The Street Where We Lived

 Did my unusual night restlessness occasion all this?

Last night I awoke with my brain bouncing around with the lyrics (well, some of them) to the song “On the Street Where You Live,” from a Broadway show—but I could just not remember which show it was. Although I was pretty sure it was My Fair Lady, I could not figure which character sang it—not Prof. Higgins and surely not the “I’m Gettin’ Married in the Morning” guy.

So who?

But I didn’t turn on the light and check my phone. I guess I wasn’t that curious!

So in mid-morning a former student from Aurora sent me this full-page article (published this week) about ... the street (and the house) where we once lived. 60 E. Pioneer Trail—the house you see in the pic at the top of those post. (See link to the article.) One of the oldest houses in town, it had remained in the same family until 1990 when Joyce and I bought it and restored a lot of it. It was convenient for us: less than a mile away from the school where I taught, about eleven miles from Hiram College, where Joyce was teaching (with only two stoplights between our house and the college), only a couple of miles away from Anna Maria, the facility where Joyce’s mother was battling Alzheimer’s.

But it was not just a convenience. We loved that house. More than enough room for our books, a small room at the very back, upstairs, that we used for a guest room with its own bath) and for our son when he came home. He lived there for a while after he graduated from college, but then moved over to Kent, where he earned a master’s in journalism and began his career at the Akron Beacon-Journal, which had been the daily newspaper that Joyce and her family had grown up with.

The Aurora Library was right across the street; the neighbors were kind; my students were respectful; the stores were only about a mile away; we could walk to Mickey D’s (and did) in the evening for a Diet Coke. Okay, and some fro-yo.

Seven years later, though, things had changed. I had retired; Joyce’s mother had died; our son was off commencing his own career and life (he would marry two years later); it was now “too much house” for us.

So we found a much smaller place over in Hudson—close enough to the village green that we could walk many of the places we use: bank, coffee shop, bookstore, office supply place, some clothing stores, our dentist, and on and on. And I’d begun teaching again at Western Reserve Academy—only about three blocks away. I almost always walked—or in good weather rode my bike.

We’ve been here more than 23 years now.

The street where we live now is one of the oldest in town, with some of the oldest houses. We can stand out in the yard and see places where John Brown stood. Joyce got so interested in him that she’s written a wonderful book about him (out soon).

Anyway, I sometimes marvel at the connections between my mind and things I’m not aware of at the time. Like the street where we lived—and a Broadway musical.

License

 

I got my driver’s license in the early winter of 1960. I had just turned 16, had just passed my tests (both of them—first time!), but it seemed awfully slow to appear in the mail.

On December 25 I found out why: It had arrived earlier, but my parents had agreed to conceal it from me, to put in an envelope on our Christmas tree, knowing full well that I open my on-the-tree gifts last.

Which I did.

And had one of the best Christmases ever.

I last drove quite a few months ago when I began having spells of dizziness and unreliable eyesight. I told Joyce it wasn’t safe for me to risk hurting her—and others.

And so ... unless I undergo some sort of recovery (not likely), I won’t drive ever again.

I miss it so much. I’ve driven all over this country (all the 48 attached states—which seems appropriate since when I was born, both Alaska and Hawaii had still not earned statehood) and parts of Europe. I was chicken to drive in England and Wales, fearing I would lose concentration and end up hitting head-on someone cruising correctly down the proper side of the road. But I did drive a lot in Germany.

Joyce (who shared the driving when we were on trips together) and I have had some great times on the road. Out to see my parents in Oregon—down to Oklahoma to see where I was born-n-raised—to Idaho to see where Hemingway died—to Milledgeville, GA, to see where Flannery O’Connor lived and died—to Grand Manan Island to see where Willa Cather had a summer home—to Key West to see where Hemingway and some other famous writers lived (Tennesse Williams)—to Grand Isle, LA, where we saw the principal settings for The Awakening—to Montgomery, AL, to see where Scott met Zelda—to New England to see many Robert Frost sites—Virginia and Maryland and Pennsylvania and New York to see Poe sites—to Minnesota to see Sinclair Lewis sites—and Scott Fitzgerald sites—all over to see key places in John Brown’s life—to NY to see Stephen Crane sites—California and Jack London places—New Mexico to see Billy the Kid sites—and on and on and on.

