?`s and ANNEswers

Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Clara

Posted on April 8, 2006

Today my next-door neighbor Clara turns eighty, and her family is holding a special party in her honor at Tosi’s, a local fancy restaurant. Like barnacles, there are memories attached here, since it’s the same restaurant where Clara and her deceased husband, Harold, held their fiftieth wedding anniversary celebration several years ago.

But tonight Clara celebrates alone. Well, not really alone since her children, their spouses, their children and their children’s children will all be in attendance. It’s only Harold who will be missing.

A couple weeks ago I asked Clara if Harold would be present in any way. I was thinking of a photograph or maybe a personal memory offered aloud by a family member. But she seemed startled at the idea. No, she assured me, Harold wouldn’t be there.

But I think he will.

I only knew Harold a couple years before he died, but one thing I remember is that he wanted to have a special party for his wife on her seventy-fifth birthday. However, he was too ill at the time to organize it or even delegate it to his children. So Clara’s birthday passed without special fanfare. Harold was sad about that.

Now we’ve come to another special milestone, and Clara’s family has pulled out all the stops in her honor. It may not be their way to include the deceased in the event, but I secretly choose to think that Harold, mentioned or not, is at Tosi’s toasting his beloved wife and — if there is an afterlife — eager to see her again. I don’t think he is sad anymore.

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Perfect May Not Be

Posted on April 7, 2006

I never know who reads my blog unless a person contacts me one way or another to express an opinion or offer an insight. It’s like casting bread upon the waters.

However, over the past months, I’ve heard regularly from one reader about my various essays. In addition, I occasionally receive emails from this person with little stories embedded in them. Most I read and then delete. But recently one caught my attention and I decided to include it in my blog. I don’t think I could have written anything better.

Here it is . . .

An elderly Chinese woman had two large pots, each hung on the ends of a pole which she carried across her neck. One of the pots had a crack in it while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water. At the end of the long walk from the stream to the house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.

For a full two years this went on daily, with the woman bringing home only one and a half pots of water.

Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection and miserable that it could only do half of what it had been made to do. After two years of what it perceived to be bitter failure, it spoke to the woman one day by the stream. “I am ashamed of myself, because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your house.”

The old woman smiled, “Did you notice that there are flowers on your side of the path, but not on the other pot’s side? That’s because I have always known about your flaw, so I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back, you water them. For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate the table. Without your being just the way you are, there would not be this beauty to grace the house.”


Each of us has our own unique flaw. And it’s those cracks and flaws that make our lives together so very interesting and rewarding. Consequently, you’ve just got to take each person for who they are and look for the good in them.

I’ve never met the person who sent this to me, but I feel as if we’re connected. So I want to say a public “Thank You,” not only for sending this story but also for being a faithful reader. After all, he doesn’t know me personally either.

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Exhaustion

Posted on April 6, 2006

I know I’m exhausted because the littlest thing sets me off. An innocuous telephone call, an email from my son that sounds as if he’s chastising me, the FedEx man arriving at my door with more paperwork. I roll my eyes as I open the front door, grab the package and shout, “Thank you” to a retreating back.

I get this way every now and then, and usually it’s because I’ve taken on more than I should. I can tell when this is about to happen because I no longer do the things that are important to me, like playing piano and reading the paper and doing the crossword puzzle and simply breathing peacefully.

Instead I feel rushed, anxious, angry. I wonder how everything will get done, especially when most of the things I have to do have no direct bearing on my well-being. They are the purview of others.

What gets me out of this funk? Well, sometimes a good cry does wonders. Sometimes a great rant does too. But mostly, I swallow the exhaustion, spend a couple nights doing nothing, and try to get back on track. There is nobody I know who can help when exhaustion sets in, and perhaps it’s of my own making. I don’t accept help lightly.

At the same time, as I age, I realize that exhaustion is a sign that I’m overdoing. That I need to back off and not care if I disappoint those around me. That I need to tend to my own needs. It’s a difficult lesson for me, since I’ve been programmed otherwise. Yet, maybe this is the lesson I need to learn to cope with old age.

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Solution

Posted on April 5, 2006

I recently read an article by Jonathan Turley, Shapiro Professor of Public Interest Law at George Washington University, which makes complete sense to me. It offers a logical solution for ending the same-sex marriage debate between conservatives and liberals. At the same time, Turley suggests the two sides might not really want a solution, because both are using the issue to recruit advocates and money for each position. Their rhetoric serves this purpose, rather than seeking a reasonable solution.

