From Gary's Gallery

I thought I would take a slightly different tack today so instead of whining I would talk about a few of the art works in my apartment. Since I moved from a three-bedroom house into a tiny one-bedroom apartment, and I wasn’t ready to part with the art I had collected over the years, my walls are covered. But I love it that way. Here are the back stories about three of those works:

First is the one above. This was painted by my mother, a very talented porcelain artist. I never really quite understood how it was done, but I know that the work is fired multiple times on porcelain. Mom did some of the more traditional porcelain works, flowers, but what she really loved was painting animals. This delightful portrait is of a young—lion? wildcat? I’m not sure. But I find it charming and I delight in it daily.

One more from Mom: this kingfisher watching for a bit of dinner. What I find interesting about this painting is that it wasn’t on porcelain; rather, she wanted to try a new medium so she picked gouache, an opaque watercolor. She had never used it before and yet she turned out this vibrant picture of a kingfisher, a bird I have always been fascinated by (well, she picked this subject at my request). I don’t have a date but I believe it is one of the last paintings she did.

This watercolor I find especially interesting as it was painted by the only person I ever knew who actually ran off and joined the circus: April Cerf. April and I worked together at an insurance company in Dallas. We both hated the job and spent time hanging out together, complaining about work and generally having a good time. Okay, occasionally it involved recreational pot, as we now call it. Hey, I was young. Younger. While looking for another job, April answered an ad for an artist to work with the Carson & Barnes Circus with set design. She didn’t get the job advertised, but they offered another job; as I recall it was one of those women who hang from ropes and spin around. I wouldn’t bet the bank on that memory, however. I do recall that later she worked with elephants. I’ve long lost touch with April and can find nothing about her online. When she was getting ready to move to the circus (they winter in Hugo, Oklahoma), she offered me the choice of whatever painting I wanted. I picked the lion cub. I have so often wondered what ever happened to April. I hope she’s happily painting somewhere.

On Becoming a Hermit

I didn’t set out to be a hermit. The hermit’s life just sort of came upon me. A brief background: I awoke one morning, mid-December, with excruciating lower back pain. After weeks of visits to my doctor and a pain specialist, each followed by a variety of X-rays, needles-in-the-back treatments, and physical therapy, I’m still, two months later, dealing with often severe lower back pain. The only relief I get is sitting in my rocking chair for hours at a time. So that’s what I do. I’ve given up morning coffee at Starbucks. I’ve given away, or sold, my last three opera tickets as I just can’t deal with the trip downtown and all the walking and standing involved in attending the opera. I did get out yesterday to meet a friend at Starbucks, in the afternoon, after hours of sitting in my chair, and I walked to the pharmacy a few days ago, about two blocks, and that’s been it. Of necessity I’ve become a hermit.

So what do I do with all that chair sitting? Mostly, I’m embarrassed to admit, I watch TV. I watch all the news shows, which will put one right off one’s feed these days. I watch a lot of movies, thanks to Netflix streaming and DVDs and Amazon Prime streaming. I do read quite a bit, of course, but I’ve noticed that my ability to concentrate has decreased, so more TV. I suppose the hermit living in his cave didn’t have TV. Too bad. In that sense I’m in better shape than he.

I’ve taken to ordering groceries from Peapod, which delivers to my door. I don’t entertain, so visitors are rare, although welcome when they come by. At least Jake, my cat, is happy to have me around all the time.

I keep saying I should use the time better. Maybe take up needlepoint? No, I tried that once and hated it. Nor do I have the patience for it. I could write more blogs. Working on it now. There’s always culling books and CDs that I need to get rid of, but that requires being on my feet, so that’s out. Even washing the dishes is a chore involving washing about half the dishes, then sitting for a while, and then going back and finishing. So nothing involving standing. I’m back to watching TV. Really, it’s pathetic. And I used to be on the go all the time.

I need to get me some sackcloth, make me a hermit’s robe, and really get into this. Except I believe and hope that all this is temporary and soon I’ll be back to my normal routine, and I can leave the hermit’s life behind. Very soon. Okay, enough whining! Suck it up Gary…

Death and Dying

February 13, 2018

Death and Dying

I want to talk about death and dying. But I don’t want to be depressing. I don’t want readers to stop after the first sentence. Nor have I received bad health news; I'm basically good for a few more years at least. But the fact of the matter is that when one turns 75, the subject of death and dying does come up. Too often. I find myself noting the age of celebrities’ deaths when reported on the news. I look back at the people close to me who have died and I note their ages. I don’t think I’m obsessive, although people might disagree, but I just feel like death and dying are something one would be wise to face in one’s life.

I wonder if this train of thought has been brought on by my severe back pain, which is keeping me in my apartment for days at a time; I have way too much time on my hands. (Lordy, I found myself watching The View the other day; can soap operas be far behind?) Or maybe it’s just the realization that some—many—of the people I loved have died, from close friends like Donna and Roger to relatives like my grandparents or, most importantly, my parents. Death is no longer an abstract concept as it often is for the young. It’s all too real.

My first brush with death was my grandfather. He was actually my step-grandfather and he was a most unpleasant man whom I did not care for. His dementia led him to attack my grandmother, whom I truly did love, with a butcher knife. He even once attacked my mother when she went to their place in Colorado to assist. He was placed in a home and died relatively quickly after that. I went to the funeral, my first, with decidedly mixed feelings.

In quick succession, or so it seems now, my father, my grandmother, and my mother died. Mother’s death was the hardest as we were very close. I don’t think I’ve gotten over it yet. And then my friends began to die. Donna, my dearest friend for decades, died after a long and horrific battle with ALS. Then Bil died after battling bone cancer for many years. The hardest was my closest friend Roger, who died unexpectedly while undergoing minor surgery—and as I had his power of attorney, I had to make the decision to disconnect him from those ghastly machines.

So, as I age and begin to deal with a variety of physical issues (such a pile of pills I have to take), I can’t keep back the floodgates of speculation, both of death and the process of dying. But I don’t believe I have a morbid fascination with death and dying. I do believe I am trying to look at those issues rationally and with, I hope, some foresight. Will it stop the processes? Of course not. But at least I am, I hope, learning to deal with the reality that faces all of us.

As French Cardinal René Francois Regnier put it:

            Gaily I lived as ease and nature taught,

            And spent my little life without a thought,

            And am amazed that Death, that tyrant grim,

            Should think of me, who never thought of him.
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I just found a funny, and relevant, cartoon, especially if you know how much I love the poetry of Emily Dickinson: