The older I get, the more I realize what an enigma my father was and how insufficient my overtaxed memory has become at dispelling the mystery of the man. Time and again I fix his portrait within my mind's eye only to look away and find it reduced to paint chips and sparkling dust.
Now and then I can hear him before the last 30 years of silence picking out a tune on Mom's piano, fists clenched, forefingers extended and stabbing out the notes, singing: "I like coffee, I like tea; I like the girls, and the girls like me!" Sometimes he sang-along with Sinatra's "Young at Heart" on the hi-fi or, embarrassingly enough, offered up a boisterous Tony Orlando & Dawn's "Tie a Yellow Ribbon" which was always sung up-tempo with a load "Whoa!" to properly kick off each chorus.
As I grew up, he practiced routines that were utterly foreign to me, my sisters and our friends and used a language all his own. Dinner at the kitchen demanded cloth napkins, no elbows and mouths closed when chewing. Conversation there was punctuated by Dad's sparse French "Passez-moi le beurre, s'il vous plait" or simply "Ou est le beurre?" Time alone with Dad was sometimes even more incomprehensible, especially when confessing sin. The private disappointments I authored were often met with the horrified odd exhortation, "Use yer beano Murray, use yer beano!"
In winter, on the coldest of Sunday mornings, he would warm the car before driving us to Sunday School. He consigned us to the backseat where he wrapped us in car blankets knowing we could never be too warm in the brittle snap of February. Thus mobilized, we were a captive audience to his ongoing lecture series on the perils of being a child.
Dad's favorite (and oft repeated) themes included "You Think Money Grows On Trees" (Part 1) which, if he drove slowly or we left early, was followed by a brisk "You Kids Are So Ungrateful" (Part 2). Although wildly popular, "I Would Never Speak To My Mother Like That" could never hold a candle to the masterful "My Father Would Have Thrown Me Across The Room If I Ever (fill in the blank)" which, quite frankly, always brought down the house.
Ever the dutiful disciplinarian, Dad always strove to ensure that, by the time we reached church, we were indeed ready to come to Jesus. Sadly, faithful, dogmatic repetition of these time-honored themes didn't phase us. We were awful kids.
I say that in hindsight, of course. Back then, we were golden, Teflon, unimpeachable--the glowing, ripening apples of our grandmother's eye! Except perhaps for one tiny, irreducible flaw passed down to us from our mother: we were always late. No matter where we were going, no matter where we had been, somehow we were always, always late--no mean feat for children raised in a town that thrived on time. Elgin watches aside, we were a tardy people who made others tardy as well and that was unforgivable. Dad had a strange and exotic name for someone who kept him waiting: Aggie Twaddle.
"Come on Aggie Twaddle," hands fixed at 10 and 2 and thumbs thumping out the measure while he fought the urge to honk. "Let's go Aggie Twaddle," locked doorknob firmly grasped in one hand and car keys splayed in the other ready to poke the engine to life. "Are you ready Aggie Twaddle?" innocent expression fixed over Mom's left shoulder in the mirror even while the anxious eyes gave it all away.
Who, I have always wondered, is Aggie Twaddle and where in the world is she going? Is she just another fleck of fallen paint chip or does she have more to say on the subject of Arthur Macdonald Ferreira?
I doubt he realized it, but Dad's lessons might have made more of an impact at the time had he been more forthcoming about his own life. His family were strangers to us and infrequent visitors to our home. Reunions--seldom held--were private affairs looped around Dad's poker table, fortified with gin and tonic, scented with menthol cigarettes and punctuated with the foreign vowels of Boston's streets.
What they discussed over those long nights is unknown, but they had no shortage of history for review. Their father died early in life and left their mother, Jeannette, destitute with four children to raise in the growing dust of the Great Depression. Though still a child, Robert, the oldest, quickly grasped what few adults could: Jeannette was unsuited to her fate, oblivious to their peril and incapable of escaping her condition. Resolved, the children closed ranks to protect her. Robert quit school to work mean jobs and feed the family. Arthur and George scoured the nearby railyards every day, buckets in hand, searching for stray bits of coal to dull the teeth of their New England winters. Their sister "Kargy" took charge of the household as best she could.
I'd like to think that this painful, hard-won knowledge would have made Dad's lessons more meaningful to me as a child. Surely all these moments and scattered bits of information would have cracked the hard, glossy shell of cynicism my sisters and I wore so openly. And my father's witness--the mysterious Aggie Twaddle--perhaps most of all, would have spoken volumes about the hopes and dreams of a child who would later become the man. Ironically enough, she would have done so without saying a word.
Who was Aggie Twaddle? Released on Christmas Eve 1922, the silent movie "Broke and Back Home" was pure Horatio Alger with its rags-to-riches plotline. It tells the story of Tom Redding's journey back to respectability and introduces us to the people he meets along the way--including our very own Aggie Twaddle. Even though her name only appears in the cast listing and no mention of her place in the story is made, I can imagine what she might have meant to my father. He would have been 10 at the time, and the storyline would have gripped him. When his apparently wealthy father dies and leaves only debts, Tom Redding is deserted by all save Mary Austin. Desperate, he goes west and successfully develops an oil well. Later, Tom returns home in the guise of poverty, secretly buys up property and then rubs everyone's noses in his good fortune and gets the girl when he reveals that he's rich. Small wonder that, just seven years later, Dad turned his back on Boston and struck out for California in hopes of finding a little good fortune of his own.
