Why?
I had finally been forced to buy a printer / scanner / fax.
And I completely disapprove of them. When I worked at Wal-Mart, I would beg students not to print vocabulary lists. They did, so I went to the computer guys and asked, could they disable the printing option on my emails?
The guys just shrugged.
I was ardently, passionately green. I tried to organize car pools, but getting people to share rides was as easy as getting them to donate a kidney—without anesthesia.
“What if there’s an emergency?” they asked.
“When was the last emergency?” I’d counter.
“I need it for my kids,” they’d say.
Of course, of course, this sent me off.
“It is exactly FOR your kids that you need to start being responsible and start thinking about what kind of world you’re gonna be leaving them!” I’d diatribe.
With just a few exceptions, the love between Puerto Ricans for their cars is only matched by adolescent boys in gringolandia. It’s now common, by the way, to have TWO cars—‘cause what happens if one breaks?
You’d be stranded.
Well, it was curb my environmentalism or lose my friends. I chose friends. But I didn’t, I reasoned, have to give in to the whole nonsense. I took the bus, and smiled evilly if inwardly when gas soared to four dollars a gallon. I vowed—no printer.
Then the box came that I’d been dreading.
Readers of the blook know that Eric and I tore through the house, the day after Franny died. He took on the photos; I did the poetry.
Franny, I’m sorry to say, had the terrible habit of printing out multiple versions of her poems—all slightly different. Worse, she didn’t put any date on them. Right—she knew what version was the final. But the rest of us?
So I jammed as much as I could find into a box, which Eric drove away to West Virginia. I hoped—I knew uselessly—never to see that box again.
I justify this by citing Franny, herself. Because Lorraine, Gunnar’s widow, had tried to keep the memory of the great pianist and composer alive for years after his death.
“You know, at a certain point, you just have to let go. History will remember him or it won’t. Or maybe it will forget him and rediscover him—he wouldn’t be the first to have that happen to him….”
Practical advice from a sensible woman.
Well, Eric shipped the box a few weeks ago. I retrieved it, lifted it, and decided to spend the ten bucks to take a three-block taxi ride home. How much is my dorsal spine worth?
And the box sat there, a challenge each morning, a reproof each night.
“Screw it,” I said, “the essence of neurosis is the avoidance of pain.” A nod of thanks here to my friend Sonia, whose wisdom this is. “I’m gonna open that box!”
Well I prepared myself—I got a scissors and a big hunk of Kleenex.
There’s no sense in not crying if you have to. You’re better off to get it out, vent it, and then go on. Walk into the pain, live it, let it go. That’s what grief, or suffering, teaches you.
So I knew the tears would come. What I didn’t know was the source. Because the first documents to spring out of the box were a series of letters from Don Anderson, publisher of the Wisconsin State Journal, to Jack, my father.
Here’s one….
Well, I became Lorraine. I knew Jack had fought for the open housing drive, but I didn’t know how hard, or that his boss had thought so highly of him.
Wait—his former boss. Anderson, I realized later, had retired years earlier. I knew because Jack had written the story, and Anderson had replied.
Well, the guy knows how to turn a phrase, doesn’t he? I like the somewhat false but still funny self deprecation of the “hung for horse stealing….”
And yes, that “pretty and talented” wife does smack of smugness—it explains why women were burning their bras a decade later.
And the pretty and talented wife had—it must be said—some mixed feelings about Anderson.
It wasn’t much spoken off—but it was there. She watched Jack’s colleagues rise to editor, managing editor, administrative jobs that—guess what?—paid better. And there Anderson was, “sidetracking” her husband.
And she had a three-year-old (me), a seven-year-old (John), and a 12-year-old (Eric). And hadn’t “worked” in over a decade.
How did she feel, reading this letter? A letter that praises at the same time that it announces—your husband’s going nowhere. You’ll never be the publisher’s wife, you pretty, talented thing.
I think it was easy enough for Jack. He loved to write, he loved his work, and the respect and admiration of the community were pay dirt for him.
For Franny? Washing little Marc’s diapers?
There are three more pages—a typescript of a talk Anderson gave at a company meeting….
No, there
never was a great fortune in that wallet—or any other wallet that a journalist
has. About all he got were enough money to buy food and clothes and shoes, and
six pieces of paper.
Now in my
hands.
And time
will go on, and people will die, and no one will know—perhaps—that there was a
time when the Ku Klux Klan marched in Madison, or that neighbors could threaten
to burn the first black family’s house in the neighborhood.
Or that a
guy named John Newhouse had fought the bastards.
But maybe
they will.
Went out, bought
the scanner, sighed deeply, invoked doña Taí—patron saint of technological
idiots—and prepared for the hell it would be.
I don’t
want another device in my life.
But how
much had he done for me?
World—remember.
There was a reporter, John Newhouse.
And he did
it better than anyone else I have ever known.
