"Have you forgotten, this is like, you know, the 21st century, for Chrysler's sake?" asked Jessie's roommate, a "broad-beamed and buxom babe," as she called herself, from North Carolina. A true "Southern Belle," she was careful of her language; using "Chrysler" in vain was as close as she ever came to profanity.
"I know the date as well as where we are and who I am," Jessie responded, "and I don't need to reenact the sexual revolution in order to feel like a woman. Bob will ask when he's ready."
"And if he doesn't?"
"If he doesn't, then my name is Josephine, his is Napoleon, and you can forget about this being the 21st century. He'll ask. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but he's going to and when he does, I'll say 'yes.'"
"And in the meantime...?"
"In the meantime, I've got an Foundations of Doctoring practical tomorrow and a date to see The Incredibles Saturday afternoon, so shut up and let me listen to your heart."
That was six years ago. We were only talking about going out. I can imagine what she'd say to me now, Jessie mused on the drive home from Concord, ask him about the conversation with your father. Did he approve or didn't he? It was early evening and Bob was dozing in the passenger seat while she took a turn at the wheel. She liked the Escape's audio system and found an alternative rock station on Sirius playing the instrumental version of Linkin Park's The New Divide. The difference between Jessie and her roommate was, Jessie insisted relational freedom was reciprocal. When he's ready, he'll tell me.
"If I had it to do over, I'd be their drummer."
"I thought you were asleep." She glanced at him briefly.
"I was, and dreaming about playing with Linkin Park. We were in concert at Madison Square Garden and instead of a bass drum, I had a giant stethescope that snaked around the stage with the diaphragm for a drum head."
"Sounds like the 'rhythm of medicine,'" she said, smiling at the image. "What do you think it means?"
"I should ask Chuck next week. I suppose it has something to do with being creative about life or putting things together in new ways." He lowered the seat back and stretched his long frame, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and changed the subject. "Your father is quite a guy."
"That's what he said about you, just as we were leaving. He really likes you -- so does everyone else."
"I enjoyed them all tremendously," he said, "they're warm and friendly. It was like spending an afternoon with my cousins out West. I especially liked how your father is unafraid to voice his doubts about what he believes -- it came up in our conversation on the porch. I didn't ask, it didn't seem polite, but how did he ever manage to become a deacon? I'd have assumed one would have to toe the party line for that sort of thing and he strikes me as someone who makes up his own rules."
"He does and he doesn't," she said. "He believes in the core principles -- you'll have to ask him what he means by that -- but everything else is up for grabs, as he puts it. He says faith is a living thing and has to be worked out continuously in the sweat and stress of daily life. If we'd pay closer attention, he says, we'd hear the voice of God in each other, but mostly we're too busy looking for burning bushes to notice."
"I like that," Bob said, thoughtfully. "And you're right, he still loves your mother."
"He told you?"
"In so many words. He said whatever she found lovable about him, it's something he tries to live up to, even now. It was the way he said it, almost reverently. I think 'true love' for him has religious significance. He used the term 'sacramental,' and while I didn't entirely follow him, I have an idea he means it's transcendent, rather like we were talking the other night. He said it changed him and I know it's changing me."
She looked over at him in the darkness of the November new moon and thought, If I live to be 100, Bob Z., I'll never cease to be surprised by you. When she turned back toward the road, he slipped his arm around her shoulders and gently kneaded the muscles at the base of her neck. She sighed and said, "Me, too."
(Creative Commons image by tortipede via Flickr)
Well, at long last I'm on the brink of clinical rotations, my first being scheduled to begin next week. Four weeks of osteopathic manipulative medicine in private practice followed by four more of community medicine at a different location, and so it goes, one after the other. I will most certainly graduate on time, in the sense that I'll walk across the stage with my graduating class, knowing members of my entering class will be in the audience. They've had to wait a long time for me to join them and that moment will represent a triumph for us all.
However, since I'm beginning rotations later in the academic year, this means I'll have to complete a few after graduation. As a result, while I'll go through the ceremony, actually completing medical school will have to wait a bit. It happens; I'm not the first nor will I be the last. For some students, the art of medical school begins at the point where their education departs from the well-beaten path. Incidentally, this is also the point at which medical school becomes, or at least ought to become, a character-building experience. Whether it does so or not depends on the person, as does most everything in life. There's nothing automatic and there are no guarantees.
