Opening the Valve
Atlanta, GA
May 2, 2020
My wife is marvelous in many ways.
She is beautiful, intelligent, benevolent…and diplomatic. She can lift her husband’s ego, while keeping his feet on the ground.
Earlier this week, she did both at the same time.
“You should start a blog,” she told him, as his chest expanded and his pride swelled…
…“instead of sending all these emails to us.”
Unbeknownst to her, he followed the first part of this advice a couple years ago, but kept it to himself.
Whenever he sent these missives to the innocent bystanders whose only offense was to share his blood or marry his relative, he also posted them to a website none of them knew existed.
He created the site as a storage shed. Like a back corner of a basement or the far reaches of an attic, it was a place for mindless memorabilia and trivial trinkets. He used it to stash the rusted bolts, pipes, and fittings of a leaky mind. Now, he is opening the valve, allowing the effluence to wash upon a wider world.
Fortunately, observers of current events are accustomed to wallowing in sewage. Their newest septic tank can be found at jdbreendiary.com. But emails may persist nonetheless.
Like a prairie dog in March, our brows peek tentatively from our burrows. Last week Georgia’s governor lengthened our leash. Barber shops, massage parlors, and tattoo shops were free to open. This week the state added a few more links to its citizens’ chains. Heads are beginning to peer over walls, like Kilroy on Guadalcanal.
Customers can now sit inside a restaurant, or enjoy a movie in a theater. But bars remain closed and waitresses wear masks, perpetuating awareness of the dystopia in which we live. Some precaution is warranted…but so is liberty.
This diagram, making recent rounds on the interweb, seems a relatively reasonable place to be.
Any beacon of sanity is welcome in this dark age. State parks are opening. But the Union still holds Kennesaw Mountain and the Chattahoochee National Recreation Area, so they must be invaded surreptitiously.
Parking lots to those serene…and spacious…retreats are cordoned like the entrance to a crime scene. So the Rebels are left with no choice. They dismount their cavalry of cars just outside the yellow tape and orange barrels, then outflank the Yankee fortifications on foot.
Most of us continue to bide our hibernation, and seek diversion at home. A stock chart of Netflix, Snap, or Facebook reveals the tunnel thru which most have crawled to escape their extended tedium. I am now tapping on the trowel with which it was dug, our greatest source of distraction and thief of time.
The cell phone is to man what a squirrel is to a dog. We leap at every vibration, beep, or ring. It is the device for which we instinctively reach when any moment of inactivity graces our day.
Most putatively worthwhile screen time is really just an excuse not to tend to more important matters. Constantly checking the weather or monitoring the gold price seems important, but is usually unnecessary and often detrimental. We can’t do anything about either, and we can be lured into worthless worrying or poor decisions.
So we lift our eyes, come up for air, and enjoy other pursuits. Like Cistercians confined to our abbey, we seek refuge in writing, comfort in prayer, and solace in books.
Books provide escape…to other places, and other times. Last week I ventured across the Atlantic, and a million years into the past.
It was a time before cell phones. People wrote letters and read books. They spoke face to face, in close proximity. And they received local news each day rather than distant irrelevancies every few minutes.
I have been to the south of France several times. The most recent was over a decade ago. My first visit was ten years after the late Peter Mayle wrote A Year in Provence.
In that era, stereotypical humor was still allowed, smokers weren’t ostracized, time passed leisurely, and only two sexes had been invented. Tourists flocked to small town plazas teeming with open air markets. Neighbors crammed into corner cafés, and congregated at local restaurants. Cappuccino, beer, or pastis launched each day. Wine, espresso, and marc washed it down.
I first read Mayle’s engaging account twenty years ago. Last week I reminded myself how breezy and charming it is. The stories are hilarious, the writing witty, the characters wonderful. Some are instantly recognizable.
Anyone who shares second homes with seasonal guests can relate to being asked for rides to the airport, or reminded that they are out of gin or short on toilet paper. A few can probably relate to me saying it.
Bennett, one of Mayle’s Summer guests, reminded me of someone in our extended family. That person receives these epistles, so shall remain nameless. But he knows who he is.
Like this relative, Bennett was kind, charming, clever, and engaging – the Mayles’ favorite guest. Conversations with Bennett could extend well into the night, yet seem to take no time at all. Just like our family analog…
…but…
without our relative’s periodic, predictable (and now eponymous) … pregnant pauses.
The parallels continue…
Bennett told great stories, and enjoyed a good glass of wine. He might casually spill it while looking at his watch, and never notice the fresh stain on his shirt. The remnant (or a refill) would accompany him to his room, and the empty glass would be discovered months later…under the bed next to a forgotten article of clothing or a cleaned-out carton of ice cream.
Travelers Cheques were rarely cashed, flight arrangements were often forgotten. Both were no doubt buried under an avalanche of unopened mail and unread newspapers. Upon arrival, Bennett’s luggage would explode, leaving contents scattered across a room like mortar shrapnel on the Marne.
We don’t know if painters ever completed work on half the exterior of Bennett’s home before he knew they were there…and then realized they were working on the wrong house. But if they had, he no doubt would have shrugged, informed them of their error, and left it as it was, just as our genial relative did.
Few are more considerate, and none more generous, than this carefully concealed member of our family. He is always as welcoming a host as he is welcomed as a guest. No gathering is complete without him, and all are diminished by his absence.
It is no wonder we think of our mystery kin as Mayle thought of his lively visitor. He is, without doubt, one of our favorite people…which is why I am so conscientious about maintaining his respect … and preserving his anonymity.
