Monday, May 30, 2016

Drowning Out the Voices: A Memorial Day Tribute



Grandma Stanfa, Uncle Bob, and my dad, Denny Stanfa
My Uncle Bob lived with my grandmother all her life—all except the years he served in the Korean War. And then, the times he was in and out of veterans’ hospitals.

As young children, my sisters and I alternated between observing him in hushed laughter, being afraid of him, and attempting to treat him the way the mentally ill should be treated.

After my grandmother died when I was thirteen, we worked together as a family to try to allow my uncle to live alone in her house. We brought him occasional meals and took him to doctor appointments. My cousins mowed his lawn, and my mother and I took his half-feral cat to the vet. We joked that the cat was crazy, too—probably insane from the half-dozen weather radios that Uncle Bob kept blaring at all times throughout the tiny house.

He told me on one of those visits that the radios helped drown out the voices.

I didn’t know how to react when he asked me if I heard the voices too, or when he mentioned receiving messages from the “All Powerful” who was spying on him.

As a child, I had never heard of post-traumatic stress disorder. Not until I asked my dad to tell me more about my uncle did I gain a better understanding.

“I remember him being a loner, perhaps kind of unusual in some ways,” said my father, who was ten years younger than his brother. “But when he came back from Korea, he wasn’t the same person. He had changed. He just wasn’t… right.”

I’m still not certain if my uncle had early signs of schizophrenia before the war, or if PTSD from his service in Korea—including the day he witnessed most of his friends around him die—was the cause of his mental illness. But I have no doubt that his time in Korea altered the rest of his life. No amount of medication, therapy, or electric shocks—the popular treatment at the time—ever seemed to help.

As an adult, I’ve grown to understand he was not alone.

All gave some. Some gave all. Some, like my Uncle Bob, ended up lost somewhere in the middle.

If he were here today, I would hug him and finally say thank you.

Sunday, May 15, 2016

Picture This



While continuing the never-ending ordeal of organizing boxes in my basement, I came across this sketch. From the reference to "Algebra I," I can date the drawing to my freshman year of high school.

I've changed in many ways since I was 14. But by the daydreaming depictions of a few of my favorite teenage things--music, beaches, animals, and creative writing--it's clear some things haven't changed at all.

A picture of my life at 14.
I ended up flunking freshman algebra. Probably I should have paid attention, shown up more often to class, and managed to receive fewer demerits. Regardless, I made it through the next 40 years without ever needing to use an algebraic equation. Don't most of us?

I'd like to think I've fared better since then, in my pursuit of the knowledge of life. I show up every damn day. I try to be attentive to what matters to me, and I attempt to give it my all. 

Yet I still daydream--a lot. Daydreams often prove to be rewarding, especially when you chase them.

When it comes to the subject matter of Living, I'd give myself a solid B. Over the last few years, I might get a B+ for effort. And as far as demerits? Yeah, some of my life decisions and behavior have definitely warranted a handful of those. But I regret few of them, either. 

As artists of our own lives, we can't erase all our mistakes. But we can always draw a brand new picture.

Whether we're 14 or 84, life remains an open canvas. I suggest keeping a sharp pencil at hand. Who knows what will result?

You can draw your own equations.

How have you changed--or remained the same--since high school? Regrets--do you have a few or too few to mention? How would you sketch the future pictures of your life?

Wednesday, May 4, 2016

Of Retirement, Ramen, and Really Bad Pets

Looking contrite? Don't feel sorry for him a bit.
So, over the weekend I toyed with some retirement planning. This consisted mostly of pondering how I might still go on fabulous trips and to amazing concerts--while finding 500 fun ways to cook ramen noodles in my makeshift shelter under a viaduct.

My prospects of retiring in 10 years or less weren't looking real promising--until I realized I probably wouldn't be spending half my monthly retirement income on my dog and four cats. With a 10-year-old dog and three geriatric cats, it's unlikely any but the fourth and youngest cat will be here longer than five more years.

It was an abominable and depressing thought. I fed them all massive piles of treats, hugged them, and told them in whispered baby talk that they can never, ever leave me.

When I got home tonight, I discovered one or more of the cats had created two new Great Lakes on my basement floor landing. Along with a small Feces Mountain. Not knowing who was responsible, I cleaned it up while cursing all four.

Then, I wandered outside to get the mail, accompanied by Ringo the Wonder Retriever--who'd obviously become my favorite pet child.

Within minutes, Ringo had scooped up two baby birds. I managed, too late, to get him to drop the first--which I still have not gathered the gumption to remove from the sidewalk. He finished off the second one in a single gulp.

It's inconceivable that my neighbors failed to call the police, with all the screaming entailed.

Now, my entire menagerie is begging me for affection and treats.

Bastards.

I'm tempted to make them live off ramen for the rest of their sorry lives.

How's your retirement looking? Any bad pet stories you'd like to share?