Through these Eyes Part 50

A Basic Day

I loved autumn, a season both riotous and melancholy, and it was best shared with those I loved. Thus I spent a great amount of time with Norm. We shared a mutuality which spanned the insignificant to the more complex modes of thought in such a way that neither of us felt compelled, nor hindered, to speak. As comfortable in each other's company as we were alone, our relationship did not possess the usual tensions and expectations so prevalent in most friendships. That we enjoyed each other was enough.

Through the week, Norm worked second shift as a custodian at a local junior high school. Since he didn't depart for work until 3:00 p.m., his daily routine at home usually consisted of leisurely activities, lest he become too tired to properly do his work.

We shared the upstairs, which was divided into two separate rooms with an accordian door, providing privacy that was sufficient, yet far from sound proof. Generally we would wake around the hour of 9:00 a.m.

Either the static notes of his clock radio or a rustling which attested to his hastily making the bed would usher through the door, and harken the beginning of another day, or I would rise first and find Norm staring at the ceiling among an entangled ma.s.s of sheets.

The person who made it downstairs first was the one who, if Mom had made some for herself and Dad, divided the morning "gruel." Since the family had recently acquired a microwave oven, the machine allowed a quick and thorough heating of the cereal if one simply transferred the contents of the pan into stoneware bowls.

Because several hours had pa.s.sed between Mom's preparation of the cereal and our reheating of the same, it usually molded itself into a solid bulk shaped exactly to the pan's dimensions. This made dividing easier but deftness was needed to a.s.sure that each half found its way into the bowl. On one particular occasion Norm, spatula poised in hand, was directing each slimy ma.s.s into its bowl when one half escaped his control and proceeded to flop onto the counter, splat on the floor and go skidding across the waxed tile. I found this affair to be thoroughly amusing as it was in the same scenario which I had starred only a week before. Perhaps it would not have been so humorous if the cereal did not have such a nasty appearance, which in itself would seem to ward off any potential consumer. Moreover, hot cereal had quite a lengthy history between Norm and me.

When I was in fifth grade, Norm was to see that I ate a decent breakfast before setting off to school, since Mom had once again decided to renew her teaching certificate and was employed as a kindergarten teacher. At the time I fairly detested the appearance and taste of cereal, yet managed to choke down a moderate amount before my taste buds rebelled, after which no promptings, no bribery, would make me swallow another spoonful. Norm, feeling it was his duty to inflict some sort of punitive action upon my finicky tongue, would then lead me into the bathroom, and make me watch as he poured the remaining oatmeal into the toilet and flushed it away. Although some people might have found this treatment cruel and definitely unusual in nature, I was struck by intense hilarity upon viewing the mottled gray food hitting the water, looking and sounding like an enactment of the flu season.

A few years later I retaliated in kind by saying that the cornmeal mush he was then eating looked like an exact replica of what I'd seen about the floor of the cage in which the bears resided at Brookfield Zoo.

"You had to say it, didn't you?" he scowled as he looked at the yellow meal still staring him in the face. Although hot cereal had a personality all its own, sporting a slightly different appearance each day, certain mornings, it just didn't have the eye appeal to start the taste buds rolling.

Eventually our bantering jokes collided with such frequency that they lost all of their effect and we would continue eating, undaunted by the grotesque conjurings which were sailing about the kitchen. Though by now a standard joke, oatmeal suffered no lack of humor; to us it was inherently funny. We did not tire of the commonplace and routine; where there is love even the most insignificant of things has a spark.

Having eaten breakfast, whether hot cereal or an alternative, we would often fall upon the task of washing and drying the morning dishes.

Neither of us minded ch.o.r.es. I have often witnessed people who so rebelled against performing a simple task that in the time they wasted voicing their complaints the ch.o.r.e could have been accomplished completely. When one's mind is filled with happy thoughts, work takes on an entirely different perspective, and mindless tasks give one time to think. I am not attempting to say that, with the proper att.i.tude, work is always entertaining and fun, yet protests only serve to multiply the weight of a potentially simple task.

Helping with the ch.o.r.es at home also gave me a sense of usefulness and made me glad that I was able to be productive in certain respects. I have no regard for those who will, in the name of ill health, sit idly by and observe others do all the work, when they in fact are yet quite capable of doing it themselves. Laziness as a result of illness is in itself a severe malady. It is also an enormous character flaw which speaks loudly of the one thus afflicted. . . more so, perhaps, than the person realizes; slovenliness wins no friends. I have also discovered that laziness begets more laziness; it is a weed with far reaching roots that thrives on itself and holds one imprisoned. It is wise to guard against this behavior, lest one be transformed into a useless heap of flesh and blood, for its seeds lurk within even the most industrious of people, and cheat them of life. Thus, whether in unison or alone, the dishes were done, thereby lessening Dad's workload to a degree. Dad's retirement moved him to exercise the household ch.o.r.es on the main floor (although this did not include the preparation of meals), while I maintained the upper. Group cooperation helped everyone, even though Mom could still be seen flitting about the house on weekends, pushing this and poking that; her activity was compulsive.

