Sixties Chick

Rio’s a great dog. A 70 pound black and white mix bought at the pound seven years ago as a scrawny, malnourished pup for just $100. A taller, short-hair version of a Border Collie with a Hindu-like sacred black dot on his forehead. He is nothing but love. And some neuroses.

Sure, Rio has the usual canine fear of thunder and lightning and hesitates to go out into the rain. But Rio also has a thing with linoleum and can only be coaxed into the kitchen on the prospect of licking a pan of leftover sautéed juices from a breast of chicken. He doesn’t like other people’s houses either, their apartments, or their offices. With any strange indoor space, he will shake uncontrollably with tail between his legs and refuse to cross the threshold. You can pull all you want, he won’t budge. Standing firm, he will whine until you let him leave the premises. Forget about taking him to visit a friend, a neighbor. It is just too anxiety producing for this otherwise very Zen dog. His fear is palpable.

Now one of the ways I have dealt with my human issues over time has been to receive energy work. Yes, of course, quite wu wu you say, but frankly, it has really brought me through a whole host of times that would have otherwise cost me a lot of time and money with a shrink. I have done all kinds – sat with spiritual channels, done Reiki, Feldenkrais, Polarity and Past Life regressions and every time, it seemed to help. So the other day as I was lying on the table reliving one of my many past lives in the Catholic Church, it occurred to me that Rio could also benefit from a past life regression.

Perhaps Rio could see that all his irrational fears stem from a distant Roman incarnation when as a lion he was forced to devour innocent Christians who dared challenge the divinity of Caesar. Or maybe his issues can be traced back to a lifetime as a relentless bloodhound sniffing the trail of an oppressed slave escaping the cruelty of a Mississippi plantation Master. In fact, it could be any one of hundreds of lifetimes in which he, as one creature or another, was abused or did the abusing. Of course, none of this explains the part about the linoleum or his fear of strange spaces, but remember, spirit doesn’t operate on a literal plane, and the point here is to release, to exorcise the demons.

I asked Rio if he was game for this type of therapy. He told me he’d pass. He’s kind of used to his neuroses. He’s comfortable with his discomfort, as they say. If anything, he told me, he’d go in for something more cerebral, say psychoanalysis or better still, some good drugs. He’s no dummy, my dog Rio – particularly ‘cause he picked a really good life this time around.

Only children get a bum rap. Ask anyone how they feel about “onlies” and invariably there will be a pitying look that says, “Gee, that’s too bad”.  Spoiled, selfish, self absorbed – the apple of their doting, hovering, helicopter parents’ eyes. It’s not the best of reputations to have, though it actually matters little if it’s true or not. It’s beside the point. What counts here is that there is a much more important reason why, when it comes to kids, you should never have just one.

The problem is the odds. There’s just damn little chance of getting what you’re hoping for if you stop at just one. After eighteen years of putting in a whole lot of time, energy and expense, aren’t you, the parent, entitled to have at least one of your lofty life expectations fulfilled by your offspring? A dream, your dream, finally made manifest through the next generation? Want a lawyer, a soccer player, a pianist, a polyglot? I say increase your odds. Is your heart set on a sculptor, a chemist, a heterosexual, a social butterfly, my suggestion is that you have more than one kid.

Kathy C. drove her only child forty-five minutes into the city every day after school for ten years for high priced, high intensity dance lessons that lasted well past 9:00 p.m. on most nights.  At the age of 14, her beloved “only” decided it wasn’t for her, the pirouettes, the tour jetés. She wanted to don common cleats and run up and down a field kicking a ball. Kathy reported this to me at Starbucks the other day, barely able to keep her composure.

Now, I’m no mathematician, but I’m sure anyone can figure out that the odds for success get better the more children you have. With just one, the deck is stacked against you. You never know when the answer to “Guess who’s coming to dinner?” turns out to be a dope dealer, or worse still, a Republican! That’s it for you and your hopes – dashed, thanks to Mendel and his second law. For you, there’ll be no second chances at living your dream. There’ll be no subtle showing off over drinks with friends.

