My Day was Not Great; Jerry West Was
I was driving home in personal defeat. I was driving, thinking, searching. I was close to Three Mile Island, so I drove by there. Took some pictures. This crisis took place when I was eight years old, in the spring, so it is rather burned in my long-term memory, or my psyche.
My psyche.
I will be all right. Years of effort and expectation not met.
I was able to go by the Pennsylvania veteran's memorial cemetery. I tried to track my Uncle Harry's resting place, with his wife, my aunt, beside him who had passed 25 years before when I was in South America. 1990. I tried calling my dad, who was celebrating his 87th birthday, but then I finally remembered he was on a vacation trip. Not picking up.
An older man, a long-time veteran, told me that when he arrived in 1987 there were three thousand souls buried or contained there. Now there are 66,000, of which there are many spouses. Likely my uncle and aunt. Was his name Henricksen? No...
My memory. It failed my yesterday, and then days before, and throughout my time trying to memorize such exercises, commands, and moves. Movements. Not all ingrained.
Jerry West, at age 86, lived a very well renowned and celebrated life. Accolades as the greatest, his impact as a player, coach, manager, for so long.
When I was learning more of the history of the game when I was a teen in the 1980s, I thought surely this Jerry West guy was 6'7" and an imposing figure on the court, like other big dudes who could run and shoot over the years. But he was only 6'2". His skills transcended the sport, despite his smaller stature.
Me, I am yet shorter, and I have less impact, in greater life, and certainly on the court. I have played some hours there. In my respective circles I have had some successes, but on the day this luminary has passed, I have had another life setback.
On my dad's birthday. Looking for my old uncle who died at age 100, in 2015. Driving home, in some defeat. Failure. A setback. Life... altering. Sort of.
I have a few more years, hopefully, to alter the script to my favor.
To be in my late eighties, like my dad, or Mr. West, or like my uncle who lived a few more years beyond, even a decade more. Pretty happily. I just have to do a few more things here, now.
I know that Jerry West had some tough times across the width and breadth of his life. We all do. But we try to compensate or strive hard to make ourselves into something better, bigger. More than our height or accomplishments, on paper, we try to do and be what we want to achieve.
May we do so. We will be better and bigger than our less successful days, and the time and circumstances of our final breaths and moment and cause of death should not define us, either.
May we strive for the better things.
I re-read a "Clean, Well-Lighted Place", by Ernest Hemingway. About life, age, contentment, living into the older times. Dignity. Peace of mind. Nada a nada, but clean and quiet.
There we are.
Three Mile Island was traumatic, but the crisis was averted, and as far as I know the place kept producing energy. Now decades later it is safe and productive. By its looks that I saw yesterday, that is what I presume.
May we all be thus.
Energy and power. Movement and momentum.
Living and reflecting. Push on.
