Dear Diary: Family
At one end of things, Kathleen’s mother is ailing. At the other, Megan talks about “the little one.” Now that my daughter is more than halfway through her pregnancy, I expect that she will just laugh when she hears that, contrary to my recollections, I’ve been itching for grandchildren since she was eight years old. At least! That’s to say that Megan was eight years old when Kathleen met her, and already, according to my wife, I was looking forward to future generations. I myself date this anticipation to a far more recent period. The moment I knew that Megan and Ryan would be getting married, I became Grandchildren Central, although I tried not to betray this preoccupation, even though it was as though antlers were growing out of my scalp.
There are grandfathers who want to enroll their grandchildren at prestigious universities. I want to take my grandson to the Cloisters. Actually, I’m thinking more about a Fort Tryon Park experience; we can leave the Cloisters itself for later — as long as he sees the building through the trees. The simple truth is that I grew up in the ecosphere of which Fort Tryon Park — but not Central Park — is a part. I probably won’t live long enough to want to take my grandson all the way out to Bronxville (that would be never), so the homeyness at the northern end of Manhattan is most welcome.
If I’m not thinking much about the prestigious-university thing, that’s only because I doubt that there’s a school that’s good enough for this kid. No vanity intended! At The Daily Blague today, I did a little math, and calculated that the tuition for a truly superior education, taught by five seminar leaders to twenty students, would come to a total of $50,000 for a three-year program (pricey, but also dirt cheap, considering current costs), at an annual payout to the teachers of $200,000. The math is probably incorrect — and, sadly, it wouldn’t have been any better if I’d gone to this sterling academy. Paying the teachers, though, would be the only signifcant cost. It’s inconceivable that the books would cost more than $500 altogether. As for location, I’m counting on the kindness of strangers, because, frankly, classroom costs oughtn’t to amount to much more than zero.
The prospect of being a grandfather is certainly concentrating my mind. To an extent that I’d have thought objectionable as well as improbable, I’ve lost interest in non-family connections. While I was still seeing a psychotherapist, a year or so ago, I discussed the possibility that my personaltiy lay on the Asperger’s-autism spectrum. This was pooh-poohed professionally, rightly I’m sure. (How like me to be crestfallen at not “having” a stylish handicap.) I wondered about it, though, because my connections to other people have always been so weak. I don’t know a soul from childhood; I’m barely in touch with my sister. Aside from Fossil Darling (food for thought, when you think about it), I wouldn’t know anybody from prep school or college if it weren’t for Facebook. I have one friend from my seven years in Houston, and I’ve actually lost two others, definitively. Six years of collegiality on Wall Street have left no trace at all. At best, I’m like the clubman in the William Maxwell story who “had no friends.” If I do have friends, it’s because I’m married to one of the friendliest women on earth. Left to myself, I’d have no encounters off the Internet.
This line of thinking has been intensified by my summer experiment of giving up everything except The Daily Blague and Portico. Whether the experiment was a success or not, it’s too early to tell; but I’ve come out of it with the most magnificent feelings. There’s no doubt in my mind that I unearthed my métier this summer, and the discovery has rendered me mightily impatient with the activities of the past sixty years. I need people more than ever, but I need them on the other side of a correspondence, not at the other side of a table. I’m in almost desperate need of people who want to write as well and as badly as I do. That must be why I can’t wait to make the acquaintaince of my grandson, with whom I won’t be conversing for a while. Knowing someone whom I love to pieces (as I doubtless shall) and of whom I expect nothing: that will happen. Â