The Safe Deposit – Isaac Bashevis Singer

Isaac Bashevis Singer - November 21, 1902 – July 24, 1991

I think I said enough about Singer in my post about him which you can find here.

I noticed in that post that I spoke very little about the story. I did note that I didn’t like the story, but I failed to see it as a teaching tool and just dismissed it. Perhaps I am seeing some sort of evolution in this little experiment I am doing.

I enjoyed this story much more that the previous Singer story. Perhaps the rich descriptions of age and what it does to a human mind drew me into it. Of course, I’m more tuned into anything that has to do with the breakdown of the brain/mind because of what my father is going through and my efforts to keep out of my brain.

I feel though that I have always been attracted to stories of the elderly and especially those stories of elderly men struggling through life alone.

I see myself in this role someday (as I’ve written in other posts) and there really isn’t a need to go any further at this time into that whole stream of thought.

Recently, my family has seen another member of our family start the rapid decline into everything that surrounds old age.

2009 was not a good year for my step-father. I think we can say it was the year that marked his decline.

That year marked the year that his daily routine begin to take shape something like this.

Wake – eat - sleep in chair downstairs – eat – sleep in chair downstairs – eat – sleep in chair downstairs – go upstairs and sleep in bed.

He is 87 years old. He doesn’t really have a choice to live like this. He has declined into this state as a result of his age.

The problem is – is that this has made my mother’s life very difficult and sad.

We don’t think she was ready for such a quick onset – or really, we don’t think she would have ever been ready for something like this.

It hasn’t come to the point yet where we as a collective family unit have had to step in. That I think will come in the next few months.

At the Anarchists’ Convention – John Sayles

John Sayles - September 28, 1950

Nice treat to see a story from someone as celebrated as John Sayles. It’s interesting to read some early work from some of these “better known” artists. Please know though that I rarely find a higher talent existing within one of the chosen ones.

As I read this story, I couldn’t help but draw a funny line between the characters in the story and what a future class reunion of mine might look like. I didn’t take this story seriously...even though I’m sure it may have been written so, but I felt a bit light hearted about the subject.

You see, back at school, my crew was always filled with piss. We were ready to drink and fight. Sometimes, when we were unable to find a victim for our energies, we turned in on one another. It was a great time.

Our “meetings” would usually start at about 4 in the afternoon. Once we got out of our last class. We would skip the evening formation, and get some food from the small convenience store. “Food” meaning beef jerky, potatoes (to roast), chips, hot dogs...etc. We reserved most of our money for the cases of beer we would buy.

The first group of guys who would be in charge of setting up the site (the spot) would have taken up a collection of money from those who would be coming to the meeting later. At least five cases of Natural Lite were purchased. We made sure to buy returnable bottles so we could send some sucker back to the store before closing with the empties and with the deposit money to purchase more cases of beer.

So, setting up the site means that in the late summer, or late spring months, the beer was placed into a nearby stream ensuring that it was kept cold.

Next, no matter the season, a massive fire would be constructed. We were in the forests of Vermont, so plenty of wood was available. It would be close to 5 or six when we had everything set and the rest of the crew would arrive. By this time the advance crew would be well into the beer, and the late comers did their best to catch up. Everyone would be pretty up to speed around 8 o’clock. This left a good 5 or six hours of drinking and fighting to be done.

So, as I read this story, I kept flashing forwards into the future – when I’m 60, out in the forests of Vermont attempting to drink and fight with all my crew once again. I’m sure we will set off with 5 cases of beer – just as we did back in the 90’s. My guess is though that we will manage to get a few beers into a case and realize that we will be carrying 4 cases back. But who knows, perhaps, just as the old Anarchists in this story, we too will man the barricades and steel ourselves for the fight.

Here is a shot from a couple of years ago when some of the crew returned to the "spot". You can just see the stream off to the right...all the log seats have become covered with moss...and, as you can see, the fire isn't massive, and it looks like they have about one case of beer.

Mama Tuddi Done Over – Leon Rooke

Leon Rooke - September 11, 1934

I had a bit of trouble with this story. I believe that the problem existed with me and not with the story. In the end, it was a fine – wonderful story. I just couldn’t get my head wrapped around it. The problem is, that this is just the type of story that I enjoy.