Even her work as a teacher was better described as "full-time and a half."

Our mailman had the accuracy of a Swiss watch. Each day, whether glorious or gloomy, the telltale moan of the mailbox lid would resound at exactly 9:30. Then, if one was quick, he could be seen striding away at a brisk pace, already two houses up the avenue.

Having developed a keen interest in stocks and futures, Norm generally received the majority of the day's h.o.a.rd, and the brokers barraged him with a large round of literature and calculations proving that their firm was where money could be made. Unceremoniously sorting through his various letters, he then would bound upstairs to read the Wall Street Journal, disappearing, for all practical purposes, at least an hour.

I also looked forward to the coming of the mail, although I didn't receive much of interest aside from an occasional letter. The remainder of my mail, like that addressed to Norm, were attempts to direct my money into the hands of others; while his letters requested money for investment, mine were in the form of catalogs and most of which could not be cla.s.sified as an investment, but rather, an acc.u.mulation of commodities to be purchased. Junk mail, however, was better than none.

The noon hour sent Norm downstairs again, and the three of us visited for a while before again pursuing our own interests. Afternoon would find Dad bustling around the house, fixing one of the numerous household maladies, peering under the hood of a car, or during outdoor months, maintaining the yard. Norm could usually be seen dozing in a lawn chair, strategically positioned for the best view and the most sunshine. Even frigid temperatures would not keep him indoors if the sun was poking its face out of the clouds, for he would don boots and a snowsuit (or "Pepto-Bismol suit" in his opinion, since such attire appeared to bloat the individual thus clad) and, lawn chair in tow, trudge faithfully to his choice location in the snow. He also managed to take a daily stroll in the woods behind our house. No season would keep him away, whether the woodland carpet consisted of spring flowers or newly shed leaves. The contentment on his face was obvious; the simple, honest life yielded remarkable returns.

I spent my newly acquired free time in much the same manner as did Norm. Although I never frequented the snow-covered landscape even in a sedentary fashion, I did make the most of the other seasons, with autumn topping the list. I loved to watch the leaves cascade to the ground, and listen to the eerie rustling of wind through the trees. It was as if the world was filled with sound, a veritable grand finale before the penetrating hush of winter.

When the weather did not lend itself to lounging amongst the trees, I entertained myself by scanning through photography or nature books.

Having parted only recently with the demanding curricular schedule of college, I shunned literature for a time, electing instead subjects which could easily be laid aside without risking an interruption of a thinly-woven plot.

During the hours before Norm set off to work, I always made myself accessible for conversation without being an imposition on his s.p.a.ce or freedom. Anything I was doing could be finished later if he desired to talk, and consequently, we often sat over a cup of tea and pursued various topics of interest. The subject itself never mattered, for the companionship was the delight. The atmosphere we shared was unlike all others. Receptive to the same mode of thought, the flow of conversation was easy and unhindered.

Near 3:00 p.m. Norm would rise from his chair with an accompanying, "Well, better shove off. . ." and grasping his lunch bucket, paced out the door to his car. After he had gone I did those things which our conversation had delayed. Ch.o.r.es and other functions always waited to be done; dust is very patient, and can easily be put off for an hour or two!

Despite Dad's flurry of activity around the yard and home, he always found time to take me to lunch. We ate at restaurants once or twice a week, which pleased me to no end, as I had enjoyed dining out since I was quite young. Even though my lunch and stomach seldom tolerated each other, it was worth the effort. The food, at any rate, tasted good on the way down.

Mom returned home from work usually between 4:00 and 4:30, although 5:00 p.m. stints became increasingly familiar as the years pa.s.sed. The age-old thought that one's work is easier as the years unfold did not seem to hold any truth with respect to Mom's career. Her day never came to an end, even after she dismissed the cla.s.sroom. Armed with at least one tote bag, she would continue her work after supper and into the evening, often falling asleep to attest to her fatigue. She was the only person I knew who could fall asleep and continue writing a sentence, although admittedly the content of a sentence produced through these means lacked all human sensibility and she would be obliged to begin anew.

