The Wall

When I was little, somewhere under the age of 6, my father co-ran (co-owned?) a bar. I just typed the details of his …”business partner” but they are at once so vast and twisty that I thought: No, now’s not the time. Plus, you might need a diagram. I hear that ain’t no one got time for that (but I only have a vague awareness of what that sound bite might even reference). And this  here post is about a total other thing:

a wall.

THE Wall.

wall

I was thinking about it because about 5 minutes after i walked into church tonight, i “hit a wall” with my energy. Though i got some sleep last night, i definitely haven’t had an actual night’s sleep since Wednesday, and it all caught up with me at once. I thought “how will i ever get a post when I’ve hit the wall?” and voila. Not the post i wanted to talk about, but a bit of rambling and insight into my world.

 

So, like I said, Daddy worked at this bar. And every summer I would go stay with him. I don’t know for how long and I don’t know how my mother didn’t get ulcers sending me where and with what methods she did, because…mercy…just, I’m going to spare you the “i-have-to-go-snuggle-my-babies” details.

 

 

Sometimes my family members read this blog. And sometimes they think I go too far, complain about too much. I mean to do neither. I mean to chronicle, as truthfully AND gracefully as I can, my unique and valid perspective. Because I am my daddy’s only child. And my daddy is not incredibly like his siblings. He’s not incredibly like anyone I’ve ever met. So my life, at least in relation to him, is something I think only I really understand.

 

Anyway, some things were rough, some things were traumatic.

 

And then there was the bar. Which was neither.

 

Because, have I mentioned daddy was/is a biker? there are two things that represent stability in my life where it comes to that man: a guitar and a motorcycle. Rumor has it I was decked in leather and on a bike before my first birthday (yes. really. mom’s never let it go and daddy swears it wasn’t a big deal. Cause there are for sure safe ways to ride your motorcycle with your toddler. NT.). Bikers, if you didn’t know, travel in packs. So I was raised surrounded by them.

 

And I spent a lot of time in a bar.

 

And so it was that I developed my love for classic rock and jamz that far pre-date “my time.”

 

And so it was, that, at age 5, I first danced at a bar to the juke-box blaring my favorite song while daddy worked.

Head bopping,

curls swinging,

arms pumping,

“Heeeeeey, Teach-ewr, weeeave dem kids aahhh-woh-oohne!”

 

 

And so it was that I learned: you don’t eat your meat, you can’t have any pudding. For how could you have any pudding if you don’t eat yer meat?

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