I called an old friend, just to see how he’s doing. He’s sitting in the house he grew up in, watching his father die.
I left a comment at a blog because I didn’t like the music. The comment was deleted because, said the owner, his mother reads it and he won’t allow that kind of language. I don’t remember what I said. I try to keep the obscenities down. Apparently I don’t try hard enough.
Maybe I’d been drinking. I doubt it. I don’t drink, particularly. When I do I’m a docile drunk, silly and meaningless. Then I get tired and that makes me cranky and then I might not be the winner of many popularity contests. But I wouldn’t swear about music I don’t like.
It’s hilarious what we can learn about ourselves if we open our eyes. I might do that someday.
My friend and I hadn’t spoken for a couple months. He sounded like he had been crying. His father was a big man when I knew him three decades ago, not at all the Berkeley type, with his guns and custom trucks and admiration for certain politically incorrect historical figures. He was deeply in love with the woman who lay dying then of an acute arthritis, in the dining room they converted to a bedroom when she could no longer be taken upstairs. Now he lies dying in that room too, and his son is watching over him, feeling helpless no doubt. We didn’t talk long.
I went back to the blog and listened to the music again. This time I used headphones and let it flow over me and discovered the music I didn’t like before kicked some pretty good ass. It was electronica of some form or other (there are dozens), deep and rich and well orchestrated and full of surprises. Reminded me of the music that serves as a constant backdrop at the Burn, especially at night, when a hundred dance clubs sprout like lemonade stands and the strange lights, chai tea, lovely women, oddments of booze, unbelievable costumes, dust, aching feet, three days unwashed hair, and general awesomeness of people letting loose and sharing the fruits of their hard-worked creativity run through you like electric currents and life is simple and good.
Life is good and life is temporary. The more we know of it, the shorter it gets too. We all struggle, I think, to come to terms with that. I struggle now, just learning to see the need. No, I’ve never been complacent, nor in the least bit comfortable. But that doesn’t mean I’ve had my eyes open. What then does it mean? That I should sit still and weave stronger connections with people, for one thing. And other things, even more mysterious.
Written to music generated by entering "Shpongle" into Pandora.
Showing posts with label people what matter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label people what matter. Show all posts
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Inurnment, Memorial, Reception
Two o’clock. Silveyville Cemetery. Three digit temperature. Suit and tie. Seats on the lawn, a canopy. Relatives assembled from their cars. Hugs and quiet helloes. Simple Methodist service. As requested, I stood back in the shade and softly played Amazing Grace on a trumpet. Urn placed in a small square hole. Flower petals – I jumped in line to be by my mother’s side in case she stumbled. She did not.
Three o’clock. Dixon United Methodist Church. The old element of the small town filled the pews: Lions, Soroptimists, farmers, business partners. Short service. A few family members spoke, including me. A few friends and colleagues spoke. Two hymns, including Oh God, Our Help From Ages Past. My mother’s choice: The tune is also associated with Cal Berkeley. As I sat in front and contemplated the carpet, there was peace, sitting in this fine old farm town church built in 1866, a train passing just outside every fifteen minutes or so.
Four o’clock. Jess Jones Winery. A vast tent, catered food, wine, beer, out between the vineyards and tomato fields. Visiting with family, with my cousins and their old friends. Now us kids are in our fifties. There is a warmth I never sensed before. Though my cousins’ friends were only at the periphery of my life and I at theirs, way back then when we were all just launching into our lives, somehow now with a large circle of some thirty years seeming to close, I feel as though we were always friends all along.
Is that a legacy of my Aunt Mary Louise? I don’t know. She and Art were a very hospitable pair and well loved. Now they are well missed. But neither would want us to dwell on that.
Three o’clock. Dixon United Methodist Church. The old element of the small town filled the pews: Lions, Soroptimists, farmers, business partners. Short service. A few family members spoke, including me. A few friends and colleagues spoke. Two hymns, including Oh God, Our Help From Ages Past. My mother’s choice: The tune is also associated with Cal Berkeley. As I sat in front and contemplated the carpet, there was peace, sitting in this fine old farm town church built in 1866, a train passing just outside every fifteen minutes or so.
