Thomas C. Wolfe (1900 – 1938), who once said he wrote a book to forget it, was a North Carolinian originator of the autobiographical fiction genre and is credited with coining the term “you can’t go home again.”
Awaiting the connecting flight to North Carolina, I go to my publications folder for inspiration and look back at another time I wrote an article I never, but might have, submitted for publication. Truly, we have so little time, and I’m too ambitious.
At that time, I was travelling back home again with mom’s ashes “on my arm,” as I had written. I stop reading and close the file because I start crying. Those really were her last days, when I’d just started dating Reuben, who made the trek with me. I discovered too late that writing is an outlet. Should I make it, perhaps this is something to do in retirement.
Incredulous and delighted at being an early bird, I literally smelled the roses Reuben gave me the other day in the morning dark. His father’s son, Max, the now elderly dog we rescued, stayed in bed as Harris, the new stray dog I collected off the street the morning after the last national election, jumped on my lap for the family ride to the airport. My husband reminded: “You’re going to get frustrated; try to be patient.”
Basking in the day’s beginning, the lead flight attendant, Angelica, greeted the passenger in front of me “you might get to have a neighbor today,” adding “it’s only a 37-minute flight.” I couldn’t contain “I love your attitude” after being mad at myself for having to dispose of some toiletries at security. I remember waking up late the morning of 9/11 and leaving private practice shortly afterward.
After the equivalent of a legal brief, I had ended an earlier e-mail to my cousins: “Time is precious. Let’s spend it wisely, hopefully together.” These days, I’m crying a lot, as I reminded them that my disconnected nuclear family died many, many years ago.
Now, Uncle Maurice is dying. In fact, he and I are grateful that I was able to drop everything and take a flight the day after I told him that I will be in the area tomorrow. I will, however, miss my family.
Sunday is a big day for all sorts of families. This one, I get to take my uncle to the Catholic Church near him. I have three days, two of which are business, that I get to spend loving and helping him as the only lawyer in the family can—and shall. His nearby nuclear family frustrates me, but I need to see gratitude.
I remember the lovingly written card that he gave to me in 1997. I remember that he and one of his daughters spent money they didn’t and still don’t have to come to my law school graduation. Acting for my suddenly deceased 54-year-old father (his younger brother), Uncle Maurice saw that he needed to go. I remember that he once let me borrow his old car during another trip back home that I too couldn’t afford. My newly divorced and stubborn mother needed a lot of help from her teenage son. I’m grateful to see that today I ask for help
I am thrilled that he will be competent. I am relieved that I get to go to church with him, no doubt thinking of my own church family back home.
Today, his is not my church. But I love the values my church tries to teach me. I can’t wait to go with Uncle Maurice and surprise him with the cousin with whom I will share my hotel room. I see that this cousin has always been a younger substitute brother of my real nuclear family. I am proud of him.
Can you imagine the joy I felt when I came to realize that Uncle Louie and his three kids are going back home again soon too, once they heard from my “younger brother” that I am? This is my nuclear family. Aunt Carol, my surrogate mother and Uncle Louie’s long-lost divorcée, goes in for surgery on Monday. I am grateful that I caught up with her the other day.
By the time you read this, 15 new church family members will have been inducted, a newish member agreed to cover a volunteer task for me so I could go, and any number of church officers will have happily agreed to appear for me. They love me too, and I will miss being able to participate in the service. At least I got to see and sign the certificates. Thanks to my office colleagues who love me too, missing work is no problem. Hopefully I don’t work too much as I’m away.
It seems I’m a religious person. For that and many other things, today I count the blessings.
The lost toiletries are a barely tiny inconvenience. Angelica is a kindred spirit. Another flight attendant tried to instruct passengers too busy on their devices what to do in the case of an evacuation, something I now take seriously. At 5:20 a.m., she asked “What’s my name?” From a nearby row, only I responded “Thai.” We’d already connected. She smiled at me and said: “You ain’t even in one of the [emergency] rows and you’re paying attention.”
Today, Uncle Maurice is alive. Tomorrow, I should be able to take him to church, and I happily pay the small price of missing the church I get to help lead.
I look out the window and see the sunrise. The brilliant hues of orange, red, and amber struck me. I ask myself “how did I get here?”
The answer, Bob, I must remind myself, is what a retired mentor once told me: “You’re a survivor, Bob.” I’m proud of myself and definitely still grateful.
Someone else once taught me the power of gratitude. The other day, I got to write in my journal:
I see that Henry David Thoreau was connected to my religion.
It’s 6:34 a.m. and we just landed safely. Angelica and Thai smiled warmly as I bid them a great day. Without really knowing one another, we’re connected.
I’m now in the connecting flight’s terminal, and too soon I’m having to try to tune out the lack of gratitude around me. Already, though, I’ve stumbled upon some wonderfully helpful airport staff. Lucky me, I’m telling myself.
Unfortunately, I get to write only a few more of these columns. How did I get here?
The answer, Bob, is there on your altar: Connection, self-development, and helping others. The present really is a gift.
