A friend conducted what he called Market Research for me. He took the time to learn what people liked about my podcast, and he suggested I should emphasize those elements when I promote my show. He’s probably right. As it turns out, however, I’m no sort of promoter. I’m not sure I could sell tickets to The Second Coming of Christ. It’s just not in me to promote effectively.
He also suggested I would be more successful if I did more interviews, even if they were with people who are not celebrities. That’s also just not in me. I recognize, however, that I’m not the only good writer I know. This week, I’m going to introduce you to my friend, Shoshana Edwards. I’m not going to interview her because I really don’t do interviews well. Barbara Walters, may she rest in peace, I’m not. Interviewing people is an entirely different skill set. I respect people who do it well. I’m simply not one of them.
Instead of interviewing Shoshana, I’m going to share her writing with you. Yes, she gave me permission. I don’t plagiarize, although I steal quotations ruthlessly.
I’m going to share with you three pieces of her prose and one of her poems. She has much more than you will hear on this show. I narrated her book, “Deathly Waters,” which is one of her three novels about Harper’s Landing. It’s a little hole in the wall town with a supernatural element to it. I’ll put the Amazon link to her books in the Show Notes. She also has a Patreon page where she shares some of her best work. I’ll put a link to that in the Show Notes, too, and I encourage you to join that page to see more of her work.
One of the things Shoshana does several times a week is introduce to a friend of hers. I’m going to use my favorite of her introductions to introduce you to her:
***
In thinking about who I wanted to recognize today, I came to the realization that ALL of you matter, every single one of you. You make a difference in my life, every single day. Whether I call you or you call me; or I read something you wrote. If I see a picture you post, or read of your loss, your pain, your frustration.
You are unique, and yet we are all alike. What a strange and magical dissonance that is. You are tall, I am short. She is large, he is skinny. They are Black, he is brown. You run races; I can’t walk. So different, so unique. Yet…
We all hurt when something pokes or burns us, or we trip and fall. We all love for various reasons, and we all feel anger. Psychologists can list emotions, and each and every one of us can remember, if we are willing, a time when we felt those emotions. Philosophers can speak of great ambitions and impeccable logic, and all of us will understand if the words are carefully chosen and the meaning is presented clearly and simply.
We all get cold, hot, sweaty, sick, aroused, hungry; and we all satisfy those longings and needs in unique and different ways. Yet we all wear clothing (at least some of the time), sleep, eat, make love (to others or ourselves).
We are stardust. We are unique. And we are the commonality that makes up the human race. And YOU, you are rare and beautiful and wonderful and amazing and gifted and lovely and worthy of everything magical and marvelous that comes your way. You inspire me. You make me want to climb up out of my hole of despair, out of my bed of pain, away from the mire of depression, and write to you of stories, of people who have overcome, people who have loved. Because that is who you are.
Thank you. My life would be empty and without hope if it were not for YOU. YOU make me strive to be better. YOU inspire me. You are my hope and longing and mentor and audience. I love you. All of you.
Who inspires you? Have you told them today? Have you introduced them to the world?
***
Next, Shoshana writes of an emotion we have all felt, some of us more frequently than others. Instead of explaining it, I’ll let her tell you.
***
I want to talk to you about grief. So many of us are going through losses of various kinds. Grief isn’t just about losing someone you love. It is also about losing your physical strength, your livelihood, a cherished friendship, or a beloved pet. And we (meaning Americans because we seem peculiarly trained for this) are taught to “control” our grief. Some of us have even been taught to hide it. And that is literally killing us.
I have buried four children, six grandchildren, three great grandchildren, and two husbands. I lost my breasts to cancer. My liver is damaged because of HepC (now cured, thank goodness). Because of a serious accident in college that broke my back among other things, I now suffer severe and debilitating arthritis. And I wish I could tell you I handled all this loss with grace. I didn’t.
No, I told myself to be strong. I braved it through. I cried and still do sometimes, but did it privately. And when tears appeared either in public or with a family member or friend, I apologized and pulled myself together. The energy I could have spent on healing myself was instead squandered on pretending to be someone I wasn’t.
So now I am falling apart. And I’m letting myself fall apart. Because I have to. I need help in putting myself back together again, in a stronger version of me. All that grief has been festering, causing anxiety and depression and failure and need and a raft of other things that have kept me from being the best me possible.
So I’m falling apart. It’s rather like taking a lovely, old dress and carefully taking out all the seams. Then you can look for tears that need repairing, holes that can be patched, and you put the dress back together again. And it’s lovely and beloved and stronger than before. That’s what I’m doing. And you, my dear dear friends, are helping, whether you know it or not.
Thank you for loving me. Thank you for being there even when it is difficult. Picking out those old, failing stitches is hard work, and sometimes it seems impossible. Repairing the holes is tedious, painstaking work, and sometimes you just want to throw the whole damn thing in the basket and forget about it. You keep me going. Thank you. I love you all.
If you are holding in grief, let it out. Howl at the moon. Call a friend; Join a support group. Paint, write, carve — create something from those feelings. Let them happen. It’s rather like an emotional abcess, messy as hell to be drained and cleaned, but necessary because the damn things spread.
And just as you have been there for me, I will be there for you.
I love you.
***
Shoshana possesses a skill I lack, and I envy her for it. She is a poet. Those who know the least about writing claim poetry is the easiest kind of writing. 6th graders love it because it is short. Those of us who actually know something about it recognize that real poetry (as opposed to what most 6th graders write, or anything you’re likely to read in a Hallmark card) is the most difficult and demanding writing one can do. It’s not just that every word matters, it’s that the sound of every word is vital. You have a very short space to create the most powerful catharsis you can. T.S. Eliot and Robert Frost can do it. Emily Dickinson and Elizabeth Barrett Browning can do it. And Shoshana Edwards can do it, too.
***
SOMEWHERE
Somewhere a baby is crying its first cry, pulling in its first breath,
Unfamiliar feelings torture its soul, until someone wraps it tight,
Swaddled in blankets, warm; and held next to a beating heart,
A familiar sound and all seems well.
Somewhere a grandmother breathes her last breath,
Eyes fixed upon the man she has loved for countless hours and days and years.
Surrounded by children and grandchildren, hands comforting her
As she breathes goodbye to love and wonder and pain.
Somewhere a couple, joined together in love and trust
Has their first orgasm together, first one, crying out in joy and anguish and pleasure
As the other thrusts again and again, joining in that overwhelming burst
Of organic bliss and pain and taste of heaven.
Somewhere, everywhere
Life begins and ends and ebbs and swells
And all that ever was and ever will be
Is wrapped up in one eternal, glorious gift.
Awake, my people. Lift your eyes to the heavens.
The sun has risen, the moon is full, the sky lightens, the stars shine bright.
This magic ball on which we walk and crawl and run and love and kill
Demands that we be grateful, else we lose it all.
Somewhere, new life begins.
A new earth is born, even as another dies.
We are not forever; we are only here for a while.
Be still, my children, and hear the pulse of creation.
We are the universe, born in a burst of stars
Whirling out into space, gathering planets as they fly
And when the circling starts, the gyre and gimble controlled,
The seas and land make known their presence.
And out of the sea comes life.
Somewhere.
Everywhere different.
Is there love wherever life begins?
Is this thing called love a human construct
Or an eternal truth found wherever life begins?
What joy that we have minds that ask such questions,
Contemplate such wonder.
Somewhere…
***
This is Fred’s Front Porch Podcast, where I like to leave you with hope, which, as someone tells me, is the thing with feathers. This time, I’ll leave you with Joy, by Shoshana Edwards.
***
JOY
He told me to write about joy. What is joy? Is it dancing in the wet grass early in the morning, just before the sun comes up? Is it the first crocus? The jonquil between the cracks on the sidewalk? Or perhaps the moon after weeks of clouds and rain and snow.
But those things, joyous as they are, do not reside in the depths of my soul. They are happy memories to be pulled out on rainy days and displayed for the mind’s entertainment when nothing seems alive outside. Everything is sleeping, waiting for spring to creep in and tickle them into bloom.
I do not go to my soul. I let it lie, hidden under mental quilts, protected, and comforted and bundled against discovery. My soul is a library of memories; stacks to wander when I am brave, confronting the rage leaping out of the journals and diaries and secret puzzle boxes stored away on dusty shelves.
Joy stays outside, leaning against the door jamb, beckoning me away from the dark corridors of pain, urging me back into the sunlight and promise of a better day. But my venture into the soul repository brings back with it a small piece of bitter sorrow, a remembrance of a childhood party destroyed, an achievement belittled, and friendship that never existed. And I spend my time tucking it back into a new volume, time when I could be romping with joy in a room full of chocolates and tea and friends.
Does joy allow for tears? What are tears of joy to me, when tears are the only possible release from memories of a life shackled by mental illness and pain? What is happiness to a mind rejected because of its monstrous difference from normal? Where does joy fit in a life full of rejection and doubt and disability?
He told me to write about joy. I weep for the child who knew no joy, for the mother who lost her children before joy could make them walk and talk and laugh and smile, for the wife who endured humiliation and pain, for the woman who offered friendship and received rejection.
I cannot write of joy. Except I can when I look at a newborn kitten or a bursting bud filled with rosy promise of scent and color. I can when the night is clear and the moon seems close enough to touch; when the rain patters on the patio roof outside my window; when the music is so painfully beautiful that you can swim on the rising swell of the violins, slide down the soft English horn descant, and dance to the trumpet staccato. There is no joy within me, but I find joy outside and invite it into the parlor for tea cakes and conversation. It leaves, but for those few moments, there is joy.
