A Slightly-Used Story

There is something intrinsically magical about purchasing an old book from a second-hand shop. The alluring, musty smell of age, the tattered, worn edge, the ink printed, not on a glowing screen, but permanently inscribed upon an actual page.
   There are other things, too, that tell a story besides the content contained between the covers. Sometimes, a hastily inked scribble adorns the first page, binding the book to a former owner. Perhaps the pages are stamped with the name of an unfamiliar library from a faraway town, or a forgotten, discarded bookmark has taken up residence.
   Why did someone highlight this passage? What meaning did it hold for them?
   Even a blotch of spilled soup upon a page tells of an event.
   Better are the written letters, jotted down when the book was once given as a present, which simultaneously tells the sad story of a gift departed and a brief, personal history lesson. Am I intruding upon an intimate moment by reading words meant for someone else?
   Old books hold such wonder for me. I do like my modern e books for their wondrous technological gadgetry, and once I would have considered them the superior medium for literary consumption, but as I’ve gotten older I’ve fallen back in love with the actual printed word, for many of the reasons listed above.
  Books are time capsules, both from a past writer to an unknown reader in an unknown future, but also the physical book itself can hold tantalizing clues as to its worldly travels.

A recent discovery on the back page of a book I just purchased.
I wonder if the original recipient actually read to the end?

Such are we, too, like books. We contain stories within us, yet we are also adorned with the remnants of our travels. Like any good tale, our lives will keep a reader utterly captivated, eagerly wondering how the story will unfold.
   As I go throughout the story of my own life, I often imagine the current events being narrated in print form. Even when I’m agonizing at the lowest parts, I realize a reader would, at that very moment, be leaning ever closer to the page. The reader knows (even as I doubt) that the story will turn out happy in the end, if only both of us has the patience to read on, to keep turning the pages, to see how the tale plays out.
  So now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a page to turn...and to write.

Not Another Cancer Story (Intro)

The following is a sneak preview of the introduction to an ebook I'm currently writing.  Please note that this is merely a rough draft, and most certainly subject to change. All content protected under U.S. Copyright law.

Dating is hard enough even in the best of times. Now, imagine being in your 30’s, a bald, unemployed, single mother with only one boob. Oh, did I mention you also get to have Cancer? Maybe I should have led with that.

   Applications for serious boyfriend now being accepted! Interviews are on a first come, first served basis! Come experience the amazing Unaboob! (*Limited time offer while the supply lasts.)

   Uh, hello? Is anyone out there? Maybe I need to go print some more fliers.

   Ahem.

   Oh, hi there, reader! I should probably explain exactly who I am and the purpose of this book. A few years ago, my sister was diagnosed, battled, and eventually succumbed to breast cancer. This is a horrible fate suffered by many women (men, too) and quite a few books have been written on the topic. Most of these, however, seem to thrive on such survival tropes as: “if it wasn’t for the support of my loving husband” or “fortunately we had plenty of funds set aside to…”

   Well, you get the idea. What the Cancer-survival books niche was missing was something written from the perspective of a single mom who struggled, as many single mothers do, with raising a kid, having an argumentative ex, competing to be the “cool mom,” trying to date, and not having nearly enough money to survive and provide for her family. Then of course you add the extra garnish of chemotherapy, hair loss, radiation treatments, depression, constant sickness, a mastectomy, on top of all of those other stressful things, and behold, you have the recipe for a much-needed book that, to my knowledge, didn't seem to exist. (Maybe it was just on back order.)

   The point is, there was an apparent trend throughout all of the books we found in those days: the survivors seemed to have a few advantages. The other patients, those poor struggling mothers who were no less deserving of survival, didn’t seem to be represented. Did they, too, beat the odds? What words of wisdom, hope, and inspiration did they have for my family?

   The answer soon hit us: we would have to write such a book ourselves. I would offer my services as a wanna-be writer to help compose the book, Steph would offer her own candid insights and perspective, and we would infuse the book with a lot of warmth and humor. Yes, it’s okay to laugh at tragedy, just so long as it isn't mean-spirited. We were raised to laugh at ourselves and bad situations, since wallowing in abject misery is not nearly as much fun.  (Of course we may swerve over the line of irreverence here and there, but that's just how we roll, y'all.)