Four o’clock. Jess Jones Winery. A vast tent, catered food, wine, beer, out between the vineyards and tomato fields. Visiting with family, with my cousins and their old friends. Now us kids are in our fifties. There is a warmth I never sensed before. Though my cousins’ friends were only at the periphery of my life and I at theirs, way back then when we were all just launching into our lives, somehow now with a large circle of some thirty years seeming to close, I feel as though we were always friends all along.
Is that a legacy of my Aunt Mary Louise? I don’t know. She and Art were a very hospitable pair and well loved. Now they are well missed. But neither would want us to dwell on that.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Cannibal
Here is the picture that the Eagle Scout chose.
Here is the cake with the picture that the Eagle Scout chose.
Here is the Eagle Scout destroying the cake with the picture that the Eagle Scout chose.
Here is the cake with the picture that the Eagle Scout chose.
Here is the Eagle Scout destroying the cake with the picture that the Eagle Scout chose.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
ML
My aunt died last night. I Facebooked the fact, and then an hour later deleted it. What was I thinking?
I was sad when I heard the news and felt like crying for a brief time. Never really did, though. There are a lot of blocks to emotional outlet built into the human machine. Maybe later, when I see those grieving who were closer to her.
She was the only sibling among my parents, my only aunt. Her husband was my only uncle. Eighty years old. Failing health, short string of strokes. Not a surprise. More of a relief as is usually the case at this stage.
She only moved away from home into assisted living a few weeks ago. I visited her there once, a couple weeks ago, and she was fairly alert, her usual somewhat sardonic self. I couldn't tell if she was happy to be there or not, I mean if she really understood the implications, or was just putting up with it, or what.
I think underneath the surface where she didn't need to talk about it, she knew it was her final stop before going on to be with Art again.
They had such a love affair. The emotion wells more when I think of that than anything.
I told office people I am going for the afternoon to go be with family. But my mother has already gone back home after meeting with her sister's daughters, and mostly they just have to pack up their mother's room and deal with the funeral home and such, and I will pretty much be a fifth wheel. I'll go anyway to show solidarity, give hugs, snag a couple hours' open road time out of the office ...
Now both gone, Art and ML were the married couple who proved the exception: They stayed together. Oftentimes I wanted to drill into their heads and find out how they did it, but there was never a chance for that. Of everyone in their generation and the next one who got married, they are the only ones who stayed married -- them, and my wife and I. And though we've surpassed twenty one years I have no sense of how people stay married and am hungry for insight into how they do it.
(And my brother. Let us not bow to convention. Though they have been denied recognition of their marital status, S and A's relationship is outlasting us all. I'm only being honest is saying I am still getting used to taking such a simply conventional view. And so now I am shocked to realize that the two children of The Divorce are in fact not following the pattern.)
They met on a blind date, perhaps in San Francisco, and at some point partied on the Eureka where Art had a job as night watchman. Prior to that, shortly after graduation from Cal in ~1950, she had a mysterious government job in Trieste when the Cold war was less about missiles and concrete barriers and more about watchfulness and human interactions. Over the years she built a reputation as a somewhat prickly person, hard-headed in business, unlikeable to some, tactless to others; but somehow I never saw that side of her. I liked her directness and her matter-of-fact refusal to see the sunny side of life and the dark humor that came out, sometimes in such a way I felt I was the only one who got it. So for that and for being family, I'll miss her. My mother has lost her little sister, and will miss her much, much more.
Mary Louise (Wiggins) Taber 1929 - 2009.
I was sad when I heard the news and felt like crying for a brief time. Never really did, though. There are a lot of blocks to emotional outlet built into the human machine. Maybe later, when I see those grieving who were closer to her.
She was the only sibling among my parents, my only aunt. Her husband was my only uncle. Eighty years old. Failing health, short string of strokes. Not a surprise. More of a relief as is usually the case at this stage.
She only moved away from home into assisted living a few weeks ago. I visited her there once, a couple weeks ago, and she was fairly alert, her usual somewhat sardonic self. I couldn't tell if she was happy to be there or not, I mean if she really understood the implications, or was just putting up with it, or what.
