I hate my home town.

We all grew up somewhere, whether it be in US, Canada, France or the Ukraine.  I picked the last two  because I'm hot there, blogger wise.  Bon jour and хороший деньок!

A couple of weeks from now I'll be giving a talk at our local shrine to author Herman Melville, when the Lansingburgh Historical Society is going to host a fete' to this book I am plowing through, or, I mean writing about Herman's time in my hometown about 175 years ago.  The house I grew up in remains on 1st Avenue.  The color has changed, the insides as well, but it is still home, the only true home I have had, except for all my time with my wife.  She is my home.

The stories remain, however, and the continuity of them is as varied as the autumn leaves on that huge maple tree in the back yard.  Those leaves took days to rake up, but I would make leaf roads and my dog would follow the road as I made moved my rake along.  And when we were done, the yard would already be filling up with the next batch.  I walked to school. No one bothered me. I had a sense of peace and happiness, just like I thought everyone had.

That's about the time I started hating Lansingburgh.

We moved from 1st Avenue (the house on First Avenue was too big).  My dog died.  I got bullied at the new school.  My father got sick and died.  My mother revealed her mental illness through her behavior, and her needs that I could not fill (because I was discovering my own bipolar disorder [this diagnosis not confirmed until 2005]) Family crisis after crisis. I could not find a job because I had absolutely no skills after years of taking care of a father who it turned out was going through what I am now doing.  So I got a government job (insert your own joke here).  My mother was very concerned about money, because she gambled it all away, and asked me for money or just took from my savings account, while promising to pay it back.  That never happened.  Then, my sister died.  My mother was devastated, and she turned toward her sons for support and we did what we could.  I'd visit once a week, as long as my tension filled stomach and brain could deal with it.  Even took a month off, which of course made things worse.

When my mother died, Lansingburgh became an anathema to me.  On the day of her funeral, I was driving to my brother's house, pointing out to my wife's family the places my family had lived.  And how rundown the whole town looked.  My stomach still in knots even at the thought of going there.  My brother still lived there, as did some of my sister's family.  My parents and sister are buried there.  All it was to me was misery.  I had enough problems.

Until I got more problems.  In my case medical, or, really neurological, and while I was working at a job that I liked, and with people I loved, it became obvious to me that I needed to change.  So then came Tai Chi, yoga, reiki, and time at a Buddhist monastery (and a few shrinks) and I began to learn forgiveness and relaxation.  My sister's daughter got married and Jackie and I attended the service in Troy.  Using a process I learned from those monks started me on a new road of freeing myself from the anger and sadness of the past.  It's not totally gone but I am a lot better.

So much so that when, once upon a Facebook, a high school friend contacted me and we began having lunch in Lansingburgh with other folks from the village.  From this came stories, and stories became a series of books. And then I walked into the Melville house in Lansingburgh for a book show and a walk about, ending up in the attic which had a unique resemblance to the attic I played in two blocks north.  I had never thought about Herman Melville, even though I had read the historical marker many times.  Just an "oh" , that's all.  Until about a year ago.  I was beginning to dive more into my genealogy  and found cousins and history I never knew.

More stories.  And on came the thought that maybe I could write a big story, talk about this village where amazing people lived and did great things.  And the research began in earnest.  The story is being put to paper.  And it is being welcomed.

So on October 16, I'll talk about these stories.  And yes, my stomach will be in knots, for those there and those that inspired me...Just people living their lives, and doing what he could.

Show up.  I have a story to tell....about my hometown.

Hey, I'm cured! Oh, wait....d'oh!

No, the lesions are still there, and that's the beauty of it.  The lesions are right where they were two years ago, no more, no less. That is called stability by the doctors and a reprieve by me.  It does not mean I am out of the woods, but I made my own trail and I'll keep doing it until I run out of trees. Brain re-wiring is highly recommended. And keep swimming...

Today was my last aquatic therapy class for a few weeks, but we'll start again in May.  Now there's decent weather to begin my six month long yard cleanup so it will look decent again by mid or late October, or the first snow whichever comes first.  And there's this novel writing thing. And my wife is around the house now as she left her job. I should be able to function OK.

Look, I would like to apologize to the many many of my MS Brothers and MS Sisters out there on the planet who are having it tougher than  I could ever imagine.  I can go to Facebook and in the MS groups read of people having terrible times with a bastard of a disease that will not kill you, but is glad to wear you down to a nub and then step aside to let one of the classic killers finish you off.  I am in a group that meets once a month, and I hear of the struggles of people trying to balance family life, jobs, and a disease that no one can see unless you have a spasm of some kind.  There are lesions on their spines and in their brains. Many are battling for disability benefits, and I really did cruise through it. They have true pain and they are not believed. There are family members who think they are helping by ignoring you or how you feel.  My family keeps its distance, and that's fine if it works for them.  I was used to being by myself and there are enough scars in the family to go around.  But today is my brother Bob's birthday, #69, and best wishes to him. It's National Siblings Day, anyhow.  Why is the Siblings' Day on a Thursday?  You only have two parents, biologically speaking.  You can have a lot more brothers and sisters.  Hallmark is missing out on a real deal here.  For only me kids, you can compensate by having grandparents and parents spoil you rotten and get all kinds of stuff.  The rest of us wore hand me downs (and I had a big sister).

There's your family, and there's Your Family.  The first is the result of genetics.  The second is a choice.  It can start at the age of three or so and go until your last breath.  The people who choose to accompany you on your journey, and you treasure them.  My fellow MSers are my family, as are the Social Services workers, and folks battling mental illness. Even you are.  You are important to someone, even if its just the person you see in the mirror.  Its taken a long time and a lot of pain to get to where I am (well, not the couch where I am right now, but you get the idea). And, as I've written before, there are angels in your life, if you can find them, even if they bark, say meow, or squeak - but if any these three examples are human shaped, make a note to get out more.

I bring this up to talk about "my affair".  Once a year I get together with one of my dearest friends from college for lunch or dinner.  We talk about sports, literature, life, etc. for hours and laugh about days long ago. Me boy. She girl.  We were never "like that" in college, but we remained close and danced at each other's weddings.  We meet on Good Friday each year (its Good Friday because when we first started this in the early '90s, Albany County gave their employees Good Friday afternoon off - a holdover from the Irish Catholic political machine days - that has since changed). Over the past twenty years, you must condense 12 months of living into a couple of hours, when you're not eating or drinking and running to the bathroom. What is important? What really matters in the story of your life, when you get this chance to tell  it?

I think about this in my writing a lot. What's the most important moment of the last year for you?

Just keep swimming.  Thanks for reading.