Just watched The 2007 Library of Congress Tribute to Paul Simon, with Joe-Henry cuddled next to me on the couch. It was so amazing to see all his songs covered by people like James Taylor, Marc Anthony, Lyle Lovett and Steven Marley. But a few of my favorites were these: Graceland, which was given a really haunting rendition by Allison Krauss and Jerry Douglas; Diamonds on the Soles of His Shoes sung by Paul Simon himself and Ladysmith Black Mambazo, who totally rocked it and rolled it and kicked it outta the house with their amazing moves.
Here's just a snippet of what must have been the most amazing concert to see live in perhaps the history of the universe. Seriously - all that talent? Singing Paul Simon songs?
The Boxer sung by Shawn Colvin and Allison Krauss
I think this might be one of the best story songs ever written. So mournful and beautiful, and these two ladies brought out the best in it's soulful harmonies. Their voices are perfect together.
The best part of the whole night for me, though, was Bridge Over Troubled Water, sung by Simon AND Garfunkle, and me on the couch, to a sleepy Joe-Henry who told me I had the prettiest voice he had ever heard, right before he went to sleep in my arms.
For someone who used to love getting applause, this was better than a standing ovation.
So I leave you with this. 'Cause I love him like a rock.
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Monday, July 21, 2008
Cold Fear
"Are you okay, Mom?"
That's the question my son asked after I got off the phone with a dear friend. Her wife, the mother of their two kids, had been diagnosed with a rare cancer about three weeks ago, and had just started chemo, and was hospitalized because she could no longer swallow. The tumors that showed up on the initial baseline ct scan were shown to have spread in the more recent ct scan taken a week ago. I'm sure I was ashen, and he was frightened. So was I.
These friends are like family to us. We met years ago doing theater together, and as fate would have it, they lived in the same building we did. We were the managers of the apartments for a time, and they still loved us anyway, even though we had no idea what we were doing. We watched each other's cats when we went on trips. We used their apartment to cook Thanksgiving dinner when they were out of town and our oven wasn't big enough for the pterodactyl we had stuffed for our dinner. We attended their wedding, on a beautiful, sunny Seattle afternoon in a park overlooking Puget Sound. Their first child, a girl is two months older than Joe-Henry. Their second child, a boy, just turned one a few months ago. We've stayed close, and the kids have helped us get even closer, if that's even possible. Joe-Henry loves their daughter Hazel, and seeing them together is like watching the future in living color. He loves baby Gabe too, asking for one of his own every time we leave their house.
We don't talk on the phone as much as I'd like to. They are both incredibly busy, talented people with lots on their plate. We email a bit, but it never matters how infrequently we see each other - we always pick up where we left off. But when she emailed about her diagnosis, and said they were leaving town that morning for the Adirondacks, but would see someone at Sloane Kettering, and would be back.....it's all just happening too fast. It's too much to take in, you know? And if I feel this way, I can't imagine what they are going through.
Our conversation was mostly very informational. I got caught up on what has been happening, because it's been so fast they've barely had time to process it themselves. Her voice was strained and exhausted, but she sounded remarkably strong, and buoyed by their family and friends. Someone got a philanthropic group to pay next months mortgage, someone else was cleaning their house, another friend dropped by and weeded the garden. I could tell that these things meant so much to them, and it wasn't lost on her how dearly they were being held in everyone's hearts. And their kids are helping them stay in the moment, something that has to be a necessity when panic threatens to send you racing through the streets in ten different directions.
I am setting them up with a blog and a great organizational website to arrange for friends to help, but I still feel completely helpless. I wish I could cure cancer instead. I wish I could kick cancer's ass to the curb. I wish I could not feel scared for my friend. I feel guilty for my fear - I want to just be fierce and organized and helpful and unemotional. And honestly, I am those things on the outside, for the most part. But inside - I am wobbly black jello. It won't stop me, though. I think I just had to say it, just once, acknowledge it, and now it's time to get to work.
Love to you all - it can't be said enough - love to you all.
That's the question my son asked after I got off the phone with a dear friend. Her wife, the mother of their two kids, had been diagnosed with a rare cancer about three weeks ago, and had just started chemo, and was hospitalized because she could no longer swallow. The tumors that showed up on the initial baseline ct scan were shown to have spread in the more recent ct scan taken a week ago. I'm sure I was ashen, and he was frightened. So was I.
