A Little Mourning Is Enough

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE

of the editorial page staff

published by the StarTribune

July 29, 1961

   WHEN the time comes for me to retreat to the far shore, I hope the trip occasions a minimum of lamentation, tears and nose blowing.  I wouldn't care to have them dance around the bier but neither do I want my friends and relatives to feel any obligation to wear long faces or to mourn more than briefly.

   Not that I'm afflicted with premonitions that death is plucking at my sleeve.  I expect to live longer than I should and to tail off into years of senility.  But after the sojourn on earth is finished, I'm certain that gaudy and dramatic obsequies do the departed no more good than do wails from the mourners.

   THERE ARE those, however, who mourn with dedicated and lasting earnestness and who, refusing to respond to the healing balm of time, grow less and less personable and more and more difficult to be around.

   She outlived him a quarter of a century, but my maternal grandmother never got over her husband's death.  She clung to grief as avidly as a shipwrecked sailor clings to a raft and you'd have thought that she and grandpa never were out of each other's sight from their wedding day until his demise.  She was obsessed with the sentimental silliness that she wouldn't be true to her husband, regardless of his time in the cemetery, if she ever again let herself be gay or make eyes at another man.   

   ANYONE in this situation has a right to react as he or she pleases, perhaps, and if grandma elected to wear her widowhood in melancholy martyrdom, complete with sighs audible for half a block, she must have assumed that this was her business.

   Had she lived alone it would have been, despite the bad break she was giving herself.  But she gave an even worse break to those in residence with her and her dolorous, funereal manner frequently caused my father to blow his cork.  She lived until about 80 and under the circumstances lived too long.

   WE REACT more sensibly to death now, but even today there are those like grandma who refuse to stop crying, who retreat into a shell, won't be pulled out, and then wonder why their friends are falling away.  Remarriage?  They reject it as tantamount to infidelity and remain resolute in their determination to remain forever true, death notwithstanding.

   As I see it, remarriage is a tribute to the one who's gone, proof positive that the survivor enjoyed the arrangement so much that he or she didn't want to continue on alone.

   I HAVE a couple of in-laws I'm proud of.  Both lost their spouses within the year and I feared that each would go into permanent decline.  Neither did.  Both are keeping busy, interested and alive.  The sister-in-law never turns down a social engagement.  The brother-in-law has the neighbors in for coffee at the slightest provocation and loves to have folks in for dinner, prepared by him.  He fancies himself as quite a chef--and he is.

   Neither of these persons is having it easy.  To say that they are happy living alone would be ridiculous.  Both confess to loneliness and dark hours.  But life is far more rewarding than it would be if they were burdened by the fixation that the final curtain had dropped, that they had nothing to live for and that it somehow wouldn't be fitting to do anything but cling to the past.

Copyright 2013 StarTribune.  Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune.  No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.  

Marriage Isn't Every Girl's Dream

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE

of the editorial page staff

published by the StarTribune

February 13, 1960

   IN ALMOST any business establishment that has 50 or more employees you'll find several who aren't married.  One of the favorite coffee-break pastimes of those who can't endure minding their own business is to speculate on how this can be.

   The bachelor, unless he is a prime catch (i.e., a fellow with money) causes no great stir.  His male associates either dismiss him as a person without charm or respect him as a discerning chap who knows when he's well off.  But any girl bertween 25 and 45 who's still single will set the boys to gabbling like chickens in the barnyard.

   "I WONDER why it is that Dolly never got married?" some toothless wolf will muse.  "She's completely charming, dresses well and has a trim figure.  Personally, I coud go for her."  He shakes his head in bafflement and with a trace of dejection.  "She'd better hurry up, too.  Dolly isn't getting any younger."

   His inference is that Dolly would go for him, too, if he as much as crooked a finger, and it's a shame that all the males such as he have been spoken for and are unavailable.

   Then there's Sarah, a lovely dish who can't yet be 30.  A smart kid, too, but without a boyfriend.  Too bad.  Maybe she's too smart.  Her brains probably scare the men off.  She'll wake up some day to find that she's a spinster.  

   IT SELDOM occurs to men, particularly married ones, that the bachelor girl could remain one by choice.  If she isn't married, it's because nobody has asked her.  It's that simple.

   How smug can the male animal be?  While it's true that the question must be popped, any lady with an ounce of guile and awareness of masculine susceptibility to female enchantment can bring this about if she has the desire and is given the chance.

  The bleak fact is, however, that all women are not smitten by all men.  As I get it, most ladies old enough to have their wits about them would rather be dead than married to most men.

   ONCE A GIRL outgrows the dewy-eyed phase when she's in love with romance per se--the age when most of them get married--she becomes harder and harder to snare and is apt to find a career more and more attractive than betrothal to Harry, Herbert or Arthur.

