Last year, my big birthday gift was changing up my classic air cooled 1996 993 Porsche Cabrio for a 2013 Boxster, purportedly so that I wouldn't get stuck on the road in an old car. This year, now that I'm older, my kids got together and gave me a GPS so that, I guess, I can find my way home from the Last Quarter fog that visits me (or upon me, if you prefer) ... I think GPS stands for Grand Pa Search ....
"Has anyone seen an old guy turning 180's in a hot little thing and looking totally lost? 'Has anyone seen my Grandpa ... Has anyone seen my Grandpa [what are the rest of the lyrics, anyway]'"
A GPS? Bullocks!
Next year? A case of Metamucil, I anticipate.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Saturday, August 10, 2013
They say it's my Birthday
They Say It's my Birthday
I do remember seeing a birth certificate claiming that I was born in Brooklyn, New York on a certain day in August that is near at hand. That or something else said that I came into this World at 12+ pounds ... didn't bother to mention the potential impact birthing a melon that size might have had on my 5'3" Mother. But that's a very old story, the direct witnesses to which have all gone through their own Last Quarters and -- most of them -- their Overtimes. But that begs the question of this birthday ... this day in 2013.
The thought was that those who claim direct descendency or ascendency from me (and their spouses)wish to gather to celebrate the event.
"You gonna have a Good-Time"
Well, they say I'm gonna have a good time. And truth be told it's likely true and it's nice to be toasted and for folk to gather for no other reason, purportedly, than to celebrate the fact that I was born. It's a very nice sentiment ... it really is ... I mean ... I like the idea ... it's a "Good" ....
Me'thinks I protesteth too much
Well. There are, indeed, some ambivalent feelings that might not be there if I were Thomas Jefferson with a slew of involuntaries doing my every bidding to prepare Monticello for the fete. But the thought of arising tomorrow with my usual late-middle-aged aches and cleaning up Self and yard and pool so that others can feel good about not forgetting my birthday ... right at this very moment leaves me cold. Maybe I should just climb into my roadster or onto my trusty bike and ...
Ride, Captain Ride
This pater familias thing ... having to be available and indentured to my own birthday party isn't doing it for me.
I can't always get what I want
Well, not so long ago, I wrote for my 65th birthday the following dittie in a series of doggerel pieces about an aging guy, Abe Isaacs .... struggling with the passing years ... I guess it's worth repeating:
I do remember seeing a birth certificate claiming that I was born in Brooklyn, New York on a certain day in August that is near at hand. That or something else said that I came into this World at 12+ pounds ... didn't bother to mention the potential impact birthing a melon that size might have had on my 5'3" Mother. But that's a very old story, the direct witnesses to which have all gone through their own Last Quarters and -- most of them -- their Overtimes. But that begs the question of this birthday ... this day in 2013.
The thought was that those who claim direct descendency or ascendency from me (and their spouses)wish to gather to celebrate the event.
"You gonna have a Good-Time"
Well, they say I'm gonna have a good time. And truth be told it's likely true and it's nice to be toasted and for folk to gather for no other reason, purportedly, than to celebrate the fact that I was born. It's a very nice sentiment ... it really is ... I mean ... I like the idea ... it's a "Good" ....
Me'thinks I protesteth too much
Well. There are, indeed, some ambivalent feelings that might not be there if I were Thomas Jefferson with a slew of involuntaries doing my every bidding to prepare Monticello for the fete. But the thought of arising tomorrow with my usual late-middle-aged aches and cleaning up Self and yard and pool so that others can feel good about not forgetting my birthday ... right at this very moment leaves me cold. Maybe I should just climb into my roadster or onto my trusty bike and ...
Ride, Captain Ride
This pater familias thing ... having to be available and indentured to my own birthday party isn't doing it for me.
