Telegram

Another One

She had a gift for celebration, and since she's been gone, the celebrations haven't been the same because nobody has quite had her gift. The secret is, when you celebrate someone every day, the once-a-year celebration has some real meaning. A birthday should be a day of grace, not a day of obligation; and grace is not just passed down from heaven, it is passed hand to hand. I was most honored this birthday by those who honor me every day; those who neglect me ordinarily did not convince me their motions today were anything but formalities. I was surprised by some who made an extra and unexpected effort towards me, and I got a surprise which may mean there's a delicate situation. The card I got reads, "A few of us would like to offer our sincere wishes for a happy birthday. The rest are just here for cake." To the sincere few, sincere thanks.


David on 11.30.04 @ 06:18 PM CST [link]

Backstory

It was many and many a year ago, and it was a kingdom by the sea. The name of the kingdom was California, and Mr. Copperfield moved his family there, at the behest of his employer and in the interest of his own advancement and security. It was the first time Mrs. Copperfield had ever been so far from her home, in Philadelphia. She loved the kingdom, the friendly neighbors, the wide streets, the sunny skies, the mild climate, the pacific sea. And it came to pass that she conceived a child, who would be her third and last son. I imagine that it was around this time, on this day, that he stirred within her, and between the two of them, they came to an agreement that it was time for him to meet his world. Early in the morning of the next day, she saw him for the first time. And so, I was born (as I have been informed and believe).


David on 11.29.04 @ 06:02 PM CST [link]

Encounter

She was my mother's best friend. Although we live less than a mile from each other, we meet only by chance, or providence, as we did yesterday. We were happy to see each other and swore to get together soon. She smiled as brightly as she ever did, though she had sad news to tell. Then I went out, and she went in, and the world turned.


David on 11.28.04 @ 06:27 PM CST [link]

Man About Town

I went to the Bernardsville Library this morning, and arrived a little before it opened. It is a block of the downtown section of Olcott Square, and I took a walk down through the old paths that were now paved and making do as streets. In behind Sussman's, the one-man department store; down past the post office, the car wash, and the auto-parts store; on past the Station, so called, once a railroad hotel and now, mainly, a restaurant and bar. I turned up Claremont Avenue, passing the Christian Science reading room and an art gallery that was once the accountants' office. A brick-and-frame house on the corner is neglected, cracks in the brick and the back porch sagging down toward the millrace. Along Mill Street, past a construction site where for years there only stood a ghostly foundation, and back to the library. I went in and immediately I was greeted by Mr. Wickfield, who went to the desk and was, as ever, simultaneously courtly and mischievous. He asked or a paper clip. He went to his meeting, and I went to read the local paper.
David on 11.27.04 @ 05:42 PM CST [link]

Morning Sun, Patchy Clouds, Gusty Wind

On Thanksgiving morning it was unnaturally warm and unsettled. An eerie wind would kick up, clouds would rush over and darken their countenances, and then the sun would break out again. A few drops of ran fell, but the foreshadowed cloudburst held off. I was doing a few loads of laundry. The old gentleman who is the attendant at the laundromat was sitting on a bench outside, soaking up the warm rays of sun. He also does maintainance at the Catholic church, I think, and was a volunteer fireman, years ago. I wished him a happy Thanksgiving, and asked him how he liked Hawaii. He told me how he'd been there, for a couple of days in '43, and how they went out on the beach at Waikiki. Just like paradise. And he told me a little of what the rest had been like, at sea on an aircraft carrier, with the regular, attacks by the kamikaze planes, and how the sea had swallowed up his friends, and that he survived to be this, in his own words "a bum". And the light that fell from heaven rested on him.


David on 11.26.04 @ 05:53 PM CST [link]

Thanks

For life; for motion, and perception, and intuition, and intellect, practical and speculative. For a world to live in, real, true, and concrete. For truth which can be known, and a soul with the potential to know it. For those who came before, who laid the foundation. For my family, who protected me and turned me in the direction I went. For Ruth and Joe. For the homes and the food that have sustained and protected me. For the schools that made me flawed and educated, rather than flawed and ignorant. For the friends of my childhood, of my youth, of my adulthood, and of today. Mark, Chris, Bill, Sara, Steve, Cathy, Tom, Neal, Josh. For the joys and sorrows of past loves, of mistakes made, of foolishness and foolhardiness, for those who survived and those who perished. For Alyson, for Laurel. For the times of searching, and developing skills. For the way things changed, and for the strength I found, which was not my own. For the grief that brought me to new life. For Bill and Rose. For Mary Lou, Liz, and Joanna. For Marilyn, for Louisa, for Joan. For real people with real names. For a way to help. For Katie, Denis, and Jenny; Kelly and Kathy; Lena and Sue; Bill and Lynne; George, George, and George; Carol, Carol, and Carole; and all the rest from Audrey to Bjorn, who have given, each according their abilities, generously and without ceasing. For the gift of the past, and its home in memory: of the present, that indestructible feather: and the future, where hope dwells.