These friends are like family to us. We met years ago doing theater together, and as fate would have it, they lived in the same building we did. We were the managers of the apartments for a time, and they still loved us anyway, even though we had no idea what we were doing. We watched each other's cats when we went on trips. We used their apartment to cook Thanksgiving dinner when they were out of town and our oven wasn't big enough for the pterodactyl we had stuffed for our dinner. We attended their wedding, on a beautiful, sunny Seattle afternoon in a park overlooking Puget Sound. Their first child, a girl is two months older than Joe-Henry. Their second child, a boy, just turned one a few months ago. We've stayed close, and the kids have helped us get even closer, if that's even possible. Joe-Henry loves their daughter Hazel, and seeing them together is like watching the future in living color. He loves baby Gabe too, asking for one of his own every time we leave their house.
We don't talk on the phone as much as I'd like to. They are both incredibly busy, talented people with lots on their plate. We email a bit, but it never matters how infrequently we see each other - we always pick up where we left off. But when she emailed about her diagnosis, and said they were leaving town that morning for the Adirondacks, but would see someone at Sloane Kettering, and would be back.....it's all just happening too fast. It's too much to take in, you know? And if I feel this way, I can't imagine what they are going through.
Our conversation was mostly very informational. I got caught up on what has been happening, because it's been so fast they've barely had time to process it themselves. Her voice was strained and exhausted, but she sounded remarkably strong, and buoyed by their family and friends. Someone got a philanthropic group to pay next months mortgage, someone else was cleaning their house, another friend dropped by and weeded the garden. I could tell that these things meant so much to them, and it wasn't lost on her how dearly they were being held in everyone's hearts. And their kids are helping them stay in the moment, something that has to be a necessity when panic threatens to send you racing through the streets in ten different directions.
I am setting them up with a blog and a great organizational website to arrange for friends to help, but I still feel completely helpless. I wish I could cure cancer instead. I wish I could kick cancer's ass to the curb. I wish I could not feel scared for my friend. I feel guilty for my fear - I want to just be fierce and organized and helpful and unemotional. And honestly, I am those things on the outside, for the most part. But inside - I am wobbly black jello. It won't stop me, though. I think I just had to say it, just once, acknowledge it, and now it's time to get to work.
Love to you all - it can't be said enough - love to you all.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Dangerous Music
When I met my husband, well, when we first spoke, it was doing a job together. We were both actors and were hired to do an industrial for the Pacific Science Center. We'd met before, backstage at a play he had done. I'd gone with my bad boyfriend of the moment, I'd said "hello, good show", and he walked right by me as though he didn't hear me. Turns out, he didn't hear me. So I don't wake him up in the middle of the night to argue about it all these years later. Well, hardly ever.
But on this particular occasion, he was cast as world-weary private dick (insert inevitable joke here), and I was cast as a sexy come-hither scientist (insert blatant disbelief here). I was skinny and had short hair, and had the market cornered on playing spunky orphans (Anne of Green Gables, Plum in Nancy & Plum, and Kit in The Witch of Blackbird Pond), or daffy comic relief maids in British comedies. But sexy? I never got hired for sexy.
We had a blast that day, I recall. My boyfriend had dumped me the day before via telephone from some regional theater job where he had fallen in love with some sexy young actress, and my ego was bruised, but I had mailed off a letter filled with vitriol on my way to this job. Then I walked in the door to see Charley, in a white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his beautiful forearms, and a fedora perched on his head, and I was instantly smitten. But it wasn't until later in the afternoon, after we'd gone a few rounds and done a few takes that I realized we were in a room full of people and we were the only people in on our jokes. His humor went right to my core, and it wasn't until then that I realized what I had been sadly lacking in all of my romantic forays: someone who could dish it, and take it, who had a true sense of humor, and someone who was as smart as he was sexy. I seem to recall a producer from the shoot who took me to coffee later, but I couldn't be bothered. He wore pastel argyle socks and tried too hard.
