Comments about our appearance in the newspaper

Some comments regarding the appearance Peggy and I made in the newspaper.

“I was looking at the paper when I thought to myself, ‘I know those dogs.’ Then I saw you.”

“Don’t give up your day job to become a model.”

“My wife was reading the paper, and she asked, “Isn’t this the man who you said visited your lodge?”

“I noticed that your dogs were leashed. I didn’t know your dogs had leashes.”

“I agree with you. When I see a VW van with a sticker that says Stumps Don’t Lie, I know I’m about to breathe oil.”

Most of the people we know have mentioned the article, and this comes as a surprise to us because we don’t get the paper. In fact, we still haven’t seen the article except on the Internet, and we can but hope that our printed photo wasn’t as big as it was bad. I do not have a beer belly. I do not wear pants that are two sizes too large. Peggy’s bangs are not plastered to the top of her head. Baxter’s black fur does not make him look like a black hole, although Bonnie really was hunkering down to poop—I can but hope that people thought she was curtsying.

Too many options

My Masonic lodge visited the Junction City lodge this week. I sat beside Brother Belvin Terry who is dying from prostate cancer. He told this to each of the visitors in turn, and I listened to their reactions. One said that death comes to all. Another pointed out that he had at least exceeded the average lifespan. A third advised that he would get well if he took care of himself. When Brother Terry disagreed, the speaker tried again to reassure him, almost angrily this time. The next day, I asked the lodge’s secretary if Brother Terry would welcome a visit. I will call him soon.

I just got up to pour myself some coffee, but had forgotten to put the carafe on the warmer when I started the drip and had to clean up a large puddle. It was not the worst experience of my life—at least there’s that to be said for it.

Today, I bought a book about retirement planning, and later wondered what kind of books I would buy if I only had a few months to live. What if I knew I had seen my last Christmas, and that Peggy would be a widow when the daffodils next bloom?

My one certainty is that I would make the aftermath as easy for her as possible. I would take care of things like getting the den re-roofed and finding people to do some of the chores I now do. I would teach her more about the computer, and I would get rid of many of my personal items. But, beyond all that, how would we spend the time I had left? Would we sell the house? Would we travel?

I only know that I would not want to drain our savings on medical care if my odds of surviving were poor. Peggy long ago stopped loving her job, so how then could I leave her broke? Yet, if she were the one who was ill, would I count the cost? I would like to say that I would trade everything for even a miniscule chance that she would live; and I think this is what I would say—if it were only about money. But it’s also about doctors, drugs, hospitals, and the other irksome details of fighting a battle that you will almost certainly lose.

The trouble with living is that I cannot escape the feeling that I am responsible for something without knowing what that something is. I don’t mean responsible in the sense of fulfilling an ordained purpose but rather in fulfilling an obligation to myself. I seem to have done so little compared to what I might have done. I say this, yet when I ask myself what it is that I would do differently, I don’t know. I have a feeling of having failed, but without an awareness of what would constitute success.

I never cease to be amazed by the number of people I never heard of that are listed in the Britannica. One might be a Frenchman whose paintings were once popular but have not stood the test of time; another an Englishman who wrote forty books that are out of print. What made these people’s lives worth remembering? What makes any life worth remembering, and what does it matter whether I’m remembered? I will readily admit that a man can lead an extraordinarily virtuous life and still be quickly and utterly forgotten, so what then do I really want? By what measure might I pronounce my life worthwhile?

Many of the people who appear in the Britannica are remembered for the harm they did. Hannibal took a vow as a child to conquer Rome. By the time he committed suicide, hundreds of thousands had been killed or ruined because of him, yet Rome still stood. Others don’t strike me so much as evil as worthless. The major accomplishment of Madonna, for example, seems to be that she set new lows for tackiness by a female performer. Thanks to her, Britney Spears can sink even lower, but unlike the Hannibals and Napoleons, such people are the symptom rather than the cause of societal suffering.

If I were dying, perhaps, I would not find it worthwhile to think about such things. It is in this sense that I envy the dying. Like people in a burning house, they are forced to rely on instinct in deciding what to pick up and what to put down.

Not too many months ago, a local man robbed a bank and then sat quietly in the lobby awaiting arrest. I can imagine that such a one simply lost his ability to deal with having so many options. Every minute of every day, I choose to do one thing at the expense of not doing an unimaginable number of other things. It is a dreadful responsibility to have untold options without knowing which ones are best or if any of them are best.

It might be argued that the question is a matter of personal preference. For example, one person becomes a carpenter, another a dental hygienist. Both fill important functions, but the rub is that not everyone is suited to be a carpenter or a hygienist. This is true even among those who are carpenters and hygienists. I have always envied people who love their jobs so much that they would work for free: they have an assuredness about their place in the universe that I have never enjoyed. I see my life rather as a succession of uncertainties and miscalculations, and this appears to be the common lot. I just worry about it more than most people.

Tirade

An appliance repairman called and woke us up this morning despite being asked twice to call later in the day. When Peggy complained, he said he preferred to call when it was convenient for him. As soon as she hung up, I called him back and got an answering machine. I then called the store where we bought the appliance, and asked for the owner. I knew better than to speak to him when enraged, but I indulged myself.

I have never seen my anger from the outside, but it must look pretty bad because, from the inside, it feels very much like my father behaved. He would tremble; his voice would quiver; and he would spare no measure of abusive language. I differ from him in that I rarely speak until I calm down, and I apologize when I do.

