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."
Monday, August 11, 2008
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.
Friday, April 25, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
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.
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.
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