The Price of Antagonism

I was living in Cairo when Leon Uris’s The Haj was published. As a result of the timing, my days were inundated by Arab traditions and the Arab mindset as I was reading the novel. Coincidentally and irrelevantly, I was living in Singapore when Crazy Rich Asians came out, which was amusing because my Singaporean friends loved that book—and it, as with The Haj, was exactly spot-on.

This quote describing the middle-eastern hierachy, taken from the closing of the second chapter of The Haj, was so purely and accurately blood-chilling that it’s stayed with me all these years:

“It was me against my brother; me and my brother against our father; my family against my cousins and the clan; the clan against the tribe; and the tribe against the world. And all of us against the infidel.”

To think that people live with this chain of antipathy as their truth is horrifying and heartbreaking. Suspicion, selfishness, corruption, and animosity; criticism, derision, scheming, and manipulation. How stressful. As to the quote, I imagine this concise summary of an entire culture is underlined in the Kindle version. If you haven’t read The Haj, I highly recommend it.

So. Negativity.

There was a woman who came to Mahjong for a while. She played well and we were glad to have her. She took the game seriously, which is fine to a point; but this seriousness was the foundation of her personality—she had no sense of humor, and when she did laugh it was at someone else’s expense. She was quick to assign culpability and always seemed to be planning revenge for some small slight or perceived lack of respect. Her realtor had cheated her. Her doctor had done a poor job of a repair. When she moved to the area her neighbors didn’t come over and welcome her and so she never shared a friendly wave with them or acknowledged them in any way. One time she arrived at Mahjong furious with her brother. I asked her what he’d done to draw her ire and she replied, “He said he’d call me and he didn’t.” For this infraction she punished him by not speaking to him for six months, a punishment he likely enjoyed. She must be a horror to live with. She dropped our group a couple of years ago. I doubt she liked any of us.

A couple we occasionally socialized with in Holland only got along with one another when they had a common enemy—a family member who’d behaved badly in a business deal, a friend who hadn’t been complimentary enough about their new car, a neighbor whose dog sometimes barked. When they had no target for their antagonism, they turned on each other, screaming at one another for hours, letting loose words that should never be said; and then entering a cold silence that could last for weeks. When I pointed this pattern out to the wife she laughed and said, “Oh, I know. When I get tired of fighting with him, I get him all stirred up about something someone else has done.” She seemed satisfied with the dynamic.

Where did the pleasure they found in rancor come from? Are some people born sour? Do they crave the drama found in severe nastiness? Or is it a state that started small and expanded with each failure, each broken heart, each disparagement?  

I’m pretty sure this is the way it happened with Trina. Her memorial service was last weekend. Fifteen people were there, and, with the exception of her boss, we all loved her. The friend who had taken care of her during her last days stood up to speak. She started crying almost immediately, but it soon became apparent that the source of her emotions wasn’t the loss of my sister; it was a reaction to the trauma she’d experienced during the few months she’d cared for her. With words riding on sobs, she described how hypercritical and exhausting Trina had been, how difficult she was to please, how rigidly she went through her days, how oppressive her presence could be, how she belittled everyone who didn’t think exactly as she thought. Though this was not traditional or appropriate for the setting, I could identify. I, too, had been traumatized by Trina—her rage, her jealousy, all the hateful blame heaped on me again and again through a period of many years. When it was my turn to speak, I told of what a happy child Trina had been and how she’d enriched my teen years. I didn’t share that our relationship had slowly morphed into a Bette Davis/Joan Crawford situation, and how vicious my sister had acted toward me the last time I saw her—though, to the other mourners, I did admit that her constant bitterness had caused me to walk away. If not for Trina’s actions, I would’ve been there to see her through her second and last battle with cancer, but I didn’t even know she was sick until the last week or so of her life. Her friend had been there and her sister had not. So now another negative emotion has been added to the dark basket I carry—guilt. A hell of a legacy, sister.

We attended another memorial service yesterday morning. It was similar in style in that people stood and told stories about their experiences with the deceased. But these were upbeat anecdotes about how generous the departed had been, how her laughter cheered others, how she took joy in her work at her church and in the community garden. It was all about how much she gave and how much she’ll be missed.

I wish there were a deeper takeaway from this other than grouchiness bad, joy good. Why is it that a circumstance that lowers one person into permanent gloom causes another to rise up and move forward? I guess, for me, the lesson here is that we each have a choice in how we treat others. We have the ability to control our actions, our thoughts, and what our tongues set free into the world. It’s what our brains do and it’s why God gave them to us. And I see that once again I’ve revealed my intolerance. I need to work on that. As to Trina and her tragic end, I am putting that behind me. And how will I do that? Well, every time a bleak thought enters my mind, I’m going to turn away from it. Control.