One thing happens or another and the first thing you know, your scheduled graduation is postponed by a year and what your fellows will accomplish in four, you'll do in five. Then you try to run the blockade of board exams and another year gets tacked on for good measure. Finally you find a way through that smokescreen and begin rotations. That's where I am now.
The extent to which you can call any of this "character building" seems like a joke when it's coming down on top of you. Your only goal is to survive. If you can manage it with a modicum of self-esteem intact, you've come a long way, baby. You tell yourself every hurdle overcome is one closer to getting you where you wanted to be in the first place. And that's not a lie. Even better, it gradually dawns on you that every one has the potential to bring you closer to others when their path diverges in the wood and circumstances decide which fork they're going to take, whether they like it or not.
If there's anything I've gotten from my own experience it's the opportunity to be grateful for those connections. As you may have guessed or long suspected, I'm not one of those who prefers the company of persons who have no idea what it's like to bang your head against a wall to that of those who do. I like people who've faced their demons and have the scars to prove it. They have a depth which makes me feel strengthened and enlivened from being in their presence. There's a lot of experiences I've felt I could have done without, but in the long run, the fact that they've created friendships with people like I've just described, makes me realize there are worse things than having Lady Luck turn her back on you.
(Creative Commons image entitled "Lady Luck" by Emily Raw via Flickr)
The Livingstone House, as the parishioners of Grace Episcopal Church fondly referred to it, wasn't exactly in Concord, though its mailing address claimed otherwise. About a mile outside the town limits, Bob swung his Escape onto a country lane lined on both sides with white flat-board fences declaring the acreage within to be horse pasture. At alternating intervals, first right then left, between the fence posts, were rows of not quite leafless maple, chestnut, and birch trees, creating a scene that would have made Norman Rockwell envious.
It was the first weekend in November and the previous month's Halloween was one he and Jessie would retell until their children knew it by heart. The two of them, along with Halley and Ted, dressed up like Harry Potter characters -- Bob as Ron, Jessie as Hermione, Halley was Delores Umbridge, and Ted made a very passable Rubeus Hagrid. They took the twins, each wearing a miniature peaked black witch's hat, trick or treating, and passed out candy to the children they met. Halley enshrouded the baby carriage built for two with black satin, like a hearse, and they took turns at the helm. If it takes a village to raise a child, as Hillary Clinton said, the twins were well on their way.
The lane curved deeply into a stream-fed, thickly wooded glen, and they drove through a small but classic New England covered bridge. Another bend to the right, a quick one to the left, and if they weren't careful, they'd have overshot the driveway marked by orange reflectors and a large, white wooden mailbox decorated with painted yellow daisies and the name "Livingstone" on the side in dark blue script. The reflectors were the small, round variety perched on twisted metal stems extending from ground level, informing nighttime drivers of the existence of an entry onto the lane. There were no street lamps this far into the country.
Bob parked next to a dual-axle Chevy truck with the words, "Southern New Hampshire Large Animal Clinic" lettered on the door with a phone number. "My brother's," said Jessie, as she held her door open for Sam. He bounded out and ran to join a game of frisbee between father, daughter, daughter-in-law, son, and two grandchildren. "Johnny -- we call him that to distinguish him and my dad -- Johnny married Julie, his high school sweetheart," she explained, "and the kids came along while they were in college. They're eight and ten. Julie's the clinic office manager, bookkeeper, and sometime vet tech." Recalling his difficulty remembering names, she winked and said. "Don't worry, we're easy to remember -- think 'J' and you'll feel like you're back in medical school."
Moments later, they were surrounded by her family and a flurry of hugs and handshakes ensued, welcoming Bob as though he was a long, lost cousin. "Thank God Jessie had the good sense to find someone who's name begins with something besides a J," her father said. "We need some variety in this family!"
"Well, I could go by my middle," Bob said, smiling, "James." They laughed at the synchronicity while John herded the group into the house and stood, holding the front door. Bob was about to enter last when John laid a hand on his shoulder and said, "I hope we'll have time for a chat later on, just you and me."
"Yes, sir, I'd like that very much."
"Sir. Did you hear that Jessie?" he shouted, "Bob called me 'sir.' Looks like I'm finally going to get the respect around here I so richly deserve!" He adopted a regal stance, hands on his hips, and gazing about as if surveying his kingdom. The household erupted into laughter as he turned to Bob and said, "I appreciate the compliment, but the truth is, too many 'sirs' and I start looking around to see if my father's risen from the grave." He rolled his eyes for emphasis.
