Shit Comes In Waves

My dad, Thomas Boyd, is going in for lung surgery on Monday. Yikes. We’ve known for some time that he has had lung cancer — several weeks — and the surgery is expected, but it’s very wearing. I am at a low ebb, worrying about him, old Thomas.

And now Pops shares other bad news in the family, too private to disclose, not my news to share. Yet another bone-breaking series of events.

My son, Keenan is home for the Thanksgiving vacation, and his first semester at college in Chicago is not all sunshine and flowers. We’ve been fighting about the mess from late night pizzas, glasses, spaghetti, wine. I had gotten used to peace and quiet with him away. But I miss the music, the conversation, his serpentine and elegant thinking, his charisma. So it’s a mixed bag, a bagatelle, when he returns.

Turning out to be a dark and rainy November.

So much has been going well on a professional basis: great projects, good money, good partners. I guess I should have expected some kind of Murphy’s Law to show up, demanding its cut.