May 24, 2015 3 Comments
In August of 1994 my father turned 80 years old. He had been retired for some number of years—depending on which of his successive retirements we considered the “real” one. I was 50. On September 1 that year the Methodist Publishing house, Abingdon Press, published the long-awaited first volume of The New Interpreter’s Bible. Dad subscribed to the publication and received by mail each of the 12 volumes as they were issued.
It was a fairly expensive proposition for a retired American Baptist minister. Even more remarkable was that an 80-year-old man was determined to have the latest general research resource in his professional field. He had bought the first edition the same way in the 1950s. The beautiful set of books became mine when Dad died.
The second time I was in Hebron in Palestine (2010) the group I was with visited one of the few glass-blowing shops left in the city. The Israeli government, in protecting the illegal settlers in the middle of the city, has nearly destroyed the centuries-old Palestinian culture, including the thriving and internationally important glass-making industry.
The walls of the workshop’s gift shop were lined with shelves of glassware—much of it elegant blue—waiting for the tourists who, of course, no longer come. The Israel Defense Force, in defending the illicit settlements have made the city a perpetual war zone which very few people want to visit in spite of its historical and religious significance and its former cosmopolitan and vibrant society.
I bought and had shipped to myself in Texas four pieces of the cobalt blue glass—my favorite color. The most delicate of the pieces did not survive the trans-Atlantic journey, and I gave one as a gift to a friend. The other two are in places of honor in my apartment. They are not delicate, fine workmanship as the other two pieces were, but they are bold statements of the skill of the artisans, some of whom we met that day in Hebron.
Last night I went to dinner with friends, a couple I’ve known and loved for 21 years. It’s difficult for me to comprehend I’ve lived in Dallas that long. Even more surprising is that they and I can still pick up the conversation more or less where we left off when we were last together (about a year ago—we must not let that happen again). Nothing much has changed except that I walk with a cane much of the time.
And he is in seminary studying to become a Lutheran pastor.
The stated purpose of our being together was for him to come to my apartment and carry away my dad’s New Interpreter’s Bible. The equally important purpose was to be together, to remind ourselves how much we love each other, to attend a service of the Eucharist together, and to share a delicious meal together (healthful salmon for me, thank you).
Last week a friend of about 18 years came to my apartment and took away the signed Johnny Ott Pennsylvania Barn “Hex” Sign I inherited from my late partner. My friend was one of the group I traveled with to Scandinavia and Russia two years ago. She will place the big colorful circle on a wall of her newly renovated kitchen.
I have a stack of books—Dr. Seuss, The Velveteen Rabbit, and several books of short stories by Hispanic-American writers such as Gary Soto. They will become available to the Aberg Center for Literacy for the use of adult ESL students.
There is a pattern in all of this. A conscious pattern and a purpose.
I have learned a new way to give myself immense personal, very selfish, pleasure: give something I own, something I cherish, to someone I love who needs it or will take pleasure in it.
This is one of the simplest ways of meeting my own needs for connection and community. Shall I be perfectly old fashioned (can I help but be?) and admit that I wept for joy after Miles and Brigitte left with Dad’s books last night.
Not a tinge of sadness or regret.
My joy at the pleasure of someone I love is genuine and deep. If parting with some trinket to which I have attached personal importance is all it takes to give delight to a friend—well, as they say, it’s a no-brainer.
As for those two Hebron glass pieces. For some items that have special meaning to me the recipient is not yet obvious. But when they are, I will know who they are. When I take that small step away from my fear of letting go, another small glimpse of “who [I am]—will be waiting when [I] return.”
“Theories of Time and Space,” by Natasha Trethewey (b. 1966)
You can get there from here, though
there’s no going home.
Everywhere you go will be somewhere
you’ve never been. Try this:
head south on Mississippi 49, one—
by—one mile markers ticking off
another minute of your life. Follow this
to its natural conclusion—dead end
at the coast, the pier at Gulfport where
riggings of shrimp boats are loose stitches
in a sky threatening rain. Cross over
the man-made beach, 26 miles of sand
dumped on a mangrove swamp—buried
terrain of the past. Bring only
what you must carry—tome of memory
its random blank pages. On the dock
where you board the boat for Ship Island,
someone will take your picture:
the photograph—who you were—
will be waiting when you return