I Won’t Marry You

“I won’t marry you.”

It is not the first time I have said it but it might be the first where she didn’t tell me I was a bad boy or go off on a tear about how I was being mean.

Mind you teenage girls with healthy relationships with their fathers never want to marry them, but I’d wager I am not the only one whose daughter at three or four told them they had decided we had to get married.

I remember the first time my little girl did so and how I explained that daughters and dads had a special relationship but it would never involve marriage.

She wasn’t pleased with my explanation and I remember telling my dad that when the boys showed up it might be better for them if I broke their arms ‘cuz she would consume their souls.

We both laughed and he told me not to rush things and that I should be aware that three year-old girls grow up in the blink of an eye.

He was right.

I called her tonight by the name only he used for her and she told me I wasn’t allowed to use it.

“That is for grandpa and you’re not him.”

“I am the oldest Wilner male and invoking the privilege bequeathed upon me at the Wilner concave of ’74.”

She flipped her hair and walked out. So much for the Wilner birthright.

I Won’t Marry You Either

I have told one or two women that I wouldn’t marry them and been told by at least one that she wouldn’t marry me.

Although to be fair I said I wouldn’t accept that as a final answer because if he decided there was a practical reason to do so she would absolutely change her mind and pretend that had always been her position.

As I rotate through the family history I have come across a few relatives who have been married twice or more but one in particular has held my attention.

My great-grandfather’s first wife’s name seems to be missing the family history but I am fairly certain there has to be at least one living relative who knows it.

Has to be one who can tell me who Meir Wilner married and maybe tell me what happened to her. She gave birth to my great-grandfather and his little brother and I am guessing died but I don’t know if it was in childbirth or what.

Don’t know if she lived for a chunk or a handful of years but I do know Grandpa Meir remarried and had five more kids.

But I really don’t know for certain if my grandmother died of natural causes, an accident or ran away from home to become the Dread Pirate Roberts.

Death is the logical explanation for the late 19th century, but we’re just speculating.

Pirate Mode

Someone asked how I would describe this time of life and I said I am in ‘Pirate Mode.’

“Call me a bloody buccaneer who is operating based upon a different sort of code and isn’t in any sort of mood to let rules dictate what I can or cannot do. So I am…not.”

Told a few people to make a choice and to understand I will expect them to live by said choices.

Told them to understand I might be crazier than they think I am and am not bothered by it.

Or maybe it is more accurate to say I know precisely what I am doing about some things and who I am doing some things with.

Reminded them I don’t owe them information or explanation. Accept me or don’t. Love me or don’t.

Get out of the way or get run over.

It is the nature of the beast and of pirate time. Can’t wait for others to pull their heads out of their asses.

Can’t wonder and worry, have to press on and sail hard.

And that is what I am doing, sailing hard.

Those that stand in the way will find my hands on their hips or shoulders so that they can be moved, some more roughly than others.

But move they shall, whether it is to the beat or without rhythm matters not. It is a two handed affair because pirates belive in pounding and there is no time to spare.

Raise the anchor and let’s roll.

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