Going mostly on instinct, I limited each line to 38 characters, wrote the first entry 73 lines long, and planned to make each subsequent verse one line shorter. If all went as hoped, I figured the final line would be something significant, even if most of the others might be forgettable.

Leaping ahead to the present, Ramble has been somewhat miraculous to me; as you might expect, it changed dramatically over time… and so have I. For the first, longest verses, I vented in detail about momentous developments, including some of the bigger political and global issues of those days. Progressively, I grew more and more daunted in facing the need to communicate things of real importance concisely. For anyone arriving at a crossroads in life with ability and time to write, I encourage a similar writing challenge. If you don’t have years and years to devote, begin with a five-line poem, then count down four, three, two and one: In my experience, it’s a productive approach at focusing oneself.

This website did not exist when I started writing Ramble, but it features all the most recent entries. Since writing number 17 in early 2008 and publishing it here the next day, I’ve written seven others that I’ve instantly published. One year ago, I wrote and added #6 in honor of my son Riley.

Hoping your interest runs deeper, I’m proud to share a few of my favorite rambles. They span from the project’s earliest days through until now, almost; #5 was written this past March. Below, all make their debut. The very next chapter of Arc of the Poet will end this tale, while also seeing Ramble through to its finale. I appreciate your interest immensely, and hope you will stay tuned, keep in touch, and enjoy everything life has to offer.

Ramble
by Roger Darnell

2002: #70

Darnells, 2002.

Our first home in Boone, 2002.

Spring break, 2003.

So, on a weekend, what exactly is it
that’s keeping me away from tackling
one of these longer-form projects of
personal origination? Not exactly an
easy question to answer, but I do
realize that the key to “jumping” when
I get the opportunity depends upon me
getting through this. My first
reaction is to think about these other
standing items: the next novel from
my step father-in-law; the electronic
books and developments underway for my
father-in-law; the screenplay project
which is certainly a priority at the
moment; and after that, my sort of
aimless, hard to pin-down hesitation
in knowing exactly which project to
“jump” into. If I get that far, there
is certainly one project I think of,
but knowing that I need to be making
daily progress with these other
initiatives — plus of course finding
my third client and landing them –
it’s a very sticky cobweb I have to
spin my way through to actually begin
contemplating launching my efforts.
It’s easier to pick up a book, do
some straightening in my office, write
my mom or my brother an email, or go
and see what it is that Amelia and her
mother are up to. The ability to
actually focus on that creative work,
to make it absolutely phenomenal, is
a goal I am passionate about for good
reasons: if I pursue it, I want it to
be great, to succeed where my other
completed creative pursuits have not.
I can remember reading about A.E.
Housmann, coming to see that after he
wrote A Shropshire Lad, he essentially
retired from writing poetry. His
powerful words, written before he
reached 25, I believe, touched me very
deeply when I was young, and I was
pretty determined to follow-through on
my poetic pursuits; seeing an end to
the achievements of someone I sought
to emulate at such an early age, I was
troubled as I considered my future.
I’ve always thought about writing
like my favorite authors, and making
movies like my favorite filmmakers,
and I can see that failing to achieve
something close in any of these areas
would be a significant disappointment
in my life. So, if I’m to live the
life I’ve aspired to for so long, I
need to create every aspect of those
successes that are so far immaterial.
I’m extremely grateful for the dreams
which drive me on; having them is a
gift… and the more readily I can see
them, the better my chances at keeping
the fire of determination alive within
me. Continuing on at the pace that my
wife and I are enjoying, we’ll pay off
two homes, live a great life and raise
two children with much love and joy;
hallelujah! By seizing any chances to
write I can put more icing on my cake.

…

2003: #67

Indian Campground.

