Walking Home

An autumn night last night made me think about why I love Michigan so very much. As I was walking home from the evening service at my church the light was fading. There were smells of open fires hanging in the air. Leaves, still crunchy and brittle were underfoot at a couple of points. The majority of the leaves are still in the trees but they are beginning to show those gorgeous colors that make this part of the year so special. There is one tree variety whose leaves just turn almost purely gold; in the evening’s onset under the streetlights that sort of glow.

 And then as I approached our community center I saw the aura of the light fading in the west over the building. Such light combined with the smell of the fires, the crunch of the leaves and well the flag just made it fell like the America I grew up in. I felt filled with hope for a few moments. Thought it was long ago if felt almost like I was walking home after a session preparing for a church play.

 

Rumours of the Fog

Starting out today the air was crisp and a heavy dew was on the surface of just about everything. As I had listened to the weather report before heading out I anticipated I would see fog pockets. In my neighborhood there is a spot that lies a little bit lower that the rest of the land, it is a green space about 2 acres in dimension behind a school. On foggy mornings it looks like the witches’ cauldron from the opening scene of the Scottish play. 

 Today on our route there was nada. Last night there had fog but not this morn. Schools all over the place were under two hour delay. The aggravation to working parents today will just be another case of schools trying to do the right thing based on all available information that just really wasn’t needed. But as my spouse often tells me, you never know the accident you prevented. 

 Secundus was in prime form singing Heartache by the Numbers as we got into the vehicle to come to school and work. I thought I had a version of it in the car but alas I couldn’t find it. We listened to 500 Miles, the version by Roseanne Cash from the List. All in all that is a great disc and it bears repeated listening. Somewhere I swear I have a copy of her singing that song. 

 The whole country music interlude gave me the opportunity to tell my 15 year old bass voiced son that almost all the songs on the List were written for deep male voices. Can we say Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard and the like? If he wants to sing those songs more power to him. 

Because he has been singing these types of tunes recently I did suggest that if he wanted to do it seriously his band would have to find a pedal steel player and a fiddler. I am sorry unless it has pedal steel, it ain’t really country now is it?

Acceptance and Hubris

We struggle with acceptance because we are trained from the beginning that we can always change things.  Our parents, our teachers and the talking heads on the TV believe we control our own destiny.  It is the western ethic.

From the moment we begin to walk we have people saying to us you can do it.  They exhort us to try.  We as a people believe we are special and that that not only can we learn our multiplication tables but we can control the earth and ignore nature.  But the end results of such hubris are those wide swaths of homes and businesses destroyed hurricanes and tornados because we didn’t accept that nature is not beholden to us, not one iota.

As to our personal mechanical and intellectual skill set, we mostly get up and walk.  We get better at language and business skills because we are taught to keep trying, never to accept the mediocre.  The problem is that issues of the heart and soul are much more like natural phenomena that grammar acquisition.  The awareness and acceptance of death or the transitioning of a romantic relationship to something else ties more to being able to accept the immutability of the tides and of the incalculable and unknowable distances between the earth and the stars than it is of learning that 4 x 4 = 16 or that you don’t start a sentence with a preposition.

Acceptance of the most basic things is something nobody trains us. Nobody teaches use how to respond to those things that we all must face, not really.  Acceptance is hard because we have to learn it for ourselves.

My Brother and his Books

So last Monday night I was standing around a small backyard fire with my nephews.  Some alcohol was being consumed. Some was being thrown on the flames just to watch it go whoosh in a mini-fireball.  As God is my witness I had only one shot of single malt scotch.  But I digress.  

As we stood around the flames coming from that little fire pit in the early hours of the a.m., the scent of burning pine and scrub brush sank into our jeans and t-shirts. To me it seemed like everyone wanted to hear a memory brought up about John, something that they didn’t know.  It was a communal act of searching for information that would explain a little bit more of the man whom he had been.

On that dark North Carolina night I was not of much use. With an aching heart I was just focused on getting through that moment without completely losing, not the history of my brother’s life.  As the week has gone on I have gone back over the big memories I have of my brother and while there are a number of them, one or two stick out for me.  One that comes to mind is something I discovered when I spent maybe 10 days with him in New York outside of Schenectady.  

