Posted by
AudiR10TDI on Wednesday, October 25, 2006 8:31:28 PM
BACK IN TORONTO (October 25, 2006) -- It's snowing right now, not much but enough so you can tell it's snowing. This is the weekend we 'fall back', get new toothbrushes (if we are not French), check the batteries in our smoke detectors, and realize we have no boots.
And it's also the time of year when mortality weighs more on our minds.
Between Road Atlanta and Laguna Seca, some dear friends of mine discovered that their new baby had cancer and that it had occupied his tiny body like a bunch of jihadists with their IEDs. Despite the best the Prayer Warriors could do, Baby "Hatch" died peacefully on Thursday, and all his friends and friends of his family faced the unwelcome fact that the Black Camel one day kneels at the entrance to every tent, be it a tiny new tent or the ornate outfit of the Caliph. When I telephoned to remind my parents I was off to Laguna Seca, they told me that my Uncle Cliff had been discovered to have a dangerous aneuryism at the bottom of his stomach and was having surgery -- today, in fact -- that if it goes wrong would mean he would bleed to death in four seconds.
Uncle Cliff is younger than Daddy, and was the Brat of the family when he was young. He was the one who tore the wheels off the car, ran his brother's car into walls, got kicked out of school and hid from all the work he dared. He grew up a respectable businessman and owner of a sand and gravel business, two adopted sons who were undistinguished among the 30 first cousins but also grew up respectable businessmen; his cottage was the site of the Summer Party to which all relatives within driving distance (usually defined as about 800 miles) were welcome with all their children and any friends or beaux of those children. (Daddy and Mama had the winter party, which I will tell you about in due course.) Because Uncle Cliff was quite successful, he had a boat and we could water ski behind it if we were brave enough or didn't wear glasses, and the food was always good. He was married to Aunt Marie, who departed to Glory last year about this time and who was one of those naive lambs who believed anything she was told, for most of her life. I can recall Uncle Lee (commonly known as Unk) telling her a long involved story about an animal called the Mo, from whence came Mohair, that included putting it in the freezer to stop the hair from growing after it was dead. She was shaped kind of like those Russian dolls that nest one within another, and she was a good cook. Uncle Cliff is a typical Wisconsin farmer and has been retired in Florida for years; his favourite occupation lately has been strolling out to the beach to watch the Space Shuttle take off. He saw the Challenger explode and said that he could tell right away that it was not good; he had seen so many launches by then.
This summer when I was back to Gather Round when Daddy had his operation, I saw Mama's youngest sister with arthritis so bad she can hardly hold her dog's leash, and her oldest brother now in his middle 90s with a memory that lasts about 20 minutes before he has to hear everything all over again. Next year the last of "us girls" will turn 50 and mama will be 80 and I myself will be entering another decade..
That is what happens when time goes by. Whether you are Baby Hatch and your time ends 9 weeks after it began; whether you are Uncle Cliff who approaches 80 or other uncles who have gone to Glory from lung cancer, viral encephalitis, diabetes, alcoholism or 'misadventure' ... or the simple passing of time ... the day comes when the Black Camel kneels at your tent too. And as Daddy has always said when someone dies unexpectedly, "Well, it kind of militates againt deathbed conversion, don't it?"
I think in times past people learned to adjust to the pace of life in a way they don't by and large do now. I have friends from college who have lowered their ages, lifted their faces, boobies, bums and tummies, spent a sad amount of money on their hair, and still manage to look like what my British friends call waspishly, "Mutton dressed as Lamb." I am more like Flip Wilson's famous Geraldine; with me it's "What you see is what you get." My hair is professionally done, but everybody knows it; and I keep in shape. But I am not fooling anybody and I don't try. And I hope I can say with sincerity, as that fellow said in The Last Crusade, "My soul is prepared. How's yours?" (It has always been a consolation to me that Indy's soul proved to be pretty well prepared, after all he had been through. Incidentally, my kids were impressed when Indy's father slapped him for blasphemy. They also winced because they know what that's like.)
It does not do much good to brood on when and where the end will come for any of us. Watching those 9/11 specials made that abundantly clear. The only sin lies in pretending that somehow death is optional and if you just keep moving, it won't find you. Be as prepared as you can, and then move on with your life; and as you do so, learn to appreciate those lives that you have or have had around you. And as winter sets in and the world grows bleak, dark and cold (at least up here in Kanukistan), get a good book about Stonehenge or Moominland Midwinter and think about the fact that even in the darkest hours, the earth is still swinging around the sun and these short, dark days of winter will become spring...and you'll have to get another new toothbrush (if you're not French), change those batteries again, and remember that you have no bathing suit.
But keep in tune with the fact that time goes by.