T.S. Eliot Was Wrong

According to Eliot, April was the cruelest month. For me it seems to be September. Don't get me wrong . . . there's lots of great stuff going on. And I've always loved the "back to school" feeling autumn has. I don't think it's an accident that the Jewish calendar starts its New Year in this season.

But for several years now I've struggled through autumn. My beloved died in September. I don't sit around mourning, mind you. But I still remember. "Today is the day he died. Today is the day we bought his casket. Today is the day I wrote the eulogy. Today is the day we buried him." I'm not dwelling on it or stirring an old wound. It's just there . . . it's my life. And I remember. A few years later there was 9/11. A whole new set of memories. The way the air smelled. The fear and uncertainty in those first days afterward. Training with the Red Cross so I could volunteer at Ground Zero. A few years after that, Stephanie died in September. September has not been a happy time for several years now.

But this year has been so busy with so many good things happening. This year I thought I was sailing through the season just fine. This year, I thought, was different. More about renewal than about loss. And then.

On Friday the much-loved friend of a much-loved friend committed suicide. He got up in the morning. Walked the dogs with his wife. Sorted the recycling. Fed the dogs. Kissed his wife good-bye when she left for the gym. And then he hung himself in their garage, where his wife found him when she returned from her work-out. This news flattenend me. It is so painful to lose someone we love . . . I can't even imagine finding one's beloved hanging from a beam.

My friend John lost his mother when he was five. She died of polio. He remembers her raising herself from the guerney as she was being wheeled away by the ambulance crew to look him the eye. "Remember, Johnny, " she said, "Life is for the living."

She was right, of course. And what makes life most worth living? For me it's love. It's my friends. My family. In September, more than any other time, I want to draw close to those I love. To spend time with them. To literally hold onto them and be held by them. To all of you in my circle of souls . . . you know who you are. Please know that I recognize how blessed I am to have you in my life. I say thank you. In the fierceness of September especially. Thank you.

As I Was Saying . . .

The military housing was unremarkable (and, no, that is NOT an example pictured above!) but the natural beauty was so extraordinary that even the mansions of Newport would have paled by comparison. On the base, we had one unit in a four-family unit. The front door was sheltered by a portico. My friend, Matt, and his best friend – who was, inexplicably, nicknamed The Wombat – would hoist themselves up to the roof of the portico and I would let them into my room. Then we would all go out through the window and off into the night in search of adventure . . . when the MPs made their rounds, we’d dive into the nearest bushes, stifling our laughter and trying our best to be quiet. It was innocent and harmless fun. The worst thing we ever did was commandeer a neighbors Big Wheel, which Matt rode down to the railroad track . . . we carried it back unscathed.

I learned to drive in the hills surrounding the base. During World War II the base had been bigger and more active; in fact, it was here that, so there were bunkers in the hills. (We weren’t supposed to go into the bunkers because it was dangerous . . . but of course, we went anyway, in search of treasures. Most of what we uncovered just barely qualified as trash!) I once made the rookie mistake of hitting the gas instead of the brake and nearly drove the car into the three foot-deep trench around one of the bunkers. Ah, good times! My mother deserved the Medal of Valor or at least combat pay for teaching me to drive there!

Argentia, Newfoundland

Argentia, Newfoundland is located on the southwest coast of Avalon Peninsula. It’s historical significance peaked during World War II. Because there was deepwater anchorage – which, among other things, meant that submarines could be used to secure the area from German U boats – a railway was already in place and the topography provided room for an airstrip, the United States established a base there. In 1941, President Franklin D. Roosevelt and Prime Minister Winston Churchill met off the coast of Argentia to create and sign the Atlantic Charter. I have a special interest in all of this because I was blessed to spend a few of my grow-up years there with my family when my father was stationed there.

When the dog days of August were upon us, I eased myself through it by thinking cool . . . I've lived in some pretty cool places . . . not just figuratively cool. Literally cool! Iceland. Alaska. Newfoundland. Anyone who knows me knows that, like my favorite flowers the violet and the lily-of-the-valley, I bloom best in cool, sun-dappled places. I wilt in direct sunlight. Fold humidity into the equation and I am -- to put it kindly -- not much fun to be around! SO. Until I learn to apparate like Dumbledore or Harry Potter, I rely on memory and imagination. And when it was STINKIN' HOT (as my friend Maggie would say!), I spent some happy time thinking of the craggy, beautiful shores of Newfoundland. It would have been nice, I know, to have had these stories up for you then BUT. It didn't happen. I hope you'll enjoy them now nevertheless. (Especially you, Annie and Denise!)

