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thebratqueenDid my service today for my UU church. I was a bit nervous in the end. Mostly about things that were out of my control, like announcements that people were supposed to give me by a certain time which got in at the last minute.
Also I'm not 100% certain that our music director didn't make a little subtle snarky comment about my choice of hymns - not like I wanted to pick the damn things, I was more than fine for her doing it but the secretary told me (at the last minute) that it was my job. But possibly I'm just being paranoid. She was sweet in all other conversations so it'd be weird if the one comment was snarky.
A couple of people asked what I would be saying so here it is for those who are interested. In honor of the equinox, the service was on "The Autumn of Life". I and 2 other people read essays and then opened the mic up for people to share.
"Hey kid sis," my brother asked me the other day. "How old are you?"
Glad I wasn't the only one in the family with a horrible head for ages, I replied "27."
"Ha," he said. "You'll be 30 soon."
"Well yeah,"I said, "but I'll still be younger than you."
I mention this because when I sat down to write about the autumn of life, I felt like there was a fundamental problem: I'm in the wrong season. I'm not autumn, I'm spring. I might even be late winter, with an early thaw. But autumn? Not quite.
So I can't sit here and give you wisdom of the ages, unless the wisdom you're looking for is "you and your brother can get along really well without ever knowing how old either of you are."
But what I can talk about is my experience with the autumn of life, particularly as it relates to family. I may not be hitting autumn yet, but members of my family are.
I got a taste of that earlier this year when my dad was in a car accident. Suddenly I went from this happy denial about his mortality - a denial which was working really well until then, I'll have you know - to this clear understanding that there are some things in life that I have no control over.
I don't really want this understanding, I've got to admit. I was going along really well with the current system, where there's 2 generations separating me from having to be the adult, and where as the baby of the family I'm allowed to be as immature as I want to because quite frankly somebody has to be.
Plus, as I've reminded my folks frequently, we have a deal. They're not allowed to die, or so help me I'm going to kill them.
But, things do change. I grow older. My dad grows older. My brothers grow older. My mom, for some strange reason, apparently bucks this system by insisting that she's 29. I tell you it's going to be an interesting birthday for me when my own mom becomes younger than I am. Suddenly my life will be a cross between the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and an episode of Jerry Springer.
Still, mom's fountain of youth aside, we are in a time when changes might not be needed now, but they're definitely in the post. There's going to be a time when I, the baby of the family, will need to take care of my folks - the people who are supposed to be taking care of me.
And I'll do it, and I'll be glad to, because my folks did take care of me no matter how much I screwed up, how much debt I got into, or what weird curveballs about my life I threw them at the dinnertable.
But at the same time, I'll be scared.
My dad has this interesting question that he likes to bring up sometimes, and that is: What age would you be if you didn't know how old you were?
Most of the time I feel pretty much my age. Heck, most of the time I always felt this age, since I was one of those obnoxious kids who acted like she was practically 30 even when she was back in grade school.
Ask me about that change of life, though - that time when I'll have to take care of my folks - and my answer is different.
How old do I feel?
About 3 years old.
And how do I feel about being the "adult"?
Um - eep?
Funnily enough, one of the best essays I ever read on the topic was written by Dave Barry - a guy normally known for jokes about exploding toilets that he swears he's not making up.
His mother died a few years back, and he wrote about the events leading up to it. In honor of kids and parents everywhere, I'd like to read it:
LOST IN AMERICA, by Dave Barry
My mother and I are driving through Hartford, CT, on the way to a town called Essex. Neither of us has ever been to Essex, but we're both desperately hoping that my mother will want to live there. She has been rootless for several months now, moving from son to son around the country, ever since she sold the house she had lived in for forty years, the house she raised us in, the house my father built. The house where he died, April 4, 1984. She would note the date each year on the calendar in the kitchen.
"Dave died, 1984," the note would say. "Come back, Dave."
The note for July 5, their anniversary, said: "Married Dave, 1942. Best thing that ever happened to me."
The house was too big for my mother to handle alone, and we all advised her to sell it. Finally she did, and she shipped all her furniture to Sunnyvale, CA, where my brother Phil lived. Her plan was to stay with him until she found a place of her own out there.
Only she hated Sunnyvale. At first this seemed almost funny, even to her. "All my worldly goods," she would say, marveling at it, "are in a warehouse in Sunnyvale, CA, which I hate." She always had a wonderful sense of absurdity.
After a while it didn't seem so funny. My mother left Sunnyvale to live for a while with my brother Sam, in San Francisco, and then with me, in Florida; but she didn't want to stay with us. What she wanted was a home.
What she really wanted was her old house back.
With my father in it.
Of course, she knew she couldn't have that, but when she tried to think of what else she wanted, her mind would just lock up. She started to spend a lot of time watching soap operas. "You have to get on with your life," I would tell her, in this new, parental voice I was developing when I talked to her. Dutifully, she would turn off the TV and get out a map of the US, which I bought her to help her think.
