50 Week, the Day After

We write this in the cool morning air of the Berkshires. This very moment an egret, or heron is sitting on the dock. A lone Canada goose makes its way across the glass-like lake. 

We and the girls and relatives took two trips out on the lake yesterday, no casualties. We had a fine dinner last night with family, including our father and sister and one nephew. As predicted, we drank two beers [Don't be impressed, they were ten ounces -Ed] but we didn't have the wherewithal for a third. [Lightweight-Ed]. Hey, I'm fifty. 

We hauled some junk over to the dump yesterday, including a corner cabinet that had been mounted in the family room for 50 years. Before times, the cabinet housed a 9-inch black and white TV on which one could get two channels. We dropped the cabinet off at the dump's swap shop and within a minute a hippie chick (this is the Berkshires) took it, delighted that she found it. We said hello and gave her a few seconds of back story and wished her luck. Fuck it all, if we didn't get emotional.  

This place has been in the family for 50 years. Our grandparents put it on the market in the mid-90s, but gave up in 2001. Like most of the rest of the original houses on Lake Buel, ours would be a knockdown job FFS. You should see the battleships people have put up on the lake shore. In fact, maybe we'll post pics tomorrow. This place is a lot of work, a lot of worry and a lot of money. And this week it's occurred to us that we should start mentally preparing ourselves to let it go. 

It's Thursday after all and that means, [Oh no-Ed] Oh yes, The Thursday Downer. Not yet, but someday, maybe a decade from now, we can see ourselves sitting in the Edwardian living room our grandmother decorated, like Michael Corleone in the beginning of Godfather III. The room is shabby. The house is shabby. The girls are all off on their own, not very interested in the house; we went five years without visiting this place in late 90s. We sit in our grandfather's grandfather's Morris Chair. Clinging to memories. 

Time passes, and passes quicker as it passes, gaining momentum. This is not about death but about distance and the loss of those moments and time. The timeline grows ever longer. We imagined yesterday, 'What if we live another 50 years?' It could happen. But we take after our mother's side of the family. The Thompson men usually kick-off about 65, the man who gave us our middle name did. Dropped dead of a heart attack opening the garage door.  Our father's father hit 95. God, we hope not.