Litter
How tough is it to keep your trash in your own car until you reach your destination? It takes very little thinking and even less effort. Set it aside. Keep a bag of grocery bags in your car if you have that much trash. Take your trash with you when you leave the car. There are trash cans everywhere. You won’t have it with you for very long.
Instead I see trash everywhere I go. The roads are a mess. Even the trails in the woods have napkins and beer cans where folks have had impromptu picnics. Cigarette butts are everywhere and chewing gum mars the sidewalks. Again, where did these people learn this behavior? How did they learn that this is okay? Whether it is just negligence or intentional vandalism, how could anyone become so irresponsible? I don’t understand it. I can’t understand it. I know there are bad people, but that doesn’t mean I understand them. It makes me angry.
Yielding
I am walking on the sidewalk and two women are coming toward me walking side by side. They fill the sidewalk. There is no space for me to get by without leaving the sidewalk. It has been raining and there is soggy mud on either side of the sidewalk. If I leave the sidewalk my shoes will be covered in mud and my socks are likely to be soaked with muddy water. Gross.
My fellow pedestrians seem to be unconcerned as the gap closes between us. Neither of us has a right to the entire sidewalk. Surely one of them will step in front of or behind the other and allow me to remain on the sidewalk. I cannot fathom what reasoning they are using. The most gracious story I can tell myself is that they are engrossed in their conversation and are unaware of the impending collision. I expect that they will go single file at the last second and allow me to pass.
No such thing happens. Enlightenment never crosses their faces. I dare not bump into them in the least lest it be construed as rude or assault. They bull straight at me in a game of pedestrian chicken. At the last second I am forced to twist my body sideways to avoid a collision. I walk a tightrope along the edge of the sidewalk. I flail my arms wildly to keep my balance and avoid falling into the mud. The ladies show no sign of recognizing what they have done to me.
The next time this happens I am wiser. Ten yards away from a potential collision I stop and hold still on the edge of the sidewalk with my arms down at my sides. If there is a collision they will be walking into me. I am standing still. I cannot be the offending party as I am doing nothing. If anything happens they will have walked into me, not me walking into them. At the last second they realize they are about to walk into a man who isn’t moving. The one who would have hit me head-on pauses for a moment to step behind her colleague, but while doing so gives me an ugly look as if I had violated some inalienable right she possesses.
It is such a small thing, but I’d like to use the sidewalk too, please. Is that so bad? Do we need to put dotted lines down the sidewalk to divide the traffic? I’d like to think all we need is some common courtesy, but courtesy doesn’t seem all that common anymore. The same could be said of common sense.
Would this be any different if I was running on the sidewalk?
Is doing the right thing all that difficult?
Can’t we all just get along?
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
Personal Peeves Part 1
An incident at work raised my ire a couple years ago and impelled me to write up a two-page list of things that peeve me at work. After I calmed down I shared the list with a couple of my colleagues who had a laugh at my expense. Apparently my list contained many small issues which they found amusing. The list made its way around the office and is now an oft-told tale and a source of amusement to everyone except me. I was serious about every single peeve I listed. Not so my colleagues.
Getting cut-off during my daily commute prompts me to compose a personal peeve list to accompany my work peeve list. While my workplace peeve list was composed of one-liners, this one is going to be accompanied by analysis. Won’t this be fun?
I am naming this “Part 1” as I am sure I will have some more peeves to write-up later.
Getting Cut-Off
I was driving to work today on the Stone Mountain Freeway with barely a car-length between me and the car ahead. A driver in the right-hand lane spontaneously changed lanes into that narrow space, barely clearing my front bumper. This didn’t surprise me as it is a daily occurrence during my commute. Sometimes it is accompanied with a turn signal, and sometimes it is not. What is constant is that this always occurs at least once during each leg of my 30-minute commute.
What especially aggravates me is the sense of entitlement accompanying the act. It isn’t an accident. When I flash my lights at the offender they either give me the finger or slam on the brakes to get back at me. Somehow in their minds I am the offender in this incident. They know I am there and they don’t care. They can just barely clear my bumper and move into the space like they own it. For them it is a game of chicken or they are claiming what they feel is justly theirs. They know I will have to slow down or risk causing an accident. If I hit their rear bumper I am the one who will be charged the traffic offense of following too closely.
