Spellbound

"The night is darkening round me,

The wild winds coldly blow;

But a tyrant spell has bound me

And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending

Their bare boughs weighed with snow."

"And the storm is fast descending,

And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,

Wastes beyond wastes below;

But nothing drear can move me;

I will not, cannot go."
Emily Bronte

-bill kenny

 

Ixnay on the RistmasCay UsicMay

Starting with Paul McCartney's "Wonderful ChristmasTime," and including The Eagles' "Funky New Year," AC/DC's "Mistress for Christmas," Eartha Kitt's "Santa Baby," Lou Monte's "Dominick the Donkey," John Denver's "Please, Daddy (Don't Get Drunk This Christmas)," Iggy Pop's "White Christmas," (you thought I was making that one up?), Band Aid's "Do They Know It's Christmas?" Bruce Springsteen's "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town," and, of course, most definitely this one, 

And in case you hoped I'd forgotten, but I hadn't, this gem. 
-bill kenny

Attempt at My Annual Excorcism

This was almost the year I was going to step out of his shadow, except I knew I wouldn't because I chose not to. I've had enough reminders this past year that I'm running out of time to continue to not say all the things I always wanted to say to my father but never did. Somehow, I think he heard me anyway.

This is from long ago, though not quite long enough ago. I called it at the time:

And All this Time, the River Flowed

I don't ever remember celebrating my father's birthday as I grew up. Logic dictates that we, our mother (his wife), and my brothers and sisters (his children) must have done so as we did for everyone in our family, and yet every year I struggle and fail to find a single memory of a single moment of that day.

I mention that because had he lived, today would be his one hundred and second birthday (he died forty-four years ago), and I'd like to think he would be something I never felt he was while we shared the earth, proud of something, anything, I'd ever done. 

In this case, as was so true in our shared lives, I would be cheating (oh so slightly) as I'd hope he'd be proud of his grandchildren, Patrick and Michelle, who are my wife, Sigrid, and my children.

My most lasting memory of my father isn't really a memory of him at all, but a reminder of how life goes on within you and without you. Many years ago, while shopping, Sigrid found what she assured me was 'the perfect card for you to send to your dad for Father's Day.' This was all pre-Internet and global village days, remember, and actually it was back when it was only she and me and work (and sadly, not always in that order).

I don't remember the card, though this would be a better lesson for me if I had, but I signed it, after Sigrid had addressed it, put a stamp on it and had me throw it in my work bag (a shoulder-strapped book bag, of sorts, that carried, judging from its weight, most of the world's most curious and heaviest items).

And that's where the card stayed. Months later, and well past Father's Day, she was rooting through my bag, in search of something I had promised to bring home but had misplaced. Her theory, more often right than I'd like to admit, was that whatever it was, it could be found in my bag. The body of Jimmy Hoffa, the other gunmen on the grassy knoll, Weapons of Mass Destruction--check in the bag.

What she found that day, and registered a quiet note of disappointment with me because of the discovery, was the card we both thought I had mailed months earlier for Father's Day. Faced with the reality that I hadn't, all I could do was to mumble a promise to do so 'next year'.

You've guessed, of course, that my father died before 'next year' ever happened. As a self-centered oldest child, stiff-necked and incapable of bending, I had clashed with my father nearly every day of life-I think from the time I could talk, all I said to him was 'no.' 

I don't recall what we fought about or why, but they were bitter arguments, often ending in physical contact that made me more fully appreciate the weight of his hands, but I refused to yield anything at any time, and we passed months, if not years, exchanging as few words as possible for as long as possible. 

I had wished the worst for him countless times, and when notified by the Red Cross (I was still on active duty in the Air Force) that he was dead, my first reaction was overwhelming guilt.

The three oldest children had moved out and away, but our three youngest sisters and brother were left to be raised by our mother in circumstances vastly different from ours when we were their age, and I made no effort to ever learn or to attempt to mitigate or improve. 

I've never spoken to them about those times and know I'll never do so. More casualties in a war that should have ended decades ago, but continues even as I type this and feel the gorge rise in my veins as if "enough" weren't already, and finally, truly enough.

I am, like it or not, my father's son in ways neither of us could have ever seen or imagined. Perhaps he'd be proud of that, and yet I truly hope not. Life is a sum of all your moments--waking and dreaming; everything you've done or left undone; every word, said and unsaid and of all your prayers, answered but, most especially and finally, unanswered.
-bill kenny

Faith Walks on Broken Glass

We just observed the thirteenth anniverssary of the slaughter of innocents at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut (a little more than an hour's drive from where I live).

Over the weekend, two people died, and nine were wounded on the Brown University campus in Providence, Rhode Island (even closer) to include two students who had previously witnessed school shootings firsthand.

Meanwhile, the U. S. Government has banned the use of the Calibri font, but can't do f*ck-all about guns.

