In my never ending toil, of placing one word after another, in hopes of making a coherent pile of gibberish, I decided that the path I want to be on is simple.
Writing.
See? S.I.M.P.L.E
The muse, she has returned, full force and I am taking a beating with her constant whipping.
The sadist that I am thoroughly enjoys it. For the next couple of days, or more, I am revisiting a story. One who has to be finished.
Stories do not always just fly out, land on paper and VOILA, beginning, middle and a happy ending.
Sometimes we write a story that has to sit in the backseat for a time.

This story is currently in the works, again.Originally written in 2006 (c) And yes, I am sharing pieces of it here.
Who knows where it will land, yet it helps me with other aspects of my goals to flush it out, and I thought I'd share.

There is history to this, and its an ongoing history. Part of this, I will share. 
The need to put a face to a Man. 
Take it as you will. Share, I'd appreciate it. Comment, I adore comments. And did I say COMMENT?

The Blizzard of 1978.
If I were to close my eyes, I could remember, taste it, as if it were happening now.
Not just for the massive amounts of snow, the frigid weather and the state shutting down for three days.
No.
It stretches beyond snowmen, snow angels and shoveling for hours on end.

My grandfather, or the man I had thought was my grandfather, passed away. 500 miles away. It might as well had been 5 million.
My Aunt and Uncle had come for Sunday Dinner that day. A typical Sunday dinner of Roast and potato. Gravy, bread, and corn. A side of carrots in water and celery in water.
A small glass of wine at every place setting chased by a 16 oz glass of milk.
There was no reason for a gathering this day. No birthday. No Anniversary. No Holiday.
Just a wonderful afternoon spent with my father's "sister" and her husband. I was quite taken by my Aunt Al. Something about her, I admired. She was all a lady with edges that now appeared a bit burnt.
And I adored her.

The phone rang, about 4 o'clock.
Funny how 30 years later I can remember such detail. With a clarity as if I were sitting there observing it all once again.
My Father's voice, upbeat when he first answered the phone, realizing it was his mother. Then his words changed, he had switched to French and the dining room dropped to a silence, unknown to my twelve year old ears.
In an instant I knew there was something a miss. My father's face went pale. His voice more alarmed, and my mother listened intently. As my Aunt spoke in French, very quickly. To no one in particular. "Mon Dieu, Mon Dieu".
The night ended quickly, as I was shuffled off to my room for the adults to talk. I kept hearing the phone, ringing and hanging up. Ringing. Some talk. Hanging up.
Something about the old rotary phones, they made that certain sound when placed on the "hook".
That evening, my Father nervously watched the 6 o'clock news. A storm was headed in. We needed to leave and leave quick. We had 500+ miles to drive.
Arrangments were made, we would leave early in the morning. Like a gypsy train. All the relatives who had long since moved from Maine. Now one after another, followed.
Hoping to beat the storm.
In the lead car was my Father, My Mother, my brother A and I. A tortuous ride.
The second car was my brother D and his wife and their 2 year old son. Behind them another car with Aunts and Uncles. My grandmother's siblings. And then behind them another car. And one more.
The snow began, and I could see my mother's knuckles turn white as she gripped the arm of the door.
We made it to NH, and then the snow truly had begun to fall.
We made it as far as Houlton, and could not drive any further.
And yet there was the overall feeling of needing to be somewhere. It was important.
I knew the man I had called Grampy had died. I knew.
And yet there was no affect. Nothing.
I thought it queer. I remember as we drove, staring out at this wonderland of white unveiling before my eyes, that I should be feeling something.
Nothing.
We stayed in Houlton for the night, and would eat and rest and begin again.
The next day, against the hotel clerks urging we set out once more. I was in awe of my father's demeanor. The calm that came over him, as he lit one Old Gold after another. No music was allowed, as he had to keep his sense tuned in. His eyes needing to be focused on the eighteen wheeler in front of us, for that is all anyone could see. Those two bright red lights. The speedometer never read any higher than 20 miles per hour. From Houlton to Caribou. At 20 mph.
The day in the car seemed an eternity. The whole world, had turn to white. There was no color. Only white. The wind pushed on the car and my father fought back. The further North we went the higher the snow. The harder it fell.
After 8 more hours, for a typical 2 hour drive. We arrived. The snow piled high already.
My mother nearly fainted, upon walking into my grammy's home. There was a rich aroma. Food was on the stove. The pressure cooker shaking madly on the stove. And fresh coffee brewed. The smell of coffee permeated my senses, as my mother poured herself a cup. Asking me if I would like one to warm up. I gladly accepted. Even then.
Her little 4 room home-faux salt box, had been invaded by relatives. They came out from every nook and cranny. Sullen faces. My Grammy tried her best to hold back tears. She spoke softly and in her native tongue. I could only catch bits and pieces. While she insisted we all sit and eat, she had cooked all day.

Il avait fait une promenade. Incertain s'il était tombé et avait une crise cardiaque. Ou a eu une crise cardiaque et est puis tombé. Jambe cassée. Un des garçons de Thibodeau l'a trouvé des papiers de la livraison. Il ne l'a jamais faite à l'hôpital.

He had gone for a walk. Unsure if he had fallen and had a heart attack. Or had a heart attack and then fell. Broken leg. One of the Thibodeau boys found him delivery papers. He never made it to the hospital.

I looked out at the snow, watched as my Gram pointed to the spot he was found. "I told him not to go" My father could only console her. Neither agreeing or disagreeing.
I slept on the couch that evening, listening as my grandmother cried herself to sleep and the wind howled.


{Part Two next And when the wind howled and whispered in my ear}