Barrett Dorko
13-04-2006, 04:00 PM
It’s been a quiet week in Cuyahoga Falls…
There’s one less person who calls me “Barry” in the world today.
When I moved to Boston in ’75 I started referring to myself by my whole first name. I suppose I was trying to re-invent myself in a number of ways and was lucky enough to have this option. Of course, the people who knew me during my childhood in Ohio never went along with this, and I thought that was fine. When I hear “Barry” I sense a familiarity I rarely know, and I welcome it.
Last Sunday I drove 500 miles during the course of the day, got home in time to prepare for another trip and never felt it. It never occurred to me that I might not be capable of this. During the past two years I’ve trained for it, often going non-stop for about 200 miles through bad weather and heavy traffic after teaching all day. I guess you can get used to anything.
Today I’m not so sure I can get used to no longer hearing my eldest sister say “Barry” in her particular way. Ladonna, along with Laurel (my other older sister), were old enough to care for my twin and me when we finally showed up, and carried that burden for our mother quite often. There aren’t many left who once held me, swaddled me, bathed me and looked at me with pure, unadulterated admiration; charmed and delighted by my every movement and pre-verbal sound. Though I can’t actually remember it, I imagine La and Laurel like this in my presence and I’m sure it was so. They called Leah and I “the babies” until we were in our teens and we never objected, knowing that this was our role in the family. I understand that there are harder roles to play.
La’s health had been very fragile for years and Sunday wasn’t the first time I felt certain that I would never hear her say my name again – though it was the first time I was right about that. Several times she said it; “Barry,” her voice weak but with an inflection so familiar and comforting to me. She said it when I arrived and when I left. In between I got her to smile a few times in the ways I’ve always been able to and I saw her delight in the pictures of my growing family.
And then it was time to go. I’ve often helped La with her pain in the past but that day she wasn’t feeling any. Still, I held her a bit as she once held me. Handling with an attitude of acceptance and admiration has become what I do for a living, and I suspect I first learned about that from her. On Sunday I found a stillness in her that I never normally sense, and, in retrospect, I think I knew then that it wouldn’t be long.
When I teach I give the classes virtually nothing about my personal life. I know that some fill the gaps with stories that are far more colorful than the life I actually live. Over the years I’ve grown comfortable with this lack of connection and find it both useful and amusing. I tell them to call me “Barrett” and remain a sort of mysterious character. I’m pretty sure La would have found that pretty funny.
I heard her call me “Barry” as I leaned near her before leaving and thought of how I’ll hear that less often now, and I’ll feel it less as well.
La knew me, and I’ll miss that.
There’s one less person who calls me “Barry” in the world today.
When I moved to Boston in ’75 I started referring to myself by my whole first name. I suppose I was trying to re-invent myself in a number of ways and was lucky enough to have this option. Of course, the people who knew me during my childhood in Ohio never went along with this, and I thought that was fine. When I hear “Barry” I sense a familiarity I rarely know, and I welcome it.
Last Sunday I drove 500 miles during the course of the day, got home in time to prepare for another trip and never felt it. It never occurred to me that I might not be capable of this. During the past two years I’ve trained for it, often going non-stop for about 200 miles through bad weather and heavy traffic after teaching all day. I guess you can get used to anything.
Today I’m not so sure I can get used to no longer hearing my eldest sister say “Barry” in her particular way. Ladonna, along with Laurel (my other older sister), were old enough to care for my twin and me when we finally showed up, and carried that burden for our mother quite often. There aren’t many left who once held me, swaddled me, bathed me and looked at me with pure, unadulterated admiration; charmed and delighted by my every movement and pre-verbal sound. Though I can’t actually remember it, I imagine La and Laurel like this in my presence and I’m sure it was so. They called Leah and I “the babies” until we were in our teens and we never objected, knowing that this was our role in the family. I understand that there are harder roles to play.
La’s health had been very fragile for years and Sunday wasn’t the first time I felt certain that I would never hear her say my name again – though it was the first time I was right about that. Several times she said it; “Barry,” her voice weak but with an inflection so familiar and comforting to me. She said it when I arrived and when I left. In between I got her to smile a few times in the ways I’ve always been able to and I saw her delight in the pictures of my growing family.
And then it was time to go. I’ve often helped La with her pain in the past but that day she wasn’t feeling any. Still, I held her a bit as she once held me. Handling with an attitude of acceptance and admiration has become what I do for a living, and I suspect I first learned about that from her. On Sunday I found a stillness in her that I never normally sense, and, in retrospect, I think I knew then that it wouldn’t be long.
When I teach I give the classes virtually nothing about my personal life. I know that some fill the gaps with stories that are far more colorful than the life I actually live. Over the years I’ve grown comfortable with this lack of connection and find it both useful and amusing. I tell them to call me “Barrett” and remain a sort of mysterious character. I’m pretty sure La would have found that pretty funny.
I heard her call me “Barry” as I leaned near her before leaving and thought of how I’ll hear that less often now, and I’ll feel it less as well.
La knew me, and I’ll miss that.