It’s been two years since the stroke. The last time on the 4th of July, the cannon on its rampart in front of our house has remained silent, until yesterday. My wife, in a valiant and thankless effort, got me to succumb to invite a few dear friends over (which turned into about 30) to celebrate the fourth. More on my attempts to rehabilitate myself from depression a little later. We had a potluck (not like in the recent past BBQ for 250 plus, live band, kids fishing, paddle boats on the pond), just music softly playing from our very powerful sound system and some dear friends enjoying the day celebrating and reminiscing. Yes, it was the 4th of July; we said the pledge to the flag gently waving in the breeze. And yes, with a little help from a dear friend, loaded up the old rusty barrel of the cannon and low and behold an old patriot (that be me) pulled the lanyard, set off the shot that was heard around the neighborhood miles away. A small band of stubborn patriots who still believe in this country and what it stands for one nation under God. We did, however, practice social distancing as much as possible in between the unrestricted embraces of real friends. Since we were all outside, no masks unless you wanted to, the embraces were careful but real and so needed by us all. I donned my colonial militia jacket and hat. Once again, this crazy old bastard overrode the old communist bastard across the way with a defiant deafening blast spewing fire and glory to honor this imperfect but great nation. With the 12-pound black powder cannon loaded with about 12 ounces of powder, we additionally expanded the 6-foot social distancing to 6 THOUSAND feet to repel all enemies foreign and domestic daring only the most foolhardy anarchists to make the trek up our driveway.
That gave my mental health a bit of exhilaration that at least I am capable of doing something without blowing myself up in the process. In my dark humor one day I had a thought to load up about a pound of black powder(which will allow a twelve-pound ball to travel nearly a mile) grab the lanyard walk to the front of the cannon put my head tightly in front of the barrel and pull it one last time. Then I thought better of it. For one thing, it might not kill me quickly and painlessly or for another, that as my head tumbles off my torso, I would live long enough to be rolling around on the ground and get dizzy and looking back at what was left of my once stunningly handsome body. Obviously, this scenario is fraught with fantasies of the dark and absurd kind. Moving on from the silly, One of my last-minute guests who is a music and spiritual soulmate, who also for years has battled bipolar disorder, and I made an oath that we would faithfully lift each other up as life goes on. I felt his inner loneliness (you know my fellow depressants being in a crowd or surrounded by family and feeling utterly alone). This day these friends made me feel a healing salve that soothed my despair.
I have my faithful wife to thank for this. (she does all my editing, so I have to be nice to her. LOL – (not really -note from the editor 😉) We all lamented as to what is happening to our country, why all anger and hate that is imputed into what might be a simple disagreement to outright warfare. As an example, out of our little group this day, we had a WWII vet, devote Catholics, Evangelicals, law enforcement, and every stripe of high tech low tech (that be me) liberal, conservative all in a small group bound by God and being patriots. The side conversations for me among friends catching up, was a conversation with my conservative high tech bipolar friend to continue to pray for each other and stand with each other in our common struggle to keep on a mental functional keel to an in-depth conversation with the wife of our dear couple friends about raising our kids and the perils of parenting and promote good values, independence, and accountability. She and I couldn’t be politically, farther apart, she is being the consummate liberal; I the stallworth conservative. She used to enjoy watching Keith Oberton and I Bill O’Reilly. She an “anybody but Trump,” and I put up with obnoxious but get the right things done. I take Trump over what is the alternative. We do not exactly have any Thomas Jefferson or John Adams’s to choose from now, do we? She’s a devout Catholic, and her husband is an irreverent version of the same thing. My wife and I are more of the Evangelical bent, her reverent, me not so much. The four of us are bound forever, by our good hearts her punch bowl upside-down cake, his kick-butt baby back ribs, my dry rub pulled pork, and my wife’s baked beans.
How about we just keep it simple, surely good debate could not descend into angst when feasting on such homegrown delights with the intellectual jousting merely adding spice to the meal. While this day was a refreshing respite from the self-sequestration and drive by observation of the news cycle, I lament that the day didn’t have the ambiance of older people and parents sitting under the trees watching a pack of kids with their devices on lock-down and having paddle boat races, catching fish, playing volleyball and basketball shooting down the zip line and finding a quiet spot to talk about future plans. Young boys and girls having conversions under the trees, a prelude to in some cases, getting married on these very grounds. A soundtrack playing in the background all day long with music spanning from now to 75 years ago only to be interrupted every half hour by the roar of the cannon.
Today a single cannon shot by an old man in a special place with a repository of a lifetime of memories. Let us always remember that what makes our country great is memories and family, and times like this defended to the death by patriots and for patriots.
Tales from Depression and Dealing with it. 