Here’s the deal:

If you always wanted to learn to fly, your kid will be afraid of heights.If you longed to teach orphans in Angola, your kid will sign up with GlaxoSmithKline in sales. If you love the life of books, you can be sure your kid will never pick one up.

Catholics and the Orthodox Jews. They get it. When you have upwards of five kids, you’re bound to end up with at least one that brings you what you want – success wrapped up in the form you had imagined for yourself. It’s the law of averages. Your dream, though lived second hand, is better than not at all.

Surely you see, the stakes are high. With five or more – your chances are good to excellent that at least one will have the decency to accomplish what you did not get around to. One will pull off what you didn’t have the wherewithal, or the courage to carry out.

And oh, when that blessed day arrives, when that one dutiful child out of the whole big brood finally fulfills your dream, you can be sure of one of two things: either that said child will be thoroughly miserable or you, the parent, will already be much too worn-out to care.

According to a male friend of mine, loving a man is just like loving a dog…I think I might be able to do it.

In a recent discussion with a male friend I was given the secret to loving a man. My friend avowed that loving a man is just like loving a dog. It’s all so simple.

A dog, a most straightforward and down-to-earth kind of creature (as any dog lover will tell you) asks so little, and seems to be actually content getting it. A scrap from the kitchen table. An occasional pat on the head. Not even throwing a stick to go fetch is mandatory. A dog wants food, a couple of walks, a floor to curl up on, a belly scratch from time to time and to be left alone so he can lick his private parts in peace. And the good ones will even let you be the boss, if you need to.

Years of complex, unclear and unanswerable data about men in the files of my brain become immediately irrelevant. What’s he want? What’s going on in that brain of his? What does he really mean by that? What’s his agenda? Delete. Delete. Delete.

Okay. I know how to love a dog. I can do that. It’s not complicated; it’s not taxing.  There are no convoluted concealed mysteries to unearth. No torturous trials to surmount. It’s so easy. So much fun.  Just being. Hell, I could love a man.

I am a middle aged white woman – and a Jew but when I die I want my funeral at a black Baptist church, in fact, make that the Second Baptist Church on Mill Street in Moorestown, New Jersey. They certainly know how to give a good send-off. They sure gave a great one on a beautiful Saturday in June.

Yes, on June 28th, I went to pay my last respects to Leslie H. Robinson III or as he was known to the scores of friends and family who packed the church that day, simply Butch. Butch had died the week before, at 58, only a couple of weeks after having been diagnosed with liver cancer.

I didn’t really know him. I mean I didn’t know the facts of his life – what he did for a living, how far he had taken his education, if he had married, if he had kids. He lived behind me. That was all. From time to time, I would meet him on the street as I took my dog Rio for a walk. Butch liked Rio and Rio, always a good judge of character, was drawn to Butch.

What I did know about Butch besides his skill with barbecued ribs and poker – something I gleaned from the many friends so often on his deck indulging in both, was that he was someone hell-bent on being happy. He was easy, his energy light – with a brightness of being that was contagious. No question about it, Butch was here to love life, and he was intent on spreading that feeling around. He’d smile and tell me how much I looked like my 20-year-old daughter. “Can’t tell you two apart,” he’d say. I’d laugh and roll my eyes and go along with the sweet ruse. I loved him for it. He was fun. He wanted me to feel good. He brought joy.

And with abounding joy the congregation at the Second Baptist Church sent him home. With songs that stirred the soul and words that rang of nothing but love, they sent Butch to his rest. There were tears, of course, because those of us still walking dogs down the path will be missing Butch and his easy laughter.

The résumé, the credentials, the successes, the failures, the things he owned or didn’t own – they made no difference. Never do. Butch made a difference. To Rio, to me. And to all the others who filled that beautiful church to capacity on that glorious June day.

I recently had a birthday, 61 to be exact. I decided that my mantra for this birthday year is “sixty-one and having fun.” It has become my only goal.

The revelation I had on my birthday this year as I took calls from well-wishing friends and relatives is that, ironically, I am happier now than at any other time in my life. It’s hard to make sense of, even for me. I see the eyebrows raise as I say it. Oh sure!

There is no six figure salary, no home at the shore. I have no awards on the wall for professional excellence or distinguished service. I am divorced going on 14 years and have no partner to share my life with. I drive a 1994 Sentra, and there is no pension, no retirement fund, no 401 K, not even the tiniest portfolio.

