Dismissals

Yasuo Kuniyoshi, born in Japan, lived his life in the United States. He was a highly regarded artist yet, in the aftermath of Pearl Harbor, Kuniyoshi was labeled an “enemy alien” … an “other.” The art community of America, collectors, artists and dealers, gathered around Kuniyoshi. In 1948, a show of his work was mounted at New York’s Whitney Museum of American Art. A dinner was given. Hundreds attended to affirm their support for Yasuo Kuniyoshi. My mother and father were there. I have an original photograph of the many supporters at table … my father barely visible, my mother faintly smiling.

I’d heard of his ministry and chanced to see him at the diner. I asked if I might sit for a few. He nodded and went about his lunch. Folks told me he wasn’t a talker and that proved true. He finished his plate and I asked about his ministry. He said, “I’ve spent the better part of my life trailing after lost men, guys on the wrong road and headed for trouble with a capital T.” I asked why. He said, “Someone’s got to carry a candle lest these men fall entirely into the dark.” I never forgot that.

In Nashville, years ago, I chanced to stay at a magnificent hotel with shops, restaurants and rooms on the perimeter of an immense, skylighted atrium. I walked about and came upon a wedding party. The couple stood before the minister, attendants gathered around,  celebratory words were spoken, a bouquet was thrown, the couple and their retinue departed. I remained until the space was empty. Soon a modest wedding party entered. They moved quickly to the dais … words were hastily spoken, their wedding photographs were taken before the remaining arrays of flowers … and I recollected the words, “… something borrowed, something blue.”

I work on the second floor of an old building on a busy street. I have a splendid view of the CVS and their vast parking lot. I saw the old lady with her walker poke out into the traffic lane. She retreated then tried again. I ran down the steps. Like some hero of old, I bolted deer-like across the street and helped her cross. Several drivers would have run me over for sport but they hit their brakes for the old lady. The barbers in their shop gave the old lady … and me … a hearty thumbs up!

My grandmother, Sarah Grace Heath, lived alone. A pillar of her community, her Presbyterian faith was rock solid. For a Friday evening dinner, Grandma invited acquaintances to her home. Juan was from Puerto Rico, Maria was from Spain. The table was set, beef the main course, a pleasant evening anticipated. Alas, Maria and Juan, devout Catholics that they were, could eat no meat on a Friday. Grandma was mortified. I am told the beef was set aside entirely … beans, beets, a salad, bread and homemade pie proved sustenance enough … and a good conversation about the ways we live our faith. 

I once had a job I could walk to. Every workday, a good mile walk along residential streets. As I went, I’d wave to whoever might be about. One man sat on his stoop most days, smoking a cigarette. I’d stop and we’d talk a few minutes about last night’s game or the coming election. This went on for several years. I once asked him if he spent his entire day sitting there. He said, “No, but when I look out my window, see you coming, I come out and visit for a few, what with living alone and all.”

I attended a meeting of a committee I served on. Everyone was to bring some small sample of their own artistic, musical or literary work to share with the group … a “get-to-know” introduction. I’m a longtime watercolorist. I brought a small, recent watercolor. I thought it a good enough bit of work in its amateur, cartoony, good-natured, sort-of-way … a sailboat sailing, a big ship sinking, volcano erupting, and happy fish ignoring the chaos. A few in the group seemed to think I needed counseling. Next time, a cheerful landscape, chirping birds, and a smiling sun. 

Credit cards weren’t new, but Aunt Ellen didn’t have one. She acquired her first for a trip to England, assured by her banker that credit cards were as safe as the ocean liner itself. Her children gave her a small image of St. Christopher, patron saint of travelers. St. Christopher was lovingly tucked into her wallet next to her new credit card. Who knew St. Christopher was magnetized? Aunt Ellen learned a few things about magnets and credit cards … and about the hospitality of strangers in a distant land who, in her distress, saw to her needs … a splendid trip!

Sister Genevieve was my spiritual director, a counselor and advisor on the road to faith. I visited with her for some years. It was a challenge but Sister listened and helped me along. Sometimes, on the drive home, I recollected words that Sister had spoken, words from which I discerned meanings that hadn’t yet occurred to me. I once told Sister that my prayers seemed unfocused. Sister rose from her chair and gave me a candle so that, once home, sitting in the dark and focused on the candle, I might rejoice in the clarity that came from its light.

“The world is a dangerous and untidy place.” This old saying is an admonition … and a prompt. The time is right for me to join the fray … to do what I can … perhaps to throw a little oil on the troubled waters … perhaps to bind a wound or tend the broken. It comes to mind that I am not alone … that we are all coworkers … in this together … and we are legion. I watch what others do. I learn and the world becomes not so dangerous, not so untidy. I am one of many … and many hands make short work. 

“Robot” is the only Czechoslovakian word in the American lexicon. Thirty-five years ago, having worked there, I drove a rental car into Czechoslovakia. My work finished, I headed out at twilight … only to be stopped by flashing lights and six well-armed policemen. I produced my U.S. passport. They spoke no English. I stood stock still. With only “robot” as common language, it was a short conversation. They were courteous. We were all nonplussed. I, imagining a Czechoslovakian jail cell, sidled into to my car, looked back at them, and waved. They waved to me. I drove off.

Long ago, my sister Lorinda was diagnosed with breast cancer. I was her guy and we did medicine together. Sometimes, we went far afield. As the end drew near, we settled in with the hometown hospital. Whatever the procedure, as Lorinda was trundled down the hall on a gurney, I walked beside. Lorinda, looking up, found the ceiling to be frightfully dull. She said, “I wish someone would paint pictures on the ceiling.” The plea was heard. Fifth grade classes did the painting, hospital maintenance installed the images overhead. They were little noticed, except by those lying on a gurney.