“Like all old men, I nurse the illusion that if I can remember enough of the past and imagine enough of the future, I will never reach the end of my life, or if I do, it will take forever to get there.”
Hartman, Bruce. The Philosophical Detective (p. 30). Swallow Tail Press.
Alas, as my memories fade and become confused with the stories I may have told about them, I become as frightened by the death of what I was as I am with the end of my life. On the other hand, and there always is another hand even if you have two already, today sprung bright and warm from a surprisingly pleasant night. After a delightful swim, my usual breakfast and seeing to the dog’s comfort. I set off into the Golden Hills to visit HRM.
It was a fun visit. HRM was excited about his yard work business. He says he enjoys it, being out in the sun, building walls, clearing weeds, planting gardens and above all the money he is making. We had lunch by the TownCenter Lake walked around a bit, shopped in Nugget and talked about things of little import.
On Thursday morning, I skipped my scheduled swim in order to watch the John Lewis memorial on television. I was struck that among the notables giving speeches, Bush, Clinton, Obama, and Pelosi, Nancy Pelosi, a woman, seemed to be the only one whose talk appeared remarkably free of rhetorical flourishes. Then, of course, there was that magnificent address by James Lawson (He was an associate of MLK and taught nonviolent revolution to Diane Nash, James Bevel, Bernard Lafayette, Marion Barry, and John Lewis) who demonstrated the true stirring of the human heart that can be generated by genuine classical oratory. And then there was the music. Throughout the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, the Church used music as an essential complement to ritual. Then, alas, there was the reaction that for almost 500 years replaced the magnificent music with simple chants. In the nineteenth century the black churches, in the South primarily, took these simple tunes and returned magnificent music to religious ceremony. At one point I turned to Naida and said, “ You know, I find it amazing that I am sitting here watching a funeral service in a church and find it as interesting and enjoyable as a great movie. It’s a spectacle with soul.”
In my previous T&T post, I included a photograph of me wearing sunglasses and dressed in a white bathrobe. There were several comments on the photograph. So far I have been accused of looking like Meyer Lansky, Santo Trafficante, Lucky Luciano and Vincent “The Chin” Gigante. I must be doing something right. Nevertheless, I always thought I looked a bit like Frank Costello — then again, maybe not.
A few days later, while we were watching MSNBC, Naida turned to be and said, “You know, you look just like an aged Rachel Maddow.”
Recently, I do not know whether I am ill, exhausted, or depressed. Even Naida who always seems to approach the world with uncanny optimism seems down. After five months of social-distancing, who would not suffer bouts of seemingly terminal ennui?
I slept through the ringing of my alarm clock and missed my scheduled time for using the pool. I also napped away most of the afternoon. Should I be happy or worried?
Last night, we spent much of the evening with Sarah, Naida’s daughter and her husband, Mark, at their house a short distance off Watt Avenue. Mark is a supervisor of nurses at a Sacramento hospital, he has just returned from a two week fishing trip through Idaho and Montana. They loaded us up with a large shopping bag of produce that Mark and Sarah grew in their backyard some of which we ate this evening.
It has been almost a week since I last have written here. I wonder if it is because I have become so sedentary I no longer do much or so decrepit I no longer remember if I do. As I sit here typing this, Naida is playing the piano going through some old song books used by her mother and grandmother, both accomplished pianists and singers. Some of the song books are about 100 years old. After playing a mournful rendition of Old Man River, she told me it was her father’s favorite song. He was an excellent singer and when family and friends would gather at their home in the wilds of Idaho he would sing the song accompanied by Naida’s mother on the piano. She then showed me where her mother taped the edges of the song book pages so that while playing she could rapidly flip them without tearing them. Later we went back to the studio where I played with my computer and Naida continued to work on her memoir.
Another hiatus in posting here.
I have put off swimming tor two days telling myself that it has been too cold and returned to reading vociferously the most trashy novels I can tolerate. Are these symptoms of stir-craziness?
One evening, Naida and I, with the dog in tow, drove to a local frozen-yogurt place where we downed a cups of flavored yogurt. I buried mine under a healthy amount of hot fudge. The trip made us very happy — even Boo-boo the Barking Dog seemed delighted. Such small pleasures loom large in the constant struggle to maintain our mental health during this year of social distancing.
You know, being called old is something to be proud of. It means nothing has managed to kill you yet. On the other hand, when you creak while you walk, your plumbing’s amiss, and your skin begins to looks like a cross between a dried out pickle and a year-old prune, it is not much of a complement either.
A few days later… I went swimming this morning. For some reason, I felt like I did not want to swim, but I did anyway. Walking back I felt slightly dizzy and things appeared a bit dark. I got home and after a brief session in the massage chair, I went back to bed and slept until about four PM. After a late lunch, I returned to bed until about seven. I cannot point to any pains or specific physical upsets that might justify my fatigue. Perhaps, it is merely a symptom of age — unexplained bouts of exhaustion.
Hayden mentioned that he was taking the autistic boy at his school bowling on Sunday. The boy likes bowling and enjoys Hayden’s company. HRM often befriends other children like the autistic boy. Sometimes, I feel that almost all the members of the scooter gang are attracted to him in order to avoid being considered outcasts. I often wonder about that. Empathy can be a wonderful thing, but also a heavy burden. Well, his ego-centric years are coming up. They usually cure one of undo sensitivity.
This morning, Sunday I believe, we slipped out of the house and drove to Mel’s for a breakfast of overcooked bacon, blueberry pancakes and eggs. While we were waiting to be served Naida and I discussed poetry, namely Naida’s observation that Longfellow’s A Skeleton In Armor and Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner both use the device of an odd narrator telling the story to a somewhat unwilling listener. Naida can recite the Skeleton in Armor by heart and used to recite the Ancient Mariner by heart also but cannot remember it all now, so, I turned my iPhone to a youtube recitation of the poem. This all may sound odd and a bit fancy-dancy, but after six-months of social distancing there is no longer a limit to the depths to which we will plunge for entertainment. Besides, those poems are perfect for these desperate times. We have killed the albatross and forgotten those of our deeds worthy of the sagas.
“I was a Viking old!
My deeds, though manifold,
No Skald in song has told,
No Saga taught thee!
Take heed, that in thy verse
Thou dost the tale rehearse,
Else dread a dead man’s curse;
For this I sought thee.”
A Skeleton in Armor‘God save thee, ancient Mariner!
From the fiends, that plague thee thus!—
Why look’st thou so?’—With my cross-bow
I shot the ALBATROSS.”
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
On Monday, after my swim, I drove the Mitsubishi into the Golden Hills to visit Hayden. Although there are some similarities between El Dorado Hills and Campus Commons (e.g., socio-economic) there is one difference that stands out to me. When I lived in EDH I noticed that I rarely saw people on the streets. In the Enchanted Forest, however, whenever I walk around there I see people, some walking their dogs, some disappearing around a corner on the paths and others just strolling along. Every now and then, I see couples holding hands while they walk — In four years, I never saw anyone in EDH holding hands. Anyway, Hayden and I had a pleasant lunch.
Today after my swim, I took a long nap. When I woke up learned that Joe Biden selected Kamala Harris as his running mate and sat through several hours of various pundits on television and in print media tell me why I should like or not like his choice.
A FLOWER TO BRIGHTEN UP THE DAY:
Papa Joe's Tales, Fables and Parables 