Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Monday, June 18, 2012
The Importance of Old Men
Today is Father's Day.
Shy as a young child, I remember hiding behind a chair of a Great Uncle and observing diamond patterned creases on the back of his neck. I didn't know the Great Uncle. I think he was home for the funeral of my grandmother who passed in an auto accident. He would be, as years passed, the image I conjured up of an old man, although, in truth, at that time he was probably shy of sixty years. I don't really remember many old men in my life. My maternal grandfather, in his 70's, lived with us for a spell before going to live with my aunt, where he spent the rest of his life. He was a quiet man who had lived a long, hard life. Shot a man in self-defense on a train in his youth, he once told me. My step-father's dad had a presence in my life. An affable, short, mustached fellow who usually had a stash of chew in his cheek and walked around looking for his glasses which were perched atop his balding head, beloved by the community, dropped dead of a heart attack while at the post office. He was in his fifties.
I never had a good relationship with my step-father, who was, pretty much, as good as gone to me when I left home at 17. His passing many years later basically had no affect on my life. My children's father slipped the bonds of this earth unexpectedly in a tragic accident some thirty years ago. I never remarried. Every Father's Day I seem to have a keen awareness of the absence of 'family men.' On some level, I think I've missed my Father since my parents divorced when I was three years old, nearly all the days of my life. I have no conscious memory of him. But, one day when my daughter was about a year old...when her dad was lying on the floor holding her above him, both of them laughing, I was suddenly overcome with wretched sobbing. Somewhere from deep within, cellular memories of my father surfaced in emotional waves and the profound grief of that relationship being ripped from my life welled up and out of me, momentarily spilling so unexpectedly like an ocean of despair into my exceptionally happy "real time" life.
I watched a program on HBO today about President George H.W. Bush and found it poignant. While I had serious political disagreements with his policies, I find him generally appealing on a personal level. My heart felt tender to see him less agile, a bit frail and a bit physically dependent. Yet, his mind and his spirit seem keen. I looked at my Olde Dawg lying on his cushions. His mobility has become so compromised. He still demands to go on walks, difficult as it is for him most days. His back end lags, swaying with each step. Sometimes, it drops to the ground. I bend over, wrap my arms around his hips and gently assist him back up onto his feet, and he continues. Occasionally, he will trip over his front feet; slamming his jaw to the ground. We have two steps to maneuver entering our front door which can be two steps too many some days. Taking care of business requires a certain posture which can now be challenging for him, so it has happened, while lapping from his favorite public watering holes, he takes care of business at the same time. It's awkward, most inopportune, and can be embarrassing; I think for him, as well as for me. While I make no fuss at the time of such occurrences, it rips at my heart to see him like this: such a noble canine who has been the epitome of a magnificent Akita all his years. I have walked him three times daily nearly all his life and dare say nary a single walk without people expressing great appreciation and admiration of this noble beast. There is such beauty in his dignity and his slow, stiff movements which were once the well-oiled grace and poise of the most gifted ballet dancer. His determination to yet make it up the steps by himself--to go for walk--grips my profound respect. Someone in the neighborhood once commented to me, when Ace was stumbling, "You walk that dog too much!" He didn't understand, I know, that it's Ace who "walks me." If Ace were to quit walking, he'd quit altogether. I, too, am no spring chicken anymore. I am not as agile and physically able as once I was. I am learning from Ace how to maneuver the process.
Today, I realized Ace is the Old Man in my life. He has given me new vision. Because of him, I now "see" old men, some staving off the inevitable, daily runners, and others no longer so agile. I see beauty and grace in their slowed movements, readers atop their heads and gnarled fingers holding hands with a grandchild as they walk slowly along, each mesmerized by the magic of life. There is a poetry in the stiff movements and quick grimaces of old men, eased by gentle smiles and (still) can-do attitudes. One can't help feeling deep respect for those old men, rich in wisdom, who clearly smile with Old Knowledge, withholding advise unless asked. Perhaps, most people have grown up with this appreciation of the Male Elders of our families/society. My deep love for Ace, who has grown old, has offered me access to emotions about the men of our lives. Necessarily, I have gotten on in life without much musing about absent men. But, Ace, aging Ace, has given me pause and new reflection. Because of him, I shall not pass without tapping into my own deep appreciation of the importance of old men .. of the fathers and grandfathers...in our lives: the importance of their presence, and the impact of their absence.
Happy Father's Day.
