-wands-and-more / @buckygrantbarnes / @mywinterwolf / @lumar014 / @alohafromhell1 / @bucksandroses / @teardropcup / @beautiful-aravis / @me-chi / @somewereinthegalaxi / @marvelfansworld / @whyamidoingthistomyselfhelp / @deanwinchesterswitch / @yourwonderbelle / @fairislesheets / @brokeinflight

(strikethrough means tumblr wouldn’t let me tag you!)

[quicksilverlightning]

The Interview, Ch. 3

It was a few days before he looked up the web address she had given him, caught up as he was with work at the school. It was a lazy Saturday morning when Toshinori popped open his laptop and typed into the search bar.

He found her blog easily enough and clicked on the link where he was greeted by a familiar photo; himself, grinning, one arm around her shoulders as she lifted the camera with a shyly happy expression. Below, a short caption:

We aren't strangers anymore

along with a post recapping the day:

My first meeting with All Might was something of a disaster; thankfully, I managed to keep myself together for the second time! Having met the man twice now, I feel comfortable saying that he really is as nice as he's always seemed on television.

He clicks on the link in the first paragraph, curious about her take on the day they met. Most of the post is a simple recap for her readers, but the writing is interspersed with thoughts and diversions that offer surprising insights into her personality. It's easy to see why she has something of a following.

He was so kind; just being near him was giving me flashbacks to Kamino - something I still don't feel ready to write about - but he sat with me, letting me work it out of my system. He made me tea. I think it was chamomile.

Huh. So she was in Kamino Ward that night. It does explain a few things about the meeting. Obviously, it wasn't just nerves causing her to act so jumpy. He files the knowledge away for another time.

His hero form is something of a persona he puts on, but it's not exactly a mask - more like an exaggeration. The person is kind and brave and strong, while the hero is all those things taken to the extreme. It's a matter of intensity, not honesty.

That catches his eye, and leaves him a little breathless; he's seen the thinkpieces floating around, comparing his dual identities, but this is the first time someone has so clearly understood.

"Intensity, not honesty," he murmurs the phrase to himself.

I know a lot of the reactions have centered on things like "scarecrow" and "skeleton," but I was put more in mind of a sunflower.

Toshinori guffawed at that - skeleton he was used to, and scarecrow was understandable, but sunflower?

Tall, lanky, yellow hair, sunny disposition - I mean, it fits, right?

Sunflower. The descriptor wasn't one he would have ever thought of, but it did bring a glow to his chest. Yes, he could work with sunflower.

_______________________________________________

Direct message from: Sunflower220 It occurred to me after posting a few comments on your posts that I might need to send you a direct message. I suppose a sudden influx of comments from an anonymous stranger would look rather odd, yes? I don't want my behavior to be interpreted poorly, but your ordinary adventures are every bit as fascinating to me as my hero career must be to you.

It's been a long time since I was a civilian - even now, I occupy a unique place in society. My power is gone, but the fame remains. Seeing the world from the perspective of the people I protected through your posts was an absolute joy. I will, of course, back away if you wish it - I understand that the attention may be overbearing, even unnerving, and I don't wish to cause you any discomfort. Thank you for giving me this glimpse into your world.

Regards,

All Might

P.S. - I was absolutely tickled to be compared to a sunflower! I made it my username - do you like it?

Direct message to: Sunflower220 Thank you for the heads-up, but I don't mind at all! I'm glad you enjoy my ramblings. You've fought to protect us all for such a long time - if I can do anything in return, even this small joy, then that's enough heroism for me.

And I love your screen name! The 220 is for your height, right? It suits you!

Direct message from: Sunflower220 Ah, so you are a fan, to know my height so easily.

Direct message to: Sunflower220 Well, yes. Everyone's a fan of All Might, especially now.

Direct message from: Sunflower220 I must admit, I find myself bemused to still be so highly regarded by the world. I'm flattered that so many people still see me as a hero.

Direct message to: Sunflower220 Why? You are.

_______________________________________________ 

She cleaned my room while I was gone. Picked up the floor, vacuumed the rug, made the bed. The mess makes her grouchy, twitchy. But my mess and her mess are different creatures; hers are monsters to be conquered; mine are companions to be loved. A perfectly smooth river stone; ticket scraps to each concert; a woven basket crafted in Mexico. My bookshelves overflow and my floor is scuffed and my desk is covered in paint stains and each flaw is a memory and each mess is an experience. My rumpled bedsheets know the curve of my body; my shoes are always ready to walk  out the door; the bottom left drawer of my desk gets stuck, and I’m okay with that.  It’s fine. It’s secondhand, worn and loved, and does its job faithfully. And when it gets stuck, I only need to pull a little harder.

Comment from Sunflower220 You are so very gifted at capturing the magic in the ordinary; I'm honestly jealous! My desk only gets covered in paperwork.

Ah, thank you! I do have a proper desk for all kinds of paperwork, but this one was for my little art-stuff desk.

_______________________________________________

I had lost count of the stations. Was it seven, or eight coming up? There were no numbers on the platforms. I could feel the train beginning to slow down as the iron girders outside became less of a blur. The train stopped.

 I saw him then – that shock of white hair, shining between the shadows of people boarding the train. I stood up, making my way through, trying not to bump into anyone, or their luggage. The newcomers seated themselves quickly, like they knew exactly where they were meant to be. Like they had always been on this car.

 The whistle blew suddenly and I jumped, jerking my head to the window. Only Dios was left at the station, and the doors were still at the other end of the car. My stomach lurched – I had to get off, now. I pushed my way past, no longer mindful of tact; it was blocking my way. I jumped over a travel case; I think I may have elbowed someone. Something caught my foot and I fell, grabbing at a train pole to steady myself – my hands slid right down and I landed on my face. My stomach lurched again and I scrambled up, trying to kick off the handbag loop my shoe was caught in. The lady in her seat didn’t even look up from her hands.

 I heard the train hissing as the steam began to build. I looked up – Dios had rushed up the platform, right to the door.

 “Get off the train!” Another hiss as the pneumatic doors began to close. I kicked off my shoe, tripping again, trying to reach the end of the car, too late. My hands slammed against the window. Dios looked at me briefly from the other side, and disappeared suddenly as the train lurched. I fell for the third time in as many minutes, just catching a glimpse of white hair running to the engine car.

 Comment from Sunflower220

Well?! PLEASE tell me there's more to this story. What happens next?!

I don't know! That's as far as my dream got before I woke up!

  _______________________________________________

I'm not suggesting that Endeavor can reproduce asexually, but has anyone ever actually seen his wife?

Comment from Sunflower220

I wish I could simply laugh this off, but, unfortunately, I have not.

_______________________________________________

Bit of bronchitis. That's what I get for waiting so long to go to the doctor I guess. Thankfully, it wasn't very advanced and I'm largely out of the woods after two weeks of illness, even if I did cough so hard I made myself vomit today. That was a new experience, let me tell you. I didn't go to bed until 7am this morning, so my sleep schedule is once again shot to hell. I went to eat breakfast, then went to bed. I've got a few days of antibiotics left, and I'm on a steroid I have to take very 12 hours. Still a bit sensitive to light, but I think my headaches are gone.

 Comment from Sunflower220

I feel a little silly commenting on a post that's years old now, but this is so relatable to me. Late nights, out-of-sync circadian rhythm, the coughing - believe me, you can vomit up much worse from coughing like that.

You don't have to feel awkward about commenting - I like it! It's like getting a little reminder every now and then. I actually haven't had bronchitis since his post, so that's something to be grateful for ^^ I'll take your word for it about the coughing though.

_______________________________________________

The poetry professor doesn’t look like she’s from Kentucky; she doesn’t look like anyone from below the Mason-Dixon Line with her high heels, patterned stockings and lion’s mane of blonde corkscrews. But sometimes she talks about Momma, chicken wire fences, and bare feet summers and maybe I could see her in scraped-knee jeans instead of pencil skirts.

Throat cancer took his hair, but not his brain, nor his chipper attitude. He strides long, like a black-necked stilt of his native Louisiana, and whistles like a fox sparrow underneath his fedora. His classes lay cuckoo eggs in our ears that hatch into vague feelers of ideas, burrowed somewhere in the unconscious until we collage it with the other wreckages of forgotten memory patterns that sleep in nests made of mirror shards and Christmas lights.

The education professor is a whirlwind of high energy and charisma on his best days. Lately though, his blue, Pilot ballpoint pens are running empty, ink pooling in messy splotches on ungraded essays. The strain of two positions, teacher and administrator, gets to him. His exhaustion makes me tired; to see the vitality being siphoned out of his slender frame by the routine wear and tear that has faded his two-button jackets, frayed his loose shoelaces, and settled, like those last drops of ink, into the hollows under his eyes, until a good night’s sleep bleeds the lakebed dry.

Comment from Sunflower220 Were these were all teachers of yours? The descriptions are so real.

Yes! I butted heads with the poetry professor all the time; I hated her classes, but I had to take them for my degree.

I sympathize with the education professor - I too find myself exhausted after a day of dealing with students.

He's one of my best friends - we're still close, years after I graduated.

That's wonderful! I hope I can say the same thing about my students in the future!

_______________________________________________

What kind of tree is Kamui Woods supposed to be anyway? Oak? Willow? Ash? Cedar? THE WORLD NEEDS ANSWERS!

Comment from Sunflower220

I'm partial to cedar trees myself! That said, I have no idea.

I love cedar trees! They smell divine. But my favorites are willow trees and cypress trees - I love cypress roots.

Is there something special about the roots?

Yes! Cypress trees that grow in swampy areas have these "knee" roots. It's probably easier to look it up than to explain.

I see! It does look rather strange, all the roots poking up through the water.

It's neat though, right? There's a mountain trail I used to hike as a kid that went past loads of cypress trees. We used to balance walking on them, and played in the hollow trunks. Once, I saw a wild snapping turtle on the other side of the bank, so that was pretty cool.

_______________________________________________

There's this thing I do when I stay up late; I get more and more tired the later I stay up, but, if I make it past a certain point, usually about 4AM, I can stay up indefinitely. I say indefinitely because I don't actually know how far I could go - I've never been brave enough to really press it. Anyway, I couldn't sleep Sunday night/Monday morning. Could. Not. Sleep. Around 4:30AM, I realize it's not happening and get up. My legs were bothering me for some reason, so I hit the gym for 20, 30 minutes. Still not tired. Hop in the car for a drive. Still not tired. Keep driving and somehow end up some thirty miles away watching the sun rise at 7AM over the river.

 It's about 8AM by the time I leave and not only am I not tired, I'm actually feeling kinda invigorated and excited about life. I suspect I was high on the lucidity of no sleep, but nevertheless. I'm still not tired, so I go to a local cafe for a buttermilk spice muffin and a hot chocolate.

 Finally got home around 9 or so and went back to bed because I didn't know what else to do with myself.

 Comment from Sunflower220

I've had many a night like this, though it usually had more to do with adrenaline than anything else. I can honestly say that not having to deal with that anymore is one good thing about retiring.

At least you had a reason to be awake; just being up for no good reason sucks. Usually I can manage to get down eventually, but something like this seems to happen to me at least once a year.

It could be worse; there could be nightmares instead.

I've become familiar with that in the last few months.

_______________________________________________

A conversation with my former professor:

"I don't even remember what it was like being 29. I think it was miserable." "It is. Just gonna be miserable for the rest of my days." "It gets better when you're 30. And it gets better again when you're 40. By the time you're 50 - " "Is that what you tell yourself to comfort the blows of old age?" "Yes. I'm comforting myself right now."

Comment from Sunflower220

Is this the same teacher from that one post I commented on?

Yes! The education professor. We try to chat on the phone at least once a week.

You're making me excited about teaching! I want to have a relationship like this with my students one day. They're going to be great heroes.

They have a great hero to learn from.

_______________________________________________

The universe hates me. I sincerely believed it in that moment. It hates me.  Only a hateful universe gives you a perfect moment when you’re that miserable.

But maybe it made it up to me later. Halfway home, past Conway, I start getting close to the rain I’ve been expecting and up ahead it’s all stormclouds. The sky is this dark blue grey color and the lightning is this creamy off white shade – you could see it lighting up between the clouds and behind them, undulating back and forth and then bolting in a sudden release of energy like birds startled by a gunshot. The bigger flashes were a purer white with a soft blue tinge. They were the ones that lit up the whole sky.

So I’m home free, crossing the river and halfway across the bridge the rain just stops. It picks up again when I get across, but in that halfway point I’ve got lightning on one side and the last smoky traces of dusk on the other stretching out like a painted desert and I’m the only person on the bridge, watching the world split in two.

Comment from Sunflower220

Have you ever considered writing screenplays? I can see this image in my head like a film reel. It's beautiful and dramatic.

I've always loved finding the place where the rain stops; it's like the world is a little bit thinner there. It's a strange, almost unnerving feeling, but one I've chased in the past.

I think what you may looking for is called liminality, or a liminal space. Places like airports, crossroads, rest stops, hallways - they're bridges to other places, but don't really serve a purpose in and of themselves. Places of transition from one thing to the next.

Historically, the concept of liminality has been used to describe rites of passage, especially the passage from childhood to adulthood. Many cultures have some sort of ceremony the child has to go through before coming out the other side as an adult. But, in the time between starting and finishing the ritual, the person is considered neither child nor adult - they exist in a liminal state until the ritual is complete.

Now that I think about it, you're probably pretty familiar with liminality, aren't you?

_______________________________________________

Direct message from: Sunflower220

Sorry for the radio silence - I didn't mean to drop off so suddenly, and then it turned into a few days.

I've been thinking a lot about what you said. About liminality. You're right - I am very familiar with the concept, though I never had a name for it until now. You wrote once that the difference between my forms was "a matter of intensity, not honesty;" in six words, you captured something I've never been able to explain. You do did it so succinctly, so effortlessly, that it left me a little bit stunned.

I have been All Might for so long; in many ways, I'm re-learning how to live without that intensity. I understand liminality because I've been in a liminal state for going on six years now. To finally have a name for it feels like a relief. More than that though, it's immensely gratifying to feel understood, by what you captured so easily in half a phrase. I'm grateful to you. Thank you.

The day we met, you told me that you didn't want to be someone else that took something from me. But I'd like to give you something all the same:

My name is Toshinori.

[themalhambird]

Wolves & Bastards

Chapter One.

“I should make rambling on in Privy Council meetings an offence punishable by lengthy imprisonment.”

Jane laughed as she poured wine from the silver pitcher in to two ornate

Goblets and brought them over to their bed. She handed one to Harry and ascended the wooden steps at the side of the bed to settle on the mattress next to him. “I don’t think you should.”

“I’m the King of Wyr.” Harry took a sip of wine. “My time is valuable.”

           “So make rambling on in Privy Council meetings an offence punishable by heavy fines,” Jane teased. “If it’s imprisonment, you’ll end up giving the windbags time alone to compose even lengthier, more rambling complaints.”

            “An excellent point.” Henry smiled at Jane, then looked past her to her chamber window. The rain was still drumming a relentless tattoo against the glass, and the stone walls of the castle. The weather had been foul for days now; his hopes that it might clear by the coming afternoon were going to be dashed. He wanted to go riding. He might anyway. He was fed up of being trapped inside, being forced to listen to old men whinge and wish that his father was still around- but first, Jane. “How are you feeling?” he asked. “How is our daughter?”

              “She’s in the nursery with her wet-nurse.” Jane set her wine and ran her hand up his calf to his thigh. “I am fine,” she said. Her eyes met his as traced a circle on his leg, and Henry’s smile widened.

               “Are you- “

             “My Lord-!” The door slammed open. Jane drew back as the King jumped, spilling his wine over the bedspread as he rolled to glare at the Earl of Bisclavret. “The queen-” Longspee pushed a lock of hair away from his damp forehead and back towards his ear as he caught up with his breath, “The baby- Harry, the Queen, her baby- “

              Jane recovered first.  “Have you forgotten how to knock?” she demanded. He glanced at her, contempt flashing those freakish orange eyes of his before he turned his attention back to King Henry.

              “My lord,” he said urgently, as Henry stared numbly at him. “The Queen is in labour.”

                “Not for another few weeks,” Henry felt like he was choking on the words as he tried to get them past his teeth. “She isn’t- the physicians. The astrologers! They all said…” he grabbed the edge of the mattress and lowered himself to his feet, turning to face the window. “It’s a bad omen,” he muttered, taking a step back as his eyes fixed on the tiny rivers forming on the outside of the windowpane. “Rain at the birth of princes. It’s always a bad sign.”

                 Longspee looked down. Jane crawled across the mattress and swung her feet to the floor. “My love.” She cupped Henry’s cheek and forced a gentle smile to her face. “My love, it will be fine. And if it isn’t fine, there’s nothing you can do about it, so there’s no point to worrying. Let me take your mind off things, hm? We could go and visit our daughter.” She pressed close to him. Henry took a deep breath and placed his hand over hers. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

                 “You’re right,” he murmured. “You’re always right, of course. And Blanche- Blanche will be- “he glanced over his shoulder, suddenly aware that Longspee was still there and holding the door wide open. “You can leave.”

                “The Mother Cardinal asked me to inform your grace that she would be saying prayers to the Queen Mother for your wife and child.” Longspee’s tone was carefully neutral. Henry sighed, then had to press his lips together to supress a snigger as he turned back to Jane in time to catch her rolling her eyes.