WILLY: Oh, yeah, my father lived many years in Alaska. He was an adventurous man. We’ve got quite a little streak of self reliance in our family. I thought I’d go out with my older brother and try to locate him, and maybe settle in the North with the old man. And I was almost decided to go, when I met a salesman in the Parker House. His name was Dave Singleman. And he was eighty-four years old, and he’d drummed merchandise in thirty-one states. And old Dave, he’d go up to his room, y’understand, put on his green velvet slippers — I’ll never forget — and pick up his phone and call the buyers, and without ever leaving his room, at the age of eighty-four, he made his living. And when I saw that, I realized that selling was the greatest career a man could want. ‘Cause what could be more satisfying than to be able to go, at the age of eighty four, into twenty or thirty different cities, and pick up a phone, and be remembered and loved and helped by so many different people? Do you know? When he died — and by the way he died the death of a salesman, in his green velvet slippers in the smoker of the New York, New Haven and Hartford, going into Boston — when he died, hundreds of salesmen and buyers were at his funeral. Things were sad on a lotta trains for months after that. In those days there was personality in it, Howard. There was respect, and comradeship, and gratitude in it. Today, it’s all cut and dried, and there’s no chance for bringing friendship to bear — or personality. You see what I mean? They don’t know me any more… If I had forty dollars a week — that’s all I’d need. Forty dollars, Howard. Howard, the year Al Smith was nominated, your father came to me and… I’m talking about your father! There were promises made across this desk! You mustn’t tell me you’ve got people to see — I put thirty-four years into this firm, Howard, and now I can’t pay my insurance! You can’t eat the orange and throw the peel away — a man is not a piece of fruit!
Willy Loman and I have much in common. We both spent our lives doing what we thought was the best thing a person could do. For him, it was selling. I was never any good at selling. I don’t think Willy was either, but I know that about myself, and I don’t think he did.
I spent my life teaching Elementary School because I thought it was the best thing a person could do. It was a chance to change the world by influencing future generations. I earned enough money to support myself in a modest fashion, and, at the height of my financial success, I owned a house. Well done, me!
Funny, y’know? After all the highways, and the trains, and the appointments, and the years, you end up worth more dead than alive
— Willy Loman
Funny, you know? After all the classrooms, and the students, and the meetings, and the years, you end up worthless either dead or alive.
Willy at least had life insurance. I had a policy once, I think, more than 30 years ago, but I know nothing about it today. When I die, no one gets anything. My nephew might want the computer he built for me back. I hope someone will wipe it entirely clean before anyone sees its contents. On the other hand, I’ll be dead, so what of it? I have a TV. It might get you $20 at a generous Thrift Store. It won’t cover the cost of getting rid of all my books, and movies, and music that no one else will want since you can get them all now on your phone and they require no physical storage space.
After 29 years of teaching, the government for whom I taught has decided I’m not worth the money it costs to pay rent in the cheapest place in town. Forget utilities, ignore groceries, perish the thought of even owning a car, no money for entertainment of even the cheapest variety, and to hell with the dog.
Willy thought life was about being well-liked. I never did. On the other hand, for reasons passing understanding, I seem to be. I say this because it’s only the fact that people love me that keeps me alive, both financially and psychologically.
I’m alive because my best friend’s boyfriend is renting me his old place for half price, which is the very maximum I can afford and still make it to the end of the month. I’m a liability to him. He could sell this place, pay off all his bills, and have enough money in the bank to live comfortably for quite some time without ever setting foot in a workplace. I’m screwing up his life simply by being alive. He would never say that, because he’s a kind man, but that doesn’t change that objective fact.
And that isn’t enough to sustain me anyway. I have another friend, who I really ought to call a Patron Saint in my Gratitudes if I can get her permission to do so, who sends me grocery money every month. The state of Arizona believes I deserve $20 a month to buy groceries. And then they cut it off, apparently, this month. I didn’t even get that. If not for my friend, I would live off nothing but ramen and pretzels.
The generosity of my landlord and my friend still isn’t enough to sustain me. I couldn’t pay for my phone (one of The People on The Porch tells me I could get a free phone service, but I’m too scared to try.), my cigarettes (yes, I know I shouldn’t smoke. I’m working on that. Life is stressful when one’s existence is a liability. Giving up an addiction of more than 30 years is more difficult than you probably think. It doesn’t go well for Speedy Shine when I go too long.), any of the streaming services that are much cheaper and infinitely better than cable, or the ability to do anything extra. I bought a DVD rack a couple of months ago, and my guilt is still overwhelming. I nearly ran out of food because I did that. It was $50 on Offer Up.
With Patreon and Anchor, I make enough to make it to the end of the month. If I stopped doing my show, I would be psychologically and financially ruined. Every time I lose a supporter, I go into a depression for at least an hour or two. Speedy Shine has to remind me that I’m worth loving. He gives me kisses sometimes, and he knows how to cuddle better than any living being I’ve ever encountered.
There is always a lot of talk about who deserves what. I hate all of it. I spent my life doing what I thought was right, and today I have no sense of independence. I depend on far too many people just to survive. And the minute I say that, you can be absolutely certain that someone is saying, “Well you should have…” or “Well, you shouldn’t have…” Those words always make me angry. And since anger is caused by fear, I must ask what I fear. What do those words make me fear? They make me fear that people will suffer. They will be homeless. They will be hungry. I don’t like that. And why do they suffer? They suffer because of Judgmental Bullshit.
We have convinced ourselves that there is only one right way to live, and it’s ours. Those who don’t conform to our standards deserve to suffer. No. They don’t.
I don’t know why someone made the choices they did at any given moment. Maybe I would have made a different decision. Maybe, in those circumstances, I wouldn’t have. There’s really no way of knowing. As it turns out, I’m not God. Are you? And, if you think you are, could you please send me a little of whatever you’re smoking? It’s obviously better than what I can get at the Dispensary.
My best friend of 13 years, who I know better than nearly anyone on the planet, frequently makes decisions that mystify me. She dates men who don’t make her happy. I know this because I’ve spent 13 years hearing about them. She knows they make her unhappy, but she continues dating them for years after she knows this. Is that the decision I would make? No, I don’t think so. So, shall I decide that she deserves to be unhappy, and should I therefore make no effort to help her? No, I don’t think so. She’s no better off for that. I love her, so, even though she makes decisions I don’t understand, I do all I can to help her. And she’s saved my life more than once.
If I can’t understand her choices when I’ve known her so well and so long, how am I supposed to understand the choices of a stranger? How does it help me to pass judgment on the homeless. “If they didn’t want to be homeless, they should have…” Are you kidding me? How do you know why they made the choices that inevitably wound them up in a place where they have no shelter for the night? And who are you to pass judgment on them?
I made a set of decisions that wound me up being entirely dependent on the kindness of strangers. How do I know which ones were wrong? Did I make a decision that caused me to become diabetic? If I did, what was that decision? How would you suggest that I go back and change it? Q isn’t coming by this afternoon to offer me the opportunity to change a moment in my life. And when he offered it to Captain Picard, it went very badly for Jean Luc. Marc Antony offered me an opportunity in “Horace’s Final Five.” You might want to listen to that to see how well that went. (It’s Episode 50 if you’re new here.)
“Well, you should make more money off of your podcast!”
I would love to do that, but I’m not a marketer, and I don’t want to spend any of the little time I have left in an effort to become Willy Loman. I’m not getting on Discord and Twitch. I don’t understand them, and I don’t have the mental capacity to learn anymore. If someone wants to be in charge of marketing my show, I will be happy to split with them any extra money they make for me. It turns out no one is offering to do that. So, as Kenny Loggins is singing right now, “This is it.” He and Michael McDonald seem much happier about that than I am.
Willy Loman had big dreams. All of them were failures. I avoid big dreams. I can fail perfectly well without them, and I would prefer to save the accompanying disappointment.
I don’t say he’s a great man. Willy Loman never made a lot of money. His name was never in the paper. He’s not the finest character that ever lived. But he’s a human being, and a terrible thing is happening to him. So attention must be paid. He’s not to be allowed to fall into his grave like an old dog. Attention, attention must be finally paid to such a person.
We live in a world controlled by money. It works out well for some, and it’s a curse for others. It’s not the world I want. I work to change it, nearly every week on this show. I don’t get anywhere.
What a proposition, ts, ts. Terrific, terrific. ‘Cause she’s suffered, Ben, the woman has suffered. You understand me? A man can’t go out the way, he came in, Ben, a man has got to add up to something. You can’t, you can’t — You gotta consider, now. Don’t answer so quick. Remember, it’s a guaranteed twenty-thousand-dollar proposition. Now look, Ben, I want you to go through the ins and outs of this thing with me. I’ve got nobody to talk to, Ben, and the woman has suffered, you hear me?
BEN: What’s the proposition?
WILLY: It’s twenty thousand dollars on the barrelhead. Guaranteed, gilt-edged, you understand?
BEN: You don’t want to make a fool of yourself. They might not honor the policy.
WILLY: How can they dare refuse? Didn’t I work like a coolie to meet every premium on the nose? And now they don’t pay off? Impossible!
BEN: It’s called a cowardly thing, William.
WILLY: Why? Does it take more guts to stand here the rest of my life ringing up a zero?
BEN: That’s a point, William. And twenty thousand — that is something one can feel with the hand, it is there.
WILLY: Oh, Ben, that’s the whole beauty of it! I see it like a diamond, shining in the dark, hard and rough, that I can pick up and touch in my hand. Not like — like an appointment! This would not be another damned-fool appointment, Ben, and it changes all the aspects. Because he thinks I’m nothing, see, and so he spites me. But the funeral… Ben, that funeral will be massive! They’ll come from Maine, Massachusetts, Vermont, New Hampshire! All the oldtimers with the strange license plates — that boy will be thunderstruck, Ben, because he never realized — I am known! Rhode Island, New York, New Jersey — I am known, Ben, and he’ll see it with his eyes once and for all. He’ll see what I am, Ben! He’s in for a shock, that boy!
That’s what comes of deciding that money matters more than people. I understand the choice Willy makes. (If you’ve never read or seen Death of a Salesman, Willy kills himself after this discussion. It’s more than 70 years old, so I’m not going to listen to whining about Spoilers.) It’s a decision I consider every night before I go to sleep. It’s one Speedy Shine convinces me not to make. No one gets $20,000 if I die, but lots of people will be financially better off in many ways. If the world really is all about money, it’s difficult to conclude anything apart from the idea that world would be better off without me. The government even gets to save $1363 a month.
Is it just possible that there is something that matters more than money?
