My First Dance

My First Dance

Seven of my eight years in elementary school were spent in Catholic schools.  Grades 5-8 coincided with the on-set of puberty.  It was then I started noticing girls.  I didn’t know why.  I had a sister, and she was nothing special, she was mostly an annoyance.

But there must have been something about girls that was different.  The blood-thirsty, Felician nuns who taught us at St. Helen’s School, didn’t explain why boys and girls had to be kept separated, in the classroom and on the playground.  There must be a reason, but they didn’t let us in on it.   We had to figure it out for ourselves.

It wasn’t too difficult to figure out if you thought about it.  All young teen-agers are curious about the hormonal changes they are experiencing.  That’s why they must be kept apart, especially girls.  Girls, I understood, if you said certain things to them, and touched them in certain ways, would be unable to control themselves sexually.  I didn’t learn that in school.  I learned that in after-school, playground sex-ed lessons.  I never did learn the magic phrases and touches.

Then, one day, I found myself, a grade 9 student, in a public high school, where the sexes mixed freely, except in the washrooms and the gym locker rooms.  Not only that, the school held dances.  I had never been to a dance, but I knew about them from movies.  Dances are one of those times when you can do the talking and touching that makes girls tear their clothes off.

But one thing at a time, I had to learn to dance first.  I couldn’t go to a dance without dancing.  I don’t recall how I arranged it, but I got an aunt of mine, who was only several years older than me, to give me dancing lessons.  It only took a couple of lessons to master the rudiments of the waltz and the two-step.  Besides that, the Bunny Hop was all the rage at the time.  I knew how to do that from TV.   I was ready for the dance.

But I must digress for a moment.  When I was a kid, my Dad and I spent a good deal of time in down-town Milwaukee.  We went to gyms and watched boxers working out.  We went to movies downtown.  We had a favorite Chinese restaurant, where the waiter never wrote anything down, and never got anything wrong, as far as I know.  There was a tailor shop near where Dad usually parked the car.  And one day there was a sport coat in the window, a plaid sport coat.  It was the sort of garment that might be worn by members of a band, or maybe by a singing group.

Dad said, “That is sure one sharp jacket, huh?”  I said it sure was, but I didn’t mean it.  I was just agreeing with Dad.  It was best to just agree with him.  It upset Dad if anyone disagreed with him.  Because that meant his judgment was being questioned, and his judgment was impeccable.  So sure, it was a really ‘sharp’ sport coat.

The next couple of times we were downtown and passed by the tailor, Dad made some comment about the sharp plaid sport coat.  And I always nodded in agreement.  Then one day the window was empty.  Dad didn’t say anything.  And I thought, well that was that, no more plaid sport coat. But I was wrong.

The day of my first high school dance finally arrived.  I was ready, giddy with anticipation for what was about to take place.  It was almost time to leave, I was putting the final touches of Wildroot Cream Oil on my head, and Dad showed up with a surprise.  You guessed it: the plaid sport coat.  He said since I liked this jacket so much, he got it for me to wear to my first dance.

At that time I had adapted to an over-bearing, week-end Dad (who didn’t make it every week-end), who could be a bit of a bully, by not confronting him, by letting him think I agreed with him.  And especially by avoiding situations that were apt to be confrontational.  I had absolutely no experience in challenging him.  I didn’t have the slightest idea of what to, or how to do it.

Maybe it wouldn’t fit.  It’d be too small, or way too big.  But no such luck.  It fit pretty well.

So I had to wear the stupid, fucking plaid sport coat to my first dance.  The weeks in the tailor’s shop window had caused the left side of the jacket to become less vibrant than the right, but Dad didn’t notice, or he ignored the fading.

This was my first experience of this kind, I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t want to rush into anything.  I had planned, at first, just to hang back and see what was happening.  When I had some idea of how things worked, I’d join in.  My plans changed when I donned the plaid sport coat.  All thoughts about the dance, and what might happen there, vanished. 

By the time I entered the gymnasium and was officially at the dance, dancing was the farthest thing from my mind.  I was certain that I was the center of attention of everyone in the room, and that they all shared the same thought: Who’s the dorky kid in the plaid coat?  Probably everyone didn’t feel that way, maybe a few folks did.  But even if they did at first, me and my jacket were ignored, then forgotten.  Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my outfit was something of a joke.

The lights dimmed, and the dancing commenced.  I observed from the sidelines for a while.  Some of the dancing I observed could have been the two-step I had practiced.  I’d wait until that kind of song came around again, and if the dancers were doing what looked like a two-step, I’d join in.  But who would I dance with?  I’d have to ask someone, but who?

