July 10, 2105--Fridays at the Bristol Diner: The Meaning of Life

"I'm not interested in the meaning of life."

"That surprises me, Paul. I think of you as a thoughtful, self-reflective guy. And also a little philosophically-minded. I would have thought the meaning of life would be of great interest to you."

"Maybe this will help," he said, though I wasn't pressing him to be helpful, "Though I may not be interested in that big-picture question, I am very interested in how to live a meaningful life." He paused to let that sink in and then said, "Get the distinction?"

I didn't feel the need to answer and he went on anyway, "Look, I'm in my mid-60s and have tapered off from work. What do I have, maybe 20 more good years. If I'm lucky. With my family history, probably 10 to 15. I'm passed the-meaning-of-life stage. I'm not religiously oriented. Never one to get too involved with any of that, including any more, personal belief systems. So I'm thinking about  just living. How to live meaningfully."

I didn't really disagree but I wanted to make this a bit more complicated, nuanced. "You say there is a  distinction between the two. I'm not sure I see it that way. Living meaningfully implies, doesn't it, that the way you choose to live--meaningfully--is derived from what you believe to be the meaning of life. I see them connected in that way."

I looked over at him while he thought this through.

"I can see your point but here's mine--Chasing after the meaning of life inevitably means seeking connections to something really big, maybe even something universal. Like following the Golden Rule. Guided by it to live so that you do unto others . . . You know the rest."

"Yes. To live meaningfully, as you put it, means, doesn't it, that unless you find meaning in things that are self-involving and pleasurable (and I know you well enough to know that's not you), if you have something resembling a humane or ethical core--and I think you do--that what you find meaningful does in fact connect to something else, often something bigger, even if not universal. Something at least close to the meaning of life?"

He peered at me seemingly thinking. I let a few beats go by and then asked, "So, what do you say?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, I'm into pursuing happiness. The other day was July 4th, right, and our Founders in the Declaration of Independence put that on the list that also included life and liberty."

"What do you think they meant by happiness? What was happiness to them? Surely not what many today think constitutes happiness--pleasure-seeking, doing their thing, adventure, acquiring stuff, sex, drugs. And to be fair, less controversially, things like family, reading, pursuing culture and . . ."

"I'm OK with much of that," Paul said, interrupting me. "I'm OK with folks doing their thing. As long as they're not harming anyone or anything or making demands on others or encroaching on anyone's territory. And here I'm not just talking about property but . . ."

"You do know, don't you, that Jefferson's first draft of the Declaration said that all men--men--are created equal and entitled to life, liberty, and property? Not only is what finally emerged--life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness a better sentence," I smiled at him, knowing how he reveres Jefferson, "but they may have thought that there was a connection between property and happiness."

"Well, to them, if you didn't have property you couldn't be a full, participating citizen. Jefferson's yeomen."

"But let's get away from early American history and get back to your pursuit of a meaningful life because I think it may have things in common with that pre-revolutionary meaning of happiness. Pursuing happiness," I returned to that in spite of saying we should move on, "suggests a life of meaning, and not one that's just pleasure-driven. In fact, other than Hamilton and his Federalist followers, Jefferson and others hated the idea of a life of commerce and materialistic striving. They wanted us to be good citizens above all else and find happiness largely in that. Very Roman."

"I don't see why you keep saying, or at least implying, that my interest in a meaningful life is not to be a good citizen or take care of my property and family--another important piece of the meaning equation--means all I care about are empty pleasures. I'm not really sybaritic or materialistic--though I confess to liking nice things--I don't think I take advantage of or ignore people who are struggling or less fortunate than I. I even try to do a little helping. So what's wrong with my loving my music and reading and gardening and all the good and healthy foods I prepare or, as I said, how I love and enjoy being with my family and fiends--even you," he said with an exaggerated wink."

"I'll concede you all that."

"But I won't go along with your insisting that I somehow have to be interested in higher pursuits if my life is to be meaningful. I'll stack my music and the things I love to read against anyone or anything who claims that there are higher things which are needed to guide a meaningful life. All the codes, all the so-called sacred texts to me were written by men--not by God or gods--and are no more valid as guides to the good or meaningful life than the things I've discovered on my own."

He had became a little heated and I didn't want to press him that much further. But, I said, "I too believe that sacred texts and moral codes such as Hammurabi's or Leviticus and Deuteronomy are all man-made. But they do distill a lot of wisdom and are thus worth taking into serious consideration even when attempting to living a meaningful life disconnected from the meaning-of-life."

"With that, we've come full circle," Paul said, easing himself up out of the booth. "Stiff joints," he grimaced.

"Sorry to have kept you so long," I apologized.

He waved me off, "I always enjoy talking to you, even though at times you make me crazy."

September 9, 2014--Midcoast: Post-Season

The Tuesday evening after Labor Day with friends we went for dinner to our favorite waterside restaurant--Coveside.

As we pulled up the parking lot was unusually empty. Always, one is fortunate to find a spot near the place, often having to settle to park precariously half-on, half-off the narrow road.

"Not really surprising," Rona said, "The day after holidays it's often quiet at restaurants."

"But this looks more than quiet," one of our friends said. "It looks to me as if there's no one here. Let's check to see what the sign on the door says."

We were close enough so I could read it--

New Hours 

Open Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Dinner Only.

Thank you for helping us have such a good season!

"Didn't they switch to limited hours last year the first of October?"

"That's what I recall," I said. "I wonder what's going on."

"Let's try the Contented Sole," Rona said. "I can go for one of their duck-fat pizzas." Immediately, in anticipation, my mouth began to water as I turned around to get us there as quickly as possible.

 But we found that it too was closed, also with a new post-season schedule on the door.

"It looks as if all our places are in a race to close," our friend said, "What's the rush? It's only September 2nd. Still technically summer."

So Rona called the Anchor Inn, our third choice--though a fine place--to see if they too were closed. They were happily open and Rona asked if we could get a table for four in about 20, 25 minutes. "No problem," they said.

So we took off for Round Pond. "We can still catch the sunset," I said, thinking about their London broil with caramelized onions.

But when we got there there were at least 30 people waiting for tables. "What happened to 'no problem?'" Rona asked the hostess.

"Well," she said with unusual attitude, "I didn't speak with you and since you don't have a reservation it will be about 45 minutes before we can accommodate you. Wait in the bar and I'll come for you when there's a table available."

"What's going on?" our friend asked, attempting to calm Rona down. She was upset to have gotten a double message.

"I think," the hostess said, "everybody else is closed and so we have everyone--including you--who couldn't get into Coveside or Contented Sole." She rushed away to help clear a table.

Dinner eventually was fine. I did have my London broil and was not disappointed; helped, I suspected, by the two gin and tonics I had at the bar while waiting.

The next morning, as usual, we headed out for breakfast at the Bristol Diner. As we approached, we again noticed there were no cars parked out front and the Open flag wasn't flying.

"What's going on?" Rona asked, sounding immediately almost as frustrated as the night before. "There's a sign on the door, but without reading it I think I know what it says."

And indeed it too said they would now be closed two days a week. "I guess the summer's officially over," I sighed as we turned back home where we had a sweet breakfast on our back deck at Cafe Rona.

In the days following we asked our restaurant friends if it was true that this year they were scaling back their hours earlier than usual.

"Yes," we heard. "We had such a good season that we pretty much already made our money for the year."

But to one restaurant owner who we know very well, I asked, "But if you follow your usual schedule, since you've done so well so far, why not stay open more--at least through leaf-peeping season--and really have a good financial year?"

"We made enough already," we heard. "You have to know when enough's enough. "It's all about living, isn't it?"

"Ture enough," Rona said. "That's one reason we like being here. People like you have the right values. You know what's important. Having more and more isn't necessarily the meaning of life."

"I suspect you'll hear different," our friend tweaked us, "once you get back to New York."

"Indeed we will," Rona said, sounding a bit blue about that time approaching.

August 15, 2104--Best of Behind: The Dead Rosenbergs

This is from a fictional memoir that I have been working on for a number of years. I posted this chapter on Behind on September 28, 2012. 