   Sadly, that book was never meant to be. Steph passed away in January of 2010, without a single word having been written. However, she did keep a diary, some of which is presented in the pages that follow.

   I’ve debated writing this book for many years. Somehow it never seemed right to continue with that original concept, as the one who actually went through the ordeal is no longer around to speak for herself. Instead, I’ve decided to write a biography of sorts, one in which I hope to serve two purposes: to honor her life, and maybe be the book that someone else needs to read someday. (There’s definitely a niche out there, and I feel you. I won’t make you wait for back order.)

   Some of the following will be in her own words, but most of the content will be from my own perspective, written from memory, blog entries, and conversations with other family members. It goes without saying that any errors contained within will definitely be my own, and I apologize in advance for any inaccuracies. As you might imagine, it was (and is) an emotional subject.

   Yes, our hero dies in the end. (I wish, more than anything, I could have written a better ending for this tale.) However, even in sadness, there can be great hope. After all, there were many years prior full of life, experiences, and laughter, some of which are included here. Of course, condensing an entire life into a relatively tiny narrative doesn’t really do that life justice, but I’ll try to do the best that I can.

I might never have discovered my own writing voice had I not desperately needed a way to voice my own grief after you died.

So sis, this book is dedicated to you.

I hope it makes you proud.

After all, in this story, you’re the hero.

-Topher Graves, November 2018

Keep an eye out for the forthcoming ebook!

The Best Things In Life Are About $37: A Christmas Adventure

As a rule, I'm not a big fan of "obligatory" holidays.  You know the ones: those in which you are expected to buy gifts.  (These commercialized holidays just seem wrong to me for some reason.)  While they can certainly be enjoyable if you have both time and money, if you are lacking in either of these areas it can easily become more of a stressful chore as opposed to a Most Wonderful Time of the Year.  (For me, I'd be much happier not doing any gift exchange, and simply enjoy the season itself:  the food, the lights, the music, and friends/family.  But I digress.)

Today's story is about one particular Christmas Eve in which I had very little money, and most of the family (except my dad and I) were out-of-town.  I was over at his house after we both had gotten off of work, watching the Sci-Fi channel as was the tradition, when we decided to do something spontaneous.

We pooled our resources.  Between us, we had about $37.  After some quick calculation, we determined that was more than enough to do a Christmas Eve, middle-of-the-night road trip to Gatlinburg, TN.

Every winter, Gatlinburg and the surrounding areas go all-out on holiday decorating.  We had always talked about going, but it was usually difficult to coordinate.  Not to mention, potentially expensive.  Since this particular year would just be the two of us (building castles in the sky), and we wouldn't be able to do anything else anyway, we thought it would be a hoot to ride up there, cruise around a bit, maybe watch the sunrise over the mountains, and ride back.  We couldn't afford a room and they would probably be all booked anyway.  But we had enough for some gas!  ROAD TRIP!

So, we raided the kitchen for any snacks.  I brought my camera, two music CDs (the old radio didn't pick up any stations), and a few pillows and blankets.  We got into the rusty old Ford pickup, put the Brian Setzer Orchestra CD into the player to get us jump jivin' and wailin' (mostly wailin'), and began our memorable journey.

Roughly four fun hours of highway, stories, and some NSFW jokes later, we pull in to Pigeon Forge, the first big tourist trap before one gets to Gatlinburg.  There are NO cars to be seen on the road.  (Bear in mind, though, that it is nearly midnight so businesses are closed and most folks would be snoring away waiting for 'ole Saint Nick to perform a home invasion in the name of delivering materialistic, pointless crap to overly spoiled children.  Sorry, sorry.  I really do like this holiday, I promise.  Remember the pretty lights?)

Oh, it should be mentioned, there are NO lights on.  There are certainty some gigantic fixtures with bulbs on them, and they are EVERYWHERE, but they are turned OFF.  

Well...shit.

