all of the selves we Have ever been
More than 78,000 servicemen went missing during World War II. Too many families were left to wonder. One mother received the news that her son’s plane went down over the mountains of Europe. Neither the plane nor his body was ever recovered. For the rest of her life, that mother never moved from the house where she first received the news, and she never again locked the doors in case her beloved son should find his way home. Some people might say this mother lived in a state of denial. Maybe a doctor or therapist diagnosed her with complicated bereavement, unresolved grief or depression. Over time, others may have grown frustrated at her unwillingness to accept the “truth” and at her foolishness in leaving the doors unlocked. Many people may have given up on her, getting on with their lives, and leaving that mother alone with her wishful thinking and her grief. But the story speaks to me of love, the deep, abiding kind of love that does not end. It is spiritual in nature. I cannot but join her in hope that love might win and bring her boy back through that open door even though I know his return is unlikely. Though the longing hurts, it says that love has lived in a heart now torn by loss. Longing is a terrible itch and an aching tear; hope is the salve and the suture. There are plenty of gashes in me mended by the thread of hope. I have spent more than a few hours of my life negotiating with God, trying to get Him to see things my way, offering bargains. Some folks call those silent conversations prayer. Others call them denial. Perhaps they are a display of hope, a positive emotion that springs up in the face of fear and uncertainty. In the Greek myth, after Pandora opened the box releasing evil and disease into the world, only hope remained. Sometimes hope is the only tool remaining in our tool boxes, too. Employing it does not mean that we are silly or stupid. G. K. Chesterton wrote that “hope is the power of being cheerful in circumstances we know to be desperate.” That kind of hope gives us the will and the courage to fight evil in the world and the determination and ingenuity to conquer disease. So, let us stand with all those whose hearts are filled with longing, and leave our doors open for hope.
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I just read a book about emotional health. In one of the chapters it was reported that emotional health at age 16 is a good predictor of life satisfaction. Well, that explains a lot! Was anyone else trying to learn to drive at age 16? I was a reluctant student driver to begin with, but it became a necessity in our household. My mom was a single, working mother before there were child care centers and supportive services. We needed a second driver in the house, and my older sister was away at college. Decision made. Mom tried. She took me out on the road in our old Ford station wagon. That was back in the days when a sedan was as long as a train car and a station wagon even longer. We set out on the suburban streets surrounding our home, mom gripping the dashboard screaming, “Jesus, God! Jesus, God!” Sometimes she got the entire holy family involved, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” All the while her foot was slamming down on the brake pedal that didn’t really exist on the passenger side of the car. I signed up for the in-class driver’s education program at my high school. It was a relief to just listen about driving though there were a couple of scary films--one about what happens when you don’t obey railroad crossing signals and another about driving intoxicated on prom night…enough imagery for a lifetime of bad dreams. My mom agreed to pay for a few lessons from my quiet, gentle classroom instructor. The first time my teacher picked me up at home, my mother proceeded to give him a very long list of instructions that included the places I could and could not drive. By the time we got into the instructor’s car, he was chain smoking and ordered me to head for the top location on my mother’s “do not drive” list. Finally, the day came for my driving test. We are talking about a frigid December day in the hilly terrain of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. December in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. My mother and I arrived at the testing station. An officer came to get me when it was my turn. That was back in the day when a police officer commanded not just casual respect, but reverence. We bowed our heads and said, “Yes, Officer,” while handing over the documents. But then there was an “Oops!” The car registration was expired! Thankfully, mom was cool and so was the officer. He gave my mom a verbal warning, and he and I got into the car. I can’t say that I was rattled. That would imply movement. I was nearly paralyzed by that time. Miraculously, I passed. That was probably due to the many times my mom had invoked the names of Jesus, Mary and Joseph. I can’t say age 16 was the best year to be measuring my emotional health. Thankfully, my state of mind did not project longevity. I don’t think I would have made it to my high school graduation. My vision is changing with age. From time to time I come across lists of “notable failures,” people who suffered a lack of success early in life or career and later rose to fame and fortune. I know these stories are intended to inspire, but sometimes they mislead. The stories do not reflect the entire reality of a person’s life. Sometimes these stories conceal important truths or reduce the significance of the