I can count three apologies that I have made in ten years, and one that I wish I had made (I cursed a stranger over who was next in line for a urinal). The total number of instances was small, but the size of my anger was big. If displays of extreme anger worked, they would at least have that to recommend them, but I doubt that anger ever works in the long term. Even if it gets a person what he wants on the outside, it corrodes him on the inside. Then there are its unseen consequences. For example, my foremost memory of my father is of a scary individual with whom I could never relax because I couldn’t predict all of the many things that would push him over the edge. He was lucky that he never got into a mortal scrape, and the same can be said for me.

I drove to the store today and apologized to the owner. He accepted, but I know he will think of me as one who bears watching.

Om Mani Padme Hum

I walked over to the gem show at the fairgrounds today, but was only tempted by two items. One was a ring that was inscribed Om Mani Padme Hum, a Sanskrit prayer for compassion; the other a fossilized trilobite. I have always identified with creatures like trilobites and pillbugs that vacillate between being fully open and fully closed. I hit both extremes just this week. When my house was egged, and I couldn’t get the city to move yet another camper, I contemplated covering my living room window with Plexiglas and buying a motion detector for the yard. Then I spent time with Zula, and my heart reopened. Ironically, the measures I take to stay safe make me more fearful. Go figure.

It is thundering, and Bonnie is panting in terror under my desk. I can smell her hot breath, and it and the sound of her breathing is driving me crazy. I am trying to keep my heart open, so I can’t bring myself to make her move as I would normally do. Yet, she is not to be comforted, and I am feeling increasingly annoyed and powerless. I am prepared to (a) help her or (b) run her out of the room, but I don’t know how to just be with her. I ask myself what would LOVE do, and I’m not sure because my love for Bonnie does not seem compatible with my love for myself at the moment.

I called Mabel yesterday to tell her I was sorry about Zula’s passing. She said she went to Zula’s apartment the day before Zula died, and found her sitting in her recliner with her eyes closed and her hands folded. When Mabel touched Zula’s forehead to see if she was still alive, Zula smiled broadly and said, “I’m still here.” The next day, Mabel found Zula in the same position, only this time her forehead was cold and her body stiff. “You’re not here today, my dear friend,” Mabel said. Om Mani Padme Hum.

The following is my paraphrase of an old story, the origin of which is unknown to me.

A monk spent years concentrating on a particular mantra, and finally gained enough insight to teach other monks. His success was such that he soon concluded that there was nothing more he needed to learn; but upon hearing of an elderly hermit, he went to meet him.

The hermit lived on an island in a lake, so the monk hired a boatman to take him there. As the monk and the hermit drank tea together, the monk inquired about his spiritual practice. The hermit said he had no spiritual practice, except for a mantra which he constantly repeated. The monk was pleased to learn that the hermit was using the same mantra as himself, but when the hermit spoke it aloud, the monk was horrified!

“What’s wrong?” asked the hermit.

“I don’t know what to say. I’m afraid you’ve wasted your whole life! You are pronouncing the mantra incorrectly!”

“That is terrible. How should I say it?”

The monk shared the correct pronunciation, and the old hermit asked to be left alone so he could start practicing. On his return across the lake the monk was pondering the sad fate of the hermit.

“I’m so glad I came along. At least he will have a little time to practice the mantra correctly before he dies.” Just then, the boatman looked quite shocked, and the monk turned to see the hermit standing on the water beside him.

“Excuse me, please. I hate to bother you, but I’ve forgotten the correct pronunciation. Would you repeat it for me?”

“You obviously don’t need it,” stammered the monk; but the old man persisted until he relented.

When the monk last saw him, the old hermit was saying the mantra very slowly as he walked back across the lake.

The thunder has passed, and Bonnie is at peace.

Ed

We had 47 at the lodge installation last night, one of them black. Ed is only the fourth black person I have known in Oregon, and the only black Odd Fellow (making him odd even among the odd). I don’t know how much of it is due to him being black and me having a Southern accent, but when we are in the same room, we can’t stay away from one another, and I keep thinking that what I would really like to do would be to give Ed a big long hug. I tell myself that I should think of him as just another person—like a well-tanned white guy—but I keeping looking at how black he is, and thinking that I miss black people.

When I’m around Ed, I feel like a part of me is missing, and that Ed fills the empty space. He’s my black fix. What he gets from me, I don’t know. He’s from Pennsylvania, so I can’t remind him of home. Maybe he listens to my drawl, pictures Klan robes in my closet, and wants to figure out what I’m really about; not that we talk about any of this. Mostly, I don’t talk at all except to ask questions while Ed describes his various health problems. A person’s medical history is not usually a subject that makes me hang onto his every word, but when that someone is Ed, I can’t get enough. He could be reading the phone book for all I care.

If there’s a lot of emotional stuff between black people and white people in this country, there is probably a good bit more between Northern blacks and Southern whites. I can’t imagine Ed listening to me speak without my voice bringing up feelings that he doesn’t have everyday; and I can’t look at him without wishing from the bottom of my heart that history had been a lot different. Half of Mississippi is black, yet the racial division in which I grew-up was such that they might as well have lived in another country. Even when I had black friends, our friendship was like a tiny point at which two opposing lines momentarily came together and that had nothing to do with our real lives.

After lodge tonight, everyone retired to the dining room for a feast of pies, cakes, cookies, candies, donuts, cupcakes, and….fried chicken. Guess who brought the chicken? Forty-seven people at a dessert feast, and one guy brings fried chicken, and that one guy just happens to be the only black man present! If I knew Ed better, I might have teased him about this, but I would have my toenails ripped out before I would risk causing offense. If I were to hurt Ed, it would break my heart.