One More

One more day, one more grocery run, one more haircut, and one more quiet lunch with my dad. It’s not my usual practice to write about something before it happens, but I’m willing to bet that the scheduled events for today will unfold as predictably as the sun’s rising and setting. The details might differ slightly, but not enough to change the overarching sameness of the experience.

With old people, new experiences—changes of most types—aren’t usually welcomed. Routine becomes the comforting friend, the “if it’s Tuesday it must be Belgium” feeling.  Rigidity sets in, and the slightest snag is cause either for alarm or dismay. Even a happy change can be upsetting.

Last week, Jeannie’s ATM card wasn’t accepted at the supermarket. She was first frustrated, then panic stricken, as one attempt after another was denied. If I hadn’t been there to walk her through the best alternative, the manager may have had to call 9-1-1.

We got through it. I pointed out that she could use her credit card (“But I never use my credit card to buy groceries here!”)  and helped her understand that we could drive 1 block to the bank where she could sort things out as well as getting cash there. Finally, the dust settled. By the time we reached the car, Jeannie realized the problem: she had an expired ATM card that she kept in her wallet along with the new one and had just used the wrong card.

Mystery solved, I showed her how to use the ATM at her own bank, something she’d never done before—and while apprehensive, she was pleased to see all that money coming out of the machine, along with her balance statement (totaling almost $30,000.) “Well, I learned something today. That’s my attitude; always keep learning as long as you’re alive…” And on, and on.

Having dealt with the first crisis, I now wonder about the next one (which could be related to keeping such a large balance in her checking account.) Will she listen to reason if we explain how easy it would be for someone to clean out her account by just stealing one check? Or would it be better to wait and let that happen? After all, I wouldn’t want to deprive my stepmother of a learning experience.

Now looking back, we made it through yesterday staying mostly on script. At lunch, I asked Gene if he ever wanted to visit San Francisco, or perhaps take the ferry across the bay. “No,” he said. “I’m pretty much homebound now.”  When I suggested a quick drive to see our new (world-class) concert hall, he declined, and then said, “I guess you can see that my interests are slipping away.” I nodded. “Does that concern you?” I asked. After a pause: “A little…but not really.”

Losing interest in the fact of losing one’s interests…that must be the ultimate. In the end, I persuaded him to let me take the short detour, and he seemed to appreciate the view.

"A Poem a Day" Day

Casual Sunday visit with dad. Jeannie's at church, and the house is blissfully quiet (apart from the frequent cycling of their forced air heater.) My father and I, together on the sofa, trying to forge a meaningful conversation. It takes a while, but then I see the book I gave him for Christmas, "A Poem A Day" on the coffee table and that gets us started.

I ask if he's read any good poems lately, and he picks up the book right away. "Oh, yes," he says, starting to thumb through the pages. He goes straight for "Richard Cory" by Edward Arlington Robinson, pointing at it. "There's this one," he says.

For those who may be unfamiliar with the oft-anthologized work, it tells of a man--elegant, rich, blessed in every way, who has the life that other people want--and who ends up going home one summer night and putting a bullet through his head.

Why this poem? I wonder. I ask Gene what he thinks it means. "Well, obviously," he says. "He had everything to live for, outwardly, but it wasn't enough to keep him going."

Hmmm. "How about another one?" I suggest. This time, he turns to the short poem by Pastor Martin Niemoller--"First they came...(for the communists, trade unionists, Jews....) Then they came for me, and there was no one left to speak for me." This is getting cheerful, I think.

"What about something by Emily Dickinson?" I ask, realizing too late what I was asking for. He goes to the index and finds an unexpected love poem, "Wild Nights," which I'd never seen. There may be hope, I think.

Then I suggest "Invictus" by Henley, known mostly by its final line, "I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul." I never knew how gloomy the thing was until I read it from the beginning:

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Well, I can only blame myself, right? Though perhaps there's no question of blame. My dad and I seem, for the most part, on the same page, with a similarly dark outlook. It is what it is.
 

