14 November

My Amazing Sister

by Jon Katz
My Amazing Sister

I had a long talk with my amazing sister last night.

She is loving her teaching work, she has taken up water-color painting with her usual obsessive determination and drive. I rarely mention her, she did not like to be written about in my earlier books, so I stopped.

We share this  trait of pursuing our passions with an almost frightening single-mindedness.

She is in a different place now, and so am I.

My sister and I rarely see one another – I haven’t seen her in years – we do talk on the phone every few months, and I think we would both like to do better. She doesn’t care to travel much, she works hard and loves to be at home with her dogs.

We were so close when we were kids, but out family came apart and life intervened, and we went very different ways.

On holidays, when most families gather, she loves to be with her animals. We have both accepted that our time together is occasional, it is just the way it turned out. And we are both almost literally allergic to drama and guilt, we just saw too much of it.

She is always changing, always open, always reading and listening and thinking.

She is shocked by the creative impulse drawing her to paint, but I am not. It seems the most natural thing in the world to me. My sister is smart and strong, and she has lived a hard and difficult love, and overcome much and never quit on life or on herself. She is her own person, living her own life.

I used to worry about her, and sometimes feel sorry for her, and that was a mistake and it hurt our relationship. It was patronizing, I was so focused on trying to help her that I didn’t notice she could take care of herself.

She did not need my worry or pity.

I got over that, she can and does take care of herself and lives a full and productive and meaningful life. She is like one of those fabled warships that can take hit after hit, but never sink or founder.

And when she told me last night that she was the happiest she has ever been, I wanted to cry, and then did cry. I am so proud of her, and so happy for her.

And now, like me a few years ago with photography, her discovery of painting has opened her up to the color and light of the world, and I told her she would never be the same again, or see the world in the same way.

She has been acquiring paints and paper and  easels, and paints almost every day.

She lives in a remote and very agricultural part of New York State, many miles from me. Her town makes Cambridge look like Brooklyn. She works every day.

Life is curious, and has led both of us city kids to the country, where it seems we both belong, two urban children.

Even though we rarely see each other, we are profoundly connected in the most powerful way – we both fought hard for each other when we were young, and we desperately needed an ally or friend. I will always remember bedtime, when she and I would talk for hours about the great troubles in our family and prop one another up.

I can’t begin to count the number of times we ran a way together, usually to my grandmother’s house, sometimes down to the railway station. We got up early, packed our clothes and set out together, hoping for help and refuge. We did not ever really find it, not until we could create it within ourselves.

Jane is the only person on the earth who knows what happened to me when I was young, and I am the only person who saw what happened to her. That sense of being known has always kept us together.  It is something neither of us will ever speak of to anyone else.

It is a powerful thing to be known in that way, and it is a bond that can never break. I will always love my sister, even if it is sometimes hard for us to talk to one another.

I know what she has been through in life, and how brave and committed she has been to living her life and finding love and friendship. Her dogs have helped her, they are her true family, she says it again and again.

Last night we talked about her love of teaching needy or troubled kids, whether or not she should get a new Iphone with its great camera – she has discovered the clouds and the light in the open sky where she lives, and we talked about her dogs. Once in awhile, I can be of help, and that brings me joy.

She loves to tell the tales of her dogs and their mishaps, tragedies and adventures.

She is not a fan of small dogs and is bewildered by my getting Gus, I told her she would love Gus, she loves to laugh and he is a canine comedian. She says she just doesn’t get it.

She always asks how I am, we have never stopped caring for one another, I will always remember how she tried to stand up for me, and how I tried to stand up for her. So here we are, having this great and happy conversation, just look at us. I told her this is the happiest time of my life as well, and imagine that, we both ended up in such a good place.

Listening to her last night, I was reminded once again of remarkable person she is, my amazing sister. She does not complain, there is no bitterness in her, she has a heart and soul full of love, she takes great care of herself, and has overcome so many hurdles to find what she needs.