I am left to wonder who taught them, or where did they learn, that this is proper behavior. If you knew that your neighbor was in the other car would you still do it? Aren’t all strangers neighbors you haven’t met yet? How about putting on your turn signal to let me know you’d like to change lanes? Give me a chance to be gracious and give you some space to move into. I would be pleased for you to ask kindly in the form of a turn signal for the space, and in turn I could do a good deed by granting that space. Both of us could be enriched ever-so-slightly by such a pleasant unspoken exchange by strangers on the highway. Instead of that pleasant scenario these jerks assume I am a jerk who will not let them in and instead force their way in. Either that or they feel entitled to take the space as their commute is more important than anyone else on the highway.
Getting Ahead
There are stoplights where the 2-lane road expands to 4 lanes for 50 yards leading into the stoplight, and then narrows from 4 lanes to 2 on the far side of the stoplight. During rush hour as many as 10 cars may be “stuck” behind a slower driver, and as they approach the stoplight many of them will swerve into the new lane as it is created. Several near crashes occur as some drivers realize later than others that the lane is there and swerve to cut-off those who are behind them and “get ahead”.
If the light is green a race ensues where the hotdogs try to pass the car that was leading the 10-car string of cars before the road narrows back to 2 lanes. Inevitably one too many attempts to pass on the right and nearly runs off the road themselves, or nearly sideswipes the former leader into oncoming traffic. All too often one or more of the hotdogs force their way back into the string of cars several positions up from where they were before the light. Was it worth the risk of your life and mine? Ridiculous!
If the light is red the hotdogs sit in the right-hand lane waiting to hit the gas and the same race ensues. Again, lives are risked by passing at the last moment or forcing their way back into traffic. And what is gained? There is another “slow” driver just ahead to hold these hotdogs back. There isn’t anybody on the road going as fast as these yahoos want to go. There is always going to be another driver up ahead who will be in their way. They are never going to get to their destination appreciably faster. Why not be courteous and enjoy the drive home?
Can’t we all just get along?
Getting cut-off during my daily commute prompts me to compose a personal peeve list to accompany my work peeve list. While my workplace peeve list was composed of one-liners, this one is going to be accompanied by analysis. Won’t this be fun?
I am naming this “Part 1” as I am sure I will have some more peeves to write-up later.
Getting Cut-Off
I was driving to work today on the Stone Mountain Freeway with barely a car-length between me and the car ahead. A driver in the right-hand lane spontaneously changed lanes into that narrow space, barely clearing my front bumper. This didn’t surprise me as it is a daily occurrence during my commute. Sometimes it is accompanied with a turn signal, and sometimes it is not. What is constant is that this always occurs at least once during each leg of my 30-minute commute.
What especially aggravates me is the sense of entitlement accompanying the act. It isn’t an accident. When I flash my lights at the offender they either give me the finger or slam on the brakes to get back at me. Somehow in their minds I am the offender in this incident. They know I am there and they don’t care. They can just barely clear my bumper and move into the space like they own it. For them it is a game of chicken or they are claiming what they feel is justly theirs. They know I will have to slow down or risk causing an accident. If I hit their rear bumper I am the one who will be charged the traffic offense of following too closely.
I am left to wonder who taught them, or where did they learn, that this is proper behavior. If you knew that your neighbor was in the other car would you still do it? Aren’t all strangers neighbors you haven’t met yet? How about putting on your turn signal to let me know you’d like to change lanes? Give me a chance to be gracious and give you some space to move into. I would be pleased for you to ask kindly in the form of a turn signal for the space, and in turn I could do a good deed by granting that space. Both of us could be enriched ever-so-slightly by such a pleasant unspoken exchange by strangers on the highway. Instead of that pleasant scenario these jerks assume I am a jerk who will not let them in and instead force their way in. Either that or they feel entitled to take the space as their commute is more important than anyone else on the highway.
