Things I Learned from R. B. … August 9th, 2020

Jonathots Daily Blog

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Episode 27

I had never seen the house I rented for R. B. and the single mom with her kids, until one day she called and invited me over. I had refrained from interfering in their arrangement, allowing them to influence their own situation.

But she called me, upset because the house was stinking. She was positive it was coming from the upstairs and R. B.

She was caring—she did realize that he was sick, and that hygiene was not high on his concerns. But her children were complaining, and she felt it was her duty to let me know.

I told her I would be over in the early afternoon, and to let R. B. know of my visit.

Hanging up, I took a good fifteen minutes thinking about what I wanted to do—or maybe not do—upon arriving at the house.

I formulated a plan. I decided to pass on a tour of the downstairs, patted the children on their heads and headed up the narrow staircase to R. B.’s domain.

Rounding to the top, a bit winded because of the steepness of the climb, I looked over in the corner, and there he was, sleeping peacefully on a twin bed with no sheets.

Blessedly for me, Jan and Dollie had come along to assist. Immediately upon reaching the top and looking around, they launched into cleaning. Dollie took dirty clothes and Jan tackled the bathroom, which was speckled from the floor to the walls with what looked like dried human shit.

I decided to work on R. B.

I woke him from his nap, walked him over to a chair, sat him down, got myself a basin of warm water with shampoo, tilted his head back, moistened his hair and began to scrub.

I had never washed anyone’s hair before. His locks were so filthy that it took three pans of water to get them clean. I had no idea what I was washing out of his hair.

I just talked quietly into his ear—about old times, old songs and old promises.

He settled in, totally relaxed, as if it was merely an appointment with a caretaker, performed weekly.

After the washing was done, I grabbed a hair dryer and attempted to carefully brush out all the tangles. He had a huge head of graying strands, knotted, twisted, almost seeming to have no path to straightening.

I just took my time.

I felt silly. I felt pretentious.

But for the most part, I calmed those feelings and stayed focused on him.

It took about an hour and a half to gather the dirty clothes, clean the bathroom and wash R. B.’s hair. When it was done, the room smelled better, his hair was clean, and he was so at peace he had fallen asleep.

Knowing that I couldn’t leave him in the chair, I stirred him just enough to walk him over to his bed.

As I laid him down to sleep, Janet and Dollie brought a clean sheet and a blanket to tuck him in.

I stood over him and just looked at who he was.

I wanted to pray but I didn’t know what to pray. I didn’t know what to say.

The three of us stood quietly, side by side, as if at rigid attention.

Finally, I just proclaimed, “Amen”—to no prayer.

We turned and came down the stairs. The lady of the house continued to explain to us why she had called in the first place—how much she appreciated the assistance and how they all loved R. B.

I just nodded. It seemed ridiculous to me to criticize her for not doing what was painful for me to accomplish.

I didn’t want to wash dried food and shit out of his hair. I didn’t feel noble doing it.

I just felt like it was the only thing available for me to contribute.

Dear Man/Dear Woman: A Noteworthy Conversation … September 17th, 2016

 Jonathots Daily Blog

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Dear Woman: Do you want to have children?

 

Dear Man: No, but I’d like to have a family.

 

Dear Woman: What’s the difference?

 

Dear Man: Huge! A family is a group of people sitting around the living room, all of which have been potty trained and know the working end of a Kleenex, enjoying pizza night and watching Disney movies.

 

Dear Woman: And children would be…?

 

Dear Man: Creatures who suddenly appear, squalling and pooping everywhere, trying to control the environment.

 

Dear Woman: That’s pretty negative.

 

Dear Man: I’ve always found it better in life to work backwards from negative to find positive things, instead of leaping in with happy-go-lucky, to later retract your statements because of the abundance of weirdness.

 

Dear Woman: I would like us to have a baby.

 

Dear Man: You see, that’s the problem. Vestiges of male chauvinism and female oppression lie dead-center in the middle of this process of procreation. It’s further accentuated by the new domineering attitude–especially in black and Latino communities, which portray women as “Baby Mamas,” and these conquering studs spreading their seed across several different mothering units.

 

Dear Woman: Wow. That’s harsh. Maybe even racist.

 

Dear Man: Sexist is worse than racist. I don’t care if you’re black, brown, or whatever color you are–if you’re treating the mother of your children like she is a nanny, then you’re wrong.

 

Dear Woman: Well, I wanted to have children together.

 

Dear Man: But what does that mean? In our society, we have single moms, but single dads are kind of a joke. In other words, if a man stays home and decides to take care of his children we think he’s a lazy bum, but if a woman does it, she’s a responsible female who has made a positive choice for her youngsters.

 

Dear Woman: I can see that. But how would you rectify it? I mean, what would you do to even the playing field so men and women can be perceived as partners in this project of birthing and raising a child?

