Update: It is not, in fact, the Richards, who don’t actually have the surname Richard, that’s just the name of the eldest boy that I hear screamed over the fence all the time. Richard is probably nine, maybe 10 and his younger borthers are twins of seven becuase I happened to run into them on thier birthday. They pointedly refused to tell me thier names, instead giggling ominously after I introduced myself and running away. This is the gang of boys that I’ve had to stop from torturing small animals on more than one occasion, and whose mother is the one that gets crying-drunk on the front porch late at night.
Lovely family.
Around this time last year thier grandmother came to visit and gave them honest-to-goodness home-made black-powder Cherry bombs direct from Texas, which the boys immediately took to the most flammable patch of chaparral in the neighborhood and set off six of them at once, resulting in a small wildfire, seven emergency response units and a helicopter, a Long Stern talk from the fire department and Karen getting in a screaming match with Child Protective Services and a sizeable crater in the middle of the field.
At least according to Olivia the ER nurse and neighborhood gossip. I was out of town at the time and believe about 80% of that becuase I saw the crater where there had not been a crater a week before, and becuase karen threw a shoe at me the one time I asked if she was alright when she was having her weekly drunk-cry on the porch.
But I Digress.
The Airhorn in fact belongs to one of the ladies at the Old Folks Home. Diane is very excited about the upcoming NBA playoffs and was having a bit of a pre-celebration in the park with her family and hadn’t realized the noise would carry. She’s rooting for Golden State becuase that’s where her grandson goes.
We gon need more stories on that crazy ass family
I don’t have more stories about the Richards specifically, but now that I’ve moved out of that Extremely Strange Neighborhood, I feel free to relate some more of the Wierd Shit that went on there. Some anwers to commonly asked questions:
1. It’s been pointed out to me that Golden State is an NBA franchise and not an institution of higher learning. To be fair, Diane is 84 and in an Alzheimer’s unit, and I know fuck all about sportsball. Perhaps her grandson lives in San Francisco. Regardless, we all had a good time and I was sent home with leftover bean dip.
2. I sometimes misspell things becuase I have multiple learning/reading disorders and Public Education in the US is terrible. I’m funny anyway.
3. Last I heard, Richard had gone to live with the other, less pyrotastic set of grandparents, so maybe there is hope for them yet.
(As always, all names have been changed to protect people’s privacy):
The neighborhood consists of a 206 pallette-swapped versions of the same three houses surrounding the largest hospital in the next six counties in any direction, surrounded immediately by three ranches on one side and roughly 100 miles of uninterrupted rocky mountain wildreness on the other. It’s seperated from the main city (If you can call a city with only the bars and Denny’s open after 9PM a city. Which you can’t) by a large mountain ridge and connected via a small canyon highway. Hence, the neighborhood consists primarily of:
Middle-Class Suburban White People ™
People who’d be too poor to afford this neighborhood normally, but are subsidized by the hospital. Olivia the ER nurse, for instance. They’re terrific.
People with Major Medical Conditions and Their familes, who live nearby, also subsidized by The Hospital.
Old Rural People who remember when Durango had only the train track and no paved roads and was mostly populated by cattle and will tell you they were present at the Alamo if you let them keep talking.
Wildlife that was here first and has no intention of moving.
This is a story about the first learning about the last.
Staci-With-An-I-From-Ventura-California introduced herself to me as that while I was walking the dog by the playground, as I tried to keep her preschooler twins (there are SO MANY goddamn twins in the neighborhood. I mean, we’re right next door to an IVF clinic BUT STILL) from jamming thier fingers up Charlie’s nose but fortunately he thinks children are hilarous and decided to lick what I sincerely hoped was jam off thier faces.
“Hi I’m [Gallus]. Hey, kids, be gentle with dogs-”
“Do you live here?” She asks in what I would find out later is her normal interrogative voice, but sounded to my untrained ear like a member of the spanish inquisition had reccived operatic training then took up chain smoking.
Okay, okay, okay, but I CANNOT get this AU idea out of my head:
Castiel, as a Reaper instead of an Angel.
Castiel, meeting Dean for the first time when Dean is four years old, standing in front of his burning home with the flames reflecting in the tear tracks on his face. Castiel revealing himself to Dean, gently prompting Dean to mind Sammy’s head as the infant cries and squirms, because he really doesn’t want to reap more than one soul tonight. Laying a sorrowful, sheltering hand on Dean’s head and staring down into pleading green eyes and whispering, “I’m sorry,” before walking slowly up the burning porch to reap Mary Winchester’s soul (who refuses to go with him anyways).
Castiel, as the Reaper who appears to Dean after the car accident while Dean is in a coma, shocked when Dean remembers him from that night so many years ago. Dean jokingly asking, “Are my guardian angel or something?” and Castiel sadly telling him, “No. Rather the opposite, I’m afraid,” and having to explain to Dean about the existence of Reapers. Castiel wishing to himself that he didn’t have to reap this vibrant young man, who is brave and frustrating and stubborn and obviously so full of life, and then realizing he should be careful about what he wishes for, because Dean is spared but Castiel is forced to reap Dean’s father instead, and he hates that he’s causing Dean more pain.
Castiel, meeting Dean again less than a year later. And then meeting him again. And again. And again, as Dean and Sam work the Trickster case, and Dean dies every day. They get to know each other pretty well, and it becomes something of a running joke: “We’ve got to stop meeting this way, Cas,” Dean teases, and each day Dean bemoans the ridiculous new way that he’s just been killed, and Castiel commiserates sympathetically and helpfully points out that at least Dean didn’t pee himself this time. And he hates that Dean has to die every day, but he hates himself even more because he can’t help dreading the day they catch the Trickster and it all stops, because then he won’t have an excuse to keep seeing Dean and listen to his laugh and hear about his favorite bands and watch the fond way he looks at his brother.
Castiel, appearing when Sam is stabbed by Jake, sick to death with the thought of reaping the soul from Dean’s brother. He doesn’t reveal himself to Dean in the real world this time, even though he could, because he can’t bear to have Dean turn those stricken green eyes on him, he’s a coward, a coward, a coward – but it doesn’t stop Dean, kneeling in the dirt and clutching the lifeless body of his brother tight in his arms, from screaming out, “I know you’re out there, Cas! Don’t you dare take him! I’ll never forgive you!” And he thinks it’s a cruel, cruel joke that he’s destined to continually reap the souls of the people Dean loves most, one by one, and when Castiel leads away the soul of Sam Winchester, there are tears on both their faces as they tell Dean ‘goodbye’, even though he can’t hear them.
Castiel, being summoned one year later, unsure of what’s happening, suddenly finding himself staring down at Dean’s shredded body on the floor at his feet – but Dean’s soul is still here, obstinate and unyielding, circled by snapping hellhounds but refusing to let them drag him away because “I said I’d go to Hell and I will, but I don’t need hand-fucking-delivered by these fleabags, I’ll take my own way there, goddammit! I’m allowed a Reaper! Bring Castiel the Reaper!” And Castiel raises his eyes and meets Dean’s gaze, and it’s gentle, and resigned, and frightened, and forgiving, and Castiel doesn’t deserve it, he’s never deserved anything less than the understanding in those eyes, and he’d rather be anywhere else, he’d rather be dead himself, than here to take away Dean’s soul to Hell. But he does his job and he leads Dean to the gates of Hell, except then he can’t go, he can’t leave Dean here, he can’t – until Dean kisses him, sudden and fleeting, and tells him, “It’s okay, Cas,” and pushes him away.
Castiel, blindly turning away for only the briefest span of time – the blink of an eye, the pulse of a human heartbeat – before he realizes he can’t do this. Screw the job, screw the deals, and screw the laws of nature, he will not leave Dean here…except when he turns around, Dean is already gone.
Castiel, spending the next forty years breaking into Hell, laying waste to horde after horde of demons with the fatal touch of his ghastly true form. The memory of Dean’s kiss burns a brand against his lips, and when he finally, finally finds Dean, the touch of Castiel’s spectral hand burns its own brand on Dean’s soul as he grips him tight – the touch of death claiming a soul already dead, because Dean is his. Dean looking up at Castiel, and his soul is messy and tortured and broken, but he still manages a smile as he chokes out: “See? Told ya you were my guardian angel,” and Castiel carries Dean’s soul out of Hell and chooses life.
3 ½ years on T, 3 years post top surgery, and turning 55 in July 😳. It’s never too late.
❤
This makes me so happy
Never too late!!!!!
Whoever this is, bless you. Fucking bless you. Even if I don’t have the resources to transition soon, this gives me hope that I can still become the man I want to be 20+ years in the future. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
And thank you to everyone who reblogged this until it reached my dash, too. Thank you for giving me the ability to see this. I have HOPE now.
This is so important! I feel like there are never enough images of older trans people
Doing what makes you
happy even though someone does not approve it is NOT selfish.
Respecting your own
time is NOT selfish.
Ending a toxic
relationship is NOT selfish.
Saying “no” is NOT selfish.
Having some time for
yourself is NOT selfish.
Not being able to
help someone is NOT selfish.
Spending money on
yourself is NOT selfish.
Setting boundaries
is NOT selfish.
You are NOT selfish
for doing what’s best for you. It’s actually a healthy thing to
do. You are amazing and doing good things for yourself will never be
something bad.
he could’ve built it with his own two calloused hands and it would still be grandmas house
The reason it was “grandma’s house” is because grandma took care of the kids/ grandkids, loved on the kids/ grandkids, socialized and got to know the kids/ grandkids. But granddad thought all he needed to do is work and make money and was okay being scarce.
A lot of older men realize (if their wives predecease them) that they have no relationship with their family and that the family was only emotionally held together by his wife/ grandma.
But I think that today – if men take a more active role in parenting and being part of the family – that it will be “grandparents’ house” not grandma’s.
^^^^^^
Can confirm. My Grampa was always part of the family—playing with the kiddos and teaching us important stuff—sometimes important stuff that had nothing to do with school. The biggest of those lessons that I remember was Grandma making spaghetti sauce, and stepping out of the kitchen—I don’t remember where she went. I just remember Grampa stepping in, putting a finger to his lips, pulling a teaspoon out of the drawer, putting a level teaspoon of sugar into the sauce, stirring it in, and putting the spoon away, and at dinner complimenting my grandma on her sauce. Having tasted it before and after, I can tell you exactly what he did: Sugar cuts tomato acid, and my grandma made her sauce from scratch. The sugar helped the flavors meld. My grandma wasn’t book-smart—today she’d probably be diagnosed with a learning disorder and, I suspect, dyslexia. She was very proud of her cooking, but apparently didn’t know you could add sugar to a savory dish. What I learned in that moment: love means being the silent partner sometimes, and building each other up. He didn’t embarrass her by trying to horn in; he just helped, quietly, and kept the achievement firmly in her court.
Before my grandma passed it was “Grandma and Grampa’s house” and after, it was “Grampa’s house that he and Grandma remodeled.” If you’re there to provide love, you’ll get it back. It’s only “Grandma’s house” if grandpa isn’t around.
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