RESPONSIBILITY

It seems that I have had some degree of responsibility most of my adult life. Not really much more than anybody else, I guess, but since it was mine I felt it more than I'd feel somebody else's. When I worked for the telephone company the responsibility I felt was for my family. When the boys were gone from home, and I left corporate life, we started our own business and the responsibility then was to get business. After I self-retired from the speaking business and got into Lab rescue, it seemed the responsibility got more personal. I had living creatures depending on me for their very life. We also at that time, to compound the responsibility for living things, had two horses, two cats and seven dogs.

It was soon after that my folks began to show the effects of age. Being their only living child the responsibility for them became mine, and I was 1000 miles away. I handled dad’s financial matters, arranged for and sent the payment to his care giver, made the decision about mother going to the nursing home, talked to dad once or twice a day, and flew to visit them every three months. Being a long-distance care giver, I didn't have the physical involvement of their day-to-day care, but not being there intensified my mental commitment and feeling of responsibility. During this period I spent my time writing a blog, answering emails, commenting on Facebook, exercising and doing "chores" around the property. Their future was always on my mind. (How sick might they get, would their money last, etc.) My parents were my number one responsibility. I made life and death decisions for them; they really had no one else, and I was a long way away.

The last couple of years I began to feel the weight of the imagined and real responsibility for my folks and our remaining animals. I then wondered what different things I would do, how I would live my life differently with little or no responsibility. Without my folks and with minimal animals, would that boulder, lifted off my shoulder, free me up to travel, volunteer or write the great American novel?

My mother died first in the nursing home. All but one of our dogs died and dad deteriorated enough to also go to the nursing home. I arranged for his former care giver to visit him in the nursing home because he desperately needed some contact with his past life. Dad died ten months after entering the home.

There I was, no parents and only one dog and one cat to have"responsibility" for. Now is the time for the new Tom to emerge. All my thoughts and ideas of what I would do when this time came were ready to be put into play.

One year later, not only have I not "blossomed," things are actually a bit worse. How could that happen? This is one of my most profound life lessons. Responsibility was not stopping me from doing things; it was what made me do things. Responsibility was the glue that held it all together. Yes, I spent time writing a blog, answering emails, commenting on Facebook, exercising and doing "chores," but that just filled in the time between engaging in my real and very important purpose in life, caring for my folks. Without a meaningful purpose, am I destined to spend the rest of my life writing a blog, answering emails, commenting on Facebook exercising and doing "chores?"

As the saying goes, "Be careful what you wish for."

I'll figure something out.

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After I finished the draft of the above article I was listening to a Podcast of Freakonomics ( based on three fun Freakonomics books) . The subject was thinking like children. Listening to this completely changed my thinking and answered the concerns I had just written about. As a child I had no real responsibility, I got up in the morning and took the day as it came. From child to senior came the responsibility portion of life. Think about this, think about how alike a 100-year-old person is to a 1-year-old child. (I'm sure I don't have to go into detail. ) I discovered the obvious, I am hanging on to a portion of my life that is gone, I need to resurrect the inner child and get up each morning and take the day as it comes. No longer am I caring for my folks, watching over animals, writing books, giving speeches to hundreds of people. The main job I may have for the day is to rearrange my sock drawer, and that's OK. Setting all the motivational stories about Colonel Sanders aside, to reach retirement age and look back at what we have left behind, to look at how the world will be different because we were in it and to accept the fact that there is a good chance we will not discover a cure for cancer, win an Oscar or start a wildly successful chicken franchise, may well be the answer to an older life well lived.

I guess my responsibility now it to get up each morning and do the hell out of what the day brings. I can do that.

BOB AND PATTY: A FABLE

His name was Sir Bob the Bombed, and he was the drunkest knight in the land.

Sir Bob was a member in good standing (and standing was not always easy for Bob) of the knights of the round table. The shape of the table is important because with Bob staggering around and bumping into furniture on a regular basis, if it had been a square table, it might have severely damaged the trunk of Bob's family tree. (This will become important later in our story.)