Autumn to Winter

Clinging to my windshield, a small late autumn maple leaf: brilliant red and gold, wet with the recent rain and still pliable. I pick it up and carefully hand it to my father, who accepts it without words as if it were a priceless gift; a slight smile crosses his face. A moment that peels away years and revives memories of the same exchange that must have taken place between us many times before; a child, in silent wonder, gives a remarkable found object to his parent, sharing its beauty. And the parent accepts the gift.

I ask my dad if he recalls maple trees from his childhood in New Jersey. "Oh, yes," he says. "My father and I even planted one on our property, right before we moved." That would have been around 1942, I think, perhaps as Gene prepared to head back to Cal and his parents were moving to Brooklyn. Were they marking a transition in that father-son exchange? Establishing continuity? Or maybe they just decided to plant a tree....though it seems such a deliberate act, given the timing, one fraught with meaning.

For my father's 80th birthday, I gave him a dwarf Meyer lemon tree. He planted it in the small patio area of their townhouse. For whatever reason, the tree never thrived: it provided a few small, green lemons the first year but remained stunted, perhaps from neglect, and by the time they moved up north, I imagine it had died. A gift given too late, I guess, but one still filled with meaning....

Holidays...

It’s been quite a long holiday break for this blog, but I have decided to resume posting occasional, if shorter, entries—whether or not I have something compelling to say—it all depends on my mood. Of late, the mood has been somewhat darker. Things with my parents continue their slow descent: the shopping trips are more excruciating than ever; my father grows more silent, and Jeannie less so.

We shared Thanksgiving with good friends and had a much better time than we would have under any other circumstances, had they been available to us. I say that knowing that our choices were limited: my stepbrother and his family invited the parents over to their house while we were pointedly excluded.  Jeannie expressed slightly awkward embarrassment when she asked what our plans were. As I’ve told people, it was great not attending an event where we would have been truly uncomfortable—but it would have been nice to have the option of saying no thanks.

As for Christmas, we won’t be quite so lucky….again, my stepbrother’s family will welcome dad and Jeannie for dinner on the 24^th—and again, we were not invited—but as a consolation prize, Jeannie asked if my partner and I would like to join them for a simple dinner on the 25^th (without her offspring present.) The catch? We would have to cook everything other than the main course and dessert, a frozen wine cake Jeannie had made some months ago. Though it would have been tempting to decline, we decided to bite the bullet (and our tongues), and go through with the charade.

I imagine my stepbrother, who is a leader in his church, has either decided on his own or else was directed by his superiors to sever contact with his unrepentant, homosexual step-sibling.  I can almost imagine the dialogue, whether internal or with an actual higher authority, which certainly would have included an admonition to pray for us sinners, while obeying the church edict to avoid sin and the near occasions of sin. That would be us, I suppose. He would have been informed that his position in the church requires that he set a good example, both for other parishioners and for his own family, by not appearing to condone what scripture deems unacceptable.

Even the holiday card we got, sent by his wife, had only her name & return address on the envelope, as if using their family address labels might somehow be construed as laxity on his part. None of this is especially surprising or even annoying to me. If anything, I found the hypocrisy of earlier forced interactions less tolerable, so am happy to avoid contact.

A similar incident occurred not long ago when I tracked down our old family physician (who also lived across the street from us when I was a child) and sent an email to him. His initial response was enthusiastic: he was so glad to hear from me, happy that my father was still (relatively) well, and said he’d like to stay in touch. That ended abruptly when in my next email I mentioned my partner of 23 years. No response can be a very strong response.

I know there are many Christians worthy of the name, and even know some of them. But they (joined by representatives of certain other religions) have proved so many times through history and to this day that a simple majority stands out as a smug, judgmental crowd, quickly pointing its collective finger at those perceived as sinners. Meanwhile, they conveniently ignore the more garden variety “sins” they or their family members are often guilty of, and vilify The Other. This may be the season of good will but I say to hell (whatever that is) with them, and suspect that god (whatever that means) would say the same.  

