more micro

Continued from "micro" (page one of short stories; this is page two ... it's just that it isn't as pretty. But if you're still reading, well, here you go. And thanks!)

BURIED TREASURE ... (continued from p. 1/"micro" section) ...

Most of Mom’s stuff had already made the trip to her new, downsized house in the city, a block from my High School, where she had taught for several decades before retiring. And she still managed to keep plenty of memorabilia. But she didn’t need to keep the farm, where she had never wanted to be (and never was) a “typical farmer’s wife,” and which had been parceled out over the years to renters after Dad retired, too (and after we kids all assured her we didn’t want to inherit it). She had no reason to remain out here in the country, alone. The end of an era.

Dad had been such a packrat. No, he was not a hoarder—not the kind you see on TV shows, or in therapist’s offices, at any rate. A packrat. The distinction being, the floors were always mostly visible in most of the rooms—even in his little “man cave” under the basement stairs which could barely fit his ham radio gear (“November Uniform Nine Charlie” is a handle I’ll never forget—mostly because I thought that second word was “unicorn!”). Sure, he had lots of practical items: endless tools and toolboxes, scrap lumber, athletic and camping gear, nature guidebooks, farm-related manuals, the usual too-many-years-worth of tax-related stuff, Genealogy records including gravestone rubbings and postal letters with illegible handwriting (I mean, I grew up when cursive was still taught but I struggled to decipher it), and countless spare parts (in various stages of the rusting process) for farm implements and you-just-never-knows. I’m sure you can imagine the lot of it.

But oh, my word. The goofy things he had collected and kept! Antique soda pop bottles, “ladies head” ceramic figurines (you read that correctly: not a whole doll, just the head, hollowed out, open at the base … it’s evidently a whole thing—who knew?!), board games that I don’t ever remember playing though they were evidently well-loved. Odd-looking, thick, colored glass quasi-bell-shaped objects that turned out to be vintage insulators for electrical and telephone poles—quite pretty, I must admit, but one is enough for my keepsake stash. His first computer, complete with reams of dot matrix printer paper and slanted plastic boxes (that probably looked futuristic at the time) with giant floppy discs. There were shaded corner shelves keeping preserved jars of stuff cool (ahem, more mystery food, probably from the time his Dad was young). Mountains of boxes protecting small sets of a few dozen magazines or figurines or cards or logo-bearing lidded tins that were sure to be collector’s items of considerable antique value in his kids’ not-too-distant future. (Spoiler alert! They are not. Ah, well, we love his good intentions.)

Mom interrupts my reminiscing about my wonderful, beloved Dad and his many hobbies, interests, skills, and quirks: “Oh.” She pauses. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this.”

I look up from my cleaning, eying her quizzically. She makes a little guilty-sounding laughing noise. “Well?” I say. “You have to tell me now. You can’t say that, and then not say anything. At least make up something, at this point.”

“Oh, you’re going to be mad. But, okay, out behind the big barn we kind of made our own little landfill for some of the big, rusty, worthless junk. And along with it, we buried the organ. And we planted grass over it. So you can’t really tell …”

I blink. It takes a moment for a visualization to rearrange itself in my brain from, say, a human transplant organ to a large musical instrument. (I mean, who am I to question a grieving woman’s thought process or words? And wouldn’t that make for some interesting music video imagery someday?) “The organ.” I say, with probably a hint of incredulity. “Just to clarify. You’re saying you buried the electric organ. The one with two rows of black-and-white keys, and foot pedals, and mother-of-pearl switches, in the beautiful wood case with the built-in bench, that you played hymns on, to practice for church.” She nods. “Uh. What?!” I try not to shriek. I think it comes out sounding relatively calm.

“Well …” she begins sheepishly, “I couldn’t find anyone to take it. I tried—I really did—I asked all of our cousins—musical or otherwise—and people at church, and local colleges, and everyone I could think of. And it was just so big, and some of the settings weren’t working anymore, and I had gotten it for free in the first place, and I just had to take care of it. I was running out of time. I just wanted to be done with it.”

I bite my tongue, then force myself to say, “I understand. I’m sure you did your best.” Of course she did. My goodness; grieving and moving on is difficult enough losing a parent. I cannot begin to imagine the experience of losing a spouse. And the perfect one at that, after 40 years of happy marriage while supporting each other through the hardships of a small family farm and so much more. I only know the tiniest fraction of it.

“I’m not mad. Not at you—only at God. I just … huh. Well, I’m just kinda scratching my head over that one. Trying to picture that scenario.” I chuckle. I know Mom could use some comic relief; I know I do. “Just imagine, centuries from now, what if archaeologists—or even farmers—are ever digging around in that area?”

“Well,” Mom chuckles and throws her arms up and wide: “Surprise!”

We look out towards the barn. Then back at each other. Then burst out laughing until tears stream down our faces.

—Julie Ann Baker Brin, 2nd place, 2024 Kansas Authors Club statewide Prose contest, Rural category

(Excerpt to be published in the 2025 Kansas Authors Club Yearbook)

COGNITIVE ... (continued from p. 1/"micro" section) ...

“Funk,” I muse softly, with a loud chuff. “I wish I meant funky in the good way. Like the R&B group I heard at Mort’s last night.” Nice, Liz, I mentally chastise myself; the first serious sentence into your therapy session and you’re already going off on a tangent and trying to be goofy. 

Dr. Lesley is accustomed to this, shall we say, not-so-effective stalling/derailing tactic. Sometimes she’ll let me run with it for a moment. “I take it you haven’t written any songs lately.” I shake my head no. “So, if you were writing any, what would they be about?” Like I said, just for a moment. Clever lady steers me right back on track.

“My stupid biological half-brother. Angry songs. Funky, bass-slapping, rock-your-world songs. Leave-me-the-#&(%-alone songs. Pardon my French.” I know I can technically say anything in here, but I feel the need to be somewhat polite, restrained, civilized. You know, so she doesn’t think I’m totally immature. Or crazy.

“So, there you go. Write the songs. It will be cathartic.”

“Ugh. I know,” I say in frustration. I look down and see that I’m unconsciously clutching one of the stupid pillows. It’s soft, kind of like cashmere. So now I give in, and hold onto it. Like a guitar. Okay, fine, like a teddy bear. I give up. “I know, I know. It’s not writer’s block or anything like that. It’s just that I don’t even want to think about it. I don’t want to deal with it. And I don’t know why.”

“So let’s figure out why. Obviously, a part of you does want to deal with it, since you’re here and bringing it up.”

“It’s because I know that I probably should. It’s the adult thing to do.” I say “adult” as if it’s a distasteful thing in my mouth. Well, it is. 

“It’s the supposedly healthy thing to do,” I continue. “One of those things I don’t want to have to regret later on when I’m, maybe, actually mature. And I want to get past it—I do. I really am stuck. Stuck in this resentful, hateful place. And I realize it’s kind of unreasonable for me to feel that way. It’s not as if this guy has done anything to me, or against me, per say. So what; he made up some random stories about ‘my’ life with goofy web memes. He was just trying to be funny, and I suppose I will laugh about it sometime. But I just feel so, I don’t know, violated somehow. Because here’s this stranger who thinks he knows me, just because he’s older, and he was aware of my existence a few decades before I ever knew about his. But he doesn’t know me! He just thinks he knows me—he knows who he wants me to be. What he wants me to be: like him.” I shudder. “It’s just so disturbing. I don’t want to be like anyone else.”

She nods, scribbles a bit on her pad. How I’d like to see those notes. I’m sure I have some patients’ rights that would allow me to see them … but, then again, maybe I don’t really want to.

“So let’s look more closely at these thoughts,” she urges. I shift on the couch, trying not to audibly whine. “The good news is that you can change the way you think, and to feel better even if the situation does not change.”

I shrug. “This is what I pay you the big bucks for, I guess. But I apologize in advance for being a stubborn patient. Because there’s a huge part of me—the big baby part, I suppose—that really does not want to do this. This is like that ‘fearless moral inventory’ stuff all my ex-drunk-and-junkie friends do. I admire them for it so much, and lord knows I know I need to do it, but it sounds like torture. I’d rather clean toilets for an hour than do ten minutes of soul-searching if I think it’s going to lead me to dislike something about myself.”

She wrinkles her nose at the commode reference. I suspect she’s a tad OCD … maybe more than a tad, since she won’t diagnose me with it and I’m sure I’ve got it. “It is difficult,” she agrees. “That’s why a lot of people don’t do it. But it doesn’t have to be hard. So here’s your homework assignment—this is going to be easy. When you have those thoughts of your brother—”

“Biological half-brother,” I correct her.

“That guy,” she agrees. When you have those thoughts that usually make you feel uncomfortable, just observe them. Like meditation.”

I almost interrupt her again to tell her about the nauseating experience I had with what was essentially “forced meditation” at this hippie nonprofit where I once worked in College Hill, but then decide to be a grown-up in this moment, and not project that experience onto this one. Besides, at $150 an hour, she probably knows what she’s talking about. Let’s hope. What the heck—I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt, even.

“Just sort of look at that thought as it passes through your head,” she continues. “Don’t judge it. Just say ‘hey, there’s that thought. It’s back again. Hmm. Well, isn’t that interesting.’ Don’t allow yourself to get all worked up about it. Just acknowledge its presence and tell yourself it’s okay. Then move on to another thought.” 

“Happy place,” I say. 

She nods. “See? Easy.”

Easy for her, anyway. She’s not in my head. Or so I’d like to believe.

—Julie Ann Baker Brin, 2nd place, 2020 Kansas Authors Club District 7 Prose contest

(Excerpt published in the 2021 Kansas Authors Club Yearbook)

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