Old Buddy, Old Pal

Yes, I know I misspelled Buddy Ebsen's name in last night's posting; I wrote "Epsen". Now perhaps I was thinking he invented the printer --which would have been a misspelling of Epson-- or that he lived to be as old as salt --which would have been a misspelling of Epsom--but whatever I was thinking, I was wrong.

And I'm not going to make it right. I'm drawing my line in the imaginary sand of my own neuroses and letting it ride, wrong forever. This is a way bigger deal for me than for you, dear reader, but indulge me a bit; I do have a point coming.

When I was 15, I tripped and fell on either the poorly maintained carpeting or a vacuum cord in a nationally-known big box store and I apologized to the sales lady for doing so. That same year --or was it the next?-- I was the victim of a prank played by "friends" which led to me being injured in a big fall from a big horse (his name was actually "Whoa Damnit"), and I apologized for that one too. When I was 17, I was injured in a fall on work equipment...yeah, you guessed it. So in my teensy, tiny way letting Buddy go on in perpetuity as "Epsen" somehow makes all that other stuff seem less important, seem to have less of a hold on me now. Thank you, Buddy.

I am, however, even happier with myself that I've been up for three hours now and I just remembered the error. That, my friends, is within spitting distance of miracle territory!

So as I was reading the opinion columns in today's local rag, I came across a lovely essay by The Washington Posts' Kathleen Parker; not a columnist with whom I find myself in earnest opinion on a regular basis, but I do very regularly enjoy what she has to say. Today she was on about civility. It seems she was in an elevator in New York's Presbyterian Hospital when she and about a half dozen others found themselves in the presence of a cursing woman and her berated but insolent son. The "lady" was evidently taken with the MF word, and made sure there were enough of them littering the elevator floor that her fellow travelers could take them along as well.

KP was not doing her duty of calling out the sinner nor was she wielding a picket sign and pounding a bible a la the Women's Christian Temperance Union, but she was reminding her readers that we all co-own public space and that we should think about how we use it and what the rights of those using it with us may be. Hey, I've been threatened with imprisonment for not giving up a source and have filed Freedom of Information Act paperwork to procure illegally withheld documents in my journalistic past, so no one has to instruct me on the importance and utter righteousness of our First Amendment provisions. But Kathleen was attending the birth of her grand-niece and now that memory is all wrapped up in the slimy, vitriolic rant of an angry mother. It's as if you look at an old photo and remember the argument you had with your child about what to wear in it. Not a pleasant attachment.

Kathleen said it way better than could I: "A vile invader, she made coarse and unlovely a period of time that was not her own." Made coarse and unlovely a period of time...isn't that a poignantly gorgeous string of words?

So I wondered, if I was reading my blog post from last evening as an outside observer would I or would I not have been civil with myself? Would I have laughed and mumbled "idiot" under my breath? Would I have developed a notion complete with backstory about this fool? Or, would I have smiled and thought nobody's perfect, I'll give her that one? On different occasions I have no doubt that the answer would shift, and that's work I need to undertake, whether I'm in public or not.

But for now I think Buddy probably forgives me and I forgive myself so that is more than enough. As the blind piano tuner explained in an episode of the greatest TV show ever, "Northern Exposure", the fine rug makers always leave one knot untied. So you know it was made by a person, so the recipient has room to add themselves to the art. He equated it to the rests in music, the spaces between the notes that are just as much a part of the piece as the written and played notes. I've also heard of, adopted, and felt that outlook whenever I discover a rock with a hole in it; "holey stones" some traditions call them. Long ago a spiritualist shared with me the idea that the hole is there so as to allow you the finder to imbue the stone with whatever quality of yours you wish it to possess. I like that. It comforts me. But then again, I have always kept rocks--and wood, and rusty metals--in my living environment.

So as I leave that blemish of a letter "p" to adorn my post like that scarlet "A" of Hawthorne's, I hope you will look upon it not with disgust, but with the unvarnished human qualities of grace and kindness. And while I'm sure it is not my first blogging error, nor will it be my last, I will continue to work on my psyche and my "writer's spelling curse" if you will indulge in the appreciation of the occasional "untied knot".