Betsy said it and we laughed.
I can’t remember what we
were talking about. I just
remember how we laughed
and remarked that that was
a good one when she said,
“God isn’t who He used to be.”
I kind of want to tell you more,
you know, the context of our
conversation or to expound on
the implications, the irony which
instantly brought laughter.
But whatever more I could tell
you is already there for you to see.
It is in the remark itself:
“God isn’t who He used to be.”
It’s about us.
The very idea that I’m here has its problems;
the mystery, the purpose, how oppressive
life can be at times. Still, relatively speaking,
thanks for the food, the clothes, the roof,
walls, etc., etc. Thanks for my particular brain,
without which I couldn’t find truth or beauty
or sense outside the dark part and without
which none of these thoughts could happen.
Thanks for the serendipity of family and
friends – love and life-sharing. And thanks
for the rest on the list. Why thanks? I don’t
know; perhaps it’s wishful.
So thanks to Whoever …
I don’t know why I had the thought,
what I heard or saw or … what triggered it.
These thoughts just happen—pop up,
flutter out of our unconscious like
loose confetti notes to confront us,
remind us—perhaps help us if we indulge.
I thought, “I used to sing in the shower.”
Huh, when did I stop? It was a very long
time ago. I liked singing in the shower.
It felt good! So why did I stop? I felt
a sense of loss. What changed … in me?
It was so long ago. “What songs did I sing?”
It took awhile. Then I remembered “Billy Boy.”
It was one of my favorites. My mother sang it
to me when I was a little boy. It had gathered
dust somewhere in my brain but I found it.
“Oh where have you been Billy Boy, Billy Boy,
oh where have you been, charming Billy?”
Yes, where have you been, Billy Boy?
I’ve missed you.
A swimmer who has ventured too deeply
into the dark depths of the sea
must struggle upward toward the light
and a sustaining breath of air—
to survive, to know another day.
Depending on what we have been given,
how much we are allowed to know,
some of us struggle upward for more.
In our clarified moments we seek beauty.
It is an attempt to find meaning —
a higher purpose beyond mere survival.
There was nothing new or different about
this argument. It was as familiar as
the other’s face.
It was about where an ashtray should be –
left or right side of the coffee table –
front or back edge.
It started out nicely, at least to someone
who didn’t know them, know about
their Ashtray War.
He collected ashtrays. They were his pride
and joy, showed them to everyone –
all 463 of them.
She hated them, or more accurately
hated him for elevating them
above her wishes.
As always, the argument escalated into
a full-blown, certifiably crazy
Ashtray War Battle!
Like a bad repeating TV show it would end
then replay with scant new
creative content.
Of course none of it had anything to do
with ashtrays. Not a thing.
Zero! Zip! Nada!
I went back to visit my yesterdays,
but I couldn’t find me there.
I reached out my hand to an old
love of mine but all I got was air.
I looked for my childhood friends
But couldn’t find them anywhere.
Perhaps it was all a dream I had.
Perhaps I was never there.
It was the summer of 1950. I was sixteen. I lived in a suburb of Philadelphia with my mother, father, and three older sisters. One day, a buddy of mine, Mike DeAngelo, asked me if I wanted to go into Philly with him. He had an uncle who was a jewelry designer and he wanted to pay him a visit where he worked. I rarely had a reason to go into the city and since I was always looking for new adventures, of course I said yes.
After a trolley and bus ride and a short walk, we arrived at the building. I wanted to explore the neighborhood so I asked Mike for the floor and office number of the company his uncle worked for and told him I would meet him there in a little while. About half an hour later, I headed back to the office building.
The lobby had six elevators—three on each side facing each other. In 1950 elevators had elevator operators and in my very limited experience the ones I had seen were all men—but not in this building. As I entered the lobby all six elevator doors were open and standing by each open door was a very pretty uniformed girl. None of them looked older than eighteen.
For what I am about to tell you to make sense, you should know that I was a bit shy at that age, especially when suddenly confronted with six beauties all at once. But I had no idea of just how shy and foolish I would soon feel. I look back now and chuckle a little at my confused and inept reaction to what happened all those long years ago. But at sixteen it was a pretty big deal.
So I had just walked into the lobby; saw six pretty girls in uniform standing in open elevator doors waiting for passengers to get aboard. I saw a couple of people going into an elevator near me so I headed for that one. But as I got closer, the pretty elevator operator waved me off and pointed to another elevator. I turned and saw an empty elevator with another very pretty operator who was leaning against the side of the open door with a big “get on my elevator” smile on her face. But what’s going on? The other elevator wasn’t full. In fact it only had two people in it. Oh well, what do I know? I went into the empty elevator and in the time it took me to turnaround, the very pretty operator had closed the door.
I remember clearly that I said, “Eighth floor please.” And up we went. But we didn’t stop at the eighth floor. I said, “We just went past the eighth floor.” The very pretty girl didn’t say anything until she stopped the elevator a few seconds later and opened the door at the tenth floor—a vacant floor. All I could see was a big empty room. When she was satisfied that I had seen the empty room, she closed the door, turned off the interior elevator light, and said, “Your move.” It’s true. This is nonfiction.