Whatever part Aggie Twaddle may have played in Tom Redding's life, it's clear she made a lasting impression on my father and, in turn, on me. What's funny is that I didn't have far to look for her at all. I just needed to be willing to look. She was a resident in my father's every home, a passenger in every car and a sympathetic friend with whom he synchronized his watch every time I made him wait. She's present in my home and mind as well now, no longer a discarded or decaying bit of portrait paint. Instead, she's taken on some dimension and loaned a bit of it to Dad. She's given him some color and definition, filling in the background with meaning instead of shadows and adding purpose and perspective to the lines around his eyes. I'm still filling in the gaps, but his portrait is far from incomplete. I'm not worried though. After all, memory is a work in progress, too.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Sunday, July 3, 2011
In Praise of the Third of July
Despite the fact that the Fourth of July marks the signing of the Declaration of Independence, the founding of our country and the launch of modern democracy, the holiday hasn't carried much weight with my family for almost 30 years. I guess, in a way, we can take it or leave it.
We didn't always feel this way, however. Back in the 50s, 60s and 70s, my extended family gathered at my grandparents' home where we'd picnic in the back yard and listen to the cicadas' song rise and fall like a lazy siren. At twilight, my sisters and cousins and I would play "kick-the-can" with the neighborhood kids and pursue one another through Miss Purdy's yard and the Mayberry's bushes. And finally, when the night had fallen into a pool of velvet dark, my Dad would pile all of us into the station wagon and we'd drive all over the county as we chased the fireworks shooting overhead.
All of that was lost when I went away to college at the University of Missouri-Columbia. With my grandparents gone, the house on Oak Street was sold to strangers. And after years of anxious waiting, my father announced his plans to abandon suburbia and retire to a 10-acre "farmette" he'd found a few miles outside Jeff City, the capital of Missouri. It was a nice spread as these things go: a small barn for boarding horses, 8 acres of fenced pasture, a chicken coop, a workshop and all kinds of old tools, plows and implements hidden in the weeds. Every other week Dad would find one of these ancient, blackened marriages of iron and rotting wood, drag it to the front yard and slap a "FOR SALE" sign on it--entrepreneurial to the end.
The farm was Dad's dream and his long awaited chance to raise Black Angus cattle, board horses and weed two acres of scraggly lawn to within an inch of its life. For him, it was heaven. Mom, on the other hand, was presented with water in the basement, snakes in the rec room, bright orange kitchen countertops, "harvest yellow" appliances and a quarter-acre of flower garden to tend--a little less divine for her, I think.
"Living the dream" was difficult for Mom, and she was very lonely in those first few months. I was never home (I lived on campus), and my sisters and the rest of the family were 400 miles away. Dad, sad to say, was a stranger to Mom's mood. He was too busy slapping aluminum siding on all the outbuildings and hiring the crack-shot 4H kid next door to shoot down the pigeons that were always roosting on his pristine, aluminum-sided barn.
My sister Donna, however, knew Mom's mind and plotted a surprise "mission of mercy." She convinced my sister Susan, cousins Colleen and Becky along with Mom's brother Dean and my great aunt Della to squeeze into Uncle Dean's posh Safari van and drive eight hours for a brief visit over the holiday weekend. The idea was good, but the timing was a little off because the 4th fell on Monday. Since some of them had to work on Friday (July 1) and everyone had to be back at work Tuesday morning (July 5), Saturday (July 2) and Monday (July 4) became travel days. It was a cold hard fact that seemed to strip the holiday of everything we had come to expect.
When they arrived--tired, cranky and late--Mom was very happy to see them but at a loss as to where to put them because she hadn't fixed up the guest bedrooms yet. So, most of them just sprawled on the new living room carpet. Mom asked, "Does anyone want a pillow?" Uncle Dean, already going comically deaf, looked up, smacked his lips and enthusiastically said, "Jell-o? Jell-o? I'll have some Jell-o!"
Mom was disappointed to learn that they would only be staying two nights. But Susan, Becky, Colleen and Donna were not dismayed in the least; shopping, they swore, can work miracles and make memories. Armed with $150 cash and an ounce of determination, they hit the fireworks stands along I-70 and scored sparklers, worms, bottle rockets, cherry bombs and Roman candles. Cruising up and down the aisles of Wal-Mart, they grabbed kiddie pools, disposable barbecue grills and Chinette dinnerware which, the next evening, made for a macabre yet festive family reunion as we celebrated the Third of July.
"Third of July! Third of July!" we cried as we ran up and down the driveway with sparklers blazing in our fists. "Third of July!" we screamed each time we set off a bottle rocket and sent Dad hunting through the grass to find and dispose of the leftover stick. We sang camp songs ("Peanuuuuuuuuuut Peanut Butter--Jelly!"), told ghost stories, and when the night fell into the velvet dark--something the Chicago suburbs can no longer do--we sent our own fireworks into the sky and called everyone to follow.
It was one of the best times in my life, and it's probably my most cherished family memory. Yet, Mom and
Dad and I missed out on the perfect finish touching for that weekend. Driving home on July 4, Uncle Dean took "the back way" up Route 47 where he spied scores of eager locals waiting for the DeKalb County fairgrounds to open for the evening's fireworks show. He pulled his glorious Safari van to a stop near the gate, rolled down his electric window and yelled, "Cancelled! Cancelled! Go home! TOO DANGEROUS! Cancelled!" before starting off again on their way home.
My sisters and cousins, of course, were tickled pink. And me? I was and am just a little green with envy for having missed a moment that has since become family legend.