After we wrapped that first evening (that's biz talk for finishing the job), we went down the street to a happening mexican restaurant and got drunk on margaritas. The innuendo was flying, but so was the conversation. I learned that he had just broken up with someone recently too (although I won the prize for, um, recent-ness), and as the evening wore on, I could only think of one thing: I seriously, seriously wanted to kiss him. We finished our drinks, and he walked me to my gigantic old car, and he kissed me long and slow until I was up on the hood. To this day it's an argument about who kissed who first, an argument, I might add, that I always win, because I know (after years of practice) just how to shut him up. Anyway, he followed me home on his motorcycle, and we spent the rest of the night, and pretty much the rest of the spring and summer, finding new ways to annoy my neighbors.
When I think of that time, I think of us on a motorcycle, fresh oysters, cold beer, baseball & concerts on the pier. We saw
Lyle Lovett and his Large Band, and Shawn Colvin with Richard Thompson. And like all lovers, we had a song. It spoke of who we were then, or at least who we thought we were, who we thought we wanted to be. Mysterious, dark, somewhat dangerous. I can't hear this song without feeling the breeze off Puget Sound ruffling my faded cotton blouse, his leg pressed next to mine, the anticipation of his kisses. He swept me off my feet, and my life has never been the same. Now we're almost twenty years older, we're heavier, grayer and more responsible, but when I hear this song, I am 29 again, Red Molly on the back of his Vincent '52.
But on this particular occasion, he was cast as world-weary private dick (insert inevitable joke here), and I was cast as a sexy come-hither scientist (insert blatant disbelief here). I was skinny and had short hair, and had the market cornered on playing spunky orphans (Anne of Green Gables, Plum in Nancy & Plum, and Kit in The Witch of Blackbird Pond), or daffy comic relief maids in British comedies. But sexy? I never got hired for sexy.
We had a blast that day, I recall. My boyfriend had dumped me the day before via telephone from some regional theater job where he had fallen in love with some sexy young actress, and my ego was bruised, but I had mailed off a letter filled with vitriol on my way to this job. Then I walked in the door to see Charley, in a white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his beautiful forearms, and a fedora perched on his head, and I was instantly smitten. But it wasn't until later in the afternoon, after we'd gone a few rounds and done a few takes that I realized we were in a room full of people and we were the only people in on our jokes. His humor went right to my core, and it wasn't until then that I realized what I had been sadly lacking in all of my romantic forays: someone who could dish it, and take it, who had a true sense of humor, and someone who was as smart as he was sexy. I seem to recall a producer from the shoot who took me to coffee later, but I couldn't be bothered. He wore pastel argyle socks and tried too hard.
After we wrapped that first evening (that's biz talk for finishing the job), we went down the street to a happening mexican restaurant and got drunk on margaritas. The innuendo was flying, but so was the conversation. I learned that he had just broken up with someone recently too (although I won the prize for, um, recent-ness), and as the evening wore on, I could only think of one thing: I seriously, seriously wanted to kiss him. We finished our drinks, and he walked me to my gigantic old car, and he kissed me long and slow until I was up on the hood. To this day it's an argument about who kissed who first, an argument, I might add, that I always win, because I know (after years of practice) just how to shut him up. Anyway, he followed me home on his motorcycle, and we spent the rest of the night, and pretty much the rest of the spring and summer, finding new ways to annoy my neighbors.
When I think of that time, I think of us on a motorcycle, fresh oysters, cold beer, baseball & concerts on the pier. We saw
Lyle Lovett and his Large Band, and Shawn Colvin with Richard Thompson. And like all lovers, we had a song. It spoke of who we were then, or at least who we thought we were, who we thought we wanted to be. Mysterious, dark, somewhat dangerous. I can't hear this song without feeling the breeze off Puget Sound ruffling my faded cotton blouse, his leg pressed next to mine, the anticipation of his kisses. He swept me off my feet, and my life has never been the same. Now we're almost twenty years older, we're heavier, grayer and more responsible, but when I hear this song, I am 29 again, Red Molly on the back of his Vincent '52.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Sturdy Love
Last night, Joe-Henry was coughing up a lung, that horrible, deep, wracking, wet cough, when I went in with my bottle of pink medicine. He would rather get hit by a bus, eaten by a dinosaur, get poked in the eye with a nasty eye-poking stick or cough all night long than take that medicine. He's never even tried it, but he knows it tastes like "burning fire".