Here I was, right where I wanted to be, but I didn’t know what to do next.  At my previous school, social conventions regarding boy/girl communications were not discussed, in fact, they were actively discouraged.  So, what do I do?  Go up to a girl and say, hey wanna dance?  Or should I start a conversation first?  If so, what should I talk about?

And I’m pondering all these possibilities before I have any idea of who I’d ask to dance.  I don’t see any girls I know from St. Helen’s, although I know a few of them do attend Pulaski H.S.  There are girls I recognize from some of my classes.  I don’t know them.  Should I ask one of them to dance?  Should I go and talk to them?  What about?

Then I remembered the plaid sport coat.  Besides not knowing what to say, I was dressed as some sort of buffoon.  Would it make any difference what I said, dressed the way I am?  Too bad, but that’s what I got on, and I’m at my first dance, and I’m going to dance!  I spotted a girl from my English class.  She was pretty, a nice smile, and she seemed friendly.

I had decided on who I would ask to be my first dance partner.  All I had to do was ask her.  A simple enough task, except for the socio-emotional component.   I never really danced, except with my aunt.  I really hadn’t had much dancing experience, and I had less experience in asking girls to dance.  I started having second thoughts about the whole thing.  What if she thought I was clumsy, that I was not a good dancer?   Or what if she just said no, I don’t want dance?

My first dance wasn’t turning out anywhere near what I hoped or imagined.  I was just about to head for home, and try again another time, when the band struck up a familiar tune.  The Bunny Hop!  I joined in enthusiastically.  I hopped, and I hopped, and I hop, hop, hopped!  And all my uncertainties and misgivings I danced away.  This is what I came here for, to dance, and I danced!

The song ended, but I was just getting started.  I was ready to go.  I went up to the girl from my English class and asked her if she would like to have the next dance.  She said no, and walked away.  Was it my spirited Bunny Hop, or was it the plaid jacket that caused her reaction?  We’ll never know.

That was the last dance at Pulaski H.S. that I ever attended.  I never really did get into dancing.   I don’t know what happened to the plaid sport coat.  It disappeared into the depths of a closet, and was never seen again.

 

Gettin' Old Ain't for Sissies

To start with, I’d like to apologize to my faithful readers, both of them, for not writing these blog entries more regularly.  I’m sorry, but I can’t help it.

First of all, there’s procrastination.  I am a life-long procrastinator.  And, if I may say so myself, I have developed procrastination into an art-form.  This talent for, let’s call it ‘active postponement,’ isn’t always in sync with various aspects of the aging process.

 The aging process is essentially a series of systems failures.  Sometimes a major system goes down all at once, and that’s that.  Most often the process is slower, as systems slow down more and more, before they stop all together.  The plumbing still works, although in an irregular and unreliable manner.  My stomach can act like a real asshole sometimes, come to think of it, so can my asshole.

One time I could walk down-town, walk around down-town, and then walk back home.  And I lived further from down-town than I do now.  Now I walk to Safeway, a ten minute stroll, and I have to stop half-way there to catch my breath.  Then I take the bus back to the Cave, and have a nap.

As things wear-out and systems run down, one has to adjust, to compensate, to do things differently, or stop doing some things altogether.  Adjusting and compensating becomes just another aspect of the aging process.

My talent for ‘active postponement’ is a gift.  Psychic, spiritual, or god-given, it makes no difference, these gifts should not be used frivolously.  I only procrastinate over things of importance.  More and more, when I’d like to actually do something, some aspect of the aging process interferes.  An uncertain stomach or itchy eyes are a distraction. And often my intentions don’t match up with my energy level.  Sometimes through, I just don’t feel like doing anything.  No particular reason, just don’t feel like it.

I’ll try to be more regular, more reliable, but no promises.

Positive Thinking

Before I go to sleep, among other things, I think about what I might do tomorrow.  I think positively about things I’d like to do, as if I had already done them.  I don’t think too much about specifics, after all, I am on the verge of sleep.

Last night, for example, I thought I have been neglecting my blog.  There are lots of things I’m ready to blog about.  Tomorrow I will post something on my blog.  Well, it’s tomorrow, and here it is.  It is nothing remotely close to what I had in mind last night.

I went for coffee this morning, like I do almost every morning. And, like I also do almost every morning, I smeared ink on the pages of one of the four journals dedicated to my grandchildren.  Often these coffee shop journal jottings are a draft for a blog post.  And this morning’s offering was promising.  So much so, I had an extra latté.

