“Hello, Dear Reader.” Actually, I would be more hopeful to say, “Hello, Dear Readers!” I hope there are more than one of you out there.
Many times I approach writing, as Mark Twain prolifically stated, “. . . like an envelope without any address . . .” This state is commonly called “writer’s block,” and at times it seems I have enough blocks to build a high wall. Though it might take longer, it is easier to put thoughts into words. Writing leaves lots of room for correction, though public speaking is unforgiving. I have to either speak or write, for I’m like the man Billy Wilder noted had Van Gogh’s ear for music.
Moses Hadas once wrote an author, “Thank you for sending me a copy of your book. I’ll waste no time reading it.” One of the joys of writing is this—people who don’t want to read what I have to write don’t have to waste their time, or mine either, for that matter. I had the joy of telling my wife just yesterday that she was the second woman that day who had told me to shut up. All three of us, and others, too, would probably have felt better if they could just have tossed the paper or used the mouse to scroll past.
Sometimes it’s hard to tolerate difficult people. We all encounter some who, as Paul Keating noted, as just shivers looking for a spine to run up. Stephen Bishop might have had such a person in mind when he related, “I feel so miserable without you it’s almost like having you here.”
It is particularly hard to deal with those who are in love with themselves. Speaking of one such lady, Charles, Count Talleyrand said, “In order to avoid being called a flirt, she always yielded easily.” Some people must always be the center of attention, no matter the occasion. John Bright aptly said about one such person, “He is a self-made person and worships his creator.”
Oscar Wilde recognized one man who “. . . has no enemies, but is intensely disliked by his friends.” A person can become so exasperated with someone that they might say, “I won’t even come to your funeral when you die.” Mark Twain once said, “I didn’t attend the funeral, but I sent a nice letter saying I approved of it.”
One of the greatest honors that I feel can be bestowed is the honor of serving as pallbearer. I once visited a friend who was near death. She asked me if I would be a pallbearer at her funeral. I told her I would be honored and would gladly do so if her family was agreeable. Obviously her spouse had other ideas, for I was not asked to serve. That was fine—the fact that my former classmate thought enough of me to ask was honor enough.
There was one time in my life that I refused the honor. An acquaintance once told me that I would be asked to serve as pallbearer at his relative’s funeral. I said nothing, the first sign that I did not wish that particular honor. About the third time this acquaintance broached the subject, I flat out stated that I could not in good conscience carry that person to the grave, as that individual had deeply hurt me in the past. Forgiveness is sometimes difficult. Many times the consequences of unforgiveness are as bad or worse. Throughout the years, I have come to see that I let a few instances of hurt overshadow a multitude of good that person and family did for me. I have regretted more than once not accepting the honor. Therein lies the difference of maturity in the twenties versus the fifties.
My world of email, if the quotes are accurate, shows that I am not the only person who has had problems with relating to others. Disraeli also had conflicts. A member of Parliament once told Disraeli, “Sir, you will either die on the gallows or of some unspeakable disease.” Disraeli, seemingly with little or less regard for the legislator, replied, “That depends, Sir, whether I embrace your policies or your mistress.” I suppose either of these men could say to the other, as did Churchill, “He has all the virtues I dislike and none of the vices I admire.”
I was taught somewhere along the way to never use a complicated word when a simple one would suffice. My very use of the word “suffice” in the prior sentence lets you know, Dear Reader, that I do not always heed the advice I am given. William Faulkner once said of Ernest Hemingway, “He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary.”
Thank you one more time, Dear Reader, for taking time to consider my ponderings. I hope after reading this you don’t feel like Groucho Marx when he said, “I’ve had a perfectly wonderful evening. But I’m afraid this wasn’t it.”