Merry Christmas, Dad

Christmastime was always exciting around the Ruszel house. With a good combination of family tradition and anticipation of Santa Claus (at least for the littlest ones), the entire month of December was filled with projects building up to the Big Day. Early on in my upbringing, Dad was doubly-busy around the holidays. The delicatessens had him working late in the evening on Christmas eve and had him up early ready for work on the day after. On Christmas eve, he'd arrive home late, just as dinner was being set: cioppino, or fish, and pierogi. Immediately before dinner we'd share oblatek—a traditional Polish wafer—and Dad would say a special holiday prayer.

Even though he would have had a long day at work the day before, he was up on Christmas morning with Mom and us kids, watching over us as we got to open our stockings before morning mass, with just enough time to get started on the Lego model before having to get changed into our best clothes. After mass, Dad became the master of ceremonies. Opening gifts was organized chaos with him carefully doling out gifts one-by-one, making sure to keep the distribution even among all kids and Mom. One gift was opened at a time, so we could all enjoy each others' gifts. He had a knack for being able to shake a gift and tell its contents, very accurately, much to the dismay of the giver and recipient. Family legend tells of him shaking a box and correctly identifying that it was not only a sweater, but a green sweater. A large fire would be burning in the fireplace and gift wrap was collected and added to the flames. If there was a silly hat to be worn, he'd be wearing it.

It was nearly impossible to find an appropriate gift for Dad. He rarely expressed a need for anything. But we'd try. In 1977 he showed interest in the new jogging craze and for Christmas that year received James Fixx's Complete Book of Running, an Adidas track suit, and matching running shoes. That afternoon he donned the sweats and shoes and planted himself on the couch with the book in one hand and a beer in the other. He'd finished the book that day. When asked when he was going to start running he replied "I don't need to; I already read the book."

As us kids grew up and moved out, Christmas evolved to be celebrated on Christmas eve so we could all spend Christmas day with our own growing families. But Dad still handed out the presents, and organized chaos still ruled, even though it had transfered from his children to his grandchildren.

Beginning this year, Christmas without Dad will be something with which we'll all have to come to our own understanding. Sadly, Paula, the girls and I will not be traveling to be with the rest of the family for Christmas this year, mostly due to economics and budget. We'll most certainly miss being part of the celebration this year, but we'll find comfort in knowing that Dad will be with us wherever we are, celebrating with us, laughing with us, and, as always, being the master of ceremonies, contently watching over the chaos and joy.

Merry Christmas to you all.

The Big Bowl

In this one, you're about seven, sitting on the kitchen table with your legs wrapped around Mom's big stainless steel mixing bowl. It must have been after Dad bought the deli, because that's when we first started making field trips to restaurant supply stores and Mom got some industrial sized kitchen equipment. It must be summer time, because you're wearing that striped sleeveless shirt and shorts, and white sandals on your little feet. You have summer hair, too, white-blonde and whispy, pulled into pigtails.

We can't see inside the bowl, which you're stirring with a long wooden spoon. We can guess, though. That bowl is for Brother Joachim's cookies. Mom got the recipe when she went to that retreat house in Danville for the weekend. Good thing she had the big bowl, because the recipe makes 10 dozen cookies. I love those cookies. They were big, back in the day when big cookies weren't the norm. They're flat and crisp and not overly sweet, oatmeal and raisin and walnuts. I made a copy of Mom's handwritten recipe recently, and she's scribbled on the top, "John says 'Good with beer.'"

I can see Dad at that same kitchen table, eating his lunch. Must be a Saturday, because he wasn't home for lunch during the week, and on Sundays, we just had a big breakfast and then dinner. He'd put his sandwich on a plate with some chips, and pour his beer into a cold mug from the freezer, and he'd prop up his book against the covered butter dish, so that the reading angle was just right. It was usually a spy novel -- Robert Ludlum or John Le Carre, or something lighter like one of the Travis McGee books. Although he read a lot of how-to books, also, but not "Idiot" books -- real how-to books about bakery science, or harpsichord building, or the construction of fiberglass kayaks. David looks at me funny when I bring my book to the lunch table. It just seems like the right way to eat in the middle of the day.

Mom wouldn't bake the cookies all at once. She'd mix up the dough, then form it into a half dozen long logs that she'd wrap in freezer paper. She'd pile them up in the upright freezer in the garage, and pull one out and slice it thickly and bake the cookies when the time was right. Like, after school on a rainy day, when we'd come home wet from riding our bikes. After we'd toweled off and changed our clothes, she'd spread a blanket on the carpet in front of the fireplace, and we'd have an indoor picnic of warm cookies and hot chocolate. Remember?

Writing an ending

Mom and the others left, and Tim and Ed and Jenny and I sat in the sunny room with Dad’s body while we waited for the funeral home man to arrive. Dad was covered with the cotton jungle animal quilt made by the volunteer ladies that had been given to him when he arrived at the hospice home on Sunday evening. Now it was Friday afternoon. Someone remarked that it was good, finally, to see him lying still and peaceful after his struggles of the last days and months.

The driver came in an unmarked blue minivan, not a hearse, and we watched as he gently moved the body from the bed onto the gurney. Tim and I walked behind Dad as he was pushed through the back garden, past the sleeping rose bushes and the rock labryinth walk where I had earlier paced, phoning David, Joe, Adam, Aunt Mel. The driver slid the gurney smoothly into the back doors of the minivan, the legs collapsing in some clever mechanical way, and we both patted the end of the blanket before the doors closed Dad in.

We hugged Ed and Jenny, and Tim climbed into my car and he unwrapped the Radiohead CD that he had been purchasing for me at the moment Dad finished breathing. He slid it into the CD player and we turned it up loud and I drove through the evening commute traffic to the market closest to home. I picked up the makings of a spinach salad – the greens, and a red onion, walnuts, and blue cheese, and Tim chose the liquor: scotch and tequila, splurge brands. I slid a bottle of champagne into the basket. At the checkstand, the clerk said, “It looks like a party,” and I nodded in agreement. “We’re celebrating our Dad’s 76th birthday,” Tim said. I somehow couldn’t bring myself to add the rest.

It was a crime.

We're constantly faced with random violence, its prevalence in the media and its abrupt appearance in even the safest-seeming neighborhoods. Hit-and-runs, takeover robberies, wedding reception gunshots -- events like these turn lives upside down. "Be careful," we tell each other. "Be safe. Watch your back." But I've been feeling somewhat immune from violence lately. It's not that I doubt that violence will touch me. Rather, I know that it already has.

Because what happened to Dad was a crime. We will never know the perpetrator: the gene gone wrong, the chemical exposure once or repeatedly, not enough exercise, a refusal to play board games. But Dad was stricken, suddenly, without warning, and without recourse. We watched as he was dragged away from us, and our pleading, and his, had little effect. His fear was palatable, his persecutor merciless.

And then it was over. The adrenaline rush eased, the weeks of uncertainly ended, and our lives have returned to normal. But we're not the same: our brush with violence has left us both wary and grateful. It's the relief of the survivor: "It could have been worse."

Five Things

Although it's usually awash with chaos and mayhem, I really do enjoy dinnertime at our house. Paula and I are home from work, the girls are home from daycare, we all have long days behind us. Everyone unwinds. The dog runs around the house, excited that there's people in the house and the cats scatter into the corners. Many times one of the girls gets some quality time in the time out corner for doing something she ought not to. Despite all the insanity, we're together, and happy to be together. Food is being prepared, music is playing, well-needed glasses of wine are had by the adults, well-needed cups of juice are had by the thirsty children who are coloring with gusto in the few minutes before dinners is served. And I can't think of a place that I'd rather be than back home with my crazy, chaotic family after a long day away.

