Other

• Meter Reader

  In the summer of 1973, I was employed as a substitute meter reader by the Department of Water & Power in the city of Los Angeles. My daily uniform was a grey shirt, green trousers, and a brown leather holster that hung from my belt and carried a metal, two-fingered tool used to lift the metal covers of the water meters.

  It was good job, and there was no marking time. When you finished the day’s route, you were finished for the day, regardless of whether it was noon or nearly nightfall.

  Those who had a regular route and were good at it finished by noon at the latest. I was a college kid, a teenager subbing for adults on vacation or out sick, so I had a different route each day.

  I would get the day’s assignment in the morning, in a black binder. The binder might be thick with pages if it covered apartment buildings, each unit with its own electric meter. Or it was a thin book, sometimes the hardest to complete, with its handful of addresses in the canyons. I read in Watts, neighborhoods made famous by riots and beatings, and in Venice, up and down Washington Blvd, with its surf shops and karate studios. I read Sunset Boulevard, to the east, which was seedy, and west to Pacific Coast Highway, where the Self Realization Fellowship maintained its Lake Shrine.

  It was a simple job, though it was sometimes made more challenging by the ingenuity of residents who would opaque the glass faces of their electric meters, thinking that if the Department could not record their usage, the city would not charge them. Jim Morrison had it right: People are strange.

  Speaking of doors, meter readers rarely went to them. It was considered foolish to interact with the public. The meter after all was the property of the utility, and as such no permission was needed to read it. It may be your backyard, but it’s our meter – that was the attitude.

  Some people of course enjoyed having their meter read. Some who were at home all day and in no hurry would offer overripe bananas, or watermelon wedges, or drinks from a cup that probably had been washed at some point in the past. But for every ten kindnesses there was somebody who had chained a mistreated dog to a metal stake in the front yard. Or they tied their Doberman by a fraying rope to the tree shading the electric meter, which was mounted on stucco at the back of the house. The moment when the rope breaks, and the dog’s fur is up in a ridge on the back of its neck, and the spittle’s flying, that’s a moment of truth. In the movies, this would be one of those sequences that Sam Peckinpah might have chosen to show in slow motion. In life, however, it’s over before you know it. When the rope breaks, the most surprised of all is the dog. As soon as its momentum allows, it takes off for the open gate or jumps the low fence toward freedom. In my time as a meter reader, I was only bitten once, and by a Chihuahua, with its owner standing in the yard next to me in her slippers, chatting about the price of electricity.

  Meter reading is solitary work, but as with any such occupation the loneliness of its practice brings its practitioners together. There was a bond, a camaraderie among meter readers. Whether you ever met your coworkers or not, we were in uniform and a corps. We even had a coded language. Like hobos with their secret signs, we left each other notations in our black binders to warn or instruct a future reader. “Bad Dog” meant bad dog. “Fox” meant a sexually attractive woman; an added exclamation point suggested you knock on the door and ask permission you didn’t need to read the meter, for the opportunity to see her.

  Each page in the black binder was a handwritten record of the success or failure of all the readers before you. These were “the reads,” penciled in month after month. Some addresses truly presented a challenge, but if the reader before you could get the read, you were expected to as well. No excuses. Surely you could find the water meter hidden in the creosote bush a hundred and forty three paces below the hilltop house on Mulholland, if you followed the diagram a previous reader had sketched in the binder – an X-marks-the-spot kind of drawing, like a treasure map.

  Like the Boy Scouts, meter readers were prepared. Every reader carried a scope, no bigger than a forefinger, on a chain around his neck. A “Use scope” notation in the binder was a tip to get the read off an electric meter without going into a “Bad Dog” backyard. The maneuver, which using involved looking over a fence, was also called “jacking the Doberman.” Residents with locked gates or inaccessible yards would call the Department, protesting the accuracy of their electric bill, because they believed no one could monitor their usage. But electric meters didn’t need to be seen up close in order to have the usage recorded. Like clocks, they could be read from the positions of the hands on their five individual dials, and these positions could be “scoped” from quite a distance.

  Meters in their glass cases were read backwards, five dials from right to left. Glancing through the scope, you repeated 9-3-6-5-6 and wrote the numbers down in that order, right to left, recording 65,649 as the read in the black binder. It was fast, and speed meant everything to most readers. They would write while in motion to the next address, penciling their numbers in stride. That’s how some could finish a route by ten in the morning. They held second jobs, or looked after rental properties, or did whatever they chose with the rest of the day.

  About some meter readers you really had to wonder. To get to a meter that was once in plain sight on the outside of a house but had subsequently disappeared within an added-on, screened-in and locked up family room, you had to follow instructions to stick your head in the doggie door, use a flashlight and a mirror, and observe from your hands and knees the reflected image of the dials. Who was the first to figure that out?
  The helpful note in the binder also said, “Dog is slow.”

  It was only my summer job, only two and a half months. It certainly wasn’t an internship at Goldman Sachs. But a summer job reading meters did offer brushes with fame, if not fortune. I read Cary Grant’s water meter – or so it said in the black binder. Robert Miles Runyan, a graphic artist I had heard of, was on one of my routes, his name an elegant proclamation over the lintel of the doorway of a two-story brick building in Playa del Rey, blocks from the beach. His electric meter spun, probably powering pencil sharpeners. On another route, I walked past a cyclone fence, some sunflowers, and the name Mario Savio on a strip of green Avery labeler plastic on the mailbox.

  Cary Grant was the exception. Our black books never provided names, only addresses. So it was by surprise that one day while reading on Washington Boulevard in Venice, looking for meters in the interior closet of an unsigned building, I walked into the design offices of Charles and Ray Eames. The building was mostly a shell. In the antechamber were a series of freestanding exhibit panels, with images of Jefferson and Franklin, and the text on the panels was in French. Qu’est que c’est? It turned out that the panels were part of an exhibit bound for Paris, which the Eames office was preparing in celebration of the U.S. Bicentennial, three years away.

  I walked through the building, finding open space and offices, a few people, and no one interested in preventing me from wandering around. I had a conversation about the exhibit panels with a young woman who said she lived half the year in Venice, Italy and the other half here, in Venice, California. Just to keep up, I said that I was a writer. And that is how I ending up being hired to write a speech for Charles Eames, which he was to give to the National Academy of Arts and Sciences. Charles was not around, but Ray was, and she told me to just drop by after I finished my route and come back as many afternoons as it took. So I did. I worked on the Eames speech in an open office where the woman from the two Venices also sat, distracted by her and by the TV that was always on, broadcasting the Senate Judiciary Committee hearings.

  Was that speech ever given? It seems as unlikely as a dream. So, for that matter, does dodging an angry dog tethered to an electric meter, or recording the water usage of Cary Grant.

• The Death of a Colleague

  John Edmund Stone
  1930 – 1983

  The name on the door of his office was John Edmund Stone, and this touch of formality suited his personality well. He was a reticent, self-effacing man who would go to lunch at 10:30 to avoid the crowds and who, as one of his woman friends put it, would have had to have worn a hat with a plume if he had been any more gentlemanly in his personal relationships. John Stone, who died a few weeks ago at the age of fifty-two, was a co-worker and friend of ours for almost twenty years. Despite his shyness, he managed to engender in those of us who worked with him a respect bordering on awe for his abilities, and since he was utterly disinterested in self-promotion, we are perhaps the only ones who know the depth of his contribution to the success of our organization over the years. John was quite simply a brilliant and incisive writer. When he wrote an annual report, he elevated the craft of corporate writing. When he essayed a message to the shareholders, it was everything such a piece of work should be. John could take the germ of an idea and turn it into something wonderful, and everything he wrote, whether personal correspondence, a speech, a corporate brochure, was gentle in nature. There was nothing strident either in his work or about his person. He worked with a respect for clients and their ideas, and no matter where an idea came from, John could and did write pieces that brilliantly embodied it. Oddly enough, he didn’t think of himself as a writer, though he earned his living at it for thirty years. The talents he prized most in himself were reading, listening observing, learning. The way John worked, every assignment was a marvelous chance to learn something new. He was a quick study and took research upon himself as a pleasure. Research for John didn’t mean looking up a particular fact to bend to his purposes; it meant probing a subject until he had real understanding and the ability to impart it.

  John came to our organization by way of the catalog department at Montgomery Ward in Chicago (briefly), Fort Bliss in El Paso (even more briefly), and Glenn Advertising (later Bozell & Jacobs) in downtown Dallas, where he worked as both writer and account executive for a number of years; but the foundation for his skills was put in place at the University of Chicago, which he entered after declining scholarship offers from both Harvard and Yale and from which he was graduated summa cum laude, Phi Beta Kappa, and as a Master or Arts in the humanities. John was able to bring an enormous resource of literary reference to bear on his work as a writer. An adventurous reader with a wondrously retentive memory, he saw the connections between each of his projects and the work of other writers; he was never working in a vacuum. So it was that he was able to begin one annual report with a stanza from the 17th century Englishman Andrew Marvell and to base another entirely on the poetry of American Indians. As with most things, his love of literature was sincere and his knowledge of it deep. The books in his personal library ranged from the Greeks to the recently published multi-volume biography of Henry James. These and other literary interests nourished him and, to an extent, isolated him as well. In his reading, as in so much else, John was his own man. He didn’t need or seek large numbers of friends; he enjoyed people, but was happy to be alone. Many an evening he spent by himself in his apartment, with its very French chandelier and its Chinese opium bed with carved wooden legs; there, he tended his plants and listened to Wagner or Strauss. John lived for years in an upstairs apartment that was wired by one of his three brothers so that a switch at the foot of the stairs simultaneously started a water fountain and a recording of operatic music—a highly theatrical effect to say the least. It is typical of him that despite a lifelong interest in music he played no musical instrument. He was content to be a listener—a very good one—and saw in that a necessary and satisfying function. After all, a symphony, as he said, has to have its audience.

  John was extremely sensitive to the requirements of his own life and in a business that attracts its share of characters he was as individual as anybody. He was equally sensitive to other people – one of the qualities that made him so effective as a writer. He could write anything for anybody and required very few hints and scarcely any guidance. What he needed was a session in which he would sit, meticulously dressed, the long ash of his cigarette burning down heedlessly as he absorbed the essence of what you wanted to say, even if you were yourself incapable of saying it. As a smoker, John showed a certain disregard for his physical health. He was also one of those who when the urge to exercise overtakes them will sit down and wait for it to pass. He loved to eat, particularly sweets. He could rhapsodize over Bananas Foster and he waxed indignant at the memory of the airplane food he was forced to eat when an assignment required him to travel. His habits led to overweight, high blood pressure, and other medical problems, which eventually led him to change his diet and – occasionally – to take a walk. The only reason John lost weight was because he had to; nevertheless, he had shed fifty pounds and put his medical problems behind him at the time of his death. John was a tranquil person. Not that he was without strong feelings, likes and dislikes. But he viewed the things that displeased him with an even temper and a sense of humor that was dry, sardonic, and as self-effacing as he was. Because he was a private person, there must be great areas of John’s life that no one knows. But we know he was not restless, not at odds with himself, and that people who worked with him remember him with respect and affection. He was killed this past January 21 in an automobile accident – someone else ran a red light – and on that day he because our loss. Since you are a friend of ours, he became, in a sense, a loss to you as well.

• About Adoption

  The so-called “adoption era” in the United States is said to have lasted from 1945 to 1973.  What is meant by this is that during those years before Roe v. Wade, the Supreme Court case that protected a woman’s right to an abortion, some 4 million mothers had babies that they placed for adoption.   Roe v. Wade was decided near the end of January, 1973, marking the beginning of the end for those post-war, pre-Roe years that are also known as the Baby Scoop era, because the number of white babies available for adoption in the United States was so large it was relatively easy for adoptive parents to scoop them up.  When abortion wa legalized nationwide, the scooping ending, and the path from unwanted pregnancy to adoption narrowed.   The cheerleaders knocked up by the varsity quarterbacks made appointments at the abortion clinic.  So did the college girls, and, a few years after, the young professionals.  As the 1970s turned into the 1980s, who then was choosing to carry their unwanted pregnancies to term and then giving up their children to strangers?   

  My adopted son was born in the summer of 1984.  That same summer – in an article by Sheila
  Rule published July 26, 1984 – the New York Times reported that thousands of childless couples “desperate to adopt healthy white infants” were “traveling nontraditional and controversial avenues,” which often meant arranging adoptions on their own, typically through a lawyer specializing in the business.  True enough.  Childless couples were placing ads in newspapers, or using “word of mouth” to sources such as doctors and ministers.  The easy scooping of babies had come to an end.  

  I know, I know.  Both my children were adopted privately – their pregnant “birth mothers” found through word of mouth, and with lawyers, doctors, and ministers all part of the process.  But what is missing from this article from 1984 is any insight into the women who are giving birth and giving their child away.   Other than the point that they are white, and that their child is white, a scarce commodity, desirable in a highly competitive market, and the answer to the “desperation” of a childless couple, nothing much is reported.  

  It is 1984.  Abortion is available in all fifty states and possibly just down the street.  Who are these pregnant women who are carrying to term?  Why are they not at the clinic?    They cannot all be fearing damnation.    

  *

  When my wife and I adopted our two children – our son first, and then a daughter the following year, in part because my wife, a clinical psychologist, had been an only child and could not conceive of a good life without siblings — both adoptions were at birth and privately arranged.   What signs of disturbance might have been perceptible, hints of trouble to come – a boy who was slow to learn, and very dependent; a preternaturally smart girl, entirely self-possessed  – there was nothing too out of the ordinary, some clouds, maybe, but no darker shadows.   We had our son tested for this and that – verbal processing, social skills.  Our daughter was a little star, a teacher’s pet in her pre-school class, but my wife was wary.  “She is never going to bond to us,” my wife said. “There’s something missing in her.”  

  For a time, still, those were halcyon days.  A nanny to help during the work days, birthday parties with clowns and balloon animals, pre-school parent associations, private primary and middle school, Indian Princesses, the basketball and soccer teams at the YMCA with nobody much caring who won, Spring and Winter breaks, summer trips.  Then, in February 1997, when our children were 12 and 11, their mother was diagnosed with colon cancer.   
  She died five and a half months later.  
  Idyll ended.  

  *

  “Even those comparisons that meet the criterion of statistical significance must be interpreted with caution, because in estimates based on a sample some significant differences will occur by chance.” This, from Advance Data Number 181, January 5, 1990, Vital and Health Statistics of the National Center for Health Statistics,  Report on Adoption in the 1980s.  There is a sequence of attribution that includes not only four contributing authors, three of them with Ph.D. after their names, but a collection of entities reminiscent of nothing so much as the piling on of production companies and sources of financing at the start of feature films.  In this case, the multiple entities are under the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, and include Public Health Service, Centers for Disease Control, and the National Center for Health Statistics, Manning Feinleib, M.D., Dr. P.H., Director. 

  According to this report, national figures for adoptions have been limited from the mid-1970s forward to those adoptions arranged through State social service agencies.  In 1975, the last year a Federal agency published national adoption estimates, 39 percent of unrelated adoptions were arranged through public agencies, 38 percent through private agencies, and 23 percent independently, through lawyers or otherwise.  “Unrelated” would mean ordinary adoptions, not a stepfather adopting his new partner’s child, or someone – a grandmother, a sister — raising and adopting a family member’s orphaned or abandoned child.   Other sources of estimates tend to raise the percentage for independently-arranged adoptions in the mid- 1980s.  All the estimates suggest that the number of independently-arranged adoptions rose significantly in the mid-1980s, when my two children were “arranged.”   The statistics are not always easily interpreted, but they also seem to support that the percentage of children adopted at birth decreased in the 1980s, compared to adoptions involving older children – children age 6 or older.   The report also does some reporting on the health of the children – infants and otherwise – adopted in the 1980s.  It asserts “the vast majority” were in good health, at least at the time the information was gathered.   This information pertains to adopted children who were still living in the household that had adopted them, which was not always the case.  In a bland parenthetical aside, the “still there” cohort 78% is quantified, at only 78% of unrelated adoptions.  Does that mean that fully one-fifth of these “unrelated” children no longer lived with the family that had adopted them?   No explanation is provided, though there must be a bitter story there.    One other fact of note and subject to interpretation:  The overwhelming majority of unrelated adoptions before and after Roe involved white adoptive mothers.  In the 1970s, that percentage was 96 percent.  In the 1980s, it was not quite that high, but very high.  

  *

  What is of almost no interest in this government reporting is what might be of particular interest to any childless couple wanting to adopt post Roe, whether through a state agency, a private agency, or independently.  That would be information – averages, percentages — about the women who were offering their babies up for adoption.   Was there increased risk, in a world of legalized abortion and diminished or non-existent social disapproval of single motherhood?  Might these women, the “birth mothers,” be more than ordinarily dysfunctional?  Not just stressed, but burdened in ways that might be passed on to the next generation.  Would it have been ungenerous, or unreasonable, to have cautioned the desperate childless?   Yes, yes, every baby has an unknown future.  Adopted or not, no newborn comes with a warning label.  But the risk must have been greater, after Roe, on average, as a percentage, of inherited brokenness that no adoptive parent, related or otherwise, no matter the resource, willingness, effort, love, would be able to repair.     

  *

  Sheila Rule’s article in the Times, July 1984, appeared a month after my son was born.  It is an economic analysis, concerned with imbalances of supply and demand, the attendant rise of costs, the creation of a black market, shady deals.   Left out of this market analysis is the nature of the product.   She reports instead on the classified ads that the childless couple uses to get around the restrictions of adoption agencies.  These ads might be seen by the business intermediary who could broker a deal.  They pretended to appeal directly to the pregnant woman, as if she were likely to spend time scanning a local newspaper.   
  “Place your baby in a secure home,” says one.   
  The search is for a white infant.  
  “All expenses paid.  Legal and confidential.  Call collect.”   This was the 1980s, in the last days of the collect call.   

  What I wanted to know cannot be found in Shella Rule’s article.  Perhaps the research did not exist, the fact-gathering had not happened.  As far as I know, it still hasn’t.  I want to know what percentage of those “white infants” placed for adoption post-Roe in 1984 and 1985 –  or from 1975 to, say, 2025 – a fifty-year span – what percentage of these babies, all grown up now, function poorly, by whatever adult measures one might generally accept.  How many are mentally ill, sunk in addiction, or otherwise in serious distress.   Set a lower bar – unemployable, or barely self-supporting.   What is the answer?   And how would those percentages compare to the generations of adoptees of the “Baby Scoop” era, pre-Roe, ending in 1973.   

  The data is nowhere to be found.  It exists, though, in the minds of the formerly childless couples, now in their seventies or eighties, those couples fairly described by Sheila Hurt in the Times as “desperate” to adopt.   

  It exists in the category of “anecdotal evidence.”  The runaway daughter, the schizophrenic son, the criminal or borderline sociopathic misbehavior that passes through disappointment to shock and finally resignation, in the well-to-do households of the adoptive parents, with their access to testing, therapy, private schools, and every self-help parental instruction book Amazon sells.   I know these parents.  They thought breeding was less a matter of genetics than of other factors – a loving, stable household; table manners.  These were the parents who believed in the dominance of nurture and somewhat arrogantly discounted the power of nature, but came to learn otherwise.   

  It is not entirely true that no one in the 1980s ever considered the challenges of raising adopted children.  In a 1982 article, Sharon Roszia and Deborah Silverstein posited that there were lifelong issues likely for every adopted child.  They named seven:   loss, rejection, guilt or shame, grief, confusions about identity, struggles with intimacy, and conflicts over mastery and control.  But these were nothing new.  These issues were not specific to the era.  They inhered in the intractable reality of a child looking up at a parent and seeing no reflection of themselves, and of a parent looking down without recognition.  

  *

  Whatever the exact circumstances that led their first mothers to surrender them, both of my adopted children must have been born in crisis.  Rape, incest, addiction, poverty, mental illness, or shattering instability – who knows, I never knew.  The sins of the birth parents might not be visited upon the children, but traumas and loss are their heritage.   None of this is visible, not at first.  Love is blind, and it was love at first sight as I brought each of them home for the first time.  The drug-store developed photograph of the baby boy wrapped in a light blue blanket and held in my arms in the driveway is nearly identical to the photograph taken fourteen months later, my newborn daughter in pink.   Same driveway, same grey brick of our home, a spruce tree, a cottonwood.   

  Loss begins there, even before birth, in unknown wombs and dreams and fears.   Maybe even before that, in generations past.   Those babies are in their forties now.  Each in a way in distress and confusion about absent people and distant events that are long past but have been psychologically present all their lives.  Yes, yes, their actual lives and my own mistakes have their place in it.  Their adoptive mother died.  I remarried three years later to a woman I was infatuated with and they despised, and then that marriage dissolved in the totally predictable conflict of hostile teenagers, a hated stepmother, and a father who perhaps – in retrospect, without a doubt – should not have remarried, or diverted his attention, giving less to his children.   

  I had thought, she’s wrong for my kids, but they will be gone anyway, it will be fine, I can do what I want to do.  Which is what I did.

  My son and I remain close. In a way, closer than he wants us to be.  He has health problems and has not been self-supporting in years.  My daughter, whose birth mother “found” her the week after she turned 18, has not spoken to me in a decade.  Her choice.  I was told, second hand, that she wants no contact because I do not love her, which, at this point, may well be true.  

  I was also told, second hand, that her second husband committed suicide by shooting himself in the head while she was in the next room, that she uses they/them pronouns, that she may or may not have left the state for parts unknown, and that she aspires, of course, to work in a field related to mental health.    

  *

  After my wife’s death, the task seemed to be the management of daily needs; the special needs of adopted children went unnamed and unacknowledged.  What might those have been?   In the bath of articles that professionals write about the trauma and confusions of the adopted child, rejection, shame, and guilt float to the top.   Grief, too.  And all of that applies to all concerned, there are tears on both sides of birth.  Maybe this was flowing unknown in my son and accounts for his passivity today.  He had no control over that first decision made by his birth mother.  Maybe It became the model for his helplessness.  From that first day, he was powerless, his life was not his real life.  Now that unlived life has a hiding place under the weight of his flesh.  As for my adopted daughter, that is a longer tale of turmoil, withdrawal, and calcified complaint,    

  *

  The simple fact is that none of us know why things happen the way they do.  What I have is my theories, which are little more than justifications.  

  Accepting that my children are who they are, not wanting them to be any different — this is praised as a mature attitude.  As understanding and acceptance.  Unconditional love is considered best; at the least, it is praised as a good thing, but nothing is simply good, and there are always conditions.   

  Joshua Coleman, the estrangement guru, remarks with sorrow that relationships are no longer guaranteed by virtue of an obligation to honor, as a duty.  They are dependent on the satisfaction they offer, which means nothing more substantial than how they are perceived.  Feelings are trump cards.  This is how, if not why, I lost all contact with my daughter.  Her decision, her insistence.   Another explanation that I heard, second hand, was that she does not consider me her father.  She refers to me by my first name.  Which is almost funny, because after years of separation we are hardly on a first name basis.  My sense of it is that her indifference, her contempt, if that is what it is, are far more robust than they need to be.  So be it.  She could have had her share of the kingdom, but she became the thankless child instead.  She is the serpent’s tooth.

  *

  My son and I are getting to know each other better as he enters middle age. Whatever I know of love, it is deepening between us.   In part this may be because I am on my descent, in my seventies, and the portion of wisdom in my knapsack, however light, allows me to value what is and, most of time, let go of expectations and forget what might have been.   We are doing this as he reaches that age when I did not take advantage of the opportunity to get to know my own father, before he tripped and struck his head on a concrete step, on the way into a movie theater, which led to a sequence of misfortunes – hospitalization, confinement to a wheelchair, the onset of dementia, the grossest reduction of every capacity other than irritability.   My mother placed him in a group home.  I think he died what journalists, referring to white working-class males during the opioid epidemic, called “deaths of despair.”    For my father, no opioids were involved, but hope had died; only his despair was left.   Thinking about my disappointed father, and reflecting more sharply that neither of us had known each other well, has helped me appreciate my son.  I am also watching my step.

  *

• Walking the Dog

  Driving between Dallas and my girlfriend’s apartment in Houston, the distance is a stable number, while the length of time varies.  Measurable, too, are the related variables, the impacts on speed, part of the mathematics of the experience, the figure for the number of cars on I-45, the slowdown nearing downtown Houston on 610 toward Westheimer and the River Oaks neighborhood.    The number of stops, too.  That value for stops – for the Blizzard with bits of Heath bar at the Dairy Queen in Centerville, or for 91+ premium at Love’s or the Valero station – these stops have their own equations, functions of bladder size, of gallons of gasoline remaining, of levels of anxiety, a bladder too close to full, a gas tank closer to empty.  That said, stops are never greater than three, an average of less than one per hour; say, one per eighty minutes.  

  Stops are at DQ for a Blizzard, sometimes McDonald’s for a plain hamburger, and always at a Starbucks for the tall Misto, which is what Starbucks calls its café au lait.  The chains are standardized.  So, too, are the earnest young people who staff them on weekends and all summer long.  I like the faces of these teenagers – usually they are teenagers, occasionally there might be a middle-aged man, or an older woman working at retirement age.  I presume adults are doing it for the money.  It is possible that the teenagers behind the counter or at the take-out window are also there for the life lessons.  Their parents wanted them to learn responsibility, to develop a work ethic.  They seem to enjoy themselves, most of them; the white teenagers, anyway.  They joke with each other.  They make use of customer service scripts they have memorized.  Very polite, at the Starbucks.  Less formal, at Dairy Queen, where the teenagers always turn my medium Heath Blizzard upside down, in a proof of concept, before handing it to me.   They offer napkins.  Since every purchase totals up to an odd number of cents, I use the loose pennies I keep in my car.  Nobody objects.   If I can see no hint of the future in their faces, there is also no answer to why my son is unable to do what these kids in Centerville off I-45 are doing.  They are of public use and of good cheer, too.   

  Of course, it is possible that what I am seeing in the faces of these teenagers – the chubby Mexican kid with floppy black hair holding the cup with my Blizzard upside down, the girl taking my money at the Starbuck’s drive through – perfect teeth, cheerleader’s smile – might have been seen in my son when he was their age.  A skinny kid then, he had beautiful blue eyes and wavy reddish hair.  He still has the eyes.  He worked teenage summers in a donut shop, too.   He might have been happy then.  I am not sure, I may not have noticed, I probably just assumed.   Later, in his twenties, he worked in a grocery store, after flunking out of college and refusing to go back.  That, too, seemed acceptable, though it was in another city and who knows how he felt about it.  

  *

  There is no perfect way to be the father of an unhappy child.  An adult child whose unhappiness is as permanent as a stain.  Perfection is not the goal in any case.   Performing is the more common outcome.  I find myself pretending to a cheerfulness I do not feel around my son or, conversely, hesitant to be genuinely happy, as if my sunshine might deepen his shadows. 
  Stopping by his place, I did not want to tell him I was leaving for California for a month.  I needed to tell him, to leave him behind in his cluttered rooms, to his screens and moods.   He might have liked coming with me, simply to get away.   He tells me he had been having a bad day – anxiety – and has taken a Valium.
  “Did it help?”
  He said it did.  I ask him how the air conditioning was working, how was his car running, did he want me to take his 30-gallon hefty bag of trash out to the dumpster, and what did he think aboutf the Mavericks getting D’Angelo Russell.
  He thought D’Angelo Russell would help, since Kyrie Irving would not be coming back from an ACL injury until January at the earliest.  
  Did he know that the Rangers were only four games behind the Astros?
  That surprised him.
  “How is that possible?”
  This was as much father-and-son conversation as we could configure at one sitting.   I decided I would text him about my leaving for a month in California, and I do that, the following day.  No response to that.
  He will miss my dog.  He loves Mika, and I have been leaving her with him when I go to Houston, since he enjoys her company.  Also, he will walk outside with her for fifteen minutes once a day.  So, he gets some movement.   I have been making this drive to Houston most weekends, leaving Thursday and returning on Sunday.  Wednesday nights I bring the dog over to Lake Highlands where my unemployed, middle-aged son lives, so he will watch over her while I am gone.  I bring over the kibble and the chicken breasts I cook in advance for her. She is easygoing and does not seem to mind.  If she does, she has nothing to say about it.  I am taking Mika with me to CaIifornia.  I am not leaving her with my son for a month.  I cannot cook a month of chicken breasts and leave them in his refrigerator.

  *

  California is a 22-hour drive that is broken for a night in El Paso.  The second day is mostly flat, through New Mexico, then alongside boulders in the passes through Arizona, nearer the California border.  I go interstates 30 to 20 to 10 and finally 8, over mountains, and at last down to the coast, as an August heat drops from over a hundred degrees to a steady state of midseventies nearer the Pacific.  Finally, Oceanside, and the white stucco walls of a house my sister and I inherited from our parents.  It is within a gated community, where all the owners are required to be fifty-five, though the average age is nearer eighty.  

  Every day I am there, I take Mika for a walk.  By the second day, it has already become a routine.   For her, that is not the same as taking it for granted.   

  Whatever disappointment is in a dog’s heart, it disappears on a walk.  If I could be taken on whatever the human equivalent is, never-minding the being led or leashed, my disappointment might vanish as well.  My nose in the grass, my mind cleansed.

  On the walk today I took the usual streets to the usual turnoff, where a small park lets us both pass a butterfly garden.  The butterfly garden is protected, no dogs allowed, by chain link fencing and a gate with restrictive signage.  I do this walk with Mika, for Mika, and alternate between being baffled and irritated by the disproportionate delight she takes in it.  The constant stopping.  The squatless sniffing that seems so purposeless.  Her fascination with blades of grass, roots of a shrub, the gravel, a curb.  The proud trotting, the tugging, the panting.  No matter how often we do the same walk, there is always these bursts of excitement, from the very beginning – a beginning that begins before placing a single paw outside our door.   It can start with the nearly imperceptible sliding sound of a kitchen drawer opening, the signal I am about to extract a baggie.  Then the whispering whoosh and rip of a paper towel from its cylinder on the kitchen counter.  And the real break, the jingle jangle of a leash.  It may be Pavlovian, but it imitates a spiritual condition.  Not the imitatio dei of any bookish belief, but gratitude so intense It literally leaps.   

  There is a dirt trail down a slope to the butterfly garden.  My dog takes to the trail with an urgency, as though she had some place she needs to get to.   At the same time, every foot of ground fascinates her.  She dawdles.   She stops to interrogate the tips of a shrub.  The trail was followed, but not for where it will end up.  In fact, as Mika must know after so many times, she is on a loop; so, in that sense, she is going nowhere other than around.  Every foot of this familiar ground held her interest with an intensity that bordered on obsession.  Maybe this is her secret.   Her sense of purpose is no larger than her focus.   

  I cannot say the same.  I tugged on the leash.   
  “This is a walk,” I said out loud.
  She was resisting leaving something worth smelling at the root of a thick, woody shrub.  Its needle leaves looked like rosemary to me.  It had the blue flowers, a lavender blue in clusters.   I broke off a bit of stem to smell it.  Rosemary, obviously.  
  “Come on,” I said, “that’s enough.”
  The butterflies were Monarchs.  Some of the broadleafed shrubs that grew five or even six feet tall on the border of the trail were lion’s ear, leonotis leonurus, named for its orange tubular blossoms.  I have read that this gaudy plant or its byproduct is illegal in certain Eastern European countries, where it is classified as a Schedule 1 drug.  The butterflies like them.  The dog, too, but she liked everything.

  I have also read, or heard, about the so-called Butterfly Effect, the claim that the most inconsequential action – the fluttering of the butterfly’s wings – can and will set up chains of unpredictable actions.  So much seems wrong with this insight.   For one thing, inconsequential to whom?   If you are a butterfly, the fluttering of your wings matters a lot.  This fluttering, a combination of flapping and gliding, propels you forward.  Each wing bends and claps, in a stroke that traps the air and expels it, generating thrust, and it is this backwards jet that moves you forward.   The lift comes on the downstroke.  I think it is immodest to impute to this intricate fluttering causality for events distant in time and space.   These butterflies in the neighborhood of my dog’s daily walk do not make anything happen in China.  They are enough of a marvel on their own.  A butterfly can flap its wings in a figure-eight pattern, which is hard for me to picture and impossible to actually see, even as I am observing dozens of Monarchs fluttering over the dirt trail, coming and going around the garden.    

  There was California buckwheat on the trail, and yarrow as well.  Golden yarrow, more yellow than gold, and the white puffs of the buckwheat blooms on their pencil-necked stalks.  Both plants support butterflies, who in turn provide their pollinating services.  Some have said that nature never disappoints.   Whatever is needed is provided.  But this is only a bias of the present moment.  In nature, what does not get what it needs, dies, and to be disappointed is fatal.  What I saw around me on the trail are only the winners.  So much growth, such profusion and variety.   In truth it might only represent a minority position.  What has disappeared belongs to the category of what might have been.    

