by David D. Horowitz.
I often have been told: “People don’t remember particulars they learned at school, but rather they can learn how to think.” Well, I remember some particulars, too. I recall University of Washington Professor William Dunlop telling us students in his English 274, “Introduction to Verse Writing,” about the importance of imagery and distinctive diction. To wit, he grinned when relating how one of his students described his first orgasm: My spine sneezed. And Dunlop related how another student described a domestic morning scene: The squirrel on our lawn looked like a little gray coffeepot. Such vivid descriptions endured as models I could emulate.
I also remember epiphanies when reading particular literary works. For example, when as a college sophomore I first studied Shakespeare’s Hamlet, I was stunned when Hamlet comes upon Claudius praying and thus refrains from attack. Yes, how easy it is to stereotype enemies, when all of us are complex. Yes, I could exercise greater caution in my judgments.
And I remember Roger Merrick, my Health teacher at Seattle’s Lincoln High School in winter 1972, asserting that he always resolves outstanding conflicts with other family members before going to sleep. One night, he reminisced, he’d had a nasty spat with a beloved uncle. Roger in bed that night felt guilty about what he’d said and determined to apologize the next morning. Well, his uncle died in his sleep that night. Mr. Merrick admitted he was haunted since then by his not having apologized before going to bed.
I recall Mr. Merrick’s anecdote with particular poignancy because for almost a decade several times weekly I’ve visited my mother at her apartment in an assisted living home. My mother suffers from Alzheimer’s disease, arthritis, and hearing loss, and I’m her primary caretaker. She’ll often confide to me she thinks the staff there steals her bobby pins, gum exerciser, or glasses (which she misplaced and I find). Or she’ll rail there’s a plot to kill her because she’s an atheist. Or she’ll complain the residents offer little stimulating conversation, and only I provide that. Indeed, she might call three times at midnight to complain about her situation, and I might have had a difficult work day and can only help so much. On occasion, in frustration I have yelled and insisted I be left alone. A few times I’ve barked this might be the last time I help her.
But I remember Mr. Merrick and his uncle. Death of a loved one is haunting enough; I don’t need the ghost of guilt hovering over my midnights, as well. So I strain and struggle and calm myself. I make sure a conversation with or visit to my mother ends politely. I might visit one day, and she might not be alive when I arrive. This awareness deepens patience. Indeed, thinking macrocosmically, when I die I will want to leave the planet on good terms with “God” or the natural order or whatever you want to call that collection of forces beyond human control. If my memory lives on, let it be as a good son—and as an inspiration for some beginning poetry student observing a squirrel that looks like a little gray coffeepot.