The Greatest Possible Good

The day after St. Patrick’s Day, and it is snowing.  The afternoon was bright and sunny, but with evening’s approach, the wind has pulled black clouds out of the mountains.  Now dinnertime, spring has recessed and winter returned.

It is quite pretty, in fact.  Large white flakes set starkly against the grey sky, dark trees, brown grass, exposed dirt. It flies down from on-high with the strength of a blizzard, and I stand at the window and pray it will maintain this noir-like state throughout the night, if not the week. Even as I do so, some poor soul peddles by the house on his bike.

But in this pine-paneled room, with my feet propped up, sitting in my great-grandmother’s rocking chair, I feel disinclined to venture outside.  A storm is ideal for these moods.  Sun goads me into exercise when I least want it. Give me instead the warm glow of a desk lamp, a cup of tea, the challenge of composition, safely buffered from the wintery blast. Within minutes, though, there is a threatening glow to the west, and spring will encroach once more before sunset.

St. Patrick’s Day is not a passive holiday in our family.  It is celebrated with the honor reserved only for Thanksgiving and Easter in most homes. We mark it with the traditional American-Irish meal. We wear green and chastise those who do not.  We watch The Quiet Man in the evenings, this year while sipping Irish coffee. Our Irish heritage is not, I suppose, overwhelming.  My great-great -grandparents were immigrants from Ireland in the 1860s. My great-grandfather was full Irish; my grandfather half; my mother a quarter; and, well, you see where this is going.  But my grandfather was immensely proud of this heritage, and why not? I believe the first things he ever gave me in this world included my nickname, Sam, and two bibs, one which read “I'm a happy Irish baby” and another proclaiming “My Grandpa is Irish”.  So our Irish-ness has been not only bred into us but trained into us as well.

I suppose we value this St. Patrick’s Day tradition because Grandpa valued it, and it is nice to keep it alive.  For a man who was typically reticent about his life, here is one of the things we can lay claim to as being “him.”

H.C. Lynch was born in 1905.  Over the course of his life he would marry twice, have six children and eleven (eleven?) grandchildren.  He would attend the University of Washington and McGill University, join the Navy in World War II as a doctor, join the faculty of the American College of Surgeons (of which his father had been a founding member), and set up a medical campus in his hometown near the city’s major hospitals.  All of this, and more, he would accomplish, but throughout all of it he would remain a distant, often cold, father.

Is it, I often wonder, a tribute to a man when his children and grandchildren can recite his accomplishments the way they might recite an entry from the encyclopedia? I shouldn't say it like that.  These acheivements are things which we all remember with pride, with very great pride.  I would say, almost as if his having done so much somehow frees us (and by us I mean me) from having to be impressive.  Someone has done that already.  I can brag about him.  But then I hear the stories of his fatherhood, and I think, perhaps, there was room for improvement too, as there always is.

The trouble comes, however, when we try to impose our own ideals onto other people. Grandpa's own father had been so distant from his children you would really have to consider him absentee. Grandpa and his sister, Margarett, whose mother died when they were young, were raised partly by their father, C.J., but also by their aunts. So, I think, when Grandpa approached being a parent, he based his own techniques off of the one example he had of fatherhood.  My mom remembers him being hard on her and her siblings.  Nightlights were not allowed in darkened bedrooms, nor were visits to the parents' room.  Fights between he and my grandmother and, occasionally, his sons could only be classified as legendary. Compliments were rarely paid, and demonstrations of affection were infrequent or nonexistant. To top it all, he was an absolute chauvinist. And those are just the highlights.

But, as I said, my ideals (which are modern) of parenthood would never have been my Grandpa's ideals.  So often we tend to look on the practices of previous generations as backward or old fashioned.  We derisively assume that because we are working with the most current information available, we are the superior in everything from parenthood to science to tolerance.  I think, in fact, we would be alarmed to find that, in many cases, the opposite is true. But I digress.

When I was seven, Grandpa passed away.  Years later my mom told me how she and her brothers sat around the dining room table recalling Grandpa's less shining moments as a parent.  At a pause in the conversation, my uncle said, "I guess we'll be going to the gravesite with shovels." It was, Mom says, a coping mechanism, and she's right, of course.  But I think it's also a reflection of their desire to have known more about their father, specifically that he loved them.  I say this because the stories are still told from time to time, perhaps not as a collection or with the same grief-driven voracity, but those lower points of my grandfather's parenting are ever-present.