Getting Ahead
There are stoplights where the 2-lane road expands to 4 lanes for 50 yards leading into the stoplight, and then narrows from 4 lanes to 2 on the far side of the stoplight. During rush hour as many as 10 cars may be “stuck” behind a slower driver, and as they approach the stoplight many of them will swerve into the new lane as it is created. Several near crashes occur as some drivers realize later than others that the lane is there and swerve to cut-off those who are behind them and “get ahead”.
If the light is green a race ensues where the hotdogs try to pass the car that was leading the 10-car string of cars before the road narrows back to 2 lanes. Inevitably one too many attempts to pass on the right and nearly runs off the road themselves, or nearly sideswipes the former leader into oncoming traffic. All too often one or more of the hotdogs force their way back into the string of cars several positions up from where they were before the light. Was it worth the risk of your life and mine? Ridiculous!
If the light is red the hotdogs sit in the right-hand lane waiting to hit the gas and the same race ensues. Again, lives are risked by passing at the last moment or forcing their way back into traffic. And what is gained? There is another “slow” driver just ahead to hold these hotdogs back. There isn’t anybody on the road going as fast as these yahoos want to go. There is always going to be another driver up ahead who will be in their way. They are never going to get to their destination appreciably faster. Why not be courteous and enjoy the drive home?
Can’t we all just get along?
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Destitute
My days of destitution, which were actually Jean’s as well as mine, were during college and those first few years of employment following college. (College was fall 1970 - spring 1974) I had nothing because nothing was all I could afford. I suppose all of my mature readers have their own stories of being poor. For the sake of my descendants, and for my own amusement, I thought it might be interesting to document a few examples of the depth and breadth of my poverty. Perhaps the experience won’t feel so disconcerting to my descendants when they go through their own trial of passage.
The Pub
Jean and I started dating for a lifetime when we were both enrolled at Coe College. We’d meet for breakfast at 7:30 am and then head off for classes. Some semesters we had a math class in common during the day. Jean helped me get through Modern Algebra, which has nothing to do with algebra as we commonly think of it. I helped Jean occasionally with calculus/analysis stuff. Each of us claims the other is the smarter partner, which is a wise position to take when married.
(Note well, the secret to a successful marriage can be summed up in two words. Yes ma’am. These two words are rivaled only by a companion pair of words. I’m sorry.)
We may have met up for lunch, though that fact is forgotten to me. I had track practice in the afternoon, and I’d finish that up just in time to get in the door of the cafeteria just before it closed. After eating dinner with Jean we’d head off to the library to study until it closed at 10pm.
As a special treat after studying in the library we’d occasionally go to the “Pub” for a snack. The Pub was a small grill located on campus where you could buy a variety of foods after the cafeteria had closed for the day. We’d go there maybe once a month, definitely no more than twice a month, because we couldn’t afford the extravagance. For roughly 75 cents we’d get one order of toast to split between us, which was two slices of bread, and two glasses of milk. It was living large and I felt guilty spending so much money. I hoped my mom and dad would approve.
The Iowa Theater
Rarer still than going to the misnamed Pub, I would occasionally take Jean to a movie at the Iowa Theater. It was a nine block walk from Coe College to the Iowa Theater. There were two other theaters within walking distance of Coe, but these theaters didn’t have Mr. Beatty.
Mr. Beatty was my brother Bill’s Boy Scout Leader for many years. He was also the maintenance man, custodian, manager, and I don’t know exactly what else for the Iowa Theater. Sometimes Mr. Beatty would be outside the theater monitoring the line of folks waiting to pay. He’d stroll up and down the line smiling and chatting with folks, and he’d see Jean and I standing in the line.
Somehow Mr. Beatty knew what it was like to be a destitute college kid and practiced Random Acts of Kindness years before the phrase had been coined. He’d stroll over to us, squeeze between us, and grab us by the elbows like a school principal would do to kids who’d misbehaved. Continuing to talk to us in a pleasant tone as if nothing was going on, he’d pull us out of the line and walk us slowly down toward the entrance of the theater. When we got to the doors he continued to walk us inside past the ticket taker, whereupon he released our elbows and said with a smile, “Enjoy the movie!” I wonder if he saw the water in my eyes as I was tearing up with thanks.
