Kevin Brennan Writes About What It's Like
Spending a few days with my mom was a real pleasure. She’s the type who can talk about anything, sometimes even won’t stop talking when you want to hear a little movie dialogue, and because she can’t hear all that well the volume is super high as it is. But we covered topics from how she prays every night that we’re safely delivered from Trump’s madness to why you can’t look directly at a solar eclipse. See, St. Louis is about to be Ground Zero for a total eclipse on August 21, and everyone’s gearing up for the economic bonanza that will come from it. People will travel from all over the world to witness this once-in-a-lifetime event. At least they’re planning for it back there.
Mom’s little Shih Tzu, who’s remarkably reticent, finally decided to let me pet her late into my stay.
We watched Muriel’s Wedding, the three of us, as I mentioned the other day, and I was surprised to learn that Mom really likes the songs of ABBA. I noticed that she especially perked up when “Fernando” was playing.
I went over to my brother’s house, and we played guitar together in his home studio. He has some great gear, like a rockin’ loud Fender Deville, so we really shook the rafters. Sounded like a band that might have made it big if only someone like Brian Epstein had discovered us when we were in our twenties. And get ready: we started working on a song together and plan to shoot the GarageBand file back and forth to hammer out our first joint project. I will force you to listen to it when it’s ready. Yes I will.
I cooked for my mom too. I made a fab potato and onion soup and some fresh bread, topping it off with an apple pie. I’m sure she’s still working on all of it. She didn’t have any wine glasses so I bought her a couple (above). They have a monkey on them, hanging onto a palm tree. Who wouldn’t want to drink wine out of a plastic glass with a monkey on it?!
Going back to your home town when you’re sixty is an interesting experience. Especially when you’ve been away for almost thirty years. The familiar is still familiar, but some of it feels like a facsimile of the thing you recall. The trees you remember are now tall and filled in. Things that seemed large then seem small, and some things that were there before are gone now and exist only in your memory. Change is slow and constant, but there’s a lot that remains and you find that your childhood exists in a dimension that has been there beside you all along.
The sound of the cicadas as they crescendo in the dark treetops at night tell you that …