“It’s not the despair; it’s the hope.”
John Cleese.
I’ve come to realize that at a certain age, one’s desires are mostly directed towards having more time and less pain, but one’s hopes tend to be for others. The realization that these hopes are often in vain leads to despair.
On Wednesday, January 17, 2024, I woke up at the more reasonable hour of 10:30 AM. The day was splendid, with clear blue skies and a temperature that felt much warmer than the low 60s indicated by the thermometer. I decided it was a perfect day to accomplish something. After breakfast, I assisted Naida with some financial matters, albeit without success in determining the extent of her dental coverage, if any. I then went to the drugstore to pick up some medications and began tackling the pile of bills and my unfinished correspondence. Later, we hurried to the bank before it closed to address some of Naida’s banking issues. Upon returning home, I abandoned my efforts to make much progress on my bills and correspondence, opting instead to watch television.
On Thursday, I woke up surprisingly early at 8 AM, went downstairs, prepared breakfast, and read more of “Songs Of Penelope” by my newest literary crush, Clare North.
“People say that life is the thing, but I prefer reading.”
Logan Pearsall Smith
Clare North is the pseudonym of science fiction author Catherine Webb, who also writes adult fantasy novels under the name Kate Griffin. I’m not sure why she uses two pseudonyms, and the distinction between science fiction and “adult” fantasy intrigues me. In the past, science fiction was essentially “adult” fantasy, fantasy wrapped in a veneer of “science” to convince adults they were reading mature literature. In the 1990s, real science demonstrated that science fiction was, in fact, just fiction, with fanciful ideas that could never become reality.
Nevertheless, in her novel “Penelope,” Clare North relocates the action of Aeschylus’ play “Eumenides” to Ithaca before Ulysses’ return, turning it into an exciting story of women’s liberation and vengeance.
As long as I am going on about the doings on that fabled island, I recall a short, short bit of a conceit I had written in T&T a little over 10 years ago about that legendary dwarf king of Ithaca, Ulysses. While it is far longer than what I usually post, I really cannot resist an ego massage whenever the opportunity presents itself:
Speaking of Ulysses, Homer’s account is not quite how it happened. It actually occurred something like this:
One night the short, bandy-legged, scraggly bearded young man named Ulysses, who lived in a subdivision on a small island in the Adriatic, left the home on a cull-de-sac he shared with his wife, young son, various hangers-on, and a pack of dogs, telling everyone he was going to the store to buy a carton of milk, or an amphora of wine or new sandals or conquer Troy or whatever. Now twenty years later he stood on the corner of the block down from his old home, broke, hungry and older. He contemplated the excuses he would have to tell his wife explaining his long absence. He concocted stories about ships and strange wars, jealous gods, wooden horses, one-eyed monsters and to cover up the long periods of time he spent living with a succession of comely young women, he fell back on the tried and true excuse of philandering husbands of the time, bewitchment.
On the other hand, the also aging but still zaftig and supposedly loyal Penelope wanted no part of the smelly midget bastard’s return. She had happily spent the past 20 years screwing the Mexican pool boy and every young stud in town. The assholes’ return would only mean she would have to give up the good life and return to working on that goddamn loom. Besides, she needed an excuse of her own to explain why for the last 20 years the same old piece of cloth hung on that machine with no further work done on it since he left. She told all her boyfriends that she would choose one of them to settle down with when she finished weaving the cloth. They were so stupefied with the thought of getting into her toga whenever she lifted it for them they forgot all about the status of that rotting rag.
She believed however, that she would need something better to convince the crafty asshole of her unbelievable 20 years of fidelity. She decided to elaborate on the story she had planned to tell her returning husband, if unfortunately he should ever return. She would tell him that she weaved at the loom all day and every night she tore out what she had done during the day. If the simple and unbelievable story had worked on her lovers why wouldn’t this expanded version work on that scheming lying bastard Ulysses?
Nevertheless, she still was surprised when the testosterone poisoned dwarf suddenly and unexpectedly showed up at her door and started killing all of her boyfriends and the Mexican pool boy as well.
Sadly, Penelope was forced back to working all day at the goddamn loom and at night diddling herself while the drunken scumbag lay snoring among his dogs after buggering some prepubescent boy-chick.
As Holden Caulfield would say, “Crummy.”
(Note: I asked ChatGPT to edit this bit of fluff about Ulysses. It responded that its community standards rules prevented it from doing so. What does that mean?)
On Friday, around 2 AM, my grandson Anthony arrived at our house. We had planned for him to drive me to my sister’s home, where we intended to stay for a week. At about noon, we left to drive to San Francisco to pick up Anthony’s mother, Anne, and change cars before continuing to Mendocino. Naida, my wife, stayed behind as she prefers not to travel. We arrived in San Francisco at about 2 PM, collected Anne, switched cars, and arrived at my sister’s home in Mendocino around 6:15 PM.