  There is another category, too, a majority along the trail.  These are the plants I cannot see because I do not know what I am looking at.   I cannot name them.  All I can mouth is shrub or flower, in place of clustered tarweed or sumac or coyote brush.  Same with birds in branches and in the sky, in the mysterious air that is transparent but also blue.  What I am seeing?  Reality is hiding under the blanket of my ignorance.  I see abstractions.  I can say bird, but want to say kestrel and kingbird and night heron.   

  I am reading Annie Dillard at night in California, and my response is mostly what the hell, how does she see what she sees?  She is recounting the emergence of a Polyphemus moth from its dampened and frayed cocoon.  Dampened, frayed?   Polyphemus – how does she know the name?  “It was a male,” she writes.  How does she know that?  Moreover, this is a cocoon, dampened and frayed, and the male Polyphemus moth she is describing Is one she is remembering from a primary school classroom when she was eleven years old.  She continues, after a semicolon, and describes the moth’s long antennae, “thickly plumed, as wide as his fat abdomen.”  Its (“his”) body was not only thick, it was more than an inch long, and furry (“deeply furred”).   That is not all.  “A gray furlike plush covered his head; a long, tan furlike hair hung from his wide thorax over his brown-furred, segmented abdomen. His multijointed legs, pale and powerful, were shaggy as a bear’s.”  A few pages before, Annie Dillard also reported on the wings of the typical adult Polyphemus moth, which are “velveted in a rich warm brown, and edged in bands of blue and pink delicate as a watercolor wash.”    

  I could not describe anything like that.   I am not blind but see mostly in my mind’s eye, my one good eye.  This morning before walking I was looking out a window, through the slats of white shutters, at a trimmed hedge that was buzzing with bees.  I could not tell you what this hedge looks like.  There is green involved.   Some twisty, visible branches, if that is what the wooden parts of a hedge are called.  As for the bees, forget it.  I have no names for the body parts of bees and would never place my nose close enough to tell how furry or smooth they are.  I would never compare their coloration to an artwork, or a genre. 

  The problem is where I reside, inside my head, a clouded, hallucinatory space where nothing stays still long enough to have a defined shape.  The muscles of my eyes may have atrophied.  I am working on this but have not found full function. The best I can do is fake it and describe what I have pretended to see.  Indoors, I read a lot and ignore the unpaged objects surrounding me.  Tabletops, coffee mugs, the fringe on a rug.   A chair swiveling, the dog again.  Precious reality, both the man-made and the breathing, barely perceived.   

  *

  Walking the dog again, and passing the heads of lantana.  The colors of their dense blooms attract me, as they do butterflies and hummingbirds, though for no practical reason.  The dog is more fascinated by the tones of dirt.  She seems happy to be led around by her nose.   Whenever I tug her away from her interest in a specific patch, she quickly recalibrates and shows the same measure of delight in the next go-round, a bit of tree bark, the green edges of a bush twenty feet further on.    
  Far as I can tell, no disappointment.    
  Far as I can tell.  She may have only made her peace with the conditions.   

  *

  I received a text from my son asking me when I will be back in Dallas.  This may be because he misses me.  He may also be tiring of going to my house twice a week to empty the mailbox and check the water level of a fountain in the far backyard.  It is triple digit weather in Dallas this August.  The pool service will look after the swimming pool, but if enough water in the distant fountain evaporates, it will leave a pump motor gasping.

  I reminded him I will be home in another week.   Tuesday night, the Tuesday after next.  The reminder is also by text, since he rarely answers phone calls, and I prefer not to call him, because it would be a puzzle, the call.   If he did answer, he would not converse.   Monosyllabic, mostly.  Yes, no, the minimal contribution; responsive, but only barely.  Asking open-ended questions as a technique does not help deeper our calls.  He has always been this way.  Once, when he was a teenager, my son was deposed in a lawsuit.  He had turned left across an intersection and been hit by a speeding vehicle with the right of way.  The driver of the other car turned out to be an attorney, and sued.    My son’s communication style was perfectly suited to the deposition.  No errors of admission, no rambling, just simple answers.   
  Was he speeding?  No.  Did he see the approaching car.  Yes.
  It was a canny performance.
  I sometimes think of him this way, his failure to articulate further, to elaborate, the minimalism of his effort, not just in speech, but in all efforts forward.  As if his attitude was a form of intelligence, almost a philosophy, a “whereof one cannot speak thereof one must remain silent” position, his silence and do-nothingness a reply to the world.      

  *

  I took the dog for her walk on a loop trail, this time in Buena Vista Park.  So, not her regular route, though we have done it before.   Off Shadowridge, Buena Vista Park has the duck pond next to its parking lot.  There are hiking trails that loop in a dirt path, walls of eucalyptus trees, a wooden bridge built by a Scout troop, ascending hills, a darkwater creek, oak groves, and all manner of brush and wild blooms.   Also, back nearer the parking lot, volleyball, picnic tables, grass, and a potty shack.    

  It was not night, exactly, but a summer evening, the hour after seven, when there is plenty of light but little heat, not that there is ever much heat in Oceanside, even in August.  Every time we came to Buena Vista Park, the park was well used.   Hikers, some with dogs, on the looping trails.  Friends in their teens and twenties playing volleyball on the grass near the parking lot.  Also, every time, early evening, the same Asian woman with a red bucket, casting cracked corn or birdseed or pellets to the chestnut-brown ducks.   There are hundreds of ducks, in the pond or lagoon, on the sand and the claystone bank.  The Asian woman comes by herself.  Every evening Mika and I have been here, she has been here, too, alongside the cattails and bullrush and pickleweed and the marsh rosemary.  

  This night six or seven large birds were also on the other side of the lot, a few feet from my parking space.   Another half dozen gathered on the nearby grass and in the oaks.  These were stocky birds, with grey wings, darker grey bills, and long, yellowish legs.   

  Mika and I set out, taking one of the loops beyond the pond, over the Scout’s bridge, past eucalyptus, over the dirt, passing the yellow brush and nettles I could never name, and then the walk was over.  Thirty minutes, not much more.   It was occurring to me over and again how poorly I see anything, as if I were barely rubbing up against my own experience.  Nothing touched, everything at an angle, life as a glancing blow.   As if every moment I am going somewhere and leaving that moment behind, while seeing requires being still.  It requires staying.   

  It is true.  I am incapable of seeing other than though a fog.   I do not take in what is in front of me because there is no room for it.   That space where perception might belong is full of preconception.  As a medical fact, I am nearsighted.   But it is exactly those things close up that I do not see.   I am blind to details.  The ten thousand brushstrokes of my finely grained days are no more detailed than a lollipop tree drawn by a child with a crayon.  Even the people I care about, my son most of all, myself included, are no thicker in my mind’s eye than a stick figure, with circles for our heads, three dots and a curve for eyes, noses, and mouths.   

  How can I be missing what is happening, within me and without?  Maybe this is a helpful failing.  Maybe reality needs to be screened, or strained, though the mesh that separates my consciousness from the objects of my senses.  I might be overwhelmed otherwise, by the shifting kaleidoscope of sensations, by the cacophony.  I am functioning in a reduction, and this is how I am living through my partly lived days.  To say that I am sleepwalking is another description of a confusion between waking and dreaming.

  The walking was over.   We were back at the car.   The birds were still there.  So, I stopped to look at them.  They had their patroness, too, another woman at the park by herself, in blue jeans and t-shirt, and stocky, like them.  She was speaking to them and laughing.  One of her birds flew up from the grass and landed, hunched, on the roof of my car.  I opened the back door so Mika could jump in.  The bird did not budge.   It turned its head, to look at me with its bright red eye or for some other reason.  The woman was also looking.   
  “Night herons,” she said.
  “I’ve never seen one of those before.”
  “That’s Jack, on your car.”
  “Okay,” I said.
  I said something about starting my car, but Jack the night heron had already flown, back to the grass or onto an oak branch.  The woman had moved as well.  She was walking to her own car, a beaten-up grey van, the sort of oversized vehicle that has commercial use.  There was rack on top of the van.  It was more like an animal pen, with four wooden sides.  Even stranger, she had left a ladder on the side of the van and was climbing up to the roof rack.  I backed from my parking spot and drove slowly past.   The front side of the pen on top of the roof of this woman’s van held a large square sign, like a wooden shield, with a single letter on it that looked exactly like the Hebrew letter Resh – but probably it wasn’t that, because why would it have been?   There was a solar panel on one side of the animal pen.  Or, it might have been a solar panel.   As the end of the driveway leading out of the park, I stopped for the red light.  After the usual while, the light turned green.  I turned left onto Shadowridge.   Only then, as I was accelerating up the slope, curving away from the park, Mika sitting up on the beach towel covering the back seat, a thought came forward that had been waiting there from the moment I passed the ladder, the wooden pen, the Hebrew letter Resh.

  What was that all about?

  *

   

• There Are No Italians in Italy

  With fewer than 2,500 people, Italy, Texas is too small to merit inclusion in Table 60 of the most recent Texas census, which provides estimates on “Selected Ancestry Groups” throughout the state. The group categories of Table 60 are Dutch, English, French, German, Greek, Hungarian, Irish, Italian, Norwegian, Polish, Portuguese, Russian, Scottish, Swedish, Ukrainian, Other, Multiple Ancestry and Ancestry Not Specified.

  One might say that as far as Table 60 is concerned, there are no Italians in Italy. For that matter, neither are there any Italians in Roma, a tiny South Texas roadstop.

  At last count there were more than 14.25 million people in Texas. But there isn’t a single Greek in Athens, an East Texas city of some 10,000. (There are 23 Italians, however, alongside 18 Scots, seven Poles and 4,242 folks of unspecified pedigree.) There are seven Portuguese in nearby Tyler, seven Hungarians in Victoria and seven Ukrainians in Waco. Fredericksburg in Central Texas may appropriately record more German ancestry than any other. But there are more English than Irish in Dublin (758 to 22), and more English than Irish in Shamrock, Texas, as well. Is there an abundance of Jews in Temple or of Catholics in Trinity? Table 60 doesn’t say, since it records ancestry groups by nationality rather than religion.

  “The one being abhorrent to the powers above the earth and under them is the hyphenated American….Be American, pure and simple.” Theodore Roosevelt

  Sorry, Teddy. Texas is not now nor ever has been pure and simple. Texas is home to the hyphenated American, from Afro- to Mexican- and every shade, creed and nation. The assimilation of even “white” ethnic groups is incomplete in Texas, and its completion is largely unwanted—after all, who would want the state’s white ethnics to be so colorless?

  Unlike the urban Northeast, where crowded immigrants assimilated from one generation to the next, Texas was uncitified well into the present century; there simply was no New York here for immigrants to crowd into, no pot in which to be melted. In 1900, Washington County was the richest, most populous county in the state, without a single significant town.

  Rural Texas was spacious enough to accommodate independent ethnic settlements, with little need for outside contact. And so, in small communities, generations of Texas lived out their lives as Czechs, Norwegians, Germans, Poles or Danes. The evening bells, Abendglocken, were run at sunset every Saturday in Fredericksburg. On the 24th of December, the children of Gillespie County would recite in hopes of the morrow: Ich bin klein, mein Herz ist rein; soll neimand drin wohnen als Jesus allein. “I am small, my heart is pure no one shall abide there save Jesus alone.”

  With such a past, even those hyphenated Texas whose communities no longer exist belong to a community of memory. And if it is odd to speak of the ethnicity of third or fourth or fifth generation Texans, who are mostly assimilated, it is often these generations who revive their ethnicity in nostalgia for a culture about to disappear or a language no longer spoken.

  For some, ethnicity is reclaimed in celebrations that circle the state like endless theme parties. The German Texan appears at the Boerne Berges Fest in June, at the Wurstfest in New Braunfels in November, in Fredericksburg at Eastertime and in July at the Brenham Maifest. Norwegians hold a Smorgasbord in November at Norse in Bosque County. Poles observe May 3 as Polish Constitution Day; the same month, Czechs sponsor the National Polka Festival in Ennis. There are Greek festivals, Charro Days in Brownsville, and a Crawfish Festival for the Cajuns of Beaumont-Port Arthur. Scots attend the Gathering of the Clans. Tigua Indians in Ysleta del Sur, an El Paso suburb, honor their patron, St. Anthony, on June 13th.

  Unfold a map of Texas, and you open a catalogue of local ethnic groups. In towns like Blementhal, Frelsburg and Weimar in Colorado County, or Eckert, Kreuzberg, Luckenbach, Mecklenburg and Rheingold in Gillespie County, one can hear the heaviness of an oompah melody and sense the German ghosts gathering for a beer or to play skat and pinochle.

  Bringing names as charming as eye charts, Czechs left their homes in Bohemia for places like Praha, off U.S. Highway 90 between Flatonia and Schulenburg. The Dutch established Nederland in Jefferson County and the Danes settled at Danevang. The Poles from Silesia, who arrived in Galveston in 1854, went inland to found Panna Maria, North America’s oldest Polish town. They then settled Czestochowa, Kosciusko and St. Hedwig. One can still read Polish on the grave markers of the Panna Maria cemetery.

  Ten miles west of Clifton, among the hills and woodlands of Central Texas, not far from Norse or Cranfills Gap, Norwegian names on headstones in the cemetery at Our Savior’s Lutheran Church are reminders that as recently as a generation past, Norwegian was spoken in the shops of the towns of southwest Bosque County. And ten years ago in Brazos County, near Bryan, one could find Ferrara and Restino, Salvato and De Stefano on rural mailboxes in a countryside first farmed by impoverished Sicilians.

  Many of our county names have a Scottish brogue: Austin, Cameron, Cochran, Dawson, Houston, Williamson and more. Indians are remembered at the mention of such places as Waxahachie, Quanah and Karankaway Bay. Spanish place names, the deepest brand of all, are too many to single out.

  In the early 1920s Harry K. Johnson, a builder of interurban railways in Mississippi and Louisiana, came to Texas to construct a line between Houston and Baytown. Purchasing several thousand acres in Harris County, Mr. Johnson laid out three townsites and named them Highlands, Little Mexico and McNair. Highlands land was sold to whites only, little Mexico to Mexicans and McNair to blacks, who were not called blacks at the time.

  Such a division was in keeping with social propriety in Texas; and to a disappointing degree it still is. Despite the ethnic diversity of Texas, most seem to see the state through tricolored glasses: white, black and brown.

  In political years, this division is Anglo, black and Hispanic, as Anglo comes to mean white persons of non-Hispanic descent, rather than Americans of British origin. It is a crude way of dividing Texans, reductive and dishonest, unjust to our origins and our variety, and it has crude uses for those who care to keep brown and black away from white. (For example, one way Texas school districts responded to the mandate against school segregation in the 1970s was to integrate Hispanic and black schools, leaving Anglo schools untouched.)

  If state government forecasts come true, Texas will be home to some 27.8 million people by the year 2000. Of those, 14,354,264 will be Anglo and 2,327,928 will be black; 11,153,252 will be Hispanic, roughly three times today’s estimated 3.8 million Texas Hispanics and more than the state’s current Anglo population.

  Hispanics, a majority in the Texas past, seem also to be our future. There are many places in Texas today where it would be foolish to speak of Hispanics as a minority group. In Los Ebanos, 80 miles northwest of Brownsville, only one of the 800 residents is Anglo and he is known, not without affection, as El Gringo. As for the other 799, they are part of an American Hispanic population now exceeding 20 million. And with a portion of their population undocumented, Hispanics are undercounted.

  More than a third of the Mexican Americans in the Southwest today are Texans. In general, they are young, Roman Catholic and were born in Texas of Texas-born parents. Their great-grandfathers probably came north to avoid the revolutionary upheaval in Mexico during the first two decades of the century, when a tenth of Mexico’s population emigrated. Many now live in city barrios like El West Side in San Antonio, Loma in East Austin and Little Mexico in Dallas; in the colonias (Mexican settlements in small towns); or close to the border in the Rio Grande Valley, where those who cross from Mexico enter a state that is geographically and historically the land of their ancestors.

  In sense, many Mexican Texans have never left Mexico. For them, Texas is el Norte, and their hearts are South. Arnulfo Castillo, a folk poet born in Guanajuato who has lived in South Texas for more than 30 years, told folklorist Inez Cardozo-Freeman: “One morning, on the tenth of December in 1942, when I least thought of it they invited me to come live in the North and without recalling that in my songs that I had composed I always said I was a good Mexican, on this day, I abandoned my land, that little ranch which was the cradle of my childhood, that beautiful and warm land that saw my birth, where men are born with faith in God and the hope of cultivating the earth….I live in the North,” Castillo continued, “but always I remember with sadness and longing my Mexico.”

  In the 1950s, The Dallas Morning News reported the dedication of a city hall specifically “for Negroes” in Italy, Texas. The News editorialized that it was “an outstanding instance of practical interracial relations that might well be emulated throughout much of the Southland.” The dedication left Italy with a “white” city hall and a “Negro” city hall; a white mayor and city council and a powerless Negro mayor and city council whose function was to advise the whites. That such an arrangement seemed a model worthy of emulation rather than contempt not so long ago is some measure of the progress in Texas racial relations.

  For years, the relationship between Texas blacks and other Texans was a strange one, combining an intensity of feeling with a scarcity of contact. “I still clearly remember,” W. Silas Vance wrote in Life and Leisure at Lucky Ridge, a memoir about growing up in a tiny white community at the end of a dirt road in Wise County at the beginning of the twentieth century, “when, at the age of 11, I saw a Negro while on a visit to Decatur. There was no opportunity to question the Negro, but when my older sister pointed him out on the sidewalk as we drove down Main Street, I stared at the man with the curiosity of a boy at his first circus.”

  Unfortunately, for some 130 of its 150 years, Texas laws and customs exhibited not curiosity, but a conscious hostility toward black Texans. Slaves until the Civil War, and unfree until a Union general stepped ashore at Galveston in 1865 to proclaim U.S. sovereignty, the state’s blacks are only now overcoming suppression some may be willing to forgive the past but it still lives within them.

  When Moses Austin entered Texas in 1820, he brought $50 in cash and a black slave worth twelve times that. Most of the Anglos who settled Mexican Texas were Southerners, accepting the economic advantages of slavery. Indeed, after 1836 the Republic of Texas not only permitted slavery, its laws ordered free Negroes to leave the state. The Texas Constitution of 1845 plainly endorsed slavery, stating that all slaves “shall remain in the like state of servitude.”

  Texas lawmakers were still at it 80 years later. State legislators spent decades keeping blacks from voting in Democratic primary elections, beginning in 1923 with the passage of a law that flatly stated, “In no event shall a negro be eligible to participate in a Democratic primary election held in the State of Texas, and should a negro vote…such ballot shall be void and election officials shall not count the same.”

  Even after a black dentist from Houston’s Fifth Ward successfully opened the Democratic primary to all voters with Smith v. Allwright in 1944 (a suit represented before the Supreme Court b Thurgood Marshall of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People), a few Texas counties continued to use private white primaries. For much of the state’s history, white Texans have truculently proclaimed their resentment of orders from the federal government; the shame is that such orders have been necessary to ensure fairness and decency.

  These days, Texas laws contributing to the degradation of black Texans have been scrubbed away, but it is surprising how recently they existed. In the 1950s, Jim Crow laws required segregation in schools, state parks and intrastate transportation, and forbade intermarriage. Reminders of race and place were daily. Public facilities were restricted; common courtesies were denied. Blacks used restrooms and fountains marked colored, or they used none at all. Sometimes facilities were unlabeled—the tile on a wall in a downtown department store in style-conscious Dallas was tastefully color-coded, black and white. People understood.

  White Southern Baptists spoke particularly loudly in the 1950s and 1960s in favor of barriers between the races in Texas. Dr. W.A. Criswell, pastor of First Baptist in Dallas, egregiously supported segregation. So did the Rev. Carey Daniel. In 1955, Daniel, pastor of First Baptist Church of West Dallas, vice-chairman of the Texas Citizens Council for Continued Segregation, and cousin to the governor, Gov. Price Daniel, wrote to The Dallas Morning News, “The Lord Himself was the original segregationist. When he separated the black race from the white, He did not even put them in different parts of town or even in different countries. The black race had a continent to themselves.”

  In a state overwhelmingly opposed to integration, Criswell and Daniel were representative men.

  When Israel Zangwill’s play The Melting Pot was first performed in 1908, marriages across ethnic lines were uncommon. In contrast, today some suppose that white ethnic Texas is vanishing into that melting pot. They point to Italian Texans—or, rather, they say they can’t point to them because Italians qua Italians have assimilated.

  They have a point. At one time three were newspapers directed solely at Italians in Texas, but the last one ceased publication in 1962. Once, one could find Italian beehive ovens in the Central Texas countryside near Thurber and Dickenson; today, such aromatic distinctions are gone, replaced for the most part by factory-made bread.

  Through the state, white ethnic organizations that were founded for practical purposes now exist mostly for sentimental reasons. The fraternal societies established by Texas immigrants to provide insurance or to care for the sick or disabled – for example, the Ceska Katolicka Jednota Texaska, the Czech Catholic Union of Texas organized in 1889—have seen their roles superseded by government agencies or private non-ethnic corporations.

  For some, ethnicity is today little more than a shared interest, no more confining than a mutual interest in boating might be, and in some cases it is an interest free of all genetic moorings. At the Dallas International Bazaar each spring there are booths sponsored by the Scottish Society of Dallas, the Dallas Chinese Lions Club, the Vietnamese Kung Fu Association, the Czech Catholic Club, the Italian Club, the Vasa Order of America (Swedes), the Friendly Sons and Daughters of St. Patrick, among others. But bloodlines are not a requirement for membership in the group. You don’t have to have an Irish father to be a Friendly Son. And anyone can join the Scottish Society who is, “by desire or affinity associated with the Scottish peoples.”

  Perhaps the truth is that the stock in the Texas melting pot is not as lumpy with ethnicity as it once was, but neither are we a watery bouillon. For white ethnics, languages and cultures may have almost disappeared, but people within the group still identify themselves as Italian or Czech or Norwegian, as though belonging to an extended family. People are still disinclined to let their ethnic past be forgotten.

  Teddy Roosevelt was not the first or the last American to suggest there is something un-American in the retention of ethnic identities. Nor is anti-ethnicity a no-nothing position. Sometimes even those who applaud or defend ethnicity have mixed feelings about its official recognition.

  The federal government has taken note of ethnicity in one fashion or another since 1850, when statisticians responsible for conducting the census determined a usefulness for measuring the population according to country of birth. It was a concern prompted in part by a rise in immigration to a nation that had no immigration policy.

  The ethnic interests of the government are not without controversy. One year, the census placed Mexicans in a “non-Caucasian” category, with the exception of the “white” Hispanics of New Mexico and Colorado. The Mexican government and Mexican Americans, upset with being “non-white,” protested. In the 1960s, civil libertarians feared that probing into ethnic origins raised the specter of government persecution and called for the abolition of all race and national-origin questions in government statistics, college admissions or job applications. The American Civil Liberties Union attempted to have race deleted from the 1960 census schedule, and one state went so far as to eliminate race and color from its birth and death certificates for one year; but such actions aroused the suspicions of the ethnic groups themselves, who saw in them a conspiracy to obliterate their identities.

  At UT”s Institute of Texan Cultures in San Antonio, schoolchildren on field trips and other, more voluntary visitors can handle Indian drums and tools, pluck cotton from its bale, go inside a sharecropper’s cabin, examine an old butter churn, watch corn being ground and reflect on the strange beauty of carrying the name Moczygemba from Southern Poland to Central Texas in 1853, as the pick their way through a football-field sized exhibit floor where exhibits representing some 26 different ethnic groups are on display.

  The emphasis of the Institute’s exhibits is historical, but the message is contemporary. As Texans, we are separate in our origins and in that separateness there is something worth celebrating. Real Texans not only each quiche they eat lasagna, kolaches and smorgasbord. Nor is there a single ethnicity that dominates. Like the country, the state is too large and our peoples are too few. We are not uniform, nor is there a representative one of us; but ours is a pleasing diversity. Maybe the simple lesson in the variety of our peoples is the impossibility of ever describing the state in simple terms.

  Figures on ancestry or ethnic origin may seem to suggest that everyone can be assigned an ethnic category, or that such assignations are obvious. Not so. For many Texans ethnic identity is simply problematic. Surveys revel that half the population cannot identify its ethnicity at all. Even census figures are approximations; at best they are rough, limited by the abilities of the census-takers and the veracity of respondents. How, for example, is the census to count Mexicans living in Texas illegally? Census data is a cornucopia of ethnic information but from it we learn that people all over Texas either don’t know or won’t say who their ancestors were. There is no place of any size in the state without somebody of either unspecified or undisclosed ancestry.

  If the mosaic of white ethnicity in Texas is a fading pattern, It is mostly because white ethnic groups that once formed separate communities are now physically less divided from one another, their coming together made inevitable by the movement of Texans from the countryside to the city. Good jobs, not good will, have melted ethnic Texans. All over the state, rural settlements that were home to homogenous communities have disappeared from the map, swallowed by big city opportunities. Assimilation in Texas is as much a matter of highways as ways of the heart. Isolated communities held on to isolating folkways. But as roads through rural Texas improved, rural Texans took them to the city, and few returned. The children of Texans who were born, married and died speaking German, Czech or Polish—people who had never seen a Jew, black or Hispanic in their lives—now live in Houston or Dallas. Those left behind in the Danish community of Danevang are left explaining Danevang’s demise matter-of-factly: “People went away to shop, they went to the movies, they met non-Danish and married….”

  “Contented people,” a European observer wrote of those who came to America, “do not emigrate.” Like the rest of America, Texas was peopled by the unhappy. Disasters brought us here: famines, epidemics, persecutions, insurrections. Yes, and slavery. But, in general, the journey for ethnic Texas has gone from worse to better. Color is still a bugaboo, a barrier difficult, some would say nearly impossible, to cross. Time is helping, although our embarrassing history is evidence that the persistence of ethnicity is coupled by equally durable bigotry. Perhaps a line from Lampedusa’s Il Gattopardo, purely Sicilian, applies to the prejudices of our present generation of Texans, 150 years after the birth of the state: Finche la morta, che la speranza—“as long as there is death, there is hope.”

  *

  The essay above was published as Lone Star Lineage, in Texas Celebrates! The First 150 Years, issued by D Magazine/Southwest Media Corp. 1985

• Romanian Holiday

  I am in business class, though I have no business flying to Romania. Dallas to London to Bucharest. The traveler at the window seat next to me has two phones and a laptop. At Heathrow, a soccer team boarded. Dark skins, all of the players. From the window of the plane, I can see squares of brown and green fields. Grimy Bucharest, surrounded by agriculture.

  *

  I am hiking in the woods above Brasov with Costin, who is both my guide and my driver. This mountain we are on is called Timba, and the trail is right on the edge of the town, as though a forest were a city park. We are showered by the gold coin of leaves. Costin tells me about the richness of the country and the madness of its people. He points to church spires, talks of competition between beliefs and the envy of the believers. Romanian for “church” is biserica. It sounds to my ear the same as Romanian for “cat.” In Bucharest, I had a different guide, Lisette, and she had laughed at this confusion of my American ear.
  “I worship cats,” she said.

  *

  I spent my first two days in Romania with her. We tour in Bucharest She points out the Saxon buildings, which are elegantly joined, like layers of cakes. They are centuries old. I remarked to her how sad and contemporary it was, all the graffiti defacing them. Her name wasn’t Lisette, but something like that. I am sure it started with an L. Like so much else, Lisette’s name has tumbled in my memory. I can almost see it. It is falling, reaching out to me so that I might pull it back and remember, but I cannot grasp it.

  *

  In Viscli, I am eating a pear that Costin finds on the ground under a tree. He picks up one for me and one for him. Viscli is a Saxon village, with a history going back to the 12th century. It has a white fortified church, which we go into, though there is little to see. Prince Charles has visited Viscli. It is a claim to fame of a sort – it has made Viscli a tourist attraction. The prince owns a property in Romania, apparently not far from here. And it is rentable. A tourist can stay in a prince’s room.

  When I was planning my trip, I looked into spending a night there, but chose otherwise. In part, because I am here solo. Had I gone with Debra, the lure of sitting on a toilet owned by a celebrity would have been too much for her to resist.

  *

  On to Sighisoara. Each of these places has its particularities. It is all foreign to me, so much unknown, but I might say the same thing about neighborhoods in West Dallas or south of the Trinity or east of Central Expressway. There are places downtown in my own city where I can’t get the order of the streets right, no matter how many times I have driven there – Elm, Main, St. Paul, Harwood. What ones are one way, and which way. I don’t know my own neighborhoods, even less my neighbors.

  So many details, who can know them all?

  There’s a saying, God is in the details. But if He is everywhere, then He is in the generalizations, too.

  *

  In Sighisoara I am staying the night in Casa Fronius. No one else is here, other than a British family, twelve of them traveling together. I see them at breakfast in the downstairs dining area at Casa Fronius. I have my table to myself. They greet each other with kisses, taking their places at one long table. They are on day three of their five-day bicycle trip – the grandfather, a smart-looking grandmother, two daughters with their husbands, the sons-in-law, their four handsome children.

  Three of the grandchildren are tall, athletic young men. The granddaughter, Daisy, is seventeen, a beautiful young girl and the last to come down to breakfast.

  I enjoy being here by myself. But what might it mean to have such a family? How much more satisfying to be a grandparent traveling with these daughters and sons-in-law, and with the youngest children, young adults in fact, all treating each other as though truly they enjoyed the company and delighted in being together.

  I know nothing about this. It is outside my experience – not as a child, not as an old man. Maybe briefly, in the few years before Dolores’s death, and when our children were very young. And even that was not the same.

  *

  Thursday now, in Piatra Neamt. Coffee this morning in the Ceaulaul Hotel, near the Princely Court. My hotel is named after the mountains nearby.

  I have my several Romanian phrases, just as I did with Russian phrases when I went to Moscow and St. Petersburg a year ago. Those Russian hello’s and thank you’s have disappeared from my tongue, and their equivalents in Romanian will go the same way.

  Da, ma scuati, multomesc, and the always useful nu vorbesc romansche – it’s not much, but it is enough to win a smile in the coffee shop.

  *

  I visited the synagogue Baal Shem Tov in Piatra Neamt. This wooden synagogue dates from 1766, ten years before the American revolution and six years after the death of the Besht, who was not from here, but from somewhere that was Poland then and is now Ukraine. The synagogue was locked. I walk to the city archives next, in order to ask about Isaac Reegler, who might have been born February 11, 1887. Ancestry has suggested there was also a half-sister, Rose. Costin explains my interest to a woman at a desk. This was my reason for coming to Romania in the first place. It was the precipitating event. Isaac, my mother’s father, someone I never knew, came from Piatra Neamt.

  *

  Costin arranges a second visit to the synagogue Baal Shem Tov. When we arrive at the wooden synagogue, he calls on his cell phone, and someone comes down the narrow side street to unlock a front gate and then the door to the building.

  It’s Emanuel Nadler. Emanuel has the responsibility to show the synagogue to tourists. I don’t ask whether it’s a job or a sacred duty. Emanuel is not much older than I am. He’s an interesting man, a poet of some distinction and also an art historian. He has published both art history and his poetry under his more Romanian name, Emil Nicolae.

  I spend thirty minutes, maybe more, with Emil. In looks, he is practically the twin of Robert Rendell, the Patton Boggs attorney I know from the Harvard Club of Dallas, whose more distinguished brother, Ed, is a former Democratic governor of Pennsylvania. And his face is familiar in a more general sense. I can see in the faces of Jews in Romania that their kinsmen are praying alongside me when I sit in my seat at Temple Emanu-El back home. They are my kinsmen as well.

  Emil is fluent in French, more so than in English. So I try out whatever is left of my high school French in conversation with him. I am able to tell him that I am a poet too. He warms to the information and gives me a book of his poems, which is for sale in the synagogue. He also sells me one of his more scholarly works, a hardbound biography of Victor Brauner, which is a catalog of Brauner’s work. Like one of my grandfathers, Brauner was born in Piatra Neamt. My grandfather Isaac was a tailor’s assistant. Brauner was a surrealist painter between the wars and a friend of Andre Breton.

  In those years between the wars, there were 14,000 Jews in Piatra Neamt. They were forty percent of the population. And the Jews of Piatra Neamt were never deported during the war. They wore the star, and some may have been killed, but most survived. According to Emil, it was only after the war that the Jews left Piatra Neamt. Under communism, Ceaucescu allowed the State of Israel to buy their legal emigration. It was a money-maker.

  Emil, or Emanuel, was born after the war, in 1947. He and his parents didn’t leave. But there are very few of the Jewish families left on his block.
  “Another block over, all the Jews left,” he says.
  Neighbor influenced neighbor. Emil says only 145 Jewish families remain in Piatra Neamt, and most of them are intermarried. Those who still come to the synagogue Baal Shem Tov are either elderly or women. It is difficult and rare to have a minyan.

  *

  Costin has picked up a river rock for me from just beyond the Bicaz Gorge. I also have one of the golden leaves from a tree in the Carpathians in my pocket. I don’t know the kind of stone and ask Costin the name of the leaf.

