Scars

Mike Simms and I were talking. He was driving a new (to him) truck with Florida plates. Drove it for a while.

I asked if he was moving to Florida.

Nope. Truck used to belong to his brother. Their dad gave Mike the truck when his brother died.

Mike said it matter-of-factly. Just a fact. Tossed out there to give context.

Whoa.

How could he do that, I asked myself periodically over the next few years. His brother died and now it's just a conversational bullet point. No emotional investment. How?

I've marveled at other people who could do this.

Now, I know. Mom is gone now, over a month. Her ashes still sit beside my bed waiting for a trip to St. Augustine to be scattered.

Now I can tell people, she's gone. The Kung Flu and Kung Flu-driven pneumonia, compounded by the injuries in the wreck, killed her.  I can say it now without inflection or emotion.

Yeah, it still hurts. Yeah, I still cry when I think about it. Yeah, it's gonna hurt for the rest of my life, I'm sure.

Time scars the wound over. The violent slash through my being is closed over slowly. As the healing moves through, it leaves behind that scar, similar to the other scars I wear. Sometimes when the weather is particularly rough, some of those spots will ache. Most of the time, they don't. Many have faded and are barely visible now.

That part of me that was torn asunder so violently, it never will completely return to what it once was.

It will be stronger. When something living is broken and heals, the broken place is stronger than the original.

But it is not the same. Scar tissue is dense and tough. It covers a wound with extra protection.

The damage is still there, just somewhat hidden.

Some people see scars as something beautiful. Some see scars as marks of shame, something to be hidden, Others, like me, see scars as evidence of a life lived.

This scar is certainly the mark of a life. It is a reminder that she lived and I live.

As the years go by, my Mom scar will quietly fade as well. But it will always be there. When conditions are right, the old wound will make itself known. The pain will come roaring back.

A little rebellion

I hold it that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing, and as necessary in the political world as storms in the physical.1 Unsuccesful rebellions indeed generally establish the incroachments on the rights of the people which have produced them. An observation of this truth should render honest republican governors so mild in their punishment of rebellions, as not to discourage them too much. It is a medecine necessary for the sound health of government." - Thomas Jefferson to James Madison,Paris, January 30, 17872
https://www.monticello.org/site/research-and-collections/little-rebellionquotation

While many will decry this and say it cannot be, the US has undergone a bunch of rebellions, some violent, since it first became a nation. The War Between the States is merely the biggest and most reported rebellion.

What is happening right now in Seattle is another rebellion. Whether or not I support all the aims of this movement is irrelevant. Whether or not I support this rebellion is irrelevant. It is a rebellion.

Among the demands of the largest and loudest group there:

We demand that prisoners currently serving time be given the full and unrestricted right to vote, and for Washington State to pass legislation specifically breaking from Federal law that prevents felons from being able to vote.

This, of course, won't hold up. It's been tried many times over. If there is ever a conflict between federal law and state law, federal authority and state authority, the feds win. We literally fought our bloodiest war ever over this. Admittedly, the War Between the States was over the right to keep and own other human beings as chattel, but that is still a break from federal law and federal control.

http://www.tampadispatch.com/seattle-protesters-take-over-downtown-set-up-chaz-with-raz-simone-using-stop-and-frisk-threats-to-keep-order/

If you read down a bit, you also get into their demands for even more socialism and government funding of everything while at the same time demanding less government.

We demand autonomy be given to the people to create localized anti-crime systems.

and

We demand the de-gentrification of Seattle, starting with rent control.

They also get racist.

We demand the hospitals and care facilities of Seattle employ black doctors and nurses specifically to help care for black patients.

No mention of where these people are coming from. Just a blanket demand, except not emphasized.

and

We demand the people of Seattle seek out and proudly support Black-owned businesses. Your money is our power and sustainability.
Then, they make a contradictory demand.

We demand that thorough anti-bias training become a legal requirement for all jobs in the education system, as well as in the medical profession and in mass media.

Good luck trying to make that happen in the media! Dunno why they are whining about that anyway.  The major outlets, except Fox, are on their side anyway.

As Mr. Jefferson says, a little rebellion is a good thing. It wakes up those in power and hopefully makes them re-evaluate and be more responsive to the needs of the people.

