Addendum to My Taxonomy of Urination

Knowledge is dynamic; research constantly reveals new truth.  That which was once impossible is now a reality.  New species are discovered.  Old taxonomies must be revised.  Ergo, I am revising my month-old Taxonomy of Urination with this addendum. 

A few days after I posted my taxonomy, my “like a second dad to me” junior high band director called.  He said, “I have read and been thinking about your taxonomy of urination.”

“So what have you been thinking?” I asked.

“It’s good, but I decided that I need to tell you that you left something out.”

“What’s that?” I asked, grabbing a pencil and notepad so I could get every word down correctly.

“Taking a piss,” he said.  “You left out taking a piss.  That’s an important omission.”

“Okay,” I said.  “I didn’t think about it at the time.  Talk to me.  I need you to do a semantic analysis to differentiate taking a piss from the other types of urination I listed.”

“Well,” he said, “When I was a young man, I could take a piss several times a day.  It’s what you do when you really have to go, and your stream is strong and vigorous, and you can pee a perfect arc up into the air.  You have a powerful feeling of relief.  You usually follow it with a big sigh and a smile.”

“It gives you great pleasure?”

“Oh, yes.  Taking a piss is definitely a great pleasure.”

“But you’re old now, Dad.  Can you still take a piss?”

“Only rarely.  Mostly I tinkle.  Sitting down.  But once in a while, I can take a piss, like after a long car ride.  And it’s glorious.”

“How does it make you feel now at your age?”

“Oh, it makes me feel like a young man again.  It’s a wonderful pleasure.”

“Got it, Dad.  Thanks.  I’ll update the taxonomy soon.”

So please add taking a piss to my Taxonomy of Urination. 

And thanks, Dad, for your contribution to science.  May you still be taking an occasional piss when you’ve turned 105.

 

 

Tea

       When I was three, I realized that women were fundamentally different from men.  Men had their hair cut by barbers, wore pants, drank coffee, and stood to pee.  Women had their hair dressed by hair dressers, wore dresses, drank tea, and sat to tee-tee.  I understood the connection between drinking tea and tee-teeing, but not between drinking coffee and peeing.  I asked my mother if coffee were made from peas.  Without asking me where I got that idea, she said it was made from beans.  I thought, “Close enough.”

When I was four, I heard my mother in the kitchen early one winter morning.  She was sitting in the dark with the shades drawn.  She was drinking coffee.  I was horrified.  But then I was intrigued.  This meant that ANYTHING was possible!  Ten minutes later she heard me sobbing in the bathroom.  She ran in to see me standing in front of the toilet trying to urinate.  “Honey!” she cried, “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to pee like Daddy!” I cried.  “But I can’t do it!  It’s running down my legs!”

She said, “Honey, only boys and men can tee-tee standing up.”

I cried, “But you were drinking coffee!”

She said, “Huh?”

I never tried to stand to pee again after that, but I did learn to enjoy coffee like a man.  And I learned to adore tea like a woman.

My tea is subtle and seductive with names like Prince of Wales or Earl Grey.  But my favorite is Downton Abbey’s® Mrs. Patmore’s Pudding Tea shipped to me directly by the Minister of Supply upon order of the Minister of Tea of the Republic of Tea®.  My mouth waters as I prepare to serve it to myself on a silver tray with lemon curd on a scone.  Hell, with a peanut butter sandwich.

Years ago, in National Geographic, I read an article about the tough-but-gentle people who live in the Himalayas.  The writer interviewed an ancient man living in a cave high on the face of a mountain in Nepal.  The writer asked the wrinkled fellow with the twinkly eyes whether he missed having the conveniences of western civilization.  The man, whose white beard flowed to his chest and who was so old that he probably had to sit to pee, said, “I have my good, strong, hot sweet tea and my friends.  What more could I want?”

I think about that man sometimes.  His soul has surely soared heavenward as his body burned on a funeral pyre, but our spirits are linked by tea.  By the ritual, the slowingdownness of making and sipping tea.  The forced steppingbackness from the daily rushing to hither, thither, and yon.  The inthemomentness of closing the eyes and inhaling the magical aroma deep into the soul.

I, too, am old now, and I am content with being an old woman.  With having my white hair dressed by a hair dresser.  With sitting to tee-tee, though sometimes with difficulty getting up afterward.  And with indulging myself, caressing myself, adoring myself, with my daily ritual of tea.

On Loss and Gain: Shelter Dogs and Life Changes

Two days ago when we adopted our new dog, Laird Woodrow the Wirehaired of the House of Gore-Lancaster, I did something that gave me pause at first, but in retrospect, I know was right.

Woodrow, then called Jack, shared a cage with a female named Allie; she seemed a couple of years older than he.  They had wire-haired-ish faces, but different coloration and body builds.  She was snow white with a large brown patch; he was retriever gold with an eggshell muzzle.  She was taller and leaner, her face pointier, her mustache more pronounced. He loved people; she didn’t approach.

On the day we adopted him, the shelter attendant had to drag Woodrow-To-Be outside to meet us.  Long strings of fear-saliva flung from his whiskers, and he flattened himself on the walkway as she dragged him. I’ve seen roadkill less pancaked. “Sorry,” the attendant said.  “He’s not leash trained.”

I said, “He’s probably scared without his cage-mate.”

“Oh,” she said, “That’s his sister.” 

Whoa. “I didn’t know that,” I said.  “Petfinder doesn’t say they are pair-bonded.  I don’t want to break them up, and we can’t take them both. So we better not take him.”

“That’s the problem,” said the lovely young attendant, “People say exactly what you said; everybody thinks they’re cute, but nobody wants to separate them, so they don’t get adopted.”

“I understand that.”

