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?
Monday, October 27, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, August 11, 2008
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."
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."
Friday, July 25, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
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.
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.
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