Dunes on Lake Michigan a couple of weeks ago.

Fun that Floats

Our Great Lakes boat is new, in great condition, and carries a hundred-and-forty passengers and a hundred-and-twenty crew members. It’s not like one of the gigantic ocean-going cruise ships. It’s sleek and graceful and intimate.

On every cruise of this sort there are two focuses—the meals and the excursions. This is a Tauck (pronounced towk) tour, which means everything is included. Vodka and scotch flow freely—no exorbitant charge for a single bloody Mary, and no judgmental moue from the bartender when you order a third gin and tonic. And the food is rich, plentiful, and delicious. The conversation during mealtimes most often morphs into an unnamed competition about whose been on the most tours and who’s been to the most foreign locations. In this discussion David and I show interest, but we don’t share because we realized long ago that people don’t want to know, they want to tell. As we all exit the dining room at the end of the meal, most of us can’t remember the names of the people we just sat with, though there are an annoying few who show off by greeting those of us who cross their paths the next day by name.  

As to the excursions, well, the tour people do the best they can to find interesting places between Toronto and Chicago; and, for my part, I make a few mistakes. For instance, I don’t know what I was thinking when, a few months ago, I signed up for the Detroit city tour instead of the Ford Motor Museum. I assumed, without doing any research at all, that the city tour would be a fun walk through interesting streets and buildings, when in actuality it turns out to be four boring hours circling the city in a bus, literally passing the same buildings again and again. What I get out of it is that Detroit is trying really hard to stay vital, though, because of its reduced state, it’s shunned by all the chain stores and restaurants that would boost the local economy. On the other hand, David goes to the museum and has a great time. To hear him tell it, it’s a vehicle wonderland. Definitely a bad call on my part.  

A lesson I learn from the Detroit decision is that I misconstrued the whole cruise concept, which is apparently centered around people who have difficulty getting around. David and I are far from young, but there are many who are older. While I realize there will come a time when we are slow, right now we are fit and we like to move fast. People with canes and limps and ankles crumbling from a lifetime of supporting heavy bodies do not move fast. And because of our speed we end up in the front of every line, which is fine with us because, honestly, it’s painful and frustrating to observe the difficulties our fellow passengers have negotiating steps and aisles. But it soon becomes obvious that our lead position isn’t appreciated by one of our fellow passengers, a massive shuffling wobbling woman who tells the guide in charge of every bus that, due to health issues, she must sit in the front; which means thirty-six people are held up as she slowly teeters up the stairs before they can enter, and down the stairs before they can leave.  

As happens more often than it should, I find the woman and the situation she’s created to be irritating, which causes me to ponder my lack of empathy toward the elderly. It seems that I’ve adopted notions, possibly unrealistic ones, about what sort of old lady I want to be. I don’t want to be an old woman who expects or demands concessions because I can’t hear or see or remember anything. And I don’t want to force others to wait and watch, or even help, as I navigate every aching step. But there’s an obstacle to this passive future self that I’ve envisioned—my obviously crabby and impatient mindset. I badly need to work on my tolerance or old age is going to turn me into a vicious hag.

Anyway, back to the tour. Off the ship, on to the bus; off the bus, on to the ship; so just the highlights.

Mackinac Island, pronounced Mackinaw because it was settled by the French, who like to put consonants at the end of words for no reason. This was a delightful day off the boat. No automobiles allowed, just bikes, horses, and human feet. I take the carriage tour and David takes the bike tour. We are equally happy with our choices. The homes are quaint and inviting, and they look out over Lake Huron, offering a charming view from the water. Flowers abound, and we’re told that when the lilacs bloom in mid-June the whole island smells good. Due to the presence of horses, there are many well-kept stables and people to follow the carriages with shovels. Fort Mackinac has been restored to it’s former condition—homes, bunkhouse, guardhouses, quartermaster’s office. Excellently done. Writings from the people who lived there are displayed—not just facts, but tales of romance, commerce, loss of babies, difficulties because of weather during the winter months. I highly recommend Mackinac as a travel destination and I’ll always remember it fondly.

