Yesterday was T.’s birthday. I called her on the phone from over 700 miles away and sang “Happy Birthday” to her, but I don’t think she was feeling so hot. “How old are you, anyway?” I asked, knowing full well I could do the math but feeling lazy.
“58,” she said. “But I wish I were 59.”
“Why is that?” I asked, puzzled.
“I don’t want to live a long time,” she replied. “Everything is getting more and more expensive,and I don’t see how we’re going to survive. It’s just impossible.”
I had to admit I saw her point. The property taxes on her home in Austin had grown to equal what she and her husband were paying each month on the mortgage, for one thing. And travel anywhere outside of town was simply unaffordable. When my wife came home, I reported what my sister had said. “That’s how I feel,” responded the beautiful and talented love of my life.
“Well, DON’T!” was all I could come up with, feeling sadder than she’d intended by the remark. My sister is an artist, my wife a musician. It hurt like hell to think of these deserving women in my life feeling abandoned by the world. Sometimes I hate it when my honey speaks the truth. it was all too close to home, anyway.
I remember when T. was born. I was three years old. My mother had come down from Middletown, PA to Chestertown, MD so my uncle could deliver the baby. The old man was overseas on occupation duty on Iwo Jima and Okinawa. He and the other officers lived in quonset huts and all had “maids.” It was cold and gray in Chestertown, and there wasn’t anything to do except walk outside around the house. I remember that someone, probably my grandmother, told me I had a baby sister, and I remember that my father wasn’t there. I think I was glad to have a sister, whatever that was. It was pretty lonely for this three-year-old in ’48, and I wanted someone to play with.
When my father came back, T. was nine months old. [Sigh.]
Sometimes I wanted to nuke all traces of my DNA, and by not having kids myself, I more or less succeeded. T. didn’t have any, either. My younger siblings, farther from the source of original sin, allowed themselves the pleasure, but at least the name will die and peace will come.
I’d like to think I’m done with the past these days. It’s like an empty peanut butter jar: you see it, but there isn’t any nourishment. The present moment is all we have and ever did. Remembering this and how much I love my sister, I stopped by the florist today to have late birthday flowers delivered.
The day before I left Austin almost 32 years ago, I was so wrapped up in my own fear and pain, I hadn’t gotten it together to drive across town to say goodbye. That afternoon T. showed up at my place on her own, eyes red from crying, to make sure I didn’t get away without a hug.
Happy Birthday, T. Don’t let the bastards get you down.
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Dear Farr, do you know that poem of Philip Larkin’s which begins “They fuck you up”? Written in 1971 by a balding librarian at a nondescript provincial English university, it’s not far from Farr:
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
–Those sentiments are best imbibed with a scotch, something I’ve been warned against by the soppy-stern physician who’s just performed eye surgery on me on the hope – likely a vain one – that the world will brighten when the patch comes off and the whisky goes in.
Kenny, VERY glad to to hear from you, and sorry that I haven’t gotten back to you from earlier emails.
No, I don’t know that poem. No, it ain’t far from Farr.