Falling off his horse, relieving himself in his armor, forgetting his own name and mistaking turtles for rare roast beef on a hard roll were daily occurrences for our hero.

Sir Bob was a mess.

Princess Patty the Pure, on the other hand, put the newly driven snow to shame. Be assured the vile devil alcohol never crossed her lips. Patty had not "known a man," (she didn't even know she didn't "know") nor would she say manure if she had a mouthful. Princess Patty was a lady in every sense of the word.

Helping peasants learn English as a second language, playing Mr. Potato Head with the children of the palace, and giggling over "Knock, Knock" jokes with her handmaids pretty much filled out Patty's days.

Princess Patty was class.

The Princess had only one discernible flaw; she was enchanted with that wild and crazy knight, Sir Bob. Bob, on the other hand, had only one discernible virtue; he had the hots for Patty.

Patty thought, as has been many a woman's downfall throughout time, she could change Bob. While Bob, as has been many a man's downfall throughout time, didn't think at all.

This thinking (and non thinking) led to Bob slurring the big question to Patty. Patty was delirious as was Bob, but for different reasons.

The king, anxious for some little kinglets, agreed to this odd coupling.

From here our little fairy tale begins to unravel.

In an act Patty wished to forget, and Bob could not remember, a child was conceived. Sir Bob the Bombed and Princess Patty the Pure produced wee Willie the Wise.

We have a nuclear family about to blow.

By virtue of his newly acquired status, Bob was invited to attend all of the biggest parties in the kingdom. In the beginning everybody loved Bob. Putting the lantern cover on his head always got a laugh. It got to a point where everybody was laughing at Bob -- except Patty.

Patty tried with all the force of her niceness to cover for Bob. "He's had a bad day; he's draggin' from fighting the dragons." "His horse broke down this morning; that's why he was late for his meeting with the peasants' union." "He was out in the rain and the hinges of his armor rusted, so he couldn't take Willie to the father/son games at the castle."

After years of making excuses for Bob, cleaning up after him, doing all the parenting, beating herself with a big blame stick and crying into an uneasy sleep every night, Princess Patty the Pure was a wreck.

One morning Patty woke up (alone as usual) with a startling insight - she'd had it up to the top of her bejeweled crown!

She made an appointment with the in-castle support group (Princesses Who Love Drunken Knights Too Much). Patty found out five things at her PWLDKTM meeting: 1) She was not alone. 2) She was important. 3) Bob was not in charge of her happiness. 4) Willie needed her all the more now. 5) If a change was going to be made, Bob would have to make it. 

So Patty got on with her life. Bob on the other hand still didn't get it.

Three hazy years later, on day three of a three day binge, Bob rode into the castle courtyard looking for a little excitement. Patty had long since moved to another part of the castle, and Willy was too busy building a replica of the castle in his sand box to even acknowledge someone who meant so little to him.

Bob leaned over to scoop Willy up. The sight and smell of this drunken mess terrified Willy and he screamed. The loud noise spooked Bob's horse, Wild Turkey, who reared up and came back down -- right on Willy.

Now Bob had everything he worked so hard for - nothing.

He lost the wife who once loved him and the child who once trusted him. He needed to find someone to blame -- how about the horse, the castle help, the economy, his father (Albert the Abuser), the king, the distillers of the demon rum - somebody/something/anything.

Bob wandered the kingdom for the rest of his days looking for who was responsible for his rotten, stinking life. He accused the weather, fifty farmers, plenty of peasants and a partridge in a pear tree. He still couldn't find the right something to blame.

Bob woke up one morning and found the bird singing outside his window was a vulture. He lived his final days the same way he lived his entire life - without a clue.

As Bob breathed his last drunken breath, still committed to finding who was to blame, he glanced into his armor hanging on the wall, beheld his gnarled, knotted, twisted reflection and died. Sir Bob the Bombed died never knowing he finally had found the only person on the face of the earth who was entirely responsible for Bob.

The lesson we can learn from Bob's miserable life is: When looking for someone to be responsible for your life, you need look no further than your armor.