Dorien Grey and Roger

It’s been almost a year since my dear friend Roger died: November 1, 2015.  Not a day goes by that I don’t miss him.  Everything I do is measured as though Roger were still here.  I have moved on, in many ways, but always the spirit of Roger is hovering, as it were, over my shoulder and watching me.  I don’t mean this in any way morbidly nor supernaturally—there is no ghost of Roger—but he was such a part of my life for so many years that I always “align” my actions with what Roger might think (even when I know he would not approve).

And since his death I have taken over the job of editing his books, written under the name of Dorien Grey, that are being rereleased, by his major publisher, Untreed Reads, after being out of print for some time.  It’s a task I do gratefully.  I am glad that Jay, the publisher, and KD, the CEO, trust me enough to take on this task.  I’m working on the next-to-last Dick Hardesty mystery, The Peripheral Son (each edit is done twice by me and at least twice by KD); waiting in the wings is the last of the Dick Hardesty books, The Serpent’s Tongue. And recently I secured the release from his other publisher, Zumaya Publications, of the four books in Roger’s John series, a supernatural mystery collection of four novels, and his young adult western, Calico.  While I haven’t confirmed this yet, I assume I’ll also be editing them for rerelease through Untreed Reads in 2017.  It’s a job I look forward to.

But a most unusual and moving thing has happened as I’ve edited nine of the books: Dick Hardesty is becoming Roger—Dorien Grey, who was always Roger, is becoming Roger in a very real and often quite touching way.  Roger, as far as I know, had no desire to be a private detective, but the Dick Hardesty in the books in so many ways is Roger, that I find I am often moved to tears at scenes in the books.  This is particularly true in Dick’s relationship with his partner, Jonathan; their relationship is what Roger always wanted for himself—and never really had.  Even, I think, to the extent that Dick and Jonathan end up as parents, something I don’t remember Roger expressing a desire for.  But the way the three—Dick, Jonathan, and Joshua—interact around each other and toward each other is, I have come to believe, a very idealized version of what Roger always wanted, and life, in its too often cruel way, never gave him.

Everything isn’t always perfect in the Dick-Jonathan-Joshua household.  Joshua is a child and can, at times, be, well, childlike.  Dick’s erratic work schedule often interferes with the running of the household; and as Jonathan gets more and more involved in his own job, his education, and his own business and activities, Dick sometimes finds himself jealous.  In other words, their household is like any household: sometimes chaotic, often unorganized, but always loving.  

I am more sad than I can describe to know that I’ll never learn how Joshua grows up, how Jonathan’s transition to his own business develops, nor how the three grow as a family.  They have become so real to me, that I am having a hard time accepting that I will not see the end of the story.  But I know Roger would have wanted that ending, and although I’ll never see it in print, I know in my heart how the story continues.  And as is the way with fantasies, this story doesn’t end with death; it just continues on and on.  That’s my gift to Roger.

On Reading Marcus Aurelius

“Everything that happens is either endurable or not.

If it’s endurable, then endure it.  Stop complaining.

If it’s unendurable . . . then stop complaining.  Your destruction will mean its end as well.

Just remember: you can endure anything your mind can make endurable, by treating it as in your interest to do so.

In your interest, or in your nature.”

The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius as translated by Gregory Hays, Book 10, 3

I’ve recently finished the wonderful Gregory Hays translation of The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius.  I am fascinated with the philosophy of Stoicism*, although I’m quick to point out I am by any reasonable definition not a true Stoic.  But I’m a Stoic wannabe.

Marcus was a Roman emperor; however, like most of the ruling class of the time, he was fluent in Greek, and the Meditations were written in Greek.  It seems clear that he never expected the book to be published in any form.  To me, the book seems more like a commonplace book; that is, it’s a collection of thoughts and quotes from others written down as they occurred to him.  He simply jotted them down as he felt the urge.  The book is divided into twelve sections or books, although these do not follow any chronological order.  And the overall approach is that of the Stoic; the quote above seems to me to epitomize the Stoic philosophy.