"Maybe Boulder would be nice," she would say, looking at Colorado. "I was born near Boulder."
"Mom," I would say in my new voice. "We've talked about Boulder fifty times, and you always end up saying you don't really want to live there."
Chastened, she would look back at her map, but I could tell she wasn't really seeing it.
"You have to be realistic," I would say. The voice of wisdom.
When she and I had driven each other just about crazy, she went back out to California, and repeated the process with both of my brothers. Then one night she called to ask, very apologetically, if I would go with her to look at Essex, CT, which she had heard was nice. It was a bad time for me, but of course I said yes, because your mom is your mom. I met her in Hartford and rented a car.
I'm driving; my mother is looking out the window. "I came through Hartford last year with Frank and Mil, on the way to Maine," she says. Frank was my father's brother; he has has just died. My mother loved to see him. He reminded her of my father.
"I miss Frank," says my mother.
Essex turns out to be a beautiful little town, and we look at two nice, affordable apartments. But I can tell right away that my mother doesn't want to be there. She doesn't want to say so, after asking me to fly up from Miami, but we both know.
The next morning, in the motel coffee shop, we have a very tense breakfast.
"Look, Mom," I say, "You have to make some kind of decision." Sounding very reasonable.
She looks down at her map. She starts talking about Boulder again. This sets me off. I lecture her, tell her she's being childish. She's looking down at her map, gripping it. I drive her back to Hartford, neither of us saying much. I put her on a plane; she's going to Milwaukee, to visit my dad's sister, then back to my brother in Sunnyvale, California. Which she hates.
The truth is, I'm relieved that she's leaving.
"You can't help her," I tell myself, "until she decides what she wants." It is a sound position.
About a week later, my wife and I get a card from my mother.
"This is to say happy birthday this very special year," it says. "And to thank you for everything."
Our birthdays are weeks away.
About two days later, my brother Phil calls, crying, from a hospital. My mother has taken a massive overdose of Valium and alcohol. The doctors want permission to turn off the machines. They say there's no hope.
We talk about it, but there really isn't much to say. We give the permission.
It's the only logical choice.
The last thing I saw my mother do, just before she went down the tunnel to her plane, was turn and give me a big smile. It wasn't a smile of happiness; it was the same smile I give my son when he gets upset listening to the news, and I tell him don't worry, we're never going to have a nuclear war.
I can still see that smile anytime I want. Close my eyes, and there it is. A mom, trying to reassure her boy that everything's going to be okay.
Also I'm not 100% certain that our music director didn't make a little subtle snarky comment about my choice of hymns - not like I wanted to pick the damn things, I was more than fine for her doing it but the secretary told me (at the last minute) that it was my job. But possibly I'm just being paranoid. She was sweet in all other conversations so it'd be weird if the one comment was snarky.
A couple of people asked what I would be saying so here it is for those who are interested. In honor of the equinox, the service was on "The Autumn of Life". I and 2 other people read essays and then opened the mic up for people to share.
"Hey kid sis," my brother asked me the other day. "How old are you?"
Glad I wasn't the only one in the family with a horrible head for ages, I replied "27."
"Ha," he said. "You'll be 30 soon."
"Well yeah,"I said, "but I'll still be younger than you."
I mention this because when I sat down to write about the autumn of life, I felt like there was a fundamental problem: I'm in the wrong season. I'm not autumn, I'm spring. I might even be late winter, with an early thaw. But autumn? Not quite.
So I can't sit here and give you wisdom of the ages, unless the wisdom you're looking for is "you and your brother can get along really well without ever knowing how old either of you are."
But what I can talk about is my experience with the autumn of life, particularly as it relates to family. I may not be hitting autumn yet, but members of my family are.
I got a taste of that earlier this year when my dad was in a car accident. Suddenly I went from this happy denial about his mortality - a denial which was working really well until then, I'll have you know - to this clear understanding that there are some things in life that I have no control over.
I don't really want this understanding, I've got to admit. I was going along really well with the current system, where there's 2 generations separating me from having to be the adult, and where as the baby of the family I'm allowed to be as immature as I want to because quite frankly somebody has to be.
Plus, as I've reminded my folks frequently, we have a deal. They're not allowed to die, or so help me I'm going to kill them.
But, things do change. I grow older. My dad grows older. My brothers grow older. My mom, for some strange reason, apparently bucks this system by insisting that she's 29. I tell you it's going to be an interesting birthday for me when my own mom becomes younger than I am. Suddenly my life will be a cross between the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and an episode of Jerry Springer.
Still, mom's fountain of youth aside, we are in a time when changes might not be needed now, but they're definitely in the post. There's going to be a time when I, the baby of the family, will need to take care of my folks - the people who are supposed to be taking care of me.
