Tag Archives: rumination

The news seller (1980s)

words and images Posted on by

There’s an old man who sells newspapers from a little shelter downtown. He’s there every weekday during the 5 p.m. rush hour, shivering in the cold or sweating under the sun. His eyes are sunken; his cheeks are hollow. He looks neither healthy nor happy. Lonely, silent, melancholy.

Half-sitting on the bench on which the newspapers are folded, he used to quietly wait for a passerby to buy a paper. When someone did (and this seemed rare), he would slowly hand him the paper, accept the coin, and quietly say, “Thank you.” But even a sale did not lift the burden from his slightly stooped shoulders, and his sad, withdrawn expression never changed.

Later, he seemed to realise that he had to compete with the more aggressive young newsboys, whose harsh cries of “Final Times — final Tribune” disturbed the already busy air. He too would say, “Tribune — Times,” but his voice was quiet and hesitant like a whisper, as though he did not think his new boldness would boost sales. He seemed to hold some small hope it would.

He is still there, in the same shelter. The same harassed executives brush by him. The same complaining assistants still hurry past him. Few stop to buy the paper; fewer still exchange a kind word. None wonder about the old man: his past, his present, his future, his end. As for him, he still looks blankly past the parade passing by; still waits for the few who might purchase a paper.

Still waits.

Copyright © Diane L. Schirf
1980s/date unknown

An erotic treasury’s journey

words and images Posted on by

A couple of months ago, I bought an ex-library copy of An Uninhibited Treasury of Erotic Poetry edited by Louis Untermeyer and published in 1963 from Andrew Halldorson Books through AbeBooks. Tonight when I was putting a cloth dust jacket on it, I noticed there was a slip in the old-style library pocket. It was due back to the Lansing, Michigan, library on January 15, 1968 — forty-one years ago, when I was six years old. In all this time, no one had removed what was possibly the book’s final due date slip. Had this copy been retired after only five years?

Beyond the written words, I wonder how much history is in that book.

Ethics

words and images Posted on by

Consciously and unconsciously, most of us are concerned with ethics every day. It could be a personal question (“What should I do with the $20 I found on the ground?”) or it could be an opinion about current events (“Should assisted suicide be legal, and in what cases?”) The more complicated the world, our technology, and our relationships, the more complicated ethics becomes.

I spoke briefly once with a man whose academic background is in ethics. If I remember correctly, we discussed a case of conjoined twins, one of whom would live if they were separated and both of whom would die if they were not. The issue, at least as presented by the media, was that the parents would not consent to the separation for reasons of religion.

Again, if I recall correctly, my acquaintance said ethics often boils down to what results in the least harm. In a complex world, every choice may lead to harm, which is why even the most ethical leader must make decisions that will cause harm to someone. In the case of the conjoined twins, my acquaintance seemed to think it was less harmful to save the one child’s life than to respect the parents’ beliefs and condemn both children. With all of our medical technology and knowledge, this seems to have become an increasing dilemma: the immediate issue of a human life versus the broader philosophical issue of individual rights and the potential implications of the decision made, were it to be taken further. “The least harm” is relative, subjective, and open to interpretation, that is, assuming I understood my acquaintance correctly. Persuasive arguments can be made for both sides.

Almost instinctively, we want to provide care, including surgery, because we can. We also do not want government to interfere with the raising of our children or our family decisions. In either case, something is important is lost. Ethics is, I think, in part determination of which compromise we as a heterogeneous society find most acceptable. The child’s life is tangible; the parents’ religious beliefs are not.

This case, and others like it, is more complicated of course; the surgery could be interpreted as the intentional killing of one child, while no attempt at a reasonable treatment could be considered intentional neglect resulting in two deaths.

Natural law, human law, religious beliefs, medical ethics, precedent, and other agencies are to be taken into account. In cases like this, the public does not know the complete story because the media distorts, misrepresents, or simplifies it. It’s also easier for a reporter to pit rational science against irrational religion. According to the parents, they were not against medical intervention per se, but against the intentional killing of their child.