Rather than engage in a long (and probably not always accurate) interpretation of the book, I thought I would share a few quotes that seem to me to be representative of Marcus, his insight and, surprisingly, his humor.  The first quote may very well cause me to be excluded from the ranks of the Stoics:

—[From the literary critic Alexander, I learned] to not be constantly correcting people, and in particular not to jump on them whenever they make an error of usage or a grammatical mistake or mispronounce something, but just answer their question or add another example, or debate the issue itself (not their phrasing), or make some other contribution to the discussion—and insert the right expression, unobtrusively. [Book 1, 10]

—Not just that every day more of our life is used up and less and less of it is left, but this too: if we live longer, can we be sure out mind will still be up to understanding the world—to the contemplation that aims at divine and human knowledge?  If our mind starts to wander we’ll still go on breathing, go on eating, imaging things, feeling urges and so on.  But getting the most out of ourselves, calculating where our duty lies, analyzing what we hear and see, deciding whether it’s time to call it quits—all the things you need a healthy mind for . . . all those are gone.

So we need to hurry.

Not just because we move daily closer to death but also because our understanding—our grasp of the world—may be gone before we get there. [Book 3, 1]

—Suppose that a god announced that you were going to die tomorrow “or the day after.”  Unless you were a complete coward you wouldn’t kick up a fuss about which day it was—what difference could it make?  Now recognize that the difference between years from now and tomorrow is just as small. [Book 4, 47]

—In short, know this: Human lives are brief and trivial.  Yesterday a blob of semen; tomorrow embalming fluid, ash.[Book 4, 48]

—It’s silly to try to escape other people’s faults.  They are inescapable.  Just try to escape your own. [Book 7, 71]

—Alexander and Caesar and Pompey.  Compared with Diogenes, Heraclitus, Socrates?  The philosophers knew the what, the why, the how.  Their minds were their own.

The others? Nothing but anxiety and enslavement. [Book 8, 3]

—A straightforward, honest person should be like someone who stinks: when you’re in the same room with him, you know it. [Book 11, 15]

—There’s nothing more insufferable than people who boast about their own humility. [Book 12, 27]

———————-

*I could find no consistent “rules” for capitalizing Stoic or Stoicism.  A search on the internet had all sorts of suggestions.  I like this one the best and will use it:  “Stoical is of the Stoics, while stoical is of indifference to pain or pleasure. Then it gets more complicated: uncapitalized stoicism is the philosophy of the capitalized Stoics. The adverb stoically is uncapitalized. . . . To hell with all this!  From now on I’m capitalizing Stoic and Stoical, in the same way I would Christian, regardless of context.  I will also capitalize Stoicism in the same way I would Aristotelianism.  I’m undecided on what to do with stoically.”  [https://letthesewordsanswer.wordpress.com/2013/02/17/capitalizing-stoic/]  The Chicago Manual of Style has the words in caps unless they are “used metaphorically.”  Jeez!  I wonder if fretting about this makes me a Stoic?  Am I think stoically?  Nope: fretting about this just makes me a grammar nerd.

Reading and Old Age

I don’t remember a time when I didn’t read.  There must have been one; had I been born with a book in my hand I think Mom would have mentioned it.  But at different times in my life, my reading “style,” as it were, has changed.  Now that I’m officially a senior citizen, I have slipped into a new phase of reading.

One of my earliest memories of reading was a scene at the public library in Oklahoma City.  This was before we moved to the farm, so it had to be prior to the third grade (1949 or 1950?).  I wanted a particular book and found it.  When I went to check it out, the librarian said that book was from the adult section and I wasn’t allowed to read it.  When I later told Mom what happened, she raced to the library and gave them a good scolding.  I doubt if anything changed, except after that she checked out the books I wanted on her card.  That a librarian would try to censor my reading made Mom spitting mad; she trusted my judgment.

As a kid I could read for hours uninterrupted.  And if I thought I might be interrupted, I would head to the pasture where I had a variety of hideouts to sit quietly and read.  During class was a good time to read also.  I would sit at the back, prop up my reading book, cleverly hidden behind the textbook, and read away; of course now, after years as a teacher, I realize my instructors knew what was going on, but looked the other way as, generally, I kept an A average and caused no problems.

Another good reading time was on the bus.  Once in high school the ride was close to an hour.  I would sit in the back of the bus, scoot down, prop my knees on the back of the seat in front and read undisturbed.

