jahan
07-04-2007, 12:08 AM
FORTY-SEVEN
It’s my birthday. The day starts typically enough, with an increasing reluctance to leave the bed. Finally achieving this, everything else seems different. I spend a long time looking into the mirror, at an image I barely recognize. Who is this person staring back at me? It’s almost as if I’m presented this costume and forced to wear it or be stripped to the bone. This is my costume. This is the way I’m going to dress up for the rest of the year. I won’t appreciate it now. It may take several years, but one day I’ll miss this look. I’ll become nostalgic, as I’m looking at a photograph of forty-seven year old me, many years from now. Someone peering over my shoulder will remark at how young I looked back then. I’ll wonder what happened to that person in the photo, and where he could have gone so quickly.
I’m spending my birthday week doing the ritual inventory of body parts that don’t look as good, feel as good or work as good as they used to. I’ll compare it with the inventory from last year. The data will be accumulated, collated and analyzed. I know the results, already. The facts are undeniable. I am on a steady march towards death. Yes, folks, this is my way of celebrating. Crazily enough, every year I wonder why the people close to me have never surprised me with a party. My guess is they fear I’ll spike the punch with hemlock. Hearing me go on about this process of aging, they all might drink willingly.
I am amazed to see what I’ve become. I’m not totally disappointed. I’m told that I look much younger than my forty-seven years by most every one who knows my true age. I had only one friend who ever told me I “look exactly” my age. This was at the end of an already horrendous weekend with her that left our friendship gasping for air. It remains on life support and will probably never recover. Still, after all of the things that I hold quiet resentment for, that’s the only comment I can put direct quotes around. Possibly, it’s the sting of a truth that one never needs to hear. On my forty-seventh birthday I wonder if she was not correct.
The rational part of me sees aging as a fact of life. My livelihood reinforces this fact almost daily. I now make a living in the medical world and my work instills in me a tremendous respect for the elderly patients I see every day. I can look past the wrinkles, and the ailments they present, the slow and deliberate movements they make, born of the uncertainty of this limb or that joint. I’ve come to love them just for surviving. Perhaps one day, I’ll appreciate the fact that I was able to live a long time, as well. For now, however, aging is sort of like looking at a fire. From a safe distance you can appreciate its color and beauty, but you’d rather not immerse yourself in it.
__________________________________________________ _________
It's an extremely blustery and icy winter’s day. I notice an elderly female patient trying to walk out to her car in a slide-step gait across the icy pavement, and it looks as if the wind might carry her off like a dried leaf. I quickly go outside with a courtesy wheelchair provided by the medical building in which I work.
“Say, would you like a lift? I’m going your way.” She seems surprised, but graciously accepts.
“That’s so sweet of you! Thank you so much!” she says, as she settles in for the ride.
“Oh, it’s not sweet of me. I pick up more women this way.”
I couldn’t see her face as I pushed her along, but her body language indicated she was not so infirmed that she couldn’t appreciate a good flirt when she heard one. She chuckled, “Oh, you don’t want an old bag like me!”
This created a stalemate. I couldn’t really protest that statement too much, and the conversation hung awkwardly, before I managed a weak reply, “Well, you never know.”
I finished the journey to the safety and warmth of the medical building. I was just about to wish her a good day when she beckoned me to come closer. Her face was so full of mischief I thought she might “goose” me as soon as I came within reach. I leaned to her.
She semi-whispered, “On second thought, maybe you do want an old lady like me. They think every time is going to be their last!”
The sparkle in her eyes stripped away her accumulated years like old varnish. For that glowing moment, she was young, sassy and beautiful and I was one of the boys she must have driven wild in her day. Today, on my forty-seventh birthday, I am one step closer to being courting material for her. If she could stop the aging process and allow me to catch up, I wonder if she’d have me.
__________________________________________________ ___________________
The self-examination process doesn’t stop with the list of wrinkles and minor aches of aging. It goes much deeper. The fact may be unavoidable that I’ve clung desperately to immaturity for far too long. At this stage of my life, I should be planning retirement, and I’m just now starting a real career. Six years ago, I had no idea the career of “orthotist” even existed. I knew people wore braces, but had no idea how this came about. It’s not that I assumed they came standard issue with whatever physical malady might befall a body. It was more that I just never considered it at all.
