My father had excellent powers of observation. As to members of our family, well, I suppose, as to anyone, for he was a bit of a perfectionist, he could be exacting and unforgiving, albeit it was true that families are not always altruistic. But then again, human beings struggle with that always. In this case it appears my grandmother, who lived in one of our triangle buildings, needed help and my mother seems to have been in danger of being imposed upon, though she was the first of the girls to have any children. Jerry was my Aunt Rita's stepson, about 16 or 17 at the time. My father was highly protective of my mother. So, there are some edits I have made on the more sarcastic comments.
Received your letter of the 29th in which for the second letter in a row, say you received no mail from me. This is curious in view of the fact that I write every day and sometimes twice in one 12 hour period. Of course, you may be receiving more than one letter at a time.
I agree with you that your primary concern is to take care of your child and yourself. Do not let any one or anything pressure you into a feeling of obligation or guilt with regard to your mother. If necessary, make your position plain. . . You cannot be running up and down five flights of stairs with a two year old baby. Nor do I want the baby walking up and down so many stairs. And certainly I forbid you running over the roof. If you must, make it plain that I, Buddy, Constantine--your husband--and of course your sweetheart, FORBID, PROHIBIT any activity that is not consistent with OUR BEST INTERESTS. If this concern is so great, there are trained nurses, there is Jerry and if there is no one, then it's just too bad. . . .
Received a letter from Rita, yesterday, and I shall answer her right after I finish this letter.
Also heard from the Colonel and he made the following remark about his former no. 1 boy, Major X, who you remember was recently deposed. "Tony is making an attempt to adjust to the duties of Economics Officer," which can mean only that some one of our esteemed Captains with enough time in grade has lined himself up for a Majority. "Vae Victis," said an ancient Gallic conqueror, meaning Woe to the Vanquished, and truly our modern concept of sportsmanship and loyalty calls for a kick in the face after you are knocked down. No, never fear, I shall never again defend loyalty or decency at the expense of any material loss to myself. These are not the times for ethical concepts of honor; Judas has been resurrected instead of Christ; and what did Cain say?
Our course continues without abatement--8 hours a day of sitting and listening to lectures. The seats sometimes become very hard. If you count the number of class hours, you will see that this is the equivalent of more than a year of college compressed into thirteen weeks. Much of what is presented, though essential from a Military standpoint, is quite boring and drawn out. On the whole, though, the instructors try to make their presentations as entertaining as possible.
It appears that the Foreign officers--as has always been the case in my military experience--have an affinity for me. I receive all kinds of requests, from help in translation--though I don't speak Iranian, Thai or Chino-Japanese, I do get the intent of what is meant--to instruction in the operation of a camera Lt. Sayyar, an Iranian, is . . .pleased that I was able to photograph him "looking tall." He also insists I helped him get pictures without a blur.
Major Agahian, who is the chief of G-2 (Intelligence) in Iran--the leader of the equivalent of the Secret Service with the sole mission of guarding the King, is a most interesting man. As you know, Iranians are Mohammedans. This Major is devout. He neither drinks, nor smokes and considers the pleasures of femininity or any other so called vices. I am told by his fellow officers that he prays and meditates until two o'clock each morning. He is quite a good-looking man with very white even teeth and extremely kind eyes. Possibly well over forty, he appears thirty-five.
Lt. Shirazi, also Iranian, is rather an ugly man with a low forehead and hooked nose. His eyes are a beautiful gray. He speaks in a high-pitched, excitable manner and is a Company Commander. I get a picture of him haranguing his company in an alto falsetto, hands waving as he screeches. He is a poet, and likes solitude. He also like his whiskey straight.
Lt. Sayyar looks like a short, plump and jolly short-order cook one would find in any Greek restaurant. He even speaks English with a Greek accent. He is good natured and helpful.
I often think of the precarious position these officers are in. It is not without the realm of possibility that one day they might find themselves lined up against a wall and hot. Their country, which as you know is constantly under the threat of the Russian Bear and the internal Fifth column. The party in favor can easily be deposed and then. . .
I mentioned this to Lt. Shirazi, our poet, and he quoted something unintelligible to me from Saadi, or some such poet and he said, "Government our pay gives for ONE DAY, that DAY WE MUST DIE." "You cannot die," he said, "on the day it is not for you to die, but on the day is is for you to die, you must"
It is possible that these officers plus the Koreans may call on us sometime in the future. You might find them interesting. I will write about the Koreans at another date.