Rooke is quite the author. I think this small paragraph below illustrates the story best. It’s from Contemporary Authors Online-

In the New York Times Book Review, Alberto Manguel finds Rooke hard to classify: "[Rooke's] style varies greatly not only from book to book but sometimes from page to page. It is impossible to speak of a typical Leon Rooke paragraph; each one sets out to explore different voices and textures."

Perhaps it was the voices and textures I was having trouble with. You see, if I were an author – I think I would lean towards writing stories that bent reality.

It took some time in this story, but something “strange” entered the scene and when it did, it was powerful. Perhaps this is one of those stories that won’t fully impact me for some time. I’ll be lost someplace, and then – BAM- the meaning will hit me. Won’t that be great?

There are instances in life, and I have had them quite a bit, and it seems with increasing regularity, where something happens – either by a force known or unknown that causes us to shift our perception of life.

Perhaps I’m just more attuned to these “happenings” or maybe I am just labeling them. Either way, I have committed myself to turning them into something positive.

Something that will propel me upwards in my life.

This is an interesting contradiction in my life as well because of my recent questioning of religion and/or the supernatural. I don’t think I’m fully resolved in that area either. Just when I think I have made my mind up, something happens to push me either towards or away from where I thought I would land in a final decision.

You know...all of this uncertainty is cool sometimes. Being comfortable with being uncomfortable is comforting.

Home - James Robison

James Robison – born October 11, 1946.

This was a nice clean story.

It was an assurance to the reader that we all have insecurities and doubts no matter what age, over a wide variety of reasons and situations.

We have people and family that enter and exist in our lives, and the influence that those people have over us, as well as their actions, often cause ripples which in turn, can develop into massive waves, disrupting our life and causing distress.

We can wish and hope that loved ones act a certain way but they are in the end their own person. We have to deal with their decisions. They are family.

Several days ago, as I eased into a corner kitchen table, mind cloudy from wine and brandy (tucia for you Romanians), I overheard my brother-in-law tell his father that he was going to Afghanistan with the Army (Romanian) on the 22^nd. Now, I don’t remember if I walked in mid conversation, or if he thought that my Romanian wasn’t good enough to understand or if he knew that my knowing would eventually happen.

But now it gets interesting. At that moment, the people that knew were his wife, his Dad and me. He wants to, and intends to keep his deployment, a secret from his mother. Before I could discuss the issue concerning my mother-in-law, I pressed him to tell M. I mean, I really pressed him.

In the drunken brother way – knowing full well that this decision to go was a decision he wanted...he petitioned to go. He is, in his heart, a soldier.

So, about ½ an hour later, he tells M.

M is of course not happy with his plan or the fact that he wants to go to Afghanistan.

The conversation develops into so many directions – as one would expect a conversation of this type to develop.

Not to get any deeper into this story, but, in the end, we left Romania last week knowing that he was off to Afghanistan in a couple of weeks. The entire family knows – minus his mother. He is an adult. He knows what could happen to him over there. He knows what could happen to his mother if she knows...or never knows.

My prediction –

This is not going to end well.

But, he is family, this is our family, and this is a small ripple that is going to turn into a massive wave.

Three that know.

(L-R, Me, M and her brother)

Please be safe.

Friends – Grace Paley

Grace Paley Dec. 11, 1922 – August 22 2007

To begin with, it was pleasant to see a story in this volume with the focus on a group of women. Elkin has done a nice job in stuffing this book with stories about men. Honestly, I don’t think that he did a fair job in this case. Hey – I’m a man, and I know men, I enjoy reading about women – gives me some more insight – after all, I am using these readings as an education.

Actually, learning about the author of this short was a bit more interesting than the story.

Here are a few lines about Paley from an article about her in the NYT announcing her death in 2007.

-In a sense, her work was about what happened to the women that Roth and Bellow and Malamud’s men had loved and left behind.

- Her stories, many of which are written in the first person and seem to start in mid-conversation, beg to be read aloud.

-Grace’s childhood was noisy and warm. There were stories and songs and glasses of good strong tea. Always, there was glorious argument. The communists hollered at the socialists, the socialists hollered at the Zionists, and everybody hollered at the anarchists.