In my youth, I’d have bet on desire to be all one needed to achieve. The truth is now abundantly clear that desire still begs a dollar and fifty-nine cents at Starbuck’s, to buy a cup of coffee with. A good credit rating is built on discipline and I had none in my bank account. I had aspirations of making my fortune as a jazz bassist. I picked up the bass via guitar when I was sixteen years old. I was dedicated to the instrument, and worked a whole summer to purchase my first upright bass. I brought it home to my parents as a surprise. It was a great big bass, constructed of a blonde veneer wood, not the usual rose or cherry color that you’d see in orchestra instruments. My mother in her way of finding placement for anything unexpected named the instrument “Moby Dick”. By the time I was nineteen I was on my way to Berklee College of Music. This achievement was not as spectacular as it sounds. The truth is that tuition and two letters of reference was all that was needed to gain admittance. I’m not sure they even read the letters, beyond verifying that a parole officer penned neither of the endorsements.
I remember, in my resolve to go with this direction, my father asking repeatedly, “What do you want to do with it?”
He treated my career choice as if it were a doomed pet, one that lay in festering agony, stinking up the living room. If my dream were “Ol’ Yeller” I’d have taken it out back and shot it between the eyes. I’d have put it out of my father’s misery.
Dad’s attitude towards my decision was not unpredictable. My father liked things tangible. Music was something that couldn’t be held on to, weighed, or priced neatly in a per pound unit. Oddly enough, he loved jazz, and it was his love for it that first turned my ears and aspirations to it. I recalled his stories of sneaking out to hear the “Jazz at the Philharmonic” concerts and the wonderful performers he witnessed. When he was dying, I managed to find a CD reissue of a concert he once raved about attending. I put it on, as he lay in the bed that was now swallowing him up. I was excited that I remembered him speaking of it; and even more excited that it was reproduced in a non-obsolete format for my father to hear. It may have been the only time I’ve ever witnessed him actively listening to music. When he opened his eyes, awakening from the dream of memory he said, “I swear I can hear myself in the audience cheering.”
So many years have passed since I set off on my musical career. There were times when I was able to sustain a livelihood from it, although it was never lucrative. When my children were born, it was almost always necessary to have a “day gig”. My closest brush with fame was making a cross-country and back tour with The Glenn Miller Orchestra. This was in 1990 and I had just recently been divorced. I considered the gig the musical equivalent of joining the French Foreign Legion. Old Glenn was long gone having flown off during World War II, never to be seen again. I regretted often that he didn’t take the arrangements, or at least the hokey bass parts along with him. After two months, it was clear I was the wrong bassist for the part. I was given my walking papers. It wasn’t a huge disappointment for me. I hated the music, missed my kids and was ready to start over at home.
In the interest of not making a long story longer, I can say that there have been many twists and turns that brought me to this particular station in life. Music for me was like a lover, much too young and beautiful for me to be with. I knew eventually she’d leave, but enjoyed the time spent and passion shared. In retrospect, I can say with certainty, had I been focused on reality a lot sooner, I’d be a lot better off today. Choosing a “real job” much earlier would have made life for my children, and me a lot easier. It is undeniable.
My son, Joe, is twenty years old. When he was seventeen he became frustrated with the school he was attending and wound up dropping out. Though he’s easily passed the high school equivalency test, since, I was not pleased with his decision. I did, however understand his frustration. Joe is extremely bright, by all documentation. The school wanted subordination. Joe wanted a challenge. They reached an impasse. Joe left school. His mother and I let him.
When he left school, I was naturally concerned. I asked him what his goals were. You could never use the word “irresponsible” to describe Joe. Still, I wanted to know about his direction. I knew he had always been a hard worker, and had been employed since he was legally old enough. I knew his employers valued him greatly. I also knew that these were just jobs. I wanted a rewarding future for my son.
I had always known that Joe loved Hip-hop music. I knew that he rapped, and had worked a lot on music with his childhood friend. Still it surprised me when I found out he was serious enough about Rap to take it up as a career. In all honesty, the news gave me a feeling of dread. I didn’t want my son to repeat my mistakes.
