While it is a generalization to conclude that the behavior of all immigrants followed a pattern of anonymity once they arrived in America, there is considerable evidence to support that claim as it apples to my ancestors, particularly those who came from Sicily. There are a number of possible scenarios which may explain this phenomenon. The essential quality of the peasant farmer’s life in Sicily was geared toward overcoming adversity so that he could eke out a living for his family. Land ownership was a marker which signified one was in a different and better social class. I don’t believe my grandfather enjoyed any such luxury although he and his family owned the house in which they lived when he left Sicily in 1906. Work was often drudgery and difficult to find if it existed at all. Men had to travel out into the country in search of work while their families remained behind and did what they could until the men returned. This migratory practice figured prominently in my grandfather’s life when he left Sicily and came to this country. A letter I found written in Italian from one of his friends while the family was living in Philadelphia indicated that many Italians including my grandfather–and probably his sons when they were old enough–commuted to South Jersey to work as a day laborers and field hands on one of the local farms. The processes involved in this migrant workforce was not unlike that which plays out in immigrant communities today, only the ethnicity of the laborers has changed. Another letter I have describes an incident in which my grandfather had been directed to pay a fee to a certain man, probably the American equivalent of the padrone in Sicily, for the work that he and his sons had been given. As a child, I do not recall my grandfather speaking English so it is all the more plausible that his ability to secure work depended on either employers who spoke Italian–and Sicilian dialects were not familiar to all Italians which made communication among fellow Italians difficult as well–or relied upon the skills of an interlocutor who could speak for him to an employer, for a fee, of course.

Another factor may have figured prominently in the relative secrecy which appears to have shrouded some of the family subsequent to their arrival in this country. I recall anecdotes from different sources that hinted that my grandfather wanted to distance himself from the mafia which was apparently active in his native Sicily particularly in Belmonte Mezzagno–his birthplace–and San Giuseppe Jato–my grandmother’s birthplace. My grandfather was also leery of similar influences lurking in the teeming streets of south Philadelphia during the first quarter of the 20th century. It is an eery coincidence that known mafiosi from Belmonte Mezzagno and San Giuseppe Jato share a few ancestral surnames: Spera, Martorana, for example. I can add two personal accounts from my childhood that contribute to the mafia mistique. Although my father isn’t Italian he seemed to be the designated driver who chauffeured my grandmother and other family members–as children we were brought along despite our protestations to do something more interesting–from South Jersey into south Philadelphia to visit family and relatives ranging from my grandmother’s mother to her brothers and sisters and their children. It happened on one of those trips to visit an aunt who lived in one of the multitude of row houses bunched together like a line of old men while young men gathered in noisy pockets to shoot craps on a nearby street corner. My cousin Tommy–I think everybody was a cousin back then, even if they weren’t–with his slick hair do, black and shiny, sitting regally behind the wheel of his car motions for us to come over and have a look. The interior of that automobile was fine; however, everything about that car would have dissolved with age had my cousin not exposed the contents of the special compartment he had built into the console of his car. As we leaned in through the rolled down windows for a closer look, Tommy opened that compartment with a flourish and revealed a cache of weapons, one of which I believe to this day was a Thompson submachine gun. One Sunday morning as she was reading the Philadelphia Bulletin my mother called out in surprise that one of her uncles was on the cover of the Parade section. When I asked her what she meant she pointed out a man in the photograph standing on a street corner in Philadelphia. The caption read that the photograph was taken as part of an investigation of organized crime activity and the man on the corner was arrested as a numbers runner. A fertile imagination might account for the speculative nature of these incidents had it not been for all the times we’d stop by a bootlegging operation in a large brick factory building in south Philadelphia to buy Dago Red in gallon jugs before we’d slip back to Jersey over the Ben Franklin Bridge were much too gritty only to be the rambling dreams that a tired kid has nestled in the backseat of an old sedan between his grandmom and his siblings.