  That task of naming was our first task, assigned to the first man, whose name was Adam. It was delegated to Adam by God. The name of the first woman was Ishah, taken from man, but she was also called Chava – love, the mother of life, designating a specific woman, that one. Everything has two names at least, the general and the specific. For the stone and the leaf in my pocket, I know only their general names.

  *

  Does every movement of every leaf in every breeze have a purpose? Surely it falls for a reason, if only a reason a scientist might explain. In that scientific sense, it lands with a job to do, decomposing as part of a grander composition.

  Is the I am of the leaf, or of a river rock, any less than my own I am? The rock will be in the river as the river moves on. It will be in the river when I am bones. A river of time flows over me, smoothing whatever was rough in me, vanishing whatever distinguished me.

  *

  Friday, at Casa Roata.
  Costin and I go to dinner together in Gura Humorului, in Suceava; this is northeastern Romania, where we are visiting the painted monasteries.

  Costin’s engaging. His own business is Carpathian-adventures.com, but I found him through Exeter, which sells luxury travel experiences. I must be paying many multiples of what the trip with him might have cost had I contacted him directly.

  *

  Our goal today is Suceavita Monastery. Just before we get there, we stop at one of the wooden houses that are converted into shops, with crafts and other souvenirs for tourists. I bought a heavy fabric with gold threads. Through Costin, the shopowner tells me that it was a skirt made for a Romanian girl’s wedding. The shopowner has a longer conversation with Costin, who translates as I listen. The shopowner has visited the United States. Her daughter is Georgette Dane, a winemaker for Chloe Wine Collection, which is part of The Wine Group, one of the bigger producers in Northern California (Benzinger, Franzia, Cupcake, and other brands). The woman has been to Monterey and knows the aquarium there. Also, to Southern California, because her granddaughter is in medical school at UC San Diego.

  *

  Sunday morning.
  The fly in my room at Casa Roata has nowhere to go. It came in uninvited, as we all do, and with no intention to stay. The buzzing is bothering me, as if it were pleading with me. I open a window. I unlatch a door.

  There are several families staying here in the cottages of Casa Roata, which is a sort of Disneyland Romanian place in the country. They are native Romanians; so, tourists in their own country. Even for them, Casa Roata is a stage set.

  I am not sure where Costin is staying. He will be by later in his car. We are leaving today, and traveling through Maramures. We will stop to see wooden churches on the way to Sighet, Ellie Wiesel’s home town. He was deported from there, first to Auschwitz and then to Buchenwald. Costin has offered the opinion that Wiesel was a fabulist. Costin has lots of experience with Jewish tourists and tours. It is something Jews do, visiting the sites of their grandfathers’ lives, or where they lost their lives. Costin is used to it.

  *

  Dinner tonight is at my hotel in Sighet. Gradina Morii, where I am staying, is impressive. Behind it, a river, and a bridge I walk over in the late afternoon. For dinner, I am seated alone at a circular table six feet in diameter. I am the old man looking at the attractive young in a hotel restaurant.

  What dignity is there in eating alone? Or in feeling disqualified by age from winning anyone’s attention?

  But then I have always been uncomfortable with my age. As I have noted to myself many times, my age has always been like the porridge that is either too hot or too cold. For years, I thought I was too young. Then one day I felt too old. Somewhere in between, I must have been just the right age but never realized it.

  I have heard of body dysmorphia. Could I have age dysmorphia? When I was twenty, I thought I had little to offer. Now, nearing seventy, I am convinced that no one wants what I have. So the years have gone. I am amazed by stories of physically unattractive old men who seduce by the force of their personalities. Or more likely by the power of their fame or status. Louis Kahn, for example. That is a triumph of self-confidence.

  *

  We had stopped earlier today at Costin’s house in Maramures, where his dog bit me on the leg. She was a small dog, and her bite didn’t even break the cloth of my jeans. Vulpix – Foxy – that was her name. She was only recently delivered of a litter of pups. So she was protecting them. Bellied, drooping, and hostile.

  On our way to Sighet we also stop at a “living museum” that Costin knows. It is part of his job to make sure he takes me to see whatever is supposed to be interesting, even when there is nothing to see. The museum–a shop, really–is on the roadside. The manager is an old woman who knows Costin well enough. She tells him about the suicide of a gambler in the village. Costin does not know the man, but it is news. So it is shared. There must be stories like this every day at home as well. I never hear them though. Am I moving too fast to even listen? Traveling through Romania, and constantly on the move, I am still going much slower than I do at home. And here there is nothing else for me to do but listen.

  *

  I have lost track of the dates; is this the 27th, which I thought was yesterday? It of course doesn’t matter. Only my date of departure needs to be unmistaken.

  Daylight savings time ended this morning in Romania. Costin is driving, I am the passenger, and we are on our way from Sighet to Cluj Napoca.

  What do we talk about? I have spent more uninterrupted time with Costin than with anyone within memory – not just more over these ten days, but more than in the past ten years. Debra and I see each other two nights a week. If we are in the car together, she is on her phone. If we are at her house, she is asleep after dinner in front of the television. So, our conversations rarely amount to much.

  Costin and I talk about whatever we can think of to pass the time sociably. He comments on the roadside sights. A huge house we pass is “owned by gypsies.” He talks about the weather station where he works, which is up the mountain from his house. It is only a seasonal job. Costin will sleep there for weeks, when he is not working as a guide. We talk about past events in both of our lives. Or about money, or politics. He points out the light in the clouds above the roadway.

  We are passing towns where there are two-story homes on the street. Massive, new construction, some houses only partly finished, their magnificent roofs sheathed in a silvery metal that looks like a tinsel.
  “Gypsy homes,” Costin says. “They like shiny things.”
  They are homes, he says, “built for display,” with many more rooms than the owner needs. Built with money gained working abroad or through schemes.
  “What schemes,” I ask.
  “Importing untaxed cigarettes.”
  He says the gypsies build the houses but don’t know how to live in them and often don’t even want to. They might burn a fire on a living room floor, as if camping inside. Or invite their horse inside.
  “The tin decoration – all for display, it’s gypsy nobility.”

  I think that is what every aristocrat does with his castle. Costin and I had visited a castle in Bran only a few days before.

  *

  I’m in Cluj for the night. For once, at a relatively modern hotel. There is a performance tonight at the ornate provincial opera house in the city, so I decide to go. The opera is Offenbach’s Orphee aux Enfers. In the seat next to me by herself, a young woman who is in Cluj on business. She speaks English and is from Piatra Neamt, but lives in Iasi. She is in sales, repping French manufacturers of lace from Calais. She calls on interior designers in Cluj, to influence them, so that they will specify French lace for their clients.
  Noapte buna, I tell her, trying my Romanian.
  Buna sera, she corrects me.
  It’s only evening. Noapte buna is something to tell a woman when you say good night.
  The young woman wears a black pants suit. She is also wearing flesh-colored stockings that come only to the top of her thick ankles. It is not an appealing look. Especially for someone who sells elegant French lace. Lace is a whisper. The fabric of her stockings is a growl, or a horse laugh.

  When do the divisions of time start and stop in Romania? When is it morning, then day, then evening, then night?

  *

  A Monday.

  Today, I’m taking pleasure in what Iris Murdoch called “sheer, pointless, independent existence.” She was speaking of animals, trees, and stones.

  *

  Am I missing my “significant other,” who declined to come to Romania?

  Debra’s lack of interest in me and what I do is disappointing, but it is also liberating. Yes, it provokes me, if I am inclined to feel unappreciated. I tell myself I deserve something more. But can’t I as easily be grateful for it? I am on a solo trip to Romania. It is one of Debra’s unintentional gifts. I have no one to share it with, which can be sad; but, on the other hand, I do have this trip for myself. And Debra’s a poor traveling companion anyway, overly concerned with comfort, worrying about whatever she left behind. She subtracts as much as she adds when we travel together.

  Also worth considering: How am I any different? Am I interested enough in Debra’s occupations and preoccupations? I may be more polite than she is. I will ask her what she thinks. I will listen to her as she repeats herself. But do I have any deeper share in her experiences than she has in mine?

  *

  Costin drives me from Cluj across the border with Hungary to Budapest. This is where he turns back for home. I’m staying in the Four Seasons Gresham Palace, overlooking the Danube. Luxury, for the end of the trip. This hotel is art nouveau, but imperial, with a million mosaic tiles in the lobby, and too many sparkling chandeliers.

  I’m an underdressed guest here. Costin and his t-shirt and jeans are off in the night, alone in his Toyota, back to Romania.

  *

  In Budapest, a new guide. Julia Lengyel is a Jew who tells me she didn’t learn she was Jewish until she was sixteen. In her twenties, she applied to a program for “Jewish youth,” even though she was over the program’s age limit, and spent a year on a kibbutz in Israel. Her Jewish father had lived in Budapest throughout the war. She tells me that he “had the luck not to be murdered.”

  Julia studied economics in Budapest at the Karl Marx School of Economics, which was renamed after 1990. Her mentor there was Ivan Tibor Berend, the Hungarian historian and former President of the Hungarian Academy of Science. Also, former member of the Central Committee of the Hungarian Socialist Workers’ Party, and now a professor at UCLA and member of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences.

  I look Julia up on LinkedIn. Under Education, it says she has her Masters in Judaic Studies from Corvinus University in Budapest. On LinkedIn she is “following” both Corvinus University and the Hard Rock Hotel Budapest.

  Julia has two sisters. One of them a half-sister, “from my father’s second marriage, after my mother died.” This sister lives with a husband in Switzerland. The other is a cellist in Toronto who plays with Wellington Chamber Music and freelances with The Guitar Guys.
  So, both live elsewhere.

  Leaving home is an Eastern European thing to do. My grandparents did it. Julia’s sisters did it. For many, life is like the sun, it moves to the west.

  *

  Auden in The Enchafed Flood describes the sea as “that state of barbaric vagueness and disorder out of which civilization has emerged and into which, unless saved by the effort of gods and men, it is liable to relapse.”

  This is not a comment on the crisis of climate change or the threat of rising ocean waters, flooded shores and drowning islands, dismissed by some as simply “the weather,” which we have always had.

  I have the book with me at The Four Seasons Gresham Palace and am misusing my time reading in the hotel room.

  *

  Budapest’s central District V is a fairytale respite from the Romanian countryside, painted churches and Gypsy houses. From the window in my room at the Four Seasons Hotel Gresham Palace, there’s a view of the Chain Bridge that crosses the Danube. Around the corner, I can visit a gilded Gerbeaud, which is a coffee house that could as easily be called a cake house. It is on the other side of Joseph Attila, a street named after a poet. I hardly know where I am in Budapest, but it is a pleasure to be lost here. I have little sense of the city. I set out walking the first night around the few blocks that I think I know. I can be anxious sometimes about getting lost. My sense of direction is very poor. It is much the same in my life. I have the sense that my life is only a street or two, or at most only a neighborhood.

  *

  Joseph Attila, did I write your name down incorrectly? Did the sign say Joseph or Jozsef? When I look you up online, Jozsef seems to be your last name.

  Born 1905 in Budapest. Father, a soapmaker; mother, a laundry worker. Somehow you attended the Sorbonne and the University of Vienna. Career: poet and translator. There is a translation of your poems published in 1973, the year I dropped out of Harvard, edited by James Atlas, who was at the Harvard Advocate a few years before I was. Here’s more, from Wikipedia: You were treated by psychiatrists for depression and schizophrenia as a child. When you were an adult, you were sent by the state to a sanatorium. You never married but fell in love frequently with the women who were treating you. Your father abandoned the family, your mother died when you were a teenager, you described yourself as a street urchin, you edited a literary journal, you joined the Communist Party. And on it goes. Attila Jozsef committed suicide 1937 in Balartonszarszo, is a village along the southern shore of Lake Balaton in Hungary.

  Why did you kill yourself in 1937? Did you smell what was in the wind?

  According to Wikipedia, the poet was 32 in 1937 and living in the house of his sister and brother-in-law in Balatonszarszo. He was “killed while crawling through railway tracks and was crushed by a train.” It’s accepted as a suicide in part because he had attempted suicide before. Also because he left five “farewell letters” the day he died.

  Attila Jozsef or Jozsef Attila is buried in Budapest. From one of his “farewell” letters: “Well, in the end I will have found my home, the land where flawless chiseled letters guard my name above the grave where I’m buried, if I have buriers.”

  *

  It is easy enough to get lost, in a foreign city or in one’s own life. I have never confused my first and last names, but I have often misunderstood what to do first and last.

  Sometimes it is only by narrowing the path that I am able to know where I am. The narrow path has its downsides though. It can even have dangers, though not likely as lethal as crawling along a railroad track.

  *

  My last night in Budapest. It goes how the last of anything goes – not much energy, just drifting, not doing much. I am not trying to get the most out of the hours that are left. I am thinking instead about the travel back to Dallas.

  That’s typical. People do not rise up at the last, they lie down.

  *

  These travel notes are handwritten in a small black journal with a leathery cover that has a snap to keep it closed. There are two or three pages in this journal from before Romania. The first writing in it starts with a mention of London, a trip I took with my children after their mother died. That was twenty years ago, when I went on a “family trip” with what was left of our family. I had forgotten those notes and never transcribed them.

  How to describe the journal? Meaning, the physical notebook. I look up “snap cover journal” and find “Notebook in Faux Leather Snap Cover – 4 x 7” on Amazon.

  That’s what I have – 4 by 7, faux.

  I might still transcribe these first few pages, but they are not travel notes any longer. They are time travel notes. I could rewrite them, interpolating and updating and adding, even contradicting what I wrote back then, in the light of what I know now.

  I could do the same with any recollection, whether from twenty years ago or yesterday.

  *

  Something I read and want to copy down:
  A child fears separation from his parents. A lover fears separating from the beloved. At the same time, we may want to leave, risking an unknown tomorrow, almost preferring it to more of the same.

  If security is what you need, and comfort is what you love, and you want the respect you imagine that others have for you, then, yes, stay where you are.

  You can continue to worship at the altar of routine.

  *

  The weather is changing. The unstable spring is gone. Summer is past reckoning, and the sweet interval of fall has vanished. I am into winter, cold and dull. I am feeling my aging. What did Ben Jonson write, that age was misery? It is not that simple, neither the weather nor my aging bones. It is storming outside tonight. The wind is doing damage. I am trying to sleep but can only dream. And in this dream I am sawing broken branches of the live oaks, my holy trees of life that have broken off in the storm. I am cutting the big branches until they are in pieces light enough for me to carry, one after another, into a fire.

  ***

• Turn of the Year

  i

  Yearend is a time to walk through the events of the year past. At life’s end, however, going back can be a complicated journey. And a stumbling, melancholic one. Be not solitary, be not idle, Robert Burton recommended in The Anatomy of Melancholy, as one of his cures, steps he thought as effective as a trip to the physician or the apothecary. I have substituted for both at different times in my life, making use of psychiatrists and pharmacists. And here I am trying to write down my thoughts about failure. So being solitary goes with the territory. Siting in a chair, tapping on the keyboard of a laptop, looks very much like idleness, at least to the outside observer. Then again, there is no outside observer. And that is a relief. Since no one is providing a target, I have no mark to hit. There is no test, so no right answers. No prizes, and no punishments either. I have always admired the wisdom of Kohelet, available wherever Bibles are sold, or given away, or placed in a pew: whatsoever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might.

  ii

  Sooner or later, every man is a failure in his own eyes is another admirable aphorism. I don’t know who said it or where I read it, but I get it. I too have the conviction that I have failed. And not just failed at this or that. Failure can become the label that you attach your yourself, like a name tag on a sticky white rectangle peeled from a roll and then pressed onto your breast pocket. You have written your first name and last initial on that rectangle, using the black Sharpie pen that the host at the check-in table has provided. Or you own the nicer, metal tag, the one that has your first and last name debossed on a strip of metal. That is the manufactured one that comes with the separate button of a magnet and the warning do not use with pace maker.

  iii

  Burton’s The Anatomy of Melancholy has the pull of the all-you-can-eat restaurant. The concept is tempting, but the experience is mixed and the result is often regret. The fat paperback on my bookshelf has an introduction by William Gass, and a second introduction, this one from the 1932 edition, by Holbrook Jackson. I have freed it from the shelf and am weighing it in my hands. There is also a “Note On The Text.” According to this Note, several pages long, no original manuscript of The Anatomy of Melancholy exists. For the five versions printed during his lifetime, Burton made changes and added material. The text in my paperback follows edition number six, which was the first printed posthumously. If I were Robert Burton, I would be digressing now, explaining the complexities of the word “posthumous.” How, in Latin, posterus can mean “coming after” and postumus, the superlative form, might or might not mean “last.” Burton might have added that when Latin was a spoken language, postumus referred to the last born of a man’s children– particularly to those born after a man died. From there, piling on, he could note how “umus” in postumus became entwined with “humus,” meaning “dirt” or “earth.” And so it came to be confused with the very earth where a child’s father is buried.

  iv

  Amy Edmondson’s Right Kind of Wrong is on a desk upstairs, in a room I sometimes call “the study.” This book is “a masterclass in navigating failure,” according to Angela Duckworth, the author of Grit, who is quoted on the front of the book’s jacket. Right Kind of Wrong has the subtitle The Science of Failing Well. Angela Duckworth repeats her endorsement on the back cover. She praises Right Kind of Wrong as “a master class in navigating, and even seeking out, the inevitable failures that pave the way to success.” So, failure is inevitable, it should even be sought.

  v

  Management consultants and academics speak of the opportunity to “fail well.” But what is being praised at the Harvard Business School is not failure; it is learning from failure. Thomas Edison will be quoted. I have not failed, the great inventor declares in prefaces and first chapters, I’ve found ten thousand ways that won’t work. That is all fine. Learn and move on is a wonderful strategy, if you can bring it off. But what if your sense of failure is bedrock, not a stepping stone toward success. What if it is as vast as the vista ahead, in the aftermath of giving up. It becomes the final grade, the conclusive assessment, a summing up. It is a black mood you are not moving beyond. There is no curtain you can part, dispersing the convincing darkness with the sunshine that is there, just outside, all along.

  vi

  There is the notion that failure can turn into honor eventually, if you live long enough. Or the transformation may occur posthumously. Those unrecognized during their lives will be lionized after their deaths. Van Gogh is the standard bearer. Franz Kafka, too. I have Kafka on my bookshelves and on the tops of tables. In the hallway, Complete Stories. In another room, The Castle. The slim reprint of Kafka’s Letter to My Father on a desk upstairs is from the Kafka Museum in Prague, from its gift shop. Other editions I have seen of this little book translate it as Letter to The Father, which is a crueler title. I never wrote letters to my father, who died at ninety-four, less than a year after he tripped and hit his head on a concrete stair on his way into a movie theater, to see Tom Cruise in Valkyrie. The day before his fall, he was in robust health, and his subsequent decline was steeper than the stairway.

  I do have one or two letters from him, however. They are more like notes. He wrote his messages in block print and, typically, sprinkled them with capitalizations in the middle of his sentences. If I wrote back, it was only to “Mom and Dad,” as though they were one person. And this was in the years well before email, when addresses were physical and a married couple had the same one. I may not have seen my mother and father as individuals then, or not clearly. A marriage can do that, it can be a kind of eclipse. From a child’s point of view, it fuses them into parents and thereby hides each one.

  vii

  Kafka’s Letter to My Father has nothing do with my father. For that, it would be better to choose a baseball book, the biography of Sandy Koufax that he might have given me. So look for Sandy Koufax, A Lefty’s Legacy, by Jane Leavy, and find it on a high shelf in the hallway. It turns out to have been from my father only by proxy. My son has a message for me from 2002 on its first blank page. Dad, it says, I remember you telling me about seeing Koufax play at Dodger Stadium so I got you this book. Ben is misremembering. The night game that my father and I went to was at the Coliseum, not at Chavez Ravine. More formally, at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, on August 31, 1959. Dodgers versus San Francisco Giants, Koufax pitching, Johnny Roseboro catching. My father and I are sitting down the line from first base in the bleacher seats high above right field. Koufax strikes out eighteen.

  viii

  What is failure, really? Is it the gap between who I thought I would be and how things have turned out? Maybe that is just a failure of wisdom and a lack of acceptance. Failing is inevitable just as the failure to stay alive is inevitable. For parents, having children can be a response to that inevitability. A father might think he will still live on earth in the genes of those who come after him, however difficult it may be to remain satisfied with that kind of immortality. As the father of adopted children, I need some other death denying illusion, to use the language of Ernest Becker, whose The Denial of Death is buried on a desk downstairs, under Bittersweet by Susan Cain, Yevgeny Zamyatin’s We, and Love Poems of Pablo Neruda.

  ix

  It is also possible to embrace failure. It is possible to joke about it. To belittle it, by belittling yourself. Ornella Sinigalia writes about the use in China of the term “diaosi,” which means something like “loser.” She says it became trendy among the generation born after the 1980s to poke fun at their own low status.

  Some ambitious winner has even started a business called The Failure Institute. The premise of his business is that we all need to free ourselves from the stigma of failure. The need is desperate, according to the text I find under the About Us navigation on The Failure Institute’s website. The Failure Institute is a global movement. It has chapters in some three hundred cities around the world. Its “signature events” are called Fuckup Nights. And the lessons learned from more than one million participants on these Fuckup Nights are distilled by The Failure Institute into “content and community for top companies and organizations around the world.” The slogan of The Failure Institute? Failure sucks but instructs. Private events, workshops, newsletters and reports, blog posts about authenticity and vulnerability, “how to turn failure into opportunity,” and the off-rhyming slogan are all part of the sale. This is not parody, though you might fail to see how it could not be.

  x

  If I need a definition of failure, I can look for it in the two-volume set of the Oxford English Dictionary I received as a graduation gift after high school. It is on the lowest shelf of one of the seven bookcases that are built into my hallway. This dictionary is one of five or six books my parents gave me over the years, most of them for birthdays. Six or seven, if the two dark blue volumes of the Oxford English Dictionary still in their slipcase count as two. I need to stoop all the way to the hardwood floor in the hallway to find it. The slipcase has a small tray at the bottom, with a tiny knob I can pull to slide the tray outward and reveal a magnifying glass. It is day time, but a magnifying glass is helpful in the dim hallway.

  National Geographic Atlas of the World was also a gift from my parents. It is slipcased, too, on one of the shelves behind the downstairs desk. Most mysterious, my parents gave me P.D. Ouspensky’s In Search of the Miraculous, a dusty, unread book, its pages a terra more incognita than Papua New Guinea or Antarctica. I can see its jacketed spine on one of the upper shelves in the hall. “By the author of Tertium Organum,” it says on the cover. “The famous Russian philosopher’s story of his quest for a teaching which would solve for him the problems of Man and the Universe.” I never got further in this book than the message my mother wrote on an empty page facing the inside front cover. “For your 16th birthday,” she writes, “with hope that this book will answer some of your questions that we do not know the answers to.” My mother was solving a problem that I did not have, because I would never have asked her questions about Man or the Universe. And my father might not have heard me even had I asked him. You can picture him sitting in his recliner, listening to the ballgame, an ear plugged by the earpiece of his transistor radio. Now might be as good a time as any to read this neglected gift. More than sixty years have passed, and I have never found the miraculous, whether by searching or by accident. Still, In Search of the Miraculous has a message worth finding this morning. “All our love always, Mother and Dad,” it says.

  xi

  The Wislawa Symborska paperback on a hallway shelf is a travel souvenir. It comes from Masolit, a bookstore in Krakow. My memories are sketchy of the years-ago tour whose primary destination from Krakow was Auschwitz, and very little comes to mind of Krakow, other than the name of this bookstore and Symborska’s Collected and Last Poems, at eye level in the hall. Symborska is a canny trickster. Who else would have written In Praise of Feeling Bad About Yourself? I take Collected and Last Poems from the shelf and open to page 227 in order to read the end of this poem again.

  On this third planet of the sun
  among the signs of bestiality
  a clear conscience is number one.

  In translation, it reminds me of Auden. His Collected Poems, the hardback, sits on a shelf nearby. So does the thin Penguin paperback of Auden’s Selected Poems that I have owned for fifty years. And a badly used copy of A Certain World, Auden’s commonplace book, its paperback cover missing, its spine broken, and the unbound pages held together with a rubber band.

  xii

  The Tao Te Ching asks: “Success or failure: which is more destructive?” Also, “Whether you go up the ladder or down it, your position is shaky. But when you stand with your feet on the ground, you will keep your balance.” The Tao Te Ching is resting somewhere on these bookshelves. When I go to find it, the book I remembered as the Tao Te Ching turns into The Parting of the Way, an explanation of Taoism by Holmes Welch. Joseph P. Walcott is written in blue pen on the inside front cover. I remember Joe, someone I met in Berkeley, the year I dropped out of college. Long stringing hair, looking like Jesus as Jesus might have looked on a college campus in 1973. I must have borrowed this paperback from him and then never returned it. Passages in The Parting of the Way are colored over with yellow marker. There are terse margin notes in the same blue pen. Confucius vs Legalism, for example. I see a Yes above two underlines in a margin alongside a sentence Joe highlighted in yellow. On page fifty, the passage that he colors asks, “Where are those mysterious peaks for which Lao Tzu is famous? They have been right above us all the time, shrouded in obscurity. Let us go up and explore them.” In that margin, Joe has written LSD, with another double underline. (It is 1969 after all.) His also comments or copies halfway through the book: Those who speak do not know, those who know do not speak. That is all fine, but where is the Tao Te Ching I am certain that I own? I keep looking on hallway bookshelves. Another book about Taoism, The Shambhala Guide, has a promotional card inside from The Pristine Mind Foundation. This book is crisp as a cracker and looks as though it has never been opened.

  Eventually, I find two different translations of the Tao Te Ching on different shelves in other rooms. Both are handsome, jacketed hardbacks, with unworldly illustrations. They are like art books. I probably bought Tao Te Ching A New Translation, calligraphy of Kwok-Lap Chan, and then forgot it entirely. Years pass. And then I bought Tao Te Ching, An Illustrated Journey, translated by Stephen Mitchell, with the delicate scene on its cover from the ink-on-silk handscroll Twelve Views of Landscape, Southern Sung dynasty, early 13th century.

  xiii

  Ursula Le Guin, whose father wanted pages of it read at his funeral, translated her own version of the Tao Te Ching, in order to “catch the poetry.” She writes that the Tao Te Ching is “the most lovable of all the great religious texts.” She also reports that absolutely nothing about it is certain other than that it is Chinese and very old, written maybe 2500 years ago, and only maybe by someone named Lao Tzu.

  xiv

  Tao Te Ching can be translated as The Book of the Way, but for some reason its title is usually not translated. There is a marketing advantage to leaving it untranslated, an added authenticity to the brand. There are books whose difficulty is part of their appeal. I have Finnegans Wake on a shelf somewhere, never read, not even attempted. Today, late in December, I am leafing through the Stephen Mitchell translation. Mitchell in his introduction to Tao Te Ching says “there is practically nothing to be said” about its author. He then says, “Like an Iroquois woodsman, he left no traces.” Are the habits of an anonymous Iroquois so well known by every reader? Stephen Mitchell ends his introduction with a comment on translation. “If I haven’t always translated Lao Tzu’s words, my intention has always been to translate his mind.” That is also a mysterious notion.

  xv

  Both of the Tao Te Ching books present the text in a series of short sections typeset as if they were poetry. In Stephen Mitchell’s version, “Failure is an opportunity” appears as the first sentence in the poem he numbers seventy-nine:

  Failure is an opportunity.
  If you blame someone else,
  there is no end to the blame.
  Therefore the Master
  fulfils her own obligations
  and corrects her own mistakes.
  
  This assessment of failure does not appear in the other Tao Te Ching. It is a very different book, its sections are not numbered, and each of its poems is called a chapter. Still, it has plenty to say about failure. The chapter forty-five poem begins:

  A great thing done is never perfect.
  But that doesn’t mean it fails:
  it does what it is.
  
  As a kind of repudiation of “nothing ventured, nothing gained,” chapter sixty-three begins:

  The sage does nothing,
  and so he never fails.
  
  Joe Walcott thought Tao Te Ching was deep wisdom. He said so to me. The flap of the jacket cover of Tao Te Ching A New Translation asserts something similar. It says Tao Te Ching is expressing “divine truth.” But then, those who know do not say, and those who say do not know.

• The World's Greatest Books

  The seven bookcases that cover the length of the hallway are in dim light. The twelve volumes of The Complete Works of Mark Twain on the top shelf of the first bookcase are bright spots, their spines and covers as yellow as bananas. They sit on a shelf above Sandy Koufax and also have a connection to my father. What the connection is, I do not know, but I have the belief that there is one. These books remained in my bedroom in Los Angeles throughout my childhood. Decades later, they were stored at the Oceanside home that my parents moved to. And then, after my father died, I took them. They are small books, but thick, clothbound, and
  they fascinated me when I was a teenager, though not enough to have ever read them. I like the banana yellow of their covers and how the name of each volume is set in gold on bands of crimson. On all the covers, gold laurel leaves encircle an embossed profile of Samuel Clemens in a crimson oval, and, outside that circle, there is a second circle of embossed five-pointed stars. Under that, the writer’s signature, also in gold.

  I have not looked at a single page in these books in over fifty years. In the dim light, I am holding Volume 8, The Mysterious Stranger. There are crosshatched illustrations on the endpapers that depict characters from different stories. This is the American Artists Edition of The Complete Works of Mark Twain, published by Harper & Brothers, copyright 1922 by Mark Twain Company. My first-generation American father, who never went to college or ever read an assigned book, is a mysterious stranger himself. Both my parents are. I cannot picture either of them buying this twelve-volume set, but here it is in the hallway.

  ii

  These are the twelve Twains, in order: Pudd’nhead Wilson, The American Claimant, Roughing It, Life on the Mississippi, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, A Connecticut Yankee in King Author’s Court, The Mysterious Stranger, The Innocents Abroad, The Gilded Age, A Tramp Abroad, and What Is Man. Every American knows Tom and Huck, or used to. But who is Pudd’nhead Wilson?

  iii

  In my childhood bedroom, the twelve Twains rested on one of two shelves made of particle board and supported by metal brackets that hook into slotted metal tracks. The tracks are fastened to the drab green, textured and synthetic wood of the bedroom wall. The longer of the two boards sags under the dark blue burden of an Encyclopedia Americana. These encyclopedias are long gone. I do still have A Treasury of the Familiar, though — one of the “extras” that the publishers of Encyclopedia Americana threw in as an incentive to buy the complete set. It is in a bookcase behind my downstairs desk. Edited by Ralph L. Woods, A Treasury of the Familiar is a sort of greatest hits album in one dark blue volume. Much of it is poetry, though not all. I am looking into it this late December morning. If I wanted to, I can read Elbert Hubbard’s A Message to Garcia or George Washington’s Farewell Address, and plenty of Robert Burns or Robert Browning, in these 750 pages of the formerly familiar. What I remember is only the epigraph from Alfred Noyes’s The Barrel-Organ, which remains just as it was, in front of all that follows:

  And the music’s not immortal;
  but the world has made it sweet.