After settling in with hugs, kisses, and some snacks, my sister brought out a small mysterious lockbox. She explained that it had been in the garage for a long time. Recently, while cleaning, she considered discarding it but became curious and checked its contents.
She paused, then opened the box for us to see. Inside were numerous envelopes and a bundle of notebook pages filled with handwriting. She revealed that our mother, who passed away four years ago at the age of 99, had left a note with the box. It instructed that the letters, addressed to her children, and the notebook pages, her autobiography, should not be opened until after her death.
I was stunned to find at least seven letters addressed to me. Among the others, there was even one to one of my ex-wives. We decided to open it. The envelope contained two documents: a brief one and a longer one. The brief one said:
“You have turned out to be a manipulating person who hates the world. You turned Joe and Jessica from loving us to hating us. It’s obvious you hate yourself and may someday become alone and unloved. You’ll get what you deserve.”
After reading that, we were all a bit stunned, so we decided to postpone reading any more of them until the next morning.
I had also brought along a box of old photographs that my daughter had sent. We spent a couple of hours sorting and organizing them. There was a lot of discussion and amusement as we reviewed the photographs and identified the people and places in them. I felt somewhat embarrassed by the number of photos of former girlfriends whose names I’d forgotten, which amused the others. I wondered why anyone would keep photos of my old girlfriends and planned to ask my daughter where she found them.
Later, as I prepared for bed, I pondered whether I truly wanted to know the contents of the letters my mother addressed to me.
The next morning, after breakfast, Maryann and George read to us the autobiography that my mother had left. It was well over 100 handwritten pages and took almost three hours to read. It was stunning and filled with despair. I wanted to share some of the more interesting passages here, but it had been written in very difficult-to-read longhand, so my sister volunteered to type it up so I can share it here in T&T. Nevertheless I copied out a few pages. Her story began:
I was born in Sicily in the town of Canicatti in the year 1918 on the seventh day of June. I was the fourth child of my parents Josephine and Giacento Corsello. I had two sisters and a brother. When I was born my father was a soldier in World War I. While there my father contracted Heart Disease and Leukemia and was sent home, a very sick man. When I was 15 months old my mother gave birth to another child but both she and the child died. She was 32. My father, a sick man, was left with four children to raise…. When I was seven another tragedy struck my father passed away…. It was very sad, but I did not understand why everyone was so nice to me. I guess they all felt sorry for us now that we were orphans….When I was 8 1/2 my uncle Vincent who was my father’s brother Vincenzo, my father’s younger brother decided since we were now orphans… we should get the chance to come to America to live with another brother of my father and his wife… (My Uncle) married my oldest sister who was then 17… He and my dear sister were not allowed to come to this country (America). I didn’t want to … leave my family, my aunt who loved me and my grandmother. But the papers were drawn and we… (found ourselves on the boat Giuseppe Verde on the way to another world. My brother(aged) 18 my sister then 16 and I age 9 (were) 3 homeless scared kids who did not know what was ahead of us. We were all seasick on the boat with no-one to console us. We cried all the way. When we got to Ellis Island we had to stay there a week, desolate, lonely and not knowing the language… We slept on the floor and ate strange food …our hearts were broken and we didn’t know what to expect. It was hell, just not the hell we were going to encounter when we met our aunt and uncle…
After a very nice dinner, I went upstairs to bed, but I could not fall asleep, and the images from my mother’s story haunted me. As a child, she had no relief from disappointment and fear.
Another surprise in the box was three letters from my brother addressed to my mom. He was estranged from the family from the late 80s until he died a few years ago. I believed he had refused any contact with the rest of the family during all that time, especially with our mother, who had always told me he had refused to allow any communication with her and the rest of us. The last letter was written in 1993 and ended as follows:
In your letter you asked me to make you happy by meeting you for coffee. I wished you would have asked how it might make me feel. I am not going to be at the appointment you scheduled because I am feeling very good about my life and the way things are now. I want to keep it this way. I know that you will be disappointed, but possibly you will think about my feelings also, and maybe you can accept the fact that this is right for me. Please have a wonderful birthday and many, many more — and remember I do love you.
All the best,
Jim
On Monday, when I woke up, there wasn’t a drop of rain in sight. I figured it would be the perfect day for a stroll into town. However, the night before had been rough, and I wasn’t feeling my best. So, after breakfast, I decided to head upstairs for a nap before embarking on my town adventure. As expected, I ended up sleeping until about 4 PM, and with the skies getting darker, I decided to postpone my walk until the next day. I then ventured downstairs and indulged in some reading before dinner.