If a health care bill is signed into law and does not include the popularly dubbed public option, we may well have to edit The New Colossus–huddled masses cower with the tired, poor, the wretched refuse crumbling from foreclosures, the homeless, and the tempest tossed abandoned and alone beside a darkened door.  So soon have bankers, hedge fund managers, the rank and file of financial investment firms returned to their old practices: bonuses as entitlement, excessive profit taking and the resumption of the use of derivatives, which are still unregulated despite the governments best pantomime of posturing to the contrary; the stigma of greed has become once again a badge of honor–at least among certain classes of thieves– while men of power opine and do nothing except hint that somewhere, somehow, they will staunch the flow of executive bonuses.

The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan continue, almost as persistent as the practice of bloodletting, which finally faded from our lexicon of medical treatments after an ignominious run of 2000 years.  Want money for health care?  Withdraw our troops from Iraq and Afghanistan–it is a given that we should not send more.  We have a splendid history of supporting corrupt governments: Saddam Hussein, Musharif, Karzai, Reza Pahlavi, Fugencio Batista.  How can we ever doubt our leaders’ perspicacity to evaluate the motives of foreign governments when there are such fine skills exemplified by our own beloved W looked into Putin’s soul and thought he saw the heart of the man but unfortunately we learned later that it was only a reflection of Dick Cheney.  Sadly, the rubric now being bandied about is that any decisions regarding Afghanistan will be determined, at least in part, by the outcome of the run-off vote following an egregiously corrupt election orchestrated by the even more egregiously corrupt Karzai family and its hegemony of cohorts.  Every drop of blood is precious regardless of national origin; however, our actions suggest that we are willing to sacrifice our way of life and values to maintain the façade of a democratically elected government in Afghanistan.

Following our government’s policy in Afghanistan, it should come as no surprise that the same indifference is manifested in the area of healthcare and education.  Certain members of Congress pontificate about the pitfalls of the government’s involvement in the administration of healthcare insurance yet none decline the healthcare our tax dollars purchase for them–As far as I am aware no one has volunteered to pay for their own insurance–it comes with the work, if you are lucky enough to get it!  There is no ignominy in broadcasting misleading advertisements sponsored by private insurance companies or the conspicuous and unrelenting pressure powerful lobbyists exert upon every elected official at every level of government.

Less becomes the new more, especially in education.  Titillation has supplanted effort reducing learning to a state of tingling and jangling nerves.  Everyone succeeds, in his own mind; however, all too frequently, failure is a matter of national tragedy.  The success of Plato’s Republic was based upon a noble lie about our fundamental nature, the categories into which each of us are bound.  Whether we repair our aging Republic or build a new one, perhaps we will reveal our true selves by our penchant for or our aversion to deception regardless of its lineage.

A couple of years ago or so I had an issue regarding a section of vinyl siding.  I contacted the company to have someone come out, inspect the situation, and repair or recommend what needed to be done–all of the materials were warranted for life.  Perhaps it was an oversight or maybe scheduling was really a problem, but I got no response until I wrote a letter to the owner, who, by the way never responded although a “supervisor” eventually appeared and grudgingly made some adjustments to the siding.  While he was on site he regaled me with anecdotes of the incompetence of the installers who worked for the company years ago, when the work was done on my house.  Unfortunately, there was some truth in his tale as I was informed later by an official from Duke Power of a code violation because there was vinyl siding covering the electrical service where it attaches to the house and connects to the meter.

A little more than two months ago, while my wife and I were cleaning the windows, we noticed a problem with one of the windows.  The problem is that the part of the window where the sash attaches to it has come detached from the window and remains at the bottom of the track when the window is raised.  So I called Pike’s and described the situation with the window.  I was greeted with what appeared to me was the usual truculent, defensive maneuver that so many companies resort to instead of simply ascertaining what the problem is and how it can be resolved.  After a considerable amount of time explaining, then establishing that I was a customer, etc., I was transferred to a another person in the company.  I repeated what I had told to the first person–I confess that my explanation may not have captured the problem as clearly as either I or the company representative would have liked–and suggested that it would be best if someone came out and inspected the window.  A date was set, an estimator arrived as scheduled, looked at the window, declared it a manufacturing defect, stated that his company no longer had that window, etc.  Defense again.  I produced my invoice from the installation and the records associated with it, which he reviewed.  I told him I wanted the window repaired or replaced.  Interestingly, when the estimator first looked at the windows he remarked that they were in really good shape!  I thought it odd that he would expect them to be in any other condition.  I’m not in the habit of destroying that which I have worked hard to afford!  At any rate, he told me that he would research the manufacturer of the windows and contact me in about two weeks.

