Note: I realized it was Pearl Harbor Day while typing this. Thanks to countless sacrifices, I could forget - but of course, shouldn’t. We’ll get to that in a moment.
The Fire Marshall is going to grumble soon. I’ll refer him to Father Time. The birthday candle manufacturers are glad, though. Yesterday I needed 37 of their small waxy calendars. The glow of faces in birthday candle light last only a few seconds a year, but would make a poignant movie. If the proverbial “life flashed before my eyes” occurs at the End, I’d like to make a request to the Director: set it around the cakes, and put it in candlelight. See the faces come and go, and the years pass warmly.
Memories smell like candle smoke and unspoken wishes.
Another year brings some maturity. I’m so thankful to be here, to have the chance to turn towards the light and strive.
It brings a more-practiced sense of humor. I bought myself a cake, showed up to the writing class early, hid it in the cupboard pre-loaded with a candle, and right in the middle of everything, I stood up, got the cake, and lead everyone in a sing along.
(Perhaps I’ll age into an elder statesman of Grandstanding…)
Birthday Wisdom
Grandpa started it. The family gatherings were always full of big words like “Federal Reserve”, “Veterans Administration”, and “Rhetoric.” My six year old heart sank. Grandpa was going to the bookshelf. (There never were toys there.)
“Well, I do have some Birthday Wisdom. I was just reading….”
I’d trade in more than a few matchbox cars to get to listen to him now. Perhaps I’d fall into the spirit of the room, and start pushing back on the thoughts of Aristotle or Steven Covey. “Only seven habits of highly effective people, Grandpa? I’ve heard that Eisenhower had eight!”
Grandpa’s gone. I miss him. His tradition remains.
I’ve even tormented coworkers with it. “Sheila, you’ve GOT to give us some good words.”
Birthday eve grew dark, and I still hadn’t figured out mine. I’d better get something in order - and make sure it’s not plagiarism this time like 2017.
My mood matched the day - overcast, glum, wishing for a chance of space rocks to hurtle through the colorless sky to end the futility of the…
Wait, where was I?
(In all my thirty seven years, exactly one person has ever said I was “laid back.”)
I hit the gym, literally. “Wham, wham!” when the heavy bag. I held pads up for a boxing friend, calling the shots, moving backwards as the blows landed. “One! One! One two! Uppercut! Hook! Good, good.” A lady poked her head in.
“Hey, help, this guy’s attacking me!” I quipped. He laughed, winded.
The grocery store afterwards was crowded, festive, but I was still glum.
Oh, woe was ungrateful me, full of fabricated cares, everything made in the shade but jumping at shadows. (No cause for alarm, folks - I do this every birthday. Somebody’s gonna get me a drama-queen tiara one year. It would be well-deserved.)
He was pushing a cart, using it as a walker, barely able to stand. The elderly man reminded me of a friend long gone. Joe was trapped by Parkinson’s, too, a cruel prison for a brilliant mind. He couldn’t speak or write clearly by the end, but had sophisticated things to say. His thoughts must have been piled up like crates of apples in a warehouse, withering in obscurity, never shared.
I nodded. “Good evening.” He didn’t - or couldn’t - reply. One foot, then another, moving along now, an empty cart to fill in the bustle of a rapid world.
If the snap diagnosis was correct, he had his work cut out: the hands fumbling with cans, buttons to push, children running…
But…
His shirt was tucked in. The red plaid was neatly met by a brown belt holding up fresh khakis.
I’ve been around a lot of hardship, decline, and death. It usually makes me sad, and cling to my (present) ability to trade jabs with buddies at the gym.
This evening was different. I towered over him, a disheveled, sweaty mess, upright, weak.
He obviously knew he wasn’t well, could barely get through his day, and yet -
He tucked his shirt in.
He had some pride in spite of the hardship. It wasn’t a denial. It was a skillful meeting of it, a “leaving it all on the field.”
Jordan Peterson (subject of last week’s musing) pointed out a brilliant facet of the Crucifixion. Jesus knew exactly what he was getting into, picked up his cross voluntarily, and moved forward. That’s a good way to relate to suffering. In the ultimate case, it transcends it.
How do I do that in modern times? What does that look like in the ordinary week without the sky falling more than it usually does? (Extraordinary times are another can of worms.)
The grocer’s display of apples melds with the customers, presenting a vivid picture of a world that’s difficult, joyous, rich, mundane, and will ultimately outlast us. Sometimes it hits me like a surprise left hook.
At the threshold of a brand new year (that’s never guaranteed, only hoped for), the shuffling gentleman with the cart showed me at better way to move through the world, and how he picks up his cross.
It starts with the tucking of the shirt.
I’m looking forward to this year.
Sacrifice
Now, I must go out in the rain. The railroad crew is replacing ties on the line by the back yard. The main parade rolled through yesterday, but they’ve got the last bit today. What a birthday TREAT for this train nerd! More on the process later - it’s worth describing.
But, for now, as the rain falls, men in soggy clothes are operating heaving equipment with deft skill and mind-numbing repetition. If it weren’t for them, and legions of other invisible rockstars, trains would careen off rails, and we definitely wouldn’t have our beloved coffee.
And as the rain falls, and the men work, and I type, the sacrifice of lives at Pearl Harbor was beginning eighty one years ago.
How quickly I forgot.
“Hard times create strong men. Strong men create good times. Good times create weak men. And, weak men create hard times.” - G Michael Hopf
I’m off to tuck in my shirt. And remember.