JWG's Done and Not Begun January 30 & 31, 2011

Maspalomas  January 30, 2011  6:10 a.m. GMT

 A downpour last night has made this island smell tropical fresh. The stars above, some obscured by little clouds, purport this to be a Canarian Day. For René and me, each day here has been a delightful Canarian Day. Having been here ten days (!), for me, it seems like ten weeks for I am at home with neighbors and friends. Our small chit-chat is not unlike Zwerglipatch in Hauppauge. However, here, there are no gardens to tend. I have my books to read and my books to fill with my scribbling. I am happy.

Dad Meyer is not happy. Yesterday, he had to have an operation to remove many blood clots that were clogging the tubes that drain his kidneys. Roy [René’s brother], being in charge, á la Betsey with Daddy [Garand], says Dad Meyer is very depressed; so much so he didn’t want to eat. That, in itself, is not like George [Dad} Meyer. I believe I understood that he will have at least another week in the hospital if, and that word is big, if all goes well. We saw, and spoke to, Mom Meyer. She is tired. Roy now knows how much of a puppy dog she, herself, is. The aging Meyer Household is growing up. I do sense that René, like me with Garand Manor, is relieved, and happy to be a Canarian for a few weeks more.

René and I have yet to play tourist. We are so happy living that we have refrained, with pleasure, from touristing which is very, very different for the two of us. As of today, I think that if we rent a car for a day, or two, we can see what there is to see. As I said, being here at Villas Blancas seeing Palm Trees and Succulents with blooming shrubbery sates our inquisitive natures; or, proves we, ourselves, are aging.

René and I have “grown up”. We are sturdy. We are unwavering. We are our eccentric selves. Truly. Tomorrow is a big day in our history. Looking back three decades, more than one-half of my life, I am astonished at what we have seen and been through. I am relieved we have survived. I am most happy that we are Friends.

A Friend, and Neighbor, in Hauppauge, posted on her Facebook page a picture taken of our car, “M”, under his blanket of snow. Adorable to see him snuggled in a snowbank. Terrific to know, too, that, as of now, we don’t have to deal with the snow.

This January has been the first January, in a long time, that René and I have escaped harsh winter weather which is our intention when we do vacation in winter. Each winter, when we are in our tropical environment, we are thankful not to have to deal with harsh, physical realities. This year, we certainly have escaped.

Maspalomas  January 31, 2011  5:52 a.m. GMT

John Steinbeck’s The Winter of Our Discontent was the book I finished yesterday. This was the second reading, for me, for this novel. Three days ago, I thought I was to embark on a new adventure. In a way, I did. This title seemed new. René and I had this book on our shelves for years. The first page, when I began reading, rang bells. A rough outline of what was to happen began coming back in my brain. The ending never did. Those last two pages were not recalled until I read them. Steinbeck’s open-ended puzzle is to be admired.

Where did I read The Winter of Our Discontent? When? I haven’t the foggiest. I will, someday, I’m sure, find on some piece of paper, in some book, one of my scribbles to answer those questions. It must have been placed on our shelf because I wished René would read this Steinbeck novel. He will.

I am not one to write thorough reviews. Others have done this. I place on paper my impression which is personal. In Steinbeck’s novel, I have met a Long Island family in 1960. I know the place. I can see the faces. Steinbeck is sparse with his characters’ details of their personal space. Nadine Gordimer is thorough. Her’s is a museum of restoration. Steinbeck’s is impressionistic enough so that anyone, anywhere, can sense the quality of their, his characters’, lifestyle. When reading novels, I enjoy living another’s everyday way of life. That, for me, is novel.

Isn’t it odd, and fun, to get emotionally involved with people that are nothing more than words on paper? These characters mean absolutely nothing to us. They live and breathe in our imagination that has been manipulated by the novelist. We witness, and judge, and, in my case, forget they exist. There are those I know who would add: “Just like Life.” I, myself, will not deny that statement.

Today, René and I begin another decade in our lives together. As you know, we had a year as a prelude before we exchanged our bits of engraved gold — little rings. This exchange was done in private three decades ago.

Our lives are private no longer. Too many know too much. Too many? No. That is incorrect. Too much? That, too, is incorrect. If anything should be written and said, it should be: Not enough people know details of the Life the two of us have built as one whole in this disjointed place — dwelling — planet.

It has been suggested we write our stories to share our “secrets”. If we did, it would read, hmm, like an unbelievable novel? Lives are personal — private. Yet, how are people to know? We must care enough to share. Share what? Our essence can fill an entire word. The word is one we all know: Love.

Love can never be defined. Laws attempt to do this. Laws, as scribed by humans, fail. Yet, humans feel. Humans Love. This irony boggles my mind for it does seem to me to be a simple issue that requires no law. I can only conclude that the majority of humans are confused and revel in dictating their confusion to other humans. I, myself, joke about being a dictator, if I had to hold a public office. A Dictator of Love.

Dictating Love to the masses has been attempted. People are deaf. Why do some believe the time has arrived to listen?

People yearn to be content. Yearning is the mistake. Contentment is a magnet. When one is content, one finds others gravitate towards them. One is never alone. Never. Yes, it did take me years to come to this conclusion. Is this what people want to hear? Is this what people want to read? To feel? To see? If so, they need look no longer and hear these words: Love shared is caring content.

On this island of perpetual Spring, René and I share our contentment. If, as the calendar says, this is Winter, than we, indeed, have found Summer.