Yes, on June 20, 1953, Heshy Perlmutter and I made our way to the I. J. Morris Funeral Parlor in Brooklyn to see the bodies of Ethel and Julius Rosenberg who had been executed the day before in the electric chair at Sing Sing. I had never seen a dead person and the prospect of seeing two, and such notorious Soviet spies, was irresistible--

When we heard that the Rosenbergs had been electrocuted up in Sing Sing and that their bodies would be laid out and available for viewing at the I. J. Morris Funeral Parlor just six blocks from where we lived, Heshy and I raced over so we could for the first time see some real dead people. In my neighborhood we had seen lots of dead cats and dogs, but no dead bodies and thus had developed an inordinate interest in death.

But a lot of others had the same idea that hot June night, and thus we wound up near the end of a line that stretched around the corner. Since it took hours for the line to crawl toward the entrance, we learned from what we overheard that no one else shared our morbid obsession: We were there to see some corpses. Everyone else was lined up to pay their respects to these martyrs of “progressivism” and to protest not just their executions but the injustice of the entire American and Capitalist System. We barely understood any of this—the raging about Judge Kaufman, the abuse heaped on President Eisenhower who refused to stay their “murder,” and especially the fury reserved for someone named Roy Cohn, who, as a Jew, was venomously vilified for his role in their prosecution.

“He should rot in Hell,” we heard these atheists mutter.

Heshy and I understood what they were feeling. His father, Mr. Perly, was the local glazier and window blind maker but was better known for wandering the streets at night talking to himself, debating some inner furies, waving like a saber a rolled-up copy of the Daily Worker. Heshy knew that what his father was so agitated about also had something to do with Capitalism and “surplus value,” whatever that was, and lynchings and anti-Semitism and McCarthy and also that betrayer Roy Cohn.

More important, having Heshy with me meant that we would actually be allowed to enter I. J. Morris. You see, as we got closer to the door, word filtered back to us that to be admitted you had to be at least sixteen. He and I were a few years younger than that and were worried that they wouldn't let us in and that we would have to wait for subsequent executions before being able to see some dead people. But when we got to the entrance, the man guarding the velvet rope took one look at me, already almost six feet tall, and especially at Heshy’s premature beard, and waved us in. Heshy’s nickname, you should also know, was Big Dick.

Once inside, things settled to a hush. No more sputterings about the Running Dogs of Capitalism, just the muted sound of shuffling feet as we inched our way toward the chapel. As we crept forward, Heshy and I were whispering to each other about what to expect. We thought Julius and Ethel would probably just look like the dead cats—with stiff arms and legs and bulging, staring eyes (would they be attracting flies too?); but we grew increasingly nervous about how dead people who had been electrocuted would look.  We had never seen an electrocuted cat or dog.

What we knew from The Street was that when someone from Murder Incorporated went to The Chair, the next morning, screaming in six inch type from the front pages of the Daily News and Mirror would be the headline, “Bugsy Berkowitz Fries!” And since we knew how my mother’s fried liver looked—the closest thing to shoe leather not worn on a foot—we were trepidiously expecting the dead Rosenbergs to look like huge slabs of fried liver in side-by-side coffins. We were thus rethinking the whole situation: Maybe we should wait until we were really sixteen when perhaps someone would just die of a heart attack or something. That would be a better way to get started with dead bodies.

But before we could reconsider and get out of there, we were pushed through the chapel door by some grizzled shoemaker.  If we had thought about it, we might actually have been glad to have a shoemaker nearby as we approached the leathery Rosenbergs. He again began to spit about that “Jew bastard Roy Cohen.”

And then, there we were face to face with the dead Rosenbergs whose side-by-side coffins were tipped forward for better viewing. Dead they were, but under spot lights with orange faces and black hair that looked as if it had been touched up with shoe polish.  Julius’ mustache was so blackened that he appeared more like a Semitic Hitler than a Jew from the Bronx. It was not hard to believe, from their squirrelly looks, that they had been spies and had indeed given away to Russia the secret to the Atomic Bomb, which as a result caused us to have to practice taking cover under our desks in school in case the Reds decided to drop one on the Brooklyn Navy Yard.

The undertakers moved us along quickly so we had time for just a quick but sufficient glimpse and, in truth, a sniff because all the dead cats and dogs we knew stank something awful. We were curious about that too. But the Rosenbergs smelled more like the science lab in school, which was fitting since this whole experience was more like an experiment to us than a pilgrimage, except perhaps to Heshy who would be interrogated and lectured, we were certain, by Mr. Perly, about more than their hair, painted faces, and smell.

