- Mental Health
They Say I Need to Find My Marbles
I enjoy a good bit of humor. I mean, who doesn’t. I enjoy writing and creating scenarios that cause others to take a double look, or think twice about what is going on. My family thinks that I am losing it, that perhaps Alzheimer’s is beginning to move in on me at the young age of 53.
For instance, I have created a fictional place in my mind much like “Willoughby” on the old Twilight Zone T.V. show. I have this place, this small town mapped out in my head, and I call it “Lulawissie.” Lulawissie is a small Southern town with a rich history shaped by Irish immigrants. I have written at length about it in my blogs, and I have gotten quite a following. More of a following than I expected.
This town does not exist anywhere but in these blogs and in my mind. Its inhabitants are fictitious. The circumstances that happen in this town are made up, yet it has been recognized by different organizations worldwide as having a source of green energy, a monument to Irish-American History, the only known habitat of the Ivory Billed Woodpecker (thought to be extinct, but now it is researched by a famous university because of the Lulawissie sightings), fisherman from all over are searching for the lake so that they can participate in the annual Crappie Tournament in July.
My story line has become very popular. See what happens If you Google “Lulawissie”. And buy a tee-shirt while you’re at it.
As you may know, I am a butcher at the “Lulawissie Gas and Grocery”. Life in a grocery store is not unlike life on “General Hospital”. It is a soap opera. With the advent of social networking, the gossipers and the whiners and complainers in the store are all duking it out on Facebook. It becomes sadly amusing to sit and watch the drama unfold. At times it is pure Schadenfreude.
And as some of you know, I have a small herd of dogs. They are Labs and Aussies. Each one has a personality all of its own and I decided to give some of them their own Facebook pages. These dogs are all related to each other as siblings, offspring, etc. So I have created their own little quibbles on Facebook to try to offset the drama of the grocery store. They argue about bones, cats, chasing rabbits, licking themselves…whatever canine siblings can argue about. The dogs involved are Wyatt, Tinkerbelle and Hootie. They have developed quite a following. Kids at work have come to me and asked how to be Facebook friends with Tinkerbelle. I just tell them that they “have to contact her, not me. I have nothing to do with it.” Some of these people really believe that these dogs can use a computer.
When shopping with my wife, I would get a text message on my phone. “Who is it?” she’d ask.
“Wyatt.” I’d respond. “He wants us to bring him some powdered donuts, the little ones.” She would shake her head and go get the donuts.
“You need help!” She’d say.
“You’re the one getting the donuts.” I’d reply.
Perhaps I do need help. But when you are trying to work hard each day to make ends meet when you know that you probably won’t, being able to lose yourself in satirical fantasy is good therapy. When a person such as me frequently moves in and out of depression, you need a release. Usually I fish. I find that very therapeutic, but Lake Lulawissie is frozen over right now, and I would rather not sit in a cold shanty all day drinking brandy at the South End Marina. I prefer tequila, and I’ll drink it at home.
This winter solstice affords me a lot of time to enjoy my occasional stiff drink, sitting by the fire while Wyatt reads “The Call of the Wild” to his two sisters, Tink and Hootie. Wyatt had attempted to read “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” to them, but being black Labs, they found it offensive. They all agreed to wait until the NewSouth version came out in February. Hootie just sits with her laptop surfing the Internet for “Calvin and Hobbes” cartoons as she listens to Wyatt read. Tinkerbelle usually does her nails.
As for me, I listen occasionally. Once in a while Wyatt will have trouble pronouncing the multi-syllabic words and I have to help him. He’s only been reading since early last year. I think he’s made remarkable progress. I just wish he wouldn’t lick his fingers when he turns the pages.
Yes, the family may be right. I might need to look a little harder for my marbles. But what good would that do? It would be like fishing in Lake Lulawissie for “Ol’ Dodger”, the estimated 150lbs+ catfish that has been tearing up tackle for years. Once Ol’ Dodger is caught, there’s nothing to fish for.
If I were to ever find my marbles, there would be nothing left to write about either.
Copyright 2011 by Wyatt Banks