Our Lovely, Looney Lives

“Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity,” Horace Mann said – and he lived it.  Promoting public education was his enduring gift to our democracy.  I, however, have failed his test.  I won’t be remembered for any victory for humanity. What I may be remembered for – hopefully - will instead be stories about me told in future generations.  That may be true for most of us.

Some of those stories are about our character and some are about our being characters.  My father is a good example.  He was a scrupulously honest businessman whose customers so trusted and respected him that many showed up at his funeral years after they had last bought anything from him.   He was also known for falling asleep watching Sunday football games and claiming, when caught in the act, that he was “just resting my eyes.”

My father-in-law is remembered for his deep love of family but also for putting layers of tape on all the corners of tables in his home so that his toddler grandchildren would not hurt themselves if they fell.  He also convinced them that the bulging, pulsating muscle in his arm was a frog trying to get out.

My mother was a budding feminist before that word was common, working in the family business as well as taking care of our home.  She also kept a handkerchief tucked inside her sleeve and, at 90, lowered a tuna sandwich on a string from her fourth floor apartment to a neighbor two floors below after the elevator stopped working.  My mother-in-law was a LifeMaster in bridge who could beat you twice in minutes in gin rummy using two decks of cards at the same time.  She could then turn around and let her grandson tie her up because she promised to play whatever game he wanted if he could be quiet for five minutes.

Others in our family are still with us so I should protect their privacy.  Yet one will be remembered for answering every child’s question (including about sex) gently and directly, no matter the question or who else was around at the time.  Another prepares wonderful, inventive meals, perhaps foreshadowed when as a toddler she loved rubbing her cheek in her food as much as eating it.  Yet another has fostered deep love among his children but could not manage to get one of them to love his favorite football team despite putting a team cap on his newborn’s head a half-hour after his birth.

As for me, I’m not sure what small achievement, if any, I’ll be remembered for, but I’m sure the story will be told that from birth I lacked depth perception.  This has led to backing into the garage door rather than backing out of the garage, necessitating putting yellow tape lines on the floor to signal the correct place to park the car to avoid another insurance claim.

Everyone in our family contributes to society with their virtue of hard work.  Yet we also have one who put a turkey wishbone each Thanksgiving on a cedar closet door so that, after many years, the collection seemed as bizarre as it was impressive.  We have another who showed up as the Cookie Monster at a Second Grade “Show and Tell” and still another so committed to helping children enjoy Halloween during COVID that she used large PVC piping to slide candy into their hands from a second story window. 

In the December of my years, I’ve managed to excuse myself from Horace Mann’s challenge, even if only by necessity.  It may be just trying to make a virtue out of the reality of my life, but I came across what is purported to be an old Anglican bishop’s prayer.  I can’t verify its accuracy, but it’s useful nonetheless.  Most of us will not succeed in winning some great victory for humanity, but that doesn’t mean our lives – lovely and looney as they are – will not have changed those around us in ways that have made the world a better place.  This bishop’s admonition, in Horace Mann’s terms, is that our victory for humanity starts with how we change ourselves so that we foster justice and joy in our world, both morally and magically.   

“When I was young and free and my imagination had no limits, I dreamed of changing the world. As I grew older and wiser, I discovered the world would not change, so I shortened my sights somewhat and decided to change only my country.

But it, too, seemed immovable.

As I grew into my twilight years, in one last desperate attempt, I settled for changing only my family, those closest to me, but alas, they would have none of it.

And now, as I lie on my deathbed, I suddenly realize: If I had only changed myself first, then by example I would have changed my family.

From their inspiration and encouragement, I would then have been able to better my country, and who knows, I may have even changed the world.”

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