Two weeks became two months.  I called Pike’s to find out the status regarding the problem with my window.  Once again I had to jump through hoops until I became just a bit warm under the collar and probably upped the decibel level of my voice whereupon I was handed off to another person who was considerably more adroit at recognizing there was such a thing as a customer and customers pay the bills.  Apologies all around and excepted.  I get transferred to the guy who came out to inspect my window; he tells me as others have told me that there was a miscommunication–of course there is always a miscommunication, remember Cool Hand Luke: When Strother Martin defines life’s biggest problem for Paul Newman!  What we have here is a failure to communicate! He says he will call me once he verifies the manufacturer of the windows, etc.  I’m told the company that manufactured my windows was sold about two years ago to another company.  Fine, just gather all the pertinent information and get back to me. I give him my cell number in addition to the land line so that he can call me at any time.  I get a call on my cell a day or two later while I am in the middle of something and can’t really talk but suggest that he either call me later or email me the information and I verify that he has my correct email address before I hang up.

A few days later I call the telephone number provided in the email I’ve received.  Ah, the wonders of technology!  Nowadays, all companies virtually guarantee that no customer will ever talk to a sentient being.  After navigating a maze of pre-programmed telephone options, none of which was categorized appropriately for my particular problem, I simply choose one, and then another, until I manage to find a living being to talk to.  All’s well that ends well, but the Bard be forgiven, that cliché is not applicable to my situation although one has to admire the novelty of customer relations:  I was told to Google the series number on the gold label on one of the bottom rails (maybe on the upper half or the bottom half) of my window and that would tell me who manufactured my windows because she was absolutely certain that her company was not the manufacturer.  I felt a sinking feeling come over me like an overweight mastodon strolling through the La Brea tar pits.  Google, despite many who believe that it is the font of all truth, the be-all and end-all of all that is, isn’t, but, I do the search anyway.  No manufacturer, not even close–maybe I should have given Bing a try.  Maybe next time.

So I call Pike’s once again.  I am regaled with menu of automated messages.  There is no live person available despite being informed by one of those messages that the hours during which the business operates coincides precisely with the time my call has been placed.  I leave a voice message.  I send an email.  Now another week has passed.  I suppose that my next step is writing to David Pike once again; however, my last experience seemed less than fruitful, in fact, he seemed to ignore it.  It appears that my only value to Pike’s occurred years ago when I wrote them a check and paid them in full.  Apparently the company was not seeking to build a viable, long-term, community-based, business relationship.  Owning a house is not a static proposition; maintenance and upkeep are constants; roofs need replacing.  Why would any company spurn or discourage paying customers?  Is it arrogance or incompetence?  Even when the economy is blushing with work and ripe with funds ready to be invested in divers of projects, the best businesses–large, small, local, international–will attend to customers rather than disregard them.

One should always carefully scrutinize any business before one enters into a relationship with that business and it is no less axiomatic because that company happens to be locally owned.  We thought we had taken the right step when we decided to support a local business but apparently we were mistaken.  Lifetime warranty is a euphemism if the company which stands behind it is a façade.  I’m not implying that all local businesses are taboo.  As a matter of fact, I think very highly of Talley Water Treatment Company which continues to provide the kind of service and quality that was pivotal in my decision to retain them.  I suffer no delusions that my venting in this blog will repair or replace the defective window; the three people who read this blog probably don’t intend to replace their windows or cover their houses with vinyl siding, but, I hope they’d contact me first if they were considering Pike’s for the job.  The only thing I can say for sure is that I paid for the window once; and, it looks as if I’ll have to pay for it again, only this time it certainly won’t be Pike!

