Dear Diary - Another Day Gone

Warning: This is very dark and bleak. Read on only if you insist.

Dear Diary,

Today, I woke up in a foul mood. I realized that I hadn't actually spoken to anyone using my vocal cords in over three days. I looked outside the window of the living room from my low angle of laying on the sofa and saw gray clouds moving slowly as the garish rainbow colored flag on my flagpole snapped in the breeze.

Having gone to sofa the night before with a mix of head cold, depression, inexplicably elevated blood sugar after having only eaten a high fiber bowl of sawdust cereal called All-Bran, and a huge headache, I had hoped I'd feel ... even a little more energetic when I awoke. I had even told myself I could sleep in if it would help.

Having not made any really definite and concrete plans for the day, I watched Thomas the Train on PBS with slack-jawed disinterest. Emily was mean to Thomas. Sighing at the pointlessness, I finally got up because nature called.

Showering and putting on brand new walking shoes for the first time, I pondered the forlorn worn out pair on the floor beside the door. Deciding I needed to find the sage turtle of age-old wisdom as well as a forgiving dirt path to break in the new shoes, I went to the Oaks Reach of the Schuylkill Canal in Mont Clare, near Phoenixville. On my way out, I reached down and picked up the old worn boots... just in case. Someone was right, my parents should have named me "Ole Justin Case". Always with the Plan "B."

I found my temper quick to rise even before pulling out the driveway, as the guy that lives across the street backed down his driveway doing about 30 mph, slammed on the brakes, skidded 20 feet, hopped the curb, just missing my mailbox, and then tore down the street blowing the stop sign and failing to indicate when he turned. What a moron - somehow he managed to reproduce and has two little girls. ‘Wonderbar.’ He was no doubt, off to buy lottery tickets or something of equally critical urgency.

As I turned down Long Level Road to go to the parking lot where the road bends at the canal, a street department work truck was sitting in the road with a dozen orange traffic cones and six guys standing around it with absolutely no one working. There were two flag guys to direct the non-existent traffic and when the first guy saw me he waved me to go by, "Doh! You idiot, I know! There is NEVER anyone on this road!" I drove by him doing the speed limit so he decided to wave his flag indicating I should slow down. I reacted by rolling the window down and giving him a one finger wagging salute. No wonder every public works job costs millions of dollars and takes weeks to get done.

As you can tell, my mood was rapidly improving, not...

Parking the car, I took a deep breath and told myself to settle down. Deep breaths... in and out... I walked over to the canal towpath past a big sign indicating "No Bikes, Walking Trail Only!" I think to myself, "Thank gosh, I won't have to content with the idiots that think they are training for, or worse yet, actually in the Tour De France!"

No more than thirty feet down the narrow towpath I hear, "Hey you! Get out my way!" from a jackass on a bike. I turn to him, and softly said, "I'm in a very, very bad mood. I suggest you just turn around and disappear quietly." which prompts a long string of profanity from the guy to which I turned my back on and pointedly ignore.

A few minutes later I hear him crashing through the woods as he goes around me via the jungle. Morons can be so stubborn.


After a time, I get to Sage Old Turtle’s hideout. By now, I know not even seeing the big turtles is going to brighten me up any. Not even one that is as big as the lid on a 5-gallon paint bucket. I feebly wave to him or her on the way by, deciding not to speak, as I wasn’t going to be in the proper mood to listen. I continue my solitary walk up towpath and go under the road bridge and onto the river road.

Here I see people walking – and to my dismay, they are all couples. Each guy had a woman with him. Each woman had a guy with her. Lowering my eyes and pretending they simply just didn’t exist, I go on to the towering Pennsylvania Railroad bridge.


Usually the sight of this grand structure stirs some sort of awe in me, but today I just saw the flaws, cracks, rusty and broken railings and damage that time and man had inflicted on it.

Deciding to get off the road and down to the river for a better view of the bridge, I slip slightly in the mud straining a muscle in my leg. Muttering to myself while wincing, I head further down the side trail to the river’s edge more closely watching my footing and I bang my head on a low hanging branch. You really do see stars, you know.


At the river’s edge, beneath the crumbling bridge, half buried in the mud was a badly beaten bicycle. I stopped, looked at it, and thought to myself, “I wonder what its story is? Lost, forlorn, physically mangled, alone, half buried, and perhaps long forgotten by the little boy that once rode it.

I suddenly backed away – the image of the bike burning, searing, engraved in my head. To identify so strongly with a rusty old bike badly frightened me.

I slowly retraced my steps, as I walked back to my car, deep in thoughts far too dark to ever share with anyone – back past the handholding couples, the big turtles and the folicking dogs at the dog run, ignoring them all.

Sigh, another day gone. How many more will there be?

A bad day to match the good day I had previously. My life has been very full – with many highs and many matching lows – the good equaled by the bad.

Already mangled, I am quite ready to “be one with the bike” – half buried somewhere and soon to be forgotten. I’ll never know some of the highs like finding a soulmate – or having children and watching them graduate high schools or attending their weddings and seeing grandchildren come along – nor will I ever endure the lows of losing any of them. I guess, just in case.