I think underneath the surface where she didn't need to talk about it, she knew it was her final stop before going on to be with Art again.
They had such a love affair. The emotion wells more when I think of that than anything.
I told office people I am going for the afternoon to go be with family. But my mother has already gone back home after meeting with her sister's daughters, and mostly they just have to pack up their mother's room and deal with the funeral home and such, and I will pretty much be a fifth wheel. I'll go anyway to show solidarity, give hugs, snag a couple hours' open road time out of the office ...
Now both gone, Art and ML were the married couple who proved the exception: They stayed together. Oftentimes I wanted to drill into their heads and find out how they did it, but there was never a chance for that. Of everyone in their generation and the next one who got married, they are the only ones who stayed married -- them, and my wife and I. And though we've surpassed twenty one years I have no sense of how people stay married and am hungry for insight into how they do it.
(And my brother. Let us not bow to convention. Though they have been denied recognition of their marital status, S and A's relationship is outlasting us all. I'm only being honest is saying I am still getting used to taking such a simply conventional view. And so now I am shocked to realize that the two children of The Divorce are in fact not following the pattern.)
They met on a blind date, perhaps in San Francisco, and at some point partied on the Eureka where Art had a job as night watchman. Prior to that, shortly after graduation from Cal in ~1950, she had a mysterious government job in Trieste when the Cold war was less about missiles and concrete barriers and more about watchfulness and human interactions. Over the years she built a reputation as a somewhat prickly person, hard-headed in business, unlikeable to some, tactless to others; but somehow I never saw that side of her. I liked her directness and her matter-of-fact refusal to see the sunny side of life and the dark humor that came out, sometimes in such a way I felt I was the only one who got it. So for that and for being family, I'll miss her. My mother has lost her little sister, and will miss her much, much more.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Best Present Ever
They were gonna get me a garden cart or something, and while at the big box store my sons wound up playing with large sharp objects. Their mother made them stop lest someone lose a hand, and my elder son looked at the tool he was holding and went, aha!
He inherited my fascination with swords and knives along with the creativity. Quite under my radar, he took this implement and secretly made of it a work of art, presented on my birthday.
He inherited my fascination with swords and knives along with the creativity. Quite under my radar, he took this implement and secretly made of it a work of art, presented on my birthday.
Friday, May 08, 2009
Mothers and Other Such Things
The dog was a puppy just a little while ago, full of romp and jump and dash away. But now she tires easily and is pooching out and growing teats and in a few weeks I imagine she will recline with her little parasites and go, Where the hell did these come from? Then I will have to escape-proof the yard.Mother’s Day is a weird one to me – okay, all holidays are weird to me anymore. The only one that makes sense is Halloween. That and Yule, when we light great bonfires and drink and dance and fornicate under the holly -– wait, that was a long time ago. Don’t you hate when memories of past lives blur together? Anyway, this ultimate greeting-card holiday has always been one of organizing my troops into shopping and cooking teams and making The Day into something flowery and loving. This year will be similar. But it’s the last! Young men, they are, and young men should not live with their parents. Next year one of them won’t, who knows, maybe both.
Why’s it weird to me? At some deep fundamental level where belly meets brain, I guess because mothers don’t make sense to me. Put that down to my particular circumstances. We all have particular circumstances, of course, and a lot of them have to do with mothers. Mine are nothing unusual, and since my mother reads this (Hi Mom!) I’m not going to launch a long speculative screed exploring my intercrossing feelings on the matter. I love her (You!) and at this point nothing else much matters. But I’m not the only one with snakes intertwined where the greeting cards would give us bland platitudes. My wife loves but especially hates her mother, and for many excellent reasons, and the past week has been dominated by telephone arguments over my mother-in-law trying to weasel out of attendance at her grandson’s high school graduation out of some ignorant fear of catching the swine flu on an airplane.
Thank you Joe Biden.
The complications arise of course because there are conflicting emotions: It’s your grandson! … Wait, you mean I never have to see you again? Balance one against the other … But of course she must come, because she must, that’s the way it is, and so (she now says) she shall. We’ll see. I hope so but I’ll not miss the bitch if otherwise.