We didn't always feel this way, however. Back in the 50s, 60s and 70s, my extended family gathered at my grandparents' home where we'd picnic in the back yard and listen to the cicadas' song rise and fall like a lazy siren. At twilight, my sisters and cousins and I would play "kick-the-can" with the neighborhood kids and pursue one another through Miss Purdy's yard and the Mayberry's bushes. And finally, when the night had fallen into a pool of velvet dark, my Dad would pile all of us into the station wagon and we'd drive all over the county as we chased the fireworks shooting overhead.
All of that was lost when I went away to college at the University of Missouri-Columbia. With my grandparents gone, the house on Oak Street was sold to strangers. And after years of anxious waiting, my father announced his plans to abandon suburbia and retire to a 10-acre "farmette" he'd found a few miles outside Jeff City, the capital of Missouri. It was a nice spread as these things go: a small barn for boarding horses, 8 acres of fenced pasture, a chicken coop, a workshop and all kinds of old tools, plows and implements hidden in the weeds. Every other week Dad would find one of these ancient, blackened marriages of iron and rotting wood, drag it to the front yard and slap a "FOR SALE" sign on it--entrepreneurial to the end.
The farm was Dad's dream and his long awaited chance to raise Black Angus cattle, board horses and weed two acres of scraggly lawn to within an inch of its life. For him, it was heaven. Mom, on the other hand, was presented with water in the basement, snakes in the rec room, bright orange kitchen countertops, "harvest yellow" appliances and a quarter-acre of flower garden to tend--a little less divine for her, I think.
"Living the dream" was difficult for Mom, and she was very lonely in those first few months. I was never home (I lived on campus), and my sisters and the rest of the family were 400 miles away. Dad, sad to say, was a stranger to Mom's mood. He was too busy slapping aluminum siding on all the outbuildings and hiring the crack-shot 4H kid next door to shoot down the pigeons that were always roosting on his pristine, aluminum-sided barn.
My sister Donna, however, knew Mom's mind and plotted a surprise "mission of mercy." She convinced my sister Susan, cousins Colleen and Becky along with Mom's brother Dean and my great aunt Della to squeeze into Uncle Dean's posh Safari van and drive eight hours for a brief visit over the holiday weekend. The idea was good, but the timing was a little off because the 4th fell on Monday. Since some of them had to work on Friday (July 1) and everyone had to be back at work Tuesday morning (July 5), Saturday (July 2) and Monday (July 4) became travel days. It was a cold hard fact that seemed to strip the holiday of everything we had come to expect.
When they arrived--tired, cranky and late--Mom was very happy to see them but at a loss as to where to put them because she hadn't fixed up the guest bedrooms yet. So, most of them just sprawled on the new living room carpet. Mom asked, "Does anyone want a pillow?" Uncle Dean, already going comically deaf, looked up, smacked his lips and enthusiastically said, "Jell-o? Jell-o? I'll have some Jell-o!"
Mom was disappointed to learn that they would only be staying two nights. But Susan, Becky, Colleen and Donna were not dismayed in the least; shopping, they swore, can work miracles and make memories. Armed with $150 cash and an ounce of determination, they hit the fireworks stands along I-70 and scored sparklers, worms, bottle rockets, cherry bombs and Roman candles. Cruising up and down the aisles of Wal-Mart, they grabbed kiddie pools, disposable barbecue grills and Chinette dinnerware which, the next evening, made for a macabre yet festive family reunion as we celebrated the Third of July.
"Third of July! Third of July!" we cried as we ran up and down the driveway with sparklers blazing in our fists. "Third of July!" we screamed each time we set off a bottle rocket and sent Dad hunting through the grass to find and dispose of the leftover stick. We sang camp songs ("Peanuuuuuuuuuut Peanut Butter--Jelly!"), told ghost stories, and when the night fell into the velvet dark--something the Chicago suburbs can no longer do--we sent our own fireworks into the sky and called everyone to follow.
It was one of the best times in my life, and it's probably my most cherished family memory. Yet, Mom and
Dad and I missed out on the perfect finish touching for that weekend. Driving home on July 4, Uncle Dean took "the back way" up Route 47 where he spied scores of eager locals waiting for the DeKalb County fairgrounds to open for the evening's fireworks show. He pulled his glorious Safari van to a stop near the gate, rolled down his electric window and yelled, "Cancelled! Cancelled! Go home! TOO DANGEROUS! Cancelled!" before starting off again on their way home.
My sisters and cousins, of course, were tickled pink. And me? I was and am just a little green with envy for having missed a moment that has since become family legend.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Giving Dad His Due
Father's Day is just around the corner. I've largely let it slide by because I lost my dad 20 years ago but, since I recently lost my oldest brother, I thought I'd take a little time to pay my respects to two men I wish I had known better. Time has a funny way of messing with your mind. Sometimes I think it literally grabs hold of your head and shifts your field of vision so that you see the past at a different angle. And while others may be shivering and quaking before that "Oz the Great and Powerful" image many of us held of our fathers, time's little wrench of the neck is constantly calling the "man behind the curtain" to my attention--a man that often ends up being completely human, admirable and even lovable when I stop filtering what I heard and starting listening to what he said.
I'm the first (and perhaps only of my father's children) to admit that growing up with my Dad wasn't easy. He was 50 when I was born. I'll be 50 in just a few short months and I cannot possibly even consider what impact a child would have upon me at this stage of my life much less three sons from a previous marriage, two from his current marriage and one on the way. In my mind, the only children I could cope with would be wind-up automatons that venture out into the world on their own and only return--like boomerangs--once they've finished college and secured high-paying jobs with long-term prospects.
