Well-Swept Yard

  My father, Julius Page Allen, was a man of few words. Maybe as a consequence, I remember many of the things that he said.  He said to me one day, "I just want to wake up dead."  That is a marvelous attitude, thinking on arrival at that moment without thinking about suffering or guilt or any of the other things that often accompany dying.  He had watched many people die. He knew. He knew that dying could come as the conclusion of a long days of suffering and insufferable visits from relatives who check in on you to see if you are dead yet.  As it happens, he woke up on the day of his death. He had a nice breakfast. I think he did a reasonably good job of running a Norelco around his chin. "I'm ready for a nap." He liked a good nap and took one as often as he could.  At any rate, he lay down. I hope he went to sleep. He did not get up. 

"What is art?" is a question impossible to answer. Eduardo Galeano avoided the question and wrote instead about the function of art. My favorite Galeano function is the first one in his Book of Embraces .  The Function of Art/1. Diego had never seen the sea. His father, Santiago Kovadloff, took him to discover it. They went south. The ocean lay beyond high sand dunes, waiting. When the child and his father finally reached the dunes after much walking, the ocean exploded before their eyes. And so immense was the sea and its sparkle that the child was struck dumb by the beauty of it. And when he finally managed to speak, trembling, stuttering, he asked his father: “Help me to see!” Eduardo Galeano, The Book of Embraces , page 17.

I just want to wake up dead That is what my father always said about dying. A gentle, uneventful passing.  This is what happened. He awoke on the fateful day, got up, ate his usual cholesterol-rich breakfast, and then returned to bed for a nap.  He was in his mid-nineties.  At some point somebody noticed that he did not look quite right. A check at the bedside revealed that he had died during his nap. As I see it, things turned out better than he had hoped for. He woke up, had a good breakfast, fell asleep and died.  I'm glad he had the breakfast.  

My father rarely threw anything away, attitude from the farm upbringing and the Great Depression.  Nails were an interesting illustration. A nail, no matter how bent and rusty, is useful. Dad had cans and cans of bent nails that he used building things around the house, indeed for building various out-buildings from lean-roof chicken houses to dog houses. Fifty years later they still stand.  When he needed a nail he took one from the can and either straightened it in a vise or hammered into shape for reuse. I cannot be certain, but I do not think that my father ever bought a new nail.  I have other examples of one man's trash is another man's treasure. Maybe I will talk about some of those at another time. 

Two black kittens, small but getting about, took residence a couple of doors away. No mother came with the little furries. What did is a black male. Attentive, protective, he lies on his side the the small ones snuggle his tummy with their tiny lips. All sleep snuggled. A neighborhood conversation. So far the local rag and tube have not been told. Good. My childhood always had a dog or cat or both who came home to our place. They had wonderful stories; some we knew and some we surmised. This story of my adulthood will join those of special relationships of long ago. If only such kindness were common in the adult world.