I am writing from a place that has
evolved since the beginning of this
project, but it’s the place that we
envisioned prior to relocating here,
and I have attained it more than once
over these past two years. It is a
place of harmony… where I can enjoy
our beautiful forest surroundings, the
peace of trickling waterfalls and the
dazzling brilliance of sunlight sifted
through treetops and reflected from
flat eddies in the creek’s shimmering
waters. Even the buzzing of insects
is a joy to behold here, because they
are brilliantly contrasted with those
sounds from locales we have occupied
in the past. I can immerse in this
splendor of nature because my wife and
my daughter are also enjoying harmony
today… out at the library or perhaps
playing at a park… and our son grows
contentedly inside his mother’s womb,
slowly but surely becoming. All along
the journey that has brought us here,
this place has existed, but often it
lies beyond our grasp. Even during
times of peace, some unexplainable
phenomena occupy our energies to the
extent that we pre-conceive some of
the difficulties we might face, or we
puzzle over challenges on the outer
peripheries of our lives. These past
few nights, my wife has dreamt of the
most horrible situations with our
daughter… and as I laid sleepless
but exhausted in bed last night, I too
was visited with torturous visions…
as if imagining a benign scrape on our
daughter’s elbow isn’t horrifying in
itself. Such thoughts prompt me, on a
morning like this one, to gaze at my
daughter with such profound love… to
realize the limitation of the security
I can offer as she, too, continues to
become. And the blessing that is most
evident is this place, and all that it
means to us in our hearts and minds.
For here, aside from the riches nature
surrounds us with, we are also wealthy
in loving family and the overflowing
fruits of nurturing, wholesome values.
Beauty, fine arts, fun, adventure,
bonds of love, community and self-
identity are giving our child a unique
and solid perspective in the world,
and she, together with her cousins,
will shepherd our little boy all the
days of his childhood, until he grows
with them into a full human being.
These children, invested with the very
best we have to offer, in a place that
seems as though it will always hold
its magic on its very surface… a
a simple empire that knows, respects
and admires them… have every chance
of becoming great. These virtues
kindle my thoughts on this summer day.

…

December 2003: #61

Walk with Amelia.

Recalling the occasion of the father
returning home to his two-year-old
daughter, after an absence of some
five days, a flood of heartwarming
emotions is the first overwhelming
sensation that seizes the stage in the
retelling. It’s a feeling that stays
strong through the end, just as well.
First, though, it’s also important to
note the quality of their communiques
during the trip; many very funny
Flash email cards from Hallmark made
the journey through the Internet to
reach from Boone to Hollywood, and
they were quite touching and
sentimental. “Miss Kiss” is one that
remains embedded in Amelia’s mind,
about the time when her Daddy was in
California, when each was very sad.
Well, the phone conversations also
ran to new lengths and nuances…
giving both a chance to express
the love both had become so adept at
expressing through touch. Just as
is the case for anyone, the voice
on the phone can be a source for
painful feelings of things missing,
like sight and touch. This was the
most poignant instant yet in the
daughter’s perception of “missing
Daddy,” and the Daddy’s, too. So,
by the time the date arose and the
daddy closed in on his return home,
anticipation was extraordinarily
high. He arrived, and he looked in
at his sleeping daughter in her
bedroom, and he and his beloved wife
seized the moment to lay down, rest
and catch-up together. Somehow, the
now-accustomed lonesomeness for each
other had added a new dimension,
which seemed to capture most of the
gravity in itself: their daughter.
The parents were joyful and focused
on ending the pain of parting that
they’d all suffered together, each
in their individual way. So, as
soon as an acceptable amount of nap
time had transpired, the father
climbed into bed with the little one,
and upon her waking up, he met the
sweetest words he could never even
imagine: in her whisper, she told
him, “I missed you.” One little hand
on each of his cheeks, her smile said
the pain was gone, and he kissed her,
until he had to bury his face against
her chest and give in to the utter
sobs — quiet, happy ones — that rose
to the surface of his emotions. She
heard Daddy laugh, “Happy tears Baby!”

…

November 12, 2005: #34

Riley and Daddy, Oct. 29, 2005.

So, let’s discuss this ‘writer’ in more detail.
Fastidious, he’ll have to be for sure, to make
progress in creating something brilliant
enough to ford his fate to any new height.
First things first, though, as he knows.
There’s a story to be told. It must be
crafted superbly. Its language must be
inviting, captivating… calculating. Spot on.
That’s what’s missing – the ability to step
into the zone, where the mind can focus
completely on artistically rendering a tale
with depth, heart, soul, and stirrings of
ancient orders for living human spirits.
My goodness… it’s no wonder I’ve decided
in the past to build up to this. It’s quite the
pedestal I’ve parked my expectations on.
Whatever writing I take on, there are
rewards to be had, but creating content
I can own is what I’m driven to accomplish.
That seems something profound to savor.
So, there’s a story to be crafted, as
described. Making headway on that will
be a respectable challenge in and of itself.
Organizationally, strategically, I’m proud
to say that I’m starting to gain traction.
And I’ve done my share of long-form
writing projects in the past. If I’m lucky,
my future will have more big projects than
are now in my past. And all will get made.