I can't always get what I want
Well, not so long ago, I wrote for my 65th birthday the following dittie in a series of doggerel pieces about an aging guy, Abe Isaacs .... struggling with the passing years ... I guess it's worth repeating:
“A
mere piss in the ocean, sixty five years,”
Said
Abe, as he trailed down birthday stairs,
To
serve birthday kibble to waiting dog and cats,
To
fetch birthday coffee, alas! No more birthday
cigarettes.
“A
day for all to revel with middle-aged me,
How
much more pleased could any man be?”
“A
cosmic fleck on the Milky Way”
Aside,
said he, quotidian fears to stay.
Then
appeared in his throat the telltale knot
When
noticing the cat’s favorite spot
To
shit upon when puss is feeling bitter
That
no one had bothered to change her litter.
And
while feeding the dog, the wish to run
Realizing
that decisions are never made as one
But
rather by the rule: my will be done
“Didn’t
we agree on a uniform ban
on
inuring the cats to eat meat from a can!?”
Abe
found a solution, a tad-bit rash
Abe
pulled out his sprinkler and make his own splash.
“I
piss on the world! Why the hell not?
Who
gives the pussy dominion on that spot?
A
day for all to revel with middle-aged me
Please
... save your sighs and no sympathy.”
“For
I’m no zit on the Lord’s six day creation
Having
arrived after all other failed experimentation.
Now,
three score plus five, know what I ought’a do”
Abe
barks at the rising Sun, “Hey Sun, Hey you!
Three
fourths down, a quarter remains
Of
vigor and charm and hearty refrains
Let
all who’ve tasted their own felicity
Come
and revel ... Mine lives, too!
Inside
this protesting but vigorous,
Middle-aged
me!”
The
moral of Abe’s story is brief ...
Many
will scoff when you’re pissed off
And
laugh at you if you run off
But
if you seek pets or missus to be cooperatively compliant
rather
than covertly and silently defiant
then
the rule is:
He
who pisses never misses.
Happy Birthday soon to me ...
Happy Birthday soon to me ....
Happy Birthday to Howard ....
Happy Birthday to me!
And many more ....
Friday, August 9, 2013
Memories
I suppose it may have been a hypnopompic memory ... one of those haunting images that come after sleep but in the cleft that sits there in my minds before we can describe ourselves as awake. I was walking home from kindergarten with an older sister. No content beyond that ... but as I reached for consciousness in my bed, other memories flashed ... and passed from my grasp. Maybe 60+ years of memories ... a wisp of the scene at M and I's wedding, I think was there ... with only our parents and some witnesses there to sign. My maternal grandfather speaking from the pulpit to his congregation. Quick flip to another religious leader involved in some apologeia with his congregants and explaining that they had "misconscrewed" (sic) him. Playing catch with Ronnie who lived next door. Wrestling with Sanford at a religious meeting. Knocking out a wall with my Dad.
There are those times when a return to sleep in one of those Last Quarter mornings isn't going to occur ... and one knows it. I'm taking off Fridays in the Summer and I had time. I toddled downstairs and sent GuntherDog out for his morning toilette and decided to prepare a kugel ... an Eastern European casserole for the grandkids who are coming over this evening. Their Mom is avoiding Gluten so it was clear in my mind that I'd cut out the wheat flour that typically is used as a binder to keep the Kugel more solid than runny. We're all trying to cut down on heavy starches, so I decided I'd use 1 motherload clove of garlic, 2 onions, 3 carrots, 4 sticks of celery and a fistful of broccoli with 6 grated potatoes. The sleepiness and the playful use of sequential numbers amused me.
I went about the business of pre-stir frying the vegetables in a couple of tablespoons of oil ... pealed the potatoes while they were cooking and threw in a palm full of salt and 60 turns of my pepper mill. What shall I ever do if my pepper mill breaks and I need a new count on how many turns go into a single meal's dish? Ah! The grinder is likely to outlive me, anyway.
