The gratitude holiday. I just reread
Oliver Sacks on the subject. He was defiantly grateful in the face of his late-life cancer diagnosis. In “
My Own Life” he channeled David Hume and extolled an attitude of “detachment” that my own father (James C. Oliver, 1928-2008) also used to recommend. It fits our moment:
“This is not indifference but detachment — I still care deeply about the Middle East, about global warming, about growing inequality, but these are no longer my business; they belong to the future. I rejoice when I meet gifted young people — even the one who biopsied and diagnosed my metastases. I feel the future is in good hands.”
I’d like to feel that way too. It’d be easier if we could forget who’s about to recover the nuclear football.
Really forget him. But the gifted young people in my Honors classes this semester have given me the same reassurance.
I made my annual Thanksgiving Eve trek down the
Trace to Hohenwald yesterday, to fetch brother-in-law home for the holiday. It was an exceedingly pleasant trip, coming and going, sharing the
Parkway (with its 50 mph limit) with just a few drivers, cyclists, and runners. Most repetitive rituals are, eventually, aren’t they? Especially when coupled with the thought, harder to suppress with each passing year, that for all we know it could be the last.
Anyway, this is a fine holiday. Younger Daughter and her fiancé will be here soon, the house will be filled with the pleasant familiar old aromas and stories and parades etc. We’ll be appropriately grateful for all we have and try not to dwell on what (and who) is missing.
I’m going to go now and pull
Lay of the Land off the shelf and share some of Frank Bascombe’s gratitude too.
“The kind of happy I was that day at the Vet when "Hawk" Dawson actually doffed his red "C" cap to me, and everyone cheered and practically convulsed into tears - you can't patent that. It was one shining moment of glory that was instantly gone. Whereas life, real life, is different and can't even be appraised as simply "happy", but only in terms of "Yes, I'll take it all, thanks" or "No, I believe I won't."
Happy, as my poor father used to say, is a lot of hooey. Happy is a circus clown, a sitcom, a greeting card. Life, though, life's about something sterner. But also something better. A lot better. Believe me.”― Richard Ford,
The Lay of the Land
It's not all hooey, as my father more sagely understood. It's good to be grateful and know it. Clap your hands. Doff your cap. Swing.*
*I met the Hawk in Ottawa a few years ago, at the Baseball Conference. What a nice man. Like the philosophers--Socrates, Cicero, Montaigne et al--who think their vocation is about learning to die, he got into the mortality business himself when his playing days were through. But I think he also always understood that the meaning of life is to live.