Many family trips to New England.

Many trips to Stratford Theatre Festival in Ontario.

Many years to downtown Cleveland to see productions of the Great Lakes Theater Festival.

Friday and Saturday nights at the movies.

Summer evening drives to Stoddard’s Frozen Custard.

To the mall just to walk around and talk.

To the grocery store.

Into our garage when we arrived home—always the best destination

Now, Joyce does all our driving, though I usually don’t go on the errands she runs. My balance is so precarious.

She drives me to my medical appointments all over the place.

And I feel both supremely grateful for that—and supremely sad that I cannot slip behind the wheel, adjust the seat and mirrors, and back out—carefully—into a journey to ... to wherever in the world we want to go.

Fixed in My Ways

 

I’ve gotten more and more fixed in my ways as I’ve grown older—though I’ve always been pretty rigid in my routines. Part of that was my parents’ fault.

We were a very religious family. We lived very near—or even with—my maternal grandfather, who was an ordained Christian minister (Disciples of Christ), a seminary professor; my father, too, was ordained though after his time as a Chaplain in WW II and the Korean War, he morphed into education—teacher training.

We went to church every Sunday (often twice), Sunday school, Vacation Bible School. By the time I entered college, I was already thinking of following in their footsteps—but decided I’d rather read novels, plays, and poems than philosophy. (Same reason I didn’t go to law school: I’d rather read novels, etc. than law books—even though I’d been accepted at Case-Western Reserve.)

Because I was a teacher throughout my career, my routines were fairly well fixed. Having scores of students, I realized that if I didn’t get my work done regularly—the preparation, the grading, etc.—I was in TROUBLE. And so I did what I needed to do.

And now that I’m, so I hear, old—and not nearly so mobile as I was once (I don’t drive anymore—my vision and balance are too uncertain), I leave the driving to Joyce.

For the most part we eat the same things every week. For breakfast I have one of my homemade scones (followed by a couple hours of reading and a NAP); for lunch, 1 cup of low-fat vanilla yogurt with fresh blueberries and strawberries along with a piece of toasted sourdough bread I’ve made (followed by a couple hours of reading and a NAP); for supper, a cycle of meals: quiche or omelette, grilled salmon, tomato-cheese-soup and grilled cheese, poultry and potatoes, carry-out pizza (Zeppe’s!). And the like.

Joyce modifies her meals with a variety of salads and vegetables. I bore her at the dinner table—not with my dazzling conversation, of course, but with the menu.

After supper (we eat early) I’m up in bed about 5:45, where I read from various books about an hour, then stream a bit of a show that I know Joyce won’t really care for. When she comes to join me (about 7), we stream bits each night of “our” shows—usually British mystery shows and, lately, Schitt’s Creek (we are only in Season 1 and are slowly getting into it).

Lights off about 8. Joyce stays with me awhile, we talk in the dark, then she heads to the back room to read an hour or so (she can’t fall asleep as early or as easily as I can—well, I must do so because of my poor health and the various soporific medications I’m on.)

Sound excitin’?

Oh, we make scones once a week, sourdough bread once a week. That’s about my only activity, other than going (CAREFULLY) up and down the stairs. And helping out—when I can—with the food prep and clean-up.

Well, the only activity other than going to see doctors and visit hospitals.

Even when I was feeling well, I did pretty much the same things every day and time: walking early morning and afternoon to sit and read and talk with friends in the coffee shop, driving out to the health club about 2:30, out to a movie on Friday or Saturday or both. Restaurants with our son and his family and sometimes friends. Grocery shopping on Sunday morning.

And about that my grandfather would have a few questions ...

Miscellany

So many things have happened in the last couple of weeks—major and minor—all of which I’d intended to write about here. But didn’t. So little energy, so little time. But here’s a little bit on each one, enough that I won’t feel guilty any longer.