And now, since I think this letter is sufficiently long I close with
Love, Buddy
Saturday, February 4, 2017
Thursday, February 2, 2017
Dad's letters of February 27, 1956
It's speculation as to what my mother wrote to my father that triggered a somewhat angry handwritten response, and a typed more chastened one. It was clearly about money, and five dollars was the amount. It was, I think, bigger than that. My mother wanted a different life (as I am sure many women of the day) than the one she had in the Bronx. She claimed friendship with all these up and comers in the modelling world, who had only first names to us. We came to believe over time they didn't exist. She was 30 years old and her life was still entrenched in a narrow world. My father I think felt responsible for her sadness, her desires that he could not fulfill in a world where she did not feel she could fulfill them on her own.
Letter 1:
Received two letters from you today. I thought I always answered your questions but obviously I was wrong. So here goes.
I will assure you enough money to defray whatever costs the birthday party may incur. The day after tomorrow is payday and I will send you $300.00 for your monthly expenses. Since this month you will not have gas and electric and since your bills should be Rent $43.000, telephone $8.00, personal finance $30 and television $13.00, a total of $94.00, you will have about $50.00 a week left over for living expenses. Nevertheless, on the first of April, I will send additional money to make sure of Djinna's party.
With regard to my plans. I shall have on my return between $800 and $1000. $500 is to be banked immediately, and the rest is to go for some clothes for you and whatever immediate expenses we have.
Other plans. I do not intend to return to Shapiro or selling. I have decided that I must get with some concern that offers security and advancement. Eve if this means leaving N.Y. In any case, as soon as I get back I shall find an immediate job.
I am enclosing the $5 you requested. Nothing in my whole life has ever made me as ashamed as that little P.S. I know now what would impel a man to robbery. I am so ashamed that I can only send what you asked for and not 100 times the amount.
Buddy
Letter 2: Typed
Dear Rosetta:
Happy Birthday--and Happy Awakening. . .
The letter I wrote you earlier, the one in longhand was by a badly confused and angry person. And still--some five or six hours later an angry knot persists in my insides. How terribly in need you must have been to make that pathetic little request. And how pathetically inadequate was the reply I was able to make. I think I shall always hate myself--always dread the reappearance of that self-image I had to look at today.
If you are afraid or apprehensive about things to come, I can't even say, "I promise", can't comfort, can't even lie, though at this moment I would gladly make the utmost bargain to give you the happiness I want for you. But even that would be nothing but a gesture.
Yes, you are beautiful and desirable, and it is not late in life. . .for you, and if, in that perimeter of Angela's and Tian's and Lisa's and Bruce's, a force sets up that draws you toward its vortex, don't turn your head lest your dreams turn to salt--not even for. . .
Love,
Buddy
When Dad returned home, he did not immediately leave his job. In fact, he didn't leave at all. The company went out of business in 1965. It was only then that dad began a career, at 45, where he had a chance of advancement, and a pension. By the time he retired from that job, in 1980, my mother had been dead six years.
Letter 1:
Received two letters from you today. I thought I always answered your questions but obviously I was wrong. So here goes.
I will assure you enough money to defray whatever costs the birthday party may incur. The day after tomorrow is payday and I will send you $300.00 for your monthly expenses. Since this month you will not have gas and electric and since your bills should be Rent $43.000, telephone $8.00, personal finance $30 and television $13.00, a total of $94.00, you will have about $50.00 a week left over for living expenses. Nevertheless, on the first of April, I will send additional money to make sure of Djinna's party.
With regard to my plans. I shall have on my return between $800 and $1000. $500 is to be banked immediately, and the rest is to go for some clothes for you and whatever immediate expenses we have.
Other plans. I do not intend to return to Shapiro or selling. I have decided that I must get with some concern that offers security and advancement. Eve if this means leaving N.Y. In any case, as soon as I get back I shall find an immediate job.
I am enclosing the $5 you requested. Nothing in my whole life has ever made me as ashamed as that little P.S. I know now what would impel a man to robbery. I am so ashamed that I can only send what you asked for and not 100 times the amount.
Buddy
Letter 2: Typed
Dear Rosetta:
Happy Birthday--and Happy Awakening. . .