It was a special gift to talk to her last night, she is sending me some of her photos, and I hope to share some of them with you. We will talk again before Thanksgiving, an important holiday for both of us, perhaps the only one.

My amazing sister.

14 November

Wonder Woman And The Chronicles Of Aging

by Jon Katz
The Chronicles Of Aging

Virginia Woolf wrote once that she didn’t believe in aging, “I believe in forever altering one’s aspect to the sun.”

I was washing the dishes this morning and looked out over at Wonder Woman, and I was startled to see a long hatpin in her hand. I asked Maria, our windowsill curator, if she knew anything about it. She said she found an old hatpin and thought that Wonder Woman might need a weapon, especially these days.

So harassers and sex demons watch out, Wonder Woman is armed and ready to do battle. So, it seems, are many other women. Crusades for freedom and justice are ageless and timeless.

Washing the dishes, I started thinking about aging, and what my role is now in the world.

Comic characters never age, they are eternally strong and powerful, I think I am past the stage of being a warrior in one sense, but I do believe words have power and truth has power, and as I get older I believe my words have more power and truth in them, because that is a feature of aging, if your eyes are open.

In the 60’s, a dear friend in New York City was being pummeled by the police while he was protesting against the Vietnam War. “What the hell,” told myself, and I plunged into the brawl, trying to pull one of the officers off of my friend, he was clubbing him mercilessly.

I got knocked in the head myself for my trouble, and accused of disorderly conduct. I went briefly to jail, and a judge dismissed the charges. I had some good bruises to show for it.  I am not a warrior any longer, I can only stand on the sidelines.

Last night, at dinner, friends told me about their young nephew, who just got a border collie puppy, and  like so many people with border collie puppies, is now trying to figure out how to live with it. He has a small yard,  never walks his dogs, no sheep to herd, and a puppy already bursting at the seams to work. But there is no work.

I will never know why people like that go for border collies.

The nephew has a problem. He asked our friends if the “old man who walks his dogs up the road” might be willing to help him train his new dog. They couldn’t wait to tell me that story.

I already feel badly for that dog, but I am not an animal trainer, but a writer, and I stay away from people who don’t know the difference.

Still, I felt a little jolt. This was the first time in my life to my knowledge that anyone has ever called me “an old man.” I guess my friends thought it might be funny. Once in a while, it is good to see yourself through the eyes of other people.

In my head, I am quite young and vigorous, I don’t really know how other people see me. I know people are beginning to carry things for me to the car, and every time I get up to get some firewood, Maria appears magically from nowhere and grabs the rolling wood cart. I know I cannot bend my knees the way I used do.

My short-term memory is getting hazy, I need to write names and dates down. And that is nothing new either.

have a habit of dropping logs and burning my hands, but that is not new, I’ve been doing that forever. I’ve noticed that one of the strange things about aging is that people never  see themselves as old, even when they are. It’s one of nature’s sometimes cruel tricks.

Generally, I like getting older. I am growing, changing, getting smarter and wiser about my life. I have two chronic diseases, diabetes and heart disease, but I am writing more than ever, and if I may say so, better than before.

I do have some arthritis in my legs and joints, but the doctors tell me I am healthy and vital and will be around a good long time.  Would they tell me otherwise?

My blog is growing and surging, I am finally taking some interesting photos, and to be honest, my sex life has never been better. Old people are not supposed to ever have sex, but that is a lie.

Sometimes I do get into a funk about getting older. I worry about leaving Maria alone when I go, I know she can take care of herself but I wish I had a small fortune to leave her. I feel bad about having given all of my money away in life and in my divorce.

I’d love another best-selling book before I fade away. But I practice the art of radical acceptance, I am who I am.

Hindsight, like guilt and nostalgia, is a waste of time.

I guess the nephew is telling the truth. To him, I am just another old man walking up a hill with his dogs. Do I need to see myself the way others see me, is there a truth in there for me to learn?

I think the answer is that I am too busy living – and I am very busy living – to give it a lot of thought. I don’t need to label myself, I can leave that to others.