Back at the Cave, I didn’t rush to the computer and start writing.  I needed some time for ideas to foment and germinate.  During this germination period, I made my on-line chess and backgammon moves, and I successfully completed the daily solitaire challenge.

I was ready to start writing, but I am a procrastinator.  So I cleaned up yesterday’s dishes first.  When I finally got started, I felt something was amiss, but I didn’t know what.  I investigated like Sherlock Holmes.  I have four grandchildren, and I have a journal for each of them, that makes four journals.  One journal was on a shelf in the bookcase, another was on the table in the living room, one was in my office/studio/playroom, and one was missing.

I searched the Cave fruitlessly three times.  After coffee I often run errands.  The last time I recall having possession of the missing journal, I was using an ATM at Portage Place.  Did I leave the notebook at the ATM?  Did someone find it and turn it in?  I headed downtown to find out.

 On my way to the bus-stop I had a revelation.  A latté at Bar Italia is $4.75, if I have a five dollar bill, I leave the change for the barista.  This morning, for my second coffee, I put a ten dollar bill on the counter, and I walked away without my change.

If I did leave the journal at the ATM, no one turned it in.  Whoever finds it, I hope they find it interesting.  Forgetfulness, confusion, negligence in action.

Well, this is not what I planned to write, but after all, this blog is Notes on Senility.  And maybe I won’t have to pay for my coffee tomorrow.

The Meaning of Life

The other morning, I had an insight, brought on by the caffeine rush from my morning espresso, into the reason for my chronic angst.  Once, a long time ago, I must have a kid, an idea was stuck into my impressionable brain. And it became something I came to accept, without thinking about it too much.  It’s wasn’t a wild or far out idea, only that life has purpose for me.  All I had to do was find out what that purpose was.

When I set out to find the purpose and meaning of my life, I wasn’t sure of what I was looking for, or where to look.  But there was one thing I was certain of though.  Whatever it was, it would be “meaningful.”

I had to earn a living while I searched.  Very few of the jobs I have ever had could be described in any way as “meaningful.”  If I had to work, I thought, I should do something I liked to do, something I was good at.  There were, however, a couple of snags.   I didn’t really know what I’d like to do, and I wasn’t very good at anything.  These two problems are related, because they are the result of my not understanding the value of failure.

To me, failure was to be avoided at all costs.  There was no place for failure in my quest.  When I started something (a job, a project, a relationship), I worked at it as best I could.  Until too many things started going wrong, then I quit the job, abandoned the project, or just walked away.  Sometimes it felt good, like a catharsis, getting away from something you didn’t like doing anyway.  On the other hand, I wasn’t at any task long enough to develop any real skills.

My understanding of the value of failure comes a bit late in life for me to benefit from now.  I never wanted to fail, because I thought failure was a bad thing, but I get it now.  Failure is the first step to success.  You keep on failing, until you succeed. If you pay attention, each time you fail, you learn something that will make you more skillful next time.   It makes so much sense now.  I wish I’d realized that long before now.

The futile search for my purpose morphed into a more futile search for something “meaningful.”  Something I liked to do, something I could do well, but above all, “meaningful.”  But that “my life has purpose” idea was indelibly etched into my psyche.  No matter what I did, it wasn’t “meaningful” enough, or I just wasn’t very good at it.  I began to see everything I did as a waste of time.  I was just killing time until I died.  Thus my existential angst.

I saw in a flash that morning, as the caffeine cavorted through my neurons, that life does indeed have a purpose, and it’s not complicated or mystical.  The purpose of life is simply to be lived.  Do what you do consciously and with awareness, and then don’t worry about it.  So I have been fulfilling my purpose all along, sort of.  I didn’t realize it, because I wasn’t paying attention.  My only meaningful accomplishment, though, has been to have squandered vast amounts of emotional energy in my search.  But I’m not going to worry about it.

A Treatise on Human Composting

Grandpa Tony died when I was nine years old.  And I didn’t know a lot about death and dying at the time.  I knew old people died and pets died.  But I never experienced the actual fact of death until Grandpa died.  Then my nine year old mind got confused and overwhelmed.

First of all, Grandpa’s body was laid out in the living room, because Grandma had trouble getting around.  The candles next to the coffin reflected in the mirror on my bedroom door.  I was frightened, and I was confused about being frightened.  Why should I be afraid of Grandpa just because he was dead?   The next morning the coffin was closed and transported to St Adelbert’s Cemetery, where it was entombed in a concrete vault and buried.

I didn’t think too much about it at the time.   I just accepted this was how things were done.  There were probably good reasons for preserving a dead body, but I couldn’t figure them out.  It made some sense to embalm bodies, so funeral rites could be conducted before the corpse got too ripe.  But what purpose does a steel coffin and a concrete vault serve?  To preserve the remains of the meat suit a bit longer?  Why?