But I am the mother, and I will not be moved, and he must. He MUST. So he wails and flails, and tells me he hates it, and I am a "mean mom", and then, he DOES. He opens his mouth, his face red with anger and effort, his cheeks wet with tears. There is the requisite "YUCK", and the thrashing of sheets, and "Why are you so MEAN?!" And after a few minutes of sniffling, he settles down again, as I smooth his covers and rub his back. It's quiet again, no coughing, no tears, just his arm around my neck, his warm hand on my cheek.
"Mom, you and Dad love me so good. Your love is as sturdy as the Great Wall of China".
And with that, we both went to sleep.
But I am the mother, and I will not be moved, and he must. He MUST. So he wails and flails, and tells me he hates it, and I am a "mean mom", and then, he DOES. He opens his mouth, his face red with anger and effort, his cheeks wet with tears. There is the requisite "YUCK", and the thrashing of sheets, and "Why are you so MEAN?!" And after a few minutes of sniffling, he settles down again, as I smooth his covers and rub his back. It's quiet again, no coughing, no tears, just his arm around my neck, his warm hand on my cheek.
"Mom, you and Dad love me so good. Your love is as sturdy as the Great Wall of China".
And with that, we both went to sleep.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
serendipity
When my husband and I were first dating, aside from having really hot sex all the time, followed by vanilla icecream with hotfudge in bed, we had these moments when the outside world seemed to confirm that we were really right for each other. Like the time we were heading to a movie and this guy on the street came up and gave us a flower. He was kind of crazy, but he had us convinced that he was a seer, and he was sure we were madly in love and could cure the world with our magic. Or the time that we were out for a motorcycle ride one gorgeous Seattle summer day, riding around the islands, when we happened to stumble on a cliffside wedding. There was not a large wedding party, it was only the bride, the groom, the minister and one witness, who I believe was maybe their child. We had stopped in a parking lot to get off the bike and stretch, and there they were, just below us, hidden from the road, but high above the white boats bobbing in the sparkling blue water. We were both silent, but our hands managed to meet and we just sort of sat on a log, out of their sight, and witnessed it. We couldn't say anything to each other about it then, but later, when our relationship became more serious, we both acknowledge that it was a turning point for both of us. We both knew that this was the universe telling us something. I think back on it today, and shake my head in disbelief at two things: we were right, and we rode a motorcycle.
Today, a lifetime later, we had another completely serendipitous day, a day when the planets aligned and the Goddesses smiled on our efforts to just "be" together as a family, to hang out in the world with no real plans except to maybe all get along and not bitch at each other, and see something new in this little town we live in. It didn't start off to be very promising at all - Joe-Henry woke up and after a few sweet snuggly minutes, turned into a greedy little toy capitalist, begging to go to Finnegans and get "this really cool digger". I had promised Charley some writing time this morning, so after forty five minutes of "no", I finally got JH out the door to go to Home Depot to build a wooden bi-plane (for free!) and we managed to break the spell of the two toys in the world he does not own. We had a blast, building our little wooden plane and he was so proud of it. More proud of his orange apron, though, which he wore for the rest of the day and had to be told the cold hard truth tonight at bedtime. If you wear your orange Home Depot apron to bed, you will strangle on the strings and die. I know I'm a freak, but bed is a dangerous place, and I'm not one to shy away from saying what needs to be said to get my kid into bed safely.
After Home Depot, we headed to our favorite spot in Vancouver: Esther Short Park. Not only is it named after a tough as nails pioneer woman, it's just a beautiful park. There is a bandshell there and gorgeous spruce trees and it seems like there is always some kind of community "happening" there. There is also a killer Farmer's Market there every weekend, and there's a great little play structure in the park. And even when the weather is crappy, there is always the River Maiden Coffee place that serves Stumptown Coffee, which is quickly becoming my favorite coffee in the world. We grabbed some apples, some strawberry shortcake, admired the rose garden in full bloom and he came down the slide about 70 times. In his orange apron. Then we headed to the far side of the park to wade in the man-made creek, and there is nothing happier than a kid in the water on a beautiful day. He did take his apron off for this, because he didn't want to get it wet, because it's his good apron. He inherits this from my husband's side of the family. After he was thoroughly soaked, we walked the block to the car and rode home to see Daddio.