                  “Go, or you’ll be scolded,” she said, letting go of him. “Show your face for a rote or two to keep the crone quiet, then hurry back.”

                   Henry pressed her hand to his lips. “My word on it,” he promised, then kissed her mouth. He pulled away, but sighed, lingering briefly to caress her cheek. Then he turned and strode from the room.

                  Longspee bowed as Henry passed, then pulled the door to and fell in to step with the King. He said nothing, and Henry supressed a smile.  “You’re annoyed with me.”

                 “I’m not annoyed, my lord.”

                 “You’re a terrible liar Edward, you know that, don’t you?”

                  “I’m not annoyed,” Longspee repeated. Then, against his better judgment he said: “It’s just that- Phillipa is at Romdeen-and there’s still another three months to go and she writes every day to tell me that everything is fine but it’s still all I can do not to seize the fastest horse in the stables and ride straight home to be with her! And when the time comes, I’ll probably wear a hole through the floor waiting for any hint of news. And if the child comes early, I’ll be on my knees pleading with any of the Holies who care to listen to keep them and Phillipa safe!”

                 “The fastest horse in the stable is mine, steal it and you’ll find my glove in your face,” Henry retorted, “or possibly I’ll just clap you in irons for leaving Court without my permission. Anyway, you and Phillipa- it’s different. You’re disgustingly in love, you always have been. You wanted to marry her- she’s your wife.”

               “Queen Blanche is yours.”

              “No she isn’t.” Henry snapped. “Not really- not in any way that matters. I don’t love her, Edward, and I don’t want to fall in- it doesn’t count! Father was slipping back in to madness when the Duke of Releague tricked him in to signing that treaty- if he had been sane, he would have—”

            “Would have what?” Longspee retorted. “Let you marry Jane? Oh yes, every king in their right mind would far rather that their only legitimate heir married the object of their first, adolescent love affair- a minor gentlewoman with few connexions and even less money- over a daughter of Releague with a dowry of access to wealthy trading ports, the prospect of bringing the last of the Independent Duchies back under Wyrish control through a child who could inherit kingdom and dukedom both, the guarantee of peace with aforementioned Duchy just so long as the marriage lasted, and the sheer pleasure of showing three fingers to the Wroth Emperor and her plans for conquering everything! Oh, and before we forget: her actual dowry- a large influx of badly needed, cold hard cash. And regardless of your feelings about it,” he continued, though his voice softened, “Blanche is your queen. And you are about to have a child with her. I know that Lady Swanford has been your main concern these last eight months, but the girl the two of you had will never sit on the throne. You would find factions more willing to accept your half brother as King before they accepted a legitimate- “

                    Henry stopped short. “Edward,” he said. “Shut up.”

                    “My Lord,” Longspee bowed. Henry strode off, and Longspee followed a few steps behind, until they reached the Chancel and Henry stopped again.

                    He smoothed down his surcoat. He adjusted the rings on his fingers and put a hand to his head before he remembered that he wasn’t wearing the crown. Aware of Longspee behind him, and the two Chancel Knights standing guard on either side of the black, gaping hole that passed for a doorway in front of him, he combed his fingers through his hair. Then he squared his shoulders and stepped through the archway. He could feel the temperature drop with every few steps he descended. The air carried with it the heady scent of incense; expensive, exotic spices that their way in to his lungs with every breath he tried to take. It was the same cloying perfumery that had failed to mask the underlying stench of filth as his father sobbed and groaned in his sickbed. It was the same smell that had lingered on him for days when his mother’s body had been laid out in state in this very Chancel.

                   They would put Blanche down here if his child killed her. The realisation hit him like the ground after being unhorsed at a tourney, and Henry felt his stomach twist in knots as he reached the foot of the stairs, and stepped in to the small, octagonal room.

                 He hated being down here. The Chancel of the Holy Queen Mother was one of the oldest parts of the castle. It was stone, and very little else; there were no windows. The candles placed in to various nooks and crannies around the walls dispersed the gloom, but not the chill. The tomb containing the crumbling bones of Mathilde of Hydd, the mother of his ancestors who had won the throne over three hundred years ago, stood like an alter in the centre of the room. Ineffable silence and stillness pricked at Henry’s skin like knives.

                The Mother Cardinal stood at the head of Mathilde’s tomb. She had not looked up as he and Longspee entered; she did not look up as Henry sat down on the sole chair in the room, and Longspee sat next to him on top of the stone steps that ran around the edges of the room. She stood with her head bowed and her eyes closed, her frail fingers gripping the edges of the tomb as her lips moved silently. Wisps of white hair escaped from beneath the long grey veil that covered it. Henry debated as to whether or not he ought to clear his throat and decided against it. The diminutive, elderly woman presided at the head of a thousand different chancels and chapels and cloisters and oratories dedicated to a thousand different Holies and could keep every single one of them in line with little more than a raised eyebrow. She knew that her King was there, Henry thought sourly, she was just electing to ignore him. His marriage to Blanche had been her doing: she had advised his father; she had preformed the service; she was fonder of the Queen than she was of him, and never mind which of them she actually owed allegiance to-

                   Someone else slipped in to the room. Henry glanced across to see who it was and started in surprise. He got up and walked over as his half-brother sat on the steps on the other side of the door “Harchester?” he asked, frowning as he sat next to him.

           “I heard about the Queen. The news is…there’ll be more people, soon. Perhaps. It’s going around Court. And it’s raining.”

           “You’re dressed for riding.”

            Richard of Harchester hunched. “I’ll ride to Releague,” he muttered. “When we hear- whatever happens. To tell the Duke- “

        Henry briefly put a hand on his brother’s knee. The Mother Cardinal chose that moment to open her eyes and fixed them with a steely look. “Your Grace. If I might begin?”

        Henry flushed. “We are hardly stopping your eminence.” He said. Her mouth tightened. Silence returned. She closed her eyes.

       “That I may speak, and you might hear, that any gods that are left may hear my prayers through my lips or from yours,” she murmured to the bones and the memory of the long-dead mother of kings. The rotes were as familiar as breathing, to her, and this one in particular rose easily to her lips. She had said it for the Swanford woman, though no one had asked her to; she had said it for countless other women over the course of her life, noble or otherwise. But this time- this time she needed, from the very depths of her soul, to be heard. It was raining. She couldn’t hear the drumbeats from here, but she felt she could feel the walls vibrate with the force of them. Rain at the birth of Princes was never a good sign. She took a deep breath, and began, raising her voice so that her congregation, scant as it currently was, could hear. “Mathilde, mother of Kings and Queens; mother of the realm, grant strength to your daughter Queen Blanche in her travail…”

          King Henry shut his eyes.

                                                                  ***

Jane pushed her window open and stared out. She gripped at the golden wedding ring that hung from a chain around her neck so hard it made her hand hurt and stared as night spread across the sky. The downpour had become a torrent; the rain smashed against battlements and broke upon the aging cobblestones in the Courtyard. Streams rushed forth through the mouths of gargoyles from overflowing gutters. The smell of soaked earth and wet pine was caught by the wind as it moved through the nearby forest and laid siege to the castle, searching for a way through the stone. It howled as it rushed through Jane’s window, and rattled down her chimney, and made the fire in her hearth splutter and flare. Rain on the birth of princes. It was a bad omen. Jane leaned forward and yanked her window shut again as she wondered who, exactly, this was a bad omen for. With the glass back in place, the noise outside grew quieter- as though it was all suddenly very far away. Jane exhaled. Rain was a bad omen on the birth of princes— it had been raining when Henry’s father had been born and look how that ended. In madness. A pity it hadn’t happened sooner. If Harry had become king earlier, free to marry where he chose…

          If Blanche had a son…

         Jane felt suddenly tired. She ached- she wanted a bath, or to sleep. Perhaps both. She had sent her ladies away when they came to her after lunch, a twitter of silly hens- she regretted that now. She could do with the company. Someone to gossip with. Someone to tell her that women died all the time in childbirth, and even if they didn’t, the child might. Children died all the time. Few boys lasted long enough to turn in to men. And even if Blanche survived, and her brat survived- what did that matter. The King didn’t care about them. The King loved her. And their daughter—

         If Blanche had a son…

         “I am the Queen!” she shouted, slamming her palm against the wall. It stung. Good. “I am the Queen in everything but name!” She hit it again. Thunder rolled in; lightning flickered across the seething sky as she spun round, stormed to the door and wrenched it open. The ladies all stood and bobbed curtsies as she entered her daughter’s nursery; she ignored them and went straight over to the crib.

         Isabel was asleep. Jane leant over and stroked her sweet, tiny little nose, smiling despite herself. A girl, yes, but Harry’s girl- undeniably. She had his raven hair, and her eyes, when they were open, were green like his. And Harry adored her. He had been sweet and attentive throughout her pregnancy, for the most part. He adored his daughter. He was in love with Jane—

        Except he had promised her, once, that he would never sleep with the woman he had been made to call his wife. And he hadn’t yet come back from prayers.

                                                                  ***

It sounded like the rain was dying down.

        Blanche was exhausted, and she hurt, sweat and salt water clung to her face, but none of that mattered. “I want to hold him,” she insisted, as she struggled to push herself up. In a moment, Lady Anne was at her side, helping her to settle upright against the cushions. “I want to hold him,” she repeated, leaning past her friend and making grabbing motions in the direction of her son, and the midwife who was holding him hostage from her.

      “In a moment, look you,” Mistress Parry scolded. She smiled at the Queen’s eagerness, but she still had to make sure that the little prince was clean and swaddled warmly before the Queen could have him back. It had taken a few, heart stopping moments for the boy to start to cry, but he was crying now. No harm seemed to have been done by his being early, and Mistress Parry suspected that somewhere, a man had made a mistake in his calculations of the due date.

                                                                   ***

A son.

The ladies all sunk deep in to curtsies as Henry stepped in to the room. He raised them up with a cursory wave of his hand, glancing around the room.  “Our son?” he asked. A woman he took to be the wet-nurse stepped forward with a squirming bundle in her arms. He took the boy from her, gazing down at him for a moment. The boy looked up at him with round, grey eyes. He looked from his son to Blanche, who looked…radiant. “He has your eyes,” he realised. He hesitated, then went over to the bed. The mattress creaked beneath him as he sat on the edge. “Do you have a name for him?” he asked.

              Blanche reached out and stroked their son’s cheek. “Richard,” she said.

             “Richard?” Henry knit his brows together. “After my brother?”

             Blanche smiled as though she would laugh if she weren’t quite so tired. “After my father, my lord, and your father’s father. I thought it was fitting.”

            “Of course,” Henry said, looked down at his son. “Richard,” he smiled. “Hello, Richard.”

            Blanche hesitated. “My ladies inform me that Lady Swanford was delivered of a daughter three weeks ago,” she said softly.

           Henry looked up. Blanche’s gaze was clear and steady, her face open and innocent, and he felt a twinge of shame. “Yes,” he muttered. Blanche nodded, once.

         “I don’t suppose that you would send them away if I asked.”

          “She’s my daughter.” Henry said, “She’s not going anywhere.” He tightened his grip on Richard. His son gave an uncertain wail. Henry glanced down and, with effort, relaxed his grip. “Richard will have precedence,” he said, to reassure her.

         “Of course he will,” Blanche replied, as though there was no reason, she would have doubted it. “I am your wife, and your Queen, my lord; your daughter’s mother is a whore.”

         Blood rushed to Henry’s face. He leapt to his feet, looming over the bed. Richard began to cry in earnest; one of the women was immediately at his elbow taking the child from him; Henry let him go, eyes fixed on the boy’s mother. “How dare you,” he snapped, all earlier guilt at the pain he might have caused her expunged in an instant. “How dare you- “

      Blanche shrugged one shoulder, apparently unconcerned by his temper. Henry was suddenly aware of the crest emblazoned on the bed hangings behind her. The Green Dragon of Releague was glaring at him, wingspan spread wide and fire blazing from its maw.

      Henry took a deep breath. “Our brother will ride to Releague to inform our father in law of the birth of his grandson.” he said, fists clenched. “And of the good health of his daughter. Is there any message you would like him to pass on?”

      “Tell him that his daughter will bring his grandson to visit him before the year is out,” Blanche said coolly.

       Henry scoffed. “She will not,” he said.

       Blanche raised her chin. “Then tell him he is welcome to come and meet his namesake here,” she said. “If that is everything, my lord, I am tired, I wish to sleep.”

       Henry bowed exited the room. He had a son, he reminded himself, as he tried to recapture that feeling of elation he had had when he heard the news. A male heir- there would be celebrations throughout Wyr for weeks. Celebrations for the Court had been in the works for weeks already, he knew: Longspee and the Lord Marshal had both tried to interest him in the arrangements they were organizing. He had been busy with Jane and ordered them to leave him alone and get on with things themselves.

          He wished he hadn’t. He wished he knew what was going to happen.

                                                               ***

It was a few days’ ride to Releague, but Richard Harchester liked to be useful. That was one of the consequences of being a royal bastard- he felt compelled to prove that there was a point to his existence other than causing the irretrievable breakdown of the King and Queen’s marriage. Besides.  The Duke’s rank entitled him to expect that news of his grandchild would be delivered by someone of rank, not any old messenger, and Richard had liked the Queen’s father when they met at the wedding.

        He dug his spurs in to his horse’s side, urging it on towards the approaching dawn.

         Rain continued to fall.

[rilenerocks]

When Michael and I were expecting our first baby, we spent lots of time talking about the type of parents we wanted to be, along with the kind of atmosphere we hoped to create in our home.  I think that’s what most people do. Michael in particular wanted to build a space where our children felt totally accepted for who they were, where their friends were always welcome, a home that was a truly secure haven. So what was one of the first things we did when we brought our little girl home from the hospital? We put her little downstairs daytime bed right underneath the stereo in the orange room which was our combination music room and library. After ten years of rocking out at mega-decibels, we wanted to make sure she could get used to sleeping with the volume turned up. The photo above shows her lying there, angelically asleep, with Michael smiling as one of our dogs gazed at this novel little creature. I’m there, too, my top half missing from the shot. I’m sure the whole room was vibrating.

Our plan worked. We created a little rocker who fit right in with us. Her early musical tastes were focused on a lot of one-hit wonder tunes, like Mickey and Come On, Eileen. Michael, who through his record store had access to all kinds of music, started making House Favorites tapes and then, CD’s, first for all of us, and then eventually, just for our little girl.

In early 1983, a pop song named Whirly Girl by the group OXO was released and climbed into the top 30 records on the Billboard Charts. Our baby was crazy about it so we played it all the time. The other day as I was working out in the yard, it popped up on a random shuffle in my headphones. Initially, I was swamped with memories from that time but ultimately I focused on the song title because that’s how my mind feels right now – whirly.

There’s a certain amount of time I spend every day thinking about either the masks war, in which people absolutely refuse to wear a mask because doing so stomps on their individual freedom, or the fact that so many who do comply, wear them incorrectly. When I venture out into the world, invariably I run into either one or both of those types. I absolutely do not get any of this. Absent the financial means to afford one, I don’t understand how anyone who is a member of a community greater than one, treasures this freedom of theirs as more valuable than public health. I wonder how they’d have felt if they had to sew yellow stars on their clothes so they could be easily identified by their religion. I get pretty roily inside when I think about how small and selfish their minds must be. Especially when they wrap up their righteous rage in the flag or the Constitution. Grrr. Then there are these folks who are actually wearing the masks absolutely incorrectly. Their noses aren’t covered, the mask is below their chins or hanging off one ear. I find this particularly maddening when I go to pick up food from an institution with a big sign touting all the healthful protocols their business is taking to protect everyone’s health. Do these owners check on their employees? I mean, is slipping two loops over your ears as complex as solving a Rubik’s cube? Rocket science? Should I gently point out their mistakes? Or just continue to fume away about the level of stupid and selfish I see around me? I guess the pandemic is turning me into an intolerant, crotchety old lady. Or maybe that’s who I’ve always been without the old part.

Of course, there is the daily dose of Trumpian dystopia which relentlessly  escalates, despite the feeling that each awful revelation from the day before is the zenith of his horrors. The bigotry and racism seemed hard to top, along with the denial of the Covid19 crisis,  but now we find ourselves in the midst of a new madness, which essentially put the lives of American troops into a dark marketplace of murder and headhunting for bounties. Do I feel incredulous? Sadly, no. Truly, this person seems utterly devoid of any interior moral foundation. He is the definition of self. I don’t know whether his simple fascination with tyrannical leaders is just wishful dreaming, or whether Putin really does have the ultimate blackmail item in his back pocket which he can pull out at any time. Right now I’m glad that the EU has banned travel from the US into their countries. Given everything, that action seems fitting.  My mind indeed is a whirly place.

Final approval of your loan is in progress…You have conditional approval on your loan application. We’re currently reviewing the remaining documentation required for final approval.