I was visiting Mom and Dad a few years back, way back when I was living as a bachelor in Seattle. Dad was preparing dinner in his elaborate manner: a half-dozen pans simmering on the stove, classical music pumping through the stereo, and a full glass of red wine at hand. He sang along to the music and made a big production of every step in the process. More than anything else, I think he loved having an audience while he cooked. He'd chop herbs and toss them into the sauce from behind his back with a flamboyant twist of his hand and kick of his foot for added flair. I'd sit at the kitchen bar and watch; it was performance art. If Mom happened by, he'd take her hand and try to get her to dance. He was in his element. While he cooked, he told me one of his "secrets" to a good life. He said, "There's four—wait—five things you need to have a good life." So very like Dad to make up his "secret" at that moment.

Sure, I'm game. What are these five things?

He went on to tell me that one needed to have 1) an appreciation for the culinary arts, or at least a palette to appreciate good cooking, 2) an appreciation of good wines and spirits (Mom might have rolled her eyes at this one), 3) artistic skill, or an appreciation of the arts. 4) musical skill, or an appreciation of good music, and 5) family and friends to enjoy all of these things with. He emphasized that this last secret was the most important of all, without which the other four didn't count for much.

None of these things were very secret on their own, but as a collection, and coming from Dad, they have come to be a secret recipe with which I've learned to live my life. 10 years later, standing in my own kitchen with my own family, I can take inventory of where I'm at and be satisfied that I'm integrating all of life's secrets bestowed upon me by Dad.

The Man Few Knew

[submitted by Mom]

This the man who said his own private prayer everytime he drove a car. The man who knelt by his bed every night to say his prayers, up to the day he moved to Angel's Home. The man who criticized the Church harshly, only because anything he loved so, needed to be perfect. The man who sang for forty years in a church choir. "Praying twice" he said. The man who never counted the cost of a catholic education for his children because that's what he wanted for them. The man who, as his alzheimer's progressed found calm in many visits to church. From the time we were engaged this is the man who held my hand every night before we slept as we said the Our Father. This is the man who blessed his babies as he said good night to them. This was John, the man rarely in view but always at heart.

The Horn Section

Joe is updating his resume, looking for a big time graphic design job on the West Coast that is commensurate with his experience in the Big Apple. He commented the other day that he was adding the names of specific clients to his resume, on the advice of a friend. "Of course you should," I said. He's worked for some pretty big names in the cosmetics and distilled spirits industries, and that's exactly the sort of specific detail that catches the attention of a prospective employer. "But I'm not so good at the horn-tooting thing," he said.

That made me laugh. When I worked for Jack and Dad at Ruszel Woodworks, I enrolled the firm in a relevant trade association (whose acronym is pronounced "Popeye," even though they have nothing to do with spinach or Oyl). After a few years of attending their meetings and trade shows, I was elected to the board of directors, an accomplishment which represented a major career milestone in my mind. At the next company meeting, though, no mention of my new role was announced to the assembled employees, even though I was eagerly awaiting the chance to shine. I pouted a bit about the obvious oversight, then finally complained to Dad later in the afternoon that I hadn't received the recognition I'd expected. He immediately brushed off my whining. "Hey," he said, "Sometimes you just gotta toot your own horn."

So true. We got sort of a mixed message growing up, with a mom who is self-effacing and a dad who loved to brag. Each characteristic has its appropriate time and place. When there's a horn that needs playing, step up and wail, baby. Dad is snapping his fingers to the beat.

Inside the Bus

It was only 5:45 when I left my hair dude's salon, more than enough time to get home and put dinner on the table by 7:30. So I walked around the corner to Garibaldi's, where nephew Tom works behind the bar. I lucked out: he was there, and we chatted for the 20 minutes it took me to nurse my Manhattan.

The subject of the new art studio came up, the one that his dad and Lisa are building on the front of their house, and I said, "Doesn't it surprise you sometimes, the things that your parents are up to?" He replied immediately, "I didn't know it was going to be nice!"

He was referring to Dad's oft-told story about the school bus that he remodeled in the 70s, turning it into a camper that neatly housed his brood. Vacations that would otherwise be beyond the budget became accessible, and we adventured around Northern California. The bus, of course, drew lots of attention, as the doors opened and the 9 of us piled out of it as if it were a clown car. Dad spent a lot of time on the interior, honing his woodworking skills and developing creative solutions to mitigate the lack of space. There were two sets of triple bunks and a place to put the crib at night that converting in the daytime to a dining area. My favorite spot was the cot above the drivers seat, where you could spend the drive absorbed in a book, and look out the front "destination" window to see where we were headed. In such a small space, it was the closest thing to private space.

Dad built a toilet closet, and a tiny kitchenette that included not a pricey refrigerator, but a styrofoam-lined ice box that Mom carefully filled with frozen stuff to keep the perishables cold. Every feature was carefully though frugally crafted, even Mom's plaid curtains that hung at the windows.

Dad loved giving tours, of his homes and his businesses, and the bus was no exception. Guests were inevitably impressed by his project, including the neighboring camper who climbed the stairs and blurted out, "I didn't know it was going to be nice!"

Even though that lady was in the bus a good ten or twelve years before he was even born, Tom knows this story well enough to use the punch line as shorthand. I love that. It's a Dad story.

Businessman. Statesman.

Late in his career, Dad's industry connections and vast experience had him traveling internationally with what had been a great, but short-lived, extension of the Peace Corps. He was one of a dozen-or-so businesspersons from the U.S., handpicked from a much larger pool of applicants, who traveled to Russia and former Eastern Bloc countries to council businesses on how to open their products and services to western markets. In some ways, it was a perfect fit for Dad: freedom to travel and advise persons who were mostly ready and willing to grow their businesses in ways they'd never imagined. Dad loved to give advice for growing businesses and did a good job of not being too pushy or arrogant with his suggestions. He'd say things like, "Have you thought about..." or "You may want to try..."

He met many characters along the way, like the retired Russian general who "inherited" an entire tank factory after the Soviet Union fell. He was converting the factory to make remote-controlled firefighting equipment. Dad asked him how he was planing on marketing his new vehicles. The general was insulted at the suggestion that he needed to market his product, "I will build them, and people will buy them. That's the way it works." Dad had to gently remind him that Mother Russia would no longer be fueling the economy by purchasing his output as it had for decades before. He also had to carefully decline the rounds of vodka that the general would offer him at nine o'clock every morning. He had to teach some, and listen a great deal—these were people who had been behind the Iron Curtain just a few years earlier and Dad was very conscious of that; the deep historical significance was not lost on him.

Once, while on a trip to Poland with his group, they met late into the evening in the restaurant of their Warsaw hotel, debriefing each other on the day's events (this was also the same evening that one of his traveling companions was served tea made with water that hot dogs had been boiled in...it was late, and the water was already hot, explained the server). As the night wore on, the restaurant had cleared out and left their party and another group of about 10 men sitting across the dining room from them. At one point, one of the men approached their table and asked their interpreter if they were Americans. Yes, the interpreter responded. The man was very excited to hear this and asked if they could join their discussion. As it turned out, the Polish gentlemen were newly-elected senators and were working on a draft of a new constitution. They were using the U.S. constitution as their benchmark and wanted the Americans' feedback about what they should and should not copy from it. Dad, being careful with his words, suggested that they take into account that our constitution was 200 years old, written for specific conditions that did not necessarily exist in contemporary Poland...not to mention in contemporary U.S. He said (as retold to me later), "The first amendment, that's a good one. The second amendment, well, you may want to take a look at that one pretty carefully."

Hot dog water tea aside, he really enjoyed his trips. He went places he never thought he would, places like Moscow, St. Petersburg, Rostov-on-Don and Warsaw. He'd come home to Mom with armloads of chochkis and many, many stories to share. From stories come legends and the legend I'm reserving for my children is of how their grandpa played a role in the creation of the Polish constitution.

