Thanks for the Christmas gift, Mom!





Mom did her best not to give me anything  this year, which meant at least a $400 check, a tangerine some silly putty and beef jerky, amongst other things. But there was this book of poetry, by one James Kavanaugh http://celestineview.com/kavanaugh.htm that really caught my attention, in which she dedicated the book to me "as you begin to live the rest of your life" with this poem bookmarked:

It makes no sense to my friends back home

That a middle-aged man should want to roam.

But I left the money and a share of fame

And I called it quits in the business game;

I left a house and a proper wife,

     To begin to live the rest of my life.

It makes no sense to my swinging friends

That a middle aged man should begin again.

So the stories grew and the rumors rolled

As the tale of my madness was oft retold.

But I can bear the gossip's knife

     To begin to live the rest of my life.

It makes no sense to society

That a middle-aged man would take his leave.

The briefcase boys just shook their head,

My mother said I was better off dead.

But I packed my bag without advice

     To begin to live the rest of my life.

It makes no sense to my neighborhood

That a middle-aged man is gone for good.

The preacher bowed his head and prayed,

My father said I should have stayed,

But I went away with the rumors of life,

     To begin to live the rest of my life.

Well I'm lonely now but my heart is free

I enjoy a beer and watch a tree

I can see a cloud and feel the breeze,

I can buy some bread and a bit of cheese

And I know full well it is my right

     To begin to live the rest of my life.

Now I have no plans for security

No proper wife can depend on me,

I'm not to sure of eternity

But I know when a heart is really free.

And I walk along with a step that's light

     To begin to live the rest of my life

                           James Kavanaugh 1970

As I said in the last post, my mom really likes to give gifts. She has always studied the personality of the givee and chosen a gift/gifts that she assumed would bring them happiness. This now includes middle aged children and step children, twenty something grandchildren as well as grandchildren who still believe in Santa. Most of the time she asked for a list of desired items from the parents and produced them. Years later, with her grand kids, and now here in Boston, even if she had no idea what a Pokey-Man or Play Station 3 was all about, it was produced.

Unfortunately for her, her first experience with awkward givees was with her first born, me. I must have been a real disappointment to her, because from an early age I never really wanted anything. I am not proud of this and don't know the psychological providence. So she would have to subtly suggest things to me: "how about a banana seat sting ray bike? Me, trying to make the mom/the giver happy, would answer "Oh, sure Mom that would be cool!" I am not saying this is what I want for any other human being, but it was, possibly congenital, some kind of blank brain space in my brain that made it impossible for me to express joy in objects, no matter what the intention of the giver was. So I would come down the steps on Christmas morning and there the banana seat sting ray bike would be, with tassels hanging off the handlebars no less. My mom would look at me and say "don't you just love it?" I don't wish a kid like me on anyone, but what was I supposed to say?

Kavanaugh in his introduction, writes to what he surmises are millions of lonely men and women, searchers, wanderers, dreamers, hobos, bums, free masons, free thinkers, free men and the like, who do not feel the need to prove themselves to anyone and don't need the acceptance of the world. They are not unhappy, but yet they are really not content either. So off they go, American pioneers that don't kill the Indians.

I am sure that, in cave dwelling times, when the established leaders were writing some official version of things on cave walls, there was some kid writing an alternative version on a boulder out in the fields.

Thanks for the poem, Mom.