Make it make sense.
-bill kenny

Paging Andy Dufresne

Decades ago, when my family and I were new to The Rose of New England, someone told me that 'Norwich will be really nice if they ever get it finished.' The implication was that we as a city were, and remain, very good at beginnings, but come up a little short on endings (in terms of both quality and quantity).

A lot of that is the nature of the beast, the post-truth culture in which we live. In recent years, the only thing we seem to hate paying more than taxes is attention. We've become people who expect a Pop-Tarts setting on our microwaves because the toaster just takes too darn long.

In November, we elected a brand-new Mayor, City Council, and Board of Education, and everywhere I look on social media platforms are gripes and other expressions of unhappiness because 'they' haven't 'fixed things' yet. Too many of us are like those four-year-olds in the second seat of the minivan heading for Grandma's for the holidays, 'Are we there yet?' 

And truth to tell, we're not. But cool your jets-we didn't wind up with a grand list on life support and a forest of 'for sale' signs in neighborhoods across the city overnight, and the way back on the road ahead won't happen by the time I start the next paragraph.

Though that would be cool, I suppose. And, admit it, a piece of you wanted it to be because hope springs eternal, which is good since we need a certain amount of confidence and optimism in the efforts being made by community leaders as they continue to make Norwich a (better) home for those of us who live here and for those who will one day join us.

Too often, too many of us confuse hope (which is a good thing, maybe the best of things; check with Andy) with a plan. They are very different. A plan has specific, measurable, achievable, realistic targets-which is why SMART communities have plans, and too many others have hope but little else. 

Planning involves candor-we need to be honest with one another, to speak in clear language that doesn't need a decoder ring, and where yes and no are clearly and universally understood. We need to accept that it's okay to disagree without becoming disagreeable, to evaluate an idea and not the person who offers it.

We need to trust one another to bring our individual best effort to the rest of our community, so we can more successfully turn your idea into our goal. But we must be here now, in person and in spirit. Questions are integral to the rebuilding process, and sticking around for the answers (pleasant and/or unpleasant), even if that means more questions, is the rest of the equation.

Norwich, like the rest of our country and the world, is becoming someplace else, someplace new and, depending on how we manage change, hopefully someplace better. Whether you arrived on the ship they called the Mayflower, or had it on the side of your moving van, we are all here now, and each of us owns the next Norwich, whatever it is to be. We welcome people who mean well, but more than that, we need those who do well. You may as well start to roll up your sleeves now, because we're going to need everyone's help.
-bill kenny

The Tune We Hum

Snow arrived here Saturday night and stuck around for most of Sunday. We ended with a couple of inches, not that I would know, as I didn't shovel any of it. My failing kidneys mean I get to watch the snow fall, but I would be exhausted if I tried to shovel it. 

Our son hired someone to clear our walkways so his doddering old man doesn't end up face-first in a snowbank (causing the plow drivers clearing the streets to plow around me; they hate that). 

Today's a day of hanging around waiting for the phone to ring and someone to tell me what time I need to show up for a laparoscopic procedure at some point tomorrow to facilitate peritoneal dialysis, which has moved from a hypothetical discussion to an in-my-face reality.   

Yep, this year is winding down in a hurry, and I'm dancing as fast as I can.
When's the music start?
-bill kenny 

You Can't Carry It with You...

In 17 days, the first day of the next year will be drawing to a close. How is that even possible? Two thousand and twenty-five was just arriving, filled with challenges, hopes, and opportunities, and here we are with the remnants of all that tracked across the living room carpet like so much of so what.

We can blame our national leadership for the politics of anger, though there's enough partisan rancor on all sides of the aisle to go around. For my part, I'm exhausted, physically and emotionally. It's like I'm running through soup and sand, my feet never quite lifting from or clearing the ground, each stride a broken parody of what it once was, with my arms pushing through air I can taste rather than feel.

And the harder I try, the farther behind I fall. I started out beside you but have spent the year watching you disappear before me, long strides taking you over the horizon, and when I get to where you were, you're gone with no trace, no track, and no regret. Sic transit humanitas.

This year I've had to concede the face in the mirror has aged and that the man behind the face hasn't nearly as many springs left as he thought he had, and more on point, has squandered, rather than saved, those moments of meaning he thought would come along again as easily as they did the first time. 

I've actually felt the dullness of the ache in the pit of my stomach that the shocked realization of regret, the next time can be the last, always brings with it as a constant companion.

Like many these past months, I blinked at critical moments and lost sight of the important in the rush of the real as the latter became surreal and unreal before disappearing by the dawn's early light. 

The year in which I had vowed to sort myself out has nearly run its course, and the next one will be over even faster than this one, with less to show for it, as the distance already traveled never equals the distance yet to go. 

The sense of adventure is replaced by dread as the days draw down and the year ends. The toast we'll make for much success in the new year assumes both will exist but accepts the implication that neither is promised. "The dog days are over. The dog days are done." But it's what comes next that keeps me awake.
-bill kenny