In the Mind's Eye

I've been thinking a lot about getting old. I'll be 50 in a few weeks, so it's only right that I start to examine my life a little, where it's going, where it's been. I must say I've never been very good at making big plans for the future, unless it's worrying about it. That I'm good at. No, it's really always been day to day, sometimes week to week, and occasionally month to month. Taking care of the things that come my way. This is not to say I don't have a retirement plan. It just seems to fall into that immediate stuff for me: get a new job, fill out the form for the 401k, done. It's things like "Where do you see yourself in five years? Who would you like to be?" that completely confound me.

I also don't know where to go with the past. I don't long for it, that's for sure, and these days I don't really dwell on it either. Lately, though, I've been getting whiffs of feelings that used to be there. The other night, the wind was soft and balmy. It smelled like spring, even though it's November. Little pictures flashed through my mind: cut-off shorts, grass clippings, riding a bike hands-free down Winona Street. I think I was in love or in love with the promise of love. What's weird about this memory of a feeling is that it's an image in my mind. I can't really reproduce the actual feeling, but I know that it was there because I can see it. It's like some schmaltzy ad for Tampax or Accidental Death and Dismemberment insurance. (I'm free! I'm young! Look, no hands!) I'm not depressed by this, just curious. Long term memories have become pictures, but short term ones still elicit strong emotions. Like seeing my son give his Heroes of the Past presentation at school. He wore a fake mustache and button-down shirt with a make-shift cravat torn from some satin fabric. He was Tesla, talking about the discovery of alternating currents. God, I was so proud!

I wonder how to keep it all alive. You hear stories, like the old woman who has forgotten who she is and doesn't recognize her own kids, but can tell you in vivid detail about putting lipstick on for the first time and walking down the street, only to have her responsible older brother snatch her up and bring her back home. Maybe that's because she's seeing the pictures in her mind. Speaking of which, I don't like taking pictures. Not just because I'm terrible at it, but because when I do, I can't seem to take in the moment that I'm trying to capture. It's like the physical snapping of the picture replaces the memory picture that my brain naturally takes. I do love photographs, though. I just want someone else to take them.  

Where was I? (I believe this may be another sign of aging.) Future, past, present reflections on getting older. I know it's good to be present and focus on the moment, because this is how pictures are formed, but also because this is where the joy is and where the joy will be when you look back. So, where do I want to be in five years? I guess I just want to be right there: listening, seeing, smelling, touching, and tasting with open heart and mind. Taking pictures.

Ruby Remembered

We put Ruby down yesterday. She was 16 years old and failing. I miss her and all the rituals surrounding her life, even the recent ones tailored to the aging dog: carrying her outside to eat, mixing wet food with hard and adding water to soften it, holding her up to drink water. She was old, 112 in people years according to the formula (age of dog x 7). Still it sucks being the “decider”. You just can’t help questioning yourself: Is this the right time? Too early? Too late? Did she suffer more because I couldn’t make a decision? Was there still the life force in her? I think the build-up was worse than the actual event. My sister-in-law, Celeste, is a vet and a very good one at that. She was able to come over and put Ruby to sleep in her own home surrounded by her loving pack. She explained everything that was going to happen clearly and in gentle tones. I think that’s when it really hit home to our nine-year-old son, Harry, that Ruby was going to die. The hardest part was seeing him sitting cross-legged next to Ruby hang his head and start to sob. When the deed was done, it really did look like Ruby just went to sleep—there was no sign of anxiousness or stress. It was, in the end, peaceful.

Afterwards, in the best traditions of funerals and wakes, we ate. Harry suggested we go to “Ruby’s Barbeque” in honor of her namesake, so we did and we stuffed ourselves. Sounds a little maudlin to go to “Ruby’s”, but it’s not unheard of in our culture. We eat and drink the body and blood of Christ at communion and have the lamb of God for Easter. Maybe it’s a way of incorporating the things we love right into the heart and stomach of our very being—abstract to the physical. I don’t know. I’m just rambling here.

