Basic Day
"Autumn. . .the world was filled with sound, a veritable grand finale
before the penetrating hush of winter."
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
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 mass 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 passed 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 assure that each half found its way
into the bowl. On one particular occasion Norm, spatula poised in
hand, was directing each slimy mass 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 chores. I have often witnessed people who so
rebelled against performing a simple task that in the time they wasted
voicing their complaints the chore 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 attitude,
work is always entertaining and fun, yet protests only serve to
multiply the weight of a potentially simple task.
Helping with the chores 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 chores 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 hoard, 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 classified as an investment, but rather, an
accumulation 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 space 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. Chores 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 passed. 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 classroom. 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 class.
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. Saturday 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 asserted 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 sex. There was not a
large array of women associated 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