It was summer and my parents wanted me out of my house and out of my hometown.  My guess is that they were at their wits end.  At best the phrase “an awkward child” captures what they had to deal with as they were approaching their mid fifties.  Whether they asked or alternatively if John offered I was packed up and sent off to New York with my big brother for a couple of weeks.  

At that time to the best of my memory John was living in a small apartment.  It might have been a four-plex or maybe eight units.  There was no pool, there was no swing set and I was scared shitless to just head off down the road walking.  I was on first impression a prisoner.

Of the people in the other apartments I remember there was a guy who was studying entomology at SUNY at Albany.  He intellectual focus was Africanized bees. This had to be 1968-ish.  Well anyhow this gent was just beside himself because the killer bees had just gotten a toe hold in the northern states of Mexico. He had been hearing there were incursions into Texas.  Best I can figure the guy must have been a graduate assistant in bug land.  He and somebody’s wife were the only people I really remember being around in the day.

The other reason I remember this guy was because he gave me a book to read about how the visions of the Old Testament prophets could be explained away by astronomy and space phenomena.  I read it.  Again if you haven’t guessed there were no kids my age hanging around during the day.

But thought of reading that book is what triggered my memory.  My brother John had an L shaped bookcase that fit into the corner of his office area in the apartment. For a bored kid that thing was the Holy Grail.  On the bookcase the titles ranged from the sacred to the profane. Those shelves were lined with existential masterpieces like The Stranger and The Fall by Camus.  I remember a Sartre title but I am not sure which one. In addition there were pop pulp titles like Rosemary’s Baby by Ira Levin.  There on the bottom shelf sat the impenetrable volumes of Will and Ariel Durant’s The Story of Civilization.  Beat classics like On the Road and Naked Lunch were part of the diverse collection.  James Joyce was represented.

The collected works were in the words of the day hip.  Add to those titles I have mentioned already a slew of volumes published by Grove Press.  For those of you too young to remember there was a time when books having fairly explicit sexual themes were banned in this country.  It took a long time to get Ulysses published here. Grove was the company that had the stones to put these books out there so that readers could make up their own minds as to the artistic merit of the work.  Pablo Neruda’s poetry first found its way here via Grove. Copies of Evergreen magazine were there too. Evergreen was very, very hip juxtapositioing Supreme Court Justice Douglas’s scholarly ruminations with a photo shoot of a naked, really naked woman frolicking about.

But here is the deal, John loved books.  He loved learning and acquiring knowledge.  He hadn’t bought these just to be cool.  He read this stuff and he thought about this stuff.  I remember a dinner party where he and this woman who was part of a couple with a friend of his got into it over some arcane point of existential philosophy.  The passion, the conviction and the fire in that argument came from what he had digested reading this stuff. Well that and genetics. Well that genetics and on that particular occasion, tequila. Todd men love to argue, we hate to lose and we hold a grudge. Also there might be the teeniest predisposition toward alcohol abuse, yeah we’ll call it abuse.

In its day that bookcase was the coolest thing ever to me.  Sitting around and reading title after title might have sucked for some kids, but this was great stuff and it rocked my world.  It was my equivalent to Springsteen’s “Finding the key to the universe in the engine of an old parked car.” I pulled volumes off that shelf and devoured them.  From Rosemary’s baby to the Fall I just spent those days there reading.  I don’t think that journey alone was the catalyst for my intellectual pursuits but it played a roll. Yeah in the day my big brother had a mind that was active and engaged.  He read and he formed opinions, some of them quite strong. He was passionate and knowledgeable.  

On one of his moves he either sold or left that bookcase at my parents place.  When my Mom died the choice was to either yard sale it, throw it out or find it a good home.  Well I couldn’t let that bookcase go.  It was something that was special to me.  It was special because of the ideas my brother had crammed onto it shelves.  Only problem is I don’t have a room that it fits into right now and so it languishes in my basement with a beer bottle capper and a couple of old speakers taking up its shelf space.  

