I should know better by now. I should know that the picture of Grandpa Ardell and Grandma Rose’s farm hanging on my wall shouldn’t be dwelt upon under certain circumstances. That picture, and others like it, hang by the drafting table I use as an oversized music stand tucked away in the corner of our basement.

Tucked away in the corner of our basement so I can strum my guitar and sing (my rendition of singing anyway) while mercifully attempting to minimize the auditory discomfort sustained by those that share the household. They don’t complain, they don’t encourage, they silently endure. Like a clown with jock itch, they suffer in silence, a big smile painted on their faces as grease paint stained tears drip off the toes of their oversized shoes.

They endure my insatiable penchant for ballads, songs that tell stories, generally sad stories, long sad stories…the best kind. I should know better than to sing these songs when all it takes is a slight wayward glance to my right and I’ll see the farm. To see the farm is to go to the farm, and when I go to the farm I’m going to be gone awhile.

How long I’m gone and the state the trip leaves me in is variable, and often times dependent upon whatever it may have been that I was using to keep my whistle wet. One should never attempt a stellar set of long sad ballads with a dry whistle.

There seems to be a direct correlation between the wetness of ones whistle, and ones strummin' and singin' prowess. Within the mind of the strummer and singer anyway. Those outside of that mind may disagree, but it’s difficult to know for sure when one is tucked away in the corner of the basement…or lost in a stroll around the farm.

I know that around every corner of this stroll I will stumble upon memory after memory. Most, clear and familiar, as if they have occurred again and again on a steady loop through all that I’ve ever known. But sometimes, sometimes when the time is right, a shadow will move and a memory appears. It’s not that it was lost, it’s always been there, it just needed proper lighting for it to appear.

The proper lighting makes all the difference. I should know better. I should know that this stroll is going to simultaneously bring a wave of happiness and sadness over me. I suppose we can’t appreciate one without the other. It seems as though we were able to separate the two when the memory was formed, when it was fresh and palpable, and all involved were present.

At that place in time we were aware of whether the moment was happy or sad. Why do they blend together with time? I want to be able to simply laugh at one of Grandpa’s jokes again, and dwell in that happiness. Dwell in that happiness, and turn a blind eye to the sadness. Adjust the lighting so the shadow never falls across my smile, and the sun forever shines through the windows on Grandpa’s “fish bowl”.

I should know better.