Two days later we arrive in Chicago, which I love from the get-go. First, on the river for an architectural tour which sounds tedious to me, but surprisingly turns out to be fascinating and actually gives me an unprecedented appreciation for the thought and talent that goes into creating buildings. Then, to Giordano’s for deep-dish pizza, which Chicago’s apparently known for; and the pizza’s great if you think it wise to eat three inches of melty cheese in a bowl made of thick pizza crust. After lunch David and I take a walk and are curious when we come upon clusters of people strolling along—moms pushing strollers, groups of teenagers, old and young—keeping their eyes on their phones and wearing costumes that appear to be themed around Alice in Wonderland. We’ve wandered into a citywide online scavenger hunt. And that’s not all. After David and I get to the hotel we walk to Millennium Park where a teen dance festival is in progress. In the Pritzker Pavilion kids are learning and then performing simple ballet steps. Further on, a hip-hop guy teaches teens to do a dance based on dance-stop-hold it, dance-stop-hold it. And in a large tent an enthusiastic woman leads a hundred equally enthusiastic dancers in jazz-based cardio movement.  

How delightful. Chicago is indeed an engaged city!

Tomorrow we go home where, at the midnight airport, we will find out if my drive-flat tire has gone completely flat or if it’ll see us safely home.

Isn’t she beautiful?

This is an unusual fountain in Millennium Park. We liked it more than the bean.

I mean, look at this ridiculously rich pizza.

I wonder how they clean this thing.

The view from our hotel room.

Great Lake Cruise

Ordinarily it takes us an hour to get to the airport on the other side of Austin, but this morning it takes two and a half hours. We find out when we get to the airport that a transformer blew a couple of hours ago, knocking out the power to the computer systems, terminals, and control tower. How this translates into gruelingly standstill traffic is unclear. The problem is corrected quickly, but because of the difficulties we expect our flight to be delayed, but it leaves on time while we are late, late, late, so we must race through the airport like OJ (except we’re not murderers) to catch it. Also, it turns out that one of my drive-flat tires is indeed driving flat, and we have no choice but to hope it will still be driving flat when we return at midnight in twelve days. If not, well, what a pain that will be.

So, not an auspicious start to our Great Lakes Cruise. In Toronto our touring company, Tauck, has arranged for us to be picked up at the airport and delivered to The Fairmont, which is the same chain we stayed in last spring when we took a train through the Canadian Rockies. Fairmont Hotels are known for their luxurious dignity, but when we enter the lobby we are confronted by a wall of loud music with a harsh redundant beat that I suspect was composed with zero human input. Exaggeratedly well-dressed people stand in clusters with drinks in their hands, pretending they can hear one another. We are told that a fashion show is taking place. I scan the crowd, hoping for a new trend or color; but no—same ole derivative stuff.

We find our room and then go back out immediately in search of dinner. We end up at a crowded tavern, King’s Tap, with the same sort of deafening percussive music. It’s our turn to pretend we can hear one another. After the day of travel, I enjoy a Guinness. To our dismay, we’re unable to name the Great Lakes. Shouting at one another, we name Huron and Eerie, but can’t think of the other three. It’s ludicrous that we’ve come on this GL trip and can’t even name them. But not to worry; Siri helps us out. And then we feel stupid because of course we knew them; we just couldn’t remember them, which is what happens when you’re in your sixties.                    

After a great night’s sleep we take a ferry out to Toronto Island, where we walk five kilometers, from one end to the other. It’s the loveliest walk we’ve had in years. The sky is the clearest blue, it’s seventy-three degrees, the paved walking path is in good condition, and oddly, we have the whole island to ourselves. If you’re ever seeking tranquility in Toronto, I highly suggest a trip to the island.

On the way back to the hotel we stop for lunch at Impact Kitchen—one of those places where kale and cabbage figure highly into every meal. Considering the simplicity of our orders—a sandwich for David and soup for me—the plethora of cooks and servers, and the dearth of diners, it takes us way too long to get our meal. On the upside, the wait gives us a chance to observe the many passers-by outside the broad front window. So, having been here less than eighteen hours, I’m prepared to offer a few baseless generalizations: there’s a high population of well-dressed millennials buzzing around with ideas in their heads—foolish dreams or high ambitions, I do not know; a large number of them smoke or vape, which is puzzling; and, for some reason, a major percentage of the male population walks around with one hand in a front pants pocket. What’s that about?

The next morning, Niagara Falls. There’s a reason why people come here in droves—the falls are magnificent. Also, the town of Niagara Falls is charming, with hotels overlooking the roaring water, lovely parks, and colorful flower gardens everywhere. We’ve heard that the Canadian side offers the better view, and standing here, we can see how that would be in that the American side looks on to the falls from the top, back, and side, while we have face-on exposure. We are offered ponchos and herded on to a boat, then delivered right below the falls where we are attacked by water and wind. I huddle miserably, getting soaked as I battle the whipping plastic of the useless poncho. We were told the boat ride lasts twenty minutes, but it feels like an hour. What I gain from the experience is an appreciation for a mighty and fearsome force that possesses the ability to create a storm on a quiet day.  

