Friday's Farraginous Facundity

The gekko writes of the old books, and I am reminded of the Dick and Jane who created me. But they didn't have a dog named Spot -- probably why those books were confusing. They had if anything a cat named Mongkut. Or I think so. I only saw him in old photographs: Young parents, one or two brats, and a Siamese. But when I was little, after all that had gone by the way, Mongkut was my grandparents' cat.

Only later did I learn that Mongkut had been my folks'. I'm thinking I should think that Mongkut moved away when my folks split up. If true, then why one of them didn't keep him, particularly my mother who also had to keep the kids, I don't know.

Mongkut. For most people, that name evokes Yul Brynner holding forth eloquently on his fraternal affiliation with President Lingkong. For me, Mongkut is inscrutable blue eyes, fresh-cut bermudagrass, and my grandmother's homemade peach ice cream.

* * *

One wonders a-times why people get together. Certainly in the late 1940s, the slightest heartfelt pit-a-pat led to rings and marriage and a lifetime of marital duty. But whence the pit-a-pat? My father's high school girlfriend waited faithfully while he was away in the Pacific, but on his return he joined the Cal Glee Club and found himself enthralled at such a feminine smorgasbord. Rita turned and walked away, and Dick got the smartest and best-looking one of the bunch (my opinion), a Jane not so Plain. I guess in 1948, at the ripe and experienced age of 22, he saw infatuation as a child's game and followed the man's script. For her part, raised in a tiny farm town and a loyal listener of Metropolitan Opera radio broadcasts, a man aiming for a PhD whose mother loved opera could only be fate decreed. But when I was child, wondering almost daily why they were divorced, the imperishable pairing of Dick and Jane in literature always inspired a strange uncertainty; and now, I also wonder if that pairing had a subconscious effect on their initial expectations.

* * *

Uncertainty follows a different light today. The old WWII vet and retired research chemist leaves messages that he is in the hospital again almost as if away visiting relatives. Perhaps in a sense he is, for that is the path all of his relatives have taken. A genetic propensity for long life has him outstripping people just as his mother did. But he's not enjoying it, for old age is a steady accumulation of ills that generally don't go away. Fluid accumulation here, a skin infection there, bowels that follow their own agenda without warning -- he's not shy about telling me he first knows about it when he can hear a splashing on the floor. Hospital this time was for a heartbeat down to about forty. Of course it fixed itself and remained strong while he was under watch. So now he's home again, a slave to his body, expressing a hope I share that if his ticker finally just decides to quit, he's not driving.

* * *

So many people now love Jane, it breaks my heart to see her world shrinking. What amazes me the most is that I love her too. Like too many people I spent a lot of years hating my parents without knowing I hated them, keeping my distance, harboring secret wishes they would just cease to exist. None of these were paths to anything but deeper into myself. It seems that somewhere along the line my irascible and childish anger was transformed into forgiveness. Not consciously either; not by decision or at some priest's suggestion. I think that maybe given time, love just plain wins.

Time doesn't help one's ability to drive, though, not past a certain age. My mother was never a great driver. She's scary now, sometimes, and I think it fair to admit I am shying away from taking active steps. What am I to do? She already has the public transportation mapped out and takes it when she can. But in truth she gets herself to numerous places between San Francisco and Sacramento regularly and without incident, places that trains and buses and ferries don't go. Like her first husband, she accepts her decreasing capabilities; and like him, she's managing the effects of that decrease as slo-o-owly as possible. I don't have a plan.