LINDA: Forgive me, dear. I can’t cry. I don’t know what it is, I can’t cry. I don’t understand it. Why did you ever do that? Help me Willy, I can’t cry. It seems to me that you’re just on another trip. I keep expecting you. Willy, dear, I can’t cry. Why did you do it? I search and search and I search, and I can’t understand it, Willy. I made the last payment on the house today. Today, dear. And there’ll be nobody home. We’re free and clear. We’re free. We’re free… We’re free…
All the quotations in this episode are from Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller.
“Oh, Mom… I’m so sorry. I’m on my way there now. I thought… I thought he had more time. I thought…”
“I felt his last breath. I held his hand. I…” She couldn’t talk anymore.
“I’ll call people. You try to get some rest. Who’s there with you now?”
“Marie Beth got here right after it happened.”
“She’ll take good care of you. I’ll be there in a couple of hours.”
“Sheldon and Jan know. They’re coming. Sheldon was at a football game.”
“It’s okay, Mom. We still have each other. We still have family. We’ll get through this together. It’s what we do.”
There was silence, and just a brief sob on the other end of the phone.
“You lie down Mom. Embee will take care of you. We’re all coming, Mom. You’re not alone. Okay?”
The phone clicked. The roaring of the road was cold. Horace’s vision blurred a bit, and he took a deep breath. “I have to be strong now. Mom will be coming apart when I get there. I have to help her through this.” He gave instructions to his phone to call his best friend. He would make calls for most of the trip between Anthem and Flagstaff, spreading the news of his father’s demise across the country.
Henderson, Nebraska
January 12, 1964
6:23 PM
“Lay dee,” said the infant Horace.
Hal was holding Horace lovingly in his thin arms. “You want to go see The Lady?” He walked past Marie, and into the living room.
“If he wants to see his Mom,” said Owen Leal, Horace’s grandfather, “you just walked right past her.”
“No,” said Marie. “I’m Mama. Lady is The Mona Lisa.”
Hal stood next to the painting, and Horace began to wave. “She’s a nice lady, isn’t she?”
Horace giggled, and he put his index finger on her lips.
“She has a pretty smile, doesn’t she?” Marie asked.
Horace began to dance in his father’s arms, bouncing up and down.
“I’ll get it,” said Marie, and she went to the record player, and dropped the needle on “On The Trail” from “The Grand Canyon Suite” by Ferde Grofe. She picked up the camera next to the turntable, and she returned to her husband and son.
Horace grinned, jumped up and down some more, and pointed at the painting. “Lay Dee!”
Marie took the picture.
“You’re making an art lover of that boy,” said Owen. “Good for you, Hal.”
Horace began to wave his hands back and forth, and he tilted his head back.
“Oh, no!” whispered Owen. “Are the demons returning?”
“No, Dad, not this time.” Marie shot Hal a glance that told him to let it go. “He’s conducting. He’s seen his brother, Sheldon, doing that when we play Beethoven. Sheldon has decided he will be the next Leonard Bernstein.”
“Is he still having as many possessions?”
Hal was grinning at Horace. “Yeah, Pastor Leal, he’s still having seizures. We’re going to another specialist next month after I get paid.”
“You know you’re wasting your money. I could do an exorcism. We don’t even need to go to the church. I could do it here for you at no—”
“Thank you, Pastor, but I believe we’re going to go with the doctors.”
“You’re not rich folks. You don’t make enough teaching those high school classes to be wastin’ money on what doesn’t work. You’ve been to seven doctors already, and they haven’t fixed it. God doesn’t need money. All he needs is your faith and someone who is ready to remove the demons from little Horace’s soul.”
“He had one this morning right after he drank some orange juice. I wonder if that’s connected somehow.” Marie’s face was troubled.
“He’s also had seizures when waking up from his naps, when eating Gerber baby food, after bowel movements, and before them. Any of those could be causes, but they don’t all line up. So far, just about the only thing that doesn’t seem to set them off is the Mona Lisa and Music.
Interstate 17
October 9, 2009
6:59 PM
Nat King Cole was singing on the radio as Horace hung up the last phone call.
Many dreams have been brought to your doorstep They just lie there and they die there Are you warm, are you real, Mona Lisa? Or just a cold and lonely lovely work of art?
He had told his best friend, who cried, although Horace had maintained his composure. He was all but clinical when he told her. He was surprised by Monica’s reaction. She’d only met Hal twice. Why would this news hit her so hard? Horace reminded himself, once again, he didn’t understand people.
He was gaining strength with every mile. He was remembering how, less than a week ago, his sister had screamed at his mother because Marie had neglected to keep Jan up to date on Hal’s condition. He could see vividly in his mind Marie falling apart. Her knees had buckled, and Horace had caught her and helped her to the couch. When Horace asked her to knock it off, Jan turned on Horace with even more ferocity. He had finally called his brother, Sheldon, to calm Jan down.
Marie was going to need all his help now. She would require all his strength. He was going to be there for her. He was going to be her comfort and her fortitude. That’s what he kept repeating to himself. Comfort and Fortitude. Just get Mom through this night.
It wasn’t as though no one had seen it coming.
Anthem Elementary School
September 20, 2009
9:23 AM
“All right,” said Horace to the eager faced fifth graders. “What do we know?”
“We know the bed was bolted to the floor,” shouted Yoli, a girl not prone to raising her hand.
“Okay, good. Now, what does that mean about the bed?”
“It means Julia couldn’t move it, no matter what.” This was Armando, a kid two sizes too big to be in fifth grade.
“Hmm,” mused Horace. “I wonder why Roylott wouldn’t want her to move the bed. Is there anything around the bed that could be relevant?”
There was silence while the faces of 28 kids contorted in thought. Horace ambled over toward the vent, and inconspicuously put his hand on it.
“The vent! The vent! It’s over the bed!” These were random shouts scattered through the room.
“So, Amanda, what would be so important about the bed being near the vent?”
“Maybe…” and Amanda put her hand on her chin, as she had seen her teacher do so many times. “Maybe it was poison gas that he pumped through the vent?”
“How would he keep the gas from killing him? His room is on the other side of the vent.”
Again there was silence. After a moment, Jake, a boy two size too small to be a fifth grader, suggested, “Maybe that’s what that metallic clanging was? It was some kind of special machine that he puts against the vent, and it pushes gas into the room without letting it go through to his side of the room.”
“I like the way you think. That’s certainly possible. What do we know about the inside of Dr. Roylott’s room?”
“There’s a safe in there,” said Amanda.
“Yes, there is. It’s sitting on a table. Is there anything on the safe?”
Pages began flipping at desks throughout the room. “A saucer of milk.” This was the first time Christina had spoken in two days.
Horace smiled broadly. “Way to go, Christina!”
“So, he drinks milk,” said Armando sarcastically. “Big deal.”
“Do you drink your milk from a saucer?” Horace asked him, while shooting him a glare that made it clear we don’t step on Christina when she finally says something.
“I’ve never been kidnapped by aliens.”
The class laughed.
“A saucer is a really shallow bowl. You can’t, for example, have your cereal in one. And the only way to drink out of it is—”
“Licking it!” shouted Yoli. “Like a cat.”
“Do you suppose he keeps his cat in that safe?”
“That would be weird,” Yoli replied.
“Roylott killed his daughter. We already know he’s weird.” Amanda looked up at Horace. “Still, what’s the point of keeping a cat in a safe? Why not just let it wander around like everyone else does?”
“Good question. Was there anything else on the safe?”
“What’s a lash?” asked Christina.
“It’s the way Doyle spelled leash. You know, like you use for a dog? But there was something weird about the leash. Do you remember what was weird about it?”
“It’s tied in a weird little loop.”
“Nice, Antonio. It is. Why would you tie a leash like that do you think?”
“For something with a really small neck,” called out David, who came to class stoned at least twice a week.
“Sounds less like a cat all the time. What else could it be?”
Horace was thinking three questions ahead to the bell pull that rang nothing but ran from the vent to the pillow on the bed when his cell phone rang. Horace was startled, and he pulled it out of his pocket, annoyed. Everyone knew they should never call him during school. He looked at the name. “Mom.” “Shit,” he whispered. He pressed the button. “What’s the matter Mom?”
The class was stunned into silence. They’d never once seen their teacher answer his phone before. Their eyes widened as Horace’s face lost all of its color as though it were water slipping through a crack in the pipes.
“Oh my God…” Horace’s eyes teared up.
Amanda was out of her seat and running for the door before Horace got the next sentence out.
“Okay, Mom. I’m coming. I’ll be right there. I have to… you know… I have to… I have to get to the car. I’m coming Mom.” The classroom ceased to exist for Horace. His car, the interstate, Flagstaff, and the hospital were all he could see.
In another moment, Emily Johnson, one of the other teachers on his team, burst through the door. “I’ve got ‘em. You go. Just go.”
Horace looked up, tears streaming from his eyes. “Thank you. I… yeah. Um… Yeah. I gotta go. I’ll tell the office.”
When he reached the office the secretary ran to him, hugged him, and said, “Emily’s got it. Go. And we’re all praying for you and your Dad.”
Horace shot through the door and ran to his car.
Interstate 17
October 9, 2009
7:21 PM
So you got everything, ah, but nothing’s cool They just found your father in the swimming pool And you guess you won’t be going back to school Anymore.
Billy Joel was singing as Horace pressed harder on the accelerator. He needed to be in Flagstaff. He shouldn’t have left. Going back to work was stupid. He should have known this was coming sooner than anyone hoped. In the only time the whole family had agreed on anything in more than three decades, they had voted as one to send Dad home to hospice when the doctors said there was no more they could do. Dad should die in his own bed, surrounded by those who loved him. They all believed that. It was moral. It was just. It was what Dad would want. When Science has reached its limits, only Love remains.
Hesperia, California
October 11, 1993
4:20 PM
“I don’t think she gets it. I mean, I try to explain an idea to her, and then she either hates it, and she gets pissed at me, or she goes apeshit and runs so deep with the idea that she twists it into something new and that it was never intended to be.” Horace glanced at the clock, cradled the phone between his neck and left shoulder, picked up the bong and took a hit while his Dad talked to him.
“And would it have been worth it, after all,” Dad recited,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all.”
