all of the selves we Have ever been
I love to laugh. Thankfully, life provides many opportunities. My funny bone seems to be more ticklish than that of others. Sometimes I become tangled in a fit of laughter, tears streaming from my eyes, while everyone else around me stares blankly and wonders if I’ve fallen off the deep edge. The observers are too bewildered to attempt rescue, and I am laughing too hard to attempt explanation. By the time I am finished laughing and try to justify my outburst, either the subject is no longer funny, or it makes no sense to the listeners. My failed explanation becomes further confirmation of my burgeoning psychosis. Of course, it is possible that my humerus is just fine, but my thoughts are poorly cataloged. My mind can link serious topics to outrageous thoughts. Someone starts telling a story, and my mind goes to the wrong closet and pulls out something completely inappropriate for the occasion. I come to the funeral dressed in a bathing suit and flip flops reeking of sweat and coconut oil. This happens at high speed. I’ve had to leave important meetings or abruptly end phone calls. Here is an example hot off the press. I have a dear friend who grew up on a farm and later became a restaurant owner. She knows food! She can take a few blades of grass and make them edible and enticing. She told me she was making chicken soup. I asked for the recipe and looked forward to receiving it. So far, so good. This morning, the recipe arrived. I opened the e-mail attachment. The recipe was handwritten on a small pad, a promotional item from a MEDICAL WASTE COMPANY. I folded over in my desk chair consumed by giggles. That was over an hour ago. Giggles continue to escape me. If you are asking yourself why this is funny, you are safe from the affliction that plagues me. Another time, in the early months of the pandemic when we were worried about the food supply and food shortages, a friend shared concerns that if the meatpacking plants closed down, another friend’s poultry farm would be affected. The chickens would have to be killed. It sounded like a potentially devastating loss. Not knowing much about the poultry business or farming, I asked why the chickens could not be housed until the meatpacking plants resumed operations. My friend explained that the hens’ breasts grow too large, and the birds fall over and can’t get up. Now, don’t think I don’t know better. The proper response should have been sympathy and concern, but I had to leave the room. The image hit me suddenly and with force, an embarrassing premonition: “This is how I am going to die!” If you are a woman of a certain age, you might get the picture. That was months ago. I still laugh when I think about it. Thankfully, the meatpacking plants remained in operation and the chickens remained upright. Of course, there is a lifetime of examples. Believe it or not, I’ve never been committed. That experience may be yet to come. If the authorities allow me to have a pencil, you will hear all about it. After I stop laughing. In the meantime, I will enjoy the chicken soup with a side of chuckles.
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Dates have been slipping and sliding from my calendar this year. Darn virus! The entire year, to date, seems like one long sick-day. Among the unexpected and unreported side effects of COVID-19 is losing track of time and important occasions. And so, while I was sniffling and prostrate on my couch, surfing channels broadcasting ads asking me to call this attorney or that about every conceivable type of cancer caused by common household products, I missed it. And I can’t believe it. Friendship Day 2020. Friendship Day is the first Sunday in August. This year it was August 2nd. I wanted to remember that date this year. Apologies to all. Friends have been the gift of my life, friendship my daily bread. Friends fill spaces in our lives that family cannot reach. Friendship develops parts of us that may go unseen or unpracticed in our family dynamics. Our oldest and dearest friends become a new kind of family, a chosen one. I would give any of my dear friends a kidney or a lung if they needed it. The years can change things within our families too. Children grow up and become adults. We come to enjoy them as trusted advisers, companions, equals, and friends. As we age, our aunts, uncles and cousins are no longer just “the relatives,” but friends with interesting lives and new perspectives on family history. During this time of COVID, my friends have been my lifeline. Daily phone calls, emails, texts, and letters keep me connected to life, to the past, and to myself. The words and voices of friends keep me in the present and give me hope for a future. We laugh and talk. We use our friendship to defy the virus and dispel those occasional intrusive thoughts that cast doubt about the future. Together, we are daring and hopeful, planning for a time when we will be free to get into our cars and take road trips together, eat indoors at restaurants, go to the movies, and celebrate birthdays in person. For my friends and because of them, I can be a ninja warrior in this extended battle against the virus. The poet Kahlil Gibran wrote this about friendship: * Your friend is your needs answered. He is your field which you sow with love and reap with Thanksgiving. And he is your board and your fireside. For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for your peace. . . . And let your best be for your friend. If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also. For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill? Seek him always with hours to live. For it is his to fill your need, but not your emptiness. And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed. If you forgot about Friendship Day too, use a lifeline, phone a friend. You