With a 50-year difference in age, I like to say that Dad and I didn't have a generation gap, we had a generation gulf. One that was squarely located in the fashionable--yet volatile--seventh level of hormone hell. Why? Dad had his mid-life crisis, Mom went through menopause and my sisters and I all went through puberty AT THE SAME TIME. Together we rode a five-year roller coaster of hot flashes, mood swings, rebellious tantrums. And yet, it wasn't all bad. In fact, thanks to the neck twisting antics of time, I've come to appreciate my father more and more over the years, and I have discovered his surprising, endearing and spellbinding gift of storytelling.
With his colorful and varied employment history, my father had plenty of tall tales to tell of brushing soldiers with famous faces and becoming mired in outrageous situations. Like the time he and a few friends were arrested in Havana, Cuba after failing to bribe a crooked traffic cop during Batista's reign. Dad's dark, Portuguese complexion guaranteed him a longer stay behind bars than his friends and he nearly missed the boat when it sailed on to Los Angeles where he worked at the Beverly Hills and played cabana boy to Sonja Henig, Buster Crabbe, Johnny Weismuller and other stars of the day.
My favorite story, however, has always involved my oldest brother Dodge (who we lost last year). Dad and his first wife Barbara, a prominent socialite with impeccable family connections, were living in New York at the time. Dodge, who was probably around 5 or 6 then, had been invited to the Rockefellers' New York City home for a children's birthday party (a cousin on his mother's side) on a Saturday afternoon. Dad had dropped Dodge off and give him strict instructions to meet him outside at 4 p.m. for the trip back home.
I suppose Dad found the chore a little annoying since he typically practiced his religion on Saturday: the edification and perfection of the soul through lawn care. Now, for Dad, lawn care required certain vestments, those being his nastiest, rattiest pair of paint-stained khakis, torn tennis shows, and a cotton, button down shirt that had probably been purchased for Millard Filmore's inauguration.
Dad (always prompt) returned to the party by the stroke of 4 but Dodge was nowhere to be found. After a few minutes, Dad (always impatient), screwed his courage to the sticking point, brushed a few stray grass clippings from his shoes and rang the Rockefellers' front bell. Dad, mortified at his appearance already, could not escape his reflection in the highly polished door and was busy weighing the benefits of abandoning his child when the butler answered the door.
"I'm here to pick up Dodge," Dad confided. "Could you just grab him, tell him it's past time to go, and bring him down?" To his horror, the butler insisted on ushering him in to the entry hall and announcing his presence to Mrs. Rockefeller. Before Dad could stop him, the butler was well on his way up the grand staircase to retrieve the said Mrs. Rockefeller and the wayward Dodge.
By this time, Dad was desperately searching for any piece of furniture large enough to conceal him when he heard Dodge's voice--indignant with disappointment. There, descending down the grand, curving staircase, Mrs. Rockefeller herself--looking as if she had just stepped away from a society ball instead of a child's birthday party--was busy mollifying an irritated Dodge who, tugging on her expensive, taffeta gown, kept griping, "How come I didn't get a present, huh? How come?" Whereupon Dad introduced himself with a thick Mexican accent as our hired gardner and part-time chauffeur who was here to "take the little master home."
Happy Father's Day Dad. As time goes by, I'm learning to love you more.
I'm the first (and perhaps only of my father's children) to admit that growing up with my Dad wasn't easy. He was 50 when I was born. I'll be 50 in just a few short months and I cannot possibly even consider what impact a child would have upon me at this stage of my life much less three sons from a previous marriage, two from his current marriage and one on the way. In my mind, the only children I could cope with would be wind-up automatons that venture out into the world on their own and only return--like boomerangs--once they've finished college and secured high-paying jobs with long-term prospects.
With a 50-year difference in age, I like to say that Dad and I didn't have a generation gap, we had a generation gulf. One that was squarely located in the fashionable--yet volatile--seventh level of hormone hell. Why? Dad had his mid-life crisis, Mom went through menopause and my sisters and I all went through puberty AT THE SAME TIME. Together we rode a five-year roller coaster of hot flashes, mood swings, rebellious tantrums. And yet, it wasn't all bad. In fact, thanks to the neck twisting antics of time, I've come to appreciate my father more and more over the years, and I have discovered his surprising, endearing and spellbinding gift of storytelling.
With his colorful and varied employment history, my father had plenty of tall tales to tell of brushing soldiers with famous faces and becoming mired in outrageous situations. Like the time he and a few friends were arrested in Havana, Cuba after failing to bribe a crooked traffic cop during Batista's reign. Dad's dark, Portuguese complexion guaranteed him a longer stay behind bars than his friends and he nearly missed the boat when it sailed on to Los Angeles where he worked at the Beverly Hills and played cabana boy to Sonja Henig, Buster Crabbe, Johnny Weismuller and other stars of the day.
My favorite story, however, has always involved my oldest brother Dodge (who we lost last year). Dad and his first wife Barbara, a prominent socialite with impeccable family connections, were living in New York at the time. Dodge, who was probably around 5 or 6 then, had been invited to the Rockefellers' New York City home for a children's birthday party (a cousin on his mother's side) on a Saturday afternoon. Dad had dropped Dodge off and give him strict instructions to meet him outside at 4 p.m. for the trip back home.
