Halfway There?

The bookmark in my copy of Half Empty by David Rakoff rests at page 100. That means I have yet to reach the halfway point of the 224 pages. This is not the first book I’ve owned when the author passed away. In fact, Rakoff had been quite public about his battle with cancer. It still caught me off-guard when his death was announced

This prompted me to wonder how many of the books I own and the music in my possession were created by individuals who are no longer alive. For some, their absence has not a tremendous loss. Even if they by some miracle they did create something new, I’d pretty much feel content with what already exists. While it was sad for me when John Lee Hooker died, because of the 250+ songs of his on my computer (fourteen and a half hours worth), it’s hard to imagine that if he recorded one more song that it would make much difference.

I am more troubled by people who were alive when I first learned of their existence than those who were dead before I knew they were around. I can’t miss Miles Davis or John Dewey all that much. In my life, they have always been deceased. Those who I have read or listened to while they were still alive but are no longer – their absences bother me. Only in my darkest moods do I dread the passing of artists and performers who I still want to read and hear from just a little bit more.

I have heard the elderly say that one of the hardest things about growing old is that everyone they knew is dead. Even with new births and new acquaintances added to one’s human life list, at some point it most feel that half the people you know are dead. Would this be some morbid half-life (half-death) metric? But wait, that would depend on your social circumstances. Rather than worrying what death will put me over the halfway point (presuming I’m not there yet) maybe we could consider how to live life in an effort to delay this half-dead point for as late in life as possible.

The day after I was born, everybody I had ever met was still alive. The doctor who smacked my white hiney and the nurses who clucked their tongues when my mother cursed my father’s name were probably kicking around for several more decades. My maternal grandmother might have been the first person I actually was in contact with who died – but I think I was just 3 or 4 years old. A few days after finishing fourth grade, one of my classmates accidentally killed himself with a deer rifle – at age ten-and-a-half. That had been one of my favorite school years and I had cherished my teacher. How tragic to all come together (minus one) less than a month after summer vacation had begun.

So the plan would be to heavily restrict your acquaintances early on in life but with the plan to have an ever-accelerating pool of friends as the years went by. An added strategy would be to select only healthy friends who possess genes for longevity. If I’m calculating correctly and I doubled my number of acquaintances each year, then on the day I was married, I would have known 4 million people. That’s more than the population of Chicago at that time. I suppose another strategy would be much more escapist wherein I would move to another part of the world and assume that everyone I once knew was still alive – which in some ways they could be since I wouldn’t know of their deaths. It wouldn't be honest but then who would it really matter to except me?

And then I realize that the best compromise is to simply get to know as many people as I can and hope they remember me with a smile when they hear I’ve moved along.

testing for authenticity

Saturday's trip into the countryside was propelled by a pressing need for a new bookcase for my office. Instead, it was a nice excuse to get out of the air-conditioned house in order to zip about in an air-conditioned car. We went to an old mill town near the Rhode Island border that has an entire downtown dedicated to luring in those seeking antiques. We saw lots of old stuff, not all of which qualifies as antiques. I don't know quite why but old spice canisters and magazines, even when sheathed in plastic, still feel like junk to me.

I knew there were no incredible finds there. Being in such proximity to BOS and PVD and NYC, all the amazing treasures have long since been extracted and are the pride and joy of stealthy shoppers. But it was still amusing to see a raccoon pelt mounted like a bear rug and to puzzle over carvings made in walrus tusks. The arrowheads in that drawer look awfully large and their shape looks more accidental that deliberately crafted by an artisan-hunter. None of this kept me from picking up an old ammunition pouch to wonder if it was really from the French army or to hoist heavy seltzer bottles as I imagined dispensing the makings of an amazing cocktail.

Interestingly, once you get into this mode of doubting objects' authenticity, we continue applying our tests even when uncalled for. Without having purchased an antler-handled corkscrew or an old chemistry reagent bottle, we still had a need to spend. So we cross the street toward the corner coffee shop which has decent beverages and amazing pastries. A short round couple tumbled out of a store front and would have collided with us were we not so nimble (I checked their sandled feet: hairless! They weren't from the Shire). But now outside of antique shops, the guy was still in "is it real?" mode.

He walked by an iron cafe table similar to what is pictured here. And he rapped on it with his knuckles. It was as if he was unsure whether this outdoor furniture was real or resin. The object wasn't for sale as it was clearly associated with a sidewalk cafe. Still, his (and perhaps my) way of interacting the materials was a skepticism about the genuineness of what was in our path. How odd it was to me — not his tactile test — that we continue to rely on senses as tools for judging. Was it hot? Was it solid? Did it ring or did it thud? And now I wonder what equivalent tests of authenticity I have "in hand" to assess whether a science teaching applicant is genuine in his intentions? How might I rap on his head or his record to establish the promise or absence of potential?

being handy, man

There was no reason to go to campus today. Anything I might need to do befitting my title could have been accomplished from home. There's a manuscript I should read, there's a book review I can finish, and there is a proposal I should write for a conference next spring. Instead, I took advantage of the weekday and was handy.

First, I took the old vehicle to our friendly mechanic. When I go too fast while taking the hard right by the pizza joint on the corner, I hear something rubbing/scraping. It's been doing that for awhile. I few weeks ago, I actually looked at the right rear tire and it had a major bump on it. I was scared because I thought it was a weak spot in the sidewall. Or some Vulcanized cyst that might cause havoc. But as usually works with bodily health concerns (incl. a root canal I delayed for months) it all seemed to go away.

So the reason I was going to the mechanic is because the vehicle started hopping on a certain stretch of road. At first, I thought the asphalt had a washboarded surface. But then it happened on the highway. It's hard to replicate the behavior and that also makes me reluctant to take it in to be looked at. If I expressed concern to the tire store, they're going to sell me a new set of tires. For some reason, I fall for the line about buying them in pairs. And then there's the extra charge for "balancing" which we all know just means they hammer some old lead fishing weights to the rim. And if I thought the rear suspension was going, then if I took it to that shop, I'd find myself using a couple of credit cards to buy new shocks or struts or springs. Was the car lurching a little because of the transmission? All I knew was that Jim charges an honest yet hefty fee but usually fills the stinky, aquamarine banter that can be repeated at home all the way from dinner to bedtime. But his shop's gate was chained shut and I was refilling my coffee cup at home in ten minutes.

 

There on the wooden kitchen island was the half-pint of vinyl spackle I picked up a couple days ago at the True-Value hardware store. It might have been enough to retrieve the window that was having a pane being replaced. But the garage walls could use some touching up. I thought spackle might be near the paint drop cloths, but it wasn't. Nor was it on the same aisle as other putties that help plumbers and woodworkers. I did find it on my own, bought it, and set it on the roof of the vehicle so I could gently load the window pane. But I didn't forget it there so when I got home, I first took in the window and made a second trip to retrieve the lidded cup. I wonder if "vinyl spackling" has the necessary subject and predicate to qualify as a complete sentence.

After a day and half in the kitchen, I took the spackle out to the garage. I set it on the circular saw case that is heavily covered in dust. This was the same saw that charred its way through some walnut boards of the detached garage roof in Cleveland. Now the saw is a shelf for the spackle. I turned it so the label shows what it contains, just like if it was on display at a meticulously organized hardware store. Now I have the raw materials such that when I finish watching the Louis C.K. episodes I just discovered on Netflix, I can move forward with my handyman ways and perhaps paint the garage this summer.