(Ok, Ace. I'm ready for that walk. Let's go...)
Shy as a young child, I remember hiding behind a chair of a Great Uncle and observing diamond patterned creases on the back of his neck. I didn't know the Great Uncle. I think he was home for the funeral of my grandmother who passed in an auto accident. He would be, as years passed, the image I conjured up of an old man, although, in truth, at that time he was probably shy of sixty years. I don't really remember many old men in my life. My maternal grandfather, in his 70's, lived with us for a spell before going to live with my aunt, where he spent the rest of his life. He was a quiet man who had lived a long, hard life. Shot a man in self-defense on a train in his youth, he once told me. My step-father's dad had a presence in my life. An affable, short, mustached fellow who usually had a stash of chew in his cheek and walked around looking for his glasses which were perched atop his balding head, beloved by the community, dropped dead of a heart attack while at the post office. He was in his fifties.
I never had a good relationship with my step-father, who was, pretty much, as good as gone to me when I left home at 17. His passing many years later basically had no affect on my life. My children's father slipped the bonds of this earth unexpectedly in a tragic accident some thirty years ago. I never remarried. Every Father's Day I seem to have a keen awareness of the absence of 'family men.' On some level, I think I've missed my Father since my parents divorced when I was three years old, nearly all the days of my life. I have no conscious memory of him. But, one day when my daughter was about a year old...when her dad was lying on the floor holding her above him, both of them laughing, I was suddenly overcome with wretched sobbing. Somewhere from deep within, cellular memories of my father surfaced in emotional waves and the profound grief of that relationship being ripped from my life welled up and out of me, momentarily spilling so unexpectedly like an ocean of despair into my exceptionally happy "real time" life.
I watched a program on HBO today about President George H.W. Bush and found it poignant. While I had serious political disagreements with his policies, I find him generally appealing on a personal level. My heart felt tender to see him less agile, a bit frail and a bit physically dependent. Yet, his mind and his spirit seem keen. I looked at my Olde Dawg lying on his cushions. His mobility has become so compromised. He still demands to go on walks, difficult as it is for him most days. His back end lags, swaying with each step. Sometimes, it drops to the ground. I bend over, wrap my arms around his hips and gently assist him back up onto his feet, and he continues. Occasionally, he will trip over his front feet; slamming his jaw to the ground. We have two steps to maneuver entering our front door which can be two steps too many some days. Taking care of business requires a certain posture which can now be challenging for him, so it has happened, while lapping from his favorite public watering holes, he takes care of business at the same time. It's awkward, most inopportune, and can be embarrassing; I think for him, as well as for me. While I make no fuss at the time of such occurrences, it rips at my heart to see him like this: such a noble canine who has been the epitome of a magnificent Akita all his years. I have walked him three times daily nearly all his life and dare say nary a single walk without people expressing great appreciation and admiration of this noble beast. There is such beauty in his dignity and his slow, stiff movements which were once the well-oiled grace and poise of the most gifted ballet dancer. His determination to yet make it up the steps by himself--to go for walk--grips my profound respect. Someone in the neighborhood once commented to me, when Ace was stumbling, "You walk that dog too much!" He didn't understand, I know, that it's Ace who "walks me." If Ace were to quit walking, he'd quit altogether. I, too, am no spring chicken anymore. I am not as agile and physically able as once I was. I am learning from Ace how to maneuver the process.
Today, I realized Ace is the Old Man in my life. He has given me new vision. Because of him, I now "see" old men, some staving off the inevitable, daily runners, and others no longer so agile. I see beauty and grace in their slowed movements, readers atop their heads and gnarled fingers holding hands with a grandchild as they walk slowly along, each mesmerized by the magic of life. There is a poetry in the stiff movements and quick grimaces of old men, eased by gentle smiles and (still) can-do attitudes. One can't help feeling deep respect for those old men, rich in wisdom, who clearly smile with Old Knowledge, withholding advise unless asked. Perhaps, most people have grown up with this appreciation of the Male Elders of our families/society. My deep love for Ace, who has grown old, has offered me access to emotions about the men of our lives. Necessarily, I have gotten on in life without much musing about absent men. But, Ace, aging Ace, has given me pause and new reflection. Because of him, I shall not pass without tapping into my own deep appreciation of the importance of old men .. of the fathers and grandfathers...in our lives: the importance of their presence, and the impact of their absence.
Happy Father's Day.
(Ok, Ace. I'm ready for that walk. Let's go...)
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