   Also, as she grows in age and experience, the envy that has torn her at being the bridesmaid but not the bride may change to satisfaction with her own freedom--freedom from housework, husbands, financial crises and burping babies.  Following a Sunday afternoon amid the clutter and chaos of Hazel's little family she may return to the quiet and orderly office on Monday morning with renewed appreciation.

   CONCERNED though I am about the population explosion, I'm not attempting here to argue against marriage.  Personally, I wouldn't and couldn't do without it.  But we don't all have the same sense of values, and those who aren't attracted to this particular involvement can remain so, for all of me.

   Unless she's someone whose marriage is delayed or prevented by circumstances, I feel no pity for the bachelor girl.  She doesn't need it.  She probably prefers things as they are.

Copyright 2013 StarTribune.  Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune.  No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

You Can't Dream and Save Time

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune

 October 20, 1963

   IT TAKES me two hours to get from bed to desk and to do even that well I must eat breakfast like a St. Bernard.  Most of my co-workers sleep later than I do and many reach the office earlier.  They wonder what I do with my time.
   I used to wonder, too, but wonder no longer.  Dalliance comes as naturally as breathing.  I enjoy it and know that at this late date any attempt at self-improvement would be futile.  Whenever I sleep half an hour longer than usual and determine to speed up my schedule to compensate for the luxury, I get to work 30 minutes late.

   HASTE DOES too much violence to natural inclination and forces one to keep his mind on what he's doing.  Also, one must set the stage the night before.  He must decide what shirt and necktie he'll wear and reach decisions about the pants, jacket and socks.  This eliminates rooting around in the closet and pawing through dresser drawers.

   I read some silly business about this time-saving dodge once and determined to try it, even going so far as to strop my razor before going to bed and fixing firmly in mind the  location of the shaving brush.  But the game isn't worth the candle.  It introduced too much stark realism and efficiency into getting dressed.  To me the infant moments of the day are moments to cherish, moments for dreams, for coming alive gradually and decently.

  THE FELLOW who whips out of bed like a fireman, whisks off his whiskers and gets down to breakfast in 15 minutes is a time-saver, I grant, but the world is too much with him.  He is a purposeful and unimaginative live wire who is going places-- and has ulcers to prove it.  The joys of wandering the fields of fancy are denied him.  He is missing much.

   It takes me 15 minutes just to get on my socks and shoes.  While doing so my ear is cocked to the plaudits of the literati.  I have just written a best seller and the rave reviews are a rhapsody.  Or I'm running for a touchdown after leaping high to catch a pass.  The crowd, naturally, is wild.
   Even brushing the teeth is endurable if you get your mind off your cavities and boom down a ski slope, circle the bases after hitting a home run, or shoot it out with the Clanton gang at Tombstone.

  ANOTHER thing that burns up some morning time but is worth it is the horseplay my son and I enjoy.  We always go a couple of rounds after I rout him out of bed and afterward he frequently seeks my counsel on problems in math or social studies.

   This bow to paternal erudition tickles my vanity but I'm not, I confess, at my best so early in the day.  The principal products of Madagascar and the latitude of Peoria come rather haltingly off the tongue at that hour.  Answers cannot be given in seconds.

   BUT TO SUM UP, it takes me an hour to get ready for breakfast, half an hour to eat--if it hasn't taken more than an hour to get to breakfast--and half an hour to drive to the office.  The stretch between bed and breakfast is the one the efficiency expert would spot as the bottleneck.
   However, he can go take a jump.  I have a book of quotations which credits Anatole France with this gem: "Existence would be intolerable if we were never to dream."  Efficiency experts might not agree, but I do.

Copyright 2013 StarTribune.  Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune.  No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

10- Year Work Test is Charted

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE  

of the editorial page staff

published by the StarTribune 

October 20, 1963

   NOW I KNOW WHAT I'll do after retirement--devote full time to leaf raking, painting, gardening, window washing, roof mending and junk hauling and see if it's possible to catch up.  This isn't as exciting as taking banana boats to the Caribbean or playing checkers in St. Petersburg but I yearn for the answer.  And I want my epitaph to say, "He got his work done."

   It'll be nip and tuck, but given 10 years, with only an occasional Sunday off and no sick leave, I think I can make it.

   Always in the back of a man's mind is the realization that there's a lot to do that isn't getting done.  This is brought home each fall when you're buttoning things up for winter.  Then you come face to face with the ravages of wear and decay.

   I'm now exchanging screens for storm windows and am acutely alive to--and ashamed of--all the work I'm passing over.  I can let the puttying go for another six months, I tell myself, but a complete job will be a must next spring.  Not one piece of storm-sash is weather-tight.

   THE WINDOWS NEED paint, too.  So do the ledges So do the porches.  The whole house could stand a couple of coats.  And the backyard patio, partially installed in May, remains partially installed.

