Rehearse Life Roles Each Day

Each of us has several roles in our lives. Some are mothers, wives, employees. Others are fathers, sons, husbands. Most are also friends to another or many. Some are runners, golfers, quilters and writers. Some roles require similar skills and talents. Many roles demand different skills and talents and varying degrees of dedication and passion.

We usually excel in those roles for which we are very passionate. Passion drives us to be the best father and best husband. Sometimes, though, being passionate about an endeavor doesn’t necessarily equate to excellent outcomes. I am passionate about golf. One can argue that I’m addicted to the game. However, passion aside, I’m not a very skilled golfer. Likewise, I was once a devoted runner. I never won any running awards, but I certainly gave my best whenever I ran a race.

The thought occurred to me that life is but a play, a theatrical production. Each person is an actor in her own lifelong play. If we are actors, why don’t we prepare as actors do? Why don’t we audition and rehearse every day for our daily roles or roles we wish to pursue? I seldom play a round of golf without at least a minimum level of practice which usually includes hitting a full bucket of balls and 10 – 15 minutes practicing putting. Keep in mind that my practice sessions do not always equate to low scores, but at least I manage to minimize my errant shots during the round.

If I rehearse before a round of golf, why don’t I do likewise in my other, more important roles of husband, father, grandfather, friend, writer, etc.?  Why don’t I take time each day to audition and rehearse my role as spouse? I could easily take a few moments to reflect on what I hope to accomplish each day in each role. I can engage in self dialogue that would support my goal to be the best husband. I can also create new dialogue and in doing so, I can possibly create a new self.
One could argue that most successful people dialogue with themselves each day in a positive way. Athletes certainly practice positive self talk. By doing so, they condition themselves for success. An actor rehearses his lines countless times, often in front of a mirror, before auditioning for a part in a movie or play.  Why don’t we do the same?

I’m in my late sixties. I realize that I’m on the far side of life’s mountain. However, I’m still breathing. My heart still pumps and my lungs continue to function. As long as I’m alive, I will continue to strive for self improvement.I realize that as I continue to age, my physical capabilities will gradually dwindle. Yet, I can strive for excellence appropriate for my physical condition and age.  Why should I settle for less than my best?

I plan to change my dialogue. My goal is to rehearse each day for my different roles. No one else will assume those responsibilities. Nor can they. After all, I am the author and playwright of my life.

© December 2016

William Charles

A Stranger's Gift

                     

 It was a cold and damp wintry afternoon many years ago.  The space heater was ablaze in the front room of our small, frame shotgun house.  The room served not only as a living room but also as a bedroom.  With only two bedrooms and seven occupants, sleeping accommodations were at a premium. So, the living room served as the third bedroom.  The couch was also a bed.  During the day we sat upon it; at night we unfolded the bulky piece of furniture and it became a bed for two of five siblings. At different times over the years, the five siblings, two daughters and three sons, made that room their bedroom. 

The insulation was poor and there were many cracks in the paint and woodwork alongside the windows and doors.  In the winter, cold air easily penetrated these numerous, narrow openings and mixed with the heat from the open flame of the space heater.  The combination of cool, moist outdoor drafts and the warm dry air of the heater produced condensation which streaked down the walls and windows in uneven lines and patterns.  We would say of the streaks of condensation that the walls were “sweating.”

            I was only seven or eight years old at the time, but the memory of that day is still vivid in my mind.  My mother was in the kitchen, smoking homemade cigarettes she rolled herself with a small cigarette rolling device. She would insert a small piece of cigarette paper into the top of the machine, pour enough tobacco to ensure a good smoke and then she rolled the cigarette by operating the lever on the machine. It was cheaper than buying a pack of cigarettes.   As usual, she was drinking a cup of chicory laced coffee.  It was a Monday and the aroma of red beans simmering on the stove permeated the entire house.

My father, a streetcar conductor, was between shifts.  He lay in bed sleeping.  Mom would wake him later and he would freshen up, dress and return to the streetcar barn located on Willow and Dublin streets in the Carrollton area of New Orleans for his second shift of the day.

I was in the living room as usual playing with some of my toys.  The television was on but because dad was sleeping, the volume was low.

There was a knock on the front door.  There was little crime in New Orleans in the fifties so it was not uncommon for the front door to be unlocked or to open the door without  first asking who was there.  Besides, it was always someone we knew, a neighbor or an acquaintance. Perhaps it was Mr. Schiro, the insurance agent who personally collected insurance premiums weekly from his customers. Or the person knocking could be the Community Coffee representative who delivered his product to homes. 

I opened the door only to find a stranger standing outside.  He was tall and thin.  His face was gaunt and the speckled stubble on his cheeks and chin matched what hair showed from beneath a soiled, beige baseball cap.  His hands were stuck in the pockets of an obviously old and weathered windbreaker.  His elbows were drawn in and his shoulders hunched upward in an attempt to better fend off the chilly breeze. 

His eyes caught my attention.  Dark brown, they were set deep in their protective sockets and they seemed lifeless.  They spoke of misery and want and hinted of a lifetime of pain.  He looked pathetic and ravaged.

"Is your mother in son?"

 I didn't even bother to close the door nor did I invite him in from the cold.  I ran quietly through the two bedrooms and into the kitchen. I was careful not to wake my dad from his midday nap.

"Mom, there's a man at the door."

"Who is he and what does he want, Billy?"

             I hadn’t asked so I couldn't tell her.

