Photo by Jonathan Cooper via Unsplash.

To this day, I still don’t have a grill. I’ve been ambivalent about the size, the fuel type (charcoal vs gas vs wood), the safety. I was never taught how to use one growing up, so there’s also the burden of learning how to cook what I want. A grilled turkey for Thanksgiving is something I’ve wanted for years, but I’d have to borrow one to even attempt it.

Photo by Paul Rysz on Unsplash

How can I summarize 2024? In years past, I’ve thought of Janus – looking forward, looking back – or the vinegar tasters from Taoism.

Now what comes to mind is Inigo Montoya from The Princess Bride. “Let me explain … no, it is too much. Let me sum up.”

Instead, I’ve decided to present a series of vignettes that, if lacking in complete explanation, at least offer context for this turbulent, exhausting year.

Photo: berries growing by the French Broad river. June 2024.

There was a Dollar General semi-truck in the river.

I had flown to Asheville to visit family for Thanksgiving in late November. I was riding with my mother, winding through back roads to avoid washed-out sections, to meet my sister and niece for a movie. Our route took us along a portion of the Swannanoa River. So many things had been left behind by the flooding from Helene two months ago: a delivery van, a twenty-foot boat, construction debris, plastic bags, so much detritus.

Image by Markus Spiske on Unsplash. (source)

Last week, I watered
Rows of carrots and cabbage
In raised beds of pine
At the foot of a hill.

This morning, I waded
Through rust-colored mud
To the foot of that hill--
But my garden was gone.

Tomorrow I'll borrow
A rusty old shovel
To dig out my pine beds
And plant seeds for next year.

Here in the US, this year’s general election is being held on Tuesday, November 5th. And here is my opinion:

You should vote for Kamala Harris, and not just because of harm reduction.

I hope, dear reader, that I don’t have to tell you about Project 2025, but if I do: it’s an outline by Christian nationalists of what they intend to accomplish during a hypothetical second Trump term. Trump has publicly disavowed it, but members of his campaign staff, including his VP pick JD Vance, were involved in its creation.

A self-portrait of my father. I believe he sculpted it while he attended art college.

One year ago today, on a cold Halloween evening in Bremerton, WA, my father Galen Gibson passed away.

I’ve struggled to articulate how I feel about his death. We hadn’t spoken in five years – a decision I had made, and not lightly – when I got word. The coroner, looking for a next of kin, had contacted my mother first, who sent them my way. I had to facilitate the cremation; the ashes and what few personal effects were sent to me. I shipped the cremains to a distant relative in Kentucky, where they were buried next to his mother’s grave.

A few days ago, using time off from work following the back-to-back hurricanes we endured here in Florida, I decided to bite the bullet and migrate my site off WordPress. And strangely, the tool I chose – Hugo – is both a throwback to an earlier time and also the cutting edge of web development. Like any good paradox, this requires some explanation.

Image: a street in my neighborhood following Hurricane Milton.

There’s nothing like two back-to-back hurricanes to remind you to talk more to people you care about.

I am, in fact, still alive. After last year’s grief and illness, I began writing poetry (hopefully more on that to come!), and I’ve been migrating the blog away from WordPress to a static site generator. I’ve also been reading more, mostly non-fiction.

I guess one could say I was complacent.

‘The Three Vinegar Tasters’ by Kanō Isen’in, Edo period, c. 1802-1816, ink and color on paper, Honolulu Museum of Art, accession 6156.1. Public Domain.

It’s a given that the older one gets, the less cut-and-dry things become. A younger me would consider getting rained on while going to work to be enough for a bad day, but now I’d consider that an inconvenience, one that could be mitigated by a thoughtful conversation with a friend or trying a new tea brew.

Bad days do still happen. The day after Halloween, when my mother called to say that my birth father had passed, was one. But it’s a higher bar.

Was 2023 a bad year? It’s no longer so binary. It’s like acting out the vinegar tasters all at once.

In an already complicated year, as I was struggling with changes in my professional life and family drama, I got the news that my biological father, Galen, had passed away.

It was the day after Halloween. That evening, my mother called to tell me that a coroner’s office in Washington state had gotten in touch. Somehow, they had found her contact information, and were seeking his next-of-kin. As I was his only child and he had no current spouse, that responsibility fell to me.