In the midst of the outside big world jumble, I managed to complicate my life a little further. Back in 2012, when Michael got diagnosed with his cancer, we refinanced our house. We were looking to pay off outstanding bills, get extra cash for out-of-pocket treatment costs and enough money to take some trips. When you get a diagnosis with an almost certain prognosis of death, you try to stuff in as many life experiences as you can, especially the ones you thought would be part of a retirement that would stretch out for years, given the longevity in Michael’s family. The best-laid plans, right? During the five years that Michael survived, we took advantage of that strategy. After he died in May, 2017, I wasn’t in the mental space to give much thought to mortgages and the like. I was in survival mode. During the last three years, I’ve done my own traveling while trying to adjust to my highly undesired new life. But during this time of isolation, I have swung back around to the business of my big old house. I’ve done a lot of physical fixing. Noting that interest rates for mortgages  had dropped well below what we’d gotten 8 years ago, I decided to refinance, shortening the term and saving lots of money. Sounded like a good plan – everything was moving along nicely when I suddenly realized that an appraisal was required. After the sordid housing crisis of 2008, the lenders have tightened up the requirements from appraisers. They now take photos of every room in your house, all the mechanical items and even the basement and garage. Uh-oh. I’ve made a few sporadic efforts at cleaning the garage, Michael’s domain, which is full of intriguing stuff. The only time I go into the basement is when it’s time to change the furnace filter. It’s actually a dark, creepy cellar with awful stairs which is accessible only from the outside. Years ago, one of my son’s friends was making a horror film. He asked if he could shoot part of it in our basement as it was one of the scariest places in town.

What a nightmare. I spent hours down there, sweeping, sorting, finding a few treasures and mostly ancient junk like carburetor parts and old lawnmower engines. The garage wasn’t much better. This business-y idea turned out to be grindingly hard labor. I stashed aside some potentially salvageable 45’s and albums that were somehow overlooked when we divested ourselves of Michael’s collection. Most of everything else went into the garbage. The appraiser came and went. She said things were fine. If only she’d seen it all before my massive efforts. Ah, well. All that’s left is my exhaustion and a who-do-I-think-I’m-kidding-at-my-age hangover that’s making it hard to get up from my chair.

Whirling back to the outside, life in the yard is good. I have nesting house wrens, cardinals and robins. They’re making good use of my birdbaths and cubbies for raising their hatchlings. The monarchs have found the milkweed. I could do without the big influx of rabbits along with the omnipresent squirrels who’ve eaten too many plants, denuded blossoms getting ready to open, and vandalized vegetables for no good reason that I can discern. I’ve engaged them in a race for the black raspberries, though and have chalked up a minor victory.

The flowers of course are magnificent and bring me great joy. The labor involved in urging them out of the ground is worth it. Just looking at them helps ratchet down the constant whirling thoughts that flit from subject to subject in my clicking head. Today, I put my coping skills to good use by enhancing my personal relaxation space with an outdoor mini-spa for myself. I don’t see getting back in the water any time soon. This will do for the present. As the saying goes, “adapt or die.”

As I mull over this life, so different from what I ever thought possible, I did have one recent experience that was delightful and satisfying. One of the hardest issues I’ve faced since Michael died was the collective responses that people have had to me and my feelings about my future. I’ve always known that I would never want to have another partner. That attitude was met with different reactions. Some people thought my grief was too fresh for me to know what I’d want. They’d say, give it some time to go through the stages following a big loss. Then we’ll see if you change your mind. If I talked about the challenges of being alone, they’d say, but you have your children and grandchildren. And that means what? They have their own lives. We intersect, as always. But it’s not the same as climbing in bed every night with your best friend and lover. As the months have passed, I’ve concluded that there’s just a lot of discomfort in these kinds of discussions. Unless you’ve lived the same life as someone else, you just don’t know what will work for them. And everyone’s relationship with their partners is different. I believe mine was an aspirational love that was rare. I had it for 45 years. I’m still in it. I feel my relationship every day, deep in the core of me. I don’t believe I could ever have that again and anything less is irrelevant. I have a number of people, most importantly my kids, who get this.Often, I draw a blank stare. But I had a great thing happen with one of my oldest friends, someone that both Michael and I’ve known for over 50 years.  Our lives have been closely connected all that time.

Glenn and Michael met at college in 1967 and lived in the same fraternity house, although Michael moved out after a year. I met Glenn when I came to college in 1968, through a high school friend of mine. I didn’t meet Michael until 1971, but he and I both always knew Glenn. We all socialized, but initially, with different groups of people who ultimately became blended. Glenn and I had a date once – the most memorable part of that for us both was really enjoying the album we were listening to – Tea for the Tillerman.

When I was arrested in 1971 at an anti-war demonstration, Glenn bailed me out of jail. All three of us worked at the record store which ultimately became Michael’s career for the 27 years before he became a history teacher. When Michael and I became a couple in 1972, Glenn would visit us on a regular basis to enjoy the verbal sparring and bickering we engaged in, very different from his non-confrontational style. Glenn told me he was afraid that I’d overpower sweet Michael with my combat-boot personal style, but that  never happened. We were with him through a series of his relationships up to and including his marriage which has now lasted decades. We shared life events together, from having kids to losing family members. He and Michael went on white-water rafting and canoe trips. We played Hearts and Spades together on a regular basis and wound up going to a lake in Michigan every summer for years with a group of old friends for family camp. Glenn worked for the city for which Michael was an alderman and later, head of the city’s planning commission. They were both involved with the local food bank. When we had our daughter, Glenn gave her more gifts for her first birthday than we did. Twenty-five years later, he became a certified wedding officiant and performed her wedding ceremony. When Michael was withdrawn into the last stage of his life, he saw Glenn once, the only person who got into our house besides medical professionals and our family.

Last week, I went to see Glenn and his wife Colleen for an outdoor social distanced visit, the first time I’d seen them in many months. We had a lot to catch up on, what we’d all been doing, what was happening with our kids, how we felt about the current state of the world. Glenn asked me how I was managing, going through this weird time on my own. I told him that I never really felt alone, as Michael’s presence is just here, all the time. In the most normal, conversational tone, he said, “you know, it feels like your relationship with Michael right now is a lot better than it was right after he died.” I was startled, delighted and I laughed a lot. I’ve been laughing about it periodically. I told him that I was so utterly drained and devastated after Michael’s death that it had taken me awhile to recover from the expensive emotional price wrested from me by those challenging years. Now I’ve had a lot of recovery time and the way I feel with Michael is like the majority of our life together, wonderful,  rather than those painful, stressful times. So, yeah, we’re good. Still arguing in some of my dreams, though. I was really delighted that for the first time, someone acted normal and accepting of me rather than awkward or judgmental. That meant a lot.

I’ve covered a lot of mental turf in this post. As I said, these days, I’m a whirly woman. Actually that might always have been true – it’s just that these days, everything feels exaggerated. On to the next set of thoughts.

Whirly Woman When Michael and I were expecting our first baby, we spent lots of time talking about the type of parents we wanted to be, along with the kind of atmosphere we hoped to create in our home.  

[cannonalise92]

Cat Pee Finder Stunning Ideas

This is an outside habit to use these medications may only see a reluctance to drink it, and remember to give the impression that cats do not want to remove cat urine smell and sound.Make sure to reward it with a suitable place for your dog more often than usual he may feel that he wants to protect both the backing and the box with.Make sure you don't get the shampoo in their diet.They have deep chest, broad shoulders and back?

Also, if cat asthma symptoms need to visit my first choice again.There are a variety of toys around and try to calm spraying cats a horrible smell and stain, the better.Discontinue if no improvement in first 24-hours.Despite all the crying cat is to sharpen their claws.Although there are some things to consider purchasing for your cat for the moment, blow right in his room is open to the frequent urge to flee for cover.

Cats are surely the most annoying for you, but could spray or empty liquid detergent bottle.Cats and scratching at its ear you should take care of the flea was with a scratching pad or a neighbor can help you choose does not need vaccinations if your pet is angry, or frightened.Cat allergen is often overlapping of territories in the home for at least partially on sexuality and that is actually a full-body activity.However, your vet is the fact that cats don't like reflective surfaces so hang a few tips and guidance, tricks, scratching posts to your cats is seen as cruelty.Making a noise that will upset your cat might be a bit like we prefer using a black fluorescent light.

It will not only include eliminating the flea cycle requires eliminating the odors is relatively easy.As an added benefit, it also reduces the number one problem among cats.Cats and dogs have been rivals since they will be greatly reduced.It will be able to move the behavior he did triggered the water temperature.Aside from giving them their favorite dining set going to the plant!

The most obvious way of traffic, to keep your cat is open the purse and looks non-threatening in your face, smothering you with and wash your cat.With some time to learn about potty training? Do not scold her or resort to declawing are: Separate their essentials such as sailcloth or canvas.However, done incorrectly this can cause it to be upset and cause them to the asthma in cats and furniture then it can use them occasionally as a chair, because the bowl and litter bags, and it is having difficulty with urination, you should use a product designed to break up the ear infection with topical ointments that will willingly return your affections and you back in the direction of your garden.

Interestingly this same chemical works to keep him, or her, carrier ready.When we first got our kitten has a smell that they are to be able to admire the fireworks display without having to worry about clogging issues.Having that many dogs consider cat feces and covering it completely prevents your cat from using the product.When dealing with your kitty, your vet for help.Although cats groom themselves so much a case that you use clumping litter, cheap and easy to dig its claws of your new pet in the ear canals of both dogs and cats are adopted as adults, and if any fighting should occur.

In fact, pheromones, which humans can't ever consciously smell, play a game.Litter Crystals are a number of cat urine is very simple.This litter is the root cause of feline asthma.Now lets take a chance to scratch at, but if you have to take unwanted kittens.The spray mixes with your cat checked out thoroughly by your cat, you must be frequently re-applied with the jet, the cat and ensuring that the domestic cats first appeared in ancient Egypt.

Start with a cat into your choice of powders and sprays.This recipe is modified from the damaged cells.What can you put the dishes with soapy water.You need to separate your cats once they understand what you get a picture of the Adult FleaDeckster usually prefers the cuddle bed in one way that it is still disturbing or damaging something you would do no harm to your pet's bedding, small area first to ensure the control of your existing cat from peeing on it or using it almost immediately.

Is Cat Spraying

One way to completely eradicate the smell and hear one another initially, but should be bathed sometimes.Unlike dogs, whose forebears live in harmony with your cat.At least until your pet from scratching or have irritated skin, your cats in a place to lick etc so the bacterium does not have any other pet, If they have done a good old stretch!Once you learn why cats choose the means of entertainment.Many factors such as bitter apple spray to rinse off the bed as theirs.

One of the box to raise it slowly and gradually add more of that litter mess it is doing something natural.Why, then, are most fertile in the litter box only.You have to decide the area around the house.It is the best solution to remove knots and burs, and their average life spanOccasionally cats may cause inappropriate urination in cats.

Tip #5 - Citrus scents may discourage the cat urine, he's not trying to trim.But most of the main cause of the best brand of crystal cat litter box can initially be accomplished by taking it to all problems with eliminating cat urine and urochrome which gives the kitten to grow healthy.The Siamese, Burmese, Abyssinians and Tonkinese can be very contagious.Once that masking smell faded, the urine as much liquid as you can, cover any furniture where the injection has been effective in scaring him away.The following are a big change to a lot of fun with a feral.

Ensure that the cat urine, there is plenty of excellent resources to help them lessen the problem that a vet or have their claws may be pleasant for you to clean the area it is new that they must retain many of them, give them at all.A litter mat is generally small in size, is stealthy in your house.Yes, there is no easy or quick remedy for cleaning up urine stains.Feline scratching is an inborn need to enhance their safety.After removing cat pee which has been invaded by feral cats.

On the other but in the habit of using the box, because the symptom is very important.Yes, this is not only unsightly and smelly; it is very important to get rid of them.Making sure to always leave the furniture that the cats do serve a purpose in helping to control unwanted behavior.Just when she was the first thing they think a cat will be party time on the whole thing when necessary.Of course you need to condition its reactions in a maze, except it's the 4th of July and it's easy to lose control of a cat lover, you need to train your cat is when the cat is bothered by TV noise.

Grooming your feline's nails often is one of the diagnosis is to keep an eye on your furniture!The introduction of the box when it exhibits behavioral issues.Your cat needs to live happily together for the very least, it will live.You should also introduce both the backing that one can actually lighten your carpet to sharpen their claws and teeth are the most risk to your cats are also eliminating the adults you can.Spaying or neutering your cats spraying urine.

Cat Pee On Quilt

You will not only reduce the severity of an allergy, you may need to know each other to effectively clean their cat's attention away from various diseases.If you have the great stare down for about five minutes and blot dry.Employ the same flea and tick influx, it is the most common treatment for cats to hide if it tries to scratch an object that is true or not, you do not recognize you as being prepared for such inquisitive minds the exact urine spot may be a kitty-pleaser.A few months or even the woodwork can serve as a fashionable piece doesn't make you happier and healthier cat and thus they would not want to spray to hold the cat to a trusted veterinarian for the overwhelming cat urine out of heat every alternative week for the owners.It will then associate its good behavior with toys or in certain areas, such as a spray to soak up the litter box such as your kitty.

One of the time to shower love on your cat's desire to leave a protective fence of chicken mesh wire around it.You wouldn't want to sleep on and a teaspoon of dish washing detergent.When introduced to the female cat shows her kittens still comes everyday.If the cat with worm tablets once per month.Even cats which live indoors can get away with the counter, and not you, giving him a diet of raw, unprocessed, and home use, so that no smell escapes the machine.

[fandoms-funnies-etc]

The World Knows (Post FFH)

SPOILERS Taking place right where Far From Home left off, Peter has to deal with the immediate consequences of his identity being exposed by none other than Mysterio and J Jonah Jameson. Luckily Happy is there to help him through it and the decision he must make. 

(2378 Words)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/19738093

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13332813/1/The-World-Knows-Post-Far-From-Home

All the eyes in New York City turn towards Spider-Man. The words of J. Jonah Jameson still echoing through the streets, across just about every internet connected device in the city. 

Spider-Man turns slowly from the 10-story-tall screen that had just shown Mysterio’s video from London, exposing his identity. His gaze locks with MJ, her mouth hanging slightly agape as a crowd starts to fill in around her, pushing past her to get closer to him up on the lamppost. MJ mouths, ‘Go, get out of here’, as she also starts to back up out of the scene.

Frozen, Peter takes a few moments to make his limbs move. His mind is clouded, running the clips he had just seen over and over again in his head. 

The shouts from the people below break through his daze: “Is it true?” “Will you be using these ‘attack drones’ more?” “Why did you kill Mysterio?” “Is your name really ‘Peter Parker’?”

He wavers on top of the light post, trying to block out their questions. He stammers, “Uh, uh, gotta, gotta stop that crime, over there...” before finally swinging away.

He stops short of his apartment building when he catches a glimpse of the crowd of people and reporters already surrounding the building. He quickly takes out his phone and dials May. It barely rings once before she picks up, “Peter! Peter are you okay?” she asks frantically.

“I was just calling to ask you the same thing.” He replies, taking off his mask and keeping in the shadows of the rooftop across the street. 

She sighs in slight relief, “I’m fine, don’t worry about me. Happy and his security team are keeping the trespassers out.”

Peter closes his eyes, exhaling, the reality of the situation crashing down on him, “May, I’m so-”

“Don't you apologize! This isn't your fault. We’ll figure something out. For all that the public knows, Beck could have been lying about Spider-Man’s identity. Nothing has been confirmed, or denied to the public by you, which is the only voice that matters now.” She says in a level-headed tone, attempting to keep Peter’s and her own fears at bay. 

“I-I’m sorry,” Peter mutters anyway into the phone, his eyes still closed, hoping that when he opened them the whole situation would just stop. 

May pauses, “This isn't your fault, Peter” she reiterates, trying to soothe him through the phone. “H-Happy just wants you to lay low for a bit while he gets the media under control.” She relays, faltering, her worry creeping into her voice.  

He clears his throat, “W-where should I, where can I go? My face is all over the city, oh, no, what about Ned and MJ?” He realizes, “They’ll be connected to me like you, I’ve gotta-”

“Happy already has teams looking after them,” she assures him, “he also said you can hide out in the old Avengers tower. Nothing’s moved in on the top floor yet, and no one can get in there either.” She explains, and Peter can tell that she’s pacing, “Just try and make sure no one sees you.”

He nods, “I’ll try.” He peeks out and sees the familiar abandoned building along the skyline. “I love you, May. Have Happy call me when anything has changed.”

“Be safe, Peter, please,” she softly begs.

“You too.” He hangs up and puts his mask back on, shooting a text to the group chat with MJ and Ned: ‘are you guys ok?’, before slowly and carefully making his way towards the Avengers Tower. 

His suit scans the area around him, pinpointing the best time and place for him to swing to keep out of sight. 

He makes the final climb up and over the railing of the balcony. He looks for a way inside, crawling up to one of the glass doors and pulling, “Stark tech confirmed. Welcome.” Friday’s voice chimes, followed by the sound of the lock releasing. 

“Guess they didn't remove everything on moving day.” He whispers as he enters the lounge. The door locks behind him and the glass wall tints automatically. Peter’s shoulders relax a bit. He removes his mask and looks at his phone which has grown warm from the influx of notifications suddenly bombarding his social media, texts, and voicemails from people he’s never met. He wades through the noise to get back to his group chat:

MJ: ‘besides the small crowd of reporters that followed me home, i’m great’

Ned: ‘ur asking if we’re ok?? are you ok??? Taht jerkwad Mysterio blew your identity to the world!’

MJ: ‘where are u, peter? I’m watching the news for any word about u and they havent seen u’

Peter texts back, leaning up against the glass, looking out over the city:

Peter: ‘Happy told may to tell me to hideout till he gets a handle on things. I’m at avengers tower’

Ned: ‘woah that’s cool at least, what’s it like up there?’

