Miriam Feder

In Big Words I’m exploring some simple words we all know that seem to get bigger and bigger as my understanding and perspective shifts. This reminiscence is about my Father–fortunately a big character in my life.

As I tossed about restlessly, I could almost see him. For an instant, he broke free of that snapshot I carry in my head–the rounded 65-year old body, fixed with the bemused-and-perhaps disapproving look, about to burst into a hearty laugh from his barrel chest, followed by a cough or two and a gasp. I tried to morph his image back into the younger man he must have been when his arms would catch me, racing to his knees.  Daddy traveled so much, he was always like a special guest in the house. But he loved being a Daddy.  You could tell.

He performed the Friday night blessings in a heartfelt tenor that discouraged joining in—although he wanted participation. At 40 he began his athletic career by risking his apple-shaped body on thin blades of steel, braving the too, too cold and the smelly relief of the warming hut, so I would have someone to skate with. It was an invigorating shared misery. He always smelled salty after these adventures.

By the half-in half-out drifts of morning, I did see him, sense him. I called to him, a little fearful, as usual. I felt unsure of the world and afraid of his disapproval most of all.

Sylvan was a little surprised to find what a conventional life he led. He always acted as if he knew different worlds and could have walked through any of them comfortably. He seemed part Sam Spade, part Enrico Caruso.  He idolized FDR and always mistrusted the establishment. People trusted him with their money and family problems and he helped.

He was rocked out of his small town ethnic America by the call to war: a war against fascism; a war against genocide aimed at his own people.  He left the claustrophobia of the old neighborhood and was thrown in with other young men of every stripe, people he never would have met in ordinary times.  He was Father to some, brother to others. He shipped overseas and was taken in by a grateful British housewife. He was commissioned In North Africa to buy supplies in French. He saw death, he knew women. He came home from war a pacifist.

I wish I had the day to day stories. “What did you really DO in the War, Daddy.” But instead I often rolled my eyes and whined “Dad” when the tales would begin their cycle again.

If he had lived longer, would I have gotten to know him better?  Would I sit still for the repetitive stories, ask the probing questions, complete the pictures I stoppedgathering almost 20 years ago?  Or would I be annoyed at his slowness and frailty, at the obstinacy and routines of old men.  Would I have continued to be too rushed by the crush between generations to note the gifts of either one?

When I watched my mother slip into dementia, I would sometimes think “What would HE think about her.” I’d be embarrassed for her as I’d picture him there before us, critical as always. Then I’d remember—who is he to criticize her; he went and died. Where does he get off rolling his bulging eyes, judging her absent mind?

Sometimes I wonder why I had to run so hard away from my parents.  Sometimes I’m in their clutches still…. I’m grateful for their wisdom and for the strange weave that they made in me.

 

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Thanks for a big brown bird, soft and crunchy stuffing, sweet yams, a tart cranberry relish and ample bottles of wine. Thanks for a fresh green salad and don’t mind if I skip the smashed potatoes, rolls and that baked broccoli-cheese traditional. Who would notice?

Thanks for bringing this group together year upon year, through marriages, visiting parents, babies, toddlers, widowed mothers, t’weens, divorces, rearrangements, and— for some time now— only one Grandma left. Maybe sometime we’ll be the grandmas. Will that add to or take away? Yes, well, don’t anyone hold their breath.Thanks for all the spills, the misses, and fine nights of charades.

This is what my Thanksgivings have looked like for most of thirty years. A tight and cozy table at a friend’s house with once-a-year linen and platters upon platters. It must have been a whole year between each one of these food-a-thons, but I’m surprised they add up so high.

Thanks for good fortune in our own lives. We’re fortunate that our sadnesses have been transitory: real but not chronic. Long suffering has stayed distant from this table. Death has come only for the older ones.  We’ve come to know that’s not always the case and so we’ve grown so very grateful.

Our children…they already grew up so fast. Now that we see the rate of spin, we know their lives will fly right by at an increasing rate. We know that the next ten years might have some harsh surprises for them—for us. No rush, no rush—but no slowing it down.

Take a few moments before dessert. Take a basket, choose teams and try to recollect the movies ofthe year, the book titles nobody read and the songs that separate the generations.  Let me hold onto this enormous good and gather in all the smells and tastes, the warmth and the story, the hopes, the disappointments and the familiar smiles. Let me taste them like another course, no matter how full I am. Four and twenty lifetimes baked in a pie. Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.

 

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I’m looking for a “special object.” What makes something stand out as special?  My eye floats across my surfaces.  I live in a high-stuff environment, much to the dismay of my inner monk. My objects have objects. There are small delicate family treasures, like crystal, china and stone. Then there are gifts from dear ones or things I’ve collected traveling. Things might be interesting, beautiful, occasionally valuable, inspiring, and maybe even tender. But what object has meaning?

Should it be something I purchased or something that was gifted or handed down? Are items from the past more meaningful or should it be something very now?  There are other variables: breakage; repair; connection; guilt; luxury; resentment.