Black Ice

One of the advantages of the aging process is that one does become wiser. And sometimes, this serves you. (And sometimes you find you’re not nearly so wise as you should be. It’s a crap shoot, really. But I digress…)

A few weeks ago, I was given two tickets to an AC/DC concert. I had never seen AC/DC in concert, though I used to do a brilliant and oft-requested air guitar version of You Shook Me All Night Long.

I know what you’re thinking…. Incredible! What can I tell you? I was a prodigy… it began in grade school with an elaborate pantomime I used to do to Johnny Cash’s Boy Named Sue which, for reasons I cannot explain, captured my young imagination. The biggest acting challenge came near the end of the song, when the Boy Named Sue meets his nemesis – the father who pinned this namby-pamby moniker on him before disappearing out of his life completely. In the song, they go down “kickin’ and a’gougin’ in the mud and the blood and the beer" and I always applied myself very seriously to interpreting this bar fight correctly. (Yeah. And I can’t understand why I’m not married. Geesh!)

But apparently, if the concert at Giants Stadium is any indication, mine is NOT a unique talent. It seems playing air guitar to an AC/DC anthem is a bit like being an Elvis impersonator . . . only, you know, without the white jumpsuit and hairgel. Though I will say it did seem gender specific: no women were doing this (including me, thank you very much), but men from 16 to 60 were living out their rock star dreams in public. Truth be told, it was absolutely wonderful. They were having a blast and so was I.

The friend who went with me on this adventure had never been to a rock concert. I had been to only one previously. (I saw KISS at Madison Square Garden and my ears rang for three days afterward!) Neither of us looks like your average AC/DC fan. But it turns out we fit right in. And had an absolutely rockin’ good time!

So where does middle-aged wisdom fit into this? First, before we began our trip, I stopped at Duane Reade to purchase ear plugs. As I did so, it occurred to me that I was almost out of vitamins, so I picked those up as well. This made me giggle . . . people take a lot of substances into rock concerts to enhance the experience . . . but Centrum isn’t usually on the list! (My friend Kim suggested we throw handfuls of them at the band in lieu of our underwear . . . even though the band members all are older than we are, I bet they’d still prefer the underwear, at least from a symbolic standpoint. But that’s just a hunch and we didn’t test it out one way or the other.)

Another bit of wisdom – as if the ear plugs weren’t enough! – was that we didn’t bother to arrive until 9:30 p.m. At precisely the moment we walked into the stadium, flames shot into the air from the stage, the screen above it lit up and the show began. It was as though they’d been waiting for our arrival!! No 16 year old could have been more delighted than we were at that moment! AND. When the montage of the band began? Savvy elders that we are we knew the concert was winding down and made a quick get away. We were through the Lincoln Tunnel and sharing a burger at Jackson Hole while most of our fellow concert-goers were still looking for their car keys! Or their cars, come to that. (Giants Stadium is . . ..well . . . giant!)

My adverturesome friend and I had some great times together in our Roaring 20s, as she likes to say. But our new adventures seem every bit as wonderful . . . maybe even a little better, actually, because we are a little smarter. We know now even better what we knew when we met years ago: the truth is that good friends make fthe bad times bearable and the good times better. And that holds true whether you're six or 16 or 60 or 106.

When Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word

Image: Frits Ahlefeldt

On the list of Top 100 Movie Lines is #13 from Erich Segal’s 1970s tearjerker
Love Story:

“Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”

The line is said to Ryan O’Neal (in character) by Ali MacGraw (also in character) and then repeated by O’Neal (in character) in tribute to MacGraw’s character.

Ryan’s follow-up, in a different film (What’s Up Doc?) as a different character, to Barbra Streisand’s doe-eyed delivery of the line is done in flawless dead pan:

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Amen. I wouldn’t go so far as to agree with the wry and clever John Lennon who said, “Love means having to say you’re sorry every 15 minutes.” But I do think there’s a reason we teach children to say they’re sorry when they hurt someone. IT’S IMPORTANT.

Not long ago I saw a dear friend of mine. We keep in touch regularly, so it doesn’t seem like it’s been three years but, in fact, it has been. Fully three years. It was good to see him and I wished – for the thousandth time – that we could see each other more often . . . to share laughter and make new memories.