Depending largely on the state of my health, I would help with the preparation of supper in varying degrees, sometimes fixing a large portion of the meal and other times doing little more than setting the table or peeling vegetables for the salad. Apart from helping Mom, meal preparation allowed us to catch up on the day's events, ranging from my occasional outings to Mom's cantankerous and incorrigible youth, of which there was always at least one per cla.s.s.

When the dishes once again found their way into the cupboards, the day had slowed to a quiet pace. Dad would prop himself up in his recliner behind a wall of newspaper and give an onlooker the impression that he was avidly perusing the articles. Only a steady puffing or an occasional snort would indicate that the downcast eyes saw no more words on that page than would the gaze of a blind man. Mom remained awake as long as she puttered about the house, but once seated, soon acquired the visage of a woman drugged, weighted eyelids transforming her eyes to slits. At this point, I could leave the room entirely unnoticed. It was grand that we found each other so relaxing. Perhaps the moral of this paragraph is that no one falls asleep in the presence of someone he does not trust.

My parents probably considered they had struggled enough to remain awake, and by 10:30 settled into bed; I did not do likewise until after midnight. Often I was still rustling about when Norm returned home, and stationing myself on a kitchen chair, would oversee his hasty reheating of the evening fare. Observing Norm eat was no lengthy ordeal, for an entire plate-full of food could vanish in minutes.

A food's aesthetic appeal held little importance as long as the flavor was agreeable.

Despite the fact that I had no school or work to punctuate weekends, they remained quite different from the rest of the week if only because both Mom and Norm were home all day. Sat.u.r.day and Sunday were the only days when they saw each other since their work schedules did not coincide, and would therefore catch up on the latest tidbits of information while Mom did the laundry. Mom couldn't just sit and talk; she had to be mending a sock, or sorting clothes or folding towels.

Her industriousness was not an exaggerated view of the work ethic driven into her as a child. . . merely her nervous energy seeking an outlet.

Invariably weekends would bring at least one outing for Norm and me, whether this consisted of a motorcycle ride, a drive in the car, a walk, or a combination of many alternatives; a picnic was almost always on our agenda. With my decreasing tolerance for heat, fall was especially wonderful. The air once again attained a seasonal crispness which beckoned us to bask in the sun or amble amongst the woodland's profusion of color. A feeling of serenity pervaded the entire landscape, a scene transformed after the chaotic months of summer. No children's cries pierced the tranquility. . . no dirt bikes invaded one's thoughts.

Toting KFC and a six-pack of beer, we would situate ourselves alongside of the Mississippi or travel to a park and eat beneath the trees.

Lingering for hours in the cool breeze of autumn and then, perhaps, hiking on a trail or country road for a stretch, was leisure at its best, and life was most worthwhile. These were the days I loved, yet of more importance than the day was the person with whom I shared it, for it is not the experience but rather the presence (or absence) of an individual that truly raises life's moments above the mundane. Never had I encountered such utter compatibility; we thought in the same way.

Norm often said, "We might as well not talk at all," because certain occasions would find us simultaneously blurting out identical thoughts and then stopping our tongues in midair. "Oh, well." The end result was obvious to both of us, so there was no purpose in voicing our viewpoint or observation.

Norm seldom aired his feelings toward a person, for he was able to demonstrate his tolerance and love for an individual through actions and, not unlike many people, found it extremely difficult to verbalize that which resided on tender ground. When someone's love for another is clear, words, though pleasant to the ear, merely add warmth to the heart. Rarity bestowed Norm's statements with more value; since the words need not have been spoken to be understood, the words themselves only clarified his feelings.

More than once, however, Norm a.s.serted that he was not sure how he could handle my death, for aside from our great companionship he thought of me as his touchstone with the female s.e.x. There was not a large array of women a.s.sociated with his line of work, except for the teachers who were yet in their rooms when he arrived, and he did not wish conversation to become difficult simply through a lack of social contact. How well I understood his statement; a steadfast advocate of personal "self-sufficiency," I feared dependence of any kind upon habits or people. That I so enjoyed Norm's company was, in itself, a trifle unnerving because a loss of such magnitude would prove devastating, yet Norm and death were two words which, in my eyes, spanned the distance of one star to another. It was unthinkable that Norm would die before me.

Though Norm's words left me feeling worthwhile, nothing would alter the course of their sincerity and eventual pain which he would feel simply due to their actual existence in his mind. "I just wish you'd start to get better." I just wished I could oblige.

PAGE 251

Chapter 33 Treatments / Hoax

"What if...?"

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Treatments / Hoax