At the Oreck store we tried out the full line of vacuums as well as inquiring about the half-priced model listed in the advertisement.  As I expected, the vacuum on sale didn’t measure up to the various models I tested but that was due more to my specific requirements than the performance of the vacuum itself.  In the end I opted for the Oreck XL Platinum Plus which comes with a 15 year warranty that includes yearly maintenance on the vacuum and its parts as well as a canister vacuum–I chose the mid-line canister model for its combination of features and portability.  The initial outlay for the Oreck  that I chose was substantially more than I had considered spending for a vacuum; however, the life expectancy of the appliance and service contract added sufficient value to the primary feature of the product (its excellent performance as a vacuum) that it offset the cost.  Besides, there was a thirty day trial period which included a money back guarantee.

I did hold onto the old Panasonic while I put the XL through its paces and for one scary day I was beginning to think I would have to revert to my aging dust creator again.  The week we bought the Oreck an emergency arose and we had to make a quick trip north to see family so I didn’t have the opportunity to test our new vacuum thoroughly until we returned.  Shortly after I commenced vacuuming in earnest, an ear-piercing squeal  developed.  The sound only occurred during the backstroke, when one was pulling the machine back toward oneself; however, the effect of the squeal was almost nauseating.  It is probably an understatement to suggest that there are occasions when I tend to be more reactive than on other occasions.  I can tell you that each time that Oreck squealed at me it sounded as if dollar bills were being shredded in a modified trade of cash for toxic assets deal.  So I called the Oreck Store immediately.  When I finished my description of the problem, I was told that a shipment of vacs had come into the shop that had not been properly lubricated at the factory.  Apparently other customers had reported similar experiences as the Oreck representative was familiar with the problem.  I was told to bring the vacuum by the shop and it would be fixed/adjusted while I waited.  The vac was adjusted in a matter of minutes and we were on our way.

I don’t often go for the warranty gambit offered with most products these days as they do not appear to add enough value to the product for the cost.  I’ve read that engineering has become so refined that manufacturers can produce products with specific failure rates built in which are accurate to within a week of the projected point of failure, which, can conceivably allow the fees from warranty contracts to be applied directly to the bottom line.  Costs for certain replacement parts exceed the purchase price of a new item, e.g. one can buy a newer model laser printer for less than or equal to the cost of the old printer’s toner cartridge.  So why bother with a vacuum from a company that includes service as an integral part of its business model?  For starters, there is something appealing about resisting the waste produced by the throw-away attitude which is so prevalent today.  Caring for whatever one used–without consideration of ownership or value–had been an implicit code of conduct in general society; it certainly was drummed into me as a kid.  Of course, the notion of caring may have had its roots in everyday living where a certain frugality was necessitated by the limitations of one’s resources.  Until the recent global economic collapse consumption and not conservation was the dominant mindset of the average individual.  We became short-sighted in our estimation of value, misled by a faulty system of cost analysis where the constant churning of production was an insatiable maw that cannibalized itself.  Complicit with the unending cycle of producing was the concomitant drive for entrepreneurs, large and small, to create need where before only want stood day-dreaming about the imaginary world it was constructing.  I’m not implying that all novelty is a matter of ulterior motivation or that creativity is merely a process of deception; however, while both statements contain the seeds of truth, it is the growth and the yield which are often the source of ambiguity.

Of course, I am extremely pleased with the Oreck; it has performed as advertised.  I may not feel the same way in 2019 or 2024, two-thirds of the way into the service contract and at its end, respectively, which, returns us once again to the topics of obsolescence and longevity.  If the present climate has taught us anything it is that businesses, even those considered too big to fail, can in fact fail; and that obligations, promises, and contracts are as transitory as the organizations that offered, issued, or underwrote them.  Oreck, as a company, may not survive the bargain it has struck with me as a customer.  Fifteen years can be an eternity these days, besides, in a year or two some better product may (will) come along that will offer more for the same cost or less, or be more green, as we are inclined to say to show off our global view and environmental awareness.  It is both confusing and perplexing; it is even seductive, this surplice of green cloth which at once protects us and our environment and blinds us from our own self-centered ratiocination.  Perhaps the solution depends upon not what we have but how we have it; not what we do but how we do it.

Theory

I am what is around me.