I am who I am, whatever that is, and wherever that is, and that is good enough for me. I believe in altering my aspect to the sun.

14 November

Manure To Music: Seeing Bob Dylan And Mavis Staples

by Jon Katz
Mavis Maple

I am now old enough to remember Bob Dylan playing at the Cafe Wha in Greenwich Village, I was living just around the corner above a pizza parlor. And I am going to see him again Friday night.

For the better part of a year, my daily sustenance was a Coke and a thick slice of Sicilian pizza. On weekends and holidays, we regulars got an extra slice, the Italian family who ran the place knew we were hungry and sometimes malnourished.

I lived with a giant pacifist named Matthew and three beautiful young women from different parts of the country. There were some memorable evenings.

I am always grateful whenever I see a slice of Sicilian pizza, which up here, is rarely. I love our lives, we are out shoveling manure in the morning, and off to see music legends at night. This is a good place to live.

I loved Dylan’s writing and his music, he was an electrifying genius even then. I am not as rabid a Dylan fan as some, but then I avoid being rabid about anything, it feels like a disease to me, too cultish. Drama never works for me.

I still listen to several of his early albums, they often move me to tears. I think we need another Dylan now, but music doesn’t play the role it once did.

I also love Mavis Maples.

Staples and Dylan are old and close friends, he even proposed to her many years ago. She was shocked when he invited her to join his tour. It will be great fun to see them together.

She says she hopes he won’t hide from her on the tour, she wants to cook dinner for him. The truth is I want to see her as much as I want to see him.

I swallowed hard at the ticket price – just under $400 for two tickets plus handling and service fees – but I bit the bullet. Life is too short to fret.  I want to see Dylan before he retires or dies. I am just a hair younger than he is.

I have not seen Dylan since those heady days in the Village – I saw him often then, and I have long loved Maple’s music, this will be the first time I’ve seen her perform live.

I have come to admire Dylan for changing and growing and being himself. He just doesn’t care what people think of what he does, he does what he wants. That is an inspirational message for me.

I suppose Dylan reminds me I am aging also – a neighbor’s nephew asked him recently if “the old man who walks with the border collies” might help him train his dog. I do not yet think of myself as an old man, but I see some people do.

You often learn about yourself through the eyes of others.

I am excited to go to this concert Friday, I have this sense it is the last time I will see Dylan and it will also be the first time I have seen Staples.

Both of those things feel good to me, and Maria and I are planning to see more live concerts when they come through Albany, as they often do. Tonight, she is doing to see Roseanne Cash with some friends in Troy.

14 November

Beautiful Women. The Good Mother.

by Jon Katz
Beautiful Women

Last night, my daughter Emma e-mailed me a photo taken by her husband Jay of her with Robin, her daughter. Emma turned 36 last week, that was startling in and off itself, I don’t think of her as a small kid, but I guess I don’t think of her as being in her mid 30’s either.

I think of her as being bright and loving and the most wonderful and attentive and conscientious mother, you can see the bond between them forming. I can’t say I ever had a bond like that in my life, one way or the other until Maria, but it warms my heart to see it here.

Emma is giving Robin the greatest gifts you can give a child – she is happy, grounded, she has her own life, and she is very much tuned into her daughter. She knows when she needs to be soothed, and she is secure enough to know that Robin needs time away from her as well.

When I was a television producer, we often booked a famous pediatrician  -Dr. T. Perry Brazelton –  on the program and I asked him one day what really made a good mother. He didn’t hesitate, he said a good mother is a happy person. One with balance and meaning in her life.

I accept that I cannot for many reasons be an integral part of either of their lives. Sometimes that makes me sad, but mostly I accept it. We chart our courses in life and take responsibility for them. I am where I need to be, and so are they. Our paths cross occasionally. But Emma has kept me in the picture in many ways, and so I do feel a part of this new life.

Emma is a good mother. Robin is a very happy child, she is, I believe getting what she needs to be a fulfilled and grounded person.

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