The Scroungers

[submitted by Mom]

Dad was a scrounger. He was always bringing home something useful, saying it was for the kids. From Varian he brought a heavy iron whirly thing that they no longer had any use for in the process of manufacturing. He also brought home a cabinet from the deli that was no longer used. Jack decided he wanted to sleep in it and caught his finger in a knot hole. Lucky Grandpa Mayer was there to extract him (Grandpa was good at fixing things, like zippers and fingers). Of course, this habit of bringing things home rubbed off on Fr. Bud and he added to the collection with a fat—probably 6-8 inch diameter—braided rope from the ocean. He had Fr. Ed as an accomplice at that time. Back when we lived in Illinois, Fr Bud brought carpet rolls from the seminary. They were 12 ft. long and 14 inches in diameter. The kids fit right inside and rolled down our little hill on the side of the house. You could get 3 to 4 kids inside and the neighbor kids added to the melee. Once we built the backyard swimming pool, we couldn't get much more stuff into the yard, but now that there was the Woodworks, he could bring his scrounge there, like old rail carts. Now the grandkids, and of course Jack, got to enjoy.

Pet Tricks

Caesar Augustus, "Gus," was the family dog. Adopted as a puppy when I was still toddling around, he quickly became the 8th member of our family. Dad named him after the first Roman emperor and he fit his name well; he was intelligent, regal in stance, and calm but solid in his role as protector of the household. He was leery of strangers, but took to them easily once he saw that they were friends of the family. When he was still a puppy he got out of the house to chase the mail carrier, nipping at her pant legs. She kicked him away and he never forgot. He reserved his most vicious barking for her. His protective nature aside, he was an obedient sidekick for Dad.

Although us kids were mainly responsible for taking him on walks, filling his food and water bowls and giving him regular attention, he knew Dad was the alpha of the household. Dad's voice would summon Gus from the other side of the house; Gus would come to Dad and sit like a statue in front of him, waiting for his command. Dogs welcome all the attention they can get, but to Gus attention from Dad was golden.

Dad trained him with the usual Sit, Stay, Come commands, but added in his own special tricks. He would balance a Milkbone on his nose and Gus would wait patiently, eyes crossed and focused on the treat, and with a simple "Okay, Gus" from Dad, in one lightning fast motion he'd flip his head back and catch the treat in his mouth.

Gus worked hard and played hard throughout his lifetime. In the end, it was the complications from hip dysplasia that eventually did him in. It was Dad, quietly and alone, who took Gus on his final trip to the vet. Mom and Dad never got another pet to replace him, due in no small part to the fact that they knew how special and unique Gus was and how it'd be impossible to ever replace him in the family.

Paula and I have what very well may be the world's worst dog. Max jumps and licks, runs by the girls and knocks them down, chews up their toys, scratches the doors and chews on the wood molding. He's got selective hearing and can be stubborn and downright bratty. But I have hope. Hope that I can channel some of Dad's calm-but-firm demeanor and hope Max can channel some of Gus' intelligence, patience and obedience. In the meantime, I've managed to teach Max the Milkbone-on-the-nose trick. He's not nearly as willing or agile as Gus ever was, but it's a start.

Happy Hour 101

[Mom may object to some of the content in this post, but I will point out that the questionable events occurred way more than 7 years ago.]

After Dad's memorial service, Mom invited all family and friends to her house for dessert and coffee. I made the rounds, chatting with people that I haven't seen or spoken with in years. I met with Great Aunt Sylvia and we tried to place when we'd last seen each other. I couldn't place the date, but she remembered, quite clearly, that it was more than 20 years earlier at Jenny and Gary's wedding. And it all became clear to me, too, why I couldn't remember. "You got very drunk. You seemed to be having a really good time!" she said with enthusiasm. With that, all the shame and guilty pleasure of a 16-year-old washed over me. Her depiction of me being "very drunk" wasn't at all an overstatement. I do remember thinking, "I can't believe the bartender keeps serving me champagne." And rest of the evening quickly became a blurry slideshow. I awoke the next morning, with my first-ever hangover after my first-ever drinking binge. I had to do the walk of shame from my bedroom through the kitchen—where Mom and Dad were washing dishes—to my bathroom on the other side of the house. I was doing my best to tiptoe behind them. Dad, without turning, said "Tim?"

"Yes," I croaked.

Mom asked, "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Not so good."

"Good," said Dad. "Then maybe you've learned something."

That was it. Nothing more was said of the subject, although I did get a few raised eyebrows and knowing looks from them for the next few weeks. Julie and I spent the rest of the morning on a long pilgrimage to the store for bagels and other breakfast items. When I told her of my early-morning exchange with the Folks, she said, "That's all they said? Wow. You got off easy." Lessons learned: don't drink in front of the folks, and too much champagne is a bad thing.

There was an unwritten code in our family that allowed us kids, at or around age 18, to partake in adult beverages...within reason and with proper parental invitation. At age 16, I pushed my luck by ignoring the age, reason, and invitation requirements. But around the time of my high school graduation, Dad asked if I'd like a glass of wine with dinner. "Um, okay..." I said, waiting for the punchline. Lunch at the shop was occasionally had at a local dive bar, complete with pitchers of beer. Dad started getting an additional glass for me. While pouring, he'd say, "If you get caught by the bartender, it's your own fault." Certainly acceptable terms to me.

When Peter and Betsy got married, and as with many Ruszel weddings, the reception continued into the night at our house. Having learned my lesson from the previous wedding reception, and having been properly exposed to the unwritten code, I kept to moderate consumption. As the evening wore on and guests trickled away, Dad and I found ourselves sitting in the living room together. We'd finished our beers and Dad made the suggestion that we search for replacements. Dad huddled close to me and gave instructions, "Mom's cleaning up in the kitchen, so we shouldn't go there. I'll sneak out and check the coolers in the backyard, you see if there's anything left in the garage coolers." We headed off on our patrols and met up in the dining room a few minutes later, empty handed. Dad gave new instructions, "I'll check in the fridge, you see if there's anything in the pantry."

Dad was on his knees, digging through the refrigerator. Mom asked him, "What are you looking for?"

"Nothing in particular."

A moment later he turned and held a 20-ounce bottle of Japanese beer that had been given to him from our neighbor, Don. Grinning from ear to ear he called out to me, "Hey Tim! Look what I found!" His smile soon faded as Mom took the bottle from his hand and placed it back in the refrigerator.

"I think you boys have had enough for tonight."

With that, our quest for the last beer came to an abrupt end. There was no protest, no argument from us. We knew we were beaten and had to just resign ourselves for the evening. Dad put his arm around me, "We tried. I guess we better just call it a night, huh?" With that a new lesson was learned: be careful around Mom.

I've come to realize that the real lessons learned are: 1) it's important to drink in moderation; 2) don't flaunt privilege; and (the most important) 3) it's much more enjoyable to drink in the companionship of others you know and love. Sometimes we need to push our limits to learn those lessons the hard way, and blessings to Aunt Sylvia for fondly remembering my comeuppance.

Library Days

Dad loved books. Books of all kinds – science books, biographies, “shoot-em ups”, as he called them, mysteries -- you name it, he read it. There were always multiple books lying face down, opened to the page where Dad left off, in various places throughout the house. When he found a book particularly interesting, he enthusiastically passed it around for all of us to enjoy. Or, if he really, really liked it he bought copies for everyone. He was thrilled when the first Barnes & Noble opened nearby, and he made trips there frequently, buying a half dozen books at a time. His (and Mom’s) enthusiasm for learning and enjoyment through reading was inherited by all seven of us children in a very strong way.

