FollowHow many times do we hear life is full circle? Do we pay attention or are we like a water droplet on a duck floating in a splash of polluted water near Raritan Bay in Jersey. I took literary license, assumed the water was polluted, after all this is New Jersey; number one nationally in designated toxic clean-up sites. I’m so proud of my state when it receives lofty designations.
When I was a junior at Rutgers College of Pharmacy in 1968, I drove to Richmond, Virginia with my best friend at the time. Motivations back in the sixties were different than now. Gas was a handful of pennies a gallon. Dustin Hoffman heard about ‘plastics’ and yelled “Elaine.” The draft for me was a couple years away. Vietnam kept me awake at night. The purpose of the trip to Richmond; my friend’s brother was doing a residency in dermatology at a medical college. I had a stubborn wart on the back of my hand. None of those over the counter remedies, with harsh acidic odors, worked. So in an obscure room, in the dimly lit basement of a hospital in Richmond, former capital of the Confederacy, the brother used liquid nitrogen and zapped that wart forever. It was a free procedure; that’s why we drove for 20 hours. On the way home, we stopped at this big drug store that had a communist name, ‘Peoples.’ In Jersey, drug stores were mom and pop for the most part. Remember it’s still 1968. This drug store was really part of a chain that sold everything. Yes, soup, walnuts, screws, hammers, sickles, detergent; all under the watchful eye of the Pharmacist. I was two years away from that official title. Drug stores in Jersey sold drugs, lotions, potions, condoms (they were never on display, but locked in third draw down, even with the Pharmacist’s knee, out of sight). Having worked since I was twelve in a New Jersey drug store, my dreams and comfort zone was with mom, pop and uncle. That ‘People’ store depressed me. I couldn’t see my future profession selling detergent and hammers. Back in Jersey, emotional, spirited and determined to preserve, I wrote a blistering editorial for the Rutgers Pharmacy School Journal, “Why Is The Sky Gray Daddy?” A testament to all the things which cast doubt on my world and profession.
Well here’s the circle, just about to close. I’m writing again, same title; now it’s a blog (back when Lyndon Johnson said he would not seek the nomination of his party for another term (thank goodness, I thought) if anyone mentioned ‘blog’ to me, I would’ve immediately thought ‘The Blob,’ a movie starring Steve McQueen). More circle stuff. I’m also the ‘Daddy’ now. And the sky is really, really gray. Last night my son started watching a BBC DVD called “Planet Earth.” Then we had that talk again (not sex) but the world he’s inheriting. The sky was gray for me back in 1968. It’s a different color gray now. Darker. Ominously dark. The UN warned two days ago that “massive” loss in life sustaining natural environments was probably going to get worse, to the point of being irreversible. Global targets to cut decline by now were missed. We are closer to the ‘tipping points.’ “I’m really sorry,” I said to my son. “Your generation ‘effed’ up, Dad.” “I know.” I whispered.
He rambled, talked about nature and a strange bird which puffs out his chest (a male) and dances trying to seduce a mate. Prior to the chest thing, the male bird actually cleaned his area, removing leaves, and scraped a branch (a bed?) with a piece of wood, in a polishing motion. “Nature is amazing,” my son said. I discoursed, “Humans have a lot to learn and not much time.” Then I got excited. A famous ice-cream chain opened up a drive thru next to a donut chain. We humans are so creative with time management. But we can’t speak the same environmental language to define things. Last year was the second hottest on the planet.
“It’s 1938,” I told my son. Neville Chamberlain appeased Hitler, looking for peace in our time. “It’s 2010. The world is not controlling nuclear proliferation. So in two years, some renegade terrorist group (not even a nation) gets their hands on a nuke and explodes it and then the “R” word.” “R?” My son asked. I said, “Retaliation.” More gray sky. A waste treatment facility in Massachusetts moved itself to higher ground, readying for rising sea levels. I explained the next thirty years or so we concentrate on sustainability, acceptance of the “tipping points.” Then I shrieked, “But we now have a hamburger in a Michigan minor league park that weighs in at 4800 calories and a new corn chip geometrically designed to reach all the dip at jar bottom.” More gray. That oil volcano (not leak) in the gulf goes on and on. More gray. I really feel gray. I feel sentimental writing the second installment of “Why is the Sky Gray Daddy?” But the original was forty-two years ago. I knew I had a lot of years left.