A little red light on a kind of control panel gave off enough light to let me see her leaning in the corner next to it. To say that I was flustered, confused, and totally inexperienced would sum it up quite nicely. She repeated, “Your move.” I can’t say now whether my mind was racing or it had basically shutdown. Whatever the case, finally, I said, “Take me to the eighth floor.” That’s what I said. Do you believe it! She asked, “Really?” And I kind of mumbled “Yeah.” She flipped the lights back on and down we went. I walked out of the elevator in a kind of otherworldly daze. Geez, what just happened? I think I just blew it!
Mike was ready to go when I arrived. He introduced me to his uncle and we left. As we approached the eighth floor elevators all I could think about was “Please let it be a different elevator.” My head was still spinning from that remarkable ride and I hadn’t yet decided whether I’d tell Mike what happened. But I knew exactly what he’d say if I did.
It was a different elevator! So far, so good. We got down and out to the street without any sign of that very pretty, audacious elevator operator. But I couldn’t hold it in any longer. As we walked toward the bus stop I told Mike what had happened—the whole story. And as expected—as any red-blooded, hormone rattled sixteen year-old boy would—he slammed on the brakes. He jumped in front of me and said, “This just happened? One of those gorgeous girls? She actually turned out the light?! She said ‘Your move?!’ And what did you say? ‘Take me to the eighth floor?!’ Man! Are you nuts?! Which one was she? OK, let’s go back.”
We didn’t go back. I couldn’t go back. It was done. At that moment I felt so pathetically embarrassed and confused that I sure wasn’t ready for a redo.
Did I want to go back? Did I think about it the next day? Or the next week? What do you think? One thing was very clear, though: I still had a lot to learn. And I did learn. And as I write these final words I have a nice, warm smile on my face as I remember The Elevator Ride.
I talk to a lot of old people. That’s because I’m one of them and we tend to find each other—sometimes because we need each other. Too many old people feel lonely too much of the time and try not to with each other. It doesn’t always work well, though.
Mind you, not all old people have this experience. Some are still important members of their family, like it was a couple of generations ago. They have children who love, respect, and honor them—who are deeply aware and appreciative of what their parents did for them—have given them, even endured for them. They are the most fortunate.
But for far too many, their story is a sad one. You see, they are not as vital as they once were yet they are, after all, still alive. It is most certainly a different kind of “aliveness” though.
For many, their poor health adds heavily to their burden. Body, soul, and heart hurt all at once. Some wonder every day why they are still here; for what purpose, they ask. They are left with distant memories, equivocal thoughts, and unanswerable questions. They feel like they have spent most of their life-time chips yet they don’t seem to have much of value to show for it.
For some, their children pay little to no attention to them. They ask: Have I wasted my life? What have I done with all those years? I must have failed miserably as a parent; just look at how indifferent my children are toward me. It is as though all of those long, hard years meant nothing. How grotesquely strange and sad it is for them. I know these things because they tell me.
An old adage, which was well known to them when they were children, is now just one more source of pain. Not very long ago it was a foundational principal of all mature civil cultures, yet now it has become a relic in its time. The adage is: “Your children bring you comfort and joy in your old age.” They ask, “Really?”
America is not a good place to be old. Culturally, we are like a randomly assembled mosaic—discordant and unsettling when viewed. Ah, what is this strange piece? Oh, I don’t feel well when I look at it.
Then too, depending on our ethnic juxtaposition and our core nature, some of us are more alive than others. Latin families seem to practice traditional family values and mores. And, generally speaking, women do better than men. I haven’t read any studies on this, but a few ideas come to mind. First, if a man has spent the bulk of his life in the workplace with a well-defined purpose, he is apt to be rather lost and at sea without a rudder when he retires.
We are called “senior citizens.” Arriving at this place was a subtle process. It creeps up on you and for some time after you arrive you still don’t quite get it. It takes awhile to acknowledge that you are actually old—that others have already moved you into that category and that it is time for you to acknowledge the same. I’m old, you say to yourself. Damn! When did that happen?
Of course there are some who define “old” differently. They say things like, “I’ve never felt better in my entire life.” And who am I to argue with them? Though I do wonder how they must have felt when they were young.
America is for young people—that is unless, as I said, you are a part of certain ethnic groups that still honor their elders or you are simply fortunate enough to have attentive, caring children. But in America we honor and promote youth and all that attaches. Notwithstanding the aforementioned pockets of old-school ethnic cultures and some religiously orientated families where the elderly are still held in high esteem, the cultural ethos of America oozes with the superficiality of youth worship and the cult of celebrity. If not ignored entirely, young people may occasionally acknowledge old people at a distance. On certain holidays or birthdays they may dispassionately deign to invite their parents into their homes as a superficial, routine duty—yet not as revered elders.
I knew a fellow old guy with ten kids whose wife had died years earlier. He was 87 and he told me that he rarely heard from any of his children. Of course I don’t know what kind of a father he was but I do know that he was a very sad old man. He died about a year ago of cancer.
And so it goes …
Oh Dark One, purveyor of evil, time traveler,
spanner of eons, how deftly you intuit weakness,
squeeze your fetid intentions into hopeful souls
defaming histories once noble and good.
Is it true that you must be? Could we not
imagine a life quite lovely without you?
Or have we in our veiled ignorance simply
designed you for clarity and meaning?
Perhaps you do not exist at all.
Old man, what’s on your mind today?
Are you up and about? Are you vital
and determined, today? What purpose
will you conjure up? Will you consider
your mortality or will you ignore reality?
Will you seek new possibilities or will
you regret what is done? Tell me old man,
who will you be today?