When we were growing up, however, purchasing books was not a luxury afforded to the Ruszel family. Instead, every two or three weeks, after dinner, Dad would call for us all to collect our books and we’d head out to the library in Pleasant Hill. Mom, for reasons I never understood until I became a mom myself, opted out of these sojourns.

At the library, we’d all split up to go to our various areas of interest. I remember the progression I made as the years went on: starting out in the children’s section with the cool miniature wire chairs with colored seat cushions, to the young adults, to the adult fiction – which was upstairs! I once bumped into Dad up there when I was about 12, and he said, “Hey, what are you doing up here?” Uh oh – I thought I was caught! I replied, “Um, looking for a book”, “Oh, ok.” was his reply, and he moved on.

When the library staff announced closing time over the loudspeaker, we’d all bring our newly-found books to the counter to check them out. We would meet at a central table and read until the whole group was finished, and we’d happily pile back into the blue Volkswagen bus with our individual stacks of treasures for the drive home. Inevitably, the bus took control of Dad at the Baskin-Robbins Ice Cream store, and it pulled into the parking lot there so Dad could treat us all to ice cream cones. We brought home Oregon Blackberry in a sugar cone for Mom.

The "Dad Face"

Dad instilled in all us kids a good understanding of DIY and would often ask the question "why pay someone when you can do it yourself?" All projects involved his children and we all learned new skills from the experiences. Some of them came by default (like me, at age 7, being the obvious choice for dragging wires or soldering copper pipe in the crawlspace since I was the smallest), and others came out of sheer necessity of whoever was nearest. Then there was the Christmas where we all made our gifts. I know there were economic reasons for doing that, but it has come to be one of my most cherished memories. Dad made two gifts for everyone: one "real" and one gag. My daughters have inherited the Car with Square Wheels that Dad had made for me. "That car is crazy!" was Sophie's comment.

Before Ruszel Woodworks was relocated to Benicia, it was operated out of the garage. One of my first jobs was to run out in the street and check for traffic so we could feed 20' pine planks through the planer. Half-way through the planing process I'd have to run into the house to catch the plank as it came out the other side, in the kitchen. When the shop did move to a warehouse location, we fashioned our own square "tubes" for the dust collector out of particleboard; it was cheaper than PVC. When the shop outgrew the warehouse and moved to a larger facility, Dad looked around to find a contractor to remove all the old railroad track that was dug into the property. They required a sizable amount of money to break apart the track, but they'd haul it away for free. So he employed Peter and me to spend a few weeks over a hot summer breaking apart railroad track. And Peter single-handedly replaced a few hundred broken window panes.

When Paula and I moved to our new house a few years ago, we upgraded not only the square footage of the house, but also more than doubled the size of the garage. That meant that I could have a bigger woodshop AND have room for Paula to park her car. I've been adding tools as jobs require them: air compressor and nail guns when we put in new hardwood floors, a new tablesaw when I was building cabinets. Paula has surprised me on more than a few occasions with an assortment of new equipment. It's an efficient, compact little shop. Of course, every time I fire up the saw I see Dad standing across from me, arms at his side, on his face a gesture of concern: gritting his teeth with an exaggerated frown. When I worked at the shop that face was present while I used any machinery and it really bothered me. I felt it was a gesture of mistrust. I've come to realize that he always trusted me; he just knew that the use of any machinery included some level of danger and wanted me to be aware of his concern. His face was his way of reminding me of all the things he taught me: watch the blade, stand to the side of the feed, always unplug it when doing any kind of maintenance, and, most importantly and often repeated: "Be careful!". While he taught us all to do it ourselves, part of that bargain was that we couldn't get hurt in the process. His gesture of concern will always be with me and I'm very grateful for the reminder, even though I always think "Yes, Dad, I'll be careful" in the slightly sarcastic voice of a 17-year-old.

Mom and Dad came out to visit a few years ago and he brought me a nice collection of hand tools. "Every shop needs to have these" he said, presenting them to me wrapped in a paper bag—official Polish wrapping paper. I showed him some of the things that I'd built for the house, including a new coffee table for the living room. I'd wandered into the kitchen to fetch a few beers and returned to find Dad laying on the floor, looking underneath the coffee table. I asked if he was okay.

"Of course. I just needed to make sure my boy built it right, and you did. Nice work." Talk about a big compliment. I started to tell him how I had to jerry-rig some of the cuts to get the legs properly tapered. I stopped when he started making that Dad Face...

The Collected Words of JPR

I'm interviewing for jobs now, and last week, a prospective boss described the job he was filling as "mostly 'management by walking around.'" It made me laugh inside. Dad loved to collect phrases and use them in appropriate -- or inappropriate -- moments. He'd had a fling with participatory management in the early nineties, and I'm sure he had recognized his own management style in the jargon of the day: "management by walking around." Except when he said it, it came out as "walking around with your hands in your pockets." You gotta appreciate the translation. "Hands in your pockets" means "not operating the tools yourself." That had a very specific meaning for Dad.

Similarly, he'd absconded the Marty Feldman line from "Young Frankenstein": the one where Marty's Igor leads Doctor Frankenstein from the train station. I'm sure you've laughed many times at the sight of Igor, hunched over, urging the Doctor to "walk this way," and Gene Wilder follows him, and imitates his hunch-backed lurch, as well. But when Dad said it, it came out as "Walk like this!" which was actually funnier, because it added a third comic actor to the skit: the limping John Ruszel.

We had a little debate during our funeral preparations, wondering whether to include Dad's signature dinner statement in our public remembrances of him. He'd sit at the head of the table, crowded with family, guests, plates, dishes, and glasses, and remark loudly, as if to himself, "I wonder what the poor people are doing!" The comment always made Mom cringe, and the assembled family groan, and some of our dinner company undoubtedly found his words insensitive. But we knew what he meant: he was content, and grateful.

We realized as adults that one of Dad's favorite ways to express his displeasure was by attributing it to Mom. "Your mother is unhappy about..." or "Your mother is upset that...." was usually a mirror of Dad's feelings. After a couple of confusing conversations with Mom which ended up with "I never said that..." and "But Dad said...", we figured it out. Dad had his own communication style, which, while unorthodox, was very effective.

I'm enjoying the way Dad is appearing in my life these days. In fact, I'm thinking about his advice constantly as I wait for the job possibilities to align themselves into my future. "All you can do," he'd say, "is go until you hit a brick wall." And seriously. What else can you do?

Slotted Spoon

As kids, we took for granted a wonderful thing: every night presented us with a home-cooked meal, served at the family table. Okay, maybe I shouldn't speak for all of us, but I certainly took it for granted. I remember being so excited to go to a neighbor's house for a slumber party: TV dinners were going to be served. I'd never had one before and was looking forward to what I imagined to be a very sophisticated, tasty meal. The neighbor kids and I sat in their living room, TV trays on our laps. I peeled back the foil and was utterly stunned at what was beneath. It was a brownish mass, undecipherable as food and looking nothing like the nice picture on the box. And it tasted even worse...probably like the box itself would've tasted. It was a huge letdown for me, but it was at that moment when I started to understand how good a home-cooked meal really was.

We were all employed to aid in the production of meals, whether by helping cook, setting the table or cleaning up afterwards. Besides making and consuming meals, the kitchen was the meeting room, the place for social gathering and where we all congregated by default. Throughout the years, our kitchens have been remodeled, rebuilt, re-engineered to handle the growing family...and all the extended family and friends who've joined us. The kitchen has remained the central focus of Mom & Dad's house, although it doesn't have the low-hung wall cabinets of the Walnut Creek house that gave Dad a place to conveniently toss the used wine corks (Dad acted very sneaky when he threw them up there and Mom pretended to not notice).

