Happy Birthday, Nanny

Dear Nanny,

60 years? I could say where have they gone, but I remember them. Not every one, but enough to know.

You made your presence acutely known well before your birth. Bouts of morning sickness regularly filled your mother’s day; I’d often come home from work, look at her bloodshot eyes, and know that she’d had a tough time.

She was 20 and I was 21. Your arrival nine months and two days after we took our marriage vows was unplanned, unexpected, and overwhelming. Our ignorance of the nuances of birth control was soon followed by a display of gross incompetence dealing with a newborn. It’s surprising you survived your first year.

We lived in a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor on Chicago’s north side. It was small with ridiculous blue carpeting in the living room. The dining area was big enough to seat four people, but we had few guests.

During her pregnancy, mom tackled all 1,711 pages of The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. She read it diligently. At night she’d balance the book on her expanding stomach; you’d go along for the ride as she breathed in and out. I attribute your own voracious reading appetite to that ponderous German history book that rested not six inches from the top of your head.

You slept in a small port-a-crib next to our bed. It had a bumper pad that wrapped itself around the inside. One of my favorite memories is seeing your tiny hand squeezing its way under the pad and through the crib slats. It was as though you were saying “I want out of here.” A sure sign of your need to get things done without messing around.

We soon bought a small house in Highland Park. You had your own bedroom, and mommy and daddy had some privacy…just enough to present you with a little brother. You were a good baby. Quietly, but with purpose, you sucked your thumb with a vengeance; a sign that you would become a highly analytical and very contemplative grown-up.

You had a little pink blanket that you dragged around the house and took to your bed. I love the photo of you sitting in a small rocking chair asleep, sucking your thumb, and holding tight to your precious bankie. A sure sign that you would save most of your money and not spend it on shiny toys or bad investments.,

The blanket shredded piece by piece, eventually leaving only a three-inch-wide, twelve-inch-long strip of satin that had once bound the edges of the blanket. You wound the strip tightly around your fingers. One day you simply decided you’d had enough and consigned the strip to its final resting place. A sign that you would stick with projects until they were completed to your satisfaction.

On your fifth birthday you had a fairy tale dress-up party. You wore a Little Bo Peep shepherd’s dress and carried one of those sticks with a curved end used to herd sheep. A sure sign that you were going to be a good manager who kept things running smoothly.

We had a basement in the little house with steps that led from the kitchen down to a bare concrete slab. You were only a toddler when you fell off the last step, hit your jaw and bit your tongue. You still have a tiny scar on top of it. Never one to waste a lesson learned, you developed a keen sense of safety and became a good listener, one who only says what needs to be said.

Your baby brother, David, was quick to learn that you were someone to look up to. He followed you around the house intoning, “Where’s my Nee. I want my Nee.” It was only much later that he developed a penchant for chasing rather than following you. More often, others fell in line behind you, a leader.

You learned nearly all you needed during your first five years. You simply developed more fully as you grew older. A sense of fairness mixed with truthfulness touches everything you do. Not one to casually give compliments when undeserved, you easily offer them when earned. Never one to shirk responsibility, you freely offer your time and skills to anyone who needs a hand. Things you learned as a child are now well spent as an adult.

As I age, you become more the adult and I more the child. I value your thoughtfulness and your concern for me. Maybe I can also learn more about life from what you’ve taught me.

Happy sixtieth, Nanny. I love you very much.

Daddy

No longer Eden

The man and the woman stood motionless on the crest of the hill. It was hot, too hot for the beginning of November. They wore thin faded shirts, brown shorts and wide-brimmed hats. Their scuffed hiking shoes had seen better days.

The man reached into the backpack at his feet, retrieved a dented water bottle and offered it to the woman. “Here, take this. Be careful, it’s all we have until we can find more.”

The woman took the bottle from the man as if it contained something breakable, unscrewed the plastic cap and put it to her lips. She drank slowly and longingly. Maybe a quarter cup. Then she handed it back to the man.

The man hefted it, guessed it was half full, and then taking it to his parched lips, he drank. A warm, almost too warm, liquid ran over his tongue and into his throat. He capped the bottle, held it for a moment, stared at it as though remembering something, and then put it in the backpack.

Spread out before them was a landscape devoid of greenery. Even the chapparal was brown and lifeless. A large black bird appeared overhead and flew aimlessly looking for something and seeing nothing.

The man and the woman scanned the horizon and remembered the rows of sweet orange and tangy lemon trees that had once been prominent. No tree had been spared. Even the silvery olives were gone, their hundred-year-old branches devoid of life. Their mouths, though aching for the saliva prompted by their thoughts, remained dry.

It seemed that only a few years had passed since the great drought had begun. Perhaps deceived by the incessant, mind-bending heat, the years had been compressed in their minds. The man and woman were not alone; the entire world had joined them in their misery.

First, it was the western states. The great, seemingly eternal Colorado River had stopped, like someone had flipped a switch. Castaic, the smallest lifegiving source, had gone quickly revealing the old structures that had once been covered with fifty feet of water. The great California reservoirs had emptied, puddled, then disappeared. Folsom, Shasta and Oroville, once full now gone. 

The mysterious underground aquifers with hidden treasure troves of liquid gold had ceased to send water regardless of the depth of wells. Huge irrigation pumps now stood idle and silent, rusting. Farmers had abandoned the fields that the man and woman now looked upon.

Home water use had been severely curtailed. Saddled with huge penalties for overuse, people did what they could, but not enough. Food supplies dependent on water dwindled. Farm animals unable to adapt became a novelty, then disappeared completely.

Air conditioning except when medically prescribed was forbidden. Red rectangular placards were placed on entry doors instead of on cars signifying the use of authorized coolers. Some remembered the days when no one had air conditioning, but no one had ever experienced this nonstop debilitating heat.

When the dams went dry, electricity was reduced to a trickle. Conversion to diesel powered generators was temporary because the pollution only worsened the heat.

Homes in once desirable communities were like albatrosses. Like the Okies of Dust Bowl days, people packed up and moved to places with water. Communities with resources blocked the entry of the migrants who were forced to live on the open road. But this too was short lived; climate change and annual increases of one-degree centigrade eventually produced perpetual droughts for everyone.

Unemployment soared as companies slid into bankruptcy, then closed. Like the Great Depression, the jobless begged. The government, with its feet stuck in concrete before the great drought, took over the distribution of food. We had finally achieved equal status with other countries; except we were now all third world.

The man and the woman had often talked about this. How could a once great county fall to its knees because of water? Surely everyone knew what needed to be done. Why had this opportunity been squandered?

No matter, it was too late now. The problem continued to feed upon itself. The future was undeniable. Our time on earth, like that of the dinosaurs, was ending. Not in a cataclysmic event, but rather a slow glacial slide to oblivion while we sat on our hands.

The man and the woman began to walk. Slowly, so as not to tire before finding some water over the next hill.