What can I say, John kept his mind engaged.  He was smart and he was always asking questions. I think that is a pretty good memory to have.

The Years of My Neglect

Coffee is made and sitting in the carafe to stay warm.  Francie and Secundus are off on their way to work and school.  Francie and I got in late last night and retrieved Secundus from our gracious friends where he had been staying while we travelled to North Carolina.  “Travelled to North Carolina”, that sounds so sterile, so vague.  Secundus stayed with the family of his dear friend while we went to be with my sister-in-law, her kids, my sister and a variety of other people. We gathered in the home state of my father to communally share the impact of my oldest brother’s death.  

The memorial service was on Monday and I left Tuesday.  On both my way down on Sunday and on my way back on Tuesday I took anti-anxiety drugs because I am a nervous flyer. The upshot of this is that I had about 30 hours of clear mind to process all of what was going on.  Thirty hours was not enough time to get to where I need to be mentally and emotionally.  I feel empty, I feel loss, and I feel less whole. Sure I could have dragged my ass into work today but it really wasn’t the optimal choice. With my mind filled with pain and faced with the absence of one of the fixed stars in my firmament, my focus would have been nonexistent.  So I have stayed home.  Until I have had a bit more time alone I will not be good for anyone.

The celebration of John’s life was beautiful.  His wife spoke and she spoke eloquently.  His brother in law spoke and he had the right inflection of warmth and pain to convey what we were all feeling.  I spoke and tried to convey a sense of hope for us all and to reflect a sense of the meaning and purpose of my brother’s life. And we ate as all good southern rooted families do.  I ate the sausage my sister had brought down from Haines Pork up in Mickelton, N.J.[i].  This was comfort food number 1. I also ate a good portion of the three pounds of barbeque from Carolina Barbeque[ii]. This was comfort food #2. Weight Watchers at noon today is going to suck and suck bad.

There is emptiness in my soul right now and lots and lots of thoughts about missed opportunities and neglected chances to have shared more of my life, this life, with my brother.  I look at his family and think how much was lost to me and to them by my not being in more frequent contact.  I screwed up. In reading my daily Buddhist meditation I found this.  

Knowing Death

[People say] I know I'm going to die someday. I know I can't take it with me. I know my body will be dust. And as with other things—as with the law of impermanence itself—I would say we know it and we don't know it. We know it in our heads but haven't taken it into our hearts. We haven't let it penetrate the marrow of our bones. If we had, I can't help thinking we would live differently. Our whole lives would be different. The planet would be different as well.

If we understood the reality of death, we would treat each other differently. Carlos Castaneda was once asked how we could make our lives more spiritual, and he said: Just remember that everyone you encounter today, everyone you see, will someday have to die. He's right. That knowledge changes our whole relationship to people.

- Larry Rosenberg

My hope is that in going forward I can take a lesson from my brother’s life.  He made connections everywhere he went.  He found a commonality with people all over the spectrum of life.  He was no saint but he was open to experiencing the human spirit of others and of maintaining long term connections.  I will try and do better.  I will try and be open to knowing the life, joys, delights, pains and sufferings of my family and those around me.  I will try and learn from Carlos Castaneda that all of us hold on to this mortal coil by a thread.  Respecting that I will try and offer something more to all I encounter.

---

[i] http://hainesporkshop.com/

[ii] http://www.cbqnc.com/

My Good Bye To John Connor Todd - My Brother

13 Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope. 14 For we believe that Jesus died and rose again, and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him. 

1 Thessalonians 4

 

Hello, I am Jay Thomas Todd, John Connor Todd’s youngest brother.  

The verse I read is a joyful statement, a statement of hope that I first came to know when my pastor read it to me on the occasion the death of my father, of John’s father.  It is a verse that comforts us who remain.  These few simple words provide us assurance that our faithful lives are not in vain.

When we think of my brother John we do not need to worry for he was faithful.

Arriving here yesterday I encamped at his home.There sitting with his beloved family I heard of how reliable he was in conducting his tasks at this very church.  Apparently he was quite deft at calling everyone on his phone tree andat cooking at the men’s breakfasts. He was faithfully  responsible in the carrying out the obligations the church asked of him.

