I can always remember when our neighbor Dr. Sue Grant died, because when Amanda was pregnant with our youngest, she (Dr Grant) told us that one thing she regretted was that she probably wouldn't last long enough to "meet" the new baby. And she was right: our Claire was born after Dr Grant had died but before her memorial service, which was on a snowy Saturday morning in late November of 2010. Lydia was just starting to have some bathroom successes and we took along to the funeral her portable potty. I remember taking her out to use it during the service. In all the hurry and excitement, I left the back door of the minivan wide open after she'd done her business, and when the funeral was over we had to shovel snow off the floor and seats before strapping everyone in again.
Anyway, I've been thinking of Dr Grant, because at her estate sale I bought for about a dollar a hardback selection of Montaigne's essays that I've been reading in bed at night and on my morning coffeebreaks. There's no marginalia or markings of any kind. I doubt she ever read it--the "science and nature" section of the bookstore would have been by far her favorite. My own drowsy enjoyment of the book is punctuated by moments of stabbing pleasure, as when it comes to light that Montaigne evidently shared one of my secret pastimes--namely, imagining great and powerful personages on the toilet, raising themselves up on one haunch to clean, just the same way as everyone does it. Montaigne:
If I had been able to see Erasmus in other days, it would have been hard for me not to take for adages and maxims everything he said to his valet and his hostess. We imagine much more appropriately an artisan on the toilet seat or on his wife than a great president, venerable by his demeanor and his ability. It seems to us that they do not stoop from their lofty thrones even to live.
That was written about 450 years ago. I'd forgotten, till I looked it up again now, that "or his wife." How could I forget that? One of the theologians responsible for getting these essays placed on the Index of books proscribed by the Catholic Church argued that Montaigne was insufficiently ashamed of his vices.
Nevertheless, his work is widely regarded as the fountainhead of the modern "personal essay." One of the more enjoyable rivulets I've lately come across is here, behind a subscriber wall: the reflections of the 93-year-old Roger Angell, longtime New Yorker editor and baseball aficionado, on old age. He's pictured above lounging somewhat jauntily in Central Park earlier this year. Maybe Angell would say that it's easier to look "jaunty" when your cane looks momentarily more like a fashion accessory than a third leg actually used for walking. Without sugar-coating the geriatric complaints, which include besides physical symptoms a lot of funeral-going, almost predictably for a nonagenarian those of a wife and of a daughter, Angell is not without hope and considerable humor. I laughed out loud at the Starbucks I was in when I read:
I count on jokes, even jokes about death.
TEACHER: Good morning, class. This is the first day of school and we're going to introduce ourselves. I'll call on you, one by one, and you can tell us your name and maybe what your dad or your mom does for a living. You please, over at this end.
SMALL BOY: My name is Irving and my dad is a mechanic.
TEACHER: A mechanic! Thank you, Irving, Next?
SMALL GIRL: My name is Emma and my mom is a lawyer.
TEACHER: How nice for you, Emma! Next?
SECOND SMALL BOY: My name is Luke and my dad is dead.
TEACHER: Oh, Luke, how sad for you. We're all very sorry about that, aren't we class? Luke, do you think you could tell us what Dad did before he died?
LUKE (seizes his throat): He went "Ngungghhh!"
In another passage, Angell reads the thought balloon above the heads of acquaintances who, happening upon him, inquire about his "secret" and rave, "You're looking great!": "Holy shit--he's still vertical."