…

February 1, 2006: #32

Camp Merriewoode, Sept. 9, 2006.

Riley, Amelia, and unknown doggie, Sept. 9, 2006.

Daddy and Riley, Sept. 9, 2006.

Amelia, Riley and Mommy, Sept. 9, 2003.

Relating to my children is becoming more
and more important to me. When I hold
either of them, I realize how very much
I love them. The physical connections
between us remind me that I have made
a person, who is now growing up. As
they fare in the world, so do I, in every
sense of the word. The life that spread
itself over 36 years is now off the charts,
quite literally. Our mental range is now
restricted to the swift currents of the past
53 months, since the responsibility that
came home with our first baby settled in.
The dedication required to fulfill parental
obligations is exactly what my wife and I
were set to provide, at that point in life.
We took a risk, struggled at first, and then
hit a stride like we never thought possible.
By the time we get through our next CPA
meeting, I expect to have a distinct plan
in hand for our financial future, including
early retirement, at least by a couple years.
The routine is rewarding us with security,
and it makes me very enthusiastic about
the world my children live in. And yet, the
days of our lives bring us grief, despair,
disaster, destruction… and cancer. These
Darnell children, so important and special,
how much security can I truly offer them?
My apprehension can never be fully offset,
but when we hold each other and know
that all is well, today, we are living large.

…

March 13, 2007: #24

Darnell family, Nov. 25, 2006.

An attempted ode on the beginning of life.
These days, the agenda involves sorting
powers of attorneys, wills for life and death,
guardians for children in the event both
parents die, separate trustees of the estate,
and of course backups for those named as
heirs to each station, plus their backups.
I have seen ends of lives – they’re not pretty.
No one ever seems prepared. But in time,
looking back, it sort of looks like each was,
as the last of their waves eventually receded.
Even the pyramids will return to sand in time!
My little insurance gift, or my little empire
of feats, finances and – pardon the popular
British expression – fuck-all (as it will no
doubt all turn out to be), may not amount
to a hill of beans in the record books, but
I hope it will be a real blessing to my family.
They are the joy and devotion of my life, and
the best times I’ve passed here have been
the spans I’ve spent in warm happiness,
laughter, and even attending life’s sorrows,
with them. Life offers more joy, with Roger
or not, with you or not, as it will always be.

…

December 8, 2007: #20

Riley on a walk with Daddy, May 26, 2007.

Riley and Amelia Darnell, May 12, 2007.

Amelia and Mommy, May 12, 2007.

Claire, Amelia and Riley, Aug. 28, 2007.

A journey. A commitment. An idea.
An inspiration.
An experiment. A reward. A victory.
A therapy. A relief. A confession.
An approach. A monument. A cry.
A lament. An admission. An outreach.
A shame. An act. A gesture. A display.
An indiscretion. A performance.
An elixir. An epiphany. An enigma.
A catalyst. A catharsis. A transformation.
To discover. To dedicate. To evolve.
To relish.
To learn. To reach. To will.
To fathom. To expect. To purge.
To try. To excel. To blossom.
To listen. To understand. To accept.
To observe. To absolve. To interpret.
To relate. To channel.
To absorb. To celebrate. To comprehend.

…

November 29, 2008: #11

Uncle Scott and Amelia, Nov. 27, 2008.

Pa, Riley and Aunt Susan, Nov. 27, 2008.

tonight I watched the pieces fall into place
the words used to describe my own values
either to someone else or myself, either in
reality or some hoped-for future, all these
observations and ruminations on the most
important building ingredients I weigh
were united and elegantly whirled together
as my life’s journey-to-date was laid bare,
and what I saw was that it added me all up
as this guy on the planet who has lived.
And from now on, I can add new material.

…

March 24, 2011: #5

Roger and Beth, April 26, 2011.

Tonight, I am very thankful to be a son,
a grandson, a brother, a nephew,
a cousin, a friend, a husband, and a dad.
Also, I’m grateful that my kids have much
to be thankful for, and they both know it.

