Red's Wrap
Happiness. It's relative.
One Last Word
By the end of today, I wanted to duct tape shut the mouths of the people I was with so they could not utter another single syllable. It was okay if their bodies were littered about my house and also okay if they talked to each other. I just couldn’t tolerate another peep, word, remark, insight, story, or question directed at me, no more expectation of my engagement or response. Let me be mute in a mute world of my making.
Now that the world has been made safe for introverts, I no longer feel queer and antisocial or guilty about such terrible impulses. I feel entitled. I draw the line at one too many questions, well, one is too many.
Today, “where is the mayonnaise?” yelled the interrogator, the single bulb swinging from the kitchen ceiling. “WHERE IS THE MAYONNAISE?”
I must have my rest from all this hubbub, I think to myself. I’ve overextended and must be alone to recharge. Excuses are there for the plucking. I pluck.
Friday night I went to a cocktail reception celebrating the university program from which I graduated many years ago. Such events are always challenging because of my hearing disability. Add a lot of glass, high ceilings, and dozens of people murmuring and it becomes a living on the edge crap shoot whether I will hear any particular individual. It’s like some folks come in on the shortwave even though they’re in a hut in Mongolia and others across the street are an indecipherable scramble of static with no consonants.
This makes mingling dicey.
The first person I ran into was himself wearing two hearing aids. Within minutes, he confirmed that the passage of thirty years had taken away none of his bloviating capabilities. It was comforting knowing that he would talk for hours unimpeded, like the Shelley Berman LP I played over and over in the basement of my childhood home, Shelley stopped when I lifted the needle. Shelley didn’t expect a response from me and neither did Mr. Double-Amped.
I’ll stand here ‘listening’ to you, I thought, but cognition is extra. You don’t have that kind of money in your thin little wallet, sugar.
I lasted ninety minutes. When I got outside, I wanted to lie down on the cobblestone walk and rest, make bystanders feel sorry for me so someone would cover me with a man’s heavy coat. Instead I fumbled in my too small bag for my phone and pulled out a flurry of dollar bills that went spilling in front of me like I’d thrown them at the young men smoking and leaning against the railing. I felt like an escapee.
At home, unfortunately, the din continued throughout the weekend. It is times like these when I am feeling the impulse to tie my companions to kitchen chairs and gag them with the new towels I bought just last week from Target that I realize that my ridiculously low threshold for social interaction, even with members of my own family, probably goes beyond simple introversion to some kind of diagnosable condition that has wearing a Stormy Kromer hat as one of its symptoms.
This isn’t a call for sympathy or empathy, the difference between the two fugitive to me even at this advanced age. I know if I called for either, you might feel compelled to talk to me. Don’t. I’m pulling the ear flaps down. I’m done for now.
______________________
Originally published in 2014, just read it again, and laughed. This was one year before my first cochlear implant and, man, it really sums up the whole hearing loss experience. Lordy.
When You Give Your Heart to a Cat
Our cat is on steroids.
Every night my husband scoops up the cat, whose name is Herc, and holds him so he can’t scratch. I pry open Herc’s mouth to stick the pill as far down his throat as possible before he wrestles free to clamp on to my finger. Then, I hold his jaw shut until he starts licking his lips. This is supposed to be the sign that he has swallowed the pill.
He fakes. We often find the pill on the floor several feet from where we thought he swallowed it. He is cagey and nonchalant about this, never giving off a hint of his trickery. But we shouldn’t be surprised. He is on steroids, after all.
We ask the vet how long Herc can take steroids. “His whole life,” she answers. Well, how long is that? Could he take steroids for ten years? She shrugs.
I’d Google it but I don’t want to see the answer. AI is so advanced now, it would show a dozen photos of advanced steroid use in cats, offer alternatives for cat burial and sign me up for grief counseling. Vets don’t prescribe steroids for hangnails.
Oh well. For the time being, we are old people living in a cat bubble with two dogs. The cat sleeps on our bed and, in the morning, walks up to my pillow so when I open my eyes, I see his tiny mouth and his whiskers. This morning, I smelled fish on his breath, so certain as if he’d just caught a perch somewhere and devoured it whole.
I have learned over the years that love is a dangerous thing. Cats, dogs, people.
Tonight, we will give Herc the pill he spat out last night. The beat goes on.
Patriotism: Flags are Great but Showing Up is Better
My former neighbor, a tall spare woman named Moreau, decided that every 4th of July, we should help her hang her enormous American flag between our two houses. This was possible because our houses, very old and very tall, were separated by a driveway and a wee bit of land. So it was quite possible to hang the giant flag with ropes from her upstairs window and ours.