• Novelist Larry McMurtry died last week—it was all over the news, somewhat on Facebook. I first became aware of him when the film The Last Picture Show hit American screens in October 1971; it’s based on McMurtry’s 1966 novel. I loved the film, and I subsequently read that novel  and all of McMurtry’s others, most of which I loved. Even got to review a couple for the Cleveland Plain Dealer. I wasn’t crazy about his last few—but oh did I love those early and middle ones! (Link to film trailer.)
• Writer Beverly Cleary also died last week. My clear memory of her is this: Early in high school I read her YA novel Fifteen, 1956. It’s a teen love story with complications that a cell phone would have solved. I kept my reading of it fiercely concealed from my (male) friends. I knew what they would say; I didn’t want to hear any of it. A few years ago I bought a used copy of it and re-read it for something I was writing—and found myself again moved more than I should have been. 
  
  
  
• My book-a-day calendar the other day featured The Three Musketeers, which, in boyhood, I’d read multiple times in its Classics Illustrated (comic book) format. But I didn’t read the actual book until a few years ago. I loved it. But its recent calendar appearance made me remember a number of B Westerns that were popular when I was a boy: The Three Mesquiteers, a series about a group of cowboys (good guys), who fought the bad guys. Watched the films over and over on TV. 
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• In recent months I’ve returned to baking, an activity I could not manage without Joyce’s help. She helps me assemble the ingredients, brings devices to me when I need them, does most of the cleaning up. I could not be baking without her: All that movement would cause such dizziness that I would hit the floor like a toppled statue. Oh, do I need her now—in so many ways.
• Yesterday we had a semi-normal social encounter with our son and his family—the first time in a year. I had tears in my eyes. And when the departure hugs commenced (we’ve all been vaccinated), my eyes were more than merely damp.
• And—finally—a weird one. The other morning, a dark one, standing at our kitchen sink at the back of the house, waiting for the Keurig to finish, I noticed, out by our back fence, what appeared to be luminescent butterflies darting along in a straight line along that fence. I thought I was seeing things (not uncommon these days). Then I figured out the phenomenon: As I said, it was still dark, our back fence runs parallel to nearby OH 303, and the flickering images were merely headlights passing through the spaces between the boards of that new back fence.

Birthdays That Alarm Me

 

The birthdays of former students--popping up pretty much every day on Facebook--alarm me, both because of their age and mine.

The first seventh graders I taught in 1966-67 were twelve that year. That means that this year they are all turning 67, if my arithmetic has held together (as many of my former skills have not). They're on Social Security and Medicare. Many are grandparents; it’s possible some have a great- in front of that word.

And I, who turned 22 that year, am now ... 76. A grandfather (twice). A really nice age, as I've been discovering. (Please note the irony.)

Quite a few of my former students have died--and not just from those earliest years. Mortality doesn’t always employ a calendar as many of you well—and sadly—know. In fact, some former students of mine died in my first years of teaching.

This morning a middle-school friend of our son’s reached birthday number forty-nine, a number our own son will reach this summer. I reminded that friend that the year I taught his class in 8th grade, I turned forty-one, a number that mildly alarmed him, I think: They thought I was OLD then.

I kind of did, too, for when I was my son’s age, I was counting down to retirement, which I did when I was barely fifty-two. I’m glad I did, too. Although I loved middle-school teaching (and had some terrific students, some gifted colleagues), Ohio was growing standardized-test crazy, and fun was fleeing the classroom—at least for me.

Right now one of my grandsons is in high school; the other, in middle school.

How can this be?

My own junior high years are as fresh in memory—are actually even more fresh—than what I did last week!

Well, I’m still alive, sort of, and for that I am (mostly) grateful. And it’s so fun to still be in touch with those youngsters who once called me “Mr. Dyer” and who thought I knew everything. Nothing quite like that feeling.

Sunny Day, Sunny Thoughts

 I want to write about something(s) a little more sunny today—it’s clear and bright (though a little cool) in northeastern Ohio today.

 

We are sitting in the cafeteria in University Hospitals (Main Campus on University Circle), waiting for my 1:00 p.m. appointment for what I’ll call a “spinal tap”—though I think they have a more exact term for it now, something like “spinal puncture.” Sounds appealing, eh?

