I SUPPOSE AN explanation is owed, based on inquiries I’ve received this morning.
Last night, or maybe early this morning I put a post on Facebook about Dylan Thomas, who days before dying young at 39 from pneumonia (or so they say) said at one point that he’d down 18 shots of whiskey and that was some kind of record. I noted I was not going to match him but it’s all in the trying, isn’t it?
I don’t drink much anymore, not since Connie went into memory care but when I do it tends to be because things have piled up and I need to find a hole I can crawl into until the pile dwindles on its own. That, of course, is “Delusion #1.” Piles do not diminish on their own.
I suppose going back to college I’ve had this habit of going to extremes when it comes to building hidey-holes and this week was an extreme. Where to start? The obvious one is that the fetid, stinking, reeking orange shadow of Donald Trump is cast over the land. If that won’t make whiskey pour itself, nothing will.
Then there is Connie’s situation and every now and then I have a moment where I feel more sorry for myself than I do for her, the one who really is losing life.
Then there is my apartment situation. I am among those who have been very critical of how the ownership has treated residents impacted by a year-long reconstruction project that, Mondays through Friday, has serenaded us a symphony of drills, saws, hammers and construction hollering. One of our group of protestors got word his lease was not being renewed so the rest of of us have been on pins and needles. The required 60-notice period came and went this week and I got nothing, so maybe I was celebrating a bit while still living with the drilling, sawing and pounding.
Then there has been this winter where snow was beautiful on the first day it fell but then it over-stayed its welcome and became dirty and the cold allowed it linger and too many gray days came and went….
There’s more but you can see what my pile is and while it may not look like much from the outside it’s my pile, my story and my way of coping that matters. So there!
Back to Dylan. At one time one of his poems was among my favorites. You probably know it even if you are not into poetry. “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night.”
“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
The poem remains a favorite, but the message now does not resonate. I personally am at a point where when the end of life is in sight I will not burn and rave nor rage. I’ll just let it come.
In the meantime, I do what I do every now and then. I get a bottle of good single barrel Kentucky whiskey and I sit down and I read and I listen to music from a time when….well, when we had the best music. Aretha, The Isley Brothers, Joan Baez, The Kingston Trio, Sam & Dave, the Temptations, Carla Thomas and from my Southern Ohio stomping ground “The McCoys” and Slooping hanging on.
Such a night is followed by a day of keeping the shade drawn, of doing light reading and napping and snacking. Hiding out, pulling back into the cave until some better, more logical self reappears and the pile can be swept up and dumped.
So, for those of you who messaged, who might have thought I was issuing a cry for help, peace be with you. Thanks for caring but I’m OK. We all have our ways of coping, assessing and then, I hope, moving on. Which, come to think of it, it’s time to move on to a nap…..
Rich Heiland is a retired journalist and semi-retired consultant, trainer and public speaker. During his journalism career he was a reporter, editor, publisher, college instructor, part of a Pulitzer Prize-winning team and a National Newspaper Association Columnist of the Year honoree. He lives in West Chester, PA and can be reached at [email protected].