JWG's Done and Not Begun July 3, 2011

Zwerglipatch July 3, 2011  7:44 a.m.

Now that I have mentioned two societal taboo subjects, politics and sex, and dabbled in religious theory, I shall nurture my Garden of Thought and water the seeds that have not yet grown which I have sown. An array of color and nourishment and scents unknown. This is what I expect from my personal garden — a garden I grow with René. An experimental bed of active seedlings that may look young, but, are mature. Youth is a sponge. Age is a well. In between the two is a bucket — a boo-kā — Bouquet — to pick and place in the highest esteem.

Rarely, do René and I pick bouquets from our Zwerglipatch Gardens. Mom Meyer did teach us to admire the artificial. We keep her tradition alive. We have many bouquets in Zwerglipatch Cottage of what people would say are Artificial Flowers. Nowadays, People are fooled by the Artificial. I will admit, sometimes we let our visitors believe that the artificial flowers they admire are real — for they are real, artificial flowers. If seeing our bouquets, both real and artificial, brings joy, who are we to tramp out the fire of a smile. Embarrassment is never forgotten. Shame is a pity that need not exist. Mistakes are made. True mistakes. Silly mistakes. Mistakes that don’t need to be pointed out to the person who made it. It always irks me when people are quick to point out the foibles that are petty. These people are the people who always know everything and will never accept criticism without much argument. We all know the type. I, myself, do not respect those who make others feel ill-at-ease for no inherent reason. They may think they are superior, but, in my book, they will always be inferior characters — characters, if on stage, the audience would applaud when they were given what is due them. When a know-it-all is faced with truth and is tongue-tied for an answer, and leaves the stage with head down, the uproarious applause is a pleasure to hear.

I so much made up my mind to end these final pages happily. However, one character in my life prevents me from writing a happy portrait of his recovery. Dad Meyer is the character. He is a shell of the being we all know. He is always whining and crying. He demands attention. He shuffles and does not pick up his feet. He cannot accept that those around him, those who love him, are happy and living. Dad’s son and his family are on a fabulous trip. Is Dad Meyer happy they went? I have never heard one word that is good out of his mouth. He, Dad Meyer, is a complainer. He always was and always will be. Yesterday, René and I brought him to the Senior’s luncheon at his church. He went by himself. He asked to go. Afterwards, when I picked him up, did he say a simple thank-you? No. Did he say anything good? No. Did he complain? Yes. He was too cold. He cried because he was cold. The woman who I assume was one of the cooks of the luncheon helped Dad to the door and asked him if he had a good meal. Dad didn’t answer. His mind was on being cold. The woman rolled her eyes at me. I, myself, thanked her. Dad Meyer is a character to pity. He will never change.

René and I are happy that Mom Meyer is not here to see her husband in such a state of distress. She had more than a glimpse of this in her final days. One of the ironies in this history is a fortune I received in a fortune cookie the day Mom Meyer passed away. The fortune could be either for, or from, Mom. It is: “Your heart is pure, and your mind clear, and soul devout.”

Clarity is accepting challenges. Some may think that René and I are being challenged. We are. We are also clear-headed enough to realize the one-day-at-a-time saying, when lived, does work. Happily, and I am sincere in this, we are both Happy. There is no better word. The past few months could have broken our happy days. They did not. We know enough to let others live their lives and we we live ours.

My Parents and Sisters, in New Hampshire, are understanding enough to realize the plight René and I are in with Dad Meyer. They know we will go see them as soon as we can. This thought placates their days. They are doing well — better than expected. This makes me rather happy.

Happiness, it is said, is fleeting. I tend to believe this is false. Happiness is how one translates one’s environment. Happiness is seeing. Happiness is believing. One cannot wait for Happiness. Waiting wastes precious moments. Instead of waiting, one should bring whatever one can to make others happy. Or, if no one is around, one can, and should, and you know I dislike the word “should”, but, it is an apt word in this case, one should make oneself Happy. If a person does not know, or recognize, Happiness, what can I say? One is a lump of clay? Being busy, either physically or mentally, creates Happiness. Personally, there are not enough days to fill with all of the Happiness I, myself, have. Am I a Pollyanna? Perhaps. I do like to revel in rainbows. I do like to find four-leaf clovers. I do like to see, and feel, Happiness. I am a Happy Person. I have done my best. I have not yet begun to Live Life as a complete Happy, Gay Person. With René, I can, and will, and shall.

[This ends the excerpts from my volume JWG’s DONE AND NOT BEGUN. Thank you.]