Mom and Dad were both accomplished cooks, both similarly self-trained by trial and error and from thorough investigation of the many recipes they'd come across. Through their hands-on training at home and at the delicatessens, they also had the ability to cook for many; they had to hone their skills cooking smaller portions as us kids began moving out. However similar their training and experiences, they both had their own very individual methods. Mom found recipes that she tried and the successful ones went into her ever-growing repertoire of meals. We all had our favorites and she had a steady rotation of meals that kept us all satisfied. Dad's method seemed much more haphazard, but was equally rewarding. He cooked in a grand manner, most always starting with a huge stock pot simmering since the early morning hours. He listened to music or sang as he cooked and although he'd dirty most of the cookware, he'd wash throughout the process, keeping a tidy, buzzing kitchen. He was a firm believer of the Julia Child method of cooking: with a glass of wine in hand. Once, while making an enormous pot of chili, he showed me his "secret." As I climbed up on a chair to look in the pot, he told me that to be a good chef, one should "always measure with a slotted spoon." And he proceeded to let a good helping of spices run through the slotted spoon he was holding, into the chili. He rarely had a recipe, but he always had a plan.

Mom can still put together our favorite dishes and they're just as great as we remember them. She's also spoiled a whole generation of grandkids who can't imagine macaroni and cheese served in anything but a casserole dish, topped with slices of cheese.

We all took a bit from the folks' cooking talents. We all have our favorite recipes and some of us have even been successful at replicating them in our own kitchens. Julie has always been a naturally talented cook and took it a step or two further: after professional chef's school she's emerged as the Cooklady.

Most of what I've learned about cooking came from both Mom and Dad. I cook many of my family's meals, so I find myself scouring books, magazines and the web for tasty new recipes that we'd all enjoy. There's also the tried-and-true concoctions that I keep on a steady rotation, adding new recipes to the mix every now and then (the latest of which is something I picked up from Jules, which Sophie aptly named "Aunt Julie's Beans"; it's the girls' current favorite). I also have a few "slotted spoon" recipes that I bring out now and then: a big simmering pot with a dash of this, a handful of that. Every time I make them they're a bit different, hopefully a bit better. I take inventory of the available ingredients, pour some wine, put on some music, and I always have a plan.

It was just last weekend that Paula told me she's known for months about my wine cork repository above the cabinets.

What People Remember

I heard from Mom that Wally De Young's mom died recently. Her obituary was detailed and personal ("Longer than Dad's!" Mom said.) I can imagine it being written by committee, with input from all of her nine children and their families.

Grandma was such an extraordinary and influential cook, in the good old-fashion way of home cooks who don't use recipes or measure ingredients, that most of her children and many of her grandchildren have become accomplished home cooks themselves... One of the most amazing abilities she had was that all the dishes she made came together at the same time. She never had one dish drying out while one still had 15 minutes to cook; a true art. There is some question as to whether she knew how to cook for less than 30 people, yet she always did so with grace and poise.

That's a lady after my own heart!

Anyway, Wally was my eighth grade boyfriend, which meant that we passed notes during class and pretended to ignore each other on the playground. After about thirty years of non-communication, we recently became reacquainted, so I sent him a little condolence note when I heard about his mom. He emailed me this morning:

Julie,

Thanks so much for the kind note. I'm so sorry to have heard of your
father's passing - I had no idea. But I certainly know what you've been
going through and my thoughts are with you too. I remember your Dad
because he was the judge for our 8th grade school science fair and he
chose me for 1st place! My 15 minutes of fame and he was responsible!

Lots of warm hugs to you and yours!

Xoxoxo,
-Wally

Another memory that helps keep Dad alive in our hearts.

My New Car

When Dad bought his first new Volvo, it happily coincided with my 16th birthday. Happily because rather than take the heavily discounted return from a dealer trade-in, he sold his 6-year-old VW Rabbit to me. It had a ton of commute miles on it, but was still in good condition. I had to learn how to drive a stick and spent the first 6 weeks or so nervous having to start up on any hill I happened to be on. But I got the hang of it eventually. The new freedom I got from my driver's license and from ownership of my own car was worth every penny I'd paid for it.

About 8 months or so after I'd purchased the car, I found myself cruising down I-680. Somewhere around the Stone Valley Road exit, the car shook for a moment and the engine RPM hit the redline, sending a huge plume of smoke out the tailpipe. The engine stalled and I managed to coast to the shoulder. After letting it cool for a few minutes, it started up and I took the side roads home. I took it to the mechanic the next day to have it checked out. The diagnosis was a bad head gasket and, although the engine could still run, it needed to be either rebuilt or replaced entirely. I was quoted a price range of $700 - $1200 to fix it. I was furious.

I went home and found Dad sitting on the living room couch, reading the evening newspaper. I told him about how the car was in need of huge repairs and how upset I was that he sold me such a junky car. Dad, without missing a beat and without even looking up from the newspaper, said simply, "That's the price you pay when you have the luxury of owning an automobile."

I managed to keep the car limping along at low speeds and continued to use it often, trying to figure out how I'd save up enough to get the engine work done. A few months later, I was hit while driving home from school. It was the other driver's fault. The insurance adjuster met me at the house to assess the damage. I spoke about how great a car it was and what good condition it was in (which was mostly true...besides, he never specifically asked about the engine). The insurance company totaled the car and paid me full blue book price for it: much more than I'd originally paid Dad for it. This event happily coincided with my brother buying a new car and he happily sold me his 5-year-old Toyota. All was well.

Dad came home from work and saw my new/used car parked in front of the house. "I see that worked out pretty well for you, didn't it?" he said, with a smile.

This Just In - Grandma Cheats

What I would have said at the Rosary had I not been crying more than my mom after a hallmark commercial, and was also somewhat funny:

Around Easter of ‘04 Tammy came up North with me to meet the Grandparents for the first time. And unlike every movie you’ve ever seen, where the significant other meets the family, I had absolutely zero worries.

When we arrived at their house, Grandpa asked us both about our degrees and what we were to do with them (He always seemed to be interested in peoples business pursuits). We continued to chat over the Macaroni & Cheese that Grandma forced us to eat.

And like my visits to Grandmas usually ended up, I challenged her to a game of Flinch. On this rare occasion, (maybe it was his desire to be hospitable to a new visitor) Grandpa decided to play. As we all know, Grandpa was not a big fan of card games.

The result was not surprising - Grandma won the first two games, with Grandpa saying, "See that’s why I don’t play games with Grandma. She always cheats!"

We finished up and shortly after that we left. As we slid into the backseat, Tammy looked at me and said, "You know, that’s what grandparents are supposed to be like."

And right there it hit me. I thought “Yup. You hit the nail on the head.” Growing up, I had taken it all for granted - the jokes, the smiles, the food, the legos, the generosity. All of it – I was and am extremely blessed to have perfect grandparents.

And I didn’t even need to cheat.

Dark Side of the Family Room

Dad was a huge fan of music. From his involvement in the church choir to playing "his song" at the piano, he always had music around him in some way, and encouraged us to share in his enthusiasm. Not all of us had the skills to play our own music, but we've all made music appreciation a huge part of our lives.

His favorites were classical (Russian composers in particular) and jazz. Before us kids came along, he and Mom would go on dates to Chicago to catch acts at some of the many jazz clubs in town. His tastes adapted nicely to the evolution of music and even managed to enjoy some of the music that us kids listened to (although sometimes grudgingly—while working at the shop one Saturday he protested to Jack about the lyrics on a Jerry Garcia album we were listening to: "I like the songs okay, but why do they all have to be about smoking pot?"). But besides getting tips from us and listening to the radio, he had purchased very few albums during the time that he and Mom were raising kids.

