[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.
Friday, February 29, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
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.
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?"
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?"
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, February 25, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
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.
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.
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.
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