GOODBYE NOTES PART TRES
To the young man, older than I by a few years at least, who picked me up on the Ohio Turnpike in 1958 while I was hitchhiking. You had a new Chevy sedan. I don’t recall the model but I do remember those flat and fat fins. I was standing on the entrance ramp having been courteously removed from the main road by the State Police. No hitchhiking allowed. I had been traveling with another sailor but he lived nearby and had gotten a local ride leaving me to my own devices. I was standing on the entrance ramp waiting for a ride. I needed to get to Boston. I’d never attempted a long-distance hitch such as this one. If I recall correctly Chicago to Boston is roughly a thousand miles. I must have had a 96-hour pass in order to try something like this. Typically, a 96-hour pass started on Thursday afternoon and went to Tuesday morning. I was nineteen years old and unintimidated by situations such as this. You stopped and asked me where I was going and you never batted an eye when I answered, “Boston”. “Get in” was all you said. Ten hours later you dropped me off at South Station where I caught a red line subway car to Fields Corner. Thanks for the great road trip and hundred-miles-per-hour experience. You were gracious and friendly and taught me about generosity. You caught on to my devious method of getting you to drop me off closer and closer to my home. You didn’t get angry but you let me know you were on to me. Goodbye and thanks for all you did to help this young sailor get home to see his girlfriend for a few days.
To the pretty woman with whom I shared a few days, meals, conversations in Martha’s Vineyard and Boston. We were both in our sixties and looking for a relationship through an online site. Probably “Green-Singles”. While at your house on the Vineyard I asked where the cups were in your kitchen. I was surprised, nonplussed, amused by your demonstration in which you stood in front of the dishwasher and began pointing out various cupboard doors. I can still hear you as you pointed; “dishwasher, sink, refrigerator, stove, dishes, glassware…” and on. All the while with a “are you an idiot?” look upon your schoolmarm face. I don’t miss you. Goodbye.
To the men in our Boothbay men’s group. Probably the best thing I ever did. I enjoy the company on the 2nd and 4th Mondays of the month. I enjoy the continuity from our many years now of sharing fears, doubts, and insecurities. We are only 5 in number having had at least 20 men pass through our sanctum. Still we are capable of gently enjoining with each other to effect positive change and outcomes. It has been a wonderful journey with you all. I believe I have learned to express myself in ways to get what I need and learned to listen patiently to encourage self -reflection in all of you. Thanks for not suggesting we do secret handshakes and all that distracting ritual crap. Men sitting and talking to each other is ritual enough for me. Goodbye, Mates.
To Abbe Lane. You and your hubby Xavier Cugart were playing Robin Hood’s Ten Acres in Wayland, Massachusetts at the same time my mother Velma Goodwin was playing the cocktail lounge. I showed up afterhours while the band and my mother were relaxing with a few drinks. I came to drive my mother home. I was eighteen years old and you were around twenty-five. You spied my youthful and baby-faced self at six feet skinny and your eyes flashed. My mother saw that and scooted out of the lounge booth you were all sharing and promptly ushered me out of there. Some other time, Abbe. Some other time. Goodbye, Beautiful.
To Paulo Freire, educator, philosopher, genius, activist. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You freed me up to accept all of the ideas from all of the people who are oppressed (including me of course). My life changed because you believed how knowledgeable we all are as is. Goodbye, Maestro.
To the several men and women who have walked away from workshops I have facilitated in the past. You dd the right thing. I hold no blame. I only wish we hadn’t had to experience the fears and self-doubts of those moments. I’m sure you suffered them more than I. (I hope this goodbye note does not feed my arrogant bent.) Goodbye to you all. I remember all of these instances.
To all of the people who rushed by me in Boston on Summer Street outside Brine Sporting Goods when I was a newsie selling newspapers; The Globe, The Traveler, and The American but not The Post. Some of you got the wrong change from me and you didn’t come back to square away the difference. Of course, I was always on the short end of those errors. Thanks for teaching me about human nature. I was in the 8th grade and just 12 years old. I was paid $4 a week, five days, and my boss “Red” with the coke bottle glasses didn’t pay me at all because I was short when I cashed in. You must all be dead by now. Good.
To the little girl I caught a glimpse of when I was a little boy. I was walking toward Columbia Road from Blue Hill Avenue in Dorchester. I may have been ten or eleven years old. You had long black curly hair and the bluest eyes and highest cheekbones! You were taking care of a toddler and you didn’t notice me. I was thunderstruck. That was over seventy years ago. Congratulations and goodbye. I take you all the way to my final resting place. Maybe I’ll take a final stroll past that spot to see if you are there. If only.
- M. Goodwin
May 24, 2018
Playing Fair and Being Kind 