In-My-Day

INININMYDAYRUSSELLBAKER1Attheageofeightymymotherhadherlastbadfall,andafterthathermindwanderedfreethroughtime.Somedaysshewenttoweddingsandfuneralsthathadtakenplacehalfacenturyearlier.OnothersshepresidedoverfamilydinnerscookedonSundayafternoonsforchildrenwhowerenowgraywithage.Throughallthisshelayinbedbutmovedacrosstime,travelingamongthedeaddecadeswithaspeedandeasebeyondthegiftofphysicalscience.2“Where’sRussell”sheaskedonedaywhenIcametovisitatthenursinghome.3“I’mRussell,”Isaid.4Shegazedatthisimprobablyovergrownfigureoutofaninconceivablefutureandpromptlydismissedit.5“Russell’sonlythisbig,”shesaid,holdingherhand,palmdown,twofeetfromthefloor.ThatdayshewasayoungcountrywifeinthebackyardwithaviewofhazyblueVirginiamountainsbehindtheappleorchard,andIwasastrangeroldenoughtobeherfather.6EarlyonemorningshephonedmeinNewYork.“Areyoucomingtomyfuneraltoday?”sheasked.7Itwasanawkwardquestionwithwhichtobeawakened.“Whatareyoutalkingabout,forGod’ssake?”wasthebestreplyIcouldmanage.8“I’mbeingburiedtoday,”shedeclaredbriskly,asthoughannouncinganimportantsocialevent.9“I’llphoneyouback,”Isaidandhungup,andwhenIdidphonebackshewasallright,althoughshewasn’tallright,ofcourse,andweallknewshewasn’t.10Shehadalwaysbeenasmallwoman—short,light-boned,delicatelystructured—butnow,underthewhitehospitalsheet,shewasbecomingtiny.Ithoughtofadollwithhuge,fierceeyes.Therehadalwaysbeenafiercenessinher.Itshowedinthatangrychallengingthrustofthechinwhensheissuedanopinion,andagreatoneshehadalwaysbeenforissuingopinions.11“Itellpeopleexactlywhat’sonmymind,”shehadbeenfondofboasting,“whethertheylikeitornot.”12“It’snotalwaysgoodpolicytotellpeopleexactlywhat’sonyourmind,”Iusedtocautionher.13“Iftheydon’tlikeit,that’stoobad,”washercustomaryreply,“becausethat’sthewayIam.”14Andsoshewas,aformidablewoman,determinedtospeakhermind,determinedtohaveherway,determinedtobendthosewhoopposedher.Shehadhurledherselfatlifewithanenergythatmadeherseemalwaysontherun.15Sheranafterchickens,anaxeinherhand,determinedonabeheadingthatwouldputdinnerinthepot.Sheranwhenshemadethebeds,ranwhenshesetthetable.OneThanksgivingsheburnedherselfbadlywhen,runningupfromthecellarevenwiththeceremonialturkey,shetrippedonthestairsandtumbleddown,endingatthebottominthedebrisofgiblets,hotgravy,andbatteredturkey.Lifewascombat,andvictorywasnottothelazy,thetimid,thedrugstorecowboy,themush-mouthafraidtotellpeopleexactlywhatwasonhismind.Sheran.16Butnowtherunningwasover.ForatimeIcouldnotaccepttheinevitable.AsIsatbyherbed,myimpulsewastoargueherbacktoreality.OnmyfirstvisittothehospitalinBaltimore,sheaskedwhoIwas.17“Russell,”Isaid.18“Russell’swayoutwest,”sheadvisedme.19“No,I’mrighthere.”20“GuesswhereIcamefromtoday?”washerresponse.21“Where?”22“AllthewayfromNewJersey.”23“No.You’vebeeninthehospitalforthreedays,”Iinsisted.24Soitwentuntiladoctorcamebytogiveoneofthoseoralquizzesthatmedicalmenapplyinsuchcases.Shefailedcompletely,givingwronganswersornoneatall.Thenasurprise.25“Whenisyourbirthday?”heasked.26“November5,1897,”shesaid.Correct.Absolutelycorrect.27“Howdoyourememberthat?”thedoctorasked.28“BecauseIwasbornonGuyFawkesDay.”29“GuyFawkes?”askedthedoctor,“WhoisGuyFawkes?”30SherepliedwitharhymeIhadheardherrecitetimeandagainovertheyears:“PleasetoremembertheFifthofNovember,Gunpowdertreasonandplot.IseenoreasonwhygunpowdertreasonShouldeverbeforgot.”31ThensheglaredatthisyoungdoctorsoillinformedaboutGuyFawkes’failedschemetoblowKingJamesoffhisthronewithbarrelsofgunpowderin1605.“Youmayknowalotaboutmedicine,butyouobviouslydon’tknowanyhistory,”shesaid.Havingtoldhimexactlywhatwasonhermind,sheleftusagain.32Thendoctorsdiagnosedahopelesssenilityorhardeningofthearteries.Ithoughtitwasmorecomplicatedthanthat.Fortenyearsormoretheferocitywithwhichshehadonceattackedlifehadbeenturningtoarageagainsttheweakness,theboredom,andtheabsenceoflovethattoomuchagehadbroughther.Now,afterthelastbadfall,sheseemedtohavebrokenchainsthatimprisonedherinalifeshehadcometohateandtoreturntoatimeinhabitedbypeoplewholovedher,atimeinwhichshewasneeded.GraduallyIunderstood.33ThreeyearsearlierIhadgonedownfromNewYorktoBaltimore,whereshelived,foroneofmyinfrequentvisitsand,afterwards,hadwrittenherwithsomebanaladvicetolookforthesilverlining,tocountherblessingsinsteadofburdeningotherswithhermiseries.IsupposewhatitreallyamountedtowasathreatthatifshewasnotmorecheerfulduringmyvisitsIwouldnotcometoseeherveryoften.Sonsarecapableofsuchletters.Thisonewaswrittenoutofachildishfaithintheeternalstrengthofparents,anaivebeliefthatageandwearcouldbeovercomebyaneffortofwill,thatallsheneededwasagoodpeptalktorechargeaflaggingspirit.34Shewrotebackinanunusuallycheeryveinintendedtodemonstrate,Isuppose,thatshewasmendingherways.Referringtomyvisit,shewrote:“IfIseemedunhappytoyouattimes,Iam,butthere’sreallynothinganyonecandoaboutit,becauseI’mjustsoverytiredandlonelythatI’lljustgotosleepandforgetit.”Shewasthenseventy-eight.35Nowthreeyearslater,afterthelastbadfall,shehadmanagedtoforgetthefatigueandlonelinessandtorecapturehappiness.IsoonstoppedtryingtoargueherbacktowhatIconsideredtherealworldandtriedtotravelal