bring the noyz

I was going to write about something else. I was going to write the next chapter in our house hunting saga.

I was going to do so, and so I did. Until just a few moments ago. Then I realized that I could not possibly finish that posting today because the story I am telling has yet to be finally told.

So I will finish that one later.

Tonight I want to write about this:

Above the fireplace a large photograph hangs. It is a photo that dates from somwhere around the turn of the century. The last one, not the one that just happened. It is a photo of my triple great-grandparents. They appear old, nearing the end of their days. They do not smile, because no one had yet thought to say "cheese" prior to taking a picture.

Or maybe it was just the style at the time. Either way. . .

But still, they look serene, they look content. And yes, Mr. Walsh, I assure you that without ever having a limo to ride in the trunk they still appear as though life has been very good to them so far.

As I understand and somewhat drunkenly recall the story. . .

My great-grandparents took pretty much the only things they could carry, climbed on a friggin' boat and sailed from their old world to their new one. They then made it half-way across to the heartland of a fucking continent. They somehow miraculously managed to find each other and start something that continues to this day and courses through my hands as I type these words.

I have a history. I am but a brief link in the hopefully endless drama of my DNA.

Which comedian joked about how water created humans as a vessel to move it around? I can not remember.

But I digress. . .

They travelled half-way (okay, maybe one-third, or perhaps a very generous fourth) across the world.

They did it. They made it. It was just fine.

Why should I have anxiety about moving across town?
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