I had promised Charley that we could go for a bike ride today, and had to hold up my end of the bargain. I am so lazy when it comes to getting exercise, and I don't know why. I think it's because we live in the middle of a hill and I am so out of shape I can't make it up the hill without walking the bike and I feel like a pussy. But it always makes me feel great, and to be out riding bikes with my two boys on a spectacular day, well there is nothing better. So I got over myself, and slathered on the sunscreen and we peddaled back through town, then down to the river to ride along the truly gorgeous bike trail. It was like discovering this place anew: my brother, an avid cyclist had been telling me about this path all year, and finally we found it. We rode past beaches and parks and a beautiful new condo development where we envisioned Grandma and Grandpa moving. We stopped for a moment to get our bearings and a voice spoke to us from the shade: "Are you going to the Sturgeon Festival?" This friendly gentleman who drove a pedicab told us that if we rode another mile or so, we'd hit the Water Resources Education Center, where there was a Sturgeon Festival. Since I couldn't pass up something that had the words "sturgeon" and "festival" in the title, we hit the road. The ride was a mix of business parks and actual parks, and there were families and happy couples and gorgeous young bodies playing volleyball. And my boys on the tandem bike, smiling and laughing all the way. When we got to the Sturgeon Festival, there was a fellow with a cut open sturgeon on the table, talking about it being very tame and tranquil (well, sure, it is NOW, now that you've CUT IT IN HALF AND SHOWED US IT'S INNARDS)while children sort of, um, petted it , Joe-Henry looked as though he might show us all what he had for lunch, so we moved on around the corner, where there were booths to do artwork or get a hot dog, and inside, INSIDE there was the Reptile Man. Now, I don't know about you, but children's entertainers usually make me slightly queasy. But this guy, he was GOOD. So informed, so passionate about his reptiles and informing people about them, and he didn't talk down to the kids at all. He was also very, very funny. Or his reptiles were. But he was an excellent straightman.
Joe-Henry sat in the front with the other kids, something he wouldn't have done a year ago, raising his hand at every opportunity, and Charley and I sat with the grownups, across the aisle from one another. We oohed and ahhhed and laughed and then we caught each other's eye. We were witnessing again, all these years later, the magnitude of those fleeting, serendipitous moments.
Who knew the day would turn out this good? Who knew we'd trade in that motorcycle for a married life with a kid? Who knew this ride would be so much fun?
Today, a lifetime later, we had another completely serendipitous day, a day when the planets aligned and the Goddesses smiled on our efforts to just "be" together as a family, to hang out in the world with no real plans except to maybe all get along and not bitch at each other, and see something new in this little town we live in. It didn't start off to be very promising at all - Joe-Henry woke up and after a few sweet snuggly minutes, turned into a greedy little toy capitalist, begging to go to Finnegans and get "this really cool digger". I had promised Charley some writing time this morning, so after forty five minutes of "no", I finally got JH out the door to go to Home Depot to build a wooden bi-plane (for free!) and we managed to break the spell of the two toys in the world he does not own. We had a blast, building our little wooden plane and he was so proud of it. More proud of his orange apron, though, which he wore for the rest of the day and had to be told the cold hard truth tonight at bedtime. If you wear your orange Home Depot apron to bed, you will strangle on the strings and die. I know I'm a freak, but bed is a dangerous place, and I'm not one to shy away from saying what needs to be said to get my kid into bed safely.
After Home Depot, we headed to our favorite spot in Vancouver: Esther Short Park. Not only is it named after a tough as nails pioneer woman, it's just a beautiful park. There is a bandshell there and gorgeous spruce trees and it seems like there is always some kind of community "happening" there. There is also a killer Farmer's Market there every weekend, and there's a great little play structure in the park. And even when the weather is crappy, there is always the River Maiden Coffee place that serves Stumptown Coffee, which is quickly becoming my favorite coffee in the world. We grabbed some apples, some strawberry shortcake, admired the rose garden in full bloom and he came down the slide about 70 times. In his orange apron. Then we headed to the far side of the park to wade in the man-made creek, and there is nothing happier than a kid in the water on a beautiful day. He did take his apron off for this, because he didn't want to get it wet, because it's his good apron. He inherits this from my husband's side of the family. After he was thoroughly soaked, we walked the block to the car and rode home to see Daddio.