I wish you could see the tears rolling down my face right now as I remember those moments. Those movies are one of my favorite memories of our dating years. I couldn’t afford to take Jean to a movie except for the occasional $10 Mom and Dad would graciously slip me for just that purpose. Mr. B sneaking us into the movie meant we could afford one more date out, or several orders of toast and milk, or maybe a chocolate malt at the Dairy Queen. We continued to frequent the Iowa Theater in hopes that Mr. B would be there, and we could have a free date, or given the 50/50 probability, two dates for the price of one. Thanks Mr. B. Many, many thanks.
Borrowed Car
Mom and Dad had two cars while I was attending Coe College. They each needed a car to get to work during the week, but during the weekend it wasn’t a hardship for the folks to be down to one car. It was only a 2-mile run from Coe to Mom and Dad’s house, so every few weeks I’d call ahead on a Friday to see if I could borrow Mom’s car for the weekend. It only took 15 minutes to run the two miles home and pick up the car. Being a distance runner really does come in handy.
Better yet were the times when Mom and Dad showed up at a Coe basketball game on Friday night. During half-time we could say hello, I could make a sales pitch for the car, Dad might slip me a couple bucks, and Jean and I could catch a ride to the house after the game. Then Jean and I would head back to Coe with the car and I’d keep it for the rest of the weekend.
Jean and I would make weekend trips (free) to Wapsipinicon State Park, or Maquoketa Caves State Park. Did I mention these were free? I either had Dad’s credit card to fill up the tank, or I put a buck or two in (38 cents/gallon) so it wasn’t empty when I returned it; the salient point being that use of the car was essentially free. (Thanks Mom and Dad!)
On Sunday afternoon Jean and I would drive the car home with my dirty laundry and an occasional physics paper or lab experiment. The meal service was closed Sunday nights, so the only free meal in town was at Mom and Dad’s house. Also, the washers and dryers in the dorms were 50 cents a load whereas the machines in Mom and Dad’s basement were free (did I mention free?) and available so long as I did it myself. Note well, I always asked, I was never presumptuous when freeloading off my folks, but they never said no, thank goodness.
Now before you start laughing too hard about how cheap I was, please remember that I had washed dishes for a dollar an hour to earn money for college only a couple of summers earlier. In my mind one load of laundry, that’s 50 cents for the washer and 50 cents for the dryer, equaled a full hour of washing dishes. A dollar was precious to me, and it still is, knowing the labor that is required to earn one. I wasn’t going to waste a dollar of my money, or my parent’s money, unless I absolutely had to.
So I had laundry running in my parent’s basement, I was making a plate of leftovers out of Mom’s refrigerator, and Mom graciously assented to typing my physics paper while I was mooching everything else. I didn’t learn to type, and badly at that, until my senior year, so Mom’s name really should appear on the diploma next to mine. Mom saved me hours of time, time I did not have, dozens of times.
Mom was a super typist, and with that old manual typewriter, without auto-correct, you had to be super accurate. Mom would shake her head and mutter, “I have no idea what ANY of this means!” I’d wave my hands and explain F=ma, Maxwell’s equations, inertia, entropy, kinetic energy, potential energy, and angular momentum just to impress my folks a bit and reassure them that they were getting their nickel’s worth by sending me to Coe College.
When I finished my laundry, and finished my dinner, and my latest greatest paper was typed, Mom would drive Jean and I back to Coe and drop us off at the dorms.
Yes, I realize how much I owe my parents.
The Pub
Jean and I started dating for a lifetime when we were both enrolled at Coe College. We’d meet for breakfast at 7:30 am and then head off for classes. Some semesters we had a math class in common during the day. Jean helped me get through Modern Algebra, which has nothing to do with algebra as we commonly think of it. I helped Jean occasionally with calculus/analysis stuff. Each of us claims the other is the smarter partner, which is a wise position to take when married.
(Note well, the secret to a successful marriage can be summed up in two words. Yes ma’am. These two words are rivaled only by a companion pair of words. I’m sorry.)
We may have met up for lunch, though that fact is forgotten to me. I had track practice in the afternoon, and I’d finish that up just in time to get in the door of the cafeteria just before it closed. After eating dinner with Jean we’d head off to the library to study until it closed at 10pm.