…

I’ve always been a sincere fan of my mother Lila Darnell’s direct, powerful and stylized creative writing. Through my high school and college educations, exchanges with many other colorful and smart friends and family members, and lifelong exposure to magazines, radio and cable TV broadcasts, I developed a pretty strong sense for good poetry, and where that odd form of writing fits into the world. In my early 20s, I was introduced to the works of Charles Bukowski, who appeared to me as a 360-degree representation of the life of a successful poet… and who wrote books I loved instantly, due to them being so human, approachable, funny, well written and good. My friend Hardy Edwards introduced me to Bukowski’s books, and he later made a short film based on his work. That project put me in direct contact with the writer and his publisher, agent and friend, John Martin. For a couple of years, I sustained irregular contact with both gentlemen, and oddly, in my day-to-day dealings, I was often thinking of my next letter to Hank.

Meanwhile, the parting days of 1993 had me thinking about my own writing in new ways, under these and other influences. As mentioned previously, Tom Tilford at Midwest Poetry Review (MPR) had recently opened his door to me, and I wanted to write something truly great, and go for the win. I wrote this on December 27.

Ever since meeting in Alice Wright’s Advanced Placement English class during our senior year of high school, my friend Jay Lerew has shared and stoked my enthusiasm for great literature. He remains the only person I know who can recite long passages of A. E. Housman poems, including but certainly not limited to “Terence, This is Stupid Stuff.” This common appreciation for fine writing brought us together often over the years to laugh, drink coffee, and share prized literary gems. From 1988 to 1990, my last years at college, Jay and I were roommates. Together we amassed vast book collections, with many acquisitions made for the sole purpose of impressing each other and our friends. Between us, I’d say we completed a decent pass of classic and contemporary literature. When Hardy introduced Bukowski to me, Jay and several more friends also got hooked right away.

After writing the poem above, I don’t recall how quickly I sent it off to Tom at MPR, but I’m pretty sure it was only a matter of hours. But even before doing that, I showed it to Jay. To me, his response is an excellent testament to his friendship, although I also like to attribute it to his great taste in literature: He asked me for a signed copy, and told me he intended to frame it and hang it on his wall.

My wish is for you to have such friends as this!

In March, 1994, Hardy sent me the news reporting on Bukowski’s death. I wrote the poem below in June. The November issue of MPR carried “Ethereal Stones,” representing a personal triumph for yours truly. God bless you Tom Tilford… and that goes for you, too, Mr. Bukowski, Mr. Martin, Mr. and Mrs. Darnells, Mrs. Wright, Mr. Lerew, and Mr. Edwards. I thank you all — and many others — from the bottom of my heart for all the inspiration.

Written June 24, 1994.

Arc of the Poet
Part 1: Life Poetry
Part 2: Tour de Force
Part 3: True Love
Part 4: Spinning Out
Part 5: Wake-Up Call
Part 6: Serious Dreams
Part 7: Home Stretch
Part 8: Feedback
Part 9: Dear Departures
Part 10: Good Poetry
Part 11: Rewrites
Part 12: Resistance
Part 13: Fame and Fortune
Part 14: Ramblings
Part 15: Being

Note from Tom Tilford, Aug. 13, 1993

I could have wept. Here’s the poem it was attached to.

These words had been written several years earlier, during the summer of 1990, my last year at UCF. As documented in this arc, that was an excellent time for me; I had stayed busy, applied myself, and focused on the girl of my dreams — and some other really positive developments in my life. It’s not one of the greatest poems I’ve ever written, but I feel it colorfully reflects some of the key virtues of my life at that time. I’m especially proud that it helped me make a connection with Tom Tilford, then-editor of Midwest Poetry Review, who with his small note, gave my life new meaning in August, 1993.

The final poems I added into my first poetry manuscript also were written in 1990, so “If Virtue Had Teeth” was among a few I thought worth sharing in my newer era. Along with some other poems and shorts I wrote before receiving Tom’s note above, it was included in two different collections I submitted into various competitions over the years to follow. Looking back on it now, after encountering so much indifference to my work, I see that Tom’s note gave me the sense that someone was reading it… which suddenly made me look at everything I’d been submitting much more realistically. In the late summer of 1993, as I considered all the legitimately great literary writing widely evident through magazines, books, newspapers, and on cable TV and the radio, compared with what I had to offer, I was humbled.

