His fists were balled, the third finger on either hand extended. His lips were drawn back into a smile that is not a smile.
His gestures were
aimed not at a person, but at some thing. Probably something on a car, truck, or
combine. In my mental image, Brother #1
was on his knees at the time, working on something, what I don’t remember.
At first, I was
alarmed as usual when anger becomes overt.
Then, I was somewhat taken aback.
It wasn’t the
first time I had ever seen a human express anger at a thing. I have been golfing quite a few times.
My alarm and wonder quickly turned to
amusement. I stifled a laugh. Wonder returned. Wonder remains.
Could such
behavior help explain road rage? Sitting
encapsulated in glass, plastic, faux leather, dials, gauges, lights, do we see
other autos as inanimate objects not behaving the way we want them to, objects at
which it is suitable to express our anger?
I’m sure some psychologist somewhere has
studied the matter and has the answer.
She/he hasn’t shared that with me
yet.
The wonder, and
the humor, came back recently when Brother #2 related the story of a sweeper
that refused to stand in the closet where he willed it to. He hurled an invective at the recalcitrant
utensil, which of course was misinterpreted by a nearby listener. She probably shared my alarm and wonder, and
maybe the amusement.
I laughed heartily
as Brother #2 related the story. I
remembered the scene with Brother #1.
But I was really laughing at myself, for I have found myself aiming hand
gestures and invectives at completely inanimate objects.
Most recently, it was a sheet of music that
refused to stay on the music rack on the piano. I was holding a guitar on my
lap. Otherwise, I could have easily
cleared away a music book or two and made plenty of room for a single sheet. I’m thinking the idea of victimhood must have
place here somewhere.
Of course, my cell phone comes in for its
well-deserved share of abuse, but that’s not quite the same. It isn’t exactly inanimate. It surely has an inscrutable mind of its own. If not a resident devil.
Is abusing
inanimate objects a familial thing? It’s
definitely age-related. That is, I find
myself expressing anger at things more frequently now than I ever used to.
Take clothes hangers for an example. They hardly ever cooperate. Such useful things. Such frustrating things. Or the toaster that has two settings, scorched
or barely warm , regardless of what I do with the dial
The real bugaboo
for me are things that refuse to remain on a shelf. In our house, there are many shelves, and many
things that won’t stay where I put them.
I often laugh at myself, soon
after I get done expressing my frustration with well-aimed gestures and harsh
words.
A friend experiencing
eye problems had prisms in his latest pair of glasses. His comment was that as he sat in his chair
and put his cup of coffee on the end table or counter, it often fell off as
soon as he released it. A matter of
eye-hand coordination and a change in depth perception.
I laughed as he related
his experience with new glasses. It
sounded not so vaguely familiar. Another
age-related experience.
I find when anger
boils over into gestures and words, it’s best to slow down, relax, take a
breath or two and remind myself that none of this will matter in fifty years
from now.
Maybe other old
people have come to that realization and that explains, along with arthritic
joints and stiff muscles, why old people do things so slowly. Slow down.
The job will get done. If it
doesn’t? Oh well.
I think of my
grandfather putting on his glasses .
With palsied hands, he pried open the spring-loaded case, removed his
wire rimmed glasses, slowly unfolded the temples, carefully and slowly lifted
them, shaking all the way, to his face, perched the nose pads on the bridge of
his nose, and fixed the wires in place behind his ears. The process ended with the snap of the empty case
that had held his glasses.
I was always
fascinated by the slowness and the thoroughness of the operation. Now, there is some understanding, too.
I never saw his glasses fall off his face. Or the shelf either, for that matter.
Extending myself
out another fifteen years, if I make it that far, don’t be surprised if you see
me shuffling around inside the house wearing my hat.
“Why do you wear
your hat in the house, Papa?”
“To hold my
brains in.”