When I first went to college, my reading habits changed: I started having fun, which hadn’t happened much before.  I had so much fun not reading that I got kicked out for bad grades.  Then into the Navy for four years, where I once again got into the habit of reading every chance I got.  My three-foot by three-foot locker always had more books than anything else; it’s a wonder I passed any inspection.  In Vietnam my battle station was Damage Control Central.  My ship, the USS Galveston, did a lot of firing onto shore in support of aircraft raids, but as far as I know no one ever fired back at us (the Galveston was a large ship with scary looking guided missiles); that meant that my time in Damage Control was spent reading, since there was never any damage to control, and there were hours and hours and hours of just sitting.  And reading.

After the Navy I returned to college, ready, this time, to study and to read, read, read.  As an English major I needed to do that.  And that was a habit I kept up for many years, even into my retirement.

But, I’m not the man I used to be, nor am I the reader I used to be.  I keep a list of all the books I read, and each year for the last five years or so, the list has gotten smaller each year.  The truth of the matter is that I simply can’t read with the same concentration I used to.  Most of that is physical: my knees start to hurt, my back begins to ache, my eyes blur; the chair becomes painful.  I’m easily distracted by noise and . . . well, just about everything.  It’s easier just to pop in a movie than to read deeply like I used to.  I could probably fix some this: a new, more comfortable chair, , exercises, knee surgery, time travel.  But I think I’ll just have to lower my expectations, and perhaps read for quality rather than quantity.  So, back to Proust . . .

Cremains

A portmanteau is a two-sided suitcase, popular for traveling on ships in earlier days.  The irrepressible Lewis Carroll used the word to describe what happens when two words are combined to form a new one:  “You see,” Humpty Dumpty explains to Alice, “it's like a portmanteau—there are two meanings packed up into one word.”  The examples he gave were from Lewis’s delightful poem “Jabberwocky,” but these joined words are common everywhere.  Some examples: cockapoo, from Cocker Spaniel and poodle; biopic, from biography and picture; a favorite dinner treat of mine:  Tofurkey, from tofu and turkey; and here’s a real howler:  Reaganomics, from Ronald Reagan and economics (never those twains met); and perhaps the most egregious misuse of these terms: Verizon, from veritas (Latin for truth) and horizon.  Verizon?  Truth?  Not words one often link together with that company.  And that brings me to the topic of this blog:  cremains, from cremate and remains.

Yesterday, I arranged my own cremation.  Fortunately, I had had a taste of what was to come after dealing with my friend Roger’s cremation with The Cremation Society of Illinois; in fact, that’s why I chose this company: the good experience with them and their charming representative, Brooke.  Other than a blow to my pocketbook, the experience wasn’t bad at all.  Still, it’s a bit disconcerting sitting around calmly discussing my own death and the disposition of these mortal remains.  “What?!  I’m going to die?  No wait . . .”  Okay, it wasn’t that dramatic.  And I’ve had so many friends and family die around me over the last decade or so, that I am all too aware that death is just a misstep away.  (My friend Ray reminded me just today how many auto-pedestrian hit and run deaths there are in Chicago every year—just as we stepped out onto the busy intersection at Diversey and Sheffield.  I looked both ways.)

But I’m glad I did it.  Since Roger had made cremation arrangements in advance, that part of his death was relatively easy to deal with (much else wasn’t).  And I hope to make it that way for my family, too.  My brother Ken, and my executor and medical power of attorney designate, was involved in the process by phone.  I feel good that that’s taken care of.  It’s not completely paid for yet—I’m paying it out over the year ahead—but even poor as I am I have enough of an estate to cover the balance should something happen quickly.

Now, about that portmanteau word that is the title of this blog: I hate that word!  What’s wrong with ashes?  Even remains (although that sounds suspiciously like garbage to me)?  So, I’ll not use it.  Once I’m gone people can call what’s left anything they want.

Fear of Walking

I’ve fallen four times since I’ve moved to Chicago.  It may be a factor of age, or, more likely, something to do with the fact that I didn’t walk much until I moved here.  In any event, I’ve taken four tumbles.