Then, something unbelievable happened: a dear friend from my senior year of high school died. Dante Castellano was the great guy who befriended me in 1983 and helped me see the world from new heights. His family embraced me, too, and they were warm, wonderful, and tightly knit, as well as being very well-to-do. I was hurt when one day, my friendship was just dropped, but I carried on, forged ahead, and relied more on other friends. During the years that followed, I feel that if we’d seen each other again, we would have quickly built solid new bridges together, but we never had that opportunity. We had well over 1,000 in our 1984 graduating class from Oak Ridge High School… and in 1993, I learned how dear Dante had been to each of us. Especially knowing how much he had going for him, no one ever imagined his life would end so soon.

Along with many other Oak Ridge Pioneers and residents of Orlando, I marched forward in my life’s walk, and the depth of my experiences helped me value my many growing sources of joy and happiness. Beth and I loved living in our own home, near Oak Ridge rival Boone High, and on many mornings, we ran together. Then, she would go to her job leasing luxury apartments while I worked freelance and on writing projects like a feature-length screenplay about a boy’s experience one summer playing baseball and growing up.

In this setting, my inner poet began to shapeshift. The poem below was written a few months after receiving that first historic note from Tom Tilford. Personally, I feel it shows some signs of improved craftsmanship. Your feedback is most welcome.

It’s one of the few items from “just,” my first poetry collection, which I’ve published so far on this site. Though it touches many nerves for me, and hints at the place and station I’ve come from, somehow it feels good to expose it to the sunshine and fresh air which make up my life at present, with loved ones, friends and comrades many and strong. There was a time, not long ago, when things weren’t looking so good. Even then, the sense of better things to come was bright and clear.

Aunt Honey, thank you for your gift of pure love throughout every day of my life. You will be missed!

Helen Ridings
COTTAGE HILLS – April 13, 2010 4:40 PM – Helen Marie Ridings, 84, died at 1:50 a.m. Tuesday, April 13, 2010, at Saint Anthony’s Hospital in Alton. Born May 10, 1925, in Carlinville, she was the daughter of William Howard and Marie B. (Loges) Casey. She was an operator for Olin Corporation for 43 years before retiring in 1987. She was a lifetime member of the Westerner Club.

Surviving are a daughter, Debra Barrett of Hartford; two grandchildren, Scott L. (Julie) Barrett and Stacey Barrett Adams; and three great-grandchildren, twins, Nicholas and David Barrett, and Ryan Adams. Preceding her in death were her parents, a great-grandchild, Megan Elizabeth Whitehead, and a sister, Bernice Henrichs. Burial will be at Rose Lawn Memory Gardens in Bethalto.

Wednesday, May 30, 2001: The Countdown Begins

As I sat at my desk at the end of the business day (night) on Tuesday, I knew I really needed to get some sleep to be ready to start loading the truck bright and early the next morning; surveying my office, though — still largely intact — it finally also sunk-in to me that I needed to get it packed, once and for all. Fast forward to 7:30 a.m. Wednesday morning: I’d worked all the way through the night, the office was 98% done, the house was a scattered array of semi-packed boxes, furniture and closed boxes, all ready for the truck, and we were off to pick up the truck from Budget in Van Nuys on Sepulveda Blvd., the same place where we’d returned our truck from the 1998 move West. This truck was a little bigger — a sign that the move was a success? — and the car carrier, destined to transport our Honda Accord back across the country, may have been the same one we picked up from New Orleans on the previous trip. Beth had slept very little as well, so the recollection of truck-packing day is a little blurry. We were smart enough to request a couple of movers to come to our house at 9 to load the truck, and by 11, they were done. By 5 p.m., much of the “little stuff” was handled, I’d napped for a couple of hours, and we were starting to visualize the arrival of my “volunteer truck-driver” father at the Burbank airport the next morning at 10:30 and our subsequent departure, which we’d been planning for over six months….

A little side-note here for those of you who haven’t heard from us in a while. There’s a much longer, more detailed and drawn-out story here that will await you upon your first visit to our new home in the mountains of Boone, North Carolina… but essentially, we decided to buy a home Beth’s mom and step-father were planning to build in Boone (anticipating getting pregnant in the not-too-distant future), then we got pregnant (not to worry — the above-mentioned ‘drawn-out story’ focuses very little on this part), and now we’re moving to Boone to stay in another of Ginny and Bill’s Boone “castles” beside Rocky Creek until our new home is ready. To answer the obvious question, we had a fantastic time in Los Angeles and accomplished so much more than we could have hoped for… but this opportunity to own a wonderful home in an amazingly beautiful place — and, more importantly, to have our little one growing up with cousins (including our God-children Grace and Claire), aunts, uncles, grandparents, etc. — was too fanastic to miss.

