“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.
It can be easy to get caught up in the big picture stuff around us and forget the basics of humanity. Good reminder.
It is. Sometimes these posts just crop up.
My older sister passed last month from cancer. We had a somewhat rocky relationship; she being a hardcore liberal and me being conservative. We said some things to each other thru the years at family functions, always after a few cocktails. Nothing real nasty, but we both knew we were totally different people and would never see eye to eye on most anything. Anyway, I can’t explain the relief and happiness I felt to be able to tell her I loved her and she’d always be my big sister right before she passed. Even though we waited too long, at the end we both smiled and understood.
Exactly. Life is too short to not whisper thanks through those doors that are closing for a lifetime.
The kids started to chide me for infrequent lapses a few years ago, but remained respectful, ever respectful. On our recent visit across the country, however, the first since Covid struck, there was not much ribbing directed my way, and I found it a little unnerving. I am too close to the action to notice my own slow decline, but they did. I read it in their eyes.
We are stoics, at least the men in the family. Teasing, kidding, making light of one another’s foibles is how we bond, my boys and me. We don’t wear our hearts on our sleeves. We don’t group hug. We leave the touchy-feely sh!te to the women in our lives, who roll their eyes at our immaturity and tsk-tsk for our emotional stuntedness. I honestly wouldn’t have it any other way.
I hope my children remember me the way that you recall Pa Wilder in his prime. Being tall and mesomorphic, a lifelong athlete and weightlifter, I can only imagine what a monolith I was to them when they were growing up. We watched in deep dismay as my in-laws deteriorated, mind and body, literally fading before our eyes. I don’t want to put our children through that.
Quite a somber post today, JW. No lame puns, no infectious optimism. But most importantly, no regrets.
I really look at at that part of my life as a gift – I felt that I was good, at peace, and if something happened, I had said all one man can say to another.
Shower the people you love with love. Show them the way that you feel. James Taylor
I try and live by this creed as best as I can.
Exactly. The downside is I still have to be Dad, which requires me to likewise sit in as judge over decisions made. But I try to judge first, and hug second.
Hugs can’t be taken back.
When I was in my mid 30’s I side-stepped off a loading doc and tore out my knee. I would be in a full leg splint until the doctors figured out what to do. I sat at home wondering why this happened and feeling sorry for myself. The next day, my dad dropped in with coffee and donuts. We had several hours together talking and laughing about life. One day later, he had a massive stroke and died the day after that.
If I had not been injured, he and I would have never had those final hours together. Such are the Blessings of the LORD God.
Thank you for sharing that. It isn’t out of good times that many blessings come, but out of tough times. It is its own blessing to be able to see that.
Spot on today. Lost mom 30 plus years ago, often told my kids to tell Grandparents they loved them and get that hug as often as you can because once you can’t you miss it immediately and from then on. Proud how they performed. Parents gone several years now but got the luxury of caring for the in-laws till their last day as I did for my parents and oldest brother. Hard as it was would not trade it for the world, consider it a treasured time.
Yes – because that’s one thing that there is absolutely not amount of treasure that you can trade for: peace.
Even after years, I’ve found myself thinking of reaching for the phone to call a family member that’s passed. I think this is normal, and a constant reminder of how things to be said are best not kept until too late.
I still have the last voicemail from my father on my phone from 2010… and the last one from my late youngest brother, who died from covid back in August.
I have several numbers in my phone that I don’t have the strength to delete, even though the owner of the line has long passed.
Wise words, sir. My pa died in my arms after playing some hoops with the grandkids. Ma, long drawn out Alzheimers. Love is the only way through. Ohio Guy
It is. And it’s the one thing that the more you give, the more it enriches you.
The Wuhandemic is to get rid of the oldsters so that the future lifetime CPUSA mommygov dependents can have some social security income.
Seventeen nations have banned one of the experimental mark of the err I mean vaccines due to blood clotting and blood blisters forming on hands and arms.
We have been taken over by enemies foreign and domestic but remember the Stockdale conundrum and the fat lady is lounging and snoring.
Pappy always said go as long and as far as you can but he may have got that from the 101st LRRP days.
He pulled me aside at 18 and said whatever you do don’t sign up with Uncle Sam and this was years before the woke Red Guards pretty red high heels fabulous military that is destined to be curb stomped by external enemies.
This is a feature and not a bug to the fifth column of burn it all down infiltrators.
Our ancestors are facepalming with tears up in Valhalla but the Long March Through the Institutions started a long time ago in the ivory towers of academia.
I just try to live my life so my ancestors know I did my best.
I need to hit the rack, so this might be abrupt. It sounds like your Mrs. and my Mr. were having a similar experience. My deepest sympathies to her.
Here’s what I grew up with from my grandmother, a pastor’s wife in a community so poor the richest landowner was known to be so because all six of his kids had shoes. After you’ve been to enough funerals for folks whose lives you know well… You don’t need any money to remember to give roses to the living, instead of lilies to the dead.
Amen. There is no amount of money or shiny gold coffin that will help a dead man. But the living? That’s where love is far better than gold.
John – – Poignant and touching. Thanks for reminding me about my father’s long demise with dementia’s onset.
I made it a point to see him four times a week or more. After visiting, I would almost always drive home in tears because I could see his slipping and knew that I was losing him a little bit every day.
When he died my Mom and I were there, but neither of us cried. We were just relieved that his suffering had been eliminated.
We, and many cried at his funeral.
Thank you. Yes, I felt that hollowness when you realize that the man you knew is no longer. I am thankful that I left him knowing how I feel about him.
I’ve got a free evening, but it makes no difference. This one is too hard to reply to properly. A tribute to your writing, Mr. Wilder.
And thank you to the readers with the grit to tell their stories. I don’t have it in me.
Thank you. Like I said, this was one that just emerged and took a big left turn. I figure that happens one out of 50 times, so roughly three times a year.
Some stories gain for the telling, others are kept close. Both are what makes us human.
An excellent piece of advice. My Dad died suddenly from a heart attack in our parents backyard. He had no idea that the slight discomfort he was experiencing the previous days was a warning. He disregarded it – ‘Ill be right as rain’. We had told him if we wanted to take him to the doctor. He waved us off. My only unsaid thought with him was that I hoped I was half the Dad to my children he was to me. I did get to say that to him in the hospital room as the respirator breathed for him. I hope he heard me.
Mom’s demise was long and we made sure nothing was left unsaid. I am more at peace with her death – it was a mercy. I miss them both terribly. But I am sure I will catch up to them later on The Path.
Hey John, thanks for sharing.
Something that has helped me get past the ‘unsaid things rattling around in my brain’ is a little ritual that I use.
Write down everything that you didn’t get to say, good and bad. On paper, by hand. Really take the time and do it. Then, make a fire (firepit on the patio is fine, but I need a separate fire going all by itself) and when it’s time, burn your paper.
Let the ashes and smoke take the words where they need to go.
This gave me a very good sense of finality and helped more than once to stop the mental turmoil.
nick
Very nice. I have one thing (not Pa related) that I might want to try that on . . . .