A Very Young Bear

I've begun the long process of sifting through the contents of our house, sorting and boxing and jettisoning, ahead of our eventual move. On the back of a shelf in the living room, I came upon my hard copy of Ramblings and Ravings and after breaking from my chore long enough to read it cover to cover, decided to add the first new posting in over three years.

There was a bear at Grandma and Grandpa's house. He was a stuffed bear that grandma had picked up along the way somewhere in their travels. He was light brown and lanky with long, articulated limbs and a stoic, slightly melancholy look perpetually on his face. His butt was full of beans. His name was Bear, a name that was either creative or lazy or ironic, and I'm pretty sure I know who it was that gave him the simple moniker. He had become something of a mascot of the two, appearing most notably in a little book that Grandma had pieced together. It featured snapshots of bear getting into all sorts of anthropomorphic hijinks around the house and dialogue of bear begging to be included on their next trip.

Growing up, going to Grandma and Grandpa's often included a lot of tradition, whether for Easter brunch or a Tuesday afternoon mac and cheese fix. I'm not sure if it was a tradition or just a game that we'd play with Grandma and Grandpa, but it was something that I loved and looked forward to at every visit: ergo, a tradition. Before leaving, one of us would steal away and find bear, help him into a compromising position and leave him for our grandparents to find. They'd find him parked in Grandpa's chair with his jar of peanuts, salt shaker and the TV remote. Or he'd be at Grandma's desk, checkbook and pen in hand. It was silly and simple, but it had the humor and creativity that made it decidedly Ruszel.

When I got to the end of the book I came upon three sheets of paper that I'd tucked in the back. It's a letter from my Grandpa to me. It's on Ruszel Woodworks stationary, dated 'Tuesday, 22 August 1995', and written in his own hand. His handwriting has the loops and curls of Walt Disney's, yet the sloppiness I find in my own penmanship. It has masking tape and pin holes at the corner of each page, a result of having been on display in my bedroom growing up. He writes:

Dear Tom,
I am concerned about bear. I realize that he is still a very young bear, but he thinks that he can do most anything. As an example, after you & your dad went sailing on Sunday, Grandma & I found bear with his back paws in my slippers. Grandma & I figured that since the slippers were to large for him to wear as shoes, he must have thought that he could use them as kayaks, imitating what you were doing on the water. Our fear is that he would have snuck out and tried to go kayaking. He could have drowned because he didn't realize that the slippers have big holes in the soles.

Several weeks ago, we found him with his paw inside our coin jug — he probably thought he could go to the store & buy candy or something. You see, he doesn't know that Safeway or even Baskin-Robbins won't serve bears.

So I'm asking if you wouldn't please talk to bear (you must be kind to him as he is a very gentle bear) and tell him that he can't do a lot of things that human children do. He seems to understand children more than adults, That's why I am asking you, Tom.

Thanks

Grandpa

P.S. Bear really has fun when all you kids come over. Maybe that is when he gets a lot of his ideas!!
Grandpa

Somehow, the eleven your old me know that this letter was a gem. I knew that it was a window into my grandfather's character and into our relationship. Somehow, the eleven year old me knew that the twenty-eight year old me would appreciate having it. It hung prominently on my bedroom until we moved and it found its way into a footlocker containing my personal memorabilia. When I got rid of most of the Animal House posters and concert ticket stubs, the really important artifacts like this rose to the top and found their way to new places of safekeeping. The next time this letter finds its way to a spot hanging on the wall, it'll be framed behind glass.

As I sit here and type, my son Liam is playing on the living room floor. I'm sad that he and his great grandfather never got to meet, but I'm heartened to know that his family has enough great stories and memories to allow Liam to know him in some way. He had so much to offer to us kids, spanning the spectrum from goofy to wise to intellectual. Sometimes I don't realize that so many of the lessons, knowledge, values that effect my daily life came directly from him. They've just always been there.

Some of these things came from Grandpa via my Dad, and I know that without my consciousness, they are making their way to Liam. That thought makes me happy.

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.