In the evening we decide on a nearby Indian restaurant for dinner, and, as serendipity arranges, we end up on an upper floor by a window overlooking the Toronto International Film Festival and all the flamboyantly dressed theatrical types as they drift between promos and performances. And at the table behind us, a writer pitches his script with a pride so desperate that he makes me feel embarrassed, not only for him, but for all us writers who are so consumed by the brilliance of our own works that we’re unable to comprehend the disinterest of others or the notion that our latest project is not the most fascinating ever to have been conceived.

Tomorrow we get on the boat.

One of the falls. From where I stand there are three of these in view—roaring, mighty.

A view of Toronto from the island. It’s a lovely city, though there are traffic issues—like last night it took us forty minutes to arrive at a venue when we could have walked in ten.

Sometimes, just walking around a city, we come upon unexpected and fun events.

CR 401

Five years ago a woman bought a lovely piece of property on the most pleasant country road in Texas. On half the land she tore out the trees and wildflowers. Then she leveled the ground, graveled a dozen parking bays, and installed septic and electrical hook-ups. Inexplicably, she draped black plastic over the length of the pre-existing fence that ran along the front; and the plastic quickly became tattered from flapping in the wind. She charges three hundred and fifty a week per RV, and all the bays are constantly occupied, which means she’s pulling in roughly sixteen thousand eight hundred a month. I reckon she recovered her investment within the first two months.  

She sold the other half of the property, and the new owner cleared the land—trees and shrubs bulldozed; huge chunks of limestone pried from their earthen cribs, left to rest upon the ground; and after that no more work was done. There it lay for two years, decimated and unattended—until recently when an abandoned trailer showed up. Considering the scattered boulders and the pits caused by the earlier excavation, it must’ve taken some tricky driving to get it so far back in the lot. What does its presence portend? Is this acreage going to become a junkyard for abandoned trailers and RVs?

A sign hanging on the gate tells me that it’s once more for sale. Maybe the trailer’s meant to encourage a potential buyer in the same way one stage a house—like, “Hey, if you buy this piece of ruined land here’s something you can do with it!”

The realtor’s email address is on the sign, so I send him a note.

To Michael Herd. Are you or the owner aware that a trailer has been abandoned on the lot that’s for sale on County Road 401? It’s bad enough that those of us who reside in the area must endure living near that hideous RV park—are our property values now going to be further diminished due to proximity to a mobile home dumping ground? Thanks for your attention in this matter. Jen Waldo

His response: I haven’t been there for a few weeks. I’ll drive out and have a look. Thanks for alerting me. Michael Herd

People often say they’ll act, but then they don’t. A week later I drive over to see if the trailer’s still there. It is. I get out of the car and take a picture. It’s a hundred and seven outside and there’s been no rain for five months. The grasshoppers have fled. I return home and send the realtor the picture along with this reminder:

Michael, I’m still troubled about that trailer on CR 401. What are the plans for its removal? It’s parked at a precarious angle. Common wisdom has it that if a vacant structure offers a roof and door, someone will come along and move into it, even if it is dangerously situated and overrun by vermin. Jen Waldo

Jen, I’m looking into it, though I’m uncertain as to why you thought you should contact me about this. The fact is, it’s not your concern. Michael Herd

Not my concern? If I don’t take an interest, who will? He didn’t even know it was out there until I told him. Also, it’s disingenuous of him to put his contact information on a sign and then be dismayed when someone uses it to contact him.  

Michael, of course it’s my concern! We’re all in this world together. If something effects one, it effects all. While a misplaced trailer may seem innocuous and insignificant in the present, there’s the possibility that it may cause unprecedented harm in the future. Please ask the owner of the property to have it hauled off. Jen Waldo

Jen, the owner didn’t put it there and refuses to bear the expense of removing it. Meanwhile, I’ve notified the local authorities. They’ll track down the owner of the trailer and he will take it away or face the consequences. I urge you to step back and trust the process. I believe this draws our communications to a close. Michael Herd

The realtor appears to believe that someone who, a few weeks ago, couldn’t afford to keep or maintain his trailer, will now have the money it’ll cost to remove it. Also, making some penniless guy “face the consequences” won’t get that trailer out of there. Trust the process. Hah. That trailer’s going to be there forever. One more missive:

Oh Feckless Michael, it saddens me to realize that nothing, ever, will be done to get that ugly trailer out of there. This indolent acceptance of a wart on our horizon signifies the lowering of standards that turns a nice neighborhood into a slum. I’d think that you, as a realtor, would care about that. Jen Waldo

I press send and, with a crushed spirit, let the issue go.

There it is.