A NEW YEAR’S WISH FOR EVERYONE

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One of the nicest New Year greetings I’ve received recently comes from someone in Victoria, Australia. She sent it in a comment to a holiday post of mine. But it’s so appropriate a wish for those of us who are, as the blog says, “getting old,” that I’m borrowing it to share with all of you, irrespective of your age:

MAY 2015 BRING YOU GOOD HEALTH AND THE ENERGY TO DO ALL THAT YOU WOULD LIKE TO DO!

Thank you, Barbara, for sending it.  Thank you all for reading. See you next year….

WHAT’S YOUR EARLIEST MEMORY?

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[I’ve been thinking lately about memory and what it tells us about who we were and are. There may be more of this, perhaps much more, in the coming year’s posts.  In the meanwhile, here’s a short and easy one. Maybe it will get you thinking, too….]

My very earliest memory — without  help from fading photographs or anything my parents told me — goes back to the summer I was two.  I was playing with a large ball in a sunny room that was empty. We were away from home, probably at some resort in the Catskills.  [My mother is not in the memory; she must have been somewhere behind me, talking to other women.  The room may have been a sunroom of some kind, or perhaps left empty for dancing in the evening.]  The ball got away from me and rolled into a corner of the room diagonally opposite. I watched it roll away without going after it. It didn’t even occur to me I should do that. Instead, I stood my ground and called out to the ball:  “Ball, come here!”  The women with my mother may have laughed gently when they heard this. But I don’t remember that. Only that the ball didn’t come.

Perhaps I remember this large ball defying me so long ago because it was my first experience of the world not complying with my wishes.

But what the memory tells me now is that in certain essential ways I haven’t changed in the many years since then:

  • I am lazy.
  • I am controlling. (Not always successfully.)
  • I believe in the power of words.

What’s your earliest memory?  And what do you make of it now that you are wise?

Christmas 2014

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I’m re-blogging this timely post from Montaigbakhtinian’s always thoughtful blog, where I just left the following comment: “My own mother died in 1993, my father in 1986, and my sons and grandchildren are living far from where I live or are spending the Christmas week elsewhere. This piece therefore so closely mirrors my feelings about the so-called “holiday” season in America that I’m reblogging it today on “The Getting Old Blog.” Thank you for writing it. We should be glad that at least we both have someone to hold hands with on the living room sofa in the evenings preceding the Big Day. As you point out in your comment about lonely ends, some people don’t even have that. I wish you a better 2015 than 2014 has been for you.” And I wish all readers and followers of TGOB a warm and quiet holiday with at least one someone they love.

montaigbakhtinian

elephant tsunami{Click for pdf}
 
It is often, if not always the case that an intellectual, if he is honest and dogged enough, will be able to discover the not necessarily warm and fuzzy personal experiences and feelings underlying his theories and empirical observations. And he or she may have to decide either to ignore this personal stuff or to not be ashamed of it and find places for it in the text. The latter approach could also involve throwing out the theories and data altogether, but, you might say, I would have my cake and eat it too.

All this to tiptoe up to my experiences-theory of the present Christmas season. Early in December this year I noticed—and found that I was noticing—how the garbage area of my apartment building was already filling daily with empty cardboard boxes—the former containers of electronic devices, cooking utensils, children’s toys. And…

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WE’RE HAVING A BAH, HUMBUG HOLIDAY AT OUR HOUSE

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I was at the upscale pet food store at the mall earlier today to nail down a bag of the fancy frozen raw venison chunks with which we spoil our cats at dinnertime. (The store only stocks one or two of these a week. Not many cat owners as nutsy as me out there.)

No one else was in the store yet. I had two young male clerks entirely at my disposal.  “Happy Holidays,” they chorused as I paid.

“Thanks, but I take the ‘bah, humbug’ approach,” I said, putting on my agent provocateur hat.  “Now that my kids are grown with kids of their own, and all of them are somewhere else, I’d just as soon pass on the holidays.  I’ve mailed out the presents. I’m ready for January 2.”

One of the clerks — the taller, cuter one — laughed.   “I don’t care about Christmas either, ” he said. “But I can’t wait till New Year’s Eve.”

Cuteness shouldn’t count but it does, so I was conciliatory.  “Well, you’re a guy. But I always dreaded New Year’s Eve because it meant going to parties where you had to be kissed at midnight by men you’d rather not be kissed by.”

They both were kind enough to laugh again.  (Clearly they had nothing better to do until another customer showed up.)  Encouraged, I went on:  “So all those New Year’s Eves have run together in my mind and I can specifically remember only two. One was in 1949, before you were born, when my boyfriend took me to a party at friends of his parents to admire a small black-and-white television set, the first any of us had seen.  We all sat around on bridge chairs in front of it, with the lights out, as if it were a shrine. Holding hands in the dark was nice, though.”