Cremation doesn’t require steel or concrete, but it does require a lot of energy.  After considering the matter for a moment or two, I have come to the conclusion that the most efficient and effective method of disposing of those who go ahead to prepare the way for us is: human composting.  The meat, bones, and plumbing will, sooner or later, decompose. They could decompose into dust in a steel shell in a cement box, or they could be reabsorbed into the breast of Mother Earth.  A tree or flowers planted over the internment sight would be a reminder of, and a tribute to, the departed    Maybe that’s what reincarnation means.

On a more personal note, all manner of flora and fauna have nourished and sustained me for going on eighty years.  It is only good manners for me to return the favor.   I said this before, and I’ll say it again:  I want to be composted.  Not me, just the meat suit, when I’m done with it.   I saw an advertisement for a casket made from branches.  That would be nice, but a big lawn and yard bag would work just as well.  Compost Me!

Disregard my final wishes at your peril.

Death and Dying

Death and dying.  Death is where we are all going, and dying is how we get there.  I’m not sure about the death part.  I’m curious, but I’m in no hurry to have my curiosity satisfied.  It’s the dying part that concerns me.  When you’re dead, you’re dead.  But dying can take a while, and it can be quite uncomfortable. 

I learned about death when my grandparents began to die off.  I learned that old people die, and that someday I would die too, when I was old.  Young people got sick and died too, but mostly it was old people who died.

Then, the year after I finished college, I was a pall-bearer for my friend, Tom Cooper.  Until then I had accepted my death as inevitable, sometime in the indefinite future.  Now, I had not only to accept the inevitability of my death, but also that I might die at any moment.  This realization came as sort of a shock, even though it’s been that way since the moment of birth.

I always knew I was going to die, but I never really thought about it.  Who wants to think about dying?  But at Tom’s funeral I did.  I accepted my eventual demise emotionally, and intellectually.  I knew I was going to die, and I wasn't going to worry about it.  I was very pleased with myself for coming to understand what so many folks have always known.

I didn’t think about dying a lot, but when I did I wondered: what would be better a quick death, from a heart attack or a stroke, or dying after a lingering illness?  I couldn’t decide which I would prefer.  A stroke or heart attack could get the dying part over quickly.  On the other hand, if I had some dread disease I could be an example of how to face Death bravely.

But those aren’t the only alternatives, as I found out when I slipped and tumbled down my back stairs.  I had accepted my death, and that I don’t have to be old to die.  But I had assumed that sickness would do me in, quickly or slowly.  But, as falling down the porch stairs has shown, I won’t necessarily die from sickness.

One summer morning a fellow had some sort of seizure while having coffee on the patio of Bar Italia.  EMT’s were called, and as it turned out, the fellow was okay.  However, it does point out another possibility.  Death can occur at any time, and any at place.  Dying can be inconvenient as well as uncomfortable.

Between a quick dying process and a lengthy one, there are any numbers of possibilities.  Mostly they involve various organs wearing out or malfunctioning.  But it takes a while.  Things come apart little by little, until there’s a major breakdown.  Dying is a life-long process.

The Day Tammy Disappeared

The day Tammy disappeared was a typical summer’s day in the Danowski household.  All the kids, including the toddler, were rounded up and brought in for supper.  And as soon as they were fed, they scooted back outside.

When it started getting dark, and the children trooped back in, Tammy was not among them.  Where was she?  No one knew.  No one had seen her.  Everyone was back outside, calling her name, and searching all the places the kids played.  The child was nowhere to be found.  Could she have wandered off to the playground, three blocks away, all by herself?  Two of the older children were sent to investigate.

While the rest of the family, on the verge of panic, pacing aimlessly and anxiously around the yard, Tammy was peacefully asleep on the floor under the kitchen table, where had slipped, unnoticed, from her chair, and curled up on the floor for a little snooze.

#    #    #

Tammy was becoming something of an annoyance.  She was okay during the day, cute and fun.  But at night, in the middle of the night, when everyone was trying to sleep, she cried and cried.  It got so bad, Mom took her to the doctor.  The doctor could find nothing amiss.  He asked if Tammy had an afternoon nap.  Mom said she did.  Try skipping the nap, the doctor suggested.

But, as we can see, it took Tammy awhile to adjust to the new routine.  I don’t know for sure, but I think after Tammy was located sleeping on the floor, instead of an afternoon nap, Mom gave her a cup of strong, black coffee.