Lunch at the Livingstone House was loud and lively, drowning out the Opus 3 Handel Concerti Grossi playing in the background. Jessie leaned over and whispered, "Don't be afraid to reach for something or to interrupt. Even when my mother was alive, formality at dinner meant you used a napkin instead of your sleeve. Which we all did, but you know what I mean."
"Do you come from a large family, Bob?" asked Johnny. "More gravy?"
"No, I'm afraid, I don't -- yes, thanks -- I'm an only child, but my parents and I were close and I had lots of friends growing up, so I wasn't lonely."
"Me too," said Julie, "Would someone pass the salad, please? When Johnny and I married, I suddenly found I had 'sisters' and it's been wonderful."
It continued like that for a couple of hours, Bob's impression being, these people genuinely like each other. After the birthday cake had been cut and eaten and presents opened, the two kids insisted on more frisbee and were joined by everyone except Bob and John, both of whom settled into wicker chairs on the front porch.
"If I had cigars, I'd offer you one, but since I don't and never smoked them anyway, I guess it's a moot point," John said, with a twinkle. "So, you want to marry my oldest daughter."
"You don't waste any time, do you?" asked Bob, at which the eldest of the two chuckled. "Well, I won't either, but pardon me if I use the word 'sir.' This is one time I feel like I ought to, and yes, sir, I do."
"Don't worry about it. It's never easy talking to the 'father of the bride.' I practically wet my trousers when I asked for her mother's hand. You're doing a little better than that, I presume?"
"My hands are sweating, how's that?"
"It's good -- don't laugh, I'm serious," he said, "Well, not entirely, but if a fellow wasn't nervous, I'd think there was something wrong, and I am serious about that. No matter how well we knew each other, if he wasn't scared to death I might withhold my approval, I'd wonder if he really loved my daughter."
"You don't have to be concerned about that, not today at least," Bob said, wiping his hands on his pants. "It isn't that I'm afraid Jessie would refuse to marry me without your blessing, it's because she's so important to me that I want us to have the support of her family and, especially, you."
"I can appreciate that," said John.
"I realize I'm incredibly fortunate. Jessie is the most...I don't know how to say it without sounding like I'm putting her on a pedestal, which I'm not. She's amazing. I've never known anyone who was so natural, unselfconscious, kind and generous with herself, and yet, incredibly daring at the same time. I've often thought, if I could only be more like her --"
"-- I felt the same about her mother. She was reasonable when I was hard-headed, thoughtful when I couldn't care less -- and she was daring, too, probably where Jessie gets it. I thought marrying me was risky, but not her. She saw something in me worth loving and it made me want to live up to whatever that was." He paused and said, quietly, "I still try to do that."
Bob noticed the change and hesitated a respectful few seconds before continuing. "I fell in love with your daughter before I even knew it. I'm sure she's told you why I waited before saying anything." John nodded. "She's always mattered more to me than I did to myself and I don't think I've ever felt quite that way before. I thought I did, I said I did, and I meant it. But with her," he sighed and shook his head, "everything is...different. I'm probably not explaining this well and I'm not sure I can. It's as though the person I used to be has been washed away and she's getting me completely new and untarnished."
John looked down at his lap and was quiet. "You're talking about baptism, whether you realize it or not. Baptism is a sacrament, an outward symbol of an inward grace. Am I losing you? Sorry, let me try again. Your relationship with Jessie is taking you into uncharted territory and you're being changed for the better because of it. What you're describing isn't a metaphor; it's real."
He waited before going on. "If you were coming to me for premarital counseling, I'd say you've found the one you were meant to find." He leaned forward in his chair and said, "Listen, there are women a man can marry and have things work out fine. But when he finds 'the one,' it's much more than that. She makes him feel like his whole life, up to meeting her, has been, for want of a better word, preparation. It's as though he's been getting ready for her, and now the stage is set for his real life, the one for which he was born, to begin. And it's the same with her. How that's going to unfold, depends on them. There are no road maps. We discover it as we go."
It was Bob's turn to be silent and he was for a long minute. "You keep using the term, 'meant.' Do you think it was fate that brought us together?"
"Well, fate, the will of God, the benevolence of the universe, I don't know. Jessie probably told you I have more than my share of doubts about the things I believe. All I know with certainty is what I've experienced, and on that basis, I think it's safe to say some relationships -- like the one I had with her mother -- are so unique, so distinct, it takes more faith than I have to presume they resulted merely from the luck of the draw. Remember your Shakespeare? 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreampt of in your philosophy.' It helps to keep an open mind."
