Something completely different...

Recollecting a past...

Just before the turn of the century, I learned that my teacher, John M. Anderson—the man under whose direction I finished my PhD in philosophy—had been transferred to a care facility, suffering from incipient dementia. I had been a professor at the University of Wisconsin for decades by then. I decided to go to Pennsylvania to see him a final time…

This is what I wrote after that visit:

When I enter the lobby and ask for directions to John Anderson’s room an old fellow near the office speaks right up. So I follow him along a wide hall, taking in the place. Expensive carpeting, prim and characterless decor, like an outsized motel with handrails. We enter a large sitting room and are nearly across it when my guide stops and points. “Well, there he is,” he says.

I would have missed him. John is dozing on a small loveseat in the corner. A woman in a wheelchair is watching a soundless TV showing a local weather tape and current stock market reports. John rouses when I greet him, managing to keep a copy of Unterwegs zur Sprache from slipping off the bag in his lap. His fringe of gray hair is overlong and unkempt, his face clumsily shaved but with a tidy mustache. “Oh, hello,” John says, “I was waiting for you.” The voice is still familiar, but quavering a bit, the eyes red and watery behind large tortoise shell frames. He seems to recognize me, but I say my name anyway. He says he’s glad to see me and replies amiably when I ask how he’s feeling. We exchange amenities for a few minutes.

Then he holds up the book. “Heidegger was on to something here,” he says. “Which essay were you reading,” I ask, “the Conversation?” “No,” he says, “Heidegger wrote all of this.” Running his finger down the contents he stops at “Das Wesen der Sprache.” “It turns out,” he announces in a stronger voice, “that the wesen here is...” and he pauses to jab his thumb toward his own chest. I agree with him.

A staff member comes by to ask whether I’ll be staying for lunch. I say yes. Then, carefully replacing the book in his bag, John makes ready to rise. He attempts to shoulder the bag, but the strap comes apart, so he holds it to his chest as we negotiate several turns along the hallway to his room. I ask him how he likes living in the building. He complains about the noise and the lack of stimulation. “Nobody talks about anything,” he says. When I ask about visitors, he tells me Barbara has come once. He doesn’t mention anyone else.

On the way in from the Harrisburg airport I’d nearly missed the turnoff to Huntingdon. Despite never having driven in the area before, once I was off the interstate memories came back to me of serpentine Pennsylvania roads. The stark February landscape and the odor of coaldust deepened my uncertain mood. In August I had become concerned when John no longer answered his phone and ceased to reply to my letters. It had taken some time to find out that he’d been moved to the assisted living building of the Westminster facility that had been his home for some five years. I decided to make this trip after a staff member put John on the phone back in December. He had sounded hearty enough, but I’d had to remind him who I was. That was when I began to feel anxious. As the time approached my anxiety intensified.

Huntingdon appeared cramped and grimy, but it had been decades since I’d experienced a Pennsylvania winter. I passed the cluster of old buildings forming the Juniata College campus. John told me once that he’d decided to move to Huntingdon because of the proximity of the college. He talked about doing some teaching and coursework there. A little further on I find the Westminster buildings are uniformly new and substantial, spread on a spacious hillside site. I approached the entry to the large Homestead building with trepidation.

John searches his pockets for his keys as we reach his room, slowly unlocks the door, and reaches for the wall switch as I follow him inside. Harsh light from two overhead fluorescent fixtures makes me blink and squint. The floorspace is nearly filled by a rumpled single bed backed with an ornate antique headboard. There’s a doorless entry to the toilet and shower across from the foot of the bed, with the rest of the wall taken up by sagging bookshelves. Few books remain, however. In their place are many small piles of underwear and clothing. I recognize some of the bits of furniture as remnants from John’s past lives. He tucks his bag under his pillow and sits down in an old three legged chair. I perch on the only other seating, an enamel hospital stool in front of a makeshift desk. A photo apparently taken just a few years before is pinned to the wall. In the picture he’s carrying the bag. There’s a dusty rotary telephone and an old Mac on the desk. I ask him whether he’d like a new computer. He frowns, then says no.