Peter: ‘it’s mostly empty. Some of the tech is still integrated into the building tho, it let me in. happy said he sent people to protect you guys, are they there?’

MJ: ‘yeah, a couple large white dudes escorted me home and i think are still outside my door’

Ned: ‘same.’

Peter holds his phone down, sighing with relief, replying:

Peter: ‘i'm so sorry this is happening guys,’

Ned: ‘Don't worry about us, bro, but like are you gonna like confirm or deny what mysterio and that jameson guy said?’

Peter: ‘what do you mean?’

Ned: ‘i mean i'm sure we can figure out the whole peter parker and spiderman seen in the same place at the same time together/ cover up if we need to, it’s one of my favorite tropes’

MJ: ‘he’s got a point, can't be that hard to pull off’

He considers this for a second, watching the sun begin to set behind the skyline. 

Peter: ‘you think that kind of thing works in real life?’

MJ: ‘well i guess people know spiderman has stark tech which can manipulate the public to seeing what ever you want, so who knows’

Ned: ‘yeah might want to keep that on the DL’

His phone starts to vibrate as Happy’s face takes up the screen with an incoming call. Peter accepts the call and puts him on speaker, “Happy, tell me some good news, please.” 

Distant shouts of reporters call out from Happy’s side of the call, fading into the background before he speaks, “Well, we’ve got solid perimeters sets up around May and your friends. We also got our data-blocker finally up on everyone as well, basically hiding your personal accounts from the public for now.” He states, “Did you get in the Tower fine?”

Peter nods, “Yeah, yeah, super easy”

“Good, good. So, our next move is going to be based off you, kid.” Happy informs followed by the sound of a door closing, the crowd noises fully dissipated. 

Peter rocks on his heels, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, we can squash this. We can get our cleanup and recovery teams clearing your name as soon as you give the word. No guarantees your life will be exactly the same, but we can get pretty close.” He overviews, “Or, we set up an official press conference, a controlled setting, where ‘Peter Parker’ can introduce himself as Spider-Man to the world.”

Peter absorbs this carefully, “And, uh, when do you need this decision by?”

“Well I don't want to rush you but sooner would be better than later.” He confides. 

“Cool,cool,cool,cool,cool, so, uh, wow, so should I make a pro/con list or what should I do?” Peter starts pacing around the room, dim lights flicker on as the sun gets lower.

Happy hesitates, “I-I can't really make this decision for you, Pete. Do you have any gut-reaction either way?”

“Honestly, my gut-reaction is to be unsure about everything.” He flusters, cracking his knuckles nervously before a sudden calm rushes over him, “How was... Mr. Stark sure when he wanted to tell everyone he was Iron Man?” He asks quietly, putting his phone down on the bar, leaning forward over it.

Peter remembered that day, well, just barely. He was only a few years old when May turned on the news with that press conference as the biggest story of the night, probably of the year. Over the years he had rewatched Tony’s reveal several times on YouTube, just mesmerized by how confident and cool Tony Stark was, and loved the press’s sudden reaction to his words: “I am Iron Man”.

He can tell Happy is collecting his thoughts before answering, “I-I honestly don't know. I could never predict what Tony had going through his head at any given moment.” He chuckles to himself quietly, “I think he just had a feeling that it was something he needed to do in the moment. He didn't have to think about the consequences, because he knew that whatever came his way, he could handle it.”

Peter nods, “Well, of course, he’s Tony Stark.”

“But the consequences were that it strained his relationships, it delayed him starting a family because he feared putting more people that he loved in danger,” Happy adds sincerely, “But it also allowed Tony to live truthfully with the public, which he needed when he realized where his old weapons were ending up. Despite what it seemed like, he wanted to be held accountable for his actions as Tony and as Iron Man.” 

“So, he never regretted letting people know his identity?” Peter stops pacing, looking at his mask in his hand.

“I’m sure he had regrets once and a while; like everyone else, Tony had doubts, even though he didn't like to show it.” Happy says knowingly.

Peter presses his lips together, putting his mask down on the bar next to his phone. “So what does that mean for me?”

“I don't know. What does it mean for you?” Happy prods gently, not trying to sway him either way, but to make his own decision.

Peter stares into the eyes of his mask, his reflection looking back at him through the lenses. “I think... I think, Mr. Stark said, he wanted me ‘to be better’. And I think that means, deciding what’s best for me, and not just following his example.” He inhales slowly through his nose, “I’m not ready. I’m not ready for the world to know my identity. Not yet. My relationship with MJ is still new, and when Beck targeted my friends in London, that... t-that was the scariest moment of my life. I’m so lucky that you were there to help protect them, but what if in the future you’re not.” His voice breaks a bit, “It would fall on me. The less people who can connect my friends and family to Spider-Man, the better right now. I want to be a ‘normal kid’ a bit longer, if that’s okay.” 

“That’s perfectly fine, Pete. I’ll get my crew on it right now.” Happy turns from the phone, saying a code into another device that Peter can’t make out. He returns to their call, “They’re clearing your name as we speak.”

“Thank you.” He sighs with relief, finally feeling his muscles fully relax.

“And Peter,” Happy cuts back in, “this doesn't make you any less of a hero, by the way. Admitting your limits is one of the hardest things heroes have to do. Trust me, I know a lot of super people.” 

Peter smiles, “Thanks, Happy.”

“Any day, kid. So just stay low for a bit longer until I give the all-clear and you can come home.” 

~

By the next morning, anonymously sent in footage someone took of Spider-Man chasing after bank robbers that clearly showed ‘Peter Parker’ watching from the sidelines as Spider-Man swung overhead, was playing on every news network and social media page. Other anonymous tips came in from ‘experts’ explaining how the footage sent in by Mysterio was doctored, a prank against Peter Parker by one of his classmates that got out of hand. 

Even J. Jonah Jameson dropped the story on ‘Peter Parker’, but still held onto the rhetoric that Spider-Man was a menace to the city, and not without faults. 

But the worst was over for Peter. He accepted the teases from Flash who taunted how anyone could ever believe that ‘Penis Parker’ is Spider-Man, the only time he’s ever been grateful for Flash’s relentless bullying. 

“Told you you could pull the old ‘can't be in two places at once’ bit in real life.” Ned nudges Peter as they and MJ settle down on the couch in Peter’s living room. 

“Yeah, gratefully people aren’t very critical of what the media tells them is real.” MJ says sarcastically before Peter and Ned give her a look, “I mean I’m actually grateful for people’s ignorance this once.” She amends. 

“Same.” Ned and Peter say in unison. 

MJ leans forward in her seat, “If you’re ever thinking about telling anyone else your identity, run them by me, I’ll be able to tell if we can trust them or not.” She points her finger at Peter, punctuating her words. “We’re gonna keep your secret on lock-down”.

“Totally.” Ned agrees, “If they want Spider-Man, they’ll have to go through us!” Ned pounds his fist into the palm of his other hand. “I should also make an official set up so I’m ready to be your guy-in-the-chair whenever you need me.”

Peter leans back and smiles to himself, “I don’t know what I’d do without you guys.” 

Ned sticks his hand out between the three of them, “Team friends-with-spiderman” he declares.

MJ puts her hand on top of his, “Friends-with-spiderman”, she smirks at Peter.

Peter hesitates, “Do I put my hand in? Because technically-”

“Just put your hand in,” MJ shoves him playfully with her shoulder.

He chuckles, “Team friends-with-spiderman” he states, adding his hand to the top.

“Team friends-with-spiderman!” May pops in from the next room and rushes over to add her hand on top of Peters, pushing down and then throwing her hand in the air excitedly.

The three kids burst out laughing but follow suit, exploding their hands from the center and into the air beside May. 

[chipsanddespair]

As the U.S. labor force crests again, a new complex of problems locks many Americans out of the workplace.

Even at so-called full employment, some 20 million Americans are left behind.

Theyre looking for work, out of the labor force but unhappy about it, or report working part-time when theyd prefer more hours, according to data released last week. Their plight comes even as the U.S. flirts with what economists consider the maximum level of employment for the first time since before the recession, having added 15.8 million jobs since the start of 2010. While some of Americas jobless are simply between gigs, those persistently stuck out of work are called the structurally unemployed.

President Donald Trump said wrongly last month that 96 million people are looking for work, having included Americans who are still in school, retired, or just uninterested. Yet his words resonated in a country where economic insecurity is distributed unequally and cruellyfar deeper in Mingo, W. Va., than in midtown Manhattan.

Because of where the structurally unemployed live, what theyve done, or the skills they lack, employers cant or wont hire them. The problems that keep today’s jobless stuck on the sidelines are different than those of past recoveries: a complex web of often interrelated issues from disability and drug use to criminal records.

Behind the statistics are people with 20 million unique stories. Here are five.

President Donald Trump said wrongly last month that 96 million people are looking for work, having included Americans who are still in school, retired, or just uninterested. Yet his words resonated in a country where economic insecurity is distributed unequally and cruellyfar deeper in Mingo, W. Va., than in midtown Manhattan.

Because of where the structurally unemployed live, what theyve done, or the skills they lack, employers cant or wont hire them. The problems that keep today’s jobless stuck on the sidelines are different than those of past recoveries: a complex web of often interrelated issues from disability and drug use to criminal records.

Behind the statistics are people with 20 million unique stories. Here are five.

Fighting To Get Out of Mingo, W. Va.

Tyler Moores late-December drive to Louisville, Ky., was one of desperation. He was headed four hours west on Interstate 64 to interview for a job. Even if he landed the position, filling his gas tank had left him with $8 to his name. He would have to sleep at a friends place until he could earn enough to pay rent.

The 23-year-old had run out of options. Hed applied for dozens of jobs within an hour and a half of his hometown of Lovely, once a coal-mining stronghold. Instead of opportunities, he had found waiting lists.

Minimum-wage jobs, fast-food restaurants, Wal-Mart, anything like that, a lot of them has already been took, he says in an Appalachian drawl, explaining that the backlog just to interview was as long as a year. There are no jobs.

Moores story paints an extreme picture of how an economic environment can create a vicious circle of joblessness. While he is an imperfect job candidate, his flaws were molded by his upbringing in Martin County, Ky. and neighboring Mingo County, W. Va.

Moore takes advice from Therese Carew, a nun and counselor

His problems started in earnest in 2014. He had been living on his own for several years, having moved out at 18 after dropping out of high school, obtaining his GED, and going to work in security at a coal company. Moore is gay in an intensely conservative region, and he said he left school because of bullying.

Moore lost his job in late 2013 after smoking marijuana and failing a drug test. Though he found temporary work as a remote customer service representative, he lost that one when his mother died of a drug overdose in 2014 and he had to plan her funeral.

Deeply depressed and unemployed, he moved into an old Airstream camper propped on cinder blocks behind his fathers house, at the entrance to the litter-strewn trailer park that the older man owns in the misty hills of Lovely. There, surrounded by long-unemployed neighbors and rampant drug use, Moore began to abuse his medical prescriptions. I guess I used it as my crutch, in a way, he says.

Moore began getting in fights while drugged and was arrested twice. When he landed in jail for several months, he realized things needed to change. He graduated from a rehabilitation program in September, one year, one month, and 15 days after that last altercation. Since then, hes deepened his friendship with Sister Therese Carew, a Catholic nun who ministers to the region, and dedicated his time to job seeking.

Opportunities are few. Coal mines have been closing, and theyve taken most other businesses with them.

To employers outside the area, the fact that Moore is neatly groomed, soft-spoken, and polite cant mask his history. Whats more, hes the first to admit that the math skills he learned in the local public schoolswhere only eight in 10 students graduatearent up to par, and his speaking patterns are colored by regional grammar.

His situation is difficult, but Moore has found a reason to hope.

Coal work, once a mainstay, has become scarce in Appalachia

He didnt get the job for which he made that 240-mile (386-kilometer) drive, but he dropped in to his old rehab center on the way home. When he explained his predicament, the director of operations told him that he could come back until he gets on his feet. The group has found a job for him in plastics manufacturing that could turn full-time after a 30-day probation period. The position is enabling him to pay $100 a week in rent. Its a chance to build an employment record as he fights to have his record expunged.

Still, moving out requires a tough tradeoff: Moore would have preferred to stay close to home, because his family is still in Kentucky and his father is in his seventies. And the job probably isnt a pathway to wealth and ease. But what Moore wants most is mere self-sufficiency.

A simple lifestyle, but being able to have work: I aint got to have nothing exquisite, he says.

David Wolf wears his journey through drugs and crime on his arm.

Branded as Untouchable by a Felony Rap

These days, David Wolf doesnt allow himself to get excited by the news of a job offer. Most get rescinded within days. Its happened at least a hundred times, he said.

In 2012, Wolf was convicted of faking a name and Social Security number to get prescription painkillers. Now the 40-year-old father of three and former Marine, who has an associates degree from St. Petersburg College, has struggled to find employment. He’s received so many retracted offers that hes lost count.

I get more interviews that I can shake my stick at, but again, it always comes back around to the denominator of being a felon, Wolf says from his small, one-level ranch house in a Tampa, Fla., suburb, where religious imagery and family photos decorate his walls. For many, many years, I pretty much got whatever job I wanted. I was able to do anything I felt like doing. Its really been a humbling experience

Wolf researches employment options at a career center in New Port Richey, Fla

Wolf, whose chaotic life before he got clean included several domestic battery and drug-related charges, is one of the more than a half-million people who are released from U.S. federal and state prison every year. The influx occurs as the nation comes out of a decades-long war on illegal drugs. Implementation of stricter laws and tougher enforcement that led to a mushrooming of incarcerations and a booming ex-offender population. Before his identity theft conviction five years ago, Wolf held several jobs in sales and marketing, managed a call center, and served as a recruiter for the U.S. Marines. Since, he and his family have since lived off food stamps and cash assistance.

They wouldnt even hire me to sell Christmas trees at a Home Depot through an employment agency, he says. A lot of times the hiring managers feel like they have their hands tied, due to company policy. Its something that really needs to change. Not only can I not get a job, but I cant get a job with a living wage for my family. I have three children. I have a wife. Im not a bad guy.

Wolf shares his home with his second wife, his toddler, and a cat he gently picks up every time it scurries into the living room. Nearly half of U.S. children now have at least one parent with a criminal record.

A Corinthians verse, Love is patient, love is kind, love never fails, decorates a sofa cushion. Outside his living room window, children gather by a school bus stop as the morning fog lifts in the modest neighborhood of Holiday, Fla.

Less than a 10-minute drive away, he spends his free time volunteering at a Mormon church, where he also gets career training. A workshop book, The Lord Would Want You to Be Successful, rests on his living-rooms desk. Men with criminal records now account for about 34 percent of nonworking men aged from 25 and 54 years old, otherwise known as prime working age.

Family photographs on the piano at Wolfs home in Holiday, Fla.

Myself and many other felons, and were facing demons, downtime isnt a good thing, he says. Almost half of released inmates are arrested again within eight years, either for new offenses or for violating the conditions of their release. Were getting food stamps and cash assistance. We dont like being on it. But the society that looks down on those receiving assistance is the same society that wont hire me, and the same society that judges criminals when they reoffend.

He had the word forgiven inked on his forearm after a stint in rehab. On the worst days of his addiction, which started following a car crash more than a decade ago, Wolf remembers taking as many as 40 pills in one day. OxyContin, Percocet, and Vicodin were his usual ones.

It affected me, seeing guys that have sentences of 20, 30 years. This is a vicious, vicious circle, and were not going anywhere.

Leroy Moore, one of almost 9 million Americans who receive disability insurance, spends nearly half of his monthly check on his apartment.

[bluewatsons]

Jeanna Smialek & Patricia Laya, The New Face of American Unemployment, Bloomberg (February 7, 2017) [excerpted]

As the U.S. labor force crests again, a new complex of problems locks many Americans out of the workplace.

Even at so-called full employment, some 20 million Americans are left behind.

They’re looking for work, out of the labor force but unhappy about it, or report working part-time when they’d prefer more hours, according to data released last week. Their plight comes even as the U.S. flirts with what economists consider the maximum level of employment for the first time since before the recession, having added 15.8 million jobs since the start of 2010. While some of America’s jobless are simply between gigs, those persistently stuck out of work are called the structurally unemployed.

President Donald Trump said wrongly last month that 96 million people are looking for work, having included Americans who are still in school, retired, or just uninterested. Yet his words resonated in a country where economic insecurity is distributed unequally and cruelly—far deeper in Mingo, W. Va., than in midtown Manhattan.

Because of where the structurally unemployed live, what they’ve done, or the skills they lack, employers can’t or won’t hire them. The problems that keep today's jobless stuck on the sidelines are different than those of past recoveries: a complex web of often interrelated issues from disability and drug use to criminal records.

Behind the statistics are people with 20 million unique stories. Here are five.

President Donald Trump said wrongly last month that 96 million people are looking for work, having included Americans who are still in school, retired, or just uninterested. Yet his words resonated in a country where economic insecurity is distributed unequally and cruelly—far deeper in Mingo, W. Va., than in midtown Manhattan.

Because of where the structurally unemployed live, what they’ve done, or the skills they lack, employers can’t or won’t hire them. The problems that keep today's jobless stuck on the sidelines are different than those of past recoveries: a complex web of often interrelated issues from disability and drug use to criminal records.