Potatoes, vegetables, a bit more oil, three eggs and some potato starch were being mixed as I turned over the grater and began scraping every bit into the bowl. It was now a torrent of memories of my Mother and my maternal Grandmother before her in their kitchens. Here I am carefully removing the last maybe 1/100th of a percent of the mix into the red enamel pan that Adelaide, another very old woman, gave to my wife. Addie was the first or one of the first tenured professors of Biochemistry ... a rabid liberal to the end of her near 90 years. She would've liked to have lived to see a non-white President and would sign her e-mails ... "Fuck Bush." M is not so loud but they were dear friends. Maybe M needed a Mother and Addie had been too busy to marry and spawn. Her dad was a barber in a small Pennsylvania town, O! Little Town of Bethlehem, and maybe the idea of having everything
was too much for her transitional status. Who's to say?
But this much I think I know. I miss my Mother, Grandmother and Addie and much of what I learned in life was gathered up looking up at Old Women respecting the foods they were cooking.
As Mississippi John Hurt was prone to sing/say: Good to the Lassst Drop!
There are those times when a return to sleep in one of those Last Quarter mornings isn't going to occur ... and one knows it. I'm taking off Fridays in the Summer and I had time. I toddled downstairs and sent GuntherDog out for his morning toilette and decided to prepare a kugel ... an Eastern European casserole for the grandkids who are coming over this evening. Their Mom is avoiding Gluten so it was clear in my mind that I'd cut out the wheat flour that typically is used as a binder to keep the Kugel more solid than runny. We're all trying to cut down on heavy starches, so I decided I'd use 1 motherload clove of garlic, 2 onions, 3 carrots, 4 sticks of celery and a fistful of broccoli with 6 grated potatoes. The sleepiness and the playful use of sequential numbers amused me.
I went about the business of pre-stir frying the vegetables in a couple of tablespoons of oil ... pealed the potatoes while they were cooking and threw in a palm full of salt and 60 turns of my pepper mill. What shall I ever do if my pepper mill breaks and I need a new count on how many turns go into a single meal's dish? Ah! The grinder is likely to outlive me, anyway.
Potatoes, vegetables, a bit more oil, three eggs and some potato starch were being mixed as I turned over the grater and began scraping every bit into the bowl. It was now a torrent of memories of my Mother and my maternal Grandmother before her in their kitchens. Here I am carefully removing the last maybe 1/100th of a percent of the mix into the red enamel pan that Adelaide, another very old woman, gave to my wife. Addie was the first or one of the first tenured professors of Biochemistry ... a rabid liberal to the end of her near 90 years. She would've liked to have lived to see a non-white President and would sign her e-mails ... "Fuck Bush." M is not so loud but they were dear friends. Maybe M needed a Mother and Addie had been too busy to marry and spawn. Her dad was a barber in a small Pennsylvania town, O! Little Town of Bethlehem, and maybe the idea of having everything
was too much for her transitional status. Who's to say?
But this much I think I know. I miss my Mother, Grandmother and Addie and much of what I learned in life was gathered up looking up at Old Women respecting the foods they were cooking.
As Mississippi John Hurt was prone to sing/say: Good to the Lassst Drop!
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Afterthought
Yesterday, I was thinking about two types ... the one who becomes a victimizer in the style of those who may have tormented him or her in years gone by ... and the one who uses his or her own victimization as an indirect way of battering another.
Need I say, these are shorthand and generalization of a great many varieties. As I rose this AM, I was remembering a particular style, among the many. This person takes preemptive strikes against their others ... and when the other responds -- even quietly -- they initiate bullying tactics.
"Look what you've done to me!"
"How can anyone be so heartless as to strike out at a poor Soul like me?"
And, indeed, these people do seem to suffer greatly.
As the clock ticks on in the Fourth Quarter, I struggle to have patience for such folk.
Old prayer: O may it be Your will, my God and God of my fathers, to redeem me this day and every day from the arrogant and from arrogance ... from mean spirited men and mean-spirited friends and neighbors ... from destructive occurrences and from those who seek to destroy.