I had promised Charley that we could go for a bike ride today, and had to hold up my end of the bargain. I am so lazy when it comes to getting exercise, and I don't know why. I think it's because we live in the middle of a hill and I am so out of shape I can't make it up the hill without walking the bike and I feel like a pussy. But it always makes me feel great, and to be out riding bikes with my two boys on a spectacular day, well there is nothing better. So I got over myself, and slathered on the sunscreen and we peddaled back through town, then down to the river to ride along the truly gorgeous bike trail. It was like discovering this place anew: my brother, an avid cyclist had been telling me about this path all year, and finally we found it. We rode past beaches and parks and a beautiful new condo development where we envisioned Grandma and Grandpa moving. We stopped for a moment to get our bearings and a voice spoke to us from the shade: "Are you going to the Sturgeon Festival?" This friendly gentleman who drove a pedicab told us that if we rode another mile or so, we'd hit the Water Resources Education Center, where there was a Sturgeon Festival. Since I couldn't pass up something that had the words "sturgeon" and "festival" in the title, we hit the road. The ride was a mix of business parks and actual parks, and there were families and happy couples and gorgeous young bodies playing volleyball. And my boys on the tandem bike, smiling and laughing all the way. When we got to the Sturgeon Festival, there was a fellow with a cut open sturgeon on the table, talking about it being very tame and tranquil (well, sure, it is NOW, now that you've CUT IT IN HALF AND SHOWED US IT'S INNARDS)while children sort of, um, petted it , Joe-Henry looked as though he might show us all what he had for lunch, so we moved on around the corner, where there were booths to do artwork or get a hot dog, and inside, INSIDE there was the Reptile Man. Now, I don't know about you, but children's entertainers usually make me slightly queasy. But this guy, he was GOOD. So informed, so passionate about his reptiles and informing people about them, and he didn't talk down to the kids at all. He was also very, very funny. Or his reptiles were. But he was an excellent straightman.
Joe-Henry sat in the front with the other kids, something he wouldn't have done a year ago, raising his hand at every opportunity, and Charley and I sat with the grownups, across the aisle from one another. We oohed and ahhhed and laughed and then we caught each other's eye. We were witnessing again, all these years later, the magnitude of those fleeting, serendipitous moments.
Who knew the day would turn out this good? Who knew we'd trade in that motorcycle for a married life with a kid? Who knew this ride would be so much fun?
Monday, April 9, 2007
tell the truth
"Mom, do you love my animals as much as you love me?" The first time he asked me that question, a few months ago, I told him the truth. I said that I liked them very much, but that I didn't love anything or anyone as much as I love him.
This was the wrong answer.
There were many tears, and it hurt his animals feelings and he really didn't understand why I couldn't just love them the way I love him.
He asks me every night at bedtime, or anytime he has one of his dearly beloved creatures nearby. Today he asked while we were snuggled on the sofabed downstairs, curled up under the covers with a fire going in the fireplace, watching "IceAge: The Meltdown" on the portable DVD player. Panda and Linky were under the covers with us, and he asked "Mom, do you love my animals as much as you love me?" And I said "Yes. I do. I'm so glad they're members of our family."
Here's what I didn't say:
I love them because they are yours. Because you give them your heart, and your heart is precious to me. I love them because they know your six year old secrets, and do their cuddly best to allay your worst fears. I love them because when they talk, they talk just like you. I love them because you've named them, each and every last one, and I remember ALL their names. I love them because they smell like you. I know this because when I pick them up off the living room couch, where you bring them to eat your cheerios in the morning, I give them a good long, deep sniff before putting them on your bed. They are your talismans, your charms and your snugglebuddies. They are as real to me as they are to you.
And I love them.
But not as much as I love you.