Grandson is neutral about it, being as the grandma showed clear favoritism towards the other brother for most of his childhood, and he’s absorbed more than enough of his mother’s angry-sad tears over not having a “real mother” when something or other happens; yet she’s not an actual monster, even attempts humor sometimes, and of course he loves her as a grandmother of just about any type cannot help but be loved. So, fine, we’ll see. Mostly he’s just happy to be growing up. Let me count the ways.
No, I won’t count. But the past few weeks have been amazing. Last night – I’m still absorbing last night. You know, you have to get all your Eagle Scout stuff done by midnight before you turn eighteen or all that hard work is for nothing. Badges, the project, write-ups, forms, interviews, signatures … There is a blur of requirements and we have known many young men who were working at it right up to their last day as a seventeen year old – and a few who did not finish in time, and sometime down the road will look back and kick themselves for it, hard. I’ve had this huge check-off in mind for months. Will it all get done? All of it? Truly? In time? Much suspense, believe me.Last night he drove around and met with various leaders and got signatures and handed stuff in and was able to tell me that everything that has to be done before he turns eighteen … is done. No more deadline.
No more deadline.
You see? I’m still absorbing and would like to write that a few more times but for your sake, I will not. It’s just … No more deadline. (!)
And just last week they struck the set of the school play in which he had the Raymond Massey role, and the week before that the yearbook for which he was editor-in-chief was complete and sent off to the presses, and this week he completed his senior project, and, oh, I could build it up but the point is, all that stuff that he has been juggling is done now. No more deadline! Just a few weeks of high school to finish up, turn eighteen meanwhile, and … no more childhood.No more childhood.
Maybe you were wondering what this part has to do with Mother’s Day? Of course you weren't. When we’ve whelped, I’ll post pics.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
In Tribute to a Quiet Hero
Recently attained one hundred years of age, the last survivor of those who kept the Frank family safe for over two years of the Nazi terror, and preserved young Anne's diary.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Two Hundred
I have a lot to say about both Darwin and Lincoln. They were born the same day. Darwin was to humanity the more important man. Lincoln had his points, obviously. Yes indeed, lots to say. And no time! Time enough just to express my regrets that I haven't the time.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Obamanauguration
It was a fine day to watch the big screens in the company cafeteria and listen to the normally very restrained employee base erupt into occasional applause.
It was inspiring to see that if you strip away the network hype and the camera positioning and the bands and parades, the inauguration of a new president is really a very brief and simple affair. A few words earnestly spoken, and done.
People I was with thought that
* * *
What are we about? The countless examples of Bush Derangement Syndrome don't tell us, and I look forward to them fading away. In some quarters they will be replaced with a naive disappointment over Obama's inevitable grappling with reality. Those of us who were not deranged will offer respect, if early indications are to be believed. Further afield will be some people who simply can't be pleased.
Out of all this our diversity is forged; and from diversity, strength and, eventually, prosperity. Forget about peace. Peace follows when enough people do enough of the right things right. But until every one of humanity's countless diverse communities embrace the values of tolerance, understanding, and negotiation, peace will remain an elusive dream. What we have to do is remain (in this order) strong, free, and prosperous.
* * *
Who said this? Guess, don't Google.
"So it is the policy of the United States to seek and support the growth of democratic movements and institutions in every nation and culture, with the ultimate goal of ending tyranny in our world. This is not primarily the task of arms, though we will defend ourselves and our friends by force of arms when necessary. Freedom, by its nature, must be chosen, and defended by citizens, and sustained by the rule of law and the protection of minorities. And when the soul of a nation finally speaks, the institutions that arise may reflect customs and traditions very different from our own. America will not impose our own style of government on the unwilling. Our goal instead is to help others find their own voice, attain their own freedom, and make their own way."
It was inspiring to see that if you strip away the network hype and the camera positioning and the bands and parades, the inauguration of a new president is really a very brief and simple affair. A few words earnestly spoken, and done.