My mentioning 1949 must have silenced them, allowing me to continue.  “And the second was in 1959 when we were all toasting Fidel Castro for having come down from the Sierra Maestra to bring democracy to Cuba.  A lot we knew. The midnight kissing at that party wasn’t so great either. But all the thousands and thousands of other New Year’s Eves in my life?  Nada! Gone with the wind!”

Tall and cute tried to top me.  “I went to one a couple of years ago where I drank so much I got sick right at the party and vomited all over myself, the couch, somebody’s shoes, the rug…..”  He chuckled in happy reminiscence. (And this is the guy who can’t wait to ring in 2015.)

“Well, there you go,” I said, feeling we’d now run the subject into the ground and it was time to leave. “When you’re in your eighties, you’ll have at least one good New Year’s Eve story to tell!”

The idea of being in their eighties was even funnier than the vomit. Merry peals of laughter followed me out the door.

But you all have yourself a real good holiday. And never mind grumpy old us. We’ll be having one, too.  Only our way.

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ON CHARON’S WHARF

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[I recently met a woman who recommended I read a book called Broken Vessels, a collection of essays by Andre Dubus.  Dubus  — better known for his short stories — was raised a Catholic and continued in his faith as an adult. As I’m not Catholic, I hesitated. But this is a smart woman.  So I  took her advice.  

Well, there I was, plodding along, beginning to wonder why I’d listened to her — baseball essay, one about trains, another about bullies, a complaint about the justice system (tell me about it) — when suddenly I found myself in territory so gorgeous it took my breath away.  

I had to read it twice, and then some of it once more. It’s a piece called “On Charon’s Wharf”– and if it doesn’t move you, I’d better stop blogging and find something else to do.  I’ve chopped out a couple of pages about an Ingmar Bergman movie which I don’t think you’ll miss, but otherwise was afraid to tamper with it.  It’s about death, and love, and men and women.  Which means it’s about all of us.]

***

“On Charon’s Wharf” by Andre Dubus

Since we are all terminally ill, each breath and step and day one closer to the last, I must consider those sacraments which soothe our passage. I write on a Wednesday morning in December when snow covers the earth, the sky is grey, and only the evergreens seem alive. This morning I received the sacrament I still believe in: at seven-fifteen the priest elevated the host, then the chalice, and spoke the words of the ritual, and the bread became flesh, the wine became blood, and minutes later I placed on my tongue the taste of forgiveness and of love that affirmed, perhaps celebrated, my being alive, my being mortal.  This has nothing to do with immortality, with eternity; I love the earth too much to contemplate a life apart from it, although I believe in that life. No, this has to do with mortality and the touch of flesh, and my belief in the sacrament of the Eucharist is simple: without touch, God is a monologue, an idea, a philosophy; he must touch and be touched, the tongue on flesh, and that touch is the result of the monologues, the idea, the philosophies which led to faith; but in the instant of the touch there is no place for thinking, for talking; the silent touch affirms all that and goes deeper: it affirms the mysteries of love and mortality….

So many of us fail: we divorce wives and husbands, we leave the roofs of our lovers, go once again into the lonely march, mustering our courage with work, friends, half-pleasures which are not whole because they are not shared.  Yet still I believe in love’s possibility, in its presence on the earth; as I believe I can approach the altar on any morning of any day which may be the last and receive the touch that does not, for me, say: There is no death; but does say: In this instant I recognize, with you, that you must die. And I believe I can do this in an ordinary kitchen with an ordinary woman and five eggs. I scramble them in a saucepan, as my now-dead friend taught me; they stand deeper and cook softer, he said. I take our plates, spoon eggs on them, we sit and eat. She and I in the kitchen have become extraordinary: we are not simply eating; we are pausing in the march to perform an act together; we are in love; and the meal offered and received is a sacrament which says: I know you will die; I am sharing food with you; it is all I can do, and it is everything.

As lovers we must have these sacraments, these actions which restore our focus, and therefore ourselves. For our lives are hurried and much too distracted, and one of the strangest and most dangerous of all distractions is this lethargy of self we suffer from, this part of ourselves that does not want to get out of bed and once out of bed does not want to dress and once dressed does not want to prepare breakfast and once fed does not want to work. And what does it want? Perhaps it wants nothing at all. It is a mystery, a lovely one because it is human, but it is also dangerous. Some days it does not want to love, and we yield to it, we drop into an abyss whose walls echo with strange dialogues. These dialogues are with the beloved, and at their center is a repetition of the word I and sometimes you, but neither word now is uttered with a nimbus of blessing. These are the nights when we sit in that kitchen and talk too long and too much, so that the words multiply each other, and what they express — pain, doubt, anxiousness, dread — become emotions which are not rooted in our true (or better) selves, which exist apart from those two gentle people who shared eggs at this same table which now is soiled with ashes and glass-rings.

