“Have you paid your dues, Jack? Yes, sir. The check is in the mail.” – Big Trouble in Little China
Note to regular readers: This post took a rather strange turn, as they sometimes do. I had the topic picked, and then started writing, and found that the subject and evening led to a very atypical post. I’m going to leave this one as it is. I fully expect Monday’s post to be more of the usual stuff.
One of my favorite quotes was from the science fiction writer Robert Heinlein, “When the ship lifts, all bills are paid. No regrets.” I read that line when I was 19 or so. I found it in The Notebooks of Lazarus Long. It was displayed in a little indy book store and it was one of those times that it seemed like the book found me, and not the other way around – it was the first thing I saw when I walked into the store.
The book store? That store stayed in business for about two months. The problem was that the store only had (and I’m not exaggerating) about three dozen different books. Looking back on it, I doubt that when the bookstore closed down that all the bills were paid – the landlord really should have seen that coming.
I thought about that phrase when I moved to Alaska with The Mrs. Moving to Alaska isn’t like moving from one state to another down in the Lower 48. The only real way out is by plane, and you’re not going unless you planned it. Were all my bills paid?
I made sure they were. Pa Wilder was quite old by that time. Before leaving for Alaska, I was quite clear in knowing that it was possible that when we moved was the last time I would ever see him alive. I made it a point then to tell him everything I needed to tell him, to share everything I could. I wanted him to be at peace, and I wanted to be at peace, too.
Prepping is for more than economic collapse.
Thankfully, Pa lived more than a decade after when we moved. He even visited us in Alaska and finally down into Houston when we moved back to the continental United States.
In my mind, there’s a part of me that always sees him in his prime. That was back when I was 12 and Pa was the father that would work 50 hours a week at the bank. Then Pa would come home and work my brother John (yes, that’s his name, our parents were classically uncreative) and me for 20 hours over the long summer weekend days hauling and stacking firewood for the cold winter nights up at the compound on Wilder Mountain.
When I thought of him, I always remembered that impossibly tall and competent man of my youth. When he visited Alaska I was fully six inches taller than him, and the strong arms that had swung a sledgehammer in a mighty arc to split wood with a steel wedge were now thin with age, his walk hesitant and slow.
But he was still dad.
One thing I always did, however, was try to leave each conversation with him as a complete conversation, a capstone if you will. I wanted to make sure that absolutely every time I talked to him I was leaving nothing unsaid. I wanted to make sure he knew exactly what I felt.
Pa Wilder lived twenty-five years longer than he expected. But around the time I was moving to Alaska, I could sense a change in him. The emails that he wrote gradually developed grammatical and spelling errors. This was a change. Previously, Pa had been as precise as an English-teaching nun in grammar and spelling.
It was a sign. Pa was declining.
Over time, the decline increased. I can still recall the last time I talked to him and he recognized me. After spending two days with him, he finally looked at me and said, “You’re John, aren’t you.”
Beyond that, we had some pleasant times, but I could tell that he didn’t recognize me. One time he looked at me and said, “Who are you?”
“I’m your son, John.”
There was not even a glimmer of recognition in his eyes.
When word came from my brother that Pa Wilder had passed (this was years and years ago) The Mrs., The Boy, Pugsley, and I went to his funeral. As The Mrs. and I had a private moment between all of the orchestrated family events, she asked me, “Is there anything you need to share? Are you doing alright?”
To be clear – I did miss and do miss Pa. But I had made sure that everything that I ever needed to say to him had been said. My conscience was clear. I know that, whenever he had a clear moment, he knew that I loved him. And I knew he loved me.
I had no unresolved issues.
It’s one thing to read the phrase, “When the ship lifts, all bills are paid. No regrets,” and another to understand it as time passes and wisdom increases. When Pa Wilder passed, I understood it. I looked deep into myself and understood that all the bills were paid. I had no regrets.
The Mrs. had a different experience entirely with the passing of her father several months ago. Due to COVID restrictions, he had spent the last months of his life with absolutely no physical contact, no presence of his family. He had been recovering from surgery in a nursing home, and never recovered enough to be discharged.
For month after month, he spent his time alone, with nothing but phone calls from those he loved.
The Mrs. was very upset about this. Heck, The Mrs. is still upset about this – the process of paying those last bills was cruelly interrupted. She had more things to say to him – and I understand that. There are things I’d dearly like to say to Ma Wilder, but that ship lifted too early, and now those bills can never be paid, at least not in full.
I try now to make each meeting, each contact with those around me that I love one where they know exactly where they stand with me, and vice versa. The idea of continuing my life with those bills, or leaving those bills with someone else isn’t something I want.
To be very clear: what brought this topic to mind wasn’t anything in particular, just the thought that this has been a helpful philosophy for me. I do know that the future is uncertain, so I try to live my life so I don’t have those regrets, and try to manage my relationships so that there’s never anything left unsaid.
The check is in the mail.
I fell into a vat of chemicals once. My quick reaction nearly killed me.