But hey, we are still having a wonderful time riding around instead of sitting in an empty house watching a Twilight Zone marathon, and the unlit fixtures are still pretty impressive ("I bet that really looks awesome when it is all lit up"), so hey, all-in-all it's a net win.  Plus, seeing Gatlinburg with ZERO traffic is a lottery-win rarity in and of itself.

Naturally, we want to drive up into the mountains, so we turn off of the main road and head up, and up, and up…  c'mon, old truck, you can make it!

The old truck made it.  We found an overlook where you could see the entire town miles below, a glittering jewel in the valley even with most of the Christmas lights switched off, and grabbing our blankets and pillows we dozed off for a few hours, silently hoping the cops wouldn't catch two grown men snoring away on Christmas Morning in a beat-up old Ford truck on the side of the road in an isolated spot in the mountains.  You can imagine how that awkward conversation might go, but I strongly prefer you didn't.

We awoke to one of the best sights ever recorded in my memory.  Sunrise over the mountains is a breathtaking event all by itself, but we had an added bonus:  it had snowed all around us.  It was merely a light dusting, but more than enough to be magical.  A White Christmas!  (If you dream about that sort of thing.)  The snow was only around the area where we were, too; it had not fallen down in the town itself.  Take that, town!  In your face!  (Or not, because it's in OUR faces.  Heyoo!)

Ahem.

After grabbing some convenience store breakfast consisting of Pecan Swirls, Doritos, and Mountain Dew (Get it?  Mountains?), we drove around a little in Knoxville since that was something else we rarely had a chance to do.  Eventually we headed back home, where the rest of my memory fades into obscurity.  

But that doesn't matter.  The road trip on that night of Christmas Eve, which cost only about $37 in gas, is to this day my favorite Christmas memory.

Also, I still have yet to see those damn lights actually turned on.  I bet they look pretty awesome when they are all lit up.

The Dreaming of Life

I dreampt I was near death and visited by an Angel.  I knew my end was at hand, but I needed to know what the purpose is to our mortal existence, so of course I asked.

The Angel did not speak, but I saw scenes flash inside my mind.  I expected to see the obligatory scenes of helping others and other acts of kindness, and certainly there were those, but other moments appeared that were, at first, unclear.  Moments of quiet inactivity-- some with myself and a co-worker, or watching a movie from the couch with a cat in my lap, there were even a few featuring insects.  The only thing these images seemed to have in common was that they all seemed rather random, highly varied, and otherwise seemed completely inconsequential.  This confused me.  After all, is it not for our actions that our worth and goodness is determined?

The Angel remained silent, leaving me to ponder this question.  After some time, I began to simply feel happy and content, merely by being in the presence of this divine entity, so I stopped worrying about the puzzling imagery.  It no longer seemed all that urgent.

It was with mild surprise that I realized that my question had actually been answered.  It was those moments where just being in my own company had brought light to another soul.  The happy cat purring in my lap while I was watching a movie, the coworker to whom I had just given some advice, even the bugs I had taken outside and freed rather than squishing outright.  There were quite a number of other small moments that I never thought of as a "big deal," but to someone else, they meant quite a bit more.

As I began to understand, I noticed that the Angel was smiling at me, just as I also began to realize this wasn't actually the end.

I awoke for the first time in ages well rested and content.  I also had a fresh understanding.  We don't have to be superheroes.  Each of us impacts others in ways we often don't realize.  An offhand comment, given with the intent of Love, still reverberates in the heart of the receiver.  An absent-minded scratch behind the ears may merely bring me a small moment of joy, but means everything to the family pet.  (In fact it is the highlight of her entire day.)  Even the rescued insect feels a great amount of relief when it is spared.  (Don't believe me?  Ask the bug.)

I guess the TL;DL version of this lesson is that simply being a being in which others find comfort shines a bit more light into the void, and the more light that each of us shines, the more easily we can chase away the shadows that seemingly permeate everything these days.  Even when we feel worthless, if we've been the cause of a genuine smile or laugh, or the feeling of safety and contentment, then we've been a success.

This is the Meaning of Life.