In My Own Ink: Now Hosted on Substack

I'm moving! Please visit me on my new platform, Substack. I'll be posting there from now on, and you can subscribe for free.  I hope to see you there!  https://andipenner.substack.com

Short Term Memory Lapse Concerning Long Term Care!

     I was feeling smug about being more or less on top of my finances and thinking I would write a semi-humorous piece about the perils of leaving financial loose ends and storage units full of stuff for others to sort out after we die. Having just "downsized" into a smaller home and retired from a paying career, I have plenty of material. 

During my father's final few years, I had the privilege of witnessing first-hand what happens when one refuses to face reality. My father left himself and his wife (and his caregivers) few options for anything but a life that looked nothing like the one he had hoped to enjoy. Some simple advance planning would have been worth figurative millions (especially when there were no actual millions to be had). At least, that's what I tell myself. 

Long-term care insurance didn't exist for my parents. They, like many Americans, thought Social Security and Medicare/Medicaid would be sufficient to see them through their elder years. Also like many Americans, they hadn't planned for any contingencies. My mother's care needs surfaced  out of nowhere not long after she was 65 and newly remarried. She suffered for the next 10 years from an incurable, debilitating disease that rendered her incapable of caring for herself. Her husband was able to keep her at home instead of in a facility, but even that was a difficult situation, and she died at age 75--unusually early given her lineage. My maternal grandmother was still alive and humming when my mother died. The reality of long-term care began much later for grandma but extended into her 109th year on the planet. 

So I figured that whether I die at 75 or 105, I'll probably need some help, and that help will come with a bright red price tag. Of course I hope my own life and death will be different, but given my limited resources and the government's indebtedness, I choose to be realistic and to spare my kids from having to exhaust their savings just to help me. For the last decade, every December I pay my long-term care insurance premium instead of buying my kids the latest espresso machine or iGadget for Christmas. They seem to appreciate it. At least, that's what they tell me. 

However, today's mail delivered an unwelcome surprise--an ACME Insurance Company notice of non-payment!!! WHAT? My checkbook register confirmed my fear--I hadn't written a check to ACME in December. In fact, the checkbook was empty. (ACME is an old-school paper and pen company, so I have to pay by check). Tonight I tore apart my home office, looking in every possible and impossible file drawer and folder for my checks. I unearthed piles of papers and found delicious poem scraps and memoir fodder, art supplies and greeting cards, but none of those valuable bits of paper issued by my bank. At least I haven't lost BitCoin, I thought. 

Eventually, I found the next packet of checks (right where I'd left them, of course), but not before I reached for my I'm So Freaking Freaked Out journal which I had pulled off the shelf in the irrational hope that the checks would magically fall from between the pages. That's when I noticed the last freak-out entry dated Feb. 24, 2022, the day Putin invaded Ukraine. 

In a world where humans still wage war and insist on premature destruction, no one can rely on long-term care insurance, or long term anything.  No amount of planning, no storage unit, no government subsidy, or virtual currency can make up for global stability and peace or personal security. 

The only thing I know is that today, right now, caring for one another matters. In the short term and long term, people matter. Freaking out about what hasn't yet come to pass won't do us any good, but caring for one another will. Hope won't pay the bills, but--I have to believe--it does make a difference, somehow. And love won't stop the missiles tomorrow--but maybe that day after that. Even when we misplace the checkbook, can't afford insurance, or have no idea how to ease someone's pain, we have within us the unlimited capacity for love, care, and hope. Let's share.

 

For the Love of Argument

Photo: Andi with Unknown Cat, 1963*

 

My friend Marjorie St. Clair, a vital member of my writing support circle, recently asked about my use of argument and algorithm in the context of writing poetry and memoir. Hallmarks of the memoir-writing method taught by Marion Roach Smith, both algorithm and argument have long informed my thinking, teaching, and writing.  

 

Like many of you, I learned the art of argument early in my childhood living with smart, opinionated, and vocal parents and siblings. "But Mom..." was a common opener. What followed, however, if not compelling risked a "Don't argue with me" comeback. My children, also, were and still are, admirable arguers. "But Mom, quitting the team is my protest statement against the coach's unfair treatment of some players..." they might assert, instead of saying "I quit. The coach is an asshole."

