1965

Springfield, Oregon March 1965. It was a small apartment on the hillside above the mill. They had been married about a year. She was in nursing school and he had had a car accident and was in traction for six weeks when they met. There are stories of how she had got on stage at a bar somewhere and sang songs to an impromptu audience.  His father owned a cafe where he had worked all through school before enlisting. His mother had died in his arms and then he met a nurse who would become his wife. Drinking alcohol was the norm and his car accident was the result of a partying escapade with his sister and her husband. 

I regret not driving dad to Springfield before he died so that he could show me the apartment or at least where it was. That's where I was conceived after my parents had been married a year or so. Dad died though and even though my mom is alive she would be unable to recall the apartment as she barely recognizes my brother and I at this point. Dementia is kind to her but cruel to us who want to feel her know us, remember us and love us. I sing to her and she knows me. I cling to her, smell her, hug her and feel her. My mom who I love.

It is winter now and I live in the next town over which is the place I was born. I am getting ready to gather spit and get a DNA read out to trace my history. I know we go way back in England to a village near Stonehenge. The oldest of lines to the Vincent clan. On the other side there are roots to Holland, Ireland and Norway. My brother's DNA shows roots to Scotland and I am thrilled to see what my blood line reveals. My mom will spit also so we can go back even further.

New years eve this year was spent with good friends and midnight turned into 2022 at an Irish pub here in my hometown. We are good in health thanks to natural immunity. Farewell 2021. You took my father. Gratitude, ascorbic acid powder and kind friends saved me from the wretched virus last year. God is good.