  In the “Index by Authors” at the end, the longest list by far belongs to “Anonymous.” There is no named author for Polly Wolly Doodle or The Boy Scout Oath.

  iv

  Each of the Twains has its own uncredited illustration facing a title page. In my bedroom as a child, I would open these books only to look at the dreamy color scenes. The one that I loved most is in Volume 8, The Mysterious Stranger. Three young men are in the snow, they may be out hunting. One holds a crossbow. He squints, seeming to look right at me. The other two, on either side of him, also peer forward. The three are wearing feathered caps. They have leggings and jackets, outfits that belong to another time and a far-away country. Behind them, on top of a rocky ledge, distantly and under a dreamy sky, there is the castle with six turrets. All is pastels and sunny on the page. Even the silly caption is transporting. Eseldorf Was a Paradise For Us Boys. These seven words worked like a spell. I never read any further, and
  whoever the mysterious stranger was, that remains a mystery.

  v

  These books are ghosts; or, they are the hosts of spirits. They speak about the past, if only in a whisper. My father is resting under the covers of the Mark Twains. My mother uses a Russian mystic to write to me about my childhood. They are among voices in a crowd on my bookshelves. Bertha, my mother’s oldest sister, talks to me three shelves below The Complete Works of Mark Twain. She is someone I never met, but her twenty volumes of The World’s Greatest Books have exhumed her and reburied her in the casket of a mahogany bookshelf built into the hallway.

  vi

  Bertha Reegler had rheumatic fever as a child. She dropped dead at age twenty-six on the living room floor of an overcrowded apartment in East Los Angeles, astounding and terrifying her three younger sisters and her mother. That was in 1940. The twenty volumes of The World’s Greatest Books she left behind are in precarious shape. On most of them, the spines are naked. What little is left of the faux leather paper that used to wrap around their edges will crumble when I touch it, exposing more of the fabric and yellowed glue underneath. I have seen these books in one house or another for seventy years, and have never looked inside them or read even their titles until this morning.

  vii

  Bertha was the star of the family. There was a brother, my Uncle Harold, though by 1940 he was already out of the apartment where the four sisters lived with their immigrant parents. Bertha must have been ambitious. She was interested in a high culture as foreign to her mother and father as Moldova and Bucovina are to Echo Park in East L.A. Or maybe a nice-looking salesman simply knocked on the door to their apartment. An offer was made. Buy a book a month, for practically nothing. If that is the story, then at least twenty months could have passed before the catastrophe on the living room floor, as Bertha collapsed, blood at her mouth.
  When my mother described it to me, she did not explain what caused what, or exactly what happened, other than the death was sudden. Was it heart failure? My mother was a teenager then, so old enough to know. Maybe the family was too traumatized or intimidated to ask for the medical explanation. Like so much else in my family history, the explanation is not sought until there is no one left to explain. Whatever was so promising in Bertha, those promises were not kept. My mother held onto all Bertha’s books however. Not just The World’s Greatest Books, but others still on my shelves as well.

  viii

  I have a photograph of my Aunt Bertha. The shelf that holds The World’s Greatest Books is deep enough to also hold a small, hinged gold frame in front, a double frame for two images. In the style of the times, Bertha’s photo is tinted. She is on the right of the center hinge, and the tinted photo of her father, Isaac, is on the left. I never knew Isaac Reegler either. I was one year old when he died. In his photo, he wears a very wide necktie with tinted blue stripes, and he looks a bit like Lee J. Cobb at his angriest. The photo of Bertha is textured with riverine cracks, as though her face had been printed on a geologic study. I slide out the cardboard from the back of the frame, in order to free her photo and turn it over, to see if there is any information, a date, her age. No, nothing. My family is like that, too. No one I grew up with thought that their lives might have any resonance beyond the day to day.

  ix

  Has anyone ever read all of The World’s Greatest Books, copyright 1910 by S. S. McClure? Has anyone anywhere done that, since their publication by McKinley, Stone and Mackenzie? These twenty volumes are high culture, with faux marble endpapers and frontispiece portraits, and simply owning them is a signifier. They stand for something. When I pry out Volume XIII, Religion and Philosophy, bits of the binding flake off like old skin. When I open it to the table of contents, the front cover separates and falls to the floor. Under “Religion,” its list of excerpts goes from Apocrypha to Zoroastrianism. There is Koran and Talmud, and snippets from Sir Thomas Browne’s Religio Medici, and from William Penn’s Some Fruits of Solitude. All of these excerpts are preceded by scholarly summaries. “Philosophy” in Volume XIII begins with Aristotle but only gets as far as Epictetus. Looking for Volume XIV, I pull out five other tightlyshelved books, doing even more damage to them. The wrapping around most of the spines has disappeared entirely, and the set is not in numerical order. “Philosophy,” Hegel to Spinoza, is in a crumbling Volume XIV that then moves on to “Economics,” from Edward Bellamy’s Looking Backward to a slice of Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations.

  x

  Volumes I through VIII of The World’s Greatest Books are entirely Fiction, with the authors excerpted in alphabetical order. In Volume I, Edmond About and Harrison Ainswater are among the greatest. Volume VIII ends with Emile Zola. Looking into the steady eyes of William Thackery, whose portrait is the frontispiece in Volume VIII, I wondered what Nanny, my grandmother, must have thought about any of this. As her family struggled to make rent or pay bus fare, what did Nanny say when these books showed up at the apartment? Does she welcome Sir Thomas Browne and Edward Bellamy? “Mama,” Bertha tells her, “These are for me.” And after her favorite daughter’s sudden death? “Keep them,” she says, and Bertha’s kid sister, my mother, did.

  xi

  There are no complete books in The World’s Greatest Books. The set is a tasting menu, with nothing too filling. After the eight volumes of Fiction, the next two are Life and Letters. Then comes
  Ancient History/Medieval History, one volume; Modern History, one volume; Religion and Philosophy, two volumes; Science, one volume; Poetry and Drama, three volumes; Travel and Adventure, one volume; and, last, Miscellaneous Literature and Index in the same twentieth volume. Each book has a frontispiece, a colorless portrait or a ghostly photo of an author, Edward Bulwer-Lytton in Volume VI, for example, John Lothrop Motley in Volume XII. Excerpts are always in alphabetical order by author’s last name. So, Volume I, Fiction, begins with Edmund About. Volume XIX, Travel and Adventure, starts with Sir Samuel Baker and ends with Arthur Young. Ancient History/Medieval History, Volume XI, is different. After the frontispiece portrait of Edward Gibbon, its table of contents has “Ancient History” and, under that, four categories — Egypt, Jews, Greece, and Rome. Herodotus writes about Greece, Josephus and Henry Millman about the Jews. Then, under “Medieval History,” another four categories — the Holy Roman Empire, Europe, back to Egypt again, and then England. Volume XII, Modern History, follows its own pattern. After a portrait of John Lothrop Motley, “Modern History” is granted to America, England, France, Germany, Greece, Holland, India, Russia, Spain, Sweden, and The Papacy. The authors are modern, but they are not always contemporary. Voltaire covers Russia. India goes to Mountstuart Elphinstone.

  xii

  How did S.S. McClure decide who belongs in The World’s Greatest Books? Maybe it was a matter of availability, or the laws of copyright in 1910. Why does an excerpt of Henry Milman’s History of the Jews appear in the “Ancient History” section of Volume XI? According to the editors, “The appearance of History of the Jews in 1830 caused no small consternation, but among the Jews themselves it was exceptionally well received.” I doubt it. Henry Hart Milman, Doctor of Divinity in London, born in 1791, buried in 1868 in St. Paul’s Cathedral, served as Dean at St. Paul’s for nearly twenty years, and this is how his excerpt from History of the Jews begins in The World’s Greatest Books: “By the destruction of Jerusalem, the political existence of the Jewish nation was annihilated; it was never again recognized as one of the states or kingdoms of the world. We have now to trace a despised and obscure race in almost every region of the world.”

  xiii

  The joint editors of The World’s Greatest Books are Arthur Mee, Founder of the Book of Knowledge, J.A. Hammerton of Hammerton’s Universal Encyclopaedia, and S. S. McClure. In American publishing, S. S. McClure, whose name sounds like an oceangoing vessel, was in fact a big fish. He was a journalist, editor, and publisher. In 1884, McClure established the very first U.S. newspaper syndicate. In 1893, he co-founded McClure’s Magazine, which championed long-form investigative journalism. It was ground-breaking; its work came to be called muckraking. McClure’s Magazine ran pieces by Upton Sinclair and Ida Tarbell, Jack London, Rudyard Kipling, Arthur Conan Doyle, and Robert Louis Stevenson. McClure was also in business with Frank Doubleday. Their partnership, Doubleday & McClure, became just Doubleday after McClure left. By 1911, McClure had left McClure’s Magazine as well. That year, the magazine published his “autobiography” as a farewell.
  It was ghostwritten by Willa Cather.

  xiv

  Willa Cather is a ghost herself on a shelf in the hallway. She haunts an unread blue green hardback Death Comes for the Archbishop, a decommissioned library book I must have found at a used book sale. Turning its pages this morning, I come to the author’s biography. Born in Virginia, moves west as a child to the hardscrabble farm, graduates from the University of Nebraska at nineteen, begins teaching and working for newspapers in Pittsburgh. Then this: “It was in these years that she wrote the brilliantly original short stories published in 1905 under the title The Troll Garden. The manuscript of this book came under the eye of S. S. McClure, who telegraphed Miss Cather to come to New York, where he offered her a position on his magazine.”

  xv

  In honor of Aunt Bertha, I am reading three selections that S. S. McClure chose for The World’s Greatest Books. First, some pages in Volume I, from the fiction of Edmond About. Then, Mountstuart Elphinstone on India, and, last, an excerpt from the “travel and adventure” of Arthur Young. These three because I know nothing about them, just as I know almost nothing about Aunt Bertha. Her heart may have failed before she had time to read the three that I am choosing. It is also possible that her goal was never that, but something far less time- consuming. She might have only wanted to be the kind of person who would own The World’s Greatest Books. If so, she did not fail. There was time enough in her brief life for that.

  xvi

  The editor’s note in The World’s Greatest Books says of Edmond About that he is “the most entertaining anti-clerical writer of his period,” and his Le Roi de Montagnes, translated as King of the Mountains, “the most delightful of satirical novels.” Even with twenty volumes to fill, I would not include Le Roi des Montagnes, but here it is, its first chapter filling the first pages of Volume I. Edmond Francois Valentin About, born 1828 in Dieuze, France, died in Paris in 1885, buried in Pere Lachaise cemetery. One rainy afternoon in 1973, after reading my daily lines of Il Paradiso in a Paris café, I walked over to Pere Lachaise to see where Jim Morrison is buried. And if I passed the grave of Edmond About, I was unaware of it.

  xvii

  In 2017, before ten days in India — the Delhi, Jaipur, Udaipur, Agra, and back to Delhi circuit of the first-time tourist — I bought two picture-heavy guidebooks and three histories of the country. Those include a very thick paperback now at the end of the hallway, India A History by John Keay. I never read Mountstuart Elphinstone however, whose The History of India is excerpted on pages 246 to 258 in Volume XII of The World’s Greatest Books. According to an editor’s note, Elphinstone arrived in India in 1795. So, 222 years before I did. And he remained there for over thirty years. Mentions of his History of India do make it into John Keay’s India A History, both in the bibliography and in six separate entries in John Keay’s index, under Elphinstone, Mountstuart, administrator and historian. According to Keay, Mountstuart Elphinstone is among “the most outstanding scholar-administrators in the employ of the English East India Company.”

  xviii

  The selection from Arthur Young’s Travels in France in Volume XIX of The World’s Greatest Books is nine pages. In 1784, Arthur Young started writing about agricultural conditions in England.
  In 1787 he was invited by the Comte de la Rochefoucauld to do the same for France. According to the editor’s note, Travels in France is “the most reliable record ever written about French rural conditions.” The selected excerpt, which reads as a diary, has nothing to do with rural life. “At Versailles,” the entry for May 27, 1787 begins. “After breakfasting with Count de la Rochefoucauld at his apartments in the palace, where he is grand master of the wardrobe, was introduced by him to the Duke de la Rochefoucauld.” Arthur Young mentions the ceremony he attends that same day with the Duke. The king, Louis XVI, is present “and seemed by his inattention to wish himself ahunting.” Marie Antoinette is in the room as well. The French Revolution is two years and two months away. “The queen,” his entry concludes, “is the most beautiful woman I have seen today….” Bertha, forgive me, but I do not have the stamina to make the journey through all nine pages, despite the editor’s note that says Travels in France “is as popular as ever today.”

  xix

  Francois de la Rochefoucauld, 2nd Duke of La Rochefoucauld and the writer of Les Maximes, was not the Rochefoucauld who brought Arthur Young to a ceremony with the French king and queen. The writer of Les Maximes died in 1680. Arthur met a descendant, maybe Louis Alexandre de La Rochefoucauld, the cousin of Francois’s great grandchild Alexandre, the 5th Duke. This 5th Duke only had daughters surviving him, so, following the rules of salic law, Louis Alexandre inherited the dukedom. It was an unlucky inheritance. Louis Alexandre, defender of the American Revolution and friend of Benjamin Franklin’s, was murdered in 1792 by a mob ahunting aristocrats.

  xx

  A three-ringed binder that I am certain is somewhere on a bookshelf behind the desk downstairs protects the xerox of La Rochefoucauld’s Maxims that I made decades go. And with the stamp of the public library from 1981 on its title page. Found it. There is also a forgotten loose sheet in the binder, folded into a square. This loose sheet has nothing on it besides this single sentence in blue ink: Le pays du marriage a cela de particulier que les estrangers ont envie de l’habiter, et les habitans naturels voudroient en etre exiles. Forty-three years ago, when I was four years into my first, longest and happiest marriage, I must have copied this sentence down from a French edition of Les Maximes , which is also xeroxed and in the binder.

  xxi

  Wedged on the shelf next to the green binder, a faded red spine. The Droll Stories of Balzac, Blue Ribbon Classics, with illustrations by Steele Savage, is another of Aunt Bertha’s books that I took from my parents’ house. When I open the cover, I find a message from my mother penciled on the page that faces the title page. Happy Birthday, Bertie, from Ginny. Which birthday? It could have been the last, the birthday a month before Bertha died. My mother was seven years younger than her oldest sister, so would have given this gift when she was still just a teenager. I am flipping through the Steele Savage illustrations in black ink of bosomy maidens and cowled, leering friars.

  xxii

  The twelve Twains and the twenty volumes of The World’s Greatest Books are not the only sets on my shelves. There are twenty-one books of the World Book in a freestanding bookcase in the back room that has become a den. They speak volumes about the misadventure of providing my two children, resistant at first and eventually hostile, with “enrichment.” Then there is Voltaire’s Philosophical Dictionary, behind the downstairs desk. It is one of the five volumes in a never-read set of World’s Great Thinkers from Carlton House publishers. In the preface to Philosophical Dictionary, an uncredited editor writes that this Voltaire book “does not demand continuous reading; but at whatever places one opens it, one will find matter for reflection.” This is true enough. I am reflecting right now on how these five volumes got onto my bookshelves, and I am drawing a blank. They might have been Aunt Bertha’s as well, a doubling down on her dreams.

  xxiii

  Voltaire is only one of the five great thinkers from Carlton House. The full house includes Bacon’s Essays, The Philosophy of Spinoza, The Philosophy of Plato, and Sigmund Freud New Introductory Lectures on Psycho-Analysis. Copyright on the Freud is from 1933. In the Plato book, I discover a receipt stamped Los Angeles, April 24, 1947. So, seven years after Aunt Bertha’s death. This receipt has nothing to do with World’s Great Thinkers. It is a ticket – the kind of cheap colored paper ticket that comes off a spool and might be good for admittance to a movie theater in 1947 or a ride at a fairgrounds. I also find a bookmark in Bacon’s Essays, separating the 56-page introduction from the very first essay, Of Truth, where Frances Bacon begins: What is truth? said jesting Pilate, and would not stay for an answer.

  xxiv

  The six-volume set Psychology, The Study of a Science covers half of an upper shelf in one of four built-in bookshelves in the small room where I sit at night. A veneered table – the downstairs desk — is piled with more books. Most are still waiting to be read, like the disheartened girls leaning against the walls or on each other at a junior high dance. The six volumes of Psychology, The Study of a Science were never mine. My first wife was a psychotherapist, and though I never saw her reading them, she brought them with her into the marriage. On the same shelf, the dimpled white spine of The Family Interaction Q-Sort, a self- published dissertation for her doctorate. It, too, will never have another reader.

  xxv

  Do my Edgar Rice Burroughs paperbacks qualify as a set? I have two dozen of them, these Ballentine paperbacks, the Tarzans and John Carter of Mars series, and they were a thrill sixty years ago. There are other sets on other shelves. There is the two-volume biography of Lytton Strachey by Michael Holyroyd, two volumes of The Outline of History by H.G. Wells, two volumes of the Journals of Andre Gide, and the green, jacketed three-volume Letters of John Addington Symonds. Years ago, I dipped into the four volumes of George Orwell’s writings, which are on a shelf in the hallway. On the other hand, the four volumes of Thousand and One Nights have never been opened. Same with the four slipcased books of The World of Mathematics, with commentary and notes by James R. Newman, which I must have wanted to at least try when I bought them in the late 1970s. I can probably find the definition of a set inside them, but it would not help.

  xxvi

  I cannot know what unreachable shore of culture or assimilation my aunt was pursuing in The World’s Greatest Books. For my grandfathers and grandmothers, not being pursued in Dubrowna or Piatra Neamt was enough. They left no books behind as clues that suggest otherwise. In this way they are more aligned than Aunt Bertha was with the wisdom of the Tao Te Ching. In the Stephen Mitchell translation: In pursuit of knowledge, every day something is added. in the practice of the Tao, every day something is dropped. The way of the Tao is to know and do less and less, until arriving at the condition of “non-action.” That would have appealed to my grandfather – my father’s father, who did not know exactly where he was born. “It was near the Dnieper River,” he said. He did not know what his family name was, either, before it was changed. “Something like Purkin,” he said. As far as I know, he had come to America by himself as a child in 1905. He drove a cab in Chicago during the Al Capone days but had nothing to say about it. By the time I knew him, he was no longer working. He was smoking unfiltered Camels and driving the 1954 Buick that I dreamed would be mine as soon as I turned sixteen, though my parents stopped that, because, as my uncle Hy confirmed, “An old car will dollar you to death.”

  xxvii

  Stephen Mitchell continues:
  When nothing is done, nothing is left undone.
  True mastery can be gained
  by letting things go their own way.

  This was not, however, the way of the children of the immigrants. Bertha did not share the approach to learning or to life that Lao Tzu praises. When she bought The World’s Great Books, she was not letting things go their own way. She had a project, and she was getting things done, and she was not nearly done, when time ran out.

  xxviii

  Of all the sets of books read and unread on my hallway bookshelves, the heavyweight is The Five-Foot Shelf of Books. It comes in at fifty volumes. These fifty fill two shelves completely. And the five feet may have swelled over the years. When I put the tape measure to it, The Five- Foot Shelf of Books measures more than sixty-seven inches. All fifty belonged to Dolores before our marriage, and I never saw her open one. Until this morning in late December, neither has anyone else.

  xxix

  The Five-Foot Shelf of Books is branded Harvard Classics, with a Veritas seal in gold on their crimson spines. Unlike the twenty volumes of The World’s Greatest Books, which are crumbling, these books do a better job of faking their belonging in a world of wood paneling, lamplight, leather armchairs, and English accents. Their crimson covers, gold type, curlicue embellishments and marbled endpapers almost look real. America is a society that promises its members to be free of the limitations of class. To be self- made. Who would want The Five-Foot Shelf of Books? Someone who sees a relationship between self-made and self-taught and wants fifty volumes of it. For what purpose? In the bound Reading Guide that comes with the set, that purpose is declared. These fifty books “will carry you forward upon that road to
  the high goal toward which all of us are making our way.” All of us know what that high goal is. And, since we do, the Guide also assumes that we all share it.

  xxx

  When P.F. Collier & Son persuaded Charles W. Eliot, a retiring Harvard president, to select and introduce what Dr. Eliot called “this great company of the wisest, the wittiest, the most interesting minds of all ages,” it knew there was a market. P.F. Collier published the first twenty- five volumes in 1909. The rest appeared the following year. Fifty volumes, twenty-three thousand pages. Something must have been in the water at New York publishing houses in 1909. That was the same year S.S. McClure secured his copyright for The World’s Greatest Books. By then, waves of immigration had brought my grandparents on my mother’s side to the Lower East Side of New York City. Maybe what was in the water was the sense that The World’s Greatest Books might clean up the children of the unwashed. By 1910, seven out of ten people in New York City were immigrants or their children. They became part of the market for The Five-Foot Shelf of Books. The wisest, the wittiest, the most interesting minds of all ages was what Dr. Eliot prescribed for these newcomers from Southern Europe or, even stranger, from Galicia and the Russian Pale.

  xxxi

  In Volume 1 of The Five-Foot Shelf of Books, there are over a hundred pages of Journal of John Woolman. I have never heard of John Woolman, but an excerpt from his Journal is included in The World’s Greatest Books as well. Woolman, who was born in New Jersey in 1720, devoted his life to agitation against the practice of slavery. He was the son of Quaker parents and influenced the abolition of slavery among the Society of Friends. According to the introductory note in Volume 1, “no small part of the enthusiasm of the general emancipation movement is traceable to his labors.” Was John Woolman someone “every schoolboy” knew in 1910? By the time I attended the local public school in Los Angeles fifty years later, John Woolman had dropped out.

  xxxii

  Page six of The Reading Guide that comes with The Five-Foot Shelf asks What Shall I Read Tonight? And follows up with How often does that question come to all of us, as if this were not a question but a statement of fact. This query comes from a far-away world, one with no television sets, no internet, no smartphones. There was no radio, either, in 1910. In many homes, Americans were still reading, if at all, by gas lighting or candlelight. The Reading Guide goes on: “We want something to carry us out of ourselves, to take us a million miles from our humdrum existence.” It says these fifty books of The Five–Foot Shelf of Books will meet the need. They will “bestow pleasure, self-satisfaction and the joy of mental growth to each man, woman and child with impartiality and in infinite variety.” Maybe so. My fifty have sat quietly on two shelves for decades, like children seen but not heard, and mostly not even seen in the darkness of the hallway. The Reading Guide warns about this on page 6. “We urge you,” it says, “to keep at all times several volumes easily at hand on your desk or table to read and browse through. Don’t put your set away in a distant bookcase where you must go to get them.” This good advice was not taken.

  xxxiii

  Two years after publication, P. F. Collier and Son told Dr. Eliot that a half-million sets had already been placed “in the homes of enthusiastic purchasers.” Also, “a stream of unsolicited letters of approval has come from these owners.” The Reading Guide includes a testimonial from one of those enthusiastic purchasers that P.F. Collier refers to. “My first reading,” a woman writes, “gave me a pleasure likened unto finding small particles of gold.” The Guide continues like this for ten more pages. It plugs Magnificent Special Features that include introductory lectures, footnotes, and general Index. The Guide begins to read like an extended script by Ron Popeil for the longest infomercial ever, although the vocabulary is statelier. But wait, there’s more. After prefaces and promotions, the final seventy pages of the Guide are the Daily Reading Guide. This is Dr. Eliot’s 15-minute-a-day program, which he declares “a substitute for a liberal education, to anyone who would read with devotion, even if he could spare but fifteen minutes a day.”

  xxxiv

  I am considering the January through December calendar in the Reading Guide, with its daily assignment “that will take you out of the rut of life in the town you live in and make you a citizen of the world.”

  xxxv

  December 31. The end of the year at last. With no intention of following the program, I am curious what my assignment would be for New Year’s Day. It is Read from Franklin’s Autobiography, Vol. 1, pp 79-85. In fifteen minutes of “leisurely enjoyment” I will get Franklin’s Advice for the New Year, which includes “Resolution: Resolve to perform what you ought; perform without fail what you resolve.” I do not know if I am up to it. Maybe I should try it, if only for the month ahead. If I start with Benjamin Franklin on the first of the month, what will my assignment be at the end of the month? For January 31, Read from Don Quixote, Vol. 14, pp 60-67. A small illustration appears in the Guide, a drawing of a knight on horseback poking a lance into the blades of a windmill It comes with a caption, too. Don Quixote, the ambitious amateur knight, was well ridiculed for his pains. Just for fun, I skip ahead to April Fool’s. Dr. Eliot takes the day seriously. He assigns me Browning’s Poems from Vol. 42, near the end of a three-volume sequence, English poetry, from Chaucer to Whitman. For February 14, his advice is Read Pascal’s Discourse on the Passion of Love, Vol. 48, pp 411-421. November 13 will be my next birthday. What should I be reading then, if I am getting with the program? The Confessions of St. Augustine, Vol. 7, pp 31-38. Austere, but not wrong. I will be turning seventy-three.

  xxxvi

  New Year’s Day. As I knew I would, I forget about Benjamin Franklin. I will never read St. Augustine either. Not next November or in any of the five or maybe ten Novembers that might be left. Aphorisms could be the better choice. La Rouchefoucauld and his Maximes are still dozing in a green binder. So much wisdom, and impossible to take it all in. Mark Twain is excellent at maxims, too. If I looked hard enough, I might find some of his inside one or two of the yellow Twains in the hallway, but I am not looking for them there. I have one of them by heart, which is probably the best place to keep it. According to Mark Twain, or so he reportedly said, the two most important days in life are the day you were born and the day you discover the reason why. And if that second day never arrives? It hardly matters. I am lucky to have had the first day. Just being born will have to be enough.

• Dating Myself

  i

  It began with Arlene, a Jewish woman I had dated eight years ago, the first time my Baptist
  girlfriend and I broke up.

  Arlene and I had gone so far as to decide that we would share one of the suites on a GeoEx
  expedition to Antarctica. Fly to Buenos Aires, get to Ushuaia, kayak in the cold waters, maybe
  one night in a sleeping bag on the icy ground of a glacier. But before it came to that, I decided
  to go back to my former girlfriend. And not just go back, but to marry her, and to buy a house
  for us in her upper end suburb, and go to church with her every Sunday, or at least every
  Christmas and Easter. So, one day in the car with Arlene, I told Arlene I was still in love with my
  old girlfriend. I said I would still pay my half of the Antarctic adventure – I would pay both
  halves, and she could have the suite to herself.

  Now here I was, eight years later, calling Arlene again.

  I had not gotten married after all. I had proposed, kneeling for a proposal photo in front of the
  Taj Mahal in Agra. There had been a gaudy ring, a tanzanite stone encircled with diamonds,
  purchased from the store in Jaipur our guide must have been commissioned to take us to. Six
  months later. my blue-eyed girlfriend balked at the pre-nup, and then I balked at buying a house
  in her suburb. Then, after seven more years of hanging on, I opened an email from her one
  Thursday evening telling me not to come out to see her that Friday night. She was ending our
  relationship; and, this time, for good.

  It was over. It had been a long time coming. Still, as with many terminal illnesses, the actual
  death is sudden and a shock. And so after an interval I was forced to asked myself the obvious:
  What now? I may be old, but the wisdom in Genesis still applies. It is not good for man to be
  alone. Since no Eve was going to be fashioned from a rib in my body while I slept, what now?
  I was about to wonder in the wilderness of what AARP, USA Today, Forbes, Fortune, and the online
  forums called “senior dating.”

  I called Arlene, supposedly just to “catch up.”

  Arlene was nice enough about it. When we met for lunch, I wondered whether I had aged as
  badly as she seemed to have. I don’t think so, but I may be fooling myself. Arlene was delighted
  to tell me that she had a boyfriend, a widower she had in fact met on the GeoEx cruise to
  Antarctica that I paid for eight years ago; they have been a happy couple ever since. Then she
  told me she had a younger sister coincidentally in town, visiting from New York. Would I like to
  meet her?

  If I don’t count Arlene, this sister was the first of my dating-in-my-seventies experiences.

  We met for a drink on a weeknight, a cool, fall evening, outside on a popular patio. I
  immediately disliked her. She ordered an overly-defined martini, as people do, and there was
  also something specific she wanted from the server, having to do with the glass. She might have
  been in her middle sixties. She owned an upscale staffing business, a nanny placement agency,
  with offices in Philadelphia and New York.
  “Well,” I remarked, I thought good-naturedly, “I have never dated the younger sister before.”
  “You’re a hand-me down,” she replied.
  The rest of the hour did not go any better. I won’t mention her name because I do not recall it,
  but she belongs first in this accounting:

  Arlene’s Sister.

  *
  Next, Mila, who was not a date, exactly. We knew each other. Mila is either an engineer or a
  mathematician, probably some of both. She was spirited, opinionated, and a Macedonian, and
  that combination unlocked a conversation with her at one of the afterparties the Chamber
  Music Society hosts for board members and musicians following the concerts. Months later, I
  bumped into her and friends of hers in a downtown theater, at a performance of Spanish
  flamenco. I was by myself, but my seat was in the same row as her group, and she invited me to
  sit beside her. A week after that, we met for dinner at a “gastrobar” in Legacy West. This was
  in her neck of the woods, in the crush of northern development, suburbs of shopping, chain
  restaurants and parking garages. Mila has had a cancer scare, something in her right leg, and
  she used a cane. After dinner, we walked along the sidewalks in front of the storefronts and
  restaurant glass. Holding hands, then an arm around her waist. It was almost romantic. The
  warmth of it came as a surprise, how easily it answered a need.
  There was a text from Mila just before Thanksgiving.
  “Wishing you and your family a warm and joyous Thanksgiving filled with love, laughter, and
  gratitude!”
  A Hallmark-like text.
  That was my first Thanksgiving more or less alone in many years. My adult son and I had the
  dinner together. He lives alone, too. I heated a pre-cooked turkey and the stuffing. I bought pie
  at the closest grocery store. My son came over with broccoli and sweet potatoes and other
  ingredients. Leaning over his phone to read recipes online, he prepared the sides. It was a
  quiet dinner, nearly silent.

  *

  “I’m starting to date,” I said.
  I was making conversation, throwing it out to my Sunday doubles partner between points on
  the court. Harvey said I needed to find a tennis player.
  “She’ll be in shape at least.”
  His judgment of women usually entailed an evaluation of their weight.
  He said he would ask his friend Jill, who was athletic. Jill will know someone.
  I was surprised the following Sunday when he passed a name and phone number to me.
  Nanci was in her late sixties, widowed.
  He said she was not available this week though, because she was in Cabo, settling the
  properties she and her husband had owned there.
  Also, she had been portrayed in our local city magazine in a feature about the ten most
  beautiful women in the city.
  “Not too intimidating,” he laughed.
  The article in the city magazine, still accessible online, was from seventeen years ago but still
  accessible online. Nanci showed up on Facebook, too, still beautiful, with her well put-together
  adult children and some towheaded grandchildren.
  I did not call her.
  Harvey asked me about Nanci the following week, he asked again the week
  after that. A week later, he said his friend Jill told him that Nanci is interested and suggested
  setting up mixed-doubles for the four of us. Not that week, however, because Jill and Nanci
  were together in San Miguel de Allende, where Nanci also owned property.
  He held his cellphone up for me to see. He had a picture on his phone that Jill had sent from
  the rooftop patio of the Rosewood property in San Miguel.
  “Look at this.”
  It was Nanci, in her blonde beauty, a compound of symmetry and contentment.
  Too intimidating.

  *

  Sheila was not a date, either. A casual friend who lived a thousand miles a way, she was
  someone I knew from the business world before my retirement. Once, when I was in her city on
  a trip, Sheila met me for dinner. She wore “fairy hair,” a kind of silver tinsel woven into her
  short grey hair, and she was delighted to show it off. Single, a retired lawyer, she was maybe
  interested. Probably interested. So, after my breakup, I asked Sheila if I could fly her out over
  Christmas to a second home I owned in Southern California – to keep me company, four days,
  five days. I needed a friend. She would have her own bedroom; I had the “master,” with the
  king bed. It surprised me when Sheila came into my bed the first night she was there. I was
  unprepared for it and did not want it. The next morning Sheila said that she had better leave,
  and it took some long minutes of conversation, but I did persuade her to stay. Hurt feelings,
  misunderstanding, all of that, I suppose. I have never known what is in someone else’s mind,
  even less what is in their hearts. The philosopher Thomas Nagel makes the point in What Is It
  Like to Be a Bat that even if we human beings tried sincerely to imagine what it is like to be a
  bat, to share its point of view, it would be impossible to do so. We would simply be using a
  human consciousness, not a bat’s. My late-in-life dating experience was in many ways
  analogous. Not that women are bats, but every consciousness that was not my own was
  mysterious. Never mind bats. My own mental processes were a mystery to me as well. I often
  had trouble imagining being me.

  ii

  All my dating from then on began on a screen. I saw no one for the first time across a crowded
  room, only inside a small illuminated square. I signed on to OlderJewishSingles, JDate, Silver
  Singles and, why not, Match.com. Sometimes, the frame was the rectangle of my Samsung
  phone. More often, I would look at curated faces on the wider, brighter face of the MacBook
  Pro opened on my desk late at night. The phone works well enough for a single headshot; less
  well, when a woman has decided to share that small space with a mountain, the beach, the
  restaurant where she is usually lifting a glass, or with a group of friends, or her adult son, or a
  married daughter, grandchildren, or, just as often, with her little dog.

  I typed “Dating in your 70s” into a search bar. I read an AI Overview. Then, among the
  sponsored results that paid to be at the top, I followed the links to Best Senior Dating Sites,
  Safest Senior Dating Sites, and Matchmaking for Seniors. A link from a site called Tawkify had a
  truth-challenged secondary line: “We remove the luck & timing needed to find the perfect
  person.” As if, what really is left, without luck and timing?

  The “natural” results began with “It’s Complicated: How to Date in Your 70s,” which was an
  entry from The Cut. The source was six years old and may have earned its high placement
  simply from the quantity of views accumulated over the years. “It’s Complicated” turned out to
  be an essay from a woman in her 70s encountering Tinder.

  An entry from Reddit rose to the middle of the first page of search. There were comments from
  nine months prior on a DatingOverSeventy thread. Over 50 posts followed the comment that
  began, “I am 70 and starting to look at online dating…” Over 100 posts engaged with “When
  you’re dating over 70, is it usually nonsexual?”

  “People also ask” came next. People were also asking what does a 70-year-old man want in a
  relationship, what does a 75-year-old woman want in a relationship, is it possible to find love in
  your 70s, and what is the 3-3-3 rule for dating.

  Psychotherapy Networker linked to its article, “Dating Again in Your 70s,” which led with, “Will a
  new partner judge my older face, rounder belly, plumper legs, and less buoyant…” It was a
  question that answered itself.

