Maybe (Maybe Not) Page 2

  Do you know how these things got into the holiday package in the first place? Joel Roberts Poinsett is to blame. He lived from 1779 to 1851 and spent his life as a South Carolina politician—elected first to the U.S. Congress and serving most of the rest of his life as a diplomatic envoy to various countries south of the border, most notably Mexico. Poinsett was a manipulative sort, and he managed to meddle in Mexican politics so often that he was officially declared persona non grata. The Mexicans coined the word poinsettismo to characterize his kind of intrusive behavior.

  When Poinsett returned to the United States, he brought a flowering plant with him, formally labeled Euphorbia pulcherrima, but popularly called “poinsettia” in his honor. Its winter foliage of red and green leaves quickly gave it a place of honor in our Christmas traditions. And a place of nuisance in January. As I contemplate the potted plant on my desk, I comprehend the personal meaning of poinsettismo—this problematic plant intrudes upon my life.

  If my wife had her way, we would have kept every poinsetta that ever entered our domicile. Our house would become a poinsetta refuge. Lynn the Good would not knowingly end the life of any living thing. It does no good to explain to her that poinsettas are not puppies. And she can’t stand leaving them neglected around the house while they slowly wither and expire. She covertly waters them when I am out of the house. In times past, we had poinsettas struggling on into July. We have finally agreed that “something” had to happen to poinsettas, but she doesn’t want to know exactly what.

  As usual, my lot is being the family criminal. I do the dirty deeds. Exterminate bugs and mice, throw out wilting flowers, and empty the refrigerator of mummified leftovers. And make the poinsettas disappear.

  At her insistence, I did try a few humane tactics. But I learned that giving away a poinsetta in January is like trying to unload zucchini in August. Neither the neighbors nor the Salvation Army had any interest. Leaving one on a bench at a bus stop in hopes it would be adopted didn’t work. The poinsetta was still there three days later. My wife rescued it and brought it home again. Tossing it in a nearby Dumpster brought the same result.

  I tried to interest her in a ceremony called “the Setting Free of the Poinsetta.” This involved taking the plant out of the pot, lowering it reverently off our dock into the water, and letting it float away on the lake. Maybe the wildlife would eat some of it, and the rest would blend into the great cycle of decay and return of which all living things are part. An organic solution with cosmic overtones. But a bird-watching friend told us the plant was toxic to waterfowl. Those pretty red leaves are poisonous.

  One year I left a poinsetta outside in the falling snow. It looked so nice out there—and an easy way to go. If it couldn’t handle the cold, so be it. We still had it in March.

  We’ve finally settled on an unspoken plan where one unannounced day in January I will surreptitiously pick up the poinsetta as I’m going out the door. I carry the poinsetta off to my office, where it will live for a while until it dies. The janitor tosses it out. And that’s that. Easy.

  Well, not quite.

  In truth, in my secret life, I am of two minds on this subject.

  As in many cases, something that may be trivial may also be important.

  Part of me thinks I should be on the side of anything so beautiful that hangs on to life without much help from me. It brings vibrancy to winter’s gloom. And will outlive me with only an occasional watering. I should hold poinsettas in esteem and have them planted on my grave.

  And another side of me says to hold back on the heavy thinking. These things are dispensable holiday decorations. No metaphorical anthropomorphic thinking need apply. A poinsetta is a potted plant, not a paradigm of existence…When its usefulness is served, it goes to the dump. Come on.

  It was looking droopy when I came in this morning.

  So. I watered it.

  Not a lot. I don’t want to encourage the thing too much.

  Maybe it will expire over the weekend. Maybe not.

  That ambivalence over the fate of a poinsetta is typical of the way I often think. Despite the apparent ability to make decisions and get on with my business, the inside of my head is kaleidoscopic—every time I shake it, there seems to be a new picture. A distant relative reports that the motto written on our family crest is “Soyez ferme”—“be firm.” That’s a laugh. For me, in my secret life, the real motto is “Forsan, non forsan.” Maybe, maybe not.

  I once began a list of the contradictory notions I hold:

  Look before you leap.

  He who hesitates is lost.

  Two heads are better than one.

  If you want something done right, do it yourself.

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  Better safe than sorry.

  Out of sight, out of mind.

  Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

  You can’t tell a book by its cover.

  Clothes make the man.

  Many hands make light work.

  Too many cooks spoil the broth.

  You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

  It’s never too late to learn.

  Never sweat the small stuff.

  God is in the details.

  And so on. The list goes on forever. Once I got so caught up in this kind of thinking that I wore two buttons on my smock when I was teaching art. One said, “Trust me, I’m a teacher.” The other replied, “Question Authority.”

  The Viennese have a word for the ability to carry on the business of daily life despite the bipolarities. Fortwursteln—a term that means getting by for long periods on little sausages and small potatoes. The word is also a reference to Hans Wurst, the male clown of Punch-and-Judy shows, whose specialty is confusion and the avoidance of big decisions. Fortwursteln refers to the ability to cope and muddle on—to function between maybe and maybe not.