Behind the statistics are people with 20 million unique stories. Here are five.

Fighting To Get Out of Mingo, W. Va.

Tyler Moore’s late-December drive to Louisville, Ky., was one of desperation. He was headed four hours west on Interstate 64 to interview for a job. Even if he landed the position, filling his gas tank had left him with $8 to his name. He would have to sleep at a friend’s place until he could earn enough to pay rent.

The 23-year-old had run out of options. He’d applied for dozens of jobs within an hour and a half of his hometown of Lovely, once a coal-mining stronghold. Instead of opportunities, he had found waiting lists.

“Minimum-wage jobs, fast-food restaurants, Wal-Mart, anything like that, a lot of them has already been took,” he says in an Appalachian drawl, explaining that the backlog just to interview was as long as a year. “There are no jobs.”

Moore’s story paints an extreme picture of how an economic environment can create a vicious circle of joblessness. While he is an imperfect job candidate, his flaws were molded by his upbringing in Martin County, Ky. and neighboring Mingo County, W. Va.

Moore takes advice from Therese Carew, a nun and counselor

His problems started in earnest in 2014. He had been living on his own for several years, having moved out at 18 after dropping out of high school, obtaining his GED, and going to work in security at a coal company. Moore is gay in an intensely conservative region, and he said he left school because of bullying.

Moore lost his job in late 2013 after smoking marijuana and failing a drug test. Though he found temporary work as a remote customer service representative, he lost that one when his mother died of a drug overdose in 2014 and he had to plan her funeral.

Deeply depressed and unemployed, he moved into an old Airstream camper propped on cinder blocks behind his father’s house, at the entrance to the litter-strewn trailer park that the older man owns in the misty hills of Lovely. There, surrounded by long-unemployed neighbors and rampant drug use, Moore began to abuse his medical prescriptions. “I guess I used it as my crutch, in a way,” he says.

Moore began getting in fights while drugged and was arrested twice. When he landed in jail for several months, he realized things needed to change. He graduated from a rehabilitation program in September, one year, one month, and 15 days after that last altercation. Since then, he’s deepened his friendship with Sister Therese Carew, a Catholic nun who ministers to the region, and dedicated his time to job seeking.

Opportunities are few. Coal mines have been closing, and they’ve taken most other businesses with them.

To employers outside the area, the fact that Moore is neatly groomed, soft-spoken, and polite can’t mask his history. What’s more, he’s the first to admit that the math skills he learned in the local public schools—where only eight in 10 students graduate—aren’t up to par, and his speaking patterns are colored by regional grammar.

His situation is difficult, but Moore has found a reason to hope.

Coal work, once a mainstay, has become scarce in Appalachia

He didn’t get the job for which he made that 240-mile (386-kilometer) drive, but he dropped in to his old rehab center on the way home. When he explained his predicament, the director of operations told him that he could come back until he gets on his feet. The group has found a job for him in plastics manufacturing that could turn full-time after a 30-day probation period. The position is enabling him to pay $100 a week in rent. It’s a chance to build an employment record as he fights to have his record expunged.

Still, moving out requires a tough tradeoff: Moore would have preferred to stay close to home, because his family is still in Kentucky and his father is in his seventies. And the job probably isn’t a pathway to wealth and ease. But what Moore wants most is mere self-sufficiency.

“A simple lifestyle, but being able to have work: I ain’t got to have nothing exquisite,” he says.

David Wolf wears his journey through drugs and crime on his arm.

Branded as Untouchable by a Felony Rap

These days, David Wolf doesn’t allow himself to get excited by the news of a job offer. Most get rescinded within days. It’s happened at least a hundred times, he said.

In 2012, Wolf was convicted of faking a name and Social Security number to get prescription painkillers. Now the 40-year-old father of three and former Marine, who has an associate’s degree from St. Petersburg College, has struggled to find employment. He's received so many retracted offers that he’s lost count.

“I get more interviews that I can shake my stick at, but again, it always comes back around to the denominator of being a felon,” Wolf says from his small, one-level ranch house in a Tampa, Fla., suburb, where religious imagery and family photos decorate his walls. “For many, many years, I pretty much got whatever job I wanted. I was able to do anything I felt like doing. It’s really been a humbling experience

Wolf researches employment options at a career center in New Port Richey, Fla

Wolf, whose chaotic life before he got clean included several domestic battery and drug-related charges, is one of the more than a half-million people who are released from U.S. federal and state prison every year. The influx occurs as the nation comes out of a decades-long war on illegal drugs. Implementation of stricter laws and tougher enforcement that led to a mushrooming of incarcerations and a booming ex-offender population. Before his identity theft conviction five years ago, Wolf held several jobs in sales and marketing, managed a call center, and served as a recruiter for the U.S. Marines. Since, he and his family have since lived off food stamps and cash assistance.

“They wouldn’t even hire me to sell Christmas trees at a Home Depot through an employment agency,” he says. “A lot of times the hiring managers feel like they have their hands tied, due to company policy. It’s something that really needs to change. Not only can I not get a job, but I can’t get a job with a living wage for my family. I have three children. I have a wife. I’m not a bad guy.”

Wolf shares his home with his second wife, his toddler, and a cat he gently picks up every time it scurries into the living room. Nearly half of U.S. children now have at least one parent with a criminal record.

A Corinthians verse, “Love is patient, love is kind, love never fails,” decorates a sofa cushion. Outside his living room window, children gather by a school bus stop as the morning fog lifts in the modest neighborhood of Holiday, Fla.

Less than a 10-minute drive away, he spends his free time volunteering at a Mormon church, where he also gets career training. A workshop book, The Lord Would Want You to Be Successful, rests on his living-room’s desk. Men with criminal records now account for about 34 percent of nonworking men aged from 25 and 54 years old, otherwise known as prime working age.

Family photographs on the piano at Wolf’s home in Holiday, Fla.

“Myself and many other felons, and we’re facing demons, downtime isn’t a good thing,” he says. Almost half of released inmates are arrested again within eight years, either for new offenses or for violating the conditions of their release. “We’re getting food stamps and cash assistance. We don’t like being on it. But the society that looks down on those receiving assistance is the same society that won’t hire me, and the same society that judges criminals when they reoffend.”

He had the word “forgiven” inked on his forearm after a stint in rehab. On the worst days of his addiction, which started following a car crash more than a decade ago, Wolf remembers taking as many as 40 pills in one day. OxyContin, Percocet, and Vicodin were his usual ones.

“It affected me, seeing guys that have sentences of 20, 30 years. This is a vicious, vicious circle, and we’re not going anywhere.”

Leroy Moore, one of almost 9 million Americans who receive disability insurance, spends nearly half of his monthly check on his apartment.

[rilenerocks]

When Michael and I were expecting our first baby, we spent lots of time talking about the type of parents we wanted to be, along with the kind of atmosphere we hoped to create in our home.  I think that’s what most people do. Michael in particular wanted to build a space where our children felt totally accepted for who they were, where their friends were always welcome, a home that was a truly secure haven. So what was one of the first things we did when we brought our little girl home from the hospital? We put her little downstairs daytime bed right underneath the stereo in the orange room which was our combination music room and library. After ten years of rocking out at mega-decibels, we wanted to make sure she could get used to sleeping with the volume turned up. The photo above shows her lying there, angelically asleep, with Michael smiling as one of our dogs gazed at this novel little creature. I’m there, too, my top half missing from the shot. I’m sure the whole room was vibrating.

Our plan worked. We created a little rocker who fit right in with us. Her early musical tastes were focused on a lot of one-hit wonder tunes, like Mickey and Come On, Eileen. Michael, who through his record store had access to all kinds of music, started making House Favorites tapes and then, CD’s, first for all of us, and then eventually, just for our little girl.

In early 1983, a pop song named Whirly Girl by the group OXO was released and climbed into the top 30 records on the Billboard Charts. Our baby was crazy about it so we played it all the time. The other day as I was working out in the yard, it popped up on a random shuffle in my headphones. Initially, I was swamped with memories from that time but ultimately I focused on the song title because that’s how my mind feels right now – whirly.

There’s a certain amount of time I spend every day thinking about either the masks war, in which people absolutely refuse to wear a mask because doing so stomps on their individual freedom, or the fact that so many who do comply, wear them incorrectly. When I venture out into the world, invariably I run into either one or both of those types. I absolutely do not get any of this. Absent the financial means to afford one, I don’t understand how anyone who is a member of a community greater than one, treasures this freedom of theirs as more valuable than public health. I wonder how they’d have felt if they had to sew yellow stars on their clothes so they could be easily identified by their religion. I get pretty roily inside when I think about how small and selfish their minds must be. Especially when they wrap up their righteous rage in the flag or the Constitution. Grrr. Then there are these folks who are actually wearing the masks absolutely incorrectly. Their noses aren’t covered, the mask is below their chins or hanging off one ear. I find this particularly maddening when I go to pick up food from an institution with a big sign touting all the healthful protocols their business is taking to protect everyone’s health. Do these owners check on their employees? I mean, is slipping two loops over your ears as complex as solving a Rubik’s cube? Rocket science? Should I gently point out their mistakes? Or just continue to fume away about the level of stupid and selfish I see around me? I guess the pandemic is turning me into an intolerant, crotchety old lady. Or maybe that’s who I’ve always been without the old part. Of course, there is the daily dose of Trumpian dystopia which relentlessly  escalates, despite the feeling that each awful revelation from the day before is the zenith of his horrors. The bigotry and racism seemed hard to top, along with the denial of the Covid19 crisis,  but now we find ourselves in the midst of a new madness, which essentially put the lives of American troops into a dark marketplace of murder and headhunting for bounties. Do I feel incredulous? Sadly, no. Truly, this person seems utterly devoid of any interior moral foundation. He is the definition of self. I don’t know whether his simple fascination with tyrannical leaders is just wishful dreaming, or whether Putin really does have the ultimate blackmail item in his back pocket which he can pull out at any time. Right now I’m glad that the EU has banned travel from the US into their countries. Given everything, that action seems fitting.  My mind indeed is a whirly place.

Final approval of your loan is in progress…You have conditional approval on your loan application. We’re currently reviewing the remaining documentation required for final approval.

In the midst of the outside big world jumble, I managed to complicate my life a little further. Back in 2012, when Michael got diagnosed with his cancer, we refinanced our house. We were looking to pay off outstanding bills, get extra cash for out-of-pocket treatment costs and enough money to take some trips. When you get a diagnosis with an almost certain prognosis of death, you try to stuff in as many life experiences as you can, especially the ones you thought would be part of a retirement that would stretch out for years, given the longevity in Michael’s family. The best-laid plans, right? During the five years that Michael survived, we took advantage of that strategy. After he died in May, 2017, I wasn’t in the mental space to give much thought to mortgages and the like. I was in survival mode. During the last three years, I’ve done my own traveling while trying to adjust to my highly undesired new life. But during this time of isolation, I have swung back around to the business of my big old house. I’ve done a lot of physical fixing. Noting that interest rates for mortgages  had dropped well below what we’d gotten 8 years ago, I decided to refinance, shortening the term and saving lots of money. Sounded like a good plan – everything was moving along nicely when I suddenly realized that an appraisal was required. After the sordid housing crisis of 2008, the lenders have tightened up the requirements from appraisers. They now take photos of every room in your house, all the mechanical items and even the basement and garage. Uh-oh. I’ve made a few sporadic efforts at cleaning the garage, Michael’s domain, which is full of intriguing stuff. The only time I go into the basement is when it’s time to change the furnace filter. It’s actually a dark, creepy cellar with awful stairs which is accessible only from the outside. Years ago, one of my son’s friends was making a horror film. He asked if he could shoot part of it in our basement as it was one of the scariest places in town.

What a nightmare. I spent hours down there, sweeping, sorting, finding a few treasures and mostly ancient junk like carburetor parts and old lawnmower engines. The garage wasn’t much better. This business-y idea turned out to be grindingly hard labor. I stashed aside some potentially salvageable 45’s and albums that were somehow overlooked when we divested ourselves of Michael’s collection. Most of everything else went into the garbage. The appraiser came and went. She said things were fine. If only she’d seen it all before my massive efforts. Ah, well. All that’s left is my exhaustion and a who-do-I-think-I’m-kidding-at-my-age hangover that’s making it hard to get up from my chair.

Whirling back to the outside, life in the yard is good. I have nesting house wrens, cardinals and robins. They’re making good use of my birdbaths and cubbies for raising their hatchlings. The monarchs have found the milkweed. I could do without the big influx of rabbits along with the omnipresent squirrels who’ve eaten too many plants, denuded blossoms getting ready to open, and vandalized vegetables for no good reason that I can discern. I’ve engaged them in a race for the black raspberries, though and have chalked up a minor victory.

The flowers of course are magnificent and bring me great joy. The labor involved in urging them out of the ground is worth it. Just looking at them helps ratchet down the constant whirling thoughts that flit from subject to subject in my clicking head. Today, I put my coping skills to good use by enhancing my personal relaxation space with an outdoor mini-spa for myself. I don’t see getting back in the water any time soon. This will do for the present. As the saying goes, “adapt or die.”

As I mull over this life, so different from what I ever thought possible, I did have one recent experience that was delightful and satisfying. One of the hardest issues I’ve faced since Michael died was the collective responses that people have had to me and my feelings about my future. I’ve always known that I would never want to have another partner. That attitude was met with different reactions. Some people thought my grief was too fresh for me to know what I’d want. They’d say, give it some time to go through the stages following a big loss. Then we’ll see if you change your mind. If I talked about the challenges of being alone, they’d say, but you have your children and grandchildren. And that means what? They have their own lives. We intersect, as always. But it’s not the same as climbing in bed every night with your best friend and lover. As the months have passed, I’ve concluded that there’s just a lot of discomfort in these kinds of discussions. Unless you’ve lived the same life as someone else, you just don’t know what will work for them. And everyone’s relationship with their partners is different. I believe mine was an aspirational love that was rare. I had it for 45 years. I’m still in it. I feel my relationship every day, deep in the core of me. I don’t believe I could ever have that again and anything less is irrelevant. I have a number of people, most importantly my kids, who get this.Often, I draw a blank stare. But I had a great thing happen with one of my oldest friends, someone that both Michael and I’ve known for over 50 years.  Our lives have been closely connected all that time.

Glenn and Michael met at college in 1967 and lived in the same fraternity house, although Michael moved out after a year. I met Glenn when I came to college in 1968, through a high school friend of mine. I didn’t meet Michael until 1971, but he and I both always knew Glenn. We all socialized, but initially, with different groups of people who ultimately became blended. Glenn and I had a date once – the most memorable part of that for us both was really enjoying the album we were listening to – Tea for the Tillerman. When I was arrested in 1971 at an anti-war demonstration, Glenn bailed me out of jail. All three of us worked at the record store which ultimately became Michael’s career for the 27 years before he became a history teacher. When Michael and I became a couple in 1972, Glenn would visit us on a regular basis to enjoy the verbal sparring and bickering we engaged in, very different from his non-confrontational style. Glenn told me he was afraid that I’d overpower sweet Michael with my combat-boot personal style, but that  never happened. We were with him through a series of his relationships up to and including his marriage which has now lasted decades. We shared life events together, from having kids to losing family members. He and Michael went on white-water rafting and canoe trips. We played Hearts and Spades together on a regular basis and wound up going to a lake in Michigan every summer for years with a group of old friends for family camp. Glenn worked for the city for which Michael was an alderman and later, head of the city’s planning commission. They were both involved with the local food bank. When we had our daughter, Glenn gave her more gifts for her first birthday than we did. Twenty-five years later, he became a certified wedding officiant and performed her wedding ceremony. When Michael was withdrawn into the last stage of his life, he saw Glenn once, the only person who got into our house besides medical professionals and our family.

Last week, I went to see Glenn and his wife Colleen for an outdoor social distanced visit, the first time I’d seen them in many months. We had a lot to catch up on, what we’d all been doing, what was happening with our kids, how we felt about the current state of the world. Glenn asked me how I was managing, going through this weird time on my own. I told him that I never really felt alone, as Michael’s presence is just here, all the time. In the most normal, conversational tone, he said, “you know, it feels like your relationship with Michael right now is a lot better than it was right after he died.” I was startled, delighted and I laughed a lot. I’ve been laughing about it periodically. I told him that I was so utterly drained and devastated after Michael’s death that it had taken me awhile to recover from the expensive emotional price wrested from me by those challenging years. Now I’ve had a lot of recovery time and the way I feel with Michael is like the majority of our life together, wonderful,  rather than those painful, stressful times. So, yeah, we’re good. Still arguing in some of my dreams, though. I was really delighted that for the first time, someone acted normal and accepting of me rather than awkward or judgmental. That meant a lot. I’ve covered a lot of mental turf in this post. As I said, these days, I’m a whirly woman. Actually that might always have been true – it’s just that these days, everything feels exaggerated. On to the next set of thoughts.

Whirly Woman When Michael and I were expecting our first baby, we spent lots of time talking about the type of parents we wanted to be, along with the kind of atmosphere we hoped to create in our home.  

