From a 2015 Facebook post:
Very reflective today. I realize that until Andy and I became Andy-and-Joc, I essentially stinted my way through life. Cameo appearances. Stayed in whatever it was until my attention, or doubt, or fear, or boredom took me elsewhere. I still have a short attention span, and I still have doubts and a few fears. I don’t have enough time in any given day to experience the luxury of boredom.
What the magic of a longstanding relationship has given me is someone with whom I am able to measure my personal growth – gains and losses (yes, you may grow from loss). Taking this trek with someone who has known me since I was a teenager makes me realize the many versions of me he has known, and yet, there is an Essence of Jocelyn (“the narrative thread”) which has accompanied each version.
I like the post-middle-age gig. I could only like it more if it had as many years ahead of us as those which have passed.
At a certain point in our lives, we realize that time is currency. As long as you are aware, it doesn’t matter if those on whom you spend it know the cost.
Even with three other dogs, with the exception of our grief, the house is very quiet.
I think if I ever adopt another dog, I’ll name him “A Child” so I’ll know what it’s like to have one…
If one is religious, it’s called prayer. If one is an atheist, it’s called magical thinking. “Please let me be well,” we of either side summon when ill.
I posted the following: Self-hate can be a logical progression. To wit: Yesterday I met a post-stroke man. I introduced myself. He said, “That’s my granddaughter’s name.” I replied, “Does she have a twisted sense of humor too?” He stared at me blankly. Self-hate. It isn’t just for breakfast anymore.
Comments indicated that I hadn’t adequately expressed myself, as they suggested that humor was subjective and I had nothing to worry about. That wasn’t the point I was trying to make.
My rote shtick failed to allow me to quickly-enough acknowledge that someone with a compromised thought process shouldn’t be fed easy-to-misinterpret attempts at humor which, ultimately, made him feel as if he wasn’t understanding something he should have and feeling less-than.
More than most, I know better, and that should always be primary in my mind. I blew it.
50 years ago today, neither parent nor Kaye munchkins had any idea that in a couple of days, we would be setting up an assembly line in the downstairs kitchen in the former boarding house that became our summer home in Liberty, New York. Styrofoam cup, Sanka packet, creamer, napkin, I don’t remember the other items. The Red Cross had contacted area residents to empty cabinets and give whatever they could so the hundreds of thousands of stuck and stranded people attending Woodstock would have access to, at the very least, basics. That was our small part.