The letter I wrote you earlier, the one in longhand was by a badly confused and angry person. And still--some five or six hours later an angry knot persists in my insides. How terribly in need you must have been to make that pathetic little request. And how pathetically inadequate was the reply I was able to make. I think I shall always hate myself--always dread the reappearance of that self-image I had to look at today.
If you are afraid or apprehensive about things to come, I can't even say, "I promise", can't comfort, can't even lie, though at this moment I would gladly make the utmost bargain to give you the happiness I want for you. But even that would be nothing but a gesture.
Yes, you are beautiful and desirable, and it is not late in life. . .for you, and if, in that perimeter of Angela's and Tian's and Lisa's and Bruce's, a force sets up that draws you toward its vortex, don't turn your head lest your dreams turn to salt--not even for. . .
Love,
Buddy
When Dad returned home, he did not immediately leave his job. In fact, he didn't leave at all. The company went out of business in 1965. It was only then that dad began a career, at 45, where he had a chance of advancement, and a pension. By the time he retired from that job, in 1980, my mother had been dead six years.
Wednesday, February 1, 2017
Dad from Georgia: February 28, 1956
Dear Rosetta:
I hope you have torn up the letter that precedes this one. No sooner had I dropped it in the mail-box than I was sorry. I should have kept it a day before mailing. It was a poor present and most certainly in very bad taste for any occasion. Will you forgive me if I ask, penitent, barefoot, genuflected in abject misery before that image of beauty I carry with me, the memory of one--you.
For the last two days we have had high winds and rain. Yesterday, they evacuated the camp theatre for fear of forecasted high-velocity gusts. We were alerted to the possibility that our barracks might suffer damage. But, tough the winds were high, there was no damage. This morning, the sun shone and it was cool, moist and fresh--almost like a Northern climate.
TO ANSWER YOUR QUESTION:
"Shall we go back to the old way of living?" I sincerely believe not. I think that in coming here I have discovered an intangible that might make the difference. There has been a block between us that was preventing true understanding. This is curious because both of us have an abundance of those things to give away that we both want. I discovered, also, that it was largely my own fault that the obstacle existed, even though the two of us have created it by individual contributions. Perhaps it was action and reaction. I hope so, for if this is true, what I did I can undo. But I suspect this is not wholly the truth. In many of my letters I have purposely planted statements designed to get answers to what I want to know. I know what direction I want to give to what I have but do you? I'm sorry if I can't make this any clearer. I'll try another time.
Stars so distant
Are cool and restful to the soul
But searing to the touch.
A kiss for now, Buddy.
Transcriber post script: I cannot presently find the letter to which dad refers which he regretted. I am not sure that I had it, and I have lost it, or that it never was in the package left behind in the first place. Dad had a tendency--and I am told I inherited it--to seem to be speaking directly without ever doing so. The letter above is an example. He was blaming himself for whatever was going on between them, but looking for her to reach out to him, but what he had in mind, I'll never know. My memories, albeit ones that are inherently faulty as I was young and memories always reconstruct themselves, was that they did not achieve what dad was hoping.
I hope you have torn up the letter that precedes this one. No sooner had I dropped it in the mail-box than I was sorry. I should have kept it a day before mailing. It was a poor present and most certainly in very bad taste for any occasion. Will you forgive me if I ask, penitent, barefoot, genuflected in abject misery before that image of beauty I carry with me, the memory of one--you.
For the last two days we have had high winds and rain. Yesterday, they evacuated the camp theatre for fear of forecasted high-velocity gusts. We were alerted to the possibility that our barracks might suffer damage. But, tough the winds were high, there was no damage. This morning, the sun shone and it was cool, moist and fresh--almost like a Northern climate.
TO ANSWER YOUR QUESTION:
"Shall we go back to the old way of living?" I sincerely believe not. I think that in coming here I have discovered an intangible that might make the difference. There has been a block between us that was preventing true understanding. This is curious because both of us have an abundance of those things to give away that we both want. I discovered, also, that it was largely my own fault that the obstacle existed, even though the two of us have created it by individual contributions. Perhaps it was action and reaction. I hope so, for if this is true, what I did I can undo. But I suspect this is not wholly the truth. In many of my letters I have purposely planted statements designed to get answers to what I want to know. I know what direction I want to give to what I have but do you? I'm sorry if I can't make this any clearer. I'll try another time.