[rilenerocks]

When Michael and I were expecting our first baby, we spent lots of time talking about the type of parents we wanted to be, along with the kind of atmosphere we hoped to create in our home.  I think that’s what most people do. Michael in particular wanted to build a space where our children felt totally accepted for who they were, where their friends were always welcome, a home that was a truly secure haven. So what was one of the first things we did when we brought our little girl home from the hospital? We put her little downstairs daytime bed right underneath the stereo in the orange room which was our combination music room and library. After ten years of rocking out at mega-decibels, we wanted to make sure she could get used to sleeping with the volume turned up. The photo above shows her lying there, angelically asleep, with Michael smiling as one of our dogs gazed at this novel little creature. I’m there, too, my top half missing from the shot. I’m sure the whole room was vibrating.

Our plan worked. We created a little rocker who fit right in with us. Her early musical tastes were focused on a lot of one-hit wonder tunes, like Mickey and Come On, Eileen. Michael, who through his record store had access to all kinds of music, started making House Favorites tapes and then, CD’s, first for all of us, and then eventually, just for our little girl.

In early 1983, a pop song named Whirly Girl by the group OXO was released and climbed into the top 30 records on the Billboard Charts. Our baby was crazy about it so we played it all the time. The other day as I was working out in the yard, it popped up on a random shuffle in my headphones. Initially, I was swamped with memories from that time but ultimately I focused on the song title because that’s how my mind feels right now – whirly.

There’s a certain amount of time I spend every day thinking about either the masks war, in which people absolutely refuse to wear a mask because doing so stomps on their individual freedom, or the fact that so many who do comply, wear them incorrectly. When I venture out into the world, invariably I run into either one or both of those types. I absolutely do not get any of this. Absent the financial means to afford one, I don’t understand how anyone who is a member of a community greater than one, treasures this freedom of theirs as more valuable than public health. I wonder how they’d have felt if they had to sew yellow stars on their clothes so they could be easily identified by their religion. I get pretty roily inside when I think about how small and selfish their minds must be. Especially when they wrap up their righteous rage in the flag or the Constitution. Grrr. Then there are these folks who are actually wearing the masks absolutely incorrectly. Their noses aren’t covered, the mask is below their chins or hanging off one ear. I find this particularly maddening when I go to pick up food from an institution with a big sign touting all the healthful protocols their business is taking to protect everyone’s health. Do these owners check on their employees? I mean, is slipping two loops over your ears as complex as solving a Rubik’s cube? Rocket science? Should I gently point out their mistakes? Or just continue to fume away about the level of stupid and selfish I see around me? I guess the pandemic is turning me into an intolerant, crotchety old lady. Or maybe that’s who I’ve always been without the old part. Of course, there is the daily dose of Trumpian dystopia which relentlessly  escalates, despite the feeling that each awful revelation from the day before is the zenith of his horrors. The bigotry and racism seemed hard to top, along with the denial of the Covid19 crisis,  but now we find ourselves in the midst of a new madness, which essentially put the lives of American troops into a dark marketplace of murder and headhunting for bounties. Do I feel incredulous? Sadly, no. Truly, this person seems utterly devoid of any interior moral foundation. He is the definition of self. I don’t know whether his simple fascination with tyrannical leaders is just wishful dreaming, or whether Putin really does have the ultimate blackmail item in his back pocket which he can pull out at any time. Right now I’m glad that the EU has banned travel from the US into their countries. Given everything, that action seems fitting.  My mind indeed is a whirly place.

Final approval of your loan is in progress…You have conditional approval on your loan application. We’re currently reviewing the remaining documentation required for final approval.

In the midst of the outside big world jumble, I managed to complicate my life a little further. Back in 2012, when Michael got diagnosed with his cancer, we refinanced our house. We were looking to pay off outstanding bills, get extra cash for out-of-pocket treatment costs and enough money to take some trips. When you get a diagnosis with an almost certain prognosis of death, you try to stuff in as many life experiences as you can, especially the ones you thought would be part of a retirement that would stretch out for years, given the longevity in Michael’s family. The best-laid plans, right? During the five years that Michael survived, we took advantage of that strategy. After he died in May, 2017, I wasn’t in the mental space to give much thought to mortgages and the like. I was in survival mode. During the last three years, I’ve done my own traveling while trying to adjust to my highly undesired new life. But during this time of isolation, I have swung back around to the business of my big old house. I’ve done a lot of physical fixing. Noting that interest rates for mortgages  had dropped well below what we’d gotten 8 years ago, I decided to refinance, shortening the term and saving lots of money. Sounded like a good plan – everything was moving along nicely when I suddenly realized that an appraisal was required. After the sordid housing crisis of 2008, the lenders have tightened up the requirements from appraisers. They now take photos of every room in your house, all the mechanical items and even the basement and garage. Uh-oh. I’ve made a few sporadic efforts at cleaning the garage, Michael’s domain, which is full of intriguing stuff. The only time I go into the basement is when it’s time to change the furnace filter. It’s actually a dark, creepy cellar with awful stairs which is accessible only from the outside. Years ago, one of my son’s friends was making a horror film. He asked if he could shoot part of it in our basement as it was one of the scariest places in town.

What a nightmare. I spent hours down there, sweeping, sorting, finding a few treasures and mostly ancient junk like carburetor parts and old lawnmower engines. The garage wasn’t much better. This business-y idea turned out to be grindingly hard labor. I stashed aside some potentially salvageable 45’s and albums that were somehow overlooked when we divested ourselves of Michael’s collection. Most of everything else went into the garbage. The appraiser came and went. She said things were fine. If only she’d seen it all before my massive efforts. Ah, well. All that’s left is my exhaustion and a who-do-I-think-I’m-kidding-at-my-age hangover that’s making it hard to get up from my chair.

Whirling back to the outside, life in the yard is good. I have nesting house wrens, cardinals and robins. They’re making good use of my birdbaths and cubbies for raising their hatchlings. The monarchs have found the milkweed. I could do without the big influx of rabbits along with the omnipresent squirrels who’ve eaten too many plants, denuded blossoms getting ready to open, and vandalized vegetables for no good reason that I can discern. I’ve engaged them in a race for the black raspberries, though and have chalked up a minor victory.

The flowers of course are magnificent and bring me great joy. The labor involved in urging them out of the ground is worth it. Just looking at them helps ratchet down the constant whirling thoughts that flit from subject to subject in my clicking head. Today, I put my coping skills to good use by enhancing my personal relaxation space with an outdoor mini-spa for myself. I don’t see getting back in the water any time soon. This will do for the present. As the saying goes, “adapt or die.”

As I mull over this life, so different from what I ever thought possible, I did have one recent experience that was delightful and satisfying. One of the hardest issues I’ve faced since Michael died was the collective responses that people have had to me and my feelings about my future. I’ve always known that I would never want to have another partner. That attitude was met with different reactions. Some people thought my grief was too fresh for me to know what I’d want. They’d say, give it some time to go through the stages following a big loss. Then we’ll see if you change your mind. If I talked about the challenges of being alone, they’d say, but you have your children and grandchildren. And that means what? They have their own lives. We intersect, as always. But it’s not the same as climbing in bed every night with your best friend and lover. As the months have passed, I’ve concluded that there’s just a lot of discomfort in these kinds of discussions. Unless you’ve lived the same life as someone else, you just don’t know what will work for them. And everyone’s relationship with their partners is different. I believe mine was an aspirational love that was rare. I had it for 45 years. I’m still in it. I feel my relationship every day, deep in the core of me. I don’t believe I could ever have that again and anything less is irrelevant. I have a number of people, most importantly my kids, who get this.Often, I draw a blank stare. But I had a great thing happen with one of my oldest friends, someone that both Michael and I’ve known for over 50 years.  Our lives have been closely connected all that time.

Glenn and Michael met at college in 1967 and lived in the same fraternity house, although Michael moved out after a year. I met Glenn when I came to college in 1968, through a high school friend of mine. I didn’t meet Michael until 1971, but he and I both always knew Glenn. We all socialized, but initially, with different groups of people who ultimately became blended. Glenn and I had a date once – the most memorable part of that for us both was really enjoying the album we were listening to – Tea for the Tillerman. When I was arrested in 1971 at an anti-war demonstration, Glenn bailed me out of jail. All three of us worked at the record store which ultimately became Michael’s career for the 27 years before he became a history teacher. When Michael and I became a couple in 1972, Glenn would visit us on a regular basis to enjoy the verbal sparring and bickering we engaged in, very different from his non-confrontational style. Glenn told me he was afraid that I’d overpower sweet Michael with my combat-boot personal style, but that  never happened. We were with him through a series of his relationships up to and including his marriage which has now lasted decades. We shared life events together, from having kids to losing family members. He and Michael went on white-water rafting and canoe trips. We played Hearts and Spades together on a regular basis and wound up going to a lake in Michigan every summer for years with a group of old friends for family camp. Glenn worked for the city for which Michael was an alderman and later, head of the city’s planning commission. They were both involved with the local food bank. When we had our daughter, Glenn gave her more gifts for her first birthday than we did. Twenty-five years later, he became a certified wedding officiant and performed her wedding ceremony. When Michael was withdrawn into the last stage of his life, he saw Glenn once, the only person who got into our house besides medical professionals and our family.

Last week, I went to see Glenn and his wife Colleen for an outdoor social distanced visit, the first time I’d seen them in many months. We had a lot to catch up on, what we’d all been doing, what was happening with our kids, how we felt about the current state of the world. Glenn asked me how I was managing, going through this weird time on my own. I told him that I never really felt alone, as Michael’s presence is just here, all the time. In the most normal, conversational tone, he said, “you know, it feels like your relationship with Michael right now is a lot better than it was right after he died.” I was startled, delighted and I laughed a lot. I’ve been laughing about it periodically. I told him that I was so utterly drained and devastated after Michael’s death that it had taken me awhile to recover from the expensive emotional price wrested from me by those challenging years. Now I’ve had a lot of recovery time and the way I feel with Michael is like the majority of our life together, wonderful,  rather than those painful, stressful times. So, yeah, we’re good. Still arguing in some of my dreams, though. I was really delighted that for the first time, someone acted normal and accepting of me rather than awkward or judgmental. That meant a lot. I’ve covered a lot of mental turf in this post. As I said, these days, I’m a whirly woman. Actually that might always have been true – it’s just that these days, everything feels exaggerated. On to the next set of thoughts.

Whirly Woman When Michael and I were expecting our first baby, we spent lots of time talking about the type of parents we wanted to be, along with the kind of atmosphere we hoped to create in our home.  

[rilenerocks]

When Michael and I were expecting our first baby, we spent lots of time talking about the type of parents we wanted to be, along with the kind of atmosphere we hoped to create in our home.  I think that’s what most people do. Michael in particular wanted to build a space where our children felt totally accepted for who they were, where their friends were always welcome, a home that was a truly secure haven. So what was one of the first things we did when we brought our little girl home from the hospital? We put her little downstairs daytime bed right underneath the stereo in the orange room which was our combination music room and library. After ten years of rocking out at mega-decibels, we wanted to make sure she could get used to sleeping with the volume turned up. The photo above shows her lying there, angelically asleep, with Michael smiling as one of our dogs gazed at this novel little creature. I’m there, too, my top half missing from the shot. I’m sure the whole room was vibrating.

Our plan worked. We created a little rocker who fit right in with us. Her early musical tastes were focused on a lot of one-hit wonder tunes, like Mickey and Come On, Eileen. Michael, who through his record store had access to all kinds of music, started making House Favorites tapes and then, CD’s, first for all of us, and then eventually, just for our little girl.

In early 1983, a pop song named Whirly Girl by the group OXO was released and climbed into the top 30 records on the Billboard Charts. Our baby was crazy about it so we played it all the time. The other day as I was working out in the yard, it popped up on a random shuffle in my headphones. Initially, I was swamped with memories from that time but ultimately I focused on the song title because that’s how my mind feels right now – whirly.

There’s a certain amount of time I spend every day thinking about either the masks war, in which people absolutely refuse to wear a mask because doing so stomps on their individual freedom, or the fact that so many who do comply, wear them incorrectly. When I venture out into the world, invariably I run into either one or both of those types. I absolutely do not get any of this. Absent the financial means to afford one, I don’t understand how anyone who is a member of a community greater than one, treasures this freedom of theirs as more valuable than public health. I wonder how they’d have felt if they had to sew yellow stars on their clothes so they could be easily identified by their religion. I get pretty roily inside when I think about how small and selfish their minds must be. Especially when they wrap up their righteous rage in the flag or the Constitution. Grrr. Then there are these folks who are actually wearing the masks absolutely incorrectly. Their noses aren’t covered, the mask is below their chins or hanging off one ear. I find this particularly maddening when I go to pick up food from an institution with a big sign touting all the healthful protocols their business is taking to protect everyone’s health. Do these owners check on their employees? I mean, is slipping two loops over your ears as complex as solving a Rubik’s cube? Rocket science? Should I gently point out their mistakes? Or just continue to fume away about the level of stupid and selfish I see around me? I guess the pandemic is turning me into an intolerant, crotchety old lady. Or maybe that’s who I’ve always been without the old part. Of course, there is the daily dose of Trumpian dystopia which relentlessly  escalates, despite the feeling that each awful revelation from the day before is the zenith of his horrors. The bigotry and racism seemed hard to top, along with the denial of the Covid19 crisis,  but now we find ourselves in the midst of a new madness, which essentially put the lives of American troops into a dark marketplace of murder and headhunting for bounties. Do I feel incredulous? Sadly, no. Truly, this person seems utterly devoid of any interior moral foundation. He is the definition of self. I don’t know whether his simple fascination with tyrannical leaders is just wishful dreaming, or whether Putin really does have the ultimate blackmail item in his back pocket which he can pull out at any time. Right now I’m glad that the EU has banned travel from the US into their countries. Given everything, that action seems fitting.  My mind indeed is a whirly place.

Final approval of your loan is in progress…You have conditional approval on your loan application. We’re currently reviewing the remaining documentation required for final approval.

In the midst of the outside big world jumble, I managed to complicate my life a little further. Back in 2012, when Michael got diagnosed with his cancer, we refinanced our house. We were looking to pay off outstanding bills, get extra cash for out-of-pocket treatment costs and enough money to take some trips. When you get a diagnosis with an almost certain prognosis of death, you try to stuff in as many life experiences as you can, especially the ones you thought would be part of a retirement that would stretch out for years, given the longevity in Michael’s family. The best-laid plans, right? During the five years that Michael survived, we took advantage of that strategy. After he died in May, 2017, I wasn’t in the mental space to give much thought to mortgages and the like. I was in survival mode. During the last three years, I’ve done my own traveling while trying to adjust to my highly undesired new life. But during this time of isolation, I have swung back around to the business of my big old house. I’ve done a lot of physical fixing. Noting that interest rates for mortgages  had dropped well below what we’d gotten 8 years ago, I decided to refinance, shortening the term and saving lots of money. Sounded like a good plan – everything was moving along nicely when I suddenly realized that an appraisal was required. After the sordid housing crisis of 2008, the lenders have tightened up the requirements from appraisers. They now take photos of every room in your house, all the mechanical items and even the basement and garage. Uh-oh. I’ve made a few sporadic efforts at cleaning the garage, Michael’s domain, which is full of intriguing stuff. The only time I go into the basement is when it’s time to change the furnace filter. It’s actually a dark, creepy cellar with awful stairs which is accessible only from the outside. Years ago, one of my son’s friends was making a horror film. He asked if he could shoot part of it in our basement as it was one of the scariest places in town.

What a nightmare. I spent hours down there, sweeping, sorting, finding a few treasures and mostly ancient junk like carburetor parts and old lawnmower engines. The garage wasn’t much better. This business-y idea turned out to be grindingly hard labor. I stashed aside some potentially salvageable 45’s and albums that were somehow overlooked when we divested ourselves of Michael’s collection. Most of everything else went into the garbage. The appraiser came and went. She said things were fine. If only she’d seen it all before my massive efforts. Ah, well. All that’s left is my exhaustion and a who-do-I-think-I’m-kidding-at-my-age hangover that’s making it hard to get up from my chair.

Whirling back to the outside, life in the yard is good. I have nesting house wrens, cardinals and robins. They’re making good use of my birdbaths and cubbies for raising their hatchlings. The monarchs have found the milkweed. I could do without the big influx of rabbits along with the omnipresent squirrels who’ve eaten too many plants, denuded blossoms getting ready to open, and vandalized vegetables for no good reason that I can discern. I’ve engaged them in a race for the black raspberries, though and have chalked up a minor victory.

The flowers of course are magnificent and bring me great joy. The labor involved in urging them out of the ground is worth it. Just looking at them helps ratchet down the constant whirling thoughts that flit from subject to subject in my clicking head. Today, I put my coping skills to good use by enhancing my personal relaxation space with an outdoor mini-spa for myself. I don’t see getting back in the water any time soon. This will do for the present. As the saying goes, “adapt or die.”

As I mull over this life, so different from what I ever thought possible, I did have one recent experience that was delightful and satisfying. One of the hardest issues I’ve faced since Michael died was the collective responses that people have had to me and my feelings about my future. I’ve always known that I would never want to have another partner. That attitude was met with different reactions. Some people thought my grief was too fresh for me to know what I’d want. They’d say, give it some time to go through the stages following a big loss. Then we’ll see if you change your mind. If I talked about the challenges of being alone, they’d say, but you have your children and grandchildren. And that means what? They have their own lives. We intersect, as always. But it’s not the same as climbing in bed every night with your best friend and lover. As the months have passed, I’ve concluded that there’s just a lot of discomfort in these kinds of discussions. Unless you’ve lived the same life as someone else, you just don’t know what will work for them. And everyone’s relationship with their partners is different. I believe mine was an aspirational love that was rare. I had it for 45 years. I’m still in it. I feel my relationship every day, deep in the core of me. I don’t believe I could ever have that again and anything less is irrelevant. I have a number of people, most importantly my kids, who get this.Often, I draw a blank stare. But I had a great thing happen with one of my oldest friends, someone that both Michael and I’ve known for over 50 years.  Our lives have been closely connected all that time.

