Top of the ladder

Once upon a time, in the early morning hours of a New York City state of mind, we were drinking beer and smoking cigarettes and talking about bands and rock and roll and everything at that early hour. I told him that in certain cultures, it is not the parents but the oldest adult male member of the family, clan, or tribe who makes all the decisions. “The village elder/clan head.” If a family member wants to marry, go into business, or move to another city, state, or town, they must first get the blessing from the oldest adult male member of the family, which is now you,” I said. He responded with that curious voice, contagious smile, and laugh that was always ready to seek out and learn new ideas with eager anticipation.
With this, his eyes lit up and twirled with the possibility that he had finally reached the top rung. he was at the top of the ladder. Only his decisions are binding for the rest of the tribe and the rest of the clan. This process is by no means specific for every adult member. First and foremost, you must outlive every other male adult clan member. It’s not enough to be 84 years old because there’s always another one who might be 85. Some go before their time, and some who seemed to be preparing for the position all their life don’t make it. But because of the situation’s fate, he suddenly found himself at the top of the ladder.
So, with the death of the 90-year-old uncle sat the last eternal optimist on the top of the ladder. I had known him for 40 years, and they were full years of song, full of a manifest destiny of possibilities. Full of waking up daily, feeling energized to talk to and be in his presence. To speak to him, there was a certain amount of spark in his voice. You understood and were enlightened by his energy. As an optimist, he knew that America was an exceptional country. We were set apart from the rest, destined for great things. So, he was destined for great things. He was part of that younger people’s mid-century world that emerged from World War 2, complete with sock hops, Soda pops, drag races down Queens Blvd, and Brooklyn Dodgers as world series champs—lived in the most fantastic city on Earth at the most beautiful time to be alive—the town he would never abandon.
Younger people may not understand what eternal optimism in American exceptionalism means, but if you sat with him for five minutes, you would understand and know. And at last, you would stand with him to see a universe of possibilities.
Of course, those at the top of the ladder are the ones who can only understand what is at the top of the ladder. I cannot entirely understand it, but I do my best to tell you his story. Because when you’re at the top of the ladder, above is only sky and space created by the grace of God. And below is all of humanity, with sounds of Beer and cigarette butts, pain and suffering, overdue bills, deadlines, places to be, and expectations of failure.
He knew all that; of course, he did. But he saw beyond that: the Sunday morning Grand Canyon of possibilities. It filled a life with love, smells, and sounds of a city that never slept. He saw all its crocuses, daffodils, and flowers of a bright, shining spark of a new town in the mind of forever. He knew and never gave up on it; if he were your friend, he would never give up on you.
And at last, he saw the top rung of the ladder, something he never expected, but that’s life. Handing you something in a way you never expected. What is life but flowers full of great expectations of success, which should always be welcome, and to discard the failure who preaches great intelligence but never gets on any ladder, much less climb it?
So now it’s long tears and a journey in March as he travels to the West. It is the best time to travel there, so he does and finally joins from here to eternity, which was also a movie he liked.