We did this although I don’t know why. Moreau was a fussbudget of the first order, an elementary school teacher who breathed disapproval. That our household – our kids, our dogs, us – was loud and seemingly chaotic brought out the worst in Moreau, until the 4th of July rolled around and then we were pals.
It was fine. It made her happy. And the flag got noticed. Passers-by would be startled looking up to see it waving. The flag was a favor to a neighbor. Which, if you think about it, is kind of patriotic.
Patriotism to me isn’t about showing the flag. It’s about showing up.
It is so easy to check out. There are dozens of parallel universes, so many entirely separate streams of knowledge. A person could live for years in a content-laden environment, dense and rich with images and words, and not have a clue what’s happening politically or what’s changing in the government. We have a million echo chambers, replete with all the media one could want and cozy cushions and steady drinks from a free bar. So, showing up in a meaningful way when all these opt-outs are so tempting requires a huge amount of gumption.
Showing up means tuning in to the local news, knowing who your elected officials are, meeting them in person, going to public meetings, screwing up your little courage and going to the microphone to advocate for what you think is important. Voting. Every time, every election. Being physically present, visibly present in places where decisions are made.
Not waving the flag. Being the flag.
______________________
Originally published in 2024 in the ‘Before Times’ but, to me, this is still the recipe for patriotism.
So Far, So Law-Abiding
I was with a boyfriend once when he drove my VW down the block on the sidewalk. I was probably intoxicated and laughing so maybe I was abetting his lawbreaking since I assume it is against the law to operate an automobile on the sidewalk even a wee one like a bug.
My devotion to rules is legendary. I keep my seatbelt on until the plane has come to a complete stop. I always shower before getting in the pool (well, I do at one pool but not the other because I think the water is probably pretty cold at the latter since it’s a public pool and well, you know how it is with revenue shortfalls and all, hot water is the first to go). I don’t right turn on red if pedestrians are present. And I quit jaywalking cold turkey twenty years ago. Somebody got a little too close to my flowing skirt.
I could go on.
I do not want to intentionally or unintentionally break the law. The idea of getting arrested is very scary to me for a dozen reasons, not the least of which is I can’t hear if I lose my cochlear implant processors. So, the times that we are in and the public activities that are needed have made me think plenty about the possibility of getting arrested. My goal is to be brave while tending to my ever-present inner coward.
As my husband says when he drops me and my friends off for a protest, “I’ll pick you up. Just tell me which way you’ll be running.” Knowing that he is hovering a block or two away in a big black F-150 that could probably pass for an ICE vehicle is an odd comfort in this cracked-up time. So far, though, I’ve been as law-abiding as they make ’em. That might change. I guess we’ll see.
Anyway, the answer to your question is, “No, not really. Not so far.”
______________________
Photo by Eugenia Pan’kiv on Unsplash
Shoveling on a Saturday in February
I wake up as if a dead person
Flat on my back, arms arranged
Practicing for the future
Aqua pajamas, wrong pink top
Cat chewing imaginary food
Next to my ear
*****
The mother and daughter one table over are having tequila shots with orange slices. I watch the waitress pour the tequila from a gallon jug. I never drank tequila with my mother or anything else for that matter. She did her drinking on her own in the kitchen.
*****
When I die, I hope it is close to when I’ve gotten a haircut by the guy who makes me look like a silver pixie.
*****
The cat knows my name and the names of all the other people who live here and those who pass through, especially if they are worried or wondering about the future.
*****
I sleep as if worn bare from shoveling
It is alright to be tired from living in a heavy way
Hoping We’re Not Shark Bait
My mother had Alzheimer’s Disease for quite a while before I knew about it. This was because we had a long period of not speaking, a very long period, an epically long period. So, I know a fair amount about family estrangement. I am a gold medalist in both grudge-holding and self-orphaning.
Anyway, after ten years of not seeing or talking to my mother, I went home. My father had warned me in one of several letters preceding my return that my mom had A.D. So, I was ready but not ready. She recognized me but could only put a few words to her recognition. She knew I came back which, at the time, seemed precious enough for both of us.
Today, my husband and I went to a luncheon sponsored by the Alzheimer’s Association in honor of Black History Month. The presenter, a longtime researcher and community organizer, talked about the warning signs – if you forget a little bit, it’s normal, if you forget a lot, it’s Alzheimer’s – and it made me wonder when my dad did the final figuring. How did he convince my mom to go to the doctor about her forgetfulness? And then to take medicine and then to stop driving. Well, I know how he did the latter. He told her that in order to renew her license, she’d have to take the written test. And then spent time everyday ‘studying’ the driving manual. He had genius about some things that I never detected growing up.