  I think about this dichotomy when I visit a special place in our nation’s capital. At the west end of Constitution Avenue in Washington, D.C., screened from the street by a grove of elm and holly trees, there sits a memorial statue. A portrayal in bronze of Albert Einstein.

  Twenty-one feet tall, seated on a three-step bench of white granite, Einstein is depicted here in comfort—dressed in a baggy sweater, wrinkled corduroy trousers, and sandals, his hair in its familiar disarray. His face reflects a combination of wisdom, tranquillity, and wonder. Here is the epitome of a man at ease with the long, large view of existence.

  Appropriately enough, a model of his “laboratory” is spread out at his feet—a map of the universe—a twenty-eight-foot field of granite in which 2,700 small metal studs are embedded. These represent the relative location of the planets, sixth-magnitude stars, and other celestial objects as they were at noon on April 22, 1979, when the memorial was dedicated.

  The statue is remarkably well placed with regard to other powerful places.

  Just behind Einstein’s statue is the National Academy of Sciences Building. To the east rises the white obelisk of the Washington Monument, and farther on the Capitol Building of the United States of America.

  South, across a grassy field, the shiny black granite of the Vietnam Memorial is cut into the earth.

  Over to the right, the grave face of Abraham Lincoln looks out from his marble rotunda.

  And across the Potomac River, the flame that burns on John Kennedy’s grave is visible in the early evening.

  Each time I visit Washington, I come here to sit for a time on Einstein’s lap and think. His demeanor is inviting. His knee accommodating. With so many reminders of the human enterprise visible in all directions, Einstein’s knee becomes an intersection where powerful forces meet—those arising from the complicated human capacity for pain and sorrow, promise and glory, wonder and awe.

  More than anything, Einstein wished to reveal the single common law governing the universe. To state in one ultimate simple equation the unifying property of space, time, matter, energy, gravitation, and electromagnetism. He wa
s in quest of a unified field theory. He failed in this quest.

  An unresolvable polarity resisted his genius.

  Einstein worked his equations in the invisible, abstract world of quantum physics. His conclusions there coincide with the experience of daily existence. He lived, as we live, in the bipolar world of wet and dry, love and hate, peace and war, hard and soft, light and dark, yes and no.

  She was called “Lovey.” Real name—true story. She taught me how to swear and dip snuff, how to sing the blues and iron shirts. Five days a week she did the housework and cooking for my family. My mother worked in the family business during the years I was in high school. When I came home each afternoon, Lovey was there to look after me. And there to continue my education in subjects not taught in school.

  She was young, perhaps thirty-five, with fine features, curly black hair, and light brown skin. Neat and precise in her habits. Strong and clear in her opinions. Unmarried, she took care of her blind father, who played guitar and sang on the downtown streets, with a tin cup on the sidewalk in front of him.

  Lovey didn’t fit the cultural stereotype of the hymn-singing, humble mammy. Maybe my mother thought of her that way, but behind my mother’s back Lovey mimicked her, sang raunchy songs, dipped snuff, bad-mouthed white folks, and used all the foul language a rebellious teenager like me so admired. My mother thought of Lovey as my baby-sitter, but Lovey was in truth the high priestess in charge of the rituals of my coming of age, and thereby one of the most influential people in my life—then and now.

  One day she handed me her snuff can. Said she knew I was just waiting for a chance to get into it when she wasn’t looking, so I might as well learn how to dip snuff right.

  First get a little twig from the yard and chew the end soft and wet. Then dip the twig into the snuff and put the end of the twig under your tongue and suck on it.

  After about three dip-and-sucks, I got sick and dizzy and had to lie down for a while. My respect for Lovey went up, since she could handle strong tobacco and I couldn’t. But thanks to her, I could boast to my peers, “Sure, hell yes, I’ve used snuff.”

  For the same reason, she gave me my first drink of homemade corn liquor. With similar results. For the rest of my life, I left snuff and corn liquor alone.

  When my mother wasn’t around, Lovey sang the blues. I didn’t know it was the blues at the time. I just thought it was what Lovey sang. She didn’t sing about Jesus or heaven or sweet chariots. Her singing was about getting up in the morning and dealing with the day. About love and sex and sorrow. About disappointment and not having any money and the roof leaking and jelly rolls and catching the next train for Chicago and finding some man better than the one who never came around anymore anyway.

  I could relate. Oh, could I relate. I was an adolescent. Undersized, oversexed, ugly, skinny, pimply, and lonely. In need of cash, a good time, and a good woman, along with better grades and my own car.

  Sing them blues.

  About the same time that orthodontia, hormones, genes, a burr haircut with ducktails, and a ’37 Chevrolet improved my self-image, Lovey announced to me that it was time for me to learn to iron my own shirts.

  I had no idea what was involved in ironing a shirt, because Lovey ironed alone. Always in the best room of the house—the dining room—where there was lots of light and a good view down the street. Sometimes when I got home from school, she’d just be finishing up—always in a good mood then—singing and talking and laughing to herself.

  But my respect for Lovey was such that if ironing was good enough for her, it was good enough for me.

  Here’s what I learned.