Amen.
Need I say, these are shorthand and generalization of a great many varieties. As I rose this AM, I was remembering a particular style, among the many. This person takes preemptive strikes against their others ... and when the other responds -- even quietly -- they initiate bullying tactics.
"Look what you've done to me!"
"How can anyone be so heartless as to strike out at a poor Soul like me?"
And, indeed, these people do seem to suffer greatly.
As the clock ticks on in the Fourth Quarter, I struggle to have patience for such folk.
Old prayer: O may it be Your will, my God and God of my fathers, to redeem me this day and every day from the arrogant and from arrogance ... from mean spirited men and mean-spirited friends and neighbors ... from destructive occurrences and from those who seek to destroy.
Amen.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
The Dignity of Everyday Life
In 1905 or so, someone wrote a book on the so-called Psychopathology of Everyday Life. He wrote of slips of the tongue, equally curious slips of the pen. The author was less than 50, then, but he wrote of lapses in the memory system ... the forgetting of names, of events and of the misremembering of childhood events. False Memory Syndrome was the rage in the 1990's but had already been the focus of this doctor from Vienna, as was the common witnessing of superstition-based behaviors. We still think nothing of the professional athlete or the adoring fan that "needs to wear" special socks or a charmed hat in order for success to be imaginable for "their side.".
Nothing about these curious or pathological behaviors has changed and, still, it occurs to me that by the time we reach Medicare eligibility we have seen and experienced and survived everyday occurrences which have required a degree of dignity and fortitude that is -- if nothing else -- heartening and indicative of a certain -- again the same word comes up -- dignity to the manner in which we live our lives.
Among those with whom I have had the opportunity to learn of their earlier lives are such folk who manage to wake up each morning in spite of histories of the types of interferences that would make any tree grow bent so as to appear near falling at any moment. The metaphor, I suppose, relates to a Willow Tree that leans, apparently whose 60 foot splendor is poised to fall on my office in any storm ... though it has remained standing in that position for many years.
Whether the abuse was from experiencing war as a combatant, civilian casualty, refugee or camp-detainee ... whether the abuse occurred in childhood, adolescence, or adulthood .... whether it was physical, psychological or sexual (as in "both") .... the distortions of growth may appear in a variety of types and subtypes, but I'm moved to address but one of these solutions to having been whacked by the World ... and, by the way, it is my sense that no one makes it to the age of three without taking their share of such blows. Those reading this, as youngsters were likely exposed to the poetic character sketches of Edwin Arlington Robinson ... folk like Richard Cory and Miniver Cheevey who suffered in life and grew-twisted into suicides or alcoholics. If you haven't read Robinson's poesy , I recommend it.
In any case, I'm thinking this morning of those individuals -- of that "type" -- who live by the principle: "Do unto others as has been done unto you." Victims who become acting-out perpetrators. The molested who grow into molesters. The bullied who finds their way into a life of bullying. But what I want to point out is the existence of two subtypes ... let me call them the Active and the Passive.
It was but a few days ago that a kidnapper and molester, after accepting a plea agreement which included a life sentence in jail, argued that he was no monster but a kind musician and good Soul who became addicted to masturbation and pornography after being abused, himself, as a child. And while it's hard to feel sorry for him and, arguably, a blessing that he will be separated from civil society or that civil society will be safely separated from him, I could not help myself from feeling sad for this man who destroyed the lives of many, including his own. Subsequent to abuse, there develops a sort of cleavage in the personality ... with one part separated off from the abuse that appears strong and dominates another part that remains the destroyed or absent victim.
This cleavage ... this splitting ... is well-portrayed in a film about two brothers growing up with an alcoholic step-father (Red Flyer is the name of the film, I think) ... one who is beaten and one spared. In the story, the beaten one escapes by flying away in his Red Flyer wagon rigged for flight in the sky ... never to be seen, again ... to be heard from years later by postcard. The other son appears to grow normally to adulthood, fatherhood, and success. Interestingly, it is not until the end that the Writer-Director drops a hint that there was, in reality, only one child. Indeed, in the rambling apology offered by Ariel Castro, we hear both parts of this split ... the boastful man who talks of his accomplishments, including his making of a harmonious family from the three youngsters whom he held hostage for a decade ... And then there was the tearful victim who was molested, himself, in childhood.
The Passive type is quite different. Instead of becoming an Active "in-kind" abuser of others, this one is forever accusing others of abusing them. These are the victims who malign those near and dear to them and are not infrequently envious of both the near and the far. They are forever comparing theit own victim-hood and pain with that of others.
"No one has suffered like me."
"How could you know what it's like for me?"
Each time someone points out some instance of their unkind behavior, the Other is seen as attacking and being gratuitously nasty or mean-spirited.
"How could you say that to me knowing the ways I've suffered."
Given a choice? I would cavort with neither the Active type who becomes the "perp" or the Passive type who can only see themselves in that role.
And I cannot say whether or not by the Last Quarter my fellow journey-folk have typically found that spot where they recognize that, indeed, no one has attained maturity without their share of scrapes and bruises.
(Oy! rereading this was not cotton candy and a walk in the park! ... Sorry!)
Nothing about these curious or pathological behaviors has changed and, still, it occurs to me that by the time we reach Medicare eligibility we have seen and experienced and survived everyday occurrences which have required a degree of dignity and fortitude that is -- if nothing else -- heartening and indicative of a certain -- again the same word comes up -- dignity to the manner in which we live our lives.
Among those with whom I have had the opportunity to learn of their earlier lives are such folk who manage to wake up each morning in spite of histories of the types of interferences that would make any tree grow bent so as to appear near falling at any moment. The metaphor, I suppose, relates to a Willow Tree that leans, apparently whose 60 foot splendor is poised to fall on my office in any storm ... though it has remained standing in that position for many years.
Whether the abuse was from experiencing war as a combatant, civilian casualty, refugee or camp-detainee ... whether the abuse occurred in childhood, adolescence, or adulthood .... whether it was physical, psychological or sexual (as in "both") .... the distortions of growth may appear in a variety of types and subtypes, but I'm moved to address but one of these solutions to having been whacked by the World ... and, by the way, it is my sense that no one makes it to the age of three without taking their share of such blows. Those reading this, as youngsters were likely exposed to the poetic character sketches of Edwin Arlington Robinson ... folk like Richard Cory and Miniver Cheevey who suffered in life and grew-twisted into suicides or alcoholics. If you haven't read Robinson's poesy , I recommend it.
In any case, I'm thinking this morning of those individuals -- of that "type" -- who live by the principle: "Do unto others as has been done unto you." Victims who become acting-out perpetrators. The molested who grow into molesters. The bullied who finds their way into a life of bullying. But what I want to point out is the existence of two subtypes ... let me call them the Active and the Passive.
It was but a few days ago that a kidnapper and molester, after accepting a plea agreement which included a life sentence in jail, argued that he was no monster but a kind musician and good Soul who became addicted to masturbation and pornography after being abused, himself, as a child. And while it's hard to feel sorry for him and, arguably, a blessing that he will be separated from civil society or that civil society will be safely separated from him, I could not help myself from feeling sad for this man who destroyed the lives of many, including his own. Subsequent to abuse, there develops a sort of cleavage in the personality ... with one part separated off from the abuse that appears strong and dominates another part that remains the destroyed or absent victim.