“But the bigger problem is that they’ve been here over three weeks.  The shelter director has passed them over for euthanasia twice.  They’ll both have to be put down soon.”

“Oh.”

“If you take Jack, Allie has a much better chance of getting adopted.  If you take him, she might be saved, too.”

Oh, I thought.  If they stay together, they’ll almost certainly both be euthanized.  If I take him, he’ll be saved, and she might be euthanized.  But she might not.  At least she’ll have a shot at being adopted.  We might save both dogs by taking one.

Meanwhile, Woodrow cowered in front of us.  But our dog Callie liked him immediately; she play bowed.  That was the first criterion: Callie had to like him. Tenderhearted Husband Don liked him, too.  That wasn’t much of a hurdle because Don’s a softie for dogs.  Dad commended Woodrow as a charming fellow, so the deal was done.  Dog Pound Jack was to become our Woodrow.  Allie would lose her brother, but because of her loss, she would have a real shot at being adopted, too.

The Jack/Allie Catch 22 has led me to think about the need for sometimes letting go of people, things, and old roles in order to embrace new joys that life has to offer. You see, two objects cannot exist in the same space at the same time. And once a space is made available, something must fill it up. Because Nature abhors a vacuum. That’s physics.  And metaphysics.

This year, I’ve had to let go of my role as a college professor.  Sometimes it’s been a struggle.  But making that space has allowed me to regain a role I had to sacrifice long ago: now, in the autumn of my life, I can once again say, I am a musician. 

This year I watched a widow let go of her grief and become a beaming young lover once again.

I watched a shy, friendless old woman let go of her solitary life and move into assisted living where she has learned how much fun sharing a meal with new friends can be.

I watched a man let go of a home he could no longer care for and thereby find that freedom from homeownership pulses with possibility.

So losing something offers the possibility of filling the vacuum with something new, and perhaps in its own way, better.

So this is my prayer for Allie, whose brother I took from her yesterday.

Creator God, to save our Woodrow, I have forced dear Allie to give up her brother.  I beg that Thou wilt transform her loss into gain; I beseech Thee to send her a person who will shower her with the love that we pledge to shower upon her brother.  And Lord, I beseech Thee to embrace with Thy peace all the dear shelter dogs who this day must die because they have no one to love them.

Amen.    

 

 

Finding Your Do-er: What a First Grader and His Teacher Taught Me About Retirement

Mrs. Moss, age 40, became a brand-new first-grade teacher in the elementary school where I had grown up.  In fact, she taught in the same classroom where I had attended first-grade, so I know that classroom, Room 4, well. 

The west end of Room 4 shared a boys' restroom with Room 5; the east end of Room 4 shared a girls' restroom with Room 3.  The classrooms and restrooms were like links in a chain.  By going from restroom to classroom to restroom, you could travel the entire wing without ever setting foot into the hall.

I've never seen another school with toilet facilities like this one, but having been a first grade teacher, I can attest to the handiness of the architecture.  A teacher could closely supervise the children using the toilet while still supervising the children who were at their desks.  She never had to leave the classroom to check up on someone who was ill or  lingering in the restroom.

One day, Mrs. Moss allowed six-year-old James to go to the toilet during class.  A minute later, an agonizing wail erupted from behind the boys' restroom door.  Good Lord, thought Mrs. Moss.  He's caught himself in his zipper!  She flew to the door, threw it open, and cast herself down beside the sobbing child to try to help extricate his tender flesh.

But nothing was stuck in the zipper.  Instead, James was grabbing desperately inside of his open zipper and wailing.

"What's wrong?" Mrs. Moss asked, and James threw himself into her arms.

"My do-er!"  he cried.  "I can't find my do-er!"

"What?" she asked, gently removing his arms from around her neck to try to assess the problem.

"I can't find my do-er!" he sobbed again, pointing to his zipper.  Then Mrs. Moss understood.  She unbuttoned James's pants and lowered them to his ankles.

"Sweetheart," she soothed, "You've got your underpants on backward."

Since I retired, I've thought a lot about James and Mrs. Moss.  About how terrified you feel when you think you've lost your do-er. About how important finding it is when you retire.

The president of my concert band told me recently that he had taken up playing percussion after he retired.  "I'd had a busy life as a Lutheran pastor," he said, "And suddenly I had nothing to do.  I didn't know how to fill my days, so I decided that I'd better find something to do.  I found band, and it made all the difference." 

A lovely retired nurse in the adult beginners band where I teach woodwinds told me the same thing.  She didn't know what to do with herself when she retired from years in neonatal intensive care.  Then she found New Horizons Band.  An experienced pianist, she decided she wanted to learn to play clarinet.  Her do-er went into high gear, and she's thriving.

People at the humane society thrift shop where I volunteer have told me their stories: after retirement, they didn't know what to do with themselves.  They felt lost. Worse, they felt Unmotivated. Unmotivated to learn anything new, like how to play pickleball or the tuba. Unmotivated to improve talents they'd always dabbled with, like writing or singing. Unmotivated to make the world a better place, like volunteering at the food bank with their church group, or raising money for shelter dogs with a bunch of like-minded strangers who might become friends. They couldn't find their do-ers. 

Then they'd met someone who did work at the thrift shop and suggested they try it, say one four-hour shift a month.  Or maybe two.  They'd tried it, liked it, and had found something to do.  Once they found something to do, they got motivated.  They found their do-ers.

So this is what James-the-First-Grader and Mrs. Moss taught me.  Sometimes when you think you've lost your do-er, it's still there. You just have to know where to look for it. 

That might mean having to tell someone else that you're afraid you've lost your do-er. That might mean asking them how they found their do-ers, and asking them to help you find yours.  And that might mean following their advice, even if they tell you to drop your trousers, step out of your underpants, and turn them around the right way.