Eric Bogle is a prolific songwriter who started his life in Scotland in a town called Peebles. At age 25, he took off for Australia and has long since become a citizen there.
Bogle composed a song which is really a poem to recognize the existence of a love affair wherein the husband eventually died. It contains these lines:
I can’t give you silver,
Can’t bring you gold,
Can’t stop the world from turning,
Or you and I from growing old.
And so it was that I was thinking of the Bogle song last week only to learn about the death of three people that I had known quite well. The first gentleman was 79; the second was 85; and the third man, Jim Horney, was born only days distant from my own birthday. Jim Horney enjoyed a wonderful life with his wife Joy but in the end, as it must for all men, his life ended. Jim was one of the most decent and honest people I have ever known in my life.
Now it has always been contended that when his time comes to go, every Irishman wants to read his own obituary. I am not so sure that this is a good idea, and in my case it is impeded by the fact that I can’t see. If I wrote my own obituary, I would try to jazz it up to the point of unbelievability. But in point of fact I am not going to write my own obituary.
If that job ever is required to be done, I hope that it is performed by what the chairman of BP calls the “small people.” Early in my career, after I returned from service with the Army of the United States, I found myself with the responsibilities of a union officer. In short order I became the president of that union and then won election to the bargaining committee to deal with AT&T management. At that time, AT&T had construction gangs all over the country who did the hard work of driving tractors and digging trenches for cables. For many years, AT&T had deducted $7 each week from the wages of those men. They called it the “board and lodging equivalent.”
When I was elected to the bargaining committee, I more or less made it known that I would not sign a contract on behalf of the union that continued the board and lodging equivalent deduction. When people in the management or non-management ranks of AT&T traveled, they would turn in their expenses and expect to be fully reimbursed. There was no board and lodging equivalent deduction. But from the construction gangs who did the hard work, AT&T deducted $7 per week. In the company’s final proposal, I noticed that provision was eliminated so the construction gangs won one. They could say goodbye to the board and lodging equivalent, which was a bastardly arrangement.
I needed no encouragement whatsoever to believe in what the men at the bottom of the economic ladder had to say. I was one of them. I trusted them and I believe that they trusted me.
I am very pleased to report that, after passage of my duties into management ranks, that sentiment still pertains. I am happy to identify myself with the people at the bottom of the economic stack because, among other things, it gives me great comfort to be so associated with them.
Now if there is any truth to the thought that every Irishman wants to read his own obituary, I would hope that my obituary would be the result of the works of working people in the grocery stores, the fish markets, and the restaurants that we patronize. Paul Byfield, Owen Gaynor, Garth Symons, and his brother Alrick Symons are always happy warriors. They would lend a spirit of joviality to my obituary. As I have said earlier, the Jamaicans are the happiest people I ever knew. Jamaicans work in the produce department. When I need to be cheered up, I often go to the market and engage in a conversation with a Jamaican. Those Jamaicans would write a superb obituary on my behalf and you would laugh as you read it, even if there was an exaggeration or two here and there.
There is also the produce man of sixty some years who came to this country from Italy. He is also a man who gets his hands dirty. He is my longtime special friend. But Gregorio Russo is a proud man and I believe that his contributions to my obituary would be reasonably pungent.
Then there is Tony, whose last name translates into Goodrich, in the fish market. Tony would add some zest or some marinade to my obituary and I believe that he would treat me very kindly.
Upon leaving the produce and fish departments, there are two women of African ancestry. The first one knows of my penchant for licorice. She always greets me with a cackle and demands to know when she is going to get her licorice pie that I foolishly once promised her. The second person, named Judy, is a bright decent person. Judy does not hassle me about licorice pies. I believe that Jackie and Judy would treat me very kindly in my obituary, although Jackie will still be demanding her pie.
At the restaurant we patronize, the wait staff is Ecuadorian. As I have done in all my other contacts with working people, I make it a point to know their names and to shake their hands. I try to make sure that no hand at the grocery store remains unshaken, at least by me. The same is true of the restaurant, from the headwaiter, Cesar, to Vincent, a busboy. Those people are the salt of the earth.
The owners of the restaurant are two refugees from Imperia, Italy and they get their hands shaken as well. Their contribution to my obituary might take on a musical reference or two.
It has always been my custom to shake the hand of everyone who does the heavy lifting and to call them by their name. I started out in life as a heavy lifter myself. It seems to me that shaking the hands of the people who work with their hands may make them feel better about their worth and about their status, especially if they are immigrants. It costs nothing for me to shake their hands and to speak their name. Once those hands have been shaken, I must say that I feel better for it.
So before I am done, I wish to open my obituary to a large contingent of working people who, I believe, will treat me very fairly. At least I intend to take my chances with those people who do the heavy lifting. The language in the obituary may not be as eloquent as Winston Churchill might have produced, but it will be entirely genuine and there will be elements of hilarity.
I would like to see the obituary that they have produced and I will bet that the title will be “He Always Shook My Hand.” If that is not the case, I will evoke the memory of Finnegan in the James Joyce poem. He rose from his bier and said to the assembled mourners, “What the hell! Do you think I’m dead?” As a matter of fact, Bushmill’s Irish Whiskey may have been involved here, but Finnegan clearly rose from the dead.
I am not so sure that reading one’s obituary is a great idea. But now that I have been thinking about it, I believe that there is considerable merit. If I am in a position to do so, I will interrupt the proceedings to make the nouns, verbs, and adjectives a little stronger here and there. But in the final analysis, there is not one thing wrong with shaking a few hands, particularly of those who do the heavy lifting. And while we are doing the hand shaking, please remember that we are all growing older. As Eric Bogle has written:
I can’t give you silver,
Can’t bring you gold,
Can’t stop the world from turning,
Or you and I from growing old.
If we are going to get older, as is true in my case, and if we are going to die, as will happen to all of us, I believe that it is a good idea to make the best of it by shaking a few hands before we go.
E. E. CARR
August 7, 2010
Essay 483
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Kevin’s commentary:
I suppose it’s time to get out and start shaking some more hands. Also, if you haven’t read this essay yet you should do so because it’s related to this one and it’s one of my favorites.
Now Pop, since I know you read this commentary sometimes, I’d like to get a straight answer: why has there been no pie procured for said lovely lady? She’s been waiting a long time. I am not sure if licorice pies even exist or if Judy would have any idea how to make one, but I say you two go for it anyway. Or maybe Pop himself should bake it with Judy in a more supervisory role. That could make for an interesting confection indeed.