Chapter Thirty-three

Interestingly enough, the majority of the male members of my immediate family have been born in August. My late father, myself, my younger brother, two of my nephews and a nephew-by-association. By my count that leaves a brother, two nephews, a brother-in-law and a son-in-law. More then half of the males in my immediate family are August babies. How about that?

Of course, this really has nothing to do with this month's posting. It's just something that I found  interesting. Much like at least a couple of the books listed below.

Series

Flood - Andrew H. Vachss ($4.50/$.25, copyright 1985, 344 pages, Paperback)
 I wrote about several of Vachss’ books a couple of months ago. This is the first in that series about Burke, an ex-con and unlicensed PI who travels in the NY underworld and deals primarily with cases involving child molestation and abuse. I enjoyed the first Burke book I read (which happened to be the 2^nd in the series) . The second one I read, and now this one, were somewhat unsatisfying. This one has the cast of characters dealing with a murderous child molester and a brutal pimp, but there’s nothing new here. I like the supporting cast of characters, but here they are only introduced, not really defined. Later volumes give them life. It was OK.


Non-fiction

The Lost Continent - Bill Bryson ($13.00/$1.00, copyright 1989, 299 pages, Trade Paperback)
 I picked this book up because of it’s title, as anyone who knows me would understand. Then I saw the sub-title - “Travels in Small Town America”. Still, I read a few random passages, flipping pages, and I was hooked. This is one person's account of his travels through middle America, starting and ending in Des Moines, Iowa. At first, I found that his vision of small town America is described with such humor and warmth that you want to go there. Then you find that it becomes a bit repetitive. Maybe this would’ve worked best as a series of newspaper/magazine articles or a sort of Charles Kurault “On the Road” type of TV thing. I have to admit that I skimmed through the last third of it. It was OK.



Miscellaneous

Bad Men - John Connolly ($7.99/$.50, copyright 2004, 451 pages, Paperback)
Connolly is the author of the Charlie Parker series, one or two of which I’ve mentioned here before. This is a stand-alone and combines elements of two distinct suspense novel formats. On one hand, we have the abused wife escaping her criminal husband with a lot of his money. Of course, he’s escaped from prison, gathered a gang of killers, and is hunting her down. On the other hand, we have the small island community - cut off from the mainland - that has a horrible tragedy buried in it’s past. Only a few people, including the island’s 7-foot deputy, can feel what’s happening. The two hands slam together in a great story that keeps the surprises going until the end. I enjoyed it.

Grendel - John Gardner ($10.95/$1.00, copyright 1971, 174 pages, Trade Paperback)
Put simply, this is just a retelling of the Beowulf story from the monster’s - Grendel’s - perspective. But this book can’t be read simply. Of course, if you know the Beowulf story, you know how it ends and Gardner stays true to the story, but he has a great time getting there. Grendel screams, yells, cries, and waxes rhapsodic for the length of the book, passing his judgement on Hrothgar and his Danes as representatives of all men. Good vs. evil, intelligence vs. ignorance, there's a lot under the surface here.  At times funny, at times tragic, it is always entertaining. I enjoyed it.

Well. August is just about over, and September is only 10 days away. In about a month, Summer will end and Autumn will start. I don't know about you, but this year I'm looking forward to it. Till next time.....

Keep Reading.

Special Insert # Eight - Something I Don't Understand

They say that the older you get, the more you tend to think about your own mortality. Well, I'll be 61 tomorrow and, having come pretty damn close to it almost 4 years ago, I don't pay much attention to Death. And yet I find myself addressing this topic because it just hit pretty damn close to home and I realize that I have some questions.

In literature, Death has been seen differently by different people.
 Emily Dickinson wrote of it:

                               " Because I could not stop for Death,
                                 He kindly stopped for me;"

Giving the impression that you can try to ignore Death but you have to accept him .
Dylan Thomas had a different take:

                             "Do not go gentle into that good night.
                              Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

Giving the impression that although you can't ignore Death you sure as hell can fight him.

These seem to be opposing views of the same subject. What does that mean? To me it means that, perhaps Death is different for each of us, that rules can't be applied to him.

Now, let me point out a few people who I've posted about on FaceBook since the beginning of June. See if you can guess what they have in common.

June 2 - Richard Dawson, 79, TV actor/host
June 5 - Ray Bradbury, 91, writer
June 8 - Frank Cady, 96, TV actor
July 3 - Andy Griffith, 86, actor
July 8 - Ernest Borgnine, 95, actor
July 23 - Sally Ride, 61, astronaut
July 24 - Sherman Hemsley, 74, TV actor
August 1 - Gore Vidal, 86, writer
August 12 - Joe Kubert, 85, artist

That's right. Every one of these represents a piece of my life, a chip out of the bedrock of my past. These actors, writers, and the one astronaut entertained and enthralled me as I grew up. And, of course, they all died recently.

Also, every one of them has died at a fairly advanced age. They had the chance to live the lives they wanted. They had the chance to take risks, make mistakes, love and be loved.

They had the chance.

This brings me to my point. Over the weekend a member of the family died. There was no horrible accident; there had been no lengthy illness; in fact, there had been no sign of illness at all. He, simply, died.

He was 25. He didn't get to have the chance. And I don't understand.

Look at that list of names again. These were famous people. During those same 10 weeks there were hundred of others who died, regular people who were not as famous, but they had the chance. Why should this one young man on the threshold of life be the one to die, to lose the chance? Why?

I don't know.

If it had been due to an accident or an illness we would still grieve but there would be an answer. Here, we don't have one. Just a hole where a young man used to be. A son, a brother, a nephew, a cousin, a friend. Why?

I don't know.

As Christians - as Catholics - we're told that God works in mysterious ways. There are hymns and prayers, there will be a homily, all meant to provide comfort, to give solace. We accept the words, because we've been raised that way. Do they help? When I think of the grieving parents, I have my doubts. After all, what can you do?  Kneel before the altar begging and weeping, or stand there yelling and cursing? I don't think it would make a difference. And it wouldn't change anything. I was raised in the New Testament of Faith, Hope, Charity, and Love. This seems so Old Testament to me. A test of Faith? Why?

I don't know.

I'm a parent, too. I can pretend to know what they are going through but I know, deep down, that I really can't. And, frankly, I don't want to. I don't want to lose my child. Ever. I don't know what it would do to me. But I can see what it's doing to them and it breaks my heart.

The way I see it, it comes down to this. The natural order should be that you live your life, raise your family, grow old, and when you die your children bury you. A parent should never have to bury a child. It isn't natural.

But there are no rules in Death. And those questions I have...well, there really is only one. Why? And the answer is...

I don't know.

And this will remain something I don't understand.

Rest in peace, Daniel.