I'm trying, though. I really am.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Happy Birthday, Herman
My dad was a beautiful whistler. It's a lost art, really, but one that he had mastered. He didn't boast about it - he just did it, and it got him through some rough times. Whether he was born with the talent, I can't say, but if he wasn't, he must have practiced a great deal, because it was beautiful. Melodic and lilting and lovely. He tried to teach me, and I'm okay, but I'm not nearly the songbird that he was. Although I did take up the flute in Junior High. I did what I could. And he was proud of everything I did, as he was of all of his kids. I'm not sure if I can fathom how proud he was of me - as a kid, and even as an adult, I never felt that it was deserved, but from a mother's perspective, I get it now. You always just love your kids. They do what they do, and some days (months, years) they make mistakes, but you still can't get over how amazing they are. You can't believe that this person with all this light in them has your DNA. Even if they can't whistle.
Today is my Dad's birthday. He would have been 91 today. I miss him so much. He was 81 when he died in 1997. Almost two years after the big party we gave him for his 80th birthday. He had the time of his life at that party, and so did we. All four of his kids planned it, and old friends came and called. A group of men who served with my dad in England during WWII called him on a cell phone we had rented for the occasion. It was a time when cell phones were only used by doctors and high powered suits, just minutes before they became the ubiquitous annoyance/neccesity they've become today. He wept during the phone call, tears of joy, as they all listened on conference call as I read a letter they wrote to him. It was a perfect letter, full of memories and raucous, manly humor, and it was the highlight of the party for him.
My Dad served proudly in the Army Air Corps during the Second World War, and it was a time that shaped his life, along with growing up during the Great Depression. He talked about his time in the service often as I was growing up, and even more as he got older. It gave him so much - adventure, travel, and lifelong friends. When he was in the thickest throes of dementia, when he was taken out of the here and now, he would live there, in that time, and could remember those details vividly. In the last year of his life though, when he was in a nursing home after a hip operation, he ventured back further - high school, dances at "Nat Park" in Spokane, early childhood in Superior, Wisconsin. I remember one particularly difficult visit was turned around completely by a phone call from an old high school friend. This was a lovely man that my dad hadn't seen in years, but talked about often. My sister and I had been with him most of the day, and he was going in and out of confusion, having a hard time remembering where he was and why he was there. When the phone rang, I spoke with his friend briefly, letting him know as gently as I could that Dad probably wouldn't remember him, but as soon as Dad got on the phone, he was there. In the moment, laughing at old memories. He was good at faking it if he didn't remember something, but this was different. He had total recall of the old days, but was also completely in the present as well. It was a miracle to witness, and heartbreaking to see it fade as soon as he hung up the phone.
He was a strict parent, from what I hear from my older siblings. But with me, he had learned to loosen up. Out of necessity and exhaustion, I think. My mom died when I was eight, and my dad was sort of flummoxed by the whole idea of raising a girl. In addition to this, the year after my mom died, my dad lost his job as a salesman that he'd held since the 40's. He was a meat salesman, and it was during the 70's, the Army Corps of Engineers put Bristol Packing Plant, which sat on the banks of the Snake River, under water. Dad was in a tough, stressful spot, and he handled it by drinking. It got pretty bad for a while there, but in those days, it's what you did, and to be honest, were I in his shoes, I'd probably need a good stiff one myself. He eventually slowed the drinking, and quit smoking altogether when he hit 70, doctors orders, but not before doing some damage. After mom died, he had a girlfriend, Dorothy, and she kept him out of trouble. I don't know why they never married - they should have. They loved each other enough, and were good for each other too. He was old fashioned, and a truly stubbon Norwegian, but I wish still that he had been smarter about this. But for whatever reason, they didn't, yet he was still fortunate enough to call her his girlfriend until the end.
He was an amazing example and role model, and my greatest friend and supporter, and an incurable tease. He could get my goat like no one else, until my son was born and found where all those buttons were. My little boy often teases me just like my Dad used to, and has other habits that his Grandpa Cy had, too.
My son is perfecting his whistle - he whistles everywhere, getting better and better. He's a little songbird in so many ways, and his Grandpa would be mighty proud.
Happy Birthday, Herman.
I miss you and I love you. So much.
Madly, Skidaddly, Badly.
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