What at first seemed like a glimmer of a neat idea became our goal and now, it would appear, our ‘next adventure,’ and we are suitably thrilled.

With that said, though, we leave behind many very dear true friends that made our California Dream something we’ll always treasure… and the only way we can cope with the sadness of saying goodbye to them is to hope and trust we’ll all find ourselves together again as part of our new adventures.

), we were happy to receive the call from my dad that he’d caught the flight out a day early, and he was just a couple of hours from Burbank. Beth did some final clean-up on the house as I grabbed Dad from the airport. Though it was a little late his time, I decided to tour him through Coldwater Canyon up to Mulholland so he could see the view of the valley; unfortunately, the only thing to be viewed there on this evening was the inside of a fog cloud. We found our way back down Woodcliff, through Sherman Oaks and to our now virtually spotless little house, which the landlord had already been showing and offering at a rate ($2800 p/mo!) that was almost twice as much as we’d been renting it for over the past two years. As much as he seemed impressed with the place, the price-tag really got dad’s head shaking in disbelief.

Finally, Dad slipped to his room and his awaiting air mattress, and we found our way to our own air mattress in our room for our last night’s sleep. So many great things had happened for us in the past three and a half years, and we’d enjoyed so many great visits with our friends over the previous weeks, we were reeling with emotions and something of a numb, over-tired, excited anticipation. And what of the cats? It’d been an exciting, un-nerving couple of days for them, too, what with all the boxes and handtrucks, etc. Callie had spent the day in the closet buried under a couple of towels, seemingly certain that the end of the world was at hand. Maggie’s eyes couldn’t have been any more wide open, and even as we fell asleep, she continued her survey of the empty house… as well as her noisy, troubled, in-our-faces reports of her findings throughout the night. As we awoke at around 5:15 and considered slipping out from the warm covers into the chilly morning, Beth found a way to trick Maggie into being quiet for just a little while longer… but that’s tomorrow’s story.

More to come soon. Our best to all of you!

Love — Roger, Beth, cats, Amelia-to-be

Escape from LA by Roger Darnell
. Countdown: Wednesday, May 30, 2001 – The Countdown Begins
. Day 1: Thursday, May 31, 2001 – Simply Grand
. Day 2: Friday, June 1, 2001 – Catching Up
. Day 3: Saturday, June 2, 2001 – Almost There
. Day 4: Sunday, June 3, 2001 – Home At Last…

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How to Change Neighborhoods in Only Five Days

by Roger Darnell

Day One: Thursday, January 1, 1998: “Flaming in Florida”

We managed to get on the road pretty early, knowing that our goal was to travel 500 miles during the day, which would carry us to Mobile, Alabama, by day’s end. We’d stayed at my mom’s for our last night, the fitting place to begin a long journey, considering how many we’d begun from her mother’s over the years, pulling out so early in the morning it was nearly impossible to see the sad granny, waving her Kleenex in one hand from inside the window, tooting the signature honk as we went. So, without further adieu, we played the honk for my mom on the 15′ Budget truck containing all our stuff, and we pulled away from her cozy little place, watching her wave good-bye over our towed Accord in the rear-view mirrors. After so much preparation and so many sad partings, we were on the road, pursuing our “mission” (in the words of a friend from Houston, Tommy Ewasko) of relocating to Hollywood.

The world most certainly looked brand new as we rolled up the Florida Turnpike we’d traveled so often on our trips, the first or last three-hour leg of each trip northward. With plenty of room to ramp-up, the truck made 65 fairly easily, but lost 15mph on even the subtlest of hills. In north central Florida, we connected with I-10, perhaps 90 or 100 miles west of its eastern termination in Jacksonville. We headed West, which we’ll do all the way to the other end of the 2,600 mile interstate.