During dinner, I opened one of the envelopes from my mom contained in the lockbox. To my surprise, it held a three-page letter addressed to me and two poems I had written years ago that she had kept. Her letter began like this:
After having a wonderful day in Bodega Bay, I cannot believe you can turn and be the most disrespectful and miserable person in this world. Yesterday was your birthday, how I looked forward to. Making it a nice day for you. I wanted so much to thank you for Bodega Bay. So, I wanted to have a nice dinner. An d have a birthday cake and a gift that I thought you would like. I knocked myself out and put all my love into it only for it to turn into a disaster. Why? Because of you my son. You have got to be the most antagonistic, miserable, cold and unfeeling person I have ever known. Why do you hate me so much?…
Well, I guess I know now how she felt. She then goes on in the same vein for the remainder of the three pages. My mom was sickly and often dominated by others. As a result, she had no childhood and not much of an adulthood either, at least until she was in her forties when my sister was born. She believed had little no control over the major events in her life or decisions made for her by others. She devoted her life to doing what they needed or wanted. Only in a few cases were her needs recognized or acknowledged so she lived a life of pain and resentment until much later in her life. But let’s not delve too much into amateur psychology. I always felt I couldn’t adequately respond to the needs of others, not due to a lack of willingness to try, but because I struggled to understand what those needs were.
Anyway, rather that reading the entire letter at that time I decided to read the shorter of the poems. It was one I had written when I was about 14 years old.
Some walls work well
Some don’t
But those that do,
Will never tell
Why the hell
They work so wellSometimes when I am alone
I wish I were not me
But when I think again
Who else would I beWho else knows me so well
Who so patient understands
Who my secrets could I tell.
This was written by one obviously lonely and isolated little boy.
“(A)s Aristotle put it, ‘To do is to be’; and more to the point, as Zappa put it, ‘You are what you is’.”
Brookmyre, Christopher. One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night (p. 258). Grove Atlantic.
The following day, despite the persistent overcast sky, the rain thankfully held off, so I decided to venture into town. I took it easy, but to my surprise, I found myself getting tired after just about 100 steps, forcing me to take frequent breaks. Eventually, I reached Frankie’s, where I happily settled in and indulged in a delicious lunch of pepperoni pizza, washing it down with a refreshing bottle of root beer.
My next destination was my favorite bookstore, where I had initially planned to shop for presents for everyone I could think of at the time. By the time I arrived, I was so drained that I could barely recall my purpose, let alone select any books. The idea of lugging them back home seemed impossible. So, after spending quite a while on a bench amidst the bookshelves, I decided it was time to make my way back. The journey home took a long time, with me pausing to sit on every available bench I passed and leaning on fences or walls to rest whenever I could.
Eventually, I made it back to my sister’s place and practically collapsed onto the sofa by the window, my favorite spot. At that moment, I couldn’t help but wonder if this might be the last year of my life. As I gazed out over the ocean, the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, casting rays of light that transformed the frothy waves into bursts of fire.
The following day, I struggled to get out of bed. On Wednesday, my sister drove me back to Sacramento, as she had a conference to attend with local economic development directors, representing Mendocino. We hit the road around 1 PM.
Thursday left me feeling drained, but I perked up in the evening when Maryann returned from her conference. We all enjoyed a delightful dinner at Lemon Grass. The next morning, Mary left to return to Mendocino, and I headed to my appointment with my primary care physician. I’d been grappling with sleep problems and recently had swollen ankles. Later, I met up with Hayden for lunch.
Hayden and I dined at Subway, where he shared captivating tales of his recent adventures in Thailand and Japan. Upon returning to Sacramento, Naida and I spent the remainder of the afternoon resolving a hiccup with her account.
Saturday morning saw Naida heading off to the Saturday Morning Coffee event, while I, feeling under the weather, decided to stay home. In the evening, I felt guilty about missing the coffee gathering and spending so much time in bed nursing my hypochondria. To show my love for her, I told Naida I would have the soup she had prepared for dinner. She attempted to use up the surplus of beets and potatoes delivered weekly by the organic farm co-op and combined them with milk to make the soup. Unfortunately, the milk had curdled. She assured me it wouldn’t taste too bad.
I woke up Sunday feeling better than I had in a while, having finally enjoyed a full uninterrupted night’s sleep. The day was sunny and bright, with fluffy clouds scattered across the sky. January had been an unusual month here in the heart of the Great Valley. Most days had been gloomy and overcast, with damp ground – quite unusual for California, which is typically starved for moisture and known for its sunshine. Even more peculiar were the unseasonably warm daytime temperatures in the high 50s and 60s. Today, still in January, the forecast predicted a high of 70 degrees. We are living in peculiar times, where the old certainties are fading, replaced by the new. We, the older generation, view the future with apprehension, fearing pain and danger for our descendants while they often see opportunities and adventures in the impending storms – the eternal yin and yang of our species.
