A Journey of Time Begins as a Ripple
It Begins
As the sunset brushed the sky with its vibrant hues, a man, aged a thousand years, once posed a profound riddle for humanity. How does one escape the relentless cycle of mundane days? The weight of countless Wednesdays bears down on you. How does one find a Friday? But today is not just another Wednesday; this is something else… I can feel it in the breezes that speak to me. I have been grappling with increasingly vivid flashbacks and haunting dreams about the past, my past, and that decision to run and hide from the mailbox. Why does that acrid smell of fire set me off?
The Past Leads to Now
Hello, wherever you are! My name is Tom D. Welsh. I have faced many challenges, some of which I overcame and others I did not. Today, I continue my journey as an author following a long career in retail operations, during which my wife and I owned a business for 36 years. Some may remember me from my previous blogs on Boater’s Chat and Branches of Muskoka, which are no longer active. I’m not one to be deterred by challenges. Pushing whatever load I made or have taken up that hill.
In the past, as the owner of Huntsville Marine, I had the pleasure of helping others achieve their family boating dreams in the Muskoka region of Ontario, Canada. Working in retail has given me a long, many-faceted book with clear perspectives on people’s happiness. In 2019, out of the blue, in a simple doctor’s appointment, I was told I had an incurable disease and would be dead by 2023. I called bullshit, as I am still here. People frequently ask me if I am retired. The answer is an emphatic no; that will never happen, and I am not creating a bucket list. Neither would I. I compile a list of things I would like to accomplish or see for the next decade, which seems to grow constantly. That is good!
Just because I have crossed the threshold of 70 years does not mean I am sitting peacefully in a pasture, chewing on grass with a bird perched on my head, looking bored. One’s passions and interests do not have to stagnate at 50, 60, 65, or 70. Started acrylic landscape painting at 60. Poems at 68. The lyrics came at 70: The Lighthouse, my first work of fiction, at 72. Two more books are coming before the age of 73. I will keep going until my hourglass runs out. I have this line I use…Forward…Always Forward. Until then, each day is a new opportunity, and I have many goals and aspirations ahead of me. I’m determined to keep pursuing my passions, regardless of my age.
Writing Stories, Poems, and Lyrics
In my books, I try to twist stories, including relevant history. In late May, I will release my first book of fiction, titled *The Lighthouse*. I am now writing book two, also a fiction work called *The Mailbox*. An inspiration hit me during my visit to the turquoise waters of the Bahamas in March, and I compiled the first five chapters of an additional work…Under A Moonlit Night…The Sun Always Rises. Its release is tentatively scheduled for later this year. The opening for this blog is a paragraph taken from the Mailbox. The Mailbox is a story about the time of a witch, in this case, a white witch named Fiona, and her battles in time with a Black Witch known as Ursula. It is a twist of the common thread of good versus evil. I will write more about that story in later blogs. I wanted this line as it refers to the title of this blog and what comes next.
How does one escape the relentless cycle of mundane days? The weight of countless Wednesdays bears down on you. How does one find a Friday?
The Mundane and Wednesdays
There is always mundane stuff going on around us each day. Recently, as I stood in the fresh morning air in soft morning light, I noticed people were moving their large, black, wheeled garbage bins out to the street. Some dragged them slowly for painful purposes, like being shackled to a ball and chain; others, with a sure step and pace, are off on a morning jog. There are ones with frowns and some with smiles in the morning, celebrating a week of their lives. It hit me then: for some, a week of their life, or perhaps anyone’s life, is a monotonous march to the curb, marked only by the rhythmic, weighty heft of the trash can. That would be a depressing thought, and most likely falls under the terms of a Wednesday. The refuge of one’s life, discarded, partying with other unknown people, discards in their last ride to rest forever in a place without granite markers we do not wish to comprehend, visit, or consider. When it leaves my curb, we no longer deal with the physical trash of our lives.
The Bathroom
Life is overflowing with curious moments of humanity. I recently was on a Caribbean jazz cruise—seven days in heaven with many of the best jazz artists. A couple of thousand people listened intently all day and swayed to the rhythm. With music, lots of food, and alcohol. I had my first dirty martini. Near the end of the voyage, Mother Nature called one morning, and off I went to the port side head. (nautical term for toilet), This washroom was small, no tiny. I have been in single door closets more immense than this one…it had two holes, one urinal, and a line-up. A symphony of sounds echoed in the two occupied stalls as if voicing their stage presence on a microphone. This being a jazz cruise, I wondered if a sound engineer was nearby to tweak the notes. A morning ritual was in progress, serious stuff, not rapid progress, more like the speed of a turtle on dry land, and it sounded no more graceful either. This symphony needed music, and there it came.