  Gransnet turned a statement into a question. “Dating at 70?” One woman shared her “abiding
  impression” that most 70-something men were looking for women in their 50s. The question
  I also asked was, Gransnet? A network of grannies?

  There were the YouTube videos; three on the first page of search were only a taste. I could
  watch 51 minutes on How Kathy Found Love at 71. If I only had 10 minutes, I could Ask Louise:
  Dating in Your 70s.

  The rest of the first page offered points of view from Psychology Today, Kiplinger (Nine Rules for
  Older Singles), AARP, and Bogleheads, which was a “forum,” or Quora, which offered 54
  answers to “Should a 70-year-old start over.” Tinged with decorum, this question was posed by
  the concerned child of a 79-year-old widower, “after Mom died.”

  Near the very bottom of a first page that seemed to be part of an infinite set, the lesser
  sponsors: SilverSingles, Match.com, Top 5-datingsites.com. And, last, a “People also search
  for,” which included the piquant “Can an 80-year-old man be sexually active.” What people were
  searching for that, I wondered. Maybe the 50-year-old woman.

  There was little to learn from any of this, and nothing applicable. Even though the AI Overview
  at the top of the page was commonsensical, it also had the odor of surrender. The Large
  Language Model was wagging its finger. It had scraped for the wisdom that dating in your 70s
  would be about “shared interests and life experiences, rather than focusing on physical
  attraction.” Adding more cold water, AI poured out its bullet-pointed list of places to meet
  senior singles. “Senior centers can be great places….” It all had a sad blah blah blah
  truthfulness.

  iii

  Some women on dating sites use their introductory paragraph to make a statement of
  requirements. These “here I stand” statements usually sit alongside or just under their chosen
  photograph. Francesca, for example, a 68-year-old with shoulder-length blond hair, posed in
  front of her living room drapes, a web bar off to one side, in the background. Francesca
  wore the black off-the-shoulder dress, the one with the slit to show some of her thigh. Arm on
  left hip, feet in strappy heels, left foot forward. She described herself as very trustworthy. Also
  as elegant, a hard worker, and very well educated. For her requirements, she wrote she was
  looking for someone very attractive, with good manners, a professional. Good personality, well-
  traveled, enthusiastic, elegant, and tall. Then, as if she had not been clear enough, she
  stipulated, “If you don’t have these qualities, don’t bother to send me emails, please.” Her
  exasperated “please” seemed to imply that Francesca was very tired of all the inquiries from
  dull, stay-at-home, apathetic men, sloppy men, ugly, short and unprofessional.

  Francesca, get real. How demanding up front should a woman be, after she has checked the
  “woman seeking man” box on a dating site? Who was elegant enough for Francesca, and what
  did she mean? Was elegance a matter of clothing, grooming, manners? Would I need to place
  a pocket square in my suit jacket? Did I have to use a knife and fork when I ate a taco?
  I thought about asking, using the white space in the outlined rectangle that the dating site
  provided and selecting “send message.” I did not ask. Testing a stranger’s sense of humor is a
  poor idea on a dating site. In her profile Francesca wrote that she was “slim” and also “attractive.”
  Her two photos on the site were not supportive of those claims. Also, since she was barely
  five feet tall herself, there was some question how elegant she was.

  *

  In the bright rectangle of a JDate page, I needed to click off the objects that go together on a
  grid of images, to indicate that I am human. That seemed like a low bar to clear but was
  probably necessary. The site would email a New Matches Just for You (heart emoji, smiley face
  emoji) message. Or a Someone Sent You a Smile (happy face emoji, with two hearts for eyes,
  and a heart emoji) email. Or, a You Received a LIKE! email. Or the Someone’s Checking You
  Out! Email. JDate was a heavy user of exclamation points. There was never anything neutral
  about being “checked out”; it could never be a case of simple boredom, some woman in her
  sixties or seventies with nothing else to do, skimming through a dating site. There was the
  Visitor Alert! Find out whose interest you sparked! email, meaning nothing. Also, the
  Someone’s Flirting With You! email, which actually meant something.

  If I received a “flirt,” I could answer with a “flirt,” a “smile,” a “heart.” Eileen, 67, no last name
  at first, responded to my “smile” response. In her photo on JDate, she was jumping up in the
  air, arms raised, frozen like a still from the old Mary Tyler Moore show. Despite that, we
  exchanged messages through JDate before exchanging phone numbers, so we could talk or text
  without a dating site chaperoning.
  Her texts used the spelling equivalents of her leaping-in-the-air photo. Always “ya,” never
  “you.” “G’morning,” not “good morning.” Smiley face emoji. Sunflower emoji. Smiley face
  emoji with two red stars for eyes.
  “Have a great day!” (smiley face emoji).
  Other times she texted “Sheesh” and “Backacha.”

  The dating sites were a fount of messages that I channeled into trash, though not always, and
  not always immediately. The dating sites exclaimed. “Phyllis uploaded a picture!” They
  questioned. “Are you curious to see the person behind the profile?” They commanded. “View
  picture.” They also ignored my preference indications, especially on geography. I was looking
  for someone to meet for dinner, not a distant pen pal. On SilverSingles, where I browsed for
  free but never subscribed, I indicated an age range preference from fifty to seventy, so Phyllis,
  67, was within range. I took the “View picture” path to her unflattering photo.
  Phyllis was sitting in an easy chair that looked like her skin, cracked brown leather in a diffuse
  light coming through the nearly drawn blinds. The cross around her neck lay flat against her
  black t-shirt. The slogan on the t-shirt: Land of the Free, Home of the Brave, encircling the
  profiled feathered head and sharp-tipped beak of an eagle.

  Dating sites ask for attention. They compete for attention all day long, each one as tenacious
  as a two-year-old refusing to nap. New day, new potential, Match declared every morning,
  reporting into my inbox the steps I could take “to make the most of your day on Match.” My
  day on Match. This dystopic notion was fair enough; every day, part of my day was indeed on
  Match, looking at fifteen or twenty photos in squares, reading the names, the ages, and
  considering the small camera icons. The number next to the camera icon told me just how many
  photos of Dee, 57, or Helen, 70, were available. A higher number would almost always
  correlate with attractiveness, though sometimes it only led to more pictures of pets or vacation
  landscapes, or an unhelpfully distant shot of the woman posed on the narrow cobblestoned street
  of some European holiday city.

  Match always sent its gallery into my inbox in the late afternoon, a daily dose of “Hi! Joan (72) +
  18 more members are waiting for you.” The daily catch would always divide into four
  categories. There were “Today’s picks.” Then, scrolling down, the “Recommended for you”
  grouping. “Because you like Michelle, we think you may like these picks.” (Here, Match would
  provide the name – Michelle, Jasmine, Delia — of someone whose photograph I must have
  clicked on a day or a month before.) Down below the recommended were the “Mutual picks.”
  This was usually the most discouraging category, because “They’re looking for someone like you,”
  Match declared, “and, even better, you’re looking for someone like them.” This row might have Rosie,
  who I had seen in a dozen prior emails from Match; Rosie would be one of those 70-year-olds
  who chooses to present a picture of herself sitting on a barstool and holding high her frozen drink.
  Wynter, 63, was another typical “mutual pick,” a sour, stocky woman who had not even bothered
  to smile for the camera. Finally, at the bottom of the daily email, Match presented its “You might like”
  row. This was its last-ditch category and was always introduced with the same ambivalent praise:
  “We think these members are worth bending your preferences for.”

  It was never stated in what way Janet, Maribeth, or a third woman grouped into this “You might like” category were bending my preferences.

  SeniorJewishSingles stalked my inbox. This dating site appeared before I signed up for it;
  clicking the link then took me to an offer to subscribe. I had already signed up for
  OlderJewishSingles; so, the two sites were sharing or had sold each other their customer lists.
  A typical subject line from OlderJewishSingles: “She viewed your profile, she might be interested in you.”
  In the body of this email, I would see a picture of Kirba and an “I Just Viewed Your Profile” headline above
  the name and photo. Kirba, 41, from Newport, MI. So, 1,155 miles away. Not someone I could meet for dinner
  the upcoming weekend. I would read Kirba’s site-produced message. “I just checked out your profile. Why
  don’t you take a look at mine.” Below that, reversed out of white In a bright blue bar, “Check
  Out My Profile.” Before I had even had time to delete the email, a second email had appeared from
  SeniorJewishSingles. It was also from Kirba, Age 41, from Newport, MI. Subject line: I sent you
  an interested request. Headline above her name and picture: Are You Interested in Me?
  Message below: “I saw your profile on Older J Singles and it got me interested. Send me a
  message if you might be interested in me as well.”

  Kirba’s photo did not show an exotic dancer; it showed a 41-year- old woman in her car,
  looking like a single mom commuting to her job or on her way to get groceries.
  “Are you interested in me?” The site was speaking for her.

  I could count over sixty similar messages from OlderJewishSingles.com and
  SeniorJewishSingles.com in a three-month period beginning one weekend, not including those I
  had double deleted. They, too, sounded unreal. Some were trying harder than others:

  “The person who just visited your profile might be your One!”
  “She’s perfect for you! May we present Marcie?”
  “WOW…Seems like you have a lot in common with Nancy” (smiley face emoji, with hearts for
  eyes).

  So many of the messages from online dating sites have that odd, mechanical reality. The
  appropriate response would be to follow the suggestion at the very bottom of the first email I
  received from SeniorJewishSingles: “If you no longer want notifications from Senior J Singles,
  please unsubscribe.” But I had not even subscribed yet. The advice came from 304 Indian
  Trace #182, Weston FL, 33326, USA. So, from 1,297 miles away.

  iv

  Is it unsurprising that most of my dates were one-and-done? What are the odds that any first
  date might be otherwise? Online dating is more a lottery ticket than a coin toss. It is like
  inserting that coin in a slot machine and pulling the lever. Odds are not good.

  Laney was one of the one-and-done dates who insisted on a phone call before she would agree
  to go out. I liked her look on JDate, but after her phone call of nearly ninety minutes, I lost
  interest in meeting her. We met anyway. Laney told me over the phone that she was making
  toffee candy in her kitchen and packaging it for sale. On our date night, she brought some to
  the restaurant as a gift.

  Like so many of the women I met online, Laney was wary. In Laney’s opinion, men on JDate
  were all unattractive, and she was getting off the site. This is something I heard over and over.
  Women on a dating site are all getting off the site, or they have already left, but the site will not
  remove them. Our date was the very last nickel they were ever going to feed into that
  unresponsive slot machine. They no longer believed in jackpots.

  At first, an evening with Laney was a continuation of her phone call. Talking about her first
  husband, who controlled their adult son with money. Then there was the first husband’s
  brother, “who only wanted to get in my pants, a phrase I was aware of, but I had
  never heard anyone actually use it before. Then came a second ex-husband, who turned out to
  be a drug addict. Still, Laney was slender and well-made and, by the end of the meal, she had
  warmed up or at least moderated. She even pretended to accept my optimistic view that she
  might have twenty years ahead of her and there was no reward to being alone. Maybe she
  accepted it. It was not obvious to me that I believed it either. In the parking lot after dinner, I
  said we should go out again, but I did not mean it, so our date probably, eventually, only
  confirmed her sense that men are not to be trusted. I also forgot the gift bag of toffee in the
  restaurant.

  *

  Other one-and-done’s:
  Ellen, the Masters Level psychologist who used ayahuasca and peyote in her practice. She knew
  a shaman in Santa Fe who dispelled ghosts, and she had five adult children, from two prior
  marriages.
  Teri, from OlderJewishSingles or JDate, probably both, and on Match as well. Her first
  husband was a doctor, maybe an optometrist, but definitely gay and vindictive. Teri sounded
  the recurring theme of former husbands who control the kids with money or gifts, even though
  these kids were now middle aged.
  “Dreamcatcher” was a rude awakening. She posted a very appealing photograph, proving how
  much difference a camera angle can make.
  Lori was a one-and-done from Match.com. Slender, elegant, short silver hair. Willing to meet,
  but only in the daylight and only after the endless pre-qualifying phone call. Lori was the most
  flagrant example of the “woman seeking man” who appears on dating sites but is overtly hostile
  to the idea of dating. She seemed to use our “coffee date” for further evidence, and for no
  greater reason than to confirm that online dating is worthless and men on online dating sites
  have nothing to offer.

  So many women think they are the only ones who know about disappointment. That said, I did
  meet many who had experienced deception, stalking and other creepiness online. They had
  been lied to. Propositioned obscenely. And I am talking about women who were in their
  sixties or seventies.

  Women are right of course to be wary. The problems on dating sites are not only anecdotal. It
  is not unusual for dating sites to be accused of malfeasance. Some of the best known have
  been sued repeatedly.

  Match, for example, has been sued more than once by the Federal Trade Commission. Our
  government alleged that Match used “love interest” ads to trick consumers into paying for a
  subscription. The FTC has also charged that Match, which owns not just Match.com. but Tinder,
  OKCupid, Hinge and PlentyOfFish, exposed consumers repeatedly to the risk of fraud. One of
  the ways the dating sites allegedly expose consumers to fraud is by sending messages that the
  sites know are from scammers. For one suit that was settled out of court, Match admitted no
  liability and declared itself “fully prepared” to take the case to trial, but nonetheless agreed to
  pay $14 million to redress injured consumers. A different lawsuit accused the company of
  behavior that seems more strategic than criminal. According to the story reported by NPR, a
  spoilsport report that was broadcast on Valentine’s Day, the corporate owner of Tinder and
  Hinge was being sued for developing “addictive” dating apps that put profits over love. “The
  popular dating apps Tinder, Hinge, and the League,” NPR sniffed, “hooked users with the
  promise of seemingly endless romantic matches in order to push people to pay money…” This
  so-called crime is nothing that any user of a dating site does not already understand, although
  not every user admits it. Even so, the suit was brought by six plaintiffs from three different
  states, who claimed that dating apps were designed to turn them into addicts.

  For a more serious charge against Match, consider the suit that was filed seeking damages from
  the company’s executives and board members for breaches of fiduciary duty, alleging that
  Match Group had a system, called Sentinel, that collected hundreds of “troubling incidents” a
  week and was aware but ignoring site users who had been reported for assaulting or raping
  their dates.

  *

  Ashley, aka “Shiksa4Mensch,” was a special situation. I connected to her on JDate in order to
  see what kind of woman would have “Shiksa4Mensch” as a screen name and also
  because she was twenty years younger. We agreed on a lunch date.

  Ashley was looking specifically for the Jewish man twenty years older than she was. Her story
  unspooled over our two-hour lunch. Abandoned by a mother who had joined a biker gang and
  fallen into alcohol, drugs, ornate tattooing and multiple marriages, Ashley found herself in foster care.
  Her disinterested father was remarried, to the wicked stepmother. By 18, she had a job as a cocktail
  waitress in a strip club, where she met the club owner, who was Jewish and twenty years older.
  His mother was also tattooed, but that tattoo was a number, not flowers or skulls or other biker insignia.
  Ashley moved in with him. Seven years later, pushed and supported, she had made it through college.
  Fast forward, or slow forward. Her savior eventually found another much younger woman, and Ashley, at forty,
  married another Jewish man who was also twenty years older than she was. Story, story, story,
  story. That marriage failed. She lived in an apartment now, making rent from pet sitting and
  dog walking. When lunch ended, I walked Ashley to her car. In her heels, Ashely stood eye to eye
  with me. She was a hugger, and I was distracted by her height, and blonde youth is always attractive,
  but I noticed the car, a white Mercedes SUV, so she must have gained something from the marriage.

  Donna, 70, reached out to me from OlderJewishSingles. When I met her for dinner on a
  Thursday night, she told me she was 76, not 70.
  “If I put my age at 76, no one would go out with me.”
  She said she does not look her age. That was true. Still, it was off putting to know that she was
  76. It was also true I would not have wanted to meet her had I known. After dinner, Donna
  asked me if I wanted to go to her house.
  I told her I needed to get home to my dog. She asked if I wanted to go to the symphony on
  Sunday. She was a season subscriber with two tickets. I said I needed to check, I play tennis on
  Sundays.
  “Hi cutie,” she texted later that night. “I really enjoyed dinner together.”
  On Friday I texted back that I could not go Sunday.

  Connie was on both JDate and OlderJewishSingles. Her face framed in a square online
  reminded me of Susan George in Straw Dogs, blondish, angular, though forty years later. Of
  course, she was a convert. Also, she had a Southern, girly flirtatiousness, her texted responses
  full of “darlin’” and “sugar” and heart emojis. When I googled Connie, a mugshot appeared
  from a recent DWI arrest. Tearstained face, disheveled hair, but nevermind. We had exchanged
  cell phone numbers and arranged to meet for dinner on a Thursday night at an Italian restaurant
  in a northern suburb, closest to where she lived. I arrived a few minutes early and texted I was
  there. Minutes passed. Ten, then twenty, then forty-five. I texted two more times. No
  response. I saw no need to let the two young women behind the hostess stand continue to
  watch me in the narrow foyer, so I went outside to wait in the night air of the parking lot.
  Connie never showed. Driving home, I decided that the evening had been a worthwhile
  experience. At 73, it was not every day that something happened for the very first time.
  I did reach out the next day.
  “Are you okay?” I texted.
  “Happy Friday darlin’”, she responded. Emoji wearing a cowboy hat. Red rose emoji.
  One other text from Connie, on December 31.
  “Good morning sweetheart –may our next year be the best year ever.” Sun face blowing heart
  kiss emoji, heart emoji, slanted red lips kiss emoji.
  I texted back, wishing her a healthy year ahead.

  Ursula, 68, was another date who no-showed. She did respond the following morning,
  confessing she was on some new medication and had fallen asleep. She was so so sorry. We
  rescheduled.

  Over our rescheduled dinner date, Ursula talked about the former husband. Married 38 years, no sex for the last
  thirteen. Had she been on stage, her dark red lipstick and thick mascara would have been seen
  from the back rows of the balcony. She also described the parade of older men who were
  enamored with her. I believe it. Men like women who look like barmaids.

  *

  People on devices and people in person are not the same person.
  In February, there was snow and colder than usual weather.
  Ursula texted a heart emoji.
  I sent Ursula a photo of the snow outside.
  She sent a slanted red lips kiss emoji.
  I think we may have met one more time, another dinner.
  Next day, this text:
  “You know, honey, I think it’s time to take shooting classes. Andrew has a gun right? I think you
  both need to go in to practice.”
  Soon after, another text:
  “Jeez…wrong person!!!” Smiley face emoji.
  I had lost all interest in Ursula, but since I had gone on two dates with her, three if I
  counted the no-show, what was the etiquette? Do I disappear? And is that “ghosting”?
  Weeks later, I realized that it was weeks later.
  I texted Ursula that I was “embarrassed” to have taken so long to say hello again. I wrote that I
  had not been feeling well, which was not true. Ursula texted back the next day. She had enjoyed
  getting to know me, she thought I was a great person, but she was not “feeling the connection”
  and wanted to be honest about that. She wished both of us best luck “finding the right person.”
  She did not add the slanted red lips kiss emoji, not even the smiley face.

  *

  Ronnie was a one-and-done date. She told me that she intended to leave online dating – in her
  case, Match.com. She insisted that she had already done so. She said that she had not
  subscribed to Match in years and had pleaded with the site repeatedly to delete her profile but
  could not persuade them. That was her story. Ronnie was also one of the women who insisted
  on a phone interview before meeting in person. In her case, it made sense. She needed to
  come clean. The picture on Match that had enticed me to message her was twelve or
  thirteen years old. The woman with shapely legs wearing shorts and a t-shirt had become the
  72-year-old in bundled flannel. When we met for dinner, she was no longer brunette, she was
  all grey and beyond bothering. Ronnie was a visual artist, though, as she had claimed on
  Match, and a former art director for one of the Conde Nast publications. She had even worked
  briefly with Milton Glaser. Now she spent her days making her own prints and teaching
  printmaking at a community college. On our one date, the Friday night noise at the “buzzy”
  restaurant I had picked was unbearable.
  “Let’s just leave,” I said.
  Ronnie was totally agreeable. We walked outside together. The parking lot of a no-name
  Mexican place across the street was half empty; so we went there instead, for our no-stakes
  evening,

  v

  I have been both widowed and divorced. My first marriage was a happy party that colon cancer
  crashed. Four years after her death, I married one of my first wife’s friends. No pre-nup,
  because who would ever want to divorce me? My children were nightmarish teenagers during
  those brief second marriage years, and my second wife fled. I would have left, too, but they were my kids.
  When she left, my second wife turned into a transactional combatant, with foot soldier lawyers, forensic
  accountants, mediators. Twenty years later, as I scrolled down the faces of my peers on the
  dating sites, I did not know whether I ever wanted to marry again, but I was certain I did not
  want to be divorced again. It was this same certainty, that inability to get over a distressing divorce,
  that had solidified my resistance to marrying the willing woman I fell in with in my late fifties,
  who put up with that resistance for 15 years before finally saying goodbye.

  Dating in my seventies, I was not any wiser, just older. Dating can be an opportunity for self-analysis.
  That may be the significant point of it and also likelier than meeting some other who will become a significant other.
  Dating forced me to reflect, as it went on, and as I grew tired of repeating my curated story to different-but-the-
  same women across the tabletop in different restaurants. Some first dates were exercises in paying attention.
  They were like the mindful meditation videos on YouTube, but without the mild music or the soft-spoken narrator directing
  me to follow my breath. Driving home, I would ask myself what I actually wanted from Ellen or Eileen, Ursula or Teri.
  If the answer had nothing to do with the future, then the answer had to be the evening out, the glasses of wine, the order
  of salad with grilled salmon on her side of the table, the bone-in veal chop on mine. A week later, recalling the name of a
  woman I had met for dinner was often harder than remembering the “Hi, my name is” employee – Jennifer,
  Bob — who had brought the food to the table. No doubt my dates felt the same or similar.

  Why was I dating at all, online or otherwise? I began to resent that my girlfriend of fifteen years – sixteen
  if I include the year when we first broke up — had wanted out We had never married and did not
  live together. We had been a weekend couple. Year twelve, the year she first ended it, both of
  us tried to do better, with someone else. I tried. Then we got back together, a slide down that
  took another four years to reach bottom. I said we will be married, I will move to where you
  are, and then I did neither. All that said, I was no longer thinking about going back to her. I was in a new
  season. The score had been reset to zero zero.

  *

  So much has been written about “senior” dating. Senior dating memoirs have been written;
  and not only written, but published. Memoirs of a Senior Dater, subtitled A Humorous Look at
  Dating Past 70, is available on barnesandnoble.com, in stock, next day delivery, free in-store
  returns. For the senior dater writer, “humorous” seems to be the winning tone, whether by
  men or women. One More Time Around is a “light-hearted” look into online dating. The author,
  a woman in her sixties, “relates her escapades.” According to the online review, she is
  “withholding nothing,” which I doubt, since her book is available at WalMart.

  Writing about “senior dating” often peeps through a smokescreen of social science. I have
  learned that one in three Americans over 50 are single, and that percentage rises with age. The
  generic message: There are plenty of fish in the sea. I also know that “Women in Their 60s See
  No Need to Remarry.” This, according to The Wall Street Journal.

  What about women in their 70s? One of the one-and-done dates in our pre-screening call
  taught me that men her age who wanted to marry are only looking for “nurse or purse”; for the
  caretaker, one way or another. Another said out loud, and out of the blue, that she had no
  interest in men who wanted to go to bed with her. That must have been Lori. I did not ask Lori
  why then she was on Match.com. I heard the same or variations many times. The Wall
  Street Journal offered “One Expert’s Do’s and Don’ts for Online Dating.” Until then, I never
  thought about what I was doing on dating sites in terms of “do’s and don’ts.” There were risks
  and rewards, but that is not the same thing.

  Articles like to rank the dating sites. The claims are questionable. The notion that dating sites
  can be ranked, some producing better results, was unsupported by evidence.
  What metrics could there be? You could always count the number of “flirts” and “smiles”.

  Success for a subscriber might measured in number of dates, though the figures would rely on
  problematic self-reporting. Even more subjective, the number of “good” dates. Number of
  “one-and-done” dates might be both more objective and objectifying. Researchers could assess
  the discrepancy between how women perceive the attractiveness of the pool of male
  candidates on a particular site compared to how responding males judged the females. I would
  be interested in that analysis. Other yardsticks, the quantity of lawsuits filed against a dating
  site, the number of “romance scams” associated.

  Romance scams? According to a press release from the U.S. Attorney’s Office, District of New
  Jersey, Felix Clark, aka Joseph Moore, aka Stanley Smith, 36, of Keller, Texas, pleaded guilty to
  two counts of conspiracy – conspiracy! — in connection with what a headline in my local
  newspaper termed a “romance scam.” Clark/Moore/Smith’s romantic partner in real life,
  Esther Amppiaw, 33, also of Keller, pleaded guilty as well, when both of them appeared before
  the Honorable Renee Marie Bumb, Chief, U.S. District Judge, Camden, New Jersey.

  The scam itself took place while Felix Clark and Esther Amppiaw were living in Delray Beach,
  Florida. It worked this way: Clark would go on one of the online dating sites, using one of his
  fake names, and pretend to be romantically interested in his victims. He would tell them he
  wanted to marry them. He would then make the even less believable claim that he had a large
  sum of gold in Ghana, but in order to access it needed money for fees and taxes. The elderly
  victims, all of them women the age of my dates, would then wire money to a bank account Felix
  and Esther had set up in their fake names. Checks and money orders also accepted. During his
  guilty plea hearing, Felix admitted — boasted, really — that he had received over $500,000 from
  his various victims, who lived up and down the East Coast. He and Amppiaw transferred that
  money to other accounts overseas, usually to Ghana. Victim-1, unnamed in the press release,
  was a woman in New Jersey, which explains the locale of the prosecution.

  So, Felix Clark got $500,000 out of his promises to the lovelorn. Coincidentally, half a million
  dollars was the approximate amount of my payment to my second wife, when we divorced after
  four years of marriage. What is a romance scam, really?

  The press release announced that each count to which Clark pled guilty was punishable by a
  maximum of 20 years in prison. Each offense carried a potential fine of the greater of $250,000
  or twice the gross gain or loss from the offense. Felix and Esther might also be sentenced to
  supervised release after their terms of imprisonment.

  Two cheers for justice.

  *

  Sadly, during my months of online dating, I was involved, in a romance scam of my own, a sort of scam,
  a dishonesty, a false pretense. Sadder still, I was the perpetrator. In my defense, there was no conspiracy,
  and the only money lost was my own.

  It happened this way:

  One sunny late afternoon after logging off from my scroll through the old familiar faces on Mach,
  I went out to the mailbox. The newsletter from my synagogue, called The Window, had arrived as
  it does in the mail, on coated paper. My interest was in its last pages, where the “life events”
  are featured. Lists of those who have died, the pictures of the pre-teens about to be bar or bat
  mitzvah, the paragraphs under their pictures naming their private schools and their projects
  (fundraising for the Food Bank, usually, or bringing coats to the homeless shelter). I saw the
  lists of new members and the newly converted. Also on these pages, snapshots of the newly
  wed – couples, together on the bimah in front of the ark, the rabbi or a cantor alongside them.
  It was one of those photos of a newlywed couple that caught my attention. I recognized Mark Snyder.
  His new wife standing beside him was not any younger than he was.

  I did not know Dr. Snyder, but I remembered him, from forty years ago. He still had his hair,
  though it was no longer black. Where, I wondered, was Fran, his wife, whom I also
  remembered from those years when the Snyder’s curly-haired son, Connor, went to pre-school
  with my daughter. Fran was unforgettable. Fran Snyder, stunning, nearly perfect
  and, in my imagination then, kind and smart as well. Was Fran really gone? Was Dr. Snyder a
  widower remarrying?

  Google exposed their divorce records. There was even a restraining order from six years ago
  among the proceedings. So did that mean, Fran Snyder was…”available”? I began imagining
  bumping into her as if by accident, though there was no plausible scenario in which that might
  happen. Should I call her, get her address, knock on her door? As it turned out, she had a LinkedIn page.
  She was Dr. Fran Snyder, Ph.D. Also, a website. Her field of expertise was nutrigenetics, and
  although I had never heard of “the study of how genes affect a person’s response to diet and
  nutrients,” I did have an overweight child– he was dangerously obese, in fact. I decided to
  repress whatever I felt about using this ridiculous cover story and reach out to Fran for
  professional guidance, on behalf of my forty-one-year-old son. Would that be wrong? Fran
  was a professional, there was an organization she was associated with, named on her LinkedIn
  profile, and it provided her email address.

  Three emails later, two of them via a HIPPA-related service that could only be accessed with a
  password that Fran provided, with several attachments of no interest that explained
  nutrigenetics, I was sitting on a sofa in her office, which was also her living room. I had already
  confessed to her via email that my son could probably never be persuaded to see her in therapy,
  and Fran had already replied that she also worked with family members who are distressed
  and uncertain how best to help a family member and asked would I be interested.
  I had emailed back that it might be helpful to get her wisdom and asked what was her fee.

  I expected her to invite me for a free introductory consultation, to assess our fit as therapist and
  patient, but Fran responded that her fee was $300. I let this sit for a day. I thought, how much had I
  willingly spent on one-and-done dates with strangers? The fee seemed in line. Fran suggested the
  meeting could be on Zoom if I preferred, instead of at her office in her home. I let two days go
  by before responding that a meeting in her home would actually be more convenient. That way, I
  said, I would not need to mail her the check, I could just bring it.

  Fran was not a date, though my session shared some of the make-believe of one. 
  A date can be a fake consultation.

  When I arrived on the tenth floor of the mid-century modern high-rise where Fran lived, there
  were half a dozen deliveries from Amazon in front of her door. I knocked and waited. I rang the
  doorbell. There was no answer.
  Was nobody home?
  Had I arrived the wrong day?
  This meeting I had so anticipated, Fran had forgotten.
  Then the door opened and she appeared, exactly as I remembered. Unchanged, which was
  unearthly. Still the most beautiful woman, not a grey strand in her raven hair, her skin
  unblemished, not a single sag. I wondered about her doctor former husband, had he been a plastic
  surgeon?

  During the allotted consultation, Fran’s voice had the tone of intended kindness and
  understanding, a practiced empathy. It was like a voice coming from behind a wall. I listened
  to her filling up our time. She talked about the vagus nerve, whatever that was, and about
  Steven Cole, and Jon Kabat-Zinn, and about “caregiver stress.” She did say something that
  jumped out.
  “We don’t know anything,” she said, in response to I forget what. “Nobody knows anything.”
  I think she meant this to be reassuring.
  Even her “nobody knows anything,” which might in some contexts be shattering, came across
  unruffled, like a flat line on a screen.

  vi

  An email from SeniorJewishSingles.com; subject line: She wants you to see her photo.
  Did she really? Check Out My New Photo, it said, and then her name, Brittney.
  And under the picture, Age 30, Pretty Prairie, KS, and the instruction View all her photos.
  That instruction was underlined. I wondered, was there such a place as Pretty Prairie, Kansas?
  And did 30-year-old Brittney really live there, holding her cellphone just below her chin so
  she could take a mirror selfie. Was there even a Brittney? And if so, why would she want a
  73-year-old man to View all her photos?

  Much has been written about the human need for companionship. I think of Robert Frost’s
  lines, unsentimental, clear-eyed:

  Better to go down dignified
  With boughten friendship by your side
  Than none at all. Provide, provide!

  Delete, delete! was the more applicable guidance after I subscribed to dating sites.
  Emails, multiple a day, arrived from OlderJewishSingles. This site solicited, as if my inbox was
  the streetcorner. In one of its subject lines, Hope needs you to check on…. On the same day,
  Hope Just Logged In…. And, a few lines above that, Hope online now…. Hope was always
  available online, and disappointment, too.

  Someone, not Hope, had sent me a smile. JDate advised me to look now, “while she is still
  interested.” That email arrived in one of the batches jostling for attention. The message was
  from Georgiana. Age 69. City: Austin. SMILE BACK, the all-caps instruction, and I did smile back.
  This was an early online decisions, before the novelty wore off and exhaustion settled
  in. And what about Georgiana, hours away in Austin? There was an energy to her About Me paragraph,
  subtitled by JDate “A few words that describe Georgiana.” Georgiana had left South America at age 19
  after spending her childhood years in Italy and France. She identified with Latin culture and spoke
  three languages, which she practices “both at work and in my personal life.” Georgiana was “curious,
  affectionate, logical, and compassionate.” She was “looking for a sophisticated, worldly man.”
  Actually, she had written that she was looking for a “wordly” man. Misspellings were very common on the
  dating sites;

  *

  Cheryl’s unsmiling, schoolmarmish picture was not appealing, but she had sent me a
  “flirt” on one of the sites. OlderJewishSingles, I think. Maybe JDate. This was also earlier in the
  journey, when it was all still novel. The back-and-forth texting was still
  something new. Cheryl was available for a certain Saturday. Then, she canceled; how about
  Thursday? Then that Thursday became unavailable; so, Friday, but only for an hour, and
  let’s only meet for a drink. Restrictions and cautions on the availability of the woman who
  declares her availability by putting her picture on a dating site and even initiates the contact – at
  first it seemed strange, before it became familiar, almost typical, part of the culture of dating,
  an ordinary road sign on the senior route.