I suppose Dad found the chore a little annoying since he typically practiced his religion on Saturday: the edification and perfection of the soul through lawn care. Now, for Dad, lawn care required certain vestments, those being his nastiest, rattiest pair of paint-stained khakis, torn tennis shows, and a cotton, button down shirt that had probably been purchased for Millard Filmore's inauguration.
Dad (always prompt) returned to the party by the stroke of 4 but Dodge was nowhere to be found. After a few minutes, Dad (always impatient), screwed his courage to the sticking point, brushed a few stray grass clippings from his shoes and rang the Rockefellers' front bell. Dad, mortified at his appearance already, could not escape his reflection in the highly polished door and was busy weighing the benefits of abandoning his child when the butler answered the door.
"I'm here to pick up Dodge," Dad confided. "Could you just grab him, tell him it's past time to go, and bring him down?" To his horror, the butler insisted on ushering him in to the entry hall and announcing his presence to Mrs. Rockefeller. Before Dad could stop him, the butler was well on his way up the grand staircase to retrieve the said Mrs. Rockefeller and the wayward Dodge.
By this time, Dad was desperately searching for any piece of furniture large enough to conceal him when he heard Dodge's voice--indignant with disappointment. There, descending down the grand, curving staircase, Mrs. Rockefeller herself--looking as if she had just stepped away from a society ball instead of a child's birthday party--was busy mollifying an irritated Dodge who, tugging on her expensive, taffeta gown, kept griping, "How come I didn't get a present, huh? How come?" Whereupon Dad introduced himself with a thick Mexican accent as our hired gardner and part-time chauffeur who was here to "take the little master home."
Happy Father's Day Dad. As time goes by, I'm learning to love you more.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
My Kingdom for a Laptop
The cynic in me will tell you that Murphy is alive, well and building himself a bustling law practice these days. Yes, that's right. When it rains, it pours. Insult has been added to injury, and I am forced to admit: I'm a technocrat. I'm lost without the hum of a hard drive under my left hand. Why? Because my tired, tattered Dell Latitude has died.
Sure, I have an old desktop to fall back on, but I suspect it has emphysema from the way it wheezes and I feel guilty any time I install a new program on it--I hate to ask it to do more!
What pains me, of course, is the loss of all that data. No, it's not a permanent loss. I can take the old hard drive in to your nearest Tiger Direct and have everything transferred, but I dread leaving it there. It's like dropping a pre-schooler off at Day Care but the difference is that the little tyke's pockets are stuffed full of all my emails, photos and private ruminations. This kid is loaded for bear and ready to throw a tantrum while the techno-nerd behind the counter is already sizing him up for the takedown.
The worst part, of course, is when I come back to pick everything up. The techno-nerd is smirking at me (quick! How many photos did I download from "Naughty Koalas on Parade" and "Teddy Bear's First Picnic?"). He makes me stand there and wait while he sloooowly rings up the order and every techno-nerd in the back room comes out to look me up and down.
With the deed done, I take the walk of shame out to the parking lot where, properly chastened, I clutch the new hard drive in one fist, shake it at the rain-streaked sky and yell, "As God as my witness, I'll never forget to back up my laptop again!" At which point Murphy pulls up in his new Bentley, rolls down his window with a silken hum and says, "Hey buddy! Did you know you left your lights on?"
Sure, I have an old desktop to fall back on, but I suspect it has emphysema from the way it wheezes and I feel guilty any time I install a new program on it--I hate to ask it to do more!
What pains me, of course, is the loss of all that data. No, it's not a permanent loss. I can take the old hard drive in to your nearest Tiger Direct and have everything transferred, but I dread leaving it there. It's like dropping a pre-schooler off at Day Care but the difference is that the little tyke's pockets are stuffed full of all my emails, photos and private ruminations. This kid is loaded for bear and ready to throw a tantrum while the techno-nerd behind the counter is already sizing him up for the takedown.
The worst part, of course, is when I come back to pick everything up. The techno-nerd is smirking at me (quick! How many photos did I download from "Naughty Koalas on Parade" and "Teddy Bear's First Picnic?"). He makes me stand there and wait while he sloooowly rings up the order and every techno-nerd in the back room comes out to look me up and down.
With the deed done, I take the walk of shame out to the parking lot where, properly chastened, I clutch the new hard drive in one fist, shake it at the rain-streaked sky and yell, "As God as my witness, I'll never forget to back up my laptop again!" At which point Murphy pulls up in his new Bentley, rolls down his window with a silken hum and says, "Hey buddy! Did you know you left your lights on?"
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Have You Hugged Your Grandma Today?
Memorial Day is coming up, and while I am very fortunate to have not lost any family service members since the civil war, I do use the occasion to remember those family members I have lost. Memorial Day was a big deal for my mother's parents, aunts and uncles (my "grands and greats" for the sake of brevity). The whole family trekked out to the family plot at Bluff City Cemetery where we weeded, planted and even mowed to ensure that the final rests of our loved ones were worthy of the flags placed by the local VFW.
The closest--and best--family relationships I had growing up were with my "grands and greats." They were so down-to-earth, loving and simple. I say simple in the sense that they lived frugally without making a big deal about it or appearing poor in any regard. They may have been on modest, fixed incomes, but they were the most generous and freely giving people I have ever known. They spent a great deal of their time helping other family members, friends and even complete strangers. They volunteered at church, taught Sunday School, did laundry at "The Old People's Home" (an old style assisted living facility) and served in The Salvation Army.
They were deeply religious with strong, solid convictions. When my mother's youngest brother Bob was killed at 18 by a drunk driver, my grandmother spent a great deal of time counseling the driver and talking to him about his life and his choices. She explained how the God she knew and the faith she held could help him, too, and heal the emotional hurt he'd caused himself.