The breakthrough for him came with the introduction of CDs. He read about the superior music quality they produced and bought one of the first consumer CD players available. We'd recently inaugurated the upstairs as the living room after 10 years of it being a bedroom and he set up his new system with new speakers upstairs and downstairs in the kitchen. The actual selection of CD titles was rather slim, consisting only of a 5' section of space at the local Tower Records. But the titles were mostly classical and jazz, so it was easy for him to pick some of his favorites. He'd turned the music up loud and smile as he sang along to the melodies. He was in his element. Of course, us kids purchased our own CDs to play. We'd buy a few titles here and there and add them to the ever-growing library of CDs. Dad picked up on a few and we'd find him cooking in the kitchen, singing along to The Eurythmics, or Eric Clapton.

I was returning home one Sunday afternoon when, from about a block away, I heard music cranking out of the upstairs windows. I ran into the house, furious that Lucy was playing my new CD so loud and without concern for Mom and Dad. When I got upstairs Lucy was nowhere to be found, but there was Dad, reclined in his lounge chair, lyric sheet from the jewel case laid open on his lap. His eyes were closed and he was grinning ear-to-ear. Dark Side of the Moon was playing at full volume and he was enjoying every moment of it. In a strange reversal of roles, I found myself turning down the music and asking him what he was doing.

He sat up, put his glasses on, and starting telling me about how great the album was, how amazingly deep the lyrics were. He gave me what is probably the most detailed and accurate assessment of the underlying theme of the album I've ever heard. He was on the second listen of the album and already he "got it." He asked, "Who are these guys? Are they new?"

I told him that no, it was not new, and, in fact, was released 13 years earlier. "Your older kids used to listen to this album when it was first released and you'd yell at them to turn it down."

"I did? But it's really good..."

Sure, Dad had his own likes and dislikes in music, but he taught me through example the importance of keeping an open mind and embracing new concepts...even if they're a bit old.

"Long you live and high you fly, and smiles you'll give and tears you'll cry, and all you touch and all you see is all your life will ever be."

Humilty

Dad was a proud man, for certain, but that doesn't mean he had any ounce of hubris in him. On the contrary, he kept around himself an air of humility. He was authoritative in his areas of expertise, but he was respectful of the opinions of others. He and Mom taught us kids the importance of humility: don't boast, don't flaunt, don't tease, and never stoop to Schadenfreude.

In the late '90s, when he was in the midst of his retirement from the shop, he came to visit me in Seattle on a solo trip. I think it was one of the few times that he appreciated my distance away from home, as he was looking for a bit of distance to gain some perspective into the next chapter in his life. Although he liked the idea in theory, having retirement right in front of him was a bit of a challenge. He was a man who always needed something to do, something to fix, something to build, something to nurture. He wasn't sure how he'd find those things in retirement. When we'd first talked about his retirement a number of years earlier, he described himself as the "old Polack who keels over one day while running the tablesaw." Seeing that this probably wouldn't be the case for him, he was looking for other options.

It was a good visit over a long weekend (I took a vacation day from work and he was concerned, "are you sure this is okay with your boss?"). We ate, drank, and talked...a lot, about our dreams, fears, concerns, hopes. One evening, we had drinks and dinner at the 5-Spot and walked back up to my apartment. It was a fair evening, so we sat in the backyard and looked at the city's lights down the hill from us. He brought up the subject of what to do with his time now that he was retired. I asked him, "What do you want to do?"

"I don't know," he said, "I just feel like I need to accomplish something with my life."

I could hardly believe what I'd heard. I reminded him that he earned multiple degrees, ran a number of successful business, traveled internationally for both business and pleasure, and, besides all those accomplishments, he raised a great family. "Dad, if I can claim one-tenth of the accomplishments you've had by the time I retire, I'd consider myself rather successful."

He looked at me and squinted a little, "Huh. You think so?"

Oatmeal

[submitted by Mom]

John was really excited to be a dad. When Julie was born, he drove all over Chicago Heights to tell Bu and Dzia, Mom and Dad and all the aunts and uncles. Had a shot and a beer with his dad. When he came to visit me that first night at St James Hospital (the first of 5 days we moms enjoyed back then) he brought me an armload of flowers and a lovely pendent. The woman in the next bed had had her 7th child and when her husband came in, he sat down at the edge of the bed, put his head in his hands and asked "How do you make oatmeal?" John was awed. "wow, seven kids." When Ed was born, it was the same excitement. More flowers and gifts. Dzia always gave us $100 when a baby came. John argued for more since this one was a "Ruszel son". Jack's birth brought more of the same (no more money from Dzia). Still the excitement built. Peter was over nine and a half pounds, more to be proud of. John loved holding his babies, rubbing their foreheads. Jenny decided to be born only after I was in the hospital for three days. Dr. Vic Towle, who delivered the first four of our babies (and me too, incidently) was by now a good friend of Johns and they decided to walk the block to St. Agnes Church for Sunday mass thinking nothing was happening that morning, but Jenny came while they were gone. Now John had an extra story to tell and also more flowers and gifts to bring.

By the time we got to California, John was an old pro at this daddy thing, but just as proud and excited when Lucy came. He brought all the 5 older kids along with the flowers to visit me on my one night at Kaiser in Walnut Creek. Looking in the nursery window at all the babies. John showed the kids their new sister. Jen decided she didn't want that one. More flowers and a beautiful necklace were brought on the November day when Tim was born. John came in looking excited still, but a bit haggard, "How do you make oatmeal?" he asked with a grin.

My Brother Gennady

For a number of years I lived in Seattle. It was my first long-term away from home experience and, although I tried hard to hide it, I did find myself homesick at times. Mom and Dad, always being respectful of the decisions of their children, wanted to make sure they gave me enough space...as if I'd intentionally moved away from them. Of course, that wasn't the case (suffice it to say that there were other reasons and circumstances that prompted my move north, but no reason explain them here), and I was absolutely thrilled when they planned a trip that would have them visiting me for a few days.

We had a great time wandering around the city, taking in the sights, visiting my office so Dad could make sure that the company I worked for was legit. They were just a few years away from retirement but already in full travel mode, ready for new places and new experiences. One evening we took a ferry across the Puget Sound to Bainbridge Island and dined at a very nice restaurant where my friend, Michael, worked. Having known me and the family since high school, Michael gave us all the VIP treatment, with great attention and service, visits from the owner and head chef, and even gave Dad a quick peek into the kitchen. Dad loved to see a bustling commercial kitchen. As drinks were ordered, Dad was surprised to hear me ask for a martini. He was disappointed that it was made with gin instead of vodka, but we still clinked our glasses with a hearty "Nostrovia!"

The conversation was active and lively, as was usual with the folks. We talked politics and business, family issues and our own thoughts and dreams. Around the time the second round was being delivered to our table, Dad said, "I think if we were to have another son I would like to name him Gennady."

I think Mom gasped for a moment, before collecting herself, saying, "What makes you think we're ever going to have more children?"

"I'm just saying that if we did, then I like the name Gennady."

"Okay, John. You go ahead and think that."

I know Dad was being provocative and joking, but maybe just half joking. He always loved the little ones; he knew all the right games to play and all the ways to interact with them. As keen as he was at his very adult language of business, science and mathematics, he was equally keen at the language of children and play. The funny thing was, when he made that comment I could actually picture Dad with a new baby, being delighted with each moment spent together. Luckily for Mom, us kids kept having children of our own to help keep him occupied.

Dad had a way of throwing non-sequiturs into the conversation at hand. You had to think on your feet. Sometimes it was so random and out of place, but to those who knew him, they always somehow fit and made the discussion all that more fund and interesting. It was all just silly speculation, I know, but sometimes I find myself wondering about my little brother Gennady...I bet I would have liked him.

