“If I make a mistake, it’s entirely my fault.”
I’m standing on the corner of Barrett and 30th
street, pausing for a chat during my morning walk. It’s unseasonably warm for
the last day of February. I left the house with only a sweatshirt on, but have
it tied around my waist at this point, nearing the end of my jaunt.
Sharon is kneeling
on the bottom step of her massive outside entryway. She’s painstakingly
applying some sort of gooey grey stuff to the fancy tiles, rubbing it into the crevices
with her fingers, pushing and smoothing it down.
How can she
sit there and do this? Doesn’t her back hurt? She must be my age. In her 60s or
50s. I can’t tell. She’s a slim, red haired woman in jeans and long sleeves and
no hat, her big eyes framed by gold wire rimmed glasses.
I’ve spoken
to her a few times before. Once when she told me about a police chase that
threw a man onto her yard, landing injured and later dying. Then several other
times to comment on her steps. How she has to finish by the time it rains. How
if she doesn’t, she’ll have to cover the work with huge blue tarps to keep the
rain off.
It’s a big project. And from the looks of it, a never ending one. She’s always out here, crouching on the steps, working to create an entryway that would rival any in Architectural Digest.
Now, when I
mention the warmth and then we both comment on how it’s supposed to rain by Sunday,
I ask her if she likes doing this work.
“I do,” she
nods, smiles a little, brushes a wisp of a red lock from her face.
“That’s
cool,” I say, thinking how no one could pay me to do this kind of work.
Then the
line about how if she makes a mistake it’s her fault. I don’t know what to say
to this other than to laugh softly, wondering why she would say this. Did she hire
someone else to do this job and they messed it up? Then she had to redo it
herself? Now, she regrets this decision. But is secure in the knowledge that
she’s ultimately responsible. That she has no one to blame but herself for the
end result?
Frankly, I’d
want to have someone else to blame for any mistakes. I get so tired of always
being responsible for everything I do. If a student complains about how a date
is wrong on my syllabus, I can only apologize and fix it myself. No one else to
blame. If the plants die cuz I don’t water them, I can only blame myself for
hating hoses. If I don’t finish a book cuz I think it’s too much work, I only
have myself to blame for not having the attention span to carry on.
Yeah, it’d be better to have someone else to blame, wouldn’t it?
Who would I
blame?
Right now,
that’s easy. EVERYTHING that is wrong is Donald Trump’s fault. Globally and
locally and yes, me too!
I know he got into my syllabus interface (Or sent Elon Musk there!) and changed the dates so they’re all wrong.
I know that
he purposely kept me from getting out of bed from my afternoon nap and not
picking up the hose.
And,
mostly, I know he’s to blame for my anxiety, depression, and stress in my life
generally! Who knows what’s going to happen? Will I lose my social security? My
job? My house?
I know if
these things happen, I wouldn’t have myself to blame. I didn’t vote for him. He’s
not my president.
All of
these musings are nothing new, I know. But when it comes to mistakes, the
biggest one that has happened in my life is the election of Donald Trump to the
presidency.
I don’t
have myself to blame! And, I don’t know who to blame. And perhaps, blame isn’t
helpful. Yet, it’s a human reaction to mistakes and wrongs, isn’t it?
I wave goodbye to Sharon who’s gone back to mushing grout. “Bye,” she calls softly, engrossed in her task.
Turning up
30th Street, I sigh deeply, drinking in the warm spring air as a
crow lights on the telephone wire and starts to caw caw caw at no one in
particular.