My "grands and greats" weren't a bunch of priests and nuns, however. They loved to laugh and poke fun at one another. They had wicked senses of humor and told great jokes. They loved games; my grandmother Kate was a mean "Flinch" player and we often accused her of cheating; Della was a whiz at Scrabble, and the Dictionary was kept right next to the family Bible. They were also full of wonderful stories. Some of my best memories are sitting on the big front porch at 153 Oak Street on hot summer nights listening to them tell all sorts of stories.
When the evening had grown pitch black we gathered to hear ghost stories like "Where's My Big Toe?" and Della's version (below) of a stanza from James Whitcomb's "Little Orphan Annie" poem.
Once there was a little boy who wouldn't say his prayers, and then one night he went away up stairs, his mammy heard him holler and his daddy heard him call, but when they pulled the kivvers back, he wasn't there at all!
They seeked him in the attic room, the cubbyhole and press and even up the chimney flu and everywhere, I guess, but all they ever found of him was his pants and round-abouts so you know the goblins will getcha if you don't watch out!
I spent a lot of time at 153 Oak Street. It holds my most vivid childhood memories--both good and bad. One of the most traumatic experiences of my life happened in that house. My sister Donna and I were staying overnight on the roll-away bed upstairs when my grandfather, Ira, had a massive stroke during the night.
Donna woke me around 7 a.m. full of fear and close to tears. "I think the house is on fire," she said. I looked out the window to the street below--full of emergency vehicles. We walked hand in hand to the head of the stairs in time to see the hallway below filled with firemen trying to move grandpa out the front door to the waiting ambulance. But Ira didn't want to go. His left hand held a staircase baluster and they couldn't pry his iron grip open to release it. And he was screaming, and screaming, and screaming "NO! NO! NO!" because he didn't want to leave his home. He didn't want to leave us. He didn't want to leave Kate. For the rest of his life, his left hand was curled as if still holding on to that baluster.
After a few months at home, his needs outstripped Kate's strength and he was moved to a nursing facility. The night Ira died, Dad took me and my sisters to the Howard Johnson's to use their pool (the manager was a client of Dad's). As usual, we did something to tick Dad off and he lashed out with a bombshell: "Your mother is sitting at your grandfather's deathbed RIGHT NOW and you can't behave for one hour! You are the most ungrateful, spoiled children I've ever met!" (Dad was always saying things like that.)
Then, only my grandmother, Kate, and my Aunt Della remained at 153 Oak Street. I loved Della dearly because we were kindred spirits. She was so unabashedly colorful--like Auntie Mame, but with an unmatched talent for embroidery. Della was a "flapper" back in the Roaring '20s, and she became the black sheep of the family when she eloped to Oklahoma on the back of a motorcycle. When she returned, Ira ran her new husband off with a very large rake.
A few years after Ira's death, Kate was standing in front of the kitchen window washing dishes when someone outside in the dark back yard took a shot at her. She wasn't hurt, but it left a small hole in the window and a larger, metaphorical hole in her mind. First fidgeting, then nervous, then forgetful, she descended into Alzheimer's and dementia and lost her grasp of reality. Lost in time, she unconsciously chose to relive the life she'd known in the 1950s. But she became paranoid and violent and could not be left alone.
She moved in with my family for a short time, but she became increasingly unmanageable and a danger to herself. Despite the fact that I had been born in 1961, she always recognized, trusted and relied upon me. I was the only one who could reach through the fog and comfort her, calm her and make her feel safe. But my efforts couldn't stop her growing confusion and we eventually had no choice but to place her in a nursing home.
When I was 11 or 12, I wanted to live at Oak Street so I could help them with the things they couldn't do themselves. When Ira had his stroke, I begged my mother to take what little savings I had ($37.50) and use it to help them. But kids grow up. And when you're a teenager about to graduate high school, you're eager to kick off the shackles of family and run towards freedom and adulthood. You work very hard to push away the guilt you feel at leaving your aging, fading "grands and greats" behind.
I passed her nursing home almost every day, but I only stopped by once a month at best. I never visited her often enough. It hurt too much to see her doped with rope burns on her wrists from being tied down in a lazy attempt to keep her safe during the occasional epileptic seizure. Thorazine, Haldol and other generously administered neuroleptics ensured that her fog never lifted. And yet she always knew me. She was just five minutes away from my home, but I never took the opportunity to say good-bye. It is my life's one regret.
My "grands and greats" taught me so many life lessons; not by lecture, but by example. Their lives--lived quietly, fully and joyfully--showed what it truly meant to be a Christian. They didn't picket funerals. They didn't stand on street corners waving placards and shaming people who were different. They didn't presume to know the mind of God and predict his actions or pass judgment on others. They simply lived.
Ira taught me that a man can be strong, sensitive, shy, loving and quiet.
Kate taught me that everyone deserves love, no matter how much they may have hurt you.
Della taught me that joy is a gift from God and it must be expressed and shared with everyone in every way possible.
Myrtle taught me that physical pain doesn't define you, limit you or prevent you from being who you are or doing what you want.
Lyman taught me that material things don't define us and that a simple, time-worn coffee cup can hold a wealth of memories.
Perry taught me at the age of 5 how to bow my head and pray.
Eileen died before I was born, but she taught me that a life well lived is a legacy. All my "grands and greats" spoke lovingly of her and kept her widowed husband, Harry, close.