I choose to set aside the politics and consider Turley’s proposal in its logical context. I believe he is on to something. Although the words are mine, his argument goes something like this:

1. The word ‘marriage’ has an historical context that doesn’t serve our government well today. Instead, the government might consider using the phrase ‘civil union’ when it administers marital matters. This phrase could convey that consenting adults are entering into a legal contract with obligations that the government must make sure are met.

2. This also means that, once married in the eyes of the government, the couple has legal rights and obligations in such areas as taxes, inheritance, and personal injury. This is the government’s domain.

3. At the same time, many couples belong to various religious faiths whose tenets are narrower. Once the couple is wed in the eyes of the government, he and she can choose to follow the tenets of their religion, creating a contract based on morals and faith.

4. This enables the religious right couple to follow the more stringent rules of their faiths. But it also offers alternatives to those who believe otherwise.

5. The primary benefit of this approach is that it removes government from the moral decisions that religion demands. It doesn’t make government amoral; rather it puts legal tenets where they belong and religious tenets where they should be.

While Turley’s essay applies this solution to the current marriage debate, why couldn’t it apply to other areas of life where religion butts heads with law? Areas like abortion, war, stem cell research, divorce, even the pledge of allegiance. The rationale would be that, when government holds a broad view on these issues and one’s religion holds a narrower view, the fervent faithful can follow their religious beliefs without impinging on the rights of others. But then we’d have to tone down the rhetoric.

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Maps

Posted on April 4, 2006

I was rooting around in Earl’s car’s glove compartment looking for a particular map, and it struck me that the contents of the compartment provided a history of our road trips together. I smiled in remembrance.

We bought the map for Arkansas when my Mother died and we went to her home in Conway, AR, together to empty her house and bring back those few things I wanted. Among them were two bedraggled trunks that I had refinished and now display proudly in my home. That map helped us drag the U-haul home through the small towns of the Arkansas and Missouri Ozark Mountains without getting off the path.

The map for San Francisco came in handy when we flew there, rented a car, and met my father who lived in the valley. I returned a couple times on my own and used the same map for handy reference.

The New York State map represents two car trips Earl and I took back East to my own origins in upper New York State. I don’t think Earl had ever heard of Lowville until I came into his life. But Lowville is where most of my ancestors are buried, my mother and step-father, my grandparents, and great grandparents among them. It’s my version of his Spring City; and we plan to visit again this summer. We’ll need that map.

Then there are maps for Illinois, Michigan, and Indiana, mostly because those are the states close at hand where we travel back and forth. There’s also a local one of the county where we live; it is among the most worn because it took us a while to get our bearings when we moved here.

The trouble with roadmaps is that they become outdated within a few years, what with new construction of highways and detours. But we rarely bother to purchase a new map; rather we rely on the old ones, the ones with memories of previous trips, their creases and cracks embedded in our consciousness.

For updated information, we depend on signs along the highway. But for reminiscing we rely on the outdated maps in the glove compartment. I suggest you check yours and see what you recall.

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Cancun

Posted on April 3, 2006

I like good Mexican restaurants, ones where the salsa is freshly made and the guacamole is too. Where the atmosphere is cozy and maybe a little dark.

There was a restaurant near Spring City, Tennessee that used to fit that bill; and for a while it was the only one around that also served Margaritas and other alcoholic libations. Spring City and the environs are not known for gourmet dining options. But Cancun was quite passable.

In between the time I last visited and this past weekend’s visit to bury Earl’s Mother, Cancun moved to larger, more modern facilities that included a bigger parking lot, more tables, and a better view from the outdoor patio. It maintained its cantina-like darkness on the inside too, so we thought the move would work.

But what it gained in cavernous ability to serve more customers at one time was gained at the expense of coziness. The new restaurant has all the warmth of a franchise cafeteria. Frankly the food has gone downhill too; and, before we started home, Cancun received a unanimous vote for the worst food we had on the entire trip. After all, when you’re involved in funeral arrangements, the comfort of decent food is important.

I’ve seen other restaurants fool with their success in the same way. It seems that when the waiting line for dinner becomes too long, owners think of expanding without considering that the line out the door is part of what makes them successful. People want to eat in an intimate environment, like a bistro, rather than a football stadium. They’re willing to wait a reasonable amount of time to have that cozy feeling when they actually sit down and order their Margaritas.

