reverse threading

the path back is the path forward

Tag Archives: middle age relationship


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the best part of waking up… [merely-a-thought monday]

the conversation started just over nine years ago. emails back and forth and then texts. going back, reading, it is stunning to see how many times coffee entered the stage of our new relationship then, as if it were anxiously waiting in the wings or in the green room, one of the stars of that friendship that grew into love. we would send photos of mugs or cups full of coffee across the country, finding each other in our respective days, the places we were sipping, where we were headed. coffee became a locator. and still now, it was one of the joys of those early days, months and months and months of writing and wondering what it might be like to have a coffee together.

the tiny house had a coffee station. nothing run-of-the-mill and industrial, instead it was a sweet spot along a bit of wall bespeckled with signs about coffee. certainly this was an airbnb owned by someone who appreciates the finer points of first-thing-in-the-morning brew.

i think coffee is one of those things you either love or totally dislike. it’s not really a take-it-or-leave-it kind of beverage. my sweet momma and poppo could sit over coffee for hours. it wasn’t the cup of java that lasted that long; it was the coffee-sitting. it was conversation and quiet, it was waking up and catching up. it was at breakfast, at coffee-break time, maybe a cup after a celebratory dinner. i learned the goodness of coffee-sitting from them and miss those times around their table. coffee makes me think of them.

i know that, although my dad never met david, he is rooting every day for him. i’m sure he watches each evening as david sets up the coffee for the morning, his own practice back in the day. i’m sure he approves heartily when d pours mugs early in the morning, adding no sugar or creamer or milk or sweetener; he was a black-coffee drinker too. i’m sure he smiles and nods when d walks steaming mugs in to me, still with my head in the pillows. he is likely whistling, “the best part of waking up is [coffee] in your cup.” it took a long while for me to convince him that there was coffee that wasn’t folgers. we are big bold coffee fans. but when there was a ball jar sitting on the counter in our tiny house with the words “fresh folgers” on a lid it was me smiling, positive of the presence of my mom and dad.

it is the wee hours of the night as we write today’s post. i couldn’t sleep, so we decided to sit up and compose our blogs. david said, “should i put the coffee on?”. i emphatically replied “no!” as i have every intention of trying to sleep again once we have written and my insomnia turns to sleepiness.

besides, i so look forward to a bit of mountain-town light streaming in the windows in a few hours and hearing david’s voice as he offers me a mug, a cuppajava, as i pick my head up from the cozy pillows. and just like my dad, i can hear it: “the best part of waking up is [coffee] in my cup.”

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this MERELY-A-THOUGHT MONDAY


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a weirdfest. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

“but what’s your REAL job?”

it’s been forty years now…over forty, actually. four decades of other people asking THAT question: “what’s your REAL job?”. for a society that values entertainment in all arenas of medium, it would seem a ridiculous query – for this work as an artist – this work providing a piece of heart connection, of balance, this work expressing ideas with the hope of creating beauty, this work exploring perceptions and nudging perspectives, this work generating emotions – this IS my real job. as an artist. a funambulist.

and as a lifelong artist, some things about my life are just different than the norm. it is hard for people to know what to say – or for that matter, what to think – when you mention you are a musician or that you write or paint or dance or sculpt or act. it’s kind of a conversation-stopper. or a chance for the people at the table to push, “but what’s your REAL job?”.

the success of our lives is not measured in rising stocks or 401k’s or retirement portfolios or even bulging savings accounts, for that matter. real jobs are defined by levels of security and solvency that artists, sadly, rarely experience. it’s just hard for others to wrap their heads around such oddity, such tenuousness, such a complex relationship with the imperative to create.

so we point out: the bow, literal or figurative, of any artist is humble gratitude. the joy of any artist is the rippling concentric circle of their work. success is connection, resonance. even with one tiny person-star in the galaxy.

the definition of our lives is complicated to explain, though i expect so is yours. if one artist is awkward, two artists is a weird-fest. sooo not-normal. we will laugh WITH you as you struggle to understand us. weird or not, it is who we are.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING

SMACK-DAB. ©️ 2021 kerrianddavid.com


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a certain age. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

“we’re of a certain age,” 20 said. yeah, yeah. a certain age. what’s that supposed to mean? is that a negative? is that a positive? is that demeaning? is that reassuring? what IS that?

truth is, we ARE of a certain age and there’s nothing to do but embrace it. there ain’t no goin’ back, as they say.

because of social media, in the last decade or so i have watched my high school classmates, previous teachers, people i will likely never see again in-real-life, people i know kinda well, people i hardly know and people i know up-closer-and-much-more-personally change jobs, quit jobs, retire, go on cruises, travel to europe, take roadtrips, go camping, climb mountains, lay on the beach, vacation with their families, witness their children’s weddings, sadly announce losses of parents and loved ones, ecstatically have grandchildren, immerse themselves at disney, have surgery, sip at wineries, sip at pubs, sip at bars, sip outside, get dogs, get cats, lose old dogs, lose old cats, redecorate, remodel, relocate, buy new cars, build new decks, start new hobbies, read old books, read new books, write books, watch butterflies, study birds, make or eat breakfast, make or eat brunch, make or eat lunch, make or eat dinner, eat happy hour food, drink wine, drink fancy-drinks, drink smoothies with alfalfa sprouts, exercise at gyms, exercise at home, exercise online, blow off exercising to eat chocolate, attend funerals, sit at starbucks, sit at independent coffee houses, dine at restaurants, dine at bistros, dine al fresco, show off new necklaces and new boots, new diamonds and new hairdos, post words of wisdom spoken by maya or mahatma or theresa, share hilarious memes, push back with political viewpoints, say really smart things, say really stupid things. and . . . age.

