Will you spend five or six minutes reading about what makes me optimistic?
For those who answered “yes,” thank you. First off, I am optimistic we share a similar opinion of those who answered “no.”
Optimism circa 2017 ain’t for amateurs. It is no picnic searching for the silver lining in the thundercloud of North Korean-infused nuclear Armageddon. For anyone who has ever drained a 15-foot putt or split the fairway with a perfect drive, it is hard to smile at the prospect of the Hanover Country Club closing. The Upper Valley got totally ripped off during the eclipse, receiving only 60 percent obscuration. When the one idea of 21st century life that I thought had nearly unanimous support — Nazism in all its forms is horrific — somehow sneaks into the column of “Up For Debate,” the bright side can seem elusive.
Oh, and, apparently, Alaska is melting.
Nevertheless, reasons to hope flood our lives if we allow ourselves to pay attention. Unemployment, which joins weight, prison sentences and earned run average as things that individuals love to see reduced, has reached a point where many businesses are begging for bodies. A woman in Sunapee turned 109 on Monday, attributing longevity to “a positive outlook,” according to a news story. She had cake with her son. Just in New England, L.L. Bean, Darn Tough Vermont, Orvis and Vermont Teddy Bear continue to offer lifetime guarantees on their products. MySpace and Enron, however, do not.
In between bouts of whining, fighting, crying and refusing to put their shoes on even though I have asked them to do so 73 times, my children will say things like, “See those clouds, Dad? Those are called mackerel skies because they look like fish scales. They usually mean changeable weather.” The hope meter ticks up a notch.
On a recent camping trip, an 8-year-old in our party spotted a garter snake. Lickety split, his life became a mission to catch that creature with his bare hands. For nearly 24 hours, he returned to the woodpile where he had seen the slitherer. He stood stealthily, summoning silence from all who approached him. After a solid night’s sleep, he was back at his post while the adults packed up. Just when time was about to run out and the group was ready to leave for home, he came ’round the corner, shrieking with delight, a 3-foot serpent dangling from his fingers. His proud smile was a poignant counterpoint to everyone who worries that technology has taken over our lives and slaughtered the imaginations of future generations. He was living proof that Mother Nature remains an indefatigable adversary of electronic entertainment.
Only the disingenuous would ignore the shadow of wistful melancholy as another summer ends. But the sneaky optimist focuses on the outstanding quality of the sleeping weather as the nights cool. Football is nigh. The first time in jeans and a fleece after three months in shorts and T-shirts is an enjoyable wardrobe switch. Who among us abhors pumpkins, woodstoves or New England foliage? Next week, the house will be an oasis of quiet between the hours of 8 and 3, a sure sign that state-sponsored babysitting has returned as boys and girls trundle off to school. If you need to escape your worries, you can soon chase a child down a ski slope, tears streaming down your cheeks, obviously from the wind and not some silly, self-centered pride you have in your offspring.
My uncle visited recently. He is a walking image of taciturn and he has been through a lot: disease, death, even watching his family house burn to the ground. In his words, he is not far from “80 percent of the way to 100.”
At the tail end of a luncheon of gazpacho, cheese pie, green salad and brownies, during which his nephew’s aunt, his nephew’s mother, his nephew’s son and his nephew (ahem) largely dominated the discussion, he had some things to say.
In a deliberate voice, he talked about how, as he ages, he sees all the things he used to do, the places he used to explore, the trees that used to be so small. Matter of factly, he was ticking off the ships that had sailed on his life. Briefly, he lamented that he no longer knows the names of all the people on his road. The grass needs cutting, he knows, but he also needs a nap. For a moment, it was easy to wonder if he felt cheated by life and his disappeared youth.
Then he gave a good long look at everyone around the table, all of us his junior, and put to rest all those negative thoughts.
“As you get older,” he said, “you remember all the good times.” He paused slightly before concluding, “You really don’t remember the bad times all that much.”
He gave a sly smile, his words, the symphony of an optimist, hanging there for us to absorb and embrace.
Mark Lilienthal lives in Norwich. He can be reached at mlilient@gmail.com.