Getting a government that is more in touch with the people is something we certainly need. 

If yer gonna be a hoarder...

Certainly you've heard about hoarders. People who pack their homes beyond bursting with stuff, mostly garbage. You may even know one.

Mom was a hoarder. Oy vey.

I walked in today with another box of her hoard.

"BEN! Again?" said the ladies behind the counter.

Yup. Again. It won't be the last either. I'm slowly whittling down the stuff she left behind. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, the bottom of the box, the clear path to the other side or however you wanna put it.

Shag took care of part of the horde already. Jugs filled to the top. Whew.

I'm taking care of another part of the horde.

Today's tally, $25.50. Today's weight? According to the Internet, probably 45 pounds or so.

If you are gonna be a hoarder, there are worse things to have laying around. Mom hoarded coins.

I've already spoken about sorting coins with her and how much I want to do it one more time. That's not gonna happen. So, I sit and roll the stash she left behind. We're down to the loose pennies now. Those jugs Shag commandeered, pennies in whisky jugs. Those went to one of those automatic sorting machines that takes a percentage of the total.

I'm cool with that.

I have to admit I have thought about dumping all those pennies in a wheelbarrow and rolling that in to some place where Mom owed money. They'd have to take it. Pennies are legal currency in the US for all debts, public or private. But she was on good terms with the few people she owed money to, so that didn't happen.

She sorted money by age and type. I have a few steel pennies. I have one 1901 Indian head penny and a few rolls of wheat pennies. You can still find them every now and then. She also sorted the 100 percent copper pennies from the new ones that are mostly zinc. The good stuff is back in a safe deposit box. The others, the ladies at the bank took the rolls and made a deposit for me.

Probably have a handful left, maybe $2-$3 left to roll.

It made her happy to sort the mounds of change I brought her. That's why I did it.

Little things, like this, remembering her sitting there sorting and being happy the whole time, that's helping me get through this. It also hurts to remember it, because I'll never get to do it again.

Soon, I'll reach the end of Mom's hoard, except for the good stuff locked safely away. I've thought about keeping a roll or two because, well, Ma, but that's not her. It's not even a good representation of her. I know what she wants. Her instructions were explicit and said many times.

We're gonna have a party, down on the river. These rolled coins are going to buy drinks and food. We will celebrate her life in the way she wanted and she's paying for it, exactly the way she wanted.

Whining is not a path to peace

Search Results

Web results

At Mary's sort-of suggestion, I bought the book - 

How to Stay Human in a F*cked-Up World

.

The first sentence of the book opens with the author saying Trump was elected president. He then speaks briefly of his wife's then-current battle with cancer.

This immediately left a sour taste in my mouth (not about the cancer). As I read through the book, I learned the author was one of the organizers (at least he so claims) of the Occupy Wall Street Movement.

Sour went to revolting.

I'm still going to read the book based on the exerpts Mary posted. I have already gleaned some great information from it, including the phrase "Toxic Righteousness."

I bought this book because I was and am interested in the things he has to say about dealing with the pain and suffering of this world. I'm interested in what he has to say about dealing with other people.

I have zero interest in reading his entitled-ass (yes, he is entitled and very wealthy. As of the printing of the dust cover on the book, he works as a head honcho for a Google global outreach program.) whining and bitching that the world is not lining itself up to meet his expectations. Here's the Amazon blurb about him - Tim Desmond--an esteemed Buddhist philosopher who has lectured on psychology at Yale and leads a mental health project at Google--offers a path to self-growth, connection, and joy like we've never seen before.

Ironically, the book is aimed at the exact opposite - how to accept and be happy with the world when things do not go your way.

No matter how much good I may draw from this book, everything will be coated with the taint from the opening line. As I peruse further, I find more and more whines, I may not be able to finish the book.

WHINE ON

Whingeing or whining is common enough. I suspect most everyone has done it. Some may accuse me of doing it in this blog. You may even be correct. That everyone does it, does not make it right. It is an infantile attitude and one we all should put behind us.

Desmond says to look for the good things instead of focusing on the bad. As he explains early on, if you have a toothache, you will almost constantly wish you did not have the toothache. Now that you do not have one, how much time do you spend focusing on the LACK of pain in your teeth? That is certainly a worthy insight.

