Trust?

Peggy and I cashed $30,000 in government bonds this week. They looked good when we got them—secure, paid decent interest, added diversity to our portfolio—but the rate dropped so we converted them into a CD at a credit union. I would have bought stocks with the money, but Peggy insisted on a CD, and 5.5% is good right now.

The credit union lady was mischievous. When she got to the part of the application about how the account was to be listed—whether one of us could clean the other out, or we both would have to sign for the money—she looked from one to the other, as if to ask, “What’s it going to be—are you two gutsy enough to jump from the high board?”

Money represents ultimate trust. Some think ultimate trust is be represented by something like rope climbing with a partner, but it is not ordinarily in the self-interest of your climbing partner to kill you. Others might think ultimate trust would be represented by choosing a heart surgeon, but again, treachery would not serve the other party.

Peggy used to have a whole life policy on me. I never understood this since she could have carried on financially without undue burden, and because whole life is a lousy investment unless the insured party dies prematurely. I knew that her father had whole life policies on everyone in her family (he gave the policies to his daughters when they grew up), so I laid the decision off to her respect for his prudence. She has often encouraged me to take out life insurance on her, what with her being the breadwinner and me being barely employable. “What would you do without me?” she asks. “I would live frugally,” I answer.

So, no, there is no financial reason for either of us to murder the other unless we were so greedy as to want the house. Everything else could be had with a few clicks of the mouse. My trust in Peggy is such that if she cleaned me out, I would probably kill myself. But if I cleaned her out, I suspect she would kill me. I can just hear her talking to herself as she sat in front of a computerized spreadsheet with zeros at the bottom.

“I’ve put up with a lot from that son-of-a-bitch. He drank; he did drugs; he’s certifiably insane; twice he nearly went to jail; he never held a job for over four years; he not only womanized near home, he left me for months at a time so he could womanize in exotic places, all while I earned him a paycheck. But now this. Thirty-five years of hard work and savings gone. And for what—a new generation of whores? I’ve been kind, loyal, tolerant, and even loving for two generations, but, by god, this time I’m going to nail him.”

“Ah, trust, it’s a beautiful thing.” When I say these words to Peggy, she just looks at me. She’s never been much of a talker, and her silences are unsettling. “When you don’t talk, I don’t know what you’re thinking,” I say. “I’m not thinking anything,” she answers.

Yes, trust. Sometimes, in some situations, I think that one or both of two things must be true: Peggy’s lying (or doesn’t know her true feelings), or I’m crazy. I think this because I cannot make her words mesh with my reality. Since I know I’m crazy—regardless of whether or not she’s lying—I’m really only stumped about whether she’s lying in a given situation.

Paris Hilton and the monk who grabbed a bush

As I was buying gas for the lawn mower today, I had the thought that buying gas for her mower probably isn’t something that Paris Hilton does very often. If I had paparazzi six-deep lining the street out front, and three helicopter loads of paparazzi circling overhead, mowing the grass wouldn’t be the same for me either. I usually mow in paint-spattered pants with a zipper that won’t stay up, so that could be a problem right there—all those telephoto lens catching a view of old underwear and flashing it (pardon the pun) around the globe.

The thing that interests me most about Paris Hilton is how much people care about her. You might say they care for all the wrong reasons, but they still care—at least to the extent of being interested. If I died tomorrow, I would get a small write-up in the back of the local paper alongside the twenty or so other people who just died in Eugene. A longer obituary or a postage-stamp size photo would cost extra.

My entire life is of less interest to my fellow human beings (en masse) than how Paris Hilton’s hair looked in court (messy ponytail). This is true of nearly everyone. No matter how much we achieve or what obstacles we overcome, our lives are of less concern to society than the life of a twenty-something heiress who is possibly alcoholic, probably not too bright, and without any obvious talents. So has it always been. Even in the history books, few are remembered, and a large percentage of them for their silliness if not their evil.

But as with all things, there are different ways of looking at it. For all that Paris Hilton has, she can only find privacy indoors. She is not only followed, she is mobbed. No quiet walks in the moonlight; no tranquil moments in the forest; no possibility of taking a class or joining a club. The sad thing about Paris Hilton—and most of us, I suspect—is that we could have done so much more. Or at least, it looks as if we could have done so much more. What stopped us? If I were to die today—and I had the time and inclination to ponder my life first—I would feel awfully bad that I did so little and that so much of that was ill-advised. Sometimes it seems as my days are but a succession of missed opportunities.

Why is this? Two reasons. One is that I have little faith in what I perceive as my talents (or at least in society’s interest in my talents), and the other is that I have few standards by which to judge what is important. Should I write a book, start a school, or devote my life to rescuing abandoned dogs? I feel paralyzed by a surfeit of options.

I have garnered a great deal of practical wisdom about the details of living, but I know next to nothing about why I should live, about why any of us should live. I’ve read various versions of a story that goes like this:

A monk falls off a cliff. He grabs a bush on the way down, but, as he hangs there, he sees that the bush is about to come out by its roots. However, the bush contains a plum, and the monk plucks that plum, and eats it. He thinks it might be the best plum he has ever tasted.

The trick is to believe that the plum matters, but does it? I don’t think “matters” is a quality that exists. Like beauty, it is a subjective valuation that has no reality in the external world. Instead of enjoying the plum, the monk might have spent his last moments in terror. The plum was more pleasant, but was it more important? What would make it more important?

Windy Pass and the end of mountain biking

Peggy and I gave up on trail biking after I fell into a hole that formerly housed the root ball of a Douglas Fir. I estimated the depth at twenty-two feet, although Peggy insisted that it was closer to four (my estimate being more reliable because I got to examine the hole from above, below, and in-between). I was extremely pleased to escape with nothing worse than superficial cuts and bruises.

Our decision to avoid trails was not based solely upon my accident, but upon the absence of any really favorable experiences. Trails are for people who are less prone to injury, more prone to recovery, and who seek a different sort of experience. We go to the woods to enjoy the scenery and the plant-life, activities that are incompatible with having to keep our eyes on the ground.

After my wreck, we drove to an isolated road where we camped, biked, and botanized for two days. I also started a trip diary containing a critique of the roads we bike. The following is my first entry.

Saddle Blanket Mtn area (moderate)
June 7-8, 2007

Road 1802 from Windy Pass (3800’) NW to intersection with Road 1824 (3000’). Appx 10 miles. Southwestern exposure.

3-mile stretch between Windy Pass and abandoned Spur 210 goes up and down. Rest of trip downhill but not excessively steep. Low cliffs, numerous waterfalls, panoramic views, two abandoned quarries, and diverse flora mark first half of trip. Second half contains increasingly dense woods.

Secluded, scenic campsite on point at end of abandoned Spur 210, appx 3 miles from Windy Pass. Other area roads badly overgrown.

Sec17 Twn20S Rng 03E to Sec26 Twn19S Rng02E

Angry dogs, marital challenges, and the healing power of tooth paste

The dogs are mad because I haven’t taken them for a run. They ran ten mountainous miles yesterday, and I say that that should cover for today too. They disagree. Like everyone, dogs develop expectations, and my dogs expect a four-mile run everyday. “Just let me have today off, please?” I ask. “Feckless bastard,” Bonnie answers. “Pusillanimous son of a bitch,” intones Baxter. (I’ll never get used to the way modern dogs talk to their masters.)

“What do the two of you know about my mother? She was dead years before you were born, but if you had known her, you would have loved her. She would have accused me of never feeding you, and would have given you treats until you were as bloated as wood ticks. ‘Mother,’ I would have said. ‘They act hungry because they are DOGS, and dogs are GLUTTONS. They no longer have waists, for god’s sakes. Can’t you see that?’” No, she couldn’t have.

The partially remodeled den is a mess. Sheetrock dust everywhere. The house is beyond needing to be cleaned, but there’s no point in cleaning it until I’m done making dust. If I could devote full time to the den, it wouldn’t be so bad, but I had a Masonic meeting today and an IOOF one tomorrow, and then there was yesterday’s bike ride in the mountains. It’s 10:00 p.m., and I’m tired. I just want to relax and write a little before I eat a late supper and bike home with Peggy when she gets off at midnight. That’s why I don’t want to take the dogs for a run. Besides, I have a rash down below, right where groin hits bike seat. Something fungal maybe. Peggy suggested herpes. “You would know,” I retorted, as I wondered where the hell she thought I would have picked up herpes. She advised that I put toothpaste on the rash. Peggy is a big believer in toothpaste. “Will I grow teeth down there?” I asked. “Only if I grow teeth on my nose,” she said, and I wondered why she had toothpaste on her nose. Like the comment about herpes, a lot doesn’t get addressed in a marriage. Sometimes, the conversation moves too quickly; other times, the potential querier simply doesn’t want to know.

Peggy’s speculation that I might have herpes wouldn’t seem to fit either of these categories, but what might I have said: “Dear, do you think I’m fooling around on you?” Well, yes, I might have said that, and she would have probably said that the thought had crossed her mind, me having done exactly that kind of thing a couple of dozen times by now. Then I would have been obliged to assure her that she was wrong. But I did assure her that she was wrong with my “you would know” remark and my look of surprise. I wisely cut out the rest, the tedium of a discussion about a non-existent liaison.

We did discuss her coming trip to France. I am opposed to it, but what would be the good of insisting that she stay home; of insisting that she avoid plane crashes, crazy motorists, Arab terrorists, scam artists, transcontinental germs, an outrageous financial expenditure, the silliness of attending an opera and touring Mozart’s house when she has never been to Eugene’s opera or listened to Mozart on her own stereo? Maybe she would stay home, but I would have become the poop of her party, the rain on her parade, the despoiler of a “special once-in-a-lifetime trip” with her sister and Francophile niece.

