Joe and Bill
There are two octogenarian uncles up the field and laneway from me. They seldom speak. I have no idea whether there is antipathy, or what it is the way it is. Both are strong men, leaders in their time. Bill has been cut down by cancer of the tongue and throat, and can no longer speak, literally. Still spry, he rattles around his house, alone most of the time. Joe is normally healthy and vigorous as a horse, married to a ar younger "trophy" woman, and he fishes, plays golf and travels all over the world in pursuit of salmon, trout and upland grouse. He even pulls his own lobster pots during the summer months.
Both men went to Harvard as undergraduates after years at private preparatory schools, and they both lived in Massachusetts much of their adult lives. Both have had major, life-threatening health issues this fall, one an aortic aneuryism and the other a serious lung infection. I should throw in my own father here. He lives only a few miles East in the same town. He, too, lives with a woman and so has constant company and an abundance of visitors. He, too, attended elite schools and has all his degrees from Princeton. I have seen him but once all fall. We argue. It is preferable to coexist nearby in isolation to expressing the rage of a son towards a father, and that of a father towards a son. Many things about him set me off, most of which I can overlook, except that I do not wish to be betlittled. There is built-in antipathy to this universal relationship which I understand all too well. He is gregarious and pleasant to most other people in the universe, so I am the odd man out, seeming the ingrate while I am merely trying to survive psychologically.
So this makes four of us who seldom speak, with the exception that I visit Bill every couple of days at least, my uncle and father once in a month or three. Although I am no actuary, in five years, I would guess it is unlikely that two of the three will be alive. I am assuming my own longevity. All these well wrought, human warships, passing uncaring by day as well as in the night, warily.
Both men went to Harvard as undergraduates after years at private preparatory schools, and they both lived in Massachusetts much of their adult lives. Both have had major, life-threatening health issues this fall, one an aortic aneuryism and the other a serious lung infection. I should throw in my own father here. He lives only a few miles East in the same town. He, too, lives with a woman and so has constant company and an abundance of visitors. He, too, attended elite schools and has all his degrees from Princeton. I have seen him but once all fall. We argue. It is preferable to coexist nearby in isolation to expressing the rage of a son towards a father, and that of a father towards a son. Many things about him set me off, most of which I can overlook, except that I do not wish to be betlittled. There is built-in antipathy to this universal relationship which I understand all too well. He is gregarious and pleasant to most other people in the universe, so I am the odd man out, seeming the ingrate while I am merely trying to survive psychologically.
So this makes four of us who seldom speak, with the exception that I visit Bill every couple of days at least, my uncle and father once in a month or three. Although I am no actuary, in five years, I would guess it is unlikely that two of the three will be alive. I am assuming my own longevity. All these well wrought, human warships, passing uncaring by day as well as in the night, warily.
posted by Stonechuck at 12:10 PM
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