This cleavage ... this splitting ... is well-portrayed in a film about two brothers growing up with an alcoholic step-father (Red Flyer is the name of the film, I think) ... one who is beaten and one spared. In the story, the beaten one escapes by flying away in his Red Flyer wagon rigged for flight in the sky ... never to be seen, again ... to be heard from years later by postcard. The other son appears to grow normally to adulthood, fatherhood, and success. Interestingly, it is not until the end that the Writer-Director drops a hint that there was, in reality, only one child. Indeed, in the rambling apology offered by Ariel Castro, we hear both parts of this split ... the boastful man who talks of his accomplishments, including his making of a harmonious family from the three youngsters whom he held hostage for a decade ... And then there was the tearful victim who was molested, himself, in childhood.
The Passive type is quite different. Instead of becoming an Active "in-kind" abuser of others, this one is forever accusing others of abusing them. These are the victims who malign those near and dear to them and are not infrequently envious of both the near and the far. They are forever comparing theit own victim-hood and pain with that of others.
"No one has suffered like me."
"How could you know what it's like for me?"
Each time someone points out some instance of their unkind behavior, the Other is seen as attacking and being gratuitously nasty or mean-spirited.
"How could you say that to me knowing the ways I've suffered."
Given a choice? I would cavort with neither the Active type who becomes the "perp" or the Passive type who can only see themselves in that role.
And I cannot say whether or not by the Last Quarter my fellow journey-folk have typically found that spot where they recognize that, indeed, no one has attained maturity without their share of scrapes and bruises.
(Oy! rereading this was not cotton candy and a walk in the park! ... Sorry!)
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
The Faith and the Reliance
Stanley Kunitz began his poem, The Layers, with the common sensibility that accrues to many that, while we have some notion of a continuing identity through our lives ... "I am me and the same me that I was yesterday" .... we had and have had a multiplicity of identities, roles and functions and each one is in a constant process of change and 'leaving behind':
The Layers (from the opening) |
||
| by Stanley Kunitz | ||
I have walked through many lives, some of them my own, and I am not who I was, though some principle of being abides, from which I struggle not to stray. When I look behind, as I am compelled to look before I can gather strength to proceed on my journey, I see the milestones dwindling toward the horizon and the slow fires trailing from the abandoned camp-sites, over which scavenger angels wheel on heavy wings. My own early life was destined to taste so-called Sacred Texts, as much as it was to know the difference between the feel of a Craftsman wrench and one made by the many companies that have mastered the art of designing offset wrenches that feel "just so" in one's hand. My Mother came from a line of religious thinkers, keepers of sacred traditions and Writings; the one I was named after, indeed, died September 1913 ... just 100 years ago ... even his name was to carry forward. My Father, on the other hand, was born to smithies and dairymen and thought little of demolishing what was in order to build what was to become. Mutt of such a "mixed marriage," it is, perhaps, of little surprise that yesterday I continued my writings on a theoretical piece about the sanguine value of sadness, while spending some hours pulling apart and rebuilding a pump and a filter ... all between hours with the visitors who occasion my office and dealing with GuntherDog's need for a haircut. I never forget the other layers of my life ... of course the familial ones which come in layers of their own ... my trek through teaching and running two schools in my life, one a place for disturbed inner city high schoolers ... and one a postprofessional training institute for those who sought to work with fractured Souls by talking to them. There were the years of trying to do Mathematics, a piece of which I continue to see being cited ... the Covitz-Nadler Theorem. (A piece of theoretical Mathematics that never impressed me and still doesn't.) I remember, too, treks through trying to modify that Viennese Doctor's Theory of the OEdipus complex and, now, my work on Sadness ... nevermind years of mixing cement, building walls, plumbing and my favorite ... trying to balance vacuum driven carburetters on a slew of old cars before the process was hijacked by perfidious cyborgs and their computerized fuel injection systems. But