The Quan

Before we start, I’d like to turn everyone’s attention to Blogger Dad.  His weekly eight questions is eighteen this week because his subject cannot ever stop talking.  Though to be fair, I answered only what was asked.  If you read it, and enjoy it, please consider a Stumble.  It could help two bloggers with one click.

Note to Writer Dad: Please do not assume your readers know the minutia of your everyday life, or expect them to read every post. Such behavior is arrogant. At the very least, provide a link to you’re previous discussion. Omission of such a simple blogging regularity is thoughtless. The writing, it’s okay. The blogging needs work. Please fix.

I’m on it, and sorry about yesterday.  

A habit is something you can do without thinking – which is why most of us have so many of them. 

~Frank A. Clark

Last week, my sister sent me an email.  

You should write about the Quan.

I should write about the Quan.

What’s the Quan?

The Quan was an everyday ghetto liquor store, located approximately four blocks from the house where I grew up. 

My sister was brief.  Here’s what she meant:

You should write about how when we were little, we used to sneak to the Quan to buy candy, then hide it so Mom wouldn’t find out.

If KittyTown doesn’t answer my email by the time I publish, then I’m saying we started embarking on these adventures around the time I was eight and she was six or seven.

We never would have designed such a plan ourselves.  Our original minister of mayhem was our half sister.  She lived in Arkansas, but came to live with us nearly every Summer.  

Our sister was two years, and an entirely different life, older than us.  She had tattoos before I had braces, and if it hadn’t been for Stephen King, she probably would have been responsible for my first exposure to the really filthy words.

One Summer, she crafted a plan of elegant genius.  

We’d run to the Quan (it was practically next door), buy what we wanted (candy is cheap), and slip back home without being missed (Pop’s watching a baseball game and is going nowhere).

We lived on a quiet street, populated mostly by couples either at starting gate or finish line, providing us with precisely no on to play with.  Surrounding our street were scattered patches of danger.  

Each block from our house to the Quan grew progressively worse, until arriving on the corner of We Shouldn’t Have Done and What Were We Thinking?

At season’s end, big sis flew East.  Our taste for illicit freedom went nowhere.

My sister and I began to frequent the Quan.

I loved those adventures, but they’re only prelude to my message.

Years passed.  

I continued to visit the Quan.  Except the Quan was now my girlfriend’s house, at the other end of town, in what was widely regarded as the worst neighborhood in our city, and I needed two bus transfers to get there.

Like the Quan, I disregarded danger to own an opportunity.

I was never murdered, but I did get caught.

Twice.

Our habits are there until we exorcise them. 

We’re all responsible for our own behavior.  No excuses.  We should work to recognize our most negative patterns, then quell them.

Otherwise, we’re just spinning without launch.

My sister did respond, almost immediately (I love email).  Her words were funny.  Good memories.  

Partly because I’m lazy, and partly because I loved her email, tomorrow is Writer Dad’s first guest post.  

Don’t get excited.  Honestly, it’s just a copy and paste.  

Tomorrow: KittyTown’s taking on the Quan.

Writer Dad

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