And I'll do it, and I'll be glad to, because my folks did take care of me no matter how much I screwed up, how much debt I got into, or what weird curveballs about my life I threw them at the dinnertable.
But at the same time, I'll be scared.
My dad has this interesting question that he likes to bring up sometimes, and that is: What age would you be if you didn't know how old you were?
Most of the time I feel pretty much my age. Heck, most of the time I always felt this age, since I was one of those obnoxious kids who acted like she was practically 30 even when she was back in grade school.
Ask me about that change of life, though - that time when I'll have to take care of my folks - and my answer is different.
How old do I feel?
About 3 years old.
And how do I feel about being the "adult"?
Um - eep?
Funnily enough, one of the best essays I ever read on the topic was written by Dave Barry - a guy normally known for jokes about exploding toilets that he swears he's not making up.
His mother died a few years back, and he wrote about the events leading up to it. In honor of kids and parents everywhere, I'd like to read it:
LOST IN AMERICA, by Dave Barry
My mother and I are driving through Hartford, CT, on the way to a town called Essex. Neither of us has ever been to Essex, but we're both desperately hoping that my mother will want to live there. She has been rootless for several months now, moving from son to son around the country, ever since she sold the house she had lived in for forty years, the house she raised us in, the house my father built. The house where he died, April 4, 1984. She would note the date each year on the calendar in the kitchen.
"Dave died, 1984," the note would say. "Come back, Dave."
The note for July 5, their anniversary, said: "Married Dave, 1942. Best thing that ever happened to me."
The house was too big for my mother to handle alone, and we all advised her to sell it. Finally she did, and she shipped all her furniture to Sunnyvale, CA, where my brother Phil lived. Her plan was to stay with him until she found a place of her own out there.
Only she hated Sunnyvale. At first this seemed almost funny, even to her. "All my worldly goods," she would say, marveling at it, "are in a warehouse in Sunnyvale, CA, which I hate." She always had a wonderful sense of absurdity.
After a while it didn't seem so funny. My mother left Sunnyvale to live for a while with my brother Sam, in San Francisco, and then with me, in Florida; but she didn't want to stay with us. What she wanted was a home.
What she really wanted was her old house back.
With my father in it.
Of course, she knew she couldn't have that, but when she tried to think of what else she wanted, her mind would just lock up. She started to spend a lot of time watching soap operas. "You have to get on with your life," I would tell her, in this new, parental voice I was developing when I talked to her. Dutifully, she would turn off the TV and get out a map of the US, which I bought her to help her think.
"Maybe Boulder would be nice," she would say, looking at Colorado. "I was born near Boulder."
"Mom," I would say in my new voice. "We've talked about Boulder fifty times, and you always end up saying you don't really want to live there."
Chastened, she would look back at her map, but I could tell she wasn't really seeing it.
"You have to be realistic," I would say. The voice of wisdom.
When she and I had driven each other just about crazy, she went back out to California, and repeated the process with both of my brothers. Then one night she called to ask, very apologetically, if I would go with her to look at Essex, CT, which she had heard was nice. It was a bad time for me, but of course I said yes, because your mom is your mom. I met her in Hartford and rented a car.
I'm driving; my mother is looking out the window. "I came through Hartford last year with Frank and Mil, on the way to Maine," she says. Frank was my father's brother; he has has just died. My mother loved to see him. He reminded her of my father.
"I miss Frank," says my mother.
Essex turns out to be a beautiful little town, and we look at two nice, affordable apartments. But I can tell right away that my mother doesn't want to be there. She doesn't want to say so, after asking me to fly up from Miami, but we both know.
The next morning, in the motel coffee shop, we have a very tense breakfast.
"Look, Mom," I say, "You have to make some kind of decision." Sounding very reasonable.
She looks down at her map. She starts talking about Boulder again. This sets me off. I lecture her, tell her she's being childish. She's looking down at her map, gripping it. I drive her back to Hartford, neither of us saying much. I put her on a plane; she's going to Milwaukee, to visit my dad's sister, then back to my brother in Sunnyvale, California. Which she hates.
The truth is, I'm relieved that she's leaving.
"You can't help her," I tell myself, "until she decides what she wants." It is a sound position.
About a week later, my wife and I get a card from my mother.
"This is to say happy birthday this very special year," it says. "And to thank you for everything."
Our birthdays are weeks away.
About two days later, my brother Phil calls, crying, from a hospital. My mother has taken a massive overdose of Valium and alcohol. The doctors want permission to turn off the machines. They say there's no hope.
We talk about it, but there really isn't much to say. We give the permission.
It's the only logical choice.
The last thing I saw my mother do, just before she went down the tunnel to her plane, was turn and give me a big smile. It wasn't a smile of happiness; it was the same smile I give my son when he gets upset listening to the news, and I tell him don't worry, we're never going to have a nuclear war.
I can still see that smile anytime I want. Close my eyes, and there it is. A mom, trying to reassure her boy that everything's going to be okay.