journey making the rest of us feel like losers. Bill Gates is someone whose name frequently appears on these lists of notable failures. But his dropping out of Harvard does not imply failure at any level. He was never a failure. He was always brilliant, well-educated, and well-supported. He simply changed directions and chose to pick up speed toward his destination. Bill Gates didn’t need Harvard to get where he was going. Is it un-American to say so? I have lived among the poor and often brokenhearted for most of my life. It has been a rich experience. I’ve known brave children disfigured by terrible abuse, individuals who survived the concentration camps of the Holocaust, veterans of horrific wars, refugees from the tyranny of Stalin, people living with painful cancers and neurodegenerative diseases—all remarkable people who have changed my view of success. I am intrigued by self-help books. I love story. I am eager to understand where someone comes from, how they got where they are. I am hopeful to learn from their struggles and their strategies, but I am also aware that we are each so different that the same ten point plan that worked for one may not work for others. These success stories often downplay the interaction of talent with luck and timing. If you were born during the Great Depression, survival alone might be a mighty success. If you are an aspiring writer who happens to sit next to a well-respected agent during a flight from New York to London, good things might come from that happenstance. If you are the son of a president, you might have a greater chance of becoming president yourself. We can’t always tell what’s in people by looking at them though we make important decisions about them based on a glance. I think of the story of two veterans. Their lives came together on a battlefield. One was down and taking enemy fire. The other soldier swooped in and rescued the downed soldier. The rescued soldier made a career in the military rising to the highest ranks at the Pentagon. The rescuer is homeless. Which one is a success? The same story and the same circumstances leave them with two different outcomes. If you save someone’s life, can you ever be an utter failure? If you save someone’s life and that life goes on to achieve great success, are you not part of the success story, too? Most of us live humble lives. We won’t be getting book deals to tell our stories. Because of our cultural measuring stick, we don’t always understand that we have succeeded. We have our own failures, but even those failures are often less than “notable”--
My vision is changing with age. I think I see more clearly now. "Be ruthless.” That’s what the experts say. What do they know? They carry their memories on microchips--hidden and convenient, password-protected. “Take a picture,” they say. But a picture is not always worth a thousand words. My stuff is talking to me! Be ruthless? Ruthless people don’t accumulate enormous vaults of sentiment and attachment. They can let go of that shirt that carries the scent of a beloved child or toss to the curb the worn chair where a father sat to read the newspaper each night for fifty years. Ruthless people have no need to downsize. They live their entire lives downsized—people, things, memories mean nothing to the ruthless. I cannot identify with ruthlessness. I travel among the merciful. That old stuff calls out to me in the voices of people I have loved. I am a listener by nature and by trade. I just can’t cut off those voices mid-sentence. Telling me to be ruthless about my treasures is like telling a preacher to stop believing. Full reveal: it doesn’t even have to be my own stuff! When I go to a flea market or antique store, I always see something that I remember from long ago, perhaps in my grandmother’s house or in my first grade classroom. I see photographs of people I never knew, and yet I have the feeling that if I stand there long enough, the people pictured will begin to speak to me and tell me their story. Somehow, I will find out that, hey, we’re related! Our old furnishings know things about us. That chip in the glass, the sag in the armchair, the scratch on the dining room table--our stuff remembers how it all happened. I feel a friendship with the pieces as though they might remember me, too. Do they feel a comfort in an old familiar touch? Can they share an objective view of who I was, of the former selves I have been and, perhaps forgotten? Our stuff matters not so much for its material value, but because we fear that if we let it all go, our memories and our history will vanish into the back of rental truck never to be found again. We fear that we will remove the ties that bind us to our people and our places, the ones that make us who we are. But a time may come when the sheer volume of stuff threatens to overtake our space, or it is time to move. Maybe the care needed by our things exceeds our energy level and our time. And so it happens that we must say goodbye, or risk that someone will later say goodbye to all of it for us, perhaps someone ruthless. So, do not be ruthless. Be merciful—to yourself and to your stuff. Be courageous. Be generous. Let your treasures live along with the stories inside them. Find someone to tell the stories to, give away the items or re-purpose the parts. It’s good for the earth and good for the soul. Even out of sight, those items will carry us into the future. There are more of the merciful out there, people who will admire our old treasures, long to own them, and patiently wait for the pieces to tell them our stories. Have you ever conversed with a preschooler? I am awed by the profound questions they ask. And the questions are pure. They reflect a deep desire to know and to understand. Young children are truth seekers, and that can present some challenges for the average parent. When my daughter was three, she asked me, “Mommy, where do the bad guys live?” Now, that’s a BIG question and a frightening one for the parent of a preschooler. The answer has only gotten more terrifying in the digital age. Twenty-five years later, my daughter now understands that the bad guys can live in your pocket, and through your phone, they can steal your identity and bleed your bank account dry. They can come into your toddler’s bedroom through a baby monitor, or ask Alexa to open the door to your house. But back then, she was just trying to understand the limits of her personal safety. With that typical preschool blend of concrete thought and magical thinking, she likely pictured a physical zone that separates the good guys from the bad. She just needed to understand the geography. When my daughter was five and busy playing with Barbie dolls, she came into the kitchen to ask, ”Mom, whatever happened to Barbie’s mother?” Interesting question. In all of the years that I had loved and played with Barbie dolls, I had never thought of Barbie in the context of a family, that she might have a story other than the ones scripted for her by me or her wardrobe. Perhaps, my daughter was thinking about growing up—what happens to the mothers of grown-up girls? Are grown-up girls expected to ditch their mothers? Or maybe she wondered if mothers just disappear at some point in a girl’s life. Deep thoughts. The tragic events of 9/11 took place during the school day. The school administration told the students that there had been a “national emergency,” and parents could be asked about it when the children got home. At 3:30 PM the backdoor flew open. My children were excited and impatient. “Mom, what’s the national emergency? What’s the national emergency?!” I tried to explain it as simply as I could, to be calm and reassuring. My bright seven year old son, said, “Mom, just tell me one thing. Will I live to see my eighth birthday?” His birthday was less than a month away. Somehow, his innocent young mind had grasped the significance of the day’s events. Sometimes when there are no satisfactory answers, children come up with their own. Their ideas are limited by their life experiences and fueled by the enchanted thinking of early childhood. After the death of his beloved grandmother, my then five year old son grappled with the question, “Why do people have to die?” We had many conversations about death and dying. Usually, it was at bed time that the question scrolled through his mind. One night, as Sam lay in bed, I sat beside him while he pondered the issue of death. Sam was determined to find a solution. People should not have to die. That was ridiculous. After much conversation, Sam determined that he would write a letter to Santa Claus as that was the only person Sam could think of who had managed to live forever. “That’s a great idea,” I said with relief. “We’ll do that tomorrow.” Sam snuggled down under the covers. I turned off the light, and just as the door was closing, I heard Sam yell, “Mom! Mom!” I entered the room and turned on the light. Sam was standing up on the bed his eyes dancing. “Mom, what if it’s the cookies?!” Ah, a sweet solution. A globetrotting, cookie-munching Santa lives forever. I can see that in the science books. I know a few folks who are testing the theory. We’ll see how it turns out. Ever on the lookout for the express train to health and wellness as I age, I read an article reporting that jumping twenty times twice a day can improve bone health in seniors. Wow! That sounds easy. I walk every day, stretch a few times a week, do some light weights. How hard can it be to jump? I wait for the neighbor in the apartment below to pull out of the parking lot, and I head for the back bedroom. I ponder for a few minutes. What did the author mean exactly by “jumping?” Is that just plain old up and down? Jumping rope? Jumping on something? Jumping off? Realizing I’m making this complicated enough to talk myself into giving up before I even begin (which explains why I am always on the lookout for the express train), I settle on the standard, time-tested jumping jack. How many of those have I done in my life? Sounds of Robert Preston, the Music Man, singing the 1962 Youth Fitness Song and visions of high school gym class come to mind: “…clap and jump and stride, known as the jumping-jack far and wide…” Yes, sir! Go, you chicken fat, go! I’m all in… I take the first jump and immediately realize this is much harder than it sounds. My body feels dead and heavy like a wrecking ball. By the third jump I can feel my heart racing and hear it pounding in my ears. I wonder if the neighbors will be calling to complain. The window blinds vibrate, and stuff begins to shift on the shelves. I enter into negotiations with myself, maybe I’ll start with ten today. By five I’ve called out my inner drill sergeant, and I’m shouting at myself, don’t be a loser! The intimidated new recruit in me is wondering if it’s possible for my knees to end up where my hips used to be. I realize that if my leg bones don’t crumble and I continue with this, I’m definitely going to need an iron support bra. I deride myself onward, and I make it to ten. I’ve worked up a sweat, and I realize this takes some balance. My mantra becomes: Don’t fall. Don’t fall… How will I explain my injuries to the emergency squad? My eyeglasses flop up and down striking my forehead and slapping my nose. My sweatpants are sliding down my hips. I’m working up an appetite. By fifteen I re-open negotiations—maybe I’ll do twenty jumps once a day—just for starters. Eighteen…nineteen…twenty. Yahoo! Everyone sing: Go, you chicken fat, go! I plop in the recliner. Back to pondering. When was the last time I jumped? I try to think of why it is I haven’t jumped, but then why DO people jump? Except for basketball stars and gymnasts, I just can’t picture it. No wonder adult bones are crumbling. And yet, I feel strangely invigorated and a little proud. I laugh at myself and my new definition of success. I chuckle at my memories of gym class and remind myself to call my best friend from high school. It will end up a long and hilarious conversation as it usually does when we get to remembering such things. Why do people jump? Why, for joy, of course. People jump for joy! I think I will try this again tomorrow. Go, you chicken fat, go! This essay first appeared in the New Hampshire Senior Beacon, November 2019. They called each other “Brother.” I loved that about them. Brother was not a mere casual greeting; clearly, it meant something. I called each of them “Uncle.” They were different from one another in so many ways. Uncle T was taller than Uncle John. Each had a different build and a different carriage. Their voices were distinct and unmistakable, and each had a unique temperament. One had seen the horrors of war, the other the ravages of polio. But both married their young sweethearts, and they stayed married until death did them part. Both had large families to whom they were devoted. They started a business together and worked side-by-side for a lifetime. Uncle John was the back door uncle. Every evening at 5:00 PM, the door slammed shut at the family grocery store next door. Soon the jingle of his impressively full key chain could be heard as Uncle John walked the short path between the store and my grandmother’s house. Next, the top of his hat would appear just above the kitchen windowsill, and then there he stood inside the kitchen door. Uncle John would scan the counter top for samples of the delicious food that could often be found there. He would sample just a pinch—what he could scoop up between his thumb and index finger. Uncle John would chat for a few moments then slap his thigh with the rolled-up newspaper he carried with him from the store. This motion signaled his impending departure. He was heading out the door to his own home. Uncle T was the front door uncle. Every night about 11:00 PM, the door to the long front porch would squeak. Uncle T’s footsteps fell heavy against the old wooden floorboards as he made his way to the front door. Uncle T would check in and say goodnight and then return to his own home a block away. Every evening and every night, as long as our grandmother’s house stood occupied, there they were. We lived surrounded by and secure in their love for us. It was like the sun coming up and going down. We counted on it, and took it for granted. During the week, they were never too busy to take a restless brood of children swimming on a hot summer day or for an evening ride to the custard stand. As we got older, they slipped twenty dollar bills into our palms whenever we reached out to hug them farewell. Sitting in church they might slide into the pew next to one of us and slip a silver bracelet into our pocket. They appeared at all of the important events in our lives and carried the weight of every disaster. They took separate flights when traveling long distances-just in case--one of them would be there to take care of things, of us. They made the tough decisions when the time came to close the family grocery store, to tear it down, to sell our grandmother’s house…They were the bookends that supported the stories that became our lives. Through the years the brothers spoke on the phone each night. Uncle T would call Uncle John, to say, “Goodnight, Brother.” My cousin, Marcia, had moved back to her family home to care for her parents. She became familiar with this nighttime ritual and had fallen into step. She told me of that first night when the phone did not ring. It was like a silent air raid siren screaming over the house. There was the waiting. The checking of the clock. The feelings of unreality. The call never came. The unspoken words, “Goodnight, brother,” swirled around in the dark night air like a lost, confused bird with no place to land. Alzheimer’s disease had blocked the call. If only they had known that the night before would be the last “Goodnight, brother”… It had all been so certain when we were young. We never imagined the time would come when their steps would no longer cross the porch, when the phone would cease to ring. The magnitude of small acts is not always apparent, especially to children. They made it seem so easy, the way they loved us and each other. It was not a mushy kind of love. It was solid, stable, and real. That’s the way it was for men of that generation-the Greatest Generation. Love was an action word, and trust was the fuel. I don’t think that I ever thanked them enough. And to my aunts and cousins, thank you for sharing. I now understand that everything the uncles gave to us was a gift from their wives and children, too. Perhaps uncles should always come in pairs, one for the front door and one for the back. |
AuthorLilli-ann Buffin Archives
April 2024
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