PSSSST

Dad was a proud and loving grandfather, but I wouldn’t call him doting. He’d occasionally get on all fours and horse-play with his grandchildren. He would show off the babies proudly to the neighbors. He would give them $1 bills for A’s on their report cards. He and Mom, however, had always made it fairly clear to us that although they loved their grandchildren dearly; they wanted no part in being regular day-care providers. That’s understandable given their first grandchild was born when they still had three kids in elementary school!

So I was pretty blown away by Dad when Stephanie was born. Gary and I happened to be providing the weekend adult supervision for Adam, Tom and John on the particular Saturday when it was “time to go”. Our predicament of having six minors at our home while we were at John Muir Hospital prompted an urgent call to Mom. She cheerfully agreed to come over and spend the day with the kids. Stephanie was born that afternoon, and Mom and Dad were two of our first visitors. Dad took a shine to Stephanie immediately.

After I returned home, Dad took up the task of being the “meals-on-wheels” provider. He’d call in the morning and ask if he could bring over dinner. My answer was always yes, and he’d come over in the afternoon with such wonderful dinners: spaghetti with meatballs and homemade sauce, pork chops, multiple varieties of soups. He had so much fun with this cooking project, it continued well beyond my recovery term. He had several reasons for doing this: partly he loved to cook; partly he wanted to help us out; but I think primarily he wanted to come over and visit Stephanie.

Once I returned to work (at the shop), I brought Stephanie with me. The closet in my office was big enough for a port-a-crib, so she’d take her naps in there. Dad would come in every day to see her. He’d give me a hard time if she was “locked up” the closet.

When she became a little older and recognized people, he’d hide outside my office door going “PSSSST, PSSSST, PSSSST” until he captured Stephanie’s attention. Soon enough, she’d hear that sound and happily yell “GRANDPA!”. They played this game every day. He would take her on walks around the shop showing her off to all the employees, he showed her how to make that popping sound with his finger in his cheek, and they would dance.

Dad has left a lasting impression on Stephanie. It's touching to know that she has such wonderful memories of him before he became sick. She never knew her other grandfather, so Dad’s relationship with her was extra special. My three older girls also have good memories of Dad, but I don’t think they compare to the special connection between Stephanie and her Grandpa.

Channel Changers

In the early '70s, a new color TV was bought to replace the old black and white TV in our family room. The remote control was still a few years away from being the ubiquitous accessory it is now and the 19" Zenith required manual labor to cycle through all 13 channels available. For us kids, this was acceptable: we knew the channels and programs that we wanted and usually left the dial alone.

Dad, on the other hand, was a channel-surfer. He had his favorite shows, for sure, but had little tolerance for a pause in action or commercial breaks. He certainly was not a couch potato; he worked long, hard hours and after dinner, with most of us kids off doing homework or getting ready for bed, he could get an hour or so to unwind in front of the tube. He had is chair: an upholstered recliner with a commanding view of the TV. Armed with a 16-ounce mug filled with beer and a dish of nuts at his side, he'd be ready for an evening of heavy channel rotation. Getting up to change the channels was always an issue, but Dad was resourceful. At one point or another, all of us kids had been employed as his own personal remote control. It'd usually start with one of us coming in to see what he was watching. "Tim, before you sit down would you change the channel?" I'd obediently flip the dial to the next channel then turn to head to the couch. "Wait," he'd say, apparently displeased with the current channel's offering, and would point his index finger at the TV, giving it a single, swift rotation. Translation: next channel, please. And with each rotation of his finger I'd advance to another channel. My breaking point was usually one full rotation through all the channels, then I'd protest and he'd let me go. Later, while searching for a snack in the kitchen, I'd hear Dad say, "Lucy, would you change the channel?"

Eventually, the Zenith started having pains of old age and began to flash to black and white. Dad found a good remedy: bang on the top of it until it went back to color. Again, he found the service of his children to be helpful. When available, he'd employ whoever was in close proximity to wander over and bang on the TV when needed. From our beds late at night we'd hear Dad's footsteps in the living room, a few loud bangs, then footsteps back to his chair.

After the Zenith lived a good 10 years or so it was succeeded by a new TV, complete with remote and our channel-changing duties were officially retired. The rotating index finger was replaced with "Has anyone seen the clicker?"

Art School Convert

For 17 years I've worked as a graphic designer. I've worked in just about every environment there is: family business, non profit, freelance, college faculty, small design firms, and now in a mid-sized corporate office. I've worked my way up the ladder from apprentice designer up to my current title of creative director. I've found my career rewarding, challenging, fun and incredibly loathsome at times. Regardless, I've persisted and am very happy to be in a job that supports not only my personal interests and growth, but, more importantly, supports my family.

When I went off to college, I'd spent my freshman year at Humboldt State on the north coast of California. I felt like I needed to get away and on my own and it was the farthest, most remote college campus I could find. My original major was journalism, then changed to English. By the end of my second semester I decided that I wanted to go to art school. Mom was lukewarm at first, but receptive to the idea—she always had a strong interest in both the arts and engineering. Dad was not at all pleased with the idea and said to me, "You want to be an artist? How are you going to make any money doing art?" I tried to explain to him that I was interested in graphic design, a career which offered many opportunities in the workforce. But he wasn't convinced. He couldn't see any viable career coming from an art school education and dismissed himself from the conversation, deferring any decisions on the matter to Mom—he didn't want to be part of it. So Mom and I worked out the details. I went to school year-round and worked full-time at the family business to help offset the cost of tuition and living expenses.

After a few semesters of coursework, Dad approached me while I was pulling a shift at work. He told me about a fellow businessman he'd met at one of his local business association meetings. He was the principal of his own design firm and, as Dad put it, "He's a graphic designer and he makes really good money." Yes, I said, and reminded him that I had told him that were good jobs to be had in my career choice. "I know," he said, "but he has a really successful business. I told him about you—you should really go talk to him." And with that, he began telling me about all the great things I could do with my art school education.

Sometimes it could be downright impossible to convince Dad of anything that he couldn't easily get his head around, ask any of my brothers and sisters...or Mom. It wasn't that he couldn't be convinced eventually, it's just that his personal biases could get in the way of him seeing things differently. But once he saw things in a language he understood (in my case, from a peer who had proven economic successes that he could show as a business model), then he was a believer. Even more so, he would become the evangelist of the cause. Dad would become convinced and then start convincing you, even though you were the one who originally presented the concept to him.

In the years since my graduation, he had closely followed my career growth. Asking about my employers, interested in projects and processes. He'd come visit me when I was living in Seattle and would take my boss out to lunch; talking shop with a fellow businessman. In the last few years, he saw my career support the growth and needs of my family; something that he could relate to very well after years of supporting his own growing family.

Being the entrepreneur that he was, he'd always ask me if I'd be interested in starting my own business again...and if I'd want a business partner.

Sales Ducks

Paula and I are in the market for a new car. We've decided on the make and model and spent a good deal of time researching options and pricing on the web. When we're ready to purchase we'll probably go through a broker so we can avoid the hassle of dealing with shady car salespeople. But we did want to at least test drive the car we're interested in. So we recently found ourselves sitting around a table in the middle of a huge dealership, listening to a slightly shady car salesman tell us all the reasons why we should not buy the other competing brands of cars that we were also interested in. As he went on and on about how terrible and unreliable a Subaru can be, I found myself smirking at the memory of car shopping with Dad.

With the exception of his first new car—a '56 Chevy Bel Air—Dad did not have the luxury of buying a car that he wanted. Instead, he drove a variety of large-family-friendly VW buses, work-supplied compact sedans, and a VW Rabbit diesel purchased solely for it's fuel economy on his daily commute to work. When he finally found himself in a position to purchase a car that he could actually enjoy driving, he decided he was going to keep an open mind and take a look at a number of sedans available. Being 15 at the time, I had no reservations about joining him on numerous trips to check out and test drive the cars on his list. We looked at Volvos, Nissans, Toyotas, Mazdas, and VWs. The last on his list was Honda.

