Alan S. Oser

Bad enough that I have lost my car keys, my address book, my passport, and even, on occasion, my wallet. Must I also lose my temper? Apparently.

It is true that I always recover my temper. It will return on its own eventually, as a lost pet often does. But if my outburst was loosed on another person rather than myself or the gods in general who abuse me, then the damage to a relationship and my self-interest will have been done. It may be repaired, depending upon the target and the circumstances. Yet to some extent my relationship with the target of my abuse will never be the same.

Usually this is to be regretted. If so, apology may help, but apology is difficult. And not entirely sincere. I may regret the outburst itself, but I probably still believe that the cause made it understandable. To get the target to agree is unlikely, and probably it’s not a good idea to try. It will probably start another argument and lead to another outburst of temper.

The only answer is a period of silence and brooding. May it pass quickly.

For the most part, I have avoided this scenario in life, because I learned early to keep my temper in check. This gets harder to do as old age closes in and I myself, increasingly, become the target. Beethoven wrote a piece for piano called “Rage Over a Lost Penny.” The idea is supposed to be amusing as well as true, but I think it is merely true. It makes a pretty good piano piece, however.

So now I am wondering why it is harder, as one ages, to hold one’s temper. Why is it that that the less significant the cause, the more likely the onset of rage. My stock portfolio can fall in value by a third almost overnight – and has – but the emotion this causes is gloom, or despair, not rage. Rage is reserved for pennies, lost suddenly and unexpectedly.

“Where is my umbrella?” I asked no one in particular as I was leaving a restaurant with my wife, already late for the start of a concert at a church a few blocks away. I rushed back to our table and looked about hurriedly and unsuccessfully for my $4 umbrella, while rage built. A waiter hurried to my assistance, bent low below the table, and found the umbrella lying on the floor, where I had left it. Incipient rage dissipated and we made the performance in plenty of time.

Perhaps the point is not that the loss that inspires rage is insignificant, but rather that forgetfulness is a sign of slippage in aging, and a confirmation of it in the mind of one’s wife. She is usually nearby keeping watch for just such events.

On the other hand, I was alone in my car driving to Amherst College one afternoon in the 1970’s when I had the worst explosion of rage I can recall. I was due at a specific hour to witness my freshman son’s performance on the flute at a concert by the college’s symphony orchestra.

Anyone who drives to New England from New York City as regularly as I do knows that at Hartford the driver faces a critical choice: Drive due north to get to Springfield and points north, including Amherst, or keep right to head to Sturbridge and points east via the Massachusetts Turnpike.

I’ve often gone to Maine via the Sturbridge route. We have a cabin there in the woods, on a lake. Driving to Springfield and points north was a relatively infrequent experience until Roy started at Amherst College. I was eager to get there this time, to start gushing with pride at his fine flute solos. I was in a pleasant mood as I drove, rather like Bertie Wooster en route to a visit in an English country house, singing “tra-la-la” as he drove.

This pleasant mood of expectation vanished in an instant as I notice the first “Sturbridge” sign. I was heading mindlessly to Maine! I shrieked in anguish, and barked the familiar profanities. I would have arrived just on time with no driving error. Now I was certain to be late.

Once on the Mass Pike I put the pedal to the floor and headed west to Amherst at 80 miles an hour, sputtering oaths and seething with suicidal feelings. Miraculously I arrived on time, unticketed and warmly welcomed. There were no direct unfavorable consequences, but once revealed to friends and family, the episode provided one additional topic for amusement at my expense.

It may not be accurate to describe what was lost that day as temper. It was really self-control, a broader category in which temper is only one element. Fear can cause a loss of self-control, as can grief or shock. When the immediate cause of control loss is anger, I call what was lost “temper.” On that day on the Massachusetts Turnpike the immediate cause of my loss of self-control was a mixture of disgust and anger directed at myself.

The difference is that temper should be controllable, whereas the loss of control resulting from fear, grief or shock will not be, or at least is much harder to bring off. Now is the time to confess that it has not always been at my own expense that I’ve lost my temper. The targets have more often been my children when they were young, or service people who have let me down. In other words, those in no position to give as good as they get.

In the presence of a large man, or even one’s wife, loss of temper can backfire disastrously. This realization usually enables my control mechanism to work admirably. When I was young, however, I failed to appreciate the importance of control in the face of such odds. I recall a young tough named Butsy Eimer, who could terrorize other 12-year-olds merely with his sneer. We had all seen how slight was the provocation that could put his fists in action.

At that age I was an ardent defender of the poor and distressed. One day, losing my temper, I took it upon myself to challenge Butsy angrily on behalf of a frail 10-year-old whom he was bullying in front of several other boys. We were gathered at the edge of an open lot where the land dropped sharply about 10 feet to the sidewalk. “Leave the kid alone!” I demanded.

“Mind your business,” Butsy thoughtfully countered. Then he walked over to me and slugged me on the jaw, knocking me over the ledge. I staggered backwards to the sidewalk. Then I picked myself up, suppressing my tears, and slunk homeward. Subsequently I adopted milder methods for the defense of oppressed 10-year-olds. I did surprisingly pick up some admirers that day. The episode actually reduced Butsy’s standing with his peers.

Looking back, I applaud my early capacity for loss of temper at the practice of injustice in front of my eyes. It seems a pity that with age only the trivial has the capacity to unhinge me. Yet once unhinged, we the creaky aged should find more effective ways than loss of temper to respond to demonstrations of injustice. I hope we do.