She followed me to the front room.  The door and the stranger were exactly as I had left them.  Mom studied the stranger.  I detected a slight frown on her face but I didn't think it was one of anger.  I stood by her side, clutching her dress.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry to bother you, but I’m out of work.  Been out of work for a long time.  I'm broke and I'm hungry. Ain't had nothin' to eat in a couple of days.  Can you spare some food?"

Mother hesitated, apparently eyeing up the stranger in an effort to assess the truth.  Suddenly, her countenance changed.  I saw it in her eyes.  A wave of pity and empathy enveloped her. 
"Sure.  My dinner's not cooked yet but, I can make a sandwich for you if that's OK."

 He bowed his head slightly, almost embarrassed by his condition. He replied in a low voice, “I'd really appreciate that ma'am."

 She started toward the kitchen and then stopped abruptly.

"Please, come in from the cold.  Have a seat but, please be quiet.  My husband's asleep."

The stranger nodded.  He entered the house tentatively as if he were entering forbidden territory.

 "Billy, keep the man company."

 I sat on the floor.  The television was on but my eyes were on our guest.  He was poor and I felt sorry for him.   He didn't say a word.  He only stared at the floor with his plaintive eyes.  He loosened his shoulders somewhat as the warmth of the room quickly embraced him.

Within minutes mom returned with two sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, an apple and a small container of milk.

            "If you like," she said, "you can eat in here."

He rose to his feet and took the offering. 

"No thank you ma'am.  You've been kind enough and I'll just move along.  Thank you so much and may God bless you."

He opened the door and slipped back into the cold air.  I stood behind the eight-foot windows that stretched from the living room floor to just two feet from the ceiling. Through the condensation that covered the thin pane of glass I watched the stranger.  He descended the porch stairs, opened the gate and walked north on Green Street.  Within moments, he was out of view.

I was saddened by this event.  We were of modest means.  Some might even have considered us poor, but we always had food to eat and a roof over our heads.  I had never known poverty nor witnessed it before. Yet, here it had been, right in my living room.  I didn't know quite how to respond.

I prayed.  I asked God to help that poor stranger.  I promised God that if he would make that man a millionaire then I would become a priest.  All he had to do, I thought, would be to send Michael Anthony,  The Millionaire's executive secretary to the stranger. The Millionaire was a weekly television series during the fifties.  Each week, John Beresford Tipton, a wealthy philanthropist would select a person in need, usually one who was down in their luck.  He would dispatch Anthony who would present the recipient with a cashier’s check for one million dollars.  The millionaire changed lives in a moment.  That happened every week on television. Why couldn’t it happen to the stranger who had entered my life so briefly?  Like most seven or eight years old at the time, I didn't know that the popular television show was simply fiction.

In the ensuing years, I would think of that incident occasionally.  I don't know what ever happened to the stranger.  Did he get back on his feet?  Did he find work? Did he die alone and poor with no one to care for him?  Did he become a millionaire?  I hope the latter didn't happen because I'm married now with three children.  I don't think God would want me as a priest.

As I've grown, my faith has grown also.  Somehow, in my heart I believe God has taken care of the stranger, if not in this life then in the next.

I'm grateful to that tall, gaunt man who entered my life one cold afternoon so many years ago.  He allowed me to see a generous, sympathetic side of my normally pugnacious and argumentative Irish mother. He gave me a memory of her that I still hold dear today.  His brief visit and my mother's response also instilled in me a sympathetic heart towards those in need.

On that day, over fifty years ago, a stranger received a gift of two sandwiches, an apple, a container of milk and a dose of compassion from my mother. Little did he know that I would receive an even more precious, wonderful and enduring gift from him.

Thank you stranger.

© September 2016
William Charles

One Inch Obit

Jarod, a young African American from Birmingham, Alabama, passed away earlier this week. He was thirty four years old. I didn’t know Jarod personally and, after reading his obituary, I can’t say that I know much more about him other than his name, age, race, place of birth and the funeral home handling his burial. I don’t even know the cause of his death. I only know he died. His obituary was painfully sparse.  Apparently, no one preceded him in death.  He left no survivors. No parents. No brothers and sisters. No aunts, uncles, nephews or nieces. For all practical purposes, he came into this world as he left it: alone. 

Like so many obituaries, he is nothing more than a passing thought. I’m not sure how much obits costs. I assume the cost is word based. Thus, for those with little, little is included in their final announcements

.

There were other meager one paragraph obituaries in today’s newspaper.  Like Jarod’s, a reader learns very little about the deceased other than their names and dates of death. It’s sad that so many people leave this world as naked as they entered. They are simply corpses to be handled and buried as quickly and as efficiently as possible. In Jarod’s case, his is a young corpse, much too young to die. But life doesn’t come with guarantees or warranties. There is no limit on the span of life. Some leave moments after they arrive. Others are blessed with decades upon decades.

The contrast between obituaries of many who lived full lives compared to the Jarod’s of the world is stark. The former include much relevant information such as the names of parents, siblings and survivors, branch of military service, the company worked for, etc.  In some cases, a lot of irrelevant information is cited. Who cares if Abel was the most avid Alabama fan? How can anyone arrive at such inane superlatives?  Who is to say there isn’t a more avid Alabama fan somehere in this state or in this nation? I’m sure the many cemeteries throughout the state have buried the most avid of Tide fans.  

Despite the lack of information I have to believe someone, somewhere is mourning Jarod’s death. Someone, a family member or friend, loved him or at least knew him. It’s a shame that that information could not have been included if for no other reason than to appease those like me who wonder about such things.

I’ve never given much thought before to those whose lives and deaths are captured in a one inch obit. Surely they were important to someone.  I don’t know much about Jarod. But, I believe he deserved more than one inch of space. Everyone does.

© July 2015

William Charles