The trip meter rolled past 200 miles and I checked the rear-view mirrors; unless I was mistaken, blue-purple smoke was pouring from the left wheels of our car carrier. The question answered itself as I watched flames appear from the wheel well and start shooting out the side. I hit the brakes and started working the vehicle over onto the median as Beth asked, “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

“Well,” I started to answer, trying not to alarm her, “the trailer’s on fire.” By the time I got the load stopped, the flames had gone out. We climbed out and walked back to inspect the trailer, and that left rear wheel was hot, hot, hot. As we stood looking at it, it caught fire again and the flames shot out dramatically.

“Oh-my-god!” Beth yelled as I ran back to the cab for the fire extinguisher. Again, the flames went out, but not before we both imagined the disaster playing out with our kitties in the carrier. Well, it seemed to be cooling off but out of service, so we carefully off-loaded the car and, in language all Trekkies will appreciate, we launched ourselves in the “Accord” shuttle and called in the repair.

Two hours later, the repair man confirmed that the trailer wasn’t going anywhere and offered to take it in for us. Beth helmed the launch and I climbed back behind the truck wheel and we were off. Before the flame-out we’d been discussing visiting Beth’s sister Ann and her husband Chuck in Tallahassee, so we followed-through and paid them a brief visit at their home. Once back on the road, as we realized when we compared notes later that night, it had felt like our last outpost. We wouldn’t know until the next day how comfortable we’d be made to feel in Houston. We drove and stopped, figured and planned, and made our way to Pensacola for the night. In the hotel room, we were too exhausted for showers that night. The kitties found a nook under the bed and we fell asleep quickly.

© Copyright 1998 Roger K. Darnell. All rights reserved.

How to Change Neighborhoods In Only Five Days by Roger Darnell
. Day 1: Thursday, January 1, 1998 – Flaming in Florida
. Day 2: Friday, January 2, 1998 – Together in Texas
. Day 3: Saturday, January 3, 1998 – Tex Take Two
. Day 4: Sunday, January 4, 1998 – Praising Arizona
. Day 5: Monday, January 5, 1998 – Glad 2BN Glendale

Circa 1985, Roger, Maxine and Bud.

I learned today of the passing of my Aunt Maxine Ridings.  Talking about her with my mom this evening, one of the things that came up was how she has just always been part of our family, forever.  Also, for her nieces and nephews, I think we all always knew that we would get her smile, her wry sense of humor, and her easy laughter, each time we saw her.  She seemed to laugh as easily as she breathed… and for my Uncle Bud, whom we all respect and love dearly, she has been the perfect match.  Our thoughts go out to Uncle Bud, and to Dena, Janie and Keith, Bill, Marilyn, Blair and Josh. 

I wrote the following poem 21 years ago, at a time when “home” had a very special meaning to me… implying certain places in and around Greenville, Illinois, security, and many specific people in my family.  Aunt Max was certainly part of the family that I carried with me everywhere I went, that was constant, loving, and an inseparable part of my self-identity.  Of late, her health had taken a turn for the worse, and so it seems mostly a blessing that she is now at peace.  She will be missed; she was a great lady in my life, and in the lives of many other people I love.  We will remember her laugh and her smile always…. 

Aunt Max, thank you for your love, and for helping to make me who I am.

The Different Drummer
by Roger Darnell

I don’t know why I had to go
Back home in summer’s early glow…
But in my feeble state of mind
I felt a loss I had to find.

The great escape some said I made—
And true:  to sense the solemn shade
Of home, and leave the world behind
Which made me cold and scared and blind.

In all pursuits I pushed myself
Beyond the pack that somehow shelve
Their hopes and dreams for social norm
And fear the lonesome, ruthless storm.

In battle-youth, I made my way
Through acid rain of dream decay,
And while the storm’s calm eye drew near
My bravery was turned to fear.

With summoned strength I fled the storm
And limped in semi-shattered form
Toward the place where life began
To find The Answer to The Man.

I found the place I’ve always known:
Aunts, uncles, grandmas, cousins grown,
The trees that fell that I know well,
Whose echoes clang a rusty bell.

The native country took me in—
It mattered not where I had been;
It saw me as I was, and still
Gave praise for all my vital will.

I rested there, and took my time.
I slept amid the dew-cool thyme.
Serene, I saw what life could be…
Then spread my wings and flew off, free.

I don’t know just what made me go
Back home in summer’s early glow…
But on the heartfelt, wholesome track
I found my strength and brought it back.

…