My anxiety began to subside, replaced by an urge to take care of him. I recalled an occasion a few years before while traveling with my mother, also in her eighties. Following a minor accident in her hotel room, she looked up at me sheepishly and, like a child, asked whether I would clean it up for her. John Anderson had been my teacher, the man with whom, more than any other, I had learned how to read and to think philosophically.

Now I’m trying to find subjects to talk about. Sometimes he’s able to reply, sometimes his eyes drift upward and the next words are about something else. There’s a knock at the door and a muffled voice announces lunch is ready. Retrieving his bag, John threads the strap through a loop and attempts to shoulder it. The strap comes loose again. So, once more hugging the bag to his chest, he relocks the door, telling me people go into his room if he leaves it unlocked.

Several tables are now set in the large room. A number of residents are seated family style, in quiet conversation. We sit by ourselves. Lunch is a small lettuce salad and beefaroni with white bread. John criticizes the food but eats it all. He seems to enjoy the jello. After lunch we stroll across the lobby. John points out the library, but tells me it has nothing in it worth reading. He walks with some difficulty. I propose we sit and talk for awhile but it pains me to find myself tiring of the difficulty conversation presents. I try several leading questions about how it feels to suffer such trouble thinking or speaking, but he seems not to want to address his condition. I suggest a walk.

We go back to his room for his jacket and start off from the front entrance. The drive leads downhill toward town and also curves back toward buildings higher on the slope. A few patches of snow are visible in the woods across the drive, but the day is mild and calm. John looks straight ahead and his words came more freely as he points things out for me. His stiff-hipped gait tells me he’s afflicted with arthritis. I think back to walks with him between buildings on campus and in the hills around State College, back when his long stride seemed tireless and left me hurrying to keep up.

When, nearly forty years before, I received John’s invitation to do graduate study in philosophy at Penn State, my decision to accept was prompted more than anything else by the personal interest he seemed to take in me. John Anderson changed my life and set me on the path into teaching. Looking back, I can see how much of my career has been shaped by his example. But when I took my leave a few hours later that afternoon I realized that, like him, I had been unwilling to face something. Addressing his mental decline was too painful for John to do. Similarly, it was too painful for me to acknowledge that this was certainly the last time I would see him. As I drove away that day, John raised his hand. The gesture seemed more benediction than farewell.

Now on our walk we reach the curve in the drive and he turns uphill. In a few minutes, he stops to tell me this next building is the hospital. By the time we complete the circuit he is visibly tiring . As soon as we’re inside again John says it’s time for his nap.

Back in his room I ask whether I can take his bag to have it repaired while he rests. A look of fear clouds his eyes. It’s already stowed under the pillow. He draws it out slowly, puts its books and papers in a pile, and hesitantly hands it to me. It’s smaller than a briefcase, the once good leather very well worn. I see now that the stitching of the loop for the strap’s buckle has long since come out and the buckle is gone. An attempt has been made to fix the loop with glue. I assure him I’ll have it back when he wakes.

My plan is to find a coffee shop, write in my journal, then get a buckle at the hardware and have a shoe repair shop resew the strap. There are no coffee shops. “Watt’s Cafe” is very small and some people in there are smoking. I end up at the library. After finishing my notes I ask for directions. The woman at the circulation desk says, “We don’t have a regular hardware store anymore.” I ask about a repair shop. Others chime in. It turns out there’s no longer a shoe repair either. I’m directed to the variety store out by the highway.

The store proves to be a bargain outlet in a strip mall. I look first for a sewing awl. No luck. As I search for an employee my glance falls on a rack of belts. I find one that nearly matches the color of John’s bag. Before driving back, I take out my knife and trim it to the length of the original shoulder strap.

Opening the door to my knock John tells me I awakened him, with what sounds like a mild note of reproof. I present him with the bag, threading the belt around it and buckling it to show him how I was replacing the old strap. He watches me carefully. Now he takes the bag from me and shoulders it. A broad smile spreads over his face. “It stays,” he says.