I had entered this cult of death as the result of being most responsible for taking care of the family plot in Mount Lebanon Cemetery. We couldn’t afford Perpetual Care for the graves so unless we were willing to let them become a jungle, someone had to go there regularly, spring through fall, to cut the grass and pull the weeds that were indigenous to that part of Queens. As the most dexterous family member this truly awesome responsibility fell to me. So clip and pull I did with barely disguised eagerness.

As I would work my way among the headstones that multiplied through the years, as I drifted further from the bench where my mother and aunts sat huddled, talking silently to their deceased mother and father, I began to think about more than what was growing above ground. What, I wondered, was happening below the ground? That was not a question I could openly ask about poor Uncle Hyman who, I had been told, died of a heart attack before he was fifty. The weeds, by the way, were thickest at his grave.

In the spirit of experiment, when one day Chirps my parakeet died, rather than leave it to my mother do whatever she did to dispose of our dead pet birds and guppies. I suspected the guppies got flushed away, I absconded with him, found an empty Hellmann’s Mayonnaise jar, washed and dried it thoroughly, put Chirps inside, screwed the top back on securely, and buried him in a shallow hole of a grave in the vacant lot next door. Thinking I would dig him up periodically to see what was happening to him in that jar, interred as I imagined he was, not so unlike Grandma and Grandpa and Uncle Hyman at Mount Lebanon. That would finally answer my existential question.

A week later, when I exhumed Chirps, he looked a little dried out, sort of what an apricot left too long in the sun begins to look like, with his flesh now sucked tight against his tiny bones. The second week it appeared that his eyes had disappeared. Where they went I couldn’t figure out—though I turned and shook the jar they didn’t seem to be in there anymore. This was getting profoundly interesting, and mysterious.

But when I went to unearth him for the third time, about a month after he died, I couldn’t find him or the jar. I had marked his place with a distinctive stone but couldn’t find it; and without that, I couldn’t remember precisely enough where he was buried. And so over the course of the next week, I dug up virtually the entire lot, which must have been 30 feet wide and 75 feet deep.

My mother wanted to know what I was doing out there at all hours. I reminded her that in the past I had planted a successful, even legendary vegetable garden and was thinking about doing that again.

She said, “But it’s November.”

And thus I gave up on Chirps, but not on my quest.

Next came my obsession with Egyptian mummies. Even before I was aware of King Tut and all the stories surrounding his discovery and his treasures, from Richard Haliburton’s Complete Book of Marvels, a huge and enthralling book given to me one birthday by my well-traveled Aunt Helen, I learned about the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, which included the Pyramids at Giza. And how they were in reality giant tombs for the most famous pharaohs. And that the dead pharaohs, turned into mummies, were sealed in those pyramids.

So when our public school class went on a trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I managed to sneak away from the group and got “lost” for an hour in the labyrinth of the Egyptian Hall where, secured in glass cabinets in open coffins, what the Ancient Egyptians called sarcophagi, I could see actual mummies, dead pharaohs’ bodies that were more than 4,000 years old.

I was getting closer to the real thing. But there was still a problem—I couldn’t actually see the pharaohs’ bodies since they were so tightly wrapped in cloth shrouds. But the fact that I could sense more or less full bodies obscured within those wrappings suggested to me that both Chirps and Grandpa and Grandma might still be recognizable if somehow I could only get to them. After all, if the mummies were in such good shape after 4,000 years, Grandpa and Grandma and Chirps might still be quite like I remembered them.

Little did I know that before very long I would have a close encounter with a dead body, right in my own family, when one of Aunt Madeline’s husbands killed himself by taking an overdose of sleeping pills.

I barely knew him because they had been married less than six months. He seemed nice enough to me. Minimally he was the first of her husbands who wasn’t bald and, even more important to her, was taller than she and thus a better dance partner. Stories circulating in the family suggested that after living with Madeline for a few short months, he took the “easy way out” by killing himself. Though he may have had enough of her, from her carrying on after his death, she appeared to have lost the love of her life. In fact, things were so bad with her, and his ten year old son from a previous marriage, that it took her brothers’ and their wives’ total attention to console her.

Perhaps because of my experience weeding the family plot, I was assigned to help make arrangements for his funeral.

