August 31, 2015
August is my most difficult month and this was my most difficult August ever. Thankfully, the legendary artist Paul Simon nailed it when he wrote and sang with Art Garfunkel “August…die she must…” For me, this is a month marked by possibility, death, destruction, sadness, and a dramatic turning inward. Let’s start with 1995.
On August 13 Mickey Mantle died. Like so many other boys growing up in 1950’s and ‘60’s, I idolized “the Mick”. Who knew, until Jane Leavy’s book came out what an awful man he was? I really thought his liver transplant and concomitant period of confession would allow us to witness a rebirth, a sharing of wisdom about self-awareness and the importance of how we treat others as Mantle’s true legacy. We can overcome the demons that plague us and leave behind a legacy that makes the world a better place. We can ask for forgiveness and whether it is granted or not, we can express gratitude for the life we have. We can recognize the truly heroic among us. We can hit that dramatic home run, living into old age a changed and better person, wiser, humble, giving, and present for others. I guess, though, to quote the songwriting team of Robert Hunter and Jerry Garcia, “he had to die”. When Mickey died, in many ways, it marked the end of my childhood or at least reminded me that I wasn’t a “kid” anymore; I was forty years old.
In the fall of 1970, I was visiting my brother and his roommate at what was then SUNY Binghamton. It got late and my brother’s roommate put “Live/Dead” on the stereo. As I fell asleep, on the floor, and Dark Star transitioned into St. Stephen, the Other One, and Turn On Your Love Light, something in me changed; unaided by any other intoxicant or stimulant, I was enveloped in a sense of serenity and peace that I had never experienced before (what we might call “presence” or “mindfulness” today). Every note of the guitar struck a chord deep within me.
So, when Jerry died a few days before Mickey, on August 9, I was
devastated. I found out about Jerry’s death when I arrived at work. My boss
told me. I was surprised that this very straight, reverent and socially
conservative man knew who Jerry Garcia was, let alone that I was a “dead”icated
fan. I wonder to this day, whether he shared the news with a certain level of
satisfaction intended to repudiate the Dead lifestyle and philosophy or was
simply passing it along.
I made it through the day and when I got home went for a drive to
cry and process the meaning of Garcia’s death. Meanwhile, just a few miles
away, at the Hampton Beach, NH Casino, Bob Weir and RatDog were getting ready
to perform. I thought about going as I drove through a scenic area in my town
but decided to stay put. I couldn’t get the lyrics and refrain of “He’s Gone” out
of my mind as I drove with tears streaming down my face, while RatDog was
tuning up just down the road, “He's gone and nothing's gonna bring him back…”
Jerry’s death represented the end of my adolescence, that sense of
invulnerability, and living according to one’s own rules, peacefully and
righteously, in spite of the ever-present demons, trolling to get their hands
on you, waiting for you to slip up with no “help on the way” (Garcia/Hunter).
As I think about it, I guess it makes some degree of sense to have
your adolescent view of life snatched from you and then your childhood one,
especially as one looks back at one’s life. That was a tough week; at age
forty, I realized that I was an adult. I remember during that week, my oldest
son Mick (named for Jagger, not Mantle) was home and my father-in-law was
staying with us. It is ironic because, August actually starts with Jerry’s
birthday on August 1 and my father-in-law’s on the 4th. August
starts out with such promise, a full month until summer’s end, to enjoy the
best life had to offer, or so I used to think.
I have written plenty about my dad previously and won’t repeat any of it here, other than to
say I still miss him. But, my August angst continued. He passed away on August 16,
2009 and the adulthood that began fourteen years earlier only made me begin to
realize those demons would not let go of their ever-tightening grip. I truly
thought he would make it to August 18, my mother’s birthday. That would have
allowed me to see him one more time as Karen and I were planning to drive down to
Florida on the 16th and get there the following day. I thought he
would surprise my mother for her birthday and join her in heaven on the 18th.
However, as a friend often says, “If you want to make God laugh, have a plan”.