   Discouragement strikes each time I climb a ladder to clean a window.  This is but the immediate, surface chore, not the basic demand.  It takes time to paint and  putty, though,


and there is too little time.  And if you linger too long on anything but the bare essentials cold weather may catch you with your storm windows down.

   It takes time, too, to wash windows--more time than it should.  It's been my conviction for years, unsupported by my wife, that people expend needless effort trying to make windows shine when they should be content with removing the dirt.  Streaks shouldn't matter.

   You can rub glass until blue in the face, with everything from chamois to winter underwear, and it will, when the light strikes it right, resemble a map of the Missouri watershed.  And even should it sparkle to your wife's satisfaction, it will sparkle only until the next rain.  Then it again will be a mess.

   My wife and I spend considerable time in billing, cooing and smooching, but every October we have a row about the dining room windows--after I've washed them.  The top half of these heartbreakers consists of six small panes, each one determined to remain smudgy.  

   "JUST LOOK AT THOSE dining room windows!" my wife exclaims.  "I never saw them look worse.  Those two corner panes at the top obviously haven't been touched."

   These are fighting words.  "What do you mean, they haven't been touched?  What do you thik I was doing on that ladder for half an hour, fanning the glass with my hat?"

   Such exchanges are quite exhausting and unless my soul mate quits being so finicky about how the glass looks I'll quit wahing windows after retirement.

   It's barely possible that seeing so much of each other will make both of us somewhat touchy.  Wrangles about windows might be just too much.

Copyright 2013 StarTribune.  Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune.  No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.

      

Guthrie columns will resume Oct 20

I'm on the Camino de Santiago (the Way of St. James) in Spain.  Look for "Camino Trails and Tribulations", a possible real time blog.  ----TKG

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Comes the Time to Leave Home

By CHARLES M. GUTHRIE
of the editorial/opinion page staff
published by the StarTribune
September 18, 1965


   THE BOY NEXT DOOR went away to school the other day.  As he drove off with his mother and father we yelled final goodbyes.  A lot of memories then came flooding back and I got a lump in my throat.
   Such farewells can be traumatic even when you have but fringe involvement.  I'd lived next door to this lad and his brothers and sisters and parents for seven years and felt a partial claim to him.  The eldest of six, he was the first to take off for new scenes and experiences.  Departure was a dramatic time.  Such occasions are rife with aches and poignant silences and hollow gags and small talk.
   He'll be less than 100 miles away.  He'll get home every three or four weeks.  Still, it's the start of the family breakup.  Things won't again be quite the same.

   OF COURSE, NO PARENT in his right mind would want his progeny around permanently, and those of practical and realistic turn perhaps rejoice when the kids are out from under foot and increasingly able to shift for themselves.
   Departure for college isn't an unmixed calamity for the high school grad, either.  If he's normal, he's chafed at parental restrictions for some years and is pained by the havoc wrought by the younger members of the clan.  The challenge of education gives him the chance to shake off the shackles and enjoy some peace and quiet and independence.
   However, the vast majority of youngsters leave home for college for the first time with heavy heart, acute nostalgia and the realization that little sister isn't such a pest after all.  Home is a sure sanctuary, a place to lick wounds and rekindle morale, a place where the meals are good and the service first class.  To be pushed out of it, even when the pushing is by mutual agreement and when the thirst for education is strong, is decidedly unsettling.
   That's how I felt it was with the quiet lad next door, and that's why my throat went tight.  I know that for him the bonds of home are inordinately strong.  The spirit in this household is unusual.  Sweetness and harmony naturally don't always prevail but the family is a cooperative unit, one in which the members have abundant fun and frequent laughs.  And the place is the play center for kids of all ages up and down the block, which is revealing.
   This is the first time the boy from next door has been on his own away from home, his parents tell me, and though they know he'll make out, they fear his situation will be difficult until he conquers homesickness and makes other adjustments.

   THIS MAY BE SO, but he's so much better equipped for new situations than college-bound lads were a generation or two ago that there's no comparison.  Today's young may be damned as delinquents, impudent loudmouths and defiers of authority, but they are much more knowledgeable and sophisticated than their parents and grandparents were.

The boy next door

   The boy next door and his contemporaries may wonder and worry about their future because of the Viet Nam imbroglio and the Communist threat, but they aren't unwary, apple-cheeked and home-clinging introverts who lack a sense of direction and who break down when dad and mother send them off to the ivied halls.
   My young friend will take it in stride.  I'll be eager to see him when he comes home for that first visit.  By then many barriers of doubt and uncertainty will be lifted.  He'll be on the way to becoming a man.


Copyright 2013 StarTribune.  Republished here with the permission of the StarTribune.  No further republication or redistribution is permitted without the express approval of the StarTribune.