As you probably know, Mark Twain was responding to what he thought about golf. As for myself I am referring to what should be a celebration of a life well-lived but, instead, one that has become a true American tragedy.
Mrs. Commish has a favorite uncle named Cletus. And he is typical of many in the generation before mine. Cletus grew up in depression-era Baltimore and was poor in every way except those things that really mattered. He was an only child raised by a single mother who was widowed when Cletus was a mere lad but he grew up amongst a large family of cousins, aunts, and uncles. They did not have much, but they had a sense of family.
At seventeen Cletus left high school and was proud to serve in World War II. A hero? No, Cletus was just another young American doing what he thought had to be done.
In 1946 Cletus got his discharge and came home. To make a long story short, he got his G.E.D., went to college and became a teacher. He spent most of his teaching years in tough schools in the City. He never left for the county school system because he felt that he made a difference in the lives of some of “his kids.” Cletus stared down knife-wielding thugs posing as students on at least two occasions and verbally, not physically disarmed them. When he finally retired in the late 1980’s Cletus had a doctorate but had never left the classroom for the cushier life of an administrator. His “kids” still needed him.
All of the pieces were in place for the American Dream but something has gone horribly wrong. Cletus is Mrs. Commish’s favorite uncle, we talk to him a couple of times a day; and, even though he lives an hour away we usually see him several times a week. But not often enough.
Cletus never married and during the course of his working life he bought, lived in, and sold at least a dozen homes. While he never made as much as $20,000 a year, he was able to provide for his mother and himself. When his mother died after a lengthy period of decline, I think Cletus lost his direction in life. He no longer felt needed.
Today he gets, literally, two dozen requests for money every day in the mail. He believes that every request is real and sends out between $600 and $800 every month to save the whales, to save Social Security, to save American Indian children, to save the Democrats from the evil Republicans, to save the Republicans from the stupid Democrats, and to things like Citizens with Arthritis Concerned About Neighbors with Diabetes. He reads every mailing and believes in their pleas because “they wouldn’t be writing to me unless they really needed my help.” Now, finally, he believes his karma is being rewarded and he can help even more because Cletus has become “qualified” to be a sweepstakes winner.
We can no longer count the number of checks Cletus has written for $7.95, $19.95 and even $49.95 for fees “required” to redeem his possible prize. He grew up in an era that produced this feeling that Americans looked out for each other and he will not accept that anyone would try to scam him. After all, he has led a good life and tried not to hurt others. He does not comprehend how anything that says “Official” or “Express Mail Delivery” can be a scam. Now he is receiving telephone calls from persons with eastern European accents requesting him to meet with the “prize director” to receive his check for up to $400,000.00 that he is guaranteed to have won. All he needs is to have $1495 dollars in cash or cashiers check to hand over for “processing and qualified international fees.” At least on these occasions Cletus has taken the Commish’s advise to meet at his attorney’s office and never at his home. Of course these “prize directors” never want to meet in the presence of sane and rational persons; and, in fact, have become abusive over the phone and even cursed Cletus severely for not trusting them and not really wanting the sweepstakes money and then they abruptly hang up. They always call back.
Cletus has become an emotional wreck. He sort of realizes that the calls are from potentially dangerous people but he still can’t quite believe it. After being cursed at and hung up on, Cletus, for a short while, understands that he has managed to escape from a scam. However, before our phone call is even over he reverts to saying something like, “I can’t believe that someone from The Official Sweepstakes Redemption Center would treat me like that.” The scamming is forgotten and he awaits a call from someone with a nicer phone presence to call him with word of his winner’s check.
Most of Cletus’ friends have died, an unfortunate by-product of living a long life. He complains that no one comes to visit him and that all of his time is taken up by the mail. We just don’t understand, these are important letters. The mail is central to his daily routine, he cannot throw it out without reading every word and it piles up on every flat surface in his home. He says it has become the bane of his existence.
A few weekends ago, Mrs. Commish took Cletus to visit several independent living communities. Here he could make new friends, have his own condo, and, best of all, escape all of the daily solicitations that the mail plagues him with. Cletus broke down and cried saying if we forced him to go into one of “those” places he would but “no one would ever visit him and if we stopped his junk mail than no one would ever write to him either.”
Cletus can afford to enjoy his remaining years but he cannot let himself use his accumulated savings on himself. Those depression-era lessons run deep, much deeper than I can understand.
Today Cletus is still in his own home. So far he has not talked to us since we “tried to take him from his home.” That is my American Tragedy and I can’t stop thinking about it.
