"Uncle"
"I didn't mean to say it in the first place."
"Really sorry, (Wo)Man."
'Won't do it EVER, again!" .... (Well, none of that's true.)
That piece, yesterday, on impermanence? Went over like a Funnel Cake flattenned by a Semi at a Country Fair. Road Kill! Good I didn't show it to those of my progeny who made me swear that I would never leave this house ... AND HERE I AM in my office next to the house we've lived in for 35 years. Good thing one of my inlaw kids came in to carry the 50 pound bags of ice-melting salt for the next foot of shovellable crystals that are due to begin appearing in about 60 hours. Big strapping Pater Familias with a 50 pounder on each shoulder is a thing of the past and my new hero is the person who decided on mass-marketing 50 pound bags of Portland Cement rather than only the usual 80 pounders. Bet s/he was over 60.
But as to the onslaught of criticisms that came by e-mail, claiming that I'm maudlin, melancholic or just plain mad for obsessing about all these matters? I say stick it .... like the kids say ... "where the Sun don't shine."
I remember ..., it was 21 years and seven months ago to the day ... my youngest's 16th birthday. We were out celebrating, realizing full-well that my Father-in-law's lung cancer was responding neither to Surgical Infantry Attacks, to aerial x-ray bombs or to chemical warfare. Murray was dying and everyone around him was handing out "diner fare" that said something and in many different ways like: "You gotta keep thinking positive. You can't give in to the feelings." At that point, I'd been his son-in-law for over 37 years and felt it OK to whisper in his ear something about how tough these times must be for him and how feeling the feelings seemed to me perfectly "onside" ... (Murray was a hockey-fan who got stuck with a geeky son-in-law who grew up studying Scriptures with no penchant for watching others have good times ... at least not when they were crashing into "boards" or "helmets," and not when they were getting it on sexually. "Murray ... it's ok to feel shitty about all this. I'm willing to cry with you."
My comment was obviously loud enough to get Annette to bawl me out for being being on my "high horse" and for trying to depress her husband. My youngest doesn't reflect back happily, either, on the kerfuffle that ensued and assuredly does not refer back to it as a "sweet sixteen party," But, it's not just matters of life and death that deserve the gift of allowing in wistfulness for losses observed and for those crouching and waiting to surprise us and, arguably, pounce on us.
So many of the changes that we Last Quarter Players have incorporated into our daily routines and thinking have been all but imperceptible. The changes in our kids -- if we chose to spoon and spawn -- as they grow up. Being no longer the feeder and the changer, as toddlers learn to feed themselves and wipe their own buts. The holding hands in parking lots that is no longer. The being the expert on Arithmetics and Geometries and Writings and handling our kids relational catastrophes. And there are similar losses for those who've decided not to reproduce.
I remember when M was unpacking that same youngest into a Dorm Room and I was weeping in the College Courtyard, outside. I recognized those losses, too, and wrote:
Once Before the Altar
The skies above were clear
His eyes were sore,
No pause for crying anymore.
McDowell, Randal, and Campbell Halls
Sycamore trees above a mall.
She’s inside
Unpacking her childhood and leaving behind
The dolls and toys that
filled her mind
For eighteen years that came before
When she and dad played on the floor.
Not at the altar he gives her away
But today
To McDowell, Randal and Campbell Halls.
The Sycamore trees above the mall
Can offer neither peace nor solitude.
No time for age old platitudes
From Dear Old Dad and what he’d say
To take his little girl’s pain away.
But a few more words, he’ll pass her way
Before they hug and wish good day
No matter what, you’re not alone.
Don’t forget, you’ve still a home.
And please, oh please,
Use the phone.
What happened to spontaneous erections and lubrications? Twenty percent of the male population is just waiting for an erection that lasts more than four hours ... Busting at the seams to call their doctors: "Doc: that little blue pill y'gave me? Four and a half hours and no myocardial infarction. Feel like I was 15, again, riding the subways and getting excited about anyone wearing a skirt. You think 2 pills would translate into 9 hours?"
No. You naysayers who think I'm lost in depression, are missing out on all the pleasant and titillating memories of the first Three Quarters of Play and those of the Fourth Quarter, too ... at least, those that I can still recall. Any case? You can keep your comments ... stick'em, as I suggested earlier.
OK. Enough! ... I have forgotten the first sentences of this riff and will accept as a given that it went somewhere ... as I sign off.
Carpe Diem, Old Folks, Carpe Diem! ... and, BTW, keep the keys and the tissues and the Ginkgo Paloba (and the Little Blue Pills, if y'need 'em) where you can find them.
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