Women understand this.
One is not duchess
A hundred yards from a carriage.
These, then are portraits:
A black vestibule;
A high bed sheltered by curtains.

These are merely instances.

—Wallace Stevens

The hurt of reality can become a constant agony if we are unable to accept the endless flow of life and not rejoice in its variety and celebrate its creative advance into the unknown.  My mother was alive to me in the reality with which I had wrapped myself; that world burst as the family entered the funeral parlor.  I had dreaded this moment; the penultimate things that we humans feel the need to say to each other were already said and understood by both of us–I had always loved her and she had always loved me; there was something so elemental in our relationship that more addenda was simply superfluous.  So I did not want to evaluate the beautician’s or the mortician’s skill; I did not want to view a hollow shell that bore no resemblance to the living whirl-a-gig that was my mother.  The first half-hour in the funeral home was torment for me; as I entered I was unable to breathe, my breath felt as if it had been sucked out of me, and I was overcome with emotion.  I hurt all over, every part of me wept and would not be consoled.  When I thought I would never recover, I did, in time to stand and speak about my mother, to color our memory of her with authenticity bereft of cliches that so often are uttered in eulogies and have no connection to the life being celebrated.

This has been a season of mileposts for me.  I became a grandfather on our nation’s birthday and subsequently, in a little over a month’s time, my mother died and I turned sixty-four–today, in fact.  We often are seduced by the notion of infinity–a delicious prospect on many levels and just as daunting and dismaying on others–but we fail to comprehend the freedom and limitations of finitude.  Probability ascribes to me a remaining longevity that can be reasonably calculated by the addition of all of my digits(fingers, toes and thumbs) with the caveat that scientific discoveries may require something more extensive than digital enumeration: this little piggy went to market…might embark on a journey slightly longer than we anticipated.  When I extend my hand, in truth, there are times I see the wrinkled, spotted hands of an old man, but more often I am reminded of persistence even in the midst of the ephemeral nature which is our life long habitat.  There are so many tasks left undone; many are daunting, but they are all the obligation of the living.  We’ve endured so much how can we not be intrepid as we shape the future?

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it

– Omar Khayyam

As the specter of drought inches closer, it is difficult not to cast about and recognize similar periods of inactivity or diminished productivity in other areas.  For nearly the last year I have been disengaged from genealogy research which I had pursued with such single-minded zeal that I became the bane of relatives who tired of my litany of questions and who cringed at the thought that my next breath was merely a brief interlude in preparation for another extended family anecdote.  Although the intensity of my genealogical research had ebbed from its former state, I continued to follow the activity on the various forums I had joined and posted whenever I could contribute meaningfully in the on-going discussions.

One forum that I found quite enjoyable was associated with the genealogy software I purchased to maintain the data that I collected as a result of my research.  In fact, I bought the software for a variety of reasons: quality, price, and, perhaps more importantly, the developer of the software was a man with a vision, had extensive experience in genealogy, displayed a passion for the subject of his software, and had the vitality to enter into a vigorous discussion with any and all of his clients.

Sadly, Keith Wilson died in November of 2008.  The software that he created is a notable memorial to his talent and passion for genealogy; however, the vision that he embraced and expressed in the software he wrote is now languishing, inching nearer to a similar fate–nearly nine months have transpired since the most recent version was released.  While the loss of any individual is an incomparable tragedy, watching the monument carved from Keith’s fertile imagination slowly deteriorate from inattention is still painful.

My first tryst with the bargain books at the dollar store was a novel co-authored by Gene Hackman and Daniel Lenihan, who just happened to be a classmate of mine at Guilford College.  Curiosity prompted my first daring dollar purchase; however, the novel, Justice For None, proved to be very entertaining and well written so I resolved to frequent the dollar store and its small inventory of discounted books.
A few weeks ago I added three more dollar hardbacks–all novels–to my summer reading regime:  The Last Witchfinder by James Morrow; The Secret Supper by Javier Sierra; The Interpretation Of Murder by Jed Rubenfeld.  The novel I am currently reading, The Last Witchfinder, is a worthy followup to Hackman and Lenihan’s work and with the addition of its quirky approach–the book itself is the primary creative initiator and dictates itself to the author it chooses–appeals to the natural philosopher in me.  Check out your local dollar store where you may find bargains that don’t involve wrapping paper and off-brand batteries.