Old and not grey in LA

Uncle Murray

Weekend trip to the Los Angeles area, valley of my birth, which I gladly forsook nearly 30 years ago…our first stop was for lunch with friends; the thermometer registered almost 100 degrees outside when we took our seats, and was well over that when we made it back to our rented Mini Cooper. Ducking into a nearby supermarket to pick up a gift, we then headed to our next destination: my uncle’s 90th birthday party.

The guest of honor, my one and only uncle, could pass for 70 more easily than 90; he and his wife (age 85) are genetic marvels who owe nothing to plastic surgery or high-caliber fitness regimens. They look and act as I always remember them—active and engaged. They drive, travel, play bridge—in short, they continue to enjoy life as few people in their age bracket can.

Aunt Evy

Is there a secret, other than good genes? Uncle Murray continued working part time into his early 80s, and loved his vocation as a post-doctoral professor. Aunt Evelyn, while retired, had served for years as a mentor to new teachers, helping them learn the ropes. Blessed with relatively good health, an active social life, and happy, well-adjusted children and grandchildren, they have ample reason to regard their lives with satisfaction.

Yet they seem not to spend an inordinate amount of time either looking back or forward—but just enjoy their lives. When my uncle had to undergo a somewhat complex medical procedure a while ago, his wife was nonchalant. “Oh, it’s nothing, he’ll be fine.” Denial? Or maybe they've cultivated a serene form of acceptance that’s helped sustain them as they gradually head toward their long home.

There’s simply no comparison between their lives and the situation my parents are in. Pure luck may be part of the story, but I’d be willing to bet a good percentage of my retirement account that at least half the problems my parents are dealing with are directly related to their stupid diet and poor medical advice. It doesn’t help matters that they have an equally stupid marriage, filled with simmering tension and disappointment.

My parents' life together, never especially interesting, has only become more constricted and meaningless. If marriage is nothing else than having a somewhat warm body nearby, at least they’ve achieved that, but at a huge cost. I’m reminded of some of the miserable couples described in W. Somerset Maugham’s stories; Maugham himself was an expert on the topic of unhappy marriage—but at least he had the good sense to get a divorce and move on.

“Marriage is a very good thing, but I think it's a mistake to make a habit out of it.”   W. Somerset Maugham

Birthdays & Funerals & Weddings, Oh My!

Over the last month or so, my father turned 88, a good friend died far too young, and my stepsister treated family and friends to a wedding spectacle that nobody will soon forget no matter how much they’d like to. 

The birthday ranks as the least exceptional of the three events (other than the achievement of another year added to so many) so will remain undescribed. Nor will I discuss the circumstances of my friend who died, except to say he was a remarkable individual, and that his death was a profound blow for those who knew and loved him.

As for the wedding, however, I see no reason to hold back. After all, the bride showed no restraint whatsoever in arranging it—indeed, I hear she was repeatedly begged to curb some of her wilder impulses—but it still added up to what was certainly the tackiest, most painful event I’ve witnessed to date. The back-story here is that this marked wedding #3 for my stepsister, yet she demanded all the trappings (and financial support required) one could expect for a first wedding.

It wasn't quite this bad...

A few glasses of champagne might be appropriate after a big event like this, but apparently the bride felt it would be a good idea to have them before the ceremony….and so she did, while everyone waited. Then she sashayed down the aisle, grinning at those gathered in the little church, as her teenage nephew doodled around on an out-of-tune piano, playing part of the wedding march interspersed with whatever else he could think of at the time, before stumbling to a halt.

Why am I reliving this—is it some kind of exorcism? Enough blow by blow. Here are the highlights:

When asked if she would “take this man as her husband,” the bride gave us a fatuous grin and answered heartily, “Heck yeah!”

After they were pronounced married and given permission to kiss, they stood on the altar swallowing each other like two goldfish; at one point, she grabbed his ass.

The cake topper, at her insistence, showed a bride and groom—but it depicted the bride having leapt headlong into the arms of the groom with her legs wrapped around him.