When John retired from the United States Army he was a Lieutenant Colonel. This is a rank accorded to few. You don’t get to that rank without being faithful, faithful to your country and faithful to your community.

Look at his wife Gayla, and his sons Cameron, Connor and Christian 

and what do you see?  I see the strength of their bonds to each other and to my brother now expressed in deep, deep grief. John Connor Todd was faithful; faithful to his family.

When you look at my sister Joy and me what you see today are two people with aching hearts. Our hearts are burdened because our brother stayed connected with use in love; he was faithful to the bonds of family.

While in the end John was separated from his daughters Courtney and Najat by the wide Atlantic Ocean he was faithful to them in his love, care and concern.

Today we are allowed the pain of separation. A pain we feel because someone we have loved is no longer here with us. We are separated at least for this moment.  We are not fated to unending and unrelenting grieving for we have hope.  We have the hope and the promise of something better. What we have the hope of is that beautiful reward that John now knows and is experiencing because of his faithfulness.

 

I started with the bible and I will close with popular song.

 

Kiss me goodnight and say my prayers

Leave the light on at the top of the stairs

Tell me the names of the stars up in the sky

A tree taps on the window pane

That feeling smothers me again

Daddy, is it true that we all have to die?   

At the top of the stairs is darkness

At the top of the stairs is darkness   

I closed my eyes and when I looked

Your name was in the memorial book

And what had become of all the things we planned

I accepted the commiserations

Of all your friends and your relations

But there's some things I still don't understand    

You were so tall, how could you fall?    

Some photographs of a summer's day

A little boy's lifetime away

Is all I've left of everything we've done

Like a pale moon in a sunny sky

Death gazes down as I pass by

To remind me that I'm but my father's son    

I offer up to you, this tribute

I offer up to you, this my tank park salute.

http://youtu.be/2_CV5x-4gCA

 

Movie (Moving) Weekend

Monday, September 16, 2013 The weekend was a mixed bag. Most of it was spent mired in the mundane. A few months back some water poured in a window and flooded a part of the basement that usually never sees water. I ended up having to hall all the bankers boxes up from there and replace them. This time instead of cardboard I went with sturdy plastic. Again the repetitive acts of pulling boxes up stairs, transferring their contents to dry boxes and them returning them to the basement was not rocket science but it did eat up a great deal of time. I took part of Saturday morning and walked through the bacchanalia that is a home football game tailgate. It was packed and the spirits were pretty high. It still amazes me to see that much alcohol use that early in the day. I think I walked for about an hour and ½ through the festivities. Still there is a certain fun to being in the midst of all the hopeful exuberance that pervades those parking lots and grass lawns covered with tents and people decked out in the home team colors. Movies played a part in the weekend also. I went and saw The Family, Luc Besson’s new movie. I laughed uncontrollable at times. The critics went 60/40 against it but I think they really didn’t get exactly how dark the humor was supposed to be. Richard Roper of the Chicago Sun-Times offered in his September 12, 2013 review: This is a deliberately off-kilter, cheerfully violent, hit-and-miss effort with just enough moments of inspiration to warrant a recommendation — especially if you know what you’re getting into. There’s a lot of pretty sick humor in “The Family,” and if the sight of severed digits and random psychotic assaults isn’t your cup of blood-red wine, keep moving, nothing to see here. There came a point where I was laughing so hard and the woman behind me was laughing so hard I could barely stop. And then I realized that only about 25% of the audience was laughing. It was that way through the whole movie. To those depraved among you it is worth a viewing. I also watched a very little movie on Showtime call A Beginner’s Guide to Endings. Cute film shot in St. Catherines, Ontario with Harvey Keitel and J.K. Simmons. Is there a single show or movies that J.K. Simmons is not in? This movie will not be everyone cups of tea (did I mention it was Canadian) but it is a hoot. Some of the dialog is just great. Okay enough of the movie reviews. I apologize for not posting more. Getting Primus off to college and getting into the rhythm of life without him (sort of-he comes home each weekend) has taken a bit of adaptation. I will try not to stay way so long going forward.