I heard my father’s voice in my ears. “What do you want to do with it?” I didn’t ask this question. I tried to invoke a more sober voice. I intoned the wisdom of my age and misdeeds and said to him, “Joe, I can only say this from experience. Inside your eighteen year old body, there’s a forty-five year old man who is going to live with the decisions you make now.” It seemed the right thing to say. I still believe it. It was received with an icy silence. I felt like I had not demonstrated the confidence in his decision that he may have hoped for. It probably matters little. The fact is that Joe is dedicated beyond measure to his work. He writes constantly. He networks constantly. He is always striving to grow as an artist, and juggles many different projects with many different people.
One evening I finally went to see him perform. I was surrounded by youth. There were other local Hip-Hop artists sharing the stage, and it seemed like hours before the big moment. I know I can never be impartial. He’s still my beautiful boy, though he towers over me in height. What I saw that night transformed me. There on the stage was this child I witnessed the birth of, and it was as if all the years were a prelude to this moment. I’ve never seen him look so alive, so animated and so sure of himself. He owned the audience that night. He looked beyond the footlights and headlights of the stage and saw me in the balcony section of this bar. I don’t think he expected me to be there. He pointed up at me and smiled as wide as I’ve ever seen him smile before. Then words started coming out of his mouth, so many words, in a thousand different rhythms. The words danced around a pulsating beat, a multi-track recording he created. It was electrifying and exciting and I was totally blown away. I was a Hip-Hop Pop! When his segment of the performance was over, one song as good as the next, I didn’t rush the stage. To be honest, I had to compose myself. Showing joy-tears at a hip-hop concert seemed a little out of character, given the nature of the music. Soon, though I did make it over to him. He was pumping up the next act for their performance. I grabbed and hugged him for what might have been much too long for him to be comfortable with. He did have an “image” to maintain, after all. I praised him till I ran out of adjectives.
Later that evening I remarked, “You know, it’s so strange seeing you up there performing. I’ve heard you say more in three minutes on stage, than you’ve said your entire life!” Off stage, my son is a very quiet individual.
He smiled and answered slyly, “I was saving it up!”
It took me a few days to assemble my new thoughts into presentation. I came home from work, and stared at the phone for minutes before finally picking up the receiver. I called my son, and what I said still makes me uncomfortable. I’d love to be more protective of him, but I would never want that to reflect a lack of support.
“Joe, listen.” I said, “I’ve given it some thought. I’m totally bowled over by your performance, and can’t begin to express how proud I am of you. A few months ago I commented on how there was a forty-five year old man inside you that will live with the decisions you make today. I should have mentioned, there’s a flip side to that. That inside me there’s an eighteen year old that wishes he had the kind of dedication, work ethic and determination that you have now. While I love what I do right now, and wouldn’t change anything, there’s still that little voice inside me that says, ‘What if? What if I had been more like my son?’” It’s not surprising that he wasn’t emotionally overwhelmed. It’s just not in his nature, but I’m glad I said it. It needed saying. I’m just not sure he needed to hear it. His faith is unshakable. I hope that it felt good for him to hear just the same.
A few days after my father died, I returned to his house. His side of the bed was still embedded with his impression, left from a two-year battle with pancreatic cancer. I was happy that it was a large impression, and that in the end, while he did lose a lot of weight, he still left this world King-Sized, a reflection more of his personality than just his stature. The room still had his presence, his smell, his breath. I found the CD I had given him and put it in the stereo. I pushed play. I lay down in the hollow he created in the bed. I tried to fill his space.
Nat Cole and Les Paul are trading four bar solos over the song “Lady Be Good”. This is conversation in the purest sense. The two interact as if possessed with the same mind, often completing each other’s thoughts. It continues over many choruses and just when you’re certain it can’t get any more exciting, you find that they’re just getting started. Even with the primitive recording equipment, you can hear the audience is being swept away with the energy, the incredible creative force of it all. Finally, the two relent. There was nowhere else for them to go, lest they explode. The audience explodes. My father is there, in the audience. He’s sitting front and center. He is young. He is vibrant. A great big life lies ahead of him. Like son, and now grandson, his life is uncharted, undisciplined and full of the wonder of what comes next. Like a great jazz solo, his life will be improvised, incredible, exciting and profound.
It may be just the want of his voice, the desire to feel him there. Still, I believe at times, listening to that recording that I too can hear his cheers, ringing with youthful exuberance. They will be there forever, captured in time.
