http://www.writerq.com/mobile/Dasmeer/ Latest updates from Nev Obrien http://www.writerq.com/mobile/library/852/boxes/ Having been a gypsy most of my life, moving often, I understand well the need for boxes to be opened occasionally, touched, smelled, capturing the memories of old yet familiar nuances representing that particular loved one.
Free spirit that I am, I still was the one chosen to participate in many of these undertakings both with immediate family and, later, dear friends.
Throughout our lives, we tend to collect the things that represent our identity, comforting ourselves with objects only to start the purge so that others will remember us with those exact same thoughts. My boxes were many and varied, containing more and more of the dwindling population that was of my world.
My Da came to move to his next destination, joining the love of his life, and again we gathered for his “boxing.”
Years have passed, life has evolved, there are many more boxes to move about, think on, remember fondly. I have decided to distribute them, a necessary action for one so private.
There are now three boxes, Mom’s, Da’s and mine. These will be given to the oldest child. Whether they are kept does not matter. My job is complete. The boxes are ready, the cycle continues.]]> http://www.writerq.com/mobile/library/852/boxes/ Wed, 19 Nov 2014 16:58:56 +0000 Nev Obrien http://www.writerq.com/mobile/library/850/finding-the-stride/
1987, I followed the basketball with alacrity, a little backyard fun with my now grown kids. At forty-one those mighty oaks upon which I still stood were no less strong. I smiled secretly.

1997, packing the last of my treasures, so many boxes, a new life to go to, a new city, lots of stairs. I didn’t stop. I knew the stride and rhythm of my legs would continue to carry me up, up and away.

2008, The heart attack was sneaky, sweating, hot, cold, terribly weak. I laid in the bed and recollected the span within spans that go into a life, and worried. Being helped up first to a sitting position, then, standing, my legs shook but held. Thank God they were trying.

2011, I watched my body and soul separate, the three specters waiting patiently, my legs moving restlessly, wanting to go, looking for their stride. No, no you are my rocks, my lifeline, don’t fail me now. But alas sometimes reality outshines our feelings and finding your strides means the enjoyment of a fall day, cane in hand, a slower more purposeful step, but just as much joy.]]> http://www.writerq.com/mobile/library/850/finding-the-stride/ Sun, 16 Nov 2014 17:57:59 +0000 Nev Obrien http://www.writerq.com/mobile/library/561/maybe/ Elgin Street, in the town of Hopewell Falls, was what the locals referred to as their tourist area, one short block of diminutive shops that catered to travelers looking for respite from the unsightly strip malls dotting the landscape. Not quite a border town but still retaining its status as a way to the ocean, it had held on for over one hundred years. Founded in 1903 by Yule Hopewell, an Anglo Saxon from Perth England, a man of ruddy complexion and hardy personality, he went about establishing a town that would retain it originally flavor for centuries just as the ones he remembered from his youth in quaint old England. He carefully controlled every movement ,every street, gardens, even what the residents planted in their window boxes. This was a far reaching plan and not all residents were in an agreeing mood. Many arguments arose first in the city council meeting, later on the streets. But, when all was said and done, Yule not only won the battle but the war as Hopewell turned into the pristine old world town that he envisioned.
The inevitable marched through Hopewell Falls as the farms sold to factories, the state upgraded the roads, creating byways, wars moved the young off in new directions and large old Victorians and wonderfully manicured lawns took a backseat to an industrialized nation.The dust settled, darkness enveloped the tiny town until the mid 80's when just about every small berg in the United States decided it had the potential to be a tourist town. No matter half of these places had nothing to offer. Networking throughout the country, registries were created, brochures printed, the run was on to create perfection in your town.
Claims on a picture perfect postcard were many but one had to admit Hopewell Falls did it citizenry proud when hiring the world renown photographer Carter Chazall. Because of his shots the town jumped ahead the daunting crowds as Elgin Street was created with grandiloquence not seen since the early days of New York ultra rich. Ornate details were added to store fronts, the interiors became upscale boutiques, the sidewalk bricked to lend flair.
Each new shop lessee was carefully scrutinized. The town has seen its share of freethinkers, beatniks, flower children, hippies and took pleasure in the fact that none of those had chosen to settle within their coterie. They certainly didn't want someone of that ilk to be standing in their delicate shops when the money um tourist came upon Hopewell Falls.
Henry Stewart, of the New York Stewarts, settled in Hopewell Falls in 2000. Used to the New York's clamor, precipitous, and abiding energy, the retirement took a full two years to take effect. He had chosen the town because his grandmother had spent her entire life there, he summering there, becoming part of the quiet flow that made the town an embodiment of your soul. Henry, tall, with a patrician face, a full head of white hair and resounding voice at the town meetings, slid into the duties of overseeing a town as easily as he had run his banks in New York. There was one thing that nagged at him though, which he tried to avoid, the insurmountable boredom that was becoming part of him.
Henry couldn't remember when it has started but he began sitting in the small park on Elgin Street. The town had redesigned this area to assist in the beautification of the shops on the other side, a place to eat ice cream after tiring of shopping. Everyone in the town seemed to be thinking of the coming season, except Henry. As he gazed randomly at nothing in particular he once again noticed the white Cadillac parked quietly at the corner, parking meter paid up, motor idling, the low hum of the radio inside. Curiosity not usually one a Henryi traits, with hackles raising on his neck, surprising him all the more. Why this sense of foreboding? He remembered seeing the car yesterday or maybe the day before. So what? He shook the feeling off, raising slowly, keeping his eyes on the car and proceeded down the street a full two hours before schedule.]]> http://www.writerq.com/mobile/library/561/maybe/ Thu, 28 Aug 2014 04:54:08 +0000 Nev Obrien