i’ve watched and i’ve watched and i’ve watched.

and my conclusion?

as i look in the mirror and my certain age stares back, it warms my heart to see we’re all in this getting-older-thing together. we are not alone.

how refreshing.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING

SMACK-DAB. ©️ 2021 kerrianddavid.com


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thunkthunkthunk. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

the check-engine light is on. i felt compelled to explain it to my daughter and her boyfriend when i picked them up at the airport, lest they worry i wouldn’t be able to deliver them downtown – in the middle of a snowy, rainy, sleety early afternoon. “we’re waiting for a catalytic converter,” i told them and they nodded. the only saving grace to not picking them up in a horse-drawn carriage (or that ferrari that chris-the-spectrum-guy had promised me) is that i brought snacks with me, making me a “pretty good uber”. ahhh, yes, it puts a momma’s heart on steroids.

we are used to a ride with sounds and not just in littlebabyscion. big red has these running boards that rattle over bumps (for which we are seeking welding help) so it is never quiet in either vehicle. neither has the sound-proofing of vehicles for which we have seen commercials….where the mom stays out in the lincoln suv and peacefully avoids the chaos in her home. no…we bring our chaos with us as part of the travel package. but eh, we don’t mind.

it is usually me who hears the new sound first: the seatbelt in the back thumping against the window, the back seat not fully engaged and squeaking over bounces, the sunglasses on the dashboard jiggling. tiny ambient sounds. the larger ones too. the sound of the hole in the exhaust system, the metallic quaking of a truck with a blown coil. i would mention the things i sniff out first too but it just might be too much here.

regardless, there have been moments when i seem to be channeling my sweet dad as i slough off the sound and keep driving. i know the proof will be in the pudding (that is a really strange saying) and we will see, if we continue on our merry way, what happens.

changing the subject i’ll look over at d and quote my poppo, “do you think the rain will hurt the rhubarb?” “not if it’s in cans,” he quips my dad’s standard answer. we both laugh and keep driving.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING SMACK-DAB.


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thunks and rattles. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

in the days when i had new vehicles, i don’t remember tuning into sounds with as much trepidation. now’days, ambient sounds that are seemingly happening to the vehicle we are in can be really disturbing. we try to explain them away quickly, pushing the thunk or the creak or the whine or the rattle to the back of our consciousness, but to no avail. invariably, we call steve and i try to mimic the sound that littlebabyscion or big red made. i’m sure he looks forward to these calls – from the middle of kansas or south dakota or our driveway, or, if he’s really lucky, acting it out in his shop.

neither of us have worked on cars, but it counts that my dad and my brother did. somehow that gives me an edge and david will look at me thinking i might have an idea as to what is going on. with no divine intervention coming from the heavens where my dad and brother are rolling their eyes, i make it up, hoping to be somewhere near the mark and we keep driving, if at all possible. to be perfectly honest, in more recent years, i have found the mechanics of these older vehicles really interesting to learn about. if only it didn’t spell a repair.

the perils of driving something with 252,000 miles on it are numerous. but, as you can see by the absolute affection we have for our xb, the rewards are also numerous. it astounds me time and again that this little box car has driven this far, equivalent to over 80 times across the united states. and now? now it needs a catalytic converter. a little hiatus for littlebabyscion. but – as steve reminds us – it’s not a monthly car payment. “there’s no winning in that,” he says. and for right now, though many of the friends we have are purchasing new vehicles for their retirements, we agree.

winning is climbing in big red and driving up over the pass. winning is littlebabyscion turning another thousand and another thousand. winning is appreciating good and solid vehicles, nothin’ fancy, but steadfast and with big hearts. mutual love.

besides, standing in the local, family-owned tire store the other day, it was with great pride i answered a young guy who walked in and asked who had the “cool old truck out there”. “that F150?” i said, “that’s ours.”