Desmond could use plenty of examples like this instead of complaining about government. So far each time he mentions government, always negative to this point, he spectacularly fails to find something good to focus on. On all the other miseries of life he discusses, he either finds something good to put his attention on OR explains how to let the negative exist, be accepted and by doing that, reduce the impact.

I prefer the way Frank Herbert put it:

“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”

BUDDING BUDDHA

Like Desmond, the more I learn about Buddhism, the more I like and appreciate it. I hope this book brings me a greater understanding of this way of living and mindset.

I say this as a Pentecostal evangelist.

There is no contradiction.

As Dennis says, "Buddhism is a worthwhile adjunct to any faith because it is a philosophy rather than a religion in itself."

Buddhism, as I understand it, is learning to accept that which we cannot change and change that which we can. It's core structure is similar to Christianity, i.e. love others unconditionally. Buddhism, as I understand it, lets the individual decide for himself about a Higher Power.

The object of Desmond's book is to help people be at peace with themselves first and then be at peace within an ever expanding circle. In that regard, it is exactly what the Bible teaches.

Maybe I'll finish this book. Maybe I won't. Either way, I will be accept it and that is what Desmond says is the important part.

Counting the various things - A Ma story.

Done something unusual past few evenings as I've sat in my recliner and watched animal documentaries.

I counted.

Most of you are saying "That's unusual?"

For me, it is. When I take cash deposits to the bank, I always add it several times. I frequently come up with different sums. I take the most common result and list that. I hand the cash over to Mindy, Connie, Roshunda, Jessi or Rosemary and try not to wince as they count it.

Half the time I'm right. Half the time, I'm not. Not kidding either. Ask the ladies next time you see 'em.

"It's simple math!" you exclaim. Anyone can do it.

Apparently not.

Yanno what is simple? Writing. Writing these posts, my newspaper column, the reports on various happenings in the community, research papers and more. Writing is simple.

"Yer crazy, Baker!" you exclaim.

Nooooope. If you can speak, you can write. The process is the same. In one case words fall out of your mouth. In the other, the crawl from your fingers. The same brain runs your mouth and hands. The same brain runs your language center.

Anyway, I counted. More specifically, I counted change. I then rolled that change into tubes and dropped each tube into a bag at my feet. I hope the count is right.

Mom collected money. Not as a serious investor, but as a hobby. A few silver dollars, half dollars regardless of the metal content and some silver dimes. One of those dimes I got in 1984 at the Moultrie Dairy Queen. I got my change and for reasons unknown, I looked over the coins and saw one was a Mercury dime. Gave that to Ma and she put it away with the rest.

She left behind God only knows how many pennies. She dropped pennies into my empty half-gallon whiskey bottles for years. Do you know how much a half gallon of pennies weighs? Too much, that's how much. Oy. Do you know how much it is worth? Not nearly enough to pay for the expense of picking the damned bottles up and trying to get the pennies back out.

Of more recent times, she collected commemorative quarters. She was always excited when I showed up with a quart can of change. She asked if I'd bring her the quarters from the office too. Every so often I did and she was excited again. I did not do it every week, although I could have. I don't think she ever bothered to think about how many quarters run the through the office each week.

Robin drops a stack of quarters at the bank every week from the many vending machines across the county. Not much from each machine, but they add up.

I did not take them each week because, well, Ma could not afford it. She worried about paying her vet bill for her two dogs every month, worried about the power bill and more. She paid for the quarters she got from the office and stuck most of them back. Money out of her pocket. My spare change, in the can, I just gave it to her.

I sat and helped her sort the money. Eagle quarters in one pile - didn't want them. Bicentennials in one pile. Commemoratives had to be sorted into quart bags and labeled. Old pennies went in one bag. New pennies, nah, to the bank with them.

It made her. very, very happy to sit there and do that. She was even happier that I helped, and that's why I did it.

Now, Ma is gone on to whatever comes next. Her coins, at least the common currency ones, they went to the bank. The money will go to help settle her estate. Shag and I agreed, the quarters will be worth 25¢ each for so many years to come. None of her grandkids are interested in coin collections. The very few other things she left, they are in a safe deposit box at the bank.

It's just money.

