State of Mind

"Wouldn't it be nice to be a pigeon" flashed through my mind today. I think I am unwell.

Although context for the thought was that I was trying to force myself to read Torts, while the pigeon was taking a bird bath.

Still. Couldn't I have looked beyond the pigeon? Couldn't I have wished I were a tree blowing in the wind? Or at least, perhaps, a finch?

Tigger

As a parent, one of the first things you must learn to do is let go. It starts as early as pregnancy when you have to let go of the idea that you have any control over your body, and culminates in the ultimate letting your child go off on her own into the world. Fortunately, there are many small steps along the way.

For example, when Molly was two, I had to let go of the idea that I could dress her in cute outfits. Apparently, though she had only existed for a matter of months, Molly had developed a clear, independent and wild sense of style that had no room for my humdrum ideas of complementary or matching colors, or belief that one should only wear one outfit at a time.

Molly's fashion heyday was kindled in no small part by an innocent three-dollar purchase of an hideously ugly Tigger-suit (thank you, Auntie Eliza), and a hand-me-down Little Mermaid bathing suit complete with stains and a tattered skirt. Every day, for a year or so, Molly insisted on wearing at least one of the two items. By "insisted" I mean I had a choice of a daily screaming, kicking, crying battle to get her into different clothes that she would rip off as soon as my back was turned, or I could just 'let go' of my feeling that the way she dressed somehow reflected upon me, and let her dress as she liked. She was the freak in the tigger suit, not me.

When Molly started nursery school, she made a new friend, Ivy. Ivy's parents and I arranged a first play date for the girls at the beach. Molly had grown out of both the tigger and mermaid suits by this time and had moved on to princess dress up clothes which included plastic high heels, purses, feather boas, and sparkly jewels. Per usual, I could not convince her to wear a sundress and sandals to the beach and tried to let go of feeling embarrassed by her most impractical get-up for the first play date of her life. Imagine my relief when Ivy stepped from her car in a matching outfit, and they tripped (literally) along together down to the beach.

Though Molly and Ivy were clearly soul mates, I did come to realize that the fashion plague is prevalent among the young set. They are short, but they have strong sense of style that has not yet been diluted by society's expectations and peer pressure. Molly still occasionally puts on an outfit that defies description, but the influence of elementary school style has (sadly? happily?)toned down her fashion statements.

Happy Anniversary

My friends, Jess and Marvin recently celebrated their first wedding anniversary. They got engaged only three months after they started going out. That was about 15 years ago. So though they only have one official year under their marriage belt, it counts for a lot more than that.

The first time I remember hanging out with Jess was at a party, long, long ago. She was drunk. She was also feeling sad (a dangerous combination) because (she cried, repeatedly) Marvin could never love her as much as she loved him. It turned out she was wrong. Although her lamentations were on the sloppy side of sweet, I think of that evening as my introduction to the largeness of her heart.

Thoughtful, quiet (except when drunk), strong, sweet, honorable, determined, safe, appreciative of the perverse, insightful, strong as can be, loyal, delicate, good. Words that jump to my mind when I think of Jess. When I was asked at my job to find another writer to work with, I knew it would be Jess. "She's my angel friend" was my recommendation. Not the usual criteria for hiring, but it seemed to work for my boss. I guess we were in need of an angel.

Jess has been sick for a while and through our discussions about life and death I know that she (like anyone) wants her life to be meaningful, to affect the lives of others. She has. Jess has taught me about goodness, about quiet strength, about true love. When I want to be a less selfish and more honorable person, I think about what Jess would do in the same situation. Admittedly, sometimes I've had to call her to find that out.

I wish Marvin and Jess many more years of happiness and count myself lucky to be a continuing part of their lives.

George

George swept up around the bar where I worked in exchange for sodas and company. He lived down the street in a residence home where he was irregularly medicated for his mental instability (which came first, I wonder).

I'd chat with George when business was slow, and over the years gathered bits and pieces of his story as they fell through the cracks of his dementia.

George was as unsure of the details as I am now, but he did kill a man when he was in his teens or early twenties. Angry (high on speed?), he pushed an old man who fell and hit his head and died.

George was sent to a mental hospital instead of prison, and years of drug and shock 'therapy' brought him through to his present condition of a state-mandated medicated existence.

Some days he'd be lucid, crack jokes, tell me he loved me with his gummy smile, and ask for my hand in marriage. I always demurred, "you're too old for me, George" and he'd laugh.

Other days he'd show up agitated, grinding his jaw, incoherent, and I'd send him home. "George, you're too crazy today, you can't stay here. Come back tomorrow. " He'd acquiesce and stumble back down the street.

Once I asked him if he'd pose for a portrait. I had been taking photographs of family and friends and was intrigued by the way people responded to the camera. Most people were self-conscious when being photographed, and often preferred to look away as though I weren't standing right in front of them. I wondered what it would be like to photograph George.

George, of course, was different. He had no self-consciousness. Maybe the drugs had taken care of that. He stared straight into the lens, not posing, just staring. He wasn't looking at the camera, but looking through it. At me. It made me feel self-conscious. I hadn't expected that.

He died several years ago. His condition had deteriorated so much that we couldn't allow him in the bar anymore. He insisted his caretakers were trying to kill him by overmedicating him. Our bar manager went down to the home to see what was going on and tried to help. I don't think it did much good.

He died alone and I don't know whether he expected anyone to remember him. I haven't thought about George in years, but he popped into my head for some reason the other night. So I dug up these photos and remembered him here.