In fact, there are months when I cannot figure out what magic will bring the money to pay the bills.

What I do have – is a body that works well, and a mind that if I can keep it from running the show, can be helpful to me in my work not to mention the day to day tasks of living. I have a deep appreciation for beauty, both natural and manmade and am amazed how it fills me up. A bright little yellow bird on a branch stopped me in my tracks the other day.

I have a great admiration for life’s absurdities. And there are many here on the planet -a tragicomedy that never ceases to captivate. At 61, I have a trust in a bigger picture which helps me to remember not to take it so seriously. I laugh more.

I have an open heart and a lot of compassion and try awfully hard to keep judgment from clouding my vision. I finally know that I do not have all the answers and am not afraid to let you know it too. It’s fine with me to be wrong.

Sure, I haven’t finished the novel yet, and I could exercise more. I could be more disciplined in my work, and I could stop hating Republicans.

But I accept it all. And I’m willing to look at myself, even with the frown lines and the cellulite because I like being more conscious every day. Even when the tug of jealousy, anger, or fear rise up and whisper, “I’m here,” I catch it a lot quicker these days, sometimes in mid-air. I am not afraid of the dark. I acknowledge it, thank it for sharing, and then ask it to quiet down. I reel the monster right back in so that love can unfold instead.

Finally, I find myself to be quite a character, a character whom I really like a whole lot. I delight myself. And that’s quite a thing to be able to say at 61.

It has been 43 years since I graduated high school. The days of madras shirts, Ford Mustangs, Johnny Mathis, spirit committee and smoking cigarettes with ignorant abandon are way behind me. I do not long for that time. A time of innocence, yes, but unbridled happiness, no. I have no nostalgia.

Today, I sit in a small community theatre in a small town in Pennsylvania watching my high school boyfriend, Richard Freedman, in the role of Morrie Schwartz, dying of ALS in the renowned play, Tuesdays with Morrie. I have not seen Richard for years and never in a theatre production. He has been starring in community theatre for a long time in between building a successful career as a dentist.

He is really good in the part. I mean great. Broadway material. He has captured the complexity of the role, the pain, the richness of it. Who would have guessed that he had the depth of character to have played it? I knew him as a goofy, basketball loving, surfacy kind of guy, sweet and kind, and of course, of prime importance to a 17 year old, great to look at.

At graduation, Richard went off to Pitt, I to G.W. He told me once he was in love then, that I broke his heart. He wanted to settle down. He had plans. He would become a dentist and practice with his brother. He would coach high school basketball too. Have kids. It was his dream. It’s what he wanted.

I never knew what I wanted. I knew what I didn’t want and that included settling down, whatever that meant, and certainly not in a small town in Pennsylvania. Instead, I noncommittally hurled myself from one place to another, drawn to those on the fringe, the unconventional, the foreign. I went after whatever it was I was looking for with great passion and some recklessness.

Some of us married, became lawyers, made a lot of money, bought shore houses. Others moved, divorced, turned gay, struggled with a life in the arts or illness or addiction. We were there at Bernard’s heart transplant in Houston, and Armstrong’s steps on the moon, at Woodstock, and at Roe vs. Wade. We watched Kent State, Watergate and Jim Jones. We swallowed the pill. We spoke for women’s rights, Rwanda, and the end of Vietnam all to the cacophony of Mark Chapman’s shot, 9/11, the internet, the Exxon Valdez, Columbine, Kevorkian and Katrina. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge.

Forty years later. I’ve found what I was looking for. Clearly Richard has too. We are both of us, a little world weary from our separate “accidental journeys,” as Morrie so aptly puts it. Wiser too. Richard doesn’t practice dentistry with his brother anymore. It seems there were too many irreconcilable differences throughout their forty year partnership. Turns out, sometimes blood is not thicker than water. I’m settled in the suburbs trying to put a kid through college, scraping by on a writer’s income. To the question I have often asked myself, “How would it be if I’d married him those many years ago,” Would I have found my way? I can only imagine with just a fleeting regret, the beautiful teeth, I’d have today!