Lee taught me that volunteering not only helps others, it builds self-respect and generates self-fulfillment.
William taught me that the secret to a long life is to always have someone to care for and love.
I'll be thinking of each of my "grand and greats" this weekend with love. I hope you'll think of yours as well.
The closest--and best--family relationships I had growing up were with my "grands and greats." They were so down-to-earth, loving and simple. I say simple in the sense that they lived frugally without making a big deal about it or appearing poor in any regard. They may have been on modest, fixed incomes, but they were the most generous and freely giving people I have ever known. They spent a great deal of their time helping other family members, friends and even complete strangers. They volunteered at church, taught Sunday School, did laundry at "The Old People's Home" (an old style assisted living facility) and served in The Salvation Army.
They were deeply religious with strong, solid convictions. When my mother's youngest brother Bob was killed at 18 by a drunk driver, my grandmother spent a great deal of time counseling the driver and talking to him about his life and his choices. She explained how the God she knew and the faith she held could help him, too, and heal the emotional hurt he'd caused himself.
My "grands and greats" weren't a bunch of priests and nuns, however. They loved to laugh and poke fun at one another. They had wicked senses of humor and told great jokes. They loved games; my grandmother Kate was a mean "Flinch" player and we often accused her of cheating; Della was a whiz at Scrabble, and the Dictionary was kept right next to the family Bible. They were also full of wonderful stories. Some of my best memories are sitting on the big front porch at 153 Oak Street on hot summer nights listening to them tell all sorts of stories.
When the evening had grown pitch black we gathered to hear ghost stories like "Where's My Big Toe?" and Della's version (below) of a stanza from James Whitcomb's "Little Orphan Annie" poem.
Once there was a little boy who wouldn't say his prayers, and then one night he went away up stairs, his mammy heard him holler and his daddy heard him call, but when they pulled the kivvers back, he wasn't there at all!
They seeked him in the attic room, the cubbyhole and press and even up the chimney flu and everywhere, I guess, but all they ever found of him was his pants and round-abouts so you know the goblins will getcha if you don't watch out!
I spent a lot of time at 153 Oak Street. It holds my most vivid childhood memories--both good and bad. One of the most traumatic experiences of my life happened in that house. My sister Donna and I were staying overnight on the roll-away bed upstairs when my grandfather, Ira, had a massive stroke during the night.
Donna woke me around 7 a.m. full of fear and close to tears. "I think the house is on fire," she said. I looked out the window to the street below--full of emergency vehicles. We walked hand in hand to the head of the stairs in time to see the hallway below filled with firemen trying to move grandpa out the front door to the waiting ambulance. But Ira didn't want to go. His left hand held a staircase baluster and they couldn't pry his iron grip open to release it. And he was screaming, and screaming, and screaming "NO! NO! NO!" because he didn't want to leave his home. He didn't want to leave us. He didn't want to leave Kate. For the rest of his life, his left hand was curled as if still holding on to that baluster.
After a few months at home, his needs outstripped Kate's strength and he was moved to a nursing facility. The night Ira died, Dad took me and my sisters to the Howard Johnson's to use their pool (the manager was a client of Dad's). As usual, we did something to tick Dad off and he lashed out with a bombshell: "Your mother is sitting at your grandfather's deathbed RIGHT NOW and you can't behave for one hour! You are the most ungrateful, spoiled children I've ever met!" (Dad was always saying things like that.)
Then, only my grandmother, Kate, and my Aunt Della remained at 153 Oak Street. I loved Della dearly because we were kindred spirits. She was so unabashedly colorful--like Auntie Mame, but with an unmatched talent for embroidery. Della was a "flapper" back in the Roaring '20s, and she became the black sheep of the family when she eloped to Oklahoma on the back of a motorcycle. When she returned, Ira ran her new husband off with a very large rake.
A few years after Ira's death, Kate was standing in front of the kitchen window washing dishes when someone outside in the dark back yard took a shot at her. She wasn't hurt, but it left a small hole in the window and a larger, metaphorical hole in her mind. First fidgeting, then nervous, then forgetful, she descended into Alzheimer's and dementia and lost her grasp of reality. Lost in time, she unconsciously chose to relive the life she'd known in the 1950s. But she became paranoid and violent and could not be left alone.
She moved in with my family for a short time, but she became increasingly unmanageable and a danger to herself. Despite the fact that I had been born in 1961, she always recognized, trusted and relied upon me. I was the only one who could reach through the fog and comfort her, calm her and make her feel safe. But my efforts couldn't stop her growing confusion and we eventually had no choice but to place her in a nursing home.
When I was 11 or 12, I wanted to live at Oak Street so I could help them with the things they couldn't do themselves. When Ira had his stroke, I begged my mother to take what little savings I had ($37.50) and use it to help them. But kids grow up. And when you're a teenager about to graduate high school, you're eager to kick off the shackles of family and run towards freedom and adulthood. You work very hard to push away the guilt you feel at leaving your aging, fading "grands and greats" behind.
I passed her nursing home almost every day, but I only stopped by once a month at best. I never visited her often enough. It hurt too much to see her doped with rope burns on her wrists from being tied down in a lazy attempt to keep her safe during the occasional epileptic seizure. Thorazine, Haldol and other generously administered neuroleptics ensured that her fog never lifted. And yet she always knew me. She was just five minutes away from my home, but I never took the opportunity to say good-bye. It is my life's one regret.
