Randall

 

Randall

Or

Paradise Lost

          Randy has gone into ‘Assisted Living’ which to me means into a purgatory between independence and invalidation. He’s at one of the better facilities, one with a high falutin religious moniker and we can go visit. He doesn’t get around much anymore so we will have to go to him, the word is that he’s “adjusting quite nicely”; that’s not the Randy that I met nearly twenty-five years ago. “And so it goes” (Kurt Vonnegut). But not quite.

          Randall Garland was a gin and tonic drinker; he was an artist/painter, had served in the Army overseas, raised a family, was on good terms with his former wife and was loved by his daughters and grandkids. His apartment is now empty; no longer will I walk by and hear the strains of classical music from his record player and I’m sure that his season tickets to the opera are no longer valid. He will no longer hold court on his porch during Jazz Fest and tell interesting and funny stories about the life he had lead, was leading and was also looking forward to pursuing.

          I met Randy at a time when we all were younger; when literary salons and raconteurs in the French Quarter were de rigueur; when drinking in bars was an adult occupation and conversation about life, the universe and everything was an art to be polished and pursued; and when patrons would rather commiserate than watch mind numbing HD screens. And Randall was a master.    

          At one time Randall had lived above the Napoleon House and painted, he had a bevy of women and men that adored him; he could be relied on to know local geographical history, current events and topics of art and literature. He wrote a published book. He was a member of the city museum and voted religiously.

          He was raised in the Ninth Ward; had a career; had owned property and could be relied on to have a shine on his shoes and a smile on his face. He was kind and it’s not like he’s passed away, only passed on to a place that will assist him in his everyday life and make sure that he’s comfortable and taken care of, which is something that he did quite well into his eighth decade on his own terms and in his own time. Randy never was “a walking shadow, a poor player who strutted and fretted his hour on the stage” (Shakespeare); to those of us that have known Randall Garland, his is a god.

          His fishing camp on the gulf coast where he had sleepovers and fish fries for ‘the gang’ was blown away by Katrina; he took an apartment further down the road and drove there weekly; I wonder what they did with his car… obviously, he no longer drives. I wonder if the new place knows how much he likes his gumbo and fried shrimp po-boys. I wonder if there’s someone there to listen to his conversation; if he’s still on his computer; if he’s sleeping well. I wonder what he’s thinking.

          And now I wonder if you too have a Randall in a ‘facility’; if you too will go visiting; if you too know that someday you too, will be in Randall’s shoes, in Randall’s place, ‘assisted’ in your living.

          I think these places where people are housed, to me seem like book depositories where tomes are sent having been handicapped by age or infirmary, each with stories that have been written but never published; some are in libraries, some in warehouses depending on their value to others. They are cared for, in their fashion until some future expiration date finally closes them and their stories are lost or only remembered by someone who once was a part.

          Denmark instituted a Human Library Organization, which is now available in eighty countries. The idea is to check out a person and learn about and from them, it helps you and it helps them; it’s like reading a book… a book about them. What an idea, huh? Its mission is to builds spaces in the community for personal dialogue about issues that are often difficult, challenging or stigmatizing. They publish people like open books on a given subject and ‘readers’ ask questions and get answers from ‘their book’. It’s win win.

          Facilities for the elderly and less than mobile would be the perfect place to gain some insight to our outlooks, wouldn’t you say? These places are occupied by folks that have lived through good and bad times; teachers; poets; parents; the ordinary and the extraordinary people that have gone through hell, high water and high and low times. These are books that need to be read and understood: how to get along with a partner/mate; how to keep from lighting my hair on fire every time that I feel stressed; how the hell do you make tough choices and why does the meringue on my lemon pie not stand up?

          Listen, there are people in those places that are worth listening to and they also need perspective. As I get older and lemons that I’m used to throwing back at life no longer can be ignored, I want to reiterate to someone how I believe that my life was worth living still and how I have loved, lost, fought and overcome challenges that have made me a worthwhile person.

          At that stage of his life, I want Randall to have dialogue with someone who wants to know about the time he was fishing in Claremont Harbor and had to warn a swimmer that there was a six foot alligator heading their way and that maybe they should think about heading back to shore; and about how to hold a lantern above you head at night when you wade in the gulf in search of flounder and how high you need to roll your pants legs up.

          Consider Randall Garland worth considering.