what unifying force is there to bind all this together ... what "principle of being abides" ... to go back to Old Stanley's words? While I don't know the answer to that question, yesterday as I was playing with the filter ... dismantling-cleaning-running .... dismantling-cleaning-running .... the title of a book by the midevil Bible scholar, Nachmonides, ran through my head. In his language: Ha'Emunah v'ha'Bitachon .... rendered in English, I suppose ... the Faith and the Reliance (maybe written mid-13th C.). I haven't worked this through in my head and little if anything remains of the Nachmonides' words ... but this much kept swirling about with wrenches at hand .... life ain't much without a confidence that -- whatever the future has in store for us ("See what tomorrow brings" was the name of an early 60's LP) -- whatever unfolds, we ... in some inter-reliant pulling together .... we'll give it a whirl. I wish I remembered after this half Century + of not looking at this pamphlet-sized book of letters how the Old Guy parsed the connection between Faith and Reliance ... but that's gone to memory, at the moment. In any case, I found myself watching myself and others all day ... but particularly myself. This Last Quarter stuff? It doesn't even always make it to Overtime, y'know. Its success, it seemed to me, yesterday, and seems to me this morning, relies on whether or not we (I mean "I" and "You," of course) can welcome a future, whatever it may be, with that sense that it will, indeed and with great joint effort, work out ... The filter, this morning, is still running ... and so am I. And GuntherDog is still a schmuck! | ||
Sunday, July 28, 2013
A Sunday Morning Reflection
I continue to receive mail from concerned listeners ... I cannot for obvious reasons say whether the notes reflect a common sense of "Seniors" ... that we all suffer from what once was called involutional depression (melancholia) or that the comments are more closely in response to what folk imagine they perceive in me. In general, they are well-wishing ... "Hope you feel better" ... "Sorry to hear that ...." .... "OMG, that's terrible."
I discussed this a few hours ago as I was thinking of coming downstairs with GuntherDog. He did his usual "sit-down" on the landing just on the top of the stairs ... "Pet me or I go nowhere." For some reason, this morning was to be different. I sat down, too.
H: "GuntherDog ... This has been going on a long time, now. Niine years that you refuse to come down the stairs to pee until I've admitted my fealty and debt to you by slavishly petting you."
GD: (Quizzical look ... followed by a turn of the head)
H: I have feelings, too.
GD: (? Whaddya-say? I couldn't hear you.)
H: Nevermind. Just, never-you-mind. Look. (why do people so often invoke the sense of vision ... whatever) Nobody has it easy. You're pushing ten and I'm on Medicare ... that is, we're close in age. Two Old Guys trying to make it through ... Don't ask me, you smart-ass dog ... Don't ask me "through what" cause I frankly don't know.
GD: (? Can I pee, now?)
H: Well. I'm not petting you, this morning. I have a sneaky suspicion that dogs think their prostates are between their ears and demand this bizarre stimulation. Well, no more. You scratch your own head. Wanna pee? Lift your hind leg and do your scratching thing. I resign. Oh! It's not all you, Gunther. Part of it is having this role of pater familias for so many years ... Married for 48 ... 3 kids ... let's see. If I add their ages, I get 130 years of Fathering. Throw in the inlaw kids, an ex inlaw kid, and six grandchildren and I think I get something just shy of 300. Nevermind the 40 years of being in a service industry and worrying about the needs of students and the visitors who consult with me.
GD: (? I really gotta go. Can I pee, yet?)
H: No. I need to finish. Lookie here.
GD: (There he goes, again, with making fun of my failing eyesight)
H: Before you, there were three Saint Bernards, Kaz Kuratowski, Schreber and Mitzvah), and then there was the real lady dog ... I mean she was a lady and among the finest that walked on God's Earth, Shayna Rosa the Wonda Dog.
GD: (Stop, already)
H: Not till I'm done or you get off your ass and walk down the stairs on your own steam, Schmuck! There were cats, as well: Hans who turned out to be a Hannah, Muncacz who showed up at the back door hungry, Matyos actually from Hungary via Vienna brought by one of your older brothers, Winnie-cat and Emily who both belonged to your Sister, who you know, as well, and Pretty Girl Freud who was found in Richmond by your other older brother. Geez. I've been taking care of these, I figure, for more years (counted cumulatively) than that kidnapper in Cleveland got years for being apparently a real monster ... he got life + 1,000 years.
