Dat Ain't It
December 1999
It's birthday time again and,
as usual, I don't feel any older. It's time I did. I collect social
security. I'm still a few years from 70 but they're gaining on
me. Isn't it time I stopped wondering what I'm going to do with
my life?
Every
time I start looking for answers, I'm reminded of a joke. Did
you hear the one about the misfit soldier who wanted desperately
to get out of the Army? His health was good but his behavior was
irrational.
This
soldier picked up every piece of paper he saw, looked at it, and
said: "Dat ain't it." He would look at trash: "Dat ain't it;"
he would look at every sheet of paper on the orderly's desk: "Dat
ain't it" -- and never stopped looking for what he wanted. "Dat
ain't it," was all he ever said. One day, a memo was on the desk
with his name on it and Section Eight Discharge, indicating psychiatric
problems. He picked it up, looked at it and smiled.
"Dat's
it," he said.
And
so it is with me as I pick up the pieces of my life and ask if
this event or that were the crowning achievement. The answer is
always no ... dat ain't it.
I
think of the bombing of Pearl Harbor the day after my 10th birthday.
Surely that event impacted on my life and changed its course.
No ... dat ain't it. I pick up the memories of schools, young
love, work, marriage. I look at each page of those stories and
say: "dat ain't it."
What
then? The birth of my first child? No, that was just normal behavior
-- certainly not a crowning achievement. Women have babies every
day. In fact they have them every 16 minutes. Nice, but not the
event of my life. I thought perhaps having seven of those babies
might mean I peaked but, no, I knew that wasn't it.
Once,
when I was going on and on about quitting smoking, really jumping
for joy, my friend Joan looked at me and said: "You sound as if
this is a religious experience. Is this the crowning achievement
of your life?" I was 47. Thrilled, of course, but surely dat ain't
it.
Still
scanning the years this morning, I came to 1988 and thought my
first granddaughter, born to parents as much in love as only teenagers
think it's possible to be.
In
high school, they literally lived in each other's pockets. My
daughter was 16, a beautiful high-school baton twirler; her boyfriend
was 18 and handsome captain of the football team. It came as no
surprise when a baby was due. Children having children was the
catch phrase that year. Something's failing somewhere. Was it
us? This was not my easiest time -- certainly not a peak, possibly
the deepest valley. I was castigated and humiliated by people
who thought I must be crazy for backing this young love affair
that went too far. We gave our consent because it was their love
... their baby.
Most
neighbors, schoolmates of the couple, even relatives of both of
them, thought they should not ruin their lives with a child before
they were ready. In a society that would not allow my 16-year
old daughter to have a tooth pulled without parental consent,
I feared a persuasive classmate might advise her right into a
clinic where my grandchild would be aborted. It was a popular
solution in the college town where we lived then.
"This
is America, it's your choice," I heard one woman tell her. "The
choice was made when we chose to sleep together," she answered,
and I was proud of her. The peer pressure was tremendous as classmates
urged them to think of their futures. "How will you make it? You
can't work, go to school and have a baby, too," they insisted.
"We
have the help of our families. They won't let us down," they said,
and we didn't ... and they didn't let us down, either. Not a peak,
but it was no longer a valley.
This
morning, when these old memories crowded the litany of events
that could possibly show exactly when and if I've peaked, I didn't
know a surprise was planned for my birthday.
Tonight
10-year-old Maggie, traveling alone from Lafayette, Indiana, bolted
down the ramp from the plane and ran into my arms. I saw it in
slow motion, blonde hair cascading from under a baseball cap worn
fashionably backwards, back pack bulging with an over-flowing
assortment of Beanie Babies, a big smile full of bubble gum and
a squeal.
Still
in slow motion, ear drums muted to all sounds but my heartbeat
within, I held this miracle at arms length trying to focus through
tears. Without a doubt, this moment was an epiphany. But, just
like the soldier who finally found what he was looking for, I
laughed and said:
"Dat's
it."
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