Stars so distant
Are cool and restful to the soul
But searing to the touch.
A kiss for now, Buddy.
Transcriber post script: I cannot presently find the letter to which dad refers which he regretted. I am not sure that I had it, and I have lost it, or that it never was in the package left behind in the first place. Dad had a tendency--and I am told I inherited it--to seem to be speaking directly without ever doing so. The letter above is an example. He was blaming himself for whatever was going on between them, but looking for her to reach out to him, but what he had in mind, I'll never know. My memories, albeit ones that are inherently faulty as I was young and memories always reconstruct themselves, was that they did not achieve what dad was hoping.
Dad's Letters from Georgia February 29, 1956
I wish I were more consistent in transcribing the lovely letters my father wrote to my mother when he was at Fort Gordon, Georgia for army post training back in the 1950s. But I am getting there, and if you read prior entries and a couple of my prior blogs which for reasons of computer illiteracy I cannot access any more for additions, you will have the thread. But you don't need to--each letter stands alone. And each is a capsule of a time and place and sensibilities over 60 years past. This one was actually written in dad's hand, so I have scanned it here. I like the idea that my dad's handwriting is in the ether to be seen by generations to come. I follow it by a transcription, in case the reading is difficult. The thing that always amazes me about these letters is that my father talks of love, and missing my mother, and refers to my mother missing him. Alas, when I was more than the baby in this letter, I didn't think they liked each other much. You never know the whole story do you?
The transcription:
Dear Rosetta:
Set your wherewithal this morning via three money orders. This should make it easier for you to cash the. The sum total, for checking purposes was $280.00. If, suring the month, it appears this will not be enough, write immediately and let me know. As far as the baby's party is concerned, be assured you will have eough. First, because I shall send you some money the first of April and second because this month you will receive (sic) check for 45-60 dollars. Should th eneed arise, send it to me, I will cash it and return the case.
Received a letter from Rita today. She tells me how much you miss me, which information coming from a third person is very flattering. Please let me know if her observation is factual.
The last week of so has been very boring. Some of the lectures which deal with confinement of criminals are really interesting but I have little sympathy with our concepts of crime and punishment and I find it hard to keep from saying what I feel. Of course, though, I will.
I was looking through the PX today. They have some cotton baby dresses that do not impress me too much. They have an abundance of your Faberge perfumes. Name some others you might like. By the way, do you still use baby powder and Q-tips, baby oil-do you need diapers?
I miss you very much and will find this last month difficult. It should go by fast, though. In the mea time, keep well and try not to be lonesome
Love, Buddy
Dear Rosetta:
Set your wherewithal this morning via three money orders. This should make it easier for you to cash the. The sum total, for checking purposes was $280.00. If, suring the month, it appears this will not be enough, write immediately and let me know. As far as the baby's party is concerned, be assured you will have eough. First, because I shall send you some money the first of April and second because this month you will receive (sic) check for 45-60 dollars. Should th eneed arise, send it to me, I will cash it and return the case.
Received a letter from Rita today. She tells me how much you miss me, which information coming from a third person is very flattering. Please let me know if her observation is factual.
The last week of so has been very boring. Some of the lectures which deal with confinement of criminals are really interesting but I have little sympathy with our concepts of crime and punishment and I find it hard to keep from saying what I feel. Of course, though, I will.
I was looking through the PX today. They have some cotton baby dresses that do not impress me too much. They have an abundance of your Faberge perfumes. Name some others you might like. By the way, do you still use baby powder and Q-tips, baby oil-do you need diapers?
I miss you very much and will find this last month difficult. It should go by fast, though. In the mea time, keep well and try not to be lonesome
Love, Buddy
Tuesday, January 31, 2017
Another in a Line of Too Many Things that Aren't Here Anymore
It doesn't seem to have been a matter of income, rather a matter of the landlord of the market wanting something more upscale, with nicer signage and veneer. The landlord's side of the story is that the space needed more than cosmetic repair-- substantial infrastructure upgrades The family who had owned it for 80 years wanted to maintain the original charm, and apparently they didn't think there was a structural problem. If there was, it's not a huge space, so I think we don't know the whole story. But, as usual, it was a legal issue and one that didn't settle. Frankly, it's the time warp charm that's alway drew me to the Farmers' Market. It's what has drawn the neighborhood cronies to sit there arguing about movies and books. Over the time since the Grove grew up around it, I had also noticed some more fancy stalls. They never seem to survive because they were out of place and time. You can get that anywhere. The Market publicity people have been putting out ads around the place showing the location back in the old day, with cute little saying about how good the old days were. And yet, they are getting rid of one of the most iconic of those places.
