Tag: Life

  • Money

    I was trying this morning to write a blog, and I just couldn’t get anything to stick. The reason for that is that I had to sort out what was going on with our bank, car insurance and the shop working on our car. And the faster that I tried to get it all sorted out, the longer it took. Finally, at 11am, I gave up on the idea of getting a blog done out my self-appointed deadline, and just gave in to doing on the family budget for the month.

    Now that I’m at the local library to write, I’m trying again to blog. I sat here at the main table for a minute or two trying to focus on some literary or political point that I wanted to make, or maybe crafting a 300 word joke. But, what is on my mind is money. Well, rather the lack of it, and the attempt to get on top of it.

    Yes, yes, we all know the cultural norm of not talking about money, as it is embarrassing for someone, or at least, we are told someone will get embarrassed if the conversation happens. I don’t think I have ever hidden the fact that my family has a large amount of credit card debt, student loans, and we have a car. It’s a chunk of money, but not insurmountable to take care of. We are fine; no one in our house goes hungry or lacking what they need. Out level of indebtedness is best described as having to plan in advance and save. If we want to do something big, we just have to plan for it, and save.

    But it does ware me down. The last time that I had no debt around my neck was when I was twenty-two. (Oh, what carefree days those were. I used to pay cash for things.) At forty-five, I would like to own a home, pay for the kid’s college, and maybe retire. The normal American Dream shit. BUT, I’m forty-five and I have none of those things. Sure, we are getting closer each day, but we still haven’t arrived.

    And this is what keeps me up at night, if I let myself think about it; I don’t want my daughter to have it worse than I did as a kid. There are days, like today, where that thought is hard to shake, and I feel like I’m not getting it done.

    At fort-five, I do know somethings about myself. Like, I’ll go to bed worrying about this stuff, and then in the morning, I’ll get up and try again to make it better.

  • Short Story Review: “The Ukraine” by Artem Chapeye

    (The short story “The Ukraine,” by Artem Chapeye and translated from the Ukrainian by Zenia Tompkins,, appeared in the April 4th, 2022 issue of “The New Yorker.)

    I feel that I am like most Americans, in the sense that I didn’t know a whole lot about Ukraine until about two months ago. I knew that a town in Texas was named after a city Ukraine, that the Crimea was in Ukraine, and that’s where the Charge of the Light Brigade took place. I knew that Chernobyl was in Ukraine, and that the country used to be a part of the Soviet Union. Let’s see, there was also that Trump/Biden impeachment thing that had a Ukraine connection. But, outside of that…

    I also think it is an incorrect belief that one writer can capture the whole spirit of a nation. Steinbeck’s America was different from Kerouac’s, as was Baldwin’s and Twain’s. Each is different, and was still correct. Artem Chapeye’s story, “The Ukraine” is about Ukraine, if you couldn’t put that together, and also about a relationship between the narrator and a woman. The cynical side of me, the judgmental side to be honest, was hesitant to read it because the title alone made it feel like The New Yorker was only publishing this story due to current events. As I started reading, and the narrator spoke of his travels across Ukraine with his girlfriend, I had the bad feeling that the author was going to try and capture all of Ukraine in one piece. And as I stated before, I find these encapsulations an act of folly.

    Like I said, I was being judgmental.

    “The Ukraine” is not an exercise of excessive nationalist propaganda, but a soft, quiet meditation on memories, life, death, acceptance, and travel that bonds people together. (In fact, the story has a great line against public displays of overt patriotism, that I won’t ruin.) Maybe part of the power of this story is the fact that as places and cities of Ukraine are named, in my mind, I can see the images of burnt out buildings, and bomb cratered streets. To hear that these places were once a destination that brought about joy to the couple in the story, created a palatable melancholy for all the things lost. About half way through the piece, it finally dawned on me that the fact the story took place in Ukraine was inconsequential. The act of experiencing places together with someone you love, sharing time, creating memories, these are the actions that make life valuable. I will say that the climax was not a total surprise, as it had been hinted, but it still held the needed weight to conclude the story.

    This was not a revolutionary work. It’s didn’t break new ground in literature, or change the landscape of fiction. No, it wasn’t that. What it was, was authentic, and honest. It pointed out a fault of mine, while also reminding me that this truth still exists, “People are beautiful, even if they don’t realize it.”