“Do not race your postcards home. Dally long enough for word of your adventures to arrive before you.Let them announce you and lay the foundation for your legend.”Bancroft, Josiah. The Fall of Babel (The Books of Babel) (p. 792). Orbit.
A few days before the welcome demise of 2021, Nikki and Hayden came by to take Naida and me to lunch. For Nikki’s sake we went to a place nearby called Twin Peaks, a large sports bar featuring a large selection of lagers, various meats and fries, and scantily clothed waitresses. It was a pleasant lunch after which Nikki and Hayden returned to the Golden Hills.
Nikki spent three day trying to cross the Sierra’s to visit with relatives in Reno but was stymied by the Great Snowstorm of 2021 that blocked the passes through the mountains. Eventually, the snow abated, Cal-Trans cleared the roads he succeeded it getting through to enjoy the joys of Reno and relatives.
The following day, I slept until noon and then spent most of the afternoon listening to Tony Bennet. The day was rather dark and dreary. That and Tony Bennett prompted some macabre thoughts about the rapidly approaching New Year especially since I may not experience another one. At my 76th birthday, a little over five years ago, for some reason, I was prompted to think about epitaphs. I came up with several. The winning one was:
“I came. I saw. I did not like what I was seeing, so I left.”
The problem about that one is if I did not like what I saw why did I hang around so long. Perhaps, one the others would be more appropriate. The also-rans were:
“His life had its ups and downs. It gave him indigestion,”“He hated winter,”“I never saw a good reason to get out of bed,”“Some lived their life like there were no tomorrows. To him there were only yesterdays,”“I really did not want to leave. I was only looking for a change of scenery,”“I could have done better, but the stories would not have been as interesting,”“I wanted to leave the world better off than I found it. I never knew why,”“His life was always a work in progress,” and,“Sometimes, it just doesn’t matter.”
Now, five years later, I think I am partial to “He hated winter.” That probably has more to do about the gloomy day today than anything else. Perhaps, “His life was always a work in progress” instead. On the other hand, “I never saw a good reason to get out of bed,” seems to fit me well.
On Thursday morning, I got up early and ate my usual breakfast of perfectly sliced bagels, slathered with cream cheese, and piled with lox, and coffee. As much as I enjoyed it, the persistent soreness in my throat was more painful than ever. I returned to bed, not because of the pain and irritation, but on account of the depression. I know that I often joke about my hypochondria and my supposed bouts with depression, but this whole getting old has gotten morose. I do not know how long I lay there feeling sorry for myself, but eventually Naida came up stairs carrying another severed stalk from the Aloe Vera plant in the back yard. She sat on the bed and began covering the sores of my chest and back with the slime from the plant while happily explaining the sociological meaning and significance of the movie, The Father of the Bride, starring Spence Tracy and Kathrine Hepburn that she had just watched again for the tenth time or more. Her method of applying the Aloe Vera slime consisted of cutting off a small piece of the severed leaf and applying it slimy side down to the sore and then covering it with a band-aid so that the slime did not get rubbed off or dried up right away. She also brought up a cup of Slippery Elm Tea for me to drink. She said the tea was used by singers to sooth their throats before going on stage. It seemed to work.
Suddenly I began to feel better. I looked out the window. The day that had begun in dark grey now had a silver sheen to it. So, in better spirits, I got up, went downstairs, had some soup for lunch, read a bit of the latest novel I am reading, and eventually wrote this.
Did you know Coddiwomple means to travel purposefully toward an as-yet-unknown destination? I always thought I coddiwompled through life. Most of us do.
On New Year’s Eve morning, I got up early and rushed over to the doctor’s office seeking a diagnosis and hopefully a cure of my throat and skin maladies. I did not get a clear diagnosis but several medicined were prescribed, I then picked up some additional medicines and returned home. Upon my return, I turned on the TV and learned that perhaps one of the bleakest years of history has ended even worse than I could have imagined. Betty White died. For at least the last decade or more, she kept our spirits up. This elderly woman who’s indomitable good spirits made me smile whenever I saw her and is now gone. An already grim 2021, I feel, now passes into an even more unpromising and ominous 2022. Happy New Year.
2022 begins. It is about noon. Nothing too bad has happened yet today. We watched Fiddler on the Roof while we ate breakfast. So far so good for the new year.
Terry Pratchett once opined “What happens stays happened.” I say, “Once forgotten, why should one care what happened.” One of life’s worst experiences is someone reminding you of something you were happy you had forgotten.
Last night we watched television for several hours. This morning I recall none of it. If anyone knows what I watched, please do not tell me.
On Sunday, the day broke sunny and warm. After breakfast and while waiting for the SF 49ers game to begin, I decided to read Jefferson’s bible. Don’t ask how and why I came to do that, it is too complicated. In brief, I was doing my usual fishing through the internet to pass the time rather than watching old movies of the news on television or sitting slack jawed and staring out the window, I found myself directed to Jefferson’s opus and decided to read it. It is Jefferson’s revision of the gospel without the hocus-pocus — scrubbed clean of miracles and mysticism. It consists mostly of Jesus’ moral teachings. Everyone should read it if they would like to know what the Jesus Church was all about before it became prostituted into Christianity. Jefferson called it “the Philosophy of Jesus.”
The 49ers just scored to pull ahead. Jesus had nothing to do with it. They still will probably lose but at least it may not be a total embarrassment.
After the game (the 49ers won), there was still some sunlight outside Naida, the dog and I went for a walk through the Enchanted Forest. After dinner at a noodle place, we returned home and watched “Cinema Paradiso” starring one of my favorite actors Philippe Noiret.
The past isn’t made of facts, not really, just stories people tell to make themselves feel better. I originally began writing T&T because, in part, I wanted to be able to remember my past. It has not worked. One always makes thing up whether we know it or not either because of errors of perception or the necessity of discretion when what is written may be read by those one may have written about. Only in writing fiction can you write those secret things of the heart and the bits and pieces banal evil we all carry around within us.
I guess it is just another example of the things we mean to do not matching what we accomplish. Or as Sir Terry Pratchett opines:
“We pride ourselves on making a good history of our lives, a good story to be told.”
Pratchett, Terry. I Shall Wear Midnight (Discworld Book 38) (p. 314). HarperCollins.
Papa Joe's Tales, Fables and Parables 