In stall two, I stopped counting after six flushes, unsure I wanted to know what was happening there or whether I needed a Hazmat suit when it finally became my turn. Endless groaning, throat clearing, and most likely an entire roll of toilet paper, based on the lengthy rattling noise, found a new wet home. Stall two tried to do a duet in the echoing rhythm, but he was off-key. There are only two flushes out of stall two, then a pause, then one more flush. Their maestro conductor would be perturbed, tapping his wand furiously. It was a feeble attempt to stay on key, still trying to keep with the beat, with too much paper on the loose somewhere and possibly everywhere. The three of us waited patiently for our morning moment, and as this continued, which seemed like most of the morning, we looked at each other and smiled, slowly dancing to the stall music, moving side to side and grimacing as our alarm bells rang. Then the music stopped like a vinyl record, finishing side one…click…click…click. Now, there was one more flush in each stall, closer in rhythm this time…progress! I then turned towards the other two waiting and said… “It’s the sound of success…I hope!” Sure, it sounded like a Wednesday for those two. Friday must have fewer flushes! While waiting, I started singing lyrics about the morning dance of the toilet. (Slight correction… I don’t sing… banned from that, but that doesn’t stop me from enjoying a good laugh.)
The Tidy Bowl Melody
With tears in my eyes,
As I sang goodbye…
The Tidy Bowl man floated…
Beer in his hand,
A token of relaxation and enjoyment
As he floated away…
Aye, lads, that was a good one
As I flushed away one time,
No, two or three times…
Maybe more…
Splish splash, my ass needs a bath
Waved my white paper flag
No brown crusties today
As I waved goodbye
I am finally on my way
But fear not
I’ll be back…save my seat
My crap always comes back
Unfortunately for all of us, the bathroom ritual is a part of our lives.
A simple life is a rarity; it is a constant balancing act of responsibility and unforeseen obstacles for most. Today, one’s life in the world surrounding us is a complex tapestry. Days woven with threads of struggle, reams of information, and disinformation. The bitter taste of failure, the sweet relief of success, the bubbling joy of triumph, and the quiet ache of sorrow. One’s life starts as a seed, transforming, growing, and rising to the sun’s light, budding off an extending stem, the branches of one’s life. School, friends, jobs, family, and perhaps children, your community, and the ghosts of our times. All these things and their events shape us and become our building blocks, building our understanding of our world, its leaders, and our history brick by brick. Living in the past and holding too tightly to the past can be dangerous. One’s life moves forward each second, each hour of each day, time a virtual metronome, its arm swinging back and forth in repetition, not unlike endless Wednesdays counting out its beats till our hourglass has no sand remaining. Here is a poem to consider for the past, perhaps your past, taken from the book The Lighthouse.
Our Ghosts
The ghosts of our past
Walk with us today
Hover over our future
The wetness of our night terrors
It is but nourishment for our ghosts
They smile and wait
To hover over our bones,
Time waits for no one
However, some claim
Ghosts have no sense
Of time or patience
A growing branch requires two things: the sun’s light and the nourishment of the soil that bears the weight of its body. The trunk, not unlike one’s parents, has feet and roots anchoring its body as it reaches for the gifts of light each day; each day, there is light and darkness, a balance if you consider it. Each new sunrise announcing the start of a new day is unique. The next day is unscripted, a blank canvas for whatever life throws its way, both good and evil. As the sun dips below the horizon, a breathtaking sunset—a vibrant spectacle of color and light—marks the end of our day and welcomes the approaching darkness. Humanity lives in the light, but there are creatures of the night that welcome the coming of darkness. Most would not know that 70% of mammals (of which we are one) are nocturnal. The moon is their sun.
In the following pages, I will explore things that speak to me: the mundane aspects of life, light, and darkness, with the gray areas in between. Time, irreversible as the sand in an unturned hourglass, falls. The endless beat of a metronome, our heart. Déjà vu, ghosts, spirits, fate, and our journeys through the pathways of life. Books, poetry, lyrics, and much more will follow in the days to come. Join me as we journey to the days ahead, seeking Fridays. I hope to leave the bathroom stuff alone for a bit. Politics is best left for others…too much crap there.
If I asked you one question as we met as strangers on a street corner, what would you say? The question is…. If you had the right opportunity to make just one change in your life, what would that be? You have 5 seconds to answer. Try this on the first day of every month as you look at a sunset. Record your answer and look back on it from time to time.