The parents also knew that making the other decision would condemn both children to death, which points out the problem that occurs when humans take on the responsibility of determining “God’s will.”

I have never faced such a large, personally difficult decision, but my conscience is always on the alert, consciously or not. I realized this one day last summer when I was outdoors at Bonjour Bakery Café and heard and saw fire trucks headed east on 55th Street. I thought without thinking, “I hope they’re not going to The Flamingo,” a worry I’ve had since the fire next door at Promontory Apartments, and continued to sip coffee comfortably.

At some point later, it occurred to me that when I hoped that it wasn’t my building or apartment on fire, I was tacitly hoping that it was someone else’s. I found this very disturbing. Months later, the thought still bothers me because I would not wish a fire or similar catastrophe on anyone — yet I am doing it every time that I hope the fire department isn’t headed my way.

I know this isn’t an ethics question because I am only hoping, not deciding. The emergency is where it is, and I have no influence over it. The question does hint at why ethics is especially difficult for me. While I am not convinced of the science behind Myers-Briggs, I do fit much of the INFP (healer-idealist) profile, even if I don’t want to. My idealism makes it difficult and emotionally painful to make necessary choices that will result in harm. Even the abstract hope that the firefighters are going somewhere else upsets me because of what it implies.

Perhaps this makes me unfit for leadership, because I would have to fight my natural impulse to regret my choices given that many if not most would have a negative impact on someone. The idealist in me wants to find perhaps nonexistent solutions that allow both children to survive and that prevent any place from catching fire.

Leaders are necessary; someone must be pragmatic and choose between the proverbial rock and a hard place. Any of us can do it, if we must, but most prefer to leave decisions to their leaders. I would be overwhelmed by the conflicting complexities and guilt-ridden over any negative results. I would always believe that there must be a better solution, if only we had the wisdom to see or to invent it. I dislike that I don’t have that wisdom, and I mistrust that our leaders see the need for it. Pragmatism should be guided by idealism; neither is good or effective without the other. The two should work together to find the least harm that is the most good for all.

All aboard Amtrak

words and images Posted on by

I’m on my way, I don’t know where I’m goin’,
I’m on my way, I’m takin’ my time, but I don’t know where.

Paul Simon, “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard”

Since my father passed away in 2001 and since Amtrak eliminated the train from Chicago that stopped in Altoona, I haven’t taken Amtrak very often. Even when I did, the trips had become uneventful. No one spoke to me any more or did anything of note, except for the Amish man who wanted to know where he could charge his mobile phone — that is, until today (7.20.06). Nothing of note happened today, really, unless you count my meeting a couple of characters, the type of people who make me realize how reclusive I am, and why.

I was on my way to Ann Arbor, Michigan, a scheduled 4.5-hour trip. It’s just long enough to read, write, and nap without starting to get antsy.

At Hammond/Whiting, Indiana, a woman in late middle age with a heavily seamed face came and stood next to the empty seat by me and announced loudly that there was nowhere to sit. I moved my straying purse and indicated the empty seat. I don’t know why she couldn’t have pointed out to me that it had encroached onto the seat and that she wanted me to move it. The direct approach is not dramatic enough, I suppose.

Plopping down, she announced, again loudly, in my direction, “I hate to ride backward.” Thank you for sharing that insight into your character with every person in this car and the next.

She seemed itchy — itchy to chat. I appeared to be engrossed in writing, while the girls across the aisles were doing college work. Thwarted, frustrated, and itchy, she pulled out a cell phone and dialed an aunt, with whom she had the world’s most mundane, pointless conversation at approximately the same decibel level found on the typical Rolling Stones one-more-time tour. At any rate, I know she loves her aunt, because she announced it several times to the phone, just before starting to cry. For me, there was no warning and nowhere to hide.