As a special treat after studying in the library we’d occasionally go to the “Pub” for a snack. The Pub was a small grill located on campus where you could buy a variety of foods after the cafeteria had closed for the day. We’d go there maybe once a month, definitely no more than twice a month, because we couldn’t afford the extravagance. For roughly 75 cents we’d get one order of toast to split between us, which was two slices of bread, and two glasses of milk. It was living large and I felt guilty spending so much money. I hoped my mom and dad would approve.
The Iowa Theater
Rarer still than going to the misnamed Pub, I would occasionally take Jean to a movie at the Iowa Theater. It was a nine block walk from Coe College to the Iowa Theater. There were two other theaters within walking distance of Coe, but these theaters didn’t have Mr. Beatty.
Mr. Beatty was my brother Bill’s Boy Scout Leader for many years. He was also the maintenance man, custodian, manager, and I don’t know exactly what else for the Iowa Theater. Sometimes Mr. Beatty would be outside the theater monitoring the line of folks waiting to pay. He’d stroll up and down the line smiling and chatting with folks, and he’d see Jean and I standing in the line.
Somehow Mr. Beatty knew what it was like to be a destitute college kid and practiced Random Acts of Kindness years before the phrase had been coined. He’d stroll over to us, squeeze between us, and grab us by the elbows like a school principal would do to kids who’d misbehaved. Continuing to talk to us in a pleasant tone as if nothing was going on, he’d pull us out of the line and walk us slowly down toward the entrance of the theater. When we got to the doors he continued to walk us inside past the ticket taker, whereupon he released our elbows and said with a smile, “Enjoy the movie!” I wonder if he saw the water in my eyes as I was tearing up with thanks.
I wish you could see the tears rolling down my face right now as I remember those moments. Those movies are one of my favorite memories of our dating years. I couldn’t afford to take Jean to a movie except for the occasional $10 Mom and Dad would graciously slip me for just that purpose. Mr. B sneaking us into the movie meant we could afford one more date out, or several orders of toast and milk, or maybe a chocolate malt at the Dairy Queen. We continued to frequent the Iowa Theater in hopes that Mr. B would be there, and we could have a free date, or given the 50/50 probability, two dates for the price of one. Thanks Mr. B. Many, many thanks.
Borrowed Car
Mom and Dad had two cars while I was attending Coe College. They each needed a car to get to work during the week, but during the weekend it wasn’t a hardship for the folks to be down to one car. It was only a 2-mile run from Coe to Mom and Dad’s house, so every few weeks I’d call ahead on a Friday to see if I could borrow Mom’s car for the weekend. It only took 15 minutes to run the two miles home and pick up the car. Being a distance runner really does come in handy.
Better yet were the times when Mom and Dad showed up at a Coe basketball game on Friday night. During half-time we could say hello, I could make a sales pitch for the car, Dad might slip me a couple bucks, and Jean and I could catch a ride to the house after the game. Then Jean and I would head back to Coe with the car and I’d keep it for the rest of the weekend.
Jean and I would make weekend trips (free) to Wapsipinicon State Park, or Maquoketa Caves State Park. Did I mention these were free? I either had Dad’s credit card to fill up the tank, or I put a buck or two in (38 cents/gallon) so it wasn’t empty when I returned it; the salient point being that use of the car was essentially free. (Thanks Mom and Dad!)
On Sunday afternoon Jean and I would drive the car home with my dirty laundry and an occasional physics paper or lab experiment. The meal service was closed Sunday nights, so the only free meal in town was at Mom and Dad’s house. Also, the washers and dryers in the dorms were 50 cents a load whereas the machines in Mom and Dad’s basement were free (did I mention free?) and available so long as I did it myself. Note well, I always asked, I was never presumptuous when freeloading off my folks, but they never said no, thank goodness.
Now before you start laughing too hard about how cheap I was, please remember that I had washed dishes for a dollar an hour to earn money for college only a couple of summers earlier. In my mind one load of laundry, that’s 50 cents for the washer and 50 cents for the dryer, equaled a full hour of washing dishes. A dollar was precious to me, and it still is, knowing the labor that is required to earn one. I wasn’t going to waste a dollar of my money, or my parent’s money, unless I absolutely had to.