The first time I wasn’t watching where I was walking, stepped on a raised section of sidewalk and fell forward (I always fall forward for some reason); I caught myself with my arm which was the only damage: I couldn’t lift my arm above my head for a couple of months.  The second time I was walking to Sunday breakfast, stepped off the sidewalk onto a bricked area, which I saw, and for some unknown reason fell face forward.  My glasses were bend out of shape and there was a lot of blood—and I had a lovely shiner for some days.  The most notable thing about that fall was the man who came to my rescue; after making sure I hadn’t broken anything, other than my glasses, this total stranger went back to his apartment, got a damp towel, came back, cleaned my face, and sent me home with the towel.  I was too muddled to get his name; I thanked him, of course, but I would have loved to send him a nice gift; imagine doing all that for a total stranger?  I’m still touched by his concern and actions.  The third time I was walking with Roger on a perfectly smooth sidewalk and fell—again forward.  And again a bloody face, glasses bent totally out of shape, and my dignity damaged.  But only my dignity, and my glasses, were permanently damaged.  The fourth fall was a different story.

After a nasty bout with what was surely the flu, I developed some troubling symptoms of infection.  I called my doctor and his office advised to me to go to the emergency room immediately.  I go outside of my apartment building, use my iPhone to summon an Uber, and as I’m walking around the car to get in, I fall again.  And again I have no idea why I fell; the pavement was smooth.  This time I hit really hard, had a bloody nose, and there was massive bleeding everywhere.  The Uber driver came around to help as did a woman passing with her child; I think she’s the one who called an ambulance, although I’m not sure.  In any event I ended up in the ambulance and there I was, in the emergency room just as I had started out to get to.  A very expensive way to get there, I might add, although I’m still dealing with the insurance.

But I had a different reaction to this fall.  Whether it was the ambulance and the ER or just the accumulation of falls, I became afraid of walking.  Well, I live in Chicago without a car; I have to walk.  At first I limited my walking as much as I could.  I would catch a bus or train, even just to the next stop.  Anything to keep from having to walk too far.  And when I do walk I am constantly watching the sidewalk and pavement; I don’t want to trip over a slight incline in the pavement, or a small pothole.  As I walk I see nothing but the ground ahead of me.

Based on absolutely nothing, I have decided that I had developed an “old man’s shuffle.”  So in addition to watching carefully as I walk, I concentrate on raising my feet.  Not enough, I hope, to look like I’m wading through a Florida swamp, but enough so I don’t trip again over some minor change in the pathway.  It must be working, as I haven’t fallen again.  But walking is not fun any more.  I’m still counting on trains and buses as much as possible.  I’ve cut back on concerts and plays, at least those that involve too much walking (Chicago Shakespeare Theater is out for next season, for example).  

How will this end?  Me with a walker?!  No, not yet.  My friend Jodie suggested it’s time for a cane.  No, I’m not ready for that yet either.  So for now I'll just be careful, keep an eye on the sidewalk, and try not to look like I’m stepping over a gaggle of puppies.

A Pleasant Burden

When my friend Roger died in November, he was in the process of working with his publisher, Untreed Reads, to reissue all of his earlier books in the Dick Hardesty series that were out of print.  They had worked on several, including the first one, The Butcher’s Son, which tells the story of how Dick became a private investigator.  Additional books that were republished include The 9th Man (which was actually written before The Butcher’s Son), The Bar Watcher, The Hired Man, The Good Cop (a particular favorite of mine), and The Bottle Ghosts.

As Roger’s executor and beneficiary, the task of editing the remaining books has fallen to me.  It’s a job I enjoy, even as I know the responsibility is enormous: correcting errors, of course, but also looking for any contradictions or inconsistencies, and yet always remaining true to the books as Roger published them.  Fortunately, I am working with KD of Untreed Reads, their CEO, who has simply been marvelous, encouraging me and being patient with me as I struggle with Microsoft Word, a program I was totally unfamiliar with (I’m used to paper and red pen!).  I’ve done two now, The Dirt Peddler, which has just been released, and The Role Players, which is due to be released later this month.  The remaining books will be released approximately one a month through this year.  Right now I’ve just started editing the next rerelease, The Popsicle Tree.