Glenn and Michael met at college in 1967 and lived in the same fraternity house, although Michael moved out after a year. I met Glenn when I came to college in 1968, through a high school friend of mine. I didn’t meet Michael until 1971, but he and I both always knew Glenn. We all socialized, but initially, with different groups of people who ultimately became blended. Glenn and I had a date once – the most memorable part of that for us both was really enjoying the album we were listening to – Tea for the Tillerman. When I was arrested in 1971 at an anti-war demonstration, Glenn bailed me out of jail. All three of us worked at the record store which ultimately became Michael’s career for the 27 years before he became a history teacher. When Michael and I became a couple in 1972, Glenn would visit us on a regular basis to enjoy the verbal sparring and bickering we engaged in, very different from his non-confrontational style. Glenn told me he was afraid that I’d overpower sweet Michael with my combat-boot personal style, but that  never happened. We were with him through a series of his relationships up to and including his marriage which has now lasted decades. We shared life events together, from having kids to losing family members. He and Michael went on white-water rafting and canoe trips. We played Hearts and Spades together on a regular basis and wound up going to a lake in Michigan every summer for years with a group of old friends for family camp. Glenn worked for the city for which Michael was an alderman and later, head of the city’s planning commission. They were both involved with the local food bank. When we had our daughter, Glenn gave her more gifts for her first birthday than we did. Twenty-five years later, he became a certified wedding officiant and performed her wedding ceremony. When Michael was withdrawn into the last stage of his life, he saw Glenn once, the only person who got into our house besides medical professionals and our family.

Last week, I went to see Glenn and his wife Colleen for an outdoor social distanced visit, the first time I’d seen them in many months. We had a lot to catch up on, what we’d all been doing, what was happening with our kids, how we felt about the current state of the world. Glenn asked me how I was managing, going through this weird time on my own. I told him that I never really felt alone, as Michael’s presence is just here, all the time. In the most normal, conversational tone, he said, “you know, it feels like your relationship with Michael right now is a lot better than it was right after he died.” I was startled, delighted and I laughed a lot. I’ve been laughing about it periodically. I told him that I was so utterly drained and devastated after Michael’s death that it had taken me awhile to recover from the expensive emotional price wrested from me by those challenging years. Now I’ve had a lot of recovery time and the way I feel with Michael is like the majority of our life together, wonderful,  rather than those painful, stressful times. So, yeah, we’re good. Still arguing in some of my dreams, though. I was really delighted that for the first time, someone acted normal and accepting of me rather than awkward or judgmental. That meant a lot. I’ve covered a lot of mental turf in this post. As I said, these days, I’m a whirly woman. Actually that might always have been true – it’s just that these days, everything feels exaggerated. On to the next set of thoughts.

Whirly Woman When Michael and I were expecting our first baby, we spent lots of time talking about the type of parents we wanted to be, along with the kind of atmosphere we hoped to create in our home.  

[rilenerocks]

When Michael and I were expecting our first baby, we spent lots of time talking about the type of parents we wanted to be, along with the kind of atmosphere we hoped to create in our home.  I think that’s what most people do. Michael in particular wanted to build a space where our children felt totally accepted for who they were, where their friends were always welcome, a home that was a truly secure haven. So what was one of the first things we did when we brought our little girl home from the hospital? We put her little downstairs daytime bed right underneath the stereo in the orange room which was our combination music room and library. After ten years of rocking out at mega-decibels, we wanted to make sure she could get used to sleeping with the volume turned up. The photo above shows her lying there, angelically asleep, with Michael smiling as one of our dogs gazed at this novel little creature. I’m there, too, my top half missing from the shot. I’m sure the whole room was vibrating.

Our plan worked. We created a little rocker who fit right in with us. Her early musical tastes were focused on a lot of one-hit wonder tunes, like Mickey and Come On, Eileen. Michael, who through his record store had access to all kinds of music, started making House Favorites tapes and then, CD’s, first for all of us, and then eventually, just for our little girl.

In early 1983, a pop song named Whirly Girl by the group OXO was released and climbed into the top 30 records on the Billboard Charts. Our baby was crazy about it so we played it all the time. The other day as I was working out in the yard, it popped up on a random shuffle in my headphones. Initially, I was swamped with memories from that time but ultimately I focused on the song title because that’s how my mind feels right now – whirly.

There’s a certain amount of time I spend every day thinking about either the masks war, in which people absolutely refuse to wear a mask because doing so stomps on their individual freedom, or the fact that so many who do comply, wear them incorrectly. When I venture out into the world, invariably I run into either one or both of those types. I absolutely do not get any of this. Absent the financial means to afford one, I don’t understand how anyone who is a member of a community greater than one, treasures this freedom of theirs as more valuable than public health. I wonder how they’d have felt if they had to sew yellow stars on their clothes so they could be easily identified by their religion. I get pretty roily inside when I think about how small and selfish their minds must be. Especially when they wrap up their righteous rage in the flag or the Constitution. Grrr. Then there are these folks who are actually wearing the masks absolutely incorrectly. Their noses aren’t covered, the mask is below their chins or hanging off one ear. I find this particularly maddening when I go to pick up food from an institution with a big sign touting all the healthful protocols their business is taking to protect everyone’s health. Do these owners check on their employees? I mean, is slipping two loops over your ears as complex as solving a Rubik’s cube? Rocket science? Should I gently point out their mistakes? Or just continue to fume away about the level of stupid and selfish I see around me? I guess the pandemic is turning me into an intolerant, crotchety old lady. Or maybe that’s who I’ve always been without the old part. Of course, there is the daily dose of Trumpian dystopia which relentlessly  escalates, despite the feeling that each awful revelation from the day before is the zenith of his horrors. The bigotry and racism seemed hard to top, along with the denial of the Covid19 crisis,  but now we find ourselves in the midst of a new madness, which essentially put the lives of American troops into a dark marketplace of murder and headhunting for bounties. Do I feel incredulous? Sadly, no. Truly, this person seems utterly devoid of any interior moral foundation. He is the definition of self. I don’t know whether his simple fascination with tyrannical leaders is just wishful dreaming, or whether Putin really does have the ultimate blackmail item in his back pocket which he can pull out at any time. Right now I’m glad that the EU has banned travel from the US into their countries. Given everything, that action seems fitting.  My mind indeed is a whirly place.

Final approval of your loan is in progress…You have conditional approval on your loan application. We’re currently reviewing the remaining documentation required for final approval.

In the midst of the outside big world jumble, I managed to complicate my life a little further. Back in 2012, when Michael got diagnosed with his cancer, we refinanced our house. We were looking to pay off outstanding bills, get extra cash for out-of-pocket treatment costs and enough money to take some trips. When you get a diagnosis with an almost certain prognosis of death, you try to stuff in as many life experiences as you can, especially the ones you thought would be part of a retirement that would stretch out for years, given the longevity in Michael’s family. The best-laid plans, right? During the five years that Michael survived, we took advantage of that strategy. After he died in May, 2017, I wasn’t in the mental space to give much thought to mortgages and the like. I was in survival mode. During the last three years, I’ve done my own traveling while trying to adjust to my highly undesired new life. But during this time of isolation, I have swung back around to the business of my big old house. I’ve done a lot of physical fixing. Noting that interest rates for mortgages  had dropped well below what we’d gotten 8 years ago, I decided to refinance, shortening the term and saving lots of money. Sounded like a good plan – everything was moving along nicely when I suddenly realized that an appraisal was required. After the sordid housing crisis of 2008, the lenders have tightened up the requirements from appraisers. They now take photos of every room in your house, all the mechanical items and even the basement and garage. Uh-oh. I’ve made a few sporadic efforts at cleaning the garage, Michael’s domain, which is full of intriguing stuff. The only time I go into the basement is when it’s time to change the furnace filter. It’s actually a dark, creepy cellar with awful stairs which is accessible only from the outside. Years ago, one of my son’s friends was making a horror film. He asked if he could shoot part of it in our basement as it was one of the scariest places in town.

What a nightmare. I spent hours down there, sweeping, sorting, finding a few treasures and mostly ancient junk like carburetor parts and old lawnmower engines. The garage wasn’t much better. This business-y idea turned out to be grindingly hard labor. I stashed aside some potentially salvageable 45’s and albums that were somehow overlooked when we divested ourselves of Michael’s collection. Most of everything else went into the garbage. The appraiser came and went. She said things were fine. If only she’d seen it all before my massive efforts. Ah, well. All that’s left is my exhaustion and a who-do-I-think-I’m-kidding-at-my-age hangover that’s making it hard to get up from my chair.

Whirling back to the outside, life in the yard is good. I have nesting house wrens, cardinals and robins. They’re making good use of my birdbaths and cubbies for raising their hatchlings. The monarchs have found the milkweed. I could do without the big influx of rabbits along with the omnipresent squirrels who’ve eaten too many plants, denuded blossoms getting ready to open, and vandalized vegetables for no good reason that I can discern. I’ve engaged them in a race for the black raspberries, though and have chalked up a minor victory.

The flowers of course are magnificent and bring me great joy. The labor involved in urging them out of the ground is worth it. Just looking at them helps ratchet down the constant whirling thoughts that flit from subject to subject in my clicking head. Today, I put my coping skills to good use by enhancing my personal relaxation space with an outdoor mini-spa for myself. I don’t see getting back in the water any time soon. This will do for the present. As the saying goes, “adapt or die.”

As I mull over this life, so different from what I ever thought possible, I did have one recent experience that was delightful and satisfying. One of the hardest issues I’ve faced since Michael died was the collective responses that people have had to me and my feelings about my future. I’ve always known that I would never want to have another partner. That attitude was met with different reactions. Some people thought my grief was too fresh for me to know what I’d want. They’d say, give it some time to go through the stages following a big loss. Then we’ll see if you change your mind. If I talked about the challenges of being alone, they’d say, but you have your children and grandchildren. And that means what? They have their own lives. We intersect, as always. But it’s not the same as climbing in bed every night with your best friend and lover. As the months have passed, I’ve concluded that there’s just a lot of discomfort in these kinds of discussions. Unless you’ve lived the same life as someone else, you just don’t know what will work for them. And everyone’s relationship with their partners is different. I believe mine was an aspirational love that was rare. I had it for 45 years. I’m still in it. I feel my relationship every day, deep in the core of me. I don’t believe I could ever have that again and anything less is irrelevant. I have a number of people, most importantly my kids, who get this.Often, I draw a blank stare. But I had a great thing happen with one of my oldest friends, someone that both Michael and I’ve known for over 50 years.  Our lives have been closely connected all that time.

Glenn and Michael met at college in 1967 and lived in the same fraternity house, although Michael moved out after a year. I met Glenn when I came to college in 1968, through a high school friend of mine. I didn’t meet Michael until 1971, but he and I both always knew Glenn. We all socialized, but initially, with different groups of people who ultimately became blended. Glenn and I had a date once – the most memorable part of that for us both was really enjoying the album we were listening to – Tea for the Tillerman. When I was arrested in 1971 at an anti-war demonstration, Glenn bailed me out of jail. All three of us worked at the record store which ultimately became Michael’s career for the 27 years before he became a history teacher. When Michael and I became a couple in 1972, Glenn would visit us on a regular basis to enjoy the verbal sparring and bickering we engaged in, very different from his non-confrontational style. Glenn told me he was afraid that I’d overpower sweet Michael with my combat-boot personal style, but that  never happened. We were with him through a series of his relationships up to and including his marriage which has now lasted decades. We shared life events together, from having kids to losing family members. He and Michael went on white-water rafting and canoe trips. We played Hearts and Spades together on a regular basis and wound up going to a lake in Michigan every summer for years with a group of old friends for family camp. Glenn worked for the city for which Michael was an alderman and later, head of the city’s planning commission. They were both involved with the local food bank. When we had our daughter, Glenn gave her more gifts for her first birthday than we did. Twenty-five years later, he became a certified wedding officiant and performed her wedding ceremony. When Michael was withdrawn into the last stage of his life, he saw Glenn once, the only person who got into our house besides medical professionals and our family.

Last week, I went to see Glenn and his wife Colleen for an outdoor social distanced visit, the first time I’d seen them in many months. We had a lot to catch up on, what we’d all been doing, what was happening with our kids, how we felt about the current state of the world. Glenn asked me how I was managing, going through this weird time on my own. I told him that I never really felt alone, as Michael’s presence is just here, all the time. In the most normal, conversational tone, he said, “you know, it feels like your relationship with Michael right now is a lot better than it was right after he died.” I was startled, delighted and I laughed a lot. I’ve been laughing about it periodically. I told him that I was so utterly drained and devastated after Michael’s death that it had taken me awhile to recover from the expensive emotional price wrested from me by those challenging years. Now I’ve had a lot of recovery time and the way I feel with Michael is like the majority of our life together, wonderful,  rather than those painful, stressful times. So, yeah, we’re good. Still arguing in some of my dreams, though. I was really delighted that for the first time, someone acted normal and accepting of me rather than awkward or judgmental. That meant a lot. I’ve covered a lot of mental turf in this post. As I said, these days, I’m a whirly woman. Actually that might always have been true – it’s just that these days, everything feels exaggerated. On to the next set of thoughts.

Whirly Woman When Michael and I were expecting our first baby, we spent lots of time talking about the type of parents we wanted to be, along with the kind of atmosphere we hoped to create in our home.  

[rilenerocks]

When Michael and I were expecting our first baby, we spent lots of time talking about the type of parents we wanted to be, along with the kind of atmosphere we hoped to create in our home.  I think that’s what most people do. Michael in particular wanted to build a space where our children felt totally accepted for who they were, where their friends were always welcome, a home that was a truly secure haven. So what was one of the first things we did when we brought our little girl home from the hospital? We put her little downstairs daytime bed right underneath the stereo in the orange room which was our combination music room and library. After ten years of rocking out at mega-decibels, we wanted to make sure she could get used to sleeping with the volume turned up. The photo above shows her lying there, angelically asleep, with Michael smiling as one of our dogs gazed at this novel little creature. I’m there, too, my top half missing from the shot. I’m sure the whole room was vibrating.

Our plan worked. We created a little rocker who fit right in with us. Her early musical tastes were focused on a lot of one-hit wonder tunes, like Mickey and Come On, Eileen. Michael, who through his record store had access to all kinds of music, started making House Favorites tapes and then, CD’s, first for all of us, and then eventually, just for our little girl.

In early 1983, a pop song named Whirly Girl by the group OXO was released and climbed into the top 30 records on the Billboard Charts. Our baby was crazy about it so we played it all the time. The other day as I was working out in the yard, it popped up on a random shuffle in my headphones. Initially, I was swamped with memories from that time but ultimately I focused on the song title because that’s how my mind feels right now – whirly.

There’s a certain amount of time I spend every day thinking about either the masks war, in which people absolutely refuse to wear a mask because doing so stomps on their individual freedom, or the fact that so many who do comply, wear them incorrectly. When I venture out into the world, invariably I run into either one or both of those types. I absolutely do not get any of this. Absent the financial means to afford one, I don’t understand how anyone who is a member of a community greater than one, treasures this freedom of theirs as more valuable than public health. I wonder how they’d have felt if they had to sew yellow stars on their clothes so they could be easily identified by their religion. I get pretty roily inside when I think about how small and selfish their minds must be. Especially when they wrap up their righteous rage in the flag or the Constitution. Grrr. Then there are these folks who are actually wearing the masks absolutely incorrectly. Their noses aren’t covered, the mask is below their chins or hanging off one ear. I find this particularly maddening when I go to pick up food from an institution with a big sign touting all the healthful protocols their business is taking to protect everyone’s health. Do these owners check on their employees? I mean, is slipping two loops over your ears as complex as solving a Rubik’s cube? Rocket science? Should I gently point out their mistakes? Or just continue to fume away about the level of stupid and selfish I see around me? I guess the pandemic is turning me into an intolerant, crotchety old lady. Or maybe that’s who I’ve always been without the old part. Of course, there is the daily dose of Trumpian dystopia which relentlessly  escalates, despite the feeling that each awful revelation from the day before is the zenith of his horrors. The bigotry and racism seemed hard to top, along with the denial of the Covid19 crisis,  but now we find ourselves in the midst of a new madness, which essentially put the lives of American troops into a dark marketplace of murder and headhunting for bounties. Do I feel incredulous? Sadly, no. Truly, this person seems utterly devoid of any interior moral foundation. He is the definition of self. I don’t know whether his simple fascination with tyrannical leaders is just wishful dreaming, or whether Putin really does have the ultimate blackmail item in his back pocket which he can pull out at any time. Right now I’m glad that the EU has banned travel from the US into their countries. Given everything, that action seems fitting.  My mind indeed is a whirly place.

Final approval of your loan is in progress…You have conditional approval on your loan application. We’re currently reviewing the remaining documentation required for final approval.