Maybe it’s something I made myself in a moment of inspiration or creative therapy. Quickly my brain starts it’s muttering: that should have been finished better; see where the glaze pulled away?  I needed to allow more time between processes. The comments remind me I should be more careful, more attentive. I should try it again, learn from my mistakes, become a better craftsman and then I’d have the object free from doubt.

But the next time I’m creating I become distracted in a different direction being brand new yet again. Again—always—I invent as the clay is drying in my hands. Quick.  Yes, it would have been relatively easy to follow the plan and make the dinner predictable and fine, the file complete, the display transforming. How much would it take to melt away the tiny flaws and show mastery? Would that take a different me?

I don’t have the soul of a perfectionist although sometimes have the soul—or perhaps the soul-lessness—of a critic. Sometimes I can be that mind that looks for imperfection behind every trace—the cat who seeks reward for bringing a lifeless bird through the kitchen door for Mistress. Critic wants to protect, but instead she prevents.

“A precious object,” I remind myself. My eye lights on a small stuffed hedgehog.  Some years ago it pulled me into the zoo gift shop, where I quickly surveyed the entire stock. I sorted keenly and bought the very best three, anxious to spread these treasures to my little family.

When I bring my eyes to the little fleck of fabric woodsiness, I smile inside. There’s no weight of regret, criticism, disappointment, death or imperfection. There’s a bit of silliness and anachronism, perhaps, but its cuteness has withstood the test.

But is this THE object?  I think of Morgan and Rhubarb, my worn, over-loved stuffed animals from childhood. They came to my adult home a dozen years ago, tucked away in a family bureau. I rarely take them out of their plastic bag.

Instead, quite convinced, I pick a stone bear fetish from New Mexico. Perhaps I’m cheating—this is an object of obvious power. Or perhaps that’s exactly what I’m looking for. I share the coolness, smoothness, healing and power of the bear. By holding it, by using it, I derive its power. Sitting on the shelf it has none.  It becomes a special object in my hands. Maybe its special-ness is not in my hands alone, but in my hands the tiny stone bear has power.

 

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I’m looking for a “special object.” What makes something stand out as special?  My eye floats across my surfaces.  I live in a high-stuff environment, much to the dismay of my inner monk. My objects have objects. There are small delicate family treasures, like crystal, china and stone. Then there are gifts from dear ones or things I’ve collected traveling. Things might be interesting, beautiful, occasionally valuable, inspiring, and maybe even tender. But what object has meaning?

Should it be something I purchased or something that was gifted or handed down? Are items from the past more meaningful or should it be something very now?  There are other variables: breakage; repair; connection; guilt; luxury; resentment.

Maybe it’s something I made myself in a moment of inspiration or creative therapy. Quickly my brain starts it’s muttering: that should have been finished better; see where the glaze pulled away?  I needed to allow more time between processes. The comments remind me I should be more careful, more attentive. I should try it again, learn from my mistakes, become a better craftsman and then I’d have the object free from doubt.

But the next time I’m creating I become distracted in a different direction being brand new yet again. Again—always—I invent as the clay is drying in my hands. Quick.  Yes, it would have been relatively easy to follow the plan and make the dinner predictable and fine, the file complete, the display transforming. How much would it take to melt away the tiny flaws and show mastery? Would that take a different me?

I don’t have the soul of a perfectionist although sometimes have the soul—or perhaps the soul-lessness—of a critic. Sometimes I can be that mind that looks for imperfection behind every trace—the cat who seeks reward for bringing a lifeless bird through the kitchen door for Mistress. Critic wants to protect, but instead she prevents.

“A precious object,” I remind myself. My eye lights on a small stuffed hedgehog.  Some years ago it pulled me into the zoo gift shop, where I quickly surveyed the entire stock. I sorted keenly and bought the very best three, anxious to spread these treasures to my little family.

When I bring my eyes to the little fleck of fabric woodsiness, I smile inside. There’s no weight of regret, criticism, disappointment, death or imperfection. There’s a bit of silliness and anachronism, perhaps, but its cuteness has withstood the test.

But is this THE object?  I think of Morgan and Rhubarb, my worn, over-loved stuffed animals from childhood. They came to my adult home a dozen years ago, tucked away in a family bureau. I rarely take them out of their plastic bag.

Instead, quite convinced, I pick a stone bear fetish from New Mexico. Perhaps I’m cheating—this is an object of obvious power. Or perhaps that’s exactly what I’m looking for. I share the coolness, smoothness, healing and power of the bear. By holding it, by using it, I derive its power. Sitting on the shelf it has none.  It becomes a special object in my hands. Maybe its special-ness is not in my hands alone, but in my hands the tiny stone bear has power.

Alone is a common way to be when you’re an only child. So common I stopped noticing that other people were usually in groups. So common I didn’t bother to learn how to share myself with others. Physical needs, those could be dispatched in hot-blooded bedrooms and backseats. Social needs were fulfilled in parties and communal living. But day to day walking and working through life nobody seemed to notice me—even me.

I wouldn’t call myself a loner. I’ve always had gatherings on my calendar, different pockets of people, new friends to make, old friends to catch up on. But I’m just fine alone—even in a movie theater—that most forbidding of lone adventures.

