It's possible that no one else will care about this but me. Isn't that what personal life blogs are about? Blah Blah Me Blah My Thoughts Blah Blah You Can't Interrupt A Blog Blah.
Today is the birthday of someone incredible. No, not me. I'm a Scorpio. The gunshot went off for Taurus season an hour or so ago.
Many of us question how we can help the world. What am I doing for the world? I sit behind a computer at a huge pharmaceutical all day pushing around virtual bennies. People like me will sometimes receive an answer from a well meaning and honest friend, "But you are raising a child. That's a big job. That's what you are doing to help the world." I like that answer. It almost excuses me from looking outside my window. However, the question comes back like the monthly chin zit. I can tell you that one person most definitely made the world better outside of himself. But all I can relay about him is what I am lucky to have as part of my past.
Edwin Axel Ericson, born April 21, 1889. I'm not quite that fragile, I just had to find my way into the 1960s, even if it was November of 1969. In the summertime of around 1976, we moved next door to a huge Victorian house. One that I still have dreams about. I would see an old man wandering with his red wooden dowel of a walking stick with charred ends that he liked to use for various functional purposes. When we moved in, the man's wife died, leaving him alone. He was a retired dairy farmer who formerly owned so much land and eventually sold most of it to what became a shopping center, complete with token McDonald's. (Does McDonald's have an apostrophe? And if so, do they have one on the sign? And if so, can they save money in materials by ditching the apostrophe, much like the airline that left out one olive in the salad?) All apostrophe's aside, I somehow made my way over to the man's house. I can't remember our first meeting, but I was about six and he was about 86.
Here comes the *everyone's got a story* disclaimer. My childhood story is probably the epitome of many other folks my age. Bear with me. Or not, and go back to reading about Cavey's unfortunate swollen fingers.
My father was and still is an alcoholic (checkmark), who roughed my mom around quite a bit and we have the photos to prove it (checkmark). I remember one in particular of her smiling on Christmas morning, right hand in her hair, with a huge shiner on one eye. My home was uncomfortable (checkmark). There was a lot of yelling late at night when man of the house would ooze in from the bar after being with whoever. (double checkmark) There were a lot of broken things. There was a lot of me hiding under my blankets holding my stuffed dog, Henry and grinding my teeth so that I wouldn't hear anything. Did I cover the bases for most? I would usually wander downstairs when all I could hear was my mother sobbing, and without speaking, no matter what the time, would start gluing things back together or cleaning up.
I was six.
And I was a latchkey kid by this time. I was a good kid with incentive not to slip up and do anything to make my father mad. But I hated him. And of course, I wanted his approval. Ah, the recipe for romantic success later on in life! I should be getting tons of hits for dates now!
I started to visit Mr. Ericson. He was gracious and allowed me in his home every day that I wanted to be there. He built me two swings that hung from the trees in his yard that occasionally would allow the wood seat to flip off the rope and I'd land on the ground. He built me a pair of stilts and taught me how to walk on them. I remember one photo where he snapped the camera at just the right moment and I happened to be collapsing off of them, with one of those ugly mid-moment faces. He had a hay barn where he used to keep cows and I had complete access to jump around in all the hay (and later on as a teenager would run away and sleep in it.) At the tender age of 80 something, he also built me a seesaw in the barn, showed me how to climb trees, allowed me to throw garbage (even explosive aerosol cans that would blow up!) in his once a week fire outside and help plant his garden every year.
I'd watch him eat raw corn on the cob. And then when cooked, I saw him do something that I didn't know anyone was allowed to do - put a pat of butter right on there and take a bite - the whole pat and all. Tiny little heartattacks on one ear of corn. But delicious and forbidden at home. I eat my corn like this now.
He introduced me to Mountain Dew. To tadpoles out in the large puddles during springtime that I could watch grow legs and ditch the unfashionable tails. We'd catch them to put into his garden.
I heard a story that he had found a skunk in a trap and went unsprayed as he released the animal.
He was a no nonsense dairy farmer though. If his cat had a litter, he would drown the kittens to prevent overpopulating. His adult cats were wild and the most fun you could have with them was terrifying them. His basement smelled dirt delicious and had old contraptions in it - like the old washboard washing machine. There were a million nooks and crannies in that basement to make Stephen King drool.
Frequently, he would sit in his chair, me on his lap, our feet in the old oven for warmth. We would go over the quizzes in Readers Digest and enrich our vocabulary or read the jokes and antidotes to each other. And there wasn't a shady thing about him. What parent during this day and age would allow this kind of relationship? For me, there was never a threat, never a 'weird'. Although he did like to scare me when he saw I was walking carefully through his huge house. As I'd tentatively peek around corners, he would suddenly say 'LOOKOUT' and I'd scream. One time as he scared me, he did so with such vivaciousness that his glasses flew off his face.
His wife had died, I had self absorbed parents in constant chaos. We adopted one another.
I heard him talk to his wife when he'd walk through the other room in the house. He would look at her photo and call her "Gracie".
For years we went on like this. When he turned 90, we had a huge celebration for him at our house. The local newspaper came to do a story. I recall telling the reporter that the only difference between us was a zero. I was nine, he was 90. She made that the story's title.
I grew further away from him though as my parents split and we moved further away. I started to hang out with friends more and more. Eventually I brought boyfriends around who were worthy of Mr. Ericson's comments regarding their apparent heads of hair!
I will admit this here because it's part of the story and because I think I should. At some point I took advantage of this person who gave me everything that I'd asked for and then some. I knew there was a hidden stash of cash and dipped into it here and there. It's a horrible thing and I knew it as it was happening. At the time I was 13 and very much into myself and surrounding criminal posse. I never did get to admit it to him and apologize. So I will expose myself here.
Have I stolen since the teenage days? Absolutely not. Unless I won't get caught. Kidding. Unless it's a decent man's heart! Kidding again. Rambling. But the point being, I know how crappy it feels to take advantage like that and its no longer in my makeup. Or my shampoo.
How can we make a difference in this world? By paying it forward, by being involved. By giving yourself and doing it without grumbling. I can't say how I would have turned out without this man's guidance during those years. I am pretty sure though that I would be severely lacking in a very rich foundation for my childhood. Without him, I'd only have my parents issues to remember. Instead, for me, as twisted as it may sound to those who were born in the minority of non abusive, non dysfunctional homes, there is more of a balance on the scale. He couldn't undo what my home reality was, but he did somehow mix sweet with healthy and parfait it with the rest of my experience. He died at the age of 97 in 1986.
His big belief was that someday I would be a writer.
What can I do to help the world? At the very least, Time. Share my time. You never know how you will affect someone, even if they don't tell you. No matter what we do in or outside of our jobs, hobbies, and list of intentions for Someday, it couldn't hurt someone else to add a form of mentoring to the list. Even if, like Mr. Ericson, its basically the last thing you do.
Happy Birthday Mr. E! Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
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