Before we even made ten steps onto the sales lot, we were greeted by a very excited salesman. He shook our hands and asked Dad about what he was looking for. As we headed towards the Accords, he asked Dad if he'd looked at sedans from other manufacturers. "I don't think that really matters" he replied. The salesman pressed and Dad reluctantly listed off the cars we'd previously viewed. The salesman jumped on the opportunity and started telling us about all the inferiorities of the other cars we'd viewed. Dad interrupted him, saying, "I don't want to you tell me about what's wrong with other cars, I want you to tell me what's right about yours." "Of course" replied the salesman. But within minutes he went right back to dissing the competition. Dad, by now getting really annoyed, said "Listen, if you can't stop telling me about what's wrong with the competition then I'm going to walk right off your lot and you're going to lose a sale." The salesman was very apologetic and said he understood completely. "But I just want you to know that Volvo's maintenance issues are..." And, with that, Dad said "Let's go, Tim" and we walked off the lot, just as promised. The salesman followed us all the way to our car, pleading for us to give him another chance. We got in the car and left. In the end, Dad bought the Volvo.

Dad was never an easy person to sell to—he asked a lot of questions and demanded the attention he deserved as a consumer. He also had a keen knowledge of the tactics of salespeople, having been a salesman himself and through his role as purchasing manager at his business. He'd call them "sales ducks," perhaps because all he'd hear from the bad ones would be incessant quacking noises. He would make salespeople jump through hoops and in many ways was their worst nightmare, but, if they kept with him and showed him respect, they'd get a good, solid client out of him.

As for me, I just let our sales guy go on his canned narrative, dissing the qualities of the competition. I would have been more annoyed with his commentary had we not been there just to get a test drive out of him. He wasn't getting a sale out of us and I figured the least I could do is let him polish up on his best sales duck techniques.

Early to rise.

It's appropriate that this be the subject of my Monday posting; after two days off I drag myself out of bed at 5am and proceed, zombie-like, with my morning routine of shaving, brushing, washing. My daughters both have a unique gift of being able to sleep in on the weekdays and wake at amazingly early hours on the weekends. Sophie came in to our room at 4:30 Sunday morning, "Mama, Dad, will you go downstairs with me so I can play?" So sweet, so innocent. We responded with a "please go back to sleep," and are then pestered every five minutes until one of us (er, Paula) finally gives in and heads downstairs with her. I like to sleep in when I can, but I've got my early morning work routine that has stuck with me for years.

Starting at about age 11, I worked at the family woodworking business. I wasn't given an allowance, but I could make decent wages by spending my Saturdays catching and stacking boards as my dad or brother fed them to me. I ran saws and sanders, sorted nails and screws, assembled crates and boxes and when there was nothing else to do, Dad would hand me a broom. "You can always sweep" he would say. This is how I spent most Saturdays, up through high school. It wasn't all work. Lunchtime was spent at the local Chinese food restaurant, or eating sandwiches and shooting bottles with my brother's pellet gun. We'd have pallet jack races and I even learned a choice word or two from Hans, the surly, cussing craftsman in the shop next to ours. Nonetheless, there were times that I would have wanted to do something else, perhaps with my friends at home. On Saturday afternoons, they'd be telling me about the matinee they just went to, or about the fireworks they'd purchased from the questionable kids who lived a few streets over. And I'd nod along, still coated in sawdust.

Every Friday night, Dad would ask me if I wanted to go to the shop. I usually said yes, until I got a bit older, and a bit more sassy. When I started saying no, he'd respond with "Well, let's talk about it in the morning." As always, he'd wake me at 6am the next morning, saying, "Tim, you going to work?" "No." I'd grumble and roll over in my bed. "Okay," he'd reply, "I'll be back in a few minutes." And he'd head back to his room to get ready. I'd lay in bed, stewing, until I realized that my options were limited and would get up, get dressed, and head off to work with him.

Don't get me wrong, he was never angry with me and he never lectured me about it; he was just insistent. It was like getting into a staring contest and I knew that, no matter how long I could return his gaze, I'd always blink first. And he never gloated about it either. Instead, we'd make the 20-minute trek to work listening to the classical station. If there was an exceptional composer on—say, something by Rimsky-Korsakov or Tchaikovsky—he'd turn up the radio and sing along to the melody. If it happened to be opera, he punched the off button with gusto and we drove in sleepy silence together.

I could easily blame him for messing with my metabolism at an early age, forever dooming me to be an early-riser. But I've come to enjoy my early mornings. I'm usually out of the house before my girls are up, but I get to spend time with them every evening after work. Some mornings, as I sip my coffee and drive down into the Boulder valley, watching the rising sun's glow set fire to the Rockies as they fill the horizon in front of me, I think, Dad would really like this.

Why Rambling? Why Raving?

In 1981, Dad took me along for a major purchase. It was an IBM PC, bought from the Sears Computer Store, and cost somewhere in the neighborhood of $5,000. It had one 400K floppy drive, a monochrome monitor, and 64k of RAM. He didn't quite know what he was going to do with this new personal computer, but he knew that he had to have one. He had witnessed the great vacuum tube mainframes in the '50s and '60s and was thrilled to have all this processing power at his fingertips.

I was tasked with assembling the components and navigating the subtle intricacies of DOS. Having taken a BASIC programming elective in grammar school, he promoted me to PC guru. I helped him set up a very expensive database application to print mailing labels and learned the ins and outs of VisiCalc. He and I joined the Diablo Valley PC Users' Group and attended their weekly meetings. After a few years, the PC was retired from business use and became our first home computer. I used it to create my reports for school and even a few creative writing exercises. He never took to it very keenly, but every once in a while I'd hear him at the desk upstairs, late at night, pecking away at the keyboard. Eventually he let me in on his project. It was a journal of sorts of whatever happened to be in his head as he sat to compose. Stories from growing up in the Depression, of his brother during WWII, of his ever-growing family. His idea was to get enough stories together to eventually pull them together and share with the rest of the family. He titled the file "Ramblings and Ravings."

I recently told this story to my sister, who responded "Our dad invented the Blog!" Of course, it pre-dated the web by about 7 years, but that's just a technicality.

I've been thinking about that file a lot lately, wondering if it may exist on some floppy disk laying around somewhere. It may be wishful thinking to imagine that I'll ever recover it, but I have hope. In the meantime, I hope this blog can grow and exist in the same spirit as the original Ramblings and Ravings. More to come.

February 8

To me, my brothers and sisters, and especially our mom, February 8 has recently become a very significant date. Prior to this year it held significance as Dad's birthday, and Dad, never being one to want to have any kind of fuss over him, preferred something low-key and family-oriented. Mom would cook dinner and make pineapple upside-down cake, his favorite. He would receive gifts reluctantly, usually responding to them with "you really didn't need to get me anything." What he loved the most was having all of us kids and Mom around him, eating cake, sharing stories and celebrating together.

With this past February 8, the date has taken a new and deeper significance with his passing, after a short, intense battle with the complications from Alzheimer's disease. His death was quiet and peaceful, and in contrast to his few years of fighting his illness, he simply let go. Mom and my sisters were at his side. I was there within minutes, my brothers were there a few minutes later. Like his 75 birthdays before (or at least those that us kids can remember), his death was without fuss, low-key and family-oriented.

At 76 years, his life created a circle and within that circle was us: his wife, his kids, our partners, his grandchildren. We can now think of February 8 as Dad's day—a day he gave to us to reflect on the memories of the times we'd had, and to continue on enjoying the relationships we've created amongst ourselves and in our own families.

This blog is a living memorial to John Ruszel, and a celebration his life through the scattered memories that I have swimming around in my head. I look forward to sharing my stories and hope to hear back from you all with your own comments and stories.