Thinking of the end-of-summer-courage of teachers and coaches, prepping the new schedule, the bookshelves, the policies, pushing the chairs around, cleverly putting friendly reminders near the wall clock. All that readiness for a group of students who might be in a thousand different places, needing all kinds of everything.
The great Lyman Williams. Missing and missed two years. Father of my buddy, Rusty. Geology professor and Interlochen summer camp science museum curator. I can hear his bagpipes winding from the valleys to the high meadows of Sheepshead in the San Juan Mountains, his cheery, spindly, Dick Van Dyke laugh and hello.
We checked into a Wilkes-Barre, PA hotel last night that has a ballroom where very old people danced to big band music in full formal attire.
The ancient dancers slipped into their rooms and under the covers and slept like the dead.
A little woried for them.
Tomorrow the Murdock tribe will be eating ice cream cones in memory of my dad, a man easily inspired to travel great distances for a good cone. He is two years missing/missed. In Harry Potter, people who have grieved can see Thestrals in the streets: a weird flying animal taxi. My experience has been that people who have grieved can see EACH OTHER in the streets. Vanilla, chocolate, espresso, pistachio, and wild cherry.
We need a new word for the way that people like Bill Murray and Robin Williams turn pitch-perfect timing into a story-telling of people we want to be for the right reasons.
Faith and Mavis, returning from the public pool, noted that just as a murder of crows identifies many birds; numerous splashing children should be identified as a misery of children.