There was another Mexican restaurant in another corner of my life that did the same thing. Originally it was in a small cinderblock building, where the owner had planted her own herb garden just outside the front door. That was part of the charm. But when the line got too long, she moved to the local strip mall and took over a space that once belonged to a sporting goods store. In no time, people stopped coming.

I imagine Mexican restaurants are not the only ones subject to this syndrome. In fact, I imagine that restaurants in general are not the only business that falls prey to the concept that bigger is better. Cancun is just the most recent example that makes me sad.

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Heading Home

Posted on April 2, 2006

As the crow flies, it’s almost six hundred miles between our home in Michigan and Spring City, Tennessee, where Earl’s parents lived and where — up the road — they are now buried together. As the road winds, it’s probably not much farther, but those who travel by car have it harder than any crow.

There is no direct route that offers a four-lane divided interstate all the way. There are the Smokey Mountains to cross, which isn’t that difficult for a vehicle like ours unless you get behind an eighteen-wheeler that’s losing speed to gravity. And regardless of which of several routes one takes, they all require maneuvering around a couple major cities, where traffic and rush hours impede speed. So you have to take it slowly . . . at least from the mental point of view.

Traveling this way to Spring City four days ago enabled us to gather our thoughts and make some plans for the funeral activities that lay ahead. As we drove south, we could use our cellphones to put our Michigan lives on hold and create the time to bury Earl’s mother. We could also keep in touch with other family members who were on their own journeys to join us. In a way, the car trip provided work space.

For now, the work is done, although we will have to return to handle various affairs. Tomorrow we plan to rise early and hit the road. And by the time we get to the Michigan State line, I imagine we will have reconnected with the other parts of our lives.

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Forty-eight Hours

Posted on April 1, 2006

Forty-eight hours ago, I stood in the shower coaxing too much shampoo from my hair when Earl came into the bathroom.

“The nursing home just called,” he said. “My mother passed away a few minutes ago.”

The shampoo was forgotten as I grabbed for a towel and offered quiet condolences. The death wasn’t unexpected, as Velma had been declining for quite some time. But the actuality of it is always another matter. Life as we know it stops. Current plans are cancelled and future ones are put on possible hold, while funeral preparations take precedence. This flurry of activity is counterbalanced by inward reflection and remembering. Even a silent tear or two.

That’s what the past forty-eight hours has been about. Earl, his immediate family, and I are now all in Kingston, Tennessee for the visitation, memorial service and burial that will occur within the next forty-eight hours. Reflection seems to take a temporary backseat to these activities, as we meet other relatives and friends and members of Velma’s congregation in our communal grief and respect for the last of her generation. After all, Velma outlived six brothers and her husband to die at 93.

Yet I am struck that the one thing Earl and I have done for each other is be there to bury our parents. We met later in life, too old to want to have children together, already set in our career paths and our opinions, opposites in many ways. But when my own mother died, Earl’s flowers were the first to arrive at the funeral home even though we barely knew each other. When his father died the following year, I made the trek to Tennessee. Since then we’ve also buried my father and now his mother.

My own mother died on April 3, 1996. Velma died on March 30, 2006. We’ve been at this exactly ten years, and now we’re finished.

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Spring Break

Posted on March 19, 2006

This blog will return on April 1. AB

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Deadlines

Posted on March 15, 2006

I never met a deadline I didn’t like. Oh, I’ve chafed at a few, even cursed one or two; but for getting into gear there is nothing like a pressing deadline.

In school, I might have waited until the last minute to begin writing a term paper, but I always finished it in time. In work, I was a corporate ghost for years, writing annual reports and speeches and brochures and feature articles, all due on a certain date. I had to interview the subject involved, write the first draft, edit it and submit it on time so that the designer of the publication and the printer after him could meet imposed schedules too. I’m proud to say I never once missed a deadline.

I haven’t been in school for years and am no longer a pen for hire. External deadlines are fewer and farther between in my life. But what I’ve also noticed is that self-imposed deadlines don’t carry the same weight with me, which means my own efforts at writing often lay unfinished. So do my efforts at finishing other types of project. Currently a long-overdue afghan and tax preparation for our accountant come to mind.

All of this says something about me, although I’m not sure what. Am I undisciplined unless someone else sets the pace? Do I not take my own deadlines as seriously as those imposed on me by others? Am I outwardly controlled instead of inwardly directed?

I’ve analyzed this for years, but have never come to any conclusion or changed my behavior. And, even if I set a deadline by which to solve this conundrum, it’s probably bound to fail. Maybe I need to get someone else to set it for me.

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