As long as I have worked as a teacher, I have maintained that, before parents send children off to their very first day of school, they ought to make sure that the little ones have mastered "basic German Shepherd." Which is to say that, by the time your youngster hits the classroom, they should have a clear understanding of those one-word commands that nearly any dog can grasp: Come. Sit. No. Go. Stay.
It is that "Stay" that I seem to be contemplating these days. Just stay. Of all the things that I have done in the service of this relationship, and in service to this Man, it seems that, for now, the best I can do; the only thing that is wanted; the only thing left to offer is the act and choice of staying. Here. In this place. Without demand and without expectation. Keeping the long ago promise of always, and all ways.
Which all seems to bring me back to another dog metaphor. There is a lyric, penned by a singer/songwriter that I met years ago at Glacier National Park in Montana. Jack Gladstone wrote these lyrics to commemorate a herding dog named Old Shep (lessons in loyalty, patience, and honor), and I love the story, but am particularly moved by that "how many nights, how many days..." question:
Not so long ago outside of Fort Benton
Was a tale born of a faithful friend
As the train pulled away from the station
With the body of an old shepherd man
Through his final years on these Montana plains
Over pasture and highland, through hard summer rains.
Old Shep, ran beside him
Tending the flocks, patrolling the range
Old Shep, slept beside him
Ever alert if the silence did change
A thousand sunrises were met
With Old Shep.
The fall came, the light grew dimmer
For the Shepherd man when he reached the town
And Old Shep could sense there would be a long journey
To a meadow space where peace is found.
Down in a bed in Fort Benton he lay
His spirit departed but his body stayed.
Old Shep, walked beside him
As they carried his casket up to the train
Old Shep, tried to climb on board
But they pushed him away to the station platform.
Here a separate trail was met
By Old Shep
How many nights, how many days
Would your partner wait for you?
How many seasons would you weather the storm
If your companion was long overdue?
For over six snows Old Shep waited
And through five springs, there was no return
He met each train that rolled into the station
His faith remained, his candle burned.
Then, on a cold, dark, winter day
Our hero rejoined his best friend.
Now, Old Shep is beside him
Tending the heavens, patrolling the range
Old Shep stays beside him
As the seasons revolve this Big Sky of change
A faithful friend we won’t forget
Old Shep, runs beside him
Tending the heavens, patrolling the range
Old Shep, sleeps beside him
As the seasons revolve this Big Sky of change
A friend we won’t forget
Old Shep
Old Shep
I'm not sure that I believe that anything will be better than it is this day. Not in a day or a week or a month or a year. I am not sure that we will ever do anything more than live quietly together until we reach the end someday. I have good memories. I got to live the life I dreamed of for awhile. I took a chance on this, and I do not regret that. I've explored the possibilities of not staying. I know I could go off and find a place, some little studio somewhere, and live on my own. A quiet life that would be... But the promise? I made that promise.
Stay.
swan
The day after Dad's birthday, October 18th, was my brother, Gregg's birthday. He was the middle one of my three younger brothers, five years my junior. He and I were, in temperament and appearance, like twins. Except for the years that separated us, we were mirror images of one another; the only two in our family who saw the world in the same ways. Gregg, who, because he was a colicky baby with a very healthy set of lungs, was dubbed "Moose" by my Dad, was always a bit of a loner. He was a child who thought his own thoughts and went his own way. He was the little tag-along behind the oldest of the boys, Hank, and I. We were forever getting him into one fix or another, and because he was younger and more gullible, it most often ended up with him being injured in some way. We would take him sledding on "the big kids hill," even though he really wasn't old enough. All of us knew to bail out before we hit the bottom, because there was a ditch at the end of the run. None of us thought to tell Gregg about that little detail before we launched him down the hill for the first time. Our frantic shoutings from the top of the steep slope were useless, and he rode that sled right off the edge and stuck it, like an arrow, in the dirt wall on the other side of the ditch. He was a mess when we dragged him home. It was always like that. The great wonder is that he survived being our little brother. Gregg was always an odd child, and he grew into an interesting and awkward teenager. Theater was his passion... and music. He was a natural born showman. His attempts at traditional dating, the boy meets girl thing, were just awful. He was terrible at it. When he finally "came out," at the age of 19, it was an absolute "Duh" moment for most of us. My parents, sadly, were appalled, and never, ever came to terms with the truth of who he was. That rift was painful in the extreme. For a number of years, Gregg and I worked as a team, speaking and presenting to church groups and others who were confronting the issues of accepting and loving a family member who was gay. We were a good pair, and we loved doing it together. I don't know what difference we made for others, but I know it was a time when he and I were intensely bonded to each other -- a bond that I will forever treasure. When Gregg died of the complications of AIDS, 22 years ago, he was just 31 years old. It was the anniversary of the death of President John F. Kennedy. I believe to this day, that he chose that date. When I arrived at the hospital that morning, he was sitting up in bed, paging with his sardonic wit, through what he always referred to as the "Needless Markup" (Nieman Marcus) catalog. He was quite tickled by the 24-carat gold, jewel encrusted, Hummer. That was morning, by evening, he was clearly dying, unresponsive, pale and wasted, just a shadow lingering in the room. And yet, he would not let go... Finally, at about 10 PM, I went out to the nurses' station, and begged them to let me bring his beloved dog up to the hospital so he could "say goodbye." They reluctantly agreed that we could bring her up the stairs. I called my husband, at home with our two adolescents, and he went over to Gregg's house and got Teela, the golden retriever. He brought her up the six flights, and we walked her down the dimly lit hallway to Gregg's room. The dog crawled into Gregg's bed, laid her head on his chest with a whimper. He put his hand up to pet her head, and was gone. Just like that... It has been 22 years and I still see him every now and then -- in the face of a stranger; peering out from an intense and beautiful face. How I miss him...