-A self-described “somewhat combative pacifist and cooperative anarchist,” Ms. Paley was a lifelong advocate of liberal causes. During the Vietnam War, she was jailed several times for antiwar protests; in later years, she lobbied for women’s rights, against nuclear proliferation and, most recently, against the war in Iraq.

Good strong tea! My type of family.

So, the story.

I have wondered what sort of friends I will have left in my old age. Will they be the same friends I have today? With the pace of life and our abilities to relocate and my/our personal/joint desire to live our life someday elsewhere – it seems that say in 40 years, my friends will be different.

When I sit back an look at the circle of friends I have today, I could call it modest. Even that would be a stretch. Could I consider my co-workers “friends”? I suppose a couple could be considered the sort that I could keep in touch with over the years.

I don’t know though if I really have what could be called a true “friend”. I mean all the guys from school are there but as far as a day-to-day friend – that type...? I have a very close relationship with my brother-in-law, and I do call him a friend – but is he only my friend because he is married to my sister? He does so much for us, and provides a ton of support where needed, I can tell him secrets, and I can drink with him...but I think that he is considered family, kinda knocks him into a different category. I mean, there are certain things that I can’t tell him.

I don’t know, I don’t think I really have what I would call a true friend anymore.

Perhaps the person that I am, and the life that I have lived in the past as allowed me to be comfortable with this.

Yeah, it’s OK.

Breathe man...breathe.

Ups and downs - Anger and pleasure - Happiness and sadness - Hours without end. Confused sharpness with a blurry edge.

And all the while – I didn’t read. I didn’t use what I know comforts me.

The weight of these stories pressed themselves upon me daily.

I’m back now from a trip that’s been too long - but with a refocused energy.

It’s simple – it’s just time to read.

Lemon Tree – Curt Johnson

Curtis Johnson - May 26, 1928 - June 9, 2008

I think what I enjoyed the most about “Lemon Tree” was just the raw honesty of a man’s life that Johnson illustrates.

The frustrated complicated relationships, the substance abuse, the emotional abuse and the quest to reinvent oneself.

There were times in my life, and times when I was younger when I wished that I could change who I was. I remember in grade school wishing that I was taller. That my nose wasn’t so big, that I had better skin, that I was more muscular. As an adolescent, I think those wishes and desires are normal.

As an adult, we are placed into positions where we can change who we are. We just need to seize the opportunity. Now, I don’t mean that one should go about changing one’s life or leading one’s life as the main character does in “Lemon Tree”. Change should happen where there is minimal and possibly zero negative impact to others. The character sees flaws in himself, his life and seeks to reinvent himself. He does so through cheating on his wife, and abandoning all that once was his life by relocating to another country.

My idea of change in life should be accomplished through self improvement. Education, health, the expansion of ones awareness.

When I left for Romania, I was asked by someone very close to me if I was running away from something. This person in fact was acting a bit selfishly and attempting to convince me that leaving was a bad move. I fought back against the accusation that I was running (perhaps I was). I felt that I had reached a point in my life that I needed a change to happen. I was 26, and I knew that my immediate future did not lie in Norfolk. I felt that the future for me was out there, someplace in the world. I sought out improvement through volunteering to help others, and in doing so I changed so much that the man that departed Virginia was not the same man that returned.

It took 2 ½ years, and that was plenty enough time. I helped, not hurt others. I improved myself rather than injured myself or others. I grew rather than deteriorated.

Looking back, I feel though that I could have accomplished so much more. I could have not drunk so much. I could have lifted weights and come back a hulk! I could have read every book I wish I could read now.

But, I did what I did, and in the end, I am all the better for it.

Perhaps there will be an opportunity to change my life sometime down the road. In fact, I can do it whenever I feel like it. It just takes discipline and motivation. I can educate myself, I can learn a new language, I can become healthier, I can start writing, I can read more...all of these things can be done without damage to my loved ones.

It just takes responsible moves.

In 3 years I will be 40. There will be plenty of eyes on me to see if I buy a red convertible. Problem is, people know me too well and know that I would be satisfied with a bike.

Score 8 out of 10.