A benediction

Last Sunday I went to the Pasadena Humane Society in a desperate attempt to find Freddy. He wasn't there, although a dog that looked exactly like him was. For some reason, the rather painful sight of another adorable black and white shih-tzu at the shelter made me hopeful that Freddy is still alive, maybe in a another shelter. Despite the voice of reason telling me I was setting myself up for a lot of misery, I called the microchip company.

I'd been putting this off for months because the thought of hearing another person recognize that Freddy is missing makes me want to puke, so imagine my surprise when the operator told me that someone found him that morning and brought him to the PHS. After a lot of hysterical, strangled, joyous incredulity from me, the operator realized the incident report he was looking at was actually from April. In short, I pulled out of the PHS parking lot in tears. I do not recommend driving while crying. It is hard to see.

Anyway, I decided to go to the mall and engage in some retail therapy, but I guess between the heat and the crying and the overwhelming self-pity, I got lost in the beautiful labyrinth that is San Marino. While pondering metaphor implicit in literally losing my way after losing my dog, I found myself suddenly at the gates of the Huntington compound/library/arboretum/museum/whatever--this place. I hadn't been in about 15 years and parking was free, so I pulled in.

There are lots of awesome things at the Huntington, not to mention an award winning gift shop, and Coleridge's annotated copy of his own book (anyone wanna to help me steal it?). What I can't get out of my mind, however, is a quote from the Annals: An Account of the Life of Dr. Samuel Johnson, from his Birth to his Eleventh Year, written by himself, painted on a wall in the Johnson exhibit:

"I was born at Lichfield. My mother had a very difficult and dangerous labor, and was assisted by George Hector, a man midwife of great reputation. I was born almost dead, and could not cry for some time. When he had me in his arms, he said, 'Here is a brave boy.' "

I stood there reading these sentences over and over, more confused each time. Why did Hector say Johnson was brave? because he didn't (couldn't) cry? because he was almost dead, but not quite? because he thought it would encourage the uncomprehending baby to live? because life is nothing but adversity and Sam Johnson left the womb anyway? Why does Johnson start his autobiography with this annecdote? Is "man" really necessary in the description of George Hector's profession? Shouldn't someone have said to Mrs. Johnson, "Here is a brave mother?"

Why did the exhibit planners stick this stupid, enigmatic quote on the wall?

I'm not sure why I wanted answers to these questions, or why I even asked them in the first place. Realistically, it was probably because I was hot and tired and the lazy bum in me realized that standing still was easier than walking, and reading something at eye level was easier than peering down into the display cases. For the sake of argument though, let's say it was because I read those sentences and thought, "I feel almost dead, and haven't allowed myself to cry for some time. I wish someone would take me up and say, 'Here is a brave girl.' "

I pictured Johnson hunched over a table, putting his childhood into words on a candle-lit page. This man, whose contributions to the English language are apparently outranked only by Shakespeare and God, chose to introduce himself as "a brave boy." What was happening in his life as he wrote these words? Maybe he had just left Oxford, brilliant but impoverished and unable to pay his tuition. Was he in his 40s, a struggling writer with an ailing wife 21 years older than him, working on a dictionary of the English language that would consume 10 years of his life? Could he have been suffering one of many bouts of manic depression? Perhaps King George III had just granted him a £300 pension for the Dictionary. Or maybe he was working on his edition of Shakespeare, counting the clock that tells the time, and seeing the brave day sunk in hideous night.

I hope George Hector, the man midwife of great reputation, didn't actually call a newborn whose greatest and only accomplishment was to not be dead a brave boy. I hope the story wasn't made up by Johnson's mother, a belated apology for sending him out to a tubercular wetnurse. I like to think that it was an act of artistic license. I like the idea of Johnson, the Great English Writer, mucking through one of the many low points of his life, bestowing upon himself a small benediction. And maybe this is the only form of bravery that matters.