  In person, Cheryl was much more attractive than her picture. She had a figure that might be called athletic
  rather than average, in the language of the dating sites, and fine red hair. She was only half Jewish, and
  that half, paternal, disqualifying her in Orthodoxy, but she wore a Star of David necklace that rested on
  her black sweater closer to her heart than to her throat. At that stage of my senior
  dating, she was what I thought I was looking for. She was smart, engaging, and many years
  divorced. She handled well enough the “here is my story” obligation that was part of the
  protocol of first dates. Two sons, one of them an oleh – living in Israel with
  wife and young children, in the far north and refusing to evacuate despite the Hezbollah
  rockets. Cheryl could only stay an hour because relatives had come into town. She had a family
  dinner to be part of. She was flying to Israel to visit her son the next day.
  After Cheryl left, I stayed at the table, looking her up on LinkedIn, Facebook, and Instagram.

  My sister called me that night to ask how it was all going.
  “I think I’ve met the woman I’m going to marry,” I said, half serious. I might have been two-thirds serious.
  I marked the calendar for the week I thought Cheryl was returning from Israel. When the time
  came, I sent a “Cheryl, are you back?” text. I also left a phone message.
  I waited another week before texting again to ask if she could go out to dinner.
  Maybe something made it impossible for her to respond, if only to say, “It was nice meeting you.”
  I never saw Cheryl again, not in person.

  Maybe I had constructed a “Cheryl” in my mind. “Cheryl” occupied a space there.
  There was even a bit of longing hatching for this stranger, someone I did not know,
  who did not know me, though apparently she knew enough.

  Months later, her unsmiling, unappealing photograph was still showing up on
  OlderJewishSingles, sometimes as the “Featured Member.”

  *

  Thanh, another one-and-done, liked texting.
  “Hello, stay warm”, she texted during a week when temperatures plummeted and we were both
  leaving faucets dripping.
  “Hello, one of my heaters downstairs didn’t work” (blue emoji with clenched teeth).
  “Sorry about the heater,” I offered.
  “Thanks for your understanding” (two hands in prayer emoji).
  She also liked the thumbs up emoji and the smiling sun face emoji.
  Thanh had her own Thanh emoji, a brown-haired girl in a purple blouse raising her hand. On
  another cold day, expecting snow: “Stay warm,” she texted, adding the blue, shivering clenched
  teeth emoji alongside her Thanh emoji.
  What was she trying to tell me, other than reporting on her hvac?
  We wrestled with when she was available to meet. It could not be this day, not that day, not the
  weekend of Lunar New Year.
  Finally, one Sunday:
  “Hello, hope you have a nice and relaxing Sunday. You can call me. I want to say hello.” (yellow
  waving hand emoji.)
  Over the phone I finally had the chance to learn how to pronounce her name.
  “This is Thanh from the Match,” she said.
  Her speech was like her texts. Thanh does not want to be out at night when it is dark. Thanh is
  happy being retired. Thanh’s daughter is a doctor.
  However unobvious the match, I was curious about her. She was a Vietnamese Catholic, 66, a
  widow, a former boat person. And she had started it, she had sent the first “flirt.” Also, her
  picture on the dating site – Thanh was very appealing.
  Eventually we picked a lunch date.

  *

  Thanh agreed to meet late for our lunch on a Saturday, which gave me time to attend the
  morning Tai Chi class at Central Congregational Church. I was the beginner finding it impossible
  to keep up with the 108 moves that Master Moi has established for Taoist Tai Chi practice. The
  descriptive names of the moves –“white stork spreads wings,” “carry tiger to mountain” — were
  no help, though our grandmotherly instructor gently called these names out as she modeled
  the movements for the group. It was discouraging. So was the condition of the other elderly
  participants in class, all of them performing better than I could, despite their thicker thighs and
  deeper wrinkles. I had signed up for this group class in obedience to one of the bullet point
  prompts in an article on senior dating, which advised me to meet women “at church or in
  exercise classes.” Saturday morning Tai Chi checked both boxes.

  (Side note: Much of what I did offline, socially, in those months of online dating – pickleball, Tai
  Chi, a cooking class, and, once, square dancing – were new hobbies undertaken to meet the
  age-appropriate woman. None of it was working. In part this was because it felt creepy to me
  to act on this obvious duplicity, my barely disguised motive. The world of the dating sites might
  have some fraudulence, but it felt honest in comparison.)

  *When we finally met for lunch, Thanh and I had as much in common as we might have had with
  our tatted waiter. I asked again how to say her name, and she told me, but it was like one of
  those tai chi moves I could not follow despite instruction. She said she had not been back to
  Vietnam since she left to follow her family to California. Thanh’s dead husband had worked for
  Siemens. They had lived in Munich for three years. She hated it. She was happy where she lived now,
  which was around the corner from the restaurant. She was unhappy with her HOA, though, because the
  dues kept rising. Her doctor daughter took her on a cruise to Alaska. Thanh did not like it.
  She would not go on the optional helicopter tour or on the fishing-for-salmon tour. Her daughter
  had signed her up for Match. Thanh chewed with her mouth open, she talked with her mouth full.
  Thanh’s skin was beautiful though. Her features, too – eye, nose, mouth.
  “Why you no say you divorced on Match?” she asked me.
  Her question was not an accusation. My online profile only said that I was widowed, but I had
  told her on our phone call that I had also been divorced.
  Thanh was very small. She might have been four feet nine. Her body was doll-like.
  When we left our booth, I towered over her. As we walked to her car, she took my hand at a curb.
  She had dressed socarefully and put on heels and wanted a hand to steady her off the curb.

  *

  Fraudulence is a strong word, but I am not the first to notice the scammy personalities of the
  dating sites. Also, their incestuous ownership. After I subscribed to a particular site, I always
  received notices from related sites. Women who had somehow seen my profile were said to be
  interested. If I clicked on these notices, the price list for membership would appear.
  Meanwhile, interest in my profile would wane on the site I had actually paid for. If, when that
  site’s three-month subscription came up for renewal, I canceled and succumbed to the allure of
  the other site, the same sequence would begin again. The new site became less and less
  interested in me, while the original, jilted site would start emailing to let me know how many
  women were visiting my cancelled profile. Women were clamoring, wanting me to View all my
  pictures, but only if I reupped.

  There were the allegations that this or that woman was “interested” and “she has looked at
  your profile.” Despite my “man seeking women within 25 miles” declaration, and my general
  disinterest in women even ten miles away, much less in Maine or Kansas, I was told “contact her
  now, she is online now.” Surely the woman in Maine also had no interest – at least, not in a
  dinner date next Friday. There was also the bad information. Angel, 55, was looking at my
  profile; she was “only 2 miles from you,” according to the site. I sent Angel a message. Angel
  responded, asking for my phone number, so we could talk “off site.” I provided it. A few
  minutes later, a text:
  “Hello there this is Angel you just gave me your number.”
  Angel’s area code was 660, which I had to look up, and it was not nearby, but then cell numbers
  are portable. I looked more closely at her profile. It said Angel had never been married and
  lived with her parents.
  Five minutes later, a second text:
  “Sorry to bother if it’s a wrong number.”
  “No, correct number,” I replied. I texted I would reach back later. Angel said okay, fine.
  That evening, I texted would she like to meet, we could do that, “Maybe for coffee one day next
  week, if that works for you.”
  Angel responded immediately.
  I thought about Cheryl, who never responded; Nanci with her business dealings in Cabo; Connie
  and Lori and Thanh, and the pre-screening calls, the dinner reservations made and cancelled
  and remade. At least Angel had answered instantly. Her profile was discouraging, but so what.
  Maybe she would be terrific, despite describing her body type as “curvy,” which is one of the
  euphemisms in dating site lingo for overweight, though not as clear a tell as “a few extra
  pounds.” Usually, “slim” or “athletic” were the better answers.
  “That’s nice,” Angel responded, “but I’m in Higginsville. Where do you stay?”
  Higginsville turned out to be in Missouri, which was a thousand miles away.
  “I’m sorry,” I texted, “the site said you were 2 miles away.”
  I said it looked like we were not candidates to meet for coffee.
  No response.
  I added “Best wishes.” (smile emoji)
  Smile emoji, she replied. “Good luck.”
  When I logged on to the site to see Angel’s face again, and to double check on the “2 miles
  away,” there was no sign of her. Then I went to “messages,” where our initial, on-the-site back
  and forth should have been saved. Nothing there, either.

  vii

  Women from Oregon, Iowa, and Alaska were sending me their “interested” messages on
  seniorjewishsingles.com. Machined messages, push-button messages, messages that were a
  sleepy compound of the official and the artificial, with sentences no one would ever say to your
  face.
  A machine-like instruction from Anne Age 49 North Saanich, CA:
  “Are You Interested In Me?”
  Later, from Anne again:
  “I saw your profile and it got me interested. Send me a message if you might be interested in
  me as well.”
  In the blue lozenge: Online Now.
  I visited the page with other messages from the same Anne. No photo, however, just a
  silhouette.
  I could click the plus sign next to it to Add Member to Your Favorites.
  Click Here To Ask Me For My Photo, Anne said, allegedly.
  And, under that, my two choices:
  Message.
  Flirt.
  Anne’s profile identified her as pearlgem1899.
  Anne Age 49 was not from California. North Saanich is in British Columbia; the CA in her profile
  meant Canada. So, Anne was even further away than Angel.
  She was (1754 miles) away, the site said parenthetically. The dating sites know where you are located and
  can do the math.
  Anne is Online – Today. Anne is a Woman Seeking a Man. Anne is a Taurus.
  In Anne’s I Would Describe Myself As, Anne did what many women on dating sites do, for reasons
  that must be economic. She embedded a phone number inside her paragraph.
  Anne did it this way:
  “I’m new 6 on here, O seeking someone honest on here. I’m literally sick and exhausted of 3
  games and drama so I’m looking 1 into something real 9 long term. I’m down to 3 earth
  searching for 1 unconditional love, someone to share 4 laughter with, adventure and 0 deep
  conversations. You might want to find out.”
  Zero deep conversations?
  I was invited to Send A Quick Message.
  There was also a profile category called Appearance & Situation.
  Anne’s appearance was her situation.
  Body Type Is Average, Height Is 5’3 (1.6 m), Ethnicity Is Caucasian.
  On the same page, in another blue bar, Senior Jewish Singles declared itself to be The #1 Senior
  Jewish Dating Community On The Net.

  *

  I clicked the heart symbol on the Match.com page with Candy’s face in a square. That meant
  “like,” though not “super like,” which was also an option. On our first dinner date, Candy’s
  appealing girliness was there on the surface — the pink blouse, the fur around the neck of her coat,
  her brown hair, the cute bent nose. And below that surface, Candy was a wholesome braid of smart
  and sweet. After half a minute, I was certain I would want to see her again. On a second date, we met for
  lunch. Dating in daylight is not the same as going out at night. That may be in part because I
  still have one cataract that has not been removed, and appearances change in the better light,
  usually not for the better. At lunch, she was more a Candace than a Candy. She had that
  accumulation of selves that all of us have at a certain age. Her skin had been lived in. Also, she
  was coming from a business meeting – Candy was a real estate developer, and when she had
  left home that morning, I was not her destination, I was a stop between that meeting and her other chores.

  I had read an article about the “magic number” of dates to go on with any one person before
  “committing.” There was no clear answer. Another article provided the magic number of dates
  one should go on before deciding to move on because there is no magic. That number was
  three. It was an argument against “one and done,” a defense of withholding judgment. I misquoted this
  article in an exchange with Candy.
  “The Wall Street Journal says you should go out with someone five times before deciding
  whether you like them or not.”
  “That seems like a lot of times.”
  “We’re only at 2 so far.”
  I asked what about next weekend.
  Candy smiled. She said she could not, she was going skiing the next weekend.
  She texted that evening we could instead maybe get coffee “before the ski bunny hops out of
  town.” (smiling face wearing sunglasses emoji). That emoji was resistant to interpretation,
  and we did not get coffee. Over the weekend, she sent me a selfie from Colorado or Utah, Candy in
  neon pink jumpsuit and ski goggles.

  We did continue going out – more than five times – and I lost interest in dating anyone else,
  although I would not have described this as “committing.” It might have been just before date
  number seven that Candy, who lived by herself in a 6,000-square-foot home on a street lined
  with antebellum mansions, called to cancel. She had decided we were not right for
  each other.

  *

  Janice, from Match.com, had probably been my best first date. I met her at a restaurant called
  Neighborhood Services, which was not in either of our neighborhoods. I had looked for
  somewhere nearer, but Janice lived in one of the far peripheral suburbs, where the only choices
  were the chains along the highway. I always tried to be the first to arrive, but this time the
  packed parking lot of the shopping center where Neighborhood Services was a tenant had me
  circling. Janice was waiting.

  The same warm smile I had seen in the small square of her photo was upsized in front me,
  across a table in a corner. Janice, there first on a Friday night; still there hours later as we kept
  chattering until the crowded restaurant had emptied.

  Janice was a heavyset African American woman and a believing Christian. Her profile on
  Match.com said that she was reading Josephus, which seemed so improbable, such an odd
  thing to declare in a dating profile, that I commented on the site. There was that, and
  her smile, and the fact that she responded. Over dinner, she told me about Bible classes
  at the megachurch, about her son the professional musician and the other son who was
  completing law school.

  Janice was divorced from the former husband with a gambling problem. She was practical, open, curious, warm.
  She had none of that wariness so common on first dates. After dinner, I walked her to her car. She had found
  the closer space; mine was a long walk away.

  “Get in,” she said, “I’ll drive you over.”
  Over dinner, during the “my story” routine, I had told Janice about my first wife’s death.
  So, we had talked about colon cancer over dinner. “I want to tell you something,” Janice said,
  as we sat a moment in her car. “I think I can.” she added, which sounded foreboding. She said
  she was not sure this was right to say but it felt right to her. She told me she had colon cancer,
  too. “What stage?” I asked.
  “Four.”
  She said she had a big scar. Then, she ran her finger down her abdomen.
  “I hope that doesn’t bother you,” she said.
  It had not occurred to me once during dinner to be thinking about what Janice looked like
  underneath her blouse. We were at my car, so I stepped out, the passenger side door still open.
  Janice leaned toward me, looking up at me from the driver’s side.
  “Hey,” she said, “give me a kiss.”
  I did that. Not a long kiss; still, it was a kiss on her mouth.

  We went out three or four more times. I would pick her up at her house, nearly forty-
  five minutes of unpleasant freeway driving distant. I met her barking dog and her musician son.
  She told me about her self-centered mother who was in a care facility. She asked me if I
  wanted to meet her older brother. She signed off her texts as “Your person.” These were
  the same weeks when I began dating Candy, who lived five minutes away. Finally, across
  another restaurant table, I told Janice that I had met the person I thought was “right” and it did
  not feel “fair” or “honest” to keep dating. If she was upset, Janice did not show it. Not too long
  after my last date with Janice, Candy – over the phone — used that line on me, that we were not
  “right for each other.”

  *

  Marti called a day before our scheduled date to let me know that she was tentative. Her
  mother, who had dementia, was in the hospital, and her sister, who lived with the mother, was
  ill, too. So, Marti was on call. This is not a situation faced on first dates when you are in your
  twenties. I said I understood. I made the expected comment about family being the priority and
  told Marti that she could let me know tomorrow, even late afternoon, or at the very last minute,
  it would be no trouble, I would leave our restaurant reservation in place.

  Marti was from Match. Her profile said she was Jewish, which made her a rarity on Match. She
  was exotically attractive. Narrow, half-closed eyes. Olive skin. She was also a convert,
  and not for the usual reason. She reported over dinner that her former husband was Presbyterian;
  so, she did not convert for his sake. Nonetheless, at some point Marti — Martha Ann — decided
  Judaism was right for her. In some order I did not get straight she left her marriage, stopped
  being a residential real estate agent, returned to school, and became a professional counselor.
  The conversion came either before, after, or during all that.

  Marti was one who wanted the phone call first before meeting. Surely women realize that what
  has led up to this point, 95% of the male interest, is due to their online photographs, and
  that they are unlikely to increase the interest that remaining 5% by talking over the phone. It
  has been my constant experience that these preliminary calls reduce interest. Maybe
  women online see themselves as employers; I was applying for the job of taking Marti out to
  dinner, and even that unskilled labor required a job interview.

  Over dinner, I asked Marti about our pre-date phone interview. What was it in that
  conversation that led her to agree to meet? Was it more a matter of my not saying something
  disqualifying? What test had I passed?
  She said I had “energy.” That seemed like a low bar.
  Marti wore the Star of David on a slender chain around her neck. She had the charming
  seriousness of the convert. When she lights Shabbat candles, if she does, I suspect she raises
  both her hands, palms toward her face, and covers her eyes.

  Later that same evening Marti texted, “I had a wonderful evening.”
  I texted back the bit about how the Journal says you go on 5 dates before you decide if you like
  someone or not, and since we were only one date in, we should go out again. That line had
  amused Candy. Like the leftovers Marti had taken home from the restaurant, the line could be
  reheated.
  Marti replied two days later.
  She was “dealing with some family and work-related issues” and did not want to plan anything
  right now.
  Kind of discouraging, but what did it mean? No interest? Or, was she actually “dealing with
  some family and work-related issues.”

  Weeks passed.
  One Saturday afternoon after Tai Chi, I discovered a midmorning text from Marti.
  “Good morning, do you have a minute to chat?”
  Marti called. She was upset, she has been fired from her job at a clinic. One of her clients had
  complained about her, she does not have the required degree to work as a counselor
  unsupervised, she was now dating her former professor and he is advising her, her ex-husband will
  help her financially. She said she owed me an explanation. I told her she did not owe me an
  explanation.

  So, that was Marti – a handful of texts, a phone call, a dinner out, two more texts, one last
  phone call.

  *

  Most women, on dating sites or not, say they are easygoing. Then, they require
  the waiter to bring them a separate glass of ice alongside their water.
  They need slices of lemon in a small dish. They always order off menu. The
  sight of fish makes them physically ill. Also, they will only wear black, or
  some other single color.

  Jane was a widow, fourteen months past. She said it was time for her “to get out there,” and
  she was on every dating site I was. She wrote in her paragraph that friends describe her as
  “the Energizer bunny.” She said she was “up for anything.” The fact that she was interested
  and appreciative overcame my sense that one date was enough, given the separate glass of ice
  and the head-to-toe black. Second date, I drove over to her house, where she lived with her
  housekeeper and an art collection. We needed to hurry away, because Jane was worried one of
  her sons – middle-aged, married, with children of his own – might be dropping by and discover
  that his mother was dating. For our third date, Jane asked if I wanted to go to hear A Night
  of Broadway on a Sunday afternoon. She had the tickets. So, date number three, I sat through
  Sutton Foster and Kelli O’Hara in a “spunky, spirited performance of show tunes, witty banter,
  and stories.” Sutton and Kelli were two talented (“Tony-winning”) brassy women, whose dancers’
  legs made a quiet argument that I needed to drop my online dating range to include
  women in their forties.

  Last date with Jane, at a bar and club upstairs in a former movie theater.

  One of the contradictions of my senior dating experience is that conversations were as
  much about withholding information as they were about sharing it. Only with Janice, pointing
  to the place on her belly where a surgical scar must have been, did I ever think I was in the
  presence of someone comfortable in her skin. Maybe Janice had given up on disguises, or she
  had had the experience of being revealed and had lost her fear of it.

  Before my fourth date with Jane, I rehearsed in my mind the “We are not right for each other” conversation.
  If Candy could do it, I could too.

  Instead, I decided to tell Jane about my meeting with Fran Snyder. Not because I wanted to
  say anything about false pretenses, but just to make conversation. I thought, Jane might
  be interested in neurogenetics. Jane had her own odd relationship to ice, lemon slices,
  and fish, so why not ask what she knew about the vagus nerve? It turned out that Jane knew
  Fran Snyder. She and her deceased husband had in fact been close friends for a while with
  Fran and Mark. The friendship ended, because Jane could not take any more of Fran. When I
  remarked that Fran seemed to have hardly changed in the forty years since I had last seen her,
  Jane laughed. Fran never goes into the sun uncovered, she said. She wears long gloves in August.
  Fran is obsessed with health, diet, sleep, and is simply a strange, difficult woman. And Fran’s
  divorce was a scandal. Her handsome doctor husband had met someone in a yoga class at the
  Jewish Community Center. They had an affair and divorced their shocked spouses.
  I asked Jane if Mark Snyder was a plastic surgeon.
  “No,” she said, “a radiologist.”

  The bar band had come back on stage and was playing. Jane and I got up to dance in the small
  space by our table. When Jane left to find a restroom down the hall, another woman, a twenty-
  something wearing ripped blue jeans with silver sequins on her thighs, stopped by the table to
  ask were Jane and I a couple.
  “Just a dating.”
  “You guys are so cute,” she said.
  “Oh, okay.”
  “She’s beautiful, you’re lucky.”
  “Yes, she is,” I said, “I’m lucky.”
  I did not really agree with either of these assertions, despite affirming them. That was also
  characteristic of conversations on dates.

  viii

  I was still receiving messages – three, four every day — from OlderJewishSingles, a site I dropped.
  Women from all over the country were “viewing my profile.” Many had “just sent a message.” They were
  in their early forties, lived in places like Saylorsburg PA, and, like so many others, they were implausibly
  interested in the 73-year-old man thousands of miles away. OlderJewishSingles allowed me to take a look at any
  woman who “Just Viewed Your Profile.” I clicked on the picture of Rose, Age 48. She was in Saylorsburg.
  I clicked on others from Georgia and South Dakota, on the far edges of Maine, and in
  Eastern Washington – Olympia, Spokane, Walla Walla. On the internet, everywhere is just around the corner.

  As for Rose, what did she want? She told me, inside the bright blue lozenge: Check Out My Profile.
  Okay, Rosedoughhan612, consider yourself checked out. After “I Would Describe Myself As,” Rose wrote
  that she was a “hard working coffee farmer lady.” She was looking for someone and “hopefully you’ll
  figure it out.” She left her phone number, 801 area code, which is Utah. I was not sure what I was
  supposed to figure out. She was a blonde girl wearing a ballcap. Her sign was Pisces. She had an
  appealing surface, but who doesn’t at 48? Rose was a young woman, relatively, on a site with Older
  in its name. When I clicked on a tiny red heart, I got the price list from OlderJewishSingles.

  OlderJewishSingles tried further encouragement. “Ask If She’s Interested,” it prompted, in another blue lozenge.
  Rose had already said she was interested. After I pushed delete, a new message appeared. Its subject line,
  “Hey, are you interested in me?” It, too, claimed to be from Rose in Saylorsburg. Poor Rose from Saylorsburg
  was probably not that pushy, but the dating site certainly was. The women I actually met online were never aggressive.
  They were wary. No telling what solicitations had come to them from dozens of male Roses.

  Silver Singles, “on a trial” for a month, turned out to be more realistic than I wanted it to be.
  Every time a “Your profile has just been visited” arrived, the woman eager to visit was a 70-year-old with
  a triple chin and no idea how to take a deceptive photograph of herself. “Nancy has visited your profile.”
  “Cynthia wants to learn more about you.” The only thing Nancy and Cynthia attracted me to was the unsubscribe link.

  Even less encouraging were the daily messages from Match: “We think you’ll hit it off.” “Start something great.”
  “New day, new potential.” “Spark new connections.” And, with its sad implication, “Here’s everything you can do
  to make the most of your day on Match.” My day on Match. Had life come to that?

  My sense of dating alternated between thoughts that none of it mattered and a sense — a delusion — that nothing
  was more important. I was six months into it and exhausted by it; tired of telling my story to strangers, as though
  I were reciting the same fairytale over and over. I knew the story. So did the woman across a table from me; she, too,
  had heard it before, more or less. She had heard it dozens of times, from different mouths, the same story.
  Still, the ritual of its telling was required, however hard feigning interest might have been for both of us.
  It began to seem as if no one dates at my age unless they had a serious problem to solve.

  Some weeks, no dates. It could be that I had not made the effort that Monday, despite the message from Match every
  Monday morning, cheering for me to “Start something new!” Some weeks I might have
  told myself I did not need it – not the companionship, not something to do on a Friday or Saturday night, not the momentary
  hopefulness before the arrival of a stranger at wherever we were meeting. Usually, at a restaurant. Almost always, squinting
  at the menus, their puny fonts impossible to read, the light from the fake-flame candle on the table never enough.
  Then, fishing for our cellphones, and using them as flashlights.

  I have spent my time waiting in the small foyers of these restaurants – sometimes on a bench, more
  often standing. My mind wandered. When my date appeared, a present moment would
  emerge behind the clouds. She looked just as expected, or only tentatively related, or nothing
  at all like her picture. Then, into the dark world of the noisy night out, sitting across from each
  other in a booth. We go through our stories. We put on a magic show. For the hour or
  two, we are following the recipe. There is a recipe, although its ingredients are not always
  provided, and the right measurements are rarely on hand.

  So, there was a tedium to it. “Go out a hundred times,” a friend told me. I did not go out a hundred times.
  “Meet different people,” another advised. The women I met were not that different. Jill, Lynn, Paula who
  played pickleball, Cathy who owned a bookstore, Susan, Wendy, Cece, CP, Cecilia, Liz, and Faith, all from
  the dating sites, all one-and-done. If I counted names, there may have been three dozen. I remember those
  I went out with, step and repeat, until someone said no mas. I remember those – Cheryl, Marti – who said
  no mas to going out twice. Mostly I remember the daily dozens of faces, smiling or severe, in the online
  squares – photos with dogs, with babies, with daughters, with grandchildren, in landscapes, sitting on
  barstools, lounging by the backyard pool, on horseback, playing golf, wearing leather pants,
  in long dresses, cleavage, frowns, in their cars, in front of mirrors.

  After six months of online dating, I had reached a new phase. I would log on, and all I would see were faces I had seen
  dozens of times before. The same candidates. Or the same supplicants, which was how I sometimes saw myself.

  There needs to be a name for dater’s despair, a new word, a portmanteau of boredom and loser.
  “Boozer” would be misunderstood. Incidentally, on the dating sites the common answer next to a wineglass
  icon in a user’s profile is “Social, maybe one or two.” That was what I saw in the profiles of
  every woman I dated, even those who drank three vodka sodas on a first date.

  “Looking forward to meeting you tomorrow.”
  This was a text I sent sometimes the day before a date, as though I were the dentist’s office confirming an appointment.
  I began doing that after a woman cancelled because she had not heard from me so thought our date was off, even though
  our arrangements had been made only a week before. Perhaps a reminder was required.
  For some dates, I texted this disclaimer:
  “’I’m the same as my picture, except my hair is longer.”
  That was not factual. I was not the same. My photograph online had been taken seven years earlier, by a professional
  photographer. True, my hair was longer than it had been in the photograph, but it was also much thinner. The baldness
  that settled seven years ago in an unseen spot in the back had over time colonized a larger territory. Also, I was not
  going to show up for our date in the Armani suit I wore for the photographer. At least my photo had been professionally
  taken, unlike one of those what-were-you-thinking snapshots that some women used.

  In a way, the stakes were lower, dating in my seventies. The fact that I had fewer years left to find a companion did not
  seem to correlate with a greater sense of urgency. Also, the misjudgments – those of others, and my own – were no longer
  an unpleasant surprise. I may not have wisdom, but I did have experience. I saw individual error as the property of that
  individual. If a woman on our first date was wary of me walking her back to her car, fine. If she was confusing me with
  some past experience of hers, she had probably come by her fears naturally.

  For the most part, I appreciated any woman’s willingness to go out with me. I appreciated the manifestation of hope,
  however low the expectations. Surely putting yourself on a dating site in your seventies is an affirmation of one thing
  we know about life, which is that it goes on.

  *

  Susan was never a date. When my former girlfriend would not go with me to La Bohème, because opera bored her,
  as it does many people. Susan went in her place. Susan was a neighbor. She loved music — her daughter was at SMU,
  studying to become a conductor — so Susan and I went to opera together. Susan would complain nonstop about her
  boyfriend, who was a pilot for American. Then she married the pilot, who also had no interest in opera, and my
  girlfriend told me just keep going with Susan. It was odd, but we did it. I bought the tickets, Susan would drive
  over from her new house, and we went together. Drinks at a bar before, a hug goodnight after. No hand holding,
  not even in the dark during che gelida manina.

  It continued like that for years.
  Now, however, I wanted one of my dates to go with me instead.
  When I told Susan, she began to cry. The tears were sudden. She said I was wrong. She sobbed that I was “dropping a friend”
  for someone I might not see twice. She could have been right. I thought of it a different way. If I was the manager of a
  sports team, would I not trade the veteran – reliable, yes, and maybe under contract – in order to sign the player who has
  the higher ceiling? Susan was steady company. That was not nothing. It was still the right decision, to go for the upside.

  ix

  Where is this all going? Maybe I should have begun this ramble with the end of the story. I am no longer
  dating, I did meet someone, and on an online dating site. Eva, 66, reached out to me. She thought
  my profile said I was a Virgo, which I am not. She lives nearly four hours of freeway driving
  away from me, despite my preference, stated on the site, for a 10-mile maximum dating
  distance. Now I am living three days a week in her city and am no longer subscribing to Match
  or JDate or either of the Older or Senior Jewish Singles. I am part of a couple, though neither of
  us wants to move or be married.

  It has been said that there are no wrong turns in life, that even the wrong road takes you closer to the truth and often gets you there faster.

  In that spirit, there is still a little more to tell.

  A Forbes article, “Senior Dating Made Simple: Best Secure Dating Sites for 50+”, had a rank-
  ordered list of “top-rated” dating sites. It also made its case for the health benefits of senior
  dating, which boiled down to avoiding the increased morbidity that is associated with
  loneliness. Studies were cited. Forbes issued warnings, too. Under a “Looking Out for Dating
  Scams” subhead, it warned, “Watch out for ‘love bombing.’” According to Forbes, most dating
  scams begin that way, with the scammer “showering you with affection.” No doubt the New
  Jersey widow, Victim-1, had stepped into that shower with Felix Clark.

  Forbes advised me to look out for other “red flags.” Being asked for money was a red flag,
  though in my experience being asked for money is a not uncommon marker of real-world
  relationships as well. Maybe with online dating that flag is a brighter red. The Forbes article
  did not say.

  Among the nine “top-rated” sites listed by Forbes, Match was at the top of its list. Next was SilverSingles.
  The third highest rated site for seniors, number three on the Forbes list, was a site called
  DateMyAge. I had never heard of it. I liked the name. It suggested a clientele grounded in
  reality, or at least possessing a sense of decency. DateMyAge sounded like a site for the seventy-
  something-year-old man who was not susceptible to self-deluding fantasies, who was not trying
  to date the younger woman with unfallen flesh, the woman half or even one-third his age
  who nevertheless found him irresistibly attractive and longed to have his age-spotted hands
  holding hers.

  In that spirit, after six months of Ellen, Eileen, Teri, Connie, Candy, Ursula, Janice, Ashley and
  others, I paid DateMyAge.com $9.99 for a trial one-month membership.

  The sponsored ad that Google served for DateMyAge.com said that the site was trusted by
  twelve million users. I took that to mean very trusted. “Date Now & Get 87% More Chats,” the ad
  continued. That was very specific; 87 percent was a number that implied actual measurement.
  My experience with DateMyAge can also be quantified. In the 27 days from my initial sign up to
  the moment I gave up, 465 messages arrived in my inbox from the “DateMyAge Team,” an
  average of nearly twenty messages a day. That does not include the messages that also began to
  arrive from copycat dating sites I had never signed up for.

  Those were the numbers. The names, which repeated and echoed, were Silvina, Tatyana, and
  Tamara. Alexanda, Jovanka, Oksana, Larissa and Olga. Lots of blonde Ukrainians, some of
  them doctors, some fitness instructors, several of them both doctor and fitness instructor. Mostly
  in their forties; so, not my age. In the same way, I could DateMyAge with Mei, whose name in
  parentheses was Lucy. Mei was a svelte Chinese woman, like Fei Shawn and Aizen and Yong
  Zhen. Then there were the Filipinas, Luz, Criz, Flor. And Brazilians, Colombians, and
  Venezuelans. All of them stunning beauties in their forties or fifties who wanted nothing so
  much as deep love, authentic connection, true partnership and, from thousands of miles away,
  mad adventure with the 73-year-old man looking at their photograph on a glowing laptop
  screen. They were love bombing, and my inbox was blowing up.