I’ve walked the streets of small towns, big cities, beaches, exotic continents, parks and neighborhoods, all alone. I’ve made most decisions big and small alone. I’ve trod the hardest trails alone: a father’s death; a mother’s deterioration; divorce; a child’s debilitating illness; job loss; career dissatisfaction. I barely knew to call on anyone. I kept partners and friends at the periphery. There has always been an invisible barrier that I unknowingly establish. Some came closer and then spun out. Some couldn’t stand the demands, the not-knowing, the shifting priorities these trials set up for me. Some would have been there for me had I let them. And some did get through to me and took a bit of the strain from my tired bones.

I lived well-loved with my parents for eighteen years. I spent thirty years as part of one couple or another. People might not have noticed how alone I was. Coupling can be so isolating. At its worst, it steals the generous mantle of solitude and replaces it with missed opportunity. And it looks to all the world like you have a partner. In those unconnected hours face to face with my partner, drenched in the ice-water of failed intimacy alone became loneliness.

When embrace is worm-eaten, when the arms belongs to the preoccupied or self-important, when he can see only his own reflection in the pool, when the hand gropes for the brittle or the habitual, it warps the strong dependable muscles of the body’s right side. The crust around that right shoulder, thigh and calf, becomes slightly soggy—rancid in the promising chords of camaraderie. Then, if some of the weight—the unearthly weight of sadness, the gonging weight of concern, the black weight of doubt, the sharp stones of anxiety—shifts, the softened side collapses, endangering both of us, sprained and sprawling atop the original hardship. So dissolution accompanies a child’s illness. So death warps life. But alone, standing on two strong legs… Well, the feet may wear, the shoulders ache, the breath rasp, but the slow stride uphill can continue, almost indefinitely.

Alone may not have learned how to ask, or how to share the burden, the questions or the uncertainty. Alone is used to marshaling, not unburdening. She dares not risk collapse too often. And too, alone is the child of alone. Generations have not asked, have not confided, have marshaled.

Alone has its own problems, to be sure. But self-reliance isn’t among them. Alone comes through—sometimes without asking all the right questions, sometimes based on incorrect assumptions, sometimes not as good as it could have been, but the tasks get done, the feet are re-bandaged, the shopworn heart is revived with bygone balms and blossoming boughs. Alone.

 

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Alone is a common way to be when you’re an only child. So common I stopped noticing that other people were usually in groups. So common I didn’t bother to learn how to share myself with others. Physical needs, those could be dispatched in hot-blooded bedrooms and backseats. Social needs were fulfilled in parties and communal living. But day to day walking and working through life nobody seemed to notice me—even me.

I wouldn’t call myself a loner. I’ve always had gatherings on my calendar, different pockets of people, new friends to make, old friends to catch up on. But I’m just fine alone—even in a movie theater—that most forbidding of lone adventures.

I’ve walked the streets of small towns, big cities, beaches, exotic continents, parks and neighborhoods, all alone. I’ve made most decisions big and small alone. I’ve trod the hardest trails alone: a father’s death; a mother’s deterioration; divorce; a child’s debilitating illness; job loss; career dissatisfaction. I barely knew to call on anyone. I kept partners and friends at the periphery. There has always been an invisible barrier that I unknowingly establish. Some came closer and then spun out. Some couldn’t stand the demands, the not-knowing, the shifting priorities these trials set up for me. Some would have been there for me had I let them. And some did get through to me and took a bit of the strain from my tired bones.

I lived well-loved with my parents for eighteen years. I spent thirty years as part of one couple or another. People might not have noticed how alone I was. Coupling can be so isolating. At its worst, it steals the generous mantle of solitude and replaces it with missed opportunity. And it looks to all the world like you have a partner. In those unconnected hours face to face with my partner, drenched in the ice-water of failed intimacy alone became loneliness.

When embrace is worm-eaten, when the arms belongs to the preoccupied or self-important, when he can see only his own reflection in the pool, when the hand gropes for the brittle or the habitual, it warps the strong dependable muscles of the body’s right side. The crust around that right shoulder, thigh and calf, becomes slightly soggy—rancid in the promising chords of camaraderie. Then, if some of the weight—the unearthly weight of sadness, the gonging weight of concern, the black weight of doubt, the sharp stones of anxiety—shifts, the softened side collapses, endangering both of us, sprained and sprawling atop the original hardship. So dissolution accompanies a child’s illness. So death warps life. But alone, standing on two strong legs… Well, the feet may wear, the shoulders ache, the breath rasp, but the slow stride uphill can continue, almost indefinitely.

Alone may not have learned how to ask, or how to share the burden, the questions or the uncertainty. Alone is used to marshaling, not unburdening. She dares not risk collapse too often. And too, alone is the child of alone. Generations have not asked, have not confided, have marshaled.

Alone has its own problems, to be sure. But self-reliance isn’t among them. Alone comes through—sometimes without asking all the right questions, sometimes based on incorrect assumptions, sometimes not as good as it could have been, but the tasks get done, the feet are re-bandaged, the shopworn heart is revived with bygone balms and blossoming boughs. Alone.