When you are young, nobody tells you that aging is the hardest thing you’ll ever do. At a time when you are the weakest, the upkeep gets wilder. You drag around an accumulation of physicians, and illnesses come at you like you’re driving the wrong … Continue reading Don’t Get Around Much Anymore
I’ve been ill. I had a spontaneous kidney bleed in April. Was in the hospital for a week.
Seems like I’ve been fighting my way back to some semblance of health ever since. I think I may be getting there.
I am 76. My mother died when she was 76. Something about that has just about driven me mad. Of course, Donald Trump hasn’t helped.
Yesterday, I made soup! Doesn’t sound like much. But it was hopeful soup. It filled the house with loving smells that made it feel like someone was home,
And I think I am
When we first moved to St. Louis, we lived in a duplex with two tiers of concrete steps leading up to it. Killer stairs.
My friends KB and Mike came to visit with their three impossibly small children. Bridgid may have been nearly four. Jennie was two. Stephen was a babe in arms.
I can’t remember what else happened that weekend. We may have taken in the Zoo. Dined out. Drove around to look at this as yet unexplored brick city.
One thing I remember vividly. Mike put on a performance of dexterity and bravery that defied his well-known and humorously scorned thin ankles.
The family was packing up to leave. KB was at the back of the duplex, and was thus spared the mom-killing horror of what was about to happen.
But I had a front row box seat.
Bridgid, older toddler that she was, had made her way to the sidewalk, holding tightly to the railing. Michael, holding the baby in a handled infant seat, was watching Bridgid, but had not noticed Jennie edging toward the top step.
I had no stopwatch, of course, but I would estimate that this entire event took less than a second. I think it would make a great Olympic Event: The Dad Throwing Himself off the Grassy Knoll Holding a Baby in a Handled Carrier to Save the Life of a Two-year Old Who Missed That First Step and Was Falling To Her Death.
Because that’s exactly what happened. In one death-defying leap, Michael landed, caught Jennie by the arm without dropping the baby, and returned to the top of the grassy knoll. Even tiny Bridgid was impressed, her mouth open in amazement.
At that precise moment, KB strolled to the front of the condo, took in the sight of me with my hand on my heart, trying to put in back down in my chest after it had leapt into my mouth; Michael sweating like he’d run a marathon; Jennie ‘s little tear-stained face ; and, finally, Bridgid frozen in time in open-mouthed amazement.
KB said casually, “What’s goin’ on?”
We never told her.
But I have never, never, underestimated what a good dad will do for his kids.
When I was five, I found a kitten. I dressed it in doll clothes, rolled it up and down the cinder alley in a baby buggy. I loved it, caressed it, felt it purr against me. My mother wouldn’t let me bring it inside.
In the morning, I found it hanging from the clothesline. I knew who had done it. I still remember his name. Once in awhile I still Google it, just to see if he still lives. He was a bully. I thought all my life, that I knew bullies.
But I didn’t. Not until now. Now I know they are scared, insecure, cowards, cruel in every possible way. Be careful now. I think there might be hanging kittens in The West Wing.
From The Hill:
A nameless person on Twitter mused that the most recent in a long line of outgoing White House communications directors, Hope Hicks, never really has been a communications director, but rather her role was similar to that of the “comfort goat” placed in the stall of Secretariat to keep him calm.
“There, there, Mr. Trump. The Russian witch hunt will be over soon.”
You’ve been gone too long. This grieving business never ends. So much has happened since you went away. I got older. You did not. you have more grandchildren. Honey, they are the cutest! It isn’t fair that you aren’t here to be proud, to show … Continue reading DEAR KB:
Who needs an external torture machine when you have an exquisite internal one?
I have spent a good part of my life cutting, slicing, burning, breaking and bullying myself for my faults, for my faults, for my most grievous faults.
It isn’t that I am without fault, of course. It’s that I realize I could have used all that energy and creativity in so many better ways. Maybe I could have fed the hungry, or clothed the naked, or done more to keep a psychotic man with small fingers and a big button from becoming president of the United States. Perhaps all of us, right now, instead of looking at our own wrinkles and warts and expanded waistlines or receding hairlines or portfolios, would find a candidate to trust, or become a candidate yourself. Or at least stand in line and vote.
Because if we don’t do something, our private Torquemadas are going to allow some real Torquemada to destroy our country
or maybe the world