  WebMD defines love bombing as “an intense display of affection and attention used to
  manipulate someone.” Messages from DateMyAge were too offbeat to do much manipulation.
  DateMyAge come-ons came from an alternate social reality. The DateMyAge Team had
  encouraged me to “Date with our trustworthy community,” then asked me to trust the hilarious
  subject line “Tatyana really wanna know you. So thrilling!” Within a week, the Team had also
  told me “Larisa really wanna know you. So thrilling!” “Oksana really wanna know you. So
  thrilling!” “Nataliya really wanna know you. So thrilling!” “Marina really wanna know you. So
  thrilling!” Also, “Oksana has added you to favorites.” “Emma has added you to favorites.”
  Olga has added you to favorites.” “Criz has added you to favorites.” So had Shirly, Tatyana,
  Viktoria, Tamara, Tetiana, Jil, Fi, Mathel, and Elena. Olga, Marina, Mathel, Elena were “waiting
  for response.”

  Content varied, from the softhearted to the overly carbonated:
  You don’t mind to unite your fate and heart with a sweet and maybe hot brunette?
  Ambar, that’s my name.
  I have a feeling I possess something that will fascinate you.
  Hey, handsome, Rica has sent you a new letter.
  A curvy woman looks for a sincere man.
  Today your perfect match is – Tamara.
  You are my sunshine.
  Nadeja opened your profile 3 times & counting – Psst, you’ve got shared interests.
  Spice for you. Jada has sent you a new letter.
  Hello my Prince.
  Looking for husband soon.
  Sending you sunshine and smiles.
  Authentic connection and adventures. Do you dare?
  Today your perfect match is – Dimples.

  Perfect matches appeared every other day. Over and over, my perfect match was Tamara.
  Maybe she was. Language cannot entirely slip off its meaning, however naked it might be in its
  dishonesty. Tamara’s photo could not have been glossier. In general, there were no
  photographs of grandchildren or small dogs, no sad OlderJewishSingles selfies, and no woman
  near my age on DateMyAge.

  Marina asked if I wanted to read her first poem. Nataliya declared herself “the woman of your
  heart.” Lux was lovely, with “A heart that still believes in love.” Emma, from thousands of miles
  away, simply sent “Loves and sweet kisses.”

  One woman, or the machine that was producing these messages, came up with “Hello My Future
  Honey I’m excited to be with you the rest of my life.”
  That was the first and last I heard from her.

  Along with 465 messages from DateMyAge, emails from EuroDate, TravelMates and ZenDates
  began to clog my inbox like so much sludge. All of it had an obvious single source. Page designs
  were the same. Some of the photographs were the same. A few costume changes
  notwithstanding, the four sites followed the same scripts.

  A last solicitation arrived in my inbox from the Hotti Team, asking me to confirm my email,
  because messages were waiting from Axel, 37; Ysabe, 45; Zah, 41; Damian, 39. These were the
  “awesome people” on Hotti, which listed its service provider address as Battika SIA, Matisa Str.
  61-33, Riga, Latvia, LV-1009. For no good reason, I googled the address and found SIA
  DataStories, a social media management agency “focused on helping small businesses grow
  their online presence.” The Google Street View for Matisa Str. 61 showed a vacant lot behind a
  chain-link fence.

  Forbes must have had its reasons for listing DateMyAge among the “best for seniors,” but surely
  my experience with the site is not unique. Maybe I had misinterpreted the meaning of its
  name. DateMyAge means Svitlana and Tamara and Olga will feign wanting to date someone my
  age.

  After its trial subscription expired, DateMyAge vanished even from spam. Same with EuroDate
  and TravelMates. Only Zen Dates kept trying. It metastasized in my spam folder, a cancerous spread
  morphing into AmalDate, OurLove, and AmaLatina, and these new sites, same as the old sites,
  kept at it for months. My ordinary spam could hardly get a word in edgewise. I still found
  Optima Tax Relief and Cheap Auto Insurance and messages from BuzzRx about the dangers of
  mixing alcohol and Viagra. Mostly, though, my spam was filled with romance. Marina and
  Giselle and Zhong continued adding me to their favorites. Oksana and Tamara were still making
  their pitch. Tatyana was insisting she “really wanna know you. So thrilling!”

  Fast forward another year. In my spam folder, among the residue left by solar generators,
  mortgage and hard money brokers, online pharmacies, and the other blocked solicitors, the
  dating industrial complex had never given up. Try, try again had become try, try under a new
  name. Spam automatically clears all items older than thirty days, so these messages had
  appeared in the past thirty days. The names of the apps were new, their Eastern European and
  Asian themes very familiar. I had messages from AsianDate Team, AnastasiaDate Team, and
  PinaDate Team. Andreina, 42, Li Xiaolei, 39, and Shy, 41, wanted me for their “partner.” Those
  three were with OurLove Team. AmalDate Team introduced Sluka, 42, Ketina, 55, and Mariana,
  43. An outfit called Once sent emails that promised “select chats” with Cat, with Viviana, with
  Natalie. “Luna, your new fan!” offered a select chat, and a dating site simply called Chat used
  an alarm clock emoji in all its headlines. “Chats will expire soon!” (alarm clock), “Love alert from
  Maria!” (alarm clock), “Love alert from Leilani!” (alarm clock). At the bottom of the spam
  barrel, a message from the old Hotti Team hung on, a day away from its thirty-day disappearance.
  Tamara has sent you a new letter…”

  I mentioned that I have met someone. I am no longer dating online. I am no longer subscribing to dating apps.
  I mentioned I met someone, online, and through a dating app for older singles. I reported that
  Eva is in her late sixties. So, I am dating my age, although it is true that when I was a high school
  senior, she was still in elementary school.

  Eva and I are getting along well, we are a match, we are in love. Forever, as far as we know.
  Of course — and it goes without saying — if it doesn’t work out, there will always be Tamara.

  *

• Disconnected Shorts

  i

  I am at Tom Thumb, my local grocery store. A boy and girl are ahead of me in the check-out line. I have my shopping cart with nothing but two bags of ice that are already beginning to melt. They have a wagon with their groceries. It’s a rusted, once red wagon, the kind a little kid might ride in or pull. Addicts? Street people? They are in their twenties, probably in their early twenties. The girl is homely, overweight, with a stud in a nostril. The skinny boy who was with her is sleeveless and tatted. The goat’s beard sprouting from his chin is as unkempt as pubic hair. The girl moves ahead, passing the register.
  “Hey,” the guy says, “I thought you were paying.”
  He takes out his wallet. He fishes for a card. He seems unfamiliar with the checkout procedure and accidentally pushes one of the “do you want to donate” buttons that the credit card reader displays at the grocery store before it shows you your own charges.
  The cashier thanks him for his donation. He is flummoxed, but at last he gets his card into the slot. My ice is still waiting.
  The cashier looks down at her screen.
  “It says insufficient funds.”
  He tries again.
  “No,” the cashier says, shaking her head.
  The boy steps out of the narrow lane to where the girl was. He protests to himself and to her,
  “I don’t know,” he says, “the money’s there.”
  My ice is melting. I push my cart forward to the credit card station and tell the cashier I will
  cover it. $42, plus my ice, plus whatever donation the guy has picked. The couple looks at me.
  They hesitate. Of course I consider that this had been their plan from the beginning.
  “It’s okay,” I tell them, “I got it, it’s not a problem, you guys will figure it out.”
  Maybe that was their plan from the beginning, but I doubt it. They don’t look like the people who made plans.

  ii

  “The only thing I know about life is that it goes on.”
  That’s what Robert Frost said, or some variation of that.
  Life is the answer, then, when someone asks, “Hey, what’s going on?”
  My more usual given answer is “Nothing” or “Nothing much.”
  Today, plenty is going on. Droplets of sunlight are falling on a wooden deck. There are puddles of it on the oval stone top of a wrought iron table where I’m having breakfast. Rye toast, butter and jam, and dark coffee made from beans that came all the way from some plantation south of the equator to be in my backyard. Ben and Eden and Jason are in their rooms not doing homework. They have better things to do. In the sense that anything is better than reading about The Atlantic Experience or solving numbers three through twelve in Chapter 2 of Forms and Functions. I have sections of the newspaper in folds, and I have more time than there is news. Time enough to read an obituary. Its column of story supports a black and white photo of the deceased. He died at seventy-nine but has a picture that must have been taken from his high school yearbook, as though his heart had stopped at the prom rather than at the hospital. He doesn’t look like the type who enjoyed doing his homework either. Maybe he spent his Saturdays skipping stones or stealing cigarettes from his mama’s purse, in those months before he enlisted in the service. He is survived by picas of relatives, sons and daughters-in-law, grandchildren, and a complexity of seemingly unrelated last names. So I have come to an understanding. Life in fact doesn’t go on. Not for the dead, who may go on to life everlasting, for all I know, but that isn’t the same thing. It isn’t much, this simple thing I do know. And it’s what Robert Frost must have meant. Life only goes on for the living. Some may think it’s nothing, but it’s not nothing.

  iii

  My high school French had years of rust on it by the time Dolores and I went to Paris. I wanted to go back and see, at least from outside, the apartment on Rue Cardinal Lemoine where I stayed for two months in 1973. That was the year after I dropped out of college. And I wanted to ride the Metro, where a stranger had handed me his Walt Whitman, Selected Poetry as he was leaving the train car, a Penguin paperback with a matte black cover. A gift, and for no reason. And I wanted to walk around Paris again, but this time without the weight of loneliness that I had carried twenty years earlier. So we went. When we rode the Metro, Dolores was robbed by a Gypsy boy, who took her wallet out of the purse she was carrying over her shoulder. As it was happening, I knew and didn’t know that it was happening. I had noticed as the boy moved over to us in the crowded train car, his breathing was hurried. He seemed anxious, as if something were wrong. It didn’t occur to me immediately that he was a thief. Or that it was Dolores he was about to pickpocket, lifting her red wallet from the wide-open mouth of her purse. But almost immediately, the moment after it happened, as the train car doors opened and the boy disappeared, I knew. We got off the next metro stop, for the Louvre, then backtracked one stop to catch the boy. Of course we never did. But we did find the red wallet in a metal trash bin, and that was bonne chance, as a policeman told us later; even though the money was gone, it was merveilleuse, finding that red wallet with its black snap unsnapped among the cigarette butts, discarded metro tickets, and the wads of Kleenex. That wallet in the trash may have been the most amazing of all the sights we saw in Paris. It was more thrilling than the Invalides and the onyx tomb of Napoleon. It was more surprising than the Pei pyramid at the Louvre, or the Burghers of Calais at the Rodin Museum. The credit cards were gone, though. That was tant pis.

  iv

  Jesus had a smart mouth. He was Jewish and I know the sort. A smirking Jesus who would talk back, the Jesus who would say, “Thou sayest so” even to a bully named Pilate who had the power to crucify him. They say he was a carpenter. But the Jesus I knew growing up in Los Angeles hated shop classes and never took carpentry. His dad owned a sweater business. His mom was frumpy, though not frumpy enough to be a virgin. Her son may have preferred to think of her as one. No doubt; how could he think anything else? Also, his name wasn’t Jesus in Los Angeles. It was Richie or Mickey or David. And he had a comfortable boyhood. Though he never thought he would end up in the suburbs. That was his dad’s heaven, it wasn’t for him. The Jesus I knew went to UCLA, married, took a job, earned a living. And twenty years after turning thirty-three, he abandoned any thought of a living a remarkable life. He traded that in for the expectation of an unremarkable death. Cancer, heart disease, maybe, but definitely not the fate of a carpenter nailed to two pieces of wood. Yes, he had his dreams. And they might once have included a girl named Mary, but none of that dream came true. He wasn’t that Jesus, the Jesus who knew from the beginning how everything was going to end, because his dad was God and, somehow, though it is hard to understand, so was he.

  v

  I like the airy spaciousness of it out here. The empty phrases, the fake, hearty greetings and howdy dos roaming on the great windy plains are always polite, and they never quite touch each other. It’s big enough to accommodate all the farewells in the world, with room to spare for the see you soons. The have a nice days have a plateau all to themselves, distant from the what do you says and that camaraderie on their distant butte. I like the requests that are commands, the exhortations to be well, to take care, to keep in touch, though they are hardly robust enough for the out-of-doors and seem more at home inside; for example, at a barber shop, where I might be reading men’s magazines and nodding at a push broom waltzing with the footrest of a Koken chair. In that undemanding environment, my greatest challenge is to turn pages without moving my head, while the barber shaves my neck and makes one-sided conversation. How was your weekend he might ask. Or, more in the moment, how’s it going. Going to hell in a handbasket would not be the right reply. Fine is the answer. Not that there’s a need to answer questions like this. Whatever I might choose to say has been said already, many times, which is what they all say.

  vi

  She told me she wanted to be around people who brought out the best in her, who lifted her up, and asked me wasn’t that what I wanted too.
  “No,” I said, “not at all.”
  “Look at that guy.”
  We were driving on the access road alongside the freeway and coming to the signal at the cross street. A panhandler stood on the corner. He had no sign. He was wild haired, dark black and probably ill.
  “There’s somebody living in the now,” I said. “No past, no future.”
  “How can he do that?”
  “He can’t do anything else.”
  “We need the past for our identity and the future for our fulfillment.”
  “That’s just us,” I said.
  “He’s not happy,” she said.
  “Me neither.”

  vii

  I dreamed of a country whose aristocracy included Prince Matchabelli.
  The citizens there had two noses and only one eye.
  Perfume, which accounted for ninety per cent of GDP, was more valued than beer.
  It was a land fearful of succession, of what might happen when the prince ascended to the throne. Revolution was in the air.
  The young hated the given order, while the old, stinking of envy, refused to cede.
  But that was in a faraway place and a long time ago.
  What now?
  The moon has already risen.
  It is the dawn of a new age, if it can be called dawn, when it isn’t the sun in the sky, but only the pale, bald duffer of a moon.

  viii

  If I had only a minute that I could count on, counting isn’t something I would do. If there were only thirty seconds left, would I have time to worry about the time?

  What would I do, with no time to think?

  My children dislike me, but they are far away.
  Forget eating and sleeping, or pissing and moaning. No time for any of that. I can’t decide, but my indecision is wasting time.

  I might observe and listen, use the eyesight that I will lose, or the hearing that will soon be deaf to every sound.

  I no longer need any alarm to wake up; the whispering of the morning is alarming enough. I see my reflection in the window. The branches of the trees outside are turning into silhouettes. I don’t know their names, these trees, or the names of the grasses beneath them. I might think of the psalm, through the righteousness of charity I shall behold Your face.

  The light is failing. My vision is no bigger than a pinprick. I have no clearer way to see the big picture than in miniature.

  There’s only a moment left, then half a moment, and then half of that half, an infinity of halves that will never run out but that ends nevertheless.

  ix

  Imagining an author with his quill and ink pot. He writes in longhand. He stares into the embers of a fire in the fireplace in his library. He has his pipe, its bowl blackened with use. He isn’t worried about dying of mouth cancer though. More likely, he has already contracted syphilis, in his twenties. After writing tonight whatever it is that longhand and his imagination allows, in the time he has, he looks ahead to going insane in his forties and finding himself – if by then he even knows himself – in an asylum. And two years later, dead. This could be my story if I were writing in longhand at the moment, which I am not, preferring instead the nearly inaudible tapping of my fingertips on a keyboard and the restless hum of the hard drive as it labors to perform whatever tasks of fetch or save that I command.

  x

  Every trip leaves its residue of memories. Some are as atmospheric as the hazy air of the Monteverde Cloud Forest. On a road map for Costa Rica that I unfolded, our route was traced in green marker. After renting a car in San Jose, we had driven northward. Dolores had written, “Nissan Sentra, $486, 11 days.” I remember Arenal, the volcano that emits small puffs far from the highway. And even though the Monteverde Cloud Forest was fewer than a hundred miles northwest of San Jose, the road was slow. It had collapsed in places. One of the holes we drove around was bigger than our Nissan Sentra.

  Quakers were the ones who had preserved Monteverde and its cloud forest. They had arrived in Costa Rica in the 1950s, looking for a country with no draft and a negligible military. When we decided to go forty years later, we were only looking for somewhere to get away during Spring Break. On the handout from Hotel Montana in Monteverde, Ulises Rodrigues, Manager, and Wilberth Parajeles, Assistant, welcomed us cordially. “We do not consider you and your family or friends as a number,” they wrote. “For us, you are a very special person.” In the Jardin de las Mariposas in Monteverde the blue morpho butterflies were the size of Chinese fans. They fluttered across our faces in the greenhouse and in the screened flyway. They were captives, and captivating.

  I care about a good night’s sleep, but that is no explanation for why I kept so many hotel brochures from a trip to Costa Rica. I even saved the pocket folder, with stationery, maps and menus, from Si Como No, a hotel in Manual Antonio on the Pacific Coast. We stayed two nights there. As with so much of this, my memories are more snapshots than footage, isolated moments and not coherent sequences. Si Como No was the dream of Jim Damalas, who checked us in and showed us to our room. He told Dolores that he had come to Costa Rica on a visit, just like us, but he was never leaving.

  Inside the pocket folder, a business card from Restaurante Super Mariscos Sarchi Norte, Rigoberto Rodriguez Soto, Proprietario. It’s still there, still simplemente deliciosio, though now it’s abierto todos los dias, whereas the back of the business card that has been sleeping in a manilla folder these past thirty years in a Hon cabinet in my garage says Cerrado los Martes. I’ve kept this card with its warning not to show up for mariscos on Tuesdays at Restaurante Super Mariscos for three decades. It has moved with me from one house to another. It has kept me company in secret through marriage to Dolores, widowhood, even during a brief remarriage and divorce, and now in the long aftermath.
  Si como no?

  xi

  I found a folder stuffed with various testing our son had gone through, most of it related to school admissions, but not all. Also, a stapled seven pages on Child Development Characteristics and Milestones. It is comprehensive, providing age markers that start with At Birth and proceeding month by month for the first twelve months, then jumping by three-month intervals. After the At 2 Years mark, the intervals widen further, with gaps of one year all the way to childhood’s end at 16 Years. For every time period, the expected behaviors are numbered, with eleven at 1 Month, starting with Lifts head slightly while lying on stomach, stares at surroundings and avoids mildly annoying stimuli. There are many expectations for the first years. Fourteen milestones at four months, twelve at six months. At eighteen months, there are fifteen. Walking takes little attention, seldom falls; builds tower of 3 or 4 blocks; turns pages of book 2-3 at a time; biting prominent. And so on. At age ten, however, less is expected. The numbers fall off considerably. For Year 10, there are only four, and one of them is Likes secrets, magic, mystery and detective stories, secret languages and coded messages. By Year 16, only three milestones. The experts who provided those must have been very optimistic. Their three expectations of teenagers include Generally easy-going and gets along well with parents. Number three, likes cars and musical sound-system equipment, seems more realistic. My son is thirty-nine now and probably still likes cars and musical sound-system equipment. Also video games and watching a flat-screen television. He lives alone, is morbidly obese, hasn’t held a job in two years, and I would not describe him as easy going or getting along particularly well with his surviving parent. I try to tell myself something I read somewhere, “He’s not my problem to solve, he’s my brother to love.”

  Child Development Characteristics and Milestones stops at Year 16, even though the expectations we have of others, and for ourselves, continue for the rest of our lives. Who doesn’t have a list of expectations, unwritten though it may be? They are more often millstones than milestones. And what is failure, other than the absence of check marks on that invisible list.

  xii

  I have pages of boilerplate evaluations from teachers in the private schools that my son attended. At age seven he was “working on skills for slowing down, organizing his materials and working independently.” He “likes our group activities.” He “especially enjoys music and show & tell.” Some got closer to what was transpiring. He was “learning to use his language in an appropriate social manner. He has shown improvement in this area. He will continue to work on expressing his need verbally instead of physically. We will continue to reinforce appropriate behavior.”

  Thank you, Miss Banker.

  My notes on his learning differences are full of abbreviations – May interact poorly w/peers Probs w/being like others. The social symptoms are all over the place. Some might be applied to any of us at one time or another. Clowning – cover up dep/inadequacy. Need to be in control – frustrated if thwarted – can be struggling w/others…

  I also have the records of tests he took in the offices of therapists and other educational experts. Handwritten notes, interpretations of scores. Measures of this and that. All of it needs to be shredded. Finding it would do nobody any good.

  Of course I have two adopted children, not just one. Both went to private schools, though not to the same ones. My daughter’s earliest reports were typically songs of praise. Her indifference to pleasing authority or climbing any ladder came later, along with cutting and an untested, amateur diagnosis of sociopathy.

  xiii

  One of my former wives liked to quote Auntie Mame. You know, “Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death,” that kind of thing. And why not? Mame is a winner. First in a popular novel, then a popular play, and then the smash musical. She’s an overachiever. And like so many of those, she has a sidestory as well. When Everett Edward Tanner 3rd, under the pen name Patrick Dennis, wrote the novel in the 1950s, he said the story was based on his real aunt, whose name was Marion Tanner. But in the wake of the success of book and play and musical, when Aunt Marion began referring to herself as “the real Auntie Mame,” her nephew denied it. It offended him. He was a novelist, he insisted, not a memoirist. So Everett and Marion had a bitter falling out. Some years later, when his aunt was on hard times in a brownstone in Greenwich Village, Everett described her as “more evocative of a bag lady than anyone’s idea of Auntie Mame.”

  xiv

  I read somewhere that the only things we truly own are those we give away. That is as far from the truth as any wisdom could be. It’s too clever by half, which is another saying that never made sense to me. If it refers to the person who is “too smart for his own good,” why wouldn’t it always be better to be smarter? Even if only by half. That said, I do agree with a variation on the sentiment. The metaphorical mountain of our possessions will always, at least metaphorically, own us.

  xv

  I used to study mathematical logic. By used to, I mean for a semester or two. Talk about too clever by half. I was fascinated by the notion of incompleteness, which philosophers of logic apply to mathematical systems. When Kurt Godel published his “incompleteness theorem” in 1931, he was demonstrating that within any coherent mathematical system, where being true means being proven, there would always be a statement that was true but that could not be proven. It sounded to me like an argument for the existence of God. Or that’s how I remember it. It’s a baffling notion in any case. Also, in a different context, obvious. What is true in our lives that we can never know to be true? Lots of things. Life is not mathematical. The living are not subject to proof.

  xvi

  Frances’s hoarding was obvious. Rooms could barely be entered, and there was dirt, not just debris. Her house on Elsbeth was inhabited by someone who took no responsibility for the future. She was in her nineties, and if the mess she would leave behind ever weighed on her, she wore it lightly. It’s true, the disorder in France’s house did have its own quality of orderliness. For one thing, everything was in a container of one kind or another. Mostly in boxes. Some in the same box that her purchases had originally come in, but most in the kind of cardboard boxes that grocery stores throw away or stack alongside their dumpsters. As someone the agency had sent over to help, I imagined that my difficulty would be with the quantity of what was in the house. I couldn’t help but wonder what principle of selectivity, which seemed to have never been applied to the collecting, I might apply to the removing. But the actual difficulty was something else entirely. It was that Frances wanted no help. This was simply her situation, and she was fine with it.
  “Where do I start,” I said, as much to myself as to her.
  “Get out of my house,” she said.

  xvii

  Reading names on a list of attendees at my wedding forty years before, I was looking for a takeaway before throwing the list away. I knew these names, or most of them, or had at least heard them spoken. The woman I married, a brief marriage, had put check marks by each name and noted the gifts given. This omelet of names and notes was not nourishing. It had once been very specific, but forty years later the names had become random, as if the somebodies in my former life could have been anybody.

  And me, too, might I just as easily be somebody other than who I am now? If i were in a slightly different orbit, say, and subject to a different gravitational pull. One look into the heavens is enough to convince me of the arbitrary nature of my life. And yet, it seems equally plausible to say that my life could not have been otherwise. I have moved in many directions, but the moves I made could only be made from where I was a moment before. So every past moment is a link in a chain, and I am chained to it.

  xviii

  Much has been written about the association of flowers with death and mourning. Lillies are displayed at funerals. Carnations or chrysanthemums are brought to a grave. The reasons why are buried on the blog of 1-800-Flowers, under the category of Fun Flower Facts, subcategory Sympathy.

  Flowers and the dead have been together forever. According to the blog, flower fragments discovered at burial sites during an excavation of the Shanidar Cave in Northern Iraq were used as evidence that flowers had been placed on the graves in 62,000 B.C. That’s one reason flowers at funerals got into the Guinness Book of World Records as the oldest form of human ritual. The post on 1-800-Flowers.com also points out that decoration or an expression of sympathy may have not been the strongest motives for flowers at funerals in the past. Before the practice of embalming, which has never been universal, flowers were used to cover the stink of decaying bodies.

  Is this true? I don’t know. Who says so? At the bottom of the 1-800-Flowers post there’s the author’s photo, a headshot of a young woman. Blonde hair, but with darker roots, so someone not entirely opposed to deception. The post also provides her bio: Amy graduated from Hofstra University with a degree in Journalism/Public Relations and put her studies to good use, frequently contributing articles to various websites and publications. She is a native New Yorker but has once called Paris and Brussels home. When not writing, you can find her painting, traveling, and going on hikes with her dog. I believe her. I have no need to find her — painting, traveling, or otherwise.

  xix

  The point at which the future is foreclosed, when certain possibilities are no longer possible, begins at birth. How long we might hold onto the illusion that we can be anything we want to be, as our parents might have encouraged us to believe, will depend. In part it will depend on temperament. But mostly it depends on how much we are in touch with reality, that jailer of dreams, and with our bodies, which sooner or later will remind us to act our age. The mirror is not an ally. And if we hope to never mind the truth, we also need to stay away from cameras. There are angles from the side or from behind that show us things we are better off never seeing.

  xx

  I don’t know how old my father was when he lost his job. I can’t ask him, he isn’t alive any more. And I don’t remember exactly when it was probably because I wasn’t that interested at the time. At the time, my own life was all that interested me. What I do remember was coming home from college and learning it had happened. My father had been the rep”– the manufacturer’s representative – the “rep” — for the upholstered furniture made in a factory Andy Sorenson owned in East Los Angeles. What I mainly remember is how strange my father looked, because he had dyed his hair and not professionally. So instead of the grey that I remembered from before I left for that semester, the summer when I returned my father had odd brown hair. Not dark brown, but lighter, reddish brown. It wasn’t a color that belonged with the face underneath it.

• Notes on Joan Didion's Notes To John

  Notes to John purports to be Joan Didion’s unpublished, unpolished writing that recounts
  sessions over a year or two with a psychiatrist in New York City. She saw this psychiatrist for
  twelve years, according to the book’s endnote – or I may have read this in a review of the book
  — but the very detailed text, which reproduces entire conversations from one therapy session
  after another, only covers a shorter period. Compared to her careful essays, Notes to John reads
  like entries in a diary. Google’s AI informs me that these psychiatric sessions took place
  between 1999 and 2002. So, over more than two years. In contrast, the essays in the
  collection The White Album are peak Joan Didion; its essays cover the very late sixties, and most
  of them appeared in prestige publications – in Esquire or Life or The New York Review of Books.
  They are reprinted “with permission.” This Joan Didion comes across as one of those who see
  only two types of people in the world – the distinguished, and everybody else. There are the people
  in the news, and there are the nobodies. Joan Didion sees herself clearly in the category of the
  distinguished, if not famous, but poses as an outsider. I took this more personally when I read the
  short essay in the middle of The White Album, the one portraying in its four short sections a
  Pentecostal pastor, biker flics and their audiences, a woman named Dallas Beardsley in the “invisible”
  Palms area of Los Angeles, and, on the last page and a half, participants at a Gamblers Anonymous
  meeting in a ”neighborhood clubhouse” in Gardena, California, which Joan Didion described as the
  ”draw-poker capital of Los Angeles County.”

  In her most polished work, Joan Didion will stand apart from those in the news – movie people, musicians,
  politicians – but, even at that modest distance, she knows that she belongs there, too, in that circle of
  light on the stage. The nobodies, like Dallas Beardsley, are mostly to be pitied. Joan Didion has much to
  teach those of us who “came of age” in the 1960s and were shaped one way or another by those times.
  But it is in Notes to John, which reviewers have said should never have been published because, after all,
  this writing is simply “notes that were found in a desk drawer after Joan Didion died two days before
  Christmas in 2021, that I find the more relevant lessons. Her troubles with her adopted daughter, Quintana
  and an inability to be comforted there. Her need for control — not just in her admirable writing, but in
  life – and its inevitable slip sliding into an unhappy perfectionism.

  This essay in the “California Republic” section of The White Album is titled “Notes Toward a
  Dreampolitik,” and there Is something characteristic of Joan Didion in this title. We are not
  quite somewhere, but we are “toward” it. There is the tentativeness of “notes,” with its hint of
  scholarship. The fresh coinage of “dreampolitik” seems worth something, but is difficult to
  spend. Joan Didion is an excellent reporter and reports correctly about Gardena, where my
  uncle Earl used to go to play poker, when he and Aunt Diana were not driving to Vegas for
  craps, black jack, or the slots.
  But it is in the third of the four snapshots in “Notes Toward a
  Dreampolitik” that the reporter hits closer to home. However it came about, Joan Didion hears
  about a young woman named Dallas Beardsley, who lives with her mother in that “invisible
  prairie of stucco bungalows” that is the Palms area of Los Angeles. Joan Didion calls Miss
  Beardsley, and they then spend one hot afternoon in conversation while driving around the
  Hollywood hills. Joan Didion tells us once again that Dallas Beardsley has spent all of her
  twenty-two years on “this invisible underside of the Los Angeles fabric,” which is a wonderful
  phrase and suits a writer who first interned at Vogue as a bright young woman. The underside
  of the fabric? Invisible? As someone who grew up in Los Angeles, I prefer to think of the fabric
  of the city as both wash and wear and also reversible. Joan Didion’s pattern – Hollywood, the
  film industry, Malibu – those are the invisible undersides of the fabric of the city where I grew
  up, nearer the airport.

  Joan Didion writes that Dallas Beardsley grew up “in places like Inglewood and Westchester.”
  Meaning, she grew up in Inglewood and Westchester. I was born in Daniel Freeman Hospital in
  Inglewood and brought home from there to a white stucco house with green trim on
  Georgetown Avenue in Westchester, across the street from open fields. Dallas Beardsley went
  to Airport Junior High School, out near Los Angeles International Airport, and then to
  Westchester High School.” Close enough. Everyone in Westchester either went to Airport
  Junior High, or to Orville Wright. I went to Orville Wright. And there is nothing too odd about
  the aviation-themed names, given that half the adults in Westchester seemed to be working
  either in the aerospace or defense industries, at Hughes or at Rockwall. 

  The Los Angeles of Dallas Beardsley and my Los Angeles are a near perfect fit. Dallas Beardsley
  must have been a few years before my time at Westchester High – where our athletic teams
  were the Comets – since by 1968 Miss Beardsley was already living with her mother in the
  Palms area. My graduation from Westchester High School – valedictorian, winter class —
  happened in February 1969. Dallas Beardsley had the long blond hair that was then and
  probably still is admired in Westchester, and she wore a sundress on her drive with Joan Didion.
  She wanted to become a movie star and had answered an ad in Variety, which seemed to be
  what piqued Joan Didion’s interest and qualified Dallas Beardsley as an avatar of deluded
  aspiration. For girls in 1968, wanting to be a movie star is an ambition Joan Didion describes as
  “anachronistic,” but I think “hopeless” is what Joan Didion implies. Palms and Inglewood and
  Westchester were not Hollywood or Malibu or Beverly Hills. However nearby, they had next to
  nothing to do with the entertainment business; though, point of fact, Mark Volman of The
  Turtles had been in my sister’s class, a year ahead of me, at Westchester High. In general, our
  people were not “in the business.” It may have been the center of Joan Didion’s universe or, at
  least, the shiny side of the fabric, but I never gave it much thought.

  Joan Didion did not mention it, but Westchester High School could if it wanted also lay claim
  to Lynnette “Squeaky” Fromme, who became one of the Manson girls (though not one of those who
  slaughtered Roman Polanski’s wife, Sharon Tate, a few months after Joan Didion and Dallas Beardsley
  drove around the Hollywood hills together). As “Squeaky,” Lynnette was alluded to by name in Quentin
  Tarantino’s Once Upon A Time in Hollywood. Lynnette had also attended Orville Wright Junior High,
  where she had been in the same class as Phil Hartman, who did eight seasons on Saturday Night Live
  and was later murdered by his wife, Brynn.

• On a Fall Day in 1622

  On a map in 1550, an Italian cartographer located le sette citta in the unknown wilderness north of Mexico.  These “seven cities,” said to hold riches rivaling those found in Mexico and Peru, drew the first entradas into the land.  Spaniards from Mexico rode north, where they encountered the settled Pueblo tribes of the upper Rio Grande.  And the Pueblos were subdued and subjected to the dual purpose of the Spaniard.  Exploitation, for the sake of wealth, and Indoctrination, for the sake of the soul.  As it happened, there was little wealth to be found in the upper Rio Grande.  By the time Santa Fe was founded in 1610, the mission run by the Franciscan order became the right reason for existence in the shadows of the red-tinted snowy peaks of the Sangre de Cristo mountains.    