But the sorting, even now, that's not just money.

Oh how I want to walk back in her house again with a can of change and help her sort it out. Just one more time, please?

Remains of a life

Remains of a life

As we continue to sort Mom's house, discarding some, taking some home, setting some aside as donations and some to sell I am struck by a few things.

She was quite organized, not to the point of OCD. She had things put away carefully. Her financial records are easy to go through. Her personal effects, equally easy to sort. Her eldest son did not inherit this tendency. My filing system tends to be piles that eventually get moved into boxes.

At the same time, it is easy to see she forgot what she had. Some stuff was put away when she first moved into the house and never touched again. Sometimes, she'd mention these things in passing, wondering where they got off to. Never seriously concerned enough to go look for them.

I already knew she was forgetting. Not dementia, but just age that causes us all to forget. She had a safe she could not open. She swore the safe held things it did not. The third time we unpacked the safe, I recorded everything with the video recorder on my phone. Everything. She continued to insist the previous two searches never happened.

I figured it was only a matter of time before she wanted to unpack everything again. Instead, I'd show her the videos as proof we did the search and came up empty handed.

The 4th search never happened. Never will now. I am sad that we won't go through the safe again and happy that I have at least some video of her. 

She hated having her picture taken.

As her stuff is sorted into piles, I look over things. I am seeing the remains of a life. As a writer, I see stories of triumph and tragedy, change and dogged determination to resist. As her son, I see myself (literally me in some pictures) in what she kept, like my elementary school student achievement book. As a brother, I see Shag in these things too. As a human, I see pictures of her, Dad, Shag and me. None of this childish defacing the picture to excise Dad.

I see what she treasured, at least in terms of material things, I see what didn't matter by the conspicuous absence of other stuff. 

I see things others cannot because she and I lived them, together, just the two of us.

Sometimes, me or someone else will grab something and wonder "Why did she keep this?" The answer is simple. It brought her pleasure to see it, to hold it, to have it. Her porcelain hummingbird collection is one of those pleasures for her that mean nothing to me. These things, we are selling. Either direct through an estate sale or through a shop in downtown Ashburn. I hope someone will buy and enjoy that stuff as much as Mom did. 

I find things I want to keep. Some I hang on to. Some I just don't. Her name tags from her jobs. I want them, but why? Her jobs did not define her. I let it go. Who will want them after I am gone? No one. It will just be more stuff to throw away and whoever has to clean up after me will have plenty of that already.

I am also thankful she was not a hoarder. Last year, about this time in fact, I was south of Tallahassee several times a month cleaning out the home of a hoarder. Call the hoarder J, who was also Mom's best friend. J had straight up piles all over the house with barely enough room to walk through them. We filled a roll-off dump trailer twice with debris.

We've ordered a dump trailer for Ma's house, mostly for the yard trimmings we have to get rid of as we trim the hedges. Part of the work to get the house ready for sale. I'm rough guessing here that actual trash in the house is less than a two roll out carts and almost all from trash cans in the house. Sure, we're tossing more, but it doesn't qualify as trash. Call it the detritus of a life instead; detritus is a vital component of a healthy forest. 15-year-old tax records, some lightly stained clothes, now expired food, etc. are going into the dump.

Some people are wondering how I'm doing, especially as I go through the house. Some anger, as expected. Some sadness, as expected. But for the house, nothing really. I was not invested in the house in any way. Didn't grow up there. She only lived there for about 10 years or so. It was her home, but not mine.

We were there Sunday. Danielle came over and brought Bolt, her dog. He would not get out of the car until I coaxed him out. He was not happy going into the house. He climbed on my lap when I sat down and looked up at me softly whining. D. has kept Bolt since the accident and now will spend his remaining years there.

"Yeah, I know Small Dog. But she's not coming back."

The house increasingly is just a structure, hollow, void and empty. Bolt understood this. The house is just a place to keep stuff, as George Carlin observed years ago. What makes it a home is the people who live there and how you feel about them.

Without Ma there the place, to explain the whys, whens, whats, whos and hows, it's all just stuff. It is the remains of a life and it grows increasingly cold and distant without her to animate it. Memories, shifting, fragile and unreliable, are nothing more than a poor version of life support that must also end some day.