February 21: Allie, Disappearing, Angels

Anyway, I kept walking and walking up Fifth Avenue, without any tie on or anything.  Then all of a sudden, something very spooky started happening.  Every time I came to the end of a block and stepped off the goddam curb, I had this feeling that I'd never get to the other side of the street.  I thought I'd just go down, down, down, and nobody'd ever see me again.  Boy, did it scare me.  You can't imagine.  I started sweating like a bastard--my whole shirt and underwear and everything.  Then I started doing something else.  Every time I'd get to the end of a block I'd make believe I was talking to my brother Allie.  I'd say to him, "Allie, don't let me disappear.  Allie, don't let me disappear.  Allie, don't let me disappear.  Please, Allie."  And then when I'd reach the other side of the street without disappearing, I'd thank him.  Then it would start all over again as soon as I got to the next corner.  But I kept going and all.  I was sort of afraid to stop, I think--I don't remember, to tell you the truth.

This passage comes near the conclusion of The Catcher in the Rye.  Holden is almost at the end of his rope, headed toward a mental breakdown that will land him in a hospital.  He's physically ill, feeling abandoned/alone.  In an earlier part of the novel, he describes how he wants to be the catcher, saving children who are about to plunge off the cliff at the edge of the field of rye.  Now, Holden is at the edge of the cliff, and he's calling on his brother, Allie, to save him from going down, down, down.  To save him from disappearing.

I think we all have angels we call upon in times of great stress and trouble.  Holden's angel is Allie, his brother who died of leukemia.  I always find this moment in Holden's tale a little heartbreaking.  Allie's death was, in a lot of ways, the start of Holden's downward spiral.  The amount of love and loss that are expressed in the above passage are immense.

My mother-in-law died before my wife and I married.  She was a wonderful woman, full of laughter and life, and she loved her three daughters fiercely.  When we put the decorations on our tree every Christmas, there are certain ornaments that receive special places.  Those ornaments were made by my wife's mother.  A picture of her hangs on our living room wall.  She's laughing, her face a vision of joy, no shadow of her future illness present.  That's the way I remember her.  Joyful.

Last night, my daughter was sitting next to my wife on our couch.   We were watching Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.  Sirius, Harry's godfather, had just been killed, and my daughter looked up at my wife and said, "Do you miss your mommy?"

My wife looked up at her mother's picture hanging above the entertainment center.  "Every day," my wife said.  "I think about her and miss her every day."

My daughter leaned her head on my wife's shoulder.  "I'm glad you're still here with me," she said.

"So am I," my wife said.  "So am I."

I know my mother-in-law would have loved my daughter and son just as fiercely as she loved her daughters.  She would have laughed with them and played with them.  She would have been in the front row at each of my daughter's dance recitals.  I have no doubt of that.

My mother-in-law's memory and spirit are guiding angels in my house.  From the times we share just sitting on the couch, watching TV together, to the trips to get ice cream on hot summer nights, she's watching over us.  I truly believe she has held my family together, through my wife's mental illness and sexual addiction, through the lean times and the times of abundance.  She's with us.  Every day.

She has kept Saint Marty's family from disappearing.

She's there.  Evey day.

March 30: Perry Como, "Do You Hear...", Warm Fuzzy

The Spirit gazed upon him mildly.  Its gentle touch, though it had been light and instantaneous, appeared still present to the old man's sense of feeling.  He was conscious of a thousand odours floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long forgotten!

I may have already written about this little paragraph about the Ghost of Christmas Past.  If I have, forgive me.  It's hard to keep track of what part of the book I've already posted on.  However, this passage really touched upon an experience I had this morning.

Every Friday morning, I clean, disinfect, and vacuum the business office of the surgery center in which I work.  It takes me about an hour-and-a-half to complete.  It's a mindless task, requiring no amount of focused concentration on my part.  Therefore, I listen to music on my iPod as I go about my chores like Cinderella.  Since I started my little Carol blog exercise, I usually listen to Christmas music while I clean.

This morning, as I was emptying the garbages, Perry Como started singing "Do You Hear What I Hear?" in my ears.  Before I knew it, I was humming, relaxed, and happy.  I was thinking about my childhood Christmases in Detroit (before we moved to the Upper Peninsula).  I was in our living room, in front our fireplace, listening to my mom's LP of Perry Como on the record player.  The tree was a green tinsel monster with revolving lights shining up from the floor into its branches.  Along the mantel above the fireplace, my mother's manger scene sprawled.  Delicate shepherds and angels.  Plastic and ceramic sheep.  In the center, a wooden stable, looking like it belonged in Little House on the Prairie instead of the Middle East.

And I was surrounded by my siblings, before the divorces and kids and spouses.  Before my older brother had his stroke.  Before my sister moved to Utah.  Before mental illness and addiction became a part of my daily existence.  It was when my biggest worry was whether or not there was going to be enough snow overnight to cancel school in the morning.

It was, literally, a warm fuzzy feeling.  I felt physically warm, and my mood was noticeably lighter for a little while.  Perry Como was my Ghost of Christmas Past, leading me back through time, filling me with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long forgotten.  It was wonderful.  Joyful even.

And then Saint Marty had to pick up a snotty tissue someone had shoved into a seat cushion.  Reality sucks.

Listen.  Get warm and fuzzy.