 

Anyway, I was just lying down for a mid-morning nap (about 10) when I got a voice-mail from UH: They wanted me to come down “a couple of hours earlier” than we’d planned—they needed to take some blood from me.

 

That meant we had to leave right away, not what I was counting on. Joyce had been just ready to leave the house to run a couple of errands; fortunately, I yelped, and she heard me before driving off.

 

Well, here’s the “sunny” parts I mentioned earlier:

 

·       The drive down to University Circle was glorious. The earth is showing sure signs of awakening; the traffic was slight; we drove a route I’d learned from our dear (late) friend Bill Appling, who taught music at Western Reserve Academy and was a tremendous influence on Joyce and me—and on our son, who adored him—and still does—always will.

·       When we arrived, the valets were prompt and attentive and kind. They got me into a wheelchair, and several people helped us to find the lab for the blood draw. I got into a fine conversation with a gentleman six feet away from me as we were waiting; he went in first, but when I finally came out, he was waiting to wish me good luck. I returned the wish.

·       The phlebotomist, who had awesome hair (curled and colored), was swift and friendly, and I barely felt a thing. I told her she was great.

·       Joyce, who is wheeling me around this vast facility, got us down to the cafeteria, with the help of numerous people who showed us the way to where we wanted to be and who did so kindly and accurately.

·       When I had to use the men’s room, I wheeled over there (not far away), but it was a small place, and I could not get the door open. A woman saw me struggling, came over, held the door, joking that she really didn’t want to “look in there.” I said, “Sure, you do,” and we both laughed.

·       Another kind woman pushed me back toward the cafeteria until Joyce saw me and came to relieve her.

Now here I sit, the sun streaming through the glass ceiling, and I am grateful for all today’s evidence of the best of humanity, somewhat saddened by the worst, which rages out in the “real world.”

Looking for What’s Wrong

 

I am no longer worried so much about cancer.

 

I never thought (since my initial diagnosis in late 2004) that I would write a sentence like that.

 

But things change.

 

Cancer is still what most certainly will open the elevator to my final journey (up or down?), but it’s the living part that’s become more of a clear and present danger (to coin a phrase). My balance has grown worse and worse; I’ve had a couple of very bad falls in recent weeks, and I now feel what it must have been like to be punched in the face by Joe Frazier. (I look as if that has happened.) And I am grateful I chose English as my major instead of boxing.

 

I often use a walker, and when we go to medical facilities (we’re in one right now), I use a wheelchair. That chair and my bed and Joyce’s arms are the only places I feel completely safe anymore.

 

Yesterday, we went to Seidman Cancer Center, where I learned my numbers are still down, but the oncologist (a wonderful man) and I know that those numbers are only temporary; one day my PSA will wake up, start to rise, and then some really grim things will ensue.

 

Today, we’re here at Ajuah Medical Center (a huge facility just south of Beachwood, directly across I-271 from Seidman), where they are prepping me for a DAT Scan. They’re looking for Parkinson’s.  (Link to info on the scan.)

 

As if that weren’t enough, Friday we’ll go down to UH Main Campus in University Circle for a spinal tap; this time they’re looking for signs of MS.

 

My neurologist will put all the results together and will get back to me. I like him a lot, too, even though we’ve met only twice—and both times were virtual. 

 

Things fall apart—some great poet said that (yeah, I know it was Yeats!).

 

A year and a half ago I was working out pretty much every day at a local health club, walking to and from my home-away-from home (Hudson’s Open Door Coffee Co.—each round trip about a mile), and doing pretty much whatever I wanted whenever I wanted.

 

Now I creep around, holding on to every solid surface as I do so. The 1962 Me would have shaken his head and dribbled into enemy territory and launched a three-pointer … nothing but net (I know: there were no three-pointers in 1962–never mind), and said: “That is not the 2021 me!”

 

So … there seems to be a dark competition among cancer, MS, and Parkinson’s: Who’s gonna get this dude first!?

 

Till then, I will try to make it as hard for them as I can. And, although like Rocky in that first film, I will lose, the love of my life will be holding my hand. Who could ever ask for more?