Marriage is terribly limiting, terribly restrictive, so there’s no point in making it worse than need be. Therefore and wheretofore, I have to give her space to go to France. “It won’t break us,” as she’s fond of saying, and I know that, in all likelihood, she will survive—and maybe even avoid the flu, and maybe even have a good time. After all, it’s France. Not the Middle East. Not some bacteria-riddled dump in the tropics. It’s France. They’re civilized and sanitary over there. Maybe even more than we are here. I wouldn’t know. I’m unlikely to ever see France. I’m content with Oregon. I love that which is at hand simply because it is at hand.

Do I have no curiosity then about the history, culture, and natural aspects of a faraway place? Am I THAT provincial? Well, if I won a trip to France, I would probably go (that is if I couldn’t sell the trip to someone else), but otherwise, it wouldn’t occur to me. Peggy doesn’t like it that I am this way, but the secret of a happy marriage is not so much in shared preferences but in accepting—if not delighting in—your partner’s differences.

Right now, her desire to go to France is a difference that I am finding hard to accept. She will be halfway around the world, and what if she needs me, or I need her, or what if some catastrophe should make it impossible for her to come home. I won’t rest easy until next she’s back.

Bitchy, dogs, France, toothpaste for herpes

The dogs are pissy, because I haven’t taken them for a run. They ran ten mountainous miles yesterday, and I say that that should cover for today too. They disagree. Like everyone, dogs develop expectations, and my dogs expect a four-mile run everyday. “Just let me have today off, please?” I ask. “Feckless bastard,” Bonnie answers. “Pusillanimous son of a bitch,” intones Baxter. (I’ll never get used to the way modern dogs talk to their masters.)

“What do the two of you know about my mother? She was dead years before you were born, but if you had known her, you would have loved her. She would have accused me of never feeding you, and would have given you treats until you were as bloated as wood ticks. ‘Mother,’ I would have said. ‘They act hungry because they are DOGS, and dogs are GLUTTONS. They no longer have waists, for god’s sakes. Can’t you see that?’” No, she couldn’t have.

The partially remodeled den is a mess. Sheetrock dust everywhere. The house is beyond needing to be cleaned, but there’s no point in cleaning it until I’m done making dust. If I could devote full time to the den, it wouldn’t be so bad, but I had a Masonic meeting today and an IOOF one tomorrow, and then there was yesterday’s bike ride in the mountains. It’s 10:00 p.m., and I’m tired. I just want to relax and write a little before I eat a late supper and bike home with Peggy when she gets off at midnight. That’s why I don’t want to take the dogs for a run. Besides, I have a rash down below, right where groin hits bike seat. Something fungal maybe. Peggy suggested herpes. “You would know,” I retorted, as I wondered where the hell she thought I would have picked up herpes. She advised that I put toothpaste on the rash. Peggy is a big believer in toothpaste. “Will I grow teeth down there?” I asked. “Only if I grow teeth on my nose,” she said, and I wondered why she had toothpaste on her nose. Like the comment about herpes, a lot doesn’t get addressed in a marriage. Sometimes, the conversation moves too quickly; other times, the potential querier simply doesn’t want to know.

Peggy’s speculation that I might have herpes wouldn’t seem to fit either of these categories, but what might I have said: “Dear, do you think I’m fooling around on you?” Well, yes, I might have said that, and she would have probably said that the thought had crossed her mind, me having done exactly that kind of thing a couple of dozen times by now. Then I would have been obliged to assure her that she was wrong. But I did assure her that she was wrong with my “you would know” remark and my look of surprise. I wisely cut out the rest, the tedium of a discussion about a non-existent liaison.

We did discuss her coming trip to France. I am opposed to it, but what would be the good of insisting that she stay home; of insisting that she avoid plane crashes, crazy motorists, Arab terrorists, scam artists, transcontinental germs, an outrageous financial expenditure, the silliness of attending an opera and touring Mozart’s house when she has never been to Eugene’s opera or listened to Mozart on her own stereo? Maybe she would stay home, but I would have become the poop of her party, the rain on her parade, the despoiler of a “special once-in-a-lifetime trip” with her sister and Francophile niece.

Marriage is terribly limiting, terribly restrictive, so there’s no point in making it worse than need be. Therefore and wheretofore, I have to give her space to go to France. “It won’t break us,” as she’s fond of saying, and I know that, in all likelihood, she will survive—and maybe even avoid the flu, and maybe even have a good time. After all, it’s France. Not the Middle East. Not some bacteria-riddled dump in the tropics. It’s France. They’re civilized and sanitary over there. Maybe even more than we are here. I wouldn’t know. I’m unlikely to ever see France. I’m content with Oregon. I love that which is at hand simply because it is at hand.

Do I have no curiosity then about the history, culture, and natural aspects of a faraway place? Am I THAT provincial? Well, if I won a trip to France, I would probably go (that is if I couldn’t sell the trip to someone else), but otherwise, it wouldn’t occur to me. Peggy doesn’t like it that I am this way, but the secret of a happy marriage is not so much in shared preferences but in accepting—if not delighting in—your partner’s differences.

Right now, her desire to go to France is a difference that I am finding hard to accept. She will be halfway around the world, and what if she needs me, or I need her, or what if some catastrophe should make it impossible for her to come home. I won’t rest easy until next she’s back.