will feel like a millionaire! *(From The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran first published in September 1923) Joe Morgan died this week. The headline popped up on my web browser home page. There are some who looked at that headline and said, “Who?” Others may have seen the news and thought, “Who cares?” Me? I was pierced by sadness. I immediately emailed my best friend from high school with the news. I knew she would understand. They were young, and so were we. They were major league baseball players. We were high school students. They took the field. We took our seats in the stands--as often as we could. We were all in the middle of something. My friend and I lived in Pittsburgh. We were Pirates fans. The 1970s was a great decade for baseball in the tri-state area. The Pirates and the Reds were both powerful teams and fierce competitors. It was the Lumber Company versus the Big Red Machine. We watched the greats like Roberto Clemente, Willie Stargell, and Bob Robertson go toe-to-toe and bat-to-bat with Joe Morgan, Pete Rose, and Johnny Bench. When the Reds came to town, it was guaranteed excitement. Sometimes the heat of competition spilled over into a brawl on the field. Joe Morgan was particularly memorable. Stepping up to the plate, bat in hand, his back arm bent and flapping like a wing, Joe was part eagle about to take flight. His stance was twitchy, like the ball was already out of the park, and Joe was late for his date with home plate. My friend and I saw a lot of games. We saw many young men hurl their first major league pitches and step up to the plate for their first swing at bat. Not all of them rose to greatness in the history of the game. Not all of them stand out in our memories. Some, like Joe Morgan, became legends. We are moved by their passing. My sadness today leaves me to ponder the question—Why? Like the millions of stars that fill the night sky, it is only a few that reach us with their brilliance. They beckon us to look up. Fans are stargazers. They know where to look in the night sky. They study the stars, count them, and give them their names. We were witnesses to their lives. We clapped and cheered, game after game, as all of those games added up to something remarkable. We watched our heroes transform from youthful rookies into seasoned veterans even as our own youth slipped away. Their lives and careers became mile markers on our personal journeys and pages in our collective history. They belong to us and to our national treasure chest. Like so many of the balls he hit, Joe Morgan has left the park. Like the stars, his brilliance lives on. I will think of him each time a rookie steps up to the plate and an umpire cries, “Play ball.” I was his emergency contact. I just didn’t know it. I learned of my assignment one sweltering summer morning when the local dialysis center called to say that Julius had not shown for his treatment that day. Julius had missed an appointment earlier in the week as well. Still holding the phone, my mind went into overdrive. It was not like Julius to skip dialysis even once in a week much less twice. Painful as it was, dialysis was his life and his lifeline. This was not good news. I grabbed my purse and headed to the car. During the short drive to his home, I tried to prepare myself for what I might find. The back door was unlocked. I called his name as I opened the door. No response. An offensive odor and a swarm of flies greeted me instead. The house was burning hot, like a glowing kettle that had simmered for days over an open fire. I stepped carefully over the plastic shopping bags dropped in a trail around the door, the contents scattered here and there. I walked past the bathroom where I could see the toilet was backed up and the flies were buzzing. I called his name again, “Julius?” No response. As I proceeded toward the living room, I could see Julius in profile. He was seated on the couch. The television was on. Julius did not react to my approach. As I stepped around the couch and came face-to-face with my friend, I could see that Julius had died, probably several days earlier. Though I had anticipated what I might find, the preparation did not prevent my heart from breaking. I called 9-1-1. The dispatcher told me, “Get out of the house.” I sat on the front porch steps with my head in my lap and waited. The police arrived, and we entered the house together. With Julius’s medical history and no signs of other trouble, the police called the coroner, and then we waited for the funeral home staff to arrive. This was not a typical call for the young men from the funeral home. They came dressed respectfully in dark suits, crisp white shirts, and ties. Once they entered the burning hot house, sweat poured from their faces and necks. The condition of the body was unusual for them, and they were concerned about moving Julius’s fragile corpse. They asked me to leave the room and turn down the heat, if it was on. I waited on the back porch and said a prayer. As Julius passed, I lay my hand on the black body bag—farewell from an emergency contact and friend. The situation was both surreal and painfully real. There was much to be done, and while I was honored to be the emergency contact, I was not next of kin. I had no legal authority to make decisions. Julius had a nineteen year old son in flight school somewhere down south. I would need to reach Christopher and tell him that his father was dead, the most difficult of assignments. I loved Christopher. Had Julius anticipated this moment when he chose me for his emergency contact? The situation was overwhelming given the shock, heat and work to be done, but I wanted to clean up the house to honor Julius and for the sake of his young son who would soon arrive filled with grief. Thankfully, a friend came to the rescue. He unclogged the toilet and helped me to roll up the carpet that had been underneath the place where Julius died. I contacted a restoration company and got a machine to eliminate the terrible odors that filled the house. Then I rolled up my sleeves and got to work trying to put the house in order, scrubbing away my sorrow. The smells from the home, the smell of death filled my nose and saturated my clothing. I could not get away from it, but the scent kept Julius on my mind and close to my heart. As I worked, I reminisced. There was a final gift from Julius. We were with him on his last good day. We just didn’t know it. Had we known it would be the last good day, the knowledge might have destroyed the exquisite beauty of our final time together. It began as a simple day, ordinary on the surface, and yet it was filled with an extraordinary sense of peace and contentment. My children and I packed up some lunches, picked up Julius, and took him to a medical appointment in Cleveland, about an hour from our homes. Julius needed to meet with his transplant team, and he was becoming too easily fatigued to make the trip alone. Surrounded by this sweet man, and my sweet children, we talked and laughed. The children and I waited in the assigned area for Julius to finish with his medical appointments and tests and then we went to our van where we broke out a picnic lunch. Julius insisted we stop at a local country shop that sold delicious ice cream. His treat. Julius sat in a rocking chair on the covered porch while the children played on the edge of the pond and fed the ducks. Like hummingbirds, we poked among the blossoms, drinking the nectar of that beautiful day. Julius asked for a second ice cream cone, and we lingered there, happy and content. I had known Julius for a long time. His life had never been easy, and yet he was always kind, considerate, concerned, and cheerful. His own problems were never at the forefront. He always wanted to know about me and the children. This year, as we enter the season of harvest and thanksgiving hounded by a relentless virus, I am reminded of my friend Julius and all those who live with the specter of death. Julius made his peace with that terrible roommate. He did not let that specter rob him of joy. Julius did not let that threatening presence steal his spirit while he was still busy living. After Julius died, as I was helping to write his obituary, I was reminded of the words of G. K. Chesterton: “Hope is the power of being cheerful in circumstances we know to be desperate.” That was so Julius. None of us know what the day will bring or when it will be the last good day. While we live in a time of chronic threat, I want to be more like Julius—to make peace with that ugly, microscopic roommate and hold onto my spirit. Julius had a beautiful voice, and he loved to sing. There was always a song in his heart. Though he did not write the lyrics, I am sure he would agree with these words from the divinely inspired hymnbook: “This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad.” I never thought I would say this. But go ahead, give me the bird. The rotisserie chicken that is. It happens in spells. Rotisserie chicken becomes the mainstay of my diet. I’m not the only one. According to the National Chicken Council, in 2018 Americans consumed an average of 93.5 pounds of chicken per person. That was due mostly to the American love affair with rotisserie chicken. But a council of chickens might be fudging the numbers to bolster its tiny egos. I can’t say for sure. I was late to the game. Apparently, rotisserie chicken became popular in the 1990s. I was a busy mother hen myself during that decade, cooking my own fingers to the bone. I didn’t get into the rotisserie chicken habit until 2015 after my chicks had flown the coop. According to my research, some rotisserie chickens are cheaper than do-it-yourself homemade chicken. What a roasting fool I was! Why didn’t I know this information years ago? I might have done something important with my life. I saw another article that rates the common store brands of rotisserie chickens from worst to best. I’ve shopped at a few of those stores including the best and the worst. I can’t say I’ve ever had a bad rotisserie chicken. Is that even possible? A more important question: What’s in that tender, delicious poultry that causes a rational consumer to become crazed? During a recent shopping trip, I placed a hot rotisserie chicken on the check-out counter. The woman bagging my groceries went on in great detail about how much she loves rotisserie chicken. I mean LOVES rotisserie chicken. She eats an entire one for lunch EVERY DAY. The male cashier confirmed the bagger’s confession and added, “You better not try to ask for a piece neither.” Many of my single friends share the rotisserie chicken habit. They tell me about buying the chicken and becoming intoxicated by the aroma while driving the meat home in their cars. Once they get the birds inside their kitchens, these genteel women tear the hot and greasy meat apart with their bare hands and eat it over the sink. Each of my friends thinks she is the only one who does this. I am sworn to secrecy, but no need for shame. I am learning the practice is so common that the store might as well print that on the label under serving suggestions. Still, I wonder: can a product be good for you if it turns educated and civilized women into feral animals? It’s probably too late for me. I’ve eaten my 93.5 pounds of rotisserie chicken for each of the past five years. Whatever is in that chicken is now inside of me. Whatever “it” is might also explain why I always seem to be turning in circles. It might not be too late for you. Save yourselves, if you can. As for me, give me the bird. |
AuthorLilli-ann Buffin Archives
April 2024
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