The stage design at Triad Stage has been unflaggingly impeccable and Tartuffe was no exception.  The entire cast is to be commended for its fine performance; it was a treat to attend a performance which included a number of different roles instead of the sparse characterizations that  recent economic conditions dictated.  The integration of so many roles was effortless although I must say that Rosie McGuire as Dorine stole the show in all the best ways one might construe such a theft without robbing fellow actors of their own considerable emoluments.

Tartuffe would have been good enough to persuade me to purchase season tickets for next year’s performances if I hadn’t already done so.

Since the instructions included a website where the process of verifying that one had an appliance that needed to be repaired per the recall notice as well as actually scheduling the repair itself, I opted to handle the process  online.  After three or four attempts, all of which ultimately ended apoplectically with an error message apologizing that the site was unable to complete the transaction for some arcane reason and suggested that I try again later.  I did, several times, all with the same, frustrating result.  The next morning I decided to try the online option one final time. The result was disappointing, although it appeared that the designer of the web interface had managed to achieve consistency.  Calling the toll free number noted in the letter seemed to be the better option at this point and well it should be as it was the only one remaining.  I had to jump through the same hoops covered in the online application in addition to the inevitable redundancies and non sequiturs that are invariably an unavoidable aspect of customer service; nevertheless, I was able to complete the transaction and was given a confirmation number for the scheduled repair.

The day before the serviceman was scheduled to do the repair on my refrigerator, I received a call from the service company that I selected to do the work.  While attempting to use the online option to schedule the repair to my refrigerator, I learned that there were two different companies authorized to do the repair from which one could choose.  Before I made my choice I spent several hours researching the two companies and reading pages of customer feedback regarding each company.  One company received such terrible reviews by so many people that I figured it was simply foolhardy not to select the other service company, Convenient Appliance Service, Inc.

I had scheduled the repair to be done in the morning–the window I was told in which I could expect the serviceman to arrive was between 8:00 AM and 12:00 PM.  Promptly at 8:00 AM the serviceman called to tell me he would arrive in 20 minutes, although I believe he pulled onto my driveway in under 15 minutes.  At least we were off to a good start, and thankfully, the experience did not degrade from that initial impression.  The young man was quick and courteous.  He explained what the problem was and what he was going to do to correct it.  Most of the time getting information in these situations is like pulling hen’s teeth.  Odds were pretty good that I was his first appointment, however, I don’t believe that his dress or demeanor would have been any less impressive had I been the last customer of the day.  What I can say is that I would have no qualms about ringing up Convenient Appliance Service, Inc. if my washer or any other appliance went on the fritz and I wouldn’t hesitate to recommend the company to any of my friends or acquaintances.  All in all I’d sum up my experience with a single word I’d heard coeds use when I was in college: Circe.  As I recall, Circe, used in this context, was a small, unexpected gift not the sorceress who turned men into pigs.

Any friend whose age is more than three score years and who has been out of touch for more than two score years has a way of capturing life’s evanescent characteristics in chillingly Lincolnesque terminology; it is even more sobering to realize that one has actually lived long enough to make it possible to have college classmates who could reappear after an absence of four decades, especially when one acknowledges that implicit in that realization is an unpleasant, if not grisly, observation that one has even fewer years remaining in one’s own life.  One is tempted to make the claim that youth measures time in units of infinity–a minute can explode into an eternity– and that prudence is the helpmeet of maturity; however, it is more likely that the young are arbitrary in the selection of whatever standard they apply; that life is both carousel and kaleidoscope, static and changing, rising from one turn and dissolving into another.  One generation becomes its own antecedent when age transforms its dreams into memories.

It is incorrect to assume that whenever we pause–to watch the wheels go round and round–that we have become immobile or even detrimentally idle when, in fact, our detachment has permitted us to regain a fresher perspective, equipped and enabled us to venture into the treacherous domain beneath the surface of the shell we call the self.  Of course the aim and hope, should we survive this episodic psychic spelunking, is that we will discover a world revived with its own light, a light to which we were once blind, and which retains an arcane potency to illuminate both literally and figuratively.  The eye is a gatekeeper of knowledge; the world we peruse is our lexicon, the cipher that corresponds to the landscape of the soul.