It’s my birthday. The day starts typically enough, with an increasing reluctance to leave the bed. Finally achieving this, everything else seems different. I spend a long time looking into the mirror, at an image I barely recognize. Who is this person staring back at me? It’s almost as if I’m presented this costume and forced to wear it or be stripped to the bone. This is my costume. This is the way I’m going to dress up for the rest of the year. I won’t appreciate it now. It may take several years, but one day I’ll miss this look. I’ll become nostalgic, as I’m looking at a photograph of forty-seven year old me, many years from now. Someone peering over my shoulder will remark at how young I looked back then. I’ll wonder what happened to that person in the photo, and where he could have gone so quickly.
I’m spending my birthday week doing the ritual inventory of body parts that don’t look as good, feel as good or work as good as they used to. I’ll compare it with the inventory from last year. The data will be accumulated, collated and analyzed. I know the results, already. The facts are undeniable. I am on a steady march towards death. Yes, folks, this is my way of celebrating. Crazily enough, every year I wonder why the people close to me have never surprised me with a party. My guess is they fear I’ll spike the punch with hemlock. Hearing me go on about this process of aging, they all might drink willingly.
I am amazed to see what I’ve become. I’m not totally disappointed. I’m told that I look much younger than my forty-seven years by most every one who knows my true age. I had only one friend who ever told me I “look exactly” my age. This was at the end of an already horrendous weekend with her that left our friendship gasping for air. It remains on life support and will probably never recover. Still, after all of the things that I hold quiet resentment for, that’s the only comment I can put direct quotes around. Possibly, it’s the sting of a truth that one never needs to hear. On my forty-seventh birthday I wonder if she was not correct.
The rational part of me sees aging as a fact of life. My livelihood reinforces this fact almost daily. I now make a living in the medical world and my work instills in me a tremendous respect for the elderly patients I see every day. I can look past the wrinkles, and the ailments they present, the slow and deliberate movements they make, born of the uncertainty of this limb or that joint. I’ve come to love them just for surviving. Perhaps one day, I’ll appreciate the fact that I was able to live a long time, as well. For now, however, aging is sort of like looking at a fire. From a safe distance you can appreciate its color and beauty, but you’d rather not immerse yourself in it.
__________________________________________________ _________
It's an extremely blustery and icy winter’s day. I notice an elderly female patient trying to walk out to her car in a slide-step gait across the icy pavement, and it looks as if the wind might carry her off like a dried leaf. I quickly go outside with a courtesy wheelchair provided by the medical building in which I work.
“Say, would you like a lift? I’m going your way.” She seems surprised, but graciously accepts.
“That’s so sweet of you! Thank you so much!” she says, as she settles in for the ride.
“Oh, it’s not sweet of me. I pick up more women this way.”
I couldn’t see her face as I pushed her along, but her body language indicated she was not so infirmed that she couldn’t appreciate a good flirt when she heard one. She chuckled, “Oh, you don’t want an old bag like me!”
This created a stalemate. I couldn’t really protest that statement too much, and the conversation hung awkwardly, before I managed a weak reply, “Well, you never know.”
I finished the journey to the safety and warmth of the medical building. I was just about to wish her a good day when she beckoned me to come closer. Her face was so full of mischief I thought she might “goose” me as soon as I came within reach. I leaned to her.
She semi-whispered, “On second thought, maybe you do want an old lady like me. They think every time is going to be their last!”
The sparkle in her eyes stripped away her accumulated years like old varnish. For that glowing moment, she was young, sassy and beautiful and I was one of the boys she must have driven wild in her day. Today, on my forty-seventh birthday, I am one step closer to being courting material for her. If she could stop the aging process and allow me to catch up, I wonder if she’d have me.
__________________________________________________ ___________________
The self-examination process doesn’t stop with the list of wrinkles and minor aches of aging. It goes much deeper. The fact may be unavoidable that I’ve clung desperately to immaturity for far too long. At this stage of my life, I should be planning retirement, and I’m just now starting a real career. Six years ago, I had no idea the career of “orthotist” even existed. I knew people wore braces, but had no idea how this came about. It’s not that I assumed they came standard issue with whatever physical malady might befall a body. It was more that I just never considered it at all.