So I had laundry running in my parent’s basement, I was making a plate of leftovers out of Mom’s refrigerator, and Mom graciously assented to typing my physics paper while I was mooching everything else. I didn’t learn to type, and badly at that, until my senior year, so Mom’s name really should appear on the diploma next to mine. Mom saved me hours of time, time I did not have, dozens of times.
Mom was a super typist, and with that old manual typewriter, without auto-correct, you had to be super accurate. Mom would shake her head and mutter, “I have no idea what ANY of this means!” I’d wave my hands and explain F=ma, Maxwell’s equations, inertia, entropy, kinetic energy, potential energy, and angular momentum just to impress my folks a bit and reassure them that they were getting their nickel’s worth by sending me to Coe College.
When I finished my laundry, and finished my dinner, and my latest greatest paper was typed, Mom would drive Jean and I back to Coe and drop us off at the dorms.
Yes, I realize how much I owe my parents.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
The Whole Truth
Everybody in this story is dead now except for me, so maybe it is okay to tell this story. I changed the names just to be safe.
Sara was 56 when she came to work in our office in 1984. She worked with us for 6 years. In the last few months she was diagnosed with Lupus and had to take a medical leave of absence. Sara died in May of 1990 at the age of 62. Since she had worked in our office for an extended period of time I felt that someone should represent the office and the institution in personally extending condolences to her husband, Larry. I appointed myself as the designee.
There was no memorial service or funeral for Sara. Larry decided to have a simple reception at their home for family and friends. At the appointed day and time I found my way to the house to say a few kind words to Larry about how much we enjoyed Sara’s presence in the office. I wasn’t sure how I would be received by Larry, but I was determined to do the right thing by showing up. I was confident that the normal standards of diplomacy and tact would be observed in this setting regardless of any hard feelings Larry may have held toward our office. I was wrong.
I arrived early in the appointed time range hoping to speak to Larry without much delay and have an excuse to go back to work as other guests arrived. It appeared I was the first guest to arrive other than family as Larry greeted me at the door. As I entered the empty living room I could hear the rattling of pans and dishes back in the kitchen and saw the dining table was being laid with snacks and punch for guests.
I had a few kind words I’d carefully thought-out to deliver to Larry and barely got a few of them out before he started a long harangue. In a cordial manner Larry let me know how much Sara had hated working in our office. That was the core of his message which could have been delivered in a single sentence, but he went on and on finding different ways to say the same thing over and over again. As I stood there diplomatically accepting the verbal torrent with my own growing irritation, I thought back to what Sara had told me at the office.
The truth is that Sara didn’t want to be working at all. Larry had an idea for a business and put their entire life savings into it when they were just a few years from retirement. He had risked everything they had and he had lost it all in the business venture. After losing their life savings he then had a heart attack and couldn’t work at all. If they were going to eat, Sara had to work. At this point in her life Sara was expecting to be traveling to visit her children and grandchildren, but instead had to work because of what her husband had done. She wasn’t angry with me, or the office, or the institution; she was angry with Larry for putting her in this position in the first place.
So during Larry’s tirade at the reception I was remembering all of this. Clearly Sara had gone home and vented about work, which is every employee’s right, but Larry had interpreted this as being a problem caused by the office and held himself blameless. Maybe Sara didn’t tell her husband the whole truth in order to keep peace at home. I briefly thought about telling him the whole truth, about the contrasting story she’d told me at work where Larry was the bad guy, but what would that accomplish?
It took only a moment to realize that this was the proverbial moment where I was supposed to turn the other cheek over and over again and allow Larry to verbally slap it. It wouldn’t do any good to point out to Larry that he was the root cause of Sara’s anger. If Larry knew it was his fault that Sara was so angry, he might not have a moment of mental peace for the rest of his life. The truth would only bring him grief, and I wouldn’t sleep well knowing I was the cause of his grief, and he didn’t need this grief on top of his wife’s death, so I let him continue to rant. I figured I could suffer some temporary unpleasantness knowing that in the long run I was allowing him some degree of peace. It was a dirty job, but somebody had to do it.
