The Gift of Choice

 How much "choice" do I have?  If I am white, have enough to eat and a roof, am educated, then I have a lot of "choice."  I have time in my daily life to think about what I believe and what I want to do.  Or not.

I've come to realize what a huge gift this is and how few of us humans have it available where we can realize its existence.  How did it happen to me?  Fate?  Genes?  A universal lottery?

See? Here I am pondering the origin of my being.  The indulgence of the most fortunate.

Choice is not to be squandered.  Oh, alright.  Grab the chocolate cake and leave the cheesecake behind.

My Mother

When my father died,  my mother convinced my father’s bosses to give her his job as a furniture salesman.  It was in 1941!  No question, she managed her own big break.  Thus,  she became a woman in a man’s world.  The war years were slow, but she was in place to profit from the post war boom.

She had little education but had what we now call “street smarts.”  Maybe she profited from her customers and colleagues seeing her as “the young widow” but she knew how to handle them and many became her friends.  She invested wisely in stock and knew about IBM early on.

My mother enjoyed all of the trappings of success.  She paid close attention to her hair, makeup and wardrobe.  Her purchases were always top of the line. She loved it that she could afford a new Cadillac whenever she decided it was time.

There were many dark days ahead for her in her very long life but she had her wits about her until the very end.

I wrote this a few years ago in a series of stories about my family.  

Living Small

 Last week I was feeling lonely thinking of my friends who had died or disappeared behind the wall of dementia.  I actually made a list of the people who I still have here.  It made me feel better.   I noticed that there was no one on the list that I had to "put up with".  No bosses, trouble makers, or even no one of a different political persuasion.  Yes.  The big decisions and the high stakes lie in the past. And, along with them lies  drama and excitement. Is that depressing or comforting?  I think both.

For me, keeping attached to the newness of today involves living "small." A new job, a new love affair, or new home becomes a new book, new class, new restaurant. Or even, unwrapping a new bar of soap. 

Boring?

Remember, we can put danger, guilt and regret in the rear view mirror

too.

A Beautiful Soul

Baseball Hall of Fame

 I love this story.

I was sitting the in stands with Buck.  As a fly ball came close, a fan jumped up and caught it.  There was a kid nearby who looked longingly at the man and the ball in his hand.  The man smiled, put the ball in his pocket and sat down.

“What a jerk,” I said.  “It would have meant so much to the kid to have the ball.” Buck thought  for a moment, “Maybe the man has a kid at home.”  “Well, he’s still a jerk then for not bringing his kid to the game.”  “Maybe the kid is home sick and the ball will be even more special.”

Buck is Buck O”Neil.  The star of the Kansas City Monarchs of the Negro American League.  He’s 94 when he’s in the stands with the writer Joe Posnanski.

The book about Buck is The Soul of Baseball.  Buck is the perfect person for this.

Two Old Shows

 I recently became obsessed with the TV show Homeland.  It’s 10 years old, but because it’s about the middle east and the CIA, it could be today.  The writing and the acting are so superb, and the plot twists are so dense, I was reeled in.

The stories revolve around two CIA agents:  an obsessed woman, and a more reflective man. Things get interesting when a POW returns home from captivity.

The dark, dark truths revealed in Homeland are familiar ones.  People can do terrible deeds when they are blinded by beliefs we hold dear: The Noble Cause. Patriotism. Love.

The show gives us one character with whom to identify.  She is a teenager who must survive a suicide attempt, change her name, and leave her family in order to find the space to refuse. 

I quit watching Homeland after three seasons.  But I was intrigued enough to look for what others had said about the program.  One of the stars, Mandy Patinkin, quit acting after his years playing Saul.  He said it was “bad for my mental health.”

As an antidote,  my friends urged me to watch West Wing. I’m really enjoying it.

A Farewell Letter

 Ifennyi and Joan

Dear Acura:

You came into my life unexpectedly.  When I took my other Acura into the dealer for repairs, a good looking, fast talking young man convinced me that I should go for a trade-in.  It turned out to be a winning move.

You missed the most turbulent stops on that long and winding road that is my life. So yes, it’s been the two of us day by day.  You’re my dining room, my snack bar, my waiting place, my delivery system.  We listened to the news and the sports talk and, of course, the music.  Remember that time we pulled over to hear the end of Rhapsody in Blue?

Here’s some good news.  I’ve put you into the hands of Ifennyi Ifebueme.  He is a good man.  The kind of person that, when you know you are going to see him and spend a few minutes together, it makes you smile.  You already know him because he works in our garage.   

 Ifennyi is from Nigeria. I remember the day when he was bursting with joy.  “I am now an American Citizen!”, he beamed.  “And now I can plan to bring my wife and son to join me here!”

                                                                               

“Ifennyi,” I said today,  “Did you say you are going to ship the car to Africa?”  “Yes. I know now that I will never be able to bring my family here.   My future now is in Nigeria and I will return.”  He saw my look of shame and sadness. He put his arm around my shoulder.  “I still have big plans, I will be a farmer in Nigeria,” he smiled.  How could we be so stupid as to lose him, I thought.  

So, Ifennyi has big plans for you.  A continuation of your global existence.  From Japan and now on  to Africa.                         

When you leave me standing here, it will be a very fond farewell.  Ifennyi’s spirit will never be crushed.  You will be with him —as you were with me — for many more miles to come.                   

April 15

 

On Tax Day, Len and I would drive downtown to the main Post Office.  Our aim was to get there a few minutes before midnight as a symbolic gesture.  We weren't the only ones with that idea. We joined a stream of cars driving slowly and passing our tax returns to the police who were stationed along the route to receive the deliveries.  We honked our horns in solidarity with the Vietnam War protestors on the sidewalk because we all knew where are our tax dollars were going.

Now, I take advantage of the AARP program that provides free service to seniors for uncomplicated tax preparation.  Thank you to the friendly volunteers.  

Bernie Sanders is forcing a vote in the Senate today about arms shipments to Israel.  We're always going to protest on April 15, aren't we?