These nights can destroy us. With words we create genies which rise on the table between us, and fearfully we watch them hurt each other; they look like us, they sound like us, but they are not us, and we want to call them back, see them disappear like shriveling clouds back into our throats, down into our hearts where they can join our other selves and be forced again into their true size: a small I among many other I‘s. We try this with more words and too often the words are the wrong ones, the genies grow, and we are approaching those hours after midnight when lovers should never quarrel, for the night has its mystery too and will not be denied, it loves to distort the way we feel and if we let it, it will.  We say: But wait a minute … But you said … But I always thought that …Well how do you think I feel, who do you think you are anyway? Just who in the hell do you think you are?

There are no answers, at least not at that table. Each day she is several women, and I am several men. We must try to know each other, understand each other, and love each other as best we can. But we cannot know and understand all of each other. This is a time in our land when lovers talk to each other, and talk to counselors about each other, and talk to counselors in front of each other. We have to do this. Many of us grew up in homes whose table and living room conversations could have been recorded in the daily newspaper without embarrassing anyone, and now we want very much to explore each other, and to be explored. We are like children in peril, though, when we believe this exploring can be done with words alone, and that the exploring must always give answers, and that the exploring is love itself rather than a way to deepen it. For then we kill our hearts with talk, we place knowing and understanding higher than love, and failing at the first two, as we sometimes must, we believe we have failed at the third. Perhaps we have not. But when you believe you no longer love, you no longer do.

I need and want to give the intimacy we achieve with words. But words are complex: at times too powerful or fragile or simply wrong; and they are affected by a tone of voice, a gesture of a hand, a light in the eyes. And words are sometimes autonomous little demons who like to form their own parade and march away, leaving us behind. Once in a good counselor’s office I realized I was not telling the truth. She was asking me questions and I was trying to answer them, and I was indeed answering them. But I left out maybe, perhaps, I wonder. … Within minutes I was telling her about emotions I had not felt. But by then I was feeling what I was telling her, and that is the explosive nitroglycerin seeping through the hearts of lovers.

So what I want and want to give, more than the intimacy of words, is shared ritual, the sacraments. I believe that, without those, all our talking, no matter how enlightened, will finally drain us, divide us into two confused and frustrated people, then destroy us as lovers. We are of the flesh, and we must turn with faith toward that truth. We need the companion on the march, the arms and lips and body against the dark of the night. It is our flesh which lives in time and will die, and it is our love which comforts the flesh. Beneath all the words we must have this daily acknowledgement from the beloved, and we must give it too or pay the lonely price of not living fully in the world: that as lovers we live on Charon’s wharf, and he’s out there somewhere in that boat of his, and today he may row in to where we sit laughing, and reach out to grasp an ankle, hers or mine.

It would be madness to try to live so intensely as lovers that every word and every gesture between us was a sacrament, a pure sign that our love exists despite and perhaps even because of our mortality. But we can do what the priest does, with his morning consecration before entering the routine of his day; what the communicant does in that instant of touch, that quick song of the flesh, before he goes to work. We can bring our human, distracted love into focus with an act that doesn’t need words, an act which dramatizes for us what we are together. The act itself can be anything: five beaten and scrambled eggs, two glasses of wine, running beside each other in rhythm with the pace and breath of the beloved. They are all parts of that loveliest of all sacraments between man and woman, that passionate harmony of flesh whose breath and dance and murmur says: We are, we are, we are

1977.

ENOUGH CLEANING UP!

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Not one to shy away from admiring my own words, I’ve probably already spent far too much time combing through the fourteen months of archived stuff on TGOB to pull out the pieces I like best and make them accessible from the home page.

They’re now over on the left of the screen in three categories of “Pages” — Fiction, Selected Non-Fiction, and Selected Essays and Other Short Pieces.  I have no idea whether blog readers ever go exploring the underbrush, but if anyone has such an inclination, now it’s easy.  Pick a title on any of those three pages and click it.  Voila!  A new piece to read.  (Or re-read, as the case may be.)  They’re not in any particular order, so you can start anywhere.  Or decide not to start at all, and wait for something new.

Which should be coming up any day now. Just give me a breather.  I hate housework almost more than anything, and this job was no exception. I’m so glad it’s done.  Tell me what you think….

GETTING “THE GETTING OLD BLOG” ORGANIZED

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Now that “The Getting Old Blog” is more than a year old itself, it’s beginning to look messy, like every other one-year-old that’s not tidied up regularly.  There are essays and other short pieces all over the place — getting lost amid jokes, cat photos, recipes and also a few stories here and there.  And then there’s the literary non-fiction, popping up where least expected and disappearing when I’m scrolling down to find it.

In a sudden fit of housekeeping energy that may vanish and leave me stranded if I don’t seize the moment, I am therefore cleaning up the blog with three new pages. They are headed, respectively:  “Fiction,” “Selected Non-Fiction,” and “Selected Essays and Other Short Pieces.” They will each contain links to the pieces in their categories published within the past year that I think worth saving from oblivion.

One page goes up tonight, the other two in a couple of days.  Hope they help with exploring the best of the blog so far.  Happy reading….