GD: (Enough. It's no wonder people think you complain too much. Nobody signed you up ... you weren't conscripted into this life)
H: Well, either were you. You didn't even get a draft card?
GD: Woof.
GuntherDog, at this point, toddled down the stairs ... I? I sat there for 5 minutes, or so, and contemplated my navel.
"And the beat goes on."
Truth be told? The past "Life + 1,000 years" have been pretty good, and many -- by no means all -- of my fellow travellers have known how to throw a good party.
I have a birthday coming soon. Maybe GuntherDog and I will go running through the woods peeing on every other tree and then come home for a Last Quarter afternoon nap.
I discussed this a few hours ago as I was thinking of coming downstairs with GuntherDog. He did his usual "sit-down" on the landing just on the top of the stairs ... "Pet me or I go nowhere." For some reason, this morning was to be different. I sat down, too.
H: "GuntherDog ... This has been going on a long time, now. Niine years that you refuse to come down the stairs to pee until I've admitted my fealty and debt to you by slavishly petting you."
GD: (Quizzical look ... followed by a turn of the head)
H: I have feelings, too.
GD: (? Whaddya-say? I couldn't hear you.)
H: Nevermind. Just, never-you-mind. Look. (why do people so often invoke the sense of vision ... whatever) Nobody has it easy. You're pushing ten and I'm on Medicare ... that is, we're close in age. Two Old Guys trying to make it through ... Don't ask me, you smart-ass dog ... Don't ask me "through what" cause I frankly don't know.
GD: (? Can I pee, now?)
H: Well. I'm not petting you, this morning. I have a sneaky suspicion that dogs think their prostates are between their ears and demand this bizarre stimulation. Well, no more. You scratch your own head. Wanna pee? Lift your hind leg and do your scratching thing. I resign. Oh! It's not all you, Gunther. Part of it is having this role of pater familias for so many years ... Married for 48 ... 3 kids ... let's see. If I add their ages, I get 130 years of Fathering. Throw in the inlaw kids, an ex inlaw kid, and six grandchildren and I think I get something just shy of 300. Nevermind the 40 years of being in a service industry and worrying about the needs of students and the visitors who consult with me.
GD: (? I really gotta go. Can I pee, yet?)
H: No. I need to finish. Lookie here.
GD: (There he goes, again, with making fun of my failing eyesight)
H: Before you, there were three Saint Bernards, Kaz Kuratowski, Schreber and Mitzvah), and then there was the real lady dog ... I mean she was a lady and among the finest that walked on God's Earth, Shayna Rosa the Wonda Dog.
GD: (Stop, already)
H: Not till I'm done or you get off your ass and walk down the stairs on your own steam, Schmuck! There were cats, as well: Hans who turned out to be a Hannah, Muncacz who showed up at the back door hungry, Matyos actually from Hungary via Vienna brought by one of your older brothers, Winnie-cat and Emily who both belonged to your Sister, who you know, as well, and Pretty Girl Freud who was found in Richmond by your other older brother. Geez. I've been taking care of these, I figure, for more years (counted cumulatively) than that kidnapper in Cleveland got years for being apparently a real monster ... he got life + 1,000 years.
GD: (Enough. It's no wonder people think you complain too much. Nobody signed you up ... you weren't conscripted into this life)
H: Well, either were you. You didn't even get a draft card?
GD: Woof.
GuntherDog, at this point, toddled down the stairs ... I? I sat there for 5 minutes, or so, and contemplated my navel.
"And the beat goes on."
Truth be told? The past "Life + 1,000 years" have been pretty good, and many -- by no means all -- of my fellow travellers have known how to throw a good party.
I have a birthday coming soon. Maybe GuntherDog and I will go running through the woods peeing on every other tree and then come home for a Last Quarter afternoon nap.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)