Now, to make an awkward transition, I think of a phrase used by my pastor in a sermon he gave: The Greatest Possible Good.  What does it mean to live toward that? My pastor suggested that it means to live toward the greatest good for our society, not just for ourselves. However, sometimes I believe that living for the greatest good in our families and among our friends is the most difficult of all, yet these are the people who feel our influence the most.  I like to imagine myself becoming an influential writer, capable of stirring my readers to action, capable of quelling violence with the stroke of a pen (or, more accurately, a key stroke), capable of promoting a true, substantive tolerance between activists and politicians and religious leaders.  But my dreams unravel when I remember that, at times (let me just emphasize that, at times), simply being civil to my younger siblings and parents and sundry others proves too great a challenge.  I am mightily hot tempered.

There is a very good possibility that I inherited this from my Grandpa.  Several months ago, as my Mom and I were going through some old newspaper clippings, we found a letter that had been written to the editor of The Yakima Herald Republic regarding my grandfather.  It was written in the weeks after his death, and the writer reminded the community of what a treasure they had lost.  He had been a devoted physician, a capable member of various boards.  I'd love to quote it right now, but I don't know where it is.  The point is, I was stunned. To read about my grandfather from this perspective was odd and refreshing.  Grandpa had worked for the good of his community and his patients, quitting only when HMOs disallowed him from practicing medicine the way he felt he ought.

Knowing this about him is very nice indeed, but nicer still are the other stories my mom often recalls. She tells me now that, when she remembers certain special things he did for her, she realizes that those were his way of saying, "I love you." He may not have been there when she received her high school diploma, but he was there the first time she dined on top of the Space Needle, even setting a matchbook on the ledge by their table so she could see how the room rotated.  By the time the meal ended, they had come full circle, returning to that matchbook. He took her to her first Huskies' game, renting a penthouse just for the occasion.

Perhaps the most difficult thing is verbalizing our feelings, but often actions work just as well, if not better.  If Grandpa had been better at conveying his feelings for his children would these special moments he shared with his daughter be quite so special?  This is probably the best lesson I can take from my grandfather: that with family and friends the gift of time is often the most precious, whether atop the Space Needle, in a penthouse, or at the utility sink executing impromptu science lessons.

Ah yes, I have saved the best story for last: When my mother was a young girl, she has told me this story many times, her dad had one of their cows butchered, and he kept some of the organs. He brought the heart into the utility area of the house and put it in the sink. Then, with scalpel in hand, called my mother over to the sink and proceeded to dissect the organ and show her, as I'm sure only a surgeon can, the chambers of the heart. If that isn't profound symbolism, then l don't know what is.

My Top Ten(ish) Pet Peeves of 2012 (so far)

I believe that it is duly time for me to post a list of my top ten pet peeves.  Why? Because it's better than posting a list of my top 100 pet peeves.  But seriously, I feel like it's the appropriate time because, well, because.  Readers may find this list self-serving and self-contradictory, and it is entirely both.  Hopefully it isn't too heavy-handed, but then, how else would one deal with pet peeves?

1. Beverage drinking in church.  I mean, really, you can't live without your half-caf, half-decaf white mocha frap (or cup of joe or gallon of water) for an hour? Have we really become such an impatient society that not even God warrants 60-90 hydration free minutes a week?

2. Households which expect all who enter to remove their shoes.  Now, I understand this as a reflection of a person's culture or religion, but I do not understand it as a general requirement for people who were foolish enough to put white carpeting in their houses.  Of course, I'm probably one of the few who gets their nerves tweaked by this request anymore; however, I do firmly believe that there are ways of making this request that are more polite and considerate than simply leaving a basket by the front door for everyone to stack their shoes in.  My Emily Post's Etiquette book informs me that making a polite request of friends and family to remove their shoes is fine, especially when inclement seasons are longer.  But, she does advise leaving slippers or sandals out for guests to wear.  This avoids the awkward I'm-in-my-bare/stocking-feet feeling.  Also, the formality of the event comes into play as does your familiarity with the people you are inviting into your home.