In the midst of the outside big world jumble, I managed to complicate my life a little further. Back in 2012, when Michael got diagnosed with his cancer, we refinanced our house. We were looking to pay off outstanding bills, get extra cash for out-of-pocket treatment costs and enough money to take some trips. When you get a diagnosis with an almost certain prognosis of death, you try to stuff in as many life experiences as you can, especially the ones you thought would be part of a retirement that would stretch out for years, given the longevity in Michael’s family. The best-laid plans, right? During the five years that Michael survived, we took advantage of that strategy. After he died in May, 2017, I wasn’t in the mental space to give much thought to mortgages and the like. I was in survival mode. During the last three years, I’ve done my own traveling while trying to adjust to my highly undesired new life. But during this time of isolation, I have swung back around to the business of my big old house. I’ve done a lot of physical fixing. Noting that interest rates for mortgages  had dropped well below what we’d gotten 8 years ago, I decided to refinance, shortening the term and saving lots of money. Sounded like a good plan – everything was moving along nicely when I suddenly realized that an appraisal was required. After the sordid housing crisis of 2008, the lenders have tightened up the requirements from appraisers. They now take photos of every room in your house, all the mechanical items and even the basement and garage. Uh-oh. I’ve made a few sporadic efforts at cleaning the garage, Michael’s domain, which is full of intriguing stuff. The only time I go into the basement is when it’s time to change the furnace filter. It’s actually a dark, creepy cellar with awful stairs which is accessible only from the outside. Years ago, one of my son’s friends was making a horror film. He asked if he could shoot part of it in our basement as it was one of the scariest places in town.

What a nightmare. I spent hours down there, sweeping, sorting, finding a few treasures and mostly ancient junk like carburetor parts and old lawnmower engines. The garage wasn’t much better. This business-y idea turned out to be grindingly hard labor. I stashed aside some potentially salvageable 45’s and albums that were somehow overlooked when we divested ourselves of Michael’s collection. Most of everything else went into the garbage. The appraiser came and went. She said things were fine. If only she’d seen it all before my massive efforts. Ah, well. All that’s left is my exhaustion and a who-do-I-think-I’m-kidding-at-my-age hangover that’s making it hard to get up from my chair.

Whirling back to the outside, life in the yard is good. I have nesting house wrens, cardinals and robins. They’re making good use of my birdbaths and cubbies for raising their hatchlings. The monarchs have found the milkweed. I could do without the big influx of rabbits along with the omnipresent squirrels who’ve eaten too many plants, denuded blossoms getting ready to open, and vandalized vegetables for no good reason that I can discern. I’ve engaged them in a race for the black raspberries, though and have chalked up a minor victory.

The flowers of course are magnificent and bring me great joy. The labor involved in urging them out of the ground is worth it. Just looking at them helps ratchet down the constant whirling thoughts that flit from subject to subject in my clicking head. Today, I put my coping skills to good use by enhancing my personal relaxation space with an outdoor mini-spa for myself. I don’t see getting back in the water any time soon. This will do for the present. As the saying goes, “adapt or die.”

As I mull over this life, so different from what I ever thought possible, I did have one recent experience that was delightful and satisfying. One of the hardest issues I’ve faced since Michael died was the collective responses that people have had to me and my feelings about my future. I’ve always known that I would never want to have another partner. That attitude was met with different reactions. Some people thought my grief was too fresh for me to know what I’d want. They’d say, give it some time to go through the stages following a big loss. Then we’ll see if you change your mind. If I talked about the challenges of being alone, they’d say, but you have your children and grandchildren. And that means what? They have their own lives. We intersect, as always. But it’s not the same as climbing in bed every night with your best friend and lover. As the months have passed, I’ve concluded that there’s just a lot of discomfort in these kinds of discussions. Unless you’ve lived the same life as someone else, you just don’t know what will work for them. And everyone’s relationship with their partners is different. I believe mine was an aspirational love that was rare. I had it for 45 years. I’m still in it. I feel my relationship every day, deep in the core of me. I don’t believe I could ever have that again and anything less is irrelevant. I have a number of people, most importantly my kids, who get this.Often, I draw a blank stare. But I had a great thing happen with one of my oldest friends, someone that both Michael and I’ve known for over 50 years.  Our lives have been closely connected all that time.

Glenn and Michael met at college in 1967 and lived in the same fraternity house, although Michael moved out after a year. I met Glenn when I came to college in 1968, through a high school friend of mine. I didn’t meet Michael until 1971, but he and I both always knew Glenn. We all socialized, but initially, with different groups of people who ultimately became blended. Glenn and I had a date once – the most memorable part of that for us both was really enjoying the album we were listening to – Tea for the Tillerman. When I was arrested in 1971 at an anti-war demonstration, Glenn bailed me out of jail. All three of us worked at the record store which ultimately became Michael’s career for the 27 years before he became a history teacher. When Michael and I became a couple in 1972, Glenn would visit us on a regular basis to enjoy the verbal sparring and bickering we engaged in, very different from his non-confrontational style. Glenn told me he was afraid that I’d overpower sweet Michael with my combat-boot personal style, but that  never happened. We were with him through a series of his relationships up to and including his marriage which has now lasted decades. We shared life events together, from having kids to losing family members. He and Michael went on white-water rafting and canoe trips. We played Hearts and Spades together on a regular basis and wound up going to a lake in Michigan every summer for years with a group of old friends for family camp. Glenn worked for the city for which Michael was an alderman and later, head of the city’s planning commission. They were both involved with the local food bank. When we had our daughter, Glenn gave her more gifts for her first birthday than we did. Twenty-five years later, he became a certified wedding officiant and performed her wedding ceremony. When Michael was withdrawn into the last stage of his life, he saw Glenn once, the only person who got into our house besides medical professionals and our family.

Last week, I went to see Glenn and his wife Colleen for an outdoor social distanced visit, the first time I’d seen them in many months. We had a lot to catch up on, what we’d all been doing, what was happening with our kids, how we felt about the current state of the world. Glenn asked me how I was managing, going through this weird time on my own. I told him that I never really felt alone, as Michael’s presence is just here, all the time. In the most normal, conversational tone, he said, “you know, it feels like your relationship with Michael right now is a lot better than it was right after he died.” I was startled, delighted and I laughed a lot. I’ve been laughing about it periodically. I told him that I was so utterly drained and devastated after Michael’s death that it had taken me awhile to recover from the expensive emotional price wrested from me by those challenging years. Now I’ve had a lot of recovery time and the way I feel with Michael is like the majority of our life together, wonderful,  rather than those painful, stressful times. So, yeah, we’re good. Still arguing in some of my dreams, though. I was really delighted that for the first time, someone acted normal and accepting of me rather than awkward or judgmental. That meant a lot. I’ve covered a lot of mental turf in this post. As I said, these days, I’m a whirly woman. Actually that might always have been true – it’s just that these days, everything feels exaggerated. On to the next set of thoughts.

Whirly Woman When Michael and I were expecting our first baby, we spent lots of time talking about the type of parents we wanted to be, along with the kind of atmosphere we hoped to create in our home.  

[rilenerocks]

When Michael and I were expecting our first baby, we spent lots of time talking about the type of parents we wanted to be, along with the kind of atmosphere we hoped to create in our home.  I think that’s what most people do. Michael in particular wanted to build a space where our children felt totally accepted for who they were, where their friends were always welcome, a home that was a truly secure haven. So what was one of the first things we did when we brought our little girl home from the hospital? We put her little downstairs daytime bed right underneath the stereo in the orange room which was our combination music room and library. After ten years of rocking out at mega-decibels, we wanted to make sure she could get used to sleeping with the volume turned up. The photo above shows her lying there, angelically asleep, with Michael smiling as one of our dogs gazed at this novel little creature. I’m there, too, my top half missing from the shot. I’m sure the whole room was vibrating.

Our plan worked. We created a little rocker who fit right in with us. Her early musical tastes were focused on a lot of one-hit wonder tunes, like Mickey and Come On, Eileen. Michael, who through his record store had access to all kinds of music, started making House Favorites tapes and then, CD’s, first for all of us, and then eventually, just for our little girl.

In early 1983, a pop song named Whirly Girl by the group OXO was released and climbed into the top 30 records on the Billboard Charts. Our baby was crazy about it so we played it all the time. The other day as I was working out in the yard, it popped up on a random shuffle in my headphones. Initially, I was swamped with memories from that time but ultimately I focused on the song title because that’s how my mind feels right now – whirly.

There’s a certain amount of time I spend every day thinking about either the masks war, in which people absolutely refuse to wear a mask because doing so stomps on their individual freedom, or the fact that so many who do comply, wear them incorrectly. When I venture out into the world, invariably I run into either one or both of those types. I absolutely do not get any of this. Absent the financial means to afford one, I don’t understand how anyone who is a member of a community greater than one, treasures this freedom of theirs as more valuable than public health. I wonder how they’d have felt if they had to sew yellow stars on their clothes so they could be easily identified by their religion. I get pretty roily inside when I think about how small and selfish their minds must be. Especially when they wrap up their righteous rage in the flag or the Constitution. Grrr. Then there are these folks who are actually wearing the masks absolutely incorrectly. Their noses aren’t covered, the mask is below their chins or hanging off one ear. I find this particularly maddening when I go to pick up food from an institution with a big sign touting all the healthful protocols their business is taking to protect everyone’s health. Do these owners check on their employees? I mean, is slipping two loops over your ears as complex as solving a Rubik’s cube? Rocket science? Should I gently point out their mistakes? Or just continue to fume away about the level of stupid and selfish I see around me? I guess the pandemic is turning me into an intolerant, crotchety old lady. Or maybe that’s who I’ve always been without the old part. Of course, there is the daily dose of Trumpian dystopia which relentlessly  escalates, despite the feeling that each awful revelation from the day before is the zenith of his horrors. The bigotry and racism seemed hard to top, along with the denial of the Covid19 crisis,  but now we find ourselves in the midst of a new madness, which essentially put the lives of American troops into a dark marketplace of murder and headhunting for bounties. Do I feel incredulous? Sadly, no. Truly, this person seems utterly devoid of any interior moral foundation. He is the definition of self. I don’t know whether his simple fascination with tyrannical leaders is just wishful dreaming, or whether Putin really does have the ultimate blackmail item in his back pocket which he can pull out at any time. Right now I’m glad that the EU has banned travel from the US into their countries. Given everything, that action seems fitting.  My mind indeed is a whirly place.

Final approval of your loan is in progress…You have conditional approval on your loan application. We’re currently reviewing the remaining documentation required for final approval.

In the midst of the outside big world jumble, I managed to complicate my life a little further. Back in 2012, when Michael got diagnosed with his cancer, we refinanced our house. We were looking to pay off outstanding bills, get extra cash for out-of-pocket treatment costs and enough money to take some trips. When you get a diagnosis with an almost certain prognosis of death, you try to stuff in as many life experiences as you can, especially the ones you thought would be part of a retirement that would stretch out for years, given the longevity in Michael’s family. The best-laid plans, right? During the five years that Michael survived, we took advantage of that strategy. After he died in May, 2017, I wasn’t in the mental space to give much thought to mortgages and the like. I was in survival mode. During the last three years, I’ve done my own traveling while trying to adjust to my highly undesired new life. But during this time of isolation, I have swung back around to the business of my big old house. I’ve done a lot of physical fixing. Noting that interest rates for mortgages  had dropped well below what we’d gotten 8 years ago, I decided to refinance, shortening the term and saving lots of money. Sounded like a good plan – everything was moving along nicely when I suddenly realized that an appraisal was required. After the sordid housing crisis of 2008, the lenders have tightened up the requirements from appraisers. They now take photos of every room in your house, all the mechanical items and even the basement and garage. Uh-oh. I’ve made a few sporadic efforts at cleaning the garage, Michael’s domain, which is full of intriguing stuff. The only time I go into the basement is when it’s time to change the furnace filter. It’s actually a dark, creepy cellar with awful stairs which is accessible only from the outside. Years ago, one of my son’s friends was making a horror film. He asked if he could shoot part of it in our basement as it was one of the scariest places in town.

What a nightmare. I spent hours down there, sweeping, sorting, finding a few treasures and mostly ancient junk like carburetor parts and old lawnmower engines. The garage wasn’t much better. This business-y idea turned out to be grindingly hard labor. I stashed aside some potentially salvageable 45’s and albums that were somehow overlooked when we divested ourselves of Michael’s collection. Most of everything else went into the garbage. The appraiser came and went. She said things were fine. If only she’d seen it all before my massive efforts. Ah, well. All that’s left is my exhaustion and a who-do-I-think-I’m-kidding-at-my-age hangover that’s making it hard to get up from my chair.

Whirling back to the outside, life in the yard is good. I have nesting house wrens, cardinals and robins. They’re making good use of my birdbaths and cubbies for raising their hatchlings. The monarchs have found the milkweed. I could do without the big influx of rabbits along with the omnipresent squirrels who’ve eaten too many plants, denuded blossoms getting ready to open, and vandalized vegetables for no good reason that I can discern. I’ve engaged them in a race for the black raspberries, though and have chalked up a minor victory.

The flowers of course are magnificent and bring me great joy. The labor involved in urging them out of the ground is worth it. Just looking at them helps ratchet down the constant whirling thoughts that flit from subject to subject in my clicking head. Today, I put my coping skills to good use by enhancing my personal relaxation space with an outdoor mini-spa for myself. I don’t see getting back in the water any time soon. This will do for the present. As the saying goes, “adapt or die.”

As I mull over this life, so different from what I ever thought possible, I did have one recent experience that was delightful and satisfying. One of the hardest issues I’ve faced since Michael died was the collective responses that people have had to me and my feelings about my future. I’ve always known that I would never want to have another partner. That attitude was met with different reactions. Some people thought my grief was too fresh for me to know what I’d want. They’d say, give it some time to go through the stages following a big loss. Then we’ll see if you change your mind. If I talked about the challenges of being alone, they’d say, but you have your children and grandchildren. And that means what? They have their own lives. We intersect, as always. But it’s not the same as climbing in bed every night with your best friend and lover. As the months have passed, I’ve concluded that there’s just a lot of discomfort in these kinds of discussions. Unless you’ve lived the same life as someone else, you just don’t know what will work for them. And everyone’s relationship with their partners is different. I believe mine was an aspirational love that was rare. I had it for 45 years. I’m still in it. I feel my relationship every day, deep in the core of me. I don’t believe I could ever have that again and anything less is irrelevant. I have a number of people, most importantly my kids, who get this.Often, I draw a blank stare. But I had a great thing happen with one of my oldest friends, someone that both Michael and I’ve known for over 50 years.  Our lives have been closely connected all that time.

Glenn and Michael met at college in 1967 and lived in the same fraternity house, although Michael moved out after a year. I met Glenn when I came to college in 1968, through a high school friend of mine. I didn’t meet Michael until 1971, but he and I both always knew Glenn. We all socialized, but initially, with different groups of people who ultimately became blended. Glenn and I had a date once – the most memorable part of that for us both was really enjoying the album we were listening to – Tea for the Tillerman. When I was arrested in 1971 at an anti-war demonstration, Glenn bailed me out of jail. All three of us worked at the record store which ultimately became Michael’s career for the 27 years before he became a history teacher. When Michael and I became a couple in 1972, Glenn would visit us on a regular basis to enjoy the verbal sparring and bickering we engaged in, very different from his non-confrontational style. Glenn told me he was afraid that I’d overpower sweet Michael with my combat-boot personal style, but that  never happened. We were with him through a series of his relationships up to and including his marriage which has now lasted decades. We shared life events together, from having kids to losing family members. He and Michael went on white-water rafting and canoe trips. We played Hearts and Spades together on a regular basis and wound up going to a lake in Michigan every summer for years with a group of old friends for family camp. Glenn worked for the city for which Michael was an alderman and later, head of the city’s planning commission. They were both involved with the local food bank. When we had our daughter, Glenn gave her more gifts for her first birthday than we did. Twenty-five years later, he became a certified wedding officiant and performed her wedding ceremony. When Michael was withdrawn into the last stage of his life, he saw Glenn once, the only person who got into our house besides medical professionals and our family.

Last week, I went to see Glenn and his wife Colleen for an outdoor social distanced visit, the first time I’d seen them in many months. We had a lot to catch up on, what we’d all been doing, what was happening with our kids, how we felt about the current state of the world. Glenn asked me how I was managing, going through this weird time on my own. I told him that I never really felt alone, as Michael’s presence is just here, all the time. In the most normal, conversational tone, he said, “you know, it feels like your relationship with Michael right now is a lot better than it was right after he died.” I was startled, delighted and I laughed a lot. I’ve been laughing about it periodically. I told him that I was so utterly drained and devastated after Michael’s death that it had taken me awhile to recover from the expensive emotional price wrested from me by those challenging years. Now I’ve had a lot of recovery time and the way I feel with Michael is like the majority of our life together, wonderful,  rather than those painful, stressful times. So, yeah, we’re good. Still arguing in some of my dreams, though. I was really delighted that for the first time, someone acted normal and accepting of me rather than awkward or judgmental. That meant a lot. I’ve covered a lot of mental turf in this post. As I said, these days, I’m a whirly woman. Actually that might always have been true – it’s just that these days, everything feels exaggerated. On to the next set of thoughts.

Whirly Woman When Michael and I were expecting our first baby, we spent lots of time talking about the type of parents we wanted to be, along with the kind of atmosphere we hoped to create in our home.