Joy and Wisdom: First and Last Words

Joy bursts from a neo-being and is absorbed and amplified by an adoring ancestor. Later, the child hangs on the parent’s last breath silently hoping for last guidance or “intimations of immortality.”

“From the mouths of babes.” “From beyond the grave.” First and last words are powerful.

Let’s face it. Language is important to humans. Perhaps animals talk and we just don’t understand. That may even be likely, but when humans speak a different language and we just don’t understand, it is frustrating, a challenge to be overcome.

In the words of comedian Steve Martin:

“Dog is chien; cat is chat. Hat is chapeau. Those French! They have a different word for everything!”

Language is meaning; it is communication. It is central to our humanity. So is it any wonder that we so anxiously await our children’s first words?

“She was speaking from 3 months!” Really?

There is often a little friendly competition about whether a baby will open wide eyes, smile and first say “m-m-a-m-a-a” or “d-d-a-d-a-a.”  We decide what we want to be called and thrust our faces into the entire field of vision of an infant repeating some sounds over and over.  “Come on babygirl say “Pa, Pa-Pa, Pa – Pa, Pa, PA P-P-P-AAAAH!” It must be terrifying

Some grandparents take the appellation first mouthed by a little butterball that can’t rightly form words. Why else would there be glowing grayhairs at the grocery responding to names like “Gangy, Tinzi, Gumgum or Bingghi.”

First children often speak first words early. This is no doubt a function of parents, grandparents, family, friends and strangers pointing at things and repeating the word for them, over-and-over-and-over. When my children were little they even got this from the TV -Sesame Street “Near -Far, Near, Far, Near, Far. “AAAAAAAaaEEEEKkk! Can we please turn that off.”

That repetition can apply to whatever. We have a friend who swears that her first word was “cheese.” Apparently slices of American cheese were the first solid food she was given and she learned the word and repeated it early and often for the treat.

My youngest daughter was born in England and we lived in a section of Northwest London near Gladstone Park populated with enough Irish immigrants that it was known as County Cricklewood. Helen O’Sullivan lived behind us and was quite taken with baby Caitlin. She soaked the corner of a washcloth in her heavily sweetened tea for the baby to suck on saying “cuppa teee,” which predictably became one of Caitlin’s first words.

My first daughter, Tegan, is very verbal. She spoke early and often and still does. My son was and is less talkative.

When Zac was small he was slower than his sister had been in speaking. It may be his personality. He grew up to have other preferred media of communication than words. (He is a working artist.) When he was little, we were concerned that he was not talking. We worried out-loud to our friends, Steve and Roberta. They had a son Adam who was Tegan’s age, but not as verbal. “Kids are all different.” They reassured us.

They told us about friends of theirs with a little boy, Jake. “Jake never spoke. He was almost three-years-old. His parents were really worried. They’d taken the kid to specialists to see if his vocal cords and other equipment was functional. It was, but they were talking about an exploratory procedure. The were driving home from the hospital in Boston and they took a detour to drive by the Boston Common. It was Christmas and the whole place was lit up. They were worry-whining about the procedure. Suddenly they heard a little voice.

“Wow! Look at all the lights!” 

“Bob almost wrecked the car. But they turned around and there was Jake staring out the window from his car seat, totally transfixed. He just kept saying it. “Wow! Look at all the lights. Evidently the kid hasn’t stopped talking since,” said Steve.

Last words are something different. Somehow we think when people are dying something truly wise will pass their lips. Sometimes that pressure is too great.

Karl Marx’s housekeeper kept asking. Finally in frustration he replied,

“Go on. Get Out! Last words are for fools who believe they have not said enough in life.”

When my mother died at 93, she waited until all three of he children arrived. We sang songs we learned from her when she was a Camp Fire leader. She had no last words. We were singing “She’ll be coming ‘round the mountain when she comes” and she smiled, closed her eyes and breathed her last.

When he died at 95 two years earlier, my father didn’t really have any last words either, though he may have wanted to.  We kids were called to his bedside at 1:00 a.m. He was out cold helped by a morphine drip. We waited and waited for about an hour. Finally, I said to my sisters “Why don’t we come back at 7:00?” We left. Evidently at around 4:30 a.m. the power in the nursing home went out. There was a great rushing wind and another resident saw him walking down the hall. Even denied last words, he made his exit memorable.

People do say things as they die, some more profound than others.

Some express regret. I have long promised myself that I would not say what John Maynard Keynes, the British economist, said on his death bed:

“I wish I had drunk more Champagne.”

I have made sure that I celebrate and sip plenty of bubbly and will continue to do so till the end.

American actor Humphrey Bogart said goodbye to his wife Lauren Becall, as she left to get their children, with something that sounded a lot like his famous line from the movie Casablanca, “Here’s looking at you, kid.” Unfortunately, he passed before she returned, but before he left he turned to a nurse and said, “I should never have switched from Scotch to Martinis.”

The last words of some are the perfect reflection of who they were in life. Oscar Wilde died in a hotel after bitterly complaining about the aesthetics of the hotel room wallpaper in the room where he was. “Either that wallpaper goes or I do.” After he died the hotel changed the wallpaper in his room.

Gustav Mahler, the composer and conductor was vigorously waving his arms when a nurse tried to quiet him. “Mozart,”  he smiled and died.

Emily Dickenson said, “I must go, the fog is rising.”

Some pass giving us hints of what lays beyond. Thomas Alva Edison, inventor of the lightbulb and so much else, said, “It’s very beautiful over there.”

Steve Jobs, said “Oh wow. Oh, wow, Oh Wow!” A little like Jake’s first words. Promising.

But in the words of the Iris Dement song, “I think I’ll just let the mystery be.”

Probably just telling those you love that you love them is more than enough, as did John Wayne, Vince Lombardi, W.C. Fields and many others.

As a writer, there is a great temptation to want to craft something.

In my senior year of college I acted in a dramatized version of Edgar Lee Masters “Spoon River Anthology.” This is a collection of poems spoken by residents of a graveyard in a small Mid-Western town. The characters each spoke about their lives and loves, pains and joys. It is a moving portrait of the dead looking back at life.

I spoke the last words in the play and I always found them to be the kind of peaceful ending I might wish.. When I read the book of poems, these words were not there. “Oh no! Did the scriptwriter make them up?” I thought.

No. It turns out the words are Edgar Lee Masters’ epitaph:

 “I think I’ll sleep. There is no sweeter thing nor fate more blessed than to sleep. Here world, I pass you like an orange to a child. I can no more with you. Do what you will.”

“Wow! Look at all the lights.”