3. Double dipping.  Blech.  That one bowl of dip has to be shared by a group of people who may not want it seasoned with your saliva. My aversion to this practice has earned me a reputation for being a germ-a-phobe, which I find odd because it's blatantly inconsiderate.  Let me quote Peggy Post: "Don't be a double dipper.  One chip, cracker, shrimp, veggie, or fruit tidbit is for one dip, and only one, in the bowl.  Double dipping is unsanitary and inconsiderate of the hosts, who will have to toss out a dip when they catch a double dipper" (452).  Thank you.  That is all (for number 3).

4. Newborns out and about -- not on their own, obviously.  I am referring again to my beef with impatience (see number 1). Infants -- little, tiny, pink things just barely out of the womb -- seem to be joining their moms at the mall more frequently (or has it just suddenly come to my attention?). Isn't really unwise to expose these infants to the wider world of germs?  Not that I'm suggesting zipping them into a bubble for the first month of their lives -- well, maybe I am.

5. Other drivers.  I'm not even kidding.  I wish I was, but I generally find that other drivers often fail to signal, forget the rules of four-way stops, swerve over the yellow line and back as they text their friends that they're, like, on their way.  But especially people who have the gall to suggest that I could ever be at fault in my own driving. Sheesh.  The nerve.

6.  Customers who come into stores right before or at closing.  Now that I work in retail, my suspicions -- developed over years of being a customer -- have been confirmed: those sales clerks do not like customers who absent-mindedly wander into stores at 5:57 when the store closes at 6:00. Especially when said customer's visit is obviously not going to be quick.  I dread the customer who wanders in 30 seconds to closing, hands behind his back, carefully perusing every rack of clothing, every shoe, every tent pole, spork, and magnesium fire starter in sight. Please, stores post hours out of courtesy.  Be courteous in return and check them.

7. Academics who arrogantly dismiss anything they see as pedestrian or sophomoric as being ... pedestrian and sophomoric. To be fair, it isn't just academics who do this.  There are a wide range of high-minded elitists who take delight in shredding books/music/films that they don't see as providing the right kind of intellectual stimulation -- never mind enjoyment, sentiment, humor.  Those are symptoms of weakness.

8. Conversely, self-seeking air heads who don't believe there's any value in education.  Because, like, it's more important to be rich and beautiful than it is to be, like, smart? (Up talk.)  But I am also referring to those who feel that no benefit comes from reading the works of dead people nor from learning of the escapades of dead generations (I mean literature and history... just to be clear). I remember reading an article on a gentleman who said that every time he saw a library he saw an archaism. He didn't put it that way, but he gave the distinct impression that he wanted to see the libraries taken down because the internet holds the future.  He was/is not an airhead (I like to think of him that way, though). He was just narrow minded, which is as bad. It occurs to me, however, that his world is restricted to 1's and 0's.  And that's a little sad.

9.  People who exercise too much.  Don't misunderstand me here.  I know plenty of people who love exercise in its many varieties, but they have lives beyond fitness.  The people I am referencing are those who assume life isn't worth living without constant physical exertion -- and are arrogant about it to boot.  Spandex bike jerks in California; mud-splattered triathletes in Oregon; marathoners in Utah -- wherever.  It doesn't matter.  Just please stop strutting around like your 0 per cent body fat and addiction to exercise are super cool.  They're actually super obnoxious.  Regale me not with tales of your latest survival whilst glissading down Mt. Rainier's glaciers for the umpteenth time. Please refrain from explaining to me the difference between mountain biking, street biking and banana biking.  I get the general idea.  You have pushed your body to its extreme limits and will probably have titanium hips by the time you're fifty.  Hooray!

10. Conversely, people who don't exercise at all, or who do so at such a snail's pace it seems hardly possible they're burning any more calories than they do in front of the computer. And then said folks complain about not losing weight.  Our bodies were made to move.  So move.

And finally, to end on an odd number, my eleventh pet peeve (I lied. There are eleven not ten.)

11.  Pet peeve lists.  Yes, I find people like me highly reprehensible. Do I have nothing better to do with my life than sit around and come up with a list of complaints?  What a loser!  God, save us from ourselves.  Here I am, relatively happy and healthy.  I am allowed to practice my faith, vote as I see fit, eat to the content of my over-eater's heart, and communicate freely with friends and family.  So many things in my world are right that it seems utterly churlish to complain about a few incidentals.  But from time to time I do, if only to alleviate myself of pet peeve-related anxiety.