 

When I taught English to reluctant first-year students, they questioned everything (as did I) and dared me to convince them that essays were more than instruments of torture. They had already been taught the essay as a mandatory 500-word 5-paragraph piece of prose subjected to arbitrary judgment on a scale of 1-5. My job was to argue otherwise, to show the how of essay, not just the what.  (One of my poetry gurus, Marj Hahne, teaches the how of poems. The fact of the barn is less interesting than how it's a barn.) I had to show them how dreaded thesis statement argues more powerfully than a statement of fact or strong opinion. Even a poem, meme, or slogan like Make Love Not War (and the choice to quote it here) argues something. A tailored suit argues, "I already know how to dress the part, so you should hire me (and, oh by the way, my resume tells you how I'm the best one for the job)." Pajamas argue something else (so does the choice of flannel vs. silk).

 

You may argue that good writing is good writing with or without a suit (or pajamas, for that matter), and you may be right. But as I write and edit my poems, essays, and memoir while mindful of my audience (you & others) and purpose (publication), I find argument a useful concept for assessing what I want to say about the universal and how to support it with the personal. 

 

In rhetorical terms (we can thank the ancient Greeks for that fancy word for the art of persuasion), if one asserts a position, posits a premise, or stakes a claim, one must illustrate the point with more than an amusing cat video. [I refuse to link to any of those.]

 

With that in mind, I invented this argument: "My grief when Sunshine died made me see that in living their nine lives, cats can save our lives." I'm not sure I believe it, but we did have a cat name Sunshine who died at age 19 after having lived all nine of her allotted lives.] And if I did believe in the saving power of cats, I would offer details about Sunshine's nine lives, my one miserable life, and how she saved it. My three dogs and my son's chickens and ducks would be left out in the cold, unless of course they were killing me and that's why I got a cat. [*see photo]

Similarly, if I claim innocence in front of a judge, I'd better have some pretty convincing, allowable evidence summarized in catchy opening and closing arguments. [I'm guessing you can imagine your own trial, even if your judge was your math teacher who accused you of being a dolt, gave you an F, and illustrated his point by banging his forehead against the wall.] You would not, however, stand up in the courtroom and shout, "That's just fuckin' not true!"--at least I hope you wouldn't.

 

Speaking of math teachers, I loved high school Algebra and even made it as far as to finish a year of college calculus before I decided I would never be my favorite, beautiful, red-headed, she-who-knows-everything high school math teacher. So I changed my major. I still think in math concepts and appreciate the formulaic nature of argument. Unless you're a philosopher, you probably can't persuade anyone that X is, period. You could claim X is true and mean it. But the argument won't stand up in court until you show how and why X is true and why that matters, something like this: X is true because experiments W, Y, and Z provide data to prove it. 

 

The result just might be a convincing argument:

1. [Introduction] You've heard of X and wondered if it's true. I'm here to tell you X is true and worthy of investment because experiments W, Y, and Z provide ample proof while raising the possibility of a mysterious X2.

2. Method W (how we applied it and what happened).

3. Same for Method Y.

4. And Z, which pointed to the existence of X2.

5. [Conclusion] Therefore, X is true, so give us $1M for further study of X2 and you won't be disappointed. 

 

I recently asked my partner, The Scientist, what in my memoir-in-progress might best argue the universal point I want to make about life. He said something very wise:

People are not interested in the kitchen sink! 

I liked that slogan so much I tacked it to my bulletin board next to my writing desk. And yes, I still write words on paper and but them on display.

 

My memoir argues that my beliefs and my heart landed me in various places (physically and spiritually) because of hard decisions that led me to create the life I want. Interesting as the kitchen sink story may be, in my memoir you won't read I once made sub sandwiches at The Little Pickle and worked for a summer as a Smile-A-While Day Camp counselor. Nor will the photo of me with the random cat grace the book's cover.

 

If you find typos in my kitchen sink, you can either ignore them or you can tell me and I'll fix them. And if you like what you read on this blog, please comment below or send me an email. 

All the best to you, to Ukraine, and flood victims in Pakistan and California. Peace be with us all.

 

Sincerely, 

Andi                        last updated 1/19/2023