"I've said that very thing many times in other contexts," Bob said, referencing John's last statement. "And I have doubts as well, but if there is anything to what you believe, and I mean that respectfully, then loving and being loved by Jessie is the proof of it." Shifting his gaze to Jessie, who was about to leap for an awesome catch, he said simply, "She's the love of my life."
"I know," said John, following his gaze, "and you're hers. That's why you don't have to worry about my approval."
"I don't? Does that mean you...?"
"It does."
(Creative Commons image by Aelle via Flickr)
Well, the snow has stopped for now, but the wind continues to howl, imitating the sound of a passenger jet flying low overhead. Or the sound of traffic on the highway from the patio of my apartment in Champaign this past fall. It's funny how one thing triggers the memory of another. Oh, it's started again -- snowing. We had a couple of inches before Christmas, enough to qualify for a white one, and I have an idea Maine has seen the last of the soil until spring.
This is the kind of snow I loved and hated as a kid. Loved because my gloves didn't soak through while playing, hated because it was too dry to pack. No snowballs or snowmen will be forthcoming from this one. The wet snows were my father's bane. First, my gloves would get wet, so I'd come inside and tell my mother. She'd produce another pair, usually my dad's, and I'd go back out and play until those were too wet and cold to wear. Once again inside and "Mom!" Another pair of my father's, and you guessed it, he'd come home later to find all of his, side by side with mine, dripping in front of the radiator. This did not make him happy.
"Son, I needed gloves so that I could do some work in the barn and feed the horses."
"But I needed them to play." I felt badly -- really, I did. While I was playing, though, it was hard to see further than the next snowball.
"Mm. Well, do me a favor, next time leave me at least one pair, okay?"
"Okay." The lessons of my youth.
I think about those days when it snows because, as soon as it stops snowing, I'll go out and start digging my way from the door to the driveway, and then from the barn door to the street. My polartech gloves will be the first to dampen, then my old wind-proof gloves I got at REI in Boulder, and finally, if it comes down to it, my leather work gloves.
Thankfully, if all else fails, I still have a pair of my father's in a drawer. I guess I could always resort to those. Psst. Don't tell him, okay?
(Creative Commons image by Grant MacDonald via Flickr)
This is just a note to let you know, if you don't see any new posts before Tuesday, it's because we've lost power. We're under a blizzard warning in my area and power outages are possible. If that occurs, then Sunday's, Monday's, as well as Tuesday, will hopefully, appear at the same time -- more or less. Thanks!
Image via Wikipedia I mentioned yesterday, in addition to The Santa Clause, The Santa Clause 2 was one of my favorite Christmas films. The reason is, both of these, but especially the second, points out the significance of Santa Claus for adults. This isn't something one usually thinks about, the presumption being, Santa, his elves and reindeer are the stuff of fairy tales and, as everyone knows, fairy tales are for children. The thing is, that's not entirely true.
Fairy tales, as they are written, as "they lived happily ever after" stories, are for children. As a vehicle for communicating truths about life, however, fairy tales are for adults and most of the literature you'll see concerning their meaning applies to adults. Movies and television can be helpful as springboards for discussion because we all see the same image played out and have the same frame of reference.
In The Santa Clause 2, Scott Calvin aka Santa, has a problem. In order for him to remain Santa, he has to fulfill The Mrs. Clause, i.e. he has to find a wife. It helps to read the fine print before signing on the dotted line. Anyway, in the course of searching for one he can live with, he actually finds one he wants to be with, but wouldn't you know it? she has a problem, too. When he tries to reveal his identity, she refuses to believe him. This is not a minor detail. We can't very well expect her to marry a man she can't or ought not to have believed, can we? I know of women (men, too) who've done it, but they lived to regret it. Well, Carol, our character, has a reason for her disbelief. She was very seriously disappointed as a child when her parents informed her there was no Santa.
Now, this isn't like Lois Lane's incredulity over Clark Kent telling her he's Superman. Carol was hurt so badly by her parents' revelation that she continues to be extremely sensitive about anything related to Christmas. As a result, she's done what anyone might under similar circumstances, i.e. set up defenses to avoid being hurt again. But this only makes it harder for her to trust, and before she can experience Scott's love, she has to be willing to trust.