I’ve spent years editing essays, of course, as an English teacher.  But with those works, there was just me and the essay and the student; now I’ve the additional burden of knowing that many people will read these books.  And always there is the spirit of Roger hovering over me, not menacing, but I never forget that he’s there, not literally of course, but in my mind.  It’s a burden, mostly a pleasant burden, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be completely happy with the job, even while enjoying it.

The proof will come in the sales of the book.  I hope they fly off the shelves (or, since they are also ebooks, zip off the internet).  My task, simply put, is to keep Roger’s legacy going.  Fortunately, these very entertaining books do that job on their own.  And I am honored to have this task.

A Colorful Break from Words

One of Chicago's jewels is the Lincoln Park Conservatory, not far from where I live.  Rather than write a blog, I decided just to share some photos from there; after a very hard winter, I needed some color.  These were taken at various times, many in the orchid room.  The last one is from right outside the Conservatory: who couldn't love Shakespeare with a wreath!

I feel better already!

Roger and Dorien and Back to Blogging

I’ve been terribly remiss in keeping up with my blogs since Roger died.  My readership is small but I could always count on Roger to read it, make comments, and, when needed, point out errors.  While he wasn’t my only reader, he was my most faithful.  Just as he was my most faithful friend.  And it’s been hard to write a blog for someone who no longer is reading them.

Almost three months ago he went into the hospital for outpatient surgery, a relatively minor procedure.  Everything went wrong that could go wrong and he never recovered.  As his executor I have been dealing with massive amount of paperwork and bureaucratic bullshit (oh how he would have hated that!).  But I’m getting through it paper by paper, day by day.  But I don’t have Roger here to bitch to.

I’m working with his publisher, Untreed Reads, to reissue his earlier Dick Hardesty books that have been out of print—published, of course, under the name of Dorien Grey.  Those should come out about every two months this year until all his books are available.  I, along with the publishing house, am editing the books.  That’s a heavy task, as we hate to make any changes that Roger might not approve of, and yet some changes are clearly called for.  One example in the one I just finished was when a character asked for a gimlet—with three onions.  My years as a bartender kicked in: clearly, Roger meant “gibson” with three onions.  Roger drank manhattans, at least until his mouth was damaged so badly by the radiation that he couldn’t handle alcohol anymore, and, I think, was just confused between gimlet (a sweet drink) and a gibson (a martini).  So I don’t think he would mind our changing “gimlet” to “gibson.”  The only other changes we are making are technical ones; his first publisher was a very careless editor.  But what a treat to go back and read these earlier books I haven’t read since they were first published.

I’ll end this blog with two of my favorite stories about Roger; I don’t think he would mind that he was the butt of these tales.  

The first concerns Roger’s total frustration with all things technical.  Any problems with his computer or TV and he would call me to come over—I lived in the next building over.  Usually the problems were quite simple.  One time he called to say he couldn’t change channels on his cable TV.  I raced over.  The minute I walked in the door I saw the problem: he had run his vacuum and set it up right in front of the cable box blocking the remote; he was pointed the remote at the TV and couldn’t understand why the channels wouldn’t change.  I moved the vacuum over about a foot and all was good.  I never let him live it down.

The second story concerns Roger and snakes.  He hated snakes.  He feared snakes.  He wanted nothing to do with them at all.  He visited me once when I still lived in central Texas.  Texas: lots of snakes.  My brother would take us out sailing on Stillhouse Hollow Lake, and afterwards, we would jump off the back of the boat, sit on “floaties,” and sip beer (sailing is hard work).  Once, we were all happily enjoying the sunset bobbing around in the relatively cool water, and my brother casually pointed out a snake weaving across the dock area, a good 20 yards off and moving away from us.  Roger was up the ladder on the back of the boat in two seconds flat, almost losing his bathing suit as he pulled himself out of the water as quickly as he could.  He never got in the lake again, although we went sailing and swimming several more times.  As far as Roger was concerned, the lake was swarming with snakes and would, perhaps, wrap themselves around his legs as he dangled from the floatie.

I’ve told these stories many times and Roger was a good sport about it.  But then Roger was a good sport about most everything.  I miss that about him.  I miss a lot about Roger.  I have to move on, but a friend like Roger is rare and precious; he changed my life in many ways.  And I am grateful more than I can express here.

Bon voyage, mon ami; vous voir à Cannes.