In my youth, I’d have bet on desire to be all one needed to achieve. The truth is now abundantly clear that desire still begs a dollar and fifty-nine cents at Starbuck’s, to buy a cup of coffee with. A good credit rating is built on discipline and I had none in my bank account. I had aspirations of making my fortune as a jazz bassist. I picked up the bass via guitar when I was sixteen years old. I was dedicated to the instrument, and worked a whole summer to purchase my first upright bass. I brought it home to my parents as a surprise. It was a great big bass, constructed of a blonde veneer wood, not the usual rose or cherry color that you’d see in orchestra instruments. My mother in her way of finding placement for anything unexpected named the instrument “Moby Dick”. By the time I was nineteen I was on my way to Berklee College of Music. This achievement was not as spectacular as it sounds. The truth is that tuition and two letters of reference was all that was needed to gain admittance. I’m not sure they even read the letters, beyond verifying that a parole officer penned neither of the endorsements.
I remember, in my resolve to go with this direction, my father asking repeatedly, “What do you want to do with it?”
He treated my career choice as if it were a doomed pet, one that lay in festering agony, stinking up the living room. If my dream were “Ol’ Yeller” I’d have taken it out back and shot it between the eyes. I’d have put it out of my father’s misery.
Dad’s attitude towards my decision was not unpredictable. My father liked things tangible. Music was something that couldn’t be held on to, weighed, or priced neatly in a per pound unit. Oddly enough, he loved jazz, and it was his love for it that first turned my ears and aspirations to it. I recalled his stories of sneaking out to hear the “Jazz at the Philharmonic” concerts and the wonderful performers he witnessed. When he was dying, I managed to find a CD reissue of a concert he once raved about attending. I put it on, as he lay in the bed that was now swallowing him up. I was excited that I remembered him speaking of it; and even more excited that it was reproduced in a non-obsolete format for my father to hear. It may have been the only time I’ve ever witnessed him actively listening to music. When he opened his eyes, awakening from the dream of memory he said, “I swear I can hear myself in the audience cheering.”
So many years have passed since I set off on my musical career. There were times when I was able to sustain a livelihood from it, although it was never lucrative. When my children were born, it was almost always necessary to have a “day gig”. My closest brush with fame was making a cross-country and back tour with The Glenn Miller Orchestra. This was in 1990 and I had just recently been divorced. I considered the gig the musical equivalent of joining the French Foreign Legion. Old Glenn was long gone having flown off during World War II, never to be seen again. I regretted often that he didn’t take the arrangements, or at least the hokey bass parts along with him. After two months, it was clear I was the wrong bassist for the part. I was given my walking papers. It wasn’t a huge disappointment for me. I hated the music, missed my kids and was ready to start over at home.
In the interest of not making a long story longer, I can say that there have been many twists and turns that brought me to this particular station in life. Music for me was like a lover, much too young and beautiful for me to be with. I knew eventually she’d leave, but enjoyed the time spent and passion shared. In retrospect, I can say with certainty, had I been focused on reality a lot sooner, I’d be a lot better off today. Choosing a “real job” much earlier would have made life for my children, and me a lot easier. It is undeniable.
My son, Joe, is twenty years old. When he was seventeen he became frustrated with the school he was attending and wound up dropping out. Though he’s easily passed the high school equivalency test, since, I was not pleased with his decision. I did, however understand his frustration. Joe is extremely bright, by all documentation. The school wanted subordination. Joe wanted a challenge. They reached an impasse. Joe left school. His mother and I let him.
When he left school, I was naturally concerned. I asked him what his goals were. You could never use the word “irresponsible” to describe Joe. Still, I wanted to know about his direction. I knew he had always been a hard worker, and had been employed since he was legally old enough. I knew his employers valued him greatly. I also knew that these were just jobs. I wanted a rewarding future for my son.
I had always known that Joe loved Hip-hop music. I knew that he rapped, and had worked a lot on music with his childhood friend. Still it surprised me when I found out he was serious enough about Rap to take it up as a career. In all honesty, the news gave me a feeling of dread. I didn’t want my son to repeat my mistakes.