On the way home from the luncheon, my husband asked me how I felt about myself. Pretty good, I said, and then wondered if we were now in the phase where we were watching each other for slip-ups. Were we becoming each other’s diagnostician?
Alzheimer’s Disease or A.D. as my dad called it is no longer the stuff of my parents. It could well be my stuff or my husband’s stuff. The game has changed. That hit me today. Alzheimer’s Disease isn’t just something that happened to my parents. My husband and I, well, now we’re swimming with the sharks.
It’s deep.
________________
Photo by David Clode on Unsplash
Writing the Pretzel Way
Just eat all the pretzels and be done with it.
All the equivocation, rationing, using the tiniest bowls – end it! The pretzels won’t stop tapping you on the shoulder every time you walk past the cupboard unless you get rid of them. All of them. All the schnibbles, all the tiniest crumbs, the salt in the bottom of the bag, especially that.
Writing is like that.
A few weeks ago, one of our dogs had a health episode. I knew while it was happening that I would have to write about it and yesterday I sat down to do just that.
It was agony. The names, the descriptions, the chronology, the keeping all the current and previous dogs straight, and, last, figuring out how to describe how I felt. So, because it was difficult and frustrating and impossible to retrieve just five or six sticks from the massive Pick-Up Sticks pile, I swept them all into the essay. In other words, I decided to just eat all the pretzels and be done with it.
From that word splat came chaos, a mess, a hard to follow tale that gave me a headache. But out of the headache or the overeating or the pile of sticks depending on your choice of metaphor eventually came a pretty coherent piece which I only know is coherent because the women in my writing group told me so. I trust them and they have never let me down.
I love writing because it is hard but also wonderful.
Reticulation is a Thing to Behold
Heavy heartedness. That’s what I needed a break from today.
If you’re a person paying attention or, worse, a person (like me) paying too much attention, current events can create a constant sense of dread and foreboding. Remember the little sign from the Vietnam War – War is not healthy for children and other living things? Neither is this administration.
So, I think about this as an older person, how unhealthy it is to carry this outsized worry around all the time. Is my life going to be shortened because I’ve not figured out the recipe for shaking off the events of the day? I don’t know. I do know that I’m trying to be mindful of the connection between stress and health. I actually spent a whole semester on this topic in an independent reading with a beloved professor who attributed his colitis to living as a Black man in America. This isn’t that, of course. But it’s not nothin’ either.
Anyway, I went to the zoo today with my son and it was wonderful. And it wasn’t until five minutes ago that I realized that I had a couple of lovely moments of being carefree. One was when I walked into a building where three enormously tall giraffes were eating and a littler giraffe was curled up watching. And the other was when I made a video of a hippo walking toward me and then turning dramatically around to show me his beautiful and quite ample rump. And the last was when the chili fries I ordered at Gilles, the 87-year-old landmark ice cream shop on Milwaukee’s westside, turned out to be spectacular.
That’s it. That’s my answer to your question.
Heated Seats
Winter’s wettest spit
Windshield wipers frozen chop
Thin hope revival
_____________________
Photo by Aleksi Partanen on Unsplash
Hermit Life
This morning, I told my husband that I wanted to live as a hermit because going places, especially meetings requiring banter and dialogue, had become tiresome and all I really want to do is walk in the dog park, go to tiny markets to buy unusual things like smoked whitefish to make chowder and pho cubes to make chicken soup taste authentically Vietnamese and then come home and putz around, maybe pay bills or fix a story or unload the dishwasher but I already had my team t-shirt on for the public hearing in Madison and I’d told them I was coming and he said that afterward I’d be glad that I went so I did and it was interesting in a good government kind of way because sitting in the hearing room, no one would ever know that America feels like a blender on high having its way with big thick ice cubes who thought they’d find themselves enjoying life in a short glass of bourbon and not knocked to bits for no good reason, so my short yearning for the hermit life has been cut short but may revive at any time.
Here is my outfit for today’s outing.
Snow Door | wisconsinacademy.org
Listen to Jan read her essay “Billy” presented on WUWM’s Lake Effect
Jan’s essay “At the Breakfast Bar” on WUWM Lake Effect
Jan’s essay “The Parish Hall,” on WUWM Lake Effect
“Fury Cannot Touch Me,” Modern Love, NYT, 9/29/11
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