Dismissals

In a dusty cardboard box I found my father’s old copy of Joseph Conrad’s Lord Jim. Published in 1900, my father held the book dear and passed it on to me. I’ve read Lord Jim more than once over the years: Jim as a seaman cadet … Jim’s abject failure as first mate on the ship Patna … then Jim’s defeated withdrawal to the isolation of the Malaysian Archipelago. There, Jim hoped for sanctuary … perhaps relief from his failure … perhaps even to prove himself worthy. I do not pretend to entirely understand Jim … though I do see in Jim something of myself. 

Some years ago, a friend told me of his son’s troubles … his son’s pending court date. He didn’t say how all this came about, though I’d heard of his son’s problems … his misdeeds caught up with him and he would be sentenced to serve time … an odd locution to describe imprisonment. I wrote my friend a long letter, wordy and disjointed, and offered to do whatever I could … perhaps to go along with him to visit his son. These things take time. I hadn’t expected to hear back anytime soon … but then, one day, the call came and we went.

I was a young boy when I first accompanied my father to the barbershop. The barber’s name: Matt Pokapat. His barbershop was once the living room of his home. As I waited for Mr. Pokapat to finish my father’s haircut, I explored the barbershop. I found a neat hole cut into the wall. I peeked through. I saw a bedroom, a telephone right there in the opening. I learned that this was so the telephone could be used from either the barbershop or the bedroom. It was ingenious. I hoped that one day I might have such a telephone.

When I met Linda, she had a sweet collie named Shiva. No longer a pup, Shiva’s health failed. We did what we could, said goodbye, and let her go where good dogs go. In time, the notion of a puppy came to us. At a rundown farm we found Dottie … nigh on feral but with the makings of “Good Dog!” We remain patient with Dottie’s zipping about … chewing things … barking … running around … jumping up on us and on anyone who dares visit. Dottie is inquisitive and loving … she delights in life … and helps me see that I should delight also.

A pulp fiction magazine, dated June 1, 1906, titled “Work & Win” … subtitled “Fred Fearnot and Uncle Josh; Saving the Old Homestead.” The magazine, given to me long ago by my sister Lorinda, is framed next to my desk. I know my sister gave it to me because of “Uncle Josh” … but on the cover, Fred Fearnot grasps the collar of the iniquitous landlord who is about to turn Uncle Josh and his family out into the snowy cold. Fred Fearnot’s words: “You soulless old scoundrel! You shall not take the old homestead from these people.” Fred is my kinda guy.

Sixty years ago I left home. I never expected to move back but the old folks kept getting older. My father offered me my grandmother’s house and I moved. I told myself it wouldn’t be for long … but the years passed … and so did my people. Time came for me to move on. I found the deed to Grandma’s home, that long-ago gift from my father. On the back of the deed, where a dollar amount was to be entered, my father had written, “Love and Affection.” The clerk at the deed office said she’d never seen the like.

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.”