I will bet that the space will be one of endless turnover. Just around the corner an eatery opened for about six months and has been closed for about that same period of time. But the landlord will get his structural repairs from someone else. Let's see if those renters last.
After 80 years, Gill's goes the way of so many places of good times to become fond fading memory. The Market itself is still there. That's something, but I can't get too comfortable. Progress is inexorable. It also isn't often really progress.
Thursday, January 12, 2017
Mocha. Venti. Hot
It's late, no rather it's early, 12:30 in the a.m. I just sent an e-mail to the United Kingdom, to a library that has some information which interests me. Before that I was watching an episode of "Star Trek, the Next Generation". I wish we were exploring space. We have lots of probes out, and lots of fascinating things are evolving from the information garnered on these unmanned missions, but I wish we were actually exploring space, at least establishing a colony on the moon. Not that I would be among the explorers. I am afraid of the 767. I hate to fly. I wish I didn't feel that way, and maybe before I die I will lose that fear. But, as I was asking Alexa to play me some New Age mood music (given the hour, even a classical mood music seemed a little jarring) I found myself delighted that I was experiencing a little of the Trekian future. This one seems particularly powerful. Alexa comes to me by virtue of the Echo Dot. She isn't the android Data, but she is pretty stunning. Not only did I ask her to play mood music, which she is as I write, if I ask her to "Stop" she does. I wondered if I could say "next" because one piece was annoying in its particular repetition, and darn if she didn't move to another song in the loop. Each day we play six questions of "Jeopardy", and she tells me if I am right or wrong. If you say to her, "Tea. Earl Grey. Hot" she says, "I'm not a replicator." If I had a certain type of electronic system in my apartment, she could operate it. "Computer, Lights."
Now, I know there are limitations, but there is something mesmerizing about prognostication becoming reality in my lifetime. In the 1960s, a personal computer seemed out of reach for an ordinary human being. Yes, I know, there were places that had these behemoths, and the internet existed in some guise for the military long before any of us heard of it. But I can ask this little machine sitting on my breakfast bar to read me a book (if I join Audible, which I haven't yet, as I really prefer, like Elisha Cook in an episode of the original series of Star Trek to touch and read the real thing), or tell me the news, or, as it now is playing some delightful pastiche. If I get my instruction wrong, or she doesn't have access to what I want, she'll say, "I don't understand what you want." In Star Trek, I think the computer said, "I am not programmed for that information."
I am typing on a tablet. I have a smaller tablet that looks suspiciously like the one in the picture above.
There is a lot I don't like about the society in which I live. Civility is gone. Morality is relative. Still, and with some trepidation, I would like to see a lot more of these developments even as I worry that we will one day be debating the existence of the personhood of a robot like Alexa. We are not yet able to agree on the personhood of a fetus. We are not ready really for the advances hurtling toward us.
For the moment, I am not going to become discouraged by the nature of us humans to corrupt every invention. I am just going to enjoy Alexa, though it is time for both of us to go to bed. Maybe I'll pretend I am flying among the stars.
Sunday, January 8, 2017
An Untoward Death in Weho
It was indeed untoward in the classic definitions of the word, as in unexpected, surprising, bad, unforeseen, unusual, improper, inopportune. I have gone days wondering if I would write about what happened here in our little condo community just three days after the New Year. Or if I should. But ultimately I feel I must because it hit "home" literally, and figuratively. And because the suffering and death of another requires something to mark it, some testimony. So does the suffering, in greater or lesser degrees, of those whose lives have been touched. And it raises all those philosophical, theological, existential questions that never receive fully satisfying answers no matter how great the thinker who offers them.
A long time resident of my building shot himself to death by our pool early in the morning. I did not know the particulars right away, as since I am a late sleeper and in the back of the my apartment, I didn't hear anything. I came downstairs late in the morning on my way to daily Mass. There was the yellow tape for accident or crime scenes. And there were two sheriffs deputies standing at a distance from my stairwell. I did immediately think that someone had died, but assumed it was of natural causes. Even with natural causes, a death at home is by statute one that requires investigation.
