Don't grieve because she's gone — rejoice that she came.
Don't decry your wrinkled crepe skin and your skinny arms and legs — be glad that you're walking and breathing.
Grieve not that you lost your son — enjoy the happy memories rather than the sad regrets.
And if the road is near to its end remember the good times. It has been a great life.
I have previously explained how I wait for spontaneous inspiration from the mysterious realm of . . . ?? I have no idea from whence comes my ingenious vision . . . I simply accept the sudden brilliant, creative, or timely idea. It may be a revelation, a solution for a nagging problem — or to an unanswerable question.
The aha moment demands immediate translation, from thought to written declamation. The arrogance of the belief that one's thoughts are worth sharing guides me to, first, a soliloquy — testing the concept, trying it on for size — anticipating the response from presumed readers.
I have on occasion tumbled a momentous collage of revelations in the rotating drum of the dryer of my mind, convinced that I had the stupendous formulation of insight and explanation that the world awaits — only to completely forget — so that when I prepare to commit to writing, I absolutely cannot recall that topic of such great importance.
I then calmly recommend to myself an attitude of tolerance — of the fallibility of an aging mind. I calmly let go the metaphorical bludgeon that I threatened to use to destroy, in a fit of rage, everything in sight.
Calm acceptance is what is needed. And I manage to achieve it. But the resentment — directed inward — remains.
Only rarely do I, at this time, pour an ounce — carefully measured in a shot glass, for only an alcoholic would drink directly from the bottle — to acquire the chemical suppression of the unwanted emotion.
I abhor the morning TV shows with an array of talkative women addressing the issues of the day, and solving the problems of the world.
Somehow on this particular morning I listened, and found in the running commentary of Today With Hoda & Jenna a hint of an idea.
The question was presented “Do you remember the first time you held hands?”
That would seem a trivial concept But strangely it summoned a memory of Galveston, and conflict and confusion.
Galveston. Winter, 1946 – 47. Sidewalk along Avenue S, west from 42nd Street.
Yes, Virginia, there is another 42nd Street. Loaded with childhood memories. Seven blocks to the beach at 39th Street. The seawall, the surf. Seashells. Seagulls. Groins, extending hundreds of feet into the Gulf. Graveled streets intersecting paved Avenues. Rostrum of saw-fish, displayed on so many garages that they were not worth a second glance. Five cent Coca-Colas in six ounce bottles. Cap pistols. Yo-yos. Baby giant firecrackers, for just a nickle at Klater's Drug Store. The Rabbi Henry Cohen, resplendent in black … hanging out … decorating and patrolling the sidewalk around the drug store, greeting passersby.
A girl next door, with raven black hair. “A Rose Must Remain” playing ad nauseam on the radio. Roller skates.
Ah, yes — roller skates — under the figurative Christmas Tree. Figurative, because a Christmas Tree was a privilege reserved for the affluent — not for poor people. In our apartment over the drug store I and the older of my two sisters each got a gift “from Santa.” My youngest sister was almost two, but too young to expect a gift.
My 1946 bounty was a pair of skates. Screw down clamps that gripped the sole of the shoe to hold the skate securely to the foot. A leather strap around the ankle.
Steel wheels with ball bearings — providing the next best thing to flying!
Having mastered the balance required, on that cold overcast day I flew along the sidewalk to 43rd Street, and back again. And repeat.
Suddenly I was not alone. A neighbor, a girl of twelve, joined me. She skated alongside me. And she HELD MY HAND!
When I was much older I learned and appreciated the meaning of holding hands with a girl — and enjoyed that fulfillment even into my ninth decade of life. But at the age of eight it was merely a curiosity. A novel experience. A strange sensation. I distinctly recall the confusion I felt. No sense of either revulsion or pleasure. I did not resist, or object to her holding my hand. If that was what she wished, it was okay with me. But it sure did feel funny.
And it feels funny to have the topic of verbosity such as this emerge from one of those morning TV shows.
But I accept bounty from any source.
Things I shouldn't have did
1. Sleeping on the ground in rattlesnake country.
At a place west from Three Rivers, north about half way to Jourdanton on Hwy 16 I encountered some huge rattlers:
1972 a six footer plus, on trip with Bob Emisson.
another, about six feet — Stan milked the eggs.
(You can read details of these in my “Rattlesnakes I Have Known.”)
And just up the road, near Uvalde, I spread my sleeping bag on the ground beside the fire and slept soundly all night, on a 1967 hunting trip w/ Stan Russell, Bill Johnston, Cecil Polvado, and Andy Quillan
2. Running alongside a pig to kill it. It had run into the road in front of Stan's truck the night we were returning from a lease near Freer. The hog was injured, but not dead. Turning and spinning around in the road, I perceived that it was a traffic hazard. I chose to terminate it, for the sake of safety to oncoming traffic. I walked toward it, and it ran toward the far side of the road. I ran beside it, nearly touching it, with my leg near its body. It was a large pig — a hog, about 12” across its shoulders, two feet high, and four feet long. A big animal. Knowing now of the tusks they carry, and the damage that they can inflict I regard it as foolish to have run so close alongside it. I was lucky that it didn't turn and hook me — either when I approached, or when I reached down with my forty-four, held in my left hand, nearly touching the pig's shoulder, and shot it in the middle of its back.
3. Swimming out in the bay along the jetty. At night. I knew that the Bob Hall Pier shark fishermen chose to put their baited rigs out at night because that is when the sharks are feeding!
Summer night. Calm, warm water. I fearlessly swam alongside the jetty on North Beach out to the area where the water was about eight feet deep.
Luminescent organisms saturated the water, and illuminated my every splash and kick. I was fascinated, and entertained. And lucky. For there well may have been sharks in the water.
I had watched a 13 foot Great White swim across the beach from the 39th street groin to the 37th street groin in three foot deep water.
And I saw a fisherman pull in a three foot bull shark, fishing near the shore from the 61st Street pier, in water eight inches deep. Sharks go where they can. In water deep enough for them to swim.
From the perspective of age, experience, and acquired knowledge I shudder at the memory of some of my exploits. And I am grateful for the guardian angels that rode on my shoulders.
Railroad Vine, Ipomoea pes-caprae from an internet soirce: “The Railroad Vine blooms during the summer and fa...