Eventually one of the grown children back in the kitchen overheard the ongoing tirade and came into the living room to save me from Larry. She ostensibly came out to be introduced to me, but in truth was on a mission of mercy, and that finally broke Larry’s singular stream of consciousness. A few minutes later other mourners arrived who Larry needed to greet, and after a reasonable length of time I found my way out the door without saying goodbye.
I like to tell myself that I did the right thing by NOT telling the whole truth that day.
Larry died two years later. I did not extend condolences to the family.
Sara was 56 when she came to work in our office in 1984. She worked with us for 6 years. In the last few months she was diagnosed with Lupus and had to take a medical leave of absence. Sara died in May of 1990 at the age of 62. Since she had worked in our office for an extended period of time I felt that someone should represent the office and the institution in personally extending condolences to her husband, Larry. I appointed myself as the designee.
There was no memorial service or funeral for Sara. Larry decided to have a simple reception at their home for family and friends. At the appointed day and time I found my way to the house to say a few kind words to Larry about how much we enjoyed Sara’s presence in the office. I wasn’t sure how I would be received by Larry, but I was determined to do the right thing by showing up. I was confident that the normal standards of diplomacy and tact would be observed in this setting regardless of any hard feelings Larry may have held toward our office. I was wrong.
I arrived early in the appointed time range hoping to speak to Larry without much delay and have an excuse to go back to work as other guests arrived. It appeared I was the first guest to arrive other than family as Larry greeted me at the door. As I entered the empty living room I could hear the rattling of pans and dishes back in the kitchen and saw the dining table was being laid with snacks and punch for guests.
I had a few kind words I’d carefully thought-out to deliver to Larry and barely got a few of them out before he started a long harangue. In a cordial manner Larry let me know how much Sara had hated working in our office. That was the core of his message which could have been delivered in a single sentence, but he went on and on finding different ways to say the same thing over and over again. As I stood there diplomatically accepting the verbal torrent with my own growing irritation, I thought back to what Sara had told me at the office.
The truth is that Sara didn’t want to be working at all. Larry had an idea for a business and put their entire life savings into it when they were just a few years from retirement. He had risked everything they had and he had lost it all in the business venture. After losing their life savings he then had a heart attack and couldn’t work at all. If they were going to eat, Sara had to work. At this point in her life Sara was expecting to be traveling to visit her children and grandchildren, but instead had to work because of what her husband had done. She wasn’t angry with me, or the office, or the institution; she was angry with Larry for putting her in this position in the first place.
So during Larry’s tirade at the reception I was remembering all of this. Clearly Sara had gone home and vented about work, which is every employee’s right, but Larry had interpreted this as being a problem caused by the office and held himself blameless. Maybe Sara didn’t tell her husband the whole truth in order to keep peace at home. I briefly thought about telling him the whole truth, about the contrasting story she’d told me at work where Larry was the bad guy, but what would that accomplish?
It took only a moment to realize that this was the proverbial moment where I was supposed to turn the other cheek over and over again and allow Larry to verbally slap it. It wouldn’t do any good to point out to Larry that he was the root cause of Sara’s anger. If Larry knew it was his fault that Sara was so angry, he might not have a moment of mental peace for the rest of his life. The truth would only bring him grief, and I wouldn’t sleep well knowing I was the cause of his grief, and he didn’t need this grief on top of his wife’s death, so I let him continue to rant. I figured I could suffer some temporary unpleasantness knowing that in the long run I was allowing him some degree of peace. It was a dirty job, but somebody had to do it.
Eventually one of the grown children back in the kitchen overheard the ongoing tirade and came into the living room to save me from Larry. She ostensibly came out to be introduced to me, but in truth was on a mission of mercy, and that finally broke Larry’s singular stream of consciousness. A few minutes later other mourners arrived who Larry needed to greet, and after a reasonable length of time I found my way out the door without saying goodbye.
I like to tell myself that I did the right thing by NOT telling the whole truth that day.
Larry died two years later. I did not extend condolences to the family.
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