Ralph Waldo Emerson’s first wife died only two years after they were married; a little more than a year subsequent to her burial Emerson opened her coffin.  His reaction to death paralleled the Apostle Thomas‘ response reported in the Gospel of John to the resurrected Jesus; Emerson’s drive toward self-reliance was irrepressible and he had to see through his own eyes the remnants of death’s efficacy, the nail points of finality, the ineffable remains of love lost.  Whatever else he gleaned from his macabre gesture–doubt or proof–death was irrevocable; and, while he would afterward remarry and raise a family, Emerson’s love for his first wife, Ellen, remained intact; his life, however, the source of his vitality, would always be centered in the present.

While my given name is an eponym for doubt–paradoxically, it may also be considered an eponym for a type of belief–my own curiosity or need to know stops short of plunging into a loved one’s coffin to satisfy scientific inquiry.  On the other hand Emerson’s action is understandable.  Most of us do not awaken daily entertaining the possibilities that may await us.  Few of us confront the most sobering and irreversible of fates; and, fewer still are capable of the skill and grace of articulating our encounter as Keats demonstrated in his sonnet, When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be.  The boundary that death inscribes around one’s life seems implausible at first.  Whatever unit with which one reckons time, it does not prepare one for the sheer otherness of death and its satellites.  Who or what once was is no more.  A sentence trailing off as interest or expression loses its focus is hardly an instructive paradigm to prepare one for the loss of a loved one.   Experience prepares one for the enterprise of collecting the abstractions, the words cut loose from life, the rigid surrogates that attempt to imitate vitality, but its hospitality is a vain comfort for the bereaved, failing both love and reason.

It should not come as a surprise that one may tend to be more introspective whenever one encounters death–especially when the local newspaper seems to contain an inordinate number of obituaries of people who are one’s age or younger–or when one is confronted with injury or issues related to health, specifically those which have the chilling characteristics of being sudden, progressive, and without apparent origin.  Contemplating any person’s illness is daunting enough; however, when it involves one’s self, the mind can become overwhelmed by a legion of opinion and fear.  Most of us tend to brace ourselves with scenarios in which we are alternately healed or abandoned although neither may prove very likely once we commit our care to qualified professionals.

The mind needs the torque provided by some encounter with the natural world to keep it agile, vigorous and engaged–this is applicable, as well, to the constructs which derive from the mind’s activity such as the manifold forms of society, religions, governments, and the rich variety of cultures; however, death and illness are just two of the many powerful stimuli–the yeast to which Emerson referred–capable of attracting a process of the mind to its corresponding and edifying analog in nature.  The concern about my knee or the knowledge of my friend’s similar predicament, taken individually, is an insignificant event which bobs briefly before it sinks beneath the sea of consciousness; but, it is precisely this kind of abstraction and dismissive generality that severs the bond of intimacy that connects all that is.

I am unnerved from time to time when it occurs to me that, barring miraculous scientific discoveries in gerontology and depending on which life expectancy charts I adopt, I have consumed approximately 75% of that luscious apple pie my mother baked for me at my birth.  Although in one respect what remains of my life is a matter of simple addition or subtraction depending on one’s point of view–and truthfully that has always been the case regardless of one’s starting point on one’s continuum of aging–there remains a lifetime to complete.  While a sense of urgency has merit, becoming frenzied or harried as one re-calibrates the balance beam is inefficient and downright counterproductive.  The sun has risen far too high for me to be rescued by Herrick’s cavalier admonition To The Virgins, To Make Much Of Time, although living every moment to its fullest is certainly applicable at any time of life.  Of course for Emerson the living present was the source of our sustenance; the living now, the creative process was rooted in self-knowledge and grounds for discovery.

Whether it was just my anxiety over a bum knee or commiserating with the plight of an old friend, it seems fittingly appropriate that now I’m just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round, after all, Ezekiel said: the spirit of the living creatures was in the wheels.