Grandma Moses and Me
Miguel is 93. He’s as smart and funny and handsome as he was when I met him, more than 20 years ago. He may feel diminished somewhat by age, but you’d never know. That’s a private thing that doesn’t affect his personality. He is definitely not putting on an act, for me or for anyone, not smiling through the heartache or whistling in the darkness of the threat of death. He’s naturally ebullient and his joy in life is infectious. He’s my idol.
Another friend, Colin, loved poetry and his joy in being still able to quote whole works of Philip Larkin or Billy Collins at 90 years of age was palpable and contagious, especially for an observer who knew and loved him and who was himself coming around the far turn in life’s horserace.
I don’t hear so well as I used to, or maybe it’s just that my wife doesn’t speak as loudly now. And I noticed the other day that I couldn’t read the numbers on a centimeter measure without my glasses. I don’t really relish restaurant food; or at least I can only justify the cost of a meal by the congeniality of the place, the pleasance of the servers and the overall experience. My legs and my back tell me that my sense of touch is fine, especially before I’ve had my second cup of coffee, stretched a little, and walked out to move the sprinkler.
I have better thoughts. Clearer, more sensible ideas and opinions, even though some others might find them odd. I am sure of things. I don’t need to be understood or agreed with; I have no need for corroboration. In fact I find most of the stuff in the culture I am surrounded by to be intellectually vapid, sensational and unenlightened. Sorry. I don’t, for example, think one’s sexual identity or one’s choice for president is particularly important. I think there has never been a valid reason for starting a war, (yet fighting to finish a war is imperative.) I am sure that the universe and this terrestrial corner of it is a sacred gift and that it is our constant responsibility to express our gratitude for all of it. I believe that you are beautiful. Go ahead and argue.
The painter Anna Mary Robertson Moses was born in 1860 and had her first solo exhibition in 1940. Her paintings were the result of the onset of her arthritis, which prevented her from doing needlework. When the pain got too bad in her right hand, she switched to painting with her left. Someone bought one of her works for over a million dollars in 2006, 45 years after she died. That’s not really important to Grandma, of course, but it offers hope to an author who used to think it mattered if a lot of people read his work, an author who wears braces on both hands while he’s typing, and who is pretty sure he doesn’t want to waste the time it will take to find a big publisher for his work. That seems to be a young person’s game. Maybe I’ll sell a lot of books in 2050.
So I’m going to stop writing this and get back to the novel I’m working on. I’ve done the fourth draft of the first four chapters and I am heading into the hard part, where the grandfather in the story, his life suddenly threatened, is going to exemplify rather than to tell his 25-year-old grandson what he has learned from sweet and bitter experience. It gets better each time. Wish me luck. I was 76 on May 15th.