WRITUS INTERRUPTUS

#89 - When I started my StoryLetter, Before I Forget . . almost two years ago, I thought I would post one story per week. Mainly memories. I didn’t give thought to how long it might continu

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#89 – Writus Interruptus 

When I started my StoryLetter, Before I Forget . . almost two years ago, I thought I would post one story per week. Mainly memories. I didn’t give thought to how long it might continue. 

In a couple of months of posting, the idea of putting out one hundred posts in one hundred weeks straight grew on me.  

I wasn’t sure I could remember that many memories. I would have to make up some stories. 

I would only have to dodge the “Things Happen!” thing.  

I moved from another platform to Substack and I'm glad I did. It was a dive into a pool of talented writers, of both fiction and non-fiction and all manner in between. 

It was both humbling and inspiring.  

There is something else underlying why I write.  

‘They’ say, “It’s just good for you.” Like learning a new language and reading or playing a musical instrument and journaling. And regular exercise. It helps keep all those neurons and synapses firing clean. It takes discipline. It’s good for the brain. 

I’d like to think that “The science is settled on that.” So, I indulge in each as I can. If nothing else, it keeps me off the streets. So far. 

Now that I’m firmly ensconced in middle age, I think about these things.  

All of this is to say that I’m going to miss the next couple of posts, maybe three. My “streak” will end at this one - #89. I made a good run at it.  

I’ll be traveling. To Louisiana. It’s been a while. 

I’m looking forward to it. I’ll be driving and sleeping in my vehicle. I can be there in a couple of days.  

I get “home” every two or three years. Last time, Hurricane Laura cut my visit short. It built up fast and was moving ashore.  

Time to evacuate. My brothers and sister headed for Houston, a hundred and forty miles west on Interstate 10. The nearest place to find accommodations. 

Who knows what they would come home to. They’d been through this before. Getting back home a few days later, their houses had roof damage and flooding. Not the first time. 

I-10 was stop and go bumper to bumper. I went north on “short cuts through the woods.” They, too, were clogged.  

Gas stations had run out of gas in the rush, and I needed gas. I was looking for a place to pull over and stop so that I didn’t run out of gas on the road.  

It might be days before the stations could be refueled. I might be weathering the storm there in the boonies.  

I found a station just before crossing the Sabine River into Texas. I pulled into a long line and prayed there would be gas for me before it ran dry. 

It took six and a half hours to get back to I-10 at Beaumont where the traffic was just beginning to move. Slow but moving.  

Beaumont is an hour from home on the freeway. I went forty miles out of the way. I couldn’t tell if it saved any time.

I may get spring weather storms but no hurricanes this time of year. 

I miss my family more as I age. And my body feels “at home” there. It’s beautiful. 

For a few days I’ll relish my time with family and environs, and come on back.  

“Home” is also California. Most of my life I've been here. 

THEN - I have jury duty. I’ve delayed it once and now I must call on the 27^th, to find out if, or which case, I’m to report to on the 28^th.

The courthouse is on the other side of the county. There will be drive time through the commute. Oh, boy.  

I can only guess as to the time a trial might take.   

That’s my situation for the next few weeks. My time on the computer and internet will be greatly reduced. That has to be a good thing, right?

However, I will miss the weekly rush of hitting that “Publish” button.  

I have an update on “No Name”. No Name is still there, camped in a small tent along the roadside. 

No Name’s name is “William.” He spelled it out for me - first, middle, and last. He might have thought that I was from some agency and was checking him out.  

I was encouraged that he responded.  

He’s older than I thought. Maybe he’s a veteran.  

He’s cast himself out, for whatever reason. He sits there, legs crossed under him yoga-like.  

It’s been cold and wet. I wonder what his thoughts are of. Do they go any further than today? 

To my thinking, he’s in a better location where he is than in a city slum or tent city.  

I was working in a downtown Oakland hotel/lodge when the mental institutions were “changing policy” and William reminds me of the Napa “inmates” who were released to area hotels to provide their housing. 

We received a few. All were on drugs they couldn’t be responsible for, and all had a “not quite there“ look on their face.  

They were stepped out of a cab and ushered in our front door. They stood there, holding a shopping bag with all their worldly possessions, staring around, not knowing what to do.  

We took them to their rooms which they rarely left except for meals. Each of them had issues or episodes. A danger to themselves and others.  

William appears harmless. It’s three months now that I’ve seen him and clearly, he is getting by.  

But the garbage accumulates. 

A sign of the times, but what to do about it? 

That’s it for now. Y’all take care! I’ll see you when I get back. 

Thank you for reading Before I Forget . . !

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See you, my friends.  :)