Finally she hung up and soon disappeared. I had a feeling she’d gone to the cafe car — there’s nowhere else to go on a train — but at the same time I really, really wanted coffee. I’d been up since 4:30 a.m., and I really, really wanted coffee. So I risked it. I ended up sitting at the table across from hers; later, she left, then returned and sat with me. I managed to keep up my level of engrossment, so she, still itchy, tried to lure the conductor into the realm of tedious chatter. He answered her questions while deftly fending her off; he seemed more comfortable talking old-time rail talk.

Later, when she and I were both back in our seats, at one of the stops — I think it was Jackson — she said something like, “They stop where they stop, don’t they?” Honestly, I did not know how to respond to this observation, so I smiled weakly and promptly fell asleep.

I hope her return trip is planned for any day but Sunday — the day of mine.

Meanwhile, the visit to the cafe car proved that coffee will be my undoing. There I met the attendant. Before I could make my request, he had shared with me his knowledge and/or opinion of organ harvesting in China, the economy, George W. Bush, and the intelligence of people who pay extra for business class for no real perks or benefits. I admit that this verbal onslaught left me speechless. After I got my order in, I heard commentary on the price of flat-screen TVs; his wife’s boss, who bought one when they were $10,000; and the reputed stinginess of several ethnic groups his wife represents or might as well represent — I think that was the gist of it. And all of this in five minutes or less, with little (no) encouragement from me. It was a verbal flood, unstoppable.

When my garrulous seatmate placed both her orders, I wonder if she managed to get in a word or two.

Or had she met her superior?

The problem with holidays

words and images Posted on by

The problem with holidays is that everyone has them off.

In Chicago, that means that every park, every beach, and every potentially quiet nook is overrun by people. You might as well be downtown during rush hour being mowed down by pedestrians on their way from or to the train stations. Come to think of it, business downtown might be the only place to get any peace on a summer’s holiday.

I could take the opportunity to thank all the people who inundated my neighborhood last night. A side street on which I rarely see more than two cars at a time suddenly looked like midtown Manhattan. People found creative ways to park their cars in the overflowing park district lot, as 7–10 cars that were never going to fit circled in perpetual hope. Clumps of 10, 15, or more people were everywhere — in the parking lot, on the sidewalk, and on and around the benches. One large group apparently decided to take over one lane at the corner of the side street. They stood around a car, laughing and gabbing, pretending not to notice the line of cars they were blocking from making the turn. None of them made any attempt to get out of the way until the whole group, en masse, slowly wandered off.

If course, what kind of holiday would the 3rd of July be if, after driving miles to be in someone else’s neighborhood and winning a parking spot (legal or not), you didn’t spend the late (and wee) hour setting off firecrackers? Sure, people possibly live in those half dozen buildings with hundreds of apartments, people who may be trying to relax or maybe even to sleep, but of course if they’d been smart they’d have fled their neighborhood, like we did ours.

Let the party begin. After all, isn’t the right to annoy others one of the ideals for which the Founding Fathers (whom we commemorate with burned hot dogs and chicken, potato salad, and beer) fought?

But I am enjoying the 4th of July. The weather is perfect, and this morning while I was at Promontory Point a great blue heron flew 20–30 feet over my head.

Now that’s the kind of visitor I’d like to see more of in the neighborhood.

Social insecurity

words and images Posted on by

Under the current Social Security system, the age at which you can start receiving full Social Security benefits depends on the year in which you were born. According to the current table, I won’t be able to get full benefits until I’m 67, which means I’ll be two years older than my father was when he retired with full benefits.

With Social Security allegedly in trouble, the leading edge of the Baby Boomers getting set to start collecting benefits in just a few years, life expectancy continuing to increase, and fewer workers paying into the system as the Boomers retire, there’s been talk of increasing the ages even more. After all, if I’m going to live longer, I’m going to collect for a longer time, so I need to be kept in the work force longer to keep paying in and to prevent me from receiving 20+ years of payouts. Somewhere in the bowels of the Social Security Administration, actuaries have undoubtedly run the numbers, and they undoubtedly make sense on paper.

