All niceties are tossed out the window. Nothing about this article is safe for work.
December 1. My 56th birthday. How did I start my morning? By doing children’s laundry. Damn school uniforms. School uniforms don’t make a damn bit of sense for children who are growing so fucking fast that you can barely keep them in underwear. What parent has the money to keep buying and replacing the same clothes over and over and over and over throughout the year? We don’t. So, their pants are either a bit too long or are riding at their ankles. We just ignore the scuffs on the knees.
It’s my birthday and I’m doing laundry at 4:00 AM so that the little ones will have fresh, warm clothes to wear to school. No one ever did that for me. Probably because the washer and dryer were out in the garage. Oh, and Poppa didn’t start getting up at 4 himself until after we were out of the house. If we wanted warm clothes on cold mornings, we had to set our clothes over the heat register the night before. Don’t give me funny looks over that. I know we weren’t the only ones who did it.
Of course, over the years I’ve heard of others trying to warm up their clothes by putting them on or close to space heaters. The results were not pleasant. At the very least, it’s a good way to lose your best set of jeans.
I sometimes look back at my childhood and wonder how the hell we didn’t die. We took risks—lots of them. Many of them with our parents’ blessing, the rest without their knowledge. If I had ever seen one of my boys trying to tight-rope-walk a barbed-wire fence, I’d have thrown a fit. Yet, we did it. More than once. We didn’t stop until I ripped the seam from a pair of jeans. There were dangerous makeshift bicycle ramps, tree houses that were not safe for occupancy, and daring feats of, “do you think that’s safe to eat?” It’s a wonder any of us made it to our 18th birthday. Yet, here I am at 56. Rather frightening.
A good age to die
Actually, it turns out that 56 is a fairly common age for people to start dying. Heartwarming thought, isn’t it? On one hand, there were all the news stories about the world’s oldest woman celebrating her 117th birthday earlier this week. Things like that didn’t happen when I was a kid. We should all be encouraged about our prospects for living a long life. At the same time, however, the list of notable people who died at 56 is a bit too long and too impressive. Death waits for no one, I suppose. Look at these names:
- Alexander Pope, 1744
- Abraham Lincoln, 1865
- Ian Fleming, 1964
- Charles Mingus, 1979
- Betty Grable, 1973
- Steve Jobs, 2011
- Ludwig von Beethoven, 1827
- John Hancock, 1793
- King George VI (The Queen’s father), 1952
Looking at that list is daunting. Consider all that those people accomplished before they died. Here I am, having never been president during a civil war, never written a great spy novel, never composed thousands of musical masterpieces, never acted in any movies, never built a high-tech empire, haven’t signed a declaration of independence (yet), and am not even close to guiding Britain through a war. When I look at what I’ve done compared to all these people had achieved by the time they died at my age, I feel just a bit like a failure.
There is one name I intentionally left off that list. Adolf Hitler was 56 when he died. I guess that’s one thing I have going for me: I’ve not tried to rule the world and killed millions of innocent people. Perhaps I should put a “yet” at the end of that statement. I suppose anything is possible. After all, I once tried tight-rope walking on barbed-wire, you know.
Do we really want to live that long?
While I’m not in any mood to kick the bucket today, at the same time I have to wonder if any of us really want to live all that long. Consider the plight of Emma Moreno, the world’s oldest woman. She hasn’t exactly had a great and wonderful life, you know. Her fiancè was killed in WWI. She married an abusive brute she didn’t like. She kicked him out of the house, and shortly after doing so her only child, a son, died. She worked in a factory until she was 65, which seems young compared to where she is now. She has outlived her eight brothers and sisters. She eats the same thing every day: two eggs, one raw, one fried. Even she admits she hasn’t had a good life.
So, if living long means outliving everyone you love, being left alone in a nursing facility somewhere in Italy, having the only time people pay any attention to you is on your birthday, if you make it another year, or when you eventually give up and die, is it worth the trouble of even trying? I can see wanting to live a long time if we still have our friends and still have our families and can still go and do things that we enjoy. Take all that away, though, and what the fuck is the point? At this juncture, it seems that Ms. Moreno is more in torment than happy. She smiled for the cameras, but she had to force it.
I wonder if we make too much of living a long life. Certainly, as long as there are people around to love, then, by all means, keep going. But when one has outlived everyone of what value is life? I suppose one could claim that they are producing carbon dioxide for the plants and trees. At least that’s something productive, right?
There are still options
I don’t suppose all is lost. Not having been wildly successful by age 56 isn’t necessarily a major concern, is it? Look at all the people who were older when they finally “made it.”
- “Colonel” Harlan Sanders was 65 when he started his chicken franchise.
- Laura Ingalls Wilder didn’t publish her first novel until she was 65, and managed to get in 12 others after that.
- Grandma Moses was 76 when she first slapped paint across a canvas, and she was productive for nearly 20 years.
- Edmund Hoyle was around 70 years old when he first began recording the rules of various card games in 1741.
There are several others whose names you likely wouldn’t recognize, like the guy who invented the taser, or the guy who founded Hare Krishna. And how many presidents, including our president-elect, were well over 56 when they took office? Not that I would ever want to be president, mind you. There would probably be a civil war and then I’d get shot. I’ll let Mr. Lincoln keep that dubious honor, thank you.
Still, the point I’m trying desperately to make is that there are plenty of examples of people who didn’t even get a good start on whatever it is that made them famous until they were older and had a good bit of totally unrelated experience behind them. While I’m not sitting on any earth-shattering ideas right at this moment, in theory I’m well positioned to have a brainstorm of some kind that would propel me into the history books. Let’s just hope it’s for a good reason.
Of course, there’s still photography
I suppose, in some sense, all this sounds as though I’m giving up on photography. I’m not, despite how this year has gone. The past four years, for that matter. The number of photographs I’ve taken has been steadily declining, each year being the fewest yet that I’ve ever taken. Rather depressing when one stops and thinks about it. Although, one might say that the reduction in number makes the photographs that were taken all the more valuable. Scarcity can be a good thing, I suppose. Especially after I’m dead.
See, there’s that dead thing again. It keeps popping up.
Part of the issue with photography is a lack of models with whom I can enjoy working. The young woman who posed for the images here, all shot back in 2005, had just turned 21 when I met her. She was lively, adventurous, and willing to pretty much try anything. In fact, there was a lot she was already trying when we met. She was 5′ 10″, perfectly proportioned, and looked sufficiently wonderful dressed, but at the same time didn’t have much hesitancy about getting naked just about anywhere, including once at the ruins in Holliday Park. She understood the artistry and that getting the shots that no one else had sometimes involved taking some risks. As a result, I have a truck-load of archived images that I still enjoy pulling out and re-processing every once in a while.
I need more models like her. We’ve had several over the years, but inevitably, as they get older, they get married, have kids, or take advantage of better offers elsewhere, such as Las Vegas or LA. I don’t blame anyone for improving their lives, but they each leave a special void that is never filled. We once had relationships with our models that enabled us to do some really dramatic and interesting things. No one seems remotely interested in that anymore, though. Without willing subjects ready to step in front of the camera, it is difficult to feel inspired about taking new pictures. Sure, equipment, transportation, and space issues factor in as well, but it’s the litany of muses, the knowledge that for whatever concept I conceive I have the model(s) to pull it off, that is missing.
The Forthcoming Novel
There is no forthcoming novel. At least, not anytime soon. I tried the novel-writing thing in November. I made it two days. Writing a novel, for me, means not being interrupted by chores or children or news or presidential elections or idiots running the stop sign on the corner. Writing, for me, requires that I be able to dedicate my full attention to the process. I need to be able to research everything. Even this article had its share of research, every one of them does. I need to know that the things that I say, the ideas that I present, are at least plausible and preferably possible. I can do fiction, but fantasy is a bit beyond me.
If I ever do complete a full novel, it will be between moments of getting lost in the wonderment of watching cats playing across the living room rug. This morning, it’s the kittens who are leaping and rolling and butt-wiggling all over the place. Their energy is boundless and the entertainment factor is dramatically distractive. I have never been much of a cat person, but the past couple of years with our careful selection of rescued kitties has changed my mind in that regard. They are wonderful little creatures to have around. I can sit and watch them for several minutes at a time, becoming totally lost in their play. Of course, that means I’m not writing a damn thing.
Then, there’s the dog. I love the big guy. He loves me. And sometimes that’s an issue. He wants to play. A lot. And I enjoy playing with him. A lot. I can easily take a couple of hours from my afternoon out in the yard with him, playing tug of war and throwing balls. But again, if I’m doing that I’m not writing, am I? Perhaps I’m gaining little tidbits of information and experience that I might eventually work into part of a story, but I’m not piercing light with pixels (which is the modern substitution for putting pen to paper). Maybe I’ll get around to writing something great and wonderful one of these days, but I don’t see it happening this year, and probably not the year after. There are just too many distractions in life.
What will happen in this next year? Most immediately, I’ll re-work the website a little bit. It’s time to update the template. There’s a new version of WordPress coming out next week, so we might as well get all the kinks worked out of everything at the same time. I’ll move things around a bit, change header pictures, stuff like that. In general, though, I like the layout we’ve been using this year. The number of eyeballs has more than doubled what we had for last year. So, a little tweaking should suffice for the next 12 months.
I would love to shoot more this year, but again, that whole model issue is a concern. Perhaps we’ll meet some people. Perhaps we already have and just don’t know it yet.
Either way, we’ve completed 56 years now. Let’s see what happens next. I fear a new dystopia, but hey, maybe we’ll get cool robot overlords from it.
Challenged To Be Thankful
Holidays are not happy for everyone. Depression, loss lead many to struggle.
I am struggling this morning. Rain was falling as I walked the dog in the early morning hours. It wasn’t a heavy rain, just enough to get into one’s bones and make everything painful. Even the dog didn’t like it. He pulled at his leash to get the walk done as quickly as possible. He didn’t even stop at three of the fire hydrants we passed.
I sat down at the computer with a cup of coffee in my hands and looked over the morning’s headlines. From the Dakota Access Pipeline to worries about the next presidential administration to various flashpoints around the world, I am worried about what might come next. Good is in short supply on a global scale. We’re not fighting one war, we’re fighting four. There’s a new hurricane in the Atlantic. Earthquakes around the world have created their own level of fear. Finding something for which we are genuinely thankful is challenging.
Too often, I feel we patronize ourselves with platitudes on this holiday more than others. We go through the motions of saying we’re thankful for this and that, for family and friends, but our words are empty. We’ve not really given thought to the value of the things and the people we have around us. Especially the people.
Before the course of this day is over, hundreds of thousands of Americans will understand the value of someone in a way they never appreciated before. At the same time, thousands of others will finally give up. With Thanksgiving tomorrow, today we need to give ourselves a reality check. Address the question of what it really means to be thankful, not in a religious context, but in human terms.
Thanksgiving, 1981
Thanksgiving day, 1981, was unique for me in a number of ways. It was my first holiday, ever, without family. I was working at what was then Roesch Brothers Funeral Home in Shawnee (it’s since changed name and ownership). While the university dorms were closed for the break, the managers at the funeral home offered to let me stay there and work the entire week. I was promised at least 40 hours with the probability of overtime. Like most every college student, I needed the money. So, after talking with my parents and assuring them I wouldn’t starve, I agreed to stay.
The day itself turned out to be rather quiet. We didn’t have anyone lying in state, no one back on the prep table. All I had to do was answer the phones and pick up the leaves that were continually falling off the spider plants in the windows. Around 3:00 that afternoon, one of the directors swapped out with me so I could go to another director’s house and enjoy dinner. Being part of a different family’s celebration felt awkward, though, and I was actually glad to get back to the peace and quiet of the funeral home.
Around 7:00, the phone rang. The director on call answered it from his residence, which was fairly common. Late calls were almost always a notification to pick up someone who had passed. I went to the embalming room and set out the materials they would need, then went back up front to wait. When the director came in, though, he made an unusual request.
“Lock the front door and go get protective gear. I’m going to need your help on this one,” he said. Actually, he needed more help than just me. At that point in time, I was still a scrawny 125-pound kid with just enough muscle tone to keep me upright. Another of the directors soon joined us and I was given a warning: “What you are about to see is one of the toughest parts of this job. Don’t touch anything with your bare hands and as soon as we get back go take a shower.”
We arrived at an older apartment building and took the elevator up to the third floor. Police were waiting just outside the door of the apartment, each of them wearing heavy rubber gloves and breathing through surgical masks. The aroma was the most pungent thing I have smelled, one that is embedded deep in my memory and refuses to go away. We walked in to find a gentleman in his late 60s, sitting in his recliner facing a small television, which was still on. Speculation was that he had likely passed in his sleep—three days ago. With an apartment that was well sealed and the gas heat ensuring that the room stayed toasty, decomposition had already begun. The most hazardous element was the poisonous fluids that had leaked from his body and were all over the recliner and everything around him. Getting the body safely onto our gurney took not only the three of us but a couple of police officers as well.