  A secular life accompanied and contended with the will of the religious.  The Governor governed from his palacio in Santa Fe, by the echo of orders from the Viceroy in distant Mexico City and the King in more distant Spain.  Spanish settlers held farms near the rivers above and below Santa Fe.  Before the first Pilgrim landed at Plymouth Rock, these Spaniards gave their gifts of Catholicism, law, livestock, agriculture.  And these gifts were often harsh, both in the giving and receiving.  The Indian was a soul to be saved, whether he wanted to be or not.  He was also an animal to be worked.

  Franciscans and governors quarreled over their Indian charges.  The settlers on their river estancias sought their own advantage, collecting tribute from the Pueblos but siding against the Governor if a governor’s greed threatened their own interests.  

  It happened on a fall day in 1622 that a horse reared.  Its rider, Pedro Duran Y Chaves, his head tossed back, laughing, gazed with pleasure at the bright blue sky.   Turning the horse, Duran Y Chaves rode down a street in Analco, toward a group of Indians who stood near a jacal, a simple wooden structure.   

  Duran Y Chaves thought less and less about Valverde de Llerena, the village in Estremadura where he had been born 55 years ago.  He was the owner now of an estancia called El Tunque.  His land lay in the vicinity of San Felipe Pueblo, only a day’s hard ride from his town house in the capital, Santa Fe.  He was not a village boy from nowhere in the west of Spain but an encomendero who controlled the yearly tributes of los Indios of San Felipe.  He looks ahead of him at the group of Indians, mostly boys, near the jacal.   He sees the tallest boy, a mulatto.  He charges on his horse down the dirty street toward him, passing chickens, adobe huts that line the street, and other jacals.  The mulatto runs.

  This boy has speed, but even the next hut, the next jacal are too far, and the the horse is far faster.  Jerked off his feet, the boy gasps at the rough pull of the rope that has so skillfully found his neck.  The boy twists, and fights, and it tightens.    Already dismounted, Duran Y Chaves ties the rope to his saddle.  Hs runs his hand over the boy’s back.  Lifting the boy’s white shirt, he looks at a reddened mark of raised flesh, a brand.

  The boy rises and walks, a rope around his neck, while beside him Duran Y Chaves is on the horse.  The street is full of Indians, many of them children and curious.  

  “Now, no pouting, really, you’re much better off with me than with anyone else.” The boy does not turn his head as Duran Y Chaves talks.  
  “Come on, you’ll work hard, but you’ll eat.”
  Duran Y Chaves does not look at the boy, either.  Instead, he notices in an Indian of twelve or thirteen beside a jacal who stares at him.  Dark eyes, dirty flesh.  She is interested, he supposes, in his boots, the saddle, his chemise.
  “If you don’t like it,” he continues, “I can turn you over to the governor.  He’ll brand you, and send you to Zacatecas.” 
  The girl has disappeared inside a hut.
  “Sell you, probably, for silver mine work.  Now that’s hard work.”
  Duran Y Chaves tells the boy that he will like the ranch.
  “We’ll call you Alonso,” he tells him.   
  Some of the boys who remained by the huts and the jacals watched them, their backs and the horse, as they proceeded down the shabby street.

  ii

  Below the black mesas of San Felipe, there is a sober, chilling beauty in the first hours of morning.  Bells are tolling.  De Quiros, the priest, and his servant Geronimo are alternating in chant.

  In nomine Patris, et Filli, et Spiritus Sancti…

  A boy, his eye and head restless, sits in the church.  Glancing behind, he sees white trousers, brown hands.  He hears the continuing chant.   

  Introibo ad altare Dei…

  He wants to be outside, where a dog is crossing the plaza, in front of the church.

  Ad Deum qui laetificat
  juventutem meam…

  In the rude choir loft, Indian faces, mouths open in song:

  Judica me, Deus, et discerne
  causam mem de gente non sancta.

  From this choir loft, the body of the church lies, the packed dirt floor, the reredos and altar, the priest, De Quiros and Geronimo, the server.  Their backs to the boy, the two of them face the altar.  A few Indian men sit on the floor on one side of the church.  Some are standing.  On the other side, a number of Indian women.  Up front, three chairs.  On one o hem, Isabel De Bohorques sits near her female servant.  On the other two chairs, her sons, Fernando and Pedro Chaves.   Fernando is the restless boy.

  Ab homine iniquo et doloso 
  erue me.

  Geronimo, the server, chants.

  Quia tu es, Deus,
  fortitude mea:
  quare repulisti,
  wt quare tristis incedo
  dum afligit me inimicus

  It is the priest’s turn to chant now.   De Quiros is a rugged man.  He has the face of a man used to hardships, and perhaps strengthened by them.   

  Emite lucem tuam et
  veritatem tuam.

  Behind him, the congregation.  What the priest chants may well be incomprehensible, but they understand that it describes the incomprehensible.

  Ipsa me deduxerunt et adduxerunt
  in montem sanctum tuum,
  et in tabernacula tua

   iii

  De Quiros and Geronimo are in the sacristy.  It is smaller room, off the interior of the church.  The two of them are putting away the paraphernalia of the Mass.  They remove vestments and conclude, much as a shop owner might close shop.
  Geronimo turns to De Quiros.
  “Did you ask Dona Isabel where her husband is?”  
  “Don Pedro Duran Y Chaves preferred to spend this morning hunting,” the priest answers.  His tone is not scornful, not exactly.  Wry, accepting.  “And more unfortunate,” he added, “Don Pedro considers it appropriate to hunt human beings.”
  Geronimo lifts the sleeveless chasuble over the head of a huffing De Quiros, who removes the white alb descending to his ankles and girdled with a rope.  The two of them replace tools of the Mass – a chalice, a plate – in the wooden chest against a wall in the sacristy. 
  “Well,” De Quiros says, closing the chest and turning to Geronimo, “better to take an unknown slave, I suppose, then collect an orphan from the pueblo here.”  He tone withers on the word “orphan,” as if he had added “so-called” to it.  Geronimo chooses not to respond.
  The priest throws up his hands, mocking hopelessness.
  “We haven’t yet had to waste our labors catechizing the slave.”
  He hurries away to the door of the sacristy.  Geronimo, as if day-dreaming, look up, then hastens after him.
  “Diego de Vera and Chaves’s niece, Maria, are marrying in Santa Fe,” he says, changing the mood.   “Don Pedro’s throwing a party afterwards.”   
  After a step, he says, “Will we go?”
  Half a step, and the younger man’s face turns sour, in imitation of the look his superior has given him.  De Quiros has moved on, out of the sacristy, with Geronimo, rebuffed, behind him.  They walk like that, one behind the other, through a dim corridor.  Without looking back, the priest tells his helper that he wants him to spend the morning re-checking the supplies. “I was in the store room yesterday,” he says, turning around now and fixing his eyes on
  Geronimo.  “I could not find the rosaries.”
  “Yes, Father.”  
  De Quiros is aware of the quality of those around him, including his assistant.  He has long known he is a long away from Ciudad de Mexico, and even further from a royal palace in Madrid, or from authority in Rome.   He rubs his eyes.  He accepted his lot, and takes Geronimo by the arm.
  “Here, here,” he says, softer now.  “Do check for those rosaries.  And for certain re-check our measures.  For the next tri-ennium, we are due.”  He lists off what is required, naming items and quantities:   45 gallons of sacramental wine, 85½ pounds of prepared candle wax, 26 gallons of oil for illuminating the Holy Sacrament, 100 yards of sack-cloth, 2 bundles of plated cord, and the 6 common rosaries.   This business is a matter of watching details. 
  “Yes, I have your inventory, Father.”
  “Of course, I’m sorry.”
  And in his apology he can himself hear the touch of self-pity and is embarrassed by that.  Surely he knows that he lives at the end of the world.  Even so, it is not helpful for him to question whether the Minister-Provincial of the Order of the seraphic San Francisco, from his height in Mexico, where he consorts with the Viceroy, realizes that out here, where the priest must labor, it takes a pair of scissors and a pound of pepper to remain a Catholic.   To say nothing of the truth that an Indian in this Paradise is more persuaded by twelve yards of Rouen cloth than by the Twelve Apostles.

  iv

  The room in the Chaves townhouse is candlelit.  Candles in wooden chandeliers of crossed pieces illuminate adobe walls and the wooden beams of the vigas.  A fiddler, his head cocked to one side, a rough-made fiddle between his chin and shoulders, moves his foot up and down as he plays.  His stiff movements are more like a puppet trained.  He seems in a daze.  He gives no notice to the cries of joy, the whoops, and conversations in the room.  He does not look at those dancing or the onlookers in a circle around them.  He might as well be been deaf even to the scratching of two Indians on their instruments, a guitar and a guitarron.  Other Indian servants spread straw on portions of the dirt floor.  They sprinkle water on the dirt to keep the dust from rising.  Earlier that day, Maria de Abedano and Diego de Vera had married, and this is the wedding party for bride and groom. 

  The room is crowded.  The Spaniards, well dressed.  Those who are dancing are executing la raspa, a paired dance, with steps that alternate between heels clattering and fast walking across the dirt floors.  The onlookers in circle clap them on.   Among the dancers, the newlywed bride.  Maria de Abedano is the niece of Don Pedro and his wife Isabel.  She still wears a bride’s white wedding dress.  It is not her husband paired with her at the moment in the Chaves townhouse in Santa Fe, but the governor, Juan de Eulate.  Governor de Eulate is ornately dressed, as is her bridegroom nearby.  Diego de Vera, in a silver-braided suit and lace-ruffled shirt, holds out his cup to be refilled by one of the mulatto boys pouring liquor from a pitcher.  It is Alonso, brought from the estancia to serve in the townhouse this festive evening.  Fernando, Pedro Duran Y Chaves’ s son, is just beyond.  Fourteen years old, he is younger than Alonso, and smaller as well.

  v

  Alonso, the mulatto slave with the pitcher of liquor, hurried into a corner.  Alonso is a runaway.  He is the son of a black slave and an unknown father.   He knows or has seen before many of those who are dancing.  He has even served some of them, when they visited the estancia, called El Tunque.  Or perhaps he saw them once before here in the townhouse, in the ten months since his capture in Analco, that poorer section of the poor city of Santa Fe.  The jacals, the squalor, the hunger, he remembers all of it.  The rope around his neck.  That, too.  Also, the brief weeks of his freedom before.  Looking around the candlelit room, there is Isabel Olguin and Antonio Baca.    Simon Perez de Bustillo is dancing, and Juana Baca.  Francisco Gomez and a woman Alonso does not know, Juana de la Cruz, are in the circle of onlookers, next to Hernando Marquez.

  As for the others, who are these people, he wonders?  Why are they here?    Not why in this townhouse, but why here, in Santa Fe, which might as well have been at the edge of the world.  Pedro Duran Y Chaves wondered much the same, though he knew them all, just as he remembered everyone in Valverde de Llerena, the village of his birth in Estremadura.  That was  55 years ago, more or less.   He is pleased to see Isabel in the room.  Isabel de Bohorques, his wife, is twenty years his junior, more or less.  She is several steps back from the circle around the dancing, and in conversation with Lucia Lopez Robledo.  If he thought at all about it, Pedro might have been surprised to see Lucia.  She is so often ill.  She seemed to always be either going or coming back from the “baths” at the mission of Senescu for treatments, accompanied by her daughter, Ana. 

  Pedro takes further attendance with some satisfaction.  Both his sons are in the room. Fernando, and also Pedro II, who is the youngest.  Standing close to a wall, Juan de Vitoria Carvajal seems to be inspecting his fingernails.  In Pedro’s eyes, Carvajal is a well-featured man, with that scar on the right side of his face above the left eye.  Carvajal was an Alferez under Onate in 1598.   And then there are the bride and groom, neither of whom Pedro has any interest in.  Maria is an orphan, and his niece, though on Isabell’s side.  It is good to have her married, while she is still in her teens.   As for De Vera, he is a newcomer, who has come to Santa Fe from the Canaries.
  Other than that, he nodded to Geronimo Marquez and Bartoleme Romero, the two of them crusty old soldiers, his types, though Romero was saddled with sickly Lucia for a wife.  Marquez had done better.  His wife, Donna Ana de Mendoza, was a conquistador’s granddaughter.  She stood off to one side, outside the onlookers.  There she was, Pedro thought, no doubt saying to herself that she could have done better.

  Of course, there was the Governor, his guest, drinking Pedro’s wine.  Pedro smiled at the notion that a child of Valverde would one day entertain a governor.   It makes no difference that Juan de Eulate is a petulant, irreverent soldier.  He is still the Governor.  Pedro appreciates Eulate’s contempt for the Church and its ministers.  It is even possible to be amused by  Eulate’s exaggerated conception of his own authority as the representative of the Crown.   One simply must understand what one is dealing with, and manage it.  Eulate was an open book. He had served as military officer in Flanders and then with the fleet that sailed between Spain and New Spain.  He regarded his appointment as Governor with admirable clarity.   He saw it above all an opportunity for personal profit.

  Eulate was pleased to be there as well.   
  However poor the room, hospitality is hospitality.

  vi

  As at any party, people stood about, drinking, talking.  Chatting with Lucia, Isabel rested her hand on the shoulder of her younger son, who had come over beside her.  Another little boy, Simon Perez de Bustillo’s son, passes by.  The boy kicks at Pedro, just for fun.
  “Nicolas!”
  Isabel holds Pedro back.  She wrlnkles her nose at the misbehavior, but her expression changes quickly to a smile, as Maria and the Governor pass.  She would not want any of the dancers to misinterpret her scowl.
  “Maria’s a beautiful bride,” Lucia says.
  “Yes, I think she is.”
  “And Diego is…handsome.”
  “Yes, he’s quite nice.  He drinks too much, but one can’t be too choosy in an empty marketplace.”  
  “I don’t think I know anything about his family.”
  Isabel smiles at the passing dancers
  “No, there isn’t much.  They’re all Canary Islanders, from Teneriffe.”
  Lucia is waiting for something she does not already know, but Isabel disappoints her.
  “The poor man’s been out here all alone.”
  “Yes,” Lucia replies, “that is not good.”   
  Man was not meant to be alone.   The wisdom is Biblical, even if Lucia’s sentiment was not exactly that.

  vii

  Pedro Duran Y Chaves has gone to an adjacent room in the townhouse, not entirely away from the noise, but out of sight of fiddler and dancers, guitar, guitarron and la raspa.   The short pinon logs are in a blaze in the kiva in one corner of the room.  He watches the shadows on the adobe walls from the fire.  Shadows and warmth from one source, he thinks, just so; it is the way of the world in every place.  In palaces as well as in huts.  The Chaves townhouse is a far from lavish.  Indeed, it is a crude place, in most ways.  The hive-like kiva is built into the adobe wall.  The pinon pieces flame within it, and the curling smoke rises.  Surely he has more than he ever expected to have and should be pleased with himself.

  Joining him, perhaps happy for the separation from any nostalgia for wedding nights, or reminders of marriages, three other men of his generation.  First Juan de Victoria Carvajal crosses to stand beside Chaves.  Then Bartolome Romero and Geronimo Marquez, nearer the fire.  The four of them are almost a crowd in the small room.  With this fit company, Pedro is more animated.  The four of them may be finely dressed, but that is only for the occasion.  These four are ruffians, pretenders.   They are all from Estremadura, a landscape as harsh as the dry lands surrounding them in the night.   Pedro knows the ways of each of them well.  Marquez might have a wry wit.  Romero is the most contentious.   Carvajal, more reflective.  Though differences of opinion can divide them, and their conversation turn into argument, or even flare to hostility, these men like each other.

  All of them have brought cups needing refilling into the room with them.  Pedro went back to the main room and returned with Alonso and his pitcher.
  “Here he is,” Chaves bellowed.  “The newest addition to the Chaves household.”   Fernando appeared in the doorway between the two rooms.
  Marquez seemed amused by this.
  “He’s fair-skinned.”
  “No, no, this one” Chaves said, indicating Alonso, who poured mescal wine into their cups. 
  “And I couldn’t say who the father is.”  
  Romero spat on the dirt floor.   
  “You can’t hold that against him.  The same is true of half of New Spain.”
  “You might as well have said more than half.”  
  Chaves lifted his cup.  “Drink to our families,” he toasted, “the best in Santa Fe.”
  It was true, the leading family were all there, although from the top to the bottom of the social scale, among these Spaniards, was no great distance.  The gaps were elsewhere, from the Spaniard to the mulatto to the Negro.  And the Indian, at the bottom, although the bottom below a Spaniard was deep enough to hold all the rest as though they were the same – servant or slave.  Equal as souls, some said, but most did not believe so.
  “I found him in Analco,” Chaves said, returning to Alonso, who remained in the room with his pitcher ready.
  “I knew at once what I had.”
  Chaves motioned to the mulatto to step closer.  He put his hand on the boy’s back, where he knew the brand scar was, under his shirt. “Tbe brand of New Spain.”
  “Escaped?” Marquez asked.
  “Probably from Veracruz,” Chaves said.  Alonso was refilling cups all around, as though the men’s talk did not concern him, or was not even about him.
  “So, I took him.”   
  Chaves paused for his drink.
  “I can use another man at El Tunque, the crops need help.”
  “You took him, Carvajal said, mocking his friend.  “You mean you beat our governor to him.”  All four of the Spaniards enjoyed the remark, each man to himself.
  Pedro Duran Y Chaves had no question about the social order of things.  He had his other worries.   He had this residence in Santa Fe to maintain, and his country place as well.  This was the estancia where crops and livestock were raised.  He called it El Tunque, its name a misunderstanding of yunque, or “anvil.”  The estancia was nearest the San Felipe Pueblo, which was also Chaves’ responsibility.  As encomendero, he owed the pueblo his protection.  He had made a pledge of safety to the Indians living there, from whom he in turn collected yearly tribute.  He also had rights to exact labor from them, though this was for too often disputed by De Quiros, that fool of a priest at the church there.  Was this not a church that Chaves himself had helped build at the pueblo?   No doubt all the priest wanted was to keep the workers for himself.  Chaves was forced to remind him that it was he, Duran Y Chaves, he was the one who held the encomienda.  So it was tiresome.  And then he had his other duties.  As needed, he led the soldier and citizen troops and performed other services for Eulate.  Between them all, he kept busy.
  “Father?”  
  It was Fernando, in the doorway.
  “What is it?”
  “Can Alonso be done here?”
  “No, son, he has work to be doing.”
  Of a sudden, Romero shouts, “Hey, idiot, watch out!”
  Refilling Romero’s cup, Alonso has overfilled it, and the spilled liquor has poured over the soldier’s sleeve.  The curses that follow are loud enough to pierce the music from the roomful of other guests.

  viii

  “Miserable creatures,” Marquez said.
  Alonso retreated from the men, and Fernando was gone as well.
  “What,” Carvajal says, “Children?”
  “No, mulattos, they’re worse than Indians.”
  “More trouble, anyway,” Chaves laughed.
  Romero was not laughing.  “Lots of them are sorcerers, you know, with little dolls, and pins, and the devil knows what.”
  “Sorcerers my ass,” Marquez said.
  Carvajal stood apart from the three others.  He was staring into the pinon fire and enjoying its flickering, its aroma even warmer than the mescal wine in his throat. 
  He turned to his friends.   
  “It strikes me that anyone who survives in this place is a bit of sorcerer.”
  He extended a thick forefinger towards Romero.
  “And you should admire some of these Indians no less. Burning summers scorch them, and in the winters they freeze. And yet, they survive.”
  “Put that way,” Marquez said, “you are admiring plain stupidity.”
  “But then,” Carvajal continued, “here we are, surviving, too.  So perhaps we shouldn’t pursue this line of thought any further.”
  Romero was not done.
  “You should not admire the unconverted, Carvajal, be they Indian, or Lutheran, or Jew.”
  At this, Chaves laughed.  Religion again. Seriousness in the face of absurdity would always remain absurd.
  “Yes, yes,” he said, gesturing as he liked to do with a sweep of his arms, “but remember, in the case of the Indian, their perdition is only temporary.   Give the Fathers just a few more years, and surely they’ll make good Catholics of them all.”
  Now Marquez and Carvajal laughed.  Romero, however, was taking none of it.
  “It’s a poor thing when men such as us have to bait the priests.”
  “He wasn’t,” Marques said, putting his arm over Romero’s shoulder.  “After all, look at the great job they’ve one, and they’ve only been at it for thirty years now.”
  “Eighty years,” Chaves corrected him, “if you count an early expedition or two. You can’t expect conversion overnight.”
  “The conquest was a fairytale,” Carvajal said.
  It was a conversation the four friends had had many times, each man playing his assigned role. 
  Romero defending, with a spark of anger that never quite burst into flame.  Marquez and Chaves performing their parts.  Teasing, but not drawing blood.

  Discussion among soldiers of “the conquest” was common enough and followed predictable turns.  One might stand by the pinon fire, or speak into the fire, the shadows on his face betraying an animation in his soul.  And those who listened to him would also stop, soldiers, spellbound for the moment by old dreams of wealth, of fame, of returning home admired, of something other than being left on a frontier, lords of nothing other than fatherless slaves and disbelieving Indians.
  Romero turned away from them.   
  “It was no fairytale,” he said.   This was true enough.   Even Chaves had heard that when Cortes and his men stood for the first time above the city of Mexico, which the Indians there called Tenochtitlan many of his men pinched their arms, as though to awaken from a dream.  It was as though among those ranks of men who had fought the Turks, and who knew Constantinople, and even Rome, many said they had never seen such a city as Mexico.
  This had all really happened; though, sadly, a hundred years before.  What Chaves had heard, and the rest of his friends, were childhood stories.  Those are the stories that are believed for a lifetime.
  Marquez was out of liquor.  He demonstrated by holding his cup forward. Snapping his wrist toward the fire, he flung the remaining drops into the flames.

  “I’ll wager Cortes never pinched himself.”   
  “Absolutely right,” Carvajal said.  “That man was no dreamer.”   
  The music stopped suddenly n the room where the dancers were.   Chaves and the others heard a woman scream and a man’s voice rising.  Chaves walked calmly toward the doorway, curious to see whatever had caused the commotion in the sala.
  Alonso was on the dance floor.  He was bleeding from his nose.  Eulate, standing over him, kicked him again in the face.  The guests looked on.  Lowering their heads to pass through the low doorway, Chaves, and then the others, came into the sala.
  Eulate turned to his host.
  “I’m sorry, Pedro.  I didn’t mean to stop the party, but I was dancing, and I found a dog under my feet.”
  Chaves did not show his annoyance, though the drama was distasteful, and he disapproved.  In response, he motioned to the little “orchestra” Isabel had arranged for the evening.  The Indians were waiting for some sign, the fiddler, the two with a guitar and a guitarron.   
  “Go on,” he barked at them, “play.”  
  He was the host, disturbances happen, this was nothing that could not be cleaned up.   
  “No bother,” he told the Governor.  “He’s new, clumsy.”  
  He went to Alonso.  He had not noticed Fernando, but his older son came forward as well, to help the mulatto to his feet.
  “Come on, boy,” Chaves said to one or the other of them.  
  He turned Alonso’s head from side to side.   
  “Nose is broken, not too badly.” 

  ix

  Above the courtyard, edge of the moon was out behind a cloud, and the Chaves townhouse was dark in the hours before dawn.  The guests were gone.  No music now, and nothing else to hear, aside from the wind and a horse neighing.  Inside their bedroom, Isabel and Pedro lay next to each other, face up.   Moonlight entered through the clouded glass in the one window.  This soft shine aside, shadows and light in the bedroom were birthed in a corner, from flickering remnants of pinon and embers glowing in the kiva.
  “That poor boy,” Isabel said.
  Chaves knew that the Governor’s temperament was explanation enough for any action.  Eulate was not a delicate man.  He had served the King in Flanders.  Such men are rough.
  “Yes,” he answered his wife, though her comment had not been a question.
  On most days, he might well be up by this time of early morning.  But the evening had been a late one.
  “The boy will survive,” he said.
  He was thinking ahead though had already forgotten Alonso.
  Isabela turned to him.
  “Did you hear what the Governor had to say to Bartolome.”
  Pedro had not.
  “A married life is more perfect than the celibate.”  Isabel pretended to imitate Eulate’s voice but no more accurately than simply by lowering her own. “The priests do nothing but eat and sleep.”
  Pedro smiled.  “It’s a fair to say,” he said, “at a wedding party.  A married man must at least earn a living!”
  “It’s rude,” his wife said, and, after a moment, “if it isn’t heresy.”   
  Pedro raised himself on one elbow to look at her, as if her comment was unexpected, or anything she said might be, after so many years.
  “Don’t you like the married state?  Anyway,” he said, lowering himself back down, “it’s only a barb, a way to tease Bartolome.  If I were you, I’d worry about your own boy.”
  “What?”
  “Fernando.”
  “And why is that?”
  “If he’s where he was last time I saw him, he’s out in the courtyard staring at the moon.” Now it was Isabel turn to rise on one elbow.
  “Staring at the moon?”  
  Chaves did not repeat himself.  His older son did not take after him, and there was nothing further to think about.
  “Fernando prefers the ranch to the town,” Isabel said, as though it were an explanation. “It is more peaceful there.”
  “True, true,” Chaves signed.  “There all we have to concern ourselves with is one of De Quiros’s indios putting his knife down from carving a bulto and maybe taking a piece of your head off with it.”   

  x

  Above the adobe walls that enclosed the courtyard, the branches of a bristle cone pine left their shadows on the dust.  Fernando liked the tracery of light and dark, the moonlight on the cottonwoods and the willows, the more distant blackness of the sky, the dots of stars that always reminded him of eyes.  They were a comfort.  The bright stars watching over him, even the mountains close by were like guardian walls.  He bent down in the courtyard to pick up a small jagged stone.
  “All right, listen,” he said to Alonso, who stood with him.   The moonlight had not repaired the smashed nose, but the blood had dried, and everything softened in moonlight.   “We’ll try to hit that cottonwood, best of three.”
  Both boys breathed easier.   The night was breathing along with them, not any breeze, just the exhalations of the cold night air.
  Fernando threw his first stone.
  “At the ranch,” he said, “things will be better.”

  xi

  Three Indian servants moved about in the threshing corral at El Tunque.  At the Chaves estancia where they had been put to work, the tunes of bells tolling over the mesas of San Felipe were as feint as distant birdsong.  They heard it but did not attend it.  The corral was a small, penned area for sheep and goats.  The servants raised their hands.  They made short cries.  In this way, the sheep and goats were made to walk about the corral, separating grain and stalk from the crop under their hooves.  Cries of “Hi-yuuh!” and a slap of hands, and the animals pick up their pace, doing their job, too.  An Indian women, watching by three small children sitting in the dust, worked the melasera vieja, a press-and-bucket she used for pounding sorghum cane.  With a grunt, she forced down the press arm.  Drops of cane juice fell to the trough in the bottom of the bucket.  Also in the courtyard at El Tunque this cool April morning, a pig’s head, neck and shoulders, and the rest of its fat body assending.  The head is upside down, the throat already slit.  What’s left of the dark blood that poured from the gash is drying and darkening along the cut and down the pig’s face.   The suspended body is enormous.  Still to be butchered, it hangs on the malacate.  This hoisting machine looks almost like a gibbet, with a windlass attached.  It is made of rough wood, though; there is no smooth lumber.

  Standing a few feet from the malacate, Gregoria was close enough to smell the pig but neverminded that.  She held a thick cloth.  She tended a kettle on top of a wood fire, then, using the cloth, brought the kettle over.  Another Indian stood next to the pig while Gregoria poured the scalding water over it.  The man began scraping the pig’s bristles with a knife.  It was not clean work.  From time to time, he wiped the bloody knife on his leg.  Other children, boys and girls no older than five or six, ran over to watch.  Gregoria shooed them off.  She raised the kettle, and gestured, threatening, as though she might fling scalding water over them, too, and laughing.  Running away, the children were laughing as well.  They knew this game.

  xii

  Chaves could it all from where he stood on the threshold of the main building.  The Indian wielding a knife, the slaughtered pig, the corral, the woman pounding the cane.  His eyes sought the nearby, the walls of his courtyard, the horse stable, the goats cropping on its roof.  It was everything he owned, which did not satisfy him.   On the other hand, he owned everything he saw and, looked at that way, it was good.  As for what belonged in the greater distance, the mesa or the mountains, those were the property of Philip, the King of Spain and the fourth with that name.   So, Chaves thought, the King is my neighbor.   He turned from the courtyard and went back inside.

  xiii

  “What is the year?”  
  The question arose in part because as it seemed to Chaves his wife Isabel was not growing younger, though there may have been twenty years separating their ages.  Also, there youngest, Pedro, in the room with them, was no longer a baby.  He might be ten already, time being what it is.  That is time always, Chaves thought, it was both fickle, and yet nothing could be steadier or as relentless.   The three of them were together in the receiving room of the estancia’s main building.  It was main because it was larger, but there was not such a great difference from its adobe walls to the adobe of the rest of the structures.   Isabel sat in the room at a spindle, working near the fireplace.  It was cold enough on the estancia even now at the beginning of new season.   
  “It is 1625,” Pedro piped up.  “1625,” he recited, “in the year of Our Lord.”  He answered as though he had been called on by De Quiros, rather than in response to Chaves.  Indeed, it was a fact learned from the priest.  Pedro looked pleased with his own answer.
  Chaves paused for a moment.
  “And at San Felipe, what year is it?”
  “What do you mean?”  
  “Well,” said Chaves, “I mean with the indios.”
  The son looked at his mother, but Isabel kept to her spinning.
  “Would it still be 1625,” Chaves asked,” in the year of their Lord?”
  “They are Christians as well, father.  The priest says so.”
  “Ah, if the priest says so, then, yes, no doubt.”
  Isabel motioned to her son.   
  “Your father teases, Pedro.”   
  “Doubt is a part of faith,” Chaves said sternly
  “But we must not doubt everything.”
  The room the three of them were in was little different than rooms in the townhouse in Santa Fe.  Walls of adobe, the spaces simple furnished, the vigas overhead.  On the dirt floor, patterned rugs woven by Indians at San Felipe.  A fireplace, a wooden crossed “chandelier” hanging by rope, raised or lowered with a pulley.
  Chaves asked Pedro if he knew where his older brother was.
  “Fernando?” Isabel said.
  “Unless there’s another one I know nothing about,” Chaves said.
  “I know where he is,” Pedro answered his father.
  “Well,” Isabel said, “are you going to keep it a secret, or are we to be told?”
  “He’s near the mesa, with Alonso.”
  Isabel asked her younger son what Fernando was doing there. Chaves answered instead.
  “He practices his riding up there.”
  “Is it safe?” Isabel asked.
  “I hope he gets hurt, serve him right,” Pedro blurted out, and then, “I hate him.”
  Chaves laughed. “You hate your brother?”
  “Not my brother. I hate Alonso.”
  “But why?” his mother asked the boy.
  “Because he’s ugly, he’s black,” Pedro explained. “Father De Quiros says Satan is ugly and black
  as well.”
  “Father De Quiros…” Chaves began, but his wife interrupted him.   
  “You do not need to hate him,” she told her son.
  “As long as Alonso does his work,” Chaves said, “it does not matter.  Nor does it matter whether you hate him or not.”  

  xiv

  The object of the game was to tear a buried rooster from the ground, without slowing the speed of their horses.  Both boys were racing.  Alonso kept in front, Fernando in the chase from behind.  The rooster was a player as well.  It strained, trying its best to free itself in time.  Only its head was above the dirt.  The spasms in its neck moved this way and that.  It must have heard the whoops of both riders.  It might even have felt through the ground the pounding of horses’ hooves.  Then it saw the terrifying hand and the even more terrifying hooves, closer, nearly the touch, then gone.  And then the same thing again, even closer this time.  None of it explicable.  There is no meaning in fear.    

  *

  The sounds from the pueblo feinted on the wind.  San Felipe was below them, at the foot of the mesa.   Whatever life was there, it was distant, with no more presence than the current at the bottom of a stream, invisible as it flows below the calm surface.  It was already late in the afternoon.  Shadows grew.  The sheep that had been grazing on the mesa had already been herded down to corrals and safekeeping.  Fernando and Alonso sat on an escarpment overlooking the pueblo. Their horses cropped on the grasses and scratched themselves on the creosote and the bark of mesquites.  The bulge in the sack cinched and tied to the saddle of Alonso’s horse was the size of a headless rooster.  
  Tired from racing, Fernando breathed deeply.   
  “I don’t think I’m ever going to get the rooster,” he said.   
  “You’re coming close.  You’re getting closer every time.”
  “Maybe I’m improving?”
  “You are,” Alonso said.  “But the rooster gets smarter, too.”
  Fernando smiled.
  “It was a crafty rooster today, it moved its head.”   
  Imitating the bird, Alonso jerked his neck from here to there. “Like this,” he said.
  Fernando rose,   
  “Pack him tighter next time,” he said. “Maybe that will make him less clever.”
  Fernando went over to his horse, drawing the animal away from the grass.  He mounted.   
  Alonso followed along.