We were a don’t-count-your-chickens kind of family.
We never made elaborate plans for good things — graduations, births, or weddings — because we were never really convinced that good things would actually happen.
Here is a real piece of dialogue, excerpted by my 1975 journal; please understand that the significance of the remark lies in the subtext: “I don’t think you should buy a new dress quite yet. June is still four weeks away.”
The unspoken but deafening translation of that simple statement was something like: “What makes you think you’ll pass every class? OK, so you’ve been an honor student up until now but who knows about the next month? You’re hanging around with all those rotten kids these days and that boy with the long hair is just no good. And don’t assume you know so much about the future, smarty-pants. Anything can happen.”
The assumption was not “Wow! A world of possibilities! Anything can happen!” but instead “Watch out! Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? Forget the Shadow: WE know! We know that life is out to trip you up and fool you into a false sense of security! The minute you feel happy and confident, BOOM, the ax falls. And take a sweater when you go out even if it is eighty degrees outside. Those June breezes can kill you.”
In contrast, bad things you could rely on. Bad things you could plan for with all enthusiasm.
Funerals were always surefire winners (don’t you dare make a cremation joke, either. Bite your tongue. Knock on wood). Death was something solid; you could be sure of death and so going over the details in advance seemed perfectly reasonable. Choosing music, picking outfits, selecting jewelry — all sorts of delightful preparations were involved. Much more reliable than a wedding, after all. At least the attendees at the ceremony could be more certain of its permanence.
It was a strange way to learn about life, it wasn’t unusual. Everybody in my neighborhood was brought up the same way — Catholics, Jews — everybody was nervous that the good times wouldn’t materialize. Or that even if they did, then you would have to pay for it on a later day with unforeseen and increased trouble.
Here was the catch, as I learned in childhood: If you made yourself miserable enough, then you might be OK. It might be acceptable to have a good time if you didn’t trust it or enjoy it too much, especially if you were already anticipating the loss or reversal of your good fortune. That was fine.
Only a fool expects to be happy.
It took me a long time to become a fool, one who welcomes joy. At 56, I’m still working at it. (Some people think I have achieved championship status, of course, but those are just my loved ones.)
The transitional moment came about 24 years ago when my husband and I started to date seriously.
He was surprised to notice that I would only buy two or three days worth of cat food at a time. Min, my tough old alley cat, was at that point my closest companion. But--naturally, given my upbringing-- I was always worried that she would die.
If she died, I didn't want to be miserable AND half a shelf full of Friskies.
But I changed my ways--therapy and meds have helped. I learned to plan for a future that will hold joy as well as sadness and that might well offer triumph as well as dispair.
Min lived until she was 19 and died peacefully as a Connecticut cat.
And my husband helped convince me to plan for happiness and life.
Bad times, I came to realize, do not need to be summoned. Bad times break down doors and smash through windows. They will come fast enough and without encouragement. No one can avoid them, true, but they aren’t any kinder if you’ve been waiting for them. Tragedy does not care whether there is an invitation.
The good days, times of celebration and joy — or even everyday pleasures of food, warmth, and companionship — deserve prompting as well as recognition. Good times work on commission; they rarely come unbidden.
I continue to work on my welcome.