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Life Here in Mayberry Will Never Be the Same
It’s the end of an era
Just over two years ago, I began documenting my time in the wilds of East Texas in a series titled The Mayberry Chronicles. The unexpected relocation from the urban jungles of Dallas-Fort Worth to the land that time forgot was necessitated by my mom’s illness and set in stone after her passing when it became clear my octogenarian stepfather could not manage things on his own. Last week, after a lengthy illness of his own, he got his wish and crossed to the far shore to be with her again. I thought the hardest part would be sitting with him as he took his final breath, but it wasn’t. The hardest part was telling my daughters they’d lost a second grandparent in just over a year.
Needless to say, it’s been a strange time since then. Between his sudden decline and the week since his passing, I have not written a word, which most people would find completely normal. Writers, however, know that — to paraphrase Joan Didion — we often don’t know what we think or how we feel about things until we’ve written them down. Thus, in an attempt to sort out the cacophony of voices in my head right now, I am writing things down. Be forewarned that this is likely to be a rambling piece, so continue at your own risk.
Let’s start with something most of you may know already: people have absolutely no…