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this SMACK-DAB SATURDAY MORNING

SMACK-DAB. ©️ 2021 kerri sherwood


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the quest for munchos. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

what is it about munchos?

they are addictive, particularly on the road. we will be innocently driving along and, suddenly, one of us mentions munchos, those doggone salty dehydrated potato chips, and we are instantly on a quest. maybe it’s the ferrous sulfate, niacin, thiamin mononitrate and riboflavin, but i’d prefer to think that it’s all about the “light-tasting crispy snack” that’s not greasy like other chips. there are 160 calories in about a quarter of the bag, so that’s a significant snack and salt-fix when you need it without a vast amount of guilt, despite the fact that it would take 45 minutes of walking to burn off those 160 calories. like teenagers and skittles, when we need it, we are singularly focused. we have driven in and out of mini-marts and convenience stores and service areas looking for munchos, sometimes to no avail, leading to desperation. i wonder what the looks on our faces say. i’m guessing they belie the calmness we are trying to exude.

our dogdog is food-driven. we laugh about it all the time. he will do most anything for a treat, learn any new trick for a tiny snack. i bet he snickers at us from the back seat watching us on our munchos-hunt.

ps. david’s story is completely false.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this SMACK-DAB SATURDAY MORNING

SMACK-DAB. ©️ 2021 kerrianddavid.com


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balance.balance.balance. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

so the end of the day is not a good time for me to have a profoundly meaningful planning-goals-and-plotting conversation.

i have found that it has been necessary for me to learn sensitive ways to say a resounding “no!”. not wanting to totally shut him-who-shall-remain-nameless down, still wanting to honor (at a later date and time to be announced) his desire for discussion, and understanding the need for review and reflection and visioning and all that stuff, i try valiantly to gently re-direct, delicately postpone, waggle carrots of tangent.

it’s all about balancing – relationship – isn’t it? i’m feelin’ quiet and he’s about to launch into profundity. he’s feelin’ silently meditative and i’m chattering boisterously with the accent on verbose.

somehow we all figure it out.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING

SMACK-DAB. ©️ 2021 kerrianddavid.com


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in the spirit of competition. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

in case you are wondering, i won.

the truth is, i’ve had a lot more experience in twizzler-eating, so i have an edge. my twizzler days go way, way back to earlier times. to get me through driving all over the country loaded down with cds and maps, my sweet momma would send twizzlers in care packages, along with peanut m&m’s and those lance peanut butter crackers in the cracker-color that does not naturally occur in nature. some things never change, regardless of age.

we basically eat our way across the country. the roadtrip feeding frenzy pauses but every couple hours revives with a vengeance. twizzlers fill in the gaps between more nutritious snacks like bananas and halos and real sandwiches, double espressos and, yes, some of those chia-flax-millet-quinoa-amaranth late july chips.

and when conversation has ceased and we’ve solved all the world problems, the road is straight and the highway is lulling, it’s time for a little competition.

suffice it to say: he needs more practice. as my poppo always said, “practice makes perfect.”

ha! good luck with that.

*****

read DAVID’s thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING

SMACK-DAB. ©️ 2021 kerrianddavid.com


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no time to spare. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

this doesn’t really need a whole heck of a lot of other words. suffice it to say, we’ve been there. the days of old – or is it days of yore? – are over. the days of driving with venti starbucks at our sides are over. the days of driving without stopping are over. the days of toodling along with no cares in the world are over.

we are rest area junkies. we know where they are – those familiar blue signs on the interstate. we know which rest areas have the nicest bathrooms. we know the gas stations and convenience stores that have the nicest bathrooms. and we have – more than once – exceeded the speed limit on the exit ramps to these fine amenities. there is no time to spare.

we know that the busy bee in live oak, florida on i-10 rocks and that the sphagnum-moss rest area on the way to door county is clean and safe. we know also that we will “hold it” across montana unless we can find a mcdonald’s and that, even in snow, there are portapotties in the rest area just up the road after frisco before vail. in other news, we know the best back roads and where corn grows high, but we won’t talk about that.

i’m guessing, if you are reading this, you get it. there is nothing worse than an hugely-anticipated rest area under construction.

read DAVID’S thoughts this SMACK-DAB SATURDAY

SMACK-DAB. ©️ 2021 kerrianddavid.com


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the knew-its. [saturday morning smack-dab.]

there is a pile of flipflops by the back door. our house is a back door house so that’s where we come in and that’s where the flipflops live. there is nothing quite like walking on old wood floors or cool tile with bare feet in the summer – it’s freeing.

and so it never fails. or – i never fail. there is a moment, sometime in the summer, when i am rushing around without thinking or watching – maybe pushing the vacuum, maybe running from one room to another, maybe going out the back door with snacks, maybe taking a doorway too close – that i will slammmmm my toes into something and, ultimately, break my pinky toe. i’m not sure that a summer has gone by without that in recent years, though i don’t remember a broken toe in the littlehouse on island. regardless, i pretty much know the moment it’s going to happen and the delicate language that ever-so-gracefully flows from my lips when it does happen prompts dogdog to go hide in the bathroom.

this summer – just a few days ago in fact – i ran into a stack of paintings that is in our sittingroom because of the drains in the basement. i almost saw it coming, though not entirely because i would like to think i would have stopped it in process. it’s not my baby toe this time. it’s my third and fourth toes, purple and painful. but, as the days go on i realize one thing – i don’t think they actually broke this time, so maybe i am making some headway.

the lesson is always to slow down. d is always reminding me….slow down! don’t break your toe!….

eh.

the worst is the knew-its.

*****

read DAVID’S thoughts this SATURDAY MORNING

SMACK-DAB. ©️ 2021 kerrianddavid.com