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The way I heard the story years ago is that members of the national French legislature were debating a law that would have treated men and women differently.  The arguments were hot and heavy, with one legislator contending that men and women are essentially the same and should be treated as such.  When his opponent insisted that men and women were different, a voice from the back of the chamber spoke up loudly to declare, “Vive La Différence!”

In any relationship I used to assume that the other person – you – was just like me.  After all, I’m pretty wonderful, so why shouldn’t you be the same?  And if you’re different – you eat yogurt for breakfast and I prefer scrambled eggs – then you must be wrong.

Today I think the idea that my skills and preferences are superior to yours is not only silly, but it is also destructive and prevents me from freely acknowledging that where we differ you might be right.  Also, our differences can make our relationship more interesting.  After all, I might, just possibly, learn something valuable from you.

For example, I plan my life so that I’m generally on time (unless I have an appointment across town — I seldom allow enough time for traffic).  Why shouldn’t everyone else plan their life just like I do?  Why shouldn’t everyone be on time (unless traffic is heavy)?

The answer, of course, is that everyone is not on time because they’re different.  They have a different – not worse, but merely different – relationship to time than I do.  This used to be an issue between my wife and me.  After many years I finally decided that her more relaxed attitude might be better than my up-tight-tapping-on-my-watch approach, and that the friction between us wasn’t worth it.  In the great scheme of things does it really matter if we start lunch at 12:15 instead of at noon?  There is always something interesting I can read on my cell phone.

Several of my children are vegans. I enjoy dining with them at a number of the vegan restaurants in town.  Who knows, they might be right, and I most likely benefit from eating fewer animal products.

So now I make it a point not to be insular or arrogant about my choices, and to embrace the preferences and abilities of my friends.  Perhaps I mean this in a different context than was originally intended in the French legislature, but I’m in full agreement with the idea –

Vive la Différence!

Alan

I arrived home from work, a little early (but not by much). Daveen was sitting on the family room sofa, a stack of papers before her.  It seemed like the same stack she had worked on for thirty-five years.

I said “Hi”.  We embraced. She sniffled a bit.

“I brought my papers down to work on them here, so I could be near Lil Mama,” she said, “but I couldn’t do much with tears in my eyes.”

“I know. I’m so sorry.”

“I called the place where our daughter took her dog, but they close at four.”  Daveen begins to cry.  “She still has the ashes.”

“I’m sure they’ll be open tomorrow.”  What else could I say?

“I took her outside once, earlier today, but she didn’t pee. Today she hasn’t eaten anything. But she looks a little better.”

Lil Mama is a fifteen-year-old dog that Daveen rescued two years and two months ago.  This dog must have been seriously mistreated because she flinched when anyone reached over to pet her, though she will permit a small amount of contact.  Daveen was told that Lil Mama would live no more than three months.  She’s lasted a lot longer than that, thanks to Daveen’s close attention and loving care.

“She’s still breathing a bit too quickly,” I said.

“Better than this morning.”

“Yes. Better than this morning.”

I sliced half a banana into my cereal. Daveen heated her frozen enchilada, for the second time.

The two of us quietly enjoyed a simple dinner. Our children are grown. The garden is ready for our Sunday party for my dad who recently died at 104. We sat alone, together for awhile.

With difficulty, Lil Mama circled in her bed, then curled up and lay down. She could hardly walk.

I felt close to Daveen.  Separately, I felt close to Lil Mama.

Later, and tomorrow, and after, we will cry.

Love,

Alan

Cristina, my dad’s caregiver for several years, was thoroughly cleaning his house recently when she made a surprising discovery. My wife received her frantic call.

“There’s a gun under the bed!  I think it’s loaded!  What should I do?!”

“Call John. Give the gun to John.”

John lives nearby, is married to my first wife, and has a gun collection.   I’ve been told John never hunts, but for many years he has enjoyed practicing at a gun range every week.

John came by to pick up the shotgun.  My dad had hidden it under his bed for protection even though he had no training with guns. For years, however, he had been sleeping on a reclining chair in his living room in front of a large screen TV. When I lived with Dad for three months last year I slept in his bed. I had completely forgotten about the shotgun directly beneath me. Dad hadn’t mentioned it to me in more than thirty years.

I’ve had only two personal experiences with guns.  The first was when I was thirteen and a friend brought his BB gun to my house.  We decided that one of us would extend an arm holding a bottle – and the other would shoot at it.  After a few hours my parents discovered us, in effect, shooting at each other on the vacant lot in front of our house. They were horrified.

“Stop that immediately!  You could put someone’s eye out!”

That was the end of my youthful gun fun.

When I was twenty-nine my first wife and I took a cruise, from Los Angeles to Acapulco.  On one of the days at sea a member of the crew ran a shooting contest on the stern of the main deck.  I joined in.

He would pull a lever catapulting a clay target far into the air.  The passenger would aim the shotgun at the target and pull the trigger.  It seemed like great fun – until it was my turn.

I tried to follow the rising clay target through the gun sight, but never seemed to be successful with my aim as the target moved swiftly to my right.  Finally, just as the target began falling toward the sea, I pulled the trigger.  Blam!

Had I waited one second longer to shoot I would have hit the crewman directly in the face, and yet he had done nothing to warn me!  My hands were shaking as, I handed back the last gun I would ever touch. That was fifty years ago.

We all have life experiences that mark us, consciously or unconsciously, for the rest of our lives, and this is one of mine.  With hindsight, I realize that at the age of thirteen, and also at twenty-nine, I thought my judgment was very good.  Maybe it was, but not when it came to guns.

I’m glad my dad, in the dead of night, never had to try to find his gun and shoot at someone. That someone could very well have been another unintended victim – quite possibly me.

Alan