Life isn’t lived on paper, however, and I wonder if anyone has taken a hard look at the variables. Americans are living longer, but does that mean that serious health declines are beginning later? Do arthritis, heart disease, joint disorders, incontinence, cognitive conditions, and other age-related problems set in at a later age? It may be that they do, but is there solid evidence of this? Before anyone raises my normal retirement age to 70, I’d like to see some proof that the odds favor that I’ll still be healthy enough to work between ages 65 and 70.

Next, what will I be doing during those years? Employers aren’t allowed to practice overt age discrimination, but the reality is that many do — often beginning with employees in their 40s and 50s. Anyone over 40 who has been “downsized” will tell you how difficult it is to find a new job that is commensurate with his experience and past salary — and sometimes how difficult it is to find any but a low-level job, such as working in a store for a retailer — because that is the nature of our economy. In addition, while employers may not be able to talk about age directly, it takes only a brief review of a resume to accurately ascertain a candidate’s age. Are employers really going to retain or hire aging, more highly paid workers at the middle and lower levels when these positions can be filled by younger people who are physically healthier, who are comfortable with rapidly changing technology and business requirements, and who may cost less in salary and health care benefits?

If an older employee loses a job, who will hire him? How many employers seek, say, an office manager with 40 years of experience? If you look at employment ads today, you’ll see most employers are looking for 5–10 years of experience except for a handful of senior executive positions. Employers are going to be concerned about an older candidate’s comfort level with new and upcoming technology and his ability to adapt to changes. Does this mean that, for many of us, our hard-earned educations and careers will culminate in earning minimum wage serving a retailer as a greeter? Realistically, what work will I be capable of at age 65, and realistically what work will I be able to obtain? At what pay and benefits level?

As a culture, we are so enamored of work that we work far more hours than the 40-hour work week that previous generations fought for and won. Employees routinely work 50–80 hours a week; some love it, some hate it, while some feel they have little choice — it’s the price we pay for job security. Now we’re asking people to work past an age at which the faculties decline and past an age at which one would think the elder has earned rest, if that is what he desires. Will we ask them to work 50–80 hours a week? Or will we simply hire a 30-year-old who is capable and eager to work long hours in return for immediate rewards and possible advancement? What will we do with those who do suffer from ill health that prevents them from working? What about those with chronic age-related diseases like diabetes and hypertension? Ask them to make do with less because they couldn’t last until full retirement age (a lot to ask, given the high price of prescription medication)? Or put them in the position of having to work, thereby hastening their decline? I am aware that there are many people in this situation today — but there will be many more in the future.

My dad retired at age 65. He didn’t mind working, and he thought of trying to work past age 65 (which was, I believe, a mandatory retirement age per union rules or agreement). But he had already given up many things in concession to age; his once-extensive vegetable and flower plantings had shrunk to a small patch of flowers with a few outliers here and there. Within about a year and a half of his retirement, he was diagnosed with diabetes. My mother, who didn’t have a job, was diagnosed with insulin-dependent diabetes and died at age 64. By the time my dad was 77, he was a candidate for assisted living, with a history of strokes, transient ischemic attacks, and congestive heart failure. Even though he retired at 65, he never had the opportunity to enjoy the so-called “golden years.” Most of the men he worked with could tell similar stories, that is, those who had not retired at age 62 or earlier with disabilities.

In contrast to the growing number of wealthy entrepreneurs who are retiring in their 40s on their investments, there is a growing number of elders who can afford to retire from their careers but who continue to work or who take jobs that give them the sense of purpose that work provides. My aunt retired early from her federal government position and then spent several years in a part-time clerical position for a D.C. think tank. After a few years, she left that job; I’m not sure why. She enjoyed a few years of retirement but was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer at age 70. She died at age 71.

