Where My Nose Begins

As we were cringing our way through an entire hour of neighbors shooting off fireworks over our house last weekend, I was reminded of a saying my mom espoused.

 

It was something to the effect that your freedom to swing your elbow is limited by the proximity of the other guy’s nose.

 

This phrase came to mind the following morning, when I ventured out and discovered bits of paper and plastic strewn across my lawn and my roof, with the added bonus of a layer of sulfur and shards of paper covering my car. 

 

Fortunately, this was annoying and not permanent. We only lost an hour of our lives gritting our teeth with every boom. My cat eventually came out of hiding. 

 

But I couldn't help wondering about others, for whom fireworks are a positive terror. Veterans with post traumatic stress disorder, for example. (I always thought it was odd that the same patriots who hail our military members as heroes are dismissive of veterans who suffer from this debilitating condition.)

 

My neighborhood Facebook group was split between those who loathe fireworks and those who love them. The latter group insists it is their patriotic right to enjoy fireworks, anywhere and anytime, and those of us who don't enjoy them are just old spoil sports who are trying to take away their freedom. (To be clear, I don't think anyone was advocating for no fireworks at all, just for confining them to the actual Fourth of July.)

 

The elbow-nose quote can't be definitively attributed to any one source. It's a universal truth that has never been more true than in this country's current bizarre environment, where wearing a mask is seen as a threat to freedom. The only freedom I can perceive we are trying to curtail is people's freedom to infect everyone around them.

 

I can only shake my head.

 

My mom taught us to be good citizens. Treat others as you'd like to be treated. If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. Be kind to animals. 

 

And make sure that, in pursuit of your kicks, you keep your elbow away from the other guy's nose.

Daddy-Oh

We all have filters, and yours truly is no exception.

I view my life through my own recollections, keeping some things and discarding others. Most of this is done as a defense measure by my brain, not through any conscious effort.

There are times when a memory will come back to me with such force, it takes my breath away. This week, in the process of washing my hands in the prescribed fashion, I suddenly recalled my dad's hands, covering mine in suds. We were washing up together before dinner. His hands were much bigger, of course, and when they covered mine, it was comforting. I felt protected and safe. 

Other dad memories cropped up. Like the time he put the swing in the garage for me. (And dutifully moved the car out so I could swing to my heart's content.) Or when he played Mitch Miller for Paul and I on the Sundays we were too young to attend church with my mom and older siblings. And, in later years, his taking us to the "Secret Place" (usually Dairy Queen) on a Sunday afternoon.

I know there are other memories, too, and I let them lie. He was quick to anger, and often left it to my mom to make the peace.

But he was also sensitive, something he tried to hide.

One time in high school, I started hanging out with Peggy and her family. I would yackety yack about them, especially her father, who was a nice, easygoing guy. Afterward, my mom asked me to cease and desist because my dad's feelings were hurt. I was stunned.

There was so much about my Dad I didn't know.

So, here we are on the eve of Father's Day.  I wish my dad was here so I could give him a hug. 

And, if only for a minute, be "Little Boo" again.

Fixing a Hole

Many years ago, we had a housewarming party for my boss, Harry. Arguably the best gift he received was a tool box. When opened, he discovered it contained just one item: the local Yellow Pages.


We all had a good laugh, and Harry admitted he would probably get a lot of use out of this particular gift. 

When I texted Harry last night, I reread a message from him back in January, in which he told me about doing demolition in his basement. (He was still having professionals come in and do the reconstruction, so the Yellow Pages, albeit in the form of the Google, would still come in handy.)

I'd been thinking about this recently while pondering the hole in our dining room ceiling. For some months, cracks had formed, and it was just a matter of time before chunks of plaster began descending. Fortunately, none of them landed on us (or the cat).

When we first purchased our home, Mr. Ginley did a lot of painting, some plastering, and even repainted and stippled the living room ceiling. But that was many years ago, and before he began battling vertigo.

Which is why our first inclination was to leave the ceiling alone and let nature take its course.

"It's a conversation piece," asserted Mr. Ginley. "If we just paint the lathe white, it will barely be noticeable."

Normally, I would agree that this could simply go on our list of things that we can't afford to fix right now. But my sister intervened and offered the services of her husband.

And so it was that last Saturday, Tim arrived on our doorstep with a whole host of tools and whatnot. Our son very graciously offered to help -- it seemed like a good idea, given he's been thinking about buying a home of his own down the road.

A few hours later, the original hole was patched, and a second spot in the ceiling, which in all likelihood would have needed attention in the next few months, was also patched. Tim gave Joe instructions on the next steps, which included a sand/plaster routine that would require three additional visits.

After all this is over, I wonder if my son will still want to buy a house.

And if he does, will a toolbox with the Yellow Pages inside be the perfect gift?  

Someone Else's Shoes

There's an old tale about a man who made a basket for his father, who was becoming old and infirm. When his son asked him what he was doing, the man explained he was going to put the old man in the basket and take him to the top of the mountain and leave him there. 

Artist: Grant Wood; public domain image

A few days later, the man saw his son diligently at work making something. When the father asked what he was doing, the son said, "I'm making a basket for you so it will be ready when your time comes." 

The father went back up the mountain and brought his father back home, where he cared for him the rest of his days.

What the world needs now is...Empathy. Kindness. Respect. 

I don't have any answers for all the turmoil in the country right now. 

I only know that if I can put myself in the other guy's shoes, I have the best chance of doing the right thing.