My cousin Art died. He was 70 years old and he did not take care of
himself. He smoked and drank, and led a somewhat self-destructive
life. I enjoyed being around him. Being a smart-aleck himself, he
provided me with the comments I needed to bounce off my contributions to
the art of conversation. But more than that, I just enjoyed his
company. His “I don’t give a shit about you, me or life itself”
attitude provided a contrast to the self-aggrandizing others around him.
A
few weeks before he died, I went to see him in a nursing home. The
place stunk with a muted scent of human shit mixed with Lysol. It was
stark, undecorated, and tiled from floor to ceiling with that green
institutional stuff. Art did not have any aspirations of being anywhere
else. I think that is what I loved most about him. If you are the
type of person who thought that you were any more than a smelly animal
with the added feature of selfishness, he would help you clearly learn
your error.
I talked with him and his two sisters a while. Trying
to keep up with the sisters’ brags while Art farted, I tried to talk
about the few current successes in my life.
Art said with a
mixture of 80% sarcasm and 20% pride that my brother had given him a
Jaguar hood ornament. “Ford bought Jaguar, you know. I’m going to put
that Jag hood ornament on my Focus. Jags are just goddam Fords, now,
you know.” - An implication that life and everything in it were just
cheap Fords with expensive hood ornaments.
When I was about to
leave, I told him that I would pray for him. He said, “Aw, don’t bother
to do that. Don’t do that. You’re wasting your time. That’s not going
to do any good for me.”
What would lead a man to refuse another
man’s prayers? What kind of life could a man have had to feel that he
was not worthy of God’s intervention, peace, or redemption? Even if he
did not believe that my prayers would do him any good, even if he did
not believe in God, why would a dying man not want to be prayed for?
What’s there to lose?
Today they talk about how everybody’s
problems stem from how other people treated them – abuse as a child,
poverty, over-disciplined, under-disciplined, alcoholic parents, no
parents, too many parents, diet, the air they breathe. While the child
is the father of the man, usually these influences can be overcome, if
the desire is there. It is truly up to the individual to craft his own
life, be responsible for his own success and failures, but, depending on
a person’s outside circumstances, it’s easier for some than others.
Art was born with a birth defect – he was blind in one eye.
Art’s
dad owned a carpet or a furniture store on a business strip a few miles
from the downtown shopping area. I don’t remember which it was, but he
was quite successful. My pre-baby-boom cousins were afforded
educations in good universities with multiple degrees in something or
another. This was in the 1940’s 50’s and 60’s, before downtowns died,
and franchises, shopping malls, and suburbs existed. Single store shop
owners in urban areas did very well. But we were farmers and it seemed
everybody did very well, except us.
Art had two intelligent older
sisters. During family events the achievements of these sisters were
repeated often as parents who are living their lives through their kids
do so often. They were going to prestigious universities and getting
advanced degrees, doing very well. Whenever I talked to them, whatever
they or their kids were doing they spoke as though these activities and
events were special, and I should listen closely and be impressed. I
should be so fascinated and awed by the location and uniqueness of their
homes, lives, kids, exploits, travels, vacations, jobs, and what they
had for dinner that I really should consider my life a throw away.
On
the other hand, all I remember being said about Art was his
misfortunes. He had trouble getting a driver’s license because of his
sight, he quit high school, the Army didn’t want him, his girl friend
left him, he got married and his wife left him, and he could not keep a
job. He would laugh at his latest catastrophe as though his whole life
was but a joke. He would put himself down as he talked about his
family, his most recent accident, his job cleaning the school’s
shithouses.
Sometimes the family’s youngest struggle all their
lives to achieve the level of their older siblings, some give up and
just accept an inferior status. While some spend their lives attempting
to get approval from those ahead of them, Art became convinced that all
the misfortunes that befell him were deserved.
According to The
Bible, Art has gone to Hell. I am sure he expected that, and he is not
surprised at all. I still pray for him and I thank God he did not live
to see any more of his family tragedies. I miss Art and I still pray
for him, but I’m sure he would say, “Don’t bother.”
Just cheap old Fords with Jaguar hood ornaments.
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