It can be said that the concept of retirement is a recent innovation. In past times, people worked until they no longer could; there was no set age to quit, and no expectation that benefits would be provided. In many cases, the elder might have depended on the extended family for financial support, even for a home. In any case, elders generally did not live long past their ability to support themselves. In our fragmented society, where families are spread out across the country and in which broken marriages interrupt the continuity of family and responsibility, a layer of complexity is added that that is addressed by such things as assisted living facilities — a costly solution for the average worker or family. Of course, the past is not the best standard against which to judge how issues should be handled now; after all, no one today, I hope, would advocate putting 8-year-olds to work.

Mostly, though, I believe the raising of retirement ages is not a practical solution. I honestly don’t know what is. There will be a palpable imbalance someday between the young and the old, and the former cannot be expected to sacrifice all for the latter. Employers will have to find, or be given, a reason to cease the practice of age discrimination (against anyone, whether 40 years old or 70 years old). They will have to make concessions, realizing that performance declines with age, and that accommodations will need to be made, just as for the disabled. Vision and hearing loss, slowing of physical reaction time, cognitive decline — they are all part of the aging process that begins earlier in life than most of us realize. The beginnings of many of these, for example, the development of the need for bifocals, corresponds roughly to what is mostly likely our natural life expectancy — say, 45–55.

Jonathan Swift warned us of the dangers of desiring a long life span, which comes with no guarantee that robust health will be similarly extended. I can’t help but think of the cliché, “Be careful what you wish for.” We wish for longer lives and make them possible largely through technology. Now we must do more than wish for solutions to the problems that we have created. Whatever we decide to do must be fair and practical. How many solutions to problems are fair and practical — and don’t raise even greater problems?

My frizzy attitude

words and images Posted on by

Today I went to a neighbourhood salon I hadn’t visited in years. I needed a haircut and was tired of the constant commentary I received at the place I have been going to. Of course, I was assaulted with the usual questions and comments:

How long ago did you get a haircut? [The polite way of saying, When was the last time you had this MESS cut?]

How much do you want taken off?

The ends are pretty dry. It will be at least this much. That okay?

Etc.

Halfway through the cut today, she suggested I consider having my hair cut short. What is this fascination of hair stylists with short hair? Each and every one tells me I should think about getting a short haircut. Well, I’m 44 years old, which I think is old enough now to know what I want and don’t want, and I don’t want a short haircut, which is why I didn’t ask for one.

Today I had to explain why not. I’ve had short haircuts. I look hideous in short haircuts. Short haircuts are a great way to scream, “Look, this woman has an oval face, no neck, and no chin! Look! And a small head on a huge body! Look! There’s no hair to impair your view!” I told her this, in slightly different terms, and she looked at me disapprovingly, silently saying, “I don’t believe you. Everyone secretly desires to have a short, chic haircut, especially women with no chin and no neck. I belong to the secret ‘Women must have short hair’ society,’ and you are foiling our plans for world domination. And you’d look so cute in short hair.” Except I would look (and have looked) terrible in short hair. So — no short hair!

“I don’t really mean short hair; I mean, to here [indicating shoulder length].” And, ta da — she cut my hair to shoulder length, as it turns out. But apparently it’s not short enough to meet the society’s nefarious goals.

Then she asked me if I use “product.” I deduced she meant gel. Yes, I use gel to flatten the bangs that no one will cut short enough and that are forever in my way. “No, I mean on the rest of your hair.” “No. Why?” “Does your hair curl mostly or frizz? Product would help with the frizz.” “I don’t mind frizz.” “But you have such beautiful hair.” Apparently, frizz impairs its “beauty.” Too bad because, as I told her, I really don’t care if it frizzes. No, really. I don’t. Why is this so hard to believe? Do I look vain to you? And is there a gene that make frizz look hideous to the rest of the world? If so, why do so many women spend a gazillion dollars on permanents that look frizzy? So they can achieve what I have naturally. Frizz. Love it or look away. I don’t care.

We got into a discussion over curl, and when it became clear to her I just don’t get it, what she was asking me about how my hair curls, she sighed and said, “You don’t understand. I mean . . .” No, you don’t understand. I don’t care if my hair curls or frizzes. I simply want the split, dry ends cut off. That’s all. A cut. No commentary. No fluffing, drying, gelling, or primping. Just a haircut.

Anyone know a good barber? Maybe he can give me a shave, too.

Deliverance

words and images Posted on by

I’m reading A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson, and he mentions Clayton, Georgia, and Billy Redden, who appeared in the film adaptation of Deliverance.

I saw Deliverance only a few years ago, when my cousin’s daughter lived in a converted hunting cabin in Pennsylvania. This seemed appropriate a venue from an aesthetic/ambiance viewpoint — somewhat remote (well, in the woods and a bit of an uphill driveway off the road, with a steep hillside looming immediately off the living room picture window, waiting for a hard or a long rain to have an excuse to knock the house down the rest of the hill into the road).

Not being a fan of suspenseful or violent movies, I couldn’t comfortably sit through it without closing my eyes, wandering to the kitchen, the bathroom, etc. This fit in perfectly with the ambiance of the occasion — it was over the Christmas holidays, and my cousin, his wife, his daughter, her husband, his hound dog (a beagle), and miscellaneous other furry friends were ambling among all the rooms in the same manner I was, so I didn’t stick out too much like the proverbial sore thumb, well, except for constantly saying, “I can’t take suspenseful or violent movies, so I can’t watch this . . .” Deliverance was in the VCR because my cousin’s son-in-law had gotten it as a gift.

Like many, I was struck by the boy who appeared to play the banjo in the “Dueling Banjos” scene. “Appeared” because not only could he not play the banjo, but he could not be gotten to fake playing the banjo; apparently, there’s another kid’s arm in the sleeve faking the playing.

The face that you don’t forget when you see Deliverance belonged to a backward boy of fifteen named Billy Redden, who had the role of a retarded banjo player. The thin-lidded eyes and simple grin are haunting on film, and they were just as disturbing to see on the set.

Summer of Deliverance, Christopher Dickey

A short time later in the movie would appear a woman and child who were equally “disturbing” and underdeveloped. Then there are, of course, the two men who attack the Ned Beatty character.

My gut reaction was to think, “Oh, who would believe this — that this kind of thing existed in 1970s America?” I was a skeptic. I posted my doubts to a mailing list that happened to have a lifelong Georgian on it, and he told me that such people do indeed exist, especially in the northern part of the state, and nothing in the movie was an exaggeration.

I thought back to a young adult book I’d been given years ago named Christy by Catherine Marshall, about a young urban girl, living at perhaps turn of the century or a little after, who is drawn to the Appalachians to serve as a Christian missionary. It’s been years since I read it so I don’t remember details, but Christie is taken aback and unnerved by the poverty, ignorance, and backwardness she sees everywhere. The only person who can really understand her perspective and that of the local people is a Scots doctor who grew up in the area.

There is no such thing as sanitation, so typhoid is rampant. When babies are “tetchy,” the mother shakes them as a “cure” — often resulting in the baby’s death. Trepanning is high-tech surgery. There is an otherworldliness to Christie that is difficult to explain, just as there is an otherworldliness that comes across briefly in Deliverance. The awesome beauty of nature populated by people who are little evolved from ancestors hundreds of years ago — and who clearly suffer the result of generations of inbreeding.

I find this otherworldliness, for all its suffering, brutality, and primitivism, strangely haunting and fascinating. My mind, overwhelmed by urban and suburban sprawl, a mushrooming population, media saturation, the Internet, people and technology and information everywhere until I feel a desperate need to escape at any cost, cannot fathom that there are, or were in the 1970s at least, parts of the country where everything I feel crushed by barely exists.

I would love to see northern Georgia today. Somehow, I suspect I would find satellite and cable/digital TV, an onslaught of advertising, and even a computer or two. I would be disappointed.

You see, Deliverance (and Christie) are trips in time, to a past that we no longer remember or care about, when America was covered in forest and young and brutal and backwards. That time is past, but the snapshot may still be there, and that is surely a wonder.