Horace exhaled as quietly as he could. “Yes! That’s it. That’s precisely it. Who is that?”
“I thought you had a degree in English. How did you get through four years of school without encountering TS Eliot?”
“We were dealing with Practical Cats.”
“You needed to deal with Prufrock.”
“So does Melinda. I’ll show her. She likes I’ll Fly Away. I have to give her credit for that.”
“She’s your wife. I hope there is much more than that you give her credit for.”
“For which I give her credit?”
“You know what Churchill said about ending sentences in prepositions.”
“No idea.”
“An intern was going over one of his speeches, and he told Churchill that he should rewrite a sentence because he ended it with a preposition. Churchill, quite properly, fired him at once saying, ‘that is the sort of nonsense up with which I will not put.’ A wise man, this Churchill.”
Horace laughed. “I want to preserve the language the way a chef preserves his knives. Every time we make it less precise, it becomes duller. It can’t communicate as clearly.”
“You’ve heard of evolution, haven’t you? All things change.”
“But not always for the better.”
“Well, maybe Shakespeare was actually talking about the language when he had Gertrude tell us all that lives must die, passing through nature…”
Interstate 17
October 9, 2009
7:43 PM
“… to eternity,” mumbled Horace. The road was dark, and there were few lights in the distance. He felt alone. The world had never been quite so empty. He’d made this drive dozens of times, but tonight he was travelling through an unfamiliar abyss. Mom had never needed him the way she will tonight. His job was to remain calm. He needed to hold Mom up. He needed to give her his strong heart to keep her from coming apart completely. That meant he was going to need some more strength of his own. Someone had to put some duct tape on the torn pieces of his heart. He thought of his cousin, and he picked up his phone.
Flagstaff, Arizona
August 30, 1985
5:46 PM
“… and with one phone call, his future begins,” said Hal, setting his beer on the kitchen table.
His wife, Marie, smiled at her son, Horace, as he spoke into the phone.
“Mrs. Burke? My name is Horace Singleman. I’ll be your student teacher this year. I’m calling to introduce myself and to find out if there’s anything special I should do, or bring, or… um… you know… think about for my first day.”
“Eloquent as ever,” whispered Marie.
“He’s nervous,” Hal whispered back. “Give the boy a break.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Horace was getting control of himself. “I’ll be sure to bring a lesson plan book, too. Is there a particular type you recommend?”
Hal laughed. “She’s not going to let him get by with that, is she Marie?”
Marie shook her head. “He’s not close to ready to do his lesson plans in those little blocks. He’ll need to…”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. I understand. So probably a wire notebook or…”
“Where should we take him for dinner? Do you think La Fonda is enough or…”
“No.” Hal shook his head. “This is the day his life changes. Let’s get the boy a steak.” Hal and Marie had never been so proud. Horace had never been more nervous.
Interstate 17
October 9, 2009
7:43 PM
Nervous. That was the best explanation. He was afraid he would fail his mother. “But screw thy courage to the sticking place, and we’ll not fail.” Maybe Lady Macbeth wasn’t the right person from whom to get emotional advice. She was a murderous bitch. On the other hand, Shakespeare often put his best advice in the mouths of his villains. And I’m responsible for who I am. Testing his memory, and finding his strength, Horace recited into the darkness:
Horace had printed that in appropriate script, and he had gotten it professionally framed for his Father. It had been on the wall in Dad’s office for decades. He knew Dad understood that they were God’s spies. No one else ever asked why that was on the wall. They just accepted that it was part of Horace and Dad.
And Horace had gotten through the whole thing, aloud, without crying. He was getting stronger. He would be all right. He could help his Mom.
Flagstaff, Arizona
October 3, 2009
8:18 AM
Horace gazed at his Father. Hal was in and out of consciousness, and he was clearly restless. He didn’t understand where he was. He didn’t know what was happening.
Marie set her hand gently on Horace’s shoulder. “Why don’t you read him some poetry? That soothes him.”
“Do you think he’ll understand?”
“Do you think it matters?” His nephew, Sheldon’s son, Leonard, sat on the other side of the table, and he gave Horace an annoyed glare.
“Good point.”
And Horace read. Hal didn’t seem aware of his surroundings, and yet, every few minutes, he would finish a line.
“And I am two-and-twenty,
And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true,” mumbled Hal as Horace read AE Houseman.
Horace smiled at his father. The things one remembers when one’s time is coming to a close. Hal recited lines about a patient etherized upon a table, and then, with the slowest, most graceful movement, turned his head and looked at his son. “Let us go and make our visit.” He almost smiled, but his lips wouldn’t quite go that far before Hal was asleep again.
Flagstaff, Arizona
October 9, 2009
8:12 PM
Horace pulled into his parents’ driveway. This wasn’t the house in which he had grown up. They’d sold that and moved into this much more easily maintained home in the Country Club. They had been here for five years now, and every time Horace arrived he felt as though he were visiting a foreign country. Tonight, it felt like an alien planet. How could it be that he would go through that door without his father greeting him?
“Strength, Horace. Your Mother needs your strength tonight. Hold it together. You’ve got this. You’re going to be just fine.”
The room wasn’t dark, but it certainly wasn’t glowing with the light he was accustomed to finding when he walked in. His eyes needed no time to adjust.
Mom was sitting at the kitchen table. Sheldon, Horace’s brother, was standing next to her, his hand on her shoulder.
Hal was lying on what appeared to be almost a stretcher. His eyes were closed. The light was dim, and Horace kept waiting to see him take just one breath. Horace took a deep one of his own, and went to his Mother to hug her. She needed his strength; he would….
On the wall to the right of his mother was a cheap calendar with the Mona Lisa on the front. And Horace lost all control of himself. He crumpled like bad prose on cheap paper to his knees and began bawling uncontrollably. His mother held him, but he couldn’t stop.
“He’s going to hyperventilate,” said Marie.
Sheldon got him a paper bag into which he told Horace to breathe. Horace didn’t want to breathe.
Flagstaff Funeral Home
October 21, 2009
3:47 PM
Horace looked out at the people. There must have been a hundred of them. It was standing room only. And they were looking at him. He hated that.
He didn’t want to speak here today. He and his brother had fought over the music Horace chose for their Father’s Memorial Video. Horace just wanted to hide where no one would ever find him again, but… here he was.
He had been talking for about ten minutes now. He had worked for days on what he would say, and he found himself resentful that his father wasn’t here to help him fix his prose. It was important. Dad had never let him down before, but now, when it mattered… he was nowhere to be found. He wished these people would stop looking at him. He looked down to his pages again. He knew better. He knew public speaking. He’d been a teacher for more than 20 years. He just couldn’t look at these people, and he buried himself in the safety of the printed word. He read aloud.
“And so now you’re gone, and while some see no tragedy in your passing, I see little else. I am grateful for the love I have for and get from all these people you gave me, but none of them, nor all of them combined, can ever give me what you did. I have no one to check my work. I have no one to explain to me what John Dewey meant about experience and education. I have no one to ask me what movies he should bother watching. I have no one with whom to argue about whether Fried Green Tomatoes belongs on the 100 Great Movies List. And I have no one to tell me that sentence would have seemed less awkward if I ended it with a preposition. And it just sucks.
“So, I know we have no Heaven for you. I know that you simply are no more. But, much as it would annoy you, I need to steal some other writers’ words now because they’re better than mine. Yes, I know which of the people listening to this are thinking, “That’s not saying much,” and I would like to direct to those people the napkin I would normally being throwing at you, Dad, for such an insolent thought. So, forgive me please, but remember that, “Good writers borrow from other writers; great writers steal from the outright.”
“So, “Let us go, then, you and I…”
“And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worthwhile,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worthwhile,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
–TS Eliot, from “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
“When I think of your absence, I am forced, reluctantly, to admit that my mind goes somewhere you would loathe it for going. “He’s really not dead. As long as we remember him.”
“You don’t really need Heaven, though, anyway.
I have sometimes dreamt, at least, that when the Day of Judgment dawns and the great conquerors and lawyers and statesmen come to receive their rewards–their crowns, their laurels, their names carved indelibly upon imperishable marble–the Almighty will turn to Peter and will say, not without a certain envy when He sees us coming with our books under our arms, “Look, these need no reward. We have nothing to give them here. They have loved reading.”
“So, I’ve written too much now already, forgetting that “brevity is the soul of wit.” On the other hand, “I cried when I wrote this song; sue me if I play too long.”
“I’ll wind it up with just one more quotation. “It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write these the last words in which I shall ever record the singular gifts by which my …” father, Hal Singleman, “was distinguished.” You are the one whom I will “…ever regard as the best and wisest man I have ever known.”
We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. Medicine, law, business, engineering. These are noble pursuits, necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love: these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman. ‘O me, O life, of the questions of these recurring. Of the endless trains of the faithless. Of cities filled with the foolish. What good, amid these, O me, O Life?’ Answer: That you are here. That life exists and identity. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?
John Keating, The Dead Poets Society
Fifty is a milestone in nearly anything. If you google it, you’ll see people seem to become obsessed with turning 50. Things that happened 50 years ago are more significant than things that happened 47 or 56 years ago.
This is my 50th Blog Post. It’s an effort to tie all the loose ends together, and to answer Professor Keating’s question.
While I’m alive, I hope that I can live a life such that I can have my one strange, supernatural fantasy come out my way. In the last five minutes of my life, Marc Antony shows up at my bedside. I always have him kind of glowing. And he’s clearly Marlon Brando. And he knows everything I have done, and all that has happened to me, from the time I was a sperm racing toward the egg, up until that very moment. And, in my fantasy, Marc Antony can honestly and objectively reach the conclusion that: His life was gentle, and the elements so mixed in him that the nature might stand up and say to all the world, “This was a man.” That’s all I hope to be able to achieve. I feel like it would be enough. After that, Death is a Welcome Companion. —Horace Singleman’s Blog, April 26, 2019
Extended Stay Inn Phoenix, Arizona September 2, 2019 3:14 AM
Horace
experienced Nothing. Sleep includes, from time to time, at least,
some sort of dreams. “What dreams may come when we have shuffled
off this mortal coil…” Horace lacked awareness of his very
existence. Dreams imply a form of consciousness. Consciousness hid
in the Nothingness.