At his funeral, I was able to share my
thoughts and memories of the “dad” of a happy childhood (thanks, Mickey), the
“father” of those adolescent years (kudos to Jerry), and finally as a “friend”
(thanks Dad). With my father’s death, I began to ponder my life, as a husband,
father, brother, uncle, and friend. I wasn’t feeling too good about any of
those roles and was without a fulltime, steady job. My demons slowly tightened their grip on me.
Over the years, my personal August
includes: my sister-in-law’s near fatal auto
accident; my brother-in-law’s heart attack; Hurricane Katrina devastation of a
city we had come to love (my older son was in New Orleans then and returned that
October; both sons, Mick and Ben, and their families live there today); our
beloved next door neighbor from our days in Swampscott, Nana Lena’s passing; confirmation
that Lena’s daughter, our dear friend and inspiration, Maureen has ALS; just
last August, the doctor treating me for a back injury told me to stop running
which served as my personal “Fortress of Solitude”.
Last year, Robin Williams committed
suicide in August. I learned about it as I began to say “goodbye” and thank a
truly great group of students who took my summer “Child Growth and Development”
class at Middlesex Community College in Lowell. In many ways, that was my best
class.
I finish each class with a small ceremony,
based on Helice “Sparky” Bridges’ “Blue Ribbon” (“Who You Are Makes a
Difference”) ceremony. If you aren’t familiar with it, please look it up; the
video is only three minutes long and the Difference Makers website will tell
the full story. I show the video and then give each student a small, blue
elastic for his or her wrist; the elastic symbolizes many things; when we snap
it, it can serve as a reminder that we are focused on the trivial and negative;
it is a circle, representing life; it is flexible as we must be; and if it is
lost or loses its elasticity, it can easily be replaced. The blue represents a
tip of the hat to Sparky and life’s contrasts (blue sky and the blues, for
example).
So, just as I was beginning to make my
big “finish”, a student announced Robin Williams’ suicide (I relaxed my cell
phone policy several semesters ago). We shared the moment in awe and silence. I
left the room for a couple of minutes, deciding whether to do the “ceremony”
which includes a reference to suicide. I decided to go ahead with it. When I
returned to class, a student asked me if I was “all right”. Little did they
know that, as someone who has struggled, I could feel the demons tighten their
grip, ever so slightly, but palpably. I said I was “okay”.
I concluded that it is August, not April
that is the “cruelest month” and dread its arrival.
A couple of days
ago, on August 29, author and spiritual advisor/self-help guru, Wayne Dyer, who
counts Oprah and Ellen among his biggest fans (one of his books, “The Erroneous
Zones” sold approximately 35 million copies) passed away at age 75. In many
ways, his passing, as sad as it was, turned out to bring a certain amount of
clarity to me. In fact, his last book, which I shared with Mick, is, “I Can See
Clearly Now”. Just a few days earlier, in one of his last Facebook posts, he
wrote, “I have a suit in my closet with the pocket cut out. It's a reminder to
me that I won't be taking anything with me. The last I wear won't need any
pockets.” Perhaps, I should ponder and remember this.
It’s August 31. It is my second
grandson’s third birthday. Thomas was born in the midst of Hurricane Isaac; for
some strange reason, the house he lives in never lost power; it seemed as if
that was the only street in the Crescent City with power. While my older son
and I were trying to figure out how to get his generator restarted, (I was home
in MA) guiding him as I read instructions from the Internet, his brother, just
a little over a mile away, was fine, electricity and air conditioning running
as if nothing was happening outside. So, Thomas came into our lives three years
ago today. His birth and birthdays should serve as a reminder of the good, the
potential, the coming new school year, and the fact that I’m still here.
What has been perhaps the most
difficult and emotionally wrenching month of my life is over. As I think about
the month of August, I realize that I think I have finally learned the power
and importance of gratitude. I’m grateful to everyone who reads this. I’m
grateful that I have people I can reach out to at the times of despair and
celebrate with at times of joy. I’m grateful for my friends and family who are
a constant reminder that, even at the worst of times, I matter.
I’m grateful that I’m still here.
(This is an excerpt from "I'm Still Here", a work in progress.)
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