I think I said a short prayer of some nondescript verbiage requesting God's intervention as I left the building. When I came back in the mid afternoon, there was a sign offering a meeting for the neighbors regarding the "incident" at the pool. Ah. An incident. Whatever had happened was outside, around that little oasis so many of us love, living the California life. I had begun to surmise who the victim might be, in part because of where the sheriffs had been stationed when I first saw them, but hoped against hope that whoever had died, for it was certainly that, had gone "naturally". But the word "incident" somehow stretched that likelihood.
The meeting was somber, and a chance for a kind of therapy for those with greater or lesser need. No one was on the spot when it happened. I say, "it happened" because the best anyone could assess he probably didn't intend to shoot himself. The bullet went into and out of his chest. That's what the people in the apartments nearest the pool heard, the shot. And his saying, "Ow!" which somehow suggests the unintentional. Somehow, I don't know precisely how, that makes a difference. One neighbor came out immediately. The paramedics were called. And obviously the sheriff. Another neighbor felt guilty. She saw him shortly before as she was returning with her dogs. He told her he was waiting to be taken to the hospital. He was afraid that they would take him in a straight-jacket. She didn't know that he was having a delusion. Although he had given her and other neighbors in our pet friendly building complaint over barking, she saw his vulnerability of the moment, and they hugged. She said she'd put the dogs back in her place and come and wait with him. She has nothing to regret. The night before, another neighbor with whom he had dissension, over pets, said he had the first civil conversation of their acquaintance, although it was clear there was something bothering our neighbor.
In that brief interlude, he went back into his apartment and came out with a gun no one knew he had. He was the last person one would imagine would ever have a gun. And then he was dead.
There was a young woman who rented a room from him in his condo. She moved the next day. I understand that she is being assisted by the family of our late neighbor to find new quarters.
It was not a particular surprise to hear that there bi-polar disorder might be involved. He was edgy. He was often loud. I was happy to have a cordial relationship with him, although there were a few occasions in which whatever drove him led to calls to the police. When my father lived in the building I understand these were more frequent. Although he was certainly close to my age (he would never have said what that was) he seemed like a kind of Peter Pan. Puer Aeternus. The eternal child. Except he never seemed particularly happy.
He didn't buy the gun, apparently. He was given it. What I heard in that regard troubles me deeply. If someone knew of his condition, his bi-polarity, as it were, the last thing he should have had was a gun. I hope that isn't the case. There are few threats in our building or in our community. He didn't need a gun.
We have all been pretty quiet during the last days. You couldn't miss the guys from one of those companies that do crime scene clean up by the pool, where it happened. They left some rust colored chemical on the terrazzo for a day while the pool was drained so they could work there too, for yes, there was blood there too. I felt bad that I was angry now, where a day before I was sympathetic and sad. How could he do this at all? But how could he disrupt this peaceful place, my/our little meditative space? I noticed today that the bullet hole in the wall by the pool, very near another neighbors apartment, has been plastered.
Today, a young woman saw me as I was again leaving for Sunday Mass. She was a friend. She didn't know where he was. How do you break that news. I started slowly, using the euphemism--"He passed away." "In the apartment?" she asked. "No", and I hesitated, "By the pool." "Did he drown?" she pressed. That was oddly preferable to say if it had happened that way, at least in telling someone. "Are you sure you want me to tell you?" I didn't want to say, I realized. "I'm his friend," she repeated. I told her what I knew. And I introduced her to a member of our HOA board who I knew had the family's number.
Untoward? Surreal? Sad? Behind every face is a story, and some kind of pain.
It's warm enough today to be out on my terrace, and I have been. The hummingbirds have been especially active by the feeder, which overlooks the pool, in that corner that I love to sit in, reading, or writing, or praying or thinking.That has been a small blessing to moderate the awkward, weird, disrupted feeling I have and I am sure that every person in this condo shares.
All I can think to do is to pray.
Eternal Rest grant unto him O Lord. God knew all his struggles. Maybe now, he can rest in the peace that he did not apparently have in this life. Make it so, Lord.
A long time resident of my building shot himself to death by our pool early in the morning. I did not know the particulars right away, as since I am a late sleeper and in the back of the my apartment, I didn't hear anything. I came downstairs late in the morning on my way to daily Mass. There was the yellow tape for accident or crime scenes. And there were two sheriffs deputies standing at a distance from my stairwell. I did immediately think that someone had died, but assumed it was of natural causes. Even with natural causes, a death at home is by statute one that requires investigation.
I think I said a short prayer of some nondescript verbiage requesting God's intervention as I left the building. When I came back in the mid afternoon, there was a sign offering a meeting for the neighbors regarding the "incident" at the pool. Ah. An incident. Whatever had happened was outside, around that little oasis so many of us love, living the California life. I had begun to surmise who the victim might be, in part because of where the sheriffs had been stationed when I first saw them, but hoped against hope that whoever had died, for it was certainly that, had gone "naturally". But the word "incident" somehow stretched that likelihood.
The meeting was somber, and a chance for a kind of therapy for those with greater or lesser need. No one was on the spot when it happened. I say, "it happened" because the best anyone could assess he probably didn't intend to shoot himself. The bullet went into and out of his chest. That's what the people in the apartments nearest the pool heard, the shot. And his saying, "Ow!" which somehow suggests the unintentional. Somehow, I don't know precisely how, that makes a difference. One neighbor came out immediately. The paramedics were called. And obviously the sheriff. Another neighbor felt guilty. She saw him shortly before as she was returning with her dogs. He told her he was waiting to be taken to the hospital. He was afraid that they would take him in a straight-jacket. She didn't know that he was having a delusion. Although he had given her and other neighbors in our pet friendly building complaint over barking, she saw his vulnerability of the moment, and they hugged. She said she'd put the dogs back in her place and come and wait with him. She has nothing to regret. The night before, another neighbor with whom he had dissension, over pets, said he had the first civil conversation of their acquaintance, although it was clear there was something bothering our neighbor.
In that brief interlude, he went back into his apartment and came out with a gun no one knew he had. He was the last person one would imagine would ever have a gun. And then he was dead.
There was a young woman who rented a room from him in his condo. She moved the next day. I understand that she is being assisted by the family of our late neighbor to find new quarters.
It was not a particular surprise to hear that there bi-polar disorder might be involved. He was edgy. He was often loud. I was happy to have a cordial relationship with him, although there were a few occasions in which whatever drove him led to calls to the police. When my father lived in the building I understand these were more frequent. Although he was certainly close to my age (he would never have said what that was) he seemed like a kind of Peter Pan. Puer Aeternus. The eternal child. Except he never seemed particularly happy.
He didn't buy the gun, apparently. He was given it. What I heard in that regard troubles me deeply. If someone knew of his condition, his bi-polarity, as it were, the last thing he should have had was a gun. I hope that isn't the case. There are few threats in our building or in our community. He didn't need a gun.
We have all been pretty quiet during the last days. You couldn't miss the guys from one of those companies that do crime scene clean up by the pool, where it happened. They left some rust colored chemical on the terrazzo for a day while the pool was drained so they could work there too, for yes, there was blood there too. I felt bad that I was angry now, where a day before I was sympathetic and sad. How could he do this at all? But how could he disrupt this peaceful place, my/our little meditative space? I noticed today that the bullet hole in the wall by the pool, very near another neighbors apartment, has been plastered.
Today, a young woman saw me as I was again leaving for Sunday Mass. She was a friend. She didn't know where he was. How do you break that news. I started slowly, using the euphemism--"He passed away." "In the apartment?" she asked. "No", and I hesitated, "By the pool." "Did he drown?" she pressed. That was oddly preferable to say if it had happened that way, at least in telling someone. "Are you sure you want me to tell you?" I didn't want to say, I realized. "I'm his friend," she repeated. I told her what I knew. And I introduced her to a member of our HOA board who I knew had the family's number.
Untoward? Surreal? Sad? Behind every face is a story, and some kind of pain.
It's warm enough today to be out on my terrace, and I have been. The hummingbirds have been especially active by the feeder, which overlooks the pool, in that corner that I love to sit in, reading, or writing, or praying or thinking.That has been a small blessing to moderate the awkward, weird, disrupted feeling I have and I am sure that every person in this condo shares.
All I can think to do is to pray.
Eternal Rest grant unto him O Lord. God knew all his struggles. Maybe now, he can rest in the peace that he did not apparently have in this life. Make it so, Lord.
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