A
voice flickered into existence. “Horace?”
Horace’s
eyes might have opened. They might not have. They existed, though.
Marc
Antony floated over the bed on which Horace lay, dying. The entity
appeared in every outward way to be Marlon Brando playing Marc Antony
in the 1953 film version. But Horace knew it was Marc Antony anyway.
His
voice came from everywhere at once. It was both booming and
soothing. It echoed without pretense. He spoke the lines Horace had
spent his life preparing to hear.
“This was the noblest Roman of them all. All the conspirators save only he Did that they did in envy of great Caesar. He only in a general honest thought And common good to all, made one of them. His life was gentle, and the elements So mixed in him that Nature might stand up And say to all the world…”
He
stopped. There was a pause that seemed to stretch into Eternity.
Finally, he sighed in a distinctly disappointed fashion, and said, “I
got nothing.”
Horace
regained (or didn’t… he couldn’t be sure) consciousness. “What
do you mean?”
“You
didn’t make the cut, Horace. I’m sorry. The Elements aren’t mixed
properly. I can’t call you a Man.”
“Oh.”
Horace blinked, or he did if his eyes were still functioning, which
was, by no means, a settled issue. “Well, that sucks. I thought I
was doing pretty well. I was mostly proud of what I did.”
Antony
shrugged. “What can I tell ya?”
“So…
to be clear… you know everything I’ve ever done every moment of my
life, right?”
“From
the moment your Dad’s condom broke.”
“Wait.
What?”
“That
was more than I was supposed to tell you, probably. Forget it.”
“So,
I don’t need to explain anything to you. You know, for example,
about Somewhere in Time,
Emily Webb and her return from the graveyard, and The
Next Generation episode, ‘Tapestry,’
right?”
“And
Billy Bigelow in Carousel
and George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful
Life. They’re all about a second
chance. Going back. You’re looking for a do-over?” Antony lit a
cigarette with a match. Horace wondered if togas had pockets.
“Are
there any options like that? I’ve never dealt with dying before.”
Antony
dragged on the cigarette, shook out the match, and looked up at
Horace. The smoke smelled tempting to Horace. Antony smiled at
him, in the way only Brando could, and handed Horace a cigarette. He
lit it for him. Horace inhaled gratefully.
“Well,
it’s your last five minutes… or actually… three minutes and 49
seconds… of life. Spend them as you see fit.”
“What
about a trip to The Guardian of Forever?”
Antony
nodded slowly, contemplatively. “We could do that.” He blew out
the smoke from his cigarette, and it became deeper and deeper. It
expanded until all that existed was smoke. From within the smoke,
Horace heard familiar voices.
“Incredible power. It can’t be a machine as we understand mechanics.”
“Then what is it?”
Now
the smoke began to dissipate, and Horace could see his childhood
heroes, Kirk and Spock, standing before a 15 foot high slab of rock
with a hole carved in its center.
“A
question. Since before your sun burned hot in space and before your
race was born, I have awaited a question.” The voice came from
everywhere, and reverberated through the scene.
“What
are you?” This was Kirk.
“I
am the Guardian of Forever,” said the booming voice of the rock.
“Are
you machine or being?”
“I am both and neither. I am my own beginning, my own ending.”
“Cool,”
whispered Horace.
“This
won’t be long. After they leave, it’s all yours.”
“Can
they see or hear us?”
“Were
we in the episode?” Antony turned to watch an insane Doctor McCoy
jump through the portal. In that moment, everything felt different.
There was a sense of loneliness that Horace had never experienced.
He
looked over to the crew of the Enterprise.
“Where
is he?” Horace’s hero asked The Guardian.
“He
has passed into what was.”
Horace
told Antony, “That’s sort of what I have in mind.”
Antony
nodded. “I get ya. We’ll see what we can do. Soon as they’re
gone. We can’t interfere.”
“They
could be here for a really long time, and I have, what… like three
minutes?”
Antony
shook his head. “Closer to two. But you’ve forgotten how this
episode comes out.”
Horace
looked back to his heroes.
“Earth’s not there. At least, not
the Earth we know. We’re totally alone.” Kirk and the crew looked
into the empty dark sky.
“I
don’t really want to change all of galactic history or anything, you
know,” Horace explained to Antony.
“You’re
not nearly
that important. And The Guardian will only let you go back into your
life. You don’t get to go stop the Lincoln assassination or
something.”
“So…
any moment of my life?”
“Nope.
It doesn’t play at that speed. There are certain moments… like
docks on the river of time… you can pick one of those, go back, and
do whatever you think needs to be done.”
“Yeah,
but I can’t do much in the time I have left.”
“Time
doesn’t count in The Guardian, remember?”
Captain
Kirk turned to Spock, who was busy with his tricorder. “Make sure
we arrive before McCoy got there. It’s vital we stop him before he
does whatever it was that changed all history. Guardian, if we are
successful – “
The
Guardian’s voice filled the area: “Then you will be returned. It
will be as though none of you had gone.”
Antony
turned to his companion. “Do you have a clue what you’re going to
do in The Guardian?”
“I’m
going to try to fix my life so that the elements are so mixed in me
that Nature might stand up and say to all the world –”
“Yeah,
yeah. I know. But, what, exactly, are you going to fix? What do
you think you can do to remix the Elements?”
Horace
ran his thumb over his mustache. “I really don’t know.”
Spock
spoke quietly. “There is no alternative.”
Captain
Kirk turned to his engineer. “Scotty, when you think you’ve waited
long enough… Each of you will have to try it. Even if you fail, at
least you’ll be alive in some past world somewhere.”
Mr.
Scott’s face showed concern. “Aye.”
Mr.
Spock looked carefully at his tricorder, and then up at The Guardian.
“Seconds now, sir. Stand by.”
Horace
asked Antony, “Those are my seconds he’s spending… how many do I
have left?”
Antony
didn’t need to look at a clock. “One hundred fifty three.”
“Well,
then, I’m pretty much screwed!”
Spock
said, “…And now.” He and Kirk jumped through The Guardian.
“By
the time they get back,” Horace began. He was interrupted by Mr.
Scott. Kirk and Spock jumped back through the portal.
“What
happened, sir? You only left a moment ago.”
Dr.
McCoy jumped through as well.
Spock
spoke in his logical, emotionless way. It was clear, however, to the
assembled crew he was holding something back. “We were
successful.”
The
Guardian spoke again. “Time has resumed its shape. All is as it
was before. Many such journeys are possible. Let me be your gateway.”
Lieutenant
Uhura glanced up from her communicator. “Captain, the Enterprise
is up there. They’re asking if we want to beam up.”
Kirk was defeated and deflated. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
In
another moment, all of the shapes shimmered, and then they were gone.
Horace and Antony were alone with the Guardian of Forever.
“So…
what’s it going to be?” Antony moved toward The Guardian.
Horace
moved quickly to the portal. “Guardian? Can you take me back in
time?”
“Your
transportation is limited to the 56.841 years you have existed. You
may choose from any of three… Time Docks… is the simplest way to
explain them to your species. They are moments in time that you may
enter and change. The rest of the River of Time flows too quickly
for you. You would certainly drown.”
Horace
glared at Antony. “What the hell is this? Kirk and Spock got all
of History. All I get is -”
“You’re
not Kirk and Spock. This Guardian is limited to what I know. What I
know is your life.”
“What
about Ancient Rome?”
“Is
this really how you want to spend your last 97 seconds?”
Horace
turned back to The Guardian. “What are my options?”
The Guardian displayed a moment in Horace’s life.
“That was the day Grandpa Leal died. I remember that.”
***
Henderson, Nebraska Sunday, September 28, 1969 2:23 PM
“All right,” said Jim
Lange’s voice coming from the TV, “that’s the signal Farrah, and
now you must make up your mind… will it be Bachelor Number One,
Bachelor Number Two, or Bachelor Number Three?”
“It doesn’t matter who
she picks,” Horace whispered to Teddy. “She always finds out
later it was the wrong one.”
“Which one gets the
date?” asked the TV.
“Number Two,”
Farrah’s voice replied.
“Number Two, all right!
Can I ask what it was that made you choose him?”
“It was the flower.”
And then a fight broke
out between the three bachelors.
“That’s only ‘possed to
be on Batman,” said Teddy, while Horace’s lips moved.
“Cool!”
Owen groaned, “I’m up,
I’m up, I’m up,” as he woke from his doze, got out of the chair,
and walked to the TV. He turned it off, while Horace groaned in
disappointment. Grandpa lumbered to the couch, laid down on it, and
pulled the blanket off the back of it and covered himself.
Teddy looked up at
Horace. “Your Grandpa’s wise, huh?”
Horace nodded. “He’s
God’s best friend.” He looked down at his bear. “But we have to
be quiet. Grandpa’s going to sleep now.”
Horace watched Owen a while, and then he took Teddy, climbed on top of Grandpa, and fell asleep.
***
The Guardian of Forever September 2, 2019 3:18:07 AM
“What
do I do with that?”
“You
blocked it out. No one knew. You couldn’t tell them. You didn’t
understand. You were afraid,” said Antony.
“That…
my Grandfather died?”
“That
you might have prevented it. You were lying on top of him when it
happened. You felt his heart attack. You froze. You could have
gone to get Mrs. Fertlebom. You could have called 911. You would
have become a more courageous man.”
“Why
didn’t I? I don’t remember.”
“You
didn’t know what to do. When Grandpa fell asleep, don’t you remember
what you did that night?”
“I
went and turned the TV back on… I figured I could get away with it
now…”
“That’s
right.”
“And…
I watched… was that… that was the first time I saw ‘City on The
Edge of Forever.’ That’s when I learned about The Guardian. It’s
where I learned about Let Me Help.”
“That’s
why it became such a motivating factor… almost an obsession
in your life. If you had helped…”
“I
don’t see changing that. It’s a core part of me.”
“What
about your grandfather?”
“We
have only… what… 45 seconds left?”
“49.”
“What’s
next?”