Upon returning to the funeral home, I headed straight to the shower and started to cry, not because of the grotesqueness of what I had just experienced, but because of the circumstances around the man’s death. He had sat there for three days with no one checking on him. No one missed him. No one had been expecting him for dinner. Only after everyone had eaten did his son decide that maybe he should check on his father. I wanted to ask why his dad hadn’t been at Thanksgiving dinner. I wanted to ask why it took so long for anyone to notice him missing from public interaction. That wasn’t my place, though.
I went to bed that night questioning what it really meant to be thankful. Is being thankful a matter of counting one’s blessings or justifying one’s greed? How could one be thankful when they were completely shut out of their family’s life to the point no one missed them at the holiday dinner? How does one define thankfulness when they’re so totally alone?
Every year I think of that situation, wonder if anyone misses the man, if anyone was ever thankful for his life. I will always wonder.
Thanksgiving, 2016
I look at the website for the Chattanooga (TN) Times-Free Press this morning and my heart breaks all over again. The tragedy of five young lives lost in a school bus accident on Monday has resonated across the entire nation. We have a personal connection here, though. One of the children attended the same elementary school that my youngest son attended. His mother is still the media specialist (librarian) at that school. She had frequent contact with the little one. Suddenly, just before the holiday, that little bit of hope, that little bundle of promise, is gone.
We want to ask why. We want to ask how. At least ten NTSB agents are currently investigating the accident. The driver has been arrested and charged with vehicular homicide. Others are wanting to blame the bus company contracted by the school system. There is a lot of anger. There is also a lot of sadness.
Cordayja Jones was 9 and looking forward to turning 10 next month. Zoie Nash was also 9, athletic, and the only girl in a family full of boys. Six-year-old D’Myunn Brown was smart, playful, exactly what one expects from one his age. Zyaira Mateen was also 6, just starting life and enjoying every moment. Zyanna Harris, 10, was the sassy girl who wasn’t afraid to speak her mind.
The tragedy is not limited to the families of those five children. Four more remain in critical condition at Erlanger hospital. Doctors there report having difficulty identifying the children as they came in. They were confused, scared, and in shock. Many couldn’t even tell doctors their own names. Hospital staff had to take pictures of the children and relay those to school staff who then had the unpleasant job of contacting parents.
For every one of those families: the survivors, the doctors, the hospital staff, the police who had the unpleasant job of working the crash scene, and especially the school staff who had to try to explain to students yesterday why their classmates were missing, every one of those families are now challenged to redefine thankfulness as they gather this week. Former definitions won’t work. It’s not that they won’t be thankful, for surely most of them will, but the meaning now is deeper, more real, and more heartfelt.
Consider the reality
Occasionally, we need to be reminded of just how precious and fragile life is. We need to remember, and understand at more than just an intellectual level, that tragedy could just as easily be ours. There is no promise that any of us will see the end of the day. We don’t dwell on fatality because if we did it would paralyze us. Yet, as we are challenged to not approach Thanksgiving as a superficial holiday whose history is questionable, we need a reminder of exactly why a day of Thanksgiving is still relevant and necessary.
There is much for which we are not thankful, and I’ll cover that with a bit of humor later. What’s important for us at this juncture is that we not just wipe Thanksgiving away as a day to over-consume, or as preparation for exercising our greed, or that one day a year when we have to tolerate people we really don’t like. Thanksgiving is too easily dismissed. We’re in a hurry to get on to those other gift-giving holidays. We think we have better things to do.
Perhaps we do well to take just a moment for sober thought. Being thankful isn’t about politics or history or football or shopping. Being thankful means realizing that everything we have is temporary and largely undeserved. Those who love us do so not because they are required but because they’ve made a choice to love us. Families do not happen by accident. What we have, where we are, what we’ve become are all elements that can disappear more quickly than they were obtained.
Ever since 1981, one of my most persistent fears is that I will, like that man in the recliner, die alone, not missed at anyone’s dinner, no one bothering to check on my well being, no one caring that I’ve passed. That gentleman’s funeral was quite small. His son and just a few other family members were all that attended.
Kat assures me, regularly, that my fear is unfounded. Every time she does, I am reminded to be thankful. Having spent Thanksgivings where there was nothing, I am thankful for each one I have where I’m not wandering the streets, or shivering in the cold. Being reminded is good. Being reminded is necessary.
Let today be the moment that reminds you why tomorrow is important. Forget the history and the politics. Thanksgiving is about now. Being thankful is about life.
Accept the challenge and be thankful.
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