After a short nap, I decided to head out for a stroll. The weather still was quite unusual for mid-winter January – sunny and around 70 degrees. Some might view this as further proof of global warming, but even if it is, it’s still quite an anomaly. What’s even more intriguing is something I mentioned about a decade ago, which still seems to be overlooked in discussions about global warming.
When it comes to capturing the sun’s heat, the oceans play a significant role, accounting for about 75% of it. We’re all familiar with how El Niño and La Niña affect weather patterns. However, these variations primarily involve changes in ocean temperatures in the deepest parts of the world’s largest ocean. While the impact of this variation, likely caused by atmospheric heating, seems to be growing and influencing global weather patterns, it’s confined to a specific portion of the Earth’s oceans. Other parts of the oceans must undergo similar dynamics, releasing heat at a steady pace or perhaps in periodic cycles with less disruption to the atmosphere. Anyway, why am I digressing from describing today’s walk? I have no idea.
During my walk, I bumped into Naida and the dog, Boo-boo the Barking Dog, who were returning from their own adventure. Naida explained that Boo-boo was all excited to go on his walk, and assuming I would be napping all afternoon as usual, she didn’t wait for me. Feeling a bit embarrassed, I continued on my way.
Physically, I was feeling great, so I decided to extend my walk all the way to the lake and back. There seemed to be more people on the paths than usual, although there are never very many. Normally, I encounter just 4 or 5 people during my walks, but today, I must have passed by as many as 15.
I stopped and rested on a bench near Ed Hullander’s house. Ed had dedicated this bench to his late wife Joni. He used to be a regular at the Saturday Morning Coffee until he passed away a few months ago. I affectionately called him “Spy” because he had served as a high-ranking official in the US Agency for International Development from its inception until his retirement around 2001. He once shared with me an interesting tidbit: American spies weren’t typically stationed in State Department embassies. This was because host governments generally restricted State Department employees from leaving the city where they worked. AID employees, on the other hand, had to be mobile and travel wherever their projects took them.
I made it back home just in time to witness the San Francisco 49ers getting thoroughly beaten in the first half of the NFL Championship Game. It looks like there won’t be a Super Bowl appearance for them this year. What a disappointing day it has turned out to be.
Later, Naida brightened my mood with a dance to “Shall We Dance,” a song from “The King and I,” At dinner, we enjoyed a Newman’s Own frozen four-cheese pizza topped with Naida’s secret vegetable mix, which made me feel a little better. We’ll have to wait till next year.
After dinner, we settled in to watch the final three episodes of “English,” a western series that was beautifully filmed, albeit a bit challenging to follow at times. Nevertheless, it remained captivating throughout all eight episodes. When it concluded, around 11 PM, I decided to check the final score of the football game, and oh my goodness, the 49ers won by coming from behind for the second game in a row. Go Niners! This, of course, is utterly ridiculous because I don’t have any interest in professional sports and don’t typically watch any games. Strangely enough, I also consistently avoid watching the 49ers play because I fear that doing so will jinx their chances. Go figure.
Anyway, Monday blessed us with another beautiful day, with the temperature hovering around 70 degrees Fahrenheit. In the morning, I drove Naida to the Kaiser Health facilities to pick up her medication, and afterward, we had a satisfying lunch at Bernado’s.
Then some grocery shopping and home again.
In the evening we watched Rachel Maddow’s interview of E Jean Carroll and her attorney’s on MSNBC. Three things struck me about the interview.
The first was E Jean’s quirky sense of humor and her stating that when she looked out in the courtroom and saw Trump she realized “He was nothing. He was an emperor with no clothes”
The second was that E Jean’s two attorney’s represented the new face of woman trial attorney’s.
And finally, I was impressed by the closing words of one of the Attorney’s. She mentioned that when she initially joined the lead team she viewed Trump as a powerful, wealthy and aggressive man. However, after observing him in the court room without his usual; entourage of supporters and sycophants around him she realized “He was just a guy, just another guy.”
The spring-like temperatures remained through Tuesday, Naida worked cleaning up the yard while I typed this.
On Wednesday, the rains came. Apparently, a so-called atmospheric river will bring us here in the center of the Great Valley, not only most of the year’s rain but hateful February as well. At mid-day I trundled off through the gloom to have six separate blood tests done. On a positive note the vampire technician painlessly removed about 90% of my blood leaving enough for my to drive back home and plop into bed. I hoped when I woke up it would be March.
Papa Joe's Tales, Fables and Parables 