My primary responsibility was to give the mortician a suit in which to bury him. As you might imagine, at twelve, though tall for my age, I was not fully prepared for this. So I just grabbed the first suit I saw from his closet and spent the rest of my time hoping that at the service they would have an open coffin so I could at last . . .

To my considerable disappointment they didn’t.  But at the chapel, the funeral director to whom I had given Morty’s suit, pulled me aside and directed me to a very private corner where he whispered so as not to disturb anyone, “Was that his suit you gave me?”

“Certainly,” I said, “It was in his closet.”

“Are you sure?”

“I think so,” I stuttered, my certainty now eroding, “Why are you asking?”

“Because it looked as if it was a suit for a ten year old.”

I looked over to where Morty’s ten year old son was sitting and saw that he was in casual clothes. He was not wearing a suit.

The undertaker rasped in my ear, “I can’t tell you what we had to do to get it on the body.” I was cringing, “But we did,” he added with a twisted smile.

And so, on that day when I got to see the Rosenbergs, I was reminded of the guilt I felt about what I had inadvertently done to poor Morty.  But more, I couldn’t stop thinking about what the I. J. Morris needed to do to get that suit to fit.

My education and interests took some new directions as I began to grow into my body. And though a total failure at Hebrew School, where I was presumably to receive a religious education, in spite of my lack of facility for things of this kind, I begin to think about what one might call “spiritual things.”  Adolescent meaning-of-life questions—Where did we come from (not Facts of Life kinds of matters)? And where were we going (and I didn’t mean Mount Lebanon)?   Heshy, under the influence of Mr. Perly and his surging hormones, was ever the materialist and said, non-biblically, that we’re just a bunch of atoms and molecules and thus to a version of dust we shall revert, if we're lucky, after a life of feeling up the Siegel Twins in the school coat closet.

By then I was also into atoms (remember the A Bomb), but the dust-to-dust thing didn’t work for me. I had begun to think there were higher issues and meanings to being human. I saw a very different place in the world for us as compared to Chirps, the neighborhood cats,  and my guppies.

                                                                *    *    *

Many years later my father, well into his eighties, began to fail. He had always been such a force of nature. I know to children fathers often seem to be that powerful and arbitrary, but my father was truly tectonic. When he raged, all trembled; when he commanded, all obeyed; what he expected, we did; and when he acknowledged and in his own coded-way loved, we were smitten. So when his big body was being reduced by time and he could no longer move forward but was afflicted by what the medical people called “retrograde movement,” which meant he fell backwards when he attempted to move ahead, I saw this to be a metaphor for his decline—he was heading backwards, even while attempting still to cut his way through life.

To see him like this raised many more questions about the meaning of life, at least the meaning of a life. The answers I came up with were not comforting. Everything seemed to reduce itself to biology—eating and pissing and shitting was the final summing up. Not so different from what Heshy had been saying some years earlier.

Dad lived in Florida and we in New York; and so when my mother called to say, “Come down,” we got on a plane to Fort Lauderdale. We immediately lost our way from the airport to the hospital, grinding in frustration that we would miss the end. From my mother’s voice and her deserved fame as the family “witch,” invariably perceiving the future, we knew there was very little time and every missed turn made it less likely that we would find him still alive.

But with a sense of the miraculous, the hospital appeared just as we were about to make another futile U turn. We skidded the car into the parking lot and raced up the steps afraid that even to wait for the elevator would make us fatally late. We found his room and him in bed, unconscious, breathing with obvious final distress.

I sat beside him and held his withered hand, saying what I knew would be a few last words. There was no way to know if he heard me as I attempted to sum up what I had by then come to conclude about us (contested), his life (contradictory), and life itself (still imponderable). I longed to feel even a reflexive squeeze from him and perhaps there was one or at the very least a last spasm to let me know he understood, and that was what he too had come to understand.

And then all was utter, utter stillness.

I closed his quickly cooling eyelids and put my hand to his chest as he had done so many times to me when he would say to me as child and adult, “Such a good boy. Such a lucky boy.”

And then he was no longer there. Even during his last unconscious moments it was apparent that whatever he was was present but then that was gone. Just gone.

I looked at his body to see if I could perceive his spirit depart or whatever it was that was him.

But all there was was just a body.