Carol's not the only one character with Christmas "issues." We see her, Scott, and the faculty of a school where she is principal, at a Christmas party, and it's a lifeless one. There is no joy or frivolity, no one is dancing -- they all act like they've come down with a bad case of the blues. In an effort to intervene "therapeutically," Scott introduces the "Secret Santa." Although Carol whispers to him there is no Secret Santa, he insists there is and produces a bag of gifts to prove it.
When the packages are opened, each person discovers either a toy from childhood they wanted but kept to themselves or one that was especially meaningful. These aren't just any toys, these are special toys, healing toys -- ones that possess the power to touch a person, not only where they've been hurt, but where the pain lingers. In a sense, they are sacramental, conveying the grace of genuineness, of letting go, of playing with abandon. Self-consciousness vanishes as the party goers are free to be themselves.
I entitled this post, The Healing Clause as a word-play on the film's title, because it seems to me the mythic role Santa plays in the lives of adults is that of healer. It may be something we experience with our children, watching them light up at the sight of Santa at the end of Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade or any other parade of the season. Smaller ones, too, like Boulder's Lights of Christmas, where I've stood on the sidewalk, with gloved hands round a rapidly cooling cup of hot chocolate, alongside children who were cold as icicles until they saw Santa and his reindeer and everything changed.
Something happens as we remember old hurts and the jolly old man in a sleigh somehow touches our hearts and we begin to let them go. I don't understand it, maybe it's the power of myth, maybe it's the Season, maybe it's beyond me, but wherever the magic comes from, I know it's real because I'm different and others are different around me. If you've experienced it, you know what I mean and if you haven't, I hope someday you do. You'll be glad you did.
(Fair use of low-resolution image of copyrighted movie poster for The Santa Clause 2 to provide critical commentary on the film itself and not merely as an illustration. Source: Wikipedia)
For the record, let me say The Santa Clause is my favorite Christmas film, hands down. What makes it so special for me is the way Scott Calvin is changed on the inside by circumstances he clearly can't control, as well as the impact of those changes on those around him. It's a theme repeated in The Santa Clause 2, another favorite, one that I'll revisit later this weekend. Right now, what I'd like to do is ask, whatever happened to poor Rudolph? Have you ever noticed, he's not included in Santa's reindeer? Did the filmmakers mess up? What's going on here?!
Well, I think the explanation may have crept into my head sometime between cup of coffee #1 and #2 this morning. The first description of Rudolph appeared in a booklet written in 1939 by Robert L. May on assignment by the department store giant, Montgomery Ward. Eventually, his story became a song and the rest, as they say, is history. Rudolph has been a fixture in Santa Claus mythology ever since. But not in The Santa Clause.
The reason we don't see Rudolph in the film is simple. There are no foggy Christmas Eves. Rudolph's claim to fame results from a single night when Santa needed him. His is the tale of the "fool" who is rejected by all until the time comes when only he can save the day. He was never intended to be the ninth reindeer forever and he only shows up when the flying conditions are poor enough that Santa needs fog lamps. Not on snowy Christmas Eves or bright, shining moon-lit ones like last night's in Maine. But on foggy ones when not even the sharpest-eyed can find their way through the soup between the North Pole and points south.
Now, I think this is an important piece of information to have at hand, especially when our children notice, as they most certainly will, that Rudolph is missing. It's not an inaccuracy or a mistake or, as unbelievers would suggest, evidence that it's all humbug anyway. It's simply an accurate reflection of the fact that Rudolph has a unique role and only fills it when necessary.
I guess you could call him the Good Samaritan Reindeer. Kind of like the three people who came to the rescue of a woman trapped in a rollover crash last night near my home. They didn't have to stop and Rudolph could have told Santa he was busy, but they did and he didn't, the woman is recovering nicely and Santa made his rounds on time. I like that. Rudolph is a reindeer with a conscience.
So, remember, now, when you look up into the Christmas Eve sky, searching faithfully, as I do every year, for a sign, a streak of light, or anything at all that fulfills the desire of your heart to see him at long last, don't be disappointed if there's not a red spot in the lead. Not unless it's foggy that is, and then Rudoph's nose is all you'll see. And that will be good enough for me.
P.S. To all who have made this blog a part of your lives the past year(s), please accept my sincerest thanks and best wishes to you and yours for a wonderful and blessed Christmas and Holiday Season!
Beggar, the dog, and the cat
(Creative Commons image by Zoomloes via Flickr)