A new image appeared within The Guardian.
“That’s
Rhiannon’s attic. I remember that.”
“She
really did
put a spell on you that night.”
“That’s
ridiculous!” shouted Horace. “I have no belief in the
Supernatural.”
“There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio…”
***
Wells, Maine Tuesday, March 13, 1979 10:23 PM
This
attic was the only place Horace could find to hide. There were so
many people out there, but here, in this empty room, he was alone
with the full moon whose light was slipping feebly through the tiny
window.
He
couldn’t imagine what he had been thinking when he’d accepted Bob’s
invitation. It had been so entirely unexpected, though, there was
nothing else he could do. The star quarterback of the high school
football team had invited him to a party… at the home of the single
most beautiful cheerleader who had ever graced the halls of Poe High
School. And Horace was the head of the Poe Nothings. Horace knew
himself well enough to know that Rhiannon would never actually talk
to him, but there was that Glimmer of Hope. Just a little Hope can
make the heart beat a bit faster. Horace enjoyed the feeling, so he
accepted the invitation. And now he was in the attic, hoping he
could find a way out of here.
All
of these people were light years beyond his social class. None of
them had ever seen an episode of Star Trek. He knew absolutely
nothing about the sports that they discussed with the precision of
scientists debating quantum mechanics. They were all well built,
outgoing, attractive people. Horace was thin, gangly, socially
inept, and unattractive in any conventional sense. He was the only
virgin in the entire house. What had Bob been thinking?
He
didn’t belong. He wanted to leave, but it was awfully cold in March,
and it was a 17 mile walk from Wells back to Biddeford. Hiding
represented his only chance to survive, and he couldn’t get away with
the bathroom for more than about 5 minutes at a time. There were way
too many people, drinking way too much, and they all required a
restroom.
But
this room looked like it was hiding, too. It wasn’t even a
full-sized room. It was accessible only by a narrow, winding
staircase at the last corner of a very dark hallway. As his eyes
adjusted, he was able to perceive that against the wall to his
right, there was an old, worm-eaten wooden table filled with what
Horace decided must be an artist’s supplies. There were notched
candles. There were cloves. There were strangely shaped bottles
filled with various colors of oils. When he walked to it he observed
seeds, matches, and a shot glass.
He
turned around when he heard the door open behind him, and he moved as
quietly as he could out of the light. Rhiannon backed into the room,
a round candlestick in her hand. She turned and glided silently
across the room, and when she crossed the moonlight, the room seemed
to glow with her.
She
went to the table, and lit the notched candle using the tall thin one
attached to the holder. She mumbled something, but Horace couldn’t
make out what it was. He could see her silhouette moving her hands
up the bizarrely shaped candle, bottom to top, 9 times. He counted.
She sighed confidently.
Antony
whispered, “Now’s your chance. Just leave.”
Horace
shook his head and watched with a nostalgic smile.
When
she turned around to leave the room she saw him, and they were both
startled. Horace, already in the corner, tried to back away, but
just smashed his body awkwardly into the wall. She dropped her
candle, and it rolled, lit, across the wooden floor toward him. He
knelt, nearly falling over, and picked it up. He stood up, and found
her standing directly in front of him. He handed it back to her.
“I’m sorry,” he whimpered.
Rhiannon
smiled compassionately at him. “Me too.” She looked briefly
over her shoulder at the strange candle, and disappointment tinted
her blue eyes.
Horace
couldn’t look at her. He noticed his shoelaces didn’t match.
“I
really am trying my best.” She looked back at Horace. “To be a
decent person I mean. I know a lot of people think I’m stuck up, or
whatever, but, really, I’m not.”
Horace
said nothing.
“Okay?”
She whispered.
He
looked up. “Okay.” His stare, while entirely unintentional, was
almost rude in its intensity.
There
have been, throughout human history, quite a few women renowned for
their beautiful hair. None of them, however, had anything on
Rhiannon. Lady Godiva and Rapunzel, for example, were each known for
the lengths of theirs. Rhiannon’s didn’t come close to such a
ghastly stretch. It fell, seemingly effortlessly, down her neck and
covered her shoulders as a quiet brown river lightly licking its
banks, or a blanket under which the slender shoulders snuggled
greedily.
Helen
of Troy and Lucretia Borgia were sufficiently beautiful that they
seemed almost to be able to cast a spell on men simply by looking at
them. They were Anti-Medusas. Horace was as inspired as any
Trojan.
When
she saw Horace staring through his hormone haze, she smiled shyly and
brushed her hair slowly back from her forehead. Then she nervously
moved her fingers through it like a tide stealing sand from a moonlit
beach as it slides up and down.
“I
mean, do you ever ask yourself if it’s even possible to make everyone
happy without hurting someone?”
“No…
not until just now.”
“If
you ever figure it out…” her eyes shimmered in the candlelight.
They both smiled. Rhiannon, he decided, was a girl who knew how to
run her fingers through her hair. They were having a moment.
The
banging on the door made them both jump, but Rhiannon held firmly to
her candle, and Horace slithered back into his dark corner silently.
“Rhiannon?
You in there?” Horace recognized Bob’s tenor voice.
She
took her hand away from her hair. “I’ll be right out.” The
moment was over.
“There’s
a party downstairs, and you’re being a lousy hostess.”
She
smiled, almost tenderly at him, and left the room, the notched candle
burning. Horace was alone in the dark.
The Guardian of Forever September 2, 2019 3:18:19 AM
Horace
shook his head. “No. It does no one any good. She was never real
for me. But she represented an Ideal. She was my Dream of
Perfection, and I would miss that feeling too much.”
“I
don’t know how that timeline would go. You might end up marrying
her.”
“That’s
selfish. She has a life she loves. I would be giving her something
less. I would never have had the money to give her what she has.”
“Perhaps
something more valuable?”
Horace
rolled his eyes. “What’s next?”
Antony
shrugged, as though the answer were obvious. “Your Greatest Sin.”
A new image appeared within The Guardian.
“That’s
the room we built for Mom in The Shithole. My roommates, Albert and
Jeanine, painted it, and we put all of her favorite things in it. It
had a special bed the dog could jump on so Mom could still sleep with
her.”
“And
you took your old Mother’s money.”
“It
wasn’t that simple.”
“Yes,”
Antony lit a new cigarette. “It was. You just try to rationalize
what you don’t like about yourself. You always have.”
“Look,”
Horace tried to explain, “just before Dad died, I promised…”
Phoenix, Arizona January 15, 2017 12:37 PM
“…
that you would take care of your mother. Isn’t that what you said?”
“Yes,
Mom,” Horace said into the phone, doing his best not to show
frustration. “And I really did do my best. I had you living with
me for four and a half years.”
“So
why can’t I live where I want? Everyone always decides what’s right
for me. What about my feelings? What about what I want?”
Horace
sighed. “What do you want, Mom?”
“I
want to live with my family. I want to be where I’m loved.” There
were tears in her voice. “Are you telling me my own family doesn’t
love me anymore?”
“Of
course not, Mom.”
“You
can have all my money. My doctors will come to the house. We can be
together. I won’t have to sit here like a piece of meat waiting to
rot.”
“It’s
not about the money. I don’t know if I can take care of you well
enough.”
“You
retired. You have time. And I don’t need much. I just need… I
just need…” And now Marie Singleman was crying. “I wish I
could just go to sleep and not wake up anymore.”
Horace’s
heart melted. His mother deserved better. He could do better. He
would do better…
…
And
he got his roommates to clean out the extra room, paint it, furnish
it, make it ready for her. He got all of the paperwork for her
removal from the Group Home done.
And
then his family heard about the move, swept in against him, promised
legal action that would force his mother to take the stand and finish
what was left of her deeply confused brain, and Marie slept in her
room only three times before the move was shut down.
He
had held her while she cried on his shoulder. He kept reassuring her
that they would still talk every night. He promised she would never
be alone.
Sunday, February 12, 2017 4:25 PM Phoenix, Arizona.
Horace
sat staring at his computer. There was the bank account. There was
enough money to avoid eviction. He could click it, transfer money
from Marie’s account to his, pay his landlord, and avoid the
Sheriff’s office in the morning. All he had to do was click the damn
button.
Antony
and his Horace stood invisibly next to the desk. Antony handed
Horace another cigarette and lit it for him.
“So,”
mumbled Antony, “what’s it going to be?”
Horace
exhaled. “You want me to stop him…”
“Is
that what you want to do?”
“It
would mix the Elements properly?”
Antony
nodded.
“And…
I get evicted. And Marion and I are on the streets tomorrow
afternoon. We’re living in my car. And God only knows what happens
to Albert and Jeanine. I’m sure they’ll figure something out. They
always do. What happens in this timeline?”
Antony
shook his head. He took a long drag off his cigarette.
Horace
watched himself fighting an inner battle. He knew all the signs.
There was the quivering finger over the mouse. There was the moving
his hand away, and then putting it back. There was the glow in his
eyes as his mind turned faster and faster. He was about to reach a
decision. The moment would be gone.
“If
you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice,” said
Antony, although it came out as Geddy Lee’s voice singing “Free
Will.”
Horace
nodded. He unplugged his counterpart’s computer. The seated Horace
looked at the active Horace. He didn’t see him. Seated Horace
nodded, inhaled and exhaled deeply, got up from the desk and left the
office.
Tuesday, February 14, 2017 3:14:49 PM Phoenix, Arizona Bethany Home Road Horace’s Car
“Ya
still got 11 seconds,” said Antony from the passenger seat of the
Nissan.
Horace
took a moment to absorb his surroundings. The car reeked of puke.
His dog, Marion, was licking him frantically. “I thought I died in
2019. What the hell?”
“Changed
the time line. 9 seconds.”
“Yeah,
but won’t this hurt Mom worse than my taking the money would have?”
“You
made that decision a couple years later when you took 50 units of
insulin without eating. You knew what you were doing.”
“I
was homeless. When the remainder of life is to be nothing but pain
–”
“6
seconds. This one isn’t on you. It’s not intentional. It’s
untreated DKA. You’re in the clear. The Elements came out fine.”
“So,
you can say…”
Antony
smiled as only Brando could.