My "grands and greats" taught me so many life lessons; not by lecture, but by example. Their lives--lived quietly, fully and joyfully--showed what it truly meant to be a Christian. They didn't picket funerals. They didn't stand on street corners waving placards and shaming people who were different. They didn't presume to know the mind of God and predict his actions or pass judgment on others. They simply lived.
Ira taught me that a man can be strong, sensitive, shy, loving and quiet.
Kate taught me that everyone deserves love, no matter how much they may have hurt you.
Della taught me that joy is a gift from God and it must be expressed and shared with everyone in every way possible.
Myrtle taught me that physical pain doesn't define you, limit you or prevent you from being who you are or doing what you want.
Lyman taught me that material things don't define us and that a simple, time-worn coffee cup can hold a wealth of memories.
Perry taught me at the age of 5 how to bow my head and pray.
Eileen died before I was born, but she taught me that a life well lived is a legacy. All my "grands and greats" spoke lovingly of her and kept her widowed husband, Harry, close.
Lee taught me that volunteering not only helps others, it builds self-respect and generates self-fulfillment.
William taught me that the secret to a long life is to always have someone to care for and love.
I'll be thinking of each of my "grand and greats" this weekend with love. I hope you'll think of yours as well.
Monday, May 23, 2011
They have pharmacies in Alaska, don't they?
The news media have seized onto yet another carefully crafted soundbite from Sarah Palin and her pack of sled dog groomers. I suppose that since the assassination of Osama Bin Laden (there, I said it), it's been a pretty slow news week (in Osama's defense he was trying to honor his Mother and every Mother's advice; he wasn't reaching for a gun when he was shot, he was trying to find a clean pair of underwear).
Anyhoo, the Palindrome has announced that she has "a fire in her belly" for running for President.
What? They don't sell Prilosec up north? Being so homespun and "down to earth", surely she knows the medicinal benefits of buttermilk? Someone needs to put that fire out and fast. While a woman's place is definitely in government, a society's place is not behind 30-foot-high walls designed to keep out anyone and anything that is not white, chromosonally heterosexual and brainwashed to subconsciously emulate and revere Joe McCarthy.
More importantly, our economy--and ourselves--cannot afford to thumb our noses at the rest of the world. Had FDR not abandoned the prevailing policy of isolation under the cover of fighting evil this country would have not enjoyed the highest standard of living in our history.
Returning to an unwarranted attitude of supremacy and "go eff yourself" jingoism would be the greatest evil and self-inflicted injury we could possibly do. Unless, of course, we were to elect a candidate who admires the name and self-serving accomplishments of anyone named "Bush." Except for Barbara. It took courage, humor and class to kick Millie in the groin for so diligently cleaning herself on live national television while Sam Donaldson surreptitiously adjusted his toupee and giggled.
Anyhoo, the Palindrome has announced that she has "a fire in her belly" for running for President.
What? They don't sell Prilosec up north? Being so homespun and "down to earth", surely she knows the medicinal benefits of buttermilk? Someone needs to put that fire out and fast. While a woman's place is definitely in government, a society's place is not behind 30-foot-high walls designed to keep out anyone and anything that is not white, chromosonally heterosexual and brainwashed to subconsciously emulate and revere Joe McCarthy.
More importantly, our economy--and ourselves--cannot afford to thumb our noses at the rest of the world. Had FDR not abandoned the prevailing policy of isolation under the cover of fighting evil this country would have not enjoyed the highest standard of living in our history.
Returning to an unwarranted attitude of supremacy and "go eff yourself" jingoism would be the greatest evil and self-inflicted injury we could possibly do. Unless, of course, we were to elect a candidate who admires the name and self-serving accomplishments of anyone named "Bush." Except for Barbara. It took courage, humor and class to kick Millie in the groin for so diligently cleaning herself on live national television while Sam Donaldson surreptitiously adjusted his toupee and giggled.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
A Sense of Perspective
Ever watch HeeHaw back in the '70s? It was a favorite of my grandparents. Or, as I reconsider today, it may have been a favorite parenting tool (grand or otherwise).
Kate and Ira (my grandparents) had one favorite, particular skit, and the volume was always dutifully cranked in order to enhance their enjoyment of it.
Four moonshiners, jugs in hand, would swig and croon:
As I get older, however, the universe, God and Dear Abby like to throw little reminders at me to tell me how some of us have greater concerns than prolonged unemployment, annoying bill collectors, crabgrass and medflies. Tonight, I learned my beautiful, funny, talented and inspiring friend has MS. And while I grieve for her, I am grateful for my own life--medflies and all. I'd like to think I've given Kate and Ira a reason to be just a little bit proud.
Kate and Ira (my grandparents) had one favorite, particular skit, and the volume was always dutifully cranked in order to enhance their enjoyment of it.
Four moonshiners, jugs in hand, would swig and croon:
Gloom, despair and agony on me (moan)The lesson was probably wasted on us kids because as seasoned complainers ("it's what kids do," said a vampire on The Dresden Files, "they complain") we failed to recognize it as satire and uncover the underlying message: "Be grateful and appreciative for every blessing you enjoy; don't destroy what little you have because you have so little."
Deep down depression, excessive misery (wail)
If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all (sob)
Gloom, despair and agony on me!
As I get older, however, the universe, God and Dear Abby like to throw little reminders at me to tell me how some of us have greater concerns than prolonged unemployment, annoying bill collectors, crabgrass and medflies. Tonight, I learned my beautiful, funny, talented and inspiring friend has MS. And while I grieve for her, I am grateful for my own life--medflies and all. I'd like to think I've given Kate and Ira a reason to be just a little bit proud.
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