I heard my father’s voice in my ears. “What do you want to do with it?” I didn’t ask this question. I tried to invoke a more sober voice. I intoned the wisdom of my age and misdeeds and said to him, “Joe, I can only say this from experience. Inside your eighteen year old body, there’s a forty-five year old man who is going to live with the decisions you make now.” It seemed the right thing to say. I still believe it. It was received with an icy silence. I felt like I had not demonstrated the confidence in his decision that he may have hoped for. It probably matters little. The fact is that Joe is dedicated beyond measure to his work. He writes constantly. He networks constantly. He is always striving to grow as an artist, and juggles many different projects with many different people.
One evening I finally went to see him perform. I was surrounded by youth. There were other local Hip-Hop artists sharing the stage, and it seemed like hours before the big moment. I know I can never be impartial. He’s still my beautiful boy, though he towers over me in height. What I saw that night transformed me. There on the stage was this child I witnessed the birth of, and it was as if all the years were a prelude to this moment. I’ve never seen him look so alive, so animated and so sure of himself. He owned the audience that night. He looked beyond the footlights and headlights of the stage and saw me in the balcony section of this bar. I don’t think he expected me to be there. He pointed up at me and smiled as wide as I’ve ever seen him smile before. Then words started coming out of his mouth, so many words, in a thousand different rhythms. The words danced around a pulsating beat, a multi-track recording he created. It was electrifying and exciting and I was totally blown away. I was a Hip-Hop Pop! When his segment of the performance was over, one song as good as the next, I didn’t rush the stage. To be honest, I had to compose myself. Showing joy-tears at a hip-hop concert seemed a little out of character, given the nature of the music. Soon, though I did make it over to him. He was pumping up the next act for their performance. I grabbed and hugged him for what might have been much too long for him to be comfortable with. He did have an “image” to maintain, after all. I praised him till I ran out of adjectives.
Later that evening I remarked, “You know, it’s so strange seeing you up there performing. I’ve heard you say more in three minutes on stage, than you’ve said your entire life!” Off stage, my son is a very quiet individual.
He smiled and answered slyly, “I was saving it up!”
It took me a few days to assemble my new thoughts into presentation. I came home from work, and stared at the phone for minutes before finally picking up the receiver. I called my son, and what I said still makes me uncomfortable. I’d love to be more protective of him, but I would never want that to reflect a lack of support.
“Joe, listen.” I said, “I’ve given it some thought. I’m totally bowled over by your performance, and can’t begin to express how proud I am of you. A few months ago I commented on how there was a forty-five year old man inside you that will live with the decisions you make today. I should have mentioned, there’s a flip side to that. That inside me there’s an eighteen year old that wishes he had the kind of dedication, work ethic and determination that you have now. While I love what I do right now, and wouldn’t change anything, there’s still that little voice inside me that says, ‘What if? What if I had been more like my son?’” It’s not surprising that he wasn’t emotionally overwhelmed. It’s just not in his nature, but I’m glad I said it. It needed saying. I’m just not sure he needed to hear it. His faith is unshakable. I hope that it felt good for him to hear just the same.
A few days after my father died, I returned to his house. His side of the bed was still embedded with his impression, left from a two-year battle with pancreatic cancer. I was happy that it was a large impression, and that in the end, while he did lose a lot of weight, he still left this world King-Sized, a reflection more of his personality than just his stature. The room still had his presence, his smell, his breath. I found the CD I had given him and put it in the stereo. I pushed play. I lay down in the hollow he created in the bed. I tried to fill his space.
Nat Cole and Les Paul are trading four bar solos over the song “Lady Be Good”. This is conversation in the purest sense. The two interact as if possessed with the same mind, often completing each other’s thoughts. It continues over many choruses and just when you’re certain it can’t get any more exciting, you find that they’re just getting started. Even with the primitive recording equipment, you can hear the audience is being swept away with the energy, the incredible creative force of it all. Finally, the two relent. There was nowhere else for them to go, lest they explode. The audience explodes. My father is there, in the audience. He’s sitting front and center. He is young. He is vibrant. A great big life lies ahead of him. Like son, and now grandson, his life is uncharted, undisciplined and full of the wonder of what comes next. Like a great jazz solo, his life will be improvised, incredible, exciting and profound.
It may be just the want of his voice, the desire to feel him there. Still, I believe at times, listening to that recording that I too can hear his cheers, ringing with youthful exuberance. They will be there forever, captured in time.