At the reception, we were treated to a few more deep kisses, and then the inevitable garter ceremony, which the bride decided would be more interesting if the groom wasn’t allowed to use his hands. So he doggedly (as in St. Bernard style) wriggled his way up her dress, finally emerging with what looked like a pair of chewed up, variegated underwear—but which was in fact her garter.

I should mention that the wedding ceremony itself took place during a total eclipse of the sun, which my astrologer partner was quick to point is the most inauspicious time to start any kind of new undertaking. And while my first thought was they’d picked the day and time deliberately because they thought it was “special” it turned out they had no idea, and the stars just naturally fell into place…

As a rule, I don’t mind seeing Jeannie uncomfortable, but even I felt sorry for her that day as she tried to remain nonchalant and upbeat through the entire farce.  My one hope (sadly unrealized) was for one of the religious zealots there to insult me and my partner in some way so I would be able to ask them, with feigned enthusiasm, to tell me all about the sanctity of marriage, after witnessing what we all had.  But the guests all behaved themselves…if only the guests.

Going Monthly....

No need to make excuses; going from a weekly to a monthly format makes sense now that other people are involved in my parents' care. I’m visiting them less often, and while they still invade my thoughts, there’s less new material to explore—until now.

Once again, they’ve been scammed. I had hoped that their earlier brush with ID theft might have instilled more caution, but the con artists are always one step ahead. They know how to insinuate themselves over time, to make a good impression and gain trust—so when they move in for the kill, their victims don’t even realize they’re being taken.

It was only by chance I found out, when I phoned my dad to check in; he mentioned the workers were there even as we spoke, replacing their heating and air conditioning system.  Alarm bells went off, and I began interrogating my hapless father, then the workmen, about what was going on. Exactly why were they replacing a system that was barely 9 years old, and seemed to be working fine?

From what I could gather, my parents had accepted an offer from this company for a “free safety inspection” of their furnace, part of the “club membership plan” they paid $8.99 per month for. And gosh, wouldn't you know that these same foxes just happened to find a “serious problem” with the furnace, one that was “potentially life threatening” if not dealt with right away.

They recommended the furnace be replaced immediately, and “while you’re at it, don’t you think it would be a good idea to replace the AC unit” since it was a few years old, and had already been worked on once? It would only add another $4,100 to the original amount, and they could even get an 18-month interest-free payment plan, so it was a mere $487 per month…

After yelling at both parents for their poor judgment, I made my way up the food chain, eventually reaching the owner of the company. I informed him (without mincing words) that this looked like fraud, and that as a mandated reporter of elder abuse, I might have to move this case forward to the DA and the fraud unit of our local police department.

The owner started by trying to overwhelm me with technical details about furnaces, and spoke of his company’s solid reputation. I then pointed out that the reviews I’d read online revealed a reputation that was far from stellar—multiple horror stories from scammed or manipulated customers.  I said I looked forward to adding my own review, in addition to calling the authorities; then the owner started to backpedal.

“Well, we guarantee 100% satisfaction,” he said. “What do you want us to do?”

For starters, I said, refund virtually the entire amount for the AC unit, which had been working and didn’t need to be replaced. As for the furnace, I knew there was little point in my trying to prove that it wasn’t defective (as it could easily have been sabotaged after its removal) so I’d let that charge stand. The owner said he’d need to talk with his “management team” and then get back to me.

Next day, I got what I wanted, at least verbally.  To seal his fate, I faxed over a letter to the owner (capturing a confirmation receipt) restating our conversation and agreement. Somehow, I suspect he won’t give us any trouble, but what’s more disturbing is that he probably regards this as part of the cost of doing business his way—for every one complaint or threat, he probably gets away with at least 10 fraudulent jobs, no questions asked.

My parents were sheepish and embarrassed, but grateful for my intervention. I let them know that this was a real wakeup call, and from now on they should not make any financial decisions without consulting one of us first. I may have saved them a few thousand dollars this time, but the nagging pessimist inside my head wonders what’s next.