David on 11.25.04 @ 01:19 PM CST [link]

After Eight

I had a long chat with Betsey Trotwood last night. A couple of our friends from rummage had been by: Mrs. Grayper, of course, and one who will be Mrs. Passnidge. I was reminded of her, that this would be her first holiday season since her husband's death, and that this is why I have a phone, to contact those not quite close enough to see very often. Her daughter answered my call, took a message, and the return call came in the evening. She apologised for calling so late, and we talked about her kids, her neighbors, her trips to the junkyard, the things she has had to buy, and her plans for the holidays. I told her how old I would be next week, and she told me how old she is. The figures are not too far apart. And there she is, a widow-woman, mother of adults and teenagers, energetically plunging into the changed life that death brought upon her. And here am I, a bachelor-man, adrift without anchor or harbor, on a sea that looks much the same day after day. but that's what I think now, in repose; last night I only thought what a pleasure it was to speak to her and what a delight to have her among my friends.
David on 11.24.04 @ 05:57 PM CST [link]

Resigned

One of my coworkers announced today that she is resigning at the end of the year. She did me the courtesy of telling me privately, so that I wouldn't be the last to hear after it was revealed in the staff meeting, which I do not attend. I hadn't realized that she was so unhappy that this was a possibility for her, and don't know what is at the heart of her decision. I'll miss her; there is only one other person there who is routinely reliable, respectful, and cooperative, and the operation of our facility is a lot harder in their absence.
David on 11.23.04 @ 05:40 PM CST [link]

Sale Days

The sale went very well. I had borrowed two jewelry display cases from Mrs. Grayper, and hovered over that part of the sale, smiled at the ladies, and tried to coax them into buying nice necklaces and earrings. I made four purchases, ten items, over the two days, earrings and a finger puppet for Agnes, various other small gifts for the people on my list I don't know how to buy for, and an ocarina I may keep. A man wandered in looking for the grave of his six-greats grandfather, Col. Israel Rickey. We found it under the oak tree and talked history and geneaogy for quite a while.


David on 11.22.04 @ 05:25 PM CST [link]

Mission Market

Today we are holding a church bazaar or the benefit of our mission budget, featuring craft items from the third world. It has been a lengthy and exhausting process getting to this point. There are many church members involved, they don't all see eye to eye, and many of them, I think, have never been involved in retail from this end. I have arranged the church hall, put out all the tables, and watched them fuss over the details of display. We have a lot of stuff to sell, as far as value, but not much in the way of under-the-counter stock. Open ten to four today, twelve to four tomorrow.


David on 11.20.04 @ 06:47 AM CST [link]

11/17

I just wanted to hear her voice. All I wanted, on a rather drab and melancholy day, was to hear her voice. This year, there isn't any real grief any more; it's just a photograph of a memory of the grief that was, and guilt for not being sadder, and pensiveness, and an acknowledgement of something lost. I took four roses up the hill, the duty the living owe the dead, and I made the call I owed myself, and heard her voice, and she heard mine.
David on 11.18.04 @ 05:20 PM CST [link]

David on 11.17.04 @ 05:09 PM CST [link]

Premebam oculos eius, et confluebat in praecordia mea maestitudo ingens et transfluebat in lacrimas.
David on 11.17.04 @ 06:06 AM CST [link]

Rainbow

The other day I decided to make an effort to notice race. Now, I can't claim to be color-blind; I can only say that, these days, seeing a person of another race is not so remarkable that the mind pays attention. In fact, I had the idea that the place i live and work was becoming rather diverse. But not really; until I stopped forcing myself to notice, easily ninety percent of the people I saw were white. Now that I think of it, "residential diversity", in the form of a minor influx of people of Asian background, happened about fifteen years ago, and has remained static ever since. The rest has been "employment diversity": retail, maintainence and constuction are all more racially diverse than the local population. There is a near-invisible ghetto of struggling Hispanics in the midst of a thriving middle-class town; they provide fuel for the day-labor engine. Our community, I think, looks just diverse enough to induce complacency and self-satisfaction, and that's a shame.


David on 11.16.04 @ 05:56 PM CST [link]

Two Cases

I spoke to Mrs. Grayper a couple of times in the last week. We talked about the election -- she had poured heart and soul into the Kerry campaign -- and about the sale and our friends there. She has a sunny disposition and a great enthusiasm for talk. Politically she lines up much the same as Mrs. Gummidge, but a generation younger, and the differences as well as the similarities are apparent. Mrs. Grayper has been active in business and finance, is polished and urbane, sincere and sophisticated. Mrs. Gummidge was active in the church and in the community as she raised her family; her career was in social work. Activist, outspoken, idealistic: for them both, to think is to act. I am dragging Mrs. Grayper into the project Mrs. Gummidge left this earth without seeing finished.


David on 11.15.04 @ 06:01 PM CST [link]

Dedication

The communion table was decorated with a cloth of earthen hues, and the traditional fruits of autumn. There were flowers on the piers, flowers in the narthex (from the memorial service), flowers in the chapel (from the wedding). There was the treasure chest, open to receive the members' pledge cards. A child forgot the words, waved to his family, and clapped a beat after everyone else. He sneezed once in the middle of the song; it was charming. There was a musical setting of the scriptural reading, an anthem, and a postlude. Coffee in fellowship hall; pickups of the mission market orders, pecans from Wilson College, registration for the Progressive Dinner. I will go with the Micawbers. It was another in a string of clear, cruel Sundays, beautiful and heartless, cold and crumbling like the earth beneath us.


David on 11.14.04 @ 07:26 PM CST [link]