Old-Timers

Last Wednesday:

"Hello"
"Hello, how are you?"
"I'm fine, and you?"
"Is your [report] done?"
"Yes, actually."
"Do you want the news now or later?"
"Well, now."

And then my life changed. My father has a diagnosis. It's not good. It's pretty far along, but we have no idea how it will progress from here. His sister was diagnosed with the same disease and was dead three years later.

I'm still in shock. My work is suffering. I want to go home. I want to quit my job. I want to start an oral history project about him while he can still share stories.

I'm feeling guilty about not being nearer. And about not being closer. I'm feeling guilty about burdening people with my family's health issues. I'm feeling guilty about my work and my family and about not knowing how much to share with people, because my parents don't seem to be telling people. I feel guilty about not knowing how to communicate with my family.

And I'm afraid that it's hereditary. That I'll get it. That my kids will get it.

Okay. Deep breath. Start over. My father has been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. Stage 5 of a possible 7. Mom claims he is responding well to medication. I don't know what else to say at this point. Help me, Lord.

Lunch today was a recipe we tried for the first time earlier this weekend: refrigerator homestyle biscuits rolled flat, then filled with ground turkey and fat-free cheese, with a dash of salt. Fold over, fork the edges closed, and bake. Basically a diet empanada. Yum. Also, unfilled biscuits (made for the toddlers) with butter and honey. Water, and the dregs of the Starbucks ground coffee we received in a Christmas gift.

Why omit Ovid?

Why didn't they tell me about this? All these years I've been reading my Edith Hamilton, reading my Bullfinch, reading my secondary sources. And then at a library book sale I pick up a well-worn copy of Ovid's Metamorphoses, in the Horace Gregory translation.

And the heavens open, and I am a mythologist again.

I mean, seriously, I used to think of myself as a somewhat educated fellow. I read the required Homer (including the boring Telemachus parts) and the extracurricular Homer (beautiful bloody battle bits, though repetitive). I read me some Aeneid and some Divine Comedy and some Milton. My best friend in college was a Classics major. But nothing has been as much breezy fun or as diversely educational as this strange, comprehensive poem that would serve so well as a beginning mythology text.

Everything you need is there. Why don't teachers use this version to teach Perseus? Why don't museum curators print selections beside ancient illustrations? This is so well written, so readable, such an education in pacing and transition control... Are people so afraid of primary texts that they would rather read badly written Cliff's Notes than actual good, terse, muscular writing? (Don't answer that.)

Or do Gregory's oddly VH1-ish introduction and oddly located chapter summaries scare people away?

If I ever teach a mythology class, this will be a significant chunk of the curriculum. I'll probably have to throw in some other cultures to be more politically correct. But Ovid is a pretty ideal Dead White Male.

This nerd says check it out.

Breakfast today was homemade monkey bread made by a very intense four-year-old. Torn-up raw refrigerator biscuits in a loaf pan with melted butter, brown sugar, and cinnamon poured over the top, then baked for much longer than I expected. Lunch was much less interesting.