People I was with thought that
To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history; but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist.was a great line. So did I. I'm sure further analysis will show most of the speech came from a combination of prior speeches -- they always do. But that doesn't matter. A presidential inauguration is a time when we remind ourselves and the world what we are about.
* * *
What are we about? The countless examples of Bush Derangement Syndrome don't tell us, and I look forward to them fading away. In some quarters they will be replaced with a naive disappointment over Obama's inevitable grappling with reality. Those of us who were not deranged will offer respect, if early indications are to be believed. Further afield will be some people who simply can't be pleased.
Out of all this our diversity is forged; and from diversity, strength and, eventually, prosperity. Forget about peace. Peace follows when enough people do enough of the right things right. But until every one of humanity's countless diverse communities embrace the values of tolerance, understanding, and negotiation, peace will remain an elusive dream. What we have to do is remain (in this order) strong, free, and prosperous.
* * *
Who said this? Guess, don't Google.
"So it is the policy of the United States to seek and support the growth of democratic movements and institutions in every nation and culture, with the ultimate goal of ending tyranny in our world. This is not primarily the task of arms, though we will defend ourselves and our friends by force of arms when necessary. Freedom, by its nature, must be chosen, and defended by citizens, and sustained by the rule of law and the protection of minorities. And when the soul of a nation finally speaks, the institutions that arise may reflect customs and traditions very different from our own. America will not impose our own style of government on the unwilling. Our goal instead is to help others find their own voice, attain their own freedom, and make their own way."
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Presidential Prototype?
Sir Joseph Porter and his Old Man
I grew so rich that I was sent
By a pocket borough into Parliament.
I always voted at my party's call,
And I never thought of thinking for myself at all.
I thought so little, they rewarded me
By making me the Ruler of the Queen's Navee!
I grew so rich that I was sent
By a pocket borough into Parliament.
I always voted at my party's call,
And I never thought of thinking for myself at all.
I thought so little, they rewarded me
By making me the Ruler of the Queen's Navee!
Monday, October 20, 2008
Requiescat
Went to the Civil War again this weekend.
“During the 1860s, following a death in a family, once the funeral was over and the family felt emotionally ready, an announcement would be sent out as to what day they would be ‘at home’ to receive visitors. At that time, friends would call upon the bereaved to offer their condolences. This would allow the family to set a time when they would be ready to face others, and would allow friends an opportunity to visit briefly without feeling they were intruding upon the family.”
- The Journal of the National Civil War Association, Vol. XXX, No. 10, October, 2008
Ken’s widow wore a dark green hoop skirt and a fetching bolero hat and sat with family under a canvas shade. She was in her early thirties. When the company came to visit, in our suspenders and foraging caps, black ribbons pinned to our vests, her eyes filled.
“I met him two years ago,” I said. “He made quite an impression.”
“He does that,” she said.
We had cake and lemonade, served by a large caring matron who was all love and bustle, and chatted with other friends and family. It was interesting how genuine the moment could be in spite of anachronistic dress and manners. Well, the couple met and married as re-enactors, and she had a particular love for the Victorian era, or some aspects of it, and she was surrounding herself with one of her support networks.
I felt the sadness, as one does around the mourning, and thought of loved ones gone, and for a moment would have fallen to crying. But it was my loss less than anyone’s, for I knew him least. So I had more cake. Someone said it was the hardest thing he’d done in so many years re-enacting. I didn’t understand what he meant: There was nothing to do but be with her a little bit, show her the company that her husband was a part of missed him and cared about her. I wondered if he meant he was one of those men who find it difficult when faced with emotion so immediate and graceful. Or maybe I missed something else entirely.
We remembered him in other ways too: set aside an empty chair in camp, wore hats askew as he would do when marching off the field. People are peculiar creatures. Other than that, though, we mostly did the weekend: drank, sweated in heavy blue coats, ignited black powder in the direction of men in gray, took a rest playing dead, drank some more, listened to very old-time band music, endured uncomfortable shoes, slept in canvas tents, ate out of an iron pot, and leaned back on hay bales with our feet near the fire, tin cups full, watching fireworks go off among the warm farm-country stars.
There are a lot of parallels between Burning Man and pretending it’s 1863. Ren Faires too, no doubt; but I will have to be happily unemployed before there’s time to add that too to the mix. Meanwhile, I'm grateful to sometimes have precious moments that can be captured forever, because a time will come before we know it when they will be no more.
“During the 1860s, following a death in a family, once the funeral was over and the family felt emotionally ready, an announcement would be sent out as to what day they would be ‘at home’ to receive visitors. At that time, friends would call upon the bereaved to offer their condolences. This would allow the family to set a time when they would be ready to face others, and would allow friends an opportunity to visit briefly without feeling they were intruding upon the family.”
- The Journal of the National Civil War Association, Vol. XXX, No. 10, October, 2008
Ken’s widow wore a dark green hoop skirt and a fetching bolero hat and sat with family under a canvas shade. She was in her early thirties. When the company came to visit, in our suspenders and foraging caps, black ribbons pinned to our vests, her eyes filled.
“I met him two years ago,” I said. “He made quite an impression.”
“He does that,” she said.
We had cake and lemonade, served by a large caring matron who was all love and bustle, and chatted with other friends and family. It was interesting how genuine the moment could be in spite of anachronistic dress and manners. Well, the couple met and married as re-enactors, and she had a particular love for the Victorian era, or some aspects of it, and she was surrounding herself with one of her support networks.
I felt the sadness, as one does around the mourning, and thought of loved ones gone, and for a moment would have fallen to crying. But it was my loss less than anyone’s, for I knew him least. So I had more cake. Someone said it was the hardest thing he’d done in so many years re-enacting. I didn’t understand what he meant: There was nothing to do but be with her a little bit, show her the company that her husband was a part of missed him and cared about her. I wondered if he meant he was one of those men who find it difficult when faced with emotion so immediate and graceful. Or maybe I missed something else entirely.
We remembered him in other ways too: set aside an empty chair in camp, wore hats askew as he would do when marching off the field. People are peculiar creatures. Other than that, though, we mostly did the weekend: drank, sweated in heavy blue coats, ignited black powder in the direction of men in gray, took a rest playing dead, drank some more, listened to very old-time band music, endured uncomfortable shoes, slept in canvas tents, ate out of an iron pot, and leaned back on hay bales with our feet near the fire, tin cups full, watching fireworks go off among the warm farm-country stars.
There are a lot of parallels between Burning Man and pretending it’s 1863. Ren Faires too, no doubt; but I will have to be happily unemployed before there’s time to add that too to the mix. Meanwhile, I'm grateful to sometimes have precious moments that can be captured forever, because a time will come before we know it when they will be no more.
Friday, August 01, 2008
Monday, July 07, 2008
End of Story
Summer weather: I wake up early, whatever I did the night before. And the 5th of July was a Saturday. I could do what I want! Skies were clear, air was cool with a promise of heat. Perfect.
I lassoed the younger dog, Bailee, the retriever born last winter, and took her for a walk. We went out into the neighborhoods to watch the community do morning. People were walking or starting their yard work or just having breakfast tea in the shade, all of us together watching a perfect day come to life. We went a couple three miles, looking at houses (all of them different, this being an area of small old ranches converting slowly to small developments and custom homes), went along the boulevard looking at closed businesses, came up to the working orchard looking at trees. We walked between the trees to the fruit shed. That family’s been farming there since 1911, house looks like it was built about that time, a stone Lincoln Highway marker decorates the front yard. I tied the dog up in the shade and looked around and bought some Regina peaches and some Babcock peaches to take home for breakfast. They were the most perfect peaches I’ve ever seen.
Home, I put her in the yard and looked for the older dog. I had been careful that he not see us leave or he would follow. He’s very slow and if I didn’t know he was following, he might end up in the street, us not knowing where we went. I wanted to make sure he was home, say good morning, all that. He wasn’t in his place in the garage or in his dog house. I took a flashlight and inspected under the front porch where he likes to lie on the cool hard earth – not there either. I took a walk around the house to look in his place in the rear courtyard, where it’s also nice and shady.
Surprised to find him lying in the early sun, out in the dry grass next to my big mound of earth where I’m dumping unneeded piles of hillside. Just lying there. Not moving. No discernible breathing.
I touched his head.
He was not at home.
I sat in the dirt and petted him again a few times, and tears started to squeeze out of me and I said, “Goodbye, Stormy. Goodbye, old boy.”
Nothing. Not even that reaction when you touch someone and they don’t notice, a tiny flinch you yourself don’t notice unless it’s not there. Just gone.
I went to his dog house and retrieved the nasty old blanket he kicks around in there, and put it over him. Wife as it happens had started giving the younger dog her bath, in the shower. So they were in there and I went in too and sat down on one of the benches – it’s a large shower – and said, “Stormy’s gone. He’s home, but he’s gone.”
She started to cry and we held each other in the warm rain and cried awhile, Bailee in there with us too, wet, patiently waiting.
Later I lifted him in his blanket onto the garden cart, and put him in the shade under the tree in the lawn, where so often he would writhe around on his back to scratch it and bark. He always had itchies and they made him bark.
Later that morning, everyone else out of bed, the four of us sat around him and silently said our goodbyes, each in our own way; then lifted him into the bed of the pickup and took him, all four of us together, down to the vet hospital. They came out with a cart and took him away. They were very sympathetic, because of course they are animal people, and our loss was on all our faces.
And that was it, except for waves of remembrance, especially when passing one of his lie-around places, or encountering a wad of brown dog hair, or just sort of looking for him as usual and then, oh yeah. More tears.
I suppose people cry when their cats die, but dogs are truly part of the family. They have eyes that other loving mammals such as humans can read, and eyebrows that express, and mouths that smile. Most of all they have a presence, or at least the smart and loving ones do; and when they go on it isn’t tragic, of course, but it is sad. They are missed. I very much miss Stormy – just as I miss Max, who was Stormy’s elder – and someday, maybe in about a dozen years, Bailee too will be the old dog being harassed by a younger dog, and she too will go her way as we all must. So.
So. Being philosophical is just a way of avoiding the hurt. I miss Stormy very much. End of story.
Stormy gets a shearing about two weeks ago.
I lassoed the younger dog, Bailee, the retriever born last winter, and took her for a walk. We went out into the neighborhoods to watch the community do morning. People were walking or starting their yard work or just having breakfast tea in the shade, all of us together watching a perfect day come to life. We went a couple three miles, looking at houses (all of them different, this being an area of small old ranches converting slowly to small developments and custom homes), went along the boulevard looking at closed businesses, came up to the working orchard looking at trees. We walked between the trees to the fruit shed. That family’s been farming there since 1911, house looks like it was built about that time, a stone Lincoln Highway marker decorates the front yard. I tied the dog up in the shade and looked around and bought some Regina peaches and some Babcock peaches to take home for breakfast. They were the most perfect peaches I’ve ever seen.
Home, I put her in the yard and looked for the older dog. I had been careful that he not see us leave or he would follow. He’s very slow and if I didn’t know he was following, he might end up in the street, us not knowing where we went. I wanted to make sure he was home, say good morning, all that. He wasn’t in his place in the garage or in his dog house. I took a flashlight and inspected under the front porch where he likes to lie on the cool hard earth – not there either. I took a walk around the house to look in his place in the rear courtyard, where it’s also nice and shady.
Surprised to find him lying in the early sun, out in the dry grass next to my big mound of earth where I’m dumping unneeded piles of hillside. Just lying there. Not moving. No discernible breathing.
I touched his head.
He was not at home.
I sat in the dirt and petted him again a few times, and tears started to squeeze out of me and I said, “Goodbye, Stormy. Goodbye, old boy.”
Nothing. Not even that reaction when you touch someone and they don’t notice, a tiny flinch you yourself don’t notice unless it’s not there. Just gone.
I went to his dog house and retrieved the nasty old blanket he kicks around in there, and put it over him. Wife as it happens had started giving the younger dog her bath, in the shower. So they were in there and I went in too and sat down on one of the benches – it’s a large shower – and said, “Stormy’s gone. He’s home, but he’s gone.”
She started to cry and we held each other in the warm rain and cried awhile, Bailee in there with us too, wet, patiently waiting.
Later I lifted him in his blanket onto the garden cart, and put him in the shade under the tree in the lawn, where so often he would writhe around on his back to scratch it and bark. He always had itchies and they made him bark.
Later that morning, everyone else out of bed, the four of us sat around him and silently said our goodbyes, each in our own way; then lifted him into the bed of the pickup and took him, all four of us together, down to the vet hospital. They came out with a cart and took him away. They were very sympathetic, because of course they are animal people, and our loss was on all our faces.
And that was it, except for waves of remembrance, especially when passing one of his lie-around places, or encountering a wad of brown dog hair, or just sort of looking for him as usual and then, oh yeah. More tears.
I suppose people cry when their cats die, but dogs are truly part of the family. They have eyes that other loving mammals such as humans can read, and eyebrows that express, and mouths that smile. Most of all they have a presence, or at least the smart and loving ones do; and when they go on it isn’t tragic, of course, but it is sad. They are missed. I very much miss Stormy – just as I miss Max, who was Stormy’s elder – and someday, maybe in about a dozen years, Bailee too will be the old dog being harassed by a younger dog, and she too will go her way as we all must. So.
So. Being philosophical is just a way of avoiding the hurt. I miss Stormy very much. End of story.
Stormy gets a shearing about two weeks ago.Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Twenty
1988 — a year from graduating college (late) — thought we couldn't get pregnant — honeymoon plane tickets in pocket ...
2008 — one child out of high school, one still in — good times outweigh the bad — taking the rest of it one year, one month, one day at a time ...
2008 — one child out of high school, one still in — good times outweigh the bad — taking the rest of it one year, one month, one day at a time ...
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Eight Oh Nine Saturday Morning
If having thirty-nine boys and girls aged sixteen to eighteen at your house sounds like anything less than total fun to you, then please don’t move in with me. We had pizza – Little Caesar’s is crap but it’s cheap. We had soda and chips. I made a bunch of milkshakes (chocolate, chocolate mint, cookies ‘n cream) with the milkshake maker thing we got for a wedding present nineteen years eleven months ago. My son opened presents. People jumped or hung out on the trampoline. People wailed on each other in the inflatable boxing ring we hired (complete with big huge gloves about three times the size of your head – and it was very cool to hold my own against two motivated teenaged boys, there’s something to be said for staying healthier than your average forty nine year old). People sat on the porch swing. People shot each other out of the sky with the Xbox 360 on the widescreen. People turned up the music. People went home late. People, about a dozen, are here still this bright sunny morning. Not all of them boys –- clearly some parents have daughters they know and trust, and with this crowd, they should. These are great kids, my son’s friends, a mixture of band, drama, advanced placement classes, swim team, and grade school. Nothing went wrong. It never does. Life is good. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.
Monday, February 18, 2008
pages turned to dust
Father Luke’s appeal is in the simple and truthful art of choosing words. He creates the skeleton of a world, and I like to visit it in part because I can fill it in.
I’m not very sensitized to poetry, just as I’m not sensitized to hip-hop or to a good cigar. I like his work because I can relate to the life it describes. Some of this is geographical: I know Santa Cruz – I can smell the eucalyptus in the morning fog, I can hear the Dipper rattle, I can see the light on the swells, thick with seaweed. I’ve seen the people who’ve washed up there, spoken to a couple. Santa Cruz is one of those eddies where folks find their wandering ends. Berkeley’s another.
But a lot of it is even more personal. His life, drifting and bemused, is similar to the one I lived on that other channel, you know, the one that comes in late at night in black and white: Some guy looks at what might have been – college, wife, kids, house, career – and decides what the hell, at least he did it his way, and dies old and poor and satisfied – and I’m the guy he might have been, touched by a ghost when the real world looked in on me, and I’m left wondering, what the hell was that?
Father Luke never looks at what might have been. He looks at what is, and says just enough to let us in but not enough to keep us out. That’s art.
More and more.