Let me tell you about Miss Ruby. She was short-haired pointer who was terrified of gun shots and any loud noises. A very loving dog, she would walk up to anybody and put her head in his hands. She was also a prize goof-ball. I once saw her point in perfect form—one long line from head to tip of tail—at a red bucket. Maybe she thought it was a fat cardinal. She hated the screen door. My husband, Tim, must have replaced it at least thirty times (we kept screen supplies on hand). If we were gone for more than a few hours, we’d come home to find it shredded. Oh Ruby!

She had boundless energy. It was pure joy to take her for a walk or run. Off leash, she’d take off like a deer: Whoosh—gone! She’d run a big loop around you, a couple of extra miles maybe, but would always meet up with you somewhere, usually ahead of you on the trail. Once she broke into Barton Springs coming back from a greenbelt hike. Tim called to her as they were getting closer to the Springs, but she’d found a little hole in the fence and suddenly he heard “SPLASH!”, followed by “Hey, get out of here!” Oh Ruby!

She got into a lot of trouble early on and chewed many window sills and door frames in her prime—Tim’s password used to be “RubyNO!”. There were more than a few folks who said “How do you put up with that?” Well, she was just so damn loveable: the way she would tease and prance and galumph in the yard with a ball when we played fetch, which was a joke because she was the worst fetcher ever, and the floppy dance she did when you pulled out the leash. Her ears were soft and silky, like fine pig-skin. Tim used to say they’d make the perfect coin purse. All in all, she was a good dog. Rest in peace, Rubes! We love you.

Resurrection

It's important to count your blessings, especially when your mind floats like a jellyfish in a dark ocean, thinking unsettling, bobbing, sea monster thoughts. And, of course, that's when it's hardest to be grateful for one single thing, let alone two or more. It is both awful and appealing to cast your lot with the mysterious deep, as if you had any say so in the matter. People say happiness is a choice—I've said it too to my own son—but I don't always believe it. Sometimes, you are simply drawn down—not waving, drowning*—as if searching for something in the blue waters of the unconscious mind. I don't really recommend it, but it happens to me regardless and I'm learning to live with it, if only for the catharsis I experience upon returning to the surface. I'm one of the lucky ones because I return.

Speaking of blessings, I’ve been thinking about my grandmother a lot lately. She had perfect posture, big hair, and always, seriously, a twinkle in her eye. This is no cliché, she really did. And she winked a lot. It was one of those great grandmotherly things. Whenever you did something embarrassing or silly and felt like an outsider, she would give that all-knowing, I’m-with-you wink that made you feel okay again. Mamaw was very pretty too: all cheekbones and blue eyes. I don’t remember a lot of wrinkles. Better to smile than wind up with a bulldog face like some of the women in choir, she’d say. She cleaned obsessively—my grandfather threatened to bury her with a roll of paper towels—and was a terrible cook. The only thing she would make perfectly was Angel fool cake, which came from a box.

As for her sense of humor, there’s a story from the early days of her marriage to my grandfather. He was a left-handed pitcher for the UT baseball team, “Lefty” Robertson, they called him. When they were going to play in New York, she really wanted to go with him, but he wouldn’t have it. It was his chance to be with the guys, they were all going to stay together in a dorm, and nobody was bringing their wives. So she signaled her disappointment in a most original way. In those days, wives would pack their husbands’ bags when they went on a trip and Mamaw was a very good wife as well as a terrific seamstress. Before packing his luggage, she carefully sewed fine frilly lace on the bands of all of his underwear and then placed them with the rest of his gear in the bag. Surprise!

I never saw Mamaw sad, although she must have felt a great deal of grief in her day. My father, her second son, gave her more than her fair share. An alcoholic dreamer, he left a trail of wives and kids for others to care for. I don’t know him enough to cultivate hatred or forgiveness for him. He disappeared from my life when I was a toddler and did the same again and again with other wives and other toddlers. Mamaw and Ondaddy (my granddad) took up the slack. My brother and sister and I spent every Saturday night with them until I was a teenager, when I didn’t want to do that anymore. I don’t have many regrets in my life but I do regret that. I drifted away from them in my young adulthood and never really came back. If I could resurrect you through thoughts, Mamaw, I’d have you here with me now. Sweet dreams, my dear. I miss you.


*This is from a Stevie Smith poem