The root of the root

I recently began corresponding with a lady in a nursing home. Actually I send a slew of Christmas cards to her home to the Activity Director and asked her to pass them out to anyone she considered deserving in one way of another.

That is how I met Linda. She wrote me back a thank you note with a bit of information about herself and asked the same of me. I was much taken with her age, which is in the early 50’s. She is obviously disabled and obese.  I have send her several cards and a few letters but I must have gone a little over board with the last letter. I described the road trip my husband and I took in March on the way to pick up my step daughter for spring break. We visited Muscle Shoals and I described visiting the FAME recording studio and how much history was encased there.  The names of the fantastic and famous who recorded some of the best music of the times recorded there! Late 1960’s and early 1970’s. Soul music, rhythm and blues, funk. My favorite Duane Allman recording with Wilson Pickett there was like magic to me. The land of 1,000 dances was recorded in this small town in this even smaller studio. I must have played that album over 10 thousand times. So many that it turned gray on my turntable.

We also went to the home of WC Handy and met the most delightful curator, a name that was foreign to me, she invited us back for the celebration of WC’s legacy that summer and she would take us out to dinner. It is so tempting! This woman thoroughly amazed me with her knowledge and eloquence.

Then we went on the Shiloh to visit the battle field of a deadly two day battle in 1882 between the north and the south. The grounds are huge and the committee which oversees the park says that they have invested in all most all the fields that were included in the battle. It was an early spring March morning when we visited, our third time, and the majesty and the holiness of the area remains and profoundly becomes more like a living breathing entity each time I visit.

I told all this to Linda and Saturday I receive a letter from her that I sure can write and she enjoyed the four pages of my history but she will get right to the point

Am I Saved?

Am I?

I doubt it. I fight every day not to allow the vile bitterness that brews inside of me to spew forth and blindside some poor soul who comes across my path. On the way home Saturday I counted four times that I was pissed off, annoyed, agitated to the point that I wanted to flip a bird or respond with a tone of voice that let that person know I was not pleased.

I think about saving myself by leaving mu husband. He who knows me so well but drinks too much and is the source, the root of the root, of my vileness. My unhappiness.

Yet without him would I be more unhappy?

Am I saved? Am I saved? I will have to think long and hard because I doubt it.

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