But it’s tricky this friendship . . . . it lacks the ease of most of my close friendships. We are connected in ways neither of us fully understands. We love each other. The problem is (and feel free to wince here), I fell in love with him, a fact which is, even now, more than four years after I ceased to be in love with him, a source of strain.

I speculate that he sometimes does or says asinine things because he is afraid I may still be in love with him: but any speculations about another’s heart and mind are pointless, really, no matter how close we may be or how objective we think we are. It’s a full-time job just staying on top of our own fears and foibles without trying to sort through someone else’s. And the truth is it’s such hard work to actually think through our feelings, most of us choose to do so as little and infrequently as possible.

But the strain and the distance between us make me sad. And whatever the source or cause may be for him, for me it is this: he treated me very badly. He treated me like I didn’t matter. As though I were collateral damage, not even worthy of respect. And his timing could not possibly have been worse.

The good news was that I was in love with him when I walked into his home and fell out of love before the door closed behind me the following morning. The bad news was that it left the friendship in shambles . . . that what had been constructed so carefully and with such mutual joy and wonder and affection was razed, quite literally, overnight. I was not devastated because he wasn’t in love with me. That hurts like hell and we all know it … but I’m a practical sort of woman, boa feather bra and four-inch heels notwithstanding, and Rule #1 about The One is this: He WANTS to be with YOU. If he doesn’t, then he ain’t the one and that’s the end of that. It’s not easy but it is simple.

But the betrayal of a friendship . . . that is something else again. I myself once destroyed a friendship that meant a great deal to me with clumsy, ill-timed behavior that was misinterpreted. All of us make mistakes, and sometimes colossal ones at that. So I was willing to accept that the harm was unintentional and done without malicious intent. But I was harmed just the same. And the worst part was that he has never – to this day – sincerely apologized for hurting me. And, intentionally or not, this leaves the matter open and unresolved. It lingers the way smoke lingers in fabric . . . you can’t see it but every now and then a whiff of something sharp and acrid reminds you of its presence.

He has said: “I’m sorry BUT….” Which, as everyone knows, is no apology at all because what follows BUT is a justification, the words that are somehow meant to convince you that there was no other way. Which is bullshit. Because in the first place there are ALWAYS choices. And, in the second place, to paraphrase Harry Truman, “The BUT stops here.”

BUT has no place in an apology. In an apology – a genuine apology – we shoulder the responsibility of our actions and their consequences. Here is what I wish my friend could say to me: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I could have handled that differently. I wish I had. Please know that I will make every effort to avoid hurting you like that ever again.”

I know I am unlikely ever to hear those words. It doesn’t make me love him any less. It doesn’t change any of the things about him that are truly wonderful. And, to bring this full circle, it doesn’t change the fact that we are connected in ways neither of us fully understands. We love each other. And with that as a foundation, we’re rebuilding one block at a time. But damn it, I’d still like to hear him say it. Because the truth is: I matter. We all do. Remember that the next time it’s your turn to say you’re sorry – and feel free to remind me if ever I forget.

Sunrise

Photo: Petr Kratchovil

My friend Denise is one of the most laid-back and patient people I know. So when SHE expressed her frustration at the stagnation here on Debbie Scribble, I took the point to heart. And as we subsequently went to see Julie and Julia, a movie based on a book based on a blog, the point was underscored emphatically.

There is especial irony in the fact that the entry before this hiatus was entitled “Don’t Quit!” Well, I didn’t. I haven’t. To the contrary, I’ve had so many plates spinning that I haven’t found time to post. But I promise I shall try to mend my ways because I do know how annoyed I become when my own favorite bloggers take extended breaks.

So dear ones, I’m back. Thank you for your patience. PLEASE write comments!!

Grandma's Poem

Don’t Quit

Author Unknown

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you’re trudging seems all uphill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit
Rest if you must, but don’t you quit.

Life is queer with its twists and its turns,
As every one of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about
When he might have won, had he stuck it out.
Don’t give up though the pace seems slow,
You may succeed with another blow.

Often the goal is nearer than
It seems to a faint and faltering man.
Often the struggler has given up
When he might have captured the victor’s cup;
And he learned too late when the night slipped down,
How close he was to the golden crown.

Success is failure turned inside out;
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
And you never can tell how close you are;
It may be near when it seems afar.
So stick to the fight when you’re hardest hit.
It’s when things seem worst that you must not quit.