  First, you have to start with good shirts—all heavy white cotton—or you’re wasting your time. Be sure to check the pockets, and shake the shirt to get rid of any lint or loose dirt. Check the buttons to make sure they’re all there in good shape. Then you’ve got to wash right. Wash whites separately—never wash coloreds and whites together. Use a tiny bit of bleach and bluing and starch, so the shirts come out the color of frosted ice. Hang the shirts outside in the sunshine until they are not quite dry. Wrap them in a clean white damp dishtowel and put them in the refrigerator.

  Next, set up your ironing board, making sure the cover is clean and tight, then put it in a right place—where you like to be—where you feel good. Get a cola bottle with a sprinkling head on it and fill the bottle with cold water. Get some hangers. Get your iron—a big, heavy iron—and make sure the bottom is clean. Plug the iron in and set the heat at high. Sit a spell, have a cup of coffee. Don’t hurry.

  Get one shirt at a time out of the refrigerator. Understand from the beginning that you’re going to iron around the shirt three times. The first time is to smooth wrinkles and “set” the shirt. Sprinkle a little water this time on any place that’s not damp. The second time around is to press the shirt dry and sharp. The third time is to tidy the little places and finish the collar and cuffs real stiff.

  Each time, you go around in this order: cuffs (both sides), sleeves, collar (both sides, backside first, ironing away from the points), then the front placket (back side first, top to bottom, stretching the fabric), then all the way around from front to back, then carefully around the buttons.

  Do it all over again, get the shoulders and high back yoke this time really carefully, the mark of a professional. Make sure the shirt is crisp dry.

  The last time around, you just check to see that you haven’t missed a single wrinkle and that the cuffs and collar are perfectly smooth. Even the finest workman needs to inspect his work critically.

  Carefully, now, you place the shirt on a hanger—button just the top button. Finally, you hang it out in the sunshine to give it a fresh smell. When you’ve done one shirt, sit down, take a little break, have some snuff.

  Never, never hurry—you’ll scorch the shirt and scorch your soul.

  When I complained that this was sure a lot of trouble to go to over a shirt, Lovey explained: “You’ll never regret knowing how to do at least one thing exactly right, and if you don’t do it right the first time, when will you find time to go back and do it over?”

  It took Lovey about the same amount of time to iron a shirt as it has taken me to explain her style—she didn’t rush, but she was efficient. It took me most of an afternoon to iron one shirt. Even then I scorched the collar. But after a while, I got the hang of it. It was a proud moment when Lovey inspected a shirt I had ironed and said it wasn’t bad for a white boy.

  And Lovey was right—whatever success or failure I’ve had at whatever else I’ve tried to do, in my heart I hold this rock-solid fact: At least I can iron a shirt right. A shirt that could be put in the shirt-ironing hall of fame.

  In 1972 I went to Japan to live in a Buddhist monastery—to seek spiritual enlightenment. Unable to accommodate myself to the austere discipline of silent, sitting meditation, I was introduced to active meditation. Practiced alone and silently, this involved doing mundane tasks in a deliberate fashion so as to focus the mind. As the teacher explained, “Given careful attention, any activity may become a window on the universe and a doorway to understanding.”

  While raking the gravel paths in the monastery garden, I had an “oh, of course” experience. I realized I knew about this. This wasn’t Buddhism. It was Loveyism. Raking a gravel path right was just like ironing a shirt right.

  As has been the case so often in my life, I had gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to find out something I already knew.

  I recall the details of ironing a shirt because that’s still the way I do it.

  To this day, I usually tend my own shirts.

  Only because it gives me solitary pleasure.

  The kind we all enjoy alone when doing our nails or taking a bath or shaving or weeding in the garden or chopping wood or knitting or baking bread or hanging sheets out on a clothesline.

  Sure, sometimes these activities are just a matter of taking care of personal business or routine tasks. But as often as no
t, we use these times to reflect and talk to ourselves.

  Or meditate—even pray.

  Just because you aren’t on your knees in church or sitting still in a cramped position doesn’t mean you can’t be talking to God. Just because both you and God are busy doesn’t mean you can’t be in touch.

  Such times are the sacred part of the secret life.

  Such times keep my soul sane.

  When I asked my mother difficult questions, she would avoid complicated explanations by saying, “Someday you’ll understand.” Lovey taught me that while I was waiting for some understanding to come, I could iron a shirt.

  While I was filling out a form this week, I wondered how many times in my life I have written down my name, place of birth, and address. It seems like such simple information, yet it has complications.

  NAME:_________________________________

  The first blank on your birth certificate and every other form and application you’ll see for the rest of your life. However, “What’s your name?” and “What do people call you?” are questions with shifting answers.

  My parents chose “Robert Edward Lee Fulghum” because my daddy was a Civil War buff and admired the general. But the registrar of births could only handle three names. My folks settled for “Robert Lee Fulghum.” When I asked them, “Why Robert?” they couldn’t remember.

  “Bobby Lee” was what my parents usually called me.

  “Sonny boy.” My dad called me that, child and man, all his life. The day I went off to first grade and the evening I caught the train for college, and the night of my wedding and the day of the birth of my first child, it was the same: “Good luck, sonny boy.”