John Gallaher
The Little Things Will Be The Hardest To Part With
Lucky for us we don’t have to know how something works
to be able to use it. And so what day was it that suddenly we lost
our ability to know what it was we were working with, when
“let me have a look at it” became “let me call someone”? Maybe
there’s always been someone, maybe most of us, who doesn’t know
how whatever it is that’s current works. Head over heels, we
went. Or cartwheels, summersaults, summersets, ass over tea kettles
we went into the future. That person astounded by the first
telescope or trebuchet. Actually, I couldn’t make or fix either of those,
I’m realizing. It’s mostly convenient here in the first world, except
for all those for whom it’s not, as our middle class is slipping
into the working poor and the working poor are slipping into
something much less comfortable. But, even so, we all have gas
stations in common, the last great equalizer of the people. There’s
the university president filling his white SUV across from me while
I’m filling my silver SUV. His looks a lot nicer than mine, even so,
and I bet his heater and windshield wipers work. I’m deciding, right
now, the day Johannes Gutenberg used movable type printing, in
around 1439, was the day that technology outpaced general understanding.
Forgive me my European bias. I could go back 400 years earlier
if you like—400 years!—to China, in 1041, when movable clay type
was first invented. “First invented” not quite the oxymoron it seems,
as Gutenberg had a much better publicity team. Still, it’s a pretty
straight-forward invention. As with most things, marriages, say,
or children, or the value of your home, it will appear as it appears,
not as it is. So how are we to have general assumptions? I generally
assume that the sudden inability of my kitchen faucet will be beyond
my ability to repair. Drive over! And if the car breaks down, make
yourself a new one. And if you need gas, start digging. Last year, or
maybe two years ago, Natalie, around eight or so, when we asked her
to clean up her room, by asking, “Who do you think is going to clean
this up?” Replied, “The workers will do it.” So we all change our names
to Workers, and cross our fingers that this light switch knows what
it’s doing. I can pride myself on my acoustic guitar, until I break a string,
as all stories are scary stories. At least they are if you dwell on the
“ever after” or cat gut part. And sometimes it has to be you. You have
to be enough. Luckily a second time, there are still some things out there
that we understand the workings of, just ask my level back deck,
until I get distracted by my toothbrush while brushing my teeth,
and it’s back to square two. When the world ends, how will I
brush my teeth? What about shampoo? Soap? Toilet paper? I’m
not always serious, but I seriously hope things don’t come to that.
Why I Love Old TV Shows That I Didn’t Love When They Were New
This morning, driving in to work, a white cat crossed my path.
Where’s the saying for that? Where’s the bright superstition
that now everything’s going to work out just fine? The Grammy’s
are back and then the Grammy’s go, zip zip, and Yippee Ki-Yay,
like near earth meteorites. Every season it’s the season. So
the experiment is to think of five things that have changed in our
society since 1950, then to choose one and tell us about who’s
been affected by this change. Finally, how does this thing
make people anxious. In 1950 you could open any magazine
and see a black & white print ad describing how the original
97-pound weakling transformed himself into Charles Atlas.
That’s about as far as I get before getting sidetracked by a guy
at the lunch counter carrying a pair of stilts. I realize, and mention
to Natalie, eleven now, that I’ve never seen anyone carrying stilts
before. It’s unremarkable, as most first things are. And Charles
Atlas, by the way, was born Angelo Siciliano in 1892, and died
while jogging in 1972. My current anxiety, looking at this
advertisement from 1950, where “They Used to Call me Skinny”
and “Give Me 15 Minutes a Day, And I’ll Give YOU a New Body,”
is imagining some vault where all the catchphrases of the past
are stored. Better, I think, would be one of those hotels out of time,
the ones you see every now and then on TV or a movie, or pop
songs from the 70s, which would all be there too, where the sound
is a little too clear, the colors a little too bright, and everyone
who ever was is sitting around talking about salad. It’s the idea
behind Mt. Olympus as well as Mr. Olympia, the kind of things
that can make a thirty-year-old feel old. “Who loves, ya, baby?”
the bald guy says over his salad, to you, and then commences
telling the story of how the lollipop was there to help him quit
smoking, while out in the hangar, they’re making a lead balloon.
Turns out it’s possible. Who knew? And in our folklore, angels
have become Martians only to become black helicopters and then
back to angles. It’s a safe ride home, a good joke, that kicks
a little sand in your face, but in the fun way, so that you have
a story to take back to the pool. Golf soon, and wouldn’t that
be nice. Sure. And last night I woke to find myself lying there
with my hands crossed over my chest. Who even sleeps like that?
We Also Wait As Waiting’s What We Do Best
Currently I’m waiting for my cousin to call, who’s down
in Texas with my father who’s recovering from a heart attack.
My father is currently having a fight of some sort
over his recuperation/physical therapy care with his doctors
and nurses and physical therapists. I’ve no idea
what the disagreement is, but as one who’s had disagreements
with my father in the past, I have this fear that things
aren’t going to turn out well. “A setback” is currently
what I believe we’ll end up saying back and forth. Doctors
make rounds, little solar systems of attentiveness, several
at a time, and sometimes with several more, a kind of
travelling show. I think it’s Doctor Martin’s day, but I’m not
sure. My father, my cousin told me the other day when we met
on I-35 as he was heading south and I was heading north, has
long talked about becoming a patient person. “Letting it
roll off my back,” he said to Bill and Sue a few months ago,
right before going off, a real blow out, on SPEED TRAPS!,
as they drove past a police car which had pulled someone
over. Today, though, I’m not talking much with anyone.
I got some coffee, shoveled some snow, fed the kids (who
have a snow day). And now I’m at work. I’m sitting here. Still
sitting here. Let’s see. I’ve several pens to play with. I could
color coordinate my colored butterfly clips. Make rainbows
over the files. So how often do we have real conversations?
The ones we wait for like this? What do real conversations
look like? What are they about? In the play Wit, the lead
character dies of cancer, which you pretty much know
from the beginning, so I don’t really feel like I’m spoiling it
for you. As they often say: if knowing the ending spoils
the show, it wasn’t good art anyway. That may be. And
knowing she dies at the end doesn’t stop the end from
hitting you. My dad was dead for fifteen or so minutes a couple
weeks ago. Now he’s not dead. It’s all where you decide
to stop telling the story. Right now I’m imagining I’m sitting
on a great vista: open rolling hills with lines of green trees
along a hidden creek, maybe even a river, cows in the distance.
For several years I carried my wedding ring from my first marriage on my key chain as a reminder, until someone stole my keys, likely to get the ring. So then I couldn't drive until I got a copy made. I guess that was a double lesson?