 

Dear Man: Get rid of sentimentality. Mother’s love is not stronger than father’s love–not in our species. A woman getting tears in her eyes because she’s thinking about her children does not mean she loves them more. You love them more if you work with your partner to turn them into decent human beings instead of rapists, serial killers, televangelists and politicians. And not necessarily in that order.

 

Dear Woman: I think I understand what you’re trying to say. You want me to be as invested emotionally, mentally and spiritually as you are forced to be physically.

 

Dear Man: Exactly. The same amount of effort it takes to transform my body into a birthing machine is the same kind of commitment I want both of us to have, to change ourselves into parenting units.

 

Dear Woman: So what would you change?

 

Dear Man: As I said, get rid of the sentimentality about mother’s love being superior to father’s love. Then involve the man in the process of the conception, birthing and raising of the child as an equal participant, not merely a bread-winner. And stop putting special significance on one sex over another when it comes to the care, maintenance and maturing of the child.

 

Dear Woman: I agree with all of that.

 

Dear Man: Maybe you do. But that will mean that most nights you’re not going to be able to go off with your buddies and watch the game, but instead, stay home with your child and me, watching the game on TV, laughing and doing puzzles.

 

Dear Woman: I can do that. Matter of fact, when you explain it this way, it seems like the way it should be. But because we want to maintain the superiority of the man over the woman, we manufacture this false sense of “ultimate motherhood.”

 

Dear Man: Absolutely. I don’t mind having children with you if we can change diapers, change attitudes and change directions as parents together.

 

Dear Woman: Most people will think that’s weird.

 

Dear Man: That’s why most people have children that are out of control instead of offspring they can be proud of.

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A Barn Yarn… August 18, 2013

Jonathots Daily Blog

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Many years ago a music group of which I was a member in fair standing was invited to a rustic resort in Western Minnesota to put on a concert. The brochure provided to explain the services of this facility were very enticing.

• Gorgeous cabins.
• Swimming pools.
• Hiking for those inclined.
• And buffet lines, stacked with freshly grilled hamburgers, and sweet corn— steaming, salted and buttered.

Needless to say, this music group of which I was a part was very excited to go to the facility, which was offered to believers who had grown tired of worldly toil, and who wanted to escape the rigors of a demented society and spend three days listening to Christian music, with public speakers brought in from all over the country to fill them with spirit.

The joint was aptly named Christian Retreat.

unfortunately, upon arrival we discovered that the cabins had been booked up and all they had available was one small compartment, which would not be acceptable for three–especially since I was a male intruder. So the girls skipped off to their living quarters and I was escorted … to a barn.

Now, when they told me I would be staying in a barn, I assumed it was a euphemism for a rustic facility, but one still worthy of human habitation. Climbing the crest of a hill, what I beheld was actually a barn–an Amish cathedral–complete with hay, stalls, John Deere tractors and cattle with their south ends pointed to my north.

I did not complain. I found an area they had set aside for human occupation which included straw beds and a shower they had rigged with a spigot protruding from a pipe and a wooden frame to stand upon and a hole dug to drain the excess watery parts from people like me.

I was sitting on a bale of hay when I was interrupted by the arrival of another gent. He started talking. I point this out because from the point that he commenced speech, he never stopped. He explained that he was a farm hand. He told me how difficult his day had been. Within three minutes, I had the full description of his mother’s nasty divorce from her abusive husband which left him with a single mom, working very hard, but still on food stamps.

All during the discourse he was disrobing in front of me, preparing to take his nightly shower, with no embarrassment whatsoever, and was eventually standing buck naked from the curly top of his head and simultaneously beneath.

I am not comfortable around naked people. Matter of fact, I prefer “lights off romance.” If I were a nudist, I would constantly be apologizing, making excuses and informing everyone that I planned on starting a weight loss regimen next week.

Not this fellow. He turned on the spigot, climbed up on the boards and proceeded to suds himself repeatedly.

I did not know where to look, so I stared down at my shoes. When he asked me what I was doing, I explained that I was an amateur cobbler and that I was considering taking the steps to repair my own footwear.

At this point he climbed down from the boards, fully foamy, and walked over to eyeball my shoes, to see if he might be able to assist in the cobbling

I made eye contact–not because someone in a seminar told me to, but more or less for emotional survival. He made some suggestions which I cannot remember, turned the other cheek, climbed back up on the boards and resumed his bubbly process.

I finally had enough and excused myself, explaining that I needed to go set up for the concert–and I instinctively grabbed my gym bag on the way out, knowing that unlike Douglas MacArthur, I had no intention of returning.

After the program that evening, I headed towards our beat-up van, climbed into the back, put together a make-shift pillow and stretched out to go to sleep. My partners in music were concerned, and asked me why I wasn’t going back to my accommodations.

I thought about telling them about my encounter with “the farmer’s son,” but instead replied, “I discovered I really DO have hay fever and don’t get along well with barn animals–especially when they talk.”

 

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