“This was the noblest Roman of them all. All the conspirators save only he Did that they did in envy of great Caesar. He only in a general honest thought And common good to all, made one of them. His life was gentle, and the elements So mixed in him that Nature might stand up And say to all the world…”
He
put his hand on Horace’s shoulder.
“This
was a man.”
A
tear of joy started to form in Horace’s eye, but it didn’t have time
to become properly liquid. There was no more than a twinkling little
star before they lost their light.
Macbeth
was a villain, but he was right about that…
We’d known it was coming for
months. She was getting weaker all the time. She was just plain
old. There was nothing more to do. The details are irrelevant. It
was simply time to let her go. I’m confident in that decision.
Life is a clock; it finally winds down. While I was waiting for the vet to come this morning, every minute was a year. And the ten years Melanie and I had were only a minute.
Now, I am alone…
Hamlet
I have plenty of support.
My best friend, Stephanie, who gave Melanie to me when Melanie was 6
or 8 weeks old (we bought her from an ad on Craigslist), and her
boyfriend, Tim, who has the distinction of being the only man she’s
dated in the last decade that I like, came to sit with me.
I cried a few times while I
was waiting. Then I would sigh, put out my cigarette, and then go
sit by Melanie again. I didn’t want Melanie to see me crying. She
didn’t. She was as happy as she could be.
This morning she couldn’t
get up. She couldn’t get off the floor. I had to move her food to
her. She was done.
And, in the end, she made sure I got lots of kisses to take with me forever. One of our last is in the picture above. While I was petting her, she looked curiously around the room, as though she’d never really seen it before. She seemed to absorb it all, as though she knew… and I think she did… that she would never see it again.
Melanie was simply Love.
She was nothing more, and nothing less. She never knew a single
trick. She used to leap across the kitchen floor to cover me with
kisses when I came home from work. She cuddled with me every night,
until she couldn’t get on the bed anymore, and I could never get her
to use the steps my old roommate made her that would have helped her
up there. She slept on the floor in my room.
Since we moved here, she had
been much happier. There were no more stairs for her to climb. She
had a huge backyard. And she got her own couch, and her own blanket.
And in the end she got to the place where she couldn’t get off of
them.
I’m about to discuss my restroom habits. If this is too personal, please skip to the next paragraph. “There is little or no offensive material apart from….” oh never mind. If you aren’t a complete Monty Python Geek that joke will fall flat… but… I got up to pee just now. I walked from my Library to the bathroom. And I walked past Melanie’s couch. Her fur is all over the floor from where she was lying at the end and everyone kept petting her. And she wasn’t on the couch. And she won’t be again. And that sucks. That’s what I have to say about my restroom habits…. except that Melanie is still on the couch for less than a second whenever I walk by. And I can hear her claws on the wood floor whenever I go to the door.
The girls had evidently been
preparing for this for the last several weeks. Hilary had done the
research, and she knew exactly who to call. They came out to the
house. Melanie left being completely loved. I believe she was
thinking about Lenny’s rabbits.
When it was over, I went
outside. When I came back in, the room was emptier than it’s ever
been, regardless of the fact that I was surrounded by people I love
and who love me. It will be that way for a long time.
I cost us a ton of money,
today. It’s not cheap to get people out to do this, and I spent the
extra to get Melanie’s ashes. I can’t justify it financially, and I
know I hurt the family, but it was emotionally necessary. We were
almost going to be even this month…
And, of course, there is the
difficulty of deciding whether to tell my mother. She’s 88, has
almost no short term memory left, lives in a group home she’s not
allowed to leave, and she would never really have to know. She loves
Melanie as much as I do. I nearly hyperventilated this morning. I
can’t imagine how this will affect Mom. There is also the
possibility of not telling her at all. I don’t feel right about
keeping it from her, but I don’t see the Good in hurting her this
badly. I haven’t decided what to do yet. It will require thought.
Melanie was the best Love
I’ve ever had. I have three cats, one of whom insists on cuddling me
whenever I go near my bed. I have roommates who are family. I have
friends all over the place who are here to support me. And I am
grateful to all of you for all of that. And none of you, and none of
the Love I get, as incredibly valuable as both you and your Love are
to me, can be Melanie. There never can be another Melanie.
She made my life better for
more than a decade. She helped me through the worst times, and she
celebrated the best with me. Her fortunes rose and fell as mine did,
but she never complained. She just gave me kisses.
When I brought her home, she
fit in the palm of my hand. I put her on the bed with me that first
night, and it was way too far down for her to consider jumping off,
so she bounced around the bed all night long like a tennis ball on
crack. I remember wondering if I was ever going to get to sleep with
her in the bed.
Over the years, I learned to
sleep without her in the bed.
But now I have to sleep without her in the world. I don’t know how
well I’m going to do.
What
I am going to do is,
I’m going to keep going. I sat down to write this less for you than
for me. I have to get some of this out, so I apologize that I am
speaking too personally. I have to know I can still write. I think
I can.
Melanie, you were the best. You’re never really gone, as long as I remember you, as someone once said. Here’s lookin’ at you, kid. I love you.
Don’t tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody.
Clara was not quite 5 that
day in 1954 while she sat in her bedroom playing with her doll. The
sun was shining happily through her windows, and she was singing to
herself about a very small spider and a water spout. At first, she
was oblivious to the yelling outside. She’d heard it all before. 65
years later, though, she would look back to that day and continue to
wonder.
She would remember the
feeling of her head snapping up when she heard the car door slam far
more loudly than it ever had before. She would never be able to
remember the words she heard, but she would be quite certain they
were unfit for a 4 year old. She sat there for a full minute, frozen
just a little by the unexpected excitement.
Her father had been away in
the War for most of her life, and she’d known him a little less than
a year, or, just over 20% of the time she had been inhabiting this
planet. He yelled often, and often in the middle of the night.
Clara’s mother feared him. Clara never did. She didn’t really
understand fear. And yet…
The sound of her mother
screaming, “No!” frightened her. The sound came from within the
house.
His haggard face appeared at
the window first. A moment later his hands appeared on the sides of
his face, and his large, frightened eyes began to squint. Clara
would later believe he wanted to make sure she was there. One hand
was empty. In the other was an M1911, or a Colt Government. It
caught a spark of sunlight before it, the hands, and the face
disappeared.
It was the way the red
splashed the window that she thought, for just the tiniest moment,
was pretty. She was deaf for nearly a minute, and then her ears were
ringing while she cried into her doll baby. By the time her mother
found Clara, the doll was dripping.
***
No ghost was necessary. Her
father was more real than any ghost could ever be. When he
approached her, smiling, she felt a tinge of joy. When he held up
the gun, she closed her eyes, but since her eyes were already closed,
it did nothing to obscure the image from her view. The memory was
stronger than any darkness could hide. When he put the gun in his
mouth, she screamed and woke herself up.
Clara sat alone in her bed,
shivering. A memory she could hardly remember had haunted her for 65
years. She longed for an escape that could never come.
She remembered the stories.
Foul play was involved. No, that wasn’t true. Mom had found a
suicide note in his own handwriting. It discussed the Napalm he had
dropped on other human beings. It discussed a deep self loathing.
It said the death toll from the Korean War would never be accurately
calculated. She wondered if hers would be counted.
There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in our philosophy.”
Hamlet Act 1, Scene 5
Yesterday,
not for anything close to the first time, I should have died. I woke
up to find a strange woman standing over me while I was lying in bed.
She was a paramedic. She had just brought me back to consciousness
when my blood sugar had dropped so low that it was undetectable by
medical equipment. I’m alive because my roommate checked on me,
found me irretrievably unconscious, and called 911. She has done
this more than once.
I
should have died, in what I think would have been a beautifully
appropriate way, a couple of years ago when my blood sugar went so
high that it was off the scale. I was alone then. There was no one
there to save me. One of my friends, though, became concerned when
she couldn’t get me on the phone, and, though she was out of town,
she sent the Mesa Police to do a wellness check, and they took me to
the hospital. I had gone into Diabetic Ketoacidosis. I would,
undoubtedly, have died alone in a cheap motel room had she not
interfered. Frankly, that would have been, at the time, my preferred
way to shuffle off this mortal coil. It didn’t happen, though.
Someone kept me alive.
This
has happened at least half a dozen times in the last four or five
years. I was at a place where I was unable to help myself, and
someone came to my rescue.
When
I posted about yesterday’s incident on Facebook, more than one of my
friends suggested that there is a reason that I keep cheating Death.
Their reasons are, whether they say it directly or not, supernatural.
God, or some other force like Him, is not letting me die.
I
love my friends, but I reject that answer. Why, Fred? The evidence
is there. Some force keeps intervening to keep you alive. It must
be God, in some form or other.
Why
must it be God? I believe you’re making what is commonly called The
God of The Gaps Argument.
What’s
that?
The God of The Gaps is defined, as follows, by Wikipedia.
The term God-of-the-gaps fallacy can refer to a position that assumes an act of God as the explanation for an unknown phenomenon, which is a variant of an argument from ignorance fallacy. Such an argument is sometimes reduced to the following form: There is a gap in understanding of some aspect of the natural world… (God is required to fill that gap.)
Wikipedia
I’ve
been guilty of committing this fallacy, myself, on more than one
occasion. How else can one explain the Genius of Mozart or
Shakespeare? They are light years beyond what any human being should
be capable of doing. Yet, they do. This can only be some sort of
supernatural result. They have connected with Something Beyond.
But,
that is simply intellectual laziness on my part. Their work exists.
It was produced by humans. Therefore, we know, by definition, humans
are capable of such feats. They even managed to build the pyramids.
We’re one hell of a powerful group, we humans.
Does
this mean I entirely reject the idea of there being Something Beyond?
No. I don’t. Hamlet tells Horatio, “There are more things in
Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy.” I’m sure
he’s right. I have absolutely no doubt that there are forces in the
universe that I don’t – or can’t – understand. And when Science
shows them to me, I’ll accept their existence.
I
have, from time to time, felt myself, for as much as a week once,
connecting with Something Beyond. I simply had everything working.
I was in my stride. My writing was at its best. My social skills
were on the mark. Women liked me. I knew how to earn more than
enough money to survive. I was feeling music acutely. I was moved
to tears by Mr. Banks singing “A Man Has Dreams” in Mary Poppins.
I could feel the Jedi Force flowing through me.
However,
that doesn’t require a supernatural explanation. It’s a part of
human experience. How do I know? Because I’m human, and I
experienced it.
I
had no special powers. I could levitate precisely nothing. I was
unable to fly without the assistance of an airplane. I was entirely
unable to read anyone’s mind. I simply was making everything work,
all at the same time. And it was beautiful.
I
think Mozart and Shakespeare were able to make their Art work all the
time. I can’t imagine how wonderful that must have felt. Mozart
rarely even did second drafts, that rotten bastard! You will never
read a word of mine that hasn’t been through at least 3 or 4 drafts.
And even if I did 3 or 4 thousand, it could never approach the level
of Shakespeare. That’s not false modesty. That’s an understanding
of what Shakespeare is.
So,
if I’m not willing to accept a supernatural explanation, what
explanation do I accept? I’m not sure I’ve found one yet. But,
there is one I’m considering. It has to do with Love.
If
you’ve spent any time with my Blog, you’ll see I’ve had more than a
little to say on the subject of what Love is. It’s best, and most
succinctly, defined as the feeling that someone else’s happiness is
at least as important as your own. Well being falls into the same
category.
In an upcoming story about my secret alter ego, Horace, his Grandpa tells him this about love:
I guess you might begin to suspect there’s something going on when you can’t stop thinking about some girl. Although, more often than not, that’s just a case of overactive hormones. But, it is a part of it. If you think a girl is really pretty, and you think about her all the time, and if you wonder if she has enough to eat, and if she’s safe, and when nothing makes you happier than making her happy, and all of that sort of thing… well, maybe, just possibly you’re in love. But, I wouldn’t count on it.”
Fred Eder
Love
is also a Force. It compels one to do things as certainly as gravity
does. When you love someone sufficiently, you can’t tolerate their
suffering, and you will take what ever action is necessary to stop
it. It really isn’t a matter of choice. It’s just what you do. You
can’t keep from doing it any more than you can keep your heart from
beating.
The
one common thread I can find in all of the incidents of my Salvation
is that someone I love was involved. I have reason to believe those
who saved me also loved me.
After
quite nearly plummeting to his death, Captain Kirk tells his best
friends, “I knew I wouldn’t die because the two of you were with
me. I’ve always known I’ll die alone.”
Love,
in its most powerful form, continues to keep me alive.
But,
why should I keep living? Yesterday one of my friends said, “Fred,
there’s a reason you are still alive, clearly. Something you need to
investigate, learn about, before it’s too late. Any idea what it is?
I have an inkling…”
And that is a pertinent question. What is it I need to do with my life while I still have it? This was my reply:
I think I need to learn to write in a way that can help the world see its commonality. Someone I love very much guided my thinking on that idea 40 years ago when she said, “One planet, one people… please?” (It was her.)
I’m trying to figure out how to make that dream a reality. I have no delusions of grandeur. I don’t believe it’s any more possible than it was for Atticus to get a Not Guilty verdict for Tom Robinson, or for Santiago to get his marlin back to shore, but I admire those men for making the effort.
“I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It’s when you know you’re licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what,” (as Atticus told Jem.)
I believe in that.”
Fred Eder
What
does My
Life mean? What is the purpose of my continuing to suck up everyone
else’s oxygen?
I
think Captain Kirk began to teach me in April, 1967.
Edith
Keeler tells Kirk, “Let me help.”
Kirk
replies, “A hundred years or so from now, a famous novelist will
write a classic using that theme. He’ll recommend those three words,
even over ‘I love you.‘”
I’ve
often hoped that I might get to be that famous novelist. Since he
was talking to Edith Keeler in 1930, I have 11 more years to get
there. If I can live that long. Of course, I would have to be
living on “a planet circling the far left star in Orion’s belt.”
But, hey, one step at a time.
The
idea of Let Me Help has guided most of my life. I was an Elementary
School Teacher for just shy of 30 years. For me, my classroom was
the Enterprise. And, arrogance be damned, I was an extraordinary
Starship Captain.
I
retired in 2016. I thought, like Kirk once did, that I was done
making a difference. As it turns out, I wasn’t. I have found that
my words can still make a difference. I can still be of help with
them. I can sometimes move people. I can sometimes make them think.
I can sometimes reinforce their beliefs. I have even, from time to
time, been able to inspire someone.
If
I can find a way for my words to help bring the world together, to
make the Dream of “One Planet, One People… Please” a reality, I
will have made a difference. I don’t know how to do that, yet, but I
promise you I’m working on it.
What
yesterday most revealed to me was that I still have a desire to live.
This is new for me. I’ve been ready to die for several years now.
In fact, the last time the paramedics showed up, I was a little
disappointed they brought me back. Hamlet tells me, “The readiness
is all,” and I felt ready.
I
lost a little of that readiness yesterday. It occurs to me there are
still things I would like to do before I’m gone. There is Love still
to be experienced. There are words I still need to write. There is
Music I still want to hear. I find delight in small things people
do. I need to talk to my Mom every night at exactly 7:37 so she
knows I’m okay. I hope to have another pastrami sandwich someday. I
want to have a little ice cream before bed. These are all reasons to
want to live.
And
my friends have given me those reasons. And those reasons are a
product of Love. So… what keeps saving me? I believe it’s Love.
You
may believe it’s something else, and I respect your belief, even if
we don’t agree. But, for me, Love is the most powerful Force in the
Universe, and I believe it’s why I’m still alive.
I’m
working on finding the Meaning of My Life. I hope my thoughts might
have helped you to find the Meaning of Yours.
I
don’t fear Death. To be clear, I make no claims to being a brave
man. I don’t believe I am. I have a deep fear of pain, and people
scare the hell out of me. But Death… not so much.
I
don’t believe this means there’s anything wrong with me. There are
plenty of things wrong with
me; I just don’t think this is among them. Why don’t I fear Death?
I
have no convincing evidence concerning the Afterlife. I know there
are nearly as many beliefs about it as there are people on the
planet. They can’t all be right. It’s possible they’re all wrong.
I have to begin with this simple truth: I Don’t Know.
If
there is an Afterlife, since I don’t know one way or the other, I
will deal with it when I arrive. I don’t spend this life trying to
secure a good spot in the next one. One of my heroes, a little boy
named Theodore McArdle, from the Salinger story, “Teddy” seemed
to think he could have been closer to final Illumination had he lived
one of his previous lives differently.
“I wasn’t a holy man,” Teddy said. “I was just a person making very nice spiritual advancement… I met a lady, and I sort of stopped meditating. I would have had to take another body and come back to earth again anyway – I mean I wasn’t so spiritually advanced that I could have died, if I hadn’t met that lady, and then gone straight to Brahma and never again have to come back to earth. But I wouldn’t have had to get incarnated in an American body if I hadn’t met that lady…”
J.D. Salinger
Now, I find these
beliefs lovely, even though I don’t share them. I don’t know them to
be wrong, and because I like Teddy so much, I have no trouble in
seeing the Beauty in these ideas. And these beliefs help shape
Teddy’s behavior, and I find his behavior admirable, so there is even
more cause to like these beliefs. Their effects seem to me to be
positive. If you knew Teddy, I think you would share my opinion.
Your beliefs are, I
hope, as powerful and useful to you as Teddy’s are to him. And I
have no reason to believe they are any more right or wrong than
Teddy’s.
My belief concerning the
Afterlife is simply this: it’s irrelevant.
I know that I have this
life. I’m living it. I’m typing at a keyboard I hope someday to
replace because many of the letters have become obscured over the
years. I must be alive. Descartes aside, I believe I am who my
senses and experience tell me I am. I find the interesting and
lovely belief that this is all an illusion to be as irrelevant as the
Afterlife. I am capable of perceiving the life I have. I’m not
capable of knowing anything else.
My beliefs shape my
life, too. Since I Don’t Know what will happen after I die, I want
to make sure every moment in this life is the best it can be. If I
spend a dollar, I can go to work and make another one. If I spend a
minute, it’s gone. I can’t ever get it back. It needs to be well
spent because I don’t have an infinite collection of them. They
will, in fact, run out. And I haven’t the slightest idea how many of
them I have left.
I certainly have more
minutes behind me than I have in front of me. I’m 56, I’ve been
hospitalized for Diabetic ketoacidosis more than a dozen times, and
my body is pretty much shot. I’m more than halfway through my
minutes. They could end abruptly at the end of this sentence, much
as Teddy’s almost certainly did shortly after he explained his view
of the Afterlife. I simply don’t know anything except that I have
this particular minute.
Why don’t I fear Death,
or The End of My Minutes, then? Because there is absolutely nothing
I can do about it. I could be the healthiest man on Earth. I could
take perfect care of myself, and I could live to be 130, perhaps a
bit longer. But, inevitably, I’m still going to die. All I can do
is put it off.
Being afraid of it would
be a product of a belief in some form of Afterlife. Otherwise, Death
is just infinite sleep.
To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause… – Hamlet. Act III, Scene 1
I don’t have to share Hamlet’s pause. For me, Death is precisely what I had previous to being alive. I was, to my knowledge, Nothing before I existed. I expect to be Nothing again. I don’t fear Nothing. It’s certainly not painful, and there are no people to scare the hell out of me. There is, in fact, no me at all to suffer.
While I’m alive, I hope that I can live a life such that I can have my one strange, supernatural fantasy come out my way. In the last five minutes of my life, Marc Antony shows up at my bedside. I always have him kind of glowing. And he’s clearly Marlon Brando. And he knows everything I have done, and all that has happened to me, from the time I was a sperm racing toward the egg, up until that very moment. And, in my fantasy, Marc Antony can honestly and objectively reach the conclusion that: His life was gentle, and the